House Malminnion, thought Calvraign. That’s the baron’s own seal. They were lightly armored, so likely not part of a main battle party or the formal Baronial Guard, but only those in the direct service of the baron bore that device.
“Keeper!” shouted the shortest, and oldest, of the three men. The sweat from his bald scalp still steamed from the chill air outside. Two wide scars sprang from the upper left of his face, one splitting his iron grey brow, the other his leathery cheek, flanking his eye and continuing in thick rills of white puckered tissue across his angular features. Although the higher of the two scars ended just short of the bridge of his nose, the lower scar terminated at the corner of his mouth, where the taut skin tugged his expression into a perpetual, and most unnatural, one-sided grin.
Calvraign guessed he must be their leader, both from his bearing and from the telltale black wolf-fur trim on his cloak and the silver brooch that fastened it. The symbol on the broach was an old one, the eternally entwined First Tree, whose roots and limbs reached up and down and toward each other, connecting to form a delicately filigreed circle surrounding the trunk. He recognized the heraldry, and placed the man in the Macc adh Tremaign – or rather, what used to be the Macc adh Tremaign. The family name had shifted, with the family loyalties, from the Cythe and their tongue to the Dacadians and theirs, centuries ago. Now, the family was known as Tremayne, and some things less reputable, in private company.
Calvraign swallowed and took a tentative breath, intimidated despite himself. It was not the first time he’d seen a soldier, nor even one with a nasty scar; but, as for a man descended from the oldest lines of Cythe royalty, scarred and steaming and apparently in a foul mood – this was a first. Brohan nudged Calvraign’s boot gently, and then cast his eyes downward, hiding his face by resting it on his opened palm and staring into the fire.
“Keeper!” the man repeated, throwing his gloves onto the other unoccupied table next to the fire, but as yet, paying Calvraign and Brohan no mind. The ease and force of his baritone voice only affirmed Calvraign’s guess that he was a man accustomed to command. “Provisions!”
Even as his men shrugged off their cloaks and took seats on the bench at the adjacent table, the matron and her daughter were through the kitchen door, the former balancing a tray of fresh bread, butter and jam, her bluster tamed at least for the moment. Hedwin carried a clay flagon of steaming spiced wine, and three matching cups, and served the men without a word. When she finished, she took her place behind her mother’s skirts.
“Milord,” the matron deferred with bent head. “I pray the Swords have kept you safe on your travels. I’ll have Hedwin bring some sausages and bacon, and we have porridge if you’d like it. Is there ought else?”
“I’ve a score more men down the road. They’ll be hungry, but we’ll not need lodging. His Grace and his host will be but a day or so after, so be ready. He shall stay a night, maybe two if the weather turns foul.”
The matron paled. “Hi… His Grace? Here? Tomorrow?”
“Aye,” he affirmed, taking a goblet and sipping carefully from the corner of his mouth opposite his disfigurement. He was not looking at the matron as he spoke, however; his gaze had landed and fixed on Brohan.
“I did na’ think His Grace would be ready for a wintry road, so soon.” She paused, her voice pinched. “So soon after the red pox, that is.”
“Mmmm,” mused the ever-grinning man, still staring at the master bard. “His Grace, Baron Haoil, made a colder journey. The pox claimed him last Lucenday. However, Ezriel has assumed his father’s title, and now rides to the capital in order to meet with the king and consecrate his birthright.”
The matron moaned and held her hand to her mouth. “Blasted pox,” she lamented. “He was better a man than deserved to die abed. We shall all mourn him, just as we shall welcome Lord Ezriel, um, Lord Malminnion to –”
“That will do,” dismissed the man, nodding at her briefly. “Go and prepare and waste no pleasantries on me. I shall be gone as soon as I’ve supped. My thanks for the food.”
No sooner had she gone than the unnerving grin turned back to Brohan. “Well, if it isn’t the Black Bard,” he said flatly. “I waste a year of my life looking for you without any luck, and now that it makes no matter, here you are.”
Brohan shifted his head in his hand to meet the man’s gaze. “I do apologize, Lord Tremayne. Your ill luck was my good fortune, I suppose.” He wiggled his fingers. “I’m rather fond of these. I would have hated to have you part them from me.”
Lord Tremayne, Calvraign marveled. Not simply of the Macc adh Tremaign. This is the Macc adh Tremaign! In another age, this man might have been my king.
“In hindsight, we are both better off, I’m sure.” Tremayne sat across from them, took another sip of wine, and pointed at Calvraign. “Who’s this lad? I see he wears a sword, but I see no badge.”
“Lord Ashgar Treymane, Warden of the Crehr ne Og and Captain of Ezriel’s Outriders, may I present my apprentice, Calvraign Askewneheur of Craignuuwn,” answered Brohan.
“Ibhraign’s son?” Tremayne said without pause. He raised his brow, and consequently the entire left side of his face. He cocked his head. “I suppose you have his look about you.”
Calvraign had heard that his whole life. No one could ever seem to pinpoint exactly how, what feature or mannerism triggered the recognition, but there it was: he had his look.
“My lord, I am honored to meet you,” Calvraign said, though in fact, he was mostly puzzled. He felt he should rise and then ask for leave to sit again, but Brohan made no move, so he merely fidgeted.
“Be still,” chastised Tremayne, deciphering his discomfort. “We’re not at court, and we don’t need to play at Imperial manners, here. I’ll be in the thick of thees and thous and bowing and scraping soon enough without help from you.”
“Yes, and that’s an interesting business,” interjected Brohan. “Poor Haoil. I’ll miss His Grace. I half-expected Ezriel to play the righteous lancer and defer the title and lands to Garath.”
“Don’t bait me, I’m too tired,” demurred Tremayne.
The sausages and bacon appeared then, as quickly as Hedwin vanished, and Tremayne turned his attention to the food. “I suppose you’re off to the festival, then?” he inquired between mouthfuls.
“Aye,” Brohan agreed. “I would offer to share the road with you, and perhaps more news, but I’m sure you wouldn’t care for the distraction. Be sure to give our regards to His Grace, when you see him. Perhaps we will have occasion to break bread at the festival.”
“Hmmm,” Tremayne commented. “Safe journey.”
Calvraign stared at Brohan’s back. His weary eyes squinted against the glare of the snow about him, his legs moving mechanically, attempting to match the bard’s steady rhythm. For leagues about them he saw only a smooth expanse of glaring white. The rolling hills of Craignuuwn had vanished days ago behind them, and he imagined it would be at least another two or three before the legendary spires of Dwynleigsh rose from the plains to greet them. Though sore, cold, and exhausted, Calvraign carried himself on behind Brohan without comment. At last, the life he had long dreamed and hoped for now lay before him – colder perhaps than he would prefer, but before him nonetheless.
The wind was a chill reminder of the season, but brought with it only straggling flakes of snow today. The sky was dark and threatening, but docile enough as yet, for which he overheard even implacable Brohan muttering thanks under his breath. Out on the plains, with only the occasional defiant copse of trees to break the wind, there was little in the way of shelter, and any respite from the storm was appreciated.
They had spoken little since their departure from the Wayside Inn. The first day, when Calvraign had attempted to broach the subject of Lord Tremayne, Brohan’s response had been a rather terse, Practice your scales. That had set the mood for the day, and the next was no better, when his curt answer had been, Recite the Lays of the Maernwold. Calvraign knew the Lays, o
f course – it was a classic pre-Imperial piece – and it was a revered example of the ancient forms and diction as difficult as it was long. The day after, he was commanded to translate it from Old Dacadh to Middle Imperial. All the while, the master bard marched on, frowning into the snow without comment.
What bothered Brohan specifically about his encounter with Tremayne, Calvraign did not know. Although he didn’t know it was Tremayne who had chased him, he had certainly known that Brohan was the infamous Black Bard that House Malminnion had despised to the point of sanction. There weren’t enough black-skinned men, let alone minstrels, in the Crehr ne Og for there to be any confusion over his identity. The death of Haoil Malminnion surely shouldn’t bring on such a sour mood, since it had been Haoil who outlawed him in the first place. What then?
Calvraign decided that finding out was worth whatever interminable task Brohan might have in store to keep him quiet for another day, and picked up his pace to draw alongside him.
“You can at least tell me who’ll be at court,” he began, only to be silenced almost immediately by Brohan’s dry chuckle.
“Really? Seems to me the least I could do is say nothing at all.”
“Well, you don’t want the king to think my worst is your best, do you? You’ve had how many years to –” Calvraign paused, swallowing his pent up anger and defensiveness. He held up a hand to still the bard’s tongue. “My knowledge of history and verse is good, but of the modern court and its intricacies….” He shrugged. “Mostly we talk of theories and practices of politics, or ancient histories, but seldom the court intrigues of the day. I don’t want to embarrass you, myself, or the king.”
“Better,” conceded Brohan with a nod. “An explanation is more persuasive than a declaration, at least in intelligent company.”
“Does this mean we’re on speaking terms again?” prodded Calvraign.
“I don’t see that I have the luxury of continued silence, Cal. You aren’t wrong. Had I known a year gone that we’d be making this journey we’d have delved into that mess for you and made some sense of it. Even so, you’d not be entirely ready for court. Many an aristocrat has lived out his life and gone to his grave with still less a clue than you might have. But, I’ll do what I may while I can.”
Brohan took a moment to gather his thoughts and continued, throwing his arm about Calvraign’s shoulder as they trudged on together. “The easiest guide through politicking is to live by these three words: watch your back.” He poked Calvraign between the shoulder blades with his index finger to emphasize each syllable, and then dropped his arm back to his side. “Those who appear friendly are often not your friends, just as those who appear villainous are not always your enemy. You must never make a snap judgment based on appearances alone. Look beneath the facades, around the corners and behind the curtains. Choose your friends and your words wisely.”
“That makes for a nice speech, but I was hoping for some more practical advice.”
“Advice is always a tricky thing. It’s only practical if you practice it, and even then it’s not always effective. Still, sometimes there is naught else to say.”
“Well, I’m not planning on engaging in any political maneuvers. I mean, what enemies could I possibly have at court?” scoffed Calvraign. “I’ve nothing to offer nor offend. Surely, if they even know who I am, then they know my father saved the king’s life at Vlue Macc?”
“Indeed they do, Calvraign. Acutely. I do not expect your arrival to go unnoticed, in fact – this is what worries me. Your father’s deeds do not make for you as many allies as you might think.”
Calvraign stopped in his tracks, then shuffled forward again to catch up with Brohan. “What?” His voice was pitched somewhere between incredulity and disbelief. “Would they rather see the king dead? I thought Guillaume was well liked, well respected?”
“Ah, my boy, you are still a bit naïve, I’m afraid. There are many with much to gain from Guillaume’s death, then as now, and they might not look favorably upon those taking great pains to extend his life. Though not actively seeking its end, neither would they shed more than a diplomatic tear should the time come sooner rather than later. Remember, when your father saved the king, the princes were just young lads, and Vingeaux was barely of an age to rule. Many a peer would have sought to fill the role of regent and thus extend the influence of their respective House. You might serve as an unpleasant reminder of lost opportunity, or even an embarrassment.”
“An embarrassment?” Calvraign seethed. “I will not hide who I am, or what my father did, to placate anyone.”
“Yes, well, I’m not asking you to hide anything. Hiding won’t help you. You can’t very well hide from a pit, can you? You just need to avoid falling into it.”
“Might you illuminate my steps, then?”
Brohan looked away, but Calvraign spotted an odd flicker of uncertainty in his eyes that only added an awkward gravitas to the brief silence that hung between them. “Calvraign,” he started, then pinched his lips in a frown. “Cal,” he started again, in what seemed a forced familiarity, “have you ever thought it odd that I was dispatched to be your tutor? That your mother’s pension was so generous?”
“No,” Calvraign answered. “My father saved the life of the king. He is a hero many times over. I expect that Guillaume is merely grateful and generous.”
“Very generous, Cal,” the bard agreed. “But not questioning such generosity is one sure way to fall into that pit we’re trying to keep you out of. Think on it. Find the truth here, and you understand not only the ties that bind you to the throne, but those who might be disadvantaged by such a bond. And those who might benefit most from severing it.”
“He saved the king’s life,” Calvraign repeated, flustered.
“Stop thinking like a boy,” chided Brohan, and not gently. “It’s my own fault, I suppose. I always found your quaint affect refreshing and enjoyable; I think I rather encouraged it. I should have been beating it out of you. I may have misread things. I may have done you disservice.”
“What?”
“Your father was a good man and a good soldier. But Calvraign – giving his life to protect the king, in the eyes of the nobility it was no more than his duty. For certain, he executed that duty in dramatic and heroic fashion, and a reward would be expected. Coin and some small parcel of land, perhaps even squire you out to a House of some repute and make a knight of you. Your mother could have been taken into any number of households and lived a comfortable life. It’s not that rewards are uncommon, and Guillaume is – was, at least – a generous king in this way.
“But Calvraign,” he pursed his lips again. “I am a master bard. I record histories, I advise kings….”
Calvraign’s stomach rolled as he finished the unspoken words in his own thoughts, This is beneath me. “Yet you accepted the task,” he said quietly. “You didn’t turn him down.”
“I did, in fact. Several times. But he was very persistent and very nearly dead, and so I relented. We were closer then.” Brohan squeezed Calvraign’s shoulder firmly. “I don’t regret the decision, Cal. Not at all. But you must be wary. If the king has chosen to be so charitable with you, it is not without reason. And that reason could be both your boon and your bane, so we must not ignore it. We must dissect it until we discover the entrails of truth.”
“The entrails of truth?” Calvraign repeated, as if he’d tasted something sour. “Not your better turn of phrase, Master Madrharigal.”
“I’m cold,” explained Brohan, lightly. “We’ll re-write it into something more fitting in the histories.”
“You think this conversation will be in the histories?” laughed Calvraign.
“That depends on who is writing the histories, of course. My point is that until now you have rested a little too comfortably on some simple pillars of truth, ignoring the catacombs of hidden motivations and complex realities that honeycomb the foundations. We must know what ground this is all built upon, to shore up the walls and wi
thstand a siege.”
Calvraign smiled. “The words have scarcely left your lips, and you’ve already begun editing them. But, I think you have your new analogy. I much prefer the truth as sturdy chunks of stone and mortar to messy innards.”
“Even a master bard has to adjust his tune, now and again.”
“I’m glad to see that wasting your time with me can still have its uses.”
Brohan’s easy humor evaporated. “Never wasted,” he said. “Don’t think for a moment that I feel it’s wasted. There’s no jest in that.”
Calvraign nodded and turned his attention to the crunching snow beneath his boots. There was a fundamental truth to Brohan’s words. It was so fundamental, so basic; he wondered that he’d never thought to ponder it before. It seeped into him like the cold. It had always been there, but while distracted he’d paid it no notice. Once the chill took hold, however, dispelling it was no simple matter.
The king wants something from me, he speculated. He expects something. His kindness is not the end itself; it is the means to an end.
Calvraign remembered something General Vae had said, after being elevated to the peerage by Empress Émariel. “Some gifts are more dear to accept than bequest,” he quoted aloud.
“Yes!” Brohan approved, his bright eyes intense. “You see? I told you my time was not wasted. On with it and out with it.”
Calvraign’s lips were only a moment behind his thoughts. “He saved the Empire. Émariel raised him to Baron of the Western March as reward for his heroism. He was awarded the very lands he’d done battle on, but it was more than simple generosity. It was a fitting prize, but one weighted by the Empress’ charge to maintain its defense.”
“Yes,” Brohan said slowly. “But you examine only the mixed nature of the prize itself, not the subtlety of intent behind it. You think in only two dimensions – let that only be the start. Émariel had yet to birth an heir, Dmylriani had sailed away, Celian was murdered, and here returns a strong, intelligent and resourceful general fresh from legendary victories over an invading hrummish Host.”
In Siege of Daylight Page 10
