by Angus Wells
“I’m not,” came the answer. “I’d see peace between us. Do you think me your enemy?”
Cullyn shook his head.
“So do you trust me?”
Cullyn hid his face in his cup. Then, “I don’t know.”
“I left you that blade,” Lofantyl said. “Do you understand what that means?”
“No, save it was a splendid gift.”
“It was a … we name it lyn’nha’thall—a gift between brothers. It means ‘a bonding … trust.’ We give such a knife only to those we believe we can trust.”
Cullyn studied the knife, and Lofantyl. “So you trust me so much?”
Lofantyl nodded.
“Why?”
“Because,” the Durrym said, “I feel that you are a brother. You’ve the forest in your blood, as it’s in mine. I feel a kinship.” He grinned from across his bowl. “You could almost be Durrym. I feel that I know you, and I trust you.”
“We’ve met, what? Twice? And now you ask me to aid you in the seduction of Lord Bartram’s daughter?”
“Not the seduction,” Lofantyl said. “Only the pursuit of the woman I love.”
“And what would you have me do?”
“Allow us refuge,” Lofantyl said. “Let us use your cottage.”
“So I become a pander?” Cullyn shook his head. “No!”
“I’ll only bring her here,” Lofantyl returned, “if she’s willing. And first, I intend to visit her in the stone place—that she agreed to.”
“You’re mad,” Cullyn said. “They’ll slay you.”
“She’s worth it.” Lofantyl emptied his bowl. “I’d die for her.”
“And likely shall,” Cullyn said as the Durrym—his friend?—went to the door.
“But shall you aid me?”
Cullyn said, reluctantly, “Yes.”
“Then you’ve my thanks.”
And Lofantyl was gone into the night, leaving Cullyn to wonder.
AS WAS ABRA.
She could not forget that nut-brown face that had smiled at her from the tree. She could not believe he’d risk her father’s keep to find her, but that night she hung a ribbon from her window and wondered.
LOFANTYL CAME UP THROUGH the village at midnight. Dogs came out to challenge him, but he spoke to them and they did not bark, and so he reached the edge wall of the keep and climbed the wall without the guards seeing him. He crossed the ground between and saw the ribboned window of the castle. It was a high climb, and difficult even for him, but he set his hands and his feet against the stone and commenced the ascent. He did not like the feeling of this textured, man made stone, all carved and cut, but he endured it for the prize above. And like some clinging spider, he reached Abra’s window—and, because he could not open the shutter, tapped.
Abra appeared.
She opened her mouth to scream as she saw him there, and then, as she recognized him, opened the window and said, “I didn’t believe you’d come.”
“I promised,” he said.
He dropped into the room and she stared at the window, obviously thinking of the wall and the guards and all he must have overcome to be here, with her.
“How could you do that?” she asked.
“For love,” he said. “I told you, no?”
“Are you found you’ll be slain.”
“You’re worth it.”
“You’re mad.”
“For you, yes.”
She stared at him, clearly wondering if he were insane, and then seemed suddenly aware that she wore only a nightgown. She blushed, and hurried to find her robe.
Lofantyl remained by the window, but when she turned back toward him, he reached inside his tunic to extract a somewhat crushed and wilted bunch of flowers.
“I chose these for you, in the forest.” He proffered the bouquet, and as she took it, their hands touched and he felt a thrill run through him.
“Thank you.”
He bowed, all courtly, and smiled at her. “It is my pleasure to bring you what small gifts I can offer.”
“Even at risk of your life?”
“So small a price to pay for your smile.” He came farther into the room. “May I sit down? That was a hard climb—even for a Durrym.”
ABRA GESTURED at the chairs, still clutching the bouquet of wildflowers, utterly confused. She was flattered that he’d risk his life to see her, and not yet quite sure of his intentions. The teachings of the Church warned her of Durrym seductions, but when she looked into his eyes and saw his smile, she could not believe him other than honest.
Lofantyl took a chair and glanced around. “A drink,” he said, “would not go amiss.
“I’ve water and wine.”
“Water, please.”
She filled him a glass that he drank with obvious pleasure, then settled in a facing chair, wondering at what she did. Duty ordered that she call out for the guards and have this Durrym taken; but she could not do that, for it would surely mean his death. So she remained silent, and waited for him to speak. She had never before entertained a man in her private chambers. She felt her face grow warm and knew she blushed; but she was unsure whether that was embarrassment or excitement.
“I’d see you again,” he said. “With your permission.”
It was madness, but before she knew what she said, she heard herself saying: “You have it.”
“It will not be easy.”
“No.”
“But if you are willing …”
“I am.”
What did she say? Lofantyl was fey, a Durrym—enemy of Kandar—save when she looked into his eyes she forgot the realm.
“I spoke with Cullyn,” she heard him say, as if in a dream.
“The forester?”
A memory then of another handsome man, but uncouth—not like Lofantyl.
“A friend. He’s agreed that we might meet in his cottage.”
“That would be difficult.”
“Truly?”
“Certainly.”
“But shall you?”
She looked at him and ducked her head as she said, almost against her will: “Yes; when I can.” His eyes and his smile persuaded her.
“Tomorrow?”
“Perhaps. It shall not be easy.” She was not at all sure she could meet Lofantyl again—although the gods knew she wanted to—and so she chose to hold her own counsel and see what transpired.
“Promise me,” he asked.
“I cannot say. It might not be possible.”
He took her hand and said, “I’ll wait for you in the forest. Save you invite me to stay the night.”
A question hung in his brown eyes. To which Abra answered: “Not yet; it’s too soon. I must think.”
“What’s to think about?” he asked. “I love you. Don’t you—”
She raised her free hand. “I don’t know—not yet. I must think.”
And so they sat through most of the night, and Lofantyl was most gentlemanly. And Abra wondered if the Durrym fell in love so easily. Certainly he declared his devotion but, for all his handsome face and earnest eyes urged her to agree, she hesitated. They were, after all, old enemies, and Per Fendur had spoken of the Church’s newfound magic that could find a way through the Barrier so that Kandar could invade the fey lands.
And she was Lord Bartram’s daughter, and her father sworn to defend Kandar against the Durrym.
Her head spun as the night grew older, and she wondered if it would not be easier to marry Wyllym, rather than entertain the notions that wound through her head as she looked at Lofantyl’s earnest face.
Only those notions brought a flush to her cheeks, and she could not take her eyes from his face as he told her of Coim’na Drhu and Kash’ma Hall, and she found herself intrigued, and wondered what that unknown land might be like. And the sun edged a way into the sky and birds began to chorus.
“You’d best go now,” she warned.
Outside the windows a pale sun was rising to wake the birds. He nodded, and kisse
d her hands, and she felt her skin thrill and her heart beat faster. And then he rose and said, “As you say, I’d best be gone.”
Abra looked at the window and realized that they’d talked the night away. The sky was shifting into dawn’s pearly gray, and birds began to sing, chorusing the advent of morning. She felt fear then, that Lofantyl be found and slain.
“But I’ll see you soon, eh?”
She ducked her head in agreement, unable to do else, nor wanting to.
And watched him slither out of the window and clamber down the wall and run through the early morning shadows to disappear over the outer wall and … become no longer visible, as if the dawn swallowed him up and he became a part of the land.
She sighed and went back to her bed, and thought of their next meeting—which, she was decided, should be as soon as possible.
FIVE
I SYDRIAN BECKONED the raven in from the window ledge with a summons and a bowl of nuts.
He sat quietly as the avian hopped from ledge to desk and eyed him with a beady yellow curiosity. They were poor enough messengers, but the best Coim’na Drhu had—save Lofantyl return—so he waited until the bird finished its inspection and dipped its beak into the bowl. Then he grabbed it, ignoring its squalling as he took the tiny cylinder from its leg and broke the seals. The raven eyed him angrily, ruffled its feathers, and then went back to pecking up nuts.
The lord of Kash’ma Hall read the message. It was encrypted, but he knew the codes well enough that he needed no help to decipher the symbols. And it was a plain enough message: Lofantyl had encountered the keep lord’s daughter and won her affection; the Garm’kes Lyn planned a war. Their church—Isydrian wondered what exactly that word meant—believed its officers had found such power as could gain them entry to Coim’na Drhu. He doubted that—the Durrym magicks set on the forest and the river were strong, and turned invaders away. He doubted that any Garm could find a way past the river that divided the two lands and held the Durrym safe from the depredations of the barbaric Garm.
But it was interesting information, and he silently praised his younger son for his acuity. Lofantyl was wayward, and far too interested in the Garm, but he had the sense to keep his ear to the ground. Or to windows and locked doors; and that was all that mattered. Afranydyr could never have managed such a task: he was too blunt, perhaps too honest to ever be a spy. But Lofantyl … Isydrian chuckled, and reached out to stroke the raven, which squawked and pecked at his hand.
He stared at the bird even as he sucked at his bloodied finger, concentrating his will so that the bird turned away and returned to its feast. His younger son, he thought, had little idea what potentially valuable information he sent back from his travels. Indeed, he was not so dissimilar to the raven: a messenger.
Isydrian took up a quill fashioned from a black swan’s feather and set the pen in the inkpot. From a drawer in his desk he extracted a scrap of parchment no larger than Lofantyl has used, and in a minuscule hand composed his reply. Then he dusted the scrap with fine sand and carefully rolled it into the message cylinder.
The raven squawked a protest as he lifted it from the bowl and fixed the cylinder to its left leg. He allowed the bird to peck up a few more nuts before he grabbed it and carried it, protesting, to the window. He stared into the avian’s eyes and fixed its objective in the tiny brain. Then he flung it away, watching as it swooped, and then lofted over the walls to wing westward.
All went well so far, and was Lofantyl’s information correct, he could likely drive the Garm against Ky’atha Hall, and let Pyris fight them—if they could find a way past the Barrier.
It hardly mattered: there was a war coming, and he would benefit from it. He might emerge a heroic defender, or a savior—if he warned Santylla of the Garms’ plans. But would he advise Dobre Henes, or hold it to himself? He was not yet sure—he thought he’d wait for further news.
“I CAN FIND A WAY,” Per Fendur said. Then corrected himself, “The Church can find a way. We work on it even now.”
“No one has ever crossed the Alagordar.” Amadis sipped his wine. “Or if they have, they’ve not come back.”
“We’ve new magicks.” The priest stared at the soldier. “We’ve studied the matter, and decided it’s something to do with the land. Do you believe me?”
“I’d like to,” Amadis said. “But …”
“The Durrym are not like us. They are the creations of nature, not God. They live with the land and its animals, and shape those things to their own designs. We control it; we own it; we make the land and all that inhabits it subservient to us. That is what God intended for us when we came to Kandar. How else could we conquer the savages and drive them out?”
Amadis shrugged. “Lord Bartram says because we owned the greater numbers, and steel.”
“Lord Bartram”—Fendur filled the title with contempt—“is an old man, with old ways. Would you not enjoy this keep?” The priest waved an expansive hand. “You could be lord here.”
“What of Bartram?”
Fendur poured the captain a fresh glass of wine. “Men die in battle, no? And their wives grieve, and seek others.”
“But I am sworn to defend Bartram’s hold.”
“But if he were to die in battle—a hero—what then?”
Amadis drained his glass; Fendur poured him another.
“You’ve … feelings … for his wife?”
Amadis ducked his head in acknowledgment.
“Would she marry you? Were Lord Bartram to die?”
“I believe so.”
“Then you’d become lord of this keep, my word on it. Does that not interest you?”
Amadis nodded.
“So persuade him. Lend your arguments to mine and we’ll go to war with the fey folk. You’ll emerge a hero and become a keep lord.”
Amadis thought a while—not long—and nodded. “I’ve your word on that?”
Per Fendur smiled and said, “My word and bond, both.”
“Then,” Amadis said, “we go to war.” And raised his glass in agreement before he added, “Save do you betray me, I shall slay you—priest or no.”
“Why should I betray you?” Fendur asked innocently. “Are we not allies in this venture, bonded by our common purpose?”
“Save you’ve the Church at your back,” Amadis said, “and I’ve only your word.”
“Which you can trust,” the priest assured him.
“And you’ll make me keep lord? And I’ll have Vanysse?”
“My word on both.”
Dreams spun through Amadis’s mind. Lord of the keep; Vanysse in his bed, his wife; the hero who led Kandar into the Durrym lands; the approval of the Church.
He smiled and raised his glass.
ABRA DREAMED OF LOFANTYL, and rode into the forest whenever she could. It was not so easy to meet him, but when her stepmother went out—inevitably with Amadis—Abra would accompany them. And then it was not so difficult, because Vanysse would find reasons to ride off alone with the captain, and then Abra was able to drift away and find her fey courtier in some glade, or Cullyn’s hut, and lose her escorts for a while. Long enough, at least, that they could spend time together.
She wondered, sometimes, if she were no better than Vanysse—for surely she betrayed her father’s sworn duty when she took Lofantyl’s hands and allowed him to kiss her. He was, after all, Durrym.
But he was unlike any man she had known.
Not that she had known many.
Indeed, were she honest, none. She was virgin and pledged by the king’s word to Wyllym. She considered Wyllym, after their few meetings, ugly and uncouth. And she was afraid that whatever her father said, King Khoros might impose the marriage. She had seen the forester, Cullyn, and felt a … stirring. But it was an impossible notion. A keep lord’s daughter and a forester?
Lofantyl was different, even be it no less likely.
A Durrym and a Border Lord’s daughter? What would the Church, the king, have to say about that?
But he was surely a lord in his own right: a younger son of some great Durrym fortress. And gentle in his attentions; courteous and subtle. He showed her the forest in all its sylvan glory, but made no attempt to bed her; only took her by the hand and showed her the nests of mated birds, or badger setts, or forest springs she’d not known existed. Pointed out high squirrels’ dreys. Took her to glades where deer grazed, the stag calming his harem when Lofantyl murmured—as if all the forest and its denizens obeyed him. And then he’d find her flowers and present the bouquet with a courtly bow, and bring her back before her escort wondered where she might be.
He was gentility personified, and through the summer’s courtship she came to love him—and to trust him. So she told him all she knew of the Church’s plans, and her father’s attitude, thinking to deliver peace, and Lofantyl listened and kissed her cheek, and held her hands, and was a perfect gentleman.
THEY TRYSTED OFTEN as not in Cullyn’s cottage, and Cullyn wondered at his feelings. Abra was beautiful, and he could not deny his desire for her. But he regarded Lofantyl as a friend, and so wished them well, and pondered what he did. If not the gods, then surely the Church and Lord Bartram would find him guilty—of heresy and betrayal, both.
It was a difficult time for him, torn between desire and friendship, wondering at his own motives. And all the while thinking that were they discovered, he would be branded a traitor and executed. But Abra was obviously in love with the Durrym, and Lofantyl was charm personified—cheerful and friendly, such as few Cullyn had known—that he felt incapable of doing other than aid them in their trysts.
Which was not always so easy, for the master-at-arms, Laurens, appeared to have taken a liking to him, and would visit him as Vanysse and Amadis slipped away into the forest, and Abra found excuses to seek Lofantyl. Then, Laurens would come to Cullyn’s cottage and idly wonder where Abra might have disappeared to.
“And her stepmother?” Cullyn asked on one occasion. “Don’t you wonder about her?”
“I know where she’s gone.” Laurens chuckled, tapping a callused finger against his broken nose. Cullyn raised questioning brows, pretending innocence, and Laurens said: “Off to some glade with Amadis. But say nothing of that!”
