by Angus Wells
Cullyn shook his head in confirmation. “But does not Lord Bartram suspect?”
“He knows.” Laurens shrugged. “Knows and closes his eyes. He’s twice her age, and …” He shrugged again, expansively. “Does she take our vaunted captain for her lover, still Bartram shares her bed, and likely makes do with that.”
“How could he?” Cullyn asked, horrified. “If I had a wife, I’d not share her.”
Laurens laughed and glanced around the cottage, much as Lofantyl had once done, then asked if Cullyn had aught to drink.
Cullyn brought out the flask of honey wine, from which Laurens quaffed deep, declaring the brew excellent, and said: “It’s politics, lad. I’ve little time for such niceties, myself, but … The Lady Vanysse is western born—out of Yrin hold, daughter of Lord Mykael, who commands at least half of the western coast. Bartram married Vanysse on order of our king—who looked to bind east and west together. Bartram agreed and fell in love.” He laughed again, reaching for the flask. “Wouldn’t you? Or at least want her in your bed? She’s lovely, no?”
“She’s pretty enough,” Cullyn agreed, thinking of Abra.
“But not so desirable as Bartram’s daughter?”
Cullyn blushed.
“Who said she was coming here,” Laurens declared, his voice mild. “So where is she?”
Cullyn hoped that the heat he felt on his cheeks did not show. “She stopped to take a drink of water,” he mumbled, “and then went on.”
“Truly?” Laurens drank more honey wine.
“Truly,” Cullyn answered, hoping the master-at-arms would take it as a question.
“And you’ve no idea where she’s gone?”
Cullyn shook his head.
“I’d wondered,” Laurens said easily, “if she’d taken you for her lover. The gods know, but you’d be better than that sorry Wyllym.”
“I wish it were so,” Cullyn said without thinking. Then bit his tongue and added, “But it’s not.”
“So where has she gone?” Laurens leaned back, sipping his honey wine.
“I don’t know,” Cullyn answered honestly.
Laurens emptied his cup and studied Cullyn from hooded eyes. “I think you know more than you admit.”
“She came and went.” Cullyn shrugged. “And who am I to question her?”
“No one,” Laurens returned cheerfully. “You’re an orphaned forester, with no right to question Lord Bartram’s daughter. No more right than I have to question the Lady Vanysse or Amadis. But …”
“What?” Cullyn asked nervously.
Laurens guffawed. “I think I know what Vanysse and Amadis do.”
“So?”
“And I think you know what our fair Abra does. And if not with you, then with whom?”
Cullyn shrugged again.
“I should arrest you,” Laurens said. “I should do my duty and take you back to the keep—where you’d be put to question. Our new priest would get answers.”
“Shall you?” Cullyn asked, suddenly chilled.
Laurens shook his head. “No. I like you too much. The gods know why, but you’ve something about you. But I still think you admit less than you know.”
Abra appeared. Her hair was disheveled, and leaves clung to her gown. She was obviously startled to find Laurens in the cottage, but she composed herself and asked, “What do you do here?”
“Wait for you,” Laurens said equably.
“I … wanted to be on my own.”
“Of course.” Laurens set down his cup, his grizzled face blank. “And so I waited for you. Cullyn explained.”
Abra’s cheeks reddened. Cullyn busied himself with cups, trying not to look at either of them. “I told Laurens that you went riding alone,” he said.
“Which is not wise in these woods,” Laurens said. “Fey woods, these. Who knows whom you might meet?”
Abra blushed afresh.
And Laurens chuckled and rose, then suggested that they find their horses and return to the keep. As he quit the cottage he favored Cullyn with a wink, and left Cullyn wondering if he were condemned a traitor or had found a friend.
“THIS IS EXTREMELY DIFFICULT,” Lofantyl said. “I love her, but what shall I do? What can I do? Should I take her back to Coim’na Drhu? Would she come with me? I cannot see you Garm accepting me as her husband.” He sighed, dipping his face into his cup. “What shall I do, Cullyn?”
“I don’t know.” Cullyn wondered how long his honey wine would last between Lofantyl and Laurens. “What does she say?”
“I haven’t asked her,” the Durrym returned.
“Perhaps you should. Let her decide.”
“But if she says nay?” Lofantyl shook his head. “I doubt I could bear that.”
“Sometimes,” Cullyn said, with a degree of bitterness in his voice, “we must accept disappointment.”
“I cannot lose her!” Lofantyl declared. “I cannot!”
Cullyn felt sympathy: it seemed he could accept loss better than his Durrym friend. He thought of his own desire for Abra, and what he’d felt for Elvira, and said, “We do not always get what we want. Sometimes, I think, we must accept that.”
“I cannot,” Lofantyl moaned. “I need her.”
Cullyn did not know what else to say, so he poured out more honey wine and set venison steaks to cooking as Lofantyl bemoaned his fate.
IT WAS A MOST CURIOUS TIME for Cullyn, a summer of uncertainty. He saw Abra come and go, on her trysts with Lofantyl; heard them both tell him of the problems they faced. And then he’d sit with Laurens, and listen to the master-at-arms discourse on warfare and politics. And between, he must hunt and feed himself and earn what he might from Lyth.
He never could train Fey to drag a cart, but the stallion would carry a carcass over the saddle, and he did well that summer. He wondered if it were Lofantyl’s forest magic that brought the deer to his bow; indeed, there were times the Durrym went out with him, and summoned the animals that he might bring them down. And must he ride into Lyth all bloody from the deer he carried, still he rode, and his conquest of Fey was considered a marvel. He earned enough that he became well equipped, and laid in sufficient supplies to last him through the winter, which Lofantyl warned him would be harsh.
He became as friendly with Laurens as he was with Lofantyl, and wondered at that dichotomy, but liked them both, and wondered if he was a traitor.
SUMMER TURNED TO AUTUMN.
The forest faded, green leaves becoming red and gold and brown, and falling from the trees to layer the ground with crispness that became moist as the rains came. The squirrels busied themselves with the storing of nuts, and migratory birds passed noisily overhead. It was a time Cullyn enjoyed, in a melancholy way, for it presaged the cessation of summer’s heat and the coming of winter’s quiet time. Some days were pure blue, with a high, fine wind; others were dismal, all gray skies and scudding rain that left the trails muddy so that Cullyn had sooner stayed inside his cottage, by the fire.
Only Lofantyl would come to him then, and talk, and ask when Abra might next visit, which Cullyn could not tell him. And when she did come it was with Laurens, who’d settle himself in the cottage and sup on Cullyn’s depleting store of honey wine—even did he sometimes deliver a flask from the keep, or a small keg of ale—and wonder where Abra had gone in such dismal weather, so that Cullyn could only answer that he did not know, and see the older man’s face wrinkle in disbelief, although Laurens never questioned him too deep.
And then the winter snows came.
They were hard that year, and deceptive.
They came gentle at first, then falling wind-driven and sharp from the east to strip the trees of their last autumn leaves. Then easing so that the forest filled with soft drifts that blocked the trails and the road to Lyth with impassable snow. And after that came howling winds that made his cottage shudder and stripped away the topmost level of snow so that when next the heavy falls came they draped the woods with such white as blocked all the trails an
d froze the pools like cold emeralds. Frost hung icicles from the branches and turned the ferns to wondrous spectacles of glittering jewels. Spiderwebs hung crystal, and trees stood rimed, leafless black limbs draped with trailers of winter, and the ground was all white and hard beneath, as if all the world were filled with ice, and metal stuck burning to careless hands.
Cullyn hunted little then: he had sufficient meat laid in store that he could last out the cold weather, and vegetables in his root cellar, and enough wood to keep the cottage warm, despite the ice-breathed winds that blew outside to deliver great banks of snow that piled in the yard so that he must go out with a shovel to clear the ground for his animals. The pigs fared well enough, for they were sufficiently hardy that they’d grub down through the frozen earth, but the chickens and the cow needed tending, and Fey grew restless.
The stallion’s coat grew thick with winter hair, and he protested the confinement the snows imposed. He grew irritable again, and when Cullyn came to him, he’d snap his teeth and sometimes rear. So Cullyn took to riding through the snow, which was hard going but worked off Fey’s energy, leaving the stallion sweating and wearied so that Cullyn must wipe him down and drape him with a blanket before returning him to the stall.
It was a strange winter—harsher than any he’d known, and lonely. He saw nothing of Abra or Laurens, for the roads and trails were all sealed deep and impassable, and the keep folk held tight to home. Neither did he see Lofantyl, for the Durrym told him that he’d winter at home, in Kash’ma Hall. So Cullyn was left alone—which was not unusual, save lately he had grown accustomed to company, and consequently found its absence disturbing. He had not been aware of loneliness before, but now he felt the emptiness of the long winter and wished for company. He read what few books he owned—none for the first time—and grew bored, and prayed for spring’s advent.
IN WHICH ABRA JOINED HIM.
The keep was winter-locked. Frost rimed the bastions and icicles hung sparkling from the balconies and ramparts. The world was all gray—save when it grew white with snow—and fires blazed constantly in the hearths, filling the keep with an indolent warmth that seemed to suck out her breath and leave her sweating when she was not shivering. Neither could she—with the hearth ablaze—listen to those conversations that went on below. But worst of all was Lofantyl’s absence.
He’d told her he must go away for a while, but she had not understood how long that while might be. It seemed an age, and she wondered when he might return. Nightly, she hung the ribbon from her window; and daily, she drew it in, crusted hard with frost, as she watched the guards patrol the ramparts from brazier to brazier, warming their hands before the guttering fires.
“YOU’VE DONE WELL.” Isydrian slapped his younger son’s shoulder. “The information you’ve delivered is most useful.”
“Thank you, Father.”
Isydrian poured wine, watching his two sons eye one another like fighting cocks. They each had their own virtues, he thought, their own strengths. Afranydyr was hard as a blade, with no more love for the Garm than Isydrian himself. Lofantyl was softer, but also more subtle. He had too much time for the Garm—too much interest in their ways; and this talk of the Garm woman troubled him. But even so, it was useful information.
Afranydyr interrupted his father’s contemplation in typically blunt fashion. “Is this information truly of such worth?”
“That the Garm find ways to cross the Barrier?” Isydrian returned. “Yes! I’d know if they come against us.”
“Save it’s only hearsay,” Afranydyr objected.
Isydrian glanced at his younger son, who shrugged and said, “It’s what Abra told me.”
Afranydyr snorted. “The tales of a woman besotted. And likely only pillow talk.”
“I’ve not bedded her,” Lofantyl objected. “I … respect her too much. I think I love her.”
“A Garm?” Afranydyr’s lips pursed in disapproval. “How can you love a Garm?”
“They’re not so different,” Lofantyl answered. “And she is beautiful.”
Afranydyr glowered at his brother.
“It matters not,” Isydrian interjected. He looked at Lofantyl and said, “You can have her, if you want. Persuade her to come here, or take her as a captive … either way, you can have her. What’s important is that we know what the Garm plan.”
He pondered a moment. “This war can do us good—if they do find a way past the Mys’enh, then we can direct them against Pyris, and let the walls of Ky’atha Hall take the brunt. You, my son, might suggest that. Tell your Garm that, eh? Tell her how her folk can find Ky’atha Hall, and let her pass it on.” He chuckled, pleased with his plan, and rubbed his hands in happy anticipation. “You might even show them the way through the Mys’enh—to Ky’atha Hall. Let the Garm take that, and then we come to the rescue. That, or leave Pyris to his fate.”
He smiled, contemplating the future. Let the Garm come across the Barrier against Ky’atha Hall, and Pyris might fail and die. It was his ambition to see both his sons enthroned in their own halls. Afranydyr would inherit Kash’ma. And if Pyris should fail, then Lofantyl could be established as lord of Ky’atha. It was, he decided, up to the gods and his own cunning.
“This is devoid of honor,” Lofantyl protested.
“This is politics,” his father said. “We could own the whole of the border. Let Pyris face the Garm and we reap the rewards.”
“My little brother objects,” Afranydyr chuckled scornfully.
“I’d behave with honor,” Lofantyl said, glowering at his brother as fiercely as Afranydyr glared at him.
Isydrian shook his head and folded his hands inside the deep sleeves of his bearskin robe. As a Durrym, he felt little cold, but he grew old now—both his sons were late-born, and Lofantyl the last, for Aederia had died in that birthing. But he’d leave them a great heritage—if all his plans worked out. He studied them, wondering that they could not see his intent. Perhaps Afranydyr sensed it; but surely not Lofantyl. One day, he’d explain it in detail—that if the Garm came against Coim’na Drhu, and only he knew of their plans, then he had the opportunity to realize that dream and leave both his sons a heritage worthy of his own father. Worthy of himself and them.
And perhaps, with his sons lifted up so high, even come to challenge the Dur’em jahnt, so that one or the other, or their children, might take the throne of the Floating City.
But that was the future—if all went well—and the moment demanded decision. So Isydrian chuckled and said, “I think you should go back and talk more with this Garm lord’s daughter.”
“I’ll not betray her,” Lofantyl protested.
“I don’t ask you to,” his father said. “Only let me know what plans the Garm have. For the sake of Coim’na Drhu.”
“And his love for the Garm?” Afranydyr grunted.
“I doubt it shall cloud his judgment.” Isydrian smiled benignly at Lofantyl. “Shall it?”
Lofantyl looked at his father and shook his head. “No, my lord.”
“Then go back, eh? Learn all you can and send a raven as soon you know.”
Lofantyl nodded. “As you order, my father.”
THE SNOW WAS CRISP under his feet, crunching despite his light tread, but no dogs barked at him as he made his way through the village, for he was fey and communed with the animals in ways the Garm’kes Lyn could not, so they let him pass without interruption. He stared at the little buildings and wondered how they could live there, all winter-hidden behind their walls, with shutters closed against the honesty of the snowy night, lit only by the fires inside and what few braziers burned in the streets. His own people would be outside in such weather, glorying in the sky, which was hung thick with stars and a great, dim moon. In Coim’na Drhu they’d be celebrating the festival of Lyris now, but here all the Garm did was huddle. He felt sorry for them as thick flakes fell down to mask him and he made his way through the empty streets of Lyth to the walls of the keep.
Those he climbed eas
ily, and dropped to the yard beyond.
That was swept clear of snow, but the cold wind held the guards inside their revetments, or concentrated on warming themselves at the braziers that burned along the walls. And he was fey, and quick, so he was across the yard and clambering up the stone wall before any saw him.
He felt the stone slippery under his fingers. And they numbed as he climbed, all the time waiting for a shaft to pierce his back and drop him from the wall. His hands and feet grew cold as his body, and he gritted his teeth that they not chatter.
And climbed, and came to her window.
And found it shuttered against the cold.
He perched himself precariously on the ledge and tapped, wondering how long he could hold on before his frozen hands gave up all their feeling and he fell away.
ABRA HEARD THE KNOCKING and dismissed her servants. One woman giggled, wondering aloud who—or what—might come visiting her lady on so bleak a night.
“Likely it’s some luckless bird,” Abra extemporized, “seeking shelter.” And shooed her attendants away with the excuse that they’d frighten off the bird.
She wondered if they’d accept her excuses—which seemed, even to her, lame—but she had no doubt at all who knocked on her window.
She opened the portal and he clambered in, all wet and icy. He put his arms around her and said, “I missed you. I could no longer bear to be apart.”
“Nor I.”
They embraced, and she felt the cold in his body and clung to him.
And then the door burst open and Amadis came in with a drawn sword, Per Fendur and six guardsmen at his back. Abra screamed; Lofantyl pushed her away and drew his dagger, which was the only weapon he carried.
Amadis laughed. “Not enough, boy. Lay it down else I slay you here and now.”
Per Fendur smiled his oily smile and said, “Did you truly believe you could enter this keep unnoticed? Are you Durrym so stupid as to forget my powers?”
