Yesterday's Kings

by Angus Wells

  And then they entered the central keep.

  It was encompassed with low walls, the entry beneath a vaulting arch that seemed fashioned from a single, massive piece of jade that filtered and shone back the sun’s light. Beyond lay a courtyard filled with sweet-scented trees and pools of clear blue water. Birds sang amongst the trees and fat fishes swam lazily in the pools. The yard was paved with an intricate mosaic that he felt showed some picture, might he rise high enough above the place to observe it properly. But for now he only stared in wonder at the keep before him. It was larger than Lyth Keep, and infinitely more elegant. Lyth’s hold was all gray stone and dull wood, built for defense rather than beauty. This place was a marvel. Sheer walls, unlined by mason’s work, rose smooth as the avenue below to windows and balconies and terraced walkways. Plants hung from the outjutting terraces, trailing bright flowers down the smooth azure stone. Save Cullyn was not sure it could be stone, for it seemed like some vast candle, a thing melded and melted into place rather than built.

  “It’s pretty, no?” Lyandra swung from her saddle, smiling at his amazement. “I knew you’d like it.”

  He climbed down from Fey and handed the stallion’s reins to a liveried man. “Be careful,” he advised. “He doesn’t much like people.”

  The man nodded, and was then hauled off his feet as Fey bucked, teeth snapping. Cullyn moved to calm the horse, but Lyandra grasped his arm and said, “No, wait.”

  The man spoke softly and Fey ceased his bucking, although his ears stayed back and his teeth remained bared. The man stroked the black muzzle, still speaking softly, and Fey calmed and allowed himself to be led away.

  “Do you all have this power over animals?” Cullyn asked.

  Lyandra chuckled—like clean water washing over stones, Cullyn thought—and said, “Yes. I think we understand them better than you Garm. Now come inside.”

  She waited until the wounded were taken off and Eben and Laurens stood beside them. Then she brought them into the keep.

  There was a hall that seemed to Cullyn again for larger than the tower could hold, its floor a solid slab of pale green agate that shone bright in the sunlight coming through the wide windows, so that patterns of light glittered under his feet. Benches and tables stood around the walls, which were structured of impossibly smooth blue stone, decked with tapestries that depicted woodland scenes that seemed to move with the animation of the creatures sewn into them. Cullyn saw a unicorn kneeling before a woman, and would have sworn the horned horse moved as the woman raised her hand. He became aware that his jaw hung open, and closed it lest Lyandra think him some bumpkin.

  “Come.” She touched his arm and brought him across the hall to a door that appeared fashioned from pure silver. It was not guarded, and swung open as they approached. Lyandra hesitated, beckoning that Eben and Laurens follow.

  She ducked her head and said, “My parents, I bring you visitors with a story to tell.”

  Instinctively, Cullyn bent his knee.

  Facing him across a floor of black marble were a man and a woman of such regal demeanor that he could do naught else. They were tall and brown-haired as chestnuts in autumn. Gray streaked the man’s temples, lending him a dignity that was supported by stance and visage. His hair was long, held off his aquiline features by a circle of silver. He wore a tunic strapped with gold and silver, and moleskin breeches that were set down the legs with fastenings of gold. The woman was an older version of Lyandra—still beautiful—her hair caught up in a net of silver filigree, her gown pale green and clinging. Cullyn thought that he had never seen such beautiful folk—save for their daughter.

  “This is Cullyn.” Lyandra touched his shoulder. “He looked to save me from a unicorn.”

  Her parents laughed, like tinkling water over stones.

  “And this is Laurens—a companion of Cullyn’s.”

  “Who’s hurt,” the woman said, and clapped her hands so that folk came hurrying to her side. “Tend him. Fetch the healers and see him healed.”

  “My thanks, lady,” Laurens said.

  She nodded graciously and watched as Laurens was led away.

  “And this one you know.” Lyandra gestured at Eben. Then laughed as she turned to Cullyn and said: “Forgive me, I forget my manners. These are my parents—Pyris and Mallandra—rulers of Ky’atha Hall.”

  “Who bid you welcome,” Pyris said. “Even you, Eben.”

  Cullyn bowed. Eben stared at the fey lord. “Are you sure?”

  “Why not? How often does Isydrian’s son visit me?”

  They stared at one another until Mallandra said, “Husband, they’re weary and travel stained. Shall we not offer them baths, and clean clothes before we discuss what’s brought them here?”

  “Of course.” Pyris acknowledged her suggestion with a lowering of his regal head.

  “Let them bathe and find fresh clothes. Then dinner and conversation, eh, Eben?”

  CULLYN WAS ESCORTED to a chamber that seemed larger than his entire cottage, with high windows of clear glass that looked out over the keep and the lake beyond. A balcony stood outside, from which he could see the great spread of the forest. The floor was polished wood, scattered with magnificent carpets, and seats and armoires stood around the walls—which were hung with tapestries. Past this magnificence there was a sleeping chamber that contained a bed vast as some potentate’s catafalque, and beyond that another room that Cullyn did not at first understand.

  It was tiled in bright colors that depicted trees and birds and hunting hounds, and at the center was a blue-tiled tub, with steps leading down and odd spigots set at one end. It smelled of soap and scent.

  “Shall you bathe, then?”

  He looked at the servant in surprise. The man wore livery he supposed belonged to Ky’atha Hall, but he seemed entirely human—Garm.

  Cullyn asked him, and the man answered: “I am Fredryk. I was taken captive. Now I serve Lord Pyris.”

  “And would you not go back?”

  “No.” The servant shook his head. “Why should I? In Kandar I tended fields that grew good grain, but then the lord would come and take all I’d worked for. If I raised a cow that calfed, the keep lord would take the calf—and then demand the mother’s milk. Here, I live well. Lord Pyris is benevolent.”

  Cullyn wondered, and let the man take him to the marvelous tub. He watched as handles were turned, spilling steaming water into the bowl. The servant set soaps and unguents beside the tub, and asked if Cullyn needed further help. Cullyn shook his head and dismissed the man.

  “I’ll see your clothes cleaned,” the servant said, “and bring you fresh gear.”

  Cullyn waited until he was gone before he stripped off his clothing—which was, he must admit, filthy—and then descended into the tub.

  The water was hot from one spigot, cold from the other: he lay there, playing with such wonders, scrubbing long days of travel dirt from his hair and body before—with some reluctance—he rose and toweled himself dry.

  His familiar clothes were gone, but others were set on the bed: breeches and tunics, shirts and undergarments; such garb as only lords wore. He tugged on the latter and was making his choice of the former when he heard the knocking on his door.

  Anticipating Eben or Laurens, he swung the door open, his chosen breeches in his hand and his torso bare.

  And blushed as Lyandra laughed.

  “Forgive me, I’d thought you might be ready by now.”

  He danced into his breeches, struggling at the same time to pull on his shirt. Lyandra pushed past him, setting him to dancing one-footed, as she strolled into the room, casual as if the sight of a half-dressed—or undressed?—man were entirely normal.

  She wore a long green gown that flattered her body and made him wonder why he had thought her boyish. Her hair was caught up in a bun that exposed a slender neck decorated with a bejeweled silver necklace. Cullyn hurriedly buttoned his breeches and fastened his shirt, aware of the heat that possessed his cheeks.


  Still smiling, Lyandra settled on the couch, carefully arranging her skirt.

  “I should have sent word,” she said. “You must forgive me.”

  “For what?” Cullyn stuttered. “I … I don’t know … I’m pleased to see you … but …”

  “Are all you Garm so shy?”

  “I don’t know.” He fastened his shirt, pulled on a tunic and boots.

  “My parents would see us at dinner,” she said.

  “Am I dressed right?” he asked, fastening a last button.

  “You look splendid,” she said. And rose from the bed to take his face in her hands and plant a kiss on his lips.

  He felt his face grow hotter and wondered if he should put his hands on her. Hers, after all, rested on his shoulders, and she smiled at him as if she both challenged and invited him. He caught wafts of perfume, musky and sweet, like summer flowers and autumn’s slow decay. Her face was close enough he could smell her breath: it was clean as fresh-cut mint. He hardly knew what he did as he drew her closer and settled his lips on hers.

  She kissed him back, then pushed him away.

  “They wait on us.” She took his hand, leading him toward the door. “And your future must be decided.”

  “Who shall decide it?”

  “My parents, of course.” She took him from the chamber. “And I. After all, I found you.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  She laughed, drawing him down the corridor to a wide stairwell. “It’s our way. The custom of Coim’na Drhu. When you Garm cross the Mys’enh you are usually turned back. Those who are not remain.”

  “As slaves and servants?”

  She shook her head. “Not necessarily. Many hold powerful stations amongst the families. Many choose not to go back. And you”—she clutched his hand tighter—“are syn’qui.” She smiled again and led him down the long stairs to a hall flanked with carvings of Durrym and fantastical beasts. Cullyn followed, captured by her hand and beauty, wondering into what strange world he went.

  They came to a door that seemed fashioned entirely of melted gold. A liveried servant before it threw it open to allow them access to the chamber beyond. It was intimate. Small windows let in the sun’s dying rays, candles glowed in sconces along the walls—those carved with friezes that depicted more woodland scenes: hunts and battles, strange beasts. The floor was covered with a single massive carpet that reflected in its weaving the depictions on the walls. Pyris and Mallandra sat at the ends of a table of carved oak, Eben and Laurens settled between them, servants—or guards, Cullyn wondered—standing behind.

  He went to Laurens. “You’re well?”

  “Yes.” The soldier ducked his craggy face. “These Durrym have fine healers. They’ve seen me well.”

  Cullyn looked to Eben, who smiled and winked.

  Lyandra said, “Sit here, by me.”

  He took the chair and sat in nervous silence.

  Pyris said, “Wine?” A servant filled all their goblets. Then, courteously: “Which first—talk or dinner?”

  “Talk,” Cullyn said bluntly. “I’d know my future.”

  “An honest Garm.” Pyris chuckled. “So, then—talk.”

  “He’s syn’qui,” Lyandra said.

  Pyris glanced at Eben, who nodded. “So we must take care of him, eh?”

  “Best that you do,” Eben said, wiping wine from his beard. “I believe the gods favor him—or curse him—but he’s a pivot on which all our worlds turn.”

  “You’re sure of this?” Pyris asked.

  “I am,” Eben replied. “How else could that priest have followed us so far into your kingdoms? Why else?”

  “We need to talk,” Pyris declared. “Privately.”

  He ordered their dinner brought in and dismissed the servants, so that the six of them could speak alone.

  “The Kandarian Church finds new magic,” Eben said. “Per Fendur was able to find us across the Mys’enh.” He glanced at Laurens for confirmation, and Laurens said: “He boasts of new powers the Church has found, that shall allow them to cross the river. And he hates the Durrym.”

  “Why do they want to cross?” Pyris asked. “I’d thought we had some kind of truce.”

  “Kandar’s grown too much,” Laurens said. He smiled an apology. “Since we drove you out, all the land—save along the border—is given to farming, to vineyards, to mining and the like. Kandar prospers and the population grows. King Khoros would find more space, and the Church promises him that—it promises a way across the Alagordar, against a people we defeated before.”

  “And can it deliver its promises?”

  “I fear so,” Laurens said. “And surely the fact that Per Fendur came across proves it possible.”

  Pyris studied the soldier a while. “Why do you tell me this? Am I not your traditional enemy?”

  “Perhaps once,” Laurens returned, “but now?” He supped his wine and thought a moment. “I’ve met Cullyn and Eben, and my thinking has changed.”

  “And this one?” Pyris asked, glancing at Eben.

  “I don’t know, save he’s a wizard and a friend.”

  “Who brought you here in search of this girl, Abra?”

  “A damnably willful girl,” Eben said grumpily. “And were Cullyn here not entranced, I’d be sitting at home in my cottage.”

  Lyandra kicked Cullyn, “Were you?”

  “What?” he asked.

  “Entranced.”

  He nodded, and felt her fingers close tight about the muscles above his knee. He winced—her grip was strong!—and said, “Until I met you.”

  And realized that it was true. He looked at her and she looked back at him, and there was something exchanged between them that he could not define, only know.

  “However”—Pyris interrupted their exchange—“we face a dilemma. This Garm woman, Abra, is taken by Lofantyl to Kash’ma Hall. Willingly? Or kidnapped?” He looked to Eben and Laurens. “Is all you tell me true, then you Garm might come across the Mys’enh in search.”

  “I’d doubt,” Laurens said, “that we could raise sufficient men to threaten you. Khoros will hardly concern himself with the fate of a Border Lord’s daughter.”

  “But this Church of yours?”

  “Still develops its magic. I believe that Per Fendur is one of the few to own that ability.” Laurens grew practical. “I think it must take years before there are sufficient priests to guide a real army. And then Khoros must levy his musters before he’s sufficient men to threaten you.”

  “But the Church has found a way across,” Eben said. “And perhaps Lord Bartram shall send all his men.” He glanced at Cullyn and shrugged. “He’s a beacon, after all.”

  Pyris laughed. “That would be no more than a raid; and easily defeated. I doubt this Lord Bartram has enough men to offer any real threat to Ky’atha Hall.”

  “Perhaps; perhaps not,” Eben said. “But I’d not disregard the danger.” He stared at Pyris. “My father is a cunning man, and by all accounts so is Per Fendur.”

  Laurens nodded agreement.

  “There’s that,” Pyris allowed. “So what do you say?”

  “That Isydrian might trade—ally with Fendur: Ky’atha Hall for his aid.”

  Mallandra gasped; Cullyn felt Lyandra’s hand tighten.

  “Think you so?” Pyris stared aghast at Eben.

  Eben shrugged. “You know my father as well as I,” he said bitterly. “Do you think him capable?”

  Pyris lowered his head in agreement.

  “And if Kash’ma Hall were to make an alliance with Lyth Keep,” Eben said, “then you’d face a mighty foe.”

  There was a silence then. The room seemed to draw in, shadows lengthening. The candles flickered and the fire sparked as if in warning confirmation. Cullyn swallowed wine, feeling entirely out of his depth, but still compelled to speak.

  “Why not act first?” he suggested.

  “How?” Eben demanded.

  Cullyn turned to Laurens. “Does Lord Bartram h
ate the Durrym?”

  Laurens thought a moment and then shook his head. “Not hate them, but he’s sworn to defend the border.”

  “And he’s honorable?”

  Laurens nodded. “A most honorable man.”

  “And his argument now is that—as best he knows—Abra was kidnapped by Lofantyl.”

  “That’s why we’re here,” Laurens agreed. “To bring her back, and so escape the damned priest’s attentions.”

  Cullyn felt his head swirl, a whirlwind of tumbling thoughts, Lyandra’s hand warm on his thigh, her eyes fixed on him as were all the others. He was a simple man, only a forester, not used to such political games. He felt embarrassed as he studied their faces, all intent on his; but something he could not understand compelled him to speak.

  “Suppose,” he said, “that we offer both Abra and her father a choice. Let Abra decide whether or not she wishes to return to Kandar. Let Lord Bartram hear her decision, and make his choice. That might”—he eyed his audience, amazed at his boldness—“forge such a peace as could bring Kandar and Coim’na Drhu together.”

  “Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings,” Eben muttered. Then louder, “Did I not tell you he’s syn’qui?”

  “But how,” Pyris chuckled, “do you propose to do that?”

  “There’s a way,” Eben said.

  “Which is?” Pyris toyed with his goblet, studying Eben with a smile that looked for an answer he might not accept, save it serve him well.

  “Do the old rules still apply?”

  Pyris ducked his head in agreement.

  “Then a challenge.”

  “A tourney?”

  Eben nodded. “Why not? How else, save open warfare?”

  “We might siege Kash’ma Hall,” Pyris suggested. “That would be amusing.”

  “And useless,” Eben said. “You’d waste men against Isydrian’s walls, with no guarantee of getting Abra back. Do I know my father, he’d order her throat slit before he’d return her.”