The Duke of Mirvanovir at that time was newly bereft of his first wife. Meeting Lady Rashara de Sharonnara at the manor of one of his nobles, Niall tried unsuccessfully to seduce her. Though attracted to the duke, Rashara quickly realized that it was not just the man that she wanted, but the power and prestige of his office. As his mistress, she would sit idly on the sidelines awaiting his pleasure; but as his wife, she would be a duchess, sharing that status with him. Her birth, though noble, was not exalted, and it was a difficult game of checks and balances, luring him on and fending him off, that she played until he finally presented her with an offer of marriage. As his duchess, she found it easy enough to adapt herself to his wishes, and spent the first year of their marriage concentrating on producing the heir that he wanted. After that task was accomplished, she was able to step back and assess the bargain that she had made.
Niall had proven himself to be a much more complex person than she originally estimated. Vain, charming, shrewd and very ambitious, he also possessed a perversely decadent bent. He was far more difficult to control than she had anticipated, and the House Power that he was keyed to made him impervious to much of her own arcane ability; a facet that both intrigued and annoyed her. For his part, he knew about and tolerated her interest in arcane matters, seeming amused rather than alarmed at her studies. In time there grew between them a tacit but unspoken pact whereby each would support and indulge the other's fancies and ambitions so long as ultimately she acceded and acted in accord with him on all important issues.
When Rashara complained that the capital of Mirvanovir, Talrandir Castle, was old and uncomfortable, Niall had the summer palace at Challis rebuilt to her specifications and relocated his court there. Enjoying the personal independence that he granted her, she turned a blind eye to his excesses in return. She learned to ignore his inordinate interest in the palace maids and young boys, discretely taking her own occasional lovers when the mood suited her and making herself available when her husband sought her bed. Thus they established the parameters of their relationship and created an atmosphere in which to indulge themselves. The heir, young Lord Galen, was packed off with his nurses and teachers to his aunt and uncle, who still occupied the ancestral halls of Talrandir, and brought to court only on infrequent state visits.
Two years previously at a convening of the Pentacle Council Rashara first met Blaise ap Halberstad, the third of Gunnar and Tammara's brood. Thinking him attractive, as he obviously did her, and being without current entertainment in that direction, she casually invited him to visit Mirvanovir's ducal court. A month later, he presented himself at Challis on a minor ambassadorial mission. She had been amused at his promptness and the ingenuity he had employed in getting to Mirvanovir. They had flirted and he quickly found himself in her bed. His youth and good looks had attracted her initially and further acquaintance had shown him to be adroit, accommodating and completely without scruples of any kind.
It was about that time that the question of the kingship of the Pentarchy was first discussed between Niall and herself, and the beginnings of their plans were germinated. Niall's interest became zealous when he saw the possibilities an empty throne offered to one with his ambitions. While encouraging and advising him, Rashara went ahead and made plans of her own, not always in strict accord with her husband's. It was she who first devised the strategy to set the Pentacle Council discussing the issue of an heir, and urged Niall to accept Blaise as an ally.
She was idly wondering how her young lover was faring in the north when the familiar tread of boots crunching on the graveled walk caused her to languidly open her eyes. Making his way down to the waterside where she reclined was Niall.
Dressed in high boots and a leather tunic emblazoned with the black swan, he was returning from a meeting with his military advisors. His head was bare but the closely matted hair indicated a recently worn helmet, meaning that he had actually been out inspecting the troops stationed on the Dulera Plain, half a day's journey from Challis. He raised his hand in salute when he saw her, and she ordered a chair and cold ale to be brought for her lord's comfort immediately. As she started to stand up, he motioned for her to remain seated and joined her on her pile of cushions.
"This is pleasant after the heat and dust of Dulera," he remarked, wiping one of his boots against a cushion to leave a grey smudge.
"I've ordered a chair and cold drink to be brought for you," she said, ignoring the cushion and concentrating on gauging his mood. Of late, he had become testier and more apt to petty irritations. It was the tension before the storm, she realized, but it put her nerves on edge all the same.
They sat in silence until two of her maids appeared with a chair, followed by another maid carrying a metal tankard beaded with moisture. Niall waved the chair away when it was set down but took the tankard and drank thirstily. He took his time in finishing the ale and then ordered another to be brought to him. A damp cloth was offered and he wiped the sheen of perspiration off his tanned face before tossing the cloth aside.
"She's new, isn't she?" he asked, settling himself more deeply into the cushions.
"Who? Oh, yes," she replied when she saw his gaze directed at the scurrying maid. "Her name is Termia," she supplied, repressing a smile. Increased appetites were another mark of his impatience with inaction. She had instructed all of her maids to be ready to comply with anything that her husband might request of them, and now she made a mental note to send Termia on an errand to him later in the evening. Keeping Niall satisfied made dealing with him much easier.
"How are the training exercises progressing?" she asked.
"Oh, as well as can be expected. They've been training for six months now; they are as ready as can be made." He ran a hand through his thick, springy hair. "Send these women away, I want to talk to you alone," he added irritably.
She sent them off with a quick gesture of her hand and turned to him expectantly. "You have heard something?"
"The Duke of Tuenth is dead." His narrowed eyes scrutinized her closely.
"Good," she pronounced, aware that he was watching for her reaction. "The plan is picking up momentum. With Gunnar dead, it will not be long before Blaise makes himself duke and adds his army to yours." She spoke confidently, knowing that Niall was ignorant of her liaison with Blaise. Careful to keep her own indiscretions well hidden, she was especially wary of letting Niall know of her exact relationship with Blaise.
His eyes passed over her and fixed on a tree. By the relaxing of his jaw, she knew that she had screened her reactions well enough to assuage any suspicions he might have been considering. "I have also had word from Brescom. He is beginning to position his men in the west for the assault on Morna. Now that he has taken his first treasonous steps, it seems he is eager to embark on total rebellion." Niall's tone was light with scorn and humour. The Earl of the Inner Ward had embraced Mirvanovir's cause with no apparent reservations once he had been promised the annexation of Langstraad in payment for his loyalty.
"Do you know what is happening in Pentarin?"
"Percamber has sent confirmation of the ducal regency to Hollin's cousin, I am told. Not that it will do him much good. I suspect that we will receive a summons to a special session of the Pentacle Council in the near future, but with Gunnar's death they may delay the meeting. If so, it will work to our advantage. I want to wait until Blaise has control of Tuenth before beginning our major offensive." He yawned and readjusted his position on the cushions. "I spoke with Lord Raney about Galen while I was in camp. Raney's opinion of the boy is none too high, but by the time his troops are due to head north, he thinks the boy will be able to spend the day in the saddle and have a rudimentary idea of what is going on."
Rashara shrugged her very white shoulders. "It really doesn't matter. Raney's army will be marching only after the main assault is completed and Galen will not be in command. After all, the boy is only fourteen. Raney must learn to be more patient if he is going to teach him." This idea of sending a boy in nomi
nal command of an army to overrun Pentarell and Gresha was Niall's. She thought it foolish to send an untried boy to war, but Niall maintained that it would teach the boy the strength of leadership.
"He'll learn," Niall assured her grimly, though she was uncertain as to whether he spoke of their son or his general.
"I've been meaning to ask you," Niall continued, and a calculating note crept into his voice. "Have you spoken to any of the mage masters concerning our cause? They would make valuable allies when our time comes."
She shook her head discouragingly. "Do not look to them for help, Niall. You know that they hold themselves neutral from internal politics. They will not aid any acts of destruction." This was something of a sore subject between them. Niall felt that since she had been trained as an arcane adept and now was the duchess of a Great House she should be able to call upon those who wielded the most potent arcane powers to do her bidding. She found it increasingly annoying to have to explain over and over again her exact relationship with the mage masters to one who held the power of a Great House.
"You know as well as I that arcane energies will come into play in the coming confrontation. It is inevitable, and we must be as prepared with those weapons as we are with swords and shields." He sounded petulant.
"We will fill that need when the time comes, my dear," she soothed him, controlling her vexation. Slithering across the pile of cushions, she knelt behind him and began to gently knead the tired muscles of his neck and shoulders. As he gave in and relaxed against her, she spoke quietly into his ear. "Between the two of us, we shall be able to generate a sufficient arsenal of power to do all that we need to do." A smile played on her lips and a fire began to smolder in the dark recesses of her eyes. There were founts of power that he, in the arrogance of his own innate powers, did not even suspect. But she, who had spent a lifetime acquiring arcane knowledge and putting her learning to her own uses, had discovered those energies and was beginning to harness them to her own will. Someday her husband might find that she had powers at her command that rivaled or even surpassed his.
Far away to the north, in the deep pine forests that cloaked the northern provinces of Tuenth, the duke's eldest son and heir woke up to find himself a branded and hunted criminal. Hywell had been stunned at the news of his father's death, but that shock was nothing compared to what he felt when he discovered that he was charged and convicted, in abstensia, of the murder. His first reaction was to ride back to Rengard immediately and plead his own case. But as the evidence against him grew, he was dissuaded by the friends whom he had sought when he left Rengard that night in a black mood. The reports and rumours became so damning to him that even those whom he counted as close friends began to look at him askance.
At last, his host, Squire Corbie, whose daughter Ardith had been the object of contention between Hywell and his father that night, felt compelled to ask Hywell to take refuge elsewhere. It was not that he believed Hywell to have committed the crime, but the severity of the crime with which Hywell was charged, coupled with the upheaval it was causing at the ducal court, made it prudent for him not to be found harbouring an accused parricide. Hywell was aware of the danger his presence was putting his hosts in, and agreed to find another place to stay until he had resolved this issue. A relieved squire supplied him with food and gave him a few minutes alone with his daughter to say his farewells. After all, if Hywell could eventually clear his name, he would still be the ducal heir, and the squire was willing to keep all of his options open. The squire's daughter, though distressed at sending her suitor to fend for himself, understood her father's point of view. Their overlord was a reasonably fair man but tended to inflict harsh penalties on those who crossed him or broke the law.
Chapter 17
Lord Ian de Medicat, Duke Regent of Langstraad, sat with a shuttered face at the table of his host and future father-in-law, the Duke of Creon, and listened politely as his grandsire and Lord Branwilde relived old memories. The ladies had long since retired, leaving only a coterie of confederates to sit talking and drinking into the night. It was the third day following the arrival of the bridegroom's party to Gwenth. Ian found himself expected to rise late, eat a large meal, spend the afternoon hunting or hawking with his host and various other guests and return at dusk to continue feasting and drinking into the early hours of morning. It was a routine that Ian was becoming heartily bored with. He had come to be wed, planning to return to Castle Lir within a few days. Instead, he found himself detained by the rules of sociability and his grandsire's conception of a good time. Ian poured himself another glass of heavy red wine and stared into the candle on the table before him.
Their arrival had been met with a long ceremony in which he and his prospective bride had been presented to one another. There had been much exchanging of gifts and speeches, followed by a formal banquet. During this time the bride had been flanked by her mother and her grandmother, and had not raised her eyes to her prospective bridegroom once. In the subsequent days when he had seen her, she was always well-chaperoned in the midst of a covey of female relatives. With down-cast eyes, she presented such a generally wretched appearance Ian was beginning to have strong reservations about this course of action.
Ian was pulled out of his reverie by a slap on the shoulder and his grandfather's boisterous voice. "Now what has you looking so glum my boy? Drink up! Drink up! It's not everyday that a man be wed." He favoured his grandson with a broad wink.
Looking around Ian noticed that everyone had left the table or was passed out on the floor except himself, his grandfather and the Duke of Creon. The duke was favouring him with a long, slow look that had less drink in it than he would have credited after this evening's bout.
"You look not entirely happy," the duke stated without preamble.
"Just thinking, your grace," he replied easily, adopting a casual air.
"Are you getting cold feet?" The question was far blunter than Ian would ever have expected and he began to reassess how much drink was affecting the duke.
Ian answered obliquely. "Your daughter has seemed less than enthusiastic about our coming marriage."
The duke continued to stare at him for several minutes and then, coming to some internal decision, sighed. "Do not be put off by her welcome, young man. She is a rather shy and reserved creature by nature. I think she worries about leaving her home and the new responsibilities that face her; but believe me," and his face became a serious mask, "she is quite willing for this marriage to take place." Ian dropped his own eyes before the intensity of the older man's. Branwilde continued in a more convivial tone. "Please do not mistake modesty for reluctance."
The man was hiding something, Ian realized suddenly. Possibly the girl was shy and overly modest, but Ian had the feeling that more was involved. He wondered, briefly, if something wasn't being put over on him, and then shrugged it away. He had gone too far with this to be able to give it up without a loss of face and the possible incurment of enmity. If there was something wrong with the girl, he would have to bear with it for the sake of his duchy's future. Thinking back on the visit he had made here much earlier in the year, he could not remember any great deformation of the girl's mind or body.
"Don't fret yourself, m'boy," he heard his grandfather say and realized that the old man had been talking while he had been following his own thoughts. With an effort, he tried to appear to be listening to the old man's ramblings. "Take it from me, all women play this reluctant virgin game but it comes out all right in the bedchamber."
Ian looked quickly at the duke, for his reaction to his old friend's less than delicate speech. Luckily, the duke had retired to his own thoughts and was paying the baron no heed. To salvage the situation from a potential embarassment , Ian stood and offered his grandfather his arm. "The hour grows late sir, let me see you to your rooms," he said with forced solicitude.
"So early?" Sir Alister peered around the empty room with a surprised expression in his bleary eyes. "Well, maybe you're right," h
e mumbled. "Fine time, Branwilde. Wonderful food and drink. Best be getting to my bed now though..."
"What?" The duke was caught off-guard in his own reflections and wrenched himself back with some effort. "Oh yes, I'm glad you are enjoying yourself, Alister." The duke stood and clapped his hands for servants. "The time has grown quite late, I fear. Good rest to you both; we shall meet again in the morning." A servant appeared with a lamp to guide Ian and his grandfather to their rooms. As Ian sketched a quick bow, and while helping his grandfather to his feet the duke said again to him, "Have no fear, Angharad knows quite well what she is doing and has no objections to it."
Ian merely nodded, finding less comfort in those words than if the duke had forborne to say anything more. With his grandfather leaning on his arm, Ian ushered him out of the banquet hall in the wake of the servant with the light. As he prepared to leave him at his own chamber door, his grandfather spoke again. "Trust me my boy, once you're between a woman's legs..." Ian hastily bid the old man good-night and sought what little comfort was available to him in his own room.
Before the end of the week the wedding ceremony took place. Those nobles and vassals who had been invited and were able to attend filled the castle to capacity and spilled out into the town. There were people everywhere and, while everyone chatted openly and congenially about the approaching nuptials, in private the talk was of the empty throne and the Duke of Mirvanovir. There had been no overt moves from the southernmost duchy but in the atmosphere was the tension before the breaking of a storm.
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