Thunderlord

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  Before he could respond, the breakfast tray arrived, and she pretended he was little Gwillim, back at home, and she was Ellimira. It wasn’t hard. He sat where she put him and sipped the mug of steaming jaco she pressed into his hands. She let him drink and nibble on dry toast, which was all he was able to get down. He looked a little better for it, which wasn’t saying much. If this is what a hangover looked like, she was glad she’d never been tempted to drink enough to have one.

  “Now,” she said, keeping her expression Ellimira-like, “you are going to tell me what you meant last night when you said you had been keeping Lord Scathfell company—which, I assume, means getting drunk with him. Most especially, I’d like to know what you meant by having got him ‘too drunk to think.’ To think what, exactly?”

  He gave her a bleary-eyed half-smile. She refused to be charmed.

  “Now.”

  “Lady Scathfell, those matters are private—”

  “Something’s happened to my husband, and I insist you tell me what it is. You are his closest friend as well as his adviser. I know perfectly well you’ve been trying to moderate his excesses. That’s very admirable, and if that were all there were to it, I would say thank you very much and leave the matter. But you were badly hurt last night, and I don’t think it was because you fell down on your own. You were with Gwynn—did you two fight?”

  When Ruyven remained sullenly mute, Alayna began pacing. “This goes well beyond let’s go drinking together, it’s all in fun. What if it had been Gwynn instead of you, and what if he’d been seriously injured—maybe killed?”

  Ruyven appeared to be struggling with himself. Finally he said, “After the news arrived on Midwinter Festival Night, Lord Scathfell spent the better part of the next tenday intoxicated.”

  “Yes, I gathered that. I observed his condition for myself, as well as a chamber littered with empty wine bottles. I understand that the news upset him, and that men sometimes deal with distressing situations by numbing themselves with drink.” Or so her brothers had said. A horrifying thought struck her. “Surely you do not mean that he has remained intoxicated since then?”

  “Not continually, although the bouts have continued, on and off,” Ruyven admitted. “I thought there was no harm in them. Alas, the drink had somewhat the opposite effect than I had hoped. Always in the past, my lord has turned merry and generous, quick to laugh and even quicker to forgive. This time, it stirred up every vengeful, resentful thought and morsel of guilt.”

  “Guilt? What has he done that he should feel guilty?”

  “I cannot speak for the truth of it, only what he himself said, that if only he had investigated properly when word came from the Sain Erach bandits, if only he had not taken the word of lawless men that your sister had perished, then she would now be his wife, and he the father of sons.”

  “But he couldn’t have known. None of us could.”

  “We were all deceived,” Ruyven replied, “or else the bandits themselves made up the story because they had no hostage to exchange. It makes more sense to blame me for pressing on home instead of searching for Damisela Kyria at the time.

  “I believed that with the passage of time, reason might prevail,” Ruyven went on. “His temper would cool, and he would be better able to accept the way things are. Events might not have unfolded as he had wished, but nothing is certain save death and next winter’s snows. Soon it became apparent that when he was clear-headed, he cleaved even more strongly to the belief that he had been wronged. He grew even more agitated than when he was drunk. I sometimes joined him in the wine, hoping to restore our old camaraderie or at least prevent him from acting rashly.” Gingerly he touched his scalp where Alayna had stitched up the gash. “That might not have been the wisest course.”

  “I must speak with him,” Alayna said, “although he might not listen to me, any more than he has listened to you—and I do believe you tried your utmost, as a true friend. Perhaps if he sees that both of us are motivated by love for him and for Scathfell, we can overcome his objections. But even if he does not listen, I must try.”

  “Lady, it is unwise to come between a man and his obsession.”

  “What, will he strike me, beat me, lock me into a tower?”

  “I cannot promise he will do none of those things, nor be responsible for your safety. He did not mean to strike me, and yet he did. Would you suffer a similar injury?”

  Ordinarily, she could not imagine his assaulting her, but now images rose up, and she remembered the wild light in his eyes when they’d quarreled. Steadying her voice as best she could, she repeated, “I must try. Will you help me?”

  After a measured silence, he nodded. “Lord Scathfell will be drilling his troops at this hour. Give me time to complete my ablutions, and I will escort you there.”

  The day was unseasonably fair, the sky almost white and the breezes fresh. Alayna’s bay trotted along beside Ruyven’s horse, both of them with tails bannered and ears pricked. Alayna imagined that the wind made them want to run. As for herself, she felt as if she had been suddenly freed into a world that was much larger and more vivid than the one she had become accustomed to. She drank in the sights, the shape of the mountains, the villagers pausing in their work to stare at her, the animals in their pens; then the well-trodden trail, broad enough to be called a road, that led to the training fields. It climbed a bit, enough for the horses to breathe hard, wound through a gap between the steep-shouldered hills, and then brought her to a view of the army encampment.

  Until that moment, she had not thought what to expect. Gwynn maintained a standing army, but she supposed most of the men had gone back to their families for the winter, leaving only a token force behind. But what greeted her was no skeleton corps. To one side stood buildings of wood and stone, row after row of them, barracks she supposed. And stables, and armories, and storehouses. But the greater part of the valley was taken up by men—men practicing, fighting singly or in ranks or even in large groups, one against another. Infantrymen busy with training drills she did not understand, and men on horseback doing the same. Sunlight glinted on swords and the points of spears, with flashes like wind-whipped blades of grass. Their voices and the whinnying of the horses blended into a muted roar.

  So many of them.

  What a fool she’d been, what a blind, trusting fool, when all the evidence had been before her. She’d known that Gwynn had been raised on stories of how Aldaran trounced his father’s army, how Gwynn blamed Aldaran for the deaths of his father and brother, and how driven he was by revenge and fear of a repetition of that disastrous, humiliating defeat. She had seen what the news of Kyria’s marriage to Edric and the sons she’d born him had done to Gwynn. How could she have believed that an exchange of gifts and holiday greetings, and a favor that might have been the cover for espionage, could undo a feud so deeply ingrained?

  I saw only what I wanted to see.

  This then was where Gwynn went when he was not drinking himself into a fury, nurturing old grudges as if they were treasured heirlooms.

  A breeze gusted across Alayna’s face. She noted its warmth and the smell of new growth. The ground was not entirely free of snow, but the drifts that remained were mainly in the shadows. If the passes to Aldaran were not already open, they would be soon. And then— I can’t let that happen.

  “Where is he?” she asked.

  Ruyven pointed to a road that divided the various training areas. A group of riders were observing a body of men drilling in sword exercises on foot. One wore a familiar cloak. Her cheeks flamed. Before, all Gwynn’s talk about needing to defend Scathfell had been abstract. This—this was real. The sights and sounds of the men preparing to fight—to kill—turned her mouth dry and her palms sweaty. She could not—must not—turn away. If she did, she would lose her nerve.

  “I must speak with him.”

  As Alayna nudged her horse forward, Ruyven inte
rvened. “Let me take you to the camp offices, the headquarters that is, and then fetch Lord Scathfell. He would not be pleased to see you in the midst of his army, but he may be persuaded to a private audience.”

  “Very well,” she told Ruyven. “But if he will not come, I’ll not creep back to the castle like a mouse. I will speak with him, one way or the other.”

  He took her to one of the smaller buildings, set between those that were obviously barracks and one she took for an armory. It looked newer than the others. A man wearing a tunic with Scathfell’s insignia over light armor sat on a bench beside the door. He surged to his feet at their approach, his hand resting conspicuously on the hilt of his sword.

  “Dom Ruyven,” he said, bowing without taking his hand off his sword or his eyes off either of them. “My lady.”

  Alayna recognized him but vaguely, as one of the castle guards. There were so many she had not been able to keep track of all their names; now she realized they must have been rotating between the castle and the encampment.

  Within a few minutes, everything was sorted out. Ruyven went off in search of Gwynn, and Alayna was escorted inside, to a single large room lined with cabinets and open shelving. A large table dominated the center of the room, and on it sat a couple of candlesticks, their wax stubs only an inch or so long, and a broken dagger held down the curling edges of a map. A clay-walled stove sat in the center of a brick pad but evidently had not been lit, as the room was no warmer than the outside.

  The guard closed the door behind him, leaving Alayna alone. As she stood there, heart pounding, a chill settled over her. She expected to see her breath as white mist, but the air was clear. All the layers of jacket and cloak could not warm her. She wasn’t cold, she was terrified.

  So many soldiers, their weapons and horses, all that preparation. The investment of material, the funneling of Scathfell’s wealth . . . how could all this be undone?

  I came here in reconciliation, to begin repairing our marriage. But this imminent war is so much more important than my private sorrows. I have to find a way to stop it. Yet I can’t help thinking I’ve come on a fool’s errand. Gwynn will not disband his army at the mere request of his wife. I don’t have that much influence over him. I doubt anyone does.

  And yet she must find a way, mount arguments so persuasive that he would see the folly of what he’d done. No, not done, just planned. Prepared for. It wasn’t too late; there was still time to undo all this. The army hadn’t attacked Aldaran yet. The men could be dispersed, released, sent back to their homes.

  She must take great care now. Gwynn had long mistrusted Aldaran. This army might be larger and better equipped than previously, but it was not new. For all she knew, it had begun in his father’s time. He would not readily surrender it—he might even regard disbanding his forces as a cowardly act, backing away from battle out of fear of defeat. Then he would dig in his heels and all hope would be lost.

  One deep breath after another, Alayna fought to calm herself. If only she had Kyria’s courage—but she did not and must do the best with what she had. She’d always been told she was sweet and gentle and biddable, although recently she’d been standing up for herself, standing up to Gwynn.

  No confrontation. No provoking a quarrel. Speak from love. For Scathfell. For Gwynn himself. For the people who live under our rule.

  She remembered pleading for Dimitra, not only after the Dom Nevin incident but when Dimitra’s life was at stake, and how her words had softened Gwynn’s anger. The crucial difference was that he had trusted her then. For all she knew, he hated her now. Yet love might be her only weapon.

  She startled when she heard the sounds of men’s voices and the clatter of boot heels on the wooden step outside. The door flung open. Gwynn strode in, wind whipping the hem of his cloak. Ruyven followed, a pace behind.

  “What in Zandru’s seven frozen hells are you doing here?”

  Gwynn’s words and the impatience, the anger, behind them shattered Alayna’s fragile calm. She flinched as if he’d physically struck her. The man standing before her, eyes bloodshot and wild, garbed for combat, sword at his hip, was a stranger. She searched his face but found no traces of the generous lord or the ardent lover. The man she’d fallen in love with.

  “My husband,” she began, her throat so tight she could barely force out the words, “I haven’t had a chance to speak with you—” since Midwinter Festival—no, don’t remind him.

  “Here I am. Say what you’ve come for and be on your way.”

  Alayna tried to answer, but her lungs locked up around her breath. Tears stung her eyes, but she didn’t care. She could not let that stop her before she’d even begun. “I have been increasingly worried by your absence, so I convinced Ruyven to bring me to you. He did so out of devotion to you, to us both.” She sounded stiff and formal, but that couldn’t be helped. She prayed he’d hear the sincerity behind her words. “If my presence here displeases you, do not blame him. The fault, if a deep concern for my husband can be deemed a fault, is mine alone.”

  “I’m well enough, as you can see.” Gwynn’s tone was icy enough to freeze her as she stood. “But I’m not such a simpleton to believe you came up here to reassure yourself about my health. That was only an excuse to spy on what I’ve been doing.”

  He gestured toward the training fields. “There it is, my army! The largest, best trained fighting force these mountains have ever seen. My own father’s troops were nothing compared to what I can command. Are you satisfied?”

  Alayna feared she’d lost her chance, he sounded so fierce, but she refused to give up. “Please listen to reason. There is no need for such an army. Scathfell is under no threat, certainly not from Aldaran. I know you and I haven’t gotten along since Midwinter Festival, but I am your wife, now and for always. I do not want to lose you, especially to such an idiotic, pointless mistake.” As soon as she’d blurted out the words, she knew she’d misspoken terribly.

  “A mistake?” he snarled. “You call defending Scathfell a mistake?”

  “A war such as you intend can only lead to death—many deaths—many unnecessary deaths. Those very men, and who knows how many more at Aldaran? And maybe you yourself!” She was losing control, the words tumbling from her lips. Her heart was so full of anguish, it threatened to choke her. “Now that I’ve seen—why could you not trust me?—everything we’ve done to make peace with Aldaran—they are doubly kin to us—”

  “Are you quite finished?” Gwynn said when she drew breath.

  Alayna could not answer. She could only stand there, trying not to tremble.

  “If I have kept my plans from you, it was with good reason, as you have just demonstrated. You think a few years without open hostilities mean we have achieved peace?” He snorted. “Or that a few trinkets and an attempt to infiltrate the castle constitute good will? Aldaran hasn’t changed since the days of the Witch-Child. They are still a nest of deceitful, murderous stable sweepings. The one thing—the only thing—that has kept Scathfell standing these long years has been Aldaran’s inability to continue their aggression. The Witch-Child burned her brains out, or so it is said, and the old lord had not the stomach to pursue the war. As for Edric, he’s such a weakling, he’s been locked away in a Tower for most of his life.”

  “Then what are you afraid of?” Her words came out in a sob.

  “That our security depends solely upon the temporary indisposition of our enemies and not our ability to defend ourselves. I dare not rely on anyone else to act in Scathfell’s best interest. I—I alone—am responsible! So I used the lull in hostilities to devise a plan, one you know.”

  Dry-mouthed, Alayna nodded.

  “When that came to nothing, I blessed the caution that had kept me from dispersing my small fighting force. Then came the news on Midwinter Festival. All you cared about was that your precious sister was alive. You failed to grasp the importance of the ne
ws. Aldaran now has the means to breed heirs with that Gift. For all I know, his sons both have it, and if not, the next child may. In a decade or so, Scathfell will face not one Witch-Child but two—or three—or more. Do you honestly believe that anyone who has that much power will hesitate to use it?”

  She had no answer, none that he would believe. Anything she said would only push him further into the certainty he was not only right, but fully justified. His fears were terrible: even this army would be useless against a brood of Witch-Children.

  There has to be another way.

  In the pause that followed, the stillness was so absolute that Alayna was sure her heart had stopped. Gwynn no longer looked human, but like a creature of ash and ice.

  “Long have I searched for a way to survive such an assault, and I have found none. Aldaran would destroy us, down to the last stone of the last castle wall. We will be obliterated, as if everything and everyone we hold dear had never existed. Our only hope—only hope—is to act now, before the witch-brood has grown into power. To strike pre-emptively and decisively. To put an end to this heap of scorpion-ant eggs before they can hatch.”

  “Gwynn, please—think what you are doing!” Alayna knew how desperate she sounded. She flailed around for something—anything—that would reach him. “This is my sister—your sister-in-law—and your nephews—and the man who would be your friend. The man who saved me when I almost died and who came all the way here to help our Dimitra. If he were truly your enemy, he would have let us both perish. You cannot mean to make war on them.”

  “Cannot mean? Have you lost your wits, woman? That is exactly what I mean to do.”

  “Do not rush into it. Take your time—think things through—”

  “I have thought long enough. Do you believe I want this war? That I would pursue it if there were any other alternative? If Edric Aldaran had done the honorable thing and turned your sister over to me, then none of this would have happened. If the war is anyone’s doing, it’s his.”