"Over_9780307446138_oeb_c06_r1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Jeffrey Overstreet - Cynderes Midnight)6 TROUBLE IN TILIANPURTH
As the snow dusted the valley, Ryllion spurred his horse down through the whitegrass field, into the dense wood, and at last across the drawbridge to the ancient Bel Amican bastion of Tilianpurth. Forty-five days earlier he had staggered across this same bridge. The only survivor of Deuneroi’s company after the slaughter in Abascar’s ruins, he was welcomed by Bauris, the bastion’s veteran officer. Bauris questioned him carefully before accepting that this bedraggled stranger was, indeed, the famous soldier whom House Bel Amica had already mourned. Ryllion had begged for an escort back to Bel Amica. But when word of his return reached Queen Thesera, she sent instructions that he should remain at Tilianpurth until he recovered. This was a blessing and a curse. He was treated with honor, but he was not invited home or celebrated with any fanfare, for he had failed to protect the royal consort. Ryllion wanted to get back to the Seers. He wanted to serve the moon-spirits and follow their sacred call. So he sought to earn back Queen Thesera’s favor by shaping this cold lump of clay into something so essential that all Bel Amica would clamor for his return. During the beastman wars, Tilianpurth served as a crucial garrison. That conflict ended generations ago when beastmen devolved into creatures that could not organize or cooperate. King Helpryn had considered expanding the old bastion into a permanent settlement, where inhabitants would work to draw resources from the woods for shipbuilding. But the plans had moved slowly, then stopped when the king died. The outpost languished from neglect, watched over by only a few aging soldiers. Today, as he had for many days, Ryllion returned from a Cragavar patrol and surveyed Tilianpurth—its yards, towerhouse, and tower—as if it were a prison. “Guide me out of here,” he prayed in bursts of clouding breath. “How can I serve you if I’m bound to this pest-infested relic? They had a burial ceremony for me, Spirit. And when they learned I was alive, they decided to bury me again, right here.” He cast the reins of his panting vawn to the wide-eyed stablehand. The boy fumbled with the reins and squeaked, “You’re welcome to Tilianpurth, sir.” “First tour, eh? What are you, ten?” “Twelve, sir.” “Any news?” “Did you hear, sir? Guards caught a beastman in the whitegrass this morning. They put him in the prison pit.” Ryllion dismounted. “I know. I’ve been hunting two more that escaped.” He felt like a seasoned, middle-aged warrior, his mood as rank and heavy as the fog. It draped over his shoulders. It clung to his yellow beard. It lingered in his wake with a stench that came from sleeping in rain-soaked camps. “What’s your name, boy? And what brings you to serve at this chunk of Bel Amican history?” “I’m Pyroi, sir. My father wants me to be a soldier. He says it pays to start early, and—” “Your father wants that, eh? What do you want to be, Pyroi?” The boy blinked. “A soldier. Like you!” “Your father isn’t listening, son.” Ryllion squeezed the boy’s bony shoulder until Pyroi sucked air through his teeth. “What do you want? When you want something powerfully, that’s the voice of your moon-spirit. I wanted to be a soldier. I’m only ten years older than you, but look at what my moon-spirit has given me. I listened for that call, and I answered it. The spirits carry moon-dust down at night, and we breathe it in. Desires take root. And in the morning, we feel them. Urges. Impulses. You’re responsible to answer that call, kid. The Seers taught me that.” As the drawbridge lifted and sealed the Tilianpurth gate behind him, Ryllion held Pyroi’s shoulder fast. The boy looked down at blotches of drying blood on Ryllion’s boots and then at the spear he leaned on as if it were a crutch. The soldier straightened, releasing the boy and flexing hands that had recently been released from bandages. He lifted the spear and propped it against his shoulder. “Listen for your call, boy. Then pursue it, risking everything. I have, and so my moon-spirit had mercy on me and spared my life at Abascar.” The boy bowed his head, and his crumpled expression said everything that he was too afraid to admit to the gruff soldier. “Trust your feelings. They’re the best help the spirits have given you.” Ryllion patted the boy’s head and glanced up at the towerhouse. “Has the heiress arrived?” “Not yet, sir.” As the boy tried to steer the vawn around the looming shadow of the towerhouse to the low-roofed stable, the weary reptile bellowed her complaint through three flaring nostrils and thumped her clubbed tail against the ground. Ryllion hoped that the company approaching from Bel Amica would bring his horse. Vawns, fast and sturdy, were necessary in these deep woods. But he preferred to be known as a horseman. He deserved that much, at least. Horses were nobler animals and not nearly so punishing in a long night’s ride. How he wanted to regain a sense of confidence. His convalescence at Tilianpurth had been humiliating. A fever clung for days, and his wounds healed slowly. Nightmares shook him from his bed. He woke fighting his blankets on the floor, shouting at beastmen, calling for Deuneroi. But he rejected his caretakers’ instructions and clawed his way back to health, determined to defy rumors that his days as a soldier were over. He proved industrious. He set the bastion’s staff to work, shoring up Tilianpurth from the kitchen to the perimeter. He sharpened the small company of guards Thesera had given him into a battle-ready troop, led them on successful hunts, and directed several raids on beastmen that helped appease his conscience. He sent those Cent Regus skulls back to Bel Amica as trophies to placate the masses distraught over Deuneroi’s death. His ploy failed to open Bel Amica’s gates. Reportedly impressed with stories of his success, Queen Thesera thanked him by “asking” him to stay at Tilianpurth. She sent additional staff to make the place more livable and provided soldiers for training. Deuneroi’s death had cast Thesera’s daughter, Cyndere, into despair, and the queen wanted to hear daily news of beastmen being trapped, punished, and killed. “How many skulls will it take, Your Loftiness?” he snapped. “Or would you be happier if I packaged my own head as a prize? Would that assuage your sorrow at last?” Ryllion marched up the pebbled path across the east yard toward Tilianpurth’s central fortification and tower. The old grey structure sulked like a cantankerous ancestor, waiting to wheeze and snarl stories about hard winters and glory days when it was a furnace full of soldiers, waiting to cough and complain about the ache in its stony joints, the cracks in its mortar, and the chill in its bones. The south yard showed progress; servants with shears snipped their way through shoulder-high brambles that had grown thick beneath three long rows of fruit trees. In the north yard, swordmasters led exercises; blindfolded, soldiers shouted and stamped their boots, bared broken teeth, and struck at imaginary Cent Regus combatants. Ryllion had promised them they would learn to depend on senses other than sight, enhancing their reaction time based on smell and sound. The exercise leader saluted him. Ryllion pressed his fist against his chest, against his forehead, and then opened his hand to the sky—a sign of allegiance to his moon-spirit. He ran up the twelve stone stairs and passed between the two statues. The eagle, a fish in its talons, represented Bel Amican sovereignty over the Mystery Sea. At Ryllion’s instruction, the staff had set the bird free from moss and ivy. On the right the smaller shape of a howling wolf had been sculpted from marrowwood, a crescent-cut mirror strung around its neck. Ryllion had ordered that the wolf be carved to represent disciples of the moon-spirits. Tilianpurth’s old-timers resisted at first. But when Ryllion suggested an appeal to the queen, they quieted. They knew what her answer would be. He stopped before the heavy burdenwood doors, one of which stood open. Laughing in disbelief, he stepped into the stale air of the towerhouse. “Where are you, Caroon?” The guard’s empty suit of armor lay in pieces beside an abandoned chair. “Wilus Caroon?” He thudded the butt of his spear against the floor. The guard’s name echoed down the long, candlelit passage with its many mirrors, past the ascending stairway, past the gold-framed lift on its suspension chains. He closed the doors. The entryway darkened. He regarded his faint reflection in the mirror on the wall beside the door. Mirrors were an art in House Bel Amica. Even in Tilianpurth, they gleamed in elaborate frames at every turn. This mirror flattered him, erasing lines on his face, accentuating his height and the breadth of his shoulders with such artful subtlety that he could almost ignore the distortion. He tugged at tangles of his yellow hair, which had not been cut since his departure from Bel Amica. He let it fall down and frame his wiry beard that made a weak chin seem bold. He touched the cut under his eye—a fresh scratch from a beastman claw—and smiled. “You’ll pay for that tonight, beastman.” In the reflection he watched the door to the antechamber open. He heard the rustle of cloth and bare feet on stone. Squaring his shoulders, he planted his feet a bit farther apart and formed an expression that could paralyze an opponent. Broom in hand, one of the heiress’s blue-robed attendants limped into view, one leg wrapped in a brace of toughweed. Ryllion gasped. “Emeriene! When did you arrive?” “I hear you’ve been out chasing beastmen,” she yawned, as if no subject could be less interesting. “Forgive us for interrupting the fun.” Waves of heat from a stove filled the entryway. But it was more than the stove that put the pulse in Ryllion’s veins. “I’m just surprised. Surprised that you’d arrive before the heiress. There’s no need for you to come early. I’ve overseen the tower’s preparation.” “Cyndere seeks a place to grieve. She needs solitude. This place smells like soldiers. It sounds like soldiers. And what do I see? Why, the place is crawling with soldiers!” “The woods around Tilianpurth are teeming with the very creatures that widowed the heiress. This isn’t the cozy towerhouse you remember from childhood, Emeriene. You need these soldiers.” “Don’t take that tone with me, child.” She shoved him with the broom brush. “I’m older than you.” “Four years older by the numbers. But if you’re measuring experience, well, call me Uncle Ryllion.” “Is that what your nurse calls you? She was just telling me how she tucks you in at night so you don’t fall out of bed.” “I only fall out of bed because it’s crowded when she climbs in with me.” Ryllion loved to offend Emeriene. It was the only way to command her full attention, and this was a rare opportunity—she was away from her husband, away from the gossips who would spend secrets like coins. “We’ll keep Cyndere safe,” he said, smiling. “And we’ll drive the beastmen across the Expanse back into their holes.” He propped the spear in the corner beside the guard’s chair, pulled off his gloves, and winced as he opened and closed his hands. He sat down and began to remove his heavy, shielded boots. “You do your work. I’ll do mine,” said Emeriene. “Cyndere will sleep here tonight, and I’ll watch over her. But there’s still much to do. Keep your fellow officers clear of the corridors. And stay out of sight. If she sees you, well, that’s not going to ease her burden.” Ryllion scowled. “Clear the corridors? You’d better keep clear of my temper, Sisterly. You think your work is hard? Thanks to the heiress’s mother, I live here now. And my instructions from Her Loftiness are to sift these woods for Cent Regus mutants. I’ve appealed for reinforcements, for horses, and for a wagonload of those new beastman traps.” “Yes, of course,” she said, uninterested. “Fill the woods with traps that can’t discern between beastmen and rabbits. Cyndere will be delighted.” “Good to see you haven’t changed, Em,” he murmured. Even her worst jabs could not annoy him. She was graceful as a dancer and, to his eyes, more attractive than the heiress. Her soot-dark hair fell to her shoulders, framing precise, fierce features that somehow smiled and snarled simultaneously. He dreamt of unbinding the splint from her left leg, which had been wounded in the blast that destroyed her father’s laboratory. Her skin, smooth as an eggshell, suggested a fragile temperament, but he knew better. Emeriene was a tempest. She had to be. It was her job to counsel the argumentative heiress and defend her against advisors, suitors, and enemies. “But you’ve changed.” Emeriene reached up and yanked on a strand of his hair so roughly that he barked. “Haven’t you, child? After all that you’ve…” She trailed off, her playfulness engulfed by the subject that neither could bear to discuss. She touched him lightly, almost affectionately, on the arm. “Bel Amica is grateful—” “You mean you’re grateful.” “Bel Amica,” she insisted, “is grateful that you’re alive. That you came back from that—” “It all went wrong,” Ryllion whispered, looking back into the mirror. “So terribly wrong. We’re going to make the Cent Regus regret what they’ve done. My riders charted the best places to conceal snares. We’ll catch any beastman that comes close. We’ll learn which forms of persuasion will wring answers from them. If they can speak at all, we’ll find out where Deuneroi’s killers are hiding. And then we’ll hunt them down.” Emeriene propped the broom against the wall and seized the spear. “Someday we’ll stop their cruelty.” The rage boiling beneath her quiet words surprised him. “I should bring you along on a patrol,” he laughed. “I need someone with that kind of passion. It would be safer than letting you stay here. You’ve only just arrived, and you’ve already removed the guard from his post.” He gestured to the empty suit of armor. “Is that your idea of preparing this place for the heiress?” “Old Caroon was coughing like a clogged chimney. We wheeled him to the sickroom. Winter plagues persist. The last thing the heiress needs is to catch a fever.” “Caroon hasn’t caught a winter plague,” Ryllion scoffed. “He was coughing because he smoked madweed all night.” “His lungs are bad. His legs are bad. He wraps himself in a bedbag and shivers at the door. Caroon couldn’t fight off a moth, much less a beastman. Find a proper guard, will you?” “Caroon has served Bel Amica for fifty years. Old men should go out honorably, not in disgrace. My father worked fifty-four years down at the shipyards where he suddenly dropped dead, with never a day—” “The whole house has heard your lament, child. ‘Never a day of reward for my papa’s lifetime of work.’ Don’t worry, I’m not suggesting we dump Caroon in the sea. I’m only asking that we give the heiress a proper welcome.” Emeriene pushed the front door open again as if hoping to glimpse Cyndere’s approach. “She’s my responsibility, and I tell you, Ryllion, I can manage. Keep to your work, and let her be.” “I can comfort her, Em. I can tell her tales of Deuneroi’s determination and courage.” “Cyndere’s well aware of Deuneroi’s courage. And stop calling me ‘Em.’ I’m a sisterly.” Ryllion stood beside her in the doorway, sharing the view of the east yard and the path to the front gate. He softened his tone. “How is she?” “She’s been under a close watch. But she’s finding her way back to her feet. Her mother asked what would comfort her. ‘Tilianpurth,’ she said.” “This dungheap? Why?” “King Helpryn loved to stay here during the summers when Cyndere and I were young. He would spend all day in the tower studying his ancestors’ wartime journals. He meant to make this a settlement. And while he made his plans, Officer Bauris watched Cyndere and me out playing in the woods. This was a wild paradise for us. It was just a few years ago that Cyndere brought Deuneroi here and asked him to be her husband. So who knows? She might be right. It may do her good to be here.” “Or it might make things more painful. If Cyndere’s hoping to visit all her favorite haunts, she’ll be disappointed. She won’t set foot outside the walls, not while I’m here. We snared a beastman at the edge of the trees this morning. Caged him and locked him up. There were others—they escaped.” “How is Cyndere going to feel about having a beastman caged here while she’s looking for a peaceful place to mourn?” “I have plans for that creature,” Ryllion growled. “Plans that will help bring an end to the heiress’s pain. The Feast of the Sacrifice is coming.” “Ryllion, you know how she and Deuneroi felt about…” Emeriene choked and turned away. He did not dare touch her. Not in the open. Not with his honor still in question, his future so uncertain. Not while her husband, Cesylle, an advisor to Queen Thesera, was still a favorite disciple of the Seers. Surprised by the rising turmoil inside him, he turned abruptly and stepped back inside. “You’ll have to excuse me, but I’m exhausted. And hungry.” He walked into the antechamber, unclasping the brooch that held his burgundy cape about his neck. He cast the cape over a hook beside the stove that ticked quietly in the corner and snatched a slice of bread and a bottle of fresh brook water from an array on the serving table, then slouched into a deep-cushioned chair beside the stove. After wolfing down the bread, he removed shields from his arms, legs, and chest, let them clatter to the floor, and brushed dust from his black tunic and leggings. Emeriene followed him in. She took flowers lying on the serving table and tucked them into a vase. Fumbling, she upset the vase, then bowed her head. When she spoke again, she whispered. “They say you were beside him when he died. Did he suffer much?” Ryllion looked down at his hands. Four broken fingers were still healing, and the deep gash across his right palm was still scabbed. His hands quivered. “It was quick. I almost saved him. But you should have seen the beastmen. They were…” He closed his hands into fists, rose, and strode through a heavily curtained door into the dimly lit dining room. The sisterlies had already prepared the room for the heiress’s arrival. Candles flickered down the length of the table, and the place settings glittered as if sprinkled with sparks. Stools along the walls waited for soldiers, a symbolic ring of protection. And at the head of the table, the sisterlies had set two grandly sculpted chairs—just the way they had when Cyndere and Deuneroi dined here together. “Cyndere won’t be dining with us,” said Emeriene, following him. “She wants to be alone. But the sisterlies will proceed, working as if she is always with us. It keeps us focused.” Ryllion could not stop staring at Deuneroi’s empty chair. He could almost feel the royal consort’s gaze. He leaned against the end of the table and turned his eyes to the tapestries that ran down both sides of the room. The dyed canvas depicted musclebound men and women with drawn bows and swords in each hand. Cent Regus beastmen, dead and dying, sprawled on the ground with tongues aloll and carcasses bloodied as if they were but prey from a sporting hunt. Emeriene wandered beside the wall, trailing her fingertips along a tapestry fringe. “This isn’t how it is to fight beastmen, is it?” “Not at all.” The sharp reminder of his failure had soured his appetite for playful debate. He needed cheering up. He walked the length of the table, past Deuneroi’s chair, and out through the far door into the corridor, where he was engulfed by a cloud that promised a savory feast. Bread. Dragonfish steak. Carrots. Gemberry sauce. Honeywine. He even caught a sweet hint of Clyve’s Delight, a Bel Amican specialty. He drained the bottle of water, wishing it was ale. Kitchen workers had unloaded the heavy supply cart behind the towerhouse, and now they wheeled smaller carts of supplies—covered canisters, wrapped cabbages, nets of fresh vegetables—down the passage. Blue-robed sisterlies carried linens, candles, and brooms from an adjoining corridor back to the entryway, where they ascended the winding stair to the watchtower. Chambers at the top, originally designed for commanders, waited for the heiress. “I have already overseen the preparation for Cyndere’s chamber.” The servants refused to acknowledge him, casting displeased expressions at each other on their way up. “Be sure the heiress knows this. Before I rode out yesterday, I cleared out a bird’s nest.” He waited, but no one thanked him. “I hung curtains to keep out the wind. I arranged spirit bowls on the windowsills. Tapestries reminding her of the proud history of Tilianpurth—” “I’ve replaced those tapestries with woven images of the Bel Amican eagle,” said Emeriene, catching up with him. “The heiress will not give any thought to wars or to beastmen. As for the spirit bowls, our lady’s doubts about the moon-spirits have increased, especially after so many painful losses. You prepared the room for some woman who lives in your head, not Cyndere. Space—that’s what she needs. Privacy. Quiet.” Ryllion walked to the iron rail at the bottom of the stairs as a line of sisterlies ascended. He muttered, “I skipped the soldiers’ supper last night to prepare that chamber!” “The last thing Cyndere needs is a bunch of soldiers bungling tasks that her sisterlies are trained to perform.” A sense of the game returned to Emeriene’s voice. “Clear your tantrums and your troops from the corridors, the kitchens, and the tower, and make sure they keep to their bunkrooms. Do that, and I’ll make sure that the sacrifices you’ve made for Cyndere’s pleasure are reported to Queen Thesera herself.” Awkwardly, she began to climb the stairs, gripping the iron rail and lifting her unbending leg along behind her, following the sisterlies. “You’d like that wouldn’t you? To be left alone here with Cyndere.” Ryllion stepped into the gilded frame of the carpeted lift and pulled the cord slightly. The lift rose alongside the stairs. He ascended next to her, and reached through the bars to hold her elbow. He knew his tenderness would distract her. “Oh, I know you better than you think, Sisterly Emeriene. Now that Deuneroi’s a piece of Bel Amican history, you’re Cyndere’s closest friend again. You’ve missed those childhood days, haven’t you?” Emeriene wrenched her arm free. “You think I could find pleasure in her suffering?” “There’s no shame in wanting time with your lifelong friend.” Honeying his voice, he leaned against the cage frame. “You’ve been lonely, Em. When Cyndere and Deuneroi married, you lost her companionship. Your husband, he’s always preoccupied with… What is it that makes Cesylle a stranger in your home? Does the court have that much business? You won’t let anyone else close to you.” He leaned forward. She backed against the wall. “I know,” he said. “I’ve tried.” “Don’t call me Em.” He could almost feel the heat from her reddening complexion. She planted her foot on the next step, turned away, and growled, “How dare you?” “I hear your desires better than you.” He pulled the cord, keeping himself beside her. “Enjoy your time with the heiress. If I’m wrong, if you really have no desire for my company, I wonder if Cyndere will.” This was a dangerous argument, and he knew it. He had never before tried to make Emeriene jealous for his attention. “You and I both know that it won’t be long before the heiress will need another consort.” “Am I to find solace in selfish quarreling?” came a voice from below. Ryllion’s head jerked as if he’d been slapped across the face. He released the cord and grasped the lift’s frame to steady himself. The entryway below him was full of guards wearing hooded green capes. Their heads were bowed, their hands dutifully fixed on the hilts of their broadswords. In their midst a woman in a brown stormcloak and an elaborate blue headdress, a veil concealing all but her eyes, stared up at him. Guards parted to let her through. Her dark makeup could not hide the fury in her gaze, which pinned his words to the back of his throat. Ryllion’s mind reeled. What had he said? He saw a silent understanding pass between Cyndere and Emeriene. How he hated that. The heiress’s eyes smiled suddenly as if she had reached a clever decision. He knew she was laughing at him. “You missed a remarkable ceremony, Ryllion. They spoke of your integrity and your devotion to your moon-spirit. Not many people get a second chance at life after friends and family have said their last good-byes.” The heiress grasped one of the two cords that controlled the lift. “We all thought you were buried underground. Maybe it would do you some good to spend a little time there.” She gave the cords a strong pull. Gear wheels clanked and groaned, grinding Ryllion’s pride. The ropes sang, dissonant and shrill. With a jolt, the lift descended into a shaft in the floor. Down beneath the towerhouse Ryllion plunged, his view of the heiress and Emeriene vanishing. The prospect of sharing Tilianpurth with Emeriene and Cyndere had, for a few moments, excited him. He should have known better. Arriving at the lowest platform, Ryllion stormed into the cellar and grabbed a bottle from an open crate. “Sir?” Dashing in after him, Pyroi the stablehand presented a small scroll sealed with a distinctive, elaborate stamp. “I almost forgot to give you—” Ryllion snatched it away and sniffed the wax seal. “It’s from one of the Seers.” This had been sealed recently, maybe only two days earlier. He opened it, scanned the scrawled message. “The Honorable Pretor Xa is on his way. Good. Excellent.” Dismissing the boy, he pulled the cork from the bottle and emptied it in several gulps. When he looked up, he saw a moon-mirror strung with a wire from the ceiling, slowly turning and casting fragments of torchlight. “Thank you, Spirit,” he whispered. “He’s all the help I need. Bring him safely. And bring him soon.” 6 TROUBLE IN TILIANPURTH
As the snow dusted the valley, Ryllion spurred his horse down through the whitegrass field, into the dense wood, and at last across the drawbridge to the ancient Bel Amican bastion of Tilianpurth. Forty-five days earlier he had staggered across this same bridge. The only survivor of Deuneroi’s company after the slaughter in Abascar’s ruins, he was welcomed by Bauris, the bastion’s veteran officer. Bauris questioned him carefully before accepting that this bedraggled stranger was, indeed, the famous soldier whom House Bel Amica had already mourned. Ryllion had begged for an escort back to Bel Amica. But when word of his return reached Queen Thesera, she sent instructions that he should remain at Tilianpurth until he recovered. This was a blessing and a curse. He was treated with honor, but he was not invited home or celebrated with any fanfare, for he had failed to protect the royal consort. Ryllion wanted to get back to the Seers. He wanted to serve the moon-spirits and follow their sacred call. So he sought to earn back Queen Thesera’s favor by shaping this cold lump of clay into something so essential that all Bel Amica would clamor for his return. During the beastman wars, Tilianpurth served as a crucial garrison. That conflict ended generations ago when beastmen devolved into creatures that could not organize or cooperate. King Helpryn had considered expanding the old bastion into a permanent settlement, where inhabitants would work to draw resources from the woods for shipbuilding. But the plans had moved slowly, then stopped when the king died. The outpost languished from neglect, watched over by only a few aging soldiers. Today, as he had for many days, Ryllion returned from a Cragavar patrol and surveyed Tilianpurth—its yards, towerhouse, and tower—as if it were a prison. “Guide me out of here,” he prayed in bursts of clouding breath. “How can I serve you if I’m bound to this pest-infested relic? They had a burial ceremony for me, Spirit. And when they learned I was alive, they decided to bury me again, right here.” He cast the reins of his panting vawn to the wide-eyed stablehand. The boy fumbled with the reins and squeaked, “You’re welcome to Tilianpurth, sir.” “First tour, eh? What are you, ten?” “Twelve, sir.” “Any news?” “Did you hear, sir? Guards caught a beastman in the whitegrass this morning. They put him in the prison pit.” Ryllion dismounted. “I know. I’ve been hunting two more that escaped.” He felt like a seasoned, middle-aged warrior, his mood as rank and heavy as the fog. It draped over his shoulders. It clung to his yellow beard. It lingered in his wake with a stench that came from sleeping in rain-soaked camps. “What’s your name, boy? And what brings you to serve at this chunk of Bel Amican history?” “I’m Pyroi, sir. My father wants me to be a soldier. He says it pays to start early, and—” “Your father wants that, eh? What do you want to be, Pyroi?” The boy blinked. “A soldier. Like you!” “Your father isn’t listening, son.” Ryllion squeezed the boy’s bony shoulder until Pyroi sucked air through his teeth. “What do you want? When you want something powerfully, that’s the voice of your moon-spirit. I wanted to be a soldier. I’m only ten years older than you, but look at what my moon-spirit has given me. I listened for that call, and I answered it. The spirits carry moon-dust down at night, and we breathe it in. Desires take root. And in the morning, we feel them. Urges. Impulses. You’re responsible to answer that call, kid. The Seers taught me that.” As the drawbridge lifted and sealed the Tilianpurth gate behind him, Ryllion held Pyroi’s shoulder fast. The boy looked down at blotches of drying blood on Ryllion’s boots and then at the spear he leaned on as if it were a crutch. The soldier straightened, releasing the boy and flexing hands that had recently been released from bandages. He lifted the spear and propped it against his shoulder. “Listen for your call, boy. Then pursue it, risking everything. I have, and so my moon-spirit had mercy on me and spared my life at Abascar.” The boy bowed his head, and his crumpled expression said everything that he was too afraid to admit to the gruff soldier. “Trust your feelings. They’re the best help the spirits have given you.” Ryllion patted the boy’s head and glanced up at the towerhouse. “Has the heiress arrived?” “Not yet, sir.” As the boy tried to steer the vawn around the looming shadow of the towerhouse to the low-roofed stable, the weary reptile bellowed her complaint through three flaring nostrils and thumped her clubbed tail against the ground. Ryllion hoped that the company approaching from Bel Amica would bring his horse. Vawns, fast and sturdy, were necessary in these deep woods. But he preferred to be known as a horseman. He deserved that much, at least. Horses were nobler animals and not nearly so punishing in a long night’s ride. How he wanted to regain a sense of confidence. His convalescence at Tilianpurth had been humiliating. A fever clung for days, and his wounds healed slowly. Nightmares shook him from his bed. He woke fighting his blankets on the floor, shouting at beastmen, calling for Deuneroi. But he rejected his caretakers’ instructions and clawed his way back to health, determined to defy rumors that his days as a soldier were over. He proved industrious. He set the bastion’s staff to work, shoring up Tilianpurth from the kitchen to the perimeter. He sharpened the small company of guards Thesera had given him into a battle-ready troop, led them on successful hunts, and directed several raids on beastmen that helped appease his conscience. He sent those Cent Regus skulls back to Bel Amica as trophies to placate the masses distraught over Deuneroi’s death. His ploy failed to open Bel Amica’s gates. Reportedly impressed with stories of his success, Queen Thesera thanked him by “asking” him to stay at Tilianpurth. She sent additional staff to make the place more livable and provided soldiers for training. Deuneroi’s death had cast Thesera’s daughter, Cyndere, into despair, and the queen wanted to hear daily news of beastmen being trapped, punished, and killed. “How many skulls will it take, Your Loftiness?” he snapped. “Or would you be happier if I packaged my own head as a prize? Would that assuage your sorrow at last?” Ryllion marched up the pebbled path across the east yard toward Tilianpurth’s central fortification and tower. The old grey structure sulked like a cantankerous ancestor, waiting to wheeze and snarl stories about hard winters and glory days when it was a furnace full of soldiers, waiting to cough and complain about the ache in its stony joints, the cracks in its mortar, and the chill in its bones. The south yard showed progress; servants with shears snipped their way through shoulder-high brambles that had grown thick beneath three long rows of fruit trees. In the north yard, swordmasters led exercises; blindfolded, soldiers shouted and stamped their boots, bared broken teeth, and struck at imaginary Cent Regus combatants. Ryllion had promised them they would learn to depend on senses other than sight, enhancing their reaction time based on smell and sound. The exercise leader saluted him. Ryllion pressed his fist against his chest, against his forehead, and then opened his hand to the sky—a sign of allegiance to his moon-spirit. He ran up the twelve stone stairs and passed between the two statues. The eagle, a fish in its talons, represented Bel Amican sovereignty over the Mystery Sea. At Ryllion’s instruction, the staff had set the bird free from moss and ivy. On the right the smaller shape of a howling wolf had been sculpted from marrowwood, a crescent-cut mirror strung around its neck. Ryllion had ordered that the wolf be carved to represent disciples of the moon-spirits. Tilianpurth’s old-timers resisted at first. But when Ryllion suggested an appeal to the queen, they quieted. They knew what her answer would be. He stopped before the heavy burdenwood doors, one of which stood open. Laughing in disbelief, he stepped into the stale air of the towerhouse. “Where are you, Caroon?” The guard’s empty suit of armor lay in pieces beside an abandoned chair. “Wilus Caroon?” He thudded the butt of his spear against the floor. The guard’s name echoed down the long, candlelit passage with its many mirrors, past the ascending stairway, past the gold-framed lift on its suspension chains. He closed the doors. The entryway darkened. He regarded his faint reflection in the mirror on the wall beside the door. Mirrors were an art in House Bel Amica. Even in Tilianpurth, they gleamed in elaborate frames at every turn. This mirror flattered him, erasing lines on his face, accentuating his height and the breadth of his shoulders with such artful subtlety that he could almost ignore the distortion. He tugged at tangles of his yellow hair, which had not been cut since his departure from Bel Amica. He let it fall down and frame his wiry beard that made a weak chin seem bold. He touched the cut under his eye—a fresh scratch from a beastman claw—and smiled. “You’ll pay for that tonight, beastman.” In the reflection he watched the door to the antechamber open. He heard the rustle of cloth and bare feet on stone. Squaring his shoulders, he planted his feet a bit farther apart and formed an expression that could paralyze an opponent. Broom in hand, one of the heiress’s blue-robed attendants limped into view, one leg wrapped in a brace of toughweed. Ryllion gasped. “Emeriene! When did you arrive?” “I hear you’ve been out chasing beastmen,” she yawned, as if no subject could be less interesting. “Forgive us for interrupting the fun.” Waves of heat from a stove filled the entryway. But it was more than the stove that put the pulse in Ryllion’s veins. “I’m just surprised. Surprised that you’d arrive before the heiress. There’s no need for you to come early. I’ve overseen the tower’s preparation.” “Cyndere seeks a place to grieve. She needs solitude. This place smells like soldiers. It sounds like soldiers. And what do I see? Why, the place is crawling with soldiers!” “The woods around Tilianpurth are teeming with the very creatures that widowed the heiress. This isn’t the cozy towerhouse you remember from childhood, Emeriene. You need these soldiers.” “Don’t take that tone with me, child.” She shoved him with the broom brush. “I’m older than you.” “Four years older by the numbers. But if you’re measuring experience, well, call me Uncle Ryllion.” “Is that what your nurse calls you? She was just telling me how she tucks you in at night so you don’t fall out of bed.” “I only fall out of bed because it’s crowded when she climbs in with me.” Ryllion loved to offend Emeriene. It was the only way to command her full attention, and this was a rare opportunity—she was away from her husband, away from the gossips who would spend secrets like coins. “We’ll keep Cyndere safe,” he said, smiling. “And we’ll drive the beastmen across the Expanse back into their holes.” He propped the spear in the corner beside the guard’s chair, pulled off his gloves, and winced as he opened and closed his hands. He sat down and began to remove his heavy, shielded boots. “You do your work. I’ll do mine,” said Emeriene. “Cyndere will sleep here tonight, and I’ll watch over her. But there’s still much to do. Keep your fellow officers clear of the corridors. And stay out of sight. If she sees you, well, that’s not going to ease her burden.” Ryllion scowled. “Clear the corridors? You’d better keep clear of my temper, Sisterly. You think your work is hard? Thanks to the heiress’s mother, I live here now. And my instructions from Her Loftiness are to sift these woods for Cent Regus mutants. I’ve appealed for reinforcements, for horses, and for a wagonload of those new beastman traps.” “Yes, of course,” she said, uninterested. “Fill the woods with traps that can’t discern between beastmen and rabbits. Cyndere will be delighted.” “Good to see you haven’t changed, Em,” he murmured. Even her worst jabs could not annoy him. She was graceful as a dancer and, to his eyes, more attractive than the heiress. Her soot-dark hair fell to her shoulders, framing precise, fierce features that somehow smiled and snarled simultaneously. He dreamt of unbinding the splint from her left leg, which had been wounded in the blast that destroyed her father’s laboratory. Her skin, smooth as an eggshell, suggested a fragile temperament, but he knew better. Emeriene was a tempest. She had to be. It was her job to counsel the argumentative heiress and defend her against advisors, suitors, and enemies. “But you’ve changed.” Emeriene reached up and yanked on a strand of his hair so roughly that he barked. “Haven’t you, child? After all that you’ve…” She trailed off, her playfulness engulfed by the subject that neither could bear to discuss. She touched him lightly, almost affectionately, on the arm. “Bel Amica is grateful—” “You mean you’re grateful.” “Bel Amica,” she insisted, “is grateful that you’re alive. That you came back from that—” “It all went wrong,” Ryllion whispered, looking back into the mirror. “So terribly wrong. We’re going to make the Cent Regus regret what they’ve done. My riders charted the best places to conceal snares. We’ll catch any beastman that comes close. We’ll learn which forms of persuasion will wring answers from them. If they can speak at all, we’ll find out where Deuneroi’s killers are hiding. And then we’ll hunt them down.” Emeriene propped the broom against the wall and seized the spear. “Someday we’ll stop their cruelty.” The rage boiling beneath her quiet words surprised him. “I should bring you along on a patrol,” he laughed. “I need someone with that kind of passion. It would be safer than letting you stay here. You’ve only just arrived, and you’ve already removed the guard from his post.” He gestured to the empty suit of armor. “Is that your idea of preparing this place for the heiress?” “Old Caroon was coughing like a clogged chimney. We wheeled him to the sickroom. Winter plagues persist. The last thing the heiress needs is to catch a fever.” “Caroon hasn’t caught a winter plague,” Ryllion scoffed. “He was coughing because he smoked madweed all night.” “His lungs are bad. His legs are bad. He wraps himself in a bedbag and shivers at the door. Caroon couldn’t fight off a moth, much less a beastman. Find a proper guard, will you?” “Caroon has served Bel Amica for fifty years. Old men should go out honorably, not in disgrace. My father worked fifty-four years down at the shipyards where he suddenly dropped dead, with never a day—” “The whole house has heard your lament, child. ‘Never a day of reward for my papa’s lifetime of work.’ Don’t worry, I’m not suggesting we dump Caroon in the sea. I’m only asking that we give the heiress a proper welcome.” Emeriene pushed the front door open again as if hoping to glimpse Cyndere’s approach. “She’s my responsibility, and I tell you, Ryllion, I can manage. Keep to your work, and let her be.” “I can comfort her, Em. I can tell her tales of Deuneroi’s determination and courage.” “Cyndere’s well aware of Deuneroi’s courage. And stop calling me ‘Em.’ I’m a sisterly.” Ryllion stood beside her in the doorway, sharing the view of the east yard and the path to the front gate. He softened his tone. “How is she?” “She’s been under a close watch. But she’s finding her way back to her feet. Her mother asked what would comfort her. ‘Tilianpurth,’ she said.” “This dungheap? Why?” “King Helpryn loved to stay here during the summers when Cyndere and I were young. He would spend all day in the tower studying his ancestors’ wartime journals. He meant to make this a settlement. And while he made his plans, Officer Bauris watched Cyndere and me out playing in the woods. This was a wild paradise for us. It was just a few years ago that Cyndere brought Deuneroi here and asked him to be her husband. So who knows? She might be right. It may do her good to be here.” “Or it might make things more painful. If Cyndere’s hoping to visit all her favorite haunts, she’ll be disappointed. She won’t set foot outside the walls, not while I’m here. We snared a beastman at the edge of the trees this morning. Caged him and locked him up. There were others—they escaped.” “How is Cyndere going to feel about having a beastman caged here while she’s looking for a peaceful place to mourn?” “I have plans for that creature,” Ryllion growled. “Plans that will help bring an end to the heiress’s pain. The Feast of the Sacrifice is coming.” “Ryllion, you know how she and Deuneroi felt about…” Emeriene choked and turned away. He did not dare touch her. Not in the open. Not with his honor still in question, his future so uncertain. Not while her husband, Cesylle, an advisor to Queen Thesera, was still a favorite disciple of the Seers. Surprised by the rising turmoil inside him, he turned abruptly and stepped back inside. “You’ll have to excuse me, but I’m exhausted. And hungry.” He walked into the antechamber, unclasping the brooch that held his burgundy cape about his neck. He cast the cape over a hook beside the stove that ticked quietly in the corner and snatched a slice of bread and a bottle of fresh brook water from an array on the serving table, then slouched into a deep-cushioned chair beside the stove. After wolfing down the bread, he removed shields from his arms, legs, and chest, let them clatter to the floor, and brushed dust from his black tunic and leggings. Emeriene followed him in. She took flowers lying on the serving table and tucked them into a vase. Fumbling, she upset the vase, then bowed her head. When she spoke again, she whispered. “They say you were beside him when he died. Did he suffer much?” Ryllion looked down at his hands. Four broken fingers were still healing, and the deep gash across his right palm was still scabbed. His hands quivered. “It was quick. I almost saved him. But you should have seen the beastmen. They were…” He closed his hands into fists, rose, and strode through a heavily curtained door into the dimly lit dining room. The sisterlies had already prepared the room for the heiress’s arrival. Candles flickered down the length of the table, and the place settings glittered as if sprinkled with sparks. Stools along the walls waited for soldiers, a symbolic ring of protection. And at the head of the table, the sisterlies had set two grandly sculpted chairs—just the way they had when Cyndere and Deuneroi dined here together. “Cyndere won’t be dining with us,” said Emeriene, following him. “She wants to be alone. But the sisterlies will proceed, working as if she is always with us. It keeps us focused.” Ryllion could not stop staring at Deuneroi’s empty chair. He could almost feel the royal consort’s gaze. He leaned against the end of the table and turned his eyes to the tapestries that ran down both sides of the room. The dyed canvas depicted musclebound men and women with drawn bows and swords in each hand. Cent Regus beastmen, dead and dying, sprawled on the ground with tongues aloll and carcasses bloodied as if they were but prey from a sporting hunt. Emeriene wandered beside the wall, trailing her fingertips along a tapestry fringe. “This isn’t how it is to fight beastmen, is it?” “Not at all.” The sharp reminder of his failure had soured his appetite for playful debate. He needed cheering up. He walked the length of the table, past Deuneroi’s chair, and out through the far door into the corridor, where he was engulfed by a cloud that promised a savory feast. Bread. Dragonfish steak. Carrots. Gemberry sauce. Honeywine. He even caught a sweet hint of Clyve’s Delight, a Bel Amican specialty. He drained the bottle of water, wishing it was ale. Kitchen workers had unloaded the heavy supply cart behind the towerhouse, and now they wheeled smaller carts of supplies—covered canisters, wrapped cabbages, nets of fresh vegetables—down the passage. Blue-robed sisterlies carried linens, candles, and brooms from an adjoining corridor back to the entryway, where they ascended the winding stair to the watchtower. Chambers at the top, originally designed for commanders, waited for the heiress. “I have already overseen the preparation for Cyndere’s chamber.” The servants refused to acknowledge him, casting displeased expressions at each other on their way up. “Be sure the heiress knows this. Before I rode out yesterday, I cleared out a bird’s nest.” He waited, but no one thanked him. “I hung curtains to keep out the wind. I arranged spirit bowls on the windowsills. Tapestries reminding her of the proud history of Tilianpurth—” “I’ve replaced those tapestries with woven images of the Bel Amican eagle,” said Emeriene, catching up with him. “The heiress will not give any thought to wars or to beastmen. As for the spirit bowls, our lady’s doubts about the moon-spirits have increased, especially after so many painful losses. You prepared the room for some woman who lives in your head, not Cyndere. Space—that’s what she needs. Privacy. Quiet.” Ryllion walked to the iron rail at the bottom of the stairs as a line of sisterlies ascended. He muttered, “I skipped the soldiers’ supper last night to prepare that chamber!” “The last thing Cyndere needs is a bunch of soldiers bungling tasks that her sisterlies are trained to perform.” A sense of the game returned to Emeriene’s voice. “Clear your tantrums and your troops from the corridors, the kitchens, and the tower, and make sure they keep to their bunkrooms. Do that, and I’ll make sure that the sacrifices you’ve made for Cyndere’s pleasure are reported to Queen Thesera herself.” Awkwardly, she began to climb the stairs, gripping the iron rail and lifting her unbending leg along behind her, following the sisterlies. “You’d like that wouldn’t you? To be left alone here with Cyndere.” Ryllion stepped into the gilded frame of the carpeted lift and pulled the cord slightly. The lift rose alongside the stairs. He ascended next to her, and reached through the bars to hold her elbow. He knew his tenderness would distract her. “Oh, I know you better than you think, Sisterly Emeriene. Now that Deuneroi’s a piece of Bel Amican history, you’re Cyndere’s closest friend again. You’ve missed those childhood days, haven’t you?” Emeriene wrenched her arm free. “You think I could find pleasure in her suffering?” “There’s no shame in wanting time with your lifelong friend.” Honeying his voice, he leaned against the cage frame. “You’ve been lonely, Em. When Cyndere and Deuneroi married, you lost her companionship. Your husband, he’s always preoccupied with… What is it that makes Cesylle a stranger in your home? Does the court have that much business? You won’t let anyone else close to you.” He leaned forward. She backed against the wall. “I know,” he said. “I’ve tried.” “Don’t call me Em.” He could almost feel the heat from her reddening complexion. She planted her foot on the next step, turned away, and growled, “How dare you?” “I hear your desires better than you.” He pulled the cord, keeping himself beside her. “Enjoy your time with the heiress. If I’m wrong, if you really have no desire for my company, I wonder if Cyndere will.” This was a dangerous argument, and he knew it. He had never before tried to make Emeriene jealous for his attention. “You and I both know that it won’t be long before the heiress will need another consort.” “Am I to find solace in selfish quarreling?” came a voice from below. Ryllion’s head jerked as if he’d been slapped across the face. He released the cord and grasped the lift’s frame to steady himself. The entryway below him was full of guards wearing hooded green capes. Their heads were bowed, their hands dutifully fixed on the hilts of their broadswords. In their midst a woman in a brown stormcloak and an elaborate blue headdress, a veil concealing all but her eyes, stared up at him. Guards parted to let her through. Her dark makeup could not hide the fury in her gaze, which pinned his words to the back of his throat. Ryllion’s mind reeled. What had he said? He saw a silent understanding pass between Cyndere and Emeriene. How he hated that. The heiress’s eyes smiled suddenly as if she had reached a clever decision. He knew she was laughing at him. “You missed a remarkable ceremony, Ryllion. They spoke of your integrity and your devotion to your moon-spirit. Not many people get a second chance at life after friends and family have said their last good-byes.” The heiress grasped one of the two cords that controlled the lift. “We all thought you were buried underground. Maybe it would do you some good to spend a little time there.” She gave the cords a strong pull. Gear wheels clanked and groaned, grinding Ryllion’s pride. The ropes sang, dissonant and shrill. With a jolt, the lift descended into a shaft in the floor. Down beneath the towerhouse Ryllion plunged, his view of the heiress and Emeriene vanishing. The prospect of sharing Tilianpurth with Emeriene and Cyndere had, for a few moments, excited him. He should have known better. Arriving at the lowest platform, Ryllion stormed into the cellar and grabbed a bottle from an open crate. “Sir?” Dashing in after him, Pyroi the stablehand presented a small scroll sealed with a distinctive, elaborate stamp. “I almost forgot to give you—” Ryllion snatched it away and sniffed the wax seal. “It’s from one of the Seers.” This had been sealed recently, maybe only two days earlier. He opened it, scanned the scrawled message. “The Honorable Pretor Xa is on his way. Good. Excellent.” Dismissing the boy, he pulled the cork from the bottle and emptied it in several gulps. When he looked up, he saw a moon-mirror strung with a wire from the ceiling, slowly turning and casting fragments of torchlight. “Thank you, Spirit,” he whispered. “He’s all the help I need. Bring him safely. And bring him soon.” |
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