Blood and Memory (32 page)

“Get away from me,” Celimus spat toward the injured man. “Crawl away from me, down that hill. Don’t let me look upon your face again.”

Shirk did as commanded. Not caring for his horse and despite his pain, he crawled away, no doubt eager to be far from the King’s wrath. Unhurried, Celimus reached behind himself and brought his bow to his front. He lifted an arrow from the few he carried in the quiver on his back.

Jessom felt a moment of pity for the man retreating down the incline on all fours. He had not been disloyal, simply careless. But then Celimus suffered no fools about him.

He sighed. “Would you like to see me in your study, sire, after I clear up here?” Jessom inquired, knowing the answer, his mind already racing toward how he would tackle the damage in the north.

Celimus nocked his arrow and took aim. “Immediately,” he said, and loosed his anger toward the crouching back of the man who had failed him.

Jessom watched his quarry alight from their carriage. He had decided to handle this particular item of business himself. Crossing the road, lifting his robe slightly so it would not trail in the general muck and damp of the busy market cobblestones, he artfully bumped the shoulder of the man.

“Do forgive…” Jessom began a solicitous apology and then feigned an expression of delighted surprise. “Lord Bench, what a pleasure. I’m so sorry for knocking you just now. I was in a hurry to cross the street.”

“No harm done, Jessom.” Eryd Bench waved off the apology.

“Lady Bench,” Jessom acknowledged with a short bow.

“Chancellor,” she said, nodding, her arm tightening ever so slightly around her husband’s. “I’m so sorry you couldn’t attend our recent evening.”

“None more sorry than I, my lady,” Jessom replied. “I’m afraid our king keeps me on a hectic schedule.” He permitted a rare smile.

She felt its insincere touch, knew he suspected something. Also knew that so far he had nothing to level their way. “Oh, such a shame, Chancellor. I know how you like lamprey too—it was on the menu.”

He made soft noises of despair at missing out. “Are you home for long, Lord Bench?”

“No, not this time. We’re about to take a family trip actually.”

“Oh?” Jessom inquired, already knowing the general gossip. “Where are you off to—somewhere warmer, I hope?” and he chuckled, pulling his cape closer around his thin shoulders.

“No, indeed.” Bench smiled ruefully. “I’m headed north, in fact, to meet a wonderful shipment of exotic goods coming into Bright stone. Helyn and Georgyana thought they might accompany me this time.”

“Yes, I’ve decided it’s high time I saw what my husband does on these trips,” Helyn offered.

“And where will you stay?” Jessom asked, all politeness.

“Normally I’d stay at an inn, but with the ladies along, we have a small holding up north, not far from Yentro and Deakyn, in fact. Been in the family for donkey’s years. I thought we might make them more comfortable in the house.”

“Indeed,” Jessom soothed. “A lengthy trip?”

Eryd knew he was being interrogated, as his wife had been just a few weeks back. “Not sure yet. With my family in tow, I suppose we can take our time. I thought we might travel up via the east. Perhaps catch up with that old rogue Jeryb and his marvelous brood before my shipment comes in.”

Jessom was alarmed, but he did not show it. “Brr, it’s cold out today. Can I offer you both a nip of Shorron to warm our insides?”

Neither of his companions cared to spend a moment longer with him.

“Of course,” Eryd answered. “I’m never one to say no to a glass.”

“We’ll have to be swift, my love,” Helyn warned, wishing Eryd had declined. “I’ve lots to purchase today for our trip.”

Eryd patted her arm in reassurance and the trio headed toward the nearest Shorron counter, where the hot, bitter liquor was served in warmed glasses with a dollop of honey to sweeten its passage. Shorron was a local specialty of Pearlis, so there were bars and counters aplenty. In summer the drink was serve chilled, but its warming, softly aphrodisiac effect was best felt on a crisp, wintry day.

Jessom ordered three nips. “Do you mind, Eryd, if I suggest you don’t travel to Felrawthy?” he said quietly as they waited. Helyn had already fallen into conversation with a friend at the counter.

“Why ever not?” Lord Bench asked, wondering at the sudden familiarity of the Chancellor.

“Bad news up north, I’m afraid. Our king will announce it to the court tomorrow. We only heard this morning.”

“And what is it?” Eryd felt a chill crawl through him.

“We’ve received sketchy reports that the Duke might have been killed.”

“Shar save us!”

Helyn turned back at the exclamation, excusing herself from her friend. “Eryd?”

“That’s not all,” Jessom said sorrowfully. “We haven’t had anything confirmed yet, but the same source reports that all in the family are dead.”

“This can’t be right,” Eryd blustered.

Jessom shook his head. “We’re not sure, as I say,” he said carefully. “I’ve sent some reliable men to check. It’s shocking, I know. The King is devastated, as you can imagine. He relied heavily on the Duke’s counsel regarding the north.”

“Not to mention his protection. But how could such a thing have happened?” Eryd asked.

“Drink this,” Helyn said, piecing together the disturbing news. She handed her husband his Shorron.

Jessom tipped back his head and downed the liquor, feeling its burning warmth. Eryd followed suit, genuinely appalled at the news. Helyn toyed with hers. She suspected—as did her husband—that they were being fed untruths here and yet the story was so shocking, it would have to be based on reality, which meant that the marvelous family up north had probably suffered.

“Everyone dead, you say?” Eryd asked.

Jessom nodded. “We await confirmation. The barbarian King’s men apparently. The family was expecting reinforcements of their own and had left the gates open at Tenterdyn. We’ll know more in a couple of days. I just think it’s best you don’t take your family into a region that is clearly dangerous.”

“Cailech! Why would the Mountain King be bothered with Jeryb?” Eryd spluttered, signaling for a second shot.

“I think the self-crowned madman of the north decided that the Duke was his main obstacle. By dealing with Felrawthy, he probably believes he’s effectively crushed Morgravia’s northern defenses.”

Helyn could hardly help the snort she gave. “You believe the Mountain King has actually raided and might head south?”

Jessom put his hand to his lips to signify that they must be careful about what they said. “King Celimus suspects as much. The Duke had confirmed many sightings of Cailech’s men in our northern lands. I fear, madam, that it’s only a matter of time before the Mountain King feels confident enough to try.”

“Well, thank you for the warning, Chancellor,” Eryd said, holding out his hand in farewell. “This is dire news indeed. We shall certainly steer clear of that region.”

Jessom blinked slowly and nodded before he shook his companion’s hand. He reminded Helyn of a vulture. “I’m glad, Lord Bench. Be safe on your travels.” He bowed, turned to Helyn, and took her hand. “Lady Bench, my respects to your lovely daughter. Shar guide you all on your journey.”

“Thank you,” she said sweetly, pulling her hand away as quickly as she dared.

They left, Eryd’s second glass of Shorron untouched. Jessom drank it, pleased with his morning’s work. He felt quietly confident he could stop the permanent observation of the Bench family now. He would have their party followed on their departure for the north, and if they immediately took the westernmost road toward the port of Brightstone rather than the road that veered east toward Felrawthy, it would satisfy him, and no doubt his king, that this family was no threat.

Outside, Lady Bench hurried to keep up with her husband’s long, angry stride. “Do you believe him?” she asked breathlessly.

“That Felrawthy has fallen. Yes. Not how it fell, though. Cailech is not that bold. Jessom forgets that I know the north better than most. No, this is darker work. I think your suspicion about our king and Leyen’s warning is right.”

“What do we do?”

“Nothing! Just observe for now—it’s what you’re best at.”

King Celimus pondered all that Jessom had told him. “I’m inclined to agree. The Bench family is no threat. Their watchers can be released. Now, I want you to have a letter couriered to Valentyna for me—it’s obvious Leyen or Faryl, whatever her name is, has not succeeded in dealing with Ylena and might not follow my other instructions to head to Briavel. We shall have to rely on Aremys to deal with the Thirsk woman. I’d prefer it if you copied this one yourself.”

“Of course, sire.” Jessom fiddled with parchment and stylo, searching for the right nib. “Ready, my lord.”

Celimus strolled to his study window and glanced down into the courtyard. “‘My dear Valentyna,’” he began. “No wait! Make that ‘Valentyna, my dearest.’” He listened as Jessom scratched away at the paper before continuing slowly. ‘“I do hope this finds you in good health, although no doubt as busy with matters of the realm as I find myself Perhaps you’ve made some time to spend with the exquisite filly I sent you? I gather she arrived in fine spirits and I know she has found the most generous and caring of owners. I would be interested to hear whether you liked the name I chose for her—she is the latest offspring of one of my finest broodmares. I’m sure you and she will enjoy good times in the beautiful woodland surrounding Werryl.’”

He paused, waiting for Jessom to catch up.

“Darling Valentyna‘—I hope that’s not too forward?”

“No, sire, it’s perfect,” Jessom replied.

“‘Darling Valentyna,’” Celimus repeated, “‘I hope you know that it is my heart’s desire that we formalize our union without unnecessary delay. Since meeting you, I have thought of nothing but our marriage and the bringing together of our realms in peace and harmony.’”

Jessom scratched furiously. “And now a gentle threat, sire?” he prompted softly.

Celimus chuckled. “You know my thoughts too well, Chancellor,” he said. “Indeed, we must spice this note with a warning. Let me see now.” He pondered, watching the comings and goings below him in the yard below. “Ah yes. ‘Time threatens our peace, my dear one. The upstart of the north—King Cailech, as he hails himself—has spilled the blue blood of Morgravia in slaughtering the Duke of Felrawthy and his entire family.

“I’m sure you know of them and grieve with all Morgravians at the tragic loss of this fine and noble line. We are taking steps to shore up the defenses of the north, but I sense Cailech grows too confident, and with the smell of Morgravian blood in his nostrils will now push south. My fear is that when he meets our resistance—and I promise it will be fierce—he will turn his attentions to Briavel. I cannot, nay, will not, permit this savage to threaten you, my darling, or your land. Once sworn enemies, we must now cleave together. Let me please help keep you and Briavel safe. I will pledge my entire Legion to the safekeeping of both our realms as soon as you confirm our marriage.‘”

He turned and beamed at Jessom. The Chancellor wondered how Valentyna could resist that radiant smile. “Brilliant, sire. Perhaps we should suggest a date?”

“Yes! Read back the last line.”

Jessom did so.

“Good. Go on and say, ‘I have set a date of the last moon of the spring equinox. I see you only as a Bride of Spring when the land is bursting with life again. It is how you make me feel, Valentyna.’” He paused again to consider how to finish his letter. “My factor will deliver the necessary paperwork for your signature and I will begin to make preparations for our splendid wedding day—when all Morgravians and Briavellians will rejoice together…and our enemies will fear us, my beautiful one. No one will ever threaten our new empire.‘” He clapped his hands gleefully. “And then you can finish as you see fit.”

“I’ll get this away immediately, sire.”

“Have our factor await the reply. A few days’ turnaround, no doubt?”

“Weather permitting, my king.”

“See to it, Jessom.”

The Chancellor began clearing his papers.

“What’s happening at Felrawthy, by the way?” the King asked.

“I’ve sent some reliable men to clear all traces.”

“The bodies?”

“Will be burned.”

“Excellent. And you’ll leave some signs that this was the work of the mountain dwellers.”

“Already taken care of, sire.”

Celimus felt happy and in control. In this mood he found it was appropriate to take his pleasure with a woman. “Have the Lady Amelia sent up after you.”

“As you wish, my king.”

The men stood around the pit, deeply disturbed. Some scratched their heads nervously, others fidgeted and tried to hold their breath. No one was sure what to say. There were supposed to be four bodies. They counted only three stinking corpses.

“Fetch someone who was here,” their leader growled. A man was brought several minutes later. “How many corpses were there?”

The man looked surprised. “Four—three men, one woman.”

“Well, we’ve got three bodies. The Duke and the two sons presumably, whom you
were
able to deal with. No woman here, unless she likes men’s clothing.”

The man grimaced at the sarcasm and responded with defiance. “The third son was
not
at Tenterdyn. The woman definitely was.”

“Well, she’s not now!” the leader roared. “Do you want to explain that to the man who is paying us a lot of gold to do this?”

“What are you suggesting?”

The leader of the party sneered. “I’m suggesting, you idiot, that the woman was never fully dead. Might have looked it, but she’s gotten away…or someone helped her.”

This time the man openly bristled at the insult, remembering how revolting it had felt to rape the dead woman. At the time it had been clear that she had breathed her last. “She was dead, I tell you,” he snarled back.

“Well, you find her corpse and then you let the Chancellor know when you do. I shall be reporting that we disposed of three male bodies only, and I reckon it’s not just your purses that you men should be worried about,” the leader said viciously. “Burn them,” he added, giving the order to dispose of the Duke and his twin sons. “I suggest you start searching Brynt and its surrounds for a dazed woman,” he said. “Try the chapels, hospices, anywhere they offer succor without questions. She’ll be hiding, for sure.”

Not very far away, Aleda grimaced as she heard this conversation come to a close. If only they knew, she thought, that she was barely a few yards from where they did their ugly work.

Aleda had regained consciousness during the early evening of the attack. As she became fully oriented to her surrounds, she had realized she was lying in a pit covered by branches. Dusk allowed some dying light to filter through the leaves and twigs overhead and she had screamed to discover that Jorge lay beneath her. His eyes had been open and it seemed to his mother that he wore an expression of anger, even though she knew it was not possible to hold any last look in death. He had died fighting for her honor. She had begun to weep, scrabbling farther, discovering her other boy, Daryn, as cold and lifeless as his brother, and remembering how he had been cut down before her.

To her despair, she had noticed her husband’s headless body at the bottom of the pit and she wept harder. She found his head tossed carelessly by his feet. The attackers would have laughed as they had thrown it in. Aleda had sat up, hating the sensation of sitting atop her fallen family, and cradled the bloodied head of her husband in her lap as she cried, losing hours in her grief as she stroked his dearly loved face.

When her sobs finally subsided, realization had hit and she had looked around frantically. “Crys!” she had shrieked. Not being able to find her eldest son had given her the courage to claw her way out of the pit. She had fallen several times, sobbing and scrabbling as the earth caved in on her repeatedly, covering her beloved men. Finally she had made it out and she had knelt at the lip of the pit, keening from her sorrow and trembling from her exertions. She had not even noticed her bleeding knees or tragically torn fingernails.

Perhaps Crys still lives
, he had comforted herself, desperately pushing away thoughts that he might have been taken and tortured by their attackers. And then she remembered Pil and wondered why his body was not here among the dead. Aleda had pulled back the hair from her face, streaking it with mud, and only then had she permitted herself to realize that her body was badly hurt. The pain was not easily described. It felt deep within and with a woman’s instinct she knew her internal injuries might yet kill her. Night had almost fallen, so she had only been able to see the blood on her skirts as a dark stain, but she knew it was there; remembered all too well how it had been earned. Death was not her fear. Time was. She was happy to die, would welcome the sight of Shar’s Gatherers if not for the painful hope that Crys might still live…might still need her.

She had heard Jeryb in her mind, encouraging her to flee. Exhausted, she had re-covered the pit, and weeping only lightly, she remembered a special hide Crys had made just slightly uphill of this place. He had boasted that he could see the northern route, just in case the mountain people ever came raiding. He had been much younger then and she had laughed at him indulgently, but his father had praised him for his endeavor and foresight. “You can never be too well prepared for raiders, son,” he had said, and ruffled the youngster’s hair.

Over the years her eldest son had continued to use the hide and had kept it clean and dry. He had invited her to sit in it once and Aleda had marveled at the cozy comfort. It was sheltered, relatively warm for their harsh climate, and well stocked, which had amused her. Food had always been first on her growing eldest son’s mind.

She had crawled toward that haven and lay in its safe womb for two days, trying to heal, thanking Crys silently for the water skin. Although she had no appetite for the food, it had been the water that had kept her alive and angry.

Aleda watched now as the men dragged the bodies of her beloved family toward a fire and without ceremony threw their corpses among the flames. They would not burn the memory of her fine family, though, Aleda thought, watching the fire exploding high into the air, fanning her fury. She knew who was responsible for this.

Celimus would be sorry his cold and beautiful mother had ever conceived him, she promised herself. She waited another half day in the hide, just to be sure the men had gone. It was too late to retrieve anything from the pyre. They had scattered it; gotten rid of as much evidence of the fire and its contents as possible. All her men were dead, bar one, she prayed. She clung to the hope that Crys lived, and as she crept back toward the family house to find fresh, warm traveling clothes and medicines to help kill the pain of her own injuries, Aleda tried to imagine where her son might find sanctuary. He was no longer safe in Morgravia; neither was she, for that matter. He had been escorting Elspyth to the border. Perhaps he had returned to Tenterdyn but seen the devastation in time and fled. But where to? He might be anywhere. She would have to travel to Briavel and find Elspyth. Perhaps the young woman’s last encounter with Crys would reveal something.

It suddenly dawned on her that she was not just chasing the last remaining heir of Felrawthy but its new duke. Did he even know? She swallowed a draft of poppy liquor, diluted enough that it would not put her to sleep but just take the edge off the pain—enough to saddle the same mule Elspyth had ridden into Tenterdyn. She packed a small bag—water, a wedge of cheese and a knuckle of bread, proof of her identity, and a miniature painting of her family. It was not worth looking in the stable for one of their horses. The attackers had stolen everything; the house itself was ransacked of all valuables. None of it mattered.

As she approached the grazing mule to lead it from the field opposite the house, Aleda wondered what had happened to the round-faced monk whom Pil had brought here to meet them. The thought left her mind swiftly. There were more important matters on hand. She led the animal back to the stables, and after saddling it, she tied on her tiny bag of goods and a leather bag of Jeryb’s, which now contained her youngest son’s remains. Without looking back, Aleda Donal set off for the famed city of Werryl, for if Wyl Thirsk believed in the Briavellian Queen, so must she.