Celadonian Tales Vol: 1 Blood and Brass (6 page)

"What? Mother and Father?" A sudden image came to him then, of the dinner they had shared together this very night. He recalled Mother laughing at some jest of Father’s while Imelda toyed with her food, thinking mooncalf thoughts of her duke no doubt. They could not be gone – it was impossible. Davin must be wrong.

"Did you think you'd get clear with it? I found them Bran, stabbed through the stomach, just like Imelda. Murderer!" Spittle flew from Davin's lips. "Was I next, Bran? What did you hope to gain?" Rage showed in every line of Davin's face. He stalked into the room, moving with a panther's grace. One hand rested on the hilt of his dagger.

"Davin! No, I found her this way!" Bran dropped the dagger to the bed and backed away, hands up, empty palms toward Davin to show no threat.

"I wish I could believe you, Bran."

"Davin, if you would just shut up and listen to –"

"Listen? See it through my eyes, brother," Davin drew his dagger, advancing faster now. Bran backed into the wall; there was nowhere left to go.

"Unsheathe your sword," Davin's voice was thin ice over deep water.

"What?" Did Davin want to duel him? Bran had no illusions that his brother could best him, even in such an imbalanced battle. Davin had always been more skilled with a blade, and Bran could remember several instances where he had bested skilled armsmen with little more than a dagger in his hand.

"I said unsheathe your sword!" The heat was coming back into Davin's voice. Bran could see him struggling to manage the furnace-hot rage. The icy control was nothing but a façade over a seething pit of fury. Bran feared what would happen should Davin's control snap. He was not known for his mercy, or for his compassion and understanding.

With slow deliberation, Bran grasped his hilt and unsheathed the blade. Should he fight? Would that not only make him look guiltier? As much as he disliked Davin at times, he was still blood, and Bran found himself wanting to prove his innocence to his brother. Very slowly, he reached over and laid his naked blade on the bed beside Imelda's body.

"Good. Now, walk to me, Bran. We can work this out, but you have to realize how it looks."

"I didn't kill her, Davin. You have to believe me!"

Davin stood silent, studying his brother, calculating. What was going through Davin's mind? Surely, he had more faith in Bran than to believe he would wantonly slay his entire family.

"I did not do this, Davin. The killer fled out the window as I entered the room," Bran tried to imitate his brother's cold control. He had never been particularly good at it, though. Bran was the hot to Davin's cold, the impetuous to his calculation.

"That remains to be seen, Bran. I want to believe, you, I do. But I caught you with the knife in your hands!" Davin's arm trembled, but he sheathed his dagger. Bran sighed in relief.

"What can I do to convince you, Davin?" Bran fought his emotions. Anger warred with sadness and Bran felt torn apart.

"It is not for me to decide, Bran. The law is clear. A trial will clear you or damn you."

Bran felt cold dread in the pit of his stomach. "You really think it will come to that?"

Davin's composure cracked. "Damn you, Bran, they're all dead! You and I are all that remain of our family. I find you standing over Immy, the knife in your hand and her body still warm, and you expect me to believe you're innocent?" Davin took a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm.

"If nothing else, Bran, think how it looks. If you're innocent, a trial will show it. If you're guilty, then I pray the gods are merciful."

Bran wondered just how merciful those gods would be if they could allow something like this to happen in the first place. Bowing his head, he stepped toward Davin. "Very well, now what?"

"You're still my brother, Bran. You're still part of this House," he gripped Bran's upper arm, whether to show support or to keep him from fleeing, Bran could not tell. "You can at least have some comfort while waiting for your trial – the Aretin Cells are almost as nice as your apartments."

Davin turned toward the door, pulling Bran with him. "Harro!" he shouted, calling the captain of the royal guard. "Harro!"

The sound of pounding feet echoed down the corridor. Harro appeared in the doorway, followed by two guards. The captain was disheveled, his graying hair standing up at all angles, as though he had leapt straight from his bed, which Bran figured he must have.

"You'll escort my brother to the Aretin Cells, Harro. He's to speak to no one, but your men will provide him every courtesy, as befits his station."

Harro frowned, but did as instructed. "My prince, if you'll allow me," he grasped Bran's shoulder, and the other guards moved to stand on either side. Bran cast one last look back at Davin, who stood with shoulders slumped, the fingers of his right hand pressed to his forehead.

"I did not do this, Davin," Bran said as the guards escorted him out the door. Davin did not answer.

***

The Aretin Cells were as luxurious as Bran remembered from his one tour as a child. Constructed to house King Aretin during his madness, they occupied a floor just above the keep's prison cells. They were large and well appointed, meant to keep the mad king comfortable, but away from anyone else. Aretin died in these rooms, strangling himself with his own bed hangings. Whispers abounded that it had been murder, rather than suicide, but nothing could be proved.

For all their opulence and comfort, Bran found the apartments oppressive. Every furnishing or bit of art on the wall was just one more reminder of his imprisonment. He prowled the rooms, feeling like a wild cat he had once seen when a traveling troupe entertained the court. Bran remembered watching the great beast pace back and forth, furious at its confinement, held back by iron bars and thick wood. Bran was the one confined now, caged just as surely as that animal had been, though his was certainly the more comfortable of the two cages.

Eventually, he tired of stalking the rooms and sprawled on the immense bed, covered with fur and velvet. He sat up when the door to the apartments opened, but it was just a guard bringing him clothes. The guard said nothing, but laid the fresh clothing on a table and left. Bran realized that he was still shirtless and bootless, and that there was blood on the leg of his trousers. He quickly doffed his soiled garments and changed clothes. He was especially grateful for the boots. The stone floor was cold and even the thick carpets here could not totally eliminate that chill.

Hours passed and Bran stewed in silence. Another unknown guard delivered his evening meal on a wooden tray. Bran tried to engage him in conversation, but was ignored. He was sure that Davin had given orders that no one speak to him at all, not even to pass the time. That was to be the pattern of Bran's days.

He would arise and find fresh clothing and a meal set out for him. Lunch and dinner were similarly provided, always by silent, grim-faced guards whom Bran did not know. The nightmares were the same, too. They tormented his nights the way boredom and despair did his days.

It was all he could do not to go mad. No news came about a trial, and no one would answer his frantic questions about his family's murderer. He was beginning to think Davin had forgotten about him, that the duties of kingship had overwhelmed him.

A knock on the door one morning broke the monotony. Bran knew immediately that something was different. The guards who brought his food and clothing never knocked. He rose, not knowing what to expect. "Come!" he called out.

The door opened, revealing Madin Cowley, Lord of Westwatch and one of those who had been closest to Bran's father. Cowley looked tired, his hair grayer and there were bags under his blue eyes. He strode into the room as purposeful as ever, though.

"Cowley!" Bran stepped forward, his instinct to embrace the man. Cowley had been one of the most prominent fixtures throughout his life, and Bran had counted the man a friend. Cowley stepped back, raising one hand to forestall Bran. So, even Cowley thought him guilty. It stung.

"You too, Cowley?" Bran demanded.

Cowley shook his head, "I'm not sure what to believe my prince. Davin weaves a convincing tale, that he found you alone in Imelda's room, holding the knife used to kill your family."

Bran looked down at the floor, "It's true, Cowley."

"How? You admit it, then?"

"No!" Bran's glare was so ferocious that Cowley took a step back. "The killer fled through the window when I entered the room. Why will no one believe me?"

"Calm down, Bran. I just had to hear it for myself."

Bran could scarcely believe his ears. Was it true? "Then you believe me innocent?"

"I do," Cowley answered, "but it doesn't matter."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, my prince, that you have been tried in absentia and found guilty. Your execution is set for Belatine."

"Already tried?" Bran was in shock. He would have no chance tell his side? "Why was I not given the opportunity to defend myself?"

"The Council felt it best."

"And my brother?" Anger burned in Bran's gut, a deep, painful heat.

"Davin fought hard for your rights. He was in favor of you having a chance to defend yourself against the charges, even though he was your accuser. I think…I think he wanted you to prove him wrong."

"And now I will have no chance." It was not a question.

"No," Cowley said. He moved forward and put a hand on Bran's shoulder. "On Belatine, you will be burned in the sacred fire. You are to be lashed to a stake of oak, given milk of the poppy to dull your senses and then to die by flame."

Bran shoved Cowley's hand away. He knew the man was only trying to give comfort, but he was having none of it. "By what right did the Council deny me my rights?"

"They view you as a patricide and a regicide, my prince. Those accused of killing a king have no rights under the law. Technically, their actions were within the realm of legality."

"I don't give a damn about legality, Cowley!"

"Peace, my prince," Cowley raised both hands.

"I'm sentenced to death, without a chance to defend myself, and you counsel 'peace'?"

"What more would you have of me, Bran? What more can be done? You'll die for the crimes, whether you committed them or not." Cowley shrugged, defeated.

"It's so easy for you. It's not your death!"

"Easy for me? Do you think any of this has been easy? Insolent boy!" Cowley's hands tightened to fists. "I served your father for thirty years. He was my liege, and your mother was my delight. More, they were my friends! You, Davin and Imelda – you are all close to my heart." A tear rolled from the corner of his eye.

Bran turned away, unable to look at Cowley any longer. Betrayal was bitter; not the small betrayal from his father's advisor, but the larger one from the Council, from Davin. Davin fought the council for him, according to Cowley, but to what end? The Council tried him in absentia, condemned him to death. Why? Were they afraid? Were they so anxious to put this behind them?

The betrayal burned, like shattered glass ground into an open wound. While the Council was condemning him to death, they were letting the real slayer get away. They were turning a blind eye and a murderer walked free.

"I didn't do this, Cowley."

"We've been over this, Bran. I believe you, but it does not matter. The Council has made its ruling, and there is no appeal."

"But someone did do it. That someone is still out there, as is the person who hired him."

"Davin!"

"He could still be in danger," Bran was pleased that Cowley had followed his train of thought. "The assassin could strike at any moment," Bran was suddenly anxious, wondering where Davin was right now.
Are you safe, brother
?

Cowley shook his head. "No, if they are smart about it, they will wait until after your execution to strike. The fact that nothing has been attempted since you have been here seems to indicate that's what they are thinking."

"That makes sense, I suppose."

Cowley turned to leave. "Keep your spirits up, Bran, Belatine is still days away. Something may change." Bran watched him go. Nothing would change, Bran knew. He dropped his face into his hands. It was not that he feared death, though he did. It was that he knew Davin would still be in danger. Once Bran was dead, Davin would relax his guard and the assassin could strike.

Bran walked to the small side table where his jailers regularly placed a silver pitcher of wine and poured a cup. He had little head for the stuff, but if there was ever a time for a drink, by the gods it was now. Anger began replacing Bran's sadness once more. Why could they not see?

His hand holding the cup trembled with suppressed rage. Why could Davin not believe him? Why? He screamed his pain and anger aloud, a raw, primal sound of anguish, and flung the cup from him. It hit the wall with a metallic
clink
, fell to the floor and rolled back toward Bran. The wine dripped slowly down the stone, pooling on the floor.

Not content with merely throwing the cup, Bran stepped forward and kicked it as hard as he could. It rebounded off the table leg and then into the wall. Something caught his attention, though. The sound was different this time. Before, it had been the sound of metal striking solid stone. This sound was different, duller, almost hollow.

Curious, he knelt to inspect the wall. It looked no different from any other part of the room, made of pale, mortared stone. An exploratory touch yielded nothing out of the ordinary; the stone was cool and rough, the mortar snagging the skin of his fingers as he passed them over the joints.

Pressing his hands flat, palms against the wall, Bran worked his way down the wall. He knocked experimentally, but sore knuckles were his only reward. He knocked a bit lower on the wall and received a similar lack of results. Where was it? He knocked once more and found it. The wall echoed hollowly.

With further tapping, Bran determined the dimensions of the spot in the wall. It seemed to be a false door, about two feet in height and two and a half feet in width. But bran had no idea how to open it. He tapped and pushed at every edge and corner to no avail. The wall refused to yield it's secrets.