Guardian Last (Lords of Syon Saga Book 2) (49 page)

After studying her face carefully and satisfying himself
that she was not a disguised Lady Renda, which was Corin of Wirthing’s capital
fear, the guard nodded.  “The Earl is expecting you, madam.”  The guard looked
with suspicion on the second rider.  “Your companion will need to wait here.”

The second rider’s gnarled hand reached up slowly and
lowered her hood, revealing a hideous thin veil of white hair around a sea of
wrinkles on her face that made the guard step back involuntarily.  She gave a
feeble smile to him.  “I greet you and sow your heart with truth and light,”
she said.  “I am my Lady’s spiritual advisor.  Per her widow’s vows, I must
accompany her,” she said with a delicate cough, “at all times.”

Dane kept one hand on his weapon while he watched the
guard.  The man’s thoughts were transparent to him:  he saw only two women, one
handsome and of middle years, the other feeble and ancient, and neither of them
Brannagh knights, and he relaxed visibly, underestimating them as he had seen
men underestimate Gikka time and again.  Dane smiled. 

No doubt the Earl had expected this parlay to be a ruse, and
he’d prepared for Lady Renda to bring some few surviving knights of Brannagh against
him.  Instead, Lady Glynnis had arrived, exactly as the message had said she
would, not with a proper retinue but with only a nun, and to the guard’s eye,
not even one of power since she had no glow about her at all.  Dane hoped
Wirthing would be as easy for Lady Glynnis to gull as this guard.

Satisfied, the guard straightened and recited the ritual
words loudly.  “Lady Glynnis of Brannagh, you enter under sign of parlay, and I
offer this assurance on behalf of Corin, Earl of Wirthing,” he said, holding up
a gold coin, “that you shall leave as you came, with your persons and your
goods as you bring them, upon my Lord’s honor and mine own as Captain of the
Guard.”  He handed her the coin.

“We accept Corin, Earl of Wirthing’s, hospitality for
parlay,” she replied in a loud clear voice, holding up the coin he had given,
“as well as your assurance of our safety, and we likewise offer assurance of
our peaceful intentions.”  She lifted her coin beside his for all to see.  Then
she made a show of handing her coin to him.

Both the coin she gave and that which she received bore the
image of Damerien, the irony of which was not lost on the Dane.  The same
traitor had just bound his word with Damerien’s gold who was freshly come from
trying to destroy both Brannagh and Damerien, which meant the ritual bindings
of parlay were all but meaningless.  Then again, he figured they usually were
meaningless on one side or the other, as they had been every time parlay had
been called since time immemorial.  Still, the forms had been observed. 

After a thousand years as allies, Brannagh and Wirthing were
at war, as unthinkable as the notion seemed.  Lady Glynnis was at a desperate
disadvantage, but it could not be helped.  She had proposed to meet on neutral
ground, but she had not been in a position to insist when the Earl had returned
a message that he would only meet at Wirthing Castle. Nor, he thought, had she
seemed particularly surprised by his response.  Ultimately, it did not matter. 
If Corin wanted to kill her at any time, he could make up any reason he liked
for it, and who would gainsay him?  He only wished Aidan had succeeded in
talking her out of it.

With a few quick instructions to the earl’s grooms, the two
women relinquished their horses and followed another guard, this one a Guard of
the House, deep inside the castle itself. 

Only after they were safely inside did the masque in the
courtyard change.  Servants scurried out of the way, and the Wirthing Knights
emerged from the places where they’d secreted themselves, behind the armory,
behind the smithy and the stables.  But rather than forming up and assembling
in the courtyard as Dane had thought they would, they rode straight out the
gate and northward, toward the Kharkara Plains.  Dane frowned, wanting to follow
and see what they were about, but he held his position.  His orders were to
stay with Lady Glynnis.  He had to trust that the Dhanani scouts would see them
in time.

Glynnis and Nara followed the Guard of the House into a
large central hall warmed by a large fire in the fireplace and dominated by a
long dining table with many chairs.  Smells of the castle’s breakfast meal
lingered, but the table was cleared and looked to have been freshly oiled. 

Much like the great halls of any of the ancient houses of
Syon, the walls were lined with hunting trophies and paintings of the family
going back to the founding of their house, some in attitudes of war, some in
attitudes of peace, posing with dogs and horses with long forgotten names and
deeds.  Conspicuously absent, of course, were the ancient weapons and armor of
the House of Wirthing.  Not surprising, under the circumstances.  Meeting in a
hall full of the trappings of war was considered inauspicious for parlay.

Even so, the room held the weight of history.  Wirthing had
chosen to intimidate them, but oddly, the similarity to Glynnis’s own family
home at Berendor and her husband’s home at Brannagh, both now lost, comforted
her and gave her strength.

“Come, Nara,” she said and took the large chair from the
head of the great dining table to set near the fire.  Then she settled Nara
into it, aware that they were likely being watched from some hidden niche or
crevice in the wall.

“Thank you, dear child,” the old nun said.  “So long a ride
is always difficult for my old bones.  This chair is most welcome, if a bit
hard.  The chairs at Brannagh were ever so much nicer.  Not that I am
complaining, mind you.”

Glynnis smiled at the jab.  So Nara knew they were being
watched, as well.  She stripped off her riding gloves and set them on the
table.  “The ride went little better with me.  But for the moment, rest
yourself.  I hope to speak with His Lordship soon and be away from this
place.”  She lowered her voice to a whisper.  “I cannot think it will take
long.”

Nara looked around her and frowned.  “So different this hall
is now from when it was bestrewn with garlands of jasmine and roses for his
wife’s daughter’s wedding.”  She pulled the heavy unaccustomed cloak up around
herself, somewhat against the cold but also to be sure the Dhanani leathers she
wore beneath it were covered from view.  “Yes, I’m sure this is the same hall…. 
Just there where the stone is uneven is where Master Roquandor ran headlong and
fell and cracked open his poor knee.  Not a peep did he make during the
ceremony, but oh, did his lip quiver madly with the pain of it.”

Glynnis felt her smile falter.

“Little Lady Renda, I remember, took his hand for pity and
bade him squeeze against the pain, and so he did, so hard that they both sat
with quivering lips, sharing each other’s pain and silence through the whole
tedious service.”  She smiled at the memory.  “Dear children, you have, lady.”

“Had.”  She looked sharply at the old governess.  “My children
are dead, Nara.  Even my granddaughter.  Dead and gone.”

“Strange that mine are not.”  The old governess raised a
single eyebrow when Glynnis looked at her.  Then she smiled.  “Yet mine are
yours, and yours were mine.”

She looked into the fire and lowered her voice.

“Whether yet among us, in service to B’radik, or with
Verilion in the stars, they are yet yours.  And mine.  In every moment of their
lives and of their deaths and even the strange moments in between, however
wrought, they are yet ours.  Yours and mine.”  Nara looked up at her again, a
strangely comforting smile on her lips.  “Is it not so?”

“Yes.  I suppose so.”  Glynnis cast a self-conscious look at
the door, wondering what Nara was at, mentioning this now, gibbering on about life
and death and the strange moments in between.  Was she but playing her part as
spiritual advisor, or was this to remind Glynnis of all that she had lost?  All
they had both lost.  She needed no nun of B’radik for that, and she resented
the woman undermining her confidence and calm this way, just as she was about
to meet with Wirthing––Wirthing, their erstwhile ally who had destroyed her
family, taken her husband, her daughter and her grandchild––Wirthing, whom she
despised for it utterly.  Damn Nara for bringing her loss so close again when
she had almost healed, near enough that she could again taste her rage and
grief like fresh blood in her mouth, demanding vengeance. 

Then she understood. 

“Thank you,” she breathed, “for reminding me.”

Nara bowed her head.

Glynnis deliberately let her voice break for the sake of any
who were listening, and she wiped at a dry eye.  Real weakness was weakness,
but feigned weakness could be a powerful weapon.

Only a minute passed in silence before they heard steps in the
corridor.  Apparently the earl grew bored quickly.  That was good to know.  She
listened, then she looked at Nara and gestured.  Two men?  Nara nodded slightly
and shifted beneath her cloak.  Of course he’d bring a second.  After all, she
had not come alone.  Glynnis felt a sickly anticipation rising in her throat at
seeing him and fought it down.

A young voice pierced the silence outside the door.  “You
cannot hide me away like some sort of secret, Wirthing!  I really must insist. 
Besides, as Marquess of Moncliff, it is my traditional place to preside over
parlay.  I could be of use in your negotiations.”

An older man’s voice laughed.  “This is my battle, boy.  You
have your own.”

“Boy?  Now see here!  I have every right to insist that you
allow me to attend.”

“Very well, if you must attend me, be still and learn.”

The door opened, and Corin, Earl of Wirthing, swept in,
waving to silence a beautiful if rather slender boy of no more than fifteen at
his side.  The boy was striking, with expressive dark eyes and a wide mouth
that was unfortunately prone to pouting.  One day he might grow to be a strong
and handsome man, but for now, he looked every bit the petulant child.

Corin was just as Glynnis remembered him, wiry and graceful,
handsome in a rather pointed way that reminded her of a mink.  His dark hair
was slicked down with a rich smelling oil all the way to his nape and then fell
away in ringlets to well below his shoulder.  Only in the precise dry curls
could she tell that his hair was shot through now with strands of gray.  At his
hip he wore his sword, as was his right at parlay.  The blade was not his
family’s ceremonial weapon, as might be expected, but was rather his battle
sword.  The threat was unmistakable.

Both men moved with a marked purpose in their steps.  No
doubt the earl’s studied urgency was meant to convey that he only had so much
time to devote to their parlay, but the young man was not as polished.  His
step conveyed only nerves and a sense of sniveling entitlement.

“My dear Lady Glynnis of Brannagh,” the Earl smiled, taking
her outstretched hand and bowing over it, exactly as he had at his
stepdaughter’s wedding nearly two decades before, as if the circumstances were
no different.  Likely to him, they were not.  “As lovely as ever.  I was
surprised but nevertheless delighted to hear that you survived the
unpleasantness at Castle Brannagh.”

“Unpleasantness, indeed,” she smiled in return.  “I
understand the better part of your knights were not as fortunate as I.”

Wirthing blinked but his smile did not falter.  “Likewise,
you have my condolences, on your husband’s untimely death.  Though he was my
sometime rival for your affections, nevertheless I held him in warm regard.”

“No doubt as warm as was his regard for you, my Lord,” she
purred. “I have no doubt he spoke of you with his last breath.”

“Quite.”  His smile chilled.  He gave her hand a slight
squeeze as he released it and waved the boy over.  “Allow me to present my Lord
Banya, Marquess of Moncliff.  Her ladyship, Glynnis of Brannagh, widow of the
late Sheriff of Brannagh.”

Twice in one sentence to emphasize her husband’s death, and
before that a crass mention of his failed attempt to court her….  These points
would no doubt enter into their discussions on both sides.  He was so obvious. 
She shut her eyes a moment to let him think he had cut her to the quick, then
smiled bravely and inclined her head slightly as she offered the child her
hand.

The boy was well trained in the forms, bowing just so over
her hand, making just enough eye contact, though still his manner bespoke
impatience and a lack of subtlety, traits ill suited to the head of a family
once legendary in its skill at negotiation.  She marked at once how he had
missed the opportunity to offer comfort after Wirthing’s deliberate
insensitivity regarding her husband’s death. 

Wirthing, too, had likely noticed it and she saw to her
amusement that he was just a moment too slow to hide his exasperation.  He
could not afford to play the churl if the boy would not take the hero’s part,
nor could he later be “redeemed” by her acceptance of his terms, and this would
seriously undermine his bargaining position. 

Then the child had gone on to fail to ask about Brannagh’s
fall to pretend ignorance of the situation or to help his host gather
information about any survivors and their whereabouts.  She had no doubt he
would take every opportunity to turn the conversation back to himself, a
terrible weakness in a diplomat.

“This is my spiritual advisor, Nara, late of the temple of
B’radik.”

Nara looked up at the two noblemen but did not bother to
rise.  Nor, Glynnis noted, did she offer the temple’s ritual greeting.

“A B’radikite nun!”  Wirthing seemed genuinely surprised. 
“I had thought the temple destroyed and all the priests of B’radik killed! 
Congratulations, madam, on your survival against such horrors.  I understand
there were mages involved.”

“I have survived worse,” the old woman wheezed.  Then she
turned back toward the fire.