Ice Forged (The Ascendant Kingdoms Saga) (8 page)

Autumn would come soon, and Esthrane’s constellation would dip below the horizon as Torven’s K-shaped pattern of stars—a conjuror with his arm outstretched holding a staff—would rise. Connor hoped that autumn brought with it milder temperatures and cooler tempers.

With a sigh, Connor urged his horse forward. Lanyon Penhallow’s current home was a two-candlemark ride from Castle Reach. He shook his head to ward off sleep and nudged his horse with his heels. The night was already far spent and he knew that he must reach Penhallow’s manor before dawn.

Finally, the lights of Rodestead House came into view. Connor slowed his horse so as not to alarm Lord Penhallow’s guardsmen at the large stone gate. The manor was surrounded by an iron fence of unsurpassed workmanship, both sturdy and beautiful, wrought with symbols and scenes like a metal tapestry. Connor brought his horse to a walk as he approached the gate.

“State your name and business.”

“Bevin Connor. I bear a message for your master from Lord Garnoc.”

After a moment, the huge iron gate swung open. “You may enter the grounds,” the unseen guard replied. “Wait at the manor door to be admitted.”

By now, Connor was familiar with the ritual. He dismounted, and led his horse up the carriageway. As he approached the house, he felt the scrutiny of unseen watchers. He was careful to keep his hand well away from the sword at his side. Connor looped his horse’s reins over the hitching post at the end of the carriageway and walked slowly up the broad granite steps to the manor’s imposingly carved front door. Before he could knock, the double doors swung open. Framed in the large doorway was a thin man of indeterminate age.

“Welcome, Master Connor. Please come in.” Hannes, Lord Penhallow’s steward, stepped aside to allow Connor to enter. That he was met by the steward and not by one of the other servants gave Connor to guess that somehow, Lord Penhallow expected his arrival. Though he did not understand it, Connor had grown used to Penhallow’s unusual prescience, on both trivial issues and matters of greater importance.

“I bear greetings—and a message—from Lord Garnoc,” Connor replied.

Hannes nodded. “Lord Penhallow will be pleased. Follow me.”

Rodestead House was eerily silent, though it was lit with candles as if for a ball. The huge iron chandelier in the entry hall glittered with dozens of candles, and sconces along the walls lit their way as Connor followed Hannes up the sweeping front stairway. Halfway up, Connor shivered, suddenly chilled to the bone though the night was mild. He caught just the barest glimpse of a shimmer in the air before the apparition was gone.

“Did one of our haunts give you a quiver?” Hannes asked with a chuckle. “Pay them no mind. There are many spirits here, some recent and many quite old. You’re in no danger. Lord Penhallow has let it be known that you are under his protection.”

Hannes’s words, meant to be reassuring, sent another chill down Connor’s spine. He did not doubt that it was an enviable honor to be under the watch of Rodestead House’s formidable lord. Yet he had learned from his years at court with his master that all convenient arrangements had their price.

“You may wait in here,” Hannes said, stopping in front of mahogany double doors. He opened them and made a shallow bow, gesturing for Connor to precede him. “The lord will be with you shortly.” Hannes closed the door, leaving Connor alone.

Inside was a well-appointed library. The large fireplace was tall enough for a man to be able to stand without needing to duck his head. A fire burned brightly, warming the room. Hundreds of leather-bound volumes were arranged on beautifully carved shelves, and the scent of their leather and parchment filled the room.

Connor took in his surroundings without venturing farther, unsure of where his host would have him stand. In the years he had carried messages for Garnoc, Connor had rarely been ushered into the same room twice. Over the years, he had made a game of looking for clues about his taciturn host. This new room provided more pieces of the puzzle to help him decipher the man for whom Rodestead House was home.

In addition to books, a curious assortment of objects lined the shelves. Astrolabes and armillary spheres sat on a table at one side of the room. Trinkets of silver, jade, and glass were arranged on the bookshelves and on side tables. On the mantle,
several small marble statues looked warm and lifelike by the glow of the fire. Many of the objects looked to be of a great age, and some Connor could not place as being from anywhere within Donderath or the Continent’s kingdoms. Three large leather chairs faced the fireplace. Next to one of the chairs was a small table with a glass of dark liquid and a plate of sausage, dried fruits, and small pastries. A second partially filled goblet sat nearby, as if its owner had just stepped away.

Above the mantle was an oil painting. It showed a prosperous family dressed in the manner of several centuries past: husband, wife, son, and daughter. The young daughter toyed with a small dog, while her brother seemed to be making an effort to look older than the seven years Connor guessed him to be. The woman had a gracious look, seated with her hands in her lap, wearing a modest gown as befitted a gentlewoman. Her blue eyes were startling, even at a distance, and her long hair fell in ringlets around her face.

The man stood behind the woman’s chair. His right hand rested possessively on his wife’s shoulder, while his left hand lay proudly on the shoulder of his son. He had the look about him of a man who understood that he was born to rule, with high cheekbones and a stern, thin-lipped mouth that did not quite smile although everything about his manner said that he was satisfied with his lot in life. Confident, but not arrogant, with keen intelligence in his blue eyes. His brown hair hung loose to his shoulders, and his clothing spoke of money and position. Connor guessed that the painting was at least two hundred years old, and he also knew without a shadow of a doubt that the man in the painting was the same Lanyon Penhallow whose arrival he awaited.

“Do you like my library?” The voice startled Connor enough that he jumped and he heard his host chuckle.

“Yes, very much, m’lord,” Connor replied, wishing his heart would stop thudding. He turned to see Penhallow standing behind him and searched the apparently seamless wall for signs of a hidden doorway.

Lanyon Penhallow stood framed against his books. His dark hair was caught back in a queue. He appeared to be a few years older than the man in the painting, perhaps in his late third decade. Tonight, he wore a simple, claret-colored silk shirt with a brocade doublet in muted tones over dark close-fit leggings. Against the rich colors of his clothes, Penhallow’s skin seemed pale.

“Is Garnoc well?”

Connor nodded. “Yes, quite.”

“And Millicent?” Penhallow’s mouth quirked upward, just slightly, at the private joke. Endearment and forbearance colored his tone, without a hint of mockery.

Connor smiled, despite the apprehension he always felt in Penhallow’s presence. “Milady Millicent is, as ever, looking splendid.”

Penhallow walked closer. Connor did his best to look nonchalant, though his heart was beating at twice its normal rate once more. “Come now, my dear Bevin. Do I still make you nervous after all this time?”

Connor sighed. “Reflex, m’lord, or instinct. I know you are a man of your word.”

Penhallow nodded. “And a man of few words. You and Garnoc are among only a handful to be granted my protection in these perilous times. It will not keep you from all harm, but it will reduce the number of people willing to interfere with our business.” He paused. “You have a message for me?”

Connor unfastened his right cuff and turned his sleeve up until it exposed the whole of his inner elbow and forearm. “See
for yourself, m’lord,” he said, extending his arm, palm up, as he steeled himself, inadvertently making a fist.

Penhallow took the proffered arm and lowered his head. Connor barely felt Penhallow’s sharp teeth sink into the throbbing vein in the hollow of his elbow, but he gasped seconds later at the by-now-familiar vertigo that accompanied Penhallow’s feeding. He forced himself to stand still, though his most primal instincts urged him to run, knowing that his stillness would yield the least bruising and the cleanest wounds. The creases of both elbows were dotted with small, round white scars, badges of his role as witness and messenger.

Penhallow can read my memories. Can he see the gaps? Will he find me out?
Another possibility occurred to Connor.
Did Penhallow send someone after me to take my memories? Oh, gods! Can he read my thoughts? Maybe I’ve given myself away. I don’t know who to trust.

Both he and Penhallow gained from the exchange. Undoubtedly, Penhallow gained the most, seeing through Connor’s eyes all that had transpired in the War Council, and in his later discussion with Garnoc. Yet while Penhallow gleaned information, the feeding was part of the mysterious magic that granted Connor the vampire lord’s protection. Though the scars were well hidden beneath Connor’s sleeve, something of Penhallow’s magic lingered. More than once, a common cutpurse bent on robbing Connor had drawn back at the last moment, as if warded off by an intangible presence. He did not know what other dangers Penhallow’s magic had spared him, and he did not want to know.

Only a few moments passed, and Penhallow raised his head. No hint of blood colored his lips, and the wound on Connor’s arm was clean, already healing rapidly. “How interesting,”
Penhallow said, his expression introspective as if he replayed Connor’s memories in his mind.

Connor’s heart was thudding, afraid that Penhallow had indeed realized his fears.

“You’re more tense than usual,” Penhallow said. “I forget how demanding travel is for a mortal. Please, have a seat and some refreshment,” Penhallow said, snapping out of his thoughts and gesturing for Connor to move with him to a chair near the fire. Penhallow was a gracious host and was always quite solicitous toward Connor after the conveyance of the message, as if he guessed that Connor endured these meetings despite his mortal fear.

“When does Merrill hear next from his commanders?”

“A few days, m’lord. Garnoc does not expect a good report.”

“Neither do I.” Penhallow reached for the goblet beside his chair and swirled the dark liquid. It was as red and rich as cabernet, but it clung to the glass differently, so that Connor knew it to be blood. Connor looked away and availed himself of the repast Penhallow had set out for him, glad his own glass held brandy.

“I have my watchers at the front,” Penhallow said, his voice as darkly lustrous as the liquid in his glass. “In fact, I’d like you to meet one of my main sources of information.” He paused to sip his drink. “He should be joining us any minute.”

As if on cue, the door to the study opened. A portly man came into the room rubbing his hands together. His clothing was dark blue, cut in the fashion of a military uniform, though it bore no rank or insignia. The newcomer was in his middle years, balding with a fringe of gray hair. He moved with surprising alacrity for his bulk, and while his manner was jovial, his dark eyes hinted at shrewd intelligence.

“Good evening, Traher,” Penhallow said. “Please join us. You know where I keep the brandy.”

Voss grinned. He gave a nod in Connor’s direction, and then went to the sideboard to pour himself a generous slug of brandy before joining them near the fire. “This is the pup you mentioned, Lanyon?” he said with an appraising glance at Connor, who felt himself bristle. “Doesn’t look like much, if you’ll pardon my saying so.”

Penhallow took on a bemused expression. “I believe the term ‘pup’ is yours, Traher, not mine. I beg to differ. I believe Lord Garnoc’s attaché has more to him than we know,” he said. “Bevin Connor, meet Traher Voss. Voss is a man of many talents, one of them being channeling information.”

Connor’s heart beat faster at Penhallow’s introduction, unsure just what the vampire meant by his comment.
Could he tell from my blood that I might have betrayed him?
Connor wondered. He looked up to see Voss watching him, and felt his temper rise.

“You look to be a military man, yet you’re not at the front,” Connor said. “But men with your skills are needed badly.”

Voss guffawed. “The pup can bark,” he said, grinning. “Well, well.” He knocked back the brandy in his glass. “My ‘skills,’ as you put it, go beyond bashing heads together, although I’ll admit to being good at that.” Connor glanced at the sword that hung by the man’s side, a warrior’s broadsword, not a nobleman’s rapier. “I’m also pretty good at things like finding out secrets, which pays much better than being a target.”

“Connor will bear our warning back to Garnoc, and through him, to the king,” Penhallow said.

“I don’t envy you repeating what I’ve got to say at court,” Voss said, setting his empty glass aside. “Donderath is losing
the war, and it is likely to lose even with Tarrant’s help.” He held up a hand to forestall Connor’s protest.

“Meroven and Vellanaj have set a trap for Donderath, and Merrill has taken the bait. Meroven’s mages are behind their army’s success, and we believe that once Meroven’s army has made sure that Donderath can’t turn the tide, King Edgar’s mages will attempt to strike a killing blow.”

“You expect them to try to assassinate King Merrill?” Connor asked, looking from Voss to Penhallow, hoping the vampire would disagree.

Penhallow shrugged. “Perhaps, but only as part of a wider attack. No, my sources tell me that Meroven has held back its strongest battle sorcerers until the end, but that they are well equipped to turn the tide of the war—unless Merrill counters them with mages of equal power.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I’ve got a spy among the mages at the front, and one among the mage-scholars at the university,” Voss replied. “Our man at the university, Treven Lowrey, has found some sensitive information that may have bearing on the war.”

Connor shifted uncomfortably. Although he had been a messenger for Penhallow and Garnoc for several years, he often wrestled with just how much of his own opinions—rather than observations—to share.