Lescari Revolution 03: Banners In The Wind (39 page)

'He's in Parnilesse,' said Branca, 'with Sorgrad and Gren.'

'Charoleia is in Solland.' Aremil wasn't sure how he knew that either. 'You were there too.'

'That's right.' Relief was allaying the fear in Branca's eyes. 'Where are we now?'

Aremil knew that he had left Losand. Where had he gone after that? Why couldn't he recollect? This was becoming ridiculous. Or it would be, if it wasn't so unsettling.

'Carluse?' he ventured. 'No.' There was another journey he couldn't call to mind.

But Branca was nodding with a smile. 'You're in Carluse.'

Voices echoed all around; male and female, anguished and angry. The candles flickered madly.

'
Do you hate us so much?'

'
Did you have to kill him?'

'
We always provided for you.'

The flaming torches bracketed on the pillars died. Black smoke spiralled upwards to thicken the shadows in the vaulted roof.

'
Don't pretend concern for my welfare.'

'
So you wash your hands of us?'

'
How long before some mob hacks off our heads and rapes my innocent daughters?'

The postern door slammed shut. Bolts drove themselves home with a screech of metal.

'No!' Branca exclaimed, horrified. 'Aremil, please, we must leave.' She thrust his crutches at him.

He stared uncomprehending at the leather-padded props. Couldn't he stand on his own two feet? No, he couldn't. Now he saw his wasted legs, his awkwardly twisted shoes. Breath tightened in his chest and he felt a threatening cramp.

How could he have forgotten? He was a cripple. Abject misery twisted his face into untold ugliness. A spasm shook his hands lying helpless in his lap, striking his knuckles hard against the wooden chair.

'Oh, my poor love.' Branca's voice broke on her distress.

Treacherous tears escaped him. 'Leave me alone.'

'How would I explain that to Tathrin?' Branca pulled him forward. 'To Failla and Master Welgren?'

She was trying to force the crutches under his arms, pressing his feeble hands onto the grips.

'We need you, Aremil. Lescar needs you!'

Now he remembered. 'Lescar needs new governance. That's what I'm doing here.' Sudden anger blazed. 'Why won't you leave me alone to work?'

Hot wax dripped from the candle-stand to puddle on the floor. The air was stifling.

'If I do that you will die!' Branca glared at him through her tears. 'Will you force that grief on me and Tathrin? Will you fail every Lescari looking to us to end their misery? When you promised to throw down the dukes and set up the rule of law in their stead?'

Aremil pointed a shaking hand towards the tables of books. 'I have found precedents--'

The books weren't there. There was no side-aisle, just a blank stone wall. He looked up to see a low vault of plain grey masonry.

'We must leave.' Branca hauled him upwards. 'Or you will be locked in here alone!'

This time Aremil didn't resist. Even though the torches had guttered, he could still see the far end of the hall. The great entrance had vanished, leaving only a narrow iron door.

Aremil didn't know what had happened but something was very wrong. He threw all his feeble strength into getting to his feet. The crutches felt unfamiliar but he knew that for a falsehood now. Calluses on his hands matched the worn leather grips. He swayed, light-headed.

'I'll make sure that you don't fall,' Branca promised.

His legs nearly failed but he held himself upright long enough to swing one prop forwards. Gritting his teeth, he forced the second to join it. Breathing heavily, he shifted his recalcitrant feet.

Step by ungainly step, he made his way towards the distant door. Branca's outstretched arms embraced him without ever touching. As they drew nearer, he was relieved to see the way out was bigger than he had first thought. He wouldn't have to risk stooping and losing his balance.

An abrupt thought halted him. 'If Tathrin is in Parnilesse--' Guilt choked him. 'If I've been locked away in here . . . ?'

His crutches skidded beneath him. His feet were cold and wet. Aremil looked down, alarmed to see water seeping through the joints between the flagstones.

He threw himself through the door and fell hard into the darkness beyond.

'I have been speaking to Tathrin by means of Artifice and so has Kerith.'

Dazed, Aremil realised Branca was talking to him. He tried to reply but his tongue was sticky against his teeth.

'Drink a little of this,' a different voice suggested.

A gentle arm around his shoulders raised him up and he felt a cup at his lips. Aremil opened his mouth to be shocked by the chill of ice crushed into currant cordial. At least it cut through the vile taste clogging his throat.

He managed to open his eyes, though his lashes seemed stuck together. Trying to speak, he coughed.

Serafia lifted him upright to save him from choking. Aremil realised he was in bed, clad only in a nightshirt. Worse, he was diapered like an infant.

'Do you know where you are?' Branca sat on a stool close by.

'In Carluse Castle.' Aremil recognised Duke Garnot's disapproving forebears on the pale-grey walls. 'This is Master Welgren's room.'

'You have been mortally ill.' Serafia plumped his pillows before leaning him back against them.

Aremil looked at his hands. Always thin, now they were skeletal. The mere effort of sitting up left him trembling with exhaustion. 'For how long?'

Branca leaned forward to fold his hand in her own. 'Fifty days, near enough.'

Aremil stared at her, disbelieving. 'Why am I not dead?'

Branca's half-smile cracked her painfully chapped lips. 'You have Serafia's nursing to thank.'

'I am most grateful.' Though Aremil found it hard to meet the Carlusian woman's eyes, humiliatingly aware of the damp linen around his groin.

Serafia shrugged, setting the cup of iced cordial on the marble-topped table. 'You rallied from time to time, otherwise there would have been little I could have done.'

'I don't remember anything.' Aremil was baffled. 'Not since we were in Wellan.'

'You caught a winter ague,' Serafia explained. 'It went to your chest.'

'Failla brought you back here as slowly as she dared.' Branca tried to smile but her eyes brimmed with tears. 'Fever gripped you for ten days.'

'After Master Welgren cured that, you slept.' Serafia stirred the cordial with a silver spoon. 'But we couldn't rouse you to do more than swallow soup.'

'Are you hungry now?' Branca asked, concerned.

Aremil turned his face away. 'I deserted you all.'

'No,' protested Branca.

'I'll find Master Welgren.' Serafia hurried to the door.

Aremil wanted to look at Branca but he couldn't bear to see her pity. Worse, now he was recalling his conversations with Duchess Aphanie and those strangers who were his parents.

He had shirked all those challenges, retreating into some enchanted delusion when everyone else was risking life and limb. When he couldn't even stand on his own two feet.

'So long asleep?' He fought to keep his voice level. 'Then I take it everything is settled?'

'Hardly!'

Branca's exclamation reclaimed his attention.

'We have secured Wyril,' she said briskly. 'There's peace in Carluse and Triolle, for the most part anyway. No one pays much heed to Would-be-Duke Rousharn up in Sharlac.' She hesitated. 'Duke Secaris and his family have fled to Tormalin so the Guilds and the priests are keeping order in Draximal. But everyone is still waiting for us to show them a path to a peaceful future.'

The task he had so shamefully abandoned.

'What of Marlier and Parnilesse?' he asked slowly.

Branca took a long moment to reply. 'Bandits are plaguing both banks of the Rel. Master Ernout has his Woodsmen tracking them to their lairs to drive them out of Carluse. We believe this is all Iruvain of Triolle's doing, though Ferdain of Marlier doesn't know it. He sent Iruvain as his envoy to Caladhria's Winter Parliament.'

'To bring the barons into this war.' Aremil grimaced, helpless on his pillows. 'What is the Vixen doing?'

Though his body was frighteningly weak, he was relieved to find his wits were rallying.

'She keeps her own counsel as thoroughly as she ever did.' Branca laughed without humour. 'While Ferdain sits on his hilltop bleating for help from Caladhria.'

'Will the barons answer?' Aremil couldn't guess. How much had happened while he'd lain insensible? He could have pounded the quilts in frustration but barely had the strength to clench his fist.

'Kerith still has friends in Abray who don't hold Gruit's misdeeds against him. They believe the border barons might send their own household soldiery to Marlier in the spring, if they think helping to crush these brigands will restore their own peace.'

Branca gently stroked his wasted hand. 'So before the spring arrives, we must drive out these bandits ourselves, and show Caladhria that Lescar can manage its own affairs. We need a new settlement between nobles and commoners, between townsfolk and yeomen.'

'If we can offer Marlier something better than Ferdain's rule, with every other dukedom standing shoulder to shoulder,' Aremil said slowly, 'could we see them turn against him without a drop of blood shed?'

'Saedrin save us from another massacre like Parnilesse,' Branca said fervently.

Aremil gasped as screams deafened him - a woman and her children!

'What is it?' Branca leaned forward anxiously.

'I'm recalling Duchess Sherista being murdered,' Aremil said shakily, 'though I've no notion how.' Then he recalled something else, far more urgent. 'Tathrin is in Parnilesse. He's going to fight Reniack!'

'Within the next handful of days, and he will defeat him,' asserted Branca. 'Then we must convince Emperor Tadriol that the Lescari can secure their own peace.'

'I've never met Tadriol the Provident.' Curiosity began to win through Aremil's self-recriminations. 'I've never even seen his likeness. How do I know what he looks like, and the tone of his voice?'

'I've met his Imperial Majesty.' Branca released his hand. 'You cannot have been so lost to us as we feared.'

Looking up, he saw tears trickling down her cheeks.

'I'm so sorry. You were all alone and I should have helped you.' She could barely whisper. 'I should have come sooner but there was so much to do, for Charoleia and Tathrin. When I did come, it's taken me so long to find a way in--'

'I failed you when you needed my comfort after Adel.' Aremil tried to reach for her but didn't have the strength.

'I should have let you.' Her tears fell onto the rumpled quilt.

Aremil was too exhausted to argue. Silence spread to fill the room. But now they shared that silence. Before, it had divided them.

Summoning all his will, refusing to acknowledge his weakness, he sat up. 'My love--'

'I know.' She shifted her stool, to sit with her forehead leaning against his, their fingers intertwined.

After a few moments Branca moved, to rest her head lightly on his shoulder. 'You're wondering how Tathrin's faring.'

He brushed a kiss against her cheek. 'You're wondering what's to become of Jettin.'

Chapter Twenty-Six

Tathrin

The Hardrew Road,

North of Parnilesse Town,

24th of Aft-Winter

Sunrise and another battle ahead. How long before peace truly dawned over Lescar? How many would lie dead before nightfall, across these sere fields shrouded in winter mists?

Tathrin looked up at the sky, where both moons lingered in the pale blue, Great and Lesser both at their full. There wouldn't be another night so bright till the latter third of For-Summer. But it had passed as they advanced unchallenged.

Where were Reniack's forces lying in wait? Captain-General Evord would have sent out scouts. The Soluran took great care choosing his ground for battles, securing a commanding view of the fighting, all the better to direct his regiments to counter the enemy.

But Tathrin had no gallopers and hadn't risked sending out scouts. They had barely enough men to threaten the Parnilesse forces convincingly.

Their route followed a bank raised half a man's height above the meadows. Even leafless in winter, dense lines of osiers blocked his view in all directions. Some traced the deep ditches that drained this sodden ground, reclaiming the mire for spring grazing and summer hay. Others marked the solid earthworks that curbed the worst winter floods, when the wind-driven pumps and elm sluice gates were forced to admit defeat.

Tathrin contemplated the contingent marching along the narrow track ahead of his small command troop. These Deflin men were untested in battle but trained and drilled by Shady Moth sergeants. The men and women formerly of that company had acquitted themselves bravely in the battle for Wyril.