The Complete Twilight Reign Ebook Collection (394 page)

Calath regarded his friend coldly as the magistrate chuckled at the memory, but was soon won over by the infectious noise. Once more the shy, bookish marshal felt great pangs of envy for his extravagant, expansive friend. The man took such magnificent delight in life and the Land around him, it was impossible to dislike him or remain angry in his presence for long.

Indeed, Ves Derran was renowned as a man incapable of retaining mere acquaintances. The regular traffic of callers and invitations testified to the fact that if you didn’t consider the magistrate a friend, you couldn’t have met him outside court. There were more than a few who bore him a grudge, for he was a terror for truth and protocol in his own domain, but five minutes at some gathering or another was easily enough time to secure an invitation to dinner, and reason to accept.

By consequence, it had always mystified the reticent Calath quite why Derran possessed such a fondness for him – but possess it he did, like a blazing torch of goodness that quite shamed those who looked down on the crippled academic. It was for this buoying reason Calath had accepted the open invitation when his health took a turn for the worse. His physician had prescribed country air, rest and companionship, and the timing had proved fortuitous. Derran had been delighted at the prospect, having been facing a month alone as his wife went to assist the wedding preparations of an orphaned niece.

‘As I was about to say,’ continued Derran, wagging a finger in mock admonishment, ‘I feel sure there will be a lady there who will make the onerous task bearable. She is the daughter of a knight whose brother is no doubt known to you from Narkang—’

Calath raised a hand. ‘Please, save me the credentials. You know I’d rather keep my distance from political families.’

Oh, I know what you’re after,’ replied his friend with a twinkling eye, ignoring the outraged look he received, ‘but I was merely stating that any exacting parent would approve. Your mother could hardly object to the niece of the king’s first minister, Count Antern, whether or not you like the man yourself. The woman herself is a delightful creature, both in looks and demeanour—’

‘And I have heard that said before,’ Calath broke in. ‘I know well enough that a lady’s demeanour is a measure of her docile stupidity.’

‘And I swear I shall rap you about the ears with my stick if you interrupt again!’ bellowed Derran in exasperation, his ears turning a curious purple by the force of his cry. Calath shrank back in his chair; too well acquainted with his friend to fear the man, but now able to believe the reports of how he ruled his court.

‘Is that the end of your interruptions?’ Derran barked imperiously. ‘Yes? Excellent. As I was saying, she is a delightful creature; generous in spirit and deed, in addition to the intellect the Gods have granted her.’

The magistrate’s face softened, his gentle smile returning. ‘Calath, you forget I’m not your mother – for all I lament a lack of attributes that would have brought me to the post of High Inquisitor – but a friend who knows you as well as any, I fancy. I tell you this lady will enchant you. She is polite and well presented in all ways, but her parents consider her intelligence a curse to marriage for she has seen off several suitors with the power of argument.’

Derran’s eyes twinkled. ‘Aha! I thought a mind to complement your own would strike some vein of masculine interest. See how I know your mind better than yourself? Now, I shall say nothing more on the subject to protect you from any harping, trumpeting or even fluting. I am confident enough in my judgement as it is – a fortunate thing in my profession. Even drunk as a judge as I may be right now, I know you will be bewitched on the morrow.’

Derran scratched at the thick stubble on his face, pausing to peer curiously at his hand. He waved the stubby paw back and forth, then lowered it and set his goblet on a side table.

‘And now I realise the need to retire. I bid you good night and dreams of the Lady Meranna.’

The magistrate heaved himself to his feet, tree-trunk legs as steady as ever despite the quantities of wine he’d managed since the sun neared the horizon. With a theatrical bow he left the fireside and stamped to the door, clicking his fingers to the hound that was already at his heel. Derran dragged open the ancient oak door and discovered his servant poised on the other side, arriving to refill their glasses.

‘Aha, good man, I was wondering where you’d disappeared off to. I’m to bed, as that reprobate by the fire should also do. But fetch him some warmed milk first, and then retire yourself. Must have you bright and alert for tomorrow, eh Calath?’

Not waiting for an answer, Derran ploughed on past his faithful servant and off to his room. Milk was brought and sipped idly as Calath stared into the fire, a curious anxiety building over the possibilities of the next day. The flames danced carelessly in a manner he’d often dreamed of – unaware and free, ever graceful and mysterious.

With a malformed leg, Calath had found his entire life a struggle to maintain some form of dignity. A childhood indoors, away from the activity most noble-born boys engaged in, had left him with a face more thin and pale than handsome. He was painfully glad that there were men who admired his intellect, more every year as Narkang’s prosperity bred a more genteel nobility, but few men envied a cripple.

Though that admiration and recognition were scant comfort, he reminded himself the flattered dandies and brainless soldiers – all so quick to mock in public and private – would all find their charms waning as the years passed. By contrast his skills and reputation would only increase in the coming decades. Glory might never be his, but the king was building a nation that might one day celebrate academics and Calath hoped he might leave a legacy that went beyond battles or petty court intrigues.

The candles burned low and a few eventually extinguished, but since Derran had dismissed the butler for the night Calath found himself amid shadows that grew steadily darker and sharper. The tall oak bookcases and cabinets, formerly so welcomed by a learned man, grew mysterious and watching. The marshal huddled up against the gloom, suddenly looking about at some perceived noise. Up behind the chair, into the corners, at the ground beneath the curtains; only once the room was fully inspected did he mutter chastisements for his drunken foolishness.

The dark was no friend of his, however and once unsettled the marshal found himself restless. Calath sighed and realised he should also be abed rather than linger with the embers of the fire. The room had chilled with the waning light; though still snug enough for a few minutes longer, Calath was glad to stir from the armchair. He hoisted himself upright, leaning heavily on his walking stick and dragged the guard before the fire. That done he made his way upstairs, all the while listening for dark noises about him though none ever came.

‘Calath, is this not a wonderful morning?’ Derran bellowed with infuriating cheer.

Calath winced as he glanced out the window on his right, which afforded him a fine view of the magistrate’s neat gardens. The terrace and lawn were both covered in a generous sprinkling of snow, while the outspread yew glinted and sparkled in the morning sunshine. Faint tracks left by some small bird led across the ground away from an iced birdbath that stood proudly atop the terrace wall.

Calath could see the impressions of his friend’s broad boots leading down the snow-concealed stone path. Derran’s trail skirted the bushes on the left-hand side and led to a wrought-iron gate at the far end which opened onto the orchard. Alongside those prints were the tracks of his wolfhound, spread impossibly long from the dog’s great stride.

‘It looks cold,’ Calath replied after taking in the winter scene.

‘Ah, foolishness! I tell you there’s nothing quite so wonderful as the scent of fresh snow on the air. It’s not even cold once you’re wearing a jacket; no wind to speak of, just glorious sun.’

‘Surely the hunt will be cancelled now?’ asked Calath as he took his place at the table.

He had dressed in the stiff, heavy woollens preferred for country walking in such weather, though he doubted he’d be venturing much beyond a cultivated garden. It was the uniform for social events of this kind and the expense was certainly preferable to standing out among the boisterous, bluff noblemen he’d meet.

‘Cancelled? But of course not.’ Derran chuckled, freshly shaved cheeks rosy with humour and the chill of without. ‘They’ve been praying for weeks that the snow will come in time. It’s a poor winter hunt without it and more dangerous, unless the ground freezes of course. The wolves get a fighting chance since their coats will have turned weeks back, and riders will be more able to see brichen boars before one’s upon them. Caught unawares, they could be unseated and killed by the fearsome brutes.’

‘It sounds an awful way to spend the morning,’ muttered Calath.

Though he was approaching thirty-five winters, the marshal felt unaccountably nervous at the coming day. He picked idly at the food placed before him, but could stomach nothing more that some honeyed porridge and weak tea. A sudden shiver passed through his body, as if an ominous cloud had unexpectedly covered the sun, and his skin prickled up into an army of goosebumps.

‘My dear man, are you quite well?’ Derran asked with concern. ‘You look as though someone has walked over your grave.’

‘I rather think they have,’ answered Calath without thinking, then shook his head at his own words. ‘Forgive me, I’m talking nonsense now. I do feel rather curious, but no doubt it was the wine from last night.’

‘Is that all? You look like you’ve had a fright. Unpleasant dreams?’

‘I, I don’t believe so. I just have the sense today will not be entirely agreeable, that there is some turn for the worst in the air.’

‘Ah,’ exclaimed the magistrate, ‘you’re beginning to sound like the old men from the village! Never happier than when they’re predicting disaster, those old boys, but I’d always imagined it to be a country trait. Still, I suppose your work must bring you into contact with such superstitions all the time, it was bound to rub off sooner or later.’

His words had the desired reaction. Calath’s colour returned somewhat and he spluttered his indignation at Derran’s suggestion.

‘How can you compare my research to the chatterings of the ignorant? And as for dismissing it as superstition, that’s an impious insinuation as well as insulting. Much of my work concerns …’

Derran held up a hand, holding back the laughter at his friend’s sudden passion. ‘I apologise, Calath! I know perfectly well the validity of your work. Was it not you who introduced me to the king when I last visited Narkang? If that great man endorses and supports your research then I hold it as true as commandments from the Gods themselves. I merely intended to demonstrate to you that the best method to shake an ill feeling is to stir the blood – and don’t you feel the better for it?’

Calath opened his mouth to speak, then thought for a moment. He smiled, embarrassment lurking at the corners of his mouth.

‘I suppose so,’ he mumbled.

‘Exactly,’ declared the magistrate in a satisfied tone. ‘I’m a fat fool only when it suits me, remember?’

With a snap of the fingers, Derran attracted the attention of his wolfhound. By the time he’d picked up a thick bacon rind from his plate the dog was sat at his side, expectantly licking its lips. The rind went down in one snap, but Derran ignored the hound’s hopeful stare as it licked its chops.

‘Right, I think we should be off.’

The magistrate stood and rapped the table with a professional assurance to draw breakfast to a close. Calath dabbed a napkin to his lips and rose to follow. At the door he hesitated for a second, glancing back out through the window nervously as if expecting some wild boar to be waiting for him out there. Nothing returned his gaze, only the idyllic scene of before, but still he couldn’t fully erase the apprehension crawling over his skin. He jumped as the wolfhound scrambled down the wooden passageway after its master, the clatter of its claws echoing loudly in the enclosed space.

Only once the dog was out of view could he bring himself to follow, pushing heavily down on his stick as his leg felt heavier and more unwieldy as ever. The smell of beeswax polish accompanied him as Calath headed to the front porch, carefully stepping around the ageing bearskin rug in the centre of the hall. Its snarling, open maw seemed to follow him as he struggled down the stone steps; Calath could feel the smooth press of teeth upon his neck even as he walked away. Only the slam of the coach door relieved the pressure, and then at last he could see the morning for the beautiful day it was.

A sentinel line of straight-backed ash trees stood on each side of the driveway, kissed by the low, crisp golden light. The fields were fragments of a childhood memory; too perfect for the here and now and yet they endured for the entire journey. By the time their driver announced sight of their destination, Calath was as cheery as his hearty friend. Through the coach window he watched the country house grow large against the horizon and, as they drew nearer, was struck by the sprawling bulk of the hall.

Alscap Hall was a house far larger than his own; a mansion without fortification and cultivated grounds stretching far off in all directions. Despite its traditional architecture, Calath realised it had to be a recent construction. Only with the peace and prosperity of King Emin’s reign could someone build in these parts with so little regard for defensive measures.

Made of reddish sandstone that seemed to glow in the sunlight and laced with snow, Alscap Hall was built in a square with thin towers reaching up from each corner. High arched windows were spaced down each flank, the near-side looking over frosted flowerbeds and statues to a large yew maze that stood in the midst of cropped lawns.

‘An attractive pile, isn’t it?’ Derran commented. ‘The count is new money so a little ostentatious – those towers for example, my goodness – but an excellent sort all the same.’

‘Where did his money come from? It must have cost a fortune to build,’ breathed Calath, mentally estimating the number of rooms the hall must contain.