The Swans' War 1 - The One Kingdom (34 page)

LLYN WALKED IN HER GARDEN, ACCOMPANIED BY UNEASY WIND. IT sighed and shifted, uncomfortable in the branches of one tree, then another. It fell among the peonies that tumbled over the path, stirring them from their perfect rest. As Llyn stepped among the blossoms a gust swept up to twist her hair, then scurried off along the path, flowers swaying in its wake. Her thoughts would not leave her in peace this night, and yet she couldn't give them voice. Perhaps it was this vague suspicion of Beld that would not let her be. She knew his hatred for Toren had not healed miraculously, as a septic wound sometimes would. Beldor's lacerations were too deep to heal. They had cut into his heart and had festered there since childhood. Beld had never been the golden-haired boy, as he had wished. That was the simple truth of it. All his life Toren had been the light of everyone's heart, while Beld had been big and awkward and petulant and jealous from his earliest days. The earliest days Llyn could remember, at least. And that had not changed, she was sure of it. Dease did not seem to believe her—or perhaps would not allow himself to believe her. He was too honorable, Llyn thought. He couldn't accept that a member of his own family might be traitorous: even Beldor. Llyn, however, had studied the history of the Renné —the real history. She knew Dease's naivete would not stand against the truth.

She stopped by the pool with its small falls. The moon was hidden and the starlight faint, but Llyn had the knack of perceiving an entire scene from only suggestions: the starlight on the bordering rocks and glittering off the crest of the falls, the dark pool at the center.

She spent so much time alone in this place that it had become too large in her life. Llyn knew its every flower, and almost mourned as each blossom passed, as each tree lost its leaves in autumn, as though these were a part of her. So an elderly person must mourn the loss of beauty or vigor or the luster of the hair.

She looked at her hands, turning them over in the faint light. They were no more familiar to her than the ferns that grew in the shade of the south wall, the wisteria that had twined itself high up into the branches of the birch, as though it longed to look out over the wall.

Llyn sometimes wondered if there really was a world there to be seen.

The latches on the balcony doors clattered free, causing her to start. A hinge creaked dryly. At the same time a small bird alighted on the garden wall and called out, whist. A sound like a whisper. A threat.

Llyn found she could suddenly neither breathe nor move. Who was about to step out onto her balcony? Whose death did the whist foretell? Tears blurred her vision, and then a man emerged. Llyn had barely the presence of mind to step beneath a branch. Her vision did not clear, and the silhouette on the balcony seemed unfamiliar to her. Was it Dease?

"Who is that?" she said, her voice trembling audibly.

"You don't know me, Lady Llyn," a man said, "but I know much of you, and even more of the Renne and the Wills: but it is your knowledge of your family and its history that has brought me here." Llyn was so relieved that it wasn't one of her cousins on the balcony, she almost didn't care that this man had breached her solitude.” I ... I dreamt that a whist would come," she said, her voice still shaking a little.” I've thought all along that it was a prophetic dream, and that whoever emerged onto my balcony, after the whist called, would be marked for death." "It's not me he's marked," the man said, "for Jac is mine. But he will sing his song many times more before this year is done if you don't help me. War is imminent, once again, in the land between the mountains. I don't know if it can be stopped, but I've not given up all hope. Will you help me?" Llyn hardly knew what to say. Her dream had come true. A whist had lit upon the garden wall, and then a man unknown to her had walked out onto her balcony. And now he asked for her help in averting a war. She should call her maid and have guards summoned.” Why would I help you?" she asked instead.” You are a stranger who disturbs my privacy. Are you even a guest at Castle Renné ?" "In truth, I'm not. And it isn't likely I would be welcomed, for, like my bird, I am a harbinger of bad tidings. I have come to warn you . .. and seek your counsel, as your cousins do. Menwyn Wills and the Prince of Innes hope to form an alliance, and though this has been delayed I don't think I've managed to stop it." He hesitated. Llyn could just make him out in the faint light. A dark-haired man, richly dressed. Certainly he was fair-spoken; a nobleman.” Somewhere in the archives of your family," he went on, "there must be a document—a journal or a memoir—that will tell me what I want to know. Did any Knights of the Vow escape the fall of Cooling Keep, and, if so, what became of them?""That is what you wish to know!?" And then Llyn laughed.” Oh, you are seeking their treasure!" "No. That is not what I seek.""Well, I can tell you that no Knights escaped. There, now you can leave me in peace." But she did not want him to go. When you dream a dream that comes true there is a reason. Who was marked for death?

"I believe that some did. The descendant of a Renné retainer—a trusted knight—claims that his ancestor rode with a company that pursued the last Knights of the Vow, six who escaped the slaughter of Cooling Keep.""And what does he say befell these six Knights?" "He doesn't know. They were pursued up the north road into the wildlands, and though I've journeyed there more than once, I haven't learned what befell them." Llyn saw him lift his hands and shrug.

"And why do you want to know this?" "If I told you that this knowledge might save many lives, would that be enough?""It would if I knew you well enough to believe it." "This is a situation where a lie would be more readily believed than the truth....""I am a seeker of truth. Its disappointments and implau-sibilities are known to me."The man shifted from one foot to the other, then back again.” I believe the Knights who escaped carried with them knowledge that is dangerous—especially so if discovered by the enemies of the Renné .""Well, that is cryptic enough."He bowed his head as though he'd been paid a compliment. Llyn smiled in spite of herself.

"You realize," she said, "that what you ask is not easily done. There were several thousand men at the fall of Cooling Keep.""Yes, but some commander must have sent the men north. And perhaps he even listed who they were. . . . But then, you have no need of my instructions in these matters, I suspect."Llyn said nothing. She didn't know what to do. Certainly she shouldn't help this stranger. . . . The whist hopped through the branches of a nearby ash, and Llyn shrank back, almost stepping out into starlight.

"Will you help me, Lady Llyn?""I will consider it," she said.

"Then may I call on you again?""I will allow it, though leave your bird behind. And I promise nothing.""Jac does as pleases him, but I'll do my best to come alone." She could see the man place his hands on the balcony.” Thank you, Lady Llyn. It was an honor to have met you." He bowed toward the garden, and she heard the doors close, the latches fall into place.

The whist cried twice.

ARDEN RODE ALONG THE GRASSY LANE BESIDE HIS COUSIN TOREN. He didn't like to admit that every movement of his horse sent great waves of pain to all corners of his being. Perhaps this was the pride of youth his father talked about—or the pride of men, of which his mother spoke. They had spent this day and the last at a contest of courtesy; not a tournament proper but a meeting of men-at-arms. That afternoon they'd fought a mock battle—a melee—and Arden had been courteously battered to a mass of bruises and swollen joints. He was certain he creaked audibly when he walked.

And this had been after a day of jousting, which had left him with pain enough. Toren had unseated him yet again, and as he lay on the ground he thought he should never catch his breath, that surely the shattered stump of a lance must protrude from his chest. But only the wind had been knocked from him, and eventually he did breathe again— painfully.

Toren had come riding up on his great horse, gazing down on his poor cousin as he lay with tiny lights sparking around the edge of his vision. He had looked like a knight out of an old tale, stern and noble.

It had been a day of Renné fighting Renné , for all others had been swept aside. Dease had unhorsed Beld, and for the first time, Arden had bested Dease. But Toren had triumphed yet again. It didn't matter that he gave up much in weight to several others, he was strong and skilled— supremely skilled.

Arden looked out across the river, seeing the twilight gather beneath its banks, as though it rose up from the river like a dark mist.

"You are being rather mysterious," Arden said.

"Not so, Cousin. I merely have someone whom I wish you to meet, and it turns out he would like to meet you also. Which is surprising, for he is a man of excellent judgment."Arden tried to rise to the bait.” And how is it, then, that he is a friend of yours, this man of excellent judgment?"Toren laughed.” If only you were so quick with a riposte in a melee, Cousin.""And if you had not fallen so gracefully upon your ass, I should not be sporting a rainbow across most of my rib cage."Toren had slipped in the melee and, without thinking, Arden had put himself between his cousin and a vicious sword blow. If it had been an edged weapon he would have been cut in two.” 'A knight is modest in his manner, performing his deeds without need of praise,' " Toren quoted. Arden didn't respond. He was too sore, and the falseness of this banter struck him hard, knocking the words from him. Where were they going? Toren was being very close. Arden half expected that his cousin had arranged an assignation with some comely young women—at least that was his hope. But even this thought could not change his mood. He found it difficult to be around Toren now. And yet he found he sought his cousin out, and was overly solicitous and helpful to him. He had never known such a conflict of feelings, and it confused him terribly. They crossed the narrow river on a stone bridge that arced up to allow boats passage beneath. The River Wynnd and its tributaries were more important than the roads in many ways, and all manner of commerce traveled the waterways. Toren pulled his horse up at the crest of the bridge and gazed down the curve of the river, lined by tall poplars and weeping birch. White flowers spread across the new grass of the banks, like a skiff of snow drifting here and there beneath the trees. The remains of the sunset washed across the western sky, golden-orange and pale blue. A few elongated clouds glowed like molten copper, reflecting off the river.” I can't tell you how much I love this land," Toren said, his voice suddenly deep and rich with feeling. He turned to his cousin.” Isn't it beautiful? Isn't it a miracle, the greatest of all good fortune that we are alive in such a world?" Arden looked past his cousin and nodded. It was this that set his cousin apart from others: he was so vividly alive and so appreciative of the fact. Arden closed his eyes and a vision of Toren lying on the grass with an arrow in his heart came to him. Dease's arrow.

Arden opened his eyes and forced his mind to go elsewhere.

He, too, loved this land, the land their family had once ruled. Even the bridge they were on was raised to a designated height set by one of their illustrious ancestors to allow the passage of river traffic. And the same story was repeated all across the old kingdom. Castles and palaces in which they had lived, roads they had ordered built. Forests planted.

Canals dug. Fields upon which famous battles had been won or lost, ancestors victorious or fallen.

He felt that Ayr, the land between the mountains, ran in his blood the way spring rivers ran brown with the earth's rich soil.

He looked up at the changing sky. A misshapen moon, a few days from full, floated free of the eastern wood. Such moons were invariably called "gibbous" in books, Arden had noticed, though he didn't know why. Dease would know, or perhaps Llyn. They were the scholars of the generation, but he didn't ask. He didn't want to break this mood of sadness and loss and beauty. Perhaps the last time he and Toren would be alone together.

Toren spurred his horse on, remembering his errand, and Arden reluctantly followed. They proceeded along the opposite bank of the river, riding slowly into evening. Five furlongs later they turned down a laneway between overarching trees, reducing their pace as they lost the light.

Arden fell into a silent revery, the meeting on Summer's Hill coming back to him unbidden. Most of the time he managed not to think of it, as though it were merely a daydream, a moment's flight of fancy, not something real. The Westbrook Fair had seemed so far off then. Certainly Toren would come to his senses before then. Dease would convince him.

But yesterday's joust had reminded him that spring tied quickly by and the tournament at Westbrook would soon be upon them. And Toren still planned to return the Isle of Battle to the Wills, against the wishes of almost his entire family. Arden looked over at his cousin, reduced to near-silhouette by the dusk. Toren seemed to be lost in thought, though his gaze came up every few seconds and searched among the shadows of the trees—they were, after all, two Renné lords out riding without guards. Arden didn't pretend to understand his cousin—in truth, he felt Toren's intellect too subtle for him—but he also felt that too many of Toren's decisions were made out of idealism and were not in the least pragmatic. Returning the Isle of Battle to the Wills was the prime example. It was a rich land and, rather than making the Wills grateful and placing them in the Renné 's debt, it would merely give them the means to raise armies again. Toren expected the Wills to be guided by his own idealism and sense of honor. He even expected this of the Renné ! Sometime later—Arden was not sure how long—a light appeared, then a second. As they approached he realized that he was seeing torches, and then a door materialized between them in an expanse of stone wall.

Lights glowed in high windows, and as they came into the small clearing Arden could make out the structure's shape against the stars.” What is this? A shrine?" It seemed to be a small keep. A castle in miniature.” I don't know its origins," Toren said, dismounting.” It's a house of some charm and craft, but who built it or for what purpose I can't say." The door was opened by a tall man bearing a candle-branch. He held it away from him so that he could see the callers clearly, and then opened the door wide, bowing them in silently. Toren unbuckled his scabbard.” Leave your sword here, he instructed his cousin. They fell in behind the man, who was not a servant, Arden was sure. He recognized the manner and bearing of a knight despite the long, gray mantle that did much to disguise his shape.

The high-ceilinged hall was lined with mounted lances, many broken, set in sockets and supported so that they leaned out at an angle. Even in the poor light Arden could see that these lances were very old. From each, a banner hung—tokens of battles won or lost.

They climbed a stair and entered a long chamber also hung with ancient banners. Along the walls beneath the banners, rough benches were set, arid at the end of the hall was a dais upon which stood a large, elaborately carved chair. In the center of the room a long, wooden table stood. Here the man left them in the light of a few large tapers and disappeared through a door.

Arden turned in a slow circle, looking up. It was an odd room. Responds set against the wall were carved in the shape of tree trunks, and the rafters that supported the roof were shaped like the branches of stylized trees—oaks, Arden thought. He had the feeling that he stared up into the shaded reaches of a living forest.

From these branches more banners hung. Many of the coats of arms Arden recognized, for they were of noble families, most having fallen into obscurity or having been eradicated during the long years of war.

"I am beginning to think that my guess is wrong, Toren. We are not here to meet young women of great beauty and 'uncommon' virtue."Toren did him the honor of smiling, but no more.

The door near the dais opened and a man entered wearing the same gray mantle, but instead of a candlebranch he carried a two-handed sword. It was a ceremonial weapon with an intricate handle and damasking upon the blade, but Arden could see that it was perfectly sharp. In the hands of a master it would be a formidable weapon. This man, who appeared utterly capable of wielding such a sword, looked the two cousins over and then said something softly to another waiting in the shadow of the door. A second man entered, tall with graying hair, short cropped, and a neatly trimmed beard. He wore the same mantle of gray. Arden thought him an impressive man, regal and strong, yet without arrogance, almost without pride. There was a certain . . .

stillness about him that struck Arden strongly. The world could fall to chaos and this man would not be affected.” My lords," he greeted them, bowing slightly, a small smile enlivening a serious face. In the candlelight his eyes were too dark for their color to be distinguished, but they appeared black and thoughtful. A third man entered the room, carrying a matching two-handed sword. He took up a position from which he could intercept either of the guests if they threatened his master, yet far enough off that he would not offer insult to the visiting nobles. Arden didn't know who this nobleman might be, but clearly he was unwilling to take risks with the Renné . Was this man one of the Wills? But gray was not the color of their livery.” My cousin Lord Arden Renné ," Toren said, his manner surprisingly deferential.” My lord," the man responded.” Gilbert A'brgail." Arden gave a slight bow, unsure quite how to respond to this man with his noble name and bearing, yet who was unknown to Arden.” I had the pleasure of watching you at the contest these last days," A'brgail said to Arden.” You acquitted yourself well." "Though not so well as my cousin," Arden said, nodding to Toren. A'brgail blew out through his lips.” But that depends on what is being judged. Toren won the tournament, though he would have been felled in the melee but for you. It was Lord Arden Renné who put himself between his cousin and another's sword." A'brgail glanced at Toren—an unspoken question.

Toren returned the slightest nod.” I've brought you here, Arden, to discuss a matter of grave import to our family— indeed, to all of old Ayr."Arden said nothing, waiting. This A'brgail must be an emissary of the Wills.

"But before we speak further, Sir Gilbert needs assurances that you will not repeat this conversation to anyone—not even members of our own family."Involuntarily Arden took half a step back.” Perhaps you might give me some notion of what it is I am swearing to keep secret... ?""Nothing that could harm the Renné in any way," Toren said quickly.” I give you my word."Arden shrugged.” Then I will not repeat what I hear in this hall."A'brgail beckoned one of his guards, who brought him a folded robe, gray like the one he wore himself. This garment was carefully laid out on the table.

"You have no doubt seen paintings of knights wearing such robes," A'brgail said, "though none have worn them in many a year."Arden was not sure what he was to make of this. What family livery was gray? Was this some claimant to the A'brgail name? If so, it was a name that meant nothing to Arden, who would admit his knowledge of history was poor.

A'brgail motioned Arden forward, and he leaned over the robe, which seemed to be without devices, and then on the left breast he noticed a fan of leaves, silver-gray. Silveroak!

"It is a robe of the Knights of the Vow," Arden said, "but perfectly preserved." His eye darted from A'brgail to his guards: none of their robes bore devices of any kind.

"It is not preserved," A'brgail said.” This robe was made new only a week ago. It was woven to fit Arden Renné , and no other."Arden did step back then, turning his gaze on Toren— almost an accusation.” What goes on here, Cousin?" he said.

Toren walked over to a chair set against the wall and sat down, looking up at Arden.” Gilbert A'brgail," he said evenly, "is the descendant of a Knight who avoided the slaughter at Cooling Keep. This Knight and a few others were not present and they escaped the notice of our ancestors, who certainly would have murdered them. Much of the lore and ritual and purpose of the Knights of the Vow have been kept alive by the descendants of these few men." "Unfortunately," A'brgail said, "little of the lore and ritual has been retained. Most of it was lost, for of the Knights who escaped only two ranked as high as first marshal. The rest were merely brother Knights. The secrets and lore of the Order were known only in the higher ranks, but the purpose of the Knights ... well, even that is not quite the same." Arden looked down at the robe spread over the table.” Are you telling me that the Knights of the Vow have hidden themselves all these generations?" A'brgail shook his head.” No. The secret was kept, but the knightly order failed—until now. It is only I and a few others who have dreamt of the Knights' revival." "And now you would welcome a Renné among you? Why? And why would I choose to do this?" "It was my idea, Arden," Toren said, rising from his chair. The banners hanging from the stone branches above seemed to catch his attention.” It is a way of assuring our family that the reborn Knights of the Vow intend no revenge against the Renné . It is also a way of assuring the Knights of the same thing: the Renné will not betray them again." He combed a hand through his hair.” But there is something more." Toren's gaze met Arden's.” I would have you out of this feud, Cousin, before it does to you what it has done to so many." "The Renné cause is mine, Toren. You know that. My family's war is my war." Toren answered this by closing his eyes tight for a second.” It is a war without purpose, and certainly without honor. Here is a way you can still serve the Renné and remove yourself from this senseless feud that destroys the best of each generation."Toren's display of emotion touched Arden.” But certainly there is as much danger in joining the Knights—if they again take up the duties they once held.""Physical danger, yes—that we can't avoid—but your honor would remain unsullied no matter what might befall you"Arden glanced over at the robe lying on the table. So drab, as though made for men who lacked all passion, who were only alive to half of what men felt.” I have the honor of a Renné , Toren. I aspire to nothing more. I will do what is necessary to preserve my family. I could no more join the Knights of the Vow and abandon my family than could you.""I would gladly join them, Arden, but it is my lot to try to make some rapprochement between the Renné and the Wills. I can't easily give up my duties.""Nor can I." Arden waved a hand at the robe.” I am not so pure of heart, Toren. That is the truth of it. I am Renné . Find some other to be your envoy to the Knights. My fortunes lie with my family, for good or ill." Arden was speaking as though A'brgail weren't there, but he glanced toward him now.” I don't want to be present when the rest of the Renné learn that you have sanctioned this reestablishment of the Order of the Knights of the Vow. They will think you've lost your reason altogether.""Perhaps I have," Toren said softly, "but my actions were not taken without sober thought—many hours of it. There are enemies we cannot resist alone.""The roads are safe," Arden said quietly.” Villages are seldom attacked by brigands, even in the outer reaches of old Ayr. What purpose would the Knights serve now?"A'brgail looked up at Arden.