Yesterday's Kings (12 page)

Isydrian took up a quill fashioned from a black swan’s feather and set the pen in the inkpot. From a drawer in his desk he extracted a scrap of parchment no larger than Lofantyl has used, and in a minuscule hand composed his reply. Then he dusted the scrap with fine sand and carefully rolled it into the message cylinder.

The raven squawked a protest as he lifted it from the bowl and fixed the cylinder to its left leg. He allowed the bird to peck up a few more nuts before he grabbed it and carried it, protesting, to the window. He stared into the avian’s eyes and fixed its objective in the tiny brain.
Then he flung it away, watching as it swooped, and then lofted over the walls to wing westward.

All went well so far, and was Lofantyl’s information correct, he could likely drive the Garm against Ky’atha Hall, and let Pyris fight them—if they could find a way past the Barrier.

It hardly mattered: there was a war coming, and he would benefit from it. He might emerge a heroic defender, or a savior—if he warned Santylla of the Garms’ plans. But would he advise Dobre Henes, or hold it to himself? He was not yet sure—he thought he’d wait for further news.

“I
CAN FIND A WAY
,” Per Fendur said. Then corrected himself, “The Church can find a way. We work on it even now.”

“No one has ever crossed the Alagordar.” Amadis sipped his wine. “Or if they have, they’ve not come back.”

“We’ve new magicks.” The priest stared at the soldier. “We’ve studied the matter, and decided it’s something to do with the land. Do you believe me?”

“I’d like to,” Amadis said. “But …”

“The Durrym are not like us. They are the creations of nature, not God. They live with the land and its animals, and shape those things to their own designs. We control it; we own it; we make the land and all that inhabits it subservient to us. That is what God intended for us when we came to Kandar. How else could we conquer the savages and drive them out?”

Amadis shrugged. “Lord Bartram says because we owned the greater numbers, and steel.”

“Lord Bartram”—Fendur filled the title with
contempt—“is an old man, with old ways. Would you not enjoy this keep?” The priest waved an expansive hand. “You could be lord here.”

“What of Bartram?”

Fendur poured the captain a fresh glass of wine. “Men die in battle, no? And their wives grieve, and seek others.”

“But I am sworn to defend Bartram’s hold.”

“But if he were to die in battle—a hero—what then?”

Amadis drained his glass; Fendur poured him another.

“You’ve … feelings … for his wife?”

Amadis ducked his head in acknowledgment.

“Would she marry you? Were Lord Bartram to die?”

“I believe so.”

“Then you’d become lord of this keep, my word on it. Does that not interest you?”

Amadis nodded.

“So persuade him. Lend your arguments to mine and we’ll go to war with the fey folk. You’ll emerge a hero and become a keep lord.”

Amadis thought a while—not long—and nodded. “I’ve your word on that?”

Per Fendur smiled and said, “My word and bond, both.”

“Then,” Amadis said, “we go to war.” And raised his glass in agreement before he added, “Save do you betray me, I shall slay you—priest or no.”

“Why should I betray you?” Fendur asked innocently. “Are we not allies in this venture, bonded by our common purpose?”

“Save you’ve the Church at your back,” Amadis said, “and I’ve only your word.”

“Which you can trust,” the priest assured him.

“And you’ll make me keep lord? And I’ll have Vanysse?”

“My word on both.”

Dreams spun through Amadis’s mind. Lord of the keep; Vanysse in his bed, his wife; the hero who led Kandar into the Durrym lands; the approval of the Church.

He smiled and raised his glass.

A
BRA DREAMED OF
L
OFANTYL
, and rode into the forest whenever she could. It was not so easy to meet him, but when her stepmother went out—inevitably with Amadis—Abra would accompany them. And then it was not so difficult, because Vanysse would find reasons to ride off alone with the captain, and then Abra was able to drift away and find her fey courtier in some glade, or Cullyn’s hut, and lose her escorts for a while. Long enough, at least, that they could spend time together.

She wondered, sometimes, if she were no better than Vanysse—for surely she betrayed her father’s sworn duty when she took Lofantyl’s hands and allowed him to kiss her. He was, after all, Durrym.

But he was unlike any man she had known.

Not that she had known many.

Indeed, were she honest, none. She was virgin and pledged by the king’s word to Wyllym. She considered Wyllym, after their few meetings, ugly and uncouth. And she was afraid that whatever her father said, King Khoros might impose the marriage. She had seen the forester, Cullyn, and felt a … stirring. But it was an impossible notion. A keep lord’s daughter and a forester?

Lofantyl was different, even be it no less likely.

A Durrym and a Border Lord’s daughter? What would the Church, the king, have to say about that?

But he was surely a lord in his own right: a younger son of some great Durrym fortress. And gentle in his attentions; courteous and subtle. He showed her the forest in all its sylvan glory, but made no attempt to bed her; only took her by the hand and showed her the nests of mated birds, or badger setts, or forest springs she’d not known existed. Pointed out high squirrels’ dreys. Took her to glades where deer grazed, the stag calming his harem when Lofantyl murmured—as if all the forest and its denizens obeyed him. And then he’d find her flowers and present the bouquet with a courtly bow, and bring her back before her escort wondered where she might be.

He was gentility personified, and through the summer’s courtship she came to love him—and to trust him. So she told him all she knew of the Church’s plans, and her father’s attitude, thinking to deliver peace, and Lofantyl listened and kissed her cheek, and held her hands, and was a perfect gentleman.

T
HEY TRYSTED OFTEN
as not in Cullyn’s cottage, and Cullyn wondered at his feelings. Abra was beautiful, and he could not deny his desire for her. But he regarded Lofantyl as a friend, and so wished them well, and pondered what he did. If not the gods, then surely the Church and Lord Bartram would find him guilty—of heresy and betrayal, both.

It was a difficult time for him, torn between desire and friendship, wondering at his own motives. And all the while thinking that were they discovered, he would be branded a traitor and executed. But Abra was obviously
in love with the Durrym, and Lofantyl was charm personified—cheerful and friendly, such as few Cullyn had known—that he felt incapable of doing other than aid them in their trysts.

Which was not always so easy, for the master-at-arms, Laurens, appeared to have taken a liking to him, and would visit him as Vanysse and Amadis slipped away into the forest, and Abra found excuses to seek Lofantyl. Then, Laurens would come to Cullyn’s cottage and idly wonder where Abra might have disappeared to.

“And her stepmother?” Cullyn asked on one occasion. “Don’t you wonder about her?”

“I know where she’s gone.” Laurens chuckled, tapping a callused finger against his broken nose. Cullyn raised questioning brows, pretending innocence, and Laurens said: “Off to some glade with Amadis. But say nothing of that!”

Cullyn shook his head in confirmation. “But does not Lord Bartram suspect?”

“He knows.” Laurens shrugged. “Knows and closes his eyes. He’s twice her age, and …” He shrugged again, expansively. “Does she take our vaunted captain for her lover, still Bartram shares her bed, and likely makes do with that.”

“How could he?” Cullyn asked, horrified. “If I had a wife, I’d not share her.”

Laurens laughed and glanced around the cottage, much as Lofantyl had once done, then asked if Cullyn had aught to drink.

Cullyn brought out the flask of honey wine, from which Laurens quaffed deep, declaring the brew excellent, and said: “It’s politics, lad. I’ve little time for such niceties, myself, but … The Lady Vanysse is western born—out of Yrin hold, daughter of Lord Mykael, who
commands at least half of the western coast. Bartram married Vanysse on order of our king—who looked to bind east and west together. Bartram agreed and fell in love.” He laughed again, reaching for the flask. “Wouldn’t you? Or at least want her in your bed? She’s lovely, no?”

“She’s pretty enough,” Cullyn agreed, thinking of Abra.

“But not so desirable as Bartram’s daughter?”

Cullyn blushed.

“Who said she was coming here,” Laurens declared, his voice mild. “So where is she?”

Cullyn hoped that the heat he felt on his cheeks did not show. “She stopped to take a drink of water,” he mumbled, “and then went on.”

“Truly?” Laurens drank more honey wine.

“Truly,” Cullyn answered, hoping the master-at-arms would take it as a question.

“And you’ve no idea where she’s gone?”

Cullyn shook his head.

“I’d wondered,” Laurens said easily, “if she’d taken you for her lover. The gods know, but you’d be better than that sorry Wyllym.”

“I wish it were so,” Cullyn said without thinking. Then bit his tongue and added, “But it’s not.”

“So where has she gone?” Laurens leaned back, sipping his honey wine.

“I don’t know,” Cullyn answered honestly.

Laurens emptied his cup and studied Cullyn from hooded eyes. “I think you know more than you admit.”

“She came and went.” Cullyn shrugged. “And who am I to question her?”

“No one,” Laurens returned cheerfully. “You’re an orphaned forester, with no right to question Lord Bartram’s
daughter. No more right than I have to question the Lady Vanysse or Amadis. But …”

“What?” Cullyn asked nervously.

Laurens guffawed. “I think I know what Vanysse and Amadis do.”

“So?”

“And I think you know what our fair Abra does. And if not with you, then with whom?”

Cullyn shrugged again.

“I should arrest you,” Laurens said. “I should do my duty and take you back to the keep—where you’d be put to question. Our new priest would get answers.”

“Shall you?” Cullyn asked, suddenly chilled.

Laurens shook his head. “No. I like you too much. The gods know why, but you’ve something about you. But I still think you admit less than you know.”

Abra appeared. Her hair was disheveled, and leaves clung to her gown. She was obviously startled to find Laurens in the cottage, but she composed herself and asked, “What do you do here?”

“Wait for you,” Laurens said equably.

“I … wanted to be on my own.”

“Of course.” Laurens set down his cup, his grizzled face blank. “And so I waited for you. Cullyn explained.”

Abra’s cheeks reddened. Cullyn busied himself with cups, trying not to look at either of them. “I told Laurens that you went riding alone,” he said.

“Which is not wise in these woods,” Laurens said. “Fey woods, these. Who knows whom you might meet?”

Abra blushed afresh.

And Laurens chuckled and rose, then suggested that they find their horses and return to the keep. As he quit the cottage he favored Cullyn with a wink, and left Cullyn wondering if he were condemned a traitor or had found a friend.