Yesterday's Kings (11 page)

Cullyn shook his head.

“So do you trust me?”

Cullyn hid his face in his cup. Then, “I don’t know.”

“I left you that blade,” Lofantyl said. “Do you understand what that means?”

“No, save it was a splendid gift.”

“It was a … we name it lyn’nha’thall—a gift between brothers. It means ‘a bonding … trust.’ We give such a knife only to those we believe we can trust.”

Cullyn studied the knife, and Lofantyl. “So you trust me so much?”

Lofantyl nodded.

“Why?”

“Because,” the Durrym said, “I feel that you are a brother. You’ve the forest in your blood, as it’s in mine. I feel a kinship.” He grinned from across his bowl. “You could almost be Durrym. I feel that I know you, and I trust you.”

“We’ve met, what? Twice? And now you ask me to aid you in the seduction of Lord Bartram’s daughter?”

“Not the seduction,” Lofantyl said. “Only the pursuit of the woman I love.”

“And what would you have me do?”

“Allow us refuge,” Lofantyl said. “Let us use your cottage.”

“So I become a pander?” Cullyn shook his head. “No!”

“I’ll only bring her here,” Lofantyl returned, “if she’s willing. And first, I intend to visit her in the stone place—that she agreed to.”

“You’re mad,” Cullyn said. “They’ll slay you.”

“She’s worth it.” Lofantyl emptied his bowl. “I’d die for her.”

“And likely shall,” Cullyn said as the Durrym—his friend?—went to the door.

“But shall you aid me?”

Cullyn said, reluctantly, “Yes.”

“Then you’ve my thanks.”

And Lofantyl was gone into the night, leaving Cullyn to wonder.

A
S WAS
A
BRA.

She could not forget that nut-brown face that had smiled at her from the tree. She could not believe he’d risk her father’s keep to find her, but that night she hung a ribbon from her window and wondered.

L
OFANTYL CAME UP THROUGH
the village at midnight. Dogs came out to challenge him, but he spoke to them and they did not bark, and so he reached the edge wall of the keep and climbed the wall without the guards seeing him. He crossed the ground between and saw the ribboned window of the castle. It was a high climb, and difficult even for him, but he set his hands and his feet against the stone and commenced the ascent. He did not like the feeling of this textured, man
made stone, all carved and cut, but he endured it for the prize above. And like some clinging spider, he reached Abra’s window—and, because he could not open the shutter, tapped.

Abra appeared.

She opened her mouth to scream as she saw him there, and then, as she recognized him, opened the window and said, “I didn’t believe you’d come.”

“I promised,” he said.

He dropped into the room and she stared at the window, obviously thinking of the wall and the guards and all he must have overcome to be here, with her.

“How could you do that?” she asked.

“For love,” he said. “I told you, no?”

“Are you found you’ll be slain.”

“You’re worth it.”

“You’re mad.”

“For you, yes.”

She stared at him, clearly wondering if he were insane, and then seemed suddenly aware that she wore only a nightgown. She blushed, and hurried to find her robe.

Lofantyl remained by the window, but when she turned back toward him, he reached inside his tunic to extract a somewhat crushed and wilted bunch of flowers.

“I chose these for you, in the forest.” He proffered the bouquet, and as she took it, their hands touched and he felt a thrill run through him.

“Thank you.”

He bowed, all courtly, and smiled at her. “It is my pleasure to bring you what small gifts I can offer.”

“Even at risk of your life?”

“So small a price to pay for your smile.” He came farther into the room. “May I sit down? That was a hard climb—even for a Durrym.”

A
BRA GESTURED
at the chairs, still clutching the bouquet of wildflowers, utterly confused. She was flattered that he’d risk his life to see her, and not yet quite sure of his intentions. The teachings of the Church warned her of Durrym seductions, but when she looked into his eyes and saw his smile, she could not believe him other than honest.

Lofantyl took a chair and glanced around. “A drink,” he said, “would not go amiss.

“I’ve water and wine.”

“Water, please.”

She filled him a glass that he drank with obvious pleasure, then settled in a facing chair, wondering at what she did. Duty ordered that she call out for the guards and have this Durrym taken; but she could not do that, for it would surely mean his death. So she remained silent, and waited for him to speak. She had never before entertained a man in her private chambers. She felt her face grow warm and knew she blushed; but she was unsure whether that was embarrassment or excitement.

“I’d see you again,” he said. “With your permission.”

It was madness, but before she knew what she said, she heard herself saying: “You have it.”

“It will not be easy.”

“No.”

“But if you are willing …”

“I am.”

What did she say? Lofantyl was fey, a Durrym—enemy of Kandar—save when she looked into his eyes she forgot the realm.

“I spoke with Cullyn,” she heard him say, as if in a dream.

“The forester?”

A memory then of another handsome man, but uncouth—not like Lofantyl.

“A friend. He’s agreed that we might meet in his cottage.”

“That would be difficult.”

“Truly?”

“Certainly.”

“But shall you?”

She looked at him and ducked her head as she said, almost against her will: “Yes; when I can.” His eyes and his smile persuaded her.

“Tomorrow?”

“Perhaps. It shall not be easy.” She was not at all sure she could meet Lofantyl again—although the gods knew she wanted to—and so she chose to hold her own counsel and see what transpired.

“Promise me,” he asked.

“I cannot say. It might not be possible.”

He took her hand and said, “I’ll wait for you in the forest. Save you invite me to stay the night.”

A question hung in his brown eyes. To which Abra answered: “Not yet; it’s too soon. I must think.”

“What’s to think about?” he asked. “I love you. Don’t you—”

She raised her free hand. “I don’t know—not yet. I must think.”

And so they sat through most of the night, and Lofantyl was most gentlemanly. And Abra wondered if the Durrym fell in love so easily. Certainly he declared his devotion but, for all his handsome face and earnest eyes urged her to agree, she hesitated. They were, after all, old enemies, and Per Fendur had spoken of the Church’s newfound magic that could find a way through the Barrier so that Kandar could invade the fey lands.

And she was Lord Bartram’s daughter, and her father sworn to defend Kandar against the Durrym.

Her head spun as the night grew older, and she wondered if it would not be easier to marry Wyllym, rather than entertain the notions that wound through her head as she looked at Lofantyl’s earnest face.

Only those notions brought a flush to her cheeks, and she could not take her eyes from his face as he told her of Coim’na Drhu and Kash’ma Hall, and she found herself intrigued, and wondered what that unknown land might be like. And the sun edged a way into the sky and birds began to chorus.

“You’d best go now,” she warned.

Outside the windows a pale sun was rising to wake the birds. He nodded, and kissed her hands, and she felt her skin thrill and her heart beat faster. And then he rose and said, “As you say, I’d best be gone.”

Abra looked at the window and realized that they’d talked the night away. The sky was shifting into dawn’s pearly gray, and birds began to sing, chorusing the advent of morning. She felt fear then, that Lofantyl be found and slain.

“But I’ll see you soon, eh?”

She ducked her head in agreement, unable to do else, nor wanting to.

And watched him slither out of the window and clamber down the wall and run through the early morning shadows to disappear over the outer wall and … become no longer visible, as if the dawn swallowed him up and he became a part of the land.

She sighed and went back to her bed, and thought of their next meeting—which, she was decided, should be as soon as possible.

I
SYDRIAN BECKONED
the raven in from the window ledge with a summons and a bowl of nuts.

He sat quietly as the avian hopped from ledge to desk and eyed him with a beady yellow curiosity. They were poor enough messengers, but the best Coim’na Drhu had—save Lofantyl return—so he waited until the bird finished its inspection and dipped its beak into the bowl. Then he grabbed it, ignoring its squalling as he took the tiny cylinder from its leg and broke the seals. The raven eyed him angrily, ruffled its feathers, and then went back to pecking up nuts.

The lord of Kash’ma Hall read the message. It was encrypted, but he knew the codes well enough that he needed no help to decipher the symbols. And it was a plain enough message: Lofantyl had encountered the keep lord’s daughter and won her affection; the Garm’kes
Lyn planned a war. Their church—Isydrian wondered what exactly that word meant—believed its officers had found such power as could gain them entry to Coim’na Drhu. He doubted that—the Durrym magicks set on the forest and the river were strong, and turned invaders away. He doubted that any Garm could find a way past the river that divided the two lands and held the Durrym safe from the depredations of the barbaric Garm.

But it was interesting information, and he silently praised his younger son for his acuity. Lofantyl was wayward, and far too interested in the Garm, but he had the sense to keep his ear to the ground. Or to windows and locked doors; and that was all that mattered. Afranydyr could never have managed such a task: he was too blunt, perhaps too honest to ever be a spy. But Lofantyl … Isydrian chuckled, and reached out to stroke the raven, which squawked and pecked at his hand.

He stared at the bird even as he sucked at his bloodied finger, concentrating his will so that the bird turned away and returned to its feast. His younger son, he thought, had little idea what potentially valuable information he sent back from his travels. Indeed, he was not so dissimilar to the raven: a messenger.