Yesterday's Kings (14 page)

“This is devoid of honor,” Lofantyl protested.

“This is politics,” his father said. “We could own the whole of the border. Let Pyris face the Garm and we reap the rewards.”

“My little brother objects,” Afranydyr chuckled scornfully.

“I’d behave with honor,” Lofantyl said, glowering at his brother as fiercely as Afranydyr glared at him.

Isydrian shook his head and folded his hands inside the deep sleeves of his bearskin robe. As a Durrym, he felt little cold, but he grew old now—both his sons were late-born, and Lofantyl the last, for Aederia had died in that birthing. But he’d leave them a great heritage—if all his plans worked out. He studied them, wondering that they could not see his intent. Perhaps Afranydyr sensed it; but surely not Lofantyl. One day, he’d explain it in detail—that if the Garm came against Coim’na Drhu, and only he knew of their plans, then he had the opportunity to realize that dream and leave both his sons a heritage worthy of his own father. Worthy of himself and them.

And perhaps, with his sons lifted up so high, even come to challenge the Dur’em jahnt, so that one or the other, or their children, might take the throne of the Floating City.

But that was the future—if all went well—and the moment demanded decision. So Isydrian chuckled and said, “I think you should go back and talk more with this Garm lord’s daughter.”

“I’ll not betray her,” Lofantyl protested.

“I don’t ask you to,” his father said. “Only let me know what plans the Garm have. For the sake of Coim’na Drhu.”

“And his love for the Garm?” Afranydyr grunted.

“I doubt it shall cloud his judgment.” Isydrian smiled benignly at Lofantyl. “Shall it?”

Lofantyl looked at his father and shook his head. “No, my lord.”

“Then go back, eh? Learn all you can and send a raven as soon you know.”

Lofantyl nodded. “As you order, my father.”

T
HE SNOW WAS CRISP
under his feet, crunching despite his light tread, but no dogs barked at him as he made his way through the village, for he was fey and communed with the animals in ways the Garm’kes Lyn could not, so they let him pass without interruption. He stared at the little buildings and wondered how they could live there, all winter-hidden behind their walls, with shutters closed against the honesty of the snowy night, lit only by the fires inside and what few braziers burned in the streets. His own people would be outside in such weather, glorying in the sky, which was hung thick with stars and a great, dim moon. In Coim’na Drhu they’d be celebrating the festival of Lyris now, but here all the Garm did was huddle. He felt sorry for them as thick flakes fell down to mask him and he made his way through the empty streets of Lyth to the walls of the keep.

Those he climbed easily, and dropped to the yard beyond.

That was swept clear of snow, but the cold wind held the guards inside their revetments, or concentrated on warming themselves at the braziers that burned along the walls. And he was fey, and quick, so he was across the yard and clambering up the stone wall before any saw him.

He felt the stone slippery under his fingers. And they numbed as he climbed, all the time waiting for a shaft to pierce his back and drop him from the wall. His hands and feet grew cold as his body, and he gritted his teeth that they not chatter.

And climbed, and came to her window.

And found it shuttered against the cold.

He perched himself precariously on the ledge and
tapped, wondering how long he could hold on before his frozen hands gave up all their feeling and he fell away.

A
BRA HEARD THE KNOCKING
and dismissed her servants. One woman giggled, wondering aloud who—or what—might come visiting her lady on so bleak a night.

“Likely it’s some luckless bird,” Abra extemporized, “seeking shelter.” And shooed her attendants away with the excuse that they’d frighten off the bird.

She wondered if they’d accept her excuses—which seemed, even to her, lame—but she had no doubt at all who knocked on her window.

She opened the portal and he clambered in, all wet and icy. He put his arms around her and said, “I missed you. I could no longer bear to be apart.”

“Nor I.”

They embraced, and she felt the cold in his body and clung to him.

And then the door burst open and Amadis came in with a drawn sword, Per Fendur and six guardsmen at his back. Abra screamed; Lofantyl pushed her away and drew his dagger, which was the only weapon he carried.

Amadis laughed. “Not enough, boy. Lay it down else I slay you here and now.”

Per Fendur smiled his oily smile and said, “Did you truly believe you could enter this keep unnoticed? Are you Durrym so stupid as to forget my powers?”

Lofantyl glanced like some cornered animal at the blade and the soldiers.

Abra saw him look toward the window and weigh his chances as Amadis raised his blade. She screamed and threw herself at the captain.

“Thank the gods you came! He burst in on me!”

Her slight weight took Amadis by such surprise that he was flung back. Lofantyl gaped.

“I thought it was a bird.” She clung to Amadis. “You saved me! The gods alone know what might have happened, else.”

The captain lowered his blade for fear of damaging Abra, and barked that his men take the Durrym.

Lofantyl stared at Abra as he was dragged away, confusion and resentment in his gaze.

A
BRA KNEW BETTER
than to scream as they carried Lofantyl away, though it was hard to bite off her horror and her grief. She saw him struggle, and a thick-knuckled hand slammed against his jaw, so that his handsome head was snapped back even as another fist landed in his belly and doubled him over. Then Amadis stepped forward and drove the heavy pommel of his sword into Lofantyl’s face. Lofantyl gasped, blood running from his nose, and slumped unconscious against his captors.

Amadis raised his blade and looked to Per Fendur for instruction. “I could slay him now.”

“No.” Fendur raised a hand, and set the other on Abra. “Best we hold him alive and question him.”

“He’s Durrym,” Amadis spat. “Let’s be done with him now, the bastard!”

“Hold him,” Fendur insisted. “Take him to the dungeons—and keep him alive, eh? I will question him, so I need him sensible.”

Amadis scowled, but lowered his blade.

“He can tell us much,” Fendur said. He smiled horribly at Abra. “And you, also, my lady.”

Abra struggled in the priest’s grasp. It was surprisingly strong, his fingers biting like claws into her arm so that she felt it go numb. Pain shafted up into her shoulder and neck so that even her jaw ached and she found it hard to cry out as Lofantyl was dragged away. Fendur thrust her back into her chamber.

“So you entertain the Durrym?” he murmured when Lofantyl was gone.

“I thought it was a lost bird,” she reiterated. “I had no idea it was a man. Ask my attendants.”

“I shall,” the priest promised, his dark eyes glinting with a wicked light. “I shall question them and the Durrym. And you.”

“Me?” Abra broke from his grasp and faced him with all the courage she could muster. “You’d question me?”

“A Durrym was found in your chamber,” the priest said, and shrugged eloquently. “That renders you suspect.”

“I explained that.” Abra heard the terrible threat in his voice, saw it in his eyes, and struggled to maintain her composure. Was she found guilty of consorting with Lofantyl she’d be executed beside him. “Do you suggest that I consort with the enemy?”

“I know what I know,” Per Fendur said ominously. “And I know what I suspect.”

“I think,” Abra said, with all the dignity she could find in the midst of her terror, “that you should speak with my father.”

“I am the Church incarnate,” he returned with a
smug confidence. “I speak for the prelate and the king, and do I find you guilty, you’ll decorate the gibbet beside the Durrym.”

Abra felt a terrible cold then, as if the ice she’d felt on Lofantyl filled her veins and set her skin to prickling. She was tempted to fall on her knees and beg Per Fendur’s forgiveness but she could not. She loved Lofantyl and despised this oily priest, so she steeled herself and fought the trembling that threatened to wrack her body.

“Shall we speak with my father? I believe he might have a view on this. And does he not agree, I wonder if you might not find yourself on the gibbet.”

Fendur started back at that. “Treason!” he gasped. “Is all this keep given over to treason?”

“My father is a just man,” Abra said, sensing an advantage. “So shall we go speak with him?”

L
ORD
B
ARTRAM WAS NOT HAPPY
to be roused from his bed, though his wife seemed not to mind: they consented to an audience in their private chambers, where anxious servants stoked the hearth and lit candles, and brought wine.

Amadis was there, and Per Fendur and Abra, and a sleepy-eyed Laurens.

The hearth was built high against the cold and filled the room with somnolent heat. Abra’s father wore a bearskin that covered his belly and muffled him as if he were the animal. His wife wore a thick silken gown and fluttered her eyes at Amadis. Laurens stood stolid, dressed in his usual leather and metal. He kept, as ever, a hand on the hilt of his sword.

Amadis pranced in fancy armor as he described his
capture of the Durrym, and Per Fendur folded his hands into the wide sleeves of his black robe and agreed with the captain.

According to them, they had taken a Durrym captive—a foul fey who’d seduced Lord Bartram’s daughter and suborned her to his wicked purpose.

“And where is he now?” Bartram asked.

“Locked safe inside the dungeons,” Amadis replied.

“To be questioned later,” Fendur added.

“And what’s my daughter to do with this?”

“Seduced!” Fendur declared, his dark eyes flickering hostilely at Abra. “She welcomed the Durrym to the keep—and that’s treason!”

Vanysse nodded eagerly.

Bartram looked at his daughter. “Is this so?”

“Seduced?” she returned. “No. I’ve not slept with him.”

“But you’ve … consorted with him?”