Kingmaker's Sword (Rune Blades of Celi) (26 page)

Kerri murmured something polite and smiled.

Cullin drew me forward. “Sion, this is—”

“Leydon’s boy,” Sion said, measuring me carefully. “I’d know you anywhere, lad. Last time I saw you, you could walk beneath a horse without bending your head. In fact, you were. Nearly frightened your mother’s hair white.”

“I’ve grown since then,” I said, smiling. It was difficult not to smile in reply to the dazzle of his.

“Aye, well, I should hope so,” he replied. “That must have been well nigh twenty years ago.”

Cullin looked around casually, smiling. “Have we established our credentials for all the watching eyes, Sion?” he asked.

Sion laughed. “Aye,” he said. “I believe so. That’s why I was sent to greet you. The Ephir trusts few people these days.”

“As well he should,” Cullin said. “And you’re one of them.”

“I have that honour,” Sion said smoothly.

“Sion was one of the best swordmasters in Tyra before he turned to his hand to diplomacy,” Cullin said, still smiling. “His tongue was not always so polished.”

“Because you were a stubborn and frustrating student,” Sion replied. “But you were one of my best, much as I hate to admit it and give you reason to expand that pride of yours.”

Cullin grinned at Kerri and me. “Sion also runs the best network of spies on the continent,” he said, lowering his voice. “Sometimes, he even tells my father what he knows.”

“Only so much as is good for him,” Sion said, comfortably complacent. He offered his arm to Kerri. “The Ephir has arranged a private audience before the meal, if you would be so good as to accompany me.”

“You probably already know what news I bring,” Cullin said as we fell into step with Sion and Kerri.

“No doubt,” Sion said serenely. “No doubt, but it would be best coming first hand from you, wouldn’t it?” He smiled down at Kerri. “You make the other women in this room dim like candles before the sun, my dear.” He patted her hand on his arm. “You shall have to let me take you around and introduce you so I may show you off.”

“Go gently with the lady, Sion,” Cullin said, amused. “She’s
bheancoran
and very well trained.”

Sion looked at Kerri with new interest. “Ah,” he said. He smiled. “Then perhaps we shall merely dine together and you will be so kind as to gaze besottedly at me to enhance an old man’s reputation.”

We had almost reached the door near the empty throne when a man wearing the dress uniform of an officer in the Honandun Guard intercepted us. The hand holding his silver-chased goblet flashed and glittered with rings, but the jewels could not disguise the whiteness of the knuckles. The set of his nose was badly off kilter, but all signs of swelling or bruising had faded. The nose did little now to augment his good looks. He put me in mind of a meticulously bred but slightly stupid horse. Malevolence gleamed in his hooded dark eyes as he looked at Cullin.

“It would seem we meet again,” he murmured. “I had thought you would not dare to return so quickly to Honandun.”

“I take it you two have met already,” Sion said.

“Not formally,” Cullin replied politely.

“Ah,” Sion said, nodding. “Tergal Milarson, Cullin dav Medroch of Broche Rhuidh. And the lady Kerridwen al Jorddyn of Skai, and Kian dav Leydon.”

Kerri gave the Guard officer a dazzling smile. “Why, Sion,” she murmured prettily. “You had not told me that Honandun contained such handsome men!” She held her hand out to the Guard and gave him the full effect of her brilliant smile. “Delighted to meet you, Captain Tergal.” And she batted her eyelashes at him.

Tergal bent low over her hand, then straightened, smiling. “It is a pity we could not have met before I had this unfortunate accident,” he said, touching his nose briefly.

“Oh, but, Captain,” Kerri gushed. “It gives you such an interesting and
mysterious
appearance. This one—” She waved a dismissive hand in my direction. “This one has only looks but no substance. So very wearying, would you not agree?”

Heat climbed from my throat to suffuse my cheeks. I hoped Tergal would interpret it as cold dignity attempting to disguise wounded barbarian pride rather than near strangulation from the effort it took to repress the laughter threatening my breathing. Cullin put up his hand to stroke his beard and hide the corners of his mouth, but not a ripple disturbed the smooth, bland surface of Sion’s face.

Tergal smiled again. “You are too kind, my lady,” he said. “Perhaps you would do me the honour later of allowing me to present you to my cousin, the Ephir.”

“That would please me immensely, Captain,” she said, and gave him another dazzling smile. “Once we have finished our business with my lord ambassador here, I would be delighted.”

Tergal bowed. “Your servant, my lady,” he said. “Until later then.” He gave Cullin the smug, self-satisfied look of a mountain cat that has just successfully stolen a plump, juicy rabbit right out from between the teeth of a wolf. He made a stiff, abrupt bow to us and moved away. We had not seen the last of Tergal Milarson. He looked just intelligent enough to be sly, and certainly vindictive.

Sion offered Kerri his arm again. He bent over to place his mouth close to her ear. “Minx,” he murmured just loud enough for me to overhear. “You drew his fangs very neatly, my girl.” Kerri merely gave him a radiant, starry-eyed smile.

We left the reception room and passed into a brightly lit hall. Sion paused before a brass bound door and knocked three times. From inside, a voice called: “Come.”

***

The chamber Sion led us into was small and comfortably, if plainly, furnished. A wooden worktable stood facing the window. On the wall behind it hung a huge map of the continent, the countries all colour washed in different hues: Tyra, a tapering green arrowhead running east from the coast; the blocky yellow shape of Isgard and the sprawl of landlocked Maedun, blood red in the candle light. I had never seen a more finely detailed map, except perhaps for the one my grandfather owned, which hung in his own study at Broche Rhuidh. A sleek grey-striped cat lay curled in sleep on a wooden bench beneath the window. I had been expecting a demonstration of more opulent tastes, similar to the reception chamber, but this was a room in which Cullin’s father, my grandfather, would have been at home. It sharply restructured my image of the man who ruled Isgard.

The man himself stood with his back to us, hands clasped loosely behind him, gazing out the window at the square below. He wore trews and jacket in simple, unadorned grey and he was shorter than I expected—less than a handspan taller than Kerri. Narrow shoulders curved forward in an habitual slump, allowing the light to gleam on the pink scalp surrounded by thin, lank grey hair. Not a prepossessing figure at first sight, the Ephir.

Then he turned and the illusion shattered. The set of the Ephir’s thin, nearly lipless mouth gave away nothing, nor did his pale grey eyes, small and closely set above the knife blade of his nose. They shone bright and gleaming as silver coins. They were as flat and impenetrable as coins, too, giving away nothing of what their owner thought. I thought perhaps they might allow a man to see whatever he wished mirrored there. The slouched posture and the drab, grey exterior, then, were a subtle subterfuge, an exercise in misdirection. The study in contrasts between the reception chamber and this room, between the slumped posture and the alert, watchful eyes, was meant to confuse and to keep both friends and enemies off balance

Sion presented us and the Ephir inclined his head in brusque acknowledgment as Cullin and I bowed and Kerri curtsied.

“My lord Ephir,” Cullin said, “I bring you greetings from Medroch dav Kian dav Keylan, Eleventh Clan Laird of Broche Rhuidh of Tyra, First Laird of the Council of Clans, Protector of the Sunset Shore, Laird of the Misty Isles, Master of the Western Crags and Laird of Glenborden.” The titles rolled effortlessly from his tongue. I always managed to trip over one or more of them when I tried it.

“Your father honours me,” the Ephir murmured. “I had not expected him to send his son. But surely you are his younger son?” He slanted a quick glance at me. “I was given to understand you had sired none but three daughters.” In Isgard, a man’s virility was measured by the number of sons he produced. In Tyra, a man’s worth was measured otherwise.

“Kian is my foster-son,” Cullin said, undisturbed by the veiled insult. “The son of my brother, Leydon.”

“So.” The Ephir went to a chair behind a work table. “Please, be seated,” he said, gesturing toward wooden chairs before the table. The cat uncurled itself from the window bench and sauntered insolently across the carpet to leap into the Ephir’s lap, confident of its welcome. The Ephir stroked the glossy fur and the cat’s contented purring filled the room. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to tell me how thinks your father about the possibility of an alliance between Isgard and Tyra.”

Cullin leaned back in his chair. “He would be amenable to hearing more of the details,” he said. “Then perhaps would be willing to enter negotiations.”

The Ephir put his hands on the table, palms flat, fingers splayed. “Negotiations will take time,” he said. “Isgard already has enemies on two borders.”

“She has enemies within, also,” Cullin said. “When last did you speak with your nephew Balkan of Frendor?”

Something flickered in those flat, silver eyes. “I have not spoken with Balkan for nearly a season,” he said. “Have you news of him?”

In terse, precise sentences, his voice flat and uninflected, Cullin told him what we had seen in Frendor, and what had transpired at Balkan’s manse. When he finished, the Ephir remained silent for a long time, a faint frown creasing his brow .

The Ephir looked at Sion. “Had you known of this?” he asked.

“One hears rumours, of course,” Sion said. “Until Cullin confirmed it just now, I had no proof of anything happening in Frendor.”

The Ephir’s gaze remained on Sion, but didn’t ruffle Sion’s composure. I wondered if anything actually could. Finally, the Ephir looked back to Cullin. “I am in debt to you for that information,” he said quietly. He touched one gnarled finger to his chin, the other hand dropping absently to stroke the cat again. “So my dear nephew thinks to depose me, does he? We shall have to do something about that.” He got to his feet, sending the indignant cat scrambling to the floor. “Thank you,” he said again and gestured toward the door. “If you will excuse me, I have things I must do. We will speak again tomorrow, and perhaps begin working out a viable plan of mutual defence between Isgard and Tyra.”

When we were once again in the hall and walking back toward the reception room, Sion said, “I shall advise your father to be circumspect in his negotiations with the Ephir.”

Cullin grinned. “Very circumspect,” he agreed. “I trust that man less than I trust a Laringorn whip snake.”

Sion laughed. “He would fight the Maeduni down to the last Tyr,” he said. “Then he would negotiate a truce with Maedun that would no doubt be much to his own advantage. He’s a wily old lizard, is the Ephir, and he’s held Isgard strongly for most of his lifetime. No matter what he agrees to, he will move first to see Isgard with the advantage, whatever the cost to his allies.” He shrugged. “But then, Medroch dav Kian, too, has always been as slippery as peeled willow and as hard to trap as a handful of quicksilver. I trust his judgment as much as I suspect the Ephir’s principles.”

Cullin paused at the door of the reception room. “You’ll make our apologies to the Ephir when we don’t come tomorrow, Sion?” he said. He glanced at Kerri and smiled. “We have pressing business in the northeast that needs to be attended to immediately.”

“Of course,” Sion said.

Kerri laughed. “And will you make my apologies to the good Captain, my lord ambassador?” she said. She put her hand to her head and fluttered her eyelashes dramatically. “I think I’ve developed a terrible headache. I believe I must return to the inn.”

“Kian will escort you back to the inn,” Cullin said. “I want to stay for a while and test out the temper of this Court. I’ll follow in an hour.”

I offered my arm to Kerri. “I should be your escort, my lady,” I murmured politely. “If, of course, you don’t mind being seen in the company of a man all looks and no substance.”

“I didn’t mean to imply you were only good looking,” Kerri said contritely. She smiled at me. “I meant you were all brawn and no brain. Brawn is
not
handsome.” And she fluttered her eyelashes mockingly at me then laughed and took my arm.

***

They came at us from the shadows as we stepped down from the carriage. I had just turned to extend my hand to Kerri when I saw a quick, furtive movement off to one side. I spun, already reaching behind my left shoulder for my sword before I remembered in despair that it was still in my room at the inn. I had no weapons but my hands.

I counted four men as I turned quickly, pushed Kerri unceremoniously back into the carriage before she could protest, and slammed the door. “Get her out of here,” I shouted to the startled driver. He gave me one terror-filled glance, then shouted to his horses, slapping the traces hard onto their backs. They lurched into an uncoordinated canter and the coach whirled away, leaving me alone with the four attackers.

I had only time enough to drive my shoulder into the belly of the man who leaped after the carriage and knock him to the cobbles before something bashed into my head. It turned me off as effectively as pinching out a candle.