Lescari Revolution 03: Banners In The Wind (38 page)

He shook his head, determined. 'But not once Reniack has been beaten by Lescari forces united to throw off ducal tyranny and any other oppression that seeks to replace it. Not when we offer the honest folk of Parnilesse a peaceful future alongside all Lescari, with a voice in their own governance-' Tathrin shot Branca a meaningful glance '-instead of cowering with Reniack's boot on their neck.'

'I believe--' Yadres paused for a long moment, his gaze looking inward. 'Tadriol should be able persuade the Convocation to give you one chance to deal with Reniack. If you lose, the legions will march without delay.'

'We can do it,' Tathrin promised, 'if you just give us a little more time.'

'Before the end of Aft-Winter?' Yadres pressed him.

'Do you want me to sustain this much longer?' Jilseth demanded through gritted teeth.

Duke Orlin's children were being murdered once again.

Yadres hastily bowed. 'I've seen enough.'

'Thank you, madam mage. You may leave the dead in peace.' Sorgrad poured white brandy and pressed the glass into Jilseth's nail-bitten hands.

The spell vanished to leave only the disquieting scent of cooked meat. Visibly drained, the magewoman accepted Sorgrad's supportive arm to a chair beside the fireplace.

Steeling herself, Branca went to the table. Charoleia forestalled her, drawing a cloth over the oil-filled bowl. 'You don't want to see.'

Branca certainly didn't. Recollections of pigs' heads that her mother boiled for brawn already tormented her. She didn't think she could ever eat that dish again.

'Let's sweeten the air.' Sorgrad snapped his fingers at the scented candles Charoleia had told Branca to request from the inn's housekeeper. The wicks kindled with honest yellow flame.

'I must write to my uncle and to the Emperor.' Yadres Den Dalderin strode around the room, unable to settle. 'Madam mage.' He addressed Jilseth with the deepest reluctance. 'If there should be any question, if any further evidence is needed, to be laid before the Convocation of Princes--' He halted to look at the duke's lolling head.

'As long as Archmage Planir sanctions it,' Jilseth said wearily, 'I will undertake the necessary necromancy for Tadriol. I won't see all this effort wasted,' she added with something of her usual acidity.

'Can we at least leave the children untroubled?' Gren demanded suddenly.

Branca pressed her hands to her mouth, revolted by the notion of committing those little heads to the sorcerous oil.

Yadres nodded swift agreement. 'Let's set them on an honourable pyre.'

'And Sherista,' Branca said quickly. 'If this spell cannot be worked again?'

'Of course.' Yadres looked helplessly at Charoleia. 'Do you know a discreet priest?'

She nodded. 'We can trust Drianon's priestess in the shrine on the Ashery Road.'

Gren sprang to his feet. 'I'll take them there tonight.'

Branca wondered what had befallen the murdered children's bodies. Had they been somehow burned in secret, in hopes of freeing them from demon-haunted darkness to make that last journey to Saedrin's door? Did loyal Parnilesse grieve in secret; for fear of Poldrion refusing the innocents passage till all the flesh tying them to this world was destroyed?

If by any remote chance there was some truth in those myths, wouldn't the memories of their own deaths and their family's slaughter be more torment than any demon could inflict? Her hand shook as she lit more scented candles and placed them around the room.

A new thought struck her. Were funeral pyres actually used to deny whatever magic raised such ghastly phantasms, whether wielded by necromancer or aetheric adept?

She sighed, setting the candle flames dancing. There was so much they didn't know about Artifice. What folly it had been, to think they could use it for their own purposes, never imagining these consequences.

Tathrin walked over, leaving Charoleia and Sorgrad, Jilseth and Yadres by the fireplace discussing the letters they must write.

'Jettin must pay for his crimes,' he said sombrely.

'I know.' Branca had been trying not to think about that. She gazed into the candle flame. 'You'll need my help, and Kerith's, and I must see what I can do for Aremil.'

The thought of him waking to this clawed at her heart.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Aremil

Carluse Castle,

20th of Aft-Winter

Peace and quiet. Leisure to read and to think. No one to disturb him. He looked up and savoured the emptiness of the torchlit hall. Light and shadow vacillated amid the intricately carved vaulting, the stone as yellow as butter.

But he must make best use of his time, he guiltily reminded himself. He applied himself once again to the book open on the reading slope pulled close to his chair. Beeswax candles on the branched stand behind his shoulder burned steadily, untroubled.

Marol Afmoor's
Geography of the East
was a remarkably tedious book; a pedantic catalogue of every town, demesne and fiefdom that had once offered fealty to Toremal's ancient Emperors. Could it possibly be of use when devising some new governance for Lescar? Possibly, and the only way he would find out was by re-reading the thing. Stifling a yawn, he turned the page and tried to make some sense of the differing accounts of Eyhorne's foundation.

A carriage rattled past the window, its shadow flitting across the hearth rug. Aremil looked up, surprised. This was usually a quiet street. Most of Vanam's scholars preferred to walk or to summon carrying-chairs. They seldom lodged far from the university halls to which they were accredited, their narrow houses clustered between the upper city's libraries.

He waited but no knock sounded at his door. Good. He tugged at a cushion to settle himself more comfortably and stretched out his legs to the warmth of the fire. Transferring the weight of the book to one hand, he turned the page. Sieur D'Isellion's
Annals of the Empire
offered a caustic dissection of the failings and failures of Nemith the Last. If nothing else it should offer some hints as to what to avoid in a political settlement for Lescar.

The silver timepiece on the mantel struck five soft chimes. Noon. Lyrlen would be bringing some soup, perhaps a dish of nourishing pottage. His stomach growled with pleasurable anticipation. She always took such good care of him.

He frowned at the page. Was this correct? Surely the fatal Tormalin advance into Dalasor, in hopes of plundering Gidesta's unhewn riches, had been well under way by the fifth year of Nemith's reign. He set the book down on the table at his elbow and rose to search the tightly packed shelves beyond the fireplace. There was a copy of Mentor Fidocal's
Chronicles of the Chaos
somewhere.

He set the bulky book on the trestle-table between the pillars of the side aisle and swiftly leafed through the pages. This fragment from Den Segurie's Annals was interesting. That noble family's interests in Halse went back further than he realised.

Could he find some other record to confirm it? He should note down the details. With this research filling his days, it was folly to rely on memory alone. Mentor Tonin always said as much.

As he reached for pen and paper, he nearly knocked the inkwell over. Catching it up, he took an involuntary step back, the heel of his boot loud on the flagstones. Aremil swallowed his horror at the thought of explaining such damage, such carelessness, to those archivists who had loaned him these irreplaceable records.

Sunshine poured through the plain leaded windows. Dust motes danced and sparkled, the light burnishing some scrap of gilding on a faded book's binding.

He looked guiltily at the tomes he had heedlessly left open, even piled askew on top of each other. He should return those volumes to the chests shoved out of the way between the table's trestles.

Dusk came so early on these winter evenings. He would light the lamps himself though. No need to disturb Lyrlen in her kitchen. He tossed the crimson-bound collection of travellers' tales onto the upholstered settle and rose to find a taper on the mantelshelf, stooping to the smouldering coals.

Once lit, the faceted glass globes made the room cosier still. Glimmers warmed the golden frame of the painting over the fire, the silver timepiece below it and the decanter and goblets on the table beside his comfortable chair.

He contemplated the tray. Wine would be most welcome. But he should keep his head clear, at least till he had learned all he could about the settlement between the Merchant Guilds that kept Inglis such a peaceful and profitable town. Could they build such a consensus in Lescar? Or had the Gidestan town only done so because it was so remote, in such inhospitable country?

Taking up the crimson book, he settled himself in his fireside chair. He would ring for a tisane in a little while. Ginger root and lemongrass would stimulate his wits.

'Aremil?'

He looked up, surprised. 'Branca?'

She was at the far end of the hall, the postern in the studded door ajar.

'Oh, Aremil, at last!' She hurried towards him, hampered by stiff petticoats beneath her maroon silk gown.

'Are you all right?' He dropped the
Chronicles of the Chaos
onto the trestle table and hastened to her.

'Aremil, listen to me.' She held his hands tight. 'You've been here far too long.'

What was she talking about? Then he saw the stained-glass windows were dark. He swallowed a guilty qualm.

'We were supposed to meet for dinner?' He squinted at the silver timepiece hung on the closest pillar. For some reason he couldn't make out the silver hand that caressed the scale of chimes. 'Shall we eat at the Forked Pennant?' he said briskly. 'Then see what the comedy players are giving at the Looking Glass?'

'We're not in Vanam.' Branca surprised him by dropping his hands and grasping his shoulders instead. 'You have to leave here.'

'Don't be so foolish.' He fought an impulse to break free of her insistent hold.

'Where is this place?' She actually shook him. 'Which hall are we in, which library?'

That was absurd. 'It's--'

No, this was absurd. He couldn't recall. 'Mentor--'

He attempted a gesture towards the side aisle. 'I have borrowed all these books--'

'Who from?' demanded Branca. 'Who carried your letters to ask for their loan?'

He stared at her, bemused. Her elegant gown was no more, replaced by a travel-stained riding dress and muddy boots. Her clutching hands were rough with chilblains and her hair was tousled.

'Lyrlen--' No, that wasn't right.

'Who brought the books?' Branca persisted. 'Aremil, did you see anyone bring them through that door?'

He stared down the hall. There hadn't been a door. The end wall had been a smooth expanse of masonry. That was impossible, wasn't it?

'Where did that timepiece come from, Aremil?' She thrust a finger at the silver ornament.

He frowned. 'My house in Vanam.'

'That's right.'

He saw tears in her eyes, her chapped lips trembling. 'What's wrong? I--' His legs buckled as inexplicable weakness overwhelmed him.

Branca caught him around the waist. 'You must sit down.'

He could feel her trembling, exhausted. They barely managed to reach his wooden chair beside the branched candle-stand.

Aremil looked in vain for the reading slope that he had pushed aside to stand up. 'I don't understand.'

The carved wood was hideously uncomfortable. What had happened to his softly accommodating chair by the fireside? Closing his eyes, he leaned his head back.

'Aremil!' Branca said sharply. 'Tell me where we are!'

Why was she pestering him when he was so tired, so hungry?

'I want to go home,' he said involuntarily.

'You left Vanam at the end of For-Autumn,' Branca prompted. 'Where did you go?'

'I went to Losand,' he remembered, surprised.

'Who did you travel with?' Branca challenged.

That took a moment's thought. 'Master Gruit and Mistress Charoleia.'

'Where are they now?' she asked quickly.

'They're--' They had all met with Evord and Tathrin in the upper room of the timber-framed Merchants' Exchange. Why was he studying all alone in this remote stone hall? Aremil opened his eyes. 'This isn't Losand.'

Branca was looking intently at him. 'When did you last see Master Gruit and Mistress Charoleia?'

'In Carluse.' Candle flames sputtered in a chilling draft. 'Charoleia's been hurt.' Worse than hurt. She had been tortured. Aremil stiffened, horrified. 'Trissa is dead!'

'Yes.' A tear glistened on Branca's cheek. 'And Gruit?'

'He fled Abray,' Aremil slowly recalled, 'after embezzling the funds to supply Tathrin.'

How did he know that? How could he have forgotten?

Anxiety seized him. 'Where's Tathrin?'

How could he have forgotten his friend, marching with the Soluran, risking his life while Aremil sat surrounded by books?