Sword (26 page)

Did grief do
this
?

Devin leaned against the wall, probably getting dust all over his clothes in the process. His sorrow was a never-ending ambush, surprising him at odd moments—the sight of a child playing with a wooden sword, men singing war songs, Taireasa's strained, weary smile across a room—and he'd have to duck out of the company of others and bite his tongue until the pain chased away the threat of tears. Every time someone called him
Lord Corwynall,
it was salt in the wound.

He
couldn't
be Head of House—but his cousins, who were the next logical choice, were now tainted by Feldan's treachery… and his sister, who should have been Head and had been groomed all her life for it, was by her own choice not even truly a Corwynall anymore. Though he would never stop thinking of her as one.

He let his head hang, since there was no one here to see him do it.

"Captain, the party on the eastern ridge sent word of an encounter with Western scouts."

"I've heard. We'll send out our own band this evening, and I want another ready to—"

Kyali.

Devin straightened, making something pop painfully in his spine. He was rubbing his neck and grimacing when his old friend from a wild trip over the mountain and his little sister came around a corner and stopped, seeing him.

"Begging your pardon, then, Captain, I'll see to the men." Peydan sidled past them with a muttered greeting and a look of sympathy Devin wasn't sure he was meant to see. Kyali, all silver and black in the armor she was never without these days, stared at him for a long moment and then began to move past him.

"It's going well, I see," Devin said, just to have something to say.

They both paused to listen to the echo of his words die against the stone walls.

"Well enough," Kyali said curtly, and moved around him in the dark little hallway, clearly wanting to get away. Devin's stomach knotted up into a queasy, homesick heartache.

"Kyali—" It came out sounding strangled and far too desperate for his pride. But it did make her stop. She halted with her head bowed and her shoulders hunched as though she expected a blow. She didn't turn around.

"Where are you?" Devin asked, because he'd given up most of his pride already, and what little was left didn't matter much. He'd lost his father and his home. He didn't think he could stand losing Kyali, too, but it felt like he already had.

"Here," his sister said grimly, never once looking at him.

"No. You're not. You're
really not
."

One of her hands clenched quickly, then relaxed. That was the only sign that she'd heard him. "Then best I go on my way," she said, and left.

He stood there for a few minutes, listening to the noise wax and wane outside this little hall, then wiped his face and turned to follow the darkness to wherever it wanted to take him.

The hall ended in yet another hall. This one was lined with high windows that let in the slanted afternoon light. The Baar mountains loomed through the warped old glass like gods, huge and indifferent and coldly beautiful. Devin followed corridor after corridor, blindly seeking the hint of fresh air in the drafts blowing down the corridors, until at last he found a door of dark ironwood barred by a metal beam so rusted he doubted it would keep out anything but mice. He pried it open with effort—not
that
rusted, apparently—and staggered when the wind howled immediately in at him, snatching the air right out of his lungs.

"Ah," he groaned, mostly in relief, and pushed his way out into the merciless sunlight.

The view opened up before him, falling away in dizzy segments: first the lower wall of the castle, then the cliff's face, then a series of increasingly distant hills and valleys tumbling haphazardly toward the foothills. And after that came Lardan, green and brown and beloved. He couldn't see Faestan from here, and he was grateful for that. Everyone he loved that was left in the world was on this slowly freezing stack of rock.

Soldiers did drills in the courtyard below, the shouts and clangs rattling up to him. Devin shuffled forward, eyeing the drop warily, and leaned against the old black stone of the castle wall, listening. It sounded like home.

Home was gone.

He fumbled thoughtlessly at the strap of the case that held the Fraonir harp to his back, opening the catch. The harp fell into his hands like a favorite pet, and even though the air was cold with the promise of winter and snow, which he'd never seen, the shining wood of the neck and the pillar were as warm as skin. He set the instrument on his knee, leaned forward until his head rested on its carved shoulder, and let his fingers wander over the strings.

The notes, aimless as they were, soothed him. He sighed, heard it echo in the strings, and followed the sound until notes became melody. He'd never in his life been able to lay a hand on an instrument without thinking of song. It had driven his father and Kyali to distraction.

The memory of two exasperated pairs of eyes, both gold with that odd remnant of some other heritage, made his breath catch. When he pushed it out of his lungs, words rode on it. Devin let them come, finding solace where he always had.

Though our fields lie still and fallow

And the sky is filled with cloud
,

Though our days seem darkly hallowed

Yet these moments we’re allowed.

Though the night is flame and shadow

And the stars veiled in a shroud
,

Though our hearts are filled with sorrow

Still these moments we’re allowed.

Give me strength to fight the heartless

And the grace to stand unbowed
,

Give me love to light the darkness

In these moments I’m allowed.

A little dramatic, he decided, and snorted; he did feel better, at least. It was a good thing he'd come so far from the crowds to mope, or he'd have to explain this very audible fog of sentiment to half the castle. He waved his hand through the blurry shimmer of magic his playing had made in the air around him.

Then he realized the noise of the drills had vanished.

Devin leaned over the edge, a little panicked: the last time he'd played a flute, terrible magic had followed, and he still wasn't wholly convinced the Fraonir were the ones responsible. His wobbly look down to the courtyard showed him several hundred faces at a distance, soldiers all standing around holding their swords, gone still, staring up.

"Dear gods," he yelped, and fell off the wall—thankfully on the safe side of it—in his haste to get out of sight, just barely saving the harp.

"Sorry!" he yelled, and hissed in pain. This damned stone was
hard
.

"Play elsewhere!" came his sister's shouted retort. Laughter wafted up to him—laughter and a few approving whistles.

Well,
someone
appreciated him.

* * *

Clouds of dust traveled across the room like flocks of tiny birds, dimming the light from the high northern-facing windows. Kinsey sneezed once, then again, and knocked over a stack of books cracked and stiff with age. He dropped the dustcloth and dove forward, catching them in his arms halfway under a table.

A carpet of dust shifted under his knees. Arms full of books, Kinsey sneezed again and banged the back of his head on the underside of the table.

"Ow!"

"This is an odd way to martyr yourself, my Lord Prince."

He cracked his head again as Annan's voice sent a jolt through his limbs. "
Ow
! Damn."

There was a slightly strangled cough from the general direction Annan was standing. Kinsey pulled himself up, sliding the pile of books carefully onto the table, and met his lieutenant's studiously blank gaze. Annan glanced once about the library, such as it was—at the broken shelves and the endless stacks of books coated in what might be
centuries
of dust—and edged one tiny step backward, as though he feared proximity might transfer all the mess onto his well-kept armor.

"You need servants in here, my lord," he said.

"I've a Fraonir assistant around here somewhere—"

"She's in the kitchens at the moment."

"Ah." Barely two months in, and Annan already seemed to know everything that went on in the fortress. He wasn't surprised. His lieutenant wasn't the sort to wait for a situation to sort itself out before getting his hands in it, pushing to see what would move, or break.

"How go the drills?" Kinsey asked, half in curiosity, half to change the subject.

"Well enough."

Annan folded his arms and stared out the window, not a particularly confidence-inspiring signal. Kinsey straightened, cradling a book gently in filthy hands, and stared at his lieutenant. Annan didn't meet his eyes.

It was a careful, tricky path, working with the Lardana forces without
becoming
the Lardana forces. Kinsey still wasn't sure what Taireasa Marsadron wished—or what the Lady Captain wanted, for that matter. He'd thought, right up until this moment, that Annan had navigated those issues on his own, but the set of the man’s shoulders told him that wasn't the case.

It was probably something
he
should have done... and instead he'd been buried in ancient books and dust, paying no attention to anything else.

"How's the harpy?" Kinsey prodded, trying to lighten the mood a little, but Annan only shifted one shoulder in a shrug, still staring out the window.

"Competent," he replied.

And left a silence hanging that could have sunk a ship, it was so heavy.

Damn
, Kinsey thought. He'd definitely failed to pick up on this problem in time. He chewed on his lip, trying to think of some way, any way, that his small company could work within the larger army of Lardana soldiers without taking authority away from Annan—but he knew little of the structure of command. And asking Annan would only get him more of that stoic, uninformative stare.

Then something else struck him; he set the book carefully down and picked up the cloth, sweeping the table. "It occurs to me," he said, feeling his way through the idea, "that we have things to offer our allies that they might not be aware of."

Annan still hadn't turned to face him, but he could see, out of the corner of one eye, that the man’s dark-haired head had cocked slightly. Kinsey wiped the rest of the table down, letting the silence stretch out, and finally Annan spun on one heel, that dreaded eyebrow raised.

"Yes?"

"They don't appear to have much in the way of intelligence among their ranks."

"Unkind," Annan said dryly. Kinsey fought down a grin.

"No, not—stop it. You know what I mean. The Lardana men are mostly cavalry and infantry, and all the lieutenants and sergeants were promoted on the way here—they seem to have lost most of their veteran officers in the uprising.
We
, on the other hand, are spies and couriers. And one assumes that there are folk somewhere in the kingdom below us that Her Majesty and the Lady Captain might want to get word to. Or receive word
about
."

Annan frowned, looking thoughtful. "Hm," he muttered.

"You don't think it's likely?"

"It might be, m'lord. They are woefully short on experienced agents." Annan hunched a bit more, like a dark gargoyle, and bravely offered: "Shall I suggest it?"

To the Lady Captain, he meant—and rumor had it she and Annan got along slightly better than a pair of roosters in a single coop, likely part of why Annan hadn't arranged his own solutions long since. Which wasn't much of a surprise. The Lady Captain had not proven herself to be one for polite discussions, and Annan had a sarcastic bent that had prevented him from being promoted more than once before he became Kinsey's man. Being in the room with the two of them was like being stuck in a sandstorm: the space filled quickly with dry, stinging wit and very little usable air.

"Not necessarily," Kinsey said, picturing that conversation and thinking the fragile alliance might not survive it. "I can bring it to Her Majesty. I need to speak to her anyway."

And I probably would have come up with an excuse even if I didn't
, he thought, and coughed to hide the heat crawling up his neck. Taireasa Marsadron was the wisest and kindest person he'd ever met—and she turned him into a babbling idiot just by looking his way. It was mortifying, and so far it seemed incurable.

He was going to have to do something about that, but he hadn't thought of anything useful yet.

"… about getting more housekeepers in here, at least until the dust is cleared out and it's possible to breathe," he finished, avoiding Annan's eyes. "I'll never get this library in order otherwise."

Annan cast a dubious glance around the room. The windows were coated with grime. The hearth probably had wildlife living in it. It looked like a few centuries had passed since anyone had cared to come in this place, and yet… there were books, more books than Kinsey had ever seen. Just
thinking
about them made him feel a bit giddy.

"What is it, exactly, you hope to find in here?" his lieutenant asked. Annan had been sitting on that particular question for a while now, Kinsey could tell.

Kinsey waved a hand at the books. "This isn't enough?"

There went that eyebrow again. It was a fairly good gauge for Annan's mood—often the
only
gauge, since the rest of his face moved so little. "You'd have rescued them one at a time and read them in your rooms if that's all you were after."

"A point." Kinsey abandoned the dirt-coated dustcloth and sat. "I'm looking for secrets. Or I will be, if I ever get this place to a state where I can sit in it for an hour without choking."

Annan's eyes lit at the word
secrets
. He brushed off another chair and sat down gently, as though he expected it to collapse under him. His armor scraped against the wood. "What sort?"