The Horse Lord (17 page)

After several deep breaths he felt capable of speech and straightened his back unconsciously. “What is going on here?” His voice was soft, controlled once more and deliberately laced with menace.

The officer tried to ignore his tacit threat and levelled one gloved finger at Kyrin. “You,” he said, “help him to walk. Guards, watch them. Especially the
eijo
. I wouldn’t think of escaping,
an-kourgath”
he finished, bolder once his soldiers had closed in.

“I asked you a question,” Aldric said. There were no more threats; he was too weary for playacting an unconvincing role and no longer cared whether or not he was given an answer. But he got one just the same.

“My lord wants you,” the officer returned. “Both of you. Now. At once.”

Neither Aldric nor Kyrin had any idea of where they might be—there had been curtains tightly fastened over every window of the carriage which had brought them here. At least, the
eijo
reflected grimly as he glanced around their place of confinement, the cage was a gilded one.

Gilded was an understatement, for the place was magnificent. Its walls were panelled in maplewood and carved burr walnut, the inlaid floor was thickly strewn with rugs. Scented oil in lamps of gold and crystal filled the air with fragrance and struck myriad reflections from gems and precious metals. The place should have been coarse and garish; instead it was tasteful, restrained and of such elegance that Kyrin found herself considering every move she made, lest it destroy the room’s sense of graceful order.

Aldric felt no such compunction; he was long past being overawed by mere fine furnishings and had been irritated both by apparent arrest and by his own brief, shaming loss of face. Slithering comfortably into a chair—and pointedly ignoring what his
tsalaer
was doing to the polished wood—he tried without success to work out who had captured him. If “captured” was the right word, and he was inclined to doubt it. Despite their brusque early treatment, it seemed now that they were less prisoners than guests—reluctant ones of course, but there had been a lack of threats, of locked doors or anything else suggestive of captivity. Wondering just how far his guesses would be borne out, he rose and walked quietly to the door.

It was indeed unlocked and he eased it back a whisker—then bit on an oath and all but slammed it shut. There was a file of soldiers in the corridor outside, at ease, talking quietly, but all with weapons at their sides. So much, thought Aldric, for another fine idea. Closing the door, he leaned back against it until the latch clicked home.

Both he and the girl had been disarmed—except for his
tsepan
, which was either criminal oversight or a deliberate act in keeping with the strangeness of this strange place. That his own armoured body was a useful weapon he knew already, but bareheaded against a dozen men it was nowhere near enough.

There was a small table near one wall; on it stood flagons, goblets of worked metal and tiny, fragile glasses. The
eijo
filled two of these with a wine which was the brilliant, sinister colour of fresh blood and offered one to Kyrin. No word had passed between them since they had been taken and even now she thanked him only with a nod. Looking at the trembling hand she extended for her wine, and at lips compressed so tightly that they had no colour left, he could guess the reason why: Kyrin was terrified.

Forcing his own lips into a smile, yet knowing it must look more like a grin of rage, Aldric slipped one mailed arm around her. “Drink up,” he murmured. “If they’d meant us any harm we’d have found it out by now.” That was not necessarily true, he thought sombrely, but kept it from darkening the false and brittle brightness of his voice. Kyrin blinked nervously at him and he heard the crystal clink against her teeth as she gulped down its contents. “Another?” he offered, holding up his own glass. “If it does no other good, it will help you to relax. You’re shaking.” He tightened his embrace a fraction and leaned towards her face.

“I bid you welcome to my house,” purred a voice from just behind them. Aldric controlled himself in time, but ‘Kyrin jumped and failed to stifle her gasp of shock. When they turned around, it was with the slowness of exaggerated calm. The speaker stood in a sweep of darkness just beyond the lamplight; his outline was vague, and only the points of light from jewels and embroidered garments gave them any indication of possible shapes.

“I would offer you refreshment—but it seems no longer necessary,” the voice observed rather tartly. There might have been some disapproval in its soft tone; there was certainly a thread of accent which put Aldric on his guard at once. Despite the precision of his Alban words, this man was still more accustomed to the guttural consonants of Drusalan: the Imperial tongue.

“I beg pardon,” the young
eijo
responded insincerely. He gestured towards the cups and flagon. “May I pour you some…”

“My thanks, but no. I do not drink wine. The sun has not yet set.” That last irrelevant statement struck Aldric as odd and he stared at the intruder when at last he deigned to leave his cloak of shadows and walk forward so that they could see him. The man was several inches taller than Aldric, but his height was offset by a burly, powerful frame which reminded the Alban of a bear; a weatherbeaten bear whose dark hair was greying, but a cold-eyed, scar-faced carnivore for all that.

Flicking a glance at the worn hilt of a low-slung sword and the blunt, capable hand resting on its pommel, Aldric inclined his head respectfully. He bowed not merely to the physical strength so apparent here, but to the power Of authority which the big man wore like a garment; Aldric had possessed a little of such power himself and knew politeness to be just good sense.

“Might we be offered some explanation for what has been happening today?” Aldric speculated warily. The man stroked his moustache, perhaps to hide a smile, perhaps not.

“Curious,” he muttered. “Almost the words I was going to use.” Then he did smile, if anything so small and fleeting deserved the name. “Explanations will be given and received presently. For now, sit down; be still; make free with the wine—I am assured it is excellent.”

Aldric opened his mouth to continue this diplomatic exchange, but was interrupted by four soldiers who stamped in and snapped to attention on either side of the door. The moustached man drew himself more upright, while his two unwilling guests forgot about making themselves comfortable and instead waited apprehensively for the next development.

This took the form of a man in a gold-worked purple over-robe who swept an interested gaze around the room. In his forties, he was slightly built and wore his thinning fair hair in the three braids of a high-clan
ar-luth
. He limped as he entered and the padding of his under-tunic almost—but not quite—concealed the crooked tilt of his left shoulder. A golden crest-collar at his throat bore a pendant rayed-sun centred with a single ruby the size of a thrush’s egg. The eyes in his clean-shaven face were a clear hazel, like sunlight through water, and tiny crow’s-feet wrinkled the skin around them as he stared long and hard at the two strangers in this tranquil room.

Aldric did not return the stare as he normally would; instead he knelt with studied feline grace and touched brow to floor in First Obeisance. Kyrin copied him, wanting to ask questions but knowing enough to realise that this was neither the time nor the place. She had gleaned one important answer from the
eijo’s
bow alone.

This slender man was Rynert, the king.

“Up, you two,” he said, taking a seat and accepting an offered glass of wine. “Now, Dewan… what is all this? Your report was a trifle… garbled, shall we say? Give me the translation, please.”

Dewan… The name rang a long-forgotten bell in Aldric’s memory; the name of King Rynert’s captain-of-guards, personal champion, adviser, confidant and friend. Dewan ar Korentin, late of the province of Vrei-jaur on the edge of the Empire’s influence in Jouvann, and equally late a much-decorated
Eldheisart
—lord-commander—of the Bodyguard cavalry in Imperial Drakkesborg.

Ar Korentin spoke briefly, his accent and mode of speech clipping the words shorter still. As Aldric listened, he wondered that the king even bothered to hear such an improbable episode, much less give it any credence. Yet Rynert set down his wineglass and listened closely, twisting at a signet ring on his little finger, turning it round and round again… Then he looked up and Aldric almost fancied he could see the thoughts swimming like fish in his lord’s translucent eyes.

“
Eijo-an
, you call yourself Kourgath—that’s only the beast on your crest-collar. Tell me your true name.”

“I…
mathern-an arluth
, lord king, I was once
kailin-eir
Aldric Talvalin.”

There was a hiss of indrawn breath from ar Korentin, and the faint slither of steel as he half-drew his sword all but drowned a gasp uttered by one of the soldiers near the door. “You lying—” started the Vreijek angrily, then fell silent at a gesture from Rynert.

“Put up your sword, Dewan. There will be time for it later, if need be. You,
eijo
, why do you claim to be one of the Talvalins, when everyone knows of the plague in Dunrath three years ago? And choose your explanation carefully.”

“Because the name is mine,
mathern-an
. If ‘everyone’ knows of this plague, why would I be so stupid as to use a dead man’s name?”

Rynert’s eyebrows lifted; he had expected some intricate excuse, not a blunt admission of guilt. Or was it guilt… ? The warrior’s reasoning was sound enough. “Can you give me any proof?” he demanded. Aldric shook his head; Gemmel had warned him not to carry anything which might identify him as other than the
eijo
he was supposed to be. His foster-father had not foreseen
this
.

“Unfortunate.” Rynert’s voice was cold and sceptical. “You almost convinced me for a moment. I fear that Dewan’s inquisitors will have to prise the truth from—” he broke off as one of his guards stepped forward and slammed a salute.

“Why do you interrupt the king?” snapped ar Korentin dangerously.

“Proof, captain,” muttered the soldier, frightened now by his own boldness. He pulled off his helmet and dropped to one knee, revealing a homely, well-battered face and a spreading broken nose.

“Well?” asked Rynert, curious to know what light a mere sentry could throw on this situation. Aldric doubted it would do much good; the man’s face meant nothing to him and he doubted if he would have forgotten such misshapen features if he had ever set eyes on them before.

“I’ve seen that one before, sire,” the soldier said. “Him in the black armour. Wore his hair properly then and didn’t have that cut on his cheek, but it’s the same man. I’d swear to it.”

Rynert smiled coldly. “You might have to. Where and when did you meet him?”

“Not meet, sire. I saw him in a—with respect, skein a tavern brawl I got caught up in. In Radmur, that was, a couple of years back.”

“A couple?” broke in ar Korentin. “How many exactly?”

“Well, three, captain. Three last autumn, I think. That was when I got this.” He touched his flattened nose. “They said he was just past
Eskorrethen
, but he was a rare fighter for all that. Over a woman, the trouble was, and her somebody else’s lady too.” Stirring uncomfortably, Aldric felt Kyrin’s eyes rest on him like two hot coins laid against his skin. “Then the Prefect took us all under arrest and I got posted to the Guards in Cerdor— to give me a taste of discipline they said.”

“Dewan, remind me to write to Uwin at Radmur-hold,” said King Rynert; though he sounded amused, no humour showed on his face. “He must remember that the Guards cohort isn’t somewhere to dump his rubbish…”

“Captain…” the soldier muttered as reproachfully as he dared.

Dewan’s face twitched as he too fought down his amusement. “They aren’t always rubbish, King. Mostly— but not always.”

“I see,” Rynert murmured, looking at the guard. “One last question, soldier. What was this
kailin’s
name?”

“Talvalin, sire. Haranil-arluth’s youngest son Aldric. That’s the name he gave the Radmur magistrates, anyway.”

“Enough. Dismissed!” After the sentry had returned to his place Rynert glanced at his captain. “Promote him, Dewan, and make sure he’s paid a bounty for this. He’s observant, clever enough”—his voice rose slightly—

“and he stopped a miscarriage of justice. Take a seat,
Aldric-an
. I beg pardon for what might have happened.” The
eijo
saluted in acknowledgment, then sat down carefully, thankful to get the weight of his armour off legs which had become very weak in the past few minutes.

At a nod from the king, his guards wheeled and left the room. Ar Korentin poured wine for Kyrin, Aldric and—after a swift look out at the sky—himself. “But you said—” the
eijo
began in surprise, then shrugged and fell silent.

“I do not drink wine? Not on holy days, like Spring-Feast; then it’s not permitted until after sunset—but it’s quite dark now.” He took a trial sip. “And this was worth the wait.”

“Aldric-an,” said Rynert quietly, “I sent my guards outside so that you could speak freely. I want you to tell me what is happening in my kingdom. Leave nothing out—I have a feeling yours is the only story which has all the details I require.”

Aldric nodded, moistened his mouth with a little wine and began.

“It’s incredible,” said Dewan ar Korentin. “I have never in my life heard anything so fantastic—except maybe that you want us to believe it.”

Very softly, King Rynert cleared his throat. “I believe it, Dewan,” he murmured. “If he was lying it would be a credible, well-thought-out lie, the kind of thing you’ve heard in the law courts before now. Not something like this.

“And don’t forget what you saw this afternoon, old friend. How thick was the ice on that moat… ?” Dewan inclined his head a little but said nothing. “I wondered a little when I saw your hair, Aldric-an,” Rynert continued. “Though I’ve seen
eijin
before, you’re the first
venjens-eijo
I’ve met in my life. The oath was taken against this—Duergar, you called him—this Imperial necromancer, and no one else?”