The Swans' War 1 - The One Kingdom (26 page)

"Perhaps you can," Cynddl said, "if the snows don't fall early, but the river is broad and in no hurry farther south. We will not be to the Westbrook for some time yet. And the fair does not begin until first summer's day.""But can a man ride from there to the Vale of Lakes before the snows or not?""It would be a close-run thing. The Fael leave for the far north early in spring, the snows retreating before them. But riders travel more quickly than a train of carts. It's possible, Fynnol, though the road does not follow even as straight a course as the river, and climbs many hills even before it goes up into the highlands. If you are caught in the snows before you get home to the Vale..." Cynddl tilted his head, gray eyebrows lifting.” You are resourceful young men, you might survive, but you would almost certainly lose your mounts."Fynnol cast his eye toward Baore again, but the big Vale-man kept his gaze fixSd on the fire.” Well, I for one will go south with Cynddl," Fynnol announced.” I cannot bear the thought of this rogue Alaan profiting from all our efforts. And if we have our artifacts, or the proceeds from them, added to what Cynddl has offered, we might find very good mounts indeed. And we will see more of the world, for I will tell you, Inniseth has been something of a disappointment to me." Neither Baore nor Tarn responded. Only the fire crackled, sending a sudden shower of sparks up among the stars. They stood watches that night, the fears of the villagers infecting them, perhaps. Baore insisted he was well enough to take his turn, and stood the watch after Tarn. Cynddl woke in the darkness, as he often did, hearing the whisperings of women and men, tales surfacing from the dark pool that lay within his thoughts. He gazed into this pool, for hours sometimes, seeing only the surface. Or walked about it waiting patiently. It was an eerie place, and not made less so by familiarity. The stories of men seemed to burble up from the ground in the Greensprings and find their way into the river, where they ran together in confusion. But somehow they surfaced in this quiet pool, connected to the greater river in some mysterious way. And Cynddl waited. He rose from his blankets, hearing the river run and cattle lowing in the distant barns. Insects sang their love songs and goatsuckers jeered in the air above. It was Baore's watch but the big Valeman was nowhere to be seen. Cynddl took himself down to the river to check their boat, suddenly fearing that Baore had gone off on his own, crossing the river to find his way back to the Vale on foot. Baore was sitting on the bank, his knees drawn up like a child. Cynddl wondered if he should approach at all or leave the young man to his thoughts. But the sadness of the Vale-man was unbearable and Cynddl drew near.” Baore? Are you well?"The big man glanced back and then returned his attention to the river.” No," he whispered, "I'm not well."Cynddl came and sat on the bank nearby.” Does your wound trouble you still?""My wound? No. It heals as it should." He said nothing more for a long moment and Cynddl waited, as he was used to doing.

Baore shifted where he sat.” When I lay fevered and raving, Cynddl, I thought I heard voices. They whispered and muttered like fiber's river, hissing things.... I don't know. I didn't really understand—though almost I could. I thought I heard threats and promises." He shook his head.” Of what, I don't know. And when I sleep now, I hear them still. Like voices from another room, the words hard to distinguish, but even so, you know when people argue or whisper secrets. You know, somehow. It is like that, and I dread to sleep now. I—I dread it."Cynddl shifted on the grass, wondering what he should say. Certainly he should tell Baore what Tarn and he had seen that night, but there was some part of him that sensed Baore would not do well with such knowledge. The largest and strongest of them, he seemed to Cynddl the most fragile as well. Baore needed firm earth beneath his feet and familiarity all around. How unlike Fynnol he was in this. Yet Fynnol dragged him along on all his adventures. Poor Baore, that he had such a cousin. And yet what a tiny world he would inhabit without Fynnol.

"I suppose you will say they are only dreams," Baore said, "and that I should not let them trouble me.""I would never say that," Cynddl said quickly.” The dreams of men cause all the troubles in the world. All the troubles, and all that is beautiful and glorious."

NO OFFERING HAD BEEN LEFT FOR THE CASTLE GHOSTS THAT night, but Carral mounted the steps to the tower anyway. He wanted to speak to this man, this phantom, and find out how he proposed to whisk his daughter away when the castle was filled with supporters of the Prince of Innes—and he knew no other way to contact him. They had met nowhere but in the tower upon the offering nights. Carral hurried as quickly as he dared up the winding stair, treads rising, uneven and worn, beneath his feet. The door at the stair head was closed and he pressed it open, his senses alert. There was no fire and he felt the dampness of the place. A breeze stirred as the door swung open. Carral felt his disappointment and frustration well up, and then a throat was cleared.” I thought you might come this night," a voice said, causing Carral to sigh with relief. It was his ghost, and not Eremon, as he'd feared.” I have no more time for this charade," Carral snapped, shutting the door behind him.” Who are you and why should I trust you at all?" A small laugh came from the vicinity of the window.” My name would mean nothing to you, and who I was, even less." Carral stamped his foot on the floor.” I haven't patience for it! You ask me to entrust my daughter to you and give me no reason for doing so" "The alternative to trusting me is reason enough, Lord Carral. I do not need to say what that is. You have met Hafydd now, and know what you deal with. If all I wanted was to whisk your daughter away for some purpose of my own, I would hardly need your permission. I would simpl abduct her. Yet here I am, discussing the matter with you, hoping for your aid. . . ." He paused, then said softly, "Will you aid me in this?"Carral closed his eyes to stop the sudden burning. He had never been left so little choice. Trust a nameless stranger who played at being a ghost or surrender his daughter to that monster Hafydd.

"What would you have me do?" Carral said softly. The ghost took a long breath and was about to speak when the sound of men upon the stairs reached him.

For a second he listened, hoping it was not true.” They've trapped us," Carral said, hearing the despair in his voice.

"She must come this night," the ghost said quickly.” Tell her only to dress for travel. Any other preparation will alert Menwyn and Hafydd. Arrange for her to come down the servants stair three hours after midnight."The men pounding up the stair were almost at the door.” But you will be in the clutches of Hafydd, my ghost. How will you proceed then?"Soft laughter lit the eternal darkness.” And what manacles will they find to chain a ghost?"The door burst open and an indeterminate number of men streamed in, voices and footsteps all ajumble. Carral was pushed back into the room, and sat down when a chair pressed against the back of his knees. Men milled about in confusion, cursing.

And then they fell silent and still. Footsteps came into the room. Footsteps Carral recognized now.

"Sir Hafydd," Carral said before thinking, and cringed in spite of himself.

"We heard voices as we came up the stair," a youngish man said quickly, "but when we came into the room, he was alone."Carral could feel Hafydd staring at him.

"I was speaking to myself. The habit of men who spend too much time alone."Hafydd said nothing for a moment. Carral half expected to feel the side of his face explode again, and tried to maintain an appearance of calm and dignity.

But nothing happened at all. Hafydd's footsteps sounded. Carral heard the scuff of boots as they turned and went deliberately down the stairs. Immediately the others followed, and Carral remained in his chair.

When he was sure they were all gone he stood.” Hello?" he said tentatively.” Am I alone?"There was no response, only the soft whisper of a night breeze. Suddenly the door creaked, then slammed shut. Carral jumped.

He put a hand over his heart and slumped back down in his chair. Only the wind. No one but he remained in the tower. No one.

For a few moments Carral sat in his chair, heart racing, the damp, night air coming reluctantly into his lungs. His thoughts were a whirl of confusion and disbelief.

Where has my ghost gone?

Carral began to wonder if he were going mad. He had been speaking to a man who breathed and coughed, walked solidly upon the floor, drank wine, even poured some into Carral's glass and put it into his hand. For three years Carral himself had been coming up here to partake in the offerings left for the ghosts—ever since Ancel had died. He had been the ghost.

And now some man claiming to be a ghost had disappeared into the night. Disappeared from a high tower from which Carral knew there was only one exit. The room, after all, was round, the walls made by the curving stonework of the tower itself. There could be no secret passage, no bolt-hole. The only way out of this room was through the door... or out the window.

He rose and carefully crossed the room to the open window. A bit embarrassed by what he was about to do, Carral reached out and felt along the wet sill, assuring himself that no one clung there.

"Foolish," he said aloud.

For a moment he stood there, leaning upon the sill, letting the damp breeze touch his face like a daughter's kiss. Somewhere in the night, a bird called.

ELISE OPENED THE DOOR TO HER ROOM WITH SUCH CARE THAT it made not a sound. She put her eye to the crack, gazing out into the candlelit hall. Yes, they were there—guards in the midnight-blue livery of the Wills, and one in the dark purple of the Prince of Innes. She pushed the door to silently, and crept back to her bed, slipping beneath the covers.

There had been a ruckus the night before—a thief was seen skulking the halls, it was said, and guards had been posted everywhere. Everyone seemed to believe it was one of the minstrels who'd come with the Prince of Innes—a jewel thief perhaps, posing as a player, or an assassin, others whispered. This had made Elise laugh. Such was the Wills family sense of self-importance—who would want to assassinate one of them and why? If there was one, she hoped he would assassinate Menwyn and his vicious wife. She picked up her book and opened it gently.

Elise read in bed. It was frowned upon as being bad for one's character and was said to incite strange dreams that somehow led to daydreaming and idleness. She thought some of the wisdom of her elders was so stupendously foolish that it defied all reason. Well, it was true that she was somewhat prone to daydreaming and idleness, but she was quite sure it was not caused by reading before she fell asleep. No, her idleness and daydreaming, she had come to believe, were a secret and silent rebellion against the life she was forced to live. But then, she rather liked being idle—and daydreaming, too. It was how she kept her imagination alive, for without her imagination she would certainly go mad. If life could never be anything more than living in this stifling castle dominated by Menwyn and Bette . . . She pressed her eyes closed for a second to drive out the thought. Only her flights of fancy allowed her to escape. How much time she spent constructing a future in which she was free of her meddling relations, their stupid feuds and constant intrigue. How hateful they all were! For perhaps the tenth time she realized she had finished the page and not comprehended a single word. She began again at the top, but then laid the heavy book down in her lap. Her mind kept returning again and again to the anguished warning she had received from Prince Michael. How had he appeared so charming and at ease earlier in the evening and then so forlorn and desperate later? Was the "engaging young man" only an act? Or, more unsettling, was his later mood the act? She remembered that she had noticed him in conversation with that forbidding-looking knight—Eremon, she believed—a counselor of the Prince of Innes. A little shiver of revulsion ran through her at the thought of the man. Had that conversation precipitated the change? There was no way to know. All she knew was that her heart went out to him. His own situation must be a thousand times worse than her own, to prompt such unhappiness. She wondered if he read at night before he went to sleep, if he imagined a day when he would be free of his family's demands. Perhaps he felt such despair because he could never imagine such a day. Perhaps he had no imagination at all.

The softest knock sounded on her door. For a second she could neither answer nor move, imagining it to be the young Prince. Her heart began to beat as quickly as a bird's.

But then the lock turned and the door opened and she heard her name whispered in her father's unmistakable voice.

"Come in," she whispered in return, not sure why they were whispering.

Carral scurried in, closing the door after him with such care she did not even hear the tick of the lock. As he turned away from the door, she was shocked by his face, which was dark and haggard.

"What has happened?" she said, thrusting aside her book and sitting up.

Carral crossed the room, sounding before him with his cane. She took his hand as he reached the bedside and lowered himself to the edge. One eye lay within a stain of dusky blue, and a bright, jagged bruise blossomed over his cheek.” What has happened to your face?" she said. He brushed her hand away from the injury.” Tis nothing," he said quickly.” The Prince will ask for your hand in marriage tomorrow." He seemed a little out of breath.” I have just spoken to Menwyn, who has already given consent, not bothering to speak to me until it was done. 'Knowing I would agree,' he said." He clutched her hand tightly, his own hand uncharacteristically cold.” But, Elise"—he took a deep involuntary breath—"you cannot marry him." He swallowed suddenly, running out of words, as if not sure what to say. But then he plunged on.” The Prince's counselor, a man calling himself Eremon, is actually a knight once known as Hafydd. He was our enemy in the past and is, I can assure you, as base a man as I have ever encountered. You do not want to fall into the clutches of Hafydd and the Prince whom he serves. I know that Prince Michael is handsome and has all the wit and charm you could ever desire, but, Elise, his father wants only a child with Wills blood, so that he might attempt to unite the old kingdom and put his grandson upon the throne." He stopped, suddenly breathless; and she thought he looked unwell, pallid and tired.” Yes," she said, "Prince ... Prince Michael warned me not to marry him. He seemed so wretchedly unhappy." She felt her eyes grow damp. Hearing the tears in her voice, Carral touched a hand to her cheek.” You must worry about yourself now," he said softly.” No one else. You must go away. Tonight." A tear escaped at the words and she felt him stroke it gently away.” But there are guards in the hallway...." "The guards will be distracted." "But they will have me back within a day; two at the most." She almost burst into tears as she said this.” No," her father said, his voice warm and soothing—as she remembered it from her childhood.” Arrangements have been made...." He hesitated—she felt it.” A friend will guide you. You'll not be caught by any man, you can be sure of that." "But what of you?" she said.” What will become of you without me?" "Oh, I shall waste away and die, most likely." His smile was forced, but it took some of the darkness from his bruised face and made him look less ill.” You're saying that you can exist without me?" "I shall not be as happy and will miss you more than I can begin to say, but don't worry about your father. I have my music and all the minstrels who come to visit. I won't perish." He traced her eyebrow very gently, as though afraid he would forget it.” I must go. Come down the servants stair three hours after midnight. Dress for travel but don't spend any effort on packing, for if the servants see they might alert Menwyn.""Go with nothing? Not even a change of clothing?""Nothing. If you're found carrying a bag in the hall it will all be over. Take nothing but this." He pressed a small bag into her hands.

Elise squeezed it and felt its weight. Coins, and likely jewels as well: the currency most easily carried.

"But how long shall I be away?""Not long, I hope. A few months. We'll see. I'll send word when you can safely return.""But what will the Prince of Innes do to us, to the family?""Elise, flee while you may and stop making arguments. Menwyn created this situation, let Menwyn deal with it. It is his problem, not yours. You must go. And so must I."He leaned forward and kissed both her cheeks, then she did the same to him. For a moment they embraced. She could feel his reluctance as he rose from the edge of the bed. He released her hand last And then he was crossing the room and out the door. Blind from birth, her father could never look back.

She carried a single candle and her embroidery bag, which contained only toiletries and her journal. The servants stair was narrow, airless, and creaked terribly. Fortunately, Elise had learned a little trick from listening to the servant girls talk—walk on the very outer edge of the tread, near the wall, and the stairs would creak less. But even less seemed far too much in the silence of the sleeping castle.

The candle flame wobbled as she went, light and shadow wrestling back and forth along the walls and down the well of winding stairs.

Elise was scared. She was stealing through the castle at night to meet a person whose name she did not even know.

Why had her father not given her a name? As things stood, she could meet a servant of the Prince of Innes and not know if he was the friend who was to take her away. A tread complained loudly beneath her foot, as though she had stepped upon a sleeping cat. She paused to still her racing heart.

Elise trusted her father—that was not in question—but even so, a little more information would not have been out of place. Another stair creaked, and Elise froze in place. The sound had not come from beneath her feet but had echoed up the stairwell. And then her name seemed to chase the echo, as though she had whispered it herself and now it came back to her.

"Who is that?" she said. It was a woman's voice, she was relieved to hear.

Footsteps came quickly up the stairs, the light of a candle chasing the misshapen shadows ahead. A vaguely familiar woman appeared—a singer, Elise was certain. She remembered the soft face beneath auburn curls and the large, observant eyes. The woman had come with one of the minstrels, a well-known man, but Elise could not remember his name let alone this singer's.

"I am to guide you out," she said quickly.” Put this on." Across her extended arm lay a hooded cloak of fine fabric. Elise realized it was her own.

"We took the liberty of packing a few of your things," the woman said, her alert gaze on Elise.

Elise shrugged the cloak on when she realized the woman did not mean to assist her—she was her savior, after all, not her servant. The singer put a finger to her lips and they set out down the creaking stair. Certainly servants used the stair at night, and it wouldn't do to meet one of them. But the sound of someone on the stair at this hour should not raise suspicions if any of the Prince's people were about.

In a moment they were in a narrow hall, and then down another long stair and into the kitchens. Servants would be in to light the fires shortly, but for the time being kitchens and scullery were empty. Elise's worst fear was to come upon two servants in a tryst—it had happened once when she was younger. And though she had been told to report seeing any such behavior, her embarrassment had been so great she had said not a word. For this she had long been a favorite of the young maids and kitchen girls.

They slipped out a large set of doors through which stores were brought, up an open flight of stairs> and into a courtyard behind the stables. From the shadow by the stable door Elise caught the sound of horses shifting, a bridle's rattle.

She looked around the open courtyard into which at least two dozen windows opened. They could hardly expect to slip out of here unseen. This is foolish, she thought, and felt her hopes fall. This was the plan she had submitted to? She could have done better herself.

In the shadows a man waited with two horses, one of them her own Morn. Without a word the man led her mare to a mounting step, and she was up and settling herself in the saddle in an instant. He swung up to the back of his own horse and without a word led them quickly across the courtyard, beneath an arch, and out the small gate. There was someone there in the darkness, who closed the gate behind them. He wished them luck in a southern accent.

And then they were trotting along the track that ran around the high wall, moonlight tossed down like coins beneath the trees. In a moment they were on the long bridge, crossing toward the shore, challenged by no guard.

They turned onto the grass that ran along the eastern shore, cantering through the still, dark morning. The waning moon drifted down toward the hilltops and cast faint shadows of the two riders. In half an hour, before the sky grayed, the open grass turned to a wood, and a road took shape, bending away from the water. They followed this up, bringing their horses to a walk beneath the shadows of the trees. The wood was all dark shapes and bits of broken moonlight—a spooky place, unrecognizable as the lovely wood she walked during the day. Elise caught a glimpse of water through the branches. A small breeze swept down the lake, shattering the moonlit surface, and the shards began a dazzling dance. At the crest of the hill her guide brought his horse up and signaled for her to do the same.” We must have light to go farther," he said.” I don't want to risk breaking a horse's leg if we don't have to." "Is it Gwyden Dore?" Elise said.” I thought as much. Ever since my father came to me this night I've thought you must be the friend who would take me away." "How very clever of you," her guide said.” You know they will be after us by daylight. And anywhere along the way they will have fresh horses." "Not on the ways that I will take." He rode over near the bluff's edge so that he might look down at the lake and the dark castle on its island.” They must have daylight, too, if they are to find our track. Can you keep the saddle for a few hours yet?" "I will ride all day and night if that is what's required." She saw him turn toward her—a silhouette against the star-filled sky.” I might hold you to that, yet," he said. They dismounted and let their horses browse along the bluff top. Elise watched the moonlight make patterns on the water, patterns that were never repeated—like the lives of men. Similar but never the same. And now the pattern of her life had been broken and she was cast out into the world. Like the bird that had tried to steal her ring, flying out over the waters and into the world beyond with only a branch for a bed, for a country the vault of the open sky. As soon as the sky paled they were riding again, though not so fast now, her guide choosing to preserve their horses as though expecting a long day—or saving them for a sprint should their pursuers appear, which she was convinced they would. She wondered why she went along with this at all. The countryside hereabout was well known and all the valleys given over to open farmland, each with a small village or two. They couldn't stay to the trees forever. The valleys would have to be crossed, and the first soon.

Gwyden Dore led her off the road and along a narrow path into dense wood. She rode behind, branches whipping at her face and spoiling her fine cloak. The day grew warm, and the wood was soon filled with birdsong and the buzzing of insects. They crossed a small swift brook, and then another. Elise found herself looking about constantly, as though she expected men-at-arms to leap out of the underwood.