Throne of Llewyllan (Book 2) (21 page)

She nodded without smiling. “Thanks.” She sat down by the fire, rubbing the back of her neck. “Word around the camp seems to be that we’re leaving within the hour.”

“I know,” said Kendril grimly. “Back to Balneth.”

Lord Bathsby stood like a statue, his face set towards the rising sun. He rested his hands on the wall of the parapet, feeling the wind on his face as he looked out over the expanse of hills below him. Behind him he could hear the sounds of the castle guard changing posts.

“My dear Lord Bathsby,” came a traipsing voice from behind him, “you are up rather early.”

He turned around.

Lady Bronwyn was coming down the walkway from the eastern wall. Her black hair wisped around her face, caught by the wind.

“Just enjoying the sunrise, my lady,” Bathsby said. “And how is the princess this morning?”

“Sleeping,” Bronwyn said, pushing the hair out of her eyes. “I can’t control her forever, you know. Her will is difficult to contain.”

Bathsby turned back around. He took a deep breath of the fresh morning air. “You don’t have to control her forever. Just until after the wedding ceremony.”

Bronwyn’s eyes flashed. “You intend to go through with this, then?”

Bathsby’s fingers curled on the hard stone. “There is no other way. The nobles are a nuisance, but they can ruin everything if they resist me now. When they see Serentha and I wed, there will be no question as to my legitimacy as King.”

“And what about
after
the wedding?”

The nobleman sighed. He curled up his hand and looked over his nails. “After the wedding we have no need for the princess any more, do we?”

Bronwyn arched an eyebrow. “You intend to kill her?”

Lord Bathsby gave a startled look. “Certainly not. She will be killed by assassins sent by Lord Whitmore and his conspirators, who will be hunted down and executed by Sir Reginald and the Royal Guard directly afterwards.”

Bronwyn gave a tight little laugh. “That’s your grand plan? Don’t you think it’s a bit contrived?”

Bathsby smiled without warmth. “It
will
work. I will be King, and Llewyllan will be mine.”

Bronwyn held up a finger. “
Ours
,” she corrected softly.

The nobleman curled his hand around her finger, and pulled her closer with a smile. “Ours.”

The army broke camp about an hour after breakfast, and began the long march back to the north.

There was no rain at first, but the ragged clouds gradually increased until the sky was covered in a gray blanket. The soldiers were strangely silent as they marched, weighed down by an unspoken menace. About mid-day a light rain began, soaking the troops. Still they marched, stopping neither for food nor the travails of the wounded.

Lord Whitmore rode at the head of the line, his face pale from the pain of his injury. Sir Mulcher rode beside him, glancing worriedly at his commander from time to time. Behind them the rest of their ragged troops tromped through the churning mud, their eyes on the path ahead of them.

The small band of companions that had escaped from Balneth rode together near the rear of the column, their spirits barely rising out of the splattering puddles in their path. Maklavir tried to tell a few jokes to lighten their mood, but quickly retreated into his own thoughts, looking often to the north for the first sign of Balneth. Kara rode beside the diplomat, her hood thrown over her bedraggled red hair. She didn’t speak, but on her face was a look of torment.

Joseph rode behind her, his face full of concern for the young woman. He periodically wiped the rain from his eyes, trying to think of something to say. Instead he remained silent, his horse tromping relentlessly through the mud.

Kendril came last of all, riding atop Simon. The Ghostwalker’s hood was slick with the falling rain, and mud spattered his boots and cloak. His rifle was in his hands, and his eyes watched the slopes of the dark hills around them carefully, as if expecting an attack at any moment. But for all his watchfulness, his mind kept drifting on to other thoughts.

The sense of gloom over the entire landscape was almost palpable. Every last soldier dragging their pike behind them seemed to know that something was wrong.

They stopped late that evening, making camp by a small lake. The Dagger Hills were receding slowly behind them, and the landscape was beginning to even out into alternating forests and fields. Many of the men breathed a silent sigh of relief once they were clear of the rocky terrain behind them. The rain continued, but some of the oppressiveness in the air seemed to lift.

Kara and Maklavir threw down their blankets and quickly fell asleep, but Kendril remained seated by the dying fire, running a stone across the edge of one of his swords.

The night grew long as Joseph finally got up from where he was lying. He rubbed his eyes and sat by the fire.

“Can’t sleep?” Kendril asked. He continued sharpening his blade.

“No. You don’t seem to be doing such a good job either.” Joseph craned his head around, looking at the sleeping encampment around them. “Looks like we’ll be in Balneth by tomorrow.”

“Bathsby will hold the city against us,” said Kendril quietly. “Whitmore might try a siege, if his soldiers will follow him. He won’t win.”

Joseph looked over at him. “You sound pretty certain.”

“I am.” Kendril said. “It’s hopeless. Whitmore doesn’t have enough men to take Balneth.”

“Nothing is ever hopeless, Kendril,” Joseph corrected.

The Ghostwalker looked up and raised an eyebrow. “This is about as close as things get.”

Joseph looked over at Kara, who was huddled under her blanket asleep. “Sounds like going back to Balneth is a bad idea, then.”

Kendril flipped his blade over, examining the edge. “We don’t have a lot of choice.” He sighed. “Try to get some sleep. There’s no telling what tomorrow will bring.”

Joseph nodded silently, then turned back to his bedding after a moment.

The scraping of the sharpening stone continued on into the night.

The next day the sky was still overcast, but the rain came only intermittently. The road they traveled remained mired in mud, and the air was constantly filled with the sound of slopping hooves and boots. Around afternoon the sun broke out, and the rain stopped, at least for the time being.

Joseph was riding along next to Kara, trying to think of something to say to her, when he noticed that the column had halted. Grateful for the respite, the soldiers peeled off to either side of the road, resting their weapons against the surrounding trees and breaking out water canteens.

Kendril rode up alongside them, glancing over at the column with a frown. “Stay here,” he said, then trotted off towards the front of the line.

“Sounds good to me,” said Maklavir as he took off his cap and brushed back his hair.

Not listening, Joseph urged his horse forward. He rode past soldiers on either side of the road, following behind the gray mule and its dark rider in front of him.

Kendril stopped Simon short of the front of the column.

Joseph pulled up alongside of him.

Lord Whitmore and Sir Mulcher were talking animatedly with a well-dressed rider in the middle of the road. Joseph didn’t remember seeing him in the encampment before.

“Someone from Balneth?” he whispered to the Ghostwalker.

“Shhh,” Kendril shushed irritably. He spurred Simon a few steps forward, trying to catch the words of the conversation.

Joseph followed him.

“Married!” Sir Mulcher was saying in astonishment. “I don’t believe it.”

Lord Whitmore clutched the harness of his horse, his face white.

“Believe it or not,” said the well-dressed rider with a wave of his arm, “it’s happening tonight. The princess announced the plans for the wedding in front of an entire room of nobles. Lord Bathsby will become King.”

“Serentha believes this nonsense about a conspiracy, then?” Sir Mulcher’s mustache bristled as he straightened.

“I don’t know what she believes,” the rider confessed. “I only know what I’ve been told.” He turned to Lord Whitmore, who had not yet spoken. “Lord Bathsby has declared you a traitor, my lord. He has closed the city gates, and is preparing defenses against a possible attack.”

Whitmore took a deep breath, his face still pale. “I see. Who can we count on inside the walls?”

The rider paused. “Lord Bittlebur and his retinue will assist. Baron Yavin and Sir Corin are also at call. Many of the other nobles are still unsure of your loyalty. Lord Bathsby has been very convincing with his evidence, and now the princess herself has consented to marry him.”

“Her Highness may very well be under duress,” snapped Lord Whitmore, the stress showing on his face. He composed himself again. “Can we take one of the city gates?”

The rider sighed. “I am sorry, my lord, but even if we convince some of the other nobles to join, there are too few to take the gate, much less hold it for long. Too many men in the army remain loyal to Bathsby.”

Lord Whitmore looked down at the muddy ground, his expression drained of hope.

Sir Mulcher’s dark eyes blazed. “We may still take Balneth, sir. My regiment will follow you to the Void and back, I can guarantee you that. We can’t give up now.”

Whitmore nodded his head, giving a weak smile. “Of course not. Give the men ten minutes, Colonel, then let’s get on the march again.”

Mulcher saluted. “Yes, sir.”

Joseph and Kendril watched as the three riders in front of them turned back towards the column.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Joseph said as the two of them turned back towards where they had left Kara and Maklavir. “Why would Serentha consent to marry Lord Bathsby?”

“I don’t know,” said Kendril tersely. His face darkened. “But I suspect there may be foul magic at work here.”

Joseph looked over at him in surprise, but said nothing. They rode back along the road, coming up to where Maklavir and Kara waited.

“What’s wrong?” Kara asked after seeing their faces.

Kendril didn’t say anything, his jaw set and his gaze on the ground.

“Serentha and Lord Bathsby are going to be married tonight,” said Joseph after a moment’s hesitation. “And the city is held against us.”

Maklavir scratched the side of his face. “That does not sound terribly promising.”

Kendril didn’t look up from the ground.

“No, Maklavir,” Joseph said stiffly. “It’s
not
terribly promising. All the same, I think Whitmore intends to storm the city.”

The diplomat gave Joseph a quizzical look. “Isn’t that rather pointless?”

Joseph didn’t feel like answering all these questions. “Yes, Maklavir, I suppose it is.”

Maklavir straightened his cap, and looked out over the troops around them. “Surely there must be some other option. Attacking Balneth will never work, and only cost more lives on both sides. What is Whitmore thinking?”

Kendril still said nothing, staring down at the ground.

 Joseph wanted desperately out of this conversation. “I don’t know, Maklavir.”

“I mean, just
think
about it,” continued the diplomat. “Even assuming Whitmore takes the city, which is highly unlikely, he would have to take the castle, too.” He shook his head. “At least Serentha can get out. Why she hasn’t already is beyond me.”

Kendril looked up. “Get out how?”

Maklavir gave the Ghostwalker a startled look. “What?”

“Get out
how
?”

“Through the catacombs,” said the diplomat with a strange look. “I’m sure Serentha knows about it. After all, she
is
the daughter of the King. Perhaps she really is determined to marry Bathsby--”

“There’s a passage into the castle?” interrupted Kendril. He threw back his hood. “Where?”

“I told you,” said Maklavir with a touch of irritation in his voice. “Through the catacombs. The whole hill is chock full of them. There’s a passage that goes from the castle basement, through the lower part of the catacombs, and out the cliff face on the eastern side.” He smiled. “An escape route, you understand. Most palaces have something similar. Monarchs can be rather paranoid people.”

Joseph stared at the diplomat incredulously. “How in Zanthora did you find that out?”

“Palora told me.”

“The handmaid?”

Maklavir gave a wry smile. “You forget, my dear Joseph. I’m a diplomat by trade. Learning sensitive information is part of my job.”

Kendril reached over and grabbed Maklavir by the lapel. “Does Bathsby know about this passage?”

“I don’t think so. Please, Kendril, don’t wrinkle the shirt.” The Ghostwalker released him, and Maklavir fixed his collar. “He shouldn’t, anyway. The existence of the catacombs passage is a secret to all save the royal family.”

“But Palora knew,” Kara commented.

“Yes,” Maklavir responded patiently, “but Palora is also the princess’s handmaid. She’s privy to such things.”

“Bathsby was the King’s top man,” said Joseph uncertainly. “Chances are he knows as well.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” said Kendril. His eyes sparkled with new life. “If you were the King, would you have told him?”

“What exactly are you thinking here?” asked Kara slowly.

“A passage that leads out of the castle also leads
in
,” the Ghostwalker said.

“Surely Bathsby would have blocked it or put guards on it,” said Joseph doubtfully.

“
If
he knows about it. And even if he does, why should he guard it? It’s a secret, isn’t it? No one in this army should know about it.”

“Good heavens,” said Maklavir suddenly. “You can’t be seriously suggesting that we go looking for this thing? Palora may have been mistaken, for all I know. There may not even
be
a passageway in the catacombs.”

“Maybe not,” said Kendril. “But it’s worth the chance if there is.”

“If we can take the castle,” said Joseph, beginning to catch Kendril’s excitement, “we could control the whole city.”

“And if we catch Bathsby we can end this whole takeover here and now,” finished Kendril.

“I can’t believe you’re seriously discussing this,” said Maklavir as he glanced from one face to another. “It’s pure madness.”