Wintertide (28 page)

“Master Egan?” Tedmond spoke evenly.

Egan took his eyes from the ornately carved staircase he glimpsed through the large archway, knowing the stairs led to the Sorcerer’s own rooms in the East Wing of the castle. Torch light flickered in the hallway and Egan, embarrassed at being caught staring with his mouth open, felt a flush on his face as if the flame were within his cheeks, instead.

“My Lord Chamberlain,” he began, clasping his hands behind his back. “I hoped that I wouldn’t have to bother you with my questions, as I was sure the information I sought would be given out sometime during the Council. But we’re here on the last night and I’ve heard nothing regarding a young…” And he stopped, suddenly realizing that he didn’t know if the Lady had presented herself as Khamsin or Camron, if she indeed did make it to the castle.

“A young what, Master Egan?”

“Well, that’s the problem, Sirrah. A young woman, disguised as a lad, was discovered by my patrol just prior to Wintertide. As I understood her story, she was on her way here to seek justice for the murder of her family. But since the last time I saw her, at the start of the trail, I’ve heard nothing and am concerned now she may have gotten lost. Or worse.”

“She is kin to you, Master Egan?”

“No, Sirrah, not exactly. That is,” and he cleared his throat, knowing that a stranger’s inquiring as to another stranger’s business was frowned upon in Kemmons. “Well, I had tended her an offer of marriage, prior to her leaving.”

“Marriage, Master Egan? To a young girl dressed as a lad?”

“I know that sounds odd, Sirrah, but if you ever had met her, well…” Then Egan realized what had been said. And that his answer was plain. Khamsin never made it to Traakhal or surely the Lord Chamberlain would’ve recognized her description and story.

He suddenly felt as if the knowledge he gained was one he could’ve lived without. Chances of a young girl surviving the harsh winter months in the mountains were slim. He damned himself for ever letting her out of his sight.

“I see now that she never made it to Traakhal, Lord Tedmond. I have no one to blame but myself if harm has befallen her. I should never have let her go on alone through the mountains at Wintertide.” He lowered his head, but found little comfort in the worn spots on his boots or the elegance of the embroidered carpeting underfoot.

“It wasn’t the wisest of choices, I agree, Master Egan.” At the sound of an unfamiliar voice, Egan looked up. A man stepped from the hallway behind Tedmond; a man clad in black, like the Khalar, but who wore a cape clasped at his throat with an ornament of finest platinum. The daggers strapped to his thighs were of the same metal and encrusted with jewels. There was a small diamond in his left earlobe. It glistened a blue-white, matching the color of his eyes.

His hair was thick and dark as a raven’s wing, his mustache full and straight cut. He regarded Egan without any noticeable trace of condescension, though his height was greater than the Kemmon Rey’s.

Egan stared frozen for a moment before he became aware of an intense pounding that was his heart in his chest. He never saw this man before yet he knew; knew from his manner and dress and bearing. He had no doubts that the man standing before him, towering over the frail Tedmond, was Master Ro. Rothal-kiarr. The Sorcerer of Traakhal-Armin.

Egan dropped to the floor on one knee.

“My Lord!” he rasped, not daring to raise his eyes.

“Master Egan.”

Had Egan had his wits about his, he would’ve been flattered that the Sorcerer knew his name. As it was, he was having trouble keeping his balance on the thick carpeting beneath his knee.

“You may rise, Master Egan. That’s no doubt an uncomfortable posture for one who spends most of his time on a horse.”

Egan stood, barely aware of where he found the strength.

“You were discussing, I believe…?” The Sorcerer turned to Tedmond.

The Lord Chamberlain nodded. “An incident prior to Winter, M’Lord. A young girl, disguised as a lad, that Master Egan let ride off into the mountains alone.”

“So I heard. And now you come seeking her?”

Egan nodded and found his voice. “Yes, Your Lordship. I’ve been concerned, you see.”

“Then why did you let her ride off?” the Sorcerer asked.

“Because, because, well, Your Lordship, you would have to know the Lady as I did. She wasn’t like anyone you’re likely to meet in the common. I mean, she saved my life. Battled a Mogra in the foothills, and…”

“And now you’re telling me a young girl dressed like a boy killed a Mogra.”

“Aye, she did, M’Lord, right before my eyes, she did. And mortally wounded was I. She healed me, M’Lord and…” Egan realized he was rambling in his nervousness.

“So now she’s killed a Mogra and saved your life by healing you. And then you tell me you let her ride off alone.”

Egan felt the color rise to his face for the second time that evening. His story sounded ridiculous. He was no doubt wasting Master Ro’s valuable time.

“I know how all this must sound, like a story from some late night Fool’s Eve celebration. But I swear on the precious life of my daughter that what I tell you is the truth! You would have to know the Lady Khamsin to understand why I didn’t accompany her. She can be, you see, uncommonly stubborn.”

“Aye, Egan, that she can,” breathed Master Ro as a noise from the hallway drew their attention.

A figure cloaked in a tan riding habit burst into the library, white mittens and riding crop in one hand and a long, fur-trimmed white cape in the other. Her cheeks were rosy as if she’d just come in from outside. Her pale hair was pulled back into a netted snood. Her eyes glistened, first a pale blue then a deep green. She laughed, breathlessly.

“Oooh, you!” She pointed her riding crop at the Sorcerer and shook it. “You cheated! ’Twas to be a fair race, you said. A fair race! And when I’d given you my promise, what do you do but go…”

She stopped, as if suddenly aware of the other people in the room.

“Egan!” She dropped mittens, crop and cloak to the floor as she threw her arms around the wide-eyed Kemmon Rey, hugging him tightly.

Egan clasped the young woman by the shoulders and held her back arms length, his eyes not believing what he saw. The short-cropped hair, part of her disguise as a farm lad, had grown; but of course it would have in the three months since he watched her depart on the mountain trail. Her clothing was fur trimmed, richer than the rough woolen tunic she’d worn in the Darklings. But the eyes, oh, the eyes that were palest silver or silver green or even blue at times, they were the same; long-lashed and mesmerizing. And the delicately featured face just as pretty, no. Now definitely beautiful.

He found he could do nothing but say her name.

“Khamsin! Lady Khamsin!”

“You look well, Master Egan. But then you’ve had enough to eat and drink, I trust? Gleda has been frantic with the kitchen staff all Wintertide.”

He looked at Khamsin again as she said the name of the castle’s chief cook. Surely she wouldn’t be attired so finely if she were a mere scullery maid? But even if she were, it wouldn’t matter for he’d found her and she was alive and well.

He smiled broadly. “You look well, too, Lady, in truth, most lovely. I…I never thought I would see you again.”

“No?” She glanced around at Tedmond and the Sorcerer and suddenly Egan remembered whose company they were in. He dropped his hands from where they rested on her shoulders.

“But surely Master Tedmond told you I was here!”

At Egan’s blank look she turned on the white-haired man. “My Lord Chamberlain, you know Master Egan is considered a friend. Why didn’t you…?”

“In truth, Lady, because he didn’t give me the chance.”

“That’s true, Lady Khamsin. I’m afraid I…I got a bit carried away in my story. You see, it’s difficult to explain that you’re looking for someone who might be a lad or a lass!”

Khamsin laughed. “And do you have so many friends, Master Egan, who fit that description?”

“Assuredly not, but…” And Egan was aware that, while they had been speaking, someone else had entered the room. A young boy, a groom or a page from the looks of him. He shifted nervously from foot to foot and seemed to want Lady Khamsin’s attention.

But it was the Sorcerer who spoke to him. “You require something, Peppin?”

At the sound of the deep voice, the young boy started visibly. “M-m-my Lord M-m-master. Just m-m-my Lady’s attention for a moment,” he stammered.

“It’s all right, Peppin.” She held her hand out to the boy who came to her side with a look of relief on his face. “Now?”

“Cinnabar, my Lady. Will you be going out again tonight, or shall I…?”

Khamsin’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, Peppin, I’m sorry. I was so intent on coming after Master Ro that I completely forgot to tell you. No, thank you, I won’t be going out. And I’d be grateful if you tend to Cinnabar and take him back to the stables.”

Peppin beamed. “With pleasure, my Lady.”

“Don’t spoil him now, Peppin,” she teased as he turned. But Master Tedmond stopped him, holding Khamsin’s cloak and riding things out to the boy.

“Take this back to the tack room, Peppin and fetch Eldora to tend to Lady Kiasidira’s cloak.”

Khamsin reached for the fur-trimmed covering. “No, Tedmond, I’m perfectly capable of picking up after myself and putting my own clothes away. No need to bother Eldora. She has more than her hands full with the Council in session.”

Egan stared at the pale haired young woman wrestling the piece of clothing from Tedmond. He seemed reluctant to let her take it, reminding her that that’s what servants were for. She must think of her position, he told her.

“My position at the moment is in the library with half my cloak in my hands, Master Tedmond. And I’d be very so grateful if you would relinquish the other half to me so I can put it away!” Her tone was light, but firm.

“Lady Kiasidira.” Tedmond frowned.

Egan heard the name again. This time it registered. Lady Kiasidira. The Sorceress. Lady Khamsin, his Lady Khamsin was the Sorcerer’s Lady Kiasidira.

“My Lady!” he gasped and she turned, losing her grip on the fur-trimmed collar. With a victorious look on his face, Tedmond handed it to the waiting Peppin.

Khamsin started to open her mouth but stopped at a look from the Sorcerer.

“My Lady,” the dark-haired man said, in a softer voice than Egan would’ve ever thought was possible. “I learned a long time ago it’s best to humor Master Tedmond. He can bear unbearable when he doesn’t get his way.”

“But m’Lord, it’s so foolish when the staff is so busy and I’m very capable of…”

The Sorcerer stepped up to her while she was speaking and placed his fingers gently under her chin, tilting her face up to his. He smiled down at her. “Very capable, my Lady, very capable. But also,” and he looked over the top of her head at Egan, who no longer knew what to say or do. “But also very, very stubborn.”

Egan sat for a long time in the crowded, noisy Hall, his elbows on the table, his eyes staring into his half-empty mug of ale. He seemed oblivious to the laughter and commotion around him. Even the sloe-eyed serving wench who tickled his ear with the tip of her braid got no reaction. Miffed, she turned and searched out more willing prey.

“Damn it, Egan! You haven’t said a bloody word since ye come back from talkin’ to Tedmond. And a pretty little tart flirts with ye and ye act like she’s not even there. So now, for the hundredth time are ye goin’ t’tell me what’s the matter or not?” Druke leaned forward on the table, craning his head around. He tried to place his face in Egan’s view. It wasn’t easy.

“Egan!”

Egan groaned softly.

“Look, boy, if she’s…she’s…well, if she didn’t make it, well there’s nothing you can do. It wasn’t your fault! Ye did all you could. Egan?”

“No, Druke, she made it.” He wiped his hand over his face, then resumed his staring.

“Well, then, boy, if she made it here and out again, then we’ll find her, won’t we? You and I, together, right?”

“Don’t have to find her. She’s here. In Traakhal.”

Druke looked confused. “And she didn’t want to see you?”

“She saw me.”

“But she didn’t want to.”

“No. Truth be told, Druke, she…she…hugged me.”

“But, what is it? Now, you don’t want her?”

Egan groaned louder this time but when two nearby riders in Kemmon-Gar burgundy turned their faces he dropped his voice. “Want her? How can I not, how can I…Druke, I, I can’t. Druke she’s…”

“Beautiful? Ugly? Pregnant? What?”

He took a deep breath. “She’s Lady Kiasidira. The Sorceress.” The words came out in a rush.

Druke’s mouth dropped open and he stared. “Ye be daft.”

Egan swirled the ale around in his mug. “I could live with that.”

“Egan, boy, now this is no time for games. Ye not go sayin’ things like that. Not here, boy. Why, that’s blasphemy! I mean, what if
he
hears you, saying you think some little village lass is…”

“I don’t think, Druke. I know. Tedmond called her Lady Kiasidira when he took her cloak and then
he
did, too.”

“Who he?”

“Him. Master Ro.” Egan made an upward motion with his head.

“M-m-mast…! Egan, do ye know what you’re sayin’? Do I hear ye right? You can’t mean that
he
talked to you. That was Tedmond, boy, Tedmond. The old goat with the white whiskers. Not…”

“Tedmond was there, Druke. I know who Tedmond is.” He shook his head. “Then the next thing I know there’s a man, all in black, behind Tedmond. He said my name. ‘Master Egan,’ he said. And when I looked at him I thought it was my time to die.”

“One of the Khalar, that’s all you saw. One of the Khalar. They know you; you’re Kemmon Rey.”

Slowly, he faced his brother-in-law. “I know who I saw. I know what I felt when I saw him. It was Master Ro. She even called him that.”

“Who?”

“Khamsin. Lady Kiasidira.”

“Egan…”

But Druke never finished his sentence, for suddenly there was a hush over the Great Hall. Heads turned in rapid succession towards the wide entrance. A young woman stepped into the crowd, a woman with hair as pale as lightning. She no longer wore riding clothes, but just a simple ivory-colored dress of a richly textured material with full sleeves and a modest neckline. Around her neck was a golden chain from which hung a golden filigreed star with a single blue-white diamond in the center. It was the symbol of the Sorcerer of Traakhal-Armin.