Worldbinder (19 page)

Only by covering the ground in a single day could the warriors hope to gain the element of surprise in their attack.

Horses could not be used, for they would not be able to withstand the grueling pace.

Alun could only hang his head in despair. He could never make such a run. It would soon be apparent to all that though he might be named a warrior, he was in fact only a fraud.

Indeed, now that the lords were finishing the main course, the festivities would begin. There would be jugglers and dancing, a fool who aped the lords.

But first—

Madoc stood, and his men began banging the table with the butts of their knives, with mugs or bones—whatever they had at hand.

“Good sirrahs,” he roared for quiet, for the room was huge and hundreds of people sat at the tables. There had not been a feast so well attended since last summer’s eve. “Good sirrahs and ladies,” Madoc roared. “I have an announcement. Today let it be known to all—to lord, to lady, to warrior and commoner alike, that Caer Luciare has a new Master of the Hounds, our very own Alun.”

There were shouts and cheers from the many nobles gathered about as Madoc brought out a large gold cape pin that bore the image of three racing hounds upon it. It was a lovely thing. More importantly, it was the badge of his office, and with great ceremony, Madoc pinned Alun’s cape with it, inserting the prong and then twisting until the spiral pin was locked in place. Then he took Alun’s simple old brass cape pin and set it upon the table.

The applause died down quickly as the guests prepared to return to conversations, but Madoc roared, “And, let it be known that Alun has proven himself this day to be a man of great courage, a man of decisive wit, of firm resolve, and a man of uncommon character. Indeed, he is no longer a common man at all in the view of House Madoc. Not a vassal. It is with heartfelt appreciation, that I name him a warrior of Clan Madoc, and a defender of the free.”

At that there was far less clapping. Many of the nobles just stared in confused silence for a moment. Alun was not a warrior born, after all. He was an ill-bred gangrel. Everyone could see it.

Yet, sometimes, the honor was won, every generation or so.

There were excited whispers as women went asking their men what Alun had done.

What will they think? Alun wondered.

He did not care, or at least he told himself that he
didn’t. He peered across the room, to the royal table off to his left, where the High King ate. There, to his right, in a place of honor, sat the king’s long-time ally and best friend, the Emir of Dalharristan, resplendent in a coat of gold silks, his white turban adorned with a fiery black opal.

And four seats down sat his daughter Siyaddah, her dark eyes glistening in the candlelight. She looked at Alun and smiled gently, as if welcoming him to the nobility.

She remembers me, Alun realized. And she thinks fondly of me.

His heart hammered and his mouth grew dry.

She is not so far above my station. I am a warrior now.

He took a drink from the goblet of wine, but a single swallow did not satisfy his thirst, so he downed it all, a rich red wine in a silver goblet.

He had never taken a drink from a goblet before. He picked it up, looked at it. It was a beautiful thing, with two feet like a swan on tall legs, and feathers on the outside, and a swan’s long neck bent and forming a handle.

Such a mug, he realized, was worth more than his life had been worth as a slave. With it, he could have bought his freedom twice over.

Now?

He nodded to one of the serving children that waited against the wall. A boy of six ambled forward, struggled to fill the mug from a heavy cask of wine.

Alun sat and waited. He waited while the fool went strutting around the room, aping the lords and ladies. He waited as minstrels sang while the dessert pastries were passed around.

He waited until the king called for a dance.

Then he downed another mug of wine and went to ask Siyaddah to join him upon the dance floor.

His feet were unsteady and his aim went afoul as he veered across the room, avoiding collision with those on the dance floor only by swerving wide.

He was greeted with astonished looks as he got to Siyaddah’s table, bowed, and asked, “Your Highness, may I ask you to dance?”

Alun looked to her father, the legendary Light of Dalharristan, whose face remained expressionless, but who merely gave a slight nod.

“I think you just did,” Siyaddah said.

Alun had to stand there thinking for a long moment before he figured out the logic to her words.

She joined him on the dance floor. Alun had never danced like this before. It was a stately court dance, with lots of strutting about together while the men occasionally stopped and raised the ladies’ hands while they twirled.

Alun had no knack for it. His overlarge feet kept getting tangled, and he didn’t know when to let a lady twirl, and twice he imagined that he was supposed to twirl, too. He heard some fellow laugh, and Alun’s face grew red as he realized that a great deal of the problem had to do with the fact that he was falling-down drunk.

He stopped dancing then, and Siyaddah gave him a warm smile. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. It’s only your first dance. You’ll catch on.”

And then the tense moment was over and she was moving again, and he was content to prance and watch her twirl. There was light in her eyes, and laughter, and light in her hair. It seemed to sparkle, until he realized that she had a powder in her hair, a powder made from diamonds, he imagined.

“Congratulations,” she said at last, “this is a great day for you. You should be proud—Master of the Hounds.”

He liked the sound of that, coming from her lips. But it reminded him. He had not gone to the kennels yet tonight. He had several bitches ready to whelp, and he really thought that he should go check on them. It was a good time of year to be Master of the Hounds, with the puppies coming.

“We’re expecting new litters soon. Hart’s Breath, she should have her first litter tonight or tomorrow. Do you
remember her?” Siyaddah had played with her as a pup, not more than two years ago.

Siyaddah shook her head no.

Of course she doesn’t remember, Alun thought. She played with so many pups. She didn’t know their names. You are such a fool, he told himself.

Embarrassed, he quit talking. It was time for Siyaddah to twirl again.

She looked lovely, so dainty. Her dark skin, almost chocolate in color, contrasted sharply with her white silks. And beneath the silks, he could see the shapely contours of her body.

That is the whole reason for the dance, he realized, to allow young bachelors like himself to ogle the maidens.

“Tell me,” Siyaddah asked, “what great deed did you do to deserve such an honor, being raised to the warrior clan?”

Cold fear ran through his veins, and Alun found that his tongue would not work. He did not want to tell her what he had done. “Oh, nothing,” Alun said.

He hoped that she had not heard the truth yet. He hoped that she would never hear.

“Was it for spying upon Daylan Hammer?” she asked.

“I… yes,” he admitted. He stuttered to a stop for a moment and then continued prancing.

“And tell me,” Siyaddah said, “how was that brave?”

She thinks I’m a fake, Alun thought. She knows I’m a fake.

“It is thought… that he killed Sir Croft.”

“And did he?” Siyaddah asked playfully, but Alun discerned more than playfulness in her voice. There was a bit of a challenge to her tone. There was a smile on her face and light in her eyes. She was not trying to show disrespect toward Alun. But it was obvious that she thought well of Daylan Hammer, that she doubted his guilt.

“I don’t believe so,” Alun whispered, lest anyone overhear.

She flashed him a brief smile. “Your view conflicts
with countless others,” she said. “There are some who are calling for Daylan’s head, claiming that there can be no good reason that he would be meeting with the enemy. They say that questioning would do no good, for he would surely lie. Others think that he should be allowed to defend himself. I … find it hard to believe that he is in league with the enemy.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Alun said.

“Still, it required no less bravery on your part to follow him, to take the risk,” Siyaddah said.

Was it bravery, Alun wondered, or greed?

“And he did meet with a wyrmling?” she asked.

“Most assuredly.”

“That must have been frightening,” she said.

Not very. I was hiding, Alun thought.

“To what end did they meet? I wonder,” she said.

Alun stopped dancing. His heart was hammering and he suddenly felt over-warm. All of the rich food felt as if it was turning to a ball of grease in his stomach. He feared he would retch.

“Sometimes,” Siyaddah said gently, without condemnation, “it takes great courage to do what is right.”

Alun turned and fled, bumping into dancers, hurrying from the great hall. He raced outside, stood gasping for air as he leaned against a pillar.

Does she know? he wondered. Does she know why Daylan Hammer met with the enemy—risked his own life, his own honor to meet with them? Or does she only guess?

She only guesses, Alun decided. If she knew, she would have told me. But she believes him to be a man of virtue.

It was said that Daylan Hammer ate at the High King’s table. Siyaddah would have been in range to hear his jokes, or his songs when he took the lute. She would know his heart better than Alun did. She was a sensitive woman, and perhaps had come to know Daylan better than others around him.

Perhaps she’s even in love with him.

No, that can’t be, Alun thought. He is too small and strange, too different from us.

Alun went staggering to the kennels.

Back to the dogs, where I belong, he thought.

There, he found things much as he had suspected. Hart’s Breath had gone into labor and given birth to a pup, and had that frightened look that bitches get when they deliver their first. What is wrong with me? Hart’s Breath’s body language asked as she puttered about, her hips quivering, eyes wide as she sniffed at the pup. What is that black thing squirming on the floor?

Alun stayed with her, stroking her forehead and whispering words of comfort, while she continued to deliver. He held up each newborn for her to sniff, introduced the pups by complimenting her. “Ah, you’re such a good dog,” he would say as she licked each pup, “such a good mother. And look how pretty your babies are.”

Soon, she wagged her tail at the sight of each new birth, proud of her offspring, and when Alun left her there late at night, she was happiest hound in the world.

He was weary and nearly sober when he made his way back to the King’s Keep. The feast was long over, the tables cleared, the servants gone to bed. Two guards stood outside the door and barred his way.

“I need to speak with King Urstone,” Alun said at their challenge.

“At this hour?” one asked. “Regarding what?”

Distantly, from up above, Alun heard a man sobbing, the sound faint and distant as it came through an open window. The king sobbing in his chambers as he mourned.

“It concerns a plan to save his son,” Alun said.

They did not send a messenger to ask the king if he wanted to be disturbed. The guards looked at each other, and one of them grabbed Alun by the bicep and pulled him into the keep as if he’d just apprehended a thief.

Alun found himself shivering in terror. He was about
to tell the king of Daylan Hammer’s mad plot to save his son.

Warlord Madoc will have me stripped of my office when he finds out what I’ve done, Alun thought.

    18    

An hour before dawn, the coldest hour of the night, the Wizard Sisel went to the High King’s door with Shaun the baker in tow. A single knock, and they were in.

King Urstone was sitting at a desk, writing out orders for work to be done during his absence. He had commanded that no other work be done until the castle was set in order. No housewife was to wash the family’s clothes. No merchant was to be found selling in the streets.