Yesterday's Kings (9 page)

“When you can,” Andrias said.

“The sooner the better.” He did not like the way Elvira served the merchant. He knew he had no right to resent it, but even so, he could not help it. So he finished his breakfast quickly and said, “I’ll be gone now. And bring you back that deer.”

He went out to the stables and found his cart. He loaded the tack he’d bought and brought his new horse out of the stall. Fey came willingly enough until Cullyn set the saddle on his back and hiked up the traps of the cart.

Then Fey began to buck, and in moments the cart was reduced to splinters.

Andrias emerged from the inn. “I doubt he’s a carthorse.”

Cullyn eased his hold on the lunging horse’s reins and shrugged. “No,” he allowed, facing the inevitable.

“More a rider’s horse,” Andrias suggested.

Cullyn extricated the cart’s traps from the saddle and calmed the big, black horse. “One deer?”

“And do you need a healer, I’ll pay.”

“Thank you, but I’ll not.” Cullyn set a foot in the stirrup and swung astride the stallion.

Then he had no time to answer whatever it was Andrias shouted, because he was sitting astride a bucking monster that was intent on throwing him from the saddle
and likely—he now remembered the warnings—stamping him dead.

He felt the world spin around—it was as bad as his hangover—saw the courtyard revolve, and felt the saddle smash against his buttocks, sending pain up through his spine into his still-aching head. He clung to the reins and wrapped his legs about the horse’s ribs firmly as he’d swung them around Elvira’s.

Then Fey calmed. He was unsure whether it was because he had beaten the horse, or because Fey accepted him. He only knew that the big stallion settled as Andrias opened the gate, and charged out.

The cart was left splintered and forgotten as Cullyn thundered down the road, heady with the excitement of this wild ride. He felt the big black horse pounding toward the forest and savored the whistle of the wind in his hair. He charged through the village, and onto the fields beyond. He had a horse—and such a horse as could run, and he exulted in the sensation.

Then, after he’d reached the forest’s edge, he was spilled from the saddle.

He was unsure why—perhaps a low branch, or only his ineptitude—but Fey came back to nuzzle his face, as if in apology, and he climbed to his feet and mounted the horse again, and knew that he loved the animal.

He rode home and put Fey into the fenced area behind his cottage. He set out water and grain, and watched the pigs squeal around this newcomer.

And then he prepared a meal as the sun went down, and thought of Elvira and Abra and Lofantyl.

The one was lost to him, and he felt no great regret for that; the other was beyond his reach—a keep lord’s daughter with an orphaned forester? But Lofantyl intrigued him. He picked up the knife the Durrym had gifted him and turned it about in the light of the setting
sun. It glistened as no metal did; it was more like wood or stone, picking up the dying rays as if it embraced them and took them into itself. He thought on what Lofantyl had said about living with the forest, and how Kash’ma Hall was built of wood. He thought that he’d like to see that place.

A
BRA WOKE
to the sound of birdsong, and sunlight on her face. Dawn’s brightness came in through her bedroom windows and the chorus of the avians seemed to accompany her troubled thoughts as she lay contemplating what she’d heard the night before. For a while she rested, then determination overcame her and she arose, washing quickly and dressing faster. It was her father’s habit to rise early—far sooner than his wife—and take his breakfast with his men.

Abra went to join him.

She found him in the dining hall, a plate piled with bacon and eggs before him, a loaf of fresh-baked bread at one elbow, and a mug of mulled ale at the other. He smiled as he saw her, and drew a hand through his beard, scraping off crumbs that fell onto the table.

“You’re up early, child.”

“I was thinking,” she said.

“About Wyllym? Don’t worry—you’ll wed by your choice. Say nay and I’ll support you.”

“It wasn’t that.” Abra took the mug of tea a servant offered, and helped herself to a measure of eggs. “I heard what you said after …”

She wondered if Bartram might be angry, but he only chuckled and said, “I wondered. The chimneys, eh?”

She nodded, and he laughed aloud. “When I was a child,” he said, “and my father was lord of this keep, I used to listen all the time to the chimneys and the vents. There’s much information you can learn from holes in the stone.”

“And not all welcome,” Abra said.

“No.” Her father shook his head, and his expression become solemn.

“Invasion of the fey lands?” Abra asked

“I think,” her father replied, “that that’s a dream concocted by Khoros and the Church. As I told Fendur—and you doubtless heard—I don’t think we can cross the Alagordar; and I see no reason why we should. Leave the fey folk to their country and we to ours is my belief. Why fight another war?”

“So what shall happen?”

Bartram shrugged and shoveled a fresh mouthful of eggs into his mouth. “I don’t know for sure. Were it my decision, I’d find land in Kandar for our burgeoning population. But it seems that Khoros is intent on crossing the Alagordar and taking over the fey folk’s land.”

“Is that possible?” Abra asked.

“I don’t think so,” her father answered. “I think they command some greater magic than the Church can raise, or blades defeat. But Per Fendur says the Church has new magic. He says they’ve ways to circumvent the Barrier. Did you not hear as you spied on us?”

He smiled benignly and Abra giggled as she shook her head. “Not that part. The wind was too strong.”

Bartram lifted bacon to his mouth and chewed a while before he spoke again. “Per claims that the Church has learned somewhat of the Durrym magic. It comes from the land, he claims, and is far stronger across the river—but still works here. He says that the Church absorbs it and has learned how to use it against the Durrym to cross the Barrier. That’s why he was sent here: to investigate that power.”

“Do you believe him?”

Her father shrugged again. “Perhaps; but if he does, I’ve not yet seen it. I wonder if it’s not just wild hope.” He chuckled, spilling breadcrumbs and fragments of bacon over the table, brushing more from his ample stomach. “I’d as soon leave things as they are. Better than another war, eh?”

“But if he can?” Abra asked. “If the Church can defeat the Barrier—shall you go with them?”

“I’m sworn to defend Kandar,” Bartram answered. “Does Khoros ask it, I must obey.”

“Even though …”Abra left the question hanging in the air between them.

“Even though,” her father replied.

Just then Vanysse entered the hall. She looked sleepy, but her hair was dressed and her gown fresh-pressed, and she smelled of perfume. She bussed her husband on the cheek and took the chair beside him, favoring Abra with a casual smile.

“Look at you.” She drew long-nailed fingers through Bartram’s beard. “What have you been eating?”

“My breakfast, darling.”

Abra winced as Vanysse simpered and said, “You eat too much.”

“I was hungry.” He scooped up the last of his break
fast, and beamed at her. Abra felt forgotten. “Shall we hunt today?”

Vanysse shook her head. “I’d sooner rest.”

“As you wish,” Abra heard her father agree, and saw Amadis enter the hall; Vanysse smiled at his entry.

Abra felt a moment’s anger—with her father and Vanysse and Amadis, as much as with herself. And decided that she wanted to go somewhere clean and honest. At least, somewhere away from her stepmother.

So she excused herself and went out to the stables, and found her horse, and ordered the stable boy to saddle the gelding.

And was halted by Laurens, who asked: “Where are you going?”

She stared at him, angered by his blunt inquisition. “I’d take a ride.”

“Not alone.”

“By whose order?”

“The keep’s,” he said. “Your father’s.” And grinned, “I suspect you’ve heard what’s afoot.”

Abra nodded.

“So you understand?”

She nodded again.

“Then I’ll come with you. I could use a ride.”

“If you can keep up.” Abra swung astride the gray gelding, and stared irritably at Laurens as he mounted a bay mare.

He shouted at the stable hands that he’d accompany the lord’s daughter on a morning ride, and smiled at her.

“I think I can match your pace,” he said. Then, over his shoulder as they rode out, “Tell Amadis where I go.”

The gods knew that he was old and grizzled, but he still matched her pace as they went out through the gates and cantered through the village to the fields beyond.

Swallows darted above them and the sun shone
bright. It lit the stone walls with golden radiance, and set the fields to glistening with multiple shades of green. The air was warm and heady against her face as she urged the gelding to a faster pace that Laurens matched. He only followed, though, so that she took them down through the fields and farmlands toward the forest that somehow seemed to call to her.

He came alongside then and said, “Is it wise to go in there?”

She shrugged off his warning hand and galloped to the edge of the woods.

They stood decked in sunlight, leafy and enticing, and she rode toward them as Laurens followed after.

She crossed the bracken and brambles that edged the main timber and rode through the skirting of lesser trees into the forest proper. Saplings gave way to older timber, ancient oaks spreading massive limbs over the trail she followed, which she supposed was some hunter’s path such as Cullyn might use, or a deer trail. But it was spaced with ash and beech, so that all the time the colors changed and shifted, and the ferns that grew tall whispered, and she could imagine how the Durrym turned her own folk around. She felt suddenly afraid.

She halted her horse and looked about, and was grateful to hear the pounding of hooves behind her. Laurens came ducking under a low-hung branch to join her.

“It’s a strange place, no?”

She nodded.

“A fey place,” he said.

“But folk live here.”

“Not many.”

“There’s that one we met—Cullyn.”

“The forester.” Laurens ducked his head in agreement. “There’s folk say he’s fey.”

“He seemed friendly enough to me.”

“He was. But even so …” Laurens shrugged. “It’s said the fey folk are often friendly—so as to deceive.”

“How many do you know?”

Laurens shrugged again. “Two, perhaps. There’s Eben …”

“Who is?” Abra demanded as the husky voice fell silent.

“A man who lives alone,” Laurens answered. “Has your father not told you?”

Abra shook her head.

“Then perhaps I should not. It’s not much spoken of.”

“Why not?”

Laurens grinned. “He’s an odd fellow. I’ve met him a time or two. He lives with animals—foxes and dogs and cats, owls and badgers. Folk say he was birthed by the Durrym. Conceived in a raid, when some fey warrior had his mother. And she a widow then, so Eben was both Kandarian and Durrym. I think the Church took him for a while, but then he … escaped? And came to live alone in the forest.” Laurens shrugged. “I’ve only met him a time or two, but he’s likable. Who knows, perhaps you’ll meet him. These are, after all, strange lands.”

Abra shook her head and urged her horse deeper into the woods. Laurens followed after.

They came to a clearing where a spring bubbled up from between rocks and roots, and drizzled away down a narrow freshet that disappeared under folds of bracken and overhanging ferns. Abra had not realized how long they’d ridden until she dismounted and looked up to find the sun directly above her head. She let her horse drink and then herself, and looked at Laurens and said, “I’m hungry.”

“As well I thought before, then.” Grinning, he
reached into his saddlebags to bring out bread and cheese, a few apples. “Soldier’s habit, eh?”

Abra laughed, nodding, and took what he offered. She began to eat, thinking that for all his bluff and grizzled appearance, Laurens was a considerate man.

It was pleasant here, and it seemed to her that if the seduction of the woodland was Durrym magic, then that magic was benign. Light filtered down through the branches above and sparkled on the spring, which gurgled merrily, as if in accord with the gentle swaying of the ferns. Birds sang overhead, and insects buzzed through the lazy air, which was warm and soft, and rendered her sleepy.

“I think,” she declared, “that I shall nap a while.” She felt tired after her restless night, and the warm air and the buzzing of the insects urged her to sleep. Indeed, the forest felt somnolent, as if all its sounds and patterns urged her to stretch out and close her eyes.

Laurens nodded and settled against the bole of a massive oak. “I’ll keep watch,” he said.

Abra stretched out on the springy grass and soon fell asleep.

She wondered if she dreamed then, for it seemed that a soft voice whispered in her ear. It was not so different from the rustling of the leaves, or the lazy chatter of the insects, or the chuckling of the spring as it gurgled over the rocks. It was a comforting voice, and it called to her, urging that she rise and meet the speaker.