The Swans' War 3 - The Shadow Roads (17 page)

"Your son sleeps, good Eber?" A'brgail asked.

The old man shrugged. "I hope he will." He glanced up into the dark. "This place is so strange. I should never have consented to bring him on this journey. It is not for children.""My guards will protect him, good Eber,"Toren said soothingly. "I have sworn it.""Why would they protect him?" the old man snapped. "They are frightened of him. He disturbs them…""He unsettles you, Eber," Elise said, "but you would give your life to protect his."Eber was taken aback by this, but he did not gainsay it. "I am his father. I love him above all else." The old man then rose in agi-tation and disappeared into the darkness.

The river hurried by, muttering. Everyone was silent.

"Who is Eber son of Eiresit?" Toren asked softly. "You know him, Theason?"The little man lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. "I met him on the river, many years ago now, where he makes his home at Speaking Stone. He was kind to me, welcoming me into his house, sharing much of his lore of healing herbs. He speaks little of his past. His wife died, and memories are painful to him. When I met him I thought he was a little… mad—living by the river, trying to understand its secret speech. And now his son hears it, and Eber wishes he had never listened, that he had never made his home by the Wyrr at all." Theason shook his head sadly. "Eber son of Eire-sit, and Llya son of Eber, are like seers—only they hear voices from the past, echoes, words, fragments of sentences. The small boy who cannot speak is the tongue of the river. You are all troubled by him, but I think him the most miraculous thing I have ever encountered. I would give my life to preserve his. He gives voice to the ancient river. What is more wondrous than that?""Eber son of Eiresit is more than he seems," Elise said quietly, then she rose and went into the darkness, leaving them all listening to the babble of the river.

They set guards, not for fear of men—for who could find them in this place?—but for fear of the darkness. Toren knew that not a night would fall for the rest of his life without memories of the creatures that had come for them in the Stillwater. Lying there be-neath the open sky, he felt vulnerable, small. The strange river mut-tered, so that even Toren found himself listening for words. Occasionally the call of a night bird echoed eerily.

Toren rolled and sighed for several long hours before oblivion found him. He didn't know how long he'd slept but he woke to a hand on his shoulder and someone requesting quiet.

"Come," A'brgail said, "but be silent."Toren rolled out of his blankets and, barefoot, followed A'brgail. The mist had cleared away, and a sliver of moon hung almost di-rectly overhead, casting a faint light. The knight led him down to the edge of the water, where the small pebbles cast up by the river made less noise beneath their feet. Twenty paces on he saw a figure crouched by the water, with another standing nearby, like a sen-tinel. In the water, a few feet before these two, a pale creature of mist and moonlight. Toren could see its eyes, like moons. Elise—for certainly it was no other—appeared to be speaking, but Toren could not parse her speech from that of the river.

The creature slipped beneath the surface, like the moon going down into the sea, and Elise rose, staring down into the waters a moment. Orlem stood silently by, his large shadow still as the towering cliffs. Elise turned and started down the beach toward A'brgail and Toren, who had not a moment to slip away.

"Wake everyone," she said as she passed. "We have rested enough. Hafydd makes all speed."

Menwyn Wills did not like waiting in the dark. His guards—and he had brought plenty of them—lit only a single lantern, and it threw barely any light at all. The moon was a crescent so thin it hung like an arc of silver wire in the star-scattered black. Shifting from foot to foot, Menwyn flattened the tall, dew-slick grass. The scent of the river touched his nostrils, and the air was damp and al-most cool on this warm summer night. A few feet away the river slipped by, silent as a serpent.

Menwyn reached down and slid an inch of his sword from its sheath, assuring himself that it would slip free if he needed it. Of course, he hadn't used a blade in many years, not since he had given up the tournaments, but he trusted that the training of his youth had not abandoned him altogether. Tonight would not be a good night to find that assumption wrong.

"My lord," one of his guards whispered.

Alerted, Menwyn stopped shifting and stood perfectly still. For a moment he heard nothing, then a small splash sounded along the bank, as though an oar had entered the water. The dark bulk of a boat appeared almost before them.

"My lord?" came a voice from the river.

"Yes, Vast, is that you?"

"Do not speak my name. Voices travel far over the river.""Come ashore then."The boat hissed up onto the grassy bank, and Vast stepped quickly over the side. The lantern was brought forward and lifted up where the light fell upon the faces of the two men. Vast pulled up the hood of this cloak.

"Best take that away," he whispered.

The Duke reached out and clasped Menwyn's hand, taking his elbow with the other.

"Is it true, then?" Vast whispered. "The Prince of Innes is dead?""Yes. Assassinated by one of his own guards we're told; but no one believes it.""Hafydd murdered him," Vast stated.

"Hafydd or one of his cursed guards." Menwyn felt the heat of anger course through him. "There is even a rumor that it was Bel-dor Renne," he whispered.

Two folding stools were set out for the noblemen, and they sat down by the riverbank, their guards around them at a respectful distance. Menwyn did not really think this was a trap. Vast was not likely to risk his own life in this way—not that he wasn't a brave man, but he wasn't foolish either. He had no way of knowing how many of Menwyn's guards lurked in the darkness—surely he knew it was more than a few.

"Innes was a fool to strike any kind of bargain with that sor-cerer," Vast said softly.

"He was bespelled, that is what I think. His own son tried to warn him, but he wouldn't listen. I'm sure Hafydd killed the son as well, for Prince Michael went off with Hafydd and didn't return."Vast shifted on his stool. A guard brought them each a glass of wine, and they toasted. Menwyn could see nothing of the Duke's face. Even his form was impossible to make out. He appeared bent and aged in the darkness—like some strange creature out of a song. His voice, deep and resonant, seemed to echo out of the river.

"Innes was a fool not to accede to your demands," Menwyn said meekly. "Half the Renne lands;it is a bargain, I think.""Half the Renne lands," Vast said, "and the right to any other estates I can conquer upon the western shore."Menwyn took a deep breath. He knew it was outrageous, but he also knew he had no choice.

The Renne had beaten them upon the Isle, and Menwyn feared that they would do it again. He lay awake at night wondering where they would land their forces upon the eastern shore. Wondering what day he would wake to find a Renne army bearing down on him, that indomitable Toren Renne at its head.

"I agree, Vast. But first you must help me defeat the Renne.""That I will do, but does Hafydd not control the Prince's army?""Hafydd is gone. He took a small company of guards, Beldor Renne, and a few others, and disappeared. A captain of his guards was left to command the army, but that will change this night. There aren't a hundred guards, and they are hated. It is all arranged.""Ah, Menwyn, your reputation is well deserved. But what will you do when Hafydd returns?" "Hafydd and a handful of guards can't stand against a whole army of Innes and Wills men-at-arms. Unlike that fool of a Prince, I am not under Hafydd's spell. I will happily have him killed if he dares return."Menwyn thought he saw Vast nod in the darkness.

"Then let me tell you this, as a show of good faith," Vast said. "Lord A'denne is a traitor. He made a bargain with the Renne. I know this because I was there. And one other bit of information: Prince Michael of Innes lives. He is in Castle Renne as we speak and has offered his service and knowledge to Lord Toren."Menwyn cursed. "That isn't good news. A'denne I don't care about. His son, Carl, ran off, and Lord A'denne was taken by Hafydd, for what reason I don't know. But Prince Michael … he will have supporters among his father's army and among his al-lies…" Menwyn cursed again. "I wonder if we might not find an assassin who will solve this problem for us?""The Renne aren't fools. The attempt on the life of Lord Car-ral has them wary. Prince Michael will be well guarded."Menwyn cursed again. "We will have to spread the rumor that the Prince is dead and that the Renne claim otherwise to under-mine our confidence.""Yes, that might be believed," Vast whispered, "for a while. Per-haps long enough.""What will you do now?""I will return to Westbrook and learn Toren's intentions. It is al-most certain that they will hear of the Prince's death and Hafydd's disappearance. They will try to move an army across the river to take advantage of this confusion. I will send you a message telling you the time and place. Your army is larger and better prepared. Let them land by night, and at first light drive them into the river. One short battle, and the Renne will be ruined. We will cross the river and besiege Castle Renne, then divide their lands between us."Menwyn reached out and put a hand on the Duke's large shoul-der. "Vast, your name shall ever be honored among the Wills.""Yes, I shall be known as the great traitor, but in two hundred years who will care?"

Samul woke to a jangle of keys and the ancient lock of his cell turning. The door creaked open on rusty hinges, and a lantern swung into view, its smoke-stained glass emitting only the vaguest light. He propped himself up on one elbow, shading his eyes against the glare.

"Light a candle," a guard said. A servant hustled in and set a tray on the small desk to take up one of the candles sitting there. He lit this from the lantern and put it back on the desk, where it flickered fitfully. A second servant laid a suit of clothes over the back of his chair. Somewhere high up above, the castle bells tolled—four in the morning.

"What is this?" Samul asked groggily.

"It is your last meal," the guard said. "Eat up and dress. You have an appointment with the executioner at five."The servants turned and bustled out, the guard behind them.

Samul bolted out of bed.

"But I've been told nothing of this!" he shouted.

The door thumped into place, and he heard the keys jangle again. "I know nothing of that, your grace," the man mumbled.

"Call Lord Dease!" Samul shouted through the barred window. "I must speak with Dease!"The guard withdrew the keys from the lock. Samul could hardly make out the man's face in the poor light.

"Lord Dease has gone off with Lord Toren. No one knows when they'll return. I can take him no message." The guard lum-bered off down the passageway, the dim light of his lantern disap-pearing into the dark tunnel.

They came to fetch him before the bell tolled five. Samul wondered if this was a nightmare, for nothing felt real. Every little sound was heightened, the stones in the walls all seemed to stand out in the dim light. Two others were taken from their cells then; a noblemen and a small, dark-haired man.

"Lord Samul, I expect… ?" the nobleman said.

"Lord Carl—I see your face at last."The two bowed to each other. Samul saw that the little man was trembling, near to collapse. Lord Carl put a hand on his shoulder.

"So this is what I've brought you to. I can't tell you how much I regret it, Jamm.""It would have come to this eventually," the little man said, try-ing to steady his voice. "At least I go in good company." He tried to smile but failed.

It was a silent procession—at least there was no speech. Every footfall seemed like the note of a dirge to Samul. Even the pendu-lous creak of the lantern swinging on its handle was as clear as a lark's song in the early morning.

The company made their way in near darkness up a narrow stair. At the top a small company of guards waited. Without pause they went on, marching in step down the corridor.

Samul thought the Renne blue of the guards' surcoats was the most beautiful color he had ever laid eyes on. As beautiful as the sky on a summer's day. A dim gray light illuminated the high windows.

"Will we be executed before the sun rises?" he asked the guard. He had not seen the sun in days, and suddenly it was important to see it once more.

"I don't know, sir," the guard answered softly, no doubt break-ing his orders not to speak with the condemned.

Samul made every effort to bear up, not wanting anyone to say he faltered at the end. He had made his decisions and now must ac-cept the consequences, but at the same time a small voice within him cried, These cannot be my last minutes! I'm not ready to make an end of it yet. I'm not ready!

Doors opened into a small courtyard. Samul knew the place: "the bone yard" it was called. It was a cheerless square of gray paving stones and empty-eyed walls, for only a few windows stared down into the place. No one wanted a room with such an outlook. No garden softened the harsh rectangle, no tree offered shade, or climbing vine broke the blankness of the stone.

The little company turned and passed through the doors. Carl's companion sobbed once but then took hold of himself and bore up. Samul looked over at the young nobleman. His back was straight, and his hands were steady. There was a pale sheen of sweat upon his brow, and his eyes were wide, like a man surprised, but other-wise he carried himself with admirable dignity. Samul only hoped that his own appearance did not suffer by comparison.

A scaffolding, hung with black cloths, stood at one end of the courtyard, and below the cloths, three baskets waited side by side. Samul's nerve almost failed then, but he tore his eyes away and walked on, his feet hardly seeming to hit the ground. Each step seemed to happen slowly, the heel of his boot striking, the ball of the foot touching sometime later.

Fondor waited at the bottom of the steps, his face grim and filled with sadness. Samul remembered that Fondor had been his protector when he was a small boy, shielding him from the bullies among his larger cousins.

The company stopped at the foot of the wooden steps. Fondor drew a ragged breath. "Have you anything to say, Cousin?" he asked.

Samul leaned near to the larger man, so that he might whisper close to his ear. "It was Dease who was to have murdered Toren," he said, "but he would not shoot, for he knew it to be Arden. Beld knocked him down and took the shot himself, believing it was Toren." He stepped back and gained some small satisfaction from the shock on Fondor's face. "Thank Dease for all the concern he's shown me."Samul turned away and mounted the stairs, Carl and his guide close behind.

It was dark within the black hangings, but in the dim light Samul could make out the executioner in his black hood, axe in hand. More guards hovered over three wretched-looking men who stood with their hands bound, one rocking quickly from foot to foot, so frightened he could barely stand.

They will execute common criminals on the same scaffold! Samul thought indignantly. It was an intentional insult, he realized. A final message from Toren, who had certainly ordered it.

High up in a narrow window stood the messenger from the Duke of Vast. He had been brought here that morning, having arrived soon after his lord had heard that Carl A'denne had made his way across the river to Castle Renne. The aging Renne counselor who stood beside him cleared his throat.

"You will take Lady Beatrice's thanks to the Duke. This young traitor might have done much harm if the Duke had not found him out."The messenger nodded. "The Duke will be much gratified.""There is also a small gift—a token of Lady Beatrice's affection."The messenger performed a small bow.

A dull thud was heard through the dirty glass, and a head top-pled into a basket. Another dull report with the same result, then a third.

"That is the end of A'denne, his young guide, and also Lord Samul Renne. What a time of treachery we live in," the old coun-selor added.

"So it is, but you have paid these traitors back in full."The mes-senger hesitated, glanced once more through the smudged pane, then turned away.

The two men proceeded down the hall thinking about breakfast.

Samul's gaze turned toward the three blocks set out at the edge of the scaffold. His eyes closed involuntarily, and he turned his face up toward the sky. Opening his eyes, he saw only the featureless gray of the early morning. No hint of blue.

"Lord Samul…" a guard said, "this way."A hand touched his shoulder, and Samul tore his gaze away from the sky. The guard gestured toward a stair that led back into the castle.

"What?" Samul said stupidly.

"This way, sir." The guard took his arm gently and led him down the stairs.

Samul glanced back once to see the first criminal led forward to kneel before the block, then he was inside.

Fondor waited there in flickering lamplight. Behind him came Carl A'denne and the little thief who served him. They were hus-tled past and down the passageway.

"Wh-what goes on?" Samul stammered.

Fondor leaned close to him and spoke in a harsh whisper. "Samul Renne is dead. You will cease to use that name, and you will never—never—return to Renne lands. I have a task for you, Cousin, and if you will perform it, Toren will not feel he let you go in vain.""Whatever it is," Samul said, "I will do it." His knees buckled then, and he would have fallen had not Fondor reached out and kept him on his feet.

Carl A'denne could not quite catch his breath. He and Jamm were hustled into a small dim room, and the door slammed behind them. A single window, barred, was set high into a wall.

Jamm began to sob, shoulders shaking almost silently. "What trick is this they play?" the little man lamented.

"I know not," Carl answered, gazing around—a tallyman's room, with tables and ledgers. The sound of the executioner's axe came dully through the door. Jamm collapsed against a wall.

A moment later the door opened, and Fondor Renne stepped in, his manner grim and determined.

"What game is this?" Carl demanded angrily.

"Vast will think you dead," Fondor said. "One of his minions had a poor view of your execution from a high window. Though the head that fell into the basket was not so fair, it would pass as yours in such poor light."Fondor leaned back against a table and crossed his arms. "I'm sorry not to have warned you, but there are spies within Castle Renne and you had to look like men going to your deaths. Anything less would have been remarked upon."Carl leaned back against the wall, bracing his hands on his knees.

"Take a moment to compose yourself," Fondor said kindly. "It was a cruel trick, but you are alive this day,and the Renne have no thoughts to end your lives."Carl forced himself to breathe. Another dull "thwack" was heard—the third, he realized.

"Who were those men?" Carl said weakly.

"Criminals who had been sentenced to die. Don't concern yourself—the Renne are not so cruel as to have taken innocent lives to preserve yours.""But what now?" Jamm asked.

"Under the circumstances I will excuse you for not addressing me properly," Fondor said. He rocked back against the table, which creaked from his weight. "My family have a proposition for you. The Isle of Battle is ours still because of your warning, Lord Carl, but that is not enough to earn the reward you asked." Fondor put a hand to his chin and seemed to consider his next words. "The world has changed since we made our bargain. The Prince of Innes was assassinated and his son, Prince Michael, has become our ally. When we made our bargain with your family, Lord Carl, the Prince of Innes was our enemy, and we gladly agreed to cede you half his estates. But now… now his son is our ally and his estates have all been taken. What are we to do?" He raised a bushy eyebrow. "And I there is more. Even with the element of surprise on our side and Hafydd off somewhere, our armies are no match for the armies of Innes and Menwyn Wills. We won on the Isle of Battle because they were not expecting us to land in force, but they won't allow them-selves to be humiliated again. They will attack in greater numbers in a place where we will not have a canal to protect us." He gazed at Lord Carl a moment, his face lined and serious. "We are des-perate. That is the truth."He glanced at Jamm and offered him a small smile of en-couragement.

"Here is our proposition," Fondor went on. "Prince Michael has nothing, as he well knows. Even the information he has offered is of small value. Without Renne support he has no hope of recov-ering his estates. So we have made a bargain with him. If he will travel east of the river and make contact with men he believes will be sympathetic to his claims—officers who served his father, and other allies—and if he can bring these men over to our cause, then we will support his claims after the war." Fondor took a long breath. "But if you will aid him—if you will be his guides and his guards, Lord Carl, you will receive from Prince Michael estates enough so that yours will equal his.""He will never keep such a promise.""Oh, I believe he will, and I think you will believe him yourself once you've spoken." Fondor opened the door and motioned to someone outside. A young man dressed like a poor traveler came in. Carl had met Prince Michael before, but this young man, though certainly the prince, appeared older, less full of himself. He was certainly not smirking, as Carl remembered him.

"Prince Michael," Carl said, and bowed badly, still shaken.

The Prince bowed in return. "Lord Fondor has told you of our bargain?"Carl nodded.

"What estates my family had are now in the hands of Hafydd or Menwyn Wills. Hafydd is gone off somewhere, we're told. Any-thing might happen with my father dead. There might be fighting between his allies, ambitious generals who see a chance to take some lands of their own. If the two of us can preserve my estates, then I will gladly give lands to you so that our holdings will be equal. Better half of something than all of nothing, I say. But even more importantly, if some of my father's allies can be persuaded to fight against Hafydd, then we might have a chance of defeating the sorcerer." Prince Michael looked at Carl closely, and Carl thought he saw some sympathy there. "There are greater forces at work and larger things at stake, Lord Carl, than the estates of the House of Innes—or A'denne, for that matter.""There is not much time," Fondor said. "We must get you out of the castle before it grows light.

Yea or nay, Lord Carl. Lady Bea-trice would have your answer.""What will we offer Jamm, for to be honest I would never have managed my escape without him. If he will not guide us, we will al-most certainly fail." Carl turned to the little thief. "Or would you even take the risk of crossing the river again?""What is it you want, Jamm?" Prince Michael asked.

The little man did not answer right away, but cast his gaze around the room like a man looking for a way out.

"I know nothing but the roads," the little thief said, thinking. "Drays. Drays and teams to pull them. There is always much to be moved from the river inland and never the wagons to do it." He nodded. "A dozen large drays, new built, and teams of my own choosing.""If we succeed, they will be yours," Prince Michael said.

Carl looked at Fondor and nodded.

"Horses are waiting," the Renne lord said, and waved them out.

Carl still felt as though he were not quite on the ground, and more than once preserved his balance with a hand against the wall. He noticed that Jamm did the same.

He lost his way in the dim corridors and later could not tell you how far he'd walked or how long it had taken, but they arrived at the stables, where saddled horses were waiting. Samul Renne was there as well, looking like a man who'd just been told his home and family had burned. He nodded to Carl but did not seem capable of speech at that moment.