Authors: Mary Kirchoff
Guerrand snorted. “Thank you. She doesn’t like you either.”
“Oh, fie,” said Kirah with a toss of her pale head. She
skipped barefoot along the shore. “Rietta would marry me off tomorrow if she didn’t fear that I would do something to ruin her own simpering Honora’s chances for a suitable match. I think she suspects I’m the one who puts the frogs in her bed.”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t giggle every time Rietta mentions it at table,” suggested Guerrand. He looked up suddenly, as a breeze, cool and damp and smelling of rain, tickled his nostrils. “The wind’s changed.” He stared across the water to the south and frowned. “The sky’s black. There’s a storm brewing.” The lanky young man slapped his thighs and stood. “Time to face the lion, I guess.”
“What are you going to say?”
Guerrand shrugged. “What I always say—that I’m working as fast as I can, but swordplay and such doesn’t come as easily to me as to Quinn.”
Lightning suddenly jagged across the southern sky. Guerrand waited three seconds for the accompanying crack of thunder, then grabbed his sister’s arm and pulled her after him down the sandy beach. “Come on, Kirah. If we run hard, we can beat the rain.”
* * * * *
Guerrand and Kirah raced up the last green, gentle slope just as the first drops of cool rain began to fall. Winded, they strode arm in arm through the open portcullis on the northern curtain wall. At the inner gatehouse, both nodded to the lone guard clothed in well-worn ceremonial garb. Old Wizler, his eyes clouded over with cataracts, gave a toothless smile and waved them through. Loyal, if ineffectual, Wizler had served the DiThon family since before Guerrand was born. During Cormac’s rule, staff had been cut back to bare bones. Since these were relatively calm times in Northern Ergoth, there was little need to guard the
entrance to the castle.
Just past Wizler’s station, in the shadows of the temple to the god Habbakuk, Kirah slipped away from Guerrand’s side like a pale, luminous shade. “Good luck, Rand,” he heard her whisper. Guerrand knew well her penchant for traversing the castle through the network of tunnels and secret passageways that she’d spent her young life discovering. It was a great measure of her trust that she’d shown a number of them only to him.
Wishing he could slink into one of those dark, musty stone tunnels himself, Guerrand instead set his spine and strode across the inner ward toward the chiseled and sculpted entrance to the rectangular four-story keep. The moment he stepped inside, he felt the old, familiar tightening of muscles in his neck. His senses narrowed in the dark confines of the cold stone walls. A serving woman scurried by with buckets on her shoulders, headed up the broad, sweeping staircase. Squinting furtively in the dim light of the torches, she visibly brightened when she saw who was there.
“Hello, Master Guerrand. How be you today?”
His own smile was warm. “I’ve had an … interesting day, Juel.” Thunder cracked outside. Guerrand looked reflexively toward the wooden door. “But I suspect there are more clouds in my future.” His eyes shifted upward to the ceiling. “My brother is waiting for me.”
Juel shook her head. She well knew Cormac’s stiff nature, and was aware of the conflict between the brothers. Few secrets could be kept from servants. She gave the lord’s younger brother a sympathetic look before continuing up the staircase, the heavy load on her shoulders swaying gently in tempo to her steps.
Guerrand was two steps up the staircase when a voice stopped him from behind.
“Befriending the servants again,
Uncle
Guerrand?”
The muscles in his neck tightened even more. Honora. Cormac and Rietta’s eldest child, just three years younger than he. Hand still on the polished wooden rail, he turned to face her. Gods, he thought, how could such an angelic-looking creature sound so vicious? In Guerrand’s charitable estimation, his niece seemed to embody the worst of her parent’s traits in all areas but appearance. Who would guess that behind her perfect curvaceous figure and raven hair, which glistened even in the dim light of torches, beat the heart of a viper?
“You’re mistaking common civility for friendship, Honora,” he said calmly. “That’s understandable, considering that you’re unfamiliar with both concepts.”
Honora’s vivid green cat-eyes narrowed. “You’ve been talking to your ragamuffin sister again.”
Guerrand snorted. “I’d love to stand here and exchange barbs, Honora, but I’ll leave that to my ragamuffin sister. She enjoys it so much more than I. Right now your father would like to discuss something with me.” He continued up the stairs.
“You mean Father wants to give you another dressing-down.”
Guerrand stopped, but didn’t turn around. His hand gripped the railing more tightly. “Tell me, Honora, does your spitefulness come naturally, or is it a symptom of spinsterhood?”
“I am
not
a spinster!” she shrieked. Guerrand gave a secret little smile at the direct hit to her pride. “My mother is searching for the best match to a Knight of Solamnia. She’s already found one for Bram to squire under. But she’ll not be satisfied to marry her daughter to just any cavalier, Ergoth’s pathetic excuse for knights.” She arched a thin brow. “Which, I might add, you haven’t managed to become in ten years of trying.”
To Honora’s great irritation, Guerrand threw back his head and laughed. “I’d be offended, if I cared for your opinion, or even to become a cavalier.” He continued
up the staircase. “I’d wish you a good day, Honora, but I don’t think you could have one if you tried.”
Guerrand ignored her sputtering response. His foot came to the first landing. He looked to the second door on the right—Cormac’s study. It seemed at once stiflingly close and leagues away. He hadn’t had a pleasant conversation there since before his father died. Steeling himself one last time for the inevitable confrontation, Guerrand took two steps forward.
Suddenly, to his great surprise, the door to Cormac’s study burst open. Cormac’s arm thrust through the doorway, his bejeweled fingers pointing.
“Get out! I do not deal with mages!” his baritone voice boomed.
Guerrand’s eyes went wide, and he instinctively pressed himself up against the tapestry-covered wall. His jaw dropped in amazement when the persistent stranger from the village calmly stepped through the portal. Guerrand had never suspected the man was a mage! Instantly the man’s dark eyes fell on Guerrand, as if he’d known the younger man was there all along. To Guerrand’s great relief, the mage merely nodded toward him, without any outward sign of recognition.
“I’m an excellent ally, but a terrifying foe,” the mage said calmly, his back to the doorway and Cormac. “You’re making a grave mistake, DiThon.”
“Not as grave as yours!” Watching Cormac’s booted foot rise in the doorway, Guerrand was horrified to see that Cormac meant to add injury to insult. His foot was in midarc to the mage’s posterior when it seemed to jerk sideways, missing the target completely. Cormac was thrown so badly off balance that he collapsed onto the floor.
Guerrand was simultaneously shocked and amused. He quickly looked back to the stranger. It had to be a magical effect of some sort, but Guerrand was sure the man hadn’t so much as twitched, hadn’t whispered a
sound. No one had ever made a fool of Cormac without regretting it. Especially not in his own home.
“You may loathe and distrust magic, DiThon, but you make a bigger mistake yet by underestimating it.” Standing in Cormac’s line of sight, he looked directly, pointedly, at Guerrand. “One never knows when there is magic about.”
Red-faced, Cormac scrambled back to his feet. “I may not be able to control its vile presence beyond these walls, but in my castle there will be no magic or magic-wielders.” Though he had lost some of his bluster, Cormac would not be cowed. “I’ll tell you one last time to get out.”
The mage bowed his head in acknowledgment. He walked past Guerrand without a look and took to the stairs, his cloak softly brushing over the cold stones. “I leave because I choose to. You may soon regret this day.”
“I regret only that my servants gave you entrance!” Cormac hollered after the disappearing figure. But the mage had already faded into the darkness at the bottom of the steps.
Still pressed to the wall, unnoticed by Cormac, Guerrand held his breath as his brother slammed shut the door to his study. He waited a number of heartbeats for Cormac to move away from the door to his desk. Then, creeping ever so quietly, he sneaked past the door and down the hall to his own chambers, getting safely inside.
Like most of the family quarters in the keep, Guerrand’s room was small and simple. A wood-frame bed with several feather mattresses was the centerpiece. Two large chests provided storage for his clothing and other belongings, doubling as seats if needed. A small table against the wall held a basin and pitcher of fresh water. The walls were hung with rugs and painted sheets to add some warmth and to still drafts. During the day, a thin stream of light filtered through the narrow window in the outer wall. At night, candles
and the fireplace provided the only illumination.
In spite of his proximity to Cormac’s study, Guerrand felt safe here. Generally, no one bothered him in his room. Within the castle walls, it was the best place to rest. He had covered a lot of ground that morning, and his legs ached. Guerrand sank onto the bed and closed his eyes.
Rain was still falling softly, but the light outside his window was nearly gone when Guerrand awakened to the sound of someone fumbling with the latch to his door. By the time he was fully awake, the door had swung inward abruptly, revealing Cormac in the doorway. He swayed slightly as he looked around the room, then focused on Guerrand. “Get yourself to my study. I’ve been searching for you all afternoon.”
Guerrand’s heart sank. Cormac had obviously been drinking since his encounter with the strange mage. Guerrand knew the signs too well. This would be a bad time to speak with him about anything. “You have?” he asked evasively. “Been looking for me, I mean.”
“Didn’t Pytr or Horat find you?”
“No.” That was true enough.
“I’ll tan their lazy hides!” Cormac struggled visibly to keep his thoughts on track. “Never mind that. I’ve found you. Now come along.” Cormac stomped back down the hall with Guerrand trailing reluctantly behind.
Cormac’s study was cluttered and smoky. Books, both ancient and new, lined the walls from floor to ceiling. Guerrand recognized many of the dull-colored spines, since he’d read most of them as a child. He’d learned all that he knew of the world from those tomes. They were dusty now from lack of use; Cormac neither read them himself, nor allowed anyone else to. No one was permitted into Cormac’s study without him, and Guerrand never felt like browsing while he was there.
In spite of the books, the room was clearly Cormac’s.
Shields and weapons and pieces of armor leaned against the walls or stood in corners. Spiders crawled over a stack of wood near the fireplace. The bread crumbs on the floor would attract mice, Guerrand knew, if one of Cormac’s dogs didn’t lap the scraps up first.
“Sit.” It was more a command than an invitation. Guerrand dropped onto an uneven stool near the cold fireplace. He regarded his elder brother, who was edging himself through the now too-narrow space between his ornate desk and high-backed chair.
Cormac was a very tall man, the tallest Guerrand knew. His once lanky frame was now more than filled out, obese in fact. Strangely, his arms and legs were almost spindly, like four sticks poked into a large potato. His faded clothing was about ten years—and two stone—out of date. He had never cared much for appearance. Many of the ties that should have held his breeches to his doublet hung loose on his hips; he couldn’t be bothered either to tie them or yank them off. Cormac’s wife saw to it that his clothes were clean, although no one seemed able to remove the stains that slowly accumulated down the front of every shirt and doublet the man owned.
The cause—or actually, a symptom—of the enlarged waist and the veiny, crimson nose was the very thing Cormac was pursuing at the moment. A bottle of brandy in one hand, Cormac was pouring the amber liquid into a pear-shaped cut glass snifter. He swirled it around once, twice, staring at it intently before throwing the entire contents to the back of his throat with a satisfied, calming sigh. Only then did Cormac look at his younger brother.
“We need to discuss the intolerably long time you’re taking to complete your training.” After considering the brandy bottle, which was nearly two-thirds empty, Cormac poured himself another snifter and turned to look out the very rare and expensive glass window to
the right of the desk.
Over Cormac’s shoulder, Guerrand could see through the window. The view to the east, where land met sea, was magnificent: dark, pounding storm-tossed sea to the right, the gently rolling heath on the left. Twilight and rain clouds drew a gray curtain across the strait. He was surprised and grateful that his brother sounded more reasonable than he had expected.
Suddenly, something about the view seemed to make Cormac explode. Whirling about, he slammed the glass down on the desk, his expression as stormy as the sky behind him.
“Damnation, Guerrand, I can’t afford it! I’ve had to sell off valuable DiThon land—my heritage—to pay for your shilly-shallying.”
You mean for your drinking and mismanagement of affairs, Guerrand thought, but he held his tongue. As the son who inherited little, he was at Cormac’s mercy in every conceivable way.
“Then stop paying for my training,” the younger sibling suggested calmly. “Knighthood has always been your ambition for me, not mine.”
Cormac snorted. “I should leave you untrained, instead? My sense of charity and family honor would force me to support you still. This lazy streak of yours must be the result of your mother’s pale blood.” Guerrand noticed that his brother’s eyes were not focusing entirely; the drink affected his senses.
“Why couldn’t you have taken to it as Quinn did?” slurred Cormac. “He’s a year younger than you and has a self-supporting vocation already! Not only that, his marriage will return to the DiThon family what is rightfully ours—Stonecliff.”