Night of the Eye (4 page)

Guerrand now knew why the view had set Cormac off—it took in the promontory overlooking the bay, the land he so coveted. Stonecliff would be his again
within the month, as part of the dowry agreed upon between Berwick and Cormac. Quinn had done this for him, while Guerrand drained him of funds.

Guerrand wouldn’t be shamed. “As I’ve said before, I am not Quinn. The training comes hard to me, because my interests are not the same as his.”

“If you’re going to bring up going to Gwynned to study damnable magic again, I won’t hear it!” Both of them were obviously thinking of Cormac’s previous visitor. “I’ll not have one of those sneaky wielders of witchery in my home, let alone my family, even if we are only half-blooded brothers!”

“You’ve made that abundantly clear, Cormac. I never thought to suggest it.” Guerrand twined his fingers together in his lap and flexed them. “If you’d like my promise to work harder at my training, you have it. More than that I cannot do.”

Looking beyond Cormac now, to the view through the glass, Guerrand absently took note of three distant, dark spots, as of riders approaching in the gloom. Merchants were always arriving from Thonvil to sell something to their lord. Strange, thought Guerrand, that they should approach from the east, when the village was to the north and west.

“I suppose you think I’m at your mercy, since I can’t force you to learn faster,” growled Cormac. Guerrand had to chuckle at the irony of Cormac feeling powerless. It was so like him to feel the victim.

Guerrand felt some relief when a knock at the door interrupted Cormac’s self-pity. The large man swaggered impatiently across the room and yanked open the door. In the hallway stood a cluster of five men: two household servants carrying torches, two rain-soaked men-at-arms, and another soggy herald wearing Quinn’s colors. Guerrand’s heart leaped at the sight, as he realized that this meant Quinn must be in the castle.

The men in the hallway stared at Cormac for several
moments, until he prodded one of the servants to life with a question. “Well, what is it?”

“Sir,” blurted one of the servants, “these men have brought Master Quinn.”

He
is
here, thought Guerrand. Still, the servants seemed very uneasy and stared fearfully at Cormac. The other men shifted uncomfortably in their dripping clothing.

Oblivious to the awkwardness of the messengers, Cormac’s face lit up like a child’s on his birthday. “And about time, too,” he thundered. “Where is my great, conquering champion? Drying his hair? Fetch him and send him in! I would see him at once.”

The men exchanged nervous glances. The servants with the torches seemed about to turn and flee. After an uncomfortable silence of several heartbeats, the herald stepped forward and spoke. “Master Quinn is dead.”

“Dead?” roared Cormac. He stepped menacingly into the knot of retainers, fists clenched. “If this is someone’s sick idea of a joke, I’ll crack his thick skull. Where is my brother?”

Guerrand did not hear the answer to the desperate question, if indeed one was given. He had shifted his gaze back out the window, to the dim, starless night and the pattering rain. The study had grown very dark during their conversation, and no servant had come in to make a fire. His mouth was dry, his hands and feet suddenly so cold he could not move them.

To Guerrand, a pall seemed to cover the entire castle. It grew outward from his own heart and then hung, sodden and tattered, over every room and corridor and building. Guerrand was certain the gloom would never lift—the rain would fall forever, and the sun would never again shine on Castle DiThon.

In the stale, windowless great hall of Castle DiThon,
Guerrand shivered. He had not been able to get warm since the messengers arrived with the news. No amount of hot tea or fur wraps or fuel on the fire could warm this coldness of the soul.

Guerrand blamed the chill on the weather, which had steadily worsened since he and Kirah outran the black clouds on the heath. Gale winds and fierce rain pounded the coast relentlessly for days, damaging crops and dropping mighty limbs. Moving about like zombies, the villagers seemed to lack the energy to remove the debris. The winds continued, adding loose bricks to the wreckage outside, while the stifling stillness of the funereal viewing wrought devastation inside.

Guerrand had seen too much of death in his nineteen years. At seven he was not permitted even to say
farewell to his mother, whose own life had ebbed away at the same time she gave it to Kirah. He hadn’t understood death fully then, half expecting his mother to return as if on holiday. But she never did.

So, by the time their father died just two short years later, the nine-year-old boy understood too well that Rejik would not be returning, that life would never be the same. In his anger and his sorrow, he’d stood as still and pale as white marble next to his father’s coffin for the entire two days of viewing. Day and night, no one could move him, not even to tears. He’d had a job to do.

Guerrand had held a secret to himself in those dark days, one he’d not even told Kirah in the time since. On his last day of life, Rejik DiThon had summoned his children, one by one, to his bedside. Scrawny nine-year-old Guerrand stood in the dark and fetid air of Rejik’s death room, the father’s once-fleshy hand clutching the son’s small, sweaty one. “Don’t leave me, Guerrand,” Rejik had pleaded. “The way is dark, my eyesight is failing, and I’m frightened.”

Guerrand’s breath had caught for a moment. The once mighty and terrifying Rejik DiThon was afraid of death. Guerrand, growing frightened himself, said the only thing he could think of. “I’ll not leave you, Father. Not until Habbakuk comes to take you home.”

“I fear I’ve not been as faithful as some, but it’s a comforting thought anyway. You’re a good lad, Guerrand.” Rejik’s frail hand, cool and death-dry, suddenly wrapped around Guerrand’s like a hawk’s talon on a perch. “Promise you won’t leave until I see the Blue Phoenix’s face at last. Promise me!”

“I promise, Father!” Young Guerrand had kept his promise, staying at Rejik’s side until his coffin was placed upon its pedestal in the family crypt. He’d had no way of knowing when Habbakuk would come for his father, but he would take no chances. Guerrand DiThon kept his promises.

Standing next to the bier that held his younger brother Quinn now, Guerrand searched his memory for promises made to Quinn. There were the little ones between close brothers—“Don’t tell Father I broke the leaded window in his study.” The great, unspoken oath to defend each other, no matter the cause or cost. But, unlike Rejik’s death, there had been no warning, no way for Guerrand to help Quinn when he needed him most. The young cavalier had survived two years on the road only to be slain by bandits mere leagues from his home and family.

The day Quinn had left on his crusade seeking life’s adventures, he’d not spoken of mortality. Quinn had been too full of hope, of possibilities to think dark thoughts. But a last, long solemn glance between the brothers had reaffirmed the unspoken vow.

Guerrand had not been able to defend his brother against death, but he would stay by him until Habbakuk came, as much for his own sake as for Quinn’s. The young lad of sixteen had grown into a deeply tanned, thickly muscled man of eighteen. His raven-black hair, longer than Guerrand remembered it, in death curled below the neckline of his surcoat. Beneath the tunic, he’d been dressed in royal blue leggings and a warm silk shirt. Across his breast was laid his gleaming sword, polished, no doubt, by some faceless servant for the young cavalier’s final appearance.

Guerrand forced shallow breaths. The scents of bergamot and balsam, used to wash and perfume the decaying body, smelled overpoweringly of death. After the viewing, Quinn’s body would be sewn inside deerskin, along with the cloying scent. There was no death chamber to drape with black serge, so the drab woolen cloth was hung about the vast great hall, which now held the body for viewing.

The last three days had been the worst Guerrand could remember. The entire village of Thonvil had
gone into mourning for the immensely popular Quinn DiThon. Guerrand knew why. Quinn had been the kindest and most noble of the family. A steady stream of mourners had traveled between town and castle from the moment the public crier announced Quinn’s death in the square. The village bell tolled endlessly, plaintively, until the distant sound felt like a dull, ever-present thudding at the back of the skull.

Wearily rubbing the knotted muscles there, Guerrand looked among the throng of mourners for the wan face of his sister, not really expecting to spot her. No one had seen hide or hair of Kirah since Cormac had called her into his study to deliver the news. Guerrand would never forget his young sister’s reaction. She’d given one great, slow blink of her blue eyes. Then, in a remote voice that sounded far older than her twelve years, she’d said, “Death follows this family like some hungry hound.” She’d turned on her tiny heels and walked from Cormac’s study, leaving the adults in an awkward silence of agreement.

Guerrand thought it somehow fitting, given their opposing natures, that as committed to staying by Quinn as he was, Kirah had not shown up once. He knew from the servants’ gossip that Cormac and Rietta were furious at her days-long disappearance and absence from the viewing. Not for Quinn’s sake, but because people would think Cormac couldn’t control his wayward half sister. Which he couldn’t. Guerrand was certain that, wherever she was, Kirah knew of their humiliation and received some small measure of comfort from the couple’s anger. When all this ceremony was done, he would find her and help her cope.

Looking about the dark mourning chamber, Guerrand could see Rietta and her daughter Honora weeping appropriately while accepting the condolences of some neighboring nobles. Among them were the wife of the merchant Berwick and her daughter Ingrid, the
betrothed of the dead young cavalier. Guerrand knew who she was only because he had been told—he’d never before seen young Ingrid Berwick himself.

Squinting now in the dim light of the oil lamps, he had to agree with Kirah’s assessment of the young woman’s appearance. Ingrid’s looks hadn’t been aided by the weeping she must have done since the news of her betrothed’s death. Still, he could scarcely summon a twinge of pity for her. She could only be crying for the lost opportunity, not Quinn. To Guerrand’s knowledge, she and Quinn had not met in recent years, if ever. Ingrid looked up just then, across the vast hall, as if she felt his assessing eyes on her. Guerrand nodded briefly, a grim, stiff gesture, and looked away.

Despite the milling crowd, Cormac and Anton Berwick were conspicuously absent. No doubt they had retired to Cormac’s study to smoke cigars or sip port, or whatever noblemen did when they felt “uncomfortable.” That was the most passionate word Guerrand could come up with to describe Cormac’s emotion regarding their brother’s death. “Inconvenienced” also came to mind, but nothing approaching grief.

That’s not quite true, Guerrand had to correct himself. Several times in the past few days, he had caught Cormac’s eyes on him, vaguely angry, yet not focused on the present, as if his thoughts were far away in time and space. Guerrand recalled the look his brother had not even known he witnessed: it said clearly, “Why the useful one, and not you?”

Guerrand winced, but not because of Cormac’s incredible cruelty. That did not surprise him. He flinched because he could see how the thought might occur to persons far more charitable than Cormac. He was, in his own estimation and in all senses of the phrase, less useful than his noble younger brother had been. His worst crime, if a malaise of the spirit could be called that, was that he had no idea what he could do to rectify that situation.

* * * * *

At that moment, Cormac DiThon was trying to find, in the haze provided by good port wine, a solution to a situation of his own. He’d been suffering from a burning ache, low in the belly, since the news of Quinn’s death. The gentle sloshing of the port soothed his stomach in a way brandy could not, and its ability to narrow the senses dimmed the edges of the pain. Drink could not, however, make his problems disappear, no matter how many opportunities he gave it.

Damned inconvenient, Quinn dying before the wedding. It was a minor annoyance that his half brother had met an ignominious death at the hands of bandits, rather than in the blazing glory of battle more suited to a cavalier. That mattered little to Cormac, because it seemed to matter not at all to the copious mourners who had been trooping through his castle for days. Quinn had been well liked, that was obvious. It was the reason he’d been an easy sell when Berwick had come looking for a titled son-in-law.

Stonecliff had been within Cormac’s grasp. The conversation he had just concluded with Anton Berwick had done nothing to bring it near again. Yet Cormac refused to let its return slip away so easily. He could not afford to buy the land back—if anything, his finances were worse than when he’d sold it to Berwick.

“Damn those bandits!” Cormac cursed aloud. No matter what he did, or how hard he worked, the fates seemed to conspire against him. How many times had the answer to his problems been within arm’s reach, only to be pulled away at the last instant? When his father had arranged his marriage to Rietta, Cormac had believed he was getting a handsome woman of high blood whose name and demeanor would raise his own standing. Instead, he got a supercilious, stiff-necked shrew who was raising their daughter Honora in her
own disdainful image and assailing their son Bram with stories of pompous Knights of Solamnia, but who seemed at the same time too much like Cormac’s own wastrel of a brother, Guerrand.