Throne of Llewyllan (Book 2) (8 page)

Kendril eyed the nobleman carefully. “So what do you intend to do?”

There was a heartbeat of silence. Bathsby leaned back. “I intend to do whatever I can to ensure the safety of Llewyllan. Look what happened in Arbela. The merchant guilds overthrew the king completely, and now religious fanatics hold the nation in perpetual fear. I won’t allow things to get to that point here. Llewyllan needs a strong leader, one who understands where the world is going and what needs to be done here to make this nation powerful.” He lowered his voice. “There are many others who feel the same as I do, Kendril. Men in the army, and the government, who do not want to see Llewyllan fall into decay.”

Kendril didn’t reply. From the hallway behind him the low undertone of voices had diminished to almost nothing.

“I could use a man like you,” Bathsby continued in the same soft voice. “A simple soldier, like me. One who can see where the world is going, and what needs to be done.”

“I have made vows to my order,” said Kendril.

“For penance?” Bathsby gave a disarming shrug. “Perhaps it is time at last to find your repentance, Kendril, and put that cloak behind you. Here in Balneth you could really make a difference, start your whole life over again.”

Kendril’s hands slowly clenched the sides of his chair. Outside a night breeze wafted through the garden and stirred the bushes.

“You could spend it,” Bathsby continued, his fingertips pressed together, “with
anyone
you wanted.

Kendril sat still for a few moments, then rose to his feet. “It’s late,” he said abruptly. “I should get to bed.”

Bathsby nodded. “I still have some paperwork to attend to. Good evening, Mr. Kendril. I do hope you will consider what we have talked about.”

The Ghostwalker turned without replying, walking out of the study and into the small hallway. He stopped midway, leaning against the wall and taking a few deep breaths, his eyes closed.

“Why Mr. Kendril,” came a silky voice in front of him, “are you feeling all right?’

He opened his eyes. There, standing in the darkness of the passage, was Bronwyn. Her amulet seemed to glow with an unnatural light.

“I’m fine,” he said tersely. He pushed away from the wall. “I was just retiring for the evening.”

Bronwyn stepped in front of him. “I was going to retire myself. These parties can get so dreadfully boring.” She took a step closer. “Are you staying here in the palace?”

Kendril hesitated for a moment. “Yes.”

She took a step closer, her bodice swelling as she breathed. “I can tell things about people, Kendril. You’re…different than other men.” She moved a hand forward, inches away from the Ghostwalker’s chest. “You’re full of so much sadness, yet so much strength at the same time.” Her eyes caught his, glowing in the dim light of the hall. “I think you and I are very much alike. We’re both very alone.”

Kendril began to feel dizzy, as if the hallway were tilting forward. He clutched at the wall, and shook his head. The amulet around the woman’s neck seemed to throb with a pale light, like a recurring heartbeat.

“Perhaps we can help each other,” she said. Her hand moved slowly forward.

Kendril took a step back, as if waking from a dream. “It’s late, Lady Bronwyn,” he said. His voice sounded strange in his own ears, as if he were listening to someone else speaking.

She smiled, and her beauty turned Kendril’s stomach to water. Her hand touched lightly against his chest, and he felt the warmth of it through his shirt.

“Why do you continue to punish yourself?” she whispered. Her fingers moved gently upwards, spreading like small flickers of heat across his skin. “Let
me
help you,” she said again, her voice soft and gentle. She leaned towards him.

Kendril’s eyes began to close. His head spun. He felt his body beginning to float, as if every limb was weightless.

Bronwyn moved in closer, her lips inches away from his. Her hand moved up from his chest, then tenderly caressed the side of his face.

The touch seemed to snatch Kendril out of the trance. His eyes snapped open and he stepped back, then swatted the woman’s hand away. He took a deep breath. The air in the hall seeming heavy and close.

“Good evening, Lady Bronwyn,” he said coldly. He brushed by her, walking unevenly down the hall.

The dark-haired beauty followed him with her eyes, rubbing her hand gently where he had slapped it. A smile was on her face.

The moment Kendril re-emerged into the central hall of the palace, he was able to breathe again, the air suddenly fresher. The dinner guests had all left or gone to bed, and white-uniformed guards stood at the palace doors and the bottom of the staircase. The light was dimmer now, lit only by a few lanterns placed in the hall.

His hands were trembling slightly, and he still felt light-headed. He turned, and looked back down the side hall. Bronwyn was no longer there. Kendril furrowed his brow as the cobwebs cleared from his mind.

“Mr. Kendril?” came a voice from behind him.

The Ghostwalker turned to see the same liveried servant from before, nervously clasping his hands. “Yes?”

“About your room—” the man began.

“I was just headed up there,” Kendril said. “What about it?”

“I’m afraid there’s been a slight miscalculation,” the man said, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “I forgot about your friend the diplomat, and I’m afraid that we’re one room short.”

Kendril stared at him. “One room short?” he repeated.

“Yes, but just the guest bedrooms,” the man quickly replied. “We have an extra room in the servants’ quarters, but I’m afraid it’s not quite as luxurious as the upstairs room. Still, there’s a good firm straw mattress, and you should have the room all to yourself.”

Kendril paused for a long moment. “A
straw
mattress?”

“I’m so sorry, sir. Tomorrow night we’ll definitely get you a better room. I hope you understand.”

Kendril nodded, and forced a smile on his face. “Straw sounds fine. Lead the way.”

It was late when Lord Bathsby finally snuffed out the candle in his study, then shoved his papers in the drawer of the desk and headed upstairs. He nodded politely to the night guards, reaching a room in a side corner of the second floor of the palace. As he approached the door, he detected a faint smell of incense.

Without hesitating Bathsby swung open the heavy wooden door, then stepped inside and shut it softly behind him. The room was large, with a canopied bed, a large mirror on the wall, and a long veranda that was open to the night air. Candles burned on the floor, and the smell of incense choked the room. In one corner a raven sat perched in brass cage, ruffling its feathers. A woman was kneeling on the floor between the candles when Bathsby entered, and rose quickly as the door shut.

“Lord Bathsby,” said Bronwyn with a faint smile.

The nobleman strode forward, and glanced down at the wafting flames of the candles and the small bones and feathers that lay at their center. He backhanded the young woman across the face, knocking her back onto the bed.

From the corner the raven squawked loudly. Bronwyn gasped in pain, holding her face.

Bathsby reached down and grabbed her by the neck. He pulled her to her feet. “I saw you in the hallway,” he said. The nobleman tightened his grip. “I told you to stay away from him.”

Bronwyn struggled for breath, but managed to smile all the same. “Why Lord Bathsby,” she struggled, “if I didn’t know better I’d say you were jealous.”

He stared at her for a moment, his grip still tight. Then, almost dismissively, he released her neck, and turned towards a chair against one wall.

Bronwyn collapsed onto the blankets, rubbing her bruised flesh and gasping for air.

Bathsby whipped his cloak to one side, and sat comfortably in the chair. “And what is all this?” he sneered as he waved his hand at the objects on the floor. “More of your devilry, I assume?”

Bronwyn rose to her feet, smiling again and wiping the tears of pain from her eyes. “Your lordship is too kind.”

He sighed and closed his eyes. “Lord Whitmore has made his move.”

Bronwyn leaned against one of the posts of the bed. She rubbed her neck again. “I know.” She threw the nobleman a piercing look. “You were foolish to have waited as long as you did.”

Bathsby opened his eyes, and stared coldly at the dark-haired woman. “It was worth the risk.”

She moved towards the candles. Her white dress floated behind her. “No, it wasn’t. Your plan was doomed to failure from the beginning, Bathsby. I told you that.”

The nobleman’s face twitched with anger. “If that accursed bounty hunter I hired had done his part things would have gone well enough. I could have rescued the princess and been back here a week ago.”

Bronwyn sighed, and brushed her black hair back behind her ear. “And what difference do you think it would have made, Bathsby? Even if you had come home as the sterling hero who saved the King’s daughter from certain death you wouldn’t have secured the throne.” She leaned forward, her amber eyes blazing with intensity. “You’re a
commoner
, Bathsby. The King will never forget that.”

He rose to his feet, and clasped his hands behind his back. “And you think
I
can?” He turned to the open veranda. The gentle night breeze caught his cloak. “Did you hear him tonight? A ball tomorrow in honor of those ruffians she picked up.” He shook his head angrily. “I’ve done more than any man alive to put this kingdom on the map, and still all anyone can see is my bloodline.”

Bronwyn slid up behind him. She slid her arms across his chest. “
I
see more than that,” she said softly. “I know what kind of a man you are, Bathsby, even if no one else does.” She gently kissed the back of his neck. “You
will
rule Llewyllan.”

He turned. His eyes fell on the candles and incense burning on the floor. “Is that what you have foreseen?”

Bronwyn leaned back, her amulet catching the light from the candles. “The Seteru cannot tell me the future,” she said, playing with the lace at his throat. “You know that.”

Bathsby sniffed. The corner of his mouth turned up. “Then what
have
they told you?”

She stepped away, then turned her head back towards the nobleman. “We must proceed with the original plan,” she said in a hushed tone. “There is no other choice.”

Bathsby’s face hardened for a moment. “All right,” he said at last. He glanced over at the raven in the corner. “Send your message, then.”

“There is one other thing,” she said. She moved over to the cage door and opened it. “The Ghostwalker and his friends are dangerous. Too dangerous to be allowed to stay here. They must be dealt with.”

Bathsby nodded. His face tightened. “You don’t think Kendril will join us, then?”

Bronwyn reached in and tied a small slip of paper around the raven’s ankle. The bird flapped its wings in annoyance, crowing loudly. She turned back to Bathsby, her eyes flashing.

“I know he’s a far greater threat to us if he
doesn’
t then an asset if he
does
,” she said smoothly. She stepped over to the veranda, and released the bird. It gave one last screeching caw, then flapped off into the night sky. Bronwyn cocked her head. “You’ve covered your tracks well enough, I assume?”

Bathsby walked over to her. “I killed Montrose in the bandit camp myself. No one will ever know his story.” He took Bronwyn by the waist, and turned her around. One of his hands moved towards her face, and slid down through her thick black hair. “You really are beautiful, you know,” he breathed. A small smile formed on his face. “The most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”

She smiled, and wrapped her arms around his waist. “To the future King of Llewyllan, long may he prosper.”

He leaned down and kissed her on the lips. “And to his future queen, the most beautiful woman in Llewyllan.”

Bronwyn laughed quietly, and kissed him again. She stroked his beard gently with her fingers.

“This country needs us,” Bathsby whispered, his eyes intent. “You and I, together, can bring change to this nation. We will make Llewyllan strong again, a force to be reckoned with.”

The young woman moved a finger up to Bathsby’s lips. “Shhh,” she said, her eyes gleaming. “Let’s talk of politics later, my lord.”

The nobleman smiled, and pulled Bronwyn to him. “I agree,” he said.

As one, they moved towards the bed, the moon shining brightly behind them.

Chapter 5

“Maklavir?”

Joseph pounded three times on the wooden door. A faint rustling came from within. “Maklavir?” he said again. He glanced behind him, but the hallway was empty.

“Hang on a moment,” came the diplomat’s voice from within. There was the sound of a lock being slid back, then the door opened just wide enough for Maklavir’s head to peer around. His face was bleary and there were circles under his eyes. “Joseph? Tuldor’s beard, man, what time is it?”

“Daybreak,” the scout replied. “Have you seen Kendril?”

“No.” Maklavir squinted his eyes, trying to focus. “Daybreak? This isn’t the woods, you know. We don’t have to get up at the crack of dawn.”

“Maklavir?” came a girl’s voice from within the room. “What’s going on?”

The diplomat’s head disappeared for a moment. “Uh, nothing, my dear. Go back to bed, I’ll be there in a moment.” His head reappeared.

Joseph smiled. “Busy night?”

Maklavir groaned, rubbing his face. “You have no idea.”

“I’m heading down into the city,” said Joseph with a smile. “Did you want to come?”

“Ugh, not now.” He yawned. “I’m not even dressed.”

“All right. I’ll see you later today, then.” Joseph scratched his beard thoughtfully. “Say hi to the girl for me.”

“Her
name
is Palora, and—” the diplomat began. “Oh, never mind. I’ll meet you for lunch.”

The scout nodded, holding back a smile. “Sounds good.”

“Lord Whitmore? Come in, come in.” Bathsby waved to the young aristocrat as he pushed some papers off his desk.