A Crown Disowned Page 7

  Yet, for all their fierceness when they went into battle, they seemed to develop a genuine fondness for the men to whom their care had been entrusted. If they were not roam- ing through the camp, investigating everything with that curiosity any cat displays, they could be found lying at ease in their human companions' company, being stroked and fed with scraps of the soldiers' rations.

  Gaurin, naturally, had a pair of war-kats, as did Hynnel and the other ranking nobles except for Harous, who refused his.

  "My duties are such that I cannot spare the time to see to them properly," he said. "Nor do I wish to burden any of my staff with the task. Chevin, my lieutenant, is almost as busy as I am."

  "Would that they could be persuaded to pull a sled," Gaurin said. He smiled.

  "But they are obviously too smart to agree to such a menial task, if they are anything like Rajesh and Finola, my two. Only dogs will allow themselves to be put in harness. I fear that any hopes our soldiers had of riding north to meet the enemy are for naught. The sleds will have to be reserved for carrying food and other supplies, and furthermore, many of them will have to be pulled by men.

  Our dog power is limited."

  "Have someone draw up a schedule, so that all bear such duty equally," Harous said. Then he was gone on another errand demanded by the multitudinous details occupying all the leaders. However, the High Marshal bore the greatest responsibility in the preparations for war.

  As usual, Ashen and Gaurin occupied the suite that had been permanently assigned to them in Rendelsham Castle. Ayfare had been left behind to unpack and store their belongings while Ashen joined Gaurin in the Great Hall for the midday meal. To her relief, the Dowager was not among those gathered. Instead, young

  King Peres occupied the royal chair on the dais.

  "Greetings, cousin," he said to Ashen with a pleasant nod. "Your fair face is ever welcome at our table."

  She smiled. Peres was quite a nice, polite young man—a far cry from his father, her half-brother Florian. "Greetings, sir," she said, and dropped a curtsey.

  "Oh, don't stand on ceremony," the King said, waving away such fripperies with a gesture. "I grow weary of it, especially from people I like. Do tell me, how does our fair cousin, your beautiful daughter?"

  "Hegrin?" Ashen said. "She does well. We sent her to Ry-dale, for safety. But we get regular reports on her progress with her lessons."

  "I could wish for her presence in Rendelsham," Peres said, a little wistfully.

  "I like her, too, very much."

  "Perhaps when the war is over, sir, a court visit could be arranged."

  "Yes. We will send for her then. We are eager to see her once more."

  The resumption of the formal tone told her that she was now free to find her place at the table while Gaurin and others made their own greetings.

  To her pleasure, she located her assigned seat near Lord Royance. His hair had grown, if possible, even whiter since she had last seen him, though his blade-thin figure was still as erect and elegant as ever.

  "Lady Ashen!" he exclaimed. He took her hands in his and kissed her fingertips.

  "How well you look. The exile you have chosen agrees with you."

  She smiled. "Indeed, being out of the moil of Rendelsham is all that I have ever desired."

  "And your handsome husband."

  Her cheeks grew warm. "Yes."

  "He is as fine a fighting man as I have ever seen. I fancy that I was very like him, once, when I was younger. Not that I have lost my edge, you understand."

  "Of course not, my lord. How well I remember your prowess in the Grand Tourney of not too distant memory."

  By this time Gaurin had joined them. The meal was beginning and the trenchers of bread were being placed on their platters, preparatory to the diners being served. He took the bowl of warm, scented water from a page, and handed it to

  Ashen and then to Royance before dipping his own fingers in it and wiping them on his napkin. "You acquitted yourself well in the Tourney, sir," he told

  Royance.

  "Pity I was matched against poor old Wittern. At first, anyway." Royance smiled with more than a touch of mischief.

  "You nearly killed Jakar, before that wicked Magician's spell was shattered."

  "Would have, too. Those of Vacaster would have been absent a lord."

  Ashen had a sudden suspicion that Royance, in spite of his years, had decided to join the fighting men, as one of them. Hoping she was wrong, she asked, "And how many men have you added to the roster of the Army of Rendel?"

  "Five hundred, not including my staff."

  Gaurin glanced at her and she knew that this was not a new concern. "Edgard has charge of Lord Wittern's levy. Your young kinsman, Nikolos, leads your men, of course."

  "That honor I have reserved for myself."

  "Then what shall I do for companionship here in Rendel?" Ashen said. "I had counted on many long and pleasant talks with you, for I shall be very lonely."

  "Such are the times, my dear," the elderly noble told her.

  "Such are the requirements of war that sometimes our best must stay behind,"

  Gaurin said. His tone was gentle, but Royance's snowy eyebrows drew together in a frown.

  "I like not the sound of those words, Gaurin," he said. "Are you implying that I am not fit for battle?"

  "Sir, we discussed this before, and I thought the matter settled. Please. Give me your word."

  "I think that my husband is right," Ashen said hastily. "It is the wisdom and experience of such as you that we require most in these perilous times. We who must needs stay behind will rely on you the most. Also, where would there be a substitute for someone to help guide King Peres? He needs you now, more than ever."

  The truculent expression on Royance's face eased somewhat. "It is true that none of his other councilors—" His glance went, perhaps involuntarily, to the chair the Dowager Ysa customarily occupied. "—are fit to advise him in time of war."

  "Then give the matter consideration," Ashen said, "as to where you are needed the most."

  Royance looked at her and a smile began to curve the corners of his mouth.

  "You've learned more tact since last I saw you," he said. "Once you would have innocently told me that I would be a hindrance, someone to be looked after and protected."

  "Never, sir!"

  "Well, maybe not in so many words." The white-haired noble drew a long sigh.

  "Perhaps you are right. Perhaps my best fighting days are behind me." Then the old burhawk which he had taken as his symbol peered out at her between his eyelids. "But only my best days. I still have a battle or two left in me."

  "None could doubt it, sir," Gaurin said.

  "Very well," Royance said. "Barring unforeseen circumstances, I will not ride out to war."

  "Thank you, sir," Gaurin said.

  "I thank you as well," Ashen said, in some relief.

  Then, with the arrival of the meat, the meal began. Ashen relaxed a little, now that a small crisis, one among many, had been averted. Much as Royance hated to be left behind, he had agreed. It was widely accepted that his word had always been better than another's signed pact. She knew that Gaurin planned to be off ahead of the Rendelian contingent to ready the proposed campsite. It was over the Ren-del border, where he was well familiar with the land. Also, he commanded fewer men in the Army of the Nordors than marched under the Rendel banners.

  Consequently Rendel's muster would take more time, being a far more complicated affair. Even Ashen thought it not wise to wait.

  She turned her full attention to enjoying every moment she could of her husband's company, while he was still in the city.

  Harous was not kept so busy that he did not find time to return to Cragden Keep now and then. Marcala, he noted with some measure of pride, did not hang on him or beg him to remain behind the way some wives did. Still, he knew she was sorry to see him depart.

  "When you go, I will not weep," she said. "I will not send you off wi
th sad memories. But I will wait impatiently for you to return."

  He nodded approvingly. "You are a true soldier's wife," he said, caressing her cheek. "You must know that I appreciate that."

  Freed of that particular worry, he turned to considering the selection of those items he would take with him. Because of Gaurin's and Hynnel's greater experience in the field, he would be leaving most of his favorite weapons behind. Also, he needed to test the multilayered clothing the two Nordors favored, to make sure the garments didn't hamper his movements. Marcala, unaccustomed to anything but decorative needlework, had commissioned their making and, obscurely, Harous had a secret wish that they were the work of her own hands.

  Ah, another thing—magical protection. Harous went into the bedchamber he and his

  Countess shared and found the key in its hiding place under his chain of office as Lord High Marshal. It bore the images of the Four Trees and was ever kept in a chest with other jewels for court occasions. Touching a certain spot on the fireplace mantle, he heard the almost inaudible sound of a panel sliding open.

  Harous lifted the arras and entered the secret room.

  Out of habit, he checked with quick glances. Nothing appeared disturbed since his last visit—how long ago? For a long time he had had no need of the items he kept carefully hidden. Because of its seclusion, the chamber was practically dust-proof. He couldn't even see any evidence of his own footsteps—how long ago had it been? When he had last entered the Bog, swathed in mist, to encounter, among others, Ashen.

  The room was very small, with only a small chest to furnish the space remaining.

  It rested on a book of arcane knowledge that Harous deemed powerful enough to keep a very close secret. The key slid easily into the chest lock. He lifted out the metal headband. Designed to center above the brow of the wearer was the oval talisman that would increase the spell of concealment, as well as grant immunity from certain weapons. This, definitely, must go with him. He gave the other contents a cursory glance. They would not be helpful. Let them remain for now at

  Cragden. He closed the chest, preparatory to locking it again.

  Suddenly he stopped, pricked by a feeling of subtle wrongness. Something was missing. Harous snapped the chest open again and searched with more purpose. So that was it. The amulet to summon a flyer, similar to the one those in office knew by now the Dowager kept in her tower room, though hers was not completely twin to this one. He remembered well the day he had shown it to Ysa, telling her it came from Zazar—a blatant lie, for what reason could Za-zar ever have to grant him such a boon? Nevertheless, though he had never used it, it had served his purpose if only to reveal to him the Dowager's possession of the magical creature.

  Harous stirred the contents of the chest with thumb and finger. He was positive that it had been here, locked into safety. Now, he leaned against the wall with an ever deepening frown twisting his brow. Someone skilled in locating secret rooms, picking locks, and searching out hidden matters had been a-hunt here.

  Who was the intruder? No one knew about this safe place except himself.

  Harous's frown became a scowl. Who? One name kept presenting itself. Marcala, his countess.

  As his wife, she had access to most of his secrets, could even have discovered this room by accident. She was a woman, and so bound by her nature to be curious. She was Ysa's friend and confidante. Therefore, Ysa could have sent her to rummage, perhaps, indeed, to seek the amulet. Why?

  He could answer that easily—because Ysa could not bear to believe anybody save herself possessed such a tool. Harous remembered the look on Ysa's face when he had shown the amulet to her—an instant flash of recognition followed by an almost palpable desire to take it out of his hand.

  Well, now she had it. For all the good it would do her. He alone retained the secret of its animation, and without that spell, the amulet was useless. But then, perhaps Ysa's motives never extended beyond depriving him of a power that she felt was hers alone. He was reasonably certain that, by now, Ysa must have destroyed it.

  Just as she had destroyed his faith and trust in the now stranger who was his wife.

  As he considered it, Harous realized that his regard for her had bloomed very suddenly, as had hers for him. He could make a good guess at the compulsion put on him and shuddered, as if he had discovered a tissue of spiderwebs enveloping his skin.

  Harous lifted the plundered chest off the book. Then he squatted on his heels and opened the book.

  Eventually he found what he was looking for. Rapidly reciting a counterspell, he felt his "love" for Marcala dissolve.

  He could hope the spell had not been as loose for Marcala. It would be greatly to his advantage to have her still in thrall to him. If not, well, that scarcely mattered. Very soon he would be gone to the northern wars, and he could deal with her later—if need be.

  The war. And how Ysa's stupid, selfish meddling had very nearly riven the country in twain, just as the enemy was on the march. His lips shaped a soundless snarl at recent memories. She had thwarted him at every turn, even to marrying him to her favorite, just to control him.

  Now that the scales of being bespelled had fallen from his eyes, Harous realized that not only had he ceased to love Marcala but now he detested Ysa as well. He could barely tolerate the idea of risking himself for a couple of women who had used him so cynically. Was even the safety of Rendel worth it? Perhaps, rotten as the country was from the top down, it would be better destroyed, allowing a new realm to rise from the ashes.

  Making sure that the secret room was once more in order, he left, taking the headband with him. He thumbed the spot on the fireplace once more until the door slid shut behind the arras.

  It was good that Marcala had promised him no tearful farewell. He would have had difficulty in restraining himself from denouncing both her and the Dowager Ysa, if she had put on a show of deceitful grief at his departure.

  Five

  Despite his best resolve, however, Harous was unable to conceal his change of heart and mind. Marcala knew him too well. Perhaps she, too, had experienced the breaking of the bonding spell which had held them both in thrall. In any event, her manner toward him changed sharply, even as his toward her.

  Tension stretched almost palpably taut between them and the evening before he was to depart at dawn, it broke. They faced each other, full of accusations and recriminations. The best either of them was left with at the bitter end of that encounter was that they were honest with each other at long last. Outside their chamber, servants scuttled past on soft feet, having no desire to be caught listening and so turn such wrath toward them.

  "Yes," Marcala said recklessly, drawing out the word so that it became the hiss of a striking snake. "I stole your precious amulet and yes, I gave it to Ysa. I was bound, for she commanded me to do it."

  "I suppose she didn't tell you why."

  "No. Why should she? It was enough for her to give the order."

  Harous scowled. "Then why didn't you steal my headband while you were at it?"

  "The one you used to wear when you journeyed into the Bog?" she said, too sweetly.

  He drew in a breath, surprised, and Marcala laughed. "A hit! I was only making a guess, but the look on your face tells me I am correct. Whatever was your errand in the Bog that you had to go wrapped in mist? The capture of the Ash heiress?

  It certainly wasn't to visit Zazar."

  "Woman, you are treading on dangerous ground," Harous said, grating the words between his teeth. His fingers flexed as if he would clutch at her.

  "Again, a hit, and in the gold, too. Well, let me tell you a few things. I have ways of gathering information that you do not know of."

  "Enough. Say no more."

  "Not nearly enough, now that we are being frank with one another. I know of many more of your crimes. I know, for example, of a certain cairn of stones erected over the body of a Bog-woman, killed by a man clothed in mist. I know also of what was taken from her, and what became of it."


  "I could snap your neck like a twig."

  "You wouldn't dare." Marcala laughed again. "I am beyond your threats, for I hold the title of Countess of Cragden and I have made full use of the privileges such a title brings with it. If you attempt to murder me, if you take one step in anger toward me, all I have to do is cry out and servants loyal to me will rush to my rescue. Then you would be the one to have to explain what cannot be explained. Right at the brink of war, at that."