A King in Cobwebs Read online

  Almora reached out to him, touching his cheek an instant. “I am glad you survived, Sir Durand. And I think Lady Deorwen was pleased as well.” Though Durand wondered what was left in Deorwen’s heart for him.

  “Lady Almora!” said Deorwen, confirming his fears. “I’ll do my thinking for myself.”

  The girl smiled. “And I wouldn’t have missed Durand in daffodils.” She took in the crowd, smiling as Durand gave her the grimace she wanted. “It is grand to see so many people. It’s wonderful that they wait for us to pass before going on to the high sanctuary!”

  “It is a fine custom, Ladyship,” said Durand. Light flashed from the old Sword of Gunderic as the Eye of Heaven sank.

  Behind them, the gabbling ocean of humanity surged shut, forcefully cutting them off from the safety of the castle. All around, arms and oily faces crowded close, groping in from above and below while the duke’s banners passed near enough for servants and housewives to reach out from upper floors and loop wreaths around their stark lances.

  “It has been a long winter,” said Almora. “And always a crowd at the gates for handouts. Now, they all seem so alive.”

  Meanwhile, the crowd cheered the duke and his daughter. And they cheered Coensar, the silver-haired hero of the siege of Acconel. Almora laughed, actually clapping her hands as one maiden leapt up to the aging steward, daring to plant a kiss on his cheek.

  “There you are, Sir Coensar!” exclaimed Almora, and Coensar scowled like a drover in a downpour.

  Despite the crowd’s obvious good humor, Durand could not help but see danger in all the tumult. How simple would it be for some Yrlaci villain to slip near?

  As he watched the crowd with visions of Yrlaci knives in his head, he caught sight of a man moving along a row of shops: a large man, bulling his way toward Almora or Abravanal, churning forward even though the crowd had him nearly pinned to the collarbones. And so Durand gave his skittish rouncy the spurs again and surged into the mob, wincing at the shrieks of pain and panic. Within a wallowing lurch or two, Durand was on top of the man, hauling his flail from his belt just as the fellow lifted his hands—to reveal only a garland of wildflowers.

  Thankfully, the unflappable Almora took the proffered garland and set it on her brow. Her charming flourish saved the good cheer of the crowd in a single smiling moment. Behind Durand, folk were already picking their fellows up from the road. Some laughing. Most smiling up at the girl and none worse than bruised. “Flowers, Sir Durand,” she said. “Flowers.”

  “Ladyship,” said Durand, his face burning. “Very nice.” He nodded to the man whose face was contorted with the conflicting emotions of having got so close to Her Ladyship and nearly being felled by her champion. “You have my apologies.” The man bowed low, but Deorwen looked none too pleased.

  Thankfully, just then Sir Kieren called out. “Lady Almora, we had best press on!” And he pointed up at the high sanctuary, just then coming into view between the rooftops. The new stone was bright as fresh snow.

  “Oh, it’s so beautiful!” Almora said.

  The construction stood complete from the Dawn Altar down half the length of its old foundations, soaring some twenty fathoms above the highest roofs nearby, all built since Radomor’s rebellion and the siege. Where the unfinished aisle might have gaped open to the weather, the priests had hung a vast black cloth like a giant’s curtained door. “They will have bought every bolt of black canvas in Errest the Old,” said Almora. “What will you do for surcoats now, Black Durand? Shall we dress you in gold?”

  “I have black enough to last,” said Durand. He’d worn the color since Lamoric had died in Radomor’s little war. Always black. He ran his thumb over the handle of his flail.

  The procession mounted the sanctuary steps into the ruined nave, jingling among the sheds, limekilns, and timber of the builders that was spread across the floor. Funerary effigies stood open to the Heavens. Almora marveled at it all.

  “These seem so strange in the weather and the sawdust,” Almora said, looking down on the alabaster faces.

  “Aye,” Durand agreed. He saw chips over white bodies.

  “We will soon have them back under the shelter of the sanctuary once more, do not worry,” the duke whispered. “The masons said they could not build it in sixty years, but I was adamant. Though it takes every piece of silver from our treasury, your brother and his comrades will not wait so long.” His wide blue eyes flickered at the high curtain in its frame of white finials. “Already the high sanctuary is greater than it ever was.”

  The wonder in the girl’s wide eyes ebbed away. Acconel’s high sanctuary was the resting place of the heroes of the Siege of Ferangore, including her brother, Lord Lamoric.

  As the duke reached the curtain, the black wings sprang wide, freeing clouds of beeswax and rowan smoke to billow high into the evening. Priests bowed while battalions of kettledrums and trumpets thundered from the corners of the sanctuary. The horses shied and snorted, doubly alarmed when their hooves struck the paving stones. In the midst of it all, Father Oredgar, the fearsome Patriarch of Acconel, stood tall, bedecked in gold and fire.

  “The Ascension is at hand,” announced the Patriarch.

  The duke raised Gunderic’s old sword. “We are come in full thankfulness, and have brought with us our sworn men.”

  The Patriarch’s eyes sparked like those of some barbaric chieftain of another age. “Enter then under the Eye of Heaven.”

  Dismounting, Abravanal and his company shuffled to a canopied stall set aside for them. “Your Grace,” said Coensar. “We must be off the moment this is over. By morning, if it can be managed. Ragnal wants us over the mountains, but we’ve trouble that won’t wait.”

  “Yrlac,” was Abravanal’s answer.

  Durand’s forehead ruffled a silk fringe as he took his position behind the duke. Dubiously, he fingered the crimson linen of the stall’s back panel, thinking that a few ugly pine boards might have stood a better chance of stopping a dagger.

  Lady Deorwen took her position beside him, very close.

  Meanwhile, the highborn of Gireth shuffled to the facing rows of benches along the sanctuary. A completed sanctuary might have admitted more of the citizens, but soon the vast curtain had to be shut on the multitudes to allow darkness to take the sanctuary; this was key to the Ascension rite.

  And Durand could feel Deorwen, the heat of her body, almost touching him in the dark stall, where she stood behind Almora’s chair. He closed his eyes. His ear throbbed. One eye was swelling shut. His neck hurt whenever he dared to turn his head. Still, it was better to stay far from Deorwen, even after all these years.

  Somewhere up front, Coensar leaned close to Abravanal, whispering, “Your Grace, Yrlac is on the point of war. We may have defeated Duke Radomor, but the native lords who survive cannot abide our hold over them.”

  “What would Radomor have done to us?” Abravanal growled.

  “He’d have snapped Gireth up without a thought. You’ll get no argument from me. But in their own feasting halls when no one can hear, what do you think these native lords are saying? Every slight is recounted. Every wrong recorded. And now, the men of Yrlac won’t rest till Yrlac has a duke of its own. Those are the whispers, and you must know it.”

  “You are speaking of that Leovere.”

  “He’s the last man with any of the old blood in him. And every knight and baron of Yrlac has been wheedling and cajoling and driving him for ten winters. Every whisper of discontent ends up in Leovere’s ear. Every crime of a Gireth-man on the soil of Yrlac is brought before him in Penseval. It is a place of rage and tears.”

  Abravanal’s answer was like a blade’s hiss upon a whetstone: “I did not wish that war. It was Radomor who pulled down Penseval. The sanctuaries. The Well of the Spring Maid. The Red Hall of that boy’s ancestors, curse them. He tore it all down just to deny his enemies food and water.”

  A shrill of bells drew the attention of the congregation, and every soul turned to the D
awn Altar, where ancient Oredgar stood, apparently balanced on the heels of his own reflection upon the deep polish of the sanctuary floor. Durand remembered bodies lying in the same scent of beeswax and balsam. It was an unwelcome image. And here he was caught between Coensar and Deorwen, Lamoric’s widow. A breeze on the curtains let a fiery seam of light slip down the aisle and blood-redden the faces of knights. As one, the people winced. Durand wanted out.

  “We did not ask for war,” said Coensar. “No one doubts that. But the native lords of Yrlac have grown bold.” And bolder as Abravanal grew old. “They would have a duke of their own blood, and think it is time for Lord Leovere of Penseval.”

  “But I do not, Coensar! He’s the man who surrendered at Ferangore, the ranking peer in that street of fire. I’m sure he choked on that. And he has not once been to my hall in all the years since. That man has sworn no oaths to me at all.”

  “He has not. But he’s faithful enough when he gives his word. The man has brought us a hundred petitions from his people in Yrlac.”

  “His people.”

  “Lands stolen. Rights violated. Custom ignored.”

  “Leovere knows our numbers. Our men have turned him down and turned him down, but he will not stop. Once, a steward of yours clapped him in irons for impertinence. He has rebuilt the Red Hall of his forebears, but he will not be silent, though he has never had the power to resist us. No, Yrlac is vanquished, its lands forfeit. He is fortunate to have his hide intact. It is more mercy than Radomor showed my children.”

  “Aye,” said Coensar. “But now there’s a change. The barons of the king’s Great Council have grown jealous of your two dukedoms, Your Grace. They’re grumbling. And that might mean money, men, and arms for a rebel in Yrlac. Given the power to break our hold, Leovere might move from his Red Hall. The native lords might give him no choice.”

  “Then we will move first! We will strike into Yrlac. We will root out these rebels and see just what Leovere has to say for himself!”

  “We might forestall him, Your Grace. He is enraged, but I think he will talk. We might still wring a peace out of him.”

  “It isn’t peace he wants.” The old man looked to Almora. “When we return from the sanctuary, make ready. Call up our host. It is too long since the lords of Yrlac have seen our numbers.”

  “Your Grace. Send for Leovere. What harm is there in hearing him?”

  “What harm? I know what you intend, Coensar. You would give him my daughter!” The old man’s voice rang loud in the sanctuary. “Leovere would be heir to Gireth and Yrlac. He would have my daughter while I live, and rule in my hall when I am gone!”

  Coensar subsided. “Well, whatever is done, it must be before Ragnal sends a messenger we cannot ignore.”

  * * *

  OUTSIDE, THE MULTITUDES intoned the ancient litanies, the reverberation bulging against the beeswax silence of the sanctuary until, slowly, the harmonies seemed to mingle, to merge. And the living air took on uncanny weight, swelling against Durand’s ears and the bruises around his eyes. The Gates of Heaven were open, and the Powers had come into Errest the Old.

  “The moment is upon us,” spoke the Patriarch, and the congregation answered in a deep rumble: “Thanks be to the King of Heaven and His Host. Now, His Eye must reach even unto the darkest places of His sanctuary.”

  And so, throughout the black sanctuary, acolytes threw doors wide. The great valves of the crypt groaned open. And, for reasons Durand could not fathom, his own jaded heart began to hammer. All across the Atthias, it would be the same.

  Chains rattled high in the clerestory above the Dawn Altar as they would in Penseval and Evensands and Eldinor with the king himself. Novices at the rail held an enormous censer: a fire basket on a long chain fixed to the vaults above and glinting like a knot of brazen swords.

  “The King of Heaven is Triumphant. Winter is ended. Over the Host of Darkness, the power of light is ascendant. Praise the Host of Heaven!”

  And, with a roar of “Praise the Silent King!” the novices above the altar kindled the fire within the bladed censer. It blazed like a bonfire in its cage of brass, and the young men sent the censer down from the heights above the altar toward the tiles before the duke’s stall. Its long arc brought it flashing low right before Almora, then carried it high toward the great curtain. Priests hauled the canvas apart. There was a flood of ruddy twilight, and a moan rose from the city. The brazen pendulum flashed like a star—like the Eye of Heaven rekindled.

  And, of course, the censer returned. Bells rang across the city. People sang. The censer flashed above the Dawn Altar and swung back toward the city. This was the end of another grim winter in a city still rebuilding after Radomor of Yrlac cast it down, a new city thriving where the old had burned, where the streets still smelled of sawdust.

  These thoughts had scarcely entered Durand’s mind when an odd flicker from the light outside drew his attention. It might have been something as small as a crow darting past the curtain, but that was not what Durand saw. Priests scrambled at the foot of one of the huge curtains. They had lost their hold on the acres of cloth. At the same time, the chained bonfire was making its glorious return. As the huge black wing broke free of its handlers, it swung down on a spinning welter of brass blades and naked flame. Embers flew over the assembled company as seams of fire darted up the curtain. It was all aflame.

  Durand shot to his feet, despite the day’s hoard of bruises. Already, priests and noblemen had rushed toward the sudden blaze. Some tried to get hold of the hurtling censer as it swung back. There was a mighty crash, and a man spun with his cloak in flames. The masses sprang to life.

  “Your Grace, Your Ladyship, you’d best get up now,” said Durand. At the same time, he caught hold of Coensar’s shoulder, saying, “Coen, that’s the entrance on fire. It’ll be like horses in a stable fire when they realize. We’ve got to get the family out.”

  Coensar stood. Deorwen met his eyes.

  “There’s a doorway to the yard,” said Coensar. “This way. Quiet. We’ll want a head start.”

  Durand followed Coensar’s glance and slipped into the crowd. Already, people were running; they would have the duke’s canopied stall collapsing in moments. “God no,” the duke was saying. “God no.” He clung to his daughter. Deorwen caught Durand’s hand. She caught his hand! He would not think.

  The curtains bellied out. They billowed, full of fire. Some devil of the Hells opening its wings. Durand’s glimpse beyond showed scaffolds, outbuildings all kindled now. Thatch soared in the furnace torrents of the air like a rain of fire. They would be lucky to save even half the city.

  Durand would let nothing happen to Deorwen or the girl. He would get them safe.

  * * *

  IT WAS LONG past midnight when Durand finally shuffled up the black entrance stair and back into the Painted Hall. The duke’s people, transfigured by soot and nightmare, climbed beside him. They had seen loss, salvation, and a thousand buckets slopped down the crazed and firelit alleys around the high sanctuary. They had seen a street festooned with flowers, black and in flames. With hooks and ropes, they had pulled down building after building to starve the fire. Durand recalled carrying a dead child; he remembered the weight of it in his arms. He remembered Deorwen serving as captain of nurses in the street. In the end, they all watched the fire bring down the ceiling of Abravanal’s sanctuary—the thing plunging like a burning ship from the black Heavens, laden with sparks. And every eye stung.

  As Durand hauled himself up the stairs, he wanted nothing more than to find his chamber and drop into a dreamless sleep. But what he got was a different matter.

  As the company mounted the steps, a torrent of dark birds—hundreds or more—flooded the staircase from the Painted Hall, throwing everyone against the walls in astonishment. For several heartbeats, wings battered the company.

  When they staggered into the hall itself, spluttering and smearing feathers from their faces, Durand saw a stranger standing alone in the mi
dst of the hall, near the great, open hearth. The man was as pale as plaster, and taller, by far, than any knight in Abravanal’s household. The last embers of the afternoon’s feast had him glowing like a specter.

  “Your Grace,” Durand managed, “we’ve guests.” And Abravanal’s men drew swords.

  It was Abravanal himself who stepped forward to meet the stranger, raising a cautioning hand to Durand and the rest.

  The figure had made no move throughout.

  “Friend,” said Abravanal, “I fear you will have had a meager welcome this night. I am master of this place, but much has gone on this evening. I hope you will understand.”

  The stranger seemed to gather himself. Durand glimpsed a chalk-pale face. He held what Durand took for a traveler’s staff, but as the man faced them, the firelight slithered over what seemed to be silver, not wood. This was a herald’s trumpet. The tall figure executed a courtly bow.

  “Your Grace, Duke of Gireth, I carry the word of His Royal Highness, Ragnal, by the Grace of far Heaven, King of Errest the Old, realm of the Cradle’s Landing.”

  Here was no mere messenger. Instead, Ragnal had sent the Herald of Errest himself. This was a man who had served ten kings over three hundred long winters. He had passed the Gates of Heaven and blown the Crusader Horn beyond the Sea of Darkness. Durand’s memory took him back over ten winters, to the day when Lamoric fought before the king at Tern Gyre. He had seen the Herald then. The Powers had worked a strange Doom upon Kandemar in return for his passage through the Heavens: The man had not, in nearly four centuries, spoken a word except his king’s—not since he walked the Halls of Heaven to carry word of Errest’s Lost Princes to its bereaved king. Life for silence, was his bargain.

  Now, Kandemar the Herald lifted his chin. “Thus says your king, Duke Abravanal: To our vassal in Gireth say that we are surprised that our messenger finds a liegeman of ours in his own hall when our royal command has compelled him to travel south over the passes of the Pennons Gate and to quell what unrest he might find there among our subjects in the Fellwood Marches. We ask how we are to accord this great delay with this vassal’s avowed loyalty. You are meant to be elsewhere.”