Chapter 4

 

 

Giorn Wesrain and Duke Dalic Yfrin entered the small township of Thrais. It had been a long, weary journey, and Giorn was hot and feverish by the end of it. Pus seeped from the wounds in his leg, and he trembled with such force that he could barely walk. Fortunately his gold secured the services of a reputable healer, who was able to treat Giorn before he succumbed to his ailments.

Giorn had been existing only partly in the waking world, spending most of his time submerged in hallucinations and dream-fancies. Now he saw Thiersgald burning, and Niara raped by Vrulug on the altar of Illiana. He saw a darkness growing in the South, a great and terrible Being with a burning core of shadow, stretching out Its hand to Fiarth, and everything It touched withered and blackened—

Gasping, Giorn shot up from a narrow bed. He blinked the sweat from his eyes and stared about the small wood-paneled room. Morning light filtered in through the drapes over a small window. The scent of old pine perfumed the air. And, in the distance, eggs. Someone cooked breakfast.

Instantly his mouth watered, and he realized that he was ravenous.

He only dimly remembered hiring a healer and supposed that he must be at the house of healing. Where was the duke?

Giorn swiveled in bed and prepared to stand, and it was then that he saw his right leg was splinted and braced. An herbal-smelling ointment had been rubbed all over it, and it burned faintly. Some of his enthusiasm for breakfast died. I will never be able to run again. It was a bitter thought. He had been athletic all his life, a lover of the outdoors, of riding and hiking. Now here he was, the great Giorn, beloved heir of Fiarth, a cripple and exile. Pain still radiated from the livid scar across his abdomen, a living reminder of his failure at Wegredon.

Tears built up behind his eyes. No. If I start I might never stop. Niara, how could you have DONE this to me?

With an effort, he rose to his feet. He grabbed his cane and hobbled to the door. His leg throbbed, but he ignored it. He reached for the door, but before he could touch it, it opened. Startled, he leapt back, nearly falling.

The healer, a thin man with a short black beard and watery eyes, seized him before he could fall. “Don’t collapse,” the man said. Giorn recalled that his name was Sifram. “That wouldn’t do. And what are you doing up? I didn’t give you permission to be up. Now sit back, back. There you go. Sit, yes, you don’t have to lie down, but keep that leg up and immobile. There you go.”

Giorn reluctantly obeyed. “I smelled food.”

“Did you now? And you’re hungry? Well, that’s a very good sign.” He gestured to a woman standing in the doorway. She wore the green uniform of a nurse and carried a plate of food. “Fortunately, as it happens, that food is for you.”

The nurse placed the tray on Giorn’s lap. The eggs, sausage and toast, all unseasoned, nevertheless looked like the best meal he’d ever seen. Without being asked, he began to eat. He almost wept, it tasted so good.

“Where’s Dalic?” he asked around a fork-full of eggs.

“A few rooms down,” Sifram said. “Sleeping off a bit of drink, I’m afraid. He was quite worried about you, ever since your arrival two days ago, and yesterday your fever had you firmly in its grip. I’m afraid we all expected the worst. He took a bottle to his room and I haven’t seen him since. But when I checked up on you earlier, I noticed your fever had broken, and now here you are, hungry as I hoped you’d be. A bit hungrier, to tell you the truth.”

By the end of this speech, Giorn had finished his breakfast. His belly rumbled. “Can I have more?”

The healer smiled. “Yes, my baron. You certainly may.”

“What did you call me?”

“You are Lord Wesrain, are you not?”

Dalic should not have told, Giorn thought. We’re no longer what we were. We are outlaws, refugees. He would speak with Uncle Yfrin about it. If anyone they encountered should report back to Raugst, Giorn’s rebellion would die before it had a chance to begin.

“No,” he said. “That was my friend’s little jest. My name is Balad, as in Balad’s Folly.” That was appropriate. “Torent Balad.”

 

*     *     *

 

Giorn spent two more days there. Sifram’s draughts and healing salves helped greatly, and his leg was quickly healing, flesh knitting, bones setting. Even Vrulug’s scar seemed to hurt less. Sifram instructed him to remain abed for another few weeks.

Instead, Giorn departed that night. He knew he could not stay in one place, not while Raugst would be hunting for him, and especially not after Dalic had let their true identities slip. Not only that, but it was quite likely that Raugst had sent word out to the nearby villages to apprehend a man fitting Giorn’s description. Thus Giorn gathered Duke Yfrin, their new horses (which the duke had purchased while Giorn healed), left the gold he owed Sifram on his bed along with a note of thanks, and took his leave. The night was dark and cold, and the horses unsure of their footing, but Giorn kept them on the main road and they faired well enough. The road branched at last, going further north, or west, to the province of Wenris—Yfrin’s dukedom.

At the fall of evening the next day they entered the outskirts of Wenris, where they came upon a likely hamlet and took rooms for the night. Giorn had taken with him a compliment of salves and pills, and once holed up in his room he administered to himself as he’d seen Sifram do. Irritated by the ride, his leg pained him, but he bit back the discomfort, drank some whiskey—carefully—and carried on.

The next morning they departed. Now that Giorn had spoken to him, Duke Yfrin allowed no one to discover his true name or even see his face, as he was well-known here, often traveling through his dukedom and staying at the various towns. He was officially listed as dead and could risk no one recognizing him and drawing attention to himself and Giorn, not before he reached the castle, restored his good name, if that were possible—for officially he was considered Baron Wesrain’s assassin—and reclaimed his crown.

That night when they repeated the procedure at a small inn in a town along their way, Yfrin lowered the cowl of his robe over his face and retired immediately to his room, while Giorn, hungry, thirsty, and curious about events in the south, limped to the bar, took a seat and ordered a meal and a brew. The inn’s main room was large and crowded, and smoke wreathed the ceiling, lantern light making the shadows long and sinister. The customers’ conversations created so much noise that Giorn had to pitch his voice high when he asked the barkeep, “What news from Thiersgald?”

After shoving a couple of mugs at some customers, the barkeep said, “Lord Raugst drove the ‘stogs out.”

“Has Vrulug been seen since?”

“Sure. He’s raiding near Branagh. But at least Thiersgald is safe.”

Safe from Vrulug, maybe. Not from Raugst.

“Yes,” the barkeep went on, “that Raugst is a good one. Lucky to have him, we are.”

Giorn ground his teeth. “You think so? Myself, I preferred the Wesrains.”

“Each to his own. But the old Baron was too high-minded. He liked his books of philosophy and history and such. Thought of himself as an intellectual, above the likes of us.”

“He was a better leader than this Raugst,” Giorn said. “No one even knows who this Raugst is, or where he comes from. Where’s his family, I ask you? Has anyone seen them, does anyone know them?”

The barkeep looked at him strangely. “You implying something, stranger?”

Giorn relented. “No.” He drained his mug. A fight with the barkeep would accomplish nothing.

“Good,” the barkeep said. “Besides, everyone has to come from somewhere, eh? Everyone must have family. We never heard o’ Raugst’s because they’re not uppers, are they? They’re of the common rabble, like us.” He studied Giorn. “Where you from, anyway?”

“The south. Fleeing north. My home was destroyed by Vrulug.” That was true enough, in a way. To explain his upper-class accent, he gave the usual explanation: “My father was a minor noble in Hasitlan.”

The barkeep served another customer, then turned back to Giorn. “Lot o’ these folk are in your place. Why it’s so busy here. Vrulug put a lot of homes t’ the torch. An’ he’s still out there, somewhere, and the Eresine Bridge is nearly finished, they say. Soon his whole might’ll come up from the south, and then ... Well, I hear the King is ready to marshal his army to come to our aid. Hopefully that’ll be enough.”

“You don’t think it will?”

“What do I know? But it does occur to me that Vrulug hasn’t missed a trick so far. I don’t know why King Ulea should trip him up. But there’s more, and worse. Rumor has it that some saw the army of Havensrike plodding through recently, comin’ from Larenthi. They looked beaten, and word has it they were, and bad. And Larenthi’s under attack. War’s come to the whole Crescent, that’s what I hear, not just our little Felgrad. But we’re the weakest, and the likeliest to give. And us right in the center, too! We fall and it all crumbles, don’t it? And us without the Moonstone even.”

Giorn ordered a refill. As he drank, he recalled the spies that Vrulug had called into service in Feslan, the ones who had opened the gates to the Borchstogs. And now Raugst, up to some devilry. All that combined with the corruption of the Moonstone hinted at many threads coming together, of a well-laid plan just now reaching fruition. The plan was at its peak now, and the forces of the Enemy looked unbeatable. The End Times might truly be nigh.

It was Raugst, of course. Raugst was the reason Vrulug thought he would prevail—Raugst, and the Moonstone. Perhaps if Giorn could take one from him, the plan would unravel.

First Giorn needed supporters. Duke Yfrin could help with that. As he drank, Giorn mulled on how he and the duke should go about Yfrin’s homecoming. The duke was thought dead, after all, even by his own family—and a traitor.

“Do you think he did it?” he asked suddenly.

“Did what?” The barkeep’s thick black eyebrows rose.

“Duke Yfrin. Do you think he’s the one that slew the old Baron?”

The barkeep’s face screwed up in resentment. “That’s a sore subject ‘round here.”

Giorn sipped his drink, saying nothing more, and eventually the barkeep relaxed. After dealing with more customers, he returned to Giorn and said, by way of apology, “He was a good man, the duke. A bit soft, but good. No one knows why he did what he did. Just doesn’t make sense.”

“No?”

“No. He and Baron Wesrain were friends all their lives. Some say they were cousins, but that’s just talk. The Baron’s brother was a guest at Castle Yfrin for awhile after the Duchess was widowed, and who knows how he comforted her? But enough of that. I’ll not soil her good name by repeatin’ that sort o’ talk. But they were fast friends, our duke and the Baron. Some say perhaps they had a falling out, some say the duke must have been sleeping with Iarine, the Baron’s favorite concubine, and he and the Baron had a row—but, really, who knows?” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “There are those that say the duke wasn’t the one that fired that shot, after all.”

“Really? Who do they say fired the shot?” This is unexpected. The people suspected Raugst, after all.

“Why, the Baron’s son, of course. Giorn.”

“And why would Giorn do such a thing?”

“Why, to become baron, o’ course. They say he was a greedy one, impatient for his father to die. He was next in line, remember. Would’ve worked, too, if Vrulug hadn’t attacked when he did.”

Giorn just stared. Something about his demeanor must have frightened the barkeep, for the man found excuse to wander to the other end of the bar and clean some mugs with a dirty cloth.

Giorn finished his brew, paid and limped out. As he went, he overheard some men around a table speaking. One was saying, “And I heard he faced Vrulug bare-handed. He was standing on a mound of dead ‘stogs, all of ‘em slain by hisself, when out of the smoke comes the wolf-lord, all covered in blood, and he looks at Raugst, and Raugst looks at him, and they fly at each other. They say the earth trembled when they struck, and the sound of their roars deafened the men about them. They say they grappled there on the battlefield, right there before the gates of Thiersgald, and they fought a fight of the gods, surrounded by mounds of bodies, with thunder rumblin’ and lightning blasting all around, and at last good Lord Raugst, he takes Vrulug by the clawed foot and swings him around and swings him around and hurls him from the battlefield!” The man laughed and drank from his mug. “They say you can still see Vrulug on a clear night, sailing through the stars.”

The men around the table laughed and ordered another round of drinks.

Grinding his teeth, Giorn retired to his room.

 

*     *     *

 

Giorn and Yfrin left early the next day, riding northwest for Isaldt, capital of Wenris. They found the road thick with refugees, forcing the duke to keep the cowl of his robe pulled low over his face for much of the time.

“’tis a sorry thing when a man has to go in masquerade through his own sodding land,” he grumbled.

“At least you have a home and family waiting for you,” Giorn reminded him gently. “My home and family are gone, slain or usurped.” His good hand balled into a fist.

His other did, as well. At one of the towns he had hired a carpenter to fashion a device for him, a sort of glove that slid over what was left of his right hand. Wooden pieces shaped like fingers fit over his nubs, and they were strapped to his hand and wrist so tightly that he could actually hold things, as long as they did not require too much dexterity. It was not a whole hand, and he could never wield a sword with it, but it was not completely useless. At least it could make a fist.

Duke Yfrin nodded understandingly. “We’ll destroy him, my boy, fear not. Then you will have your home back, and once more a Wesrain will rule Fiarth. That’s as it should be, lad. That’s as it should be.” His eyes gleamed, and Giorn realized with some appreciation that the old duke truly meant it. “For a thousand years Wesrains have ruled here, and I mean to make it a thousand more. They were kings for hundreds of years, you know, before they bent the knee to King Raegar.”

“Father raised me on those stories.” The Wesrains had ruled for much longer than the Raegars, as a matter of fact, and the Raegars had not survived long after they’d forced the Wesrains to submit. The war with Fiarth had weakened them politically, and a rival family, the Uleas, had eventually usurped them. Still, the capital of Felgrad had been named after that ancient clan of kings, and the Uleas had not dared change it. The Raegar line had not lasted long, but it had burned bright.

Dalic looked at him sideways. “You know that it was an Yfrin that ended him, don’t you?”

“Who?”

“Orin Feldred, who else?”

“I don’t ...”

Dalic smiled, but it was a sad smile, tinged with bitterness. “When Vrulug had him in the torture-racks of Grasvic, after he’d flayed him. One of Lord Feldred’s supporters shot him, that you must know. What you probably don’t is that that man was an Yfrin. Oh, they didn’t call themselves Yfrins, not back then, it was Osfryd, but it was an Yfrin just the same.”

“Osfryd?” Why did that name sound familiar ... ?

“That’s right, lad. His name was Adlan Osfryd, one of Orin’s closest friends and highest allies. I’m proud to count him an ancestor.”

Suddenly it came to Giorn where he’d seen that name before, and he shuddered. As if he’d seen it just yesterday, he remembered the brain kept alive in Vrulug’s lair. He realized what must have happened, and what it implied about Vrulug’s wrath, for it could only have happened one way: the wolf-lord, denied Orin, had taken his vengeance out on the man who had slain him. Gods knew what terrors he had subjected Adlan Osfryd’s still-living brain to over the many centuries since that fateful day. Giorn paled just to think about it, and he wondered if he should tell Dalic how he had finally brought his ancestor peace. He decided against it. Let him think Adlan had died bravely, years and years ago.

“He couldn’t stand to see Orin tortured so,” Dalic was saying, “so he shot him, once through the head, once through the heart, then killed himself with his dagger. The crossed dagger-and-arrow, my family’s coat-of-arms, didn’t you ever wonder why?”

Giorn, though feeling ill, looked at him with new respect. “Truly?”

The duke patted his shoulder. “So, you see, our families have been linked for ages, and always we’ve been your allies and friends. So shall it be still.”

They rode on, Giorn and Dalic, and the sun rose hot and bloated overhead. Giorn’s mind turned to Niara, as it often did, and he tasted something bitter on his tongue. Why had she betrayed him—betrayed Fiarth? It made no sense. She was so goodly, so pure. Even now, despite everything, he ached to hold her in his arms ... and to throttle her.

Somehow she had done it for Fiarth, he told himself. She had not done it out of love for Raugst. However misguided, she had done it to thwart Raugst. Somehow ...

The hilly ground gave way to forest-covered flatlands, with here and there settlements carved out for human use. Some of these isolated townships had stood for a thousand years and more, and they had developed their own dialects and cultures. Duke Yfrin prided himself on knowing them all, and Giorn was impressed that he lived up to his boasting. As they went, Giorn heard him converse fluently in not less than three dialects with villagers whose speech Giorn could barely understand, and that after some thought.

They slept in the forest that night along the main road. They were not the only ones. Many refugees fleeing Vrulug’s path of destruction made for Isaldt. Some erected campfires, sang songs and ate what was at hand, holding little impromptu celebrations—of just being alive, as far as Giorn could tell—long into the night. Giorn and Yfrin joined one, and the young baron partook of the flask that was passed around perhaps more liberally than he ought to have done. A pretty young woman, equally affected, offered to share his blankets that night, and for a moment he was tempted, then he thought of Niara and declined. As he watched her go, he wondered at himself. Fool, there’s no reason to be loyal to one who is not loyal to you.

He and Duke Yfrin rode on, and the next afternoon they arrived at Isaldt, a large city of tall square-cut gray stone towers overgrown with ivy, with here and there a sturdy bridge from tower to tower. The city sprawled across a couple of low hills and was surrounded by a low, thick stone wall that had been torn down and rebuilt many times over the years as the city expanded. Ivy grew along much of its dark gray length and soldiers constantly had to chop it away for the handholds it provided. A river passed through Isaldt and wound down through the forest Giorn and Yfrin had slept in, and Giorn saw many of the refugees bathing and washing their clothes in the water as he passed.

These are my people, he thought. They depended on me to keep them safe, and look what I’ve done to them. I’ve turned them into vagabonds.

Only too soon, he and Yfrin reached the gates of the city, which were open, somewhat to Giorn’s surprise; he had half feared he would find them sealed against the overwhelming number of refugees. But no, Isaldt had elected to admit them, one and all, at least for now. Perhaps, Giorn thought, the situation might yet grow dire enough for the city to change its mind. I won’t let that happen.

“So what’s our plan, lad?” Yfrin asked as they rode through the crowded streets. And they were crowded, packed building-to-building with desperate people seeking shelter and food and loved ones lost in the chaos. More thronged the alleys, having built little lean-to shelters. Laundry was strung on so many lines that Giorn could not see the alleys’ other ends. In the streets, women dressed seductively, selling their bodies for coin, and men too. Some were very young. He wished he had taken more gold from Fria so that he could distribute it among them and save these people’s honor, but it was not to be.

“Well, lad?” the old duke pressed.

“We’ve no time to linger,” Giorn said. “We’ll go straight to your castle.”

Yfrin nodded in a mulling fashion. “Yes, but by now Raugst will have heard of my escape. What if he’s sent agents to capture me? If so, they’ll be waiting for me to show up at the castle.”

“I doubt he’d waste his resources tracking you down. What’s one escaped prisoner in the midst of a war?” Giorn paused. “Just the same, are there any secret ways into the castle that might help us?”

“None that I know of. Though within the castle is another story.”

“It doesn’t matter. Secret ways didn’t avail me much last time, and Captain Hanen and all our men died because of it. Perhaps the direct way will be better.”

Several times women came to Giorn, strutting, pouting, posing provocatively, but he refused their overtures. Duke Yfrin turned them down, as well, but there was a lusty vigor in his eyes when they came to him and it was only with reluctance that he sent them away. Giorn saw many beggars and thieves, too, and he made sure to keep a close eye on his purse, not that there was much left in it.

At last they passed through the great courtyard before the castle. Here the refugees had come first and had settled in more thoroughly than the latecomers, having dug latrine ditches and organized food preparation. Giorn grimaced at an old woman skinning a dog, possibly a beloved pet—or someone else’s. He passed a makeshift tent just as a young girl, no older than thirteen or fourteen, left it, buttoning her blouse as she went. Her cheeks were flushed and she had clearly just been engaged in private acts. Giorn felt a swell of rage build in him at whoever had dared to take advantage of her, and he glared into the shadows of the tent only to see a broken man, crippled, his arm shriveled and held awkwardly to his chest, the flesh of his face seemingly melted away. He had been burned terribly by some fire—by the looks of it, a recent one, surely caused by Vrulug’s soldiers. Giorn moved on.

He was relieved when they came finally to the high gate in the wall that surrounded the castle. The soldiers there were talking with each other and did not give Giorn or Duke Yfrin much notice—not until Giorn rode forward, shouting, “Good sirs! May I have your attention!”

He spoke with his old voice of command, and it had the desired effect. The guards swiveled their heads.

“You have it, friend, but be quick.”

“I’d like a private word, if I may,” Giorn said, “with your captain.”

“There’s nothing we can do for your lot,” the man said tiredly. “We have told you many times, we’re doing all we can.”

“I’m not a refugee—not precisely.” Actually, that is precisely what he was. “Now, may I have a word? It will only take a moment.”

Grudgingly, the soldier who had spoken, evidently the captain, climbed down and ordered the gates opened. He approached Giorn, and Giorn climbed down from his horse, aware that archers watched him carefully.

“Now, what is this all about?” the captain said.

Giorn motioned for Duke Yfrin to ride forward. At the sudden movement, the archers tensed. Even the captain went a bit rigid, and his hand strayed toward the hilt of his sword.

“Uncle,” Giorn said gently. “Show him.”

As usual, Yfrin wore his cowl low over his face, but now, with a bit more drama than Giorn thought strictly necessary, he whipped it back, revealing his identity. Slowly, the captain’s eyes widened.

“My lord!” Instantly, he sank to his knee.

His soldiers muttered along the wall. They likely couldn’t see Yfrin’s face well enough to recognize it from their positions.

“Is it you?” the captain asked, staring up at the man on the horse.

Yfrin inclined his head—looking very regal, Giorn thought. “It is I, Captain Halstern. I’ve come home.”

It all happened very swiftly after that. Soon Giorn and Yfrin were within the wall of the castle, the gates closed behind them, and the soldiers were laughing and surrounding them, shouting a hundred questions at the duke. He grinned broadly and clapped them on the back or shook their wrists. He seemed to know each and every one by name, and to be known and liked by all. Once again, Giorn was impressed. His own father had been far too aloof to act in such a manner. Feeling optimistic, Giorn followed the happy crowd as it swept up the stairs and into the high hall of the keep. No one asked who he was and he didn’t bother to tell them. They’d find out soon enough. Let Yfrin have his moment.

The soldiers showed them to the throne room, where the new lord of Wenris sat in conference with several stout older men—his generals, Giorn saw by their uniforms. The lord looked up, apparently irritated by the interruption, but irritation gave way to surprise, then curiosity. Finally the old duke was ushered before him, and the current lord’s jaw fell open.

Yfrin smiled. “Son, it has been too long.”

The younger man, whose name, Giorn recalled, was Serit, laughed and leapt to his feet. In an instant he was throwing his arms about his father, and the reunions began. Giorn was very pleased by it all. Finally here it was, something glad. Even in these grim times, moments of lightness and hope existed.

The next few hours passed as if in a dream, and before he knew it Giorn was the honored guest in at a sumptuous feast celebrating Dalic Yfrin’s homecoming. It seemed superfluous to him to have a guest of honor, when clearly Uncle Dalic was the main attraction, but he tolerated it just the same. He gave several toasts, telling of Dalic’s bravery in his escape, and in return Dalic toasted him, telling more lies of Giorn’s own boldness. In truth, of course, they had both run away quite handily and with a complete absence of bloodshed, but that did not make for a good tale.

At one point Serit, a bit unsteady from drink, stood, lifted his bejeweled goblet in his father’s general direction and said, “Father, I’m so glad to have you back. When I first saw you, I thought for sure that you were a ghost.” This drew a few chuckles. “Happily, I was mistaken. I want you to know that we never believed Lord Raugst’s lies and that all here are loyal to you and Lord Wesrain, and we pledge to do anything in our power to help you set things right.”

“Here here!” said the gathered noblemen.

Continuing, Serit said, “I have ruled as well as I’ve been able in your absence, but now, with your return, I gladly hand the dukedom back to its rightful wielder. May you live to rule a hundred years!”

The others echoed the toast, raising their own goblets. Even Giorn joined in. “A hundred years!”

“I thank you, my son, and it’s a most gracious offer,” Duke Yfrin said. “Yet I’m an old man and not fit to lead Wenris in wartime. I have never led a battle in my life, and I’m too old to start now. No, Serit, I think it’s time a younger man sat the throne. Besides, too many will have believed the lies. They will think I slew Lord Wesrain.”

“That’s not so, Father! Not in Wenris. We’ve never lost faith in you.” Serit smiled. “In fact, many think it is our guest of honor that did the deed.”

There were some uncomfortable chuckles at that, and Giorn smiled politely, indicating, he hoped, the falsehood of the jest. He tried to ignore the sweat that broke out on his forehead.

Dalic shook his head. “No. I’m too old. I will retire to our country estate and live out my days there, watching your children hunt rabbits in my garden.” He smiled kindly at Giorn and added, “As I have in the past.” Returning his attention to Serit, he said, “I must refuse your offer. May you rule a hundred years!”

There was more cheering, but Giorn did not join in. What’s the old man doing? The possibility that Dalic would decline to take his old seat of power had never occurred to him. Giorn needed someone he knew and could trust on the throne of Wenris. Surely he knows that. The fool!

When he was able, at a lull between toastings, Giorn went to where Dalic was sitting, drinking his wine and smiling, if somewhat sadly.

“I know you must be wroth with me,” he started.

Giorn was, but he did not say so. Instead, he waited.

“It’s just, being here, after all we’ve gone through, I feel my age more than ever.” Yfrin took a sip and grimaced. “I’m an old man, Giorn, and I fear this war has only made me age faster.” He touched his head absently. “When we were being bathed and cleaned, I caught sight of myself. All white, my hair. All white. I would swear there was a touch of the old yellow in it before all this started, but now ...” He shook his head ruefully. “Let Serit have it! He’s a good man—I should know, I raised him—he’ll do you proud.” He leaned in closer. “And he will do you proud. He’ll help you win your throne back, have no fear. He’s loyal to the Wesrains, just as I taught him to be. The bow-and-dagger, remember.”

Still, Giorn was uneasy as the feast ended and he was shown to his chambers in the guest quarters of the royal wing. Uncle Dalic was a few doors down, in Serit’s old chambers, while Serit occupied Dalic’s old rooms at the end of the hall. Giorn slept fitfully, tossing and turning. Nightmares haunted him. He wasn’t sure if it were the wine, the war, or something else, but something just seemed wrong.

She came to him in the dead of night, it must have been three in the morning. He had finally been beginning to doze, if restlessly, and didn’t hear her approach. Then he felt a feminine form recline on the bed with him, and he smiled and wrapped her slender body in his arms.

“Niara ...” He kissed her, finding her lips soft and warm.

“Giorn.”

“Niara ...” He frowned. It wasn’t Niara’s voice.

His eyes fluttered open and he stared, blinking, up at the woman that lay over him. He had only the moonlight shining through the window to see by, and that was blocked by the heavy drapes. Only a trace of ghost-light filtered in, providing just enough illumination to see that this wasn’t Niara. She smelled of flowers and incense.

She did not draw away from him as most women would have after a stranger kissed them. “Giorn,” she said again. She had a soft, young, pleasing voice.

“Who—?”

For an instant he thought of Saria—she’d come to him much like this—but no, this was another, he was certain of it. He shoved her away, climbed to his feet, having forgotten his bad leg in his alarm, then reached for his cane.

She slipped from the bed, graceful as a shadow. He raised his cane menacingly, balancing himself awkwardly on his good leg.

“Explain yourself!”

The dark, oval shape that was her face parted slightly, and he saw the flash of teeth. For a moment, that trace of fear rose in him again, and his cane nearly came down on her head, but then, as his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he realized that she was smiling—and most sweetly.

“I’m Histra,” she said. “A friend, fear not.” She swept a delicate arm about the room. “This is the chambers of a concubine of an ancient duke, did you know that?”

“No.” He didn’t lower his cane.

She laughed lightly. “Well, it is. By rights it should be my chambers, not yours.”

He frowned. “You’re Serit’s mistress?” He was aware that the duke was married; his wife had been at the feast.

“You’re rather blunt, I think.”

Reluctantly, he lowered his cane. “What do you here? Did you mistake my quarters for Serit’s? Or are you planning on making the switch from duke’s woman to baron’s?”

“Not just blunt, but rude.”

He massaged his forehead with the hand not gripping the cane. “It’s late, I’m tired, a bit worse for drink, and a strange woman has entered my chambers without announcing her reasons, and this after I have endured many attempts on my life throughout recent months.”

She softened. She stole forward and gripped his forearm, giving it a light squeeze. “I’m sorry, Lord Wesrain. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Then what, precisely, did you mean to do?”

She nodded her head to a black space in the wall, a narrow gap that had to be the way she’d entered by.

“Come with me,” she said. “I came through the tunnel the old duke built to visit his concubine.”

Giorn raised his eyebrows.

Histra smiled again, this time softly. “The duke knew his wife would kill him if she found out about the concubine, so he kept it from her. They slept in adjoining rooms, he and his wife, but she would know if he left through the front door, so he had this passage built.”

“Did it work?”

“Oh, she caught him in the end. She first slew his mistress, then she dressed up in the girl’s clothes, waited in her bed, and when her husband came to her in the night, thinking it was his lover, she let him have his way with her and afterward, with him still inside her, she slit his throat and drank his blood.”

He shivered. “Hell of a thing.”

“It was. And that’s how the guards found them later, with her straddling him, drinking his blood, his death-hardened member still inside her. The most interesting thing about the tale is that afterward, since they had no issue, the guards didn’t dare apprehend her or even report the crime. Chaos would have broken out. There would have been civil war. So she continued ruling the dukedom till her death twenty years later. After her husband’s death, they say, she acquired a taste for human blood, and—”

“Enough. Why should I come with you? Did Serit summon you to bring me to him? If this passage goes to his chambers, then, by all means, let us go, if it will get you to stop talking and allow me to get some rest.”

“Thank you.” She gestured toward the doorway.

“Oh no,” he said. “After you.”

She slipped like a slim pale ghost into the darkness.

Giorn took the moment to shove his hunting knife into the waistband of his nightpants. Whatever trap this was, he would meet it armed.

He found the passageway dark and cold. He could smell the girl’s scent even more acutely in the tight space. Flowers, incense, and ... something else. Something coppery.