As he surveyed the room, the duke was stopped short by a pale glimmer in the doorway, far across the room. Squinting, Isgrimnur suddenly smiled deep in his beard. It was the boy Pasevalles, who had doubtless once more escaped from his mother and her ladies. He had come, Isgrimnur had no doubt, to watch Real Knights at table.
He may just get an eyeful.
Baron Seriddan Metessis rose from his seat at the head of the table and lifted his goblet. Behind him a blue crane, symbol of the Metessan House, spread its long wings across a wall banner.
“Let us salute our visitors,” the baron said. He smiled ironically, his sun-browned, bearded face wrinkling. “I am doubtless a traitor already, just for letting you inside the gates, Prince Josua—so it does no further harm to drink your health.”
Isgrimnur found himself liking Seriddan, and respecting him more than a bit. He little resembled the duke’s fondly-held image of an effete Nabbanai baron: his thick neck and seamed peasant face made Seriddan look more a genial rogue than the hereditary master of a great fiefdom, but his eyes were shrewd and his manner deceptively self-mocking. His command of Westerling was so good that little Pasevalles’ fluency no longer seemed surprising.
After the glasses were drained, Josua rose and lifted his own cup to thank the folk of Chasu Metessa for their hospitality. This was greeted by polite smiles and murmurs of approval that seemed more than a little forced. When the prince sat down, the whisper of table talk began to grow once more, but Seriddan gestured for quiet.
“So,” he said to Josua, loud enough for everyone at the table to hear. “We have fulfilled the obligations that good Aedonites owe to their fellows—and some would say we have done far more than that, considering you appeared in our lands unasked for, and with an army at your back.” Above the smiling mouth, Seriddan’s stare was cool. “Will we see your heels in the morning, Josua of Erkynland?”
Isgrimnur suppressed a noise of surprise. He had assumed that the baron would send the lesser folk of his household away so that he could talk to the prince in privacy, but apparently Seriddan had other ideas.
Josua, too, was taken aback, but quickly said: “If you hear me out and are unmoved, Baron, you will indeed see our heels soon after sunrise. My people are not camped outside your walls as a threat to you. You have done me no wrong, and I will do you none either.”
The baron stared at him for a long moment, then turned to his brother. “Brindalles, what do you think? Does it not seem odd that an Erkynlandish prince would wish to pass through our lands? Where might he be going?”
The brother’s thin face bore many similarities to the baron‘s, but the features that looked roguishly dangerous on Seriddan seemed merely tired and a trifle unsettled on Brindalles.
“If he is not going to Nabban,” came the mild reply, “he must be planning to walk straight to the sea.” Brindalles’ smile was wan. It was hard to think that such a diffident man could be the father of bright-burning Pasevalles.
“We are going on to Nabban,” said Josua. “That is no secret.”
“And what purpose could you have that is not dangerous to me and dangerous to my liege-lord, Duke Benigaris?” Seriddan demanded. “Why should I not make you a prisoner?”
Josua looked around the now-silent room. Chasu Metessa’s most important residents all sat at the long table, watching with rapt attention. “Are you certain you wish me to speak so openly?”
Seriddan gestured impatiently. “I will not have it said that I misunderstood you, whether I let you pass through my lands or hold you here for Benigaris. Speak, and my people here will be my witnesses.”
“Very well.” Josua turned to Sludig, who despite having drained his wine cup several times was watching the proceedings with a wary eye. “May I have the scroll?”
As the yellow-bearded Rimmersman fumbled in the pocket of his cloak, Josua told Seriddan: “As I said, Baron: we go to Nabban. And we go in hopes of removing Benigaris from the Sancellan Mahistrevis. In part, that is because he is an ally of my brother, and his fall would weaken the High King’s position. The fact that Elias and I are at war with each other is no secret, but the reasons why are less well-known.”
“If you think they are important,” Seriddan said equably, “tell them. We have plenty of wine, and we are at home. It is your little army that may or may not be leaving with the dawn.”
“I will tell you, because I would not ask allies to fight unknowing,” said Josua.
“Héa! Allies? Fight!?” The baron scowled and sat straighter. “You are walking a dangerous road, Josua Lackhand. Benigaris is my liege-lord. It is mad even to contemplate letting your people pass, knowing what I know, but I show respect for your father by letting you speak. But to hear you talk of me fighting beside you—madness!” He waved his hand. Some two dozen armed men, who had been standing back against the shadowed walls all during the meal, came rustlingly to attention.
Josua did not flinch, but calmly held Seriddan’s eye. “As I said,” he resumed, “I will give you the reasons that Elias must be driven from the Dragonbone Chair. But not now. There are other things to tell you first.” He reached and took the scroll from Sludig’s hand. “My finest knight, Sir Deornoth of Hewenshire, was at the battle of Bullback Hill when Duke Leobardis, Benigaris’ father, came to relieve my castle at Naglimund.”
“Leobardis chose your side,” Seriddan said shortly. “Benigaris has chosen your brother’s. What the old duke decided does not affect my loyalty to his son.” Despite his words, there was a certain veiled look in the baron’s eyes; watching him, Isgrimnur suspected Seriddan might just wish that the old duke were still alive and that his loyalty could be more comfortable. “And what does this Sir What-may-be-his-name have to do with Metessa?”
“Perhaps more than you can know.” For the first time there was an edge of impatience in Josua’s tone.
Careful, man. Isgrimnur tugged anxiously at his beard. Don’t let your sorrow over Deornoth betray you. We’re farther along than I had thought we’d be. Seriddan’s listening, anyway.
As if he heard his old friend’s silent thought, Josua paused and took a breath. “Forgive me, Baron Seriddan. I understand your loyalty to the Kingfisher House. I only wish to tell you things you deserve to know, not tell you where your duties lie. I want to read you Deornoth’s words about what happened near Bullback Hill. They were written down by Father Strangyeard ...” the prince pointed to the archivist, who was trying to make himself unobtrusive down near the long table’s far end, “and sworn to before that priest and God Himself.”
“Why are you reading some piece of parchment?” Seriddan asked impatiently. “If this man has a story to tell, why does he not come here before us?”
“Because Sir Deornoth is dead,” said Josua. “He died at the hands of Thrithings mercenaries King Elias sent against me.”
At this there was a small stir in the room. The Thrithings-folk were objects of both contempt and fear to the outland baronies of Nabban—contempt because the Nabbanai thought them little more than savages, fear because when the Thrithings-men went into one of their periodic raiding frenzies, outland fiefdoms such as Metessa bore the greatest part of the suffering.
“Read.” Seriddan was clearly angry. Isgrimnur thought that the canny baron might already sense the snare into which his own cleverness had delivered him. He had hoped to deal with the odd and difficult situation of the prince by forcing Josua to speak his treason in front of many witnesses. Now the baron must sense that Josua’s words might not be so easily dismissed. It was an awkward spot. But even now, Metessa’s master did not disperse the other folk sitting at table: he had made his gambit and he would live with it. The Duke of Elvritshalla found himself appreciating the man anew.
“I had Deornoth tell his story to our priest before the battle for New Gadrinsett,” Josua said. “What he saw was important enough that I did not wish to chance it might die with him, as there seemed little likelihood we would survive that fight.” He held up the scroll,
unrolling it with the stump of his right wrist. “I will read only the part that I think you need to hear, but I will gladly give the whole thing to you, Baron, so that you may read it at your ease.”
He paused for a moment, then began. The listeners along the table leaned forward, greedy for more strangeness on what was already a night that would be discussed in Metessa for a long time.
“... When we came upon the field, the Nabbanai had ridden after Earl Guthwulf of Utanyeat and his men of the Boar and Spears, who were falling back with great swiftness to the slope of Bullback Hill. Duke Leobardis and three hundred knights came at them in such a wise as to pass between Utanyeat and the High King’s army, which was still some way distant, as we thought.
“Prince Josua, fearing that Leobardis would be delayed too long and that thus the king could come against him in the unprotected open lands south of Naglimund, brought many knights out of the castle to save Nabban from the king, and also perhaps to capture Utanyeat, who was the greatest of King Elias’ generals. Josua himself led us, and Isorn Isgrimnurson and a score of Rimmersmen were with us too.
“When we struck against the side of the Boar and Spears, we at first did bring them great woe, for they were outnumbered manyfold. But Guthwulf and the king had prepared a trap, and soon it was sprung. Earl Fengbald of Falshire and several hundred knights came down a-horse from the woods at the top of Bullback Hill.
“I saw Duke Leobardis and his son Benigaris at the outermost edge of the fighting, behind their men-at-arms. As Fengbald’s falcon-crest came down the hill, I saw Benigaris draw his sword and stab his father in the neck, slaying him in the saddle so that Leobardis fell across his horse’s withers, bleeding most piteously... ”
At this last sentence, the silence abruptly dissolved into shocked cries and rebukes. Several of Baron Seriddan’s liege-men stood, shaking their fists in fury as though they would strike Josua down. The prince only looked at them, still holding the parchment before him, then turned to Seriddan. The baron had retained his seat, but his brown face had paled except for bright spots of color high on each cheek.
“Silence!” he shouted, and glared at his followers until they sank back onto their benches, full of angry muttering. Several of the women had to be helped from the room; they stumbled out as though they themselves had been stabbed, their intricate hats and veils suddenly as sad as the bright flags of a defeated army. “This is an old story,” the baron said at last. His voice was tight, but Isgrimnur thought there was more than rage there.
He feels the snare drawing closed.
Seriddan drained his goblet, then banged it down on the tabletop, making more than a few people jump. “It is an old tale,” he said again. “Often repeated, never proved. Why should I believe it now?”
“Because Sir Deornoth saw it happen,” said Josua simply.
“He is not here. And I do not know that I would believe him if he were.”
“Deornoth did not lie. He was a true knight.”
Seriddan laughed harshly. “I have only your word on that, Prince. Men will do strange things for king and country.” He turned to his brother. “Brindalles? Have you heard any reason here tonight that I should not throw the prince and his followers into one of the locked cells beneath Chasu Metessa to wait for Benigaris’ mercy?”
The baron’s brother sighed. He held his two hands close together, touching at the fingertips. “I do not like this story, Seriddan. It has an unpleasantly truthful ring, since those who prepared Leobardis for burial spoke wonderingly of the evenness of the wound. But the word of any one man, even Prince Josua’s knight, is not enough to condemn the Lord of Nabban.”
Wit is not lacking in the family blood! the Duke of Elvritshalla noted. But on such hard-headed men must our luck ride. Or fail.
“There are others who saw Benigaris’ terrible deed,” Josua said. “A few of them are still alive, although many died when Naglimund was conquered.”
“A thousand men would not be enough,” Seriddan spat. “Héa! What, should the flower of Nabbanai nobility follow you—an Erkynlander and enemy of the High King—against the rightful heir to the Kingfisher House, on the strength of the writings of a dead man?” A murmur of agreement rose from Chasu Metessa’s other inhabitants. The situation was growing ugly.
“Very well,” said Josua. “I understand, Baron. Now I will show you something that will convince you of the seriousness of my undertaking. And it may also answer your fears about following an Erkynlander anywhere.” He turned and gestured. A hooded man seated near Strangyeard at the shadowy end of the table abruptly rose. He was very tall. Several of the men-at-arms drew their swords; the hiss of emerging blades seemed to make the room grow cold.
Do not fail us, Isgrimnur prayed.
“You said one thing that was not true, Baron,” Josua said gently.
“Do you call me a liar?”
“No. But these are strange days, and even a man as learned and clever as you cannot know everything. Even were Benigaris not a patricide, he is not first claimant on his father’s dukedom. Baron, people of Metessa, here is the true master of the Kingfisher House ... Camaris Benidrivis.”
The tall figure at the end of the table pushed back his hood, revealing a snowfall of white hair and a face full of sadness and grace.
“What... ?” The baron was utterly confused.
“Heresy!” shouted a confused landowner, stumbling to his feet. “Camaris, he is dead!”
One of the remaining women screamed. The man beside her slumped forward onto the table in a drunken faint.
Camaris touched his hand to his breast. “I am not dead.” He turned to Seriddan. “Grant me forgiveness, Baron, for abusing your hospitality in this manner.”
Seriddan stared at the apparition, then rounded on Josua. “What madness is this?! Do you mock me, Erkynlander?”
The prince shook his head. “It is no mockery, Seriddan. This is indeed Camaris. I thought to reveal him to you in private, but the chance did not come.”
“No.” Seriddan slapped his hand on the table. “I cannot believe it. Camaris-sá-Vinitta is dead—lost years ago, drowned in the Bay of Firannos.”
“I lost only my wits, not my life,” the old knight said gravely. “I lived for years with no memory of my name or my past.” He drew a hand across his brow. His voice shook. “I sometimes wish I had never been given either back again. But I have. I am Camaris of Vinitta, son of Benidrivis. And if it is my last act, I will avenge my brother’s death and see my murdering nephew removed from the throne in Nabban.”
The baron was shaken, but still seemed unconvinced. His brother Brindalles said: “Send for Eneppa.”
Seriddan looked up, his eyes bright, as though he had been reprieved from some awful sentence. “Yes.” He turned to one of his men-at-arms. “Fetch Eneppa from the kitchen. And tell her nothing, on pain of your life.”
The man went out. Watching his departure, Isgrimnur saw that little Pasevalles had disappeared from the doorway.
The folk remaining at table whispered excitedly, but Seriddan no longer seemed to care. While he waited for his man to return, he downed another goblet of wine. Even Josua, as if he had given something a starting push and could no longer control it, allowed himself to finish his own cup. Camaris remained standing at the foot of the table, a figure of imposing stolidity. No one in the room could keep their eyes off him for long.
The messenger returned with an old woman in tow. She was short and plump, her hair cut short, her simple dark dress stained with flour and other things. She stood anxiously before Seriddan, obviously fearing some punishment.
“Stand still, Eneppa,” the baron said. “You have done nothing wrong. Do you see that old man?” He pointed. “Go and look at him and tell me if you know him.”
The old woman sidled toward Camaris. She peered up at him, starting a little when he looked down and met her-eyes. “No, my lord Baron,” she said at last. Her Westerling was awkward.
“So.” Seriddan crossed his
arms before his chest and leaned back, an angry little smile on his face.
“Just a moment,” Josua said. “Eneppa, if that is your name, this is no one you have seen in recent days. If you did know him, it was long ago.”
She turned her frightened-rabbit face from the prince back to Camaris. She appeared ready to turn from him just as quickly the second time, then something caught at her. She stared. Her eyes widened. Abruptly, her knees bent and she sagged. Swift as thought, Camaris caught her and kept her from falling.
“Ulimor Camaris?” she asked in Nabbanai, weeping. “Veveis?” There followed a torrent in the same language. Seriddan’s angry smile vanished, replaced by an expression that was almost comically astonished.
“She says that they told her I had drowned,” Camaris said. “Can you speak Westerling, good woman?” he asked her quietly. “There are some here who do not understand you.”
Eneppa looked at him as he steadied her, then let her go. She was dazed, crumpling the skirt of her dress in her gnarled fingers. “He ... he is Camaris. Duos preterate! Have ... have the dead come back to us again?”
“Not the dead, Eneppa,” said Josua. “Camaris lived, but lost his wits for many years.”
“But although I know your face, my good woman,” the old knight said wonderingly, “I do not recognize your name. Forgive me. It has been a long, long time.”
Eneppa began to cry again in earnest, but she was laughing, too. “Because that is not my name in that time. When I work in your father’s great house, they call me Fuiri—‘flower.’ ”
“Fuiri.” Camaris nodded. “Of course. I remember you. You were a lovely girl, with smiles in full measure for everyone.” He lifted her wizened hand, then bent and kissed it. She stared open-mouthed as though God Himself had appeared in the room and offered her a chariot ride through the heavens. “Thank you, Fuiri. You have given me back a little of my past. Before I leave this place, you and I will sit by the fire and talk.”