Ravens, Owls and a nightingale

6. Secrets & Shams

The blond minstrel closed the door as softly as he could, then turned and his shoulders sagged. He shook his head, brows creasing, sighed. He was worried, deeply worried. To his great delight the Ranea had seemed to be clearly getting better, and now this... A couple of days ago the boy had started to again show more worrying symptoms of something unsettling. He was pale and listless, hardly ate anything, and complained of nausea and dizziness.

Bengor now spent most of the time in bed and seemed to be sleeping badly, too. He would've obviously wanted to be ill-humored and cranky, but was feeling too tired to be even that. Thank goodness the boy hadn't been vomiting, Schean thought; that slight body definitely needed every tiny morsel that the ever-patient minstrel managed to coax his nauseous patient to nibble on. He desperately hoped that this bout of illness, whatever it was, would pass soon. The boy was thin enough as it was, he didn't need to lose another ounce of weight.

The image of Bengor's sunken eyes and hollow cheeks haunted Schean's every step as he trudged down the flight of stairs and towards his own room. He had spent quite a few hours with the boy today, playing soft tunes on his lute and doing his best to make the boy at least drink a lot. Now Bengor had drifted off to some kind of sleep, and hadn't stirred even when the minstrel had stopped playing.

So he'd sat in the room for a while, then covered the boy better and tiptoed away. He'd go to check on Bengor in a while, but now it was best to let him sleep. If only there were some definite symptoms, anything Schean could try to alleviate! But this general weakness, being unwell, it didn't give him any handle to grasp. He shook his head once more, pushed the door open and stepped in.

A lighted candle on the wall shelf danced in the momentary draft. Schean stopped and frowned. A candle? But he hadn't been here ever since midday or so – surely he hadn't left a burning candle in his room?

The minstrel registered a movement in the corner of his eye, but he had barely time enough to gasp in surprise before a hand clamped with bruising force around his neck and he was thrown backwards on the bed so roughly that for a moment he saw only stars. Something heavy crushed his body to the not-too-soft mattress, and his hands flew up to claw at the fingers that closed his windpipe just about completely.

Black and white dots danced in Schean's eyes, but he realized that he was staring right into the sharp tip of a big knife that pointed at his face. He blinked, then tried once more to get the suffocating hold to loosen. He needed to get air!

"Be quiet, minstrel, and I'll let you breathe," a voice growled. "Let out one sound and you're dead. Get it?"

Somehow Schean managed to nod, very little but apparently just enough, and the grip around his throat loosened. He gasped, coughed, almost retched, but at least he could breathe again. His throat hurt like hell, and breathing was not made any easier by the fact that someone very heavy was straddling his body, effectively pinning him down. Nor by the knife that was still far too close to his face for comfort.

Swallowing hurt as well, but at least he thought his windpipe hadn't been crushed completely. Schean forced his rising panic back under enough control to squint up at his attacker. Panicking, his uncle had taught him, was always the poorest of possibly many poor alternatives. This was the first time when he knew what true panic felt like, but he valiantly did his best not to succumb to it. Besides, there was the knife. It was close and unwavering, but at least it wasn't yet lodged in any of his vital organs.

His eyes were adjusting to the weak, flickering light of the single candle, and he began to make out shapes. Whoever it was, sitting on him, was big and strong, and had spoken Revnashi – well, what else. He was wearing dark clothes, and the hand holding the knife was covered by a dark glove with the fingers cut off. Somehow it looked very sinister. Schean swallowed again and, with some effort, tore his gaze away from the knife to which it was irresistibly drawn, and forced his eyes to focus instead on the face looming behind it.

Schean wasn't surprised to see a broad, angular face, dark hair and dark eyes. He was surprised, however, to see how the eyes were blazing – with fury? So it seemed, but his fluttering mind didn't come up with any reason why anyone should be so furious with him. And yet the face that stared down at him was definitely an angry one. Schean blinked as something else reached the conscious part of his brain: the face looked oddly familiar. High cheekbones, dark eyes and eyebrows, and black hair falling down over them... but no beard. Where's the beard? Schean thought indistinctly.

"Stay nice and quiet and I won't cut your throat for you," the man said in a low voice. "Understood?"

Schean nodded again.

"Good." The knife retreated a little. "Now, then, I want you to tell me what the hell is wrong with the Ranea?"

"I wish I only knew!" Schean whispered and almost winced at how rough his voice sounded.

"Wrong answer." The minstrel gasped when the pressure on his chest increased just a little. "I rather think you know damn well what the matter is. Don't you, minstrel?"

"What do you mean?" Schean hissed furiously. "How the hell would I know?"

"How indeed?" The dark man grimaced contemptuously. "Let me ask this again: what are you doing to him?"

"What – I – doing to him?" Schean's eyes flew wide open. "Don't you try – you are doing something to him! You must be that so-called brother of his, that Noriet –"

Schean began to struggle but a big hand clamped firmly over his mouth and nose. That, and the knife that was suddenly not too many inches from his left eye, froze him motionless once more.

"Didn't I tell you to be nice and quiet?" The face was right behind the knife, and if the eyes had been blazing a moment ago, now they were positively aflame. "If you try to shout for help, you'll be dead well before anybody gets two steps closer to that door. Got it now?"

Schean clenched his teeth together, nostrils flaring, as the hand was pulled off and he could breathe once more, but didn't let out a sound.

"Now let's start from the beginning," the dark young man said threateningly. "How do you know about the Ranea's brother, minstrel?"

"The name is Schean," Schean nearly spat out. He hated feeling this helpless, but decided that angering a man who was much bigger and stronger than he, and in possession of a big knife, wasn't a good option. "And I know about you because the Ranea told me."

"Told you?" Dark eyebrows arched up. "Are you sure it was him?"

"How else would I know that he calls you Noriet?" Schean retorted. "Yes, Ranea told me a while ago that he has an elder bastard brother whom he calls Noriet and who comes to see him every now and then, at nights."

"Right. He told you." The man huffed. "And you sound awfully sure that he was talking about me."

"Wasn't he?" Schean frowned a little. "You look so much like Lord Rhodan... I bet you'd look even more like him if you had a beard."

"Maybe he was then," the man said, "telling you about me... the little idiot... So, is that why he's so ill now?"

Schean blinked a few times. "I don't understand," he said uncertainly.

"Whom have you told about it? About this tale that Bengor told you?"

"No one!" Schean was so outraged at the mere suggestion that even the approaching knife made him barely wince. "I promised the Ranea to keep it secret and that's what I've done! I have not told anyone – though maybe I should have, seeing how ill he's now that he's got something from the Wizard! What are you doing to him, you and the Wizard?"

"What?"

"Yes, you, Noriet or whatever you are called!" Schean, greatly emboldened by this new, worrying thought and the surprised look on his tormentor's face, was positively boiling now. "That drink, it's from the Wizard, so he told me! And he's not been this ill for a while now. What's in it? What are you giving him? You're the one who takes the stuff to the Ranea, aren't you – Noriet?"

"The name's Karos," the dark young man said, and to his surprise Schean felt the weight lifting from his stomach. "I think we need to talk a little, Schean the Minstrel. Just make sure no one hears us, or neither of our lives will be worth much."

Schean took a deep breath and succeeded in pulling himself to a sitting position on the bed, even though his whole body, and especially his arms, were trembling badly. The dark man sat down opposite to him and looked at him intently, knife still in hand.

"Why should you be concerned for the Ranea?" Karos asked in a low voice. "If he dies, you'll be free to go again. Isn't that what you want?"

Schean shook his head, unable to stop the tears that welled up. "Why should I wish him to die?" he asked angrily. "Oh, I could leave tomorrow if I wanted... but I don't want to leave him alone. I don't want him to die! I only wish I could make him better, so he could do the things he dreams of. But at least I can keep him company and make his life... a little easier."

His voice cracked and he wiped furiously his eyes with a hand. "Such a clever, sweet, intelligent boy," he muttered. "I'm so damn afraid."

"Afraid of what?" Karos asked quickly.

"Afraid for the Ranea," Schean corrected. "Afraid that he'll die soon."

"He won't, if we have any say." Karos' fist clenched and Schean shot him a suspicious glance.

"Who is 'we'?"

"The Wizard and me," Karos said matter-of-factly. "Who else?"

"Oh-ho? And why should you wish him to live?" Schean's eyes narrowed. "You're the Lord's bastard son, aren't you? If the Ranea dies, wouldn't he acknowledge you as his rightful heir?"

"Lord Rhodan knows nothing about me," Karos said with a little smile. "He doesn't know that I exist; that I've ever even been born. And I want to keep it that way for a while still."

Schean's heart nearly stopped. Bengor was definitely in danger, in a far more immediate danger than he'd ever realized... his mind went into overdrive, trying to figure out what to do next, how to save the boy –

"But are you quite sure that you haven't told Lady Berissa about the Ranea's little secret?" Karos went on.

"The Lady?" Schean shook his head. "I told you. I haven't breathed a word about it."

"Then the situation is even worse than I feared," Karos mused. Schean shuddered as the dark man raised the knife and tapped the flat side of the blade against his lower lip, seemingly deep in thought. "Because, you see, it's rather odd that when Bengor was smaller, he was pretty much like other boys of his age. And then, a little over two years ago, he started being constantly ill... roughly about the same time when you arrived here. Strange, isn't it?"

"What are you saying?" Schean rubbed his throat that was still stinging.

"When a minstrel comes to the castle and starts spending a lot of time with the Ranea, the Ranea is taken ill and doesn't seem to be getting much better at all..." Karos looked at the minstrel intently. "And everybody knows that minstrels are good with herbs and such things."

"Wha– now wait a moment!" An outraged Schean quickly lowered his voice as Karos' gesture. "You can't seriously suspect that I would be – poisoning him, or something? You're out of your mind! He may be young, but he's a friend and I love him dearly!"

"He's my little brother and I love him dearly," Karos retorted. "That's what I say, but you don't believe me. So why should I believe you?"

"Because it's the truth!" Schean insisted. "Look. Listen. He's very dear to me, I want so much to see him well again, and I'd never ever do anything to harm him! I don't even have any reason to wish anything bad to him, so you might just as well believe me. But you – you have plenty of reason to harm him, and that's why I can't believe you!"

"What reason do I have?" Karos demanded.

"What reason do Revnashi have to harm others?" Schean huffed. "I told you already. You're the Lord's bastard son. If Bengor dies, you just go to Lord Rhodan, and he's sure to take you as his heir. What other reason do you need?"

"If that is so, aren't you at all afraid of me?" Karos smiled wolfishly.

"I'm damn afraid of you," Schean said, not turning his eyes from the man. "But I'm also damn worried for the Ranea, and damn angry because you've just accused me of actively harming him!"

"I wasn't accusing you," Karos said, ignoring Schean's furious snort. "I was merely pointing out what things might look like."

"Sounded like an accusation to me!"

"It was meant to."

Schean very badly wanted to hit Karos, but wisely held his fists to himself. Karos took a deep breath.

"Well, although you're not going to believe a word I say, I'll tell you anyway: I love my little brother very much, and I too want to see him alive and well. I really want to see the day when I get to kneel in front of Lord Bengor-Omeasch of Deleon and swear loyalty to him..." Karos eyed the minstrel's mistrustful face and grimaced. "Yeah, didn't I say that you wouldn't believe? But that's the truth anyway. I don't want to be the Lord, I don't want that responsibility. But this castle is my home, and I don't want just anybody to get their hands on this place. I want to keep Deleon safe, and for that I'm willing to do just about anything."

Looking at his determined face, Schean was ready to drop the 'just about'. Yes, he could very well believe that this young man would balk at nothing to achieve his goal... whatever it really was. "All right," he said aloud, "but would you then first of all explain to me how it's possible that Lord Rhodan doesn't know about you? If you really are his son and have lived all your life here?"

"Simple: the Wizard has looked after me."

"But – who's your mother then?" Schean stared at Karos. "And why should the Wizard do that?"

"Because my mother asked him to, and because they've been friends ever since he was but the Wizard's apprentice."

Schean filed this piece of information away for later use – so the Wizard was not, after all, an immortal being? – but pressed on: "Why would she do that? Ask the Wizard to look after you, I mean. Why didn't she do that herself?"

"She did," Karos said patiently. "She did take care of me, when I was a little boy. But ever since I started growing older, I've mostly lived with the Wizard."

"But what was the point?" Schean asked in exasperation. "Maids have borne children to the Lords before!"

"Let me tell you something." Karos leaned his elbows on knees and bowed a little closer to Schean. "When I was born, Lord Rhodan had just married Lady Berissa an-Eregal. Before that he'd been away for quite a while, and after that he didn't sleep with maids for a while, so my mother didn't see any point in telling him about me. Then, soon after his marriage the old chatelaine of Deleon got ill, and said that my mother should take over."

The chatelaine? So she was Karos' mother! Schean nodded involuntarily; ah yes, now he could see the likeness between the young man in front of him and the tall, dark, handsome woman who in actual fact ran the entire castle. It was she who commanded the hordes of maids and manservants, knew the castle and its workings inside out, and carried the large bunch of keys. The chatelaine, not the Lady.

"So she did become the chatelaine," Karos continued, "and for quite a while all was well. Then the Lord got tired of the Lady, started sleeping with maids again, and fathered a few more bastards. But isn't it funny how those kids, and sometimes the maids too, started having these accidents?"

"Accidents?" Schean was now holding his breath.

"Yes, all sorts of accidents. Falling down the stairs, drowning in cattle troughs or in Czorhass, contracting funny illnesses..." Karos' face was chilly. "And what do you know, none of them is alive any more. Well, after a few such accidents my mother got pretty worried, especially as I was growing bigger and started to look like my father, and one day she then told me that I'd be living with the Wizard from then on."

Schean was gaping. "But – but who..."

"Can't you guess already?" Karos snapped. "Who will benefit if Lord Rhodan doesn't have bastard sons to pick from in case something happens to his only acknowledged one?"

"Uh... someone who wants the castle for himself?" Schean tried, his head reeling.

"Ye-es, and possibly also someone who is helping someone else in that," Karos said. "Such as Lady Berissa."

"What!" This time Schean himself slammed a hand over his own mouth to stay quiet enough. "You can't possibly mean that! She's his mother!"

Karos snorted with silent laughter. "Oh yes... she's given birth to Bengor all right, but can you honestly say that she'd be very motherly towards him?"

Schean thought about it and had to shake his head slowly. "No," he admitted, feeling oddly reluctant to do so. Yes, he was afraid of the woman and profoundly disliked her, but still the mere thought of her just systematically getting rid of possible competition was enough to make Schean's blood freeze. And even that was still quite a leap away from – harming his own child?

"Are you actually trying to make me believe," he said, weighing every word, "that the Lady would be doing something to make the Ranea ill?"

"I'm sure of it, and so is the Wizard," Karos said heavily. "Bengor has been poisoned for quite a while now. For about two years, to be exact. Just enough to keep him ill, so that nobody would be too surprised if he one day just dies."

"But can't you do anything?" Schean asked desperately. "And what is that stuff you're bringing him from the Wizard?"

"We haven't been able to find out what exactly it is that she's using," Karos sighed, shoving fingers through his thick hair. "Without knowing, the Wizard can't do too much, just give him something pretty mild that should strengthen him. I'm betting that you know it too – that some herbs might clash with each other if used incorrectly, and that may be fatal."

"Yes," Schean whispered, a shudder passing through him. "I know that. I understand... but isn't there anything I could do to help?"

"There is," Karos said eyeing him assessingly. "But I'm not sure if I should tell you any more, except that you ought to be very very careful when dealing with the Lady. If you really know nothing of this, then it's rather obvious that she's chosen you as the culprit who will take the blame if the Ranea dies."

The minstrel just looked at Karos blankly. Obviously he had just about reached the limit of how many shocks he could take for one day.

"Remember what I said?" Karos asked. "That the Ranea started being more regularly ill roughly when you came. That can't be a coincidence. Your folks are known to be knowledgeable about herbs, you come here, you keep company to Ranea, Ranea is ill. Then Ranea dies. The Lady only needs to say one word, and you're a goner. Everyone will believe it to be so."

Schean huddled on the bed, hands grabbing his upper arms. "No," he said miserably.

"They will, take my word for it. But if you help us, maybe we can keep my little brother safe after all," Karos murmured.

"What do you want me to do?" Schean asked, voice weak.

"Stay with Bengor as much as you can. And when at all possible, take his meals all the way from the kitchen to his room," Karos said firmly. "If Lady Berissa comes into the room, keep an eye on her, but for heaven's sake don't let her notice anything. She must not notice you watching her."

"Why would she do anything so abominable?" Schean just couldn't wrap his brain around the thought.

"We don't know exactly," Karos admitted. "But I'll wager it has something to do with Moydherr Castle. She's been there a few times over these past two years, and when she's here, she gets letters from there. About the girls, or that's what it's supposed to look like."

Schean was fighting back, but the pieces were falling into place into a decidedly tight fit. "There was a message about a week ago," he said hoarsely.

"Yes. And now Bengor is worse. So, if you haven't told the Lady anything about me or the Wizard, then that letter has probably triggered what's going on now," Karos growled. "And that means something's definitely brewing."

He hit his thigh with a fist. "I don't like this one goddamn bit."