Ravens, Owls and a nightingale

17. Dinner & Discussion

Dark blue eyes, half hidden behind slightly lowered lids, surveyed the abundant selection of delicacies arranged on the table in front of him. There was white and red meat in many forms and disguises, several different kinds of bread to choose from, dainties both sweet and salty, vegetables, even some fruit and berries. And beer, beer that left a velvety aftertaste on the tongue and far surpassed most beers that he had ever sampled in his life. This castle, although far away from the strongholds of Eastern splendor both in location and in the general style of living and made of dark stone that underlined its purpose as a fortress, certainly had enough wealth to show. What was more, its wealth was obviously well managed, by a powerful Lord and a chatelaine with a solid grasp of what running such a place required.

"Some more for you, sir?" A neatly dressed servant girl had brought in a new tray of meat and fish pastries and was making a round with it before placing it on the table. She curtsied as Count Daynar nodded and picked up one. At his elbow, he saw Sorel's long-fingered hand coop up a couple of the juicy things as well.

The Count sank his teeth into the pastry, careful not to let any of the soft filling spill on his clothes. He was seated next to Lord Rhodan on the low dais in one end of the great hall, and only needed to turn his head a little to see at least some echoes of the Eastern splendor in the corner of his eye. Behind his back hung something that hadn't been there when he'd first seen the hall: an enormous and very handsome tapestry that depicted a lively party in a castle garden. While the Lord had been away, fighting against his cunning brother-in-law in and around Moydherr, his son and daughters had been digging into their late mother's treasure chests, and had come up with quite a few things that now decorated several of Deleon's rooms. Hunting scenes with dogs and falcons, pictures of playing minstrels, images of graceful ladies being courted by handsomely dressed gentlemen, all the luxury items that their mother had jealously guarded from the eyes of her unsophisticated, hated husband, were now making their appearance.

"Don't make such a mess of yourself, Bai!"

"But these are so lovely! Mmm... oops..."

"A fine lady you'll make, not even able to eat a pastry without getting yourself all greasy — oh damn."

"You're one to talk, Ben, it seems."

Of course the happy trio was there now, sitting on the Lord's other side. Count Daynar glanced in their direction and a small smile played on his lips. They were a delightful bunch. The Ranea, Bengor, pleased him especially. The boy was truly intelligent, sharp as Sorel's throwing-knives and well-read too, no doubt thanks to the physical inactivity that his earlier illness had forced upon him. Nor was there anything to complain about in the young ladies, either — unless one decided to dislike their exuberant energy. Young Lady Benella was a spirited young woman, and in a few years' time her sister would prove at least an equal handful. Naturally, any and all suitors would first have to convince the girls' father that they were worthy of his consideration, which would probably prove a hard enough task. And then the two lucky ones were likely to realize pretty soon that they'd got more than they ever bargained for...

"Girls, behave! And you too, Bengor."

"Of course, father!"

Count Daynar finished his pastry and wiped his mouth with a large napkin to hide the smile that threatened to grow somewhat too broad. He certainly had nothing to complain about, and all his handpicked and painstakingly trained men were expressing the same satisfaction. All right, so what if the initial spoils of this assignment weren't in their usual range? He, and his men, had learned to trust his instinct, and it kept telling him to stick with Lord Rhodan and wait. That wasn't even difficult; Count Daynar had only needed the duration of one dinner to realize that for once he was faced with a man he could genuinely respect. That was a rare experience, something he wanted to savor and hold on to.

"Stop giggling, Bai!"

"I can't help it... mmffft... it's so funny!"

"Funny? What's so funny about a fish?"

"I think it has soulful eyes..." Giggle. "It's looking at you, Ben!"

"No, really?"

"Yes it is. I think it rather fancies you."

"Bai, do stop being so silly! What must everybody think of you?"

"Oh, don't worry, Nella. Don't we all know already that she's silly?"

"Am not! It just looks so funny!"

"Bailenn, I have a feeling that you're getting a bit overtired. Shouldn't you pack yourself to bed?"

"No, I want a piece of that funny-looking fish first."

"I'll give you some. But please don't get it all over yourself again. Your napkin already looks like a slaughterer's apron."

He was a mercenary captain, but his sword wasn't available for anything — not any more. Even though those days were years and leagues away, Count Daynar could remember them well enough, the times when he'd been systematically sniffing out the most lucrative deals and grabbing them, intent on pocketing as much money as he could. But even back then he'd had his sights higher, and had sometimes been hard put to hold his tongue when faced with some particularly greedy, double-dealing Lords who didn't as much as blink before cheating their allies blind. He had worked hard to rise above the rubble, he had made his troops work equally hard, and now they could afford to choose their employers. Count Daynar could be accused of many things, but a turncoat had never been among them. When he made a deal, he kept his end of it, and he liked the other party to reciprocate that.

"My daughters..." An exaggerated sigh and a meaningful quirk of thick black eyebrows. "Have you ever seen such tomboys before, Daynar?"

"To be honest, my Lord, I haven't. But I have seen many to behave in ways that you'd have far more reason to disapprove of."

Now his every instinct told him that he had found a Lord after his own heart. Lord Rhodan-Omeasch was a gruff bear of a man, but he had principles. He also hated treachery more than anything, except perhaps cowardice, and gave much value to honesty even when it could be ruthless. The Count and Lord Rhodan had clicked immediately, and Count Daynar was proud to observe that by now the Lord considered him more than just a mercenary captain. He was a friend and confidante of sorts, and even something of an advisor.

"More beer for you, sir?"

"Yes please. And I observe that Sorel's tankard is nearly empty as well."

"Just a little more for me. No, not full."

Today, too, they had spent most of the afternoon closeted in the Lord's day room with three other captains, talking. Lord Rhodan liked to hear what his captains thought about each current situation, and he also liked to hear their opinions of his own ideas. Count Daynar had quickly learned that in these strategy sessions, no comment was too disrespectful or frivolous to be uttered. In fact, Lord Rhodan liked it when his trusted captains got imaginative, stole words from each others' mouth and just let their minds fly. In the process they'd always go through numerous alternative courses of action, weigh their respective pros and cons against each other, and eventually reach a decision that everyone understood thoroughly. It also ensured that all parties could carry through their own part, even if it might involve some improvisation along the way.

"Bai, don't yawn like that, your jaw will drop off. If you're tired, you should go to bed."

"I don't want to, not yet. It's not that late anyway. I want to hear some more songs before I go."

"Heliet, Mioll, please play again the ballad you played a couple of days ago. The long one, you know which one I mean?"

"Oh yes. With pleasure, Ranea."

At the moment there was indeed something brewing, a contingency for which strategies would be sorely needed. During the summer months after Moydherr's defeat, increasingly caustic letters had been traveling between Deleon and Eregal, carried by grim-faced riders on swift horses. It had all started when the Lord of Eregal Castle had demanded an explanation of what had been going on, together with a considerable compensation for the sad loss of no less than two daughters, both of whose dowries were now in the hands of Lord Rhodan.

"Brrr, it's such a gory story..."

"Hush, Bai! I want to hear!"

As expected, Lord Rhodan of Deleon had merely barked in laughter. Hadn't his own treacherous wife, the elder daughter of Eregal, started the whole dastardly business by plotting with her own sister's husband? Thus the worth of her dowry was sorely needed to cover the cost of the resulting mess! Nor did Lord Rhodan understand what right Eregal had to even ask for such a thing. Hadn't the castle married off its daughters and thereby relinquished them and their fortunes to their respective husbands? No, the dowries belonged by rights to Deleon and there they would remain, as would Lady Bialka and her by now four daughters.

"Benella, my girl, surely you did ask lady Bialka to join us for dinner?"

"Of course I did, father. I do, every day, but she prefers to keep to her rooms."

"She could show herself every now and then. Surely the latest baby could survive an hour or so with a maid. It's not as if we kept her locked up in there!"

"Father..." A delicate flush, a reproachfully lowered voice. "It wouldn't be comfortable for her. She has so much milk that her clothes tend to get wet."

"Hmph."

Naturally the emphatic answer hadn't satisfied Eregal in the least. The demand for compensation and apology had been renewed and promptly refuted. Next had come threats, vague at first but soon growing more definite and ominous. Eregal had several allies, none of whom had been particularly impressed by Lord Rhodan's haughty tone. Who did he think he was? Could he trace his ancestry back even two generations? Lord Rhodan had only snorted at that.

"Incidentally, I can," he'd said. "I know that it was my great-great-grandfather who first had this keep built, and that his family had a sizable mansion on this same hillock even before that! Do those yapping curs think they have something better to offer?"

Yes, the summer had been a busy time for messengers, who no doubt thanked their lucky stars that it was at least summertime. Trudging back and forth between the two castles in winter, with the snow and ice and slippery footpaths and wolves laying in ambush in every thicket, would have been a dreary task indeed. As it were, the messages had been traveling with alarming swiftness, and had recently reached the point of being explicit declarations of war. Eregal was definitely summoning all its available allies and their troops, putting together a company strong enough to erase Deleon from the soil of Revnash for good. And its insolent Lord would still see the day when he'd be sorry for ever having been born in the first place.

"Which reminds me, Brendel — have those new guards been sent out today?"

"Yes, my Lord. I dispatched them myself. A dozen men, with fresh supplies too. I expect the others will be here the day after tomorrow."

"Good."

Count Daynar was sure that the task would prove infinitely harder than the enraged Easterners imagined. Provided that they ever got within a seeing distance of their enemy, they would soon realize that they had bitten more than they could swallow. In his estimate, even if the attackers appeared outside the gates that very night, Deleon Castle would be able to withstand months of siege without major ill effects. And even getting that close in the first place would be a miracle. Besides, hadn't they been discussing the options numerous times already? Deleon wouldn't be just sitting and waiting for the armies to appear. Eregal would first have to rally its allies and get moving, and they had a long way to travel. Covering that distance would take a good while, and it would wear the troops down before they ever got the chance to clash swords with the defenders.

"We'll be going to bed now, father. Good night. Sleep well."

"You too, my children, you too... Yes, you can clear the table now, I think none of us could possibly eat any more."

The Count watched as the three youngsters left the room. Maids were carrying the rest of the food back to the kitchen, others were bringing in more beer and a bottle of the strong spirits that the Lord liked to have before going to bed. It was nearly black, bittersweet in taste, with a pungent smell of herbs that belied its origins. It was a true witch-brew, something that only the Wizard of Deleon could make, and did a marvelous job of soothing one's innards after a good meal. The men remaining at the table sipped it appreciatively.

"Do you wish us to stay, my Lord?"

"You have already done more than your fair share of entertaining tonight. Go to bed, minstrels, and give your fingers and throats a rest."

"We wish a very good night to you, my Lord, honored gentlemen."

The two fair-haired fairies swept out of the room and closed the door, taking the tinkle of their lutes and voices with them. They'd probably crawl into the same bed, the Count mused, to share whatever secrets they had with each other, especially now that the younger minstrel's roommate was away. He couldn't help the slight frown that crept on his face at the thought. Young Karos-Daleot, the Lord's bastard son... with the chatelaine. Yes, he'd heard the whole story, even from the Lord himself, complete with the astonishing revelation that the man had known nothing about the boy until the same spring. Practically brought up by the Wizard, which explained the boy's many skills. They even included reading and writing, things that the Count had painstakingly taught himself along his climb through the ranks.

"Another shot for you, Daynar?"

"With pleasure, my Lord."

Karos was a true asset — if only his father could see him as such. Count Daynar himself had no doubts about it. The boy was intelligent, courageous and quick-witted, with his father's and mother's strong build, and he had his priorities straight and clear in front of his penetrating dark eyes. He was unflinchingly loyal to what he held dear, and his home and blood-relations were uppermost in the list. It was really too bad that Lord Rhodan seemed unable to cast aside his doubts about the boy, take him into his confidence and give him an official place in the family. The Count had had several opportunities of observing Karos, and he was certain that the young man would whole-heartedly return any favors shown to him. Sorel agreed with him, too, and Sorel was an excellent judge of character, being as he was in the position to unobtrusively see and hear things while hanging after his master. Sorel had a sharp eye for anything suspicious, and he'd said he'd be ready to stake his life on Karos' loyalty. Why couldn't Lord Rhodan see that?

"Any news from our spy yet?"

"None, my Lord."

"I don't like that. He's been away for far too many days without sending any word to us."

"Probably he'll have popped in at the guard posts, my Lord. I shouldn't be worried yet. As Captain Brendel said, the men released from there should be here in a couple of days, and I'm confident that they'll bring news with them."

"I hope you're right, Daynar."

Count Daynar hoped so, too. After all, he had helped to persuade Lord Rhodan into letting Karos set out on this expedition, to snoop about in the eastern parts of Deleon's realm and look at the possible routes that the invading army could take. The Count was certain that the boy wouldn't be up to any mischief, and he himself had given Karos a thorough explanation of Deleon's plans for dealing with the attackers. But he didn't particularly like the silence either. Surely the brave youngster hadn't got himself into any big trouble? What if Eregal had been surprisingly successful in getting the troops moving, and Karos had had a run-in with them? Better not let Lord Rhodan notice his mounting anxiety, though, the Count thought. Karos wouldn't let them down.

"Well, I think I'll be retiring now. Good night."

"Good night, my Lord. You're right, I can hear the bed calling."

"Bah, it's that curvy wench of yours that's calling you, Brendel!"

"Ahh, and so what? Are you perhaps jealous of her, eh?"

"Ha ha, Captain, there are wenches enough to choose from in this castle! Why sob after the one who's warming your bed?"

"Good night, Captains."

"Good night, sir Count."

"Sir, do you think we ought to send someone to make inquiries?"

"Where to, Sorel? There's no knowing where he might be at the moment. I trust the boy."

"I trust him too, sir. Can't help sharing our Lord's anxiety, though."

"Mmm."

Night had fallen over the castle, when the soldiers standing guard at the gate perceived something approaching. They peered into the darkness, squinted to see better, then hastened to open the small door and tried to grab a hold of the shape that squeezed in between them but were shoved roughly back. The figure, clutching its mudded cloak, stumbled and nearly fell, pulled itself up again and staggered blindly towards the Ghost Tower. There was a thump as it lurched against the door, clawed at the lock and practically fell inside as the heavy door swung open.

His head was spinning, the whole world shrieked into his ears through a thick impenetrable soup that threatened to suffocate him and yet failed to dampen the heaves of blinding pain that kept shooting up from somewhere and everywhere. Each wave made him convulse and shudder. One arm was wrapped around his midsection, the other fought against the urge to join it, because he needed to get up, up, still another few steps of the seemingly endless spiral that rotated in front of his eyes and made him reel. His breathing was a series of labored gasps, each more shallow than the previous, his lungs were screaming for air, or perhaps they were screaming for the pain that engulfed them each time a spasm made his whole body go rigid.

There was no conscious thought left inside him, they all had been pushed roughly aside by fever and agony. Like a dying animal he grabbed to the railing, to its supporting bars, pulled himself forward and upward. One more. One more. His road to salvation. He thought he could see a dark shape ahead, square at the bottom and rounded at top, or was that just another hallucination? He pushed forward, fell on his knees, crawled the last few yards, scrambled on his feet but fell back so that his head thumped dully against heavy wood. One hand rose, then fell again, and now he couldn't stop it any more. It moved to clutch the cloak tighter around his violently trembling body and he rolled up into a ball on the floor, desperately trying to breathe through the all-embracing pain.

The door creaked open to let a bearded face peer out, then it was thrown open. The Wizard fell on his knees beside the big dark lump on the floor and forced it around. He took in the blue tint of lips, the glazed eyes and waxy pallor of scorching hot skin underneath icy sweat. From somewhere underneath the cloak his nose detected the sickening stench of pus and death.

The Wizard jumped up in a whirl of long robes, ran across the room and returned within moments, a small vial in his hand. He knelt once more next to the young man, forced the lips roughly open with a thumb, spilled a few drops of thick liquid into the grimacing mouth.

"Lick," he commanded, and nearly cried when he saw that Karos was trying to obey, his dry tongue searching the taste and finding it. Yes, he knew that the stuff tasted disgusting, but nevertheless poured some more of it into the mouth.

Karos was heavy, but Rhamirr was no shriveled ancient thing himself, and besides he had no time to waste. With strength born of panic he hauled the young man to the bed and set to work, bloodless lips moving as he prayed like he had never prayed in his life.