Throne of Llewyllan (Book 2) Page 6

  Kendril looked away. “I thought so.”

  “They’re going to hang her, Kendril.”

  The Ghostwalker gave an unconcerned shrug. “Isn’t that generally what they do with thieves?”

  The scout lowered his eyebrows. “How can you be so callous?”

  Kendril shot him a look. “Callous? Last I remember that sweet young thing was holding a loaded bow at us and robbing all our possessions.”

  Joseph looked away, glowering. “I don’t think she deserves to die.”

  “But it’s not really your choice to make, is it?” Kendril sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Don’t get caught up with this woman, Joseph. You’ll only end up regretting it.”

  Joseph gave a sudden laugh. “You’re certainly one to talk about getting caught up with women.”

  Kendril’s brow furrowed. “You won’t get into the jail tonight anyway,” he said slowly. “Might as well let it go until the morning.”

  Joseph took a deep breath and nodded. “I suppose you’re right.” He glanced up the stairs towards the second floor of the palace. “I might call it a night, I think. See you tomorrow, Kendril.”

  The Ghostwalker nodded, watching Joseph as he disappeared up the stairs. For a moment he continued to stand by the potted plant, staring up at the murals above him.

  “Care to join me for that drink in the study, Kendril?”

  Kendril turned and saw Lord Bathsby standing behind him. He thought for a moment, then nodded.

  “Why not?”

  “Make yourself at home,” said Bathsby as he tossed his cloak on a chair by the wall. He moved over to a finely polished chestnut desk located beneath a window that looked out over the palace garden. Outside the moon had just risen, bathing the bushes and hedgerows in a shining silver.

  The study was rather large, set off from the main hall of the palace by a separate hallway. From the open door Kendril could just barely make out the low murmur of voices from the guests in the main hall, though it seemed like more and more people were starting to leave. The study itself had a wide bookshelf on two walls, covered with volumes of every kind of description. A large table stood near the desk, covered with maps and charts. On the walls were several curious trophies, including a shining scimitar that hung above the window, and a green and blue tartan above the door.

  Kendril nodded towards the plaid. “What’s that?”

  Bathsby glanced up. “A Jogarthi tartan, from the Helmas Clan, if I remember correctly.” He pulled out a short bottle and two glasses, and set them down on the wide desk. “I got it during my first campaign in the Dagger Hills, when I was seventeen.” The nobleman chuckled darkly. “I received a battlefield commission after I killed the chieftain who was wearing it.” He uncorked the top of the bottle. “Brandy?”

  Kendril nodded. “Thanks.” His gaze wandered towards the titles on one of the bookshelves. Daltridge’s History of the War of the Third Despair was there, along with more scientific works like Keeling’s Principia Scientifica, as well as Erfort’s Flora and Fauna of South Rothland. He stopped on Hartland’s Treatise for a Citizen Militia and its Various Benefits for the Modern State. He pulled it out of the bookshelf and flipped through it curiously.

  Bathsby finished pouring the brandy, and glanced up at the Ghostwalker. “Hartland, eh?” he said with a smile. “Some intriguing ideas, but too theoretical for my tastes. Here you go.” He pushed the glass of brandy towards Kendril.

  Kendril replaced the book, and walked over to the desk. “Are all of these books yours?”

  Bathsby settled back in his high-backed chair, sniffing the brandy. “Most of them. I taught myself to read when I was in the army. I haven’t stopped since.”

  Kendril settled into a chair on the other side of the desk, and picked up the glass of brandy. “That’s quite commendable. Most people wouldn’t have bothered.”

  Bathsby took a sip of the alcohol. “I was a determined lad,” he said wistfully. “I had designs to change the world, back then.”

  Kendril tasted the brandy. “Have you?”

  The nobleman laughed. “Not yet. I’m still just a simple soldier, Kendril.” His face turned serious as he looked at the long bookshelf to his right. “Besides, the world doesn’t need me to change. It already is changing, and faster than most men seem to like.”

  Kendril set down the glass. “What do you mean?”

  Bathsby sighed. He tapped the glass in his hand with his finger. “Look around, Kendril. Here in Llewyllan time may seem to stand still, but outside of these borders all of Zanthora is transforming into something completely new, totally unique.” He gestured up towards a blue volume on the bookshelf. “That book, for instance. Observations on the Celestial Movements, by Sir Francis Urqart. If he’s right, Zanthora may not be the center of the universe after all.”

  The Ghostwalker nodded slowly. He picked up the glass again. “I’ve heard of his ideas before. They’re not entirely convincing.”

  Bathsby shook his head, leaning forward excitedly. “Perhaps not, but that’s not the point, Kendril. Urqart is a sign of the times. He represents all those who are beginning to ask the forbidden questions, to delve into matters that have been ignored for far too long.”

  Kendril gave Bathsby a curious glance. “You seem remarkably interested in astronomy for a simple soldier.”

  The nobleman laughed, and leaned back again in his chair. “But it all connects, don’t you see? Our grandfathers fought each other with swords and shields, locked into a feudal system and following a rigid code of chivalry. Nowadays a nation cannot be considered great unless it owns a battery of cannons, and the knights of yesterday have been replaced by the musketeers of today. It’s all a part of the natural course of change. The world is changing, Kendril, and Llewyllan is in danger of being left behind.” He fell silent, looking up at the tartan above the door.

  The glass clinked as Kendril lifted it from the desk. He took a short taste, then settled back in the chair. “You sound as if you don’t have much confidence in the King,” he said.

  Bathsby snorted. “The King? The King is tottering old fool. His time has come and gone, only he doesn’t know it. He still holds jousting tournaments, for Eru’s sake. Jousting tournaments!” The nobleman laughed bitterly, and shook his head. “No, my friend, Llewyllan is not changing as it should, nor will it as long as an outdated, backwards monarchy continues to rule.”

  Kendril paused, the brandy glass still in his hand. “So what exactly are you proposing?”

  Lord Bathsby saw the expression on the Ghostwalker’s face, and gave a hearty laugh. “Nothing extreme, I assure you. Just observations, that’s all.” His smile faded. “But Llewyllan is in danger, in danger of being left behind because of its stubbornness to change.” He gestured to one of the maps on the table. “Our nation is in a delicate position, Kendril. We are not a populous people, and we are not a powerful one. The Lion’s Gate is the only pass through the Shadow Mountains, and Llewyllan controls it, along with the lucrative trade with the Spice Lands to the south.” He swished his brandy around in his glass. “Everyone else in Rothland knows that, and it’s for this reason that Llewyllan cannot afford to be lax. We’re a small fish in a big ocean, and the sharks are circling.”

  Kendril put his brandy back on the desk, and pushed it away. His eyes were guarded. “So what can be done, then?”

  Bathsby was silent for a moment. He wrapped his hands around the glass. Through the window the moon rose ever higher, its silver sheen filling the garden outside.

  “You have heard about Lord Whitmore and the princess?” he asked at last.

  Kendril felt a yawning hole form in his stomach. “No,” he said flatly.

  “Lord Whitmore,” said Bathsby slowly, “has asked Serentha to marry him. The King is in favor of the match, and it will undoubtedly take place. It is only a matter of time.”

  Kendril fell back into the chair. He felt as if someone had punched him in the gut. “I didn’t know.”

  B
athsby shrugged. “I’m not surprised.” He leaned forward, playing with the glass in his hand. “Whitmore is a greater fool than the King,” he said quietly. “He’s never done a day of hard labor in his life. He knows nothing of science, or technology, or even war or diplomacy. If he is allowed to become King than Llewyllan will certainly die, or worse, be swallowed up by Calbraith.” A look of determination came into his eyes. “I can’t allow that to happen, Kendril. I am too much of a patriot to see my people devolve into impotence or servitude.”

  Kendril eyed the nobleman carefully. “So what do you intend to do?”

  There was a heartbeat of silence. Bathsby leaned back. “I intend to do whatever I can to ensure the safety of Llewyllan. Look what happened in Arbela. The merchant guilds overthrew the king completely, and now religious fanatics hold the nation in perpetual fear. I won’t allow things to get to that point here. Llewyllan needs a strong leader, one who understands where the world is going and what needs to be done here to make this nation powerful.” He lowered his voice. “There are many others who feel the same as I do, Kendril. Men in the army, and the government, who do not want to see Llewyllan fall into decay.”

  Kendril didn’t reply. From the hallway behind him the low undertone of voices had diminished to almost nothing.

  “I could use a man like you,” Bathsby continued in the same soft voice. “A simple soldier, like me. One who can see where the world is going, and what needs to be done.”

  “I have made vows to my order,” said Kendril.

  “For penance?” Bathsby gave a disarming shrug. “Perhaps it is time at last to find your repentance, Kendril, and put that cloak behind you. Here in Balneth you could really make a difference, start your whole life over again.”

  Kendril’s hands slowly clenched the sides of his chair. Outside a night breeze wafted through the garden and stirred the bushes.

  “You could spend it,” Bathsby continued, his fingertips pressed together, “with anyone you wanted.

  Kendril sat still for a few moments, then rose to his feet. “It’s late,” he said abruptly. “I should get to bed.”

  Bathsby nodded. “I still have some paperwork to attend to. Good evening, Mr. Kendril. I do hope you will consider what we have talked about.”

  The Ghostwalker turned without replying, walking out of the study and into the small hallway. He stopped midway, leaning against the wall and taking a few deep breaths, his eyes closed.

  “Why Mr. Kendril,” came a silky voice in front of him, “are you feeling all right?’

  He opened his eyes. There, standing in the darkness of the passage, was Bronwyn. Her amulet seemed to glow with an unnatural light.

  “I’m fine,” he said tersely. He pushed away from the wall. “I was just retiring for the evening.”

  Bronwyn stepped in front of him. “I was going to retire myself. These parties can get so dreadfully boring.” She took a step closer. “Are you staying here in the palace?”

  Kendril hesitated for a moment. “Yes.”

  She took a step closer, her bodice swelling as she breathed. “I can tell things about people, Kendril. You’re…different than other men.” She moved a hand forward, inches away from the Ghostwalker’s chest. “You’re full of so much sadness, yet so much strength at the same time.” Her eyes caught his, glowing in the dim light of the hall. “I think you and I are very much alike. We’re both very alone.”

  Kendril began to feel dizzy, as if the hallway were tilting forward. He clutched at the wall, and shook his head. The amulet around the woman’s neck seemed to throb with a pale light, like a recurring heartbeat.

  “Perhaps we can help each other,” she said. Her hand moved slowly forward.

  Kendril took a step back, as if waking from a dream. “It’s late, Lady Bronwyn,” he said. His voice sounded strange in his own ears, as if he were listening to someone else speaking.

  She smiled, and her beauty turned Kendril’s stomach to water. Her hand touched lightly against his chest, and he felt the warmth of it through his shirt.

  “Why do you continue to punish yourself?” she whispered. Her fingers moved gently upwards, spreading like small flickers of heat across his skin. “Let me help you,” she said again, her voice soft and gentle. She leaned towards him.

  Kendril’s eyes began to close. His head spun. He felt his body beginning to float, as if every limb was weightless.

  Bronwyn moved in closer, her lips inches away from his. Her hand moved up from his chest, then tenderly caressed the side of his face.

  The touch seemed to snatch Kendril out of the trance. His eyes snapped open and he stepped back, then swatted the woman’s hand away. He took a deep breath. The air in the hall seeming heavy and close.

  “Good evening, Lady Bronwyn,” he said coldly. He brushed by her, walking unevenly down the hall.

  The dark-haired beauty followed him with her eyes, rubbing her hand gently where he had slapped it. A smile was on her face.

  The moment Kendril re-emerged into the central hall of the palace, he was able to breathe again, the air suddenly fresher. The dinner guests had all left or gone to bed, and white-uniformed guards stood at the palace doors and the bottom of the staircase. The light was dimmer now, lit only by a few lanterns placed in the hall.

  His hands were trembling slightly, and he still felt light-headed. He turned, and looked back down the side hall. Bronwyn was no longer there. Kendril furrowed his brow as the cobwebs cleared from his mind.

  “Mr. Kendril?” came a voice from behind him.

  The Ghostwalker turned to see the same liveried servant from before, nervously clasping his hands. “Yes?”

  “About your room—” the man began.

  “I was just headed up there,” Kendril said. “What about it?”

  “I’m afraid there’s been a slight miscalculation,” the man said, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “I forgot about your friend the diplomat, and I’m afraid that we’re one room short.”

  Kendril stared at him. “One room short?” he repeated.

  “Yes, but just the guest bedrooms,” the man quickly replied. “We have an extra room in the servants’ quarters, but I’m afraid it’s not quite as luxurious as the upstairs room. Still, there’s a good firm straw mattress, and you should have the room all to yourself.”

  Kendril paused for a long moment. “A straw mattress?”

  “I’m so sorry, sir. Tomorrow night we’ll definitely get you a better room. I hope you understand.”

  Kendril nodded, and forced a smile on his face. “Straw sounds fine. Lead the way.”

  It was late when Lord Bathsby finally snuffed out the candle in his study, then shoved his papers in the drawer of the desk and headed upstairs. He nodded politely to the night guards, reaching a room in a side corner of the second floor of the palace. As he approached the door, he detected a faint smell of incense.

  Without hesitating Bathsby swung open the heavy wooden door, then stepped inside and shut it softly behind him. The room was large, with a canopied bed, a large mirror on the wall, and a long veranda that was open to the night air. Candles burned on the floor, and the smell of incense choked the room. In one corner a raven sat perched in brass cage, ruffling its feathers. A woman was kneeling on the floor between the candles when Bathsby entered, and rose quickly as the door shut.

  “Lord Bathsby,” said Bronwyn with a faint smile.

  The nobleman strode forward, and glanced down at the wafting flames of the candles and the small bones and feathers that lay at their center. He backhanded the young woman across the face, knocking her back onto the bed.

  From the corner the raven squawked loudly. Bronwyn gasped in pain, holding her face.

  Bathsby reached down and grabbed her by the neck. He pulled her to her feet. “I saw you in the hallway,” he said. The nobleman tightened his grip. “I told you to stay away from him.”

  Bronwyn struggled for breath, but managed to smile all the same. “Why Lord Bathsby,” she str
uggled, “if I didn’t know better I’d say you were jealous.”

  He stared at her for a moment, his grip still tight. Then, almost dismissively, he released her neck, and turned towards a chair against one wall.

  Bronwyn collapsed onto the blankets, rubbing her bruised flesh and gasping for air.

  Bathsby whipped his cloak to one side, and sat comfortably in the chair. “And what is all this?” he sneered as he waved his hand at the objects on the floor. “More of your devilry, I assume?”

  Bronwyn rose to her feet, smiling again and wiping the tears of pain from her eyes. “Your lordship is too kind.”

  He sighed and closed his eyes. “Lord Whitmore has made his move.”

  Bronwyn leaned against one of the posts of the bed. She rubbed her neck again. “I know.” She threw the nobleman a piercing look. “You were foolish to have waited as long as you did.”

  Bathsby opened his eyes, and stared coldly at the dark-haired woman. “It was worth the risk.”

  She moved towards the candles. Her white dress floated behind her. “No, it wasn’t. Your plan was doomed to failure from the beginning, Bathsby. I told you that.”

  The nobleman’s face twitched with anger. “If that accursed bounty hunter I hired had done his part things would have gone well enough. I could have rescued the princess and been back here a week ago.”

  Bronwyn sighed, and brushed her black hair back behind her ear. “And what difference do you think it would have made, Bathsby? Even if you had come home as the sterling hero who saved the King’s daughter from certain death you wouldn’t have secured the throne.” She leaned forward, her amber eyes blazing with intensity. “You’re a commoner, Bathsby. The King will never forget that.”

  He rose to his feet, and clasped his hands behind his back. “And you think I can?” He turned to the open veranda. The gentle night breeze caught his cloak. “Did you hear him tonight? A ball tomorrow in honor of those ruffians she picked up.” He shook his head angrily. “I’ve done more than any man alive to put this kingdom on the map, and still all anyone can see is my bloodline.”