Throne of Llewyllan (Book 2) Read online

  Bronwyn slid up behind him. She slid her arms across his chest. “I see more than that,” she said softly. “I know what kind of a man you are, Bathsby, even if no one else does.” She gently kissed the back of his neck. “You will rule Llewyllan.”

  He turned. His eyes fell on the candles and incense burning on the floor. “Is that what you have foreseen?”

  Bronwyn leaned back, her amulet catching the light from the candles. “The Seteru cannot tell me the future,” she said, playing with the lace at his throat. “You know that.”

  Bathsby sniffed. The corner of his mouth turned up. “Then what have they told you?”

  She stepped away, then turned her head back towards the nobleman. “We must proceed with the original plan,” she said in a hushed tone. “There is no other choice.”

  Bathsby’s face hardened for a moment. “All right,” he said at last. He glanced over at the raven in the corner. “Send your message, then.”

  “There is one other thing,” she said. She moved over to the cage door and opened it. “The Ghostwalker and his friends are dangerous. Too dangerous to be allowed to stay here. They must be dealt with.”

  Bathsby nodded. His face tightened. “You don’t think Kendril will join us, then?”

  Bronwyn reached in and tied a small slip of paper around the raven’s ankle. The bird flapped its wings in annoyance, crowing loudly. She turned back to Bathsby, her eyes flashing.

  “I know he’s a far greater threat to us if he doesn’t then an asset if he does,” she said smoothly. She stepped over to the veranda, and released the bird. It gave one last screeching caw, then flapped off into the night sky. Bronwyn cocked her head. “You’ve covered your tracks well enough, I assume?”

  Bathsby walked over to her. “I killed Montrose in the bandit camp myself. No one will ever know his story.” He took Bronwyn by the waist, and turned her around. One of his hands moved towards her face, and slid down through her thick black hair. “You really are beautiful, you know,” he breathed. A small smile formed on his face. “The most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”

  She smiled, and wrapped her arms around his waist. “To the future King of Llewyllan, long may he prosper.”

  He leaned down and kissed her on the lips. “And to his future queen, the most beautiful woman in Llewyllan.”

  Bronwyn laughed quietly, and kissed him again. She stroked his beard gently with her fingers.

  “This country needs us,” Bathsby whispered, his eyes intent. “You and I, together, can bring change to this nation. We will make Llewyllan strong again, a force to be reckoned with.”

  The young woman moved a finger up to Bathsby’s lips. “Shhh,” she said, her eyes gleaming. “Let’s talk of politics later, my lord.”

  The nobleman smiled, and pulled Bronwyn to him. “I agree,” he said.

  As one, they moved towards the bed, the moon shining brightly behind them.

  Chapter 5

  “Maklavir?”

  Joseph pounded three times on the wooden door. A faint rustling came from within. “Maklavir?” he said again. He glanced behind him, but the hallway was empty.

  “Hang on a moment,” came the diplomat’s voice from within. There was the sound of a lock being slid back, then the door opened just wide enough for Maklavir’s head to peer around. His face was bleary and there were circles under his eyes. “Joseph? Tuldor’s beard, man, what time is it?”

  “Daybreak,” the scout replied. “Have you seen Kendril?”

  “No.” Maklavir squinted his eyes, trying to focus. “Daybreak? This isn’t the woods, you know. We don’t have to get up at the crack of dawn.”

  “Maklavir?” came a girl’s voice from within the room. “What’s going on?”

  The diplomat’s head disappeared for a moment. “Uh, nothing, my dear. Go back to bed, I’ll be there in a moment.” His head reappeared.

  Joseph smiled. “Busy night?”

  Maklavir groaned, rubbing his face. “You have no idea.”

  “I’m heading down into the city,” said Joseph with a smile. “Did you want to come?”

  “Ugh, not now.” He yawned. “I’m not even dressed.”

  “All right. I’ll see you later today, then.” Joseph scratched his beard thoughtfully. “Say hi to the girl for me.”

  “Her name is Palora, and—” the diplomat began. “Oh, never mind. I’ll meet you for lunch.”

  The scout nodded, holding back a smile. “Sounds good.”

  “Lord Whitmore? Come in, come in.” Bathsby waved to the young aristocrat as he pushed some papers off his desk.

  Whitmore walked into the office of war in the administration building, and tossed his hat on a nearby coat rack. The room was cluttered with papers and reports, entire chairs buried under their white mass. Maps were pinned to all the walls. Some were of the entire continent of Rothland, and others of the southern approach to the Dagger Hills and the northern border with Calbraith. The morning light streamed in through the large window that looked out onto the castle courtyard, with the palace just visible across the lawn.

  “Tea or coffee?” Bathsby offered. He opened a folder on his desk.

  Whitmore straightened his silk shirt, and settled into one of the only free chairs in the office. “No thanks.” He gave the folder in Bathsby’s hand a curious glance. “What’s going on?”

  “The Jogarthi. It’s worse than we thought, I’m afraid.” He pushed the folder over to Lord Whitmore. “That report just came in this morning. The clans are massing for war, and it doesn’t look like they’re planning to disperse anytime soon.” He arched an eyebrow. “Is your regiment ready?”

  “It can be.” Whitmore frowned as he scanned the report in front of him. “I could probably have the men ready to march by noon, if I dispatch the orders now.”

  “Good. Take Fielding and Mulcher’s regiments as well. That should give you more than enough men.”

  Lord Whitmore glanced up in surprise. “You’re not coming?”

  Bathsby leaned back in his chair. “No. I have some things to attend to here for the moment, unfortunately.” He peered carefully at Whitmore. “Why? Is something wrong?”

  Lord Whitmore closed the folder. “Well, no, nothing’s wrong. It’s just—” he paused for a moment, wrapped in thought. “This would be my first command, you understand.”

  Bathsby reached over for a cup of tea, and took a sip. “I can put Sir Fielding in charge, if you’d rather.”

  Whitmore shook his head emphatically. “No, no, that won’t be necessary. I was just taken by surprise, that’s all.”

  Bathsby nodded sympathetically. “I completely understand. I felt the same way the first time I was set loose on my own.” He chuckled. “Don’t worry, Lord Whitmore. I wouldn’t be putting you in charge if I didn’t think you could handle it. This should be a relatively light operation. In fact, I’d be surprised if the Jogarthi don’t run as soon as they see your men.”

  Lord Whitmore put the folder back on the desk. “Thank you, Lord Bathsby. I appreciate the level of confidence you have in me.” He hesitated for a moment. “Still—”

  Bathsby leaned forward, resting his elbows on the hard surface of the desk. “Lord Whitmore, your family is one of the oldest and most prestigious in Llewyllan, is it not?”

  The nobleman’s face showed his confusion. “I suppose so.”

  “Being from such a noble bloodline, then, it might behoove you to have a successful military campaign under your belt. It would certainly get you the attention of, say, the royal family.”

  Lord Whitmore nodded slowly. “I see.” He rose to his feet. “Thank you, Lord Bathsby. I’ll have the regiments ready to go in a few hours.”

  Bathsby took another sip of his tea. “I have no doubt you will. One more thing.”

  Whitmore grabbed his hat from the rack. “Yes?”

  “I’ll be sending you a company of the Royal Guard as well.”

  Lord Whitmore frowned. “Aren’t they needed here at the
palace?”

  Bathsby set the teacup down again. “A little active service is good for them every once in a while.” He smiled. “It shakes some of the cobwebs out. Good day, Lord Whitmore.”

  The nobleman saluted. “Good day, Lord Bathsby.” He closed the office door behind him.

  Lord Bathsby lifted his teacup again, smiling to himself.

  “Come in,” said Kendril. He dunked the knife in the small basin of water, then lifted it to his face.

  The door to the small room opened, and Maklavir peered around the edge. “Here you are. Halls of Pelos, is this where you slept all night?”

  The Ghostwalker contorted his face as he scraped the knife over his soaped cheek. “It is.”

  Maklavir walked over to the small cot, and wrinkled his nose. “We had feather beds upstairs, you know.”

  Kendril glared at the diplomat’s reflection in the cracked mirror he was using to shave. “I know.”

  Maklavir sat down on the bed, pushing some straw out of the way. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen Joseph this morning.”

  “No,” responded Kendril. He wet the knife again, whisking it under his chin. “Why?”

  “No reason,” said Maklavir as he shifted on the mattress. “My, this bed is uncomfortable. I fancy sleeping on the ground would be softer.”

  “It is,” said Kendril dryly. He patted off his face with a towel. “I moved there about halfway through the night.”

  Maklavir sighed. He leaned forward and pushed his cap back. “You’re planning on coming to the ball, I imagine?”

  Kendril turned and tossed the towel on the bed. “I don’t think I have much of a choice.”

  The diplomat nodded. “No, I don’t suppose so.” He paused for a moment, looking awkwardly out the door. “The princess has been trying to find you, I think. One of her maidservants was down by our rooms a while ago, asking for you.”

  “What for?”

  Maklavir shrugged. “To talk, I imagine.” He saw the sudden look on Kendril’s face. “What’s wrong?”

  The Ghostwalker leaned against the wall, rubbing his freshly-shaven face. “I had a talk with Bathsby last night. He said that Lord Whitmore has asked Serentha to marry him.”

  “Ah.” Maklavir bowed his head, resting it in his hands. “I suspected as much.”

  “Well aren’t you just so smart?” said Kendril sarcastically. He got up from the wall, and grabbed one of his pistols from a table by the bed.

  “There’s been some tension between them for the past day or two,” said Maklavir matter-of-factly. “And you’ve seen the King. Frankly, I’m surprised he’s still alive.”

  Kendril checked the gun and shoved it into his belt. “I don’t see why she has to marry anyone at all,” he said sourly. “If the King dies doesn’t she just become Queen?”

  Maklavir sat back. The bed creaked under his weight. “Llewyllan is a patriarchal monarchy, Kendril,” he explained. “Kingship devolves only through the male heirs. If Serentha is not married when the King dies then the throne will likely pass to the next closest cousin or nephew. With the way the royal families of Rothland are interbred, chances are he might not even be Llewyllian.”

  Kendril finished checking another gun, and slipped it into his belt as well. “Great.”

  The diplomat sighed. “Honestly, Kendril, what exactly were you expecting? The only surprise is that she isn’t already married off to some prince or duke.” He shrugged. “It’s the way these things go.”

  The young man in the black cloak turned, scratching his arm. “There’s something else,” he said quietly.

  Maklavir looked at him expectantly.

  Kendril reached over towards the door, and shut it softly. “I think there may be more going on here than meets the eye,” he said in a low tone.

  “What? You mean your conspiracy theory?” Maklavir exhaled, and rested his arms on his knees. “I thought we went through this already.”

  “Bathsby was talking to me about…changing Llewyllan,” said Kendril. He glanced at the door cautiously.

  “Changing it how?”

  “He wasn’t really specific. Just babbled a lot about modern ways and how Llewyllan was behind everyone else.” Kendril walked back over to the table, and grabbed the last of his guns. “He tried to recruit me.”

  Maklavir looked at the Ghostwalker skeptically. “Recruit you for what?”

  “I don’t know, but it didn’t sound good.” He paused, then stuck the pistol back beneath his cloak. “We should be very careful. At least until we know exactly what’s going on.”

  Maklavir rubbed his eyes. “Perhaps you’re right. I’m not saying there is a conspiracy, mind you, but it might be wise be on guard nevertheless.”

  Kendril nodded. “I think it would.”

  “She’s not here,” said the man behind the desk.

  “What do you mean she’s not here?” Joseph glanced over at the hallway that led back to the prison cells. Several guards were rushing about, their weapons out.

  “She escaped last night.” The jailer gave Joseph a suspicious look. “Practically broke one of my men’s noses with a pewter tray.”

  The scout’s eyes widened. “Escaped? Where is she now?”

  The jailer spat on the ground. “Talin’s ashes! If I knew that do you think I’d be standing around here with you?” He narrowed his eyes. “So why do you want to know, anyway?”

  Joseph took a step back, his mind still processing. “No reason, I—”

  A guard burst in through the front door of the jail, a polearm in his hand. “We found the keys, sir! Two alleys over, under a pile of garbage.”

  The jailer took his gaze off of Joseph. “About bloody time! Get the men together, and search that area. If I even find one—”

  Joseph didn’t bother to listen to the rest. With his mind still reeling, he turned from the desk and walked out the front door.

  There was a brisk wind on the eastern wall of the castle, rippling Kendril’s cloak and fluttering his hood back and forth. He nodded to one of the guards, then walked down the flight of steps to the walkway that ran north along the battlements. To his left was the rear of the palace, and directly below where he stood was the small pond with its white swans. Clouds sailed out of the east, tumbling across the sky like tufts of powdered sugar.

  In the middle of the eastern ramparts a smaller walkway ran out towards the east, ending in a small, solitary battlement. Standing on the rim stood a solitary figure in a green dress. Her blonde hair waved in the steady breeze.

  Kendril wrapped his cloak around him, and made his way down the walkway and onto the circular battlement.

  The woman didn’t notice him.

  “Nice view?” he asked.

  Serentha turned around. Her eyes lit up as she saw the Ghostwalker. “Incredible,” she said. “Come up here and I’ll show you.”

  Kendril removed his arms from his cloak. He stepped up onto the stone step and peered out over the rim of the wall.

  The sight was impressive. To either side was a rocky cliff that plummeted down two or three hundred feet to the ground below. Stretching off to the east and the south were row upon row of boulder-strewn hills, stretching off to a range of mountains that curved in from the right. The shadows from the clouds overhead danced over the grassy hills like shadowy steeds. The battlement they were in was the farthest extension of the castle wall, jutting out into the cliff that formed Castle Dunhill’s eastern side.

  Kendril gave a low whistle. “Amazing.”

  The princess nodded, scanning the landscape before them. “I come here a lot.” She looked over at Kendril. “How did you sleep?”

  The Ghostwalker grimaced, subconsciously rubbing his back. “I’ve had more comfortable nights.” He hesitated a moment, feeling the wind on his face. “I heard about you and Lord Whitmore.”

  Serentha glanced quickly over at him. “You did? How?”

  Kendril leaned against the cold stone of the wall, feeling the wind against his face an
d the sun on his back. “Word gets around.” He flicked a small stone off the parapet. “So…are you going to marry him?”

  She looked out at the vista again. Her hands worked nervously at the stonework. “I don’t know. I…think my father is in favor of it.”

  A cloud passed over the sun, chilling them both for a moment. “Do you always do what your father wants?” Kendril asked. There was a trace of bitterness in his voice.

  Serentha sighed. She drew away from the edge of the battlements. “It’s not that simple, Kendril.”

  He looked down at the rough stone. “I know.”

  The young woman turned, and leaned her back against the wall. “When my convoy was ambushed in the forest, we were coming back from Merewith. Do you know why?”

  Kendril shrugged. “I never got the whole story.”

  Serentha watched one of the guards patrolling the wall to their right. “I was going there to be married, to the son of Count Leopold.”

  The sun returned from behind the cloud. Kendril squinted in the bright light. “The brother of the Emperor? So what happened?”

  The girl laughed softly, and Kendril realized how welcome the sound was.

  “He ran off with a scullery maid right before I arrived. It caused quite a scandal.”

  Kendril smiled, looking out over the hills. “I’ll bet.”

  Serentha grew serious again, her back still to the wall. “Whitmore is of noble blood. His family sat on the throne, long ago. He would make a good king.”

  Kendril smiled tartly. He tapped at the stonework with his thumb. “Opinions on that seem to be a bit varied.”

  She looked at the Ghostwalker, her blue eyes watching him carefully. “You don’t think I should marry him?”

  He lifted his head. “I didn’t say that.”

  “But you were thinking it, weren’t you?”

  Kendril took a step away from the wall. The wind sifted through his dark hair. “It sounds like you’re the one who’s having doubts.”

  Serentha nodded slowly, and turned back towards the wall again. “You’re right, I am having doubts. I don’t love him.”