Yesterday's Kings (25 page)

“It shall be easier when we reach Kash’ma Hall,” he said as they sat about a fire on which some animal she did not recognize roasted. “My father shall welcome you as my bride-to-be, and put Afranydyr in his place.” He took her hands and bowed his head. “Please forgive my brother’s intransigence, and trust my love.”

Abra was not sure she could do either. She felt a great affection for Lofantyl—indeed such affection as might be love. But still he was a Durrym, and perhaps this was only seduction. Save when he held her hands and looked into her eyes, she felt her heart lurch and knew that she wanted only to be with him, man and wife.

But in Coim’na Drhu?

Could she live here? They certainly could not live in Kandar, for the Church would proscribe such union and execute them both as heretics. Her father might accept it, but never the Church.

She sighed and clutched Lofantyl’s hands tighter. “What shall happen to us?”

“Why, we shall come to Kash’ma Hall and be wed. Do you not want that?”

“And Afranydyr?”

“Shall accept our father’s decision.”

“And if your father says you nay?”

“Then we’ll go off and live like Cullyn. All alone in the forest between our lands.”

“As outlaws?”

“If you like.” He leaned toward her and they kissed. “I’d give up everything for you.”

“Your hall? Your family?”

Lofantyl shrugged. “I don’t much like Afranydyr, anyway. And my father has little time for me—he believes me too interested in you Garm.”

“But still he’d see us wed?”

“He’d not deny my wishes. And my wish is to wed you.” Lofantyl held her hands tighter. “Think on it! You and I married—Coim’na Drhu wedded with Kandar. Might that not bring us peace?”

“It might,” she said as he kissed her again. And then, “Or deliver war.”

They stared at one another as the fire spluttered and the night grew dark, sparks rising toward the many stars that speckled the fey lands night. Abra stared at Lofantyl and there came between them some understanding that they could not define, but only know. Lofantyl said, “I shall never betray you.”

Then Afranydyr came to them, before Abra had chance to answer, all stern admonishment. “Best sleep—we ride out early.”

“Sound advice, my brother.” Lofantyl grinned. “And we shall take it in a while.”

Afranydyr snorted and turned away.

Lofantyl said, “It is good advice,” and took Abra’s hand to escort her to her bed, where he left her with a courteous bow.

T
HEY WENT ON THROUGH
impossible forests where impossible animals crossed their path, and came to Kash’ma Hall.

“My home,” Lofantyl said.

Abra could scarcely believe it. How could such a place exist?

She was familiar with the confines of her father’s keep—all stone, walled with granite, the village of Lyth below like some succored hybrid, the keep a defensive tower looming over the village.

This unbelievable place sat within a great swath of forest, isolated only by the meadow that spread around it like a great grass moat. The trees within which they stood halted on low, encircling ridgetops, and grew no farther, leaving the grass sway. It was a low bowl, encompassed by the forest, then the grass, which ran like some green sea to the walls of Kash’ma Hall, speckled with flowers, so that the emerald green of the grass was marked with blossoms of white and blue and yellow that filled the air with sweet scents that set Abra’s head to spinning with their seductive perfumes.

“Is it not beautiful?” Lofantyl asked.

Abra could only nod her agreement.

She studied the keep—save was it truly a keep? It seemed more like some fairy castle, some fey fantasy. It seemed all wooden, as if trees were trained to ward the perimeters, and all the buildings inside those walls grown rather than built. All the buildings shone in the sun. It seemed as much forest as fortress. The grass sparkled, and the towers she saw carried the hues of wood, as if all were built of oak and ash and birch and beech, willow and aspen: every kind of timber imaginable, with great spills of flowers tumbling from the walls—as if it were all some great blossoming basket that shed happy colors into the latening day.

“My home,” Lofantyl said.

“It’s beautiful.”

“Then let’s go there and meet my father.”

T
HEY RODE IN THROUGH
wooden gates all draped with ivy and climbing plants that flourished blue and yellow flowers that filled the entrance with perfume. Men and women and children watched them silently as they followed an avenue that was lined as much with trees and shrubs and flowers as with houses to—Abra was not sure what it was: the central keep, or some unbelievably vast tree? It seemed to have grown, rather than been built. It boasted swirling branches so unlike the battlements of her father’s keep that she gasped in wonderment. It stood taller than any tree could grow—in Kandar—and all its boughs were cut with windows, its roots with doors, its trunk with balconies. She felt awed, that the Durrym magic could create so magnificent a hold.

She clutched Lofantyl as they approached a vast doorway, where Durrym warriors stood.

“Don’t be afraid,” he urged her. “This is how we live—with the land.”

She nodded, unsure, and let him help her down from the big bay horse, and took his hand as he led her into the tree keep.

Afranydyr came after, and all their footsteps echoed on wooden floors. Abra felt very afraid as they paced the entry hall to a doorway guarded by two solemn-faced Durrym.

“Now you’ll meet my father,” Lofantyl said, as the guards swung the door open.

Abra swallowed hard and went with Lofantyl into the central hall.

I
SYDRIAN WAS A TALL
, hawk-faced Durrym, more akin to Afranydyr than Lofantyl in both appearance and manner. Abra felt quelled by his presence as he studied her, and Lofantyl ducked his head as he delivered their introductions.

“Father, this is Abra.”

“Who is Garm’kes Lyn.”

“And whom I’d wed.”

The hall in which they stood was also timber, windows of some substance Abra could not define set in irregular places along the wide walls, like knots in the limb of some ancient tree. She was accustomed to the regularity of Lyth Keep, but this place was all curves and angles that tricked her eyes and set her head to spinning. Balconies ringed the room above, like intertwining branches within the central bole, smaller windows there, but all sunny, allowing in dancing shadows and shafts of brightness. It seemed to her that she stood within some massive tree, as might a squirrel. She caught the scent of wood, musky and heavy, and thought that she stood within a labyrinth.

Lofantyl’s father sat at the center of the great, strange room, on a dais that supported a throne that seemed to be built of wood and bone. A shaft of light slanted downward to illuminate the planes of his stern face. She felt his cold gaze intimidating, and steeled herself to dignity.

“And how say you?” Isydrian asked.

Abra met his gaze. “I love your son.”

“You are Garm. How can you love a Durrym?”

Lofantyl squeezed her hand and the answer came easy: “Because I do.”

“And shall you stay here, in Coim’na Drhu, and forsake your own people?”

Abra hesitated a moment before she answered. “If I must.”

She looked into Lofantyl’s eyes and saw only love there.

“And you?” Isydrian studied his younger son. “How say you?”

“I’d wed her,” Lofantyl said.

Afranydyr snorted.

“Then so be it,” Isydrian agreed.

C
ullyn studied the trail, idly stroking the fox that sat beside him. The day was warm for spring, melting more snow and transforming the pathways to a mess of mud that must surely—or so he hoped—slow Per Fendur’s pursuit. He listened to the birds: they’d bring him messages, Eben had said, but all he heard was their singing. He looked at the lures Eben had set and wondered if they’d work. He hoped so, for Laurens was not yet ready to move. And, indeed, he was not sure he was, himself, ready to go into Coim’na Drhu. It seemed a mighty venture that he’d sooner not attempt, save it seemed he had no choices left him.

Then a thrush settled on a branch close to his head and trilled a warning. The fox stirred, brush lifting as it moved from under his hand to stare into the woods. Cullyn crouched behind the cover of a bush and saw three horsemen coming slowly forward.

They were keep folk—he could tell from their
accoutrements—and they studied the ground. He thought one of them was the warrior called Drak, who appeared to lead the others. He remained in cover as they reached the division of paths and deer trails, and halted, staring around.

Eben had hung his talismans all around the wood, and Cullyn watched Drak stare at the feathers and dangling bones. He frowned and shook his head, and waved his men back as if confused. It seemed to Cullyn that he had not seen the magical workings, but was only turned away in confusion.

Even so … Cullyn waited until they had gone back down the trail and then ran to Eben’s cottage, the fox at his side.

“They approach,” he said.

“Then we’d best go.” Eben set a fresh bandage around Laurens’s ribs and motioned that the soldier rise. “I’d have given you more time, but the priest will find the way ere long.”

“I’m well healed.” Laurens struggled upright. “I’ve taken worse wounds and lived.” Cullyn wondered at that, for Laurens’s face was still pale and he moved unsteadily as he dressed. “Where do we go?”

“Into Coim’na Drhu, after this willful young woman.” Eben gathered supplies as he spoke: potions and books that he stuffed into a satchel. “And you’ve a hard ride ahead.”

“
Coim’na Drhu?
” Laurens paused in his dressing. “Are you mad?”

“Some say so,” Eben returned cheerfully. “But what else?”

“Back to the keep and throw ourselves on Lord Bartram’s mercy. He’s a fair man.”

“Who, from all this youngling has told me”—Eben
gestured at Cullyn—“listens to the priest and the adulterous captain.”

“Even so,” Laurens grunted as he struggled into his breeches. “Into the fey lands?”