Andre Norton - The Duke's Ballad

“Write first. The opportunity may arrive.”

The letters were written, masterpieces of innuendo and suggestion, at least the missives supposedly from duke and sorcerer. The one apparently signed by the army’s commander was quite straight-forward, and it also turned out to be straightforward as to how they were discarded for discovery. With Shastro’s punishment of the low quarter he’d been seen by hundreds, as had his advisor.

Keelan and his friend had donned the garb of bullies, hired swords, and skulked away once Aisling had scried the duke’s intent. They’d left through the shrine’s secret door, with a spell from Aisling laid over them that rendered them nondescript and almost unnotice-able. They’d slipped about the fringes of the fight, dropped the letters as the guard retreated with their dead and prisoners, then vanished to reappear through the shrine’s hidden door.

Once the people ventured forth the letters were found. Few could read, but one by one in the different streets someone was found. The letters were read to savage groups who snarled, their eyes showing a red madness. After that rumors began. One came to Kirion’s ears. He drained every scrap of power, hid himself in night, and came at last to where he could lay hands on the letter of which he’d heard. Hadrann had written well. He’d even initialed the bottom of the page with the mark of one of the duke’s scribes.

Kirion read, burned the letter, and withdrew, his face thoughtful. It seemed as if it really was time to dispose of a duke who’d become dangerous to his creator. That night he worked long and hard, draining a half dozen prisoners to search yet again for his sister. With her in his hands he could work the miracles Shastro demanded. Then he could move against the duke. He found no trace of Aisling and cursed, kicking the bodies that littered the tower floor.

He tried again to find the men who had waited at the ruined garth. They too were nowhere to be found but, straining all his abilities, he was for the first time able to learn one thing: they were dead. They had been dead all this time. That had to have been his sister’s doing, he thought. He would wait, lay hands on some others of the Old Blood and try yet again. He would have her, and with her, the power to do as he wished.

Another rumor had reached Shastro’s ears. He marched with thirty guards, seized one letter and another. He looked at them. Maybe Franzo had tried to reach him with a messenger who’d been killed. That would account for the first missive. The second he read, and for long minutes he raged about his room. Flinging items that smashed against walls and floor. He paused to read it again.

So it was he who had ordered his sorcerer to attack the clan. It was he who had ordered the murders of… He looked down at the page. By the gods, the wretched man had named him as instigator of the deaths of his own cousins. Shastro froze, suddenly silent. The letter said that in proof if a spy was sent secretly, he would find the body of the woman buried in such and such a place. Kirion claimed to have spied on the duke and seen the murders and the woman’s burial. There was even a small neatly drawn map.

Shastro slumped back into his seat. “Sharna!” he said softly. “I loved you and your brother. You were light in my darkness. Warmth for the chill of my heart.” He bowed his head remembering. They’d come out of the low quarter together. He and Sharna, his love, and her brother Paran, his friend. Anything they had they’d shared. When he rose to be duke he’d shared that with delight in having something to give. He’d planned to wed Sharna in all honor and have Paran declared his chief advisor.

He clenched his hands, tears standing in his burning eyes. He knew his darker side, the things he took pleasure in. While Sharna and Paran had been with him he’d been able to resist temptation. Without them he had fallen, listened to Kirion’s prompting, accepted the pleasure offered. He’d been told that as duke, to him no delights were forbidden, and they hadn’t been. Kirion had been quick to offer spells. Any lover his duke desired should be his; they dared not reject their lord.

Shastro had taken as and where he willed. His fingers were rolling something over and over. He looked down: the trinket Paran had made. Paran, who had delighted in his skill and loved to make small baubles to please the eye and caress the fingers. He looked down on the carved amethyst, at the insignia of Cup and Flame. Sharna had been devout. He’d paid Paran to make it for her name day.

He picked up the letter again, studied the map. Kirion had said that his duke’s cousins had been attacked by bandits. They had found the bodies of Paran and his man but no trace of Sharna, though Shastro had ordered a search that lasted for days. Kirion had led it. The duke’s eyes became lethal with hatred as he remembered.

But whoever had written this letter knew where Sharna lay. If it told the truth—and it seemed that it was Kirion who had written—Shastro must discover if the letter lied. And if it did not, there would be a reckoning. His lips drew back from his teeth. Oh, yes. There would be. Then his anger collapsed, and there was only a richly dressed man who leaned against the back of his chair and wept slow burning tears for his love, who might have saved his soul but had died too soon.

A siege is not to prevent the escape of one person here and there but to hold a city within its walls until such time as it is ready to surrender and open its gates. Shastro sent out two men from different points over the walls. One returned. It had taken him long weeks first to find the grave, then to elude the tighter army lines and reach Kars again. With him he brought an item his ruler knew and a description.

“A woman for sure, sire. Small, delicate bones. Long blonde hair. She was well wrapped in a heavy cloak. No, sire. It was plain. Black wool with braided ties. Under it she still had the rags of a gown in lilac. I searched according to your orders. She had this on a braided leather string about her neck still.”

He stepped forward to place an item on the polished wooden table. Shastro waved his permission for the man to depart, casually tossing him a purse as he did so. But his eyes were on the deadly lovely knife that lay before him.

He knew this object. It had been a jest between the three of them the midwinter he’d become duke. Paran had carved tiny cats from semiprecious gems, gifting one each to his sister and cousin. Sharna had embroidered handkerchiefs using her own hair for the initials. Thus, she’d said, they could each have something of her. And Shastro had ordered his court silversmith to make the knives, tiny delicate razor-sharp blades fitted into silver-chased sea-ivory hilts.

They were grace knives to be worn about the throat and used as last resort. He’d jested that now he was duke and they of the nobility, they had honor to defend. He turned the hilt in shaking fingers seeing the initials twined in the chasing. Sharna, Shayril’s-daughter. He lowered his head to lay it on the knife, praying for some fading echo of her to reach him.

“How did you die, love?” he whispered to it. “My spies found no wounds they could swear to. Did you die calling my name, trusting me to help, and I failed you? But I trusted too. I trusted a man who came offering me a throne, saying I was the strong one Kars and Karsten needed. A man who swore that no one found your poor body. Did he even look? Or did he already know!”

The duke raised his head, and his eyes were frenzied. “How did you die, love? To give him power? I say he knew! ” His hand crushed the letter he had been rereading when his spy returned. “He drew the map.” His voice dropped to a hissing whisper. “He’ll pay, love. I swear. For the years without you both. For the years he tempted me and I fell.” He kissed the knife gently. “With this, on this, I swear. He’ll murder no more, love, once I am done with him.”