Gail Martin - The Sworn

Cam chortled. “Rhosyn has no illusions about my ‘charm’ and ‘breeding.’ Her father’s the brewer for the palace, so she’s seen me well into my cups, and bless her, she seems to love me anyhow.”

He grew pensive at the thought. Although messengers between Isencroft and Dark Haven were few-and with the plague in Margolan, becoming more rare-Rhosyn had bargained and badgered seemingly every trader headed to Principality to carry a letter or a keg of ale to Cam in the six months he’d been recovering. Thanks to Jonmarc, vayash moru headed to Isencroft were willing to carry Cam’s messages back to Rhosyn. Rhistiart was quite right; when Cam returned to Aberponte, there’d be a handfasting within a fortnight.

“That’s well and good for you, but I’m a free man and I plan to enjoy it!”

Cam gave Rhistiart a sideways glance. “Last I knew, you were a ‘wanted’ man thanks to your late employer’s wife.”

Rhistiart screwed up his face and spat. “Crone take her soul. Although, in a perverse way, perhaps I owe her some gratitude. After all, if she hadn’t cheated me out of my share of the partnership when her cuckolded husband died, I wouldn’t have been hiding in that old fuller’s mill. And if I hadn’t been hiding there, freezing my balls off, I wouldn’t have met you and nearly been murdered by the Divisionists. But then, I wouldn’t have saved you or met the king, and while you were drugged and recuperating, King Donelan formally pardoned me for ‘service to the crown.’ So,” he said with a grin, “I’ve been a fugitive, an outlaw, and a hero, all in less than a year.” He stretched. “Life is good.”

After that, they rode in silence for a while. Cam glanced back, surprised at the lull in conversation, to find Rhistiart dozing in the saddle. He chuckled. Annoying as the silversmith could be at times, Cam had to admit he was good company, and Rhistiart kept him from brooding overmuch on the challenges that awaited him when he returned to King Donelan’s service.

It had taken more than three weeks to ride from Dark Haven to Isencroft. Along the way, Cam had gotten a good look at what a combination of war, famine, and plague had done to Margolan in the wake of Jared the Usurper’s brief, violent reign. It would probably take a generation to restore Margolan to its former prosperity, even under King Martris’s fair and judicious hand. The thought that civil war and poor harvests could wreak the same havoc in Isencroft chilled Cam and made him restless to return to Aberponte. But first, there was Brunnfen to deal with.

By midday, they crested a small hill. In the distance, Cam saw Brunnfen, and beyond it, the Northern Sea. Brunnfen was just as he had described it to Rhistiart: a fortresslike box of gray stone looking out over a high cliff across the cold sea, as unwelcoming in appearance as he remembered.

“You weren’t kidding,” Rhistiart said, bringing his horse up alongside Cam’s. “Looks more like a prison than a manor.”

Too many memories crowded in on Cam at once. “It often felt like a prison, even before things went badly with Father,” Cam said quietly. “Ah well, no use putting it off. Let’s get this over with.” Cam jerked the reins and his horse started down the road toward Brunnfen.

Before they had closed half of the distance, Cam saw a figure running toward them, waving its arms. Cam’s hand fell to the pommel of his sword out of habit, although he wasn’t quite close enough to hear what the man was shouting. His eyes widened as the runner grew closer.

“Cam! Cam! You came! I didn’t think you’d really come, but you did! Welcome home! Welcome home!”

The runner was breathless, stopping just a few paces before Cam’s horse. He was a young man, a few years more than twenty seasons old, with straight, long brown hair caught back in a messy queue. Most of the strands fell into his eyes, eyes that were unmistakable in their resemblance to Carina’s. The man stood a little taller than Cam but was of an entirely different build, almost painfully thin, with an angular face and intelligent green eyes.

“Renn?” Cam breathed.

Out of breath, the runner could only nod. Cam slipped down from his horse and approached Renn slowly, and then clasped him tightly in an embrace. “You were barely waist high when we left,” Cam said, his throat tight. “Just a kid.”

Renn managed a grin. “Yeah, and now I’m a skinny, overworked stand-in for the real lord of the manor.”

Cam took another look at Renn. Alvior had imprisoned Renn in the dungeon when Renn had discovered his older brother’s disloyalty. Although a summer outdoors had restored some color to Renn’s skin, the young man’s eyes had a hauntedness Cam knew too well was a lasting reminder of captivity. It was also clear from the sinewy muscles in the young man’s arms that he had been truthful about taking an active role in keeping the manor afloat in the absence of an “official” lord.

Renn glanced at Rhistiart and seemed to look down the road behind them. Cam could guess what he sought. “I warned you Carina wouldn’t be coming,” he said gently. “Just Rhistiart-he’s kind of my squire-and me. Carina’s due to have twins late this fall.”

Renn met Cam’s eyes with a sad smile. “Twins. That’s what got you two into the mess with Father in the first place.”

Cam nodded. “Aye. Father might have suffered the ill omen of twins for Mother’s sake, but it was Carina’s magic that he couldn’t abide. And if you’re wondering, Carina believes that it’s likely that at least one of the babies will have her healing talent.”

“Is she really married to Jonmarc Vahanian? The outlaw?”

Cam clapped Renn on the shoulder. “Jonmarc’s still the most fearsome fighter the Winter Kingdoms have seen in a long while, but he’s a legitimate businessman these days, amazingly enough.” He chuckled. “Well, as legitimate as any business is in Principality, if you know what I mean.”

Renn laughed. “I haven’t traveled the kingdoms like you and Carina, but if the tales I’ve heard at the pub have been true in half, my sister’s descended into a shadowy place filled with rogues, vayash moru, and scoundrels.”

“Yeah, and that’s just the manor house,” Cam said and chuckled. “You ought to see the rest of the place!”

Cam got back on his horse, and Renn walked between Rhistiart and Cam as they headed toward Brunnfen. To Cam’s amusement, Renn chattered enough to silence even Rhistiart. Cam was unprepared for the rush of emotions that swept over him. Returning to Brunnfen after nearly twelve years in exile, he was surprised by the intensity of his feelings, as he rode across the threshold of a place he never expected would be his home again.

“Unfortunately, you won’t know most of the servants,” Renn said. “Some of the older ones, like the nurse who would have looked after you and Carina, died. Others were driven away when Alvior became lord.” Renn grimaced. “As you can imagine, he wasn’t easy to get along with-even before he took up with the Divisionists. It got bad enough, just before he threw me in the dungeon, that we barely had enough staff to run the kitchens and look after the stables.

“Then, when King Donelan’s men set me free, I had a manor with no staff, since they’d all fled for their lives, thinking the king was going to arrest them for helping Alvior. I had a terrible time convincing them to come back in time to get any planting done.”

Renn sighed, suddenly seeming much older than his years. “I’ve managed to get the manor back up almost to full staffing, although we’re practically penniless.” He grimaced. “Alvior apparently gave quite a bit of Father’s money to the Divisionists. Whatever he did with it, it’s gone. But with crops in the fields and the herds gathered, we won’t starve, and that alone was good enough for most of the servants, plus the guarantee of a roof for the winter. They’re scared that Isencroft might get the plague, and Brunnfen is out of the way enough that I guess they thought it was better to come here than to try their luck in the city.”