Miles Cameron - The Dread Wyrm

Ser John shook his head. “I am sorry for your losses, Captain. And sorry you were attacked; I try to patrol my lands. Where were you?”

“The Hole,” Ser Gabriel said. “Not in any way your fault.”

Ser Ricar and Ser John exchanged a look. “So far south and east!” Ser Ricar said.

“Thorn’s coming,” Gabriel said, and the name was like a curse. “You know, until now, I have not taken him seriously. Like a fool. Like a fool. I gave him a year to recover, and now look.” Gabriel’s face wore the same anger that the goodwife had worn. “He’s back.”

“Brother-” Gavin said with a cautioning hand.

Gabriel shook it off. “You have called a council,” he said to Ser John. “I’d like to attend with my brother. With Tom Lachlan, who is now the Drover.”

Ser John nodded. “We’d be proud to have you, sir knight. The Abbess will be here, and most of our northern gentry will be here or be represented.”

“I can represent the Emperor,” Gabriel said.

Ser John’s eyebrows shot up, but he had heard the rumours.

“And as Duke of Thrake, I think I deserve a seat at the table,” he added.

“Or the whole table,” Ser Gavin muttered.

Ser John frowned. “Well-you gentlemen will dominate my council, then, with your mother. She’s expected tomorrow from Ticondaga.”

A difficult silence fell.

Ser John wondered what he’d said.

Finally, Ser Gabriel gave a laugh that had a sob in it. “Am I safe in assuming that the Abbess will bring Sister Amicia?” he asked.

Ser John smiled. “Of course. She’s essential to our defences.”

Gabriel nodded. “Perfect,” he said. He held out his cup. “I’ll need some more wine.”

An hour later, Ser Gavin had his brother in a bed, in a clean nightshirt, and lightly drunken on wine and lots of water. “Brother,” he said.

Gabriel smiled ruefully. “I’m well. Well enough. You go.”

Gavin shook his head. “I’ll stay.”

Gabriel raised his head. “I’m not a fucking weakling, brother. Trust me, I’ll weather this. And you’ve waited almost a year to see her. Go! At the very least, she needs to know that Mater might be here, and what that will mean.”

“Sweet Christ, I hadn’t even thought-” Gavin smacked his head. “Oh, dear God.”

“Exactly,” Gabriel said. “You must go. And I will stay here, and play the role. Come back-but don’t despair. The worst is over.”

Gavin looked at his brother with too much understanding. “No, it isn’t.”

Gabriel frowned. “I didn’t know how much I liked him,” he said. “I didn’t…”

Gavin sighed. “I did. Ever since Kaitlin’s wedding. He was one of us as much as if he’d ridden with us for years. Christ, listen to me. I’ve only ridden with you a year.”

“I have that effect on people,” Gabriel said. But he managed a smile. “I mean it. Go kiss the Lady Mary from me, too. Bring her if you think she’ll survive Mater. And don’t, if you don’t. We’ll ride south in five days.”

“You still mean to go to the tournament,” Gavin said.

Gabriel nodded. “Gavin, I’ve made plans and I’ve made other plans. Nell!” he shouted, and Nell appeared.

“Nell, I would like to formally apologize for my behaviour.”

“Apology accepted,” Nell snapped.

Gavin laughed outright. “Just what you deserve.”

Gabriel shook his head. “Nell, I need the scroll tube. You know it, the ivory one.”

Wordlessly, Nell went back to the outer room. And returned with a scroll tube.

“If I die-this is the plan.” Gabriel shrugged. “Master Smythe told me that if we missed the tournament, we’d probably rue it. He’s so helpful that way. For what it’s worth-and my credibility is a little singed, I admit-Plangere just lost a powerful controlled mage and the daemon warband took heavy losses. I intend to advertise that he came-and he ran.” Gabriel’s smile had nothing of pleasure in it, and everything of predatory anticipation. “He lost four wyverns, too. That will hurt his credibility with them.”

“So?” Gavin asked, holding the tube.

“So I do not want to speak my plans aloud, brother. For various reasons. ” He pursed his lips. “Read the scroll and give it to Tom and Michael, and then bring it back here so I can make it ash.”

Drawn like a moth to a flame, Gavin was already reading. He whistled, and raised his head. “Holy Mary mother of God,” he said in shock. “Who else knows this?”

“Gelfred. Ranald. Kronmir.” Gabriel shrugged. “To be honest, none of you know everything I know.”

“You are so trusting,” Gavin said.

“If I go down, it’s yours,” Gabriel said.

“You almost died, didn’t you?” Gavin said.

“I should be dead, right now,” Gabriel said.

Bad Tom, missing his cousin’s calm efficiency, divided his herds in the fields south of Albinkirk. A flurry of messengers found him an Etruscan factor and one of Ser Gerald Random’s company clerks, and between them they took financial responsibility for a third of the herd and hired, on the spot, twenty of the captain’s men-at-arms, hurriedly placed under Sauce and Ser Gavin, and rode away west to the fair at Lissen Carak.

Bad Tom fretted at the delay, but he had no choice. So he read the scroll that Ser Michael handed him, grinned at the captain’s former squire, and handed it back. He drank off a stiff cup of wine and looked at Ser Michael.

“I’m sending Kaitlin to Lissen Carak,” Ser Michael said.

Bad Tom poured a second cup. “He almost died, and I wasn’t there,” he said suddenly.

Ser Michael nodded. “Me, either.”

Tom met the other knight’s eye. They were suddenly within a finger’s breadth of being of a height. “I don’t want to be somewhere else when he goes down. I want to be in the shield ring. I want to swing the last blow over his corpse. I want the sword women to take me with him when they go.”

“You’re not exactly a Christian, are you, Tom?” Michael asked.

Tom gulped wine. Very quietly, he said, “Have you read yon?”

Michael nodded.

“Tar’s tits,” Tom said.

Michael considered that for a long time. Then he smiled. “Yes,” he said, and went to spend a few last hours with his wife.

Kaitlin was her usual self-buoyant and undemanding and centred on the needs of others. She wanted Michael to take her to the captain, but Michael was against it and, besides, he knew that Ser Gavin was riding in the morning. “Let the captain sleep,” he said. “You can see him in the morning, when we bury the priest and the children.” His voice was rough with forced nonchalance.

Kaitlin, who had a clearer idea of what the chaplain might have meant to the captain than most of her husband’s peers, let it go, and spent the night curled in her husband’s arms. In the morning-well rested-she levered her growing bulk off the bed. “No longer the prettiest maid in the valley,” she said.

Ser Michael knelt and kissed her hands.

“He was a good priest,” she said. “He married us.”

Michael smiled. “Cully says he died healing the captain. That-” He paused.

Kaitlin frowned. “What?”

“Cully-this is Cully, sweetie, not some pious croaker-Cully says a man in a ragged robe came and knelt by the captain, and he woke up.”

Kaitlin crossed herself. “A saint?” she asked.

Ser Michael frowned. “I’d hate to think so,” he said. “I enjoyed jousting with him too much.”

The whole town came out in the spring rain. The rain fell in sheets, and made the turf-still frozen deep under-springy and squishy like a huge pile of wet wool.

Every man-at-arms in the town came in his harness, and squires cursed them.

And the Bishop of Albinkirk stood in the rain. The coffins were plain boards. One was empty, for the lost child, and there were only red scraps in poor Robin’s coffin, rushed and overwhelmed and devoured by imps after he lost control of the horses. The goodwife stood by the coffins of her dead children, and her eldest daughter stood with her, but now wore the scarlet tabard of the company, and even through the rain a distance could be seen between them.