Anne Kelleher - Silver's Bane

“Lord Kestrel,” interrupted Kian gently. “It’s not me.”

“Then, who—” put in Cecily. This was totally unexpected. She wondered why Kian hadn’t mentioned it to her before.

“It’s not for me to say. He’ll reveal himself when he’s ready. If he were here, he’d have come to you himself,” Kian said as he turned back to Kestrel. “So you’ll do what must be done, to call the Assembly? That’s your duty, no?”

“But—”

Her thoughts drifted as Kestrel continued to sputter questions, all to which she wanted answers as well. “I trust you to keep this information to yourselves, Your Grace, still-wife,” Kian continued. “I only bring this up now because—well, because I suppose there’s a possibility he’s no longer even alive. But he should be given the chance to make his claim, don’t you agree?”

So this was someone they all knew? Someone who lived here? Donnor had an heir he’d known nothing of? She had a feeling that Kian would tell her no more than he was telling Kestrel. “If that’s what it comes to, my lord, yes,” Kian was saying, and she realized the conversation had taken another turn. “It’s not my wish to fight Cadwyr, but what choice has he given us? I’ll be happy to meet Cadwyr in lawful Assembly, as will Her Grace, but we’d rather have an army of our own kin at our backs and know what exactly we’re to face.”

“Come, my lady, there’re things to be done before the ritual,” said Mag. “A bath and such. I’ll explain it to you as we go.”

“Make it up as you go, don’t you mean?” put in Kestrel. “Don’t forget to pack, Your Grace.”

For some reason, that struck her as an odd thing for him to say, odd enough that she paused, even as Mag tugged at her arm. It was like a false note in an otherwise well-tuned harp. She opened her mouth, then shut it, and Mag looked at Kestrel. “What about the lad? Will you let him join us?”

“Absolutely not,” Kestrel said with a dismissive wave.

An image of Kestrel’s red boots of Lacquilean leather jumped into Cecily’s mind, and she glanced down, to see one tip peeking out from beneath the hem of Kestrel’s robe. There was something about those boots that pricked her like a pin lost in a seam. Maybe it was just the way he treated the wicce-women that bothered her. Everyone knows the druids like their comforts. But so does Cadwyr. She remembered the rose he’d brought her the night before he and Donnor had left on that ill-fated journey, the way it had reeked of the OtherWorld. She wondered if Kestrel’s boots were really made of Lacquilean leather, and then the rest of the messenger’s news echoed in her mind. Ten thousand Lacquilean mercenaries are marching this way, as well—he well may think them easily replaced. Could it be he knew they were coming?

“What do you need, still-wife?” asked Kian. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

At that, Cecily’s brow shot up, but before she could speak, Mag answered as she nodded slowly with a speculative look. “You’re not as young as you might be, Sir Kian, but come with me to Granny Lyss. We’ll ask her if she thinks you’ll do.”

Cecily noticed that Kestrel went in the direction of the summer kitchens. He’s going to speak to the scout himself, she thought. Donnor was not quite as universally loved as he had liked to believe. His own heir hated him, and there was another now, another who had not even made himself known while Donnor lived. “Kian,” she asked, speaking softly under her breath as he guided her and Mag around the rubble. “Is it possible that Kestrel and Cadwyr—” She broke off, and their eyes met. He didn’t answer, but she saw him watch Kestrel until he rounded a corner and they could see him no more.

Nessa did not even look up when the long shadow fell across the forge. Once the Sheriff noticed her, and remembered her, he’d summoned the four scullions assigned to help her yesterday, and put them all back to work, this time repairing the endless mound of weapons and other implements the goblins had nearly destroyed. Thus, Uwen startled her as she was hanging the heavy leather apron on a hook. “I need a word with you, lass.”

There was something distinctly different about him, Nessa thought as she stifled a gasp, then bundled her tumbled hair off her face. He looked as if a great weight had suddenly fallen on top of him, and stern, as if he had set himself to do a great task. He leaned against the wall and glanced around the forge. “You’ve been busy today.” His watery eyes were bloodshot and he looked tired. They were all tired, she thought. Up all night, a few hours of wretched sleep snatched at dawn. Now it was late, the scullions long since gone to answer the dinner bell’s summons.

“What’s wrong?” Her wound itched, her shoulders ached, but Uwen looked worse than she felt.

“I need to get to Gar. We’ve been dithering about it all day, but I need to find out what’s going on there—if Donnor’s really dead, what’s happened to Kian and the Duchess and the rest of the Company. I need to speak to the ArchDruid.” He hesitated, as if considering what to say next. “I want you to come with me. You’re the only one who saw Cadwyr with the sidhe, you’re the witness to at least part of the bargain. I don’t know what Cadwyr’s planning, or how things stand, but I don’t want to wait for the upland chiefs to decide who should go and who should come. This is what he’s counting on. There’re more arriving every hour now, and that’s only going to create more confusion. So I’m planning to slip away before first light tomorrow, lass, and I’d like you to come with me. Which is another reason we’ll have to slip away. You’re the last person the Sheriff will want to let leave. He may be as soft in the head as he is in the belly, but he knows enough to know he needs a smith.” He paused once more, then said, “I’m sorry that I caused trouble between you and the sidhe lord.”

“You weren’t to know,” she replied with a shrug. She had for the most part successfully avoided thinking about Artimour for most of the day, but Uwen’s apology brought it all back. “I did make the dagger.”

“You did, but you had no choice. I spent all day with him—he’s not an unreasonable sort. Decent, really, for a sidhe. Or a half-sidhe, which is what Molly says he is. Go talk to him. But go soon—he says he’s leaving tomorrow.”

“So soon?” Her head snapped up. She wanted to talk to Artimour, to make sure that all was right between them before she mentioned her mother. She’d dared to hope that perhaps he’d take her with him. But she knew what her father would expect her to do and she knew he’d be angry if he thought she was moping after a sidhe. The more she thought about it, the more it seemed like the one thing guaranteed to make him the angriest. But she had made the dagger. Dismayed, she stared at Uwen as she automatically bent to retrieve a hammer bumped off the wall, set upright an overturned basket of nails.

“There’s been talk, mutters, rumors. The sidhe are being blamed for the goblins’ attack—”

“But that’s not fair,” she cried. “Artimour had nothing to do with it—”

“Of course you and I know that. But not all these dunderheads do. And he has questions, too, the answers for which are only in the OtherWorld, not here. Nessa, will you come? The longer we wait, the more who will insist on riding with us, and we can only go as fast as the slowest horse. By the time a whole troop gets there, who knows what Cadwyr will have done next? I can carry you on Buttercup if need be. We can be there by noon of the day after tomorrow.”

His voice had a flat desperate edge that she’d never heard before, even on Samhain when he faced the goblin horde. What’s changed? she wanted to ask. But she knew how her father would expect her to answer his question. She glanced around the forge, fingering the amulet. There was plenty of work to be done here. But all she said was, “All right. All right, I’ll come. I guess I better go talk to Artimour.”