"The Falcon and The Wolf" - читать интересную книгу автора (Baker Richard)

Chapter Two

The Mhor’s council chamber was spartan compared to the rest of Shieldhaven. Unlike the other rooms favored by the lord of the castle, the council chamber was buried deep in the fortress, surrounded by massive stone walls. It was a brooding, threatening room that dampened levity and lent itself to dark designs. The Mhor sat at the head of an ancient oak table, flanked by old Tiery and the court wizard, Bannier.

Gaelin greeted Bannier warmly. Before he’d been sent away to the Knights Guardian, Gaelin had studied under the mage when his other duties and commitments allowed. The magician was just as tall as Gaelin or his father, but he was gaunt and bony, with a clean-shaven face and a receding hairline trimmed to stubble. His eyes burned with intelligence and force of will, giving him a hollow-cheeked, almost feverish, appearance. The wizard’s face split into a wide grin when he spotted Gaelin, and he caught the young man’s hand in a surprisingly strong grip. “Gaelin! Are you back from the northern marches already?”

“Aye, and this time to stay,” the prince replied. “My years with the Guardians are at an end. You’ll see much more of me here in Shieldhaven, I suspect.”

“Excellent! Will you resume your magical studies?”

“I don’t know about that,” Gaelin laughed. “I don’t recall that I had much aptitude for your arts.”

“On the contrary, you were a quick study. You have the intelligence to grasp the principles of thaumaturgy, and your Mhoried blood gives you the potential for harnessing true magic, not just illusions.”

Gaelin noticed his father looking in their direction, and he nodded toward the table. “Baehemon’s almost here. Let’s see what he has to say.” They found places by the Mhor’s side, and Gaelin tugged at his tunic and squared his shoulders. He was a little flattered that his father had invited him to sit in on the audience, but he guessed he’d probably tire of such things in a few weeks.

A moment later, a chamberlain opened the panelled door and stood aside for the Ghoeran lord and his small entourage.

Baehemon was a short, broad-shouldered man with a shaven head and a thick neck that vanished into knots of muscle around his shoulders. He was nicknamed the Hound of Ghoere, but he resembled a human bulldog, with a wide and powerful jaw and deep-set eyes that gleamed like frosted steel. Baehemon’s gestures and speech were short and clipped, and his posture suggested explosive violence barely held in check. With a bare nod of his head, he took a seat at the opposite end of the table. The Mhor had deliberately kept him waiting an extra quarter-hour as a not-so-subtle reminder of who was master of Shieldhaven.

“Well, my lord Baehemon, you have requested this audience.

How may we be of service to you?” the Mhor began.

“My lord Mhor, Baron Tuorel of Ghoere sends his greetings,” Baehemon said. His voice was thick and gravelly, but his words were measured carefully. His eyes never left the Mhor’s face. “He hopes this day finds you well and your duchy at peace.”

“It does, Lord Baehemon. Please proceed.”

The Ghoeran nodded briefly and continued. “Baron Tuorel praises the peaceful relations of our two countries, and sends his sincere wishes that our future dealings will be similarly blessed. However, he is also forced to observe that dark times have come upon the empire. Enemies are gathering who could destroy us all. Goblins and elves beset our borderlands.

The Gorgon’s armies grow stronger. The old outposts of the empire are falling to savages and outlanders. And in the midst of this storm, the lords of Anuire turn upon each other, engaging in petty squabbles when all are threatened by the forces of chaos and darkness.” Clearly, Baehemon had rehearsed this speech. Gaelin’s brows drew together, as he tried to puzzle out where the Ghoeran was going with all this.

“So you say, Lord Baehemon,” replied the Mhor. “I must point out that Ghoere was recently engaged in one of these petty squabbles with the lord of Elinie.”

Again, Baehemon nodded, as if to concede a point. “Be that as it may, darkness still threatens our land, a darkness against which we must stand together or fall. But who has stepped forward to lead us? Who can claim the Iron Throne?”

Mhor Daeric spoke dryly. “Your presence here makes it obvious, but I’ll ask anyway: Who is this contestant for the Iron Throne?”

“You have guessed my purpose already,” Baehemon said.

“My lord Mhor, the Baron Noered Tuorel humbly advances his name as the next rightful emperor of Anuire and asks that you consider an oath of fealty to his cause.”

The Mhor leaned forward, giving emphasis to his words.

“Before I swear support to a candidate, he’ll have to swear support to me. I agree that strife between Anuirean lands is terrible, but I stand on the borderlands of the empire, and I’ve no time, money, nor troops to spare in wars beyond my border. It’s Mhorien soldiers who keep the goblins of the Stonecrowns at bay, Lord Baehemon.”

Tiery snorted and added, “My lord Baehemon, you ask us to create another contender for the throne? Ghoere can’t muster the support the claimants from Avanil or Boeruine already have.”

“Ah, but Mhoried is one of the most prestigious neutrals in Anuire. Should the Mhor endorse Baron Tuorel’s claim, others will follow.” Baehemon leaned back in his chair, placing his hands on the table. The Mhor eyed him, a thoughtful look on his face.

Bannier leaned close to speak quietly. “My lord, Ghoere’s offer may be worth considering. Avanil and Boeruine have nothing to offer you, but should you support Ghoere, you’ll anchor your southern flank forever. Ghoere has strength enough to seize the Iron Throne. Mhoried would be well-off as an ally of Ghoere when that happens.”

The Mhor glanced at Bannier. When he spoke, he made certain that Baehemon could overhear him, without directly addressing the Ghoeran. “I’ll grant you that Avanil and Boeruine have done nothing for Mhoried, but neither has Ghoere. The only courtesy he’s shown Mhoried has been in not starting a war with us.”

Bannier persisted. “It costs you nothing to offer him allegiance, my lord.”

The Mhor’s face hardened. “On the contrary, it costs me a great deal to swear an oath of fealty to a cause I’ve little use for. I’ve seen nothing that indicates that Ghoere would be a better emperor than Avanil or Boeruine, and I’ll have no hand in putting an unworthy successor in Roele’s seat. The legends say that someday the line of Roele will reappear, but Baron Tuorel is not the emperor returned. I will not pretend that he is for the convenience of his friendship.”

Baehemon’s face darkened as he listened to the Mhor’s discussion.

“You may want to reconsider, my lord Mhor. There is a new power in the heartlands, one that stands to win the Iron Throne where others have fallen for five centuries. You can stand beside us in victory, or you can stand in our way.”

The Mhor stood and his eyes flashed. “Are you threatening me? Because if you are, Lord Baehemon, you may want to reconsider.”

Baehemon met the Mhor’s glare for a long moment, before slowly rising to take his leave.

“The Baron Tuorel regrets any misunderstandings in this discussion,” he said stiffly. “However, I must also point out the potential for – shall we say, unpleasant differences? – should you fail to make the right decision in this matter.” He smiled in a sinister fashion, his eyes glittering. The Ghoeran warlord would relish those differences if the situation was not resolved to Tuorel’s liking. He’s straining at Noered Tuorel’s leash already, thought Gaelin. Ghoere’s army was powerful, well trained, and well equipped; Gaelin did not dismiss the threat.

The burly lord turned slowly and walked toward the door.

He halted in the doorway, his retainers flanking him, and spoke over his shoulder. “I hope you’ll forgive me, my lord Mhor, but I have been summoned back to Ghoere immediately.

I shall depart within the hour. My apologies for missing your banquet.” With that, he left.

“That’s a deliberate slight,” Tiery observed. “And he doesn’t even care if you’re insulted or not, my lord.”

“Tiery, what do you make of Lord Baehemon’s generous offer?” said the Mhor.

“It seems to me that Ghoere’s feeling like the cock of the walk,” Tiery said with a wry chuckle. “Now that he’s beaten Elinie into the ground, he’s going to throw his weight around and see who grovels to him next.” The minstrel rapped his knuckle on the table. “You should be careful of your court.

There may be Mhorien lords who would disagree with the stand you just took.”

“Lord Maesilar, certainly. His lands lie in Tuorel’s path, should war come. Balteruine will follow where he goes. And possibly Dhalsiel,” the Mhor replied absently. Gaelin looked up, surprised to hear that the Mhor regarded Cuille Dhalsiel as less than reliable, but his father was staring into his steepled hands. “Gaelin, what do you think?”

Gaelin considered his words carefully. “I think we should reinforce the southern garrisons, even if it means taking troops from the Stonecrowns,” he said at last. “Baehemon might be in a hurry because he’s got a war to get to.”

The Mhor seemed taken aback by his assessment. “You think it’s that serious? We’d have heard word of Ghoere’s army gathering for a crossing of the Maesil.”

“ You may not like the man, Father, but by all accounts he is an exceptional general, and Ghoere started his war against Elinie with a sudden invasion. Baron Tuorel’s a man of action, not words. This may be all the fair warning he considers necessary. ”

The Mhor leaned back in his chair. “You may be right, Gaelin. I’ll give it some thought.” He fell silent as he stared at the vacant seat opposite him, as if to force some slip from the dismissed lord. Gaelin, Bannier, and Tiery waited patiently.

Daeric blew out his breath and stood, scraping his chair across the stone floor. “Well, we’ll see how it falls out. Tiery, send word to our men in Endier and Ghieste. I want to know where Ghoere’s troops are. And send for Count Baesil, I want to discuss our troop dispositions.” He smoothed the front of his tunic and turned to Gaelin. “Congratulations, Gaelin.

Tonight’s banquet is now in celebration of your return. I’ll not cancel my plans because of Baehemon’s rudeness. See to the preparations, gentlemen.”

The banquet was one of the most extravagant events in the Mhor’s court that Gaelin could recall. Literally hundreds of people stopped by the high table to welcome him back to Shieldhaven. He recognized only a few dozen of them. Some of the old faces he’d known were gone, and strangers held their places. Tiery sang a couple of sonnets for the court, his hands still quick and certain, though his voice quavered on the high notes. Gaelin sat beside his father, watching the crowded hall with a strange mixture of wonder and anxiety – it had been a long time since he’d been at the Mhor’s side.

He caught himself studying his father, as the Mhor talked with an old courtier. The lantern light showed the deep lines in the Mhor’s face and the subtle stoop to his shoulders. For the first time, he realized that the Mhor Daeric was growing old. Thirty years of rulership, vision, and strength in the treacherous morass of Anuirean politics had exacted their toll from the man, let alone the cost of raising four children without their mother – Aesele Mhoried had died giving birth to Liesele and Ilwyn. For the first time in a long time, Gaelin felt as if he understood his father and the uncompromising passion that drove him. He flashed a crooked smile at the Mhor.

“I suspect you never thought to see this day.”

“There were times that I doubted you would ever come home, Gaelin, but I hoped you’d return if I tried to stay out of your way.” The Mhor signaled to a steward, who began to refill the goblets of the guests at the high table. “When do you plan to leave for Endier?”

“First thing tomorrow morning,” Gaelin said. “It’s four days to Riumache, and then a couple of days’ sail to Endier.

I’d like to get started.”

“Take Madislav with you,” the Mhor said.

Gaelin glanced at his father. “Do you expect trouble?”

The Mhor shook his head. “Just a feeling. I know Daene’s a fine squire, and Ruide’s along too, but I’d like another good man with you while you’re away from Shieldhaven.

Besides, Madislav’s in the habit of watching your back. He wouldn’t know what to do if the castellan returned him to the duty roster. ”

“I’ll be glad for Madislav’s company,” Gaelin said with a frown, “but I’m capable of taking care of myself. I’ve ridden to Endier before with no more company than a friend or two and Ruide to look after my things.”

“The world’s not as safe as it used to be.” The Mhor’s face darkened, but his voice did not betray anger. “Humor me, Gaelin. Some men in your position aren’t allowed to leave their homes without a company of soldiers. I know you’d rather not make this visit a grand procession, and I’d rather not show everyone that I don’t think my roads are safe enough for my son to travel. But I’d still like Madislav to go with you, and to tell the truth I’d feel comfortable with ten or fifteen guards more.”

Gaelin forced a shrug. “Madislav’s enough company. I’ll have Ruide draw some extra provisions.”

The Mhor nodded without looking at him. “Remember, Gaelin, you’ve a duty to the realm; not only to me, but to all Mhoried. You must expect me to be careful with you, not only for your own sake, but for the kingdom’s sake.”

Gaelin chose not to respond. The Mhor might be right, but the prince didn’t have to like it. He was going to have to get used to entourages and affairs of state. Fortunately, the years of training and study with the Guardians had taught him to accept onerous tasks in the name of duty. Mucking out stables or cleaning armor was never much fun, but he’d been able to make himself do it. That must have been part of the Mhor’ s plans, he thought as he glanced over the crowd of well-wishers.

I never learned to take orders from him, so he had Anduine take me under his wing, so I could learn from someone else.

His musings were interrupted by a ripple of applause that caught hold and grew throughout the room. By popular demand, Bannier rose with a rueful grimace and created a variety of spectacular and terrifying illusions to thrill the banquet-goers. The images fascinated Gaelin. Bannier’s hands flashed as he commanded one illusion after the next to appear, each one greeted by gasps of shock or roars of approval.

The mage may have dismissed illusion as mere fancy and trickery, but in watching him Gaelin recalled that Bannier mastered any skill that caught his interest.

After Bannier’s display of magic, Gaelin excused himself to clear his head on the windswept battlements. The cold air refreshed him after the smoke and press of the great hall.

Here and there, lords and ladies seeking some space to walk followed Gaelin’s example. As he paced along the wall top, looking out over the yellow lights and snow-capped roofs of Bevaldruor-town, he found he was reluctant to go back inside.

In his years as a Guardian, he’d been a guest of most of the landholding lords of Mhoried, and the houses of the highland lords seemed hopelessly rustic by comparison with Shieldhaven.

“Hey there, Gaelin! You look as though you need a drink!”

Cuille Dhalsiel ambled toward him, at the center of a glittering ensemble of laughing rakes and beautiful ladies. The nobleman retained the nimble, athletic frame he’d had as a teenager, but Gaelin couldn’t shake the impression that Cuille’s silken grace and cynical smirk marked a decay of the spirit, if not of the body. Cuille disentangled himself from the slight girl by his side and came forward to throw his arm around Gaelin’s shoulder. “Back from the northern wars a single day, and already brooding about something! The Gaelin I used to know wasn’t half this serious!”

“Cuille. I see you’re enjoying yourself.”

“Of course! That’s the point of nobility, isn’t it?” Cuille laughed and pressed a flagon of wine into Gaelin’s hand.

Gaelin raised it to Cuille and his companions and took a swallow, finding the vintage excellent. “Now that you’ve finished your penance as a soldier, you’ll have an opportunity to do some catching up.”

“Well, I’m heading to Endier tomorrow,” Gaelin replied.

Moment by moment he was realizing just how far apart he’d grown from his old friend. He temporized. “After that, we’ll have to see, although I don’t think I’ll be left to my own devices anymore. My father intends to keep me busy.”

“The Mhor’s keeping us all busy these days, it seems.”

“What do you mean?”

Cuille waved his hand in the air. “You don’t want to hear about it. It’ll only put you in an awkward spot.”

“No, go on.”

“Well, the word’s out that your father sent Baehemon back to Ghoere with nothing but angry words. I expect that he’ll be withdrawing troops from the Markazoran border, which means that my farms and towns will be burned while the Mhor’s army is waiting on the Maesil’s bank.” Cuille scowled. “And he’s moved up the spring muster, too. I have to send a thousand more men or pay a fortune in scutage to keep them at home.”

“Well, that’s the point of nobility, isn’t it?” Gaelin asked.

He didn’t like the way Cuille referred to ‘his’ farms and towns. The Mhor had taught Gaelin that nobility was a privilege and a duty, not an inheritance. Cuille and the other Mhorien nobles were bound by law to place their swords at the Mhor’s service and provide armed and trained soldiers when called upon. Gaelin doubted Cuille remembered this obligation was the very reason lords had been granted their titles and lands in the first place.

“The Mhor could be less demanding,” Cuille complained.

“He holds his position through our contributions.”

“You were right, Cuille. This conversation is placing me in an awkward position,” Gaelin replied.

Cuille glanced at Gaelin, and his expression sobered quickly. “You’ve changed, Gaelin. You fell for the whole charade, didn’t you? Knighthood, honor, chivalry, the whole thing.”

“I may have changed, Cuille, but I’m beginning to see that you haven’t.” Gaelin wrapped his cape around his torso. “I’m heading back inside.” With one last cool nod toward Cuille’s company, he returned to the banquet. He was conscious of the count’s measuring gaze on his back as he left. A little after midnight, he finally retired to his chambers.

The next morning, Gaelin rose before sunrise and checked to make sure that Ruide, his valet, had packed everything he would need. He intended to travel light, since he’d be gone no more than a dozen days. As usual, Ruide was efficient and thorough; the manservant had missed nothing. When he went downstairs, Gaelin found Madislav in the kitchen, devouring everything in sight. “Ah! Is good morning, no?” the Vos warrior boomed. “It snowed again last night! A fine day to travel!”

Gaelin helped himself to a good plateful of food. “Are Daene and Ruide readying the horses?” he asked.

“Aye.” Madislav reached over to poke him in the chest.

“You will get soft, letting others do your chores for you.”

“I hauled Sir Sienden’s armor around for four years, Madislav. I’ve done my time at squiring.”

Madislav harrumphed. “A warrior should be looking after his own weapons. Swords are jealous, no? If a man does not look after good blade, she might betray him when he needs her.”

Gaelin looked him in the eye. “Madislav, you know damned well that I’d travel alone if I could. I’m not going to look for an argument with the Mhor that I’ll lose. Besides, Ruide and Daene will help me to look the part of a nobleman and a knight. I don’t want to embarrass Mhoried by embarrassing myself.”

“Hmmmph. Excuses.”

“Excuses or not, I’ll take them. Now let’s get going. I want to be in Riumache in four days, snow or no snow.” Gaelin rose and walked out into the courtyard. The gray of morning was growing in the east, and the stars were fading overhead.

Near the front gate, Ruide and Daene were finishing their p reparations. Ruide was a portly, gray-haired man dressed in the Mhor’s livery. He was nearsighted and squinted through a pair of old Brecht spectacles. As Gaelin approached, the valet secured a small, blanket-covered crate of some kind to the horse’s packsaddle. He glanced up from his work. “Oh, good morning, Prince Gaelin. Your father suggested that we bring a pair of carrier pigeons with us, just in case you need to get in touch with him quickly.” Ruide grimaced and finished securing the case. “Have to be careful about where I put ’em.”

Gaelin suppressed a flash of irritation – it was a sensible preparation. “Good idea,” he observed, and turned to look after his own mount. He found that Daene, the squire assigned to him, had already readied Blackbrand. The squire was a strapping lad of nineteen years, with sandy hair and an honest face. He was the son of a minor lord of the southern counties, about halfway through his training with the Guardians. Gaelin had earned the privilege of a squire to look after his arms, gear, and a multitude of boring tasks, but in return he was supposed to teach Daene a thing or two about being a knight. He might have been intimidated by the responsibility, but he liked Daene and thought he’d become a fine knight without too much help.

Blackbrand nickered, stamping impatiently as Gaelin drew near. “Ready for a journey, eh?” Gaelin said, rubbing the horse’s neck and checking the saddle and blankets. Satisfied, he swung up into the saddle and looked over his shoulder.

Daene led a packhorse with Gaelin’s armor and weapons, while Ruide led another with the provisions. “Do we have everything?”

“I believe so, my lord,” Ruide answered. “I even brought an extra horse for Master Madislav’s breakfast, in the event the castle’s fare proved insufficient.” Gaelin grinned in the darkness, while Madislav swore in Vos.

“I’m ready, Sir Gaelin,” Daene said.

“Good.” Gaelin led as they trotted under the great gatehouse and out onto the causeway that climbed Shieldhaven’s crag. The wind was steady from the west, bringing a sharp edge of cold air across the snowy forests and fields below, and the white breath of both men and horses streamed away in the wind.

Gaelin tapped his heels against Blackbrand’s flanks, and the stallion snorted and picked up his hooves in a gentle trot.

“Come on, gentlemen,” the prince said. “Let’s put some miles behind us before the sunrise.”