Artesans of Albia: 01 - King's Envoy (24 page)

She served them herself, which, judging by Bull’s expression, was rare. Coming to Robin, she didn’t immediately release his cup when he reached for it, forcing a startled glance from him. The color rose in the Captain’s face.

Settling herself in a chair across from Taran, Sullyan cradled her cup. “Now,” she said, “Bull and Robin have told me a little of your story. Would you care to tell me the rest?”

Taran drew a deep breath. “Yes, Major.”

She forestalled him before he could continue. “Did Bull not explain?”

Taran frowned and looked at Bull, but the big man smiled unhelpfully.

Sullyan sighed. “Then he was remiss. Journeyman, these are my private rooms and tonight I am off duty. In here, I am not Major Sullyan but merely Sullyan, or even Sully, if you prefer. This is a sanctuary from my many responsibilities and it is precious to me. So, Taran Elijah, I would hear your story and I ask you to be plain and open. You have nothing to fear, it is not my intention to judge you, but I need to hear exactly what occurred if I am to determine what response, if any, may be necessary.”

“Very well … Sullyan,” he said, searching for the right way to start. He cast his eyes down, unequal yet to the task of holding her strangely powerful gaze.

He took a steadying breath. “As an Artesan, you can appreciate how desperate I became after the death of my father.” He risked a brief glance, seeing her sitting with her legs curled beneath her, cup in her hands. She smiled gently, her astonishing eyes holding only calm interest. Suddenly, he realized he was more afraid of her censure and desiring of her good opinion, than he had previously thought. The approval of a Master-elite would mean more to him than he could express.

He took another breath.

“My father always led me to believe there were virtually no other Artesans left in Albia, and certainly none in Loxton Province. So I had no one to turn to for guidance when he died. I struggled alone, trying to build on what I had leaned, becoming more and more disheartened and increasingly desperate. So desperate, in the end, that I conceived the idea of trying to find an Andaryan Artesan of sufficient skill to teach me. I knew something of Andaryan customs from my father’s notes, for he’d written that if an Andaryan was formally challenged to a duel and defeated—or at least held to a draw—then the challenger could name his prize, even to the extent of asking for knowledge.”

“Sure,” interrupted Bull sourly, “if you place the right restraints on them.”

“Peace, Bull,” said Sullyan softly. “Have you never made a mistake?”

Her reluctance to judge bolstered Taran’s confidence.

“I constructed a portway and left Cal in charge of it. I didn’t want to close it off behind me in case I needed to return in a hurry. I entered Andaryon in the late afternoon and spent the rest of the day searching for someone suitable to challenge. By nightfall I’d seen no one and was forced to camp at the edge of some hills. There was a forest not far away and I was going to try there the next morning before returning home. I’d told Cal I’d only be gone one day.”

His eyes lost focus and his face reddened with shame as he recounted the following morning’s terrible experience. He glanced up once to see how the Major was reacting, but she merely waved him on. His memory replayed it just as it had while he lay unconscious, his body exhausted, his mind damaged. His voice took on a hypnotic quality, as holding to a certain detachment was the only way he could deal with the humiliation and self-contempt he felt.

Swallowing, he went cold at the memory of the duel and recounted it dispassionately. Sullyan’s eyes narrowed when he mentioned the noble’s treacherous use of Artesan skills in a duel where the strict Codes of Combat forbade it. However, she remained silent until Taran came to his desperate use of the Staff.

This seemed to arouse her interest and she asked many complicated questions about how the Staff worked. Taran answered as best he could but it was evident that his replies didn’t satisfy her. Finally, she released him to finish the tale.

Silence filled the room when he was done. He was almost panting with the remembered strain of effort and he felt drained. It cost him much to look into her golden gaze, dreading the rebuke he knew he deserved. But there was no reproach in her eyes, only thoughtful concern.

“So you killed an Andaryan noble. Who was he?”

Taran sighed. “Bull asked me that. I don’t know, we never exchanged names. Is it so important?”

“It could be. Describe him to me.”

Taran complied as best he could but when he had finished, she wanted something more. “What were his family colors, Taran?”

“His what?”

“There would have been a colored edge to his garments. What was it?”

Taran had to think hard before recalling this trivial-seeming detail. He tried to visualize the huntsmen who had surrounded him; the unpleasantly grinning young noble and the barely seen older man, who had kept out of sight to the rear. Then he remembered.

“Oh. Green, I think. Yes, pale green. The background was black.”

She gave a sharp intake of breath.

“You surely don’t recognize him?” Taran was amazed. There must be hundreds of nobles in each overlord’s demesne, he’d never even dreamed someone might know the one he’d killed.

“In fact I do,” she said. “I am familiar with the colors of all the noble Houses of Andaryon. Robin should recognize it too.”

The Captain made no response. His hands were clasped about his cup, his eyes fixed unblinkingly on its contents.

Sullyan pursed her lips but didn’t pursue the matter. Turning back to Taran she said, “Those colors and that description belong to a young noble called Jaskin. He was an arrogant young man, and responsible for many raids into Albia. The black is Lord Rykan’s color and Jaskin is—or was—one of his lesser courtiers.

“Rykan, Duke of Kymer, is a hugely powerful man, second in wealth and lands only to Tikhal, the Lord of the North, and the Hierarch, supreme ruler of Andaryon. But any overlord of standing would want revenge for the murder of one of his nobles, even one as minor as Jaskin. And yes, Taran, he would see it as murder. You can plead self-defense if you choose but you were on Andaryan soil, an outlander who was trespassing. And besides, in Andaryon not even noble can kill noble with impunity. There are strict codes governing conflict between the nobility.”

Taran flushed with renewed shame.

“Rykan will be furious over Jaskin’s death. He will see it as a personal insult and will be avid for revenge. Your unfortunate failure to provide a witness to your contract with Jaskin and to place the customary restraints on Jaskin’s retinue at the outcome of the duel has left Rykan free to demand the right of redress from the Hierarch. He has been awaiting such an opportunity for years, although I am surprised he has been allowed to break the Pact so thoroughly.”

Taran sat in silence, his guilt and fear building.

“As for the weapon you brought through the portway with you,” she said, “here I have to confess I am at a loss. I have no personal experience of such a thing and cannot say why you were unable to return it. However, from your description of the pain it caused you when you used it, and also its reaction when you tried to touch it again, I would guess that it has somehow been imbued with the power of its owner. Since it is an Andaryan artifact, such alien forces would react adversely with yours. This would explain why the portway, which contained your own metaforce, reacted so violently when the Staff was inside it. It also explains the temporary damage to your mind and I suspect you were inadequately shielded when you returned after killing the tangwyr. You were fortunate indeed to escape permanent damage, my friend, or even worse.”

Taran shuddered.

“But I have no idea why, or how, such a terrible thing was created. It would need further study but that is something we will not have time for until this current crisis is resolved. At least we now have a clearer understanding of why the invasion has occurred.

“And I have to tell you that it is very bad news, Taran Elijah. Very bad indeed.”

Thoroughly shamed, Taran lowered his eyes.

“Can anything be done?” he asked. “Can I do anything? I’ve been terrified that the Andaryans can somehow sense the thing and I know they would inflict dreadful suffering on my village if they came looking for it.”

Sullyan regarded him. “If the artifact is buried deeply enough to need more than one day to dig out, as you have said, then I doubt even its creator could sense it. Certainly not from beyond the Veils. Besides, you killed its owner and there were no other Artesans in the party. So in that respect, I think you can be easy.

“As to what can be done, well, that is another matter. Somehow, the Pact has to be restored and that could prove tricky, maybe even costly. I am not prepared to make any decisions until my scouts return from the south, but that will not be until tomorrow evening at the earliest. Probably even the day after.”

Her gaze was stern. “You would have done better, Journeyman, to have told Robin everything when first he asked. It was what you came to do, was it not?”

Deeply embarrassed, Taran hung his head.

He heard her sigh. “Ah well, done is done and cannot be undone. I see no advantage in discussing it any further at the moment, not until I have evaluated what the scouts have to say.

“Bulldog, why not distribute some of that evil liquor you insist on poisoning yourself with? We may as well enjoy the rest of the evening.”

Glasses were produced for the men. Rienne declined the liquor, joining Sullyan in another cup of fellan. With the exception of Robin, who stayed resolutely silent, they sipped their drinks and indulged in conversation.

Slowly, the atmosphere relaxed. It turned out that Bull was an unexpectedly good storyteller and he regaled them with some tales of the Major’s military exploits. Judging by the frequency with which she corrected him, they were not always accurate tales, but it soon became apparent that she was a gifted and respected commander.

After a while, Taran sensed Rienne gathering her courage. He knew how shy she could be, especially in the company of someone as poised and confident as Sullyan. So he was surprised when she asked the Major about the lap harp they had noticed earlier.

Sullyan eyed her with interest as she rose to fetch the instrument from the table. “Do you play?”

“Not the harp,” admitted Rienne, adding timidly, “I’d love to hear it though. I’m sure it has a beautiful tone.”

As she returned to her chair, Taran noticed Sullyan’s eyes rest briefly on Robin, who had not glanced at her the entire evening. She sat, cradling the harp on her lap.

Bull winked at him. “We’re in for a treat,” he whispered.

Sullyan ran her fingers over the strings and liquid silver notes rippled around the room. Taran was no musician and could detect no fault in the tuning, but Sullyan used a harp-key on a couple of the ivory tuning pins. The next glissando was undeniably richer in tone. Laying her cheek against the warm satin wood, she closed her eyes and began to play.

They were all transfixed by the music. The airs were unknown to Taran but Bull obviously recognized them. After a while, she switched from the gently lilting sounds and the room was filled with the melody of a familiar folk tune. Taran smiled; it was one of his favorites.

Another sound insinuated itself within the music and he glanced around to see who else was playing. Bull saw him, grinned and indicated the oblivious Sullyan. With a start of delight, Taran realized that what he could hear was Sullyan humming the melody line. Because her cheek rested so intimately upon the wood of the harp, her voice had taken on the instrument’s thrumming quality. He was captivated.

And then she began to sing.