Cold Magics (25 page)

“By the High Father’s blessing we are here,” he said, speaking the ritual words that began every service, “by His blessing we live, and at the time of His choosing, we shall live no more.”

He took a moment’s pause as the small congregation sat, then turned back to the altar. “High Father, let us remember our duty to you and dedicate our thoughts to you as we remember Sir Michael Harrow and Sir Gareth Lyon, who have died in your service.”

The old priest led the crowd through the litany for the dead, and the prayers for those the dead had left behind. The knights and their families spoke by rote, without prompting. Thomas remembered that Henry had been at war for four years before he came to the Academy. He wondered how many services like this one Henry had attended.

The prayers ended and congregation rose to their feet. Someone began singing—Sir Lawrence, Thomas thought—and the other knights raised their voices to join him. The lament rang through the small chapel, mourning the loss of fathers and sons and brothers, and the sorrow of those left behind.

When the singing ended and the assembled sat again, the priest stepped forward. “These are difficult times,” he said. “Times that shake the faith of men. Times that lead men to question the works of the High Father.” He gestured at the shields and swords on the altar. “When we lose those we love, it is hard. When we lose them in such an unnatural fashion… well, it is very hard.”

He took a moment to look over the knights. “There are those who turn their backs on the High Father in times such as these; those who would seek other solutions than trust and faith. Those who would use whatever means came to them in the face of such unnaturalness.”

Thomas, straightening in his seat, felt the hair on the back of his neck rising. He glanced at Henry, but could only see his friend’s rigid back. George and Eileen however, had turned pale.

“Let us not be misled,” said the priest. “Let us have faith. Let us not turn away from the High Father, but toward him, and know that he will lead us from this dark time, and make us victorious against the unnatural enemy we now face. Let us not be led astray, but follow our Father, knowing he will lead us to safety.”

He led the crowd in a song filled with words of grief and pain, and hope for rebirth. Thomas kept his eyes on the priest, half-expecting a hostile glare, but the man did not even look his way.
Then why is he talking about me?
Thomas wondered.

The song finished and the priest ended the service. Henry stood as soon as the closing words were done, and the knights rose around him as one. The shield- and sword-bearers picked up their burdens again. Henry led the men out of the chapel, the families following behind. Thomas, George and Eileen brought up the rear. None of them said anything, but George was scowling and Eileen took Thomas’s hand in a tight grip.

A small crowd had gathered outside the chapel. Most were refugees, cold and shivering in their ragged clothes, with a few townspeople interspersed among their ranks. No one spoke as the knights marched across the street to a small courtyard with a single, windowless building in it. Henry pulled a large key from inside his coat and unlocked the door. The line of knights split in two, and shield-bearers walked down between them.

Henry stepped aside from the tomb door, and the shield-bearing knights marched slowly in. They emerged a few moments later, hands empty. Sir Rowland and Sir Patrick stepped forward from the lines of knights. Two women, faces red and tears still in their eyes, stepped out of the crowd. The knights handed over the swords to the women, speaking too quietly for Thomas to hear. The women accepted the swords and stepped back. One was keeping her back rigid and her chin high, as if willing herself not to weep any more. The other woman broke down, and would have collapsed to the ground had Sir Patrick not caught her. A moment later their families surrounded them.

Henry turned to face the mausoleum. As one, he and his knights unsheathed their blades and raised them in a long, silent salute. As one, they lowered the blades again and sheathed them.

Around them, the refugees watched in silence. Some of the pinched faces were void of expression, but most reflected the grief they saw before them, magnifying it with their own pain. Thomas wondered how many of them had seen their own loved ones fall, and how many had been able to bury their dead before they were driven from their homes. Eileen, still holding his hand, reached out to her brother, joining the three of them in a fragile chain of flesh.

Henry spoke a word and the ranks of knights dissolved, each man seeking out his own family before offering words of sorrow to the mourning widows. Henry stood in place, looking bleak and tired. He had been holding in his own grief since the night of the battle. Even now, Henry held himself together, not showing a tear as he watched his men and their families.

“Interesting little sermon, wasn’t it?” said Henry, his eyes still on his men. “At least the good father didn’t mention you by name.”

“Father Roberts must be talking to the locals,” said Thomas.

“Maybe I should have kept him at the castle. Of course, then he’d be talking to my father.”

Thomas shuddered. “No, thank you.”

“I need to go with them,” said Henry, pointing his chin in the direction of the knights, now leading the widows and their families away from the mausoleum. “Then I go to a council meeting with my father and brothers. You three go back to the castle. I’ll talk to you tonight.”

He left Thomas, Eileen and George standing in front of the mausoleum, surrounded by the silent crowd of refugees. Thomas watched him go for a moment, then turned to his friends.

”Come on. Let’s get someplace warm.”

They went back to the castle and Thomas showed them his tower. He built up the fire while they looked around, and the three sat together—Thomas and Eileen in the chairs, George sprawled out on Thomas’s bed. Conversation was desultory. No one wanted to talk about the memorial or the war or what was happening back home. They talked about the previous night’s banquet instead, speculating about the young lords’ behaviour and wondering at how the court worked. Thomas told George what happened in the great hall that morning, and George frowned mightily.

At length, the bell rang for lunch. The three went down and were served generous portions of a thick, hot stew that was no doubt made of the remains of the previous night’s feast. They were mostly through it when Amelia’s voice rang through the room.

“George, Eileen, Thomas! I am so glad to see you!” Amelia declared, leaving her own table and moving to theirs. “My parents have business here, and have left me to my own devices all day. I have been simply mad with boredom! Have you explored the castle yet? Do let me show you around. I’ve been here a dozen times and I know the most interesting places!”

There was no good reason to refuse, of course. Amelia linked her arm immediately in George’s and did not let the trio out of her sight for the remainder of the day. She led them with ease up and down the halls of the castle, pointing out the paintings and tapestries and telling them all the history she knew, and many things that she wondered. Most of her speculation involved which of the dukes had mistresses and who they were. Her musings were completely lost on her audience, who had no idea who she was talking about or why they mattered.

Amelia did not limit her conversation to Frostmire, however. She appeared fascinated by the three of them, and asked them endless questions. Had they all grown up together? Had Thomas always loved Eileen? Had Lord Henry told them anything about his father’s plans? What did they think of Father Roberts? Why did they come north anyway, if there were so few of them? How could they possibly help?

Thomas answered as few of her questions as possible and dodged the others. George did his best to answer in monosyllables, though several times he found himself drawn into giving rather long explanations of Thomas and his childhood indiscretions. Eileen, for her part, kept her hand firmly entwined in Thomas’s and her mouth firmly shut. The answers she did give were short and designed to give as little information as possible.

Amelia blithely ignored their reticence. She kept up a running stream of blather throughout the day. And while most of her talk seemed to be pointless chatter, throughout it was a vein of interrogatives that would have impressed even the Master of Laws at the Royal Academy. It wasn’t until after supper had been eaten and the three were ready to retire for the night that Amelia’s parents came for her.

Thomas watched her go, then turned to one of the servants and made a request. A moment later, a bottle of wine and three cups were set in front of them. Thomas scooped them all up. “My room?”

The others nodded in relief and followed him to his tower. Thomas locked the door behind them, built up the fire, and poured the wine out in hefty portions before collapsing on the bed.

“That,” said Eileen collapsing herself into one of the chairs, “was the most I’ve heard anyone say at one time since…” she shook her head. “…ever. Since ever.”

“It was horrifying,” said George. “I thought she’d never stop.”

“Oh, she stopped well enough whenever she wanted an answer to a question,” said Thomas.

“And she certainly asked enough of them,” said George. “I was half tempted to tell her why you’re really here just to shut her up.”

“Which would have been exactly what she wanted,” said Thomas. He took his cup, drank deeply from it, and filled it again. “I wonder who she’s spying for?”

“Her? A spy?” George scoffed. “She couldn’t keep her mouth shut long enough.”

“Aye, maybe,” said Eileen, looking thoughtful. “How much did we learn about her today?”

George opened his mouth to reply, stopped, and looked thoughtful instead. After a time, he shook his head. “Well, no matter what her purpose was, if she wanted to wear me out, she’s succeeded. I’m for bed.”

“Aye, me, too,” said Eileen. “I’ll be with you shortly.”

George rolled his eyes. “I’ll wait outside the door. Just don’t be too long, you two. And if Amelia is out there, I’ll not be staying around to save you.”

He left. Thomas and Eileen got up and met in the middle of the floor for a long embrace. Eileen kissed him gently on the mouth. It wasn’t a long kiss, and more weary than passionate. He held her for a while longer, then kissed her again and escorted her to the door. “Get some sleep,” he said. “We’ll find something to do tomorrow.”

“Aye,” she agreed. “And if the Four are willing, tomorrow the company won’t be so annoying.”

She left, and Thomas stripped and crawled into bed, watching the fire until his eyes slid shut, only to dream of darkness and cold and fire being thrown across the snow. The dreams drove him out of sleep, leaving him lying awake in the darkness, feeling the winter chill settle into his room as the fire died down. He pulled the blankets tighter around his body and huddled deep inside them, lying awake until dawn crept into the thin windows. At last, Thomas rose from his bed, and dressed. For lack of anything better to do, he worked his way through one of Bishop Malloy’s books until the page knocked on his door to bring him to the morning practice.

Sir Rowland and Sir Patrick drilled George on the use of the big battle swords while Thomas, Henry and Eileen drilled on rapier and dagger. Henry and Thomas fought last again, and once more Thomas won, though by the narrowest of margins.

“Don’t worry,” said Henry. “I’ll beat you tomorrow.”

Halfway to breakfast, Thomas ran into Lord John, looking exhausted and as if he had slept in his clothes.

“Thomas,” said John, smiling. “How does my brother’s pet this morning?”

John’s tone was perfectly polite and his words completely calculated to offend. At the same moment Thomas realized he wasn’t in the mood for the man, he also realized that there wasn’t a thing he could do about it.

“I’m fine, Lord John,” said Thomas. “Yourself?”

“A long night,” said John, “but a very good one. You should come out with us.” He chuckled. “The lords seem quite smitten with Eileen.”

“They seem to have no idea how to treat a girl,” said Thomas.

“True. But then, they were all drunk.”

“Are they ever sober?”

Lord John smiled. “It has been some time since Frostmire had a court magician,” he said instead. “I had to go back a hundred years in the chronicles to find record of one.”

That
caught Thomas’s interest. “What did you learn?”

“That the man had an affinity for birds, and that the Church of the High Father hanged him for witchcraft.” John smiled. “Something to think about, if you’re taking over the role.”

“I’m not. Henry asked me here to help; that’s what I’m here to do. If that means marching with the army when we go out in the spring, then that’s what I’ll do. If it means something else, that’s what I’ll do. I don’t want a position at your court.”

“Oh, it isn’t my court,” said John. “It’s my father’s. And he won’t offer you a position.”

“Good.”

“He’ll just use you and then cast you aside for the priests to hang when he’s done.” John’s voice was cool, his tone easy. “If it was my court, you would be seen for the asset that you are, and treated accordingly.” He chuckled. “Of course, it will never be mine, so that won’t happen.”

“Of course not,” said Thomas.

“I’m too tired to stand talking in the hall. Why don’t you come to my chambers and we can talk further?”

“My apologies,” said Thomas. “I am to meet Lord Henry for breakfast.”

“Another time, then,” said Lord John. He headed for the family wing without another word. Thomas watched him go, then continued toward the great hall.

The group in the hall were mostly knights and craftsmen, from the look of them. There was certainly no sign of the young lords. Given the look of Lord John, they had probably already headed for their beds.

George and Henry were already at the table with the knights. Eileen, who had gone to change into girls’ clothes again, came in before Thomas was halfway through his breakfast, face red and flushed, with her hands clenched at her sides. She took a seat and the offered porridge without a word.