Guardians of the Keep: Book Two of the Bridge of D'Arnath (3 page)

glare from the window behind him left him in shadow.

“Why else would anyone come here?”

“To visit your mother?”

“No one enjoys visiting her. And now she’s a widow. Not worth knowing.”

“To visit you, then?”

“I can grant no favors yet.” How old was this child?

“Then perhaps to visit this marvelous house and the beauteous lands of the north?”

“No one—”

“No one would consider them marvelous or beautiful? I’ll not dispute your assessment of your mother

or even of yourself, but I will argue with any attempt to discount the attractions of Comigor Keep. Once

you’ve held one of the Guardian Rings and imagined what it was like to be chained there for months on

end with everyone you valued depending on your faithful watch, or hidden in the secret room in the north

tower and watched the colors of the hills and sky change or the lightning dance across the roof as a

summer thunderstorm rolls through . . . Well, I’ll hold it up to you for marvels any day of any week. But

for now, I’ll leave you to your business. Excuse me for intruding.”

Without waiting for a response, I left the library, narrowly avoiding a collision with a young footman

who bore a tray loaded with jam pots, butter, and steaming oatcakes. “I’ve changed my mind,” I said.

“I’ll sit in the music room. Leave the door ajar, if you please, so I can see if anyone looks for me in the

library.”

The footman set the tray on a low table, and I sat where I could see the library door. After only a few

moments I saw a thin face peep out of the carved double doors that led to the library.

Tomas had said his son had our looks. There was no disputing that. The boy could have been his

father as a child or a masculine version of myself at ten or eleven. Deep brown eyes, too large for the

immature face, a body gangly and bony, already starting to get his height. Shining hair that waved about

his face, hair of the same dark brown color with the tinge of red as my own. Bitter resentment at fate’s

cruel jests took a moment’s grip on my heart. My son might have looked just the same as this boy.

The boy surveyed the hall and seemed annoyed at finding no one about. He threw something to the

floor and ran toward the stairs, out of my range of vision. Such an odd child. So angry.

I restored my equilibrium by devouring Nellia’s oatcakes until some half an hour later when a

chambermaid scurried across the tiles to the library doors. I jumped up. “Are you looking for me?”

“Aye, miss. The mistress is waked. Nancy’s sent me to find the lady in the library.”

“Well done. Tell her I’m coming.”

The girl hurried away, and I followed more slowly. Halfway across the black and gray tiles, I saw a

lump on the floor and stooped to retrieve it. It was the silver king, his bent crown now totally askew, and

his mighty blade twisted so that it could never harm his enemies, only himself.

CHAPTER 2

When I arrived at her room, Philomena was yelling again, but not for pain or fear of dying. A

stooped, middle-aged man, soberly dressed and unremarkable, was the recipient of a diatribe being laid

on like a flogger’s cane. “How can there not be enough silver to pay the wine merchant? You’ve likely

put it all in your own pocket. I’ll have you hanged!”

“But my lady—”

“Comigor is the richest hold in the Four Realms, and you are paid exorbitantly to manage it. Perhaps

if we were to take your wage out of your flesh, you would find what’s needed.”

“But, if you please, my lady, we have spent . . . prodigiously ... in the past year: the new furnishings,

the gem dealer, the dressmakers. And now the roof is leaking in the west wing and the forge is unusable

since the fire, and we cannot even hire laborers—”

“How dare you accuse me! My husband denied me nothing, but my steward dares tell me ‘no more’?

I suppose you would have me wear rags. I suppose I am to suffer completely.”

“But my lady, the rents are eight months overdue.” The steward blotted his forehead with a wide

kerchief.

“Then get them, fool. Must I hold your hand?”

“Duke Tomas—may blessed Annadis write his name— left instructions at the first of this year that my

lady must see to collecting the rents, as he was to be away on the appointed day. The Lords of Comigor

have honored their covenant with the tenants for more than five hundred years. Only the lord or a

member of his family may receive the rents. The tenants are not permitted to deliver their coins to anyone

else.”

The bruised patience in the steward’s voice gave me the sense that this was not the first time for such

an argument.

“You insufferable prig. It was certainly not my choice to rot here while my husband went charging all

over the Four Realms, but of course he never consulted me in this or any other matter. ‘For Gerick’s

inheritance,’ he said. ‘To keep the vultures in Montevial from getting any ideas.’ As if I knew nothing

about inheritance and ambition. At least he can’t pester me about it any longer. A new lord rules

here—though he listens to me no better than his father.” The painted fan that Philomena had been

napping like a pennant in a gale fell still, and her rosy face beamed with sudden inspiration. “Of course!

My son can do it! He is the castle lord now. I’ll command him to collect the cursed rents.”

The long-suffering steward replied patiently. “Until he comes of age, the young duke cannot collect

the rents, Your Grace. He is too young to be held to account, and therefore he cannot fulfill the terms of

the covenant.”

Philomena uncorked a silver vial she had snatched from her bedside table, inhaled deeply, and closed

her eyes for a moment, then motioned to one of her maids. “Even if I could escape from my bed, I would

not spend an entire tedious day nodding and smiling to filthy peasants. I care nothing for their nasty

children or their cows or their wheat. Find some other way to get the money. Send the soldiers. Take

hostages. I don’t care.”

“My lady, please . . . the dishonor of it . . .”

The steward seemed on the brink of tears, but Philomena turned her attention to a silver-backed

mirror a maid had brought her, instantly rapt as the girl began to brush her golden hair. The steward

stood his ground for a few moments, but when the lady began directing the maid in how to braid her

tresses, he bowed and slunk out of the room.

I knew well of the Comigor Covenant. How many times had I been forced to dress in my stiffest

clothes and sit in endless boredom beside my mother and Tomas as my father collected his rents? The

ceremony played out like an elaborate dance figure. On the first day of every year, Covenant Day, the

line of tenants would stretch through the great hall, across the outer ward and far into the outer bailey.

One by one they would step forward, and my father would graciously invite the man to sit with him at a

small table, offering him the glass of wine that sat on the table. Inevitably, the man would refuse the wine.

The tenant would inquire politely after the health of the lord’s family. We were always “quite robust,”

even when my mother was so weak from her last illness that she had to be carried up the stairs at the end

of the day. Then my father would inquire after the health of the tenant’s wife and his parents and the

progress of his children, each of them by name, and ask whether the man needed new tools or a new

goat. After a suitable time, the tenant would stand and bow, and, almost as an afterthought, offer his

coins to his lord. My father would salute the man and wish him a good season, then turn his full attention

to the next man and begin the dance again.

When Tomas and I got restless and speculated between ourselves on the dire consequences to the

state of the universe should one of the tenants actually
drink
the glass of wine, our mother whispered that

we were being disrespectful. For many years, I believed that she meant we were disrespectful to my

father—a terrifying prospect that instantly corrected my behavior. Only later did I understand that our

behavior was disrespectful to the tenants, who fed us, clothed us, and kept us in comfort in return for the

use of the Comigor land and the protection of its lord.

When my father was away on campaign, my mother sat at the little table with Tomas and me beside

her. Tomas had been awkward the first few years after his coming of age, when our mother was dead

and our grieving father too drunk to do his duty, but he had grown into it. Until my banishment from

Comigor, I had sat with him as always. To change the practice had been unthinkable.

I entered my sister-in-law’s bedchamber in great disturbance of mind. “Did you rest well,

Philomena?” I said.

Philomena’s aunt lurked glowering on the far side of the bed, half hidden behind the bed-curtains. The

duchess’s attention remained focused on her mirror. “I don’t know what was in my head this morning,

Seriana,” said Philomena, smoothing a strand of her hair. “I should have told you to go immediately. My

husband didn’t want you here and neither do I. I’ve only your word that he sent you.”

“You may accept what I say as truth or lies. But your son has a right to know how his father died,

and there’s no one else to tell him of it.”

“For all I know, you may have killed Tomas yourself,” said Philomena, more from annoyance than

conviction. “You were married to a sorcerer and conspired with traitors. My husband caught you at it

and called down the law. You’re probably here for revenge.”

“I told you, I hold neither you nor your child responsible. Tomas is beyond knowing, so vengeance

has no purpose. Nothing will bring back my son.” I pulled a small gray silk bag from my pocket and laid

it on the bedclothes in front of Philomena. “I brought this for you. It’s not dangerous.” I smiled at the old

woman, who had backed away from the bedside as if the little pouch might conceal a snake.

From the bag Philomena pulled out a lock of Tomas’s red-brown hair tied with a green silk thread.

She twined it about her fingers thoughtfully.

“Let it make peace between us,” I said. “If for nothing else than this—your son is the Duke of

Comigor. I’ve brought him the Comigor signet ring. I have no child to rival him, and I’m not likely to. This

is the house of my father and his fathers before him for thirty generations. I’d not see it destroyed for

pointless revenge.”

“I think that’s what Tomas was most angry about,” said Philomena. “That you would do what you did

and risk bringing ruin to this decrepit pile of rock. I never understood it.”

My conviction that Tomas had been controlled by the Zhid, the ancient enemies of Karon’s people

from the magical world across D’Arnath’s Bridge, was unsupported by physical evidence. But I would

have wagered my life on it. “If Tomas had been allowed to think on his own, he would have known that

I’d never take such a risk lightly. He might have tried to understand what I told him about my husband

and his people. Whatever else, I think he believed me at the end. Will you summon the boy?”

Philomena tossed the lock of hair onto her coverlet and picked up her mirror, first polishing it with a

lace handkerchief and then observing her pretty face twisted into a flirtatious pout. “He might not come.

He was so much nicer when he was small and the nurse would bring him to us for an hour in the evening.

We would dandle him about and then send him off to bed. Now he says such awful things when he’s

angry, and he’s angry so often and for no reason.” She pursed her lips, pinched her cheeks, and

smoothed the skin over her brows, but she also dispatched one of the maids to find the young duke and

tell him his mama most urgently requested him to wait on her.

Philomena continued her self-absorbed activities while we waited. I wandered to the window, unsure

of how to broach the subject of the rents. Managing Philomena would be a full-time study. I was

delighted that I didn’t have to cope with her for more than a day.

The expansive view from the window behind the heavy draperies was serenely beautiful. The southern

face of Comigor fronted wheat fields, a golden ocean that lapped at the stone walls and stretched into the

midday haze as far as I could see to east and south.

A glance over my shoulder confirmed that the hissing sound was Philomena’s aunt whispering

vehemently in the duchess’s ear. Philomena was not so circumspect with her replies. “She was not the

sorcerer. She was only married to one—” When she found my eye on her, the old woman paled and

stepped away from the bed. Astonishing how many people believed that marrying a sorcerer must surely

imbue a woman with magical powers of her own. I had often wished that to be the case. “—and he’s

long dead.”

More time passed. Philomena tapped her teeth with the corner of the silver mirror. “I think you should

give the ring to me,” she said abruptly.

I perched on the narrow window seat, where I could both enjoy the prospect and keep an eye on the

bedchamber. “I’ll give it only to its proper owner.”

“Why would you care who has it? He’s too young to wear it, and I can take it from him as soon as

you leave.”

“If I give it to him, and you take it away, then he will know who has it and who does not. There’ll be

no misunderstanding.” I trusted Philomena no further than I could see her.

Philomena sulked until the boy strode into the room. “Gerick, my darling boy. Have you come to