Scriber (19 page)

It was late evening by then, nearly midnight, and most of the women said their goodbyes and began to stumble home. Tenille and Vance bid me farewell and took their leave, Vance fussing over his wife’s bruised eye. As I watched them go, I realized that I had nowhere to stay myself. I had thought to take lodging at the Doused Tree, but that was out of the question now.

Deanyn and I were among the few still lingering outside the tavern, and she flashed me an ironic smile. “Well, are you glad you joined us?”

“Overjoyed.” I raised a hand to the gash on my cheek, and my fingertips came back bloody. “You came out better than most,” I commented, looking her over. Besides two very light scratches on her forehead from what might have been fingernails, Deanyn appeared untouched.

“Doesn’t feel that way.” Gingerly, she laid a hand against the right side of her torso. “One of them hit me with a stool.”

“Could have a broken rib.” Without thinking, I reached out a hand to probe the injury.

She flinched as I made contact, but didn’t pull away. “I feel like you’re skipping over an important piece of this courtship, Scriber.”

In my inebriated state, it had not occurred to me that I was essentially groping her without permission. “N—nonsense,” I stammered. “This is purely medical.”

She chuckled, and the motion made her wince. “Of course it is. Is anything broken?”

“Not that I can tell.”

“Impressive medical expertise, that,” she teased. “But if I am not mortally wounded, I should go. Do you have a place to stay?”

I shook my head. “I was going to rent a room here, but that seems unlikely now.”

“If you can’t find a better place, I have a room at the River’s Song in the Tradecourt.”

I nearly choked with shock. “I… that is generous, but…”

“Calm down, Dennon. I’m not trying to seduce you.” She smirked at my artless reaction. “I only meant that there may be rooms available there. The cheaper inns are mostly full. People don’t want to stay outside the walls if they can avoid it.”

“Oh.” Despite my embarrassment, I was relieved. I was fond of Deanyn, but it had been a long while since I had been with a woman, and longer still since I had made anything like a friend. I would only have ruined things, given the opportunity.

As she turned to leave, a question came to my mind. “The others all had some reason for following Bryndine. Why do you?”

She shrugged. “Why not?” With a mischievous grin, she strode away down the dark street.

I thought about following her to the River’s Song. I did need a place to stay, though the Tradecourt inns were expensive—how Deanyn could afford one on an Army wage was something of a mystery. But when I moved to follow her, the combination of the blow to my head and the effects of the wine left me lightheaded, and I ended up leaning on the tavern wall to support myself. I eased myself down into a sitting position with my back against the wall, waiting for the world around me to stop its drunken swaying.

It was then that I realized I was not alone. Sylla sat against the wall a few feet from me, holding her head in her hands.

I was scared to speak—she didn’t like me at the best of times, and I had just watched her beat a man into unconsciousness in mere moments. So I sat in silence, holding my breath, hoping she would not notice.

Eventually, she raised her head and looked at me. “Go away, Scriber.” Her expression was not one I had seen her wear before. She was annoyed by my presence—that was not new—but beneath it there was a grief that made her less imposing than usual. It may have been the wine, but I found myself feeling sorry for her.

“Do you have somewhere to go, Sylla? A husband…” I realized how unlikely that was even as I said it. “…or family, friends?”

“Would that make you happy, Scriber?” She laughed bitterly. “If I told you a tale about protecting my family, like Tenille? Or would you prefer something sad like Genna, nearly made to marry the man who raped her so her family wouldn’t be shamed? You could pat my head and pretend to understand. Maybe we’d become friends.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“I
killed
my husband, Scriber. Not such a sympathetic story, is it? They’d have hung me for it, but Bryndine claimed I had the right to defend my life under Erryn’s Promise. The truth is, he was a drunk and he beat me, but I wasn’t afraid for my life—I did it because I hated him. I wanted him dead.”

I stared at her uselessly, completely speechless, but she did not need any response. As far as I could tell, she was speaking just to say the words aloud.

“So no, I have nobody. Nobody but Bryndine ever cared. I can’t just call this ill luck and go back to my life.” Her voice was thick with emotion, but I couldn’t say whether it was sorrow or fury. “Bryndine was my life.”

I don’t know if she expected me to recoil in horror, to call her a murderer, or simply to leave her alone. But it was those last four words that struck me more than the story that came before them. “You could still stay with her, couldn’t you?”

She looked at me with disgust. “And be a burden on her? She’ll
have
guards. Her father will marry her to a wealthy Baron or landholder, with more men than he knows what to do with. She would take me with her, but she would do it for my sake, not because she needs me. I couldn’t—” She must have seen the sympathy in my eyes, because she stopped abruptly, and her face twisted with fury. “Why should you care, Scriber? I don’t want your pity.” She pushed herself to her feet. “I don’t want anything from you.”

She stalked away into the darkness, and I watched her go silently. Anything I said would only have made things worse. The only person who might have reassured her was not there, had not bothered to come.

Sylla might have deserved her misery; she had killed a man, though he hardly sounded like a great loss to the world. Perhaps I should even have been concerned for my own safety, having just learned that a woman who disliked me was capable of murder. But all I could think was that Bryndine should have been there to talk to her.

As Sylla moved out of my sight, I made a decision. Not a wise decision, but one largely facilitated by my dark mood and inebriation.

I was going to go see Bryndine, and I was going to ask her why she had deserted her company.

Chapter Fifteen

It is possible that I have treated Bryndine somewhat unfairly.

— From the personal journals of Dennon Lark

The Kingscourt is heavily patrolled at night, but I had just enough wits about me to get over the bridge and past the guardsmen. It helped that I was wearing the elegant silk clothing given to me in Highpass, and in the darkness the stains of food and drink were not immediately obvious. But it was my pin that ensured unhindered passage. Even at that time of night, the guards were hesitant to stop me when I flashed the golden inkwell at them and claimed important business with the Lord Chancellor. Luck played a large part as well; if any of them had decided to come near enough to smell the wine on my breath, they would never have let me by.

It was not until I reached the Lord Chancellor’s manor that I realized I would never be allowed in so late. There were men at the gate, and Elarryd’s household guard would certainly know that their master had not summoned me.

Somewhat bafflingly, in retrospect, it struck me as a good idea to climb the wall around the manor. I crept around the side of the estate where no street lanterns could betray my presence and tried to scrabble up the tightly fitted stonework. My fingers found no purchase; the gaps were too small, the stones too smooth, the wall too tall to simply grab the lip and pull myself over.

I thought I could see a larger gap in the stones above my head, and jumped to try and reach it, but it was too high. With the sort of logic that only a drunk man can fathom, I decided that I needed a running start, and backed away to the other side of the street. Hurling myself forward as fast as I could, I leapt with my arms outstretched, reaching for the handhold I thought I saw—but there was no gap, only a stray shadow. My hands crashed painfully into solid stone, and I toppled backwards to the ground, crying out as I landed hard on my back.

The Lord Chancellor’s guards were upon me before I regained my feet, hoisting me roughly and dragging me around to the front gate of the manor. When they threw me up against the wall, the light of the nearby lanterns glinted off my pin.

“A Scriber?” The first guard was understandably puzzled. “What are you doing here?”

“He’s drunk, I smelled it when we were moving him,” the other said. “And look at that cheek—he’s been in a fight already tonight.”

“What’s a drunk Scriber want here?” The first man prodded me in the ribs.

Confidence seemed a better idea than apology. “I need to see Bryndine. She knows me, tell her Dennon needs to speak with her.”

“At this hour? I don’t think so.”

“I need to talk to her!” I insisted belligerently.

“Scriber, you ain’t getting in. Might be we should have you arrested for trying to break into the Lord Chancellor’s manor, but you’re pinned, and I don’t want it on my head if you have real business here. Come back in the morning.”

I could see that I wasn’t going to get anywhere with the guards, but I was determined to see Bryndine, and drunk enough that my next action felt less idiotic than it actually was.

“
Bryndine!
” I bellowed, twisting my head towards the manor house. “Bryndine, it’s Dennon!”

“Shut your mouth!” One of the guardsmen cuffed me across my swollen cheek and I squealed in pain.

“What is going on out here?” Elarryd Errynson’s deep voice sounded from beyond the gates.

“Trespasser, your Lordship. Caught him trying to climb the wall.” The guard sounded almost sheepish. “Beg pardon, Lord Elarryd. We shouldn’t have let him wake you.

“Let me see him.”

The two guardsmen hauled me through the gate; on the other side, the Lord Chancellor of the Kingsland stood waiting outside his front door. He wore silken nightclothes and an annoyed expression, his blond hair mussed from sleep.

“Scriber Dennon. I thought I heard your name. Father in the Sky, are you mad? Is this about being banned from the Garden?”

“I need to speak with your daughter, your Lordship.” Despite my drunkenness, I could tell that I was treading on dangerous ground. “I—I’m sorry for waking you.”

“You need to speak with my daughter?” Elarryd was incredulous. “It is past midnight!” He leaned slightly closer, and his face darkened even further. “Are you drunk? Sky and Earth, this is… Do you know what could have happened to you? I am the Lord Chancellor of the realm! You could have been killed for skulking around my home, and it would have been thought just!”

“Father, it is fine. I will speak with him.” I had not noticed Bryndine until she spoke; she was hidden in the shadows behind the doorway. Unlike her father, she did not look to have been sleeping—she was still dressed and tidy.

“Absolutely not, Bryndine. Such behaviour cannot be rewarded. And I would not have him wake your mother.”

She stepped outside and laid a hand on her father’s shoulder. “Please, Father, return to bed. This is my concern.”

Elarryd took a deep, frustrated breath, then nodded. “Fine. I will trust you to handle him.” He turned to the guards with what I hoped was grim humor. “But if he starts bellowing again, by all means, kill him.”

Bryndine and I replied simultaneously, her voice far less nervous than mine:

“Thank you, Father.”

“Thank you, your Lordship.”

“And Scriber Dennon, remember this: I would be very displeased if you said anything to upset my daughter.” The Lord Chancellor looked me meaningfully in the eye, then turned and strode back into the house.

“Come, Scriber. We will speak inside,” Bryndine said, and I followed her through the front door.

She led me into a large study off the main foyer, with a fire still burning in the hearth despite the hour. The decoration was surprisingly humble. I had expected gold and velvet, but the Lord Chancellor’s manor was plainly adorned, with few valuables on display.

Bryndine seated herself in a chair before the fire, and motioned for me to take the seat beside her.

“You have been drinking.” She swept her eyes over me as if she could gauge my sobriety at a glance. “Are you sober enough to speak sensibly?”

“I am a Scriber,” I said, offended despite the fact that I had not made a sensible decision in hours. “I always speak sensibly.”

She accepted my word with a nod. “You are here to ask why I did not join the women at the tavern, I assume?”

I should have heeded her father’s warning, but I was in no condition to be wise. “They worship you! You should have been there, to… reassure them, give them some sort of hope!”

“And if there is no hope to give?”

“Father above, are you completely heartless? They were devastated!”

“Is that what bothers you, Scriber Dennon? My composure? My… heartlessness? You have said as much before.”

“It bothers me that you can desert those women when they need you most!”

She looked into the fire silently for a time before speaking again. “Do you know why I chose to serve in the Army, Scriber?”

“No. I don’t.” A few weeks before I might have attributed it to her high birth, the whim of a spoiled noble. But not anymore.

“My parents were only allowed to marry because Father made it an issue of Erryn’s Promise. My mother is not of high birth, as I’m sure you know.” She looked at me as if expecting a snide remark, but I said nothing, so she went on. “They often told me that as long as the King’s Army stands in defense of the Promise, every citizen is free to live a life of their choosing. I grew up idolizing the Army for that.

“But the Promise is not always perfectly followed. My uncle would not allow me to wear the uniform, not even at Millum Wren’s request. I could imagine doing nothing else, so I went where the Army was called and gave my aid whether it was asked for or not. You must have heard some version of that story as well.” A hint of bitterness crept into her voice. “The Bloody Bride loves killing men so much that she joins whatever battle she can find, or the like.