Riyria Chronicles 02 - The Rose and the Thorn Page 3

  A lamp still burned when he entered.

  “Get supper?” his father asked.

  Not a word about where he had been. His father never asked such things, and it was only recently that Reuben began to find that odd. The old man was on his cot, his boots off, sword belt, chain-link, and tunic neatly stored on the hooks and shelf. His waist belt and the three leather pouches he always looped through it lay neatly beside his bed—always within arm’s reach. Reuben knew that one pouch held coin and another a whetstone, but he didn’t know what was in the third pouch. Richard Hilfred lay with one arm hooked over his face, covering his eyes. The same way he slept every night. His father had not shaved in the last few days and dark stubble, thick as bristled fur, shadowed his cheeks and chin. His hair, originally black as charcoal, contained a dash of gray frosting. Reuben’s was dirty blond, which got him thinking about what Ellison had said about his mother.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  His father’s arm came down and the old man squinted at him. “What happened?”

  A question? Since when?

  “Nothing,” Reuben said. He took a seat on his cot, aware of the irony that the one time his father showed an interest, Reuben didn’t want to share.

  “Where’d you get that sword?”

  “Huh?” He had forgotten all about it. “Oh—Ian made me take it.”

  “Take it where?”

  Four questions in a row. Is this interest, concern, or just because my birthday is coming up?

  His father’s temper was always short this time of year. Reuben’s birthday was the only day Richard had ever visited him during the years he lived with his aunt—once a year, every year without fail. Never a hug, his father usually yelled at him, with liquor on his breath. When his aunt died and his father brought him to the castle to live, Reuben had cried. He had been eleven going on twelve, and Richard Hilfred thought that was too old for tears. His father beat him. Reuben never cried again—until that evening when he watched the princess ride away, taking his hopes with her.

  “The princess insisted on going for a ride,” Reuben explained. “And Ian made me escort her.”

  His father sat up, the wood of the cot creaking. He didn’t say anything for a long time, just staring until Reuben felt uncomfortable. “You stay away from her, you hear?”

  “I didn’t have a choice. She—”

  “I don’t want excuses. You just keep clear, understand?”

  Reuben nodded. He learned long ago not to argue with his father. Sergeant Richard Hilfred was used to dealing with unruly men. He gave an order and it was obeyed or teeth were knocked out. That was how discipline was maintained in the ranks, in the barracks, and in their tiny room.

  “Nobles are dangerous,” his father went on. “They’re like wild animals and will turn on you. There’s no trusting them. We’re nothing more to them than bugs. Sometimes they might play with us, but when they get bored, they’ll crush us.”

  “Why are you one of the king’s bodyguards, then? You’re with them all day.”

  His father looked at him oddly, and Reuben wondered if a beating was coming. But his father’s face was twisted in thought, not anger. “ ’Cause I was like you once, I guess. I believed in them, trusted them. Besides, there’s no better job in this castle, except maybe to be assigned as the personal guard to a member of the royal family. Then you get access to everything, and you’re treated with respect. But I’ll never get the nod, so I’ve become a snake charmer. I know how to handle them, how to hold the blue-born behind the head so I can’t be bit.”

  “How do you do that?”

  “By never giving them a reason to notice me. I’m a shadow. As invisible and silent as a chair or a door. I’m there to guard them, but when there’s no threat, my job is not to exist. You, on the other hand, got noticed, and by the princess no less. Was it fun riding with her? Everyone in the city watching you bounce in the saddle with a man’s weapon on your hip and a beautiful girl at your side? Did you feel like you were one of them?”

  Reuben said nothing, just stared at the floor.

  “I see the way you look at her. She’s pretty, and she’ll get prettier, but you’d be smarter to cut your own eyes out now. She’ll be married off in another year or two. Amrath won’t wait long. He needs alliances, and he’ll trade her while she’s young and most valuable. She’ll be sent to Alburn or Maranon. Maybe that’s why he got her the horse, to give her good feelings about her new home. Doesn’t matter. She’s not a person—she’s a commodity, like gold or silver, and the king will spend her to buy more power or protect a border. Remember that next time you look at her. Wanting to be with her is like stealing from one of his coffers. They kill people—even nobles—for that.”

  Reuben didn’t like the conversation and opted for a new topic. “There’s no light in the tower tonight.”

  His father stared at him for a moment to reinforce that he was serious before breaking his glare. “So?” he said, lying back down and moving slowly as if he were sore. He moved that way more and more often. His father was getting old and it showed.

  “Nothing. I was just thinking that’s a good thing, right?”

  “It’s just a room in a tower, Rue. People sometimes take candles into them.”

  “But it’s always been dark before, except on those two nights—the night Lady Clare was burned to death and again when the chancellor died. I saw it.”

  “So?”

  “So they say deaths come in threes.”

  “Who says?”

  “People.” Reuben unhooked the sword from his side and hung it next to his father’s. It gave him no sense of pride, to do so at last. “I was just wondering, you know, what went on up there on the nights when I’ve seen the light.” He bent down to pull off his boots, and when he looked back, his father was staring again.

  “Don’t be going near that tower, you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I mean it, Rue. If I hear you’ve been anywhere near there, I’ll give you a worse beating than the squires did.”

  Reuben stared at his feet. “You know about that?”

  “Your face is all marked up, you’ve got a line of blood staining the back of your tunic, and there’s a slice in your smock. Who else? Don’t worry,” he said, blowing out the lamp. “Next week you’ll be a castle guard.”

  “How will that help?”

  “They’ll give you chain to replace that cloth.”

  CHAPTER 2

  ALBERT WINSLOW

  A woman wielding a broom charged at them, looking as much like a witch as anyone Hadrian had ever seen. Matted black hair spilled down in brittle locks, leaving only one eye and the tip of her nose visible. The peasant skirt she wore hindered her escape from the thickets and had so many rips and muddy stains that Hadrian was certain she had tripped on it more than once.

  “Stop! I need help!” she cried in desperation as if he and Royce were racing down the road. In truth the two were riding their horses at a pace just slightly faster than a man might walk. Hadrian pulled on his reins, halting while Royce continued for a bit before turning around with a curious look. Over the past year Hadrian had seen the expression often enough. He knew from experience that the puzzlement would turn to irritation as soon as his partner realized Hadrian was stopping to hear what the old woman wanted. Then would come the scowl. Hadrian was not certain what that meant—disappointment perhaps? Next, Royce’s eyes would roll with open contempt and then frustration would display itself in the form of folded arms. Finally anger would rise along with his cloak’s hood. Royce pulling up his hood was always a bad sign, like fur bristling on a wolf’s back. A warning—and usually the only one anyone ever received.

  “You must help me,” the old woman shouted as she plunged through the brush, climbing out of the ditch at the side of the road. “There’s a strange man in my barn, and I’m scared for my life.”

  “Your barn?” Hadrian asked, looking over the woman’s head but not seeing a
barn.

  Royce and Hadrian had been traveling north on the Steward’s Road near the city of Colnora. All morning they had passed numerous farms and cottages, but they had not seen either for some time.

  “My husband and I have a farm ’round this bend.” She pointed up the road.

  “If you have a husband, why doesn’t he take care of the man?”

  “Dear old Danny’s away. Went to Vernes to sell our lamb’s wool. Won’t be back for a month at least. The man in my barn is a drunken lunatic. He’s naked—violent and cursing. Probably been bit by a sick dog and has the madness. I’m afraid to go near the barn, but I need to feed our livestock. I just don’t know what to do. I’m certain he’ll kill me if I set foot inside.”

  “You’ve never seen him before?”

  The woman shook her head. “If you help me, if you run him off my land, I’ll see that you get a fine meal for both you and your horses. I’ll even wrap up some extras to take with you. I’m a fine cook, I am.”

  Hadrian dismounted and glanced at his friend.

  “What are you doing?” Royce asked.

  “It will only take a minute,” Hadrian replied.

  Royce sighed. The sigh was new. “You don’t know this woman. This isn’t your problem.”

  “I know that.”

  “So why are you helping her?”

  “Because that’s what people do. They help each other. If you saw a man lying in the road with an arrow in him, you’d stop, wouldn’t you?”

  “Of course,” Royce replied, “anyone would. A wounded man is easy pickings, unless you could see from your saddle that someone else has already taken his purse.”

  “What? No! No one would rob a wounded man and leave him to die.”

  Royce nodded. “Well, no. You’re right. If he has a purse and you take it, it’s best to slit his throat afterward. Too many people live through arrow wounds. You taught me that. No sense risking that he might come after you.”

  The old woman looked at Royce aghast.

  Now it was Hadrian’s turn to sigh. “Don’t mind him. He was raised by wolves.”

  Royce sat with his arms folded and a glare in his eyes. “I should never have told you about that.”

  “Look, it’s a beautiful afternoon and we’re in no hurry. Besides, you’re always complaining about my cooking. I’m sure you’ll be happier with her meal. I’m just going to have a quick talk with this guy.” Hadrian added in a whisper, “He’s probably just some poor fella desperate for shelter. I’ll bet that if I can get the two of them to talk, we can work this all out. I can probably get her to pay the guy to help while her husband is away. The woman will get a hired hand, and he’ll get some food and a place to sleep. What’s more, we’ll get a hot meal, so everybody wins.”

  “And when this good deed ends in disaster, will you listen to me next time and let people take care of their own problems?”

  “Sure, but it’ll be fine. He’s just one guy. Even if he’s completely unreasonable, I think we can handle a drunken squatter.”

  The fall had been a wet one, and the road was a muddy mess. Dead leaves hid puddles, trees were becoming black skeletons, and the songs of birds were few. Hadrian always missed them as the leaves fell and was surprised in spring at their return, having forgotten their whistling music.

  Just as foretold, around the next bend was a farmhouse, if it could be called that. All of the homesteads they previously passed had been neat whitewashed cottages with thatch roofs that stood out brightly against reds and oranges. Each had fields full of golden wheat or barley ready for harvest. The woman’s farm was a dilapidated shack of withered boards and tilting fences. Rising in his stirrups, Hadrian couldn’t see a planted field anywhere.

  “The barn is just down the hill that way.” She pointed. “You can see the roof. If you like, I’ll set your horses to some grain and water and start making your meal.”

  “You say it is just the one man?” Hadrian asked as he slipped off his horse and let the woman take the lead.

  She nodded.

  Hadrian, who already wore two swords hanging from his belt, unstrapped a long spadone from the side of his horse. Slipping the baldric over his shoulder, he let the massive weapon hang across his back. It was the only way the sword could be carried. The spadone was a knight’s weapon, intended to be used on horseback. If he wore it on his side, the tip dragged.

  “That’s a lot of steel for one drunken fool,” the woman said.

  “Force of habit,” Hadrian replied.

  Royce dismounted alongside him, touching down with his right foot, then more gingerly with his left. He opened his pack and rummaged around for a bit. The woman waited until he finished; then with a final round of gratitude, she took both horses up to the house, leaving Royce and Hadrian in the farmyard.

  A fieldstone well formed the centerpiece of the open space between the house and the outbuildings, and down a slope stood the barn. The whole place was badly overgrown with knee-high grass and dandelions gone to seed. Royce paused a moment and sat on the foundation of what looked to have been a small building—a chicken coop most likely, as it was too little for much else. He lifted his left foot and examined it. Hadrian could see a row of puncture marks in the soft leather.

  “How’s your foot?” Hadrian asked.

  “It hurts.”

  “He had a good hold.”

  “Bit right through my boot.”

  “Yeah, that looked painful.”

  “So why exactly didn’t you help?”

  Hadrian shrugged. “It was a dog, Royce. A cute little dog. What did you want me to do, kill an innocent animal?”

  Royce tilted his head, squinting into the light of the late evening sun to focus on his friend. “Is that a joke?”

  “It was a puppy.”

  “It was not a puppy, and it was eating my foot.”

  “Yeah, but you were invading his home.”

  Royce frowned and let his foot drop. “Let’s go see about this barn-invading ogre of yours.”

  The two headed down the grassy slope that was graced with a bounty of white and yellow wildflowers that swayed in the gentle breeze. Honeybees were still out working, droning between the daisies, bishop’s lace, and wild carrots. Hadrian smiled. At least someone was hard at work farming the land here. As they approached the barn, they found it in no better shape than the house.

  “You know, you didn’t have to throw it out the window,” Hadrian said as they walked.

  Royce, who was still preoccupied with his foot, looked up. “What did you want me to do with it? Scratch behind the little monster’s ears as it gnawed my toes off? What if it started barking? That would have been a fine mess.”

  “It’s a good thing there was a moat right under the window.”

  Royce stopped. “There was?”

  Now was Hadrian’s turn to scowl. At times like this he could never be certain whether Royce was serious or not. They had worked together for almost a year, but he was still trying to understand his new partner. One thing was certain—Royce Melborn was by far the most interesting person he had ever met but also the hardest to know.

  They reached the barn, which was made of wood and fieldstone and supported a straw roof. The whole structure lurched to the side, its eaves leaning against the trunk of an old maple. Several of the clapboards were gone, and the thatch roof was missing in places. The double doors hung open, but all Hadrian could see inside was darkness.

  “Hello?” Hadrian called. He pushed the doors wide and peered in. “Anyone here?”

  Royce was no longer behind him. He often disappeared at times like this. Being more adept at stealth, Royce enjoyed using Hadrian for the noisy distraction he was.

  There was no answer.

  Hadrian drew a sword and stepped inside.

  The interior of the barn was much like any other except that this one showed signs of serious neglect and recent occupancy—an odd combination. The sagging loft was filled with old rotting hay. The few visible
tools were rusted and wrapped in webs.

  Enough light pierced the gaps in the roof and walls to reveal a man lying asleep in a pile of hay. Thin and incredibly filthy, he wore nothing but a nightshirt. Grass littered his hair, and his face was nearly lost in the unruly wreath of a wild beard. He was curled in a ball, an old sack acting as his blanket. With his mouth hanging agape, he snored loudly.

  Hadrian sheathed his weapon and then gently kicked the man’s bare foot. The only response was a grumble as he resituated himself. Another prod produced a flicker of eyelids. Spotting Hadrian, he abruptly drew himself to a sitting position and squinted. “Who are you?”

  “Name’s Hadrian Blackwater.”

  “And what is it that you wish, kind sir?” His elocution was more sophisticated than his appearance suggested.

  “I was sent by the lady who owns this farm to inquire why you’re in her barn.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.” He squinted even more.

  Well spoken, but no genius. “Let’s start with your name. Who are you?”

  The man got to his feet, brushing hay from his shirt. “I am Viscount Albert Tyris Winslow, son of Armeter.”

  “Viscount?” Hadrian laughed. “Have you been drinking?”

  The man looked decidedly sad as if Hadrian had inquired about a dead wife. “If only I had the coin.” A realization dawned and Albert’s expression turned hopeful. He got to his feet and brushed the hay from his nightshirt. “This is really all I have left, but it’s made from the finest linen. I would sell it to you for a fraction of its worth. Just a single silver tenent. One simple coin. Do you have one to spend?”

  “I don’t need a nightshirt.”

  “Ah, but my good man, you could sell it.” Albert spit on a dirty smudge and scrubbed the material between his fingers. “If given a good wash, this garment would be beautiful. You could easily make two silvers—perhaps three. You’d double your money most certainly.”

  “He’s alone.” Royce jumped down from the loft, hitting the ground beside them, making only the whisper of a sound.