To Green Angel Tower, Volume 2

  “Another messenger from Count Streáwe, Lord.”

  “Ah.” Benigaris pulled at his mustache. “As expected. I think we will let that wine sit in the cask a little longer. Who else?”

  “The astrologer Xannasavin, Lord.”

  “So he has arrived at last. Very grieved, I’m sure, to keep his duke waiting.” Benigaris nodded slowly. “Send him up.”

  “Xannasavin is here?” Nessalanta smiled. “I’m sure he has wonderful things to tell us. You’ll see, Benigaris. He’ll bring us good news.”

  “No doubt.”

  Xannasavin appeared within moments. As though to take attention away from his own lean height, the astrologer carefully lowered himself to his knees.

  “My lord, Duke Benigaris, and my lady, Duchess Nessalanta. A thousand, thousand pardons. I came as soon as I received your summons.”

  “Come and sit beside me, Xannasavin,” said the duchess. “We have seen too little of you lately.”

  Benigaris leaned against the railing. “My mother is right—you have been much absent from the palace.”

  The astrologer rose and went to sit near Nessalanta. “My apologies. I have found that sometimes it is best to get away from the splendor of court life. Seclusion makes it easier to hear what the stars tell me.”

  “Ah.” The duke nodded as though some great riddle had been solved. “That is why you were seen in the marketplace dickering with a horse merchant.”

  Xannasavin flinched minutely. “Yes, my lord. In fact, I thought it might help me to ride beneath the night sky. Your court is so full of pleasurable distractions, and these are important times. I felt my mind should be clear so I might better serve you.”

  “Come here,” Benigaris said.

  The astrologer rose from his seat, smoothing the folds from his dark robe, then went to stand beside the duke at the garden railing.

  “What do you see in the sky?”

  Xannasavin squinted. “Oh, many things, my lord. But if you wish me to read the stars aright, I should go back to my chamber and get my charts....”

  “But the last time you were here, the sky was so full of good fortune! You needed no charts then!”

  “I had studied them for long hours before coming up, my ...”

  Benigaris put his arm around the astrologer’s shoulder. “And what of the great victories for the House of the Kingfisher?”

  Xannasavin squirmed. “They are coming, my lord. See, look there in the sky.” He pointed toward the north. “Is that not as I foretold to you? Look, the Conqueror Star!”

  Benigaris turned to follow Xannasavin’s finger. “That little red spot?”

  “Soon it will fill the sky with flame, Duke Benigaris.”

  “He did predict that it would rise, Benigaris,” Nessalanta called from her chair. She seemed disgruntled at being left out. “I’m sure everything else he said will come true as well.”

  “I’m certain it will.” Benigaris stared at the crimson pinhole in the evening sky. “The death of empires. Great deeds for the Benidrivine House.”

  “You remember, my lord!” Xannasavin smiled. “These things that worry you are only temporary. Beneath the great wheel of heaven, they are only a moment of wind across the grass.”

  “Perhaps.” The duke’s arm was still draped companion-ably across the astrologer’s shoulders. “But I worry for you, Xannasavin.”

  “My lord is too kind, to spare a thought for me in his time of trial. What is your worry, Duke Benigaris?”

  “I think you have spent too much time looking up at the sky. You need to widen your view, look down at the earth as well.” The duke pointed to the lanterns burning in the streets below. “When you stare at something too long, you lose sight of other things that are just as important. For instance, Xannasavin, the stars told you that glory would come to the Benidrivine House—but you did not listen closely enough to the marketplace gossip that Lord Camaris himself, my father’s brother, leads the armies against Nabban. Or perhaps you did listen to the gossip, and it helped you make your sudden decision to take up riding, hmm?”

  “M-my lord wrongs me.”

  “Because, of course, Camaris is the oldest heir of the Benidrivine House. So the glory for the house that you spoke of might very well be his victory, might it not?”

  “Oh, my lord, I do not think so... !”

  “Stop it, Benigaris,” Nessalanta said sharply. “Stop bullying poor Xannasavin. Come sit by me and we will . have some wine.”

  “I am trying to help him, Mother.” Benigaris turned back to the astrologer. The duke was smiling, but his face was flushed, his cheeks mottled. “As I said, I think you have spent too much time staring at the sky, and not enough paying attention to more lowly things.”

  “My lord ...”

  “I will remedy that.” Benigaris abruptly stooped, dropping his arm down to Xannasavin’s hip and wrapping his other arm around it. He straightened, grunting with the effort ; the astrologer swayed, his feet a cubit off the ground.

  “No, Duke Benigaris, no... !”

  “Stop that!” shrieked Nessalanta.

  “Go to hell.” Benigaris heaved. Xannasavin toppled over the railing, his arms grabbing at nothing, and plummeted out of sight. A long moment later a wet smack echoed up from the courtyard.

  “How ... how dare you... ?!” Nessalanta stammered, her eyes wide with shock. Benigaris rounded on her, face contorted with rage. A thin stream of blood trickled down his forehead: the astrologer had pulled loose some of his hair.

  “Shut your mouth,” he snarled. “I ought to throw you over, too, you old she-wolf. We are losing this war—losing! You may not care now, but you are not so safe as you think. I doubt that whey-faced Josua will let his army rape women and kill prisoners, but the people who whisper in the market about what happened to Father know you are just as guilty as I am.” He wiped blood from his. face. “No, I don’t need to do you in myself. Likely there are more than a few peasants sharpening their knives right now, just waiting for Camaris and the rest to show up at the gates before they start the festival.” Benigaris laughed angrily. “Do you think the palace guard is going to throw their lives away protecting you when it’s plain that everything is lost? They’re just like the peasants, Mother. They have lives to lead, and they don’t care who sits on the throne here. You old fool.” He stared at her, his mouth working, fists trembling.

  The dowager duchess shrank back in her chair. “What are you going to do?” she moaned.

  Benigaris threw out his arms. “I am going to fight, damn you. I may be a murderer, but what I have I will keep—until they take it from my dead hands.” He stalked to the doorway, then turned. “And I do not want to see you again, Mother. I don’t care where you go or what you do ... but I do not want to see you.”

  He pushed through the door and disappeared.

  “Benigaris!” Nessalanta’s voice rose to a scream. “Benigaris! Come back!”

  The silent monk had wrapped the fingers of one hand around Binabik’s throat; even as he pressed down, his other hand brought the troll’s own knife-hand up, forcing the blade closer and closer to Binabik’s sweating face.

  “Why ... are ... you... ?” The fingers cinched tighter, cutting off the little man’s air and his words. The monk’s pale, sweating face hung close; it gave off a feverish heat.

  Binabik arched his back and heaved. For a moment he partially broke the monk’s hold, and he used that sliver of freedom to kick himself off the edge of the stair, tumbling them both over so that when they rolled to a halt, Binabik was on top. The troll leaned forward, putting all his weight behind his knife, but Hengfisk held it away with one hand. Although he was thin, the monk was nearly twice the troll’s size; only the odd jerkiness of his movements seemed to be keeping him from a swift victory.

  Hengfisk’s fingers slithered around the troll’s neck once more. Frantic, Binabik tried to push the hand away with his jaw, but the monk’s grip was too strong.

  “Miriamele!” Bin
abik gasped. “Miriamele!” There was no answering cry. The troll was choking now, fighting for breath. He could not force his blade closer to Hengfisk’s relentlessly smiling face or dislodge the hand around his throat. The monk’s knees rose and squeezed Binabik’s ribs so that the little man’ could not wriggle free.

  Binabik turned his head and bit Hengfisk’s wrist. For a moment the fingers at his neck clamped even more tightly, then skin and muscle parted beneath the troll’s teeth; hot blood welled in his mouth and spilled down his chin.

  Hengfisk did not cry out—his grin did not even slacken—but he abruptly twisted, using his legs to throw Binabik to one side. The troll’s knife slipped from his hand and skittered free, but he was too occupied trying not to skid off the edge of the step and down into darkness to do anything about it. He came to a halt, palms flat on the stone, feet dangling beneath the baluster and past the brink, then pulled himself forward with hands and knees, desperate to recover his knife. It was lying only inches from Hengfisk, who crouched against the wall, protuberant eyes glaring at the troll, hand drizzling red onto the stair.

  But his grin had vanished.

  “Vad... ?” Hengfisk’s voice was a hollow croak. He looked from side to side and up and down, as though he suddenly found himself somewhere unexpected. The expression he turned at last on Binabik was full of confused horror.

  “Why are you attacking me?” Binabik rasped. Blood was smeared on his chin and cheeks. He could barely speak. “We were not having friendship ... but ...” He broke off in a fit of coughing.

  “Troll... ?” Hengfisk’s face, which moments before had been stretched in glee, had gone slack. “What... ? Ah, horrible, so horrible!”

  Astonished by the change, Binabik stared.

  “I cannot ...” The monk seemed overwhelmed with misery and bafflement. His fingers twitched. “I cannot ... oh, merciful God, troll, it is so cold... !”

  “What has happened to you?” Binabik pulled himself a little nearer, keeping a watchful eye on the dagger, but though it lay only a short distance from Hengfisk’s hand, the monk seemed oblivious.

  “I cannot tell. I cannot speak it.” The monk began to weep. “They have filled me ... with ... pushed me aside ... how could my God be so cruel... ?”

  “Tell me. Is there some helping thing I can do?”

  The monk stared at him, and for a brief moment something like hope flickered in his bulging, red-rimmed eyes. Then his back stiffened and his head jerked. He screamed with pain.

  “Hengfisk!” Binabik threw his hands up as though to ward off whatever had stabbed at the monk.

  Hengfisk jerked, arms extended straight out, limbs shaking. “Do not... !” he shouted. “No!” For an instant he seemed to master himself, but his gaunt face, when he turned it back to Binabik, began to ripple and change as though serpents roiled beneath the flesh. “They are false, troll.” There was a terrible, deathly weight to his words. “False beyond believing. But as cunning as Time itself.” He turned awkwardly and took a few staggering steps down the stairway, passing so close that Binabik could have reached out to touch him. “Go,” the monk breathed.

  Unnerved even more than he had been by the attack, Binabik crawled forward and picked up his knife. A sound behind him made him whirl. Hengfisk, his lips skinned back in a grin once more, was lurching up the steps. Binabik had time only to lift his arms before the monk fell upon him. Hengfisk’s stinking robe wrapped around them both like a shroud. There was a brief struggle, then stillness.

  Binabik crawled out from beneath the body of the monk. After regaining his breath, he rolled Hengfisk over onto his back. The hilt of his bone knife protruded from the monk’s left eye. Shuddering, the troll pulled the blade free and wiped it on the dark robe. Hengfisk’s last smile was frozen on his face.

  Binabik picked up his fallen torch and stumbled back up the steps to the landing. Miriamele had vanished, and the packs that had contained their food and water and other important articles were gone, too. Binabik had nothing but his torch and his walking stick.

  “Princess!” he called. The echoes caromed into the emptiness beyond the stairs. “Miriamele!”

  Except for the body of the monk, he was alone.

  “He must have gone mad. Are you certain that is what he wants?”

  “Yes, Prince Josua, I am certain. I spoke to him myself.” Baron Seriddan lowered himself onto a stool, waving away his squire when the young man tried to take his cloak. “You know, if this is not a trick, we could hardly wish for a better offer. Many men will die before we take the city walls, otherwise. But it is strange.”

  “It is not at all what I expected of Benigaris,” Josua admitted. “He demanded that it be Camaris? Is he so tired of life?”

  Baron Seriddan shrugged, then reached out to take the cup his squire brought him.

  Isgrimnur, who had been watching silently, grunted. He understood why the baron and Josua were puzzled. Certainly Benigaris was losing—in the last month, the coalition assembled by Josua and the Nabbanai barons had pushed the duke’s forces back until all that remained in Benigaris’ control was the city itself. But Nabban was the greatest city in Osten Ard, and its seaport made a true siege difficult. Some of Josua’s allies had provided their own house navies, but these were not enough to blockade the city and starve it into submission. So why should the reigning Duke of Nabban offer such an odd bargain? Still, Josua was taking the news as though it were he who would have to fight Camaris.

  Isgrimnur shifted his aching body into a more comfortable position. “It sounds mad, Josua—but what have we to lose? It is Benigaris who is trusting our good faith, not the other way around.”

  “But it’s madness!” Josua said unhappily. “And all he wants if he wins is safe passage for himself and his family and servants? Those are surrender terms—so why should he wish to fight for them? It makes no sense. It must be a trick.” The prince seemed to be hoping someone would agree with him. “This sort of thing has not been done in a hundred years!”

  Isgrimnur smiled. “Except by you, just a few short months ago in the grasslands. Everyone knows that story, Josua. They’ll be telling it around the campfires for a long time.”

  The prince did not return his smile. “But I used a trick to force Fikolmij into that! And he never dreamed that his champion might lose. Even if Benigaris does not believe that this is truly his uncle, he must have heard what sort of warrior he is! None of it makes sense!” He turned to the old knight, who had been sitting in the corner, still as a statue. “What do you think, Sir Camaris?”

  Camaris spread his broad hands palms upward before him. “It must end. If this is how the ending will come, then I will play my part. And Baron Seriddan speaks truly: we would be fools to throw away this chance out of suspicion. We may save many lives. For that alone, I would do whatever is needed.”

  Josua nodded. “I suppose so. I still do not understand the why of it, but I suppose I must agree. The people of Nabban do not deserve to suffer because their lord is a patricide. And if we accomplish this, we have a greater task before us—one for which we will need our army whole and strong.”

  Of course, Josua’s down-mouthed, Isgrimnur realized. He knows that we have horrors before us that may overshadow the slaughter in the Onestrine Pass so gravely that we think back on that battle as a day of sport. Only Josua, of all of us in this room, survived the siege of Naglimund. He’s fought the White Foxes. Of course he’s grim.

  Out loud, he said: “Then it’s settled. I just hope somebody will help me find a stool for my fat old backside so I can watch it happen.”

  Josua looked at him a little sourly. “It is not a tourney, Isgrimnur. But you will be there—we all will. That seems to be what Benigaris wants.”

  Rituals, Tiamak thought. My people’s must seem as odd to the drylanders as these to me.

  He stood on the windy hillside, watching as Nabban’s great city gates swung wide. A small procession of horsemen emerged, the leader dressed in plate armor that
gleamed even beneath the cloudy afternoon skies. One of the other riders carried the huge blue and gold banner of the Kingfisher House. But no horns blew.

  Tiamak watched Benigaris and his party ride toward the place where the Wrannaman stood with Josua’s company. As they waited, the wind grew stronger. Tiamak felt it through his robe and shivered.

  It is bitterly cold. Too cold for this time of year, even near the ocean.

  The riders stopped a few paces short of the prince and his followers. Josua’s soldiers lounged in scattered ranks about the bottom of the hillside, caught up in the moment and watching attentively. Faces also peered from the windows and rooftops of outer Nabban and from the city walls. A war had been abruptly halted so that this moment could take place. Now all the participants stood waiting, like toys set up and then forgotten.

  Josua stepped forward. “You have come, Benigaris.”

  The leading rider pushed up the visor of his helm. “I have, Josua. In my way, I am an honorable man. Just like you.”

  “And you intend to abide by the terms you gave Baron Seriddan? Single combat? And all you ask if you win is safe conduct for your family and retainers?”

  Benigaris flexed his shoulders impatiently. “You have my word. I have yours. Let us get on with this. Where is ... the great man?”

  Josua looked at him with some distrust. “He is here.”

  As the prince spoke, the circle of people behind him parted and Camaris stepped forward. The old knight wore chain mail. His surcoat was without insignia, and he held the antique sea-dragon helmet under his arm. Tiamak thought that Camaris looked even more unhappy than usual.

  As he stared at the old man’s face, Benigaris’ sour smile curled the ends of his mustaches. “Ah. I was right. I told her.” He nodded toward the knight. “Greetings, Uncle.”

  Camaris said nothing.

  Josua lifted his hand. He seemed to be finding the scene increasingly distasteful. “So, then. Let us get on with it.” He turned to the Duke of Nabban. “Varellan is here, and he has not been mistreated. I promise that whatever happens, we will treat your sister and mother with kindness and honor.”