Dalria smacked the table top so hard that her hand stung. “Do not presume to lecture me on my family’s grief. I remember the full depth of our loss—”
She screwed her eyes tight shut against treacherous tears. Feeling the comforting pressure of the great hound’s body against her thigh, she buried her aching hand in his wiry fur.
Jerban was shaken. “You were not even five years old—”
“Old enough for that vile day to be engraved on my memory.” She glared at him. “What makes this fortune-hunter any different than the others who tried to deceive my grandfather?” She scorned Jerban’s surprise. “As his health failed this winter past, he told me to expect them with the spring finches. He knew how fraudsters would flock to prey on a young woman inheriting such an estate.”
Her wave encompassed the muniment room with its generations of records, the sprawling castle beyond and all the lands from this hillside town of Harles down to the river port of Reole where her ancestor had won a Margrave’s coronet by fighting at the King’s side.
“Quite so. I have already sent the constables to haul several such scoundrels before the Justiciars. This young man’s situation is quite different.” Jerban laced his bony fingers together.
Dalria had noticed he always did that when he was about to lecture her, from her earliest days sitting quietly in this room at her grandfather’s side. But Grandfather was dead and life had changed beyond recall.
“How so?” Beneath the table, she felt the black hound rest its head on her feet.
Jerban cleared his throat again. “His name is Keresh Rowle and he was raised as an orphan in the Sanctuary in Eridanse. When he was fourteen years of age, he was apprenticed to a papermaker and no one thought any more about him. These past months, though, news of your grandfather’s death has spread along the rivers.”
He paused.
“Whether it was by chance or the Moon God’s will, that news reached the Sun Goddess’s temple in Eridanse. Idle talk revived memories of your parents’ fate and your brother’s loss.”
Dalria raised a hand to interrupt him. “Did such gossip recall how all enchantments in the Sun Goddess’s gift failed to find him alive?”
“True, but even the Moon God’s magic could not find his body,” countered Jerban. “A priestess remembered the child Keresh had been brought to them a few months after that tragedy. She checked the precise date in their records and discovered he had been wearing an amulet which had been kept in case anyone ever claimed the child. If they could describe it, as proof of good faith—”
“What of it?” Dalria demanded.
“It shows a stag-horned sheep.” Jerban reached for the inner pocket of his plain brown coat and produced a polished bronze rectangle, pierced and hung on a chain.
Even in the dim light, Dalria saw the unmistakable outline of her family’s crest. She fought to keep her tone level. “And what does this Keresh say?”
“Very little,” Jerban said with unexpected frankness. “He remembers nothing of his life before the Sanctuary. He knew nothing of this amulet, until the priestess discovered it and the Temple sent him to my office in Bastrys.”
“My brother’s name was Rechen, not Keresh.” Dalria pressed her lips tight together. She felt the great hound stir beneath the table, rubbing its head against her legs.
“The child was brought to the priestesses sick almost to death with onion-skin fever. When he recovered, he didn’t even know his own name.” Jerban shrugged. “Keresh was the name of the priest-physician who saved him while Rowle was the family name of the grain merchant who found him abandoned, unconscious, in the street.”
“In Eridanse?” Dalria shook her head. “My parents’ vessel hadn’t even reached Stannar when the squall sank it. How could a child not yet seven years old travel, what, five hundred leagues?”
“We assume the child was taken there by some unknown person,” Jerban said testily.
“You can assume he was carried there on a winged horse,” Dalria retorted, “but you have no evidence. That amulet proves nothing.”
“He is of the same age—”
“Really? You’ve studied his teeth?” Dalria challenged. “You can be so certain when even the best horse-dealer can only tell a beast’s age to within a few years?”
“I have the evidence of my own eyes,” snapped Jerban. “I am not a complete fool, my lady. Your father and I were much of an age, and I was already clerking for Master Therind, who was your grandfather’s man of affairs before me. I was honored that your father counted me as a friend. This young man, Keresh—” he groped for the best way to explain “—the resemblance is beyond striking. You must see for yourself. Do me that much courtesy, my lady.”
Dalria felt embarrassment reddening her face. Grandfather had told her often enough that rank didn’t excuse rudeness. “Very well,” she said with all the dignity she could muster. “I will join you shortly.” She reached for a piece of paper, any paper. It didn’t matter what might be written on it, as long as looking at it meant avoiding the lawyer’s eyes.
“My lady.” Master Jerban bowed and withdrew, his shoulders stiff with indignation.
Grandfather would doubtless have told her the man was only doing his duty as he thought best. Just as his irritating wife doubtless thought she was helping a provincial, motherless girl. Dalria pressed ice cold hands to her flaming cheeks and closed stinging eyes.
The great black hound crept out from under the table and laid its head in her lap. With a questioning noise between a whine and a whimper, it looked up at her with liquid, deep brown eyes. She bent over to embrace the fearsome beast, pressing her face into its fur.
Silent moments passed. Dalria drew a shuddering breath, her resolve returning. She sat upright, her eyes dry. The great hound stretched its neck to brush her check with a flick of its long tongue. She patted its shoulder. “I suppose we’d better go and see, boy.”
Returning to the newer building, she found Harbon in the entrance hall, looking anxious. The door to the reception room stood ajar. “My lady, your guests—”
“Where have they gone?”
“To the gallery.” He gestured towards the stairs. “Should I have bedchambers prepared?”
“Thank you.” Dalria smiled. “Please inform Mistress Zante there will be four to dinner. Meantime, you may go about your usual duties.”
She went up the stairs, head held high. The great hound padded along at her side. The gallery was on the uppermost floor, light and airy and running the full width of the building. The long room offered a generous space for guests to gather in, or for small children to play endless games when wet weather forbade adventures out of doors. Dalria and her grandfather had spent countless such days together here. Then as she and he had both grown older, they had spent their time discussing the portraits hung in tiers two and three high.
Jerban was escorting the young man. “This is Lord Savalris, fifth margrave, who rebuilt much of this castle after the civil war.”
“The family resemblance is undeniable,” Mistress Jerban observed.
The young man, Keresh, stared at the paintings, astonished.
“Have you shown him Lord Lyelen?” Dalria asked as she entered. “My great uncle,” she explained. “He travelled up and down the kingdom’s rivers on my great-grandfather’s business and left bastards the length and breadth of the realm.”
She felt a qualm as she looked at this pretender for the first time. The angle of his dark eyebrows and the sharp beak of his nose were strikingly familiar, while the velvet mystery of his brown eyes reminded Dalria of her grandfather.
He bowed low. “And the dog?”
Dalria’s heart pounded and her mouth was suddenly dry as dust. For an instant she truly feared she might faint. “You can see it?”
Keresh straightened up and looked at her, puzzled. “It’s in all the pictures.”
True enough, the fearsome hound stood next to every man and woman who had ever held the Reole title. Long
and lean, its shoulders were level with even the tallest margrave’s hip. Beside some of the women, its head rose higher than their waist.
“It’s a crag hound,” Jerban explained. “This family’s prosperity was initially founded on flocks of stag-horned sheep grazed on their hill country estates—”
“Can you see it now, here, in this room?” Dalria demanded.
Beside her, the great beast pricked its ears, fur-plumed tail wagging, all its attention focused on the young man.
“What do you mean?” Keresh looked around, bemused.
Dalria found she could breathe again. His gaze swept past the hound at her side with no flicker of recognition in his eyes.
“Local folklore—” Jerban began hastily.
“It’s of no consequence,” his wife insisted in the same breath.
“That hound you see in all these portraits is Death,” Dalria said baldly. “Our family’s Death, at least, and if you cannot see that self-same black hound large as life and standing beside me, that proves beyond all doubt that you cannot be my brother. You are not my grandfather’s heir.”
“What?” The young man gaped at her.
“Magic extends beyond the temples and shrines, even if such things are seldom spoken of.” Dalria met his gaze unblinking. “I have seen this great beast ever since that foul night when my family drowned. My grandfather saw him ever since his own grandfather died and he became the heir to his mother the Margravine. This is how our family’s magic works.”
“However sincerely meant, such stories prove nothing,” Master Jerban insisted. “As far as the law is concerned—”
“Do you think we would come all this way without testing the witnesses and their testimony?” His wife was affronted on her husband’s behalf. “We brought them all before the Justiciar in Bastrys, with a priest and priestess in attendance. We have sworn affidavits—”
“The Sun Goddess’s magic proves that someone is telling the truth as they know it.” Dalria clenched her fists, hidden in the folds of her skirts. “The Moon God’s magic warns his priests when someone tells a deliberate lie. Neither reveals matters of fact.”
“Validating such testimony rules out deliberate fraud.” Jerban’s courtesy was growing strained. “I have the Justiciar’s authority to search the records here for mention of this amulet. For any indication that your brother could have been wearing it when your parents’ boat was lost.”
“Will you look for records of other trinkets bearing this house’s insignia?” Dalria snapped. “Which could have passed through any number of hands before being hung around some pauper brat’s neck?”
She regretted those words as soon as she saw the young man flinch with humiliation.
“Forgive me,” she said curtly. “I did not mean to insult you.”
He didn’t acknowledge her apology, still looking up at the portraits. “How can an artist paint this hound, if only those who will inherit can see him?”
“That’s merely one of this fable’s contradictions.” Mistress Jerban shot Dalria a venomous look.
She ignored the woman, addressing her reply to Keresh. “Other people may see him when there’s a death in the line of succession. Ask the servants here. A few remember him appearing when my parents were lost. Several saw him when my grandfather died.”
“They might wish to think so, because some shadow set their imagination running riot,” Mistress Jerban scoffed.
“Artists work from the descriptions given to them by those sitting for the portraits.” Dalria colored again as she recalled the polite skepticism of the urbane artist who had commemorated her last birthday. Once more, she blinked away tears. Her grandfather had died scant days after seeing the picture finished.
“They’re remarkably consistent.” The young man walked slowly along the gallery, studying portrayals of the hound. At Dalria’s side, the beast sat on its haunches, long red tongue lolling from its open mouth.
“Hardly surprising.” Mistress Jerban waved a dismissive hand. “Crag hounds are still bred in the hills.”
Infuriated, Dalria stepped forward, any willingness to think the best of the woman’s motives evaporating.
“My lady.” Master Jerban bowed hastily. “With your permission, I will begin my search of the muniment room’s records. The sooner we have some indication of —” he hesitated “—whatever might be firmly established, the better.”
Though he didn’t wait for her dismissal, turning to head for the stairs as soon as he finished speaking. Dalria saw his wife’s barely veiled satisfaction. She also saw the embarrassment which Keresh was valiantly trying to hide. Whatever he had been led to expect, this confrontation was none of his making.
“You will excuse me.” Dalria fled, barely able to avoid running in her haste to escape.
* * *
She made her way to the walkway built into the thickness of the old castle wall. Reaching the tall tower to the right hand of the outer gateway, she climbed to the ancient vantage point built for watchmen. She and her grandfather had come here ever since she was a small child. She had grown up with him telling her that all these lands would become her responsibility, together with the livelihoods and wellbeing of every man, woman and child who dwelled there.
The climb wasn’t without its difficulties. The hound kept trying to squeeze past her in the narrow passage. Dalria recognized the displeasure in his low grumbling growl. He had been content for her to make this ascent with her grandfather, but since the old Margrave’s death, the hound had made his misgivings clear. When Dalria pushed open the topmost door, the great beast seized its chance and forced its way past to stand between her and the low parapet.
“It’s all right.” Dalria sat down on the mossy slates. Asserting herself over the great hound was one thing. Stupidity was quite another. The wind up here was strong enough to pluck at her hair and clothing. Any sudden gust might well test her balance.
The great hound lay down with a huff of satisfaction. Its bulk still barred her from approaching the edge nonetheless and while it rested its muzzle on its forepaws, its dark eyes remained watchful.
Dalria gazed out over the countryside. The rooftops of Harles were just visible in the distance. To her right hand, the hills grew steeper and sharper, darkened with distant forests, while to her left, the land softened to the rolling green pastures of the downs.
“What happens now?” she challenged the dog. “Will Master Jerban find something to prove his theory? He really wants this boy’s claim to be true.” She bit her lip. “I never knew he and my father were friends. True friends, it seems, if he’s so desperate to do the right thing by his memory.”
She couldn’t accuse Jerban of any ulterior motive. He hadn’t gone looking for this unforeseen claimant. He had tested the youth’s story as far as he possibly could.
“Why does his wife want this to be true?” Dalria drew up her feet hugged her knees. “To see her husband’s influence increased? To see him earn the commissions and emoluments that will keep her in the style to which she’s accustomed?”
She shook her head. “No, that’s not entirely fair.”
Doubtless Mistress Jerban had an interest in her husband’s continued prosperity, but the woman was equally concerned with the best management of Dalria’s inheritance. She had identified a handful of miscreants abusing the castle’s customary charity shortly after the old Margrave’s death.
What the woman found incomprehensible was Dalria’s determination to take up the burden of her legacy. On her previous visit she’d made it clear she expected the girl to defer to older and wiser heads. If not, then she doubtless thought that an heir who did would make a far better margrave.
The great hound lay with its head on outstretched forepaws, watching intently as Dalria contemplated this conundrum.
“If Jerban can make a plausible case that this Keresh could very well be my long-lost brother, then the burden passes to me to prove that it is impossible. How am I supposed to do that? You’re the
only proof that I need, but I’m the only one who can see you here.”
The black dog thumped its feathery tail on the slates.
“What then?” Dalria stared into the distance, unseeing. “Will Inky Jerban go to law to challenge me? Go to the Justiciary, waving his affidavits? Must I find myself an attorney to challenge him? How much of my time will this waste? How much of this family’s income will vanish into lawyers’ pockets? How far will the story spread? How soon before people choose to believe it, whatever the truth may be?”
She knew how uneasy the local townsfolk and farmers were, to see the Margravate resting on one unmarried young woman’s shoulders. Her father had been an only son and his sisters had married into noble families many hundreds of leagues away. If this great inheritance was passed backwards to them, if her aunts chose to divide the family’s holdings among their children’s distant lineages, who knew what might befall the people here?
“Can my Aunt Rabesa see you?” Dalria looked thoughtfully at the massive dog. “Can you somehow be at her side all the way away in Chalus as well as with me here? Should I write and ask her? But what if she can’t see you, because she’s so far away? What if she can see you but denies it, for fear that her husband’s family will think she’s mad? Then everyone will call me a liar and say that our family’s magic is no more than a myth. Surely that will strengthen this claimant’s case?”
The hound whined, its brows hooded with concern.
“The sooner we resolve this, the better for everyone. But how can I prove I’m not lying?” Dalria drummed contemplative fingers. “Who else has seen you, and when?”
The great black dog didn’t answer. He simply lay there, watchful and silent.
A few moments later, Dalria pursed her lips. She sprang to her feet. The hound leapt up and barked. She ignored him, heading down the spiral stair. As she followed the dank and shadowed walkway back to the newer reaches of the castle, the great hound was nowhere to be seen.