Lorn that now, in silent accord, turned and flew away.
The Lyrose way was the sneer and the biting comment, not snarled oaths or angry shouting.
Yet the four surviving Lyroses had forgotten and flung aside their customary manner long ago, so heated in the disagreement that had followed their smallmeat tarts and wine that they had ordered servants and guards alike out of earshot, then stormed up to the long-disused topmost turret bedchamber of Lyraunt Castle so they could shout and spit at each other freely without being overheard.
What the family Lyrose was arguing so heatedly about was what to do in the ongoing war with Hammerhand.
Lord Magrandar was furious, and had taken to repeatedly saying so.
He was saying so right now, in roars that echoed thunderously around the small, round stone room.
"I am furious that Eldred and Horondeir were so rash and stupid as to get themselves killed!" He ran out of room to angrily stride across the small bedchamber and whirled around, half-cloak swirling. "To say nothing of hurling aside the lives of a lot of my best knights! They were like eager children!"
He whirled around again. "Why, anyone could have foreseen that the Hammerhands would fight to avenge their heir, not flee hand-wringing and shrieking! What were Eldred and Horondeir thinking?''''
Pelmard knew very well how much he'd led his father's opinions astray in his twisted retellings of what had happened on the forest trail, but he dared not change his tale again now. He'd been busily blaming his two dead brothers for every last little misfortune, and if a Lyrose was going to be blamed for something, let it be a dead one, and not a far more favorite family target: the sullen youngest son, Pelmard Lyrose.
He hadn't known his icily-calm, nasty father could grieve, but grief must be the fire behind Lord Lyrose's wild scheme.
Unless Lord Magrandar Lyrose was given to bouts of sudden madness he'd hitherto managed to hide from his family.
Two of his sons might now lie dead as a result of testing them, but-Dooms take us all! — the Lord of Lyraunt Castle actually thought the ward-piercing crossbow quarrels the wizard Malraun had given them had worked so well that he wanted to strike at Hammerhand right now, so as to do the most harm he could.
Not by besieging Hammerhold, mind, but by seeking to capture Irontarl, and so luring Hammerhand's troops into street battles in the town, where they could readily be slain with the new quarrels, by Lyrose archers aiming along streets and alleys and down from rooftops.
Pelmard tried to keep his incredulity off his face, but he knew all too well where this was heading.
Sly, craven coward he might be-he knew that was every last Lyrose's opinion of him-but this was madness.
Madness he wanted no part of, yet was quite likely to be hurled into the heart of, if he knew his kin.
This rash attack on Irontarl would doom them all, when just sticking to their defenses and patiently waiting a season or so longer would see Hammerhand overreach himself.
He said so, trying to sound calm and wise, as if he'd observed and considered this very matter for months. "Hammerhand is a warrior-he must be in the thick of the fray, sword in hand. So we give him frays, of our choosing, and wait for the moment when he rides too far, and we can surround and overwhelm him. If we can kill Burrim Hammerhand, he has no heir left now but his spit-shrew of a daughter. And I know just how to handle her." He kept his leer soft and slight.
Yet found himself staring into three coldly hostile gazes.
"Your problem, my son," his mother said icily, "is that we all know you rather too well. We look upon Pelmard Lyrose, and see a coward who would betray-even slay-us all in an instant if doing so aided you in any way."
Did they know the truth about Eldred and Horondeir?
Pelmard waited, but she said no more, letting the silence lengthen until he filled it by sighing, shrugging, and saying, "I disagree with your judgment of me, yet I doubt I can unmake it in any great hurry. What would you have me be?"
"A battle leader," she said crisply.
"And a worthy heir of this house," Lord Magrandar Lyrose added heavily.
"And failing that," his sister Mrythra said silkily, "I'd like to see you killed while trying to become those things."
Pelmard kept his face as expressionless as he knew how, as he gazed back at her.
So this was the trap at last, yawning before him, and all three of them seeking to thrust him forward into it. He knew very well Mrythra and his mother Maerelle both believed Mrythra would make a much better Lyrose heir anyway-and one who could shrewdly marry a Stormar lordling to drag new allies into the endless Ironthar wars, so as to defeat and slaughter Hammerhand and Tesmer once and for all.
"And so?" he asked quietly, lifting one eyebrow in sardonic challenge.
He knew what was coming.
His family stared back at him. So did they.
Chapter Ten
"AND SO," Lord Magrandar Lyrose replied quietly, "we're expecting you to stride forward into firmly and properly doing the right deed. For once."
"And just what would this 'right deed' be?" Pelmard tried to sound as unconcerned yet silkily menacing as his mother or his sister ever had. He would be damned before the Forestmother and all the prancing Dooms if he'd give them the satisfaction of seeing him crawl. Or show fear. Or rage in desperation. "Getting myself killed trying to become a victorious-in-battle heir of this house?"
His parents and his sister answered him with shrugs, silently smiling nods, and sneers.
"I see," Pelmard drawled, trying to sound far more nonchalant than he felt. "In my judgment-as heir of this house and a loyal Lyrose son who has dared much for my kin, unlike my only surviving sibling, whose daring very seldom reaches beyond the walls of this castle-that seems to be a view that's very wasteful of family resources. Almost, one might say, the act of a foe. Hammerhand swords claimed the lives of my brothers, not Lyrose treacheries. Yet all of you cleave to this decision?"
More silent, smirking nods, broken by Lady Maerelle Lyrose saying coldly, "Put away indolent cowardice and obey your father, Pelmard. It is far past the time you should have begun doing so. Lead this foray into Irontarl or be a Lyrose no more."
Pelmard met her cold stare for a time that would have been less than comfortable for anyone not so well armored in hatred as those of the Blood Lyrose. Then he said lightly, "Very well. If you are all resolved to be this wasteful of kin, I shall do the same."
He held up his right hand and slid an ornate ring off his middle finger, to reveal a second ring that had been concealed beneath. It instantly kindled into a sullen glow.
"The wizard Malraun favors me," he told his family gloatingly, "and gave me this, for use should my life ever be threatened. I can blast all of you where you stand-or as you dare not oppose me, I can stride out of this castle, hie me straight to Hammerhand with all of my knights riding at my back, and fight against Lyrose henceforth. Making your deaths slower, but probably far messier."
"Think you so, foolish boy?" his mother said sweetly. "What have you ever done, that a Doom should favor you over the rest of us?"
Sneeringly she drew a locket on a fine chain up out of her bodice into view, and flipped it open to reveal an identical warning glow of magic. On either side of her, her daughter and husband unveiled their own glowing rings to Pelmard; mirrors of his own.
"As you see," his father said, "we all have our little secret weapons, tokens of the special esteem our patron Doom holds all of us in. Given to each of us privately by the wizard Malraun, in return for our various personal promises, yet seeming very much alike to me. Wherefore know you, Pelmard my obedient son, that these three arrayed against you overmatch your little gift from Malraun."