Mag kissed his cheek. “Stay with us, my dear.”
“That was-” Gabriel struggled for words.
Mag laughed. “I’ve been wondering when he might try a straight-up kill,” she said. “I’ve been working on that for months.” She was brimful of power-and pride. Until she saw Arnaud.
She bent over him, but he was dead.
Gabriel reached up and put a hand on her skirts. “Did you-hit him?”
“No. He bolted at my first twitch.” She smiled. “I knew he had to.” Her smile grew shakier. “That is, I hoped he had to.”
She sat suddenly. And then she put a hand on the dead priest’s hands, and cried.
Chapter Two
Albinkirk
The company that rode into Albinkirk was sober, watchful, and grief-stricken. The company flags were furled, and the lead wagon held corpses-any observer could see as much.
Ser John Crayford watched them come through the gate and rode immediately to the head of the column, instead of reviewing and saluting the entire company.
The young sprig of last year was older. Much older. He wore a small pointed beard and his eyes were tired. His face was an expressionless mask of fatigue and unexpressed grief.
“How can I help?” Ser John asked.
Ser Gabriel took his offered hand. “Today, barracks. Tomorrow…” His eyes flickered aside. “Tomorrow, a priest you like and a church. We have a dozen dead.” His eyes held grief-actual grief.
Welcome to growing up, laddie, Ser John thought. But he had kindness in him, too, and in fifty heartbeats his squire was riding for the bishop while his valet led the outriders to the barracks. The castle was still half-empty. With the company at a little over a third of its strength, he could put every man and woman in a bed, or at least on a straw pallet.
Ser John got the tale of the ambush from Kit Foliak, who he knew from his younger days, as the tired squires and pages began to sort the packs and the leather bags and the wagons and the horses in the citadel’s courtyard, paved with uneven stones five centuries old.
When he’d seen to the company’s basic comforts, he went with Ser Ricar Fitzalan-a thinner and fitter version of the King’s captain-into his hall and sent a boy for the Red Knight. The man came with his famous brother, and sat in a tall chair piled with cushions while his valet raised one of his legs, elevated it, and put it on a stool. The slip of a girl was quick, efficient, and apparently unconcerned by her master’s vague nastiness.
“Stop that-fuck, you’re hurting me,” the captain spat. “Damn it, girl. Stop fussing. No, I do not want water. Get your hands off me.”
Nell ignored him resolutely, following Mag’s orders.
Ser Gabriel was out of his harness, and his fine velvet arming coat was filthy.
The man seemed to come to himself. He sighed and looked at Ser John.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I’m not myself.”
Ser Gavin shrugged and accepted a cup of wine. “You seem exactly like yourself to me,” he said. “I’m not sure we’ve been introduced. I’m Ser Gavin Muriens. This is my brother, Ser Gabriel.”
Ser John rose and bowed. “Ser John Crayford. I know your brother, from the siege and all that followed.” He looked at the surly captain. “And for lifting my two best men-at-arms when he went past last time.”
Ser Ricar laughed aloud. “Well, I don’t know either of you, but I’m Ser Ricar Fitzalan. The old king’s bastard. And captain of the bodyguard.”
Ser Gavin bowed. “I saw you after Lissen Carak. Indeed, we were within a few beds in the dispensary of the sisters.”
Ser Ricar bowed from his seat. “Of course. My apologies.”
“Hah! One linen-wrapped body looks much like the rest,” Gavin said. “But Sister Amicia pointed you out.”
Ser John leaned forward. “Kit Foliak says you were ambushed-beat the ambush-and that a certain former king’s sorcerer tried to clinch the bargain.”
Gabriel played with his untrimmed beard. “Master Foliak is very free with his information. But yes.”
Ser John shook his head. “I mean no harm and, by God, sirs, I believe we are of the same metal. If there need be factions, surely we are all King’s men? And all of us foes of Plangere and his ilk.”
Gabriel’s smile was not friendly. But he sighed-a long exhalation. He looked at his brother, who twitched an eyebrow.
“Ser John, I’m a churl today. I’m not at my best, and I beg your pardon.” He bowed slightly in his chair.
Ser John reflected the bow exactly.
Ser Gabriel looked out the window at the spring rain. They’d lost a day crossing the last stream before Albinkirk, the north branch of the West Kanatha. It was flooded to a roaring torrent by the spring melt. It had taken too long for tired men to get the wagons across.
The captain’s tongue had been too active and too biting.
He regretted it. He stared out the window and no one spoke. Finally he said, “I lost too many men. And a-a friend.”
Ser John thought ahhh.
Less intuitive, or simply blunter, Ser Ricar held out his cup for more wine and asked, “What hit you?”
Ser Gavin’s voice was not much less strained than his brother’s. “Four wyverns,” he said. “Twenty daemons and a shaman. Something we’ve never seen before.” Gavin gestured vaguely over his shoulder. “We brought two corpses to show you. We call them imps.” He looked away. “We lost three men to them.”
Ser John shook his head. “I am sorry for your losses, Captain. And sorry you were attacked; I try to patrol my lands. Where were you?”
“The Hole,” Ser Gabriel said. “Not in any way your fault.”
Ser Ricar and Ser John exchanged a look. “So far south and east!” Ser Ricar said.
“Thorn’s coming,” Gabriel said, and the name was like a curse. “You know, until now, I have not taken him seriously. Like a fool. Like a fool. I gave him a year to recover, and now look.” Gabriel’s face wore the same anger that the goodwife had worn. “He’s back.”
“Brother-” Gavin said with a cautioning hand.
Gabriel shook it off. “You have called a council,” he said to Ser John. “I’d like to attend with my brother. With Tom Lachlan, who is now the Drover.”
Ser John nodded. “We’d be proud to have you, sir knight. The Abbess will be here, and most of our northern gentry will be here or be represented.”
“I can represent the Emperor,” Gabriel said.
Ser John’s eyebrows shot up, but he had heard the rumours.
“And as Duke of Thrake, I think I deserve a seat at the table,” he added.
“Or the whole table,” Ser Gavin muttered.
Ser John frowned. “Well-you gentlemen will dominate my council, then, with your mother. She’s expected tomorrow from Ticondaga.”
A difficult silence fell.
Ser John wondered what he’d said.
Finally, Ser Gabriel gave a laugh that had a sob in it. “Am I safe in assuming that the Abbess will bring Sister Amicia?” he asked.
Ser John smiled. “Of course. She’s essential to our defences.”
Gabriel nodded. “Perfect,” he said. He held out his cup. “I’ll need some more wine.”
An hour later, Ser Gavin had his brother in a bed, in a clean nightshirt, and lightly drunken on wine and lots of water. “Brother,” he said.
Gabriel smiled ruefully. “I’m well. Well enough. You go.”
Gavin shook his head. “I’ll stay.”
Gabriel raised his head. “I’m not a fucking weakling, brother. Trust me, I’ll weather this. And you’ve waited almost a year to see her. Go! At the very least, she needs to know that Mater might be here, and what that will mean.”
“Sweet Christ, I hadn’t even thought-” Gavin smacked his head. “Oh, dear God.”
“Exactly,” Gabriel said. “You must go. And I will stay here, and play the role. Come back-but don’t despair. The worst is over.”
Gavin looked at his brother with too much understanding. “No, it isn’t.”
Gabriel frowned. “I didn’t know how much I liked him,” he said. “I didn’t…”