“This young man has been through terrible things,” he said warmly. “No wonder that such hardships have . . . clouded his reason, made him see enemies where no enemies are. If there is anything I can do to make him more comfortable, I should be more than happy to do so after the ceremony.”
Sir Robert glanced sidelong at his future son-in-law—a look that held no approval.
“But of course, Sir Gabriel,” he sighed, “the question becomes that ceremony. For if there is an ounce of truth in what the boy says—”
“That I am Benedict di Caela?” Sir Gabriel interrupted incredulously, then burst into loud and terrible laughter. “There’s too much malice in you, Sir Robert. You’ve been wounded too long by the curse your forefathers inflicted.”
He smiled wickedly and leaned against the tapestry.
“But let us be fair. Does the boy have an ounce of evidence beyond his fevered testimony?”
Bayard and Sir Robert looked at me.
My thoughts raced.
Evidence? From the mountains? The swamp?
Nothing.
From . . .
“Bayard, please bring me my cloak. It’s over there by the fire.”
Bayard did as I asked, never taking his eyes from Gabriel Androctus.
Who looked puzzled now, and maybe a little worried.
Bayard handed me the cloak, warmed and partially dried on the hearth, but still wet in its folds from last night’s drenching downpour. I coughed at the smell of wet wool, then fumbled through the pockets, past the Calantina dice, past the tooled gloves . . .
“Here they are!”
Sir Bayard and Sir Robert leaned forward eagerly. Sir Gabriel took a short, tentative step toward the door.
“These stones!” I proclaimed, opening the soggy drawstring of the bag, letting the half dozen opals tumble onto the bed, where they stood out soft and white and lovely against the rough bedclothes.
“So?” Sir Gabriel shot back quickly. “This is some sort of incriminating evidence?”
“I should say it is! These are the very opals you bribed me with when this whole unsavory business began. When you wanted Sir Bayard’s armor back in my father’s moat house, when you took it and performed the gods know what outrage with it—”
“Enough, Galen,” Bayard cautioned. “You’ve made your point. Does this persuade you, Sir Robert?”
“Not unless he’s a bigger fool than I think he is,” snapped Sir Gabriel, as Sir Robert leaned over the bed, picked up one of the opals, and held it to the light. “How many places, I ask, could a boy of Galen Pathwarden’s. . . proclivities have ‘discovered’ a purse filled with semiprecious stones?”
“What’s this about being a ‘bigger fool than you think I am,’ Androctus?” Sir Robert snapped back, reddening. “Just how big a damn fool do you think I am, you sable-robed prima donnal” he roared, and Bayard leaped between the two men, parting them.
Androctus stepped once more toward the door. “You misunderstand me, sir,” he soothed. “I was only saying that the lad might have found these anywhere, and the fact that they were on his person should not lead us to the conclusion that I bribed him with stones.”
Sir Robert recovered his calm and his dignity. He spoke coldly, directly.
“But these are glain opals, Sir Gabriel. From Estwilde. Found only in Estwilde, mined only near the Throtyl Gap.”
“Where Benedict di Caela fell!” Bayard exclaimed.
“Well, not exactly,” I interrupted. “Benedict di Caela fell in the pass at Chaktamir . . .”
“How do you know that?” exclaimed Sir Robert eagerly, spinning to face me so rapidly that he lost his balance and toppled over the bed, scattering the opals. “That’s the part of the story . . .”
“That the di Caelas hide?” interrupted Androctus, his dark eyes bright with fury, but his voice surprisingly level all of a sudden, even quiet. “And why do they hide that part of the story, Sir Robert? Why, because the whole sorry tale is brimming with villains, is it not? And not only the oft maligned Benedict.”
He turned slowly, fingered the edge of the tapestry. It was a charming picture of a hunt, five Knights on horseback, each bearing the recognizable di Caela profile.
With a quick step, Androctus stood by the center of the tapestry, pointing at the foremost mounted figure.
“Gabriel di Caela the Elder disinherited a son who, by all rights, should have been the di Caela in the generation that followed.”
The figure on the tapestry smoldered, burning slowly and smokelessly. We all gaped, dumbfounded, then considered our options. Sir Robert stepped toward Gabriel, then thought better of it. Bayard’s hand went to his sword, waiting for Gabriel to make the first move.
As though the tapestry were a map and he was giving a history lecture, Gabriel’s hand moved to the hindmost rider. “Then Gabriel di Caela the Younger amassed an army against his disinherited brother, defeating that brother in a battle at the Throtyl Gap, then hounding him westward over the plains of Neraka until they both reached Chaktamir, the high pass, and there . . .”
The figure of Gabriel the Younger caught fire in the same slow flame.
“Enough!” shouted Robert di Caela, and then more calmly. “And how do you know this history, Sir Gabriel?”
“Oh, common knowledge,” Sir Gabriel smiled. “And common gems, too, even if they are the glain opals of Estwilde. I mean, the boy’s dice are from Estwilde, too, and no burglar—”
“What dice are those, Sir Gabriel?” Bayard shot back. “How is it that you’ve never met Galen before, and yet you’re familiar with the contents of his pockets?”
Androctus paused, stared at me.
Within the black pupils of those eyes glimmered a red fire, banked but unmistakably there in all its evil and evil intent. The fire smoldered, went black, and the dark Knight turned calmly to Bayard.
“His brother,” Androctus explained. “Who is it . . . Alfric Pathwarden? He told me of Galen’s superstition last night as he gloated at the banquet. Despicable little chap.”
“Pretty thin, Sir Gabriel,” Sir Robert stated dryly. “It does not satisfy our uncertainty. It seems we have no choice but to postpone the wedding another week. I regret the inconvenience to all the guests planning to attend, but the delay is unavoidable as we seek for the truth in this murky matter.”
“The truth?” Sir Gabriel asked in outrage. “What do you know of the truth?” He turned from the tapestry, folded his arms in front of him, and glared at Sir Robert.
“The truth, quite frankly, is that I do not like you, Sir Gabriel Androctus,” spat Sir Robert, his face gloriously red beneath the silver of his moustache and hair. “And I am still alive and lord of this castle, which I shall pass on to whomever I damn well please. I may lose a little face in the matter, but it’ll be worth it if you are Benedict di Caela. Even if you are not, it would almost be worth going back on my word just to see the look on your face!”
A cold wind swept through the room. Mist rose out of the floor, and the tapestry flapped on the wall. Sir Gabriel stood taller, until he seemed to tower over Bayard and Sir Robert, who both were startled, stepping back from the strange, transforming figure in front of them. Who spoke in loud tones that shattered the glass in the window, sending me burrowing into my blankets.
There in the darkness I heard a scuffling, the sound of fabric tearing, the shivering music of more glass breaking. And over it all, the resonant voice of the Scorpion.
“The truth, Sir Robert, is that once again you are wresting my birthright from me! And this after I played by the rules! After I fought fairly and danced in the lists with all your princes and popinjays, raising my visor and proffering lances at the beck and call of a brassy Solamnic trumpet!