Arts of Dark and Light: Book 01 - A Throne of Bones (107 page)

FJOTRA

If the comtesse’s mansion had not changed at all, it seemed nearly everything else had. Before, she was treated like a nonentity, a pet of the comtesse’s a little less important than one of the small tri-colored dogs who were given their run of the place and occasionally stole into Fjotra’s bed at night. Now, it seemed that everyone knew who she was, and even high-born guests customarily addressed her as “Princess” and “Your Highness” without any of the amusement that Prince Karl had always shown.

It was the Red Prince’s death, the Comte de Saint-Aglie had finally explained to her on their third day back in Lutece, as well as the arrival of the ships in Portblanc and her brother’s presence at the court, that had made the difference.

Following his injury, Brynjolf had been given an apartment in the palace in which to recover. But even after he was healthy and hale again, he’d chosen to stay there instead of returning to the mansion on the hill. Far from being displeased, however, Roheis was delighted, as she told Fjotra with some enthusiasm how “the Reaver Prince” had become bosom companions with the Duc de Chenevin, Prince Karl’s younger brother, and until a few weeks ago, the second in line to the throne.

Unfortunately, Brynjolf was not in Lutece upon her return, as he had been invited to spend the Hivernalia at the prince’s winter court being held at his castle, Montegut, a twelve-day ride away. But the comtesse assured her that the king would have already sent for Etienne Henri, and that Brynjolf would surely be among the party returning with him to witness his crowning as the Red Prince and heir.

More importantly, Roheis also assured her that the king did not blame her or her people for the death of his eldest son and that her fears it might cause the king to change his mind about giving her people land in which to settle and accepting them as his subjects were unfounded. She slept considerably better at night now that she knew the women and children in Portblanc would not be forced to return across the White Sea, for that way lay certain death. If only her father and mother would make the crossing safely. Every night she, Svanhvit, and Geirrid went out to the garden and made blood offerings to the sea gods at the little saltwater shrine she had created out of what had been a bird bath.

Fjotra found it hard to understand the comtesse’s reaction, or rather, lack of one, to her lover’s death. It wasn’t as if Roheis was in denial over it, as she spoke openly about it, mostly in connection with the various ramifications that had resulted from it. Had she ever cared about Prince Karl at all? It didn’t seem possible. Fjotra had been there when the Comte de Saint-Aglie delivered the news, as it had been literally the first thing he’d told her when they’d arrived at her home not long after sunset.

But Roheis hadn’t screamed, fainted, wept, or reacted in any of the hundred ways Fjotra had imagined during the course of their carriage ride from Portblanc. She had merely blinked once, with her perfect porcelain face betraying no sign of grief or even surprise in the shadows of the torchlight. Then she’d nodded and coolly invited them to come inside. And in the days and weeks that followed, though she’d dutifully worn mourning like the rest of the nobility, Fjotra had never once seen the comtesse show a hint of genuine sorrow.

She was sitting in front of the fire with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders against the winter chill, lost in her idle dreams about what might have been, when she heard a familiar voice behind her.

“Fjotra, is that really you?”

She looked back over her shoulder, then cast the blanket aside and leaped to her feet. It was Brynjolf!

“You’re back!” she cried happily and ran to embrace him. “Your wound, are you well? It’s so good to see you!”

He grinned roguishly, looking very handsome. Except for his height and fair hair that was tied neatly back with a black ribbon, he was also looking more like a southern noble than a northern reaver. “Never better! I was off hunting orcs with Etienne, Hugues, Thierry, and a few others when the dreadful news arrived. We left at once, of course, and we rode so hard I think we must have made record time.”

“You didn’t come straight here, did you?” He looked too clean and well-kempt to have spent the last week on the road.

“No, of course not! Etienne had to go directly to the palace, naturally, so I went with him and changed my clothes there before coming here. The king was kind enough to give me an apartment, and since I thought it was best to stay near the court as a representative of sorts until Father arrives, I’ve been staying there.”

“Yes, the comtesse told me.” Fjotra frowned. Her brother had never been the deepest of thinkers, but she would have thought that even he would have realized he was essentially a prisoner of the crown, held hostage against the very sort of outcome that had come to pass. “I have something for you. Let me go get it.”

She went to her room and retrieved their father’s sword, which she brought to Brynjolf. She held it out in both hands before her in its black leather scabbard. “He wanted you to have this in case he and Mother can’t escape the castle before the aalvarg break through and Raknarborg falls.”

“Is it that bad?”

“The castle is under siege by three different armies of the beasts. They all tried to storm the walls the night before my ship sailed. The attack went on most of the night, and I was told we lost nearly two hundred dead and wounded. There are thousands of them, Brynjolf, tens of thousands, and the Skullbreaker is in no shape to fight. His arm was torn up by an aalvarg same night another one killed Prince Karl.

“But they can be beaten. Earlier that day, Prince Karl rode out with the Strongbow and killed four or five hundred of them in an ambush. That’s how they got inside to attack Father and the prince—the mages wanted two captives for questioning, but both of them turned out to be sigkifting.”

Her brother nodded absently. He had drawn the sword from its scabbard and was admiring the intricate runes etched into the blade. “Are they all like that?”

“Patrice—the king’s mage who came back with the prince—doesn’t think so.”

“He doesn’t think so? They’ll have to do better than that!”

“They will. I was with them at the ambush. They’re very clever. I think if we had them on our side before, the aalvarg might not have defeated us so easily. Father says they used their shapechanging to get into our villages at night, and that’s why we could never stand against them.”

“That does make sense.” He slammed the sword back into the scabbard. “Well, I must return to the palace.” By the way, Etienne wants you at the ceremony to see him crowned as the heir. He’s made some noises about marrying you once the king takes Father as his vassal and claims sovereignty over the Isles. If I understand correctly, there are some counties and principalities between Ecarlate and Meridiony that have been in escheat to the crown for decades that may be given to Father to serve as his duchy. It’s far from the sea, but then, I suppose the great lords of the Haut Conseil want to avoid subjecting us to any temptation to return to the old ways.”

Fjotra nodded. Father wouldn’t like it, he might even see it as an insult, but he could hardly blame the king or his councilors for preferring to keep the descendants of the men who had harried their coasts for centuries well away from the shores of the sea they once ruled. It would be hard and humiliating to live as the grain farmers and pig-keepers their fathers despised, but it was better than the alternative. And how could he refuse the granting of free lands?

“Wait, before you go. What’s he like, your friend?”

“Who, Etienne?” Brynjolf laughed. “So you like him too! He’s a prince of the blood, so he’s arrogant and he is always accustomed to get his own way. But he’s quick to laugh and he’s brave and generous too, almost to a fault. He even gave me a small seigneurie in his demense of Chenevin, a place called Fronmorat. I have arms now!”

“Really? What are they?”

“A white castle on a field of blue.”

“I can’t wait to see them. The duc, what do you think of him?”

“Well, he’s neither so tall as his brother was nor so brawny. But he’s smarter. Not even the sharpest fool in the court can better flay a man with his tongue—and he does it with a smile.”

“So he is not kind?”

“No, kindness is not the first word that leaps to your mind with Etienne. And yet, he has been very good to me when he had no reason to be. When some courtiers affected to make sport of my accent, he silenced them by mocking their own errors in speech.”

“Your Savoner is better now?”

“You should say ‘Savonnaise,’ dear little sister,” he said in a surprisingly fluid demonstration of his improvement in the southern tongue. “I need more words, but I’m beginning to understand how it goes together.”

“Brynjolf, that’s amazing!” His Dalarn accent was still very strong, but the words flowed smoothly and without awkward pauses. She clapped her hands, impressed and a little envious. “If your prince is such a good teacher, perhaps he will help me learn to speak it better too.”

“I have no doubt. But remember, Sister, if the king decides you two are to marry, this won’t be a love match, even though he likes you well. It’s an alliance. And for the sake of our people, you’ll have to stand by him even if he beats you and mounts every lady-in-waiting and page boy in the palace.”

“I know.” She nodded grimly. Even when she’d thought that Prince Karl might be her husband, she knew she might have to accept living in the shadow of the comtesse if he chose to continue his affair with Roheis. But no Dalarn girl grew up with any illusions of male faithfulness, not when every village had its share of sea wives acquired on past reavings. “If he’s even half the man his brother was, he will treat me well.”

“Don’t say that around him,” Brynjolf cautioned her. “I don’t know why, but I think he truly hated Charles-Phillipe.”

Fjotra shrugged. “Brothers will be brothers. They say the Blacktooth hated the Skullbreaker more than the aalvarg when they were younger too. Eirikr Ulfsson used to say that if it weren’t for the coming of the aalvarg, one of them would have killed the other.”

“I don’t think it was ever that bad with Etienne. I’m just saying you need to be careful about praising Charles-Phillipe around Etienne or any of his friends. Don’t say anything at all about him if you don’t have to.” He shook the scabbarded sword in his left hand and embraced her with his right arm. “Thanks for bringing me Father’s sword, Fjotra. I’ll give it back to the Skullbreaker when he crosses the sea.” He paused and raised an eyebrow. “Any message for the prince?”

Fjotra blushed. “Just tell His Royal Highness that I am mindful of him, and I am eager to visit the land that was his gracious gift to you.”

It was just after breakfast several days later and Geirrid and Svanhvit were preparing Fjotra’s hair for the memorial tournament being given by the king in honor of his late son later that day when Roheis, accompanied by the Comte de Saint-Aglie, entered her room.

The news was bad, she knew it immediately from the carefully veiled look in the comtesse’s usually expressive eyes. She tried not to let her fear of the trolmand show.

“What happen?” she asked, wincing as Svanvhit tugged a little energetically at one of her braids.

“We need to speak to you alone,” the comte answered. “If you please.”

Fjotra glanced at her two friends and indicated the door. They obeyed as quickly as if they were genuine ladies-in-waiting, even remembering to offer half-curtsies to the two nobles as they exited the room. One of them quietly closed the door behind them.

“The ships should come back from Raknarborg two days past,” Fjotra said, feeling as if her heart was skipping a beat. “Did they sink?”

“No, they all safely reached Portblanc not long ago.” The comte looked closely at her and raised his chin. He was such a little bantam cock that it was almost possible to forget how dangerous he was. How inhuman he was. “Fjotra, you do understand that I have certain talents, do you not?”

“You’re a trolmand. A mage like the King’s Own. You know I know.”

“That’s not strictly true, I’m afraid, but it’s close enough. The reason I remind you is because I need you to understand that I have certain means of communicating with various other individuals, one of whom was on a ship that anchored in the harbor less than one bell ago.”

Fjotra thought of the far-seeing that the battlemages had made from water. “Portblanc is a long way away from here. What you know came from no rider.”

“That is true. And soon everyone will know what we know. But for reasons that will soon become clear to you, we had to speak to you first. I am sorry to tell you this, Fjotra, but Raknarborg is fallen.

A shock ran through her. Too soon—it had fallen too soon! Her first thoughts were of her parents. Were they on the last ships or not?

“When the four ships finished the last crossing and came in sight of your land, they saw black smoke filling the sky and only two towers where there should have been three. They approached as close to the docks as the commodore dared but had to retreat when stones were thrown at them. Ulfin were seen manning the catapults.”