Part 29 (2/2)
”Our supplies are low; we can't hold out a siege.”
”No siege,” said Lyll. ”No siege engines. But perhaps they mean to occupy us.”
A tremor of revulsion went through me. Greenmen billeted in every Bryn Shaer bedroom, touching the Nemair's belongings - and the Nemair's guests? I turned to Lyll. Her face was set, impa.s.sive, even though all her plans were surely at an end. Even with the men Berdal had brought, we were no match for the king's soldiers.
”What's going to happen?” I asked.
She was grim. ”The Inquisitor and his men will ride to the gates, and we'll let them in. There will be some formalities - an exchange of greetings and such - and then Werne will request we give lodging to his men.”
”And if you do?”
Lyll shook her head. ”We'll be prisoners in our own home. They will hold us here until Bardolph decides we're no longer a threat.”
”How long will that be?”
She just looked at me. ”Forever.”
I felt sick. I had done this - Daul and I had worked together to bring Werne here.
We stayed there in the fading light as the Green Army filled in the dip below Bryn Shaer, that impossibly narrow ridge of plain that was the only place to launch an attack on the castle. They were all in green, the same bright-gra.s.s color, and it was hard to tell them apart: sol dier from Greenman, ordinary priest from Confessor. But one figure stood apart.
Small and slight against the fighting men, astride a mule at the head of the cavalry, the Inquisitor rode with his six Confessors, and something about him, so still and singular and composed among the tumult of the army, made the hundreds of soldiers at his back seem irrelevant. The G.o.ddess's pale light shone only on her most beloved servant, and Werne the Bloodletter looked like he could sack Bryn Shaer all on his own.
Meri watched him, her gaze fixed. I put a hand on her arm to pull her back, but she wouldn't move. In the dusky light, my hand on hers pulsed brightly.
”I told you you should have gone with the others,” I said, but she pulled away from me.
”My place is here,” she said - and she didn't sound so young, suddenly. She held fast to the tower wall until the stones started to glow under her grip.
”Meri, they'll see you!”
She set her jaw. ”Good. Let them.”
On the ledge below, Werne dismounted awkwardly from the mule, shaking out the skirts of his robes. The Confessors followed, surrounding him in a circle of green that moved as one toward the path leading up to Bryn Shaer's gates. As Werne disappeared beneath the jut of rock, Lady Lyll stood back from the wall.
”Time to greet our guests,” she said.
We had always met visitors out in the courtyard, but tonight Lyll and Antoch arranged themselves in the wide flagstone entry hall before the ma.s.sive arched doors, now flung open to the snow and wind. Firelight flickered from torches set around the s.p.a.ce. Flanked by a dozen of their black-and-silver guard, the Nemair looked like an extension of the stone walls of Bryn Shaer, ancient, austere, immovable.
I did what I had done since I could remember: I hid. I tucked myself onto a narrow balcony overlooking the entry court, drawn back behind a tapestry so no one below could see me. Meri joined me after a while, though by rights she should have been beside her parents. I was glad she'd grown a mea sure of caution and knew better than to present her magical self before Werne the Bloodletter - though she'd have to, eventually. There was no hope that the Inquisitor could come to Bryn Shaer ostensibly for Merista Nemair's kernja-velde and not ever meet her.
The seven figures in green strode as one into the Lodge, moving from the snowy courtyard to the dark stone floor in perfect unison, even the damp hems of their robes and cloaks swinging together across the threshold. They fanned out into a half-moon, Werne at their center. A dozen Greenmen stood at attention behind them. The Nemair were all grace, sinking just as smoothly to their knees, heads bowed.
”Be you welcome to Bryn Shaer, Your Wors.h.i.+p,” Lady Lyll said, her voice as warm and strong as ever, lifting her face to meet Werne's. ”We have been expecting you for some time.”
The Inquisitor placed a hand on her dark head and gave a murmuring reply that I couldn't make out. Meri frowned a little. ”He doesn't look like I'd thought,” she said softly. ”He's just . . . ordinary.”
It was true, I thought, looking down on that face I hadn't seen in so many years. My slight build, my dark curly hair. At twenty-six, he had filled out some, but he wasn't very tall. The hands that touched Lady Nemair's head and accepted a kiss from Lord Antoch were smooth and tan and delicate. A great round of blue-and-brown chalcedony - earthstone - hung from his belt, but instead of the moon-shaped beads worn round the wrist by most servants of Celys, he carried a blade at his hip. It was probably only ceremonial - the image of Werne in a knife fight was almost amusing - but it was his badge of office as an inquisitor, not just a mere priest.
The Confessors carried swords. And I had no doubt that theirs were sharp and practiced.
Lyll and Antoch rose, and Werne stepped aside to introduce his party. ”My confessorial staff and my personal guard,” he said.
Lyll gave a serene smile. ”Confessors, your Wors.h.i.+p? We are honored, of course, but are surprised your Grace would require them to preside over our daughter's kernja-velde.”
”Not to mention the armed escort that brought you here,” Lord Antoch added quietly.
Werne's dark gaze s.h.i.+fted to Antoch. ”A show of friends.h.i.+p. His Majesty wishes to remind his subjects that we are all one family in Celys.”
”Good,” Lyll said. ”We thought perhaps he was feeling . . . over protective.”
The Inquisitor glanced backward at the waiting Greenmen. ”Quite. I told his Majesty I did not require them, but as you can see, they are here nonetheless. I do not expect them to interfere with my . . . work, here.”
”Ah, then we shall consider the troops merely decorative,” Lady Lyll said brightly. ”You may thank His Majesty for us, but do mention that we should have been more than happy to provide our own 'ornamental' guard for the occasion.” And with that, she hooked her arm into her husband's and led everyone to the Round Court.
”What will happen now?” Meri asked, squeezed tight to me.
A voice behind me startled me, and I glanced up and found Eptin Cwalo sharing our vantage point. ”Tonight Bryn Shaer will feast the Inquisition and its men,” he said as if this was all part of some pre arranged plan. ”And tomorrow we'll all be asked to report on one another's habits, secrets, heresies, and petty blasphemies.”
Meri turned wide eyes to him. ”What does that mean?”
He bowed his pale head. ”Even in houses that are blameless, there are always people frightened enough of the Confessors to inform on someone else. If we're lucky, they'll find only minor transgressions, and consent to merely confine your parents to the castle.”
Even Meri didn't bother to ask what would happen if we weren't lucky. Because Bryn Shaer was far from blameless, and we all knew it.
No one ate much that night - at least no one from Bryn Shaer. Yselle and the cooks had prepared a sumptuous feast from Meri's stockpiled kernja-velde food, because everyone knew that you did Celys honor by feeding her servants well. Closer to, Werne certainly didn't look like he'd missed many meals. I happily sat as far as possible from him, since ladies-in-waiting were hardly worthy of His Wors.h.i.+p's exalted company, down across the room with Phandre and Eptin Cwalo. Poor Meri was pressed between her parents, looking terrified. Beside Lyll, Werne ate steadily, scarcely looking up the whole meal.
”I do hope you'll try the roast pork, Your Wors.h.i.+p,” Lady Lyll said smoothly. ”It's rather a Bryn Shaer specialty. Our cook is Corles, and I'm afraid we picked up some foreign customs while abroad.”
”His Wors.h.i.+p prefers to dine in silence,” one of the Confessors said sternly.
Lady Lyll smiled and ignored her. ”Will you take wine, my lord?” she asked cheerily.
The Confessor glared at her. ”His Wors.h.i.+p never indulges in spirits.”
”Pity,” Lord Antoch said, pouring himself a great draught from the flagon. ”Splendid local vintage. Tiboran truly smiled on the vineyards that year. The Masked G.o.d's blessing to you, Your Wors.h.i.+p.”
I nearly choked on my own splendid vintage. Were they deliberately baiting him?
But Werne looked up only briefly. ”Your hospitality does the G.o.ddess honor,” he said. ”I look forward to acquainting myself with all the . . . comforts of this place. I'm sure I'll find it edifying.”
”What are they doing?” Phandre fussed, as the female Confessor's placid expression grew strained. ”They make us all look like mannerless rustics!”
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