Wintermoon Page 8

  She recognized that little voice in her mind; it was the one that coolly analyzed and put fears to rest, no matter how panicked the rest of her mind was. It was seldom wrong, and that only in degree. She sometimes wondered if it was the voice of some guardian angel. Sometimes the voice sounded exactly like the Countess, though, and while she admired the Countess greatly, she would have been the first to say that the Countess Vrenable was no angel.

  She unclenched her fists and closed her eyes a moment to clear her mind. If Kedric was the King’s man, he had information he might be able to use. If he was her father’s man, he had nothing he could use to harm her—except that he—and her father—would now know that she was intelligent enough and quick enough to suspect something was wrong.

  So—not “no” harm done. Though she was not an immediate danger to any plans they had in train, she could reveal them, now or later. So she had done herself harm enough that her father might move a little faster to put her where she could do him no harm…which was probably with Massid.

  Time to send another bird. And more than time to resume her training. When the time came, she might need every bit of strength she had.

  But two weeks, and another storm, passed with nothing changing in the keep or out of it, so far as appearances went. Every day Moira tended to the affairs of the keep as the Keep Lady should. Every evening she spent dining in the Great Hall with her father and Massid. Afternoons were spent at her embroidery; she quickly finished the half-finished placket, had Anatha stitch it to one of her gowns, and started another. But there was one change that no one was aware of.

  The sea-keep was carved into and out of the rock of the cliff; with that sort of construction, it was difficult to create “secret” passages and “hidden” rooms, such as Viridian Manor, with its wood-and-stone construction. It was, after all, much, much easier to build something of that sort into the walls than it was to carve it out of rock, then try to hide it.

  But there was one place in Highclere Sea-Keep that almost no one ever went to this time of year.

  Even a place built out of stone has need of timber. Not firewood, but properly seasoned lumber, for repairs, paneling, cabinetry, furniture, and boats.

  So when a particularly fine tree was cut down—or when the lord of the sea-keep was moved to trade for one with an inland lord whose forests were not subject to near-constant wind—cut and planed planks of every possible thickness were laid down to dry and season in what was called “the timber room.”

  It wasn’t a room at all. It was a cave, but a peculiarly dry cave, and one which allowed the planks to cure and dry naturally. The oldest bits of wood—very expensive stuff it was, of fantastical grains and coloring—were three generations old. There wasn’t a great deal of that, and it was generally used for inlay work. The rest wasn’t more than ten years old, twenty at most, although there were some heavy oak beams that had been seasoning since Moira’s grandfather laid them down before he died.

  In summer and early fall, this place was a hive of activity. In winter, though, no one bothered to look in. In itself, it was valuable, but no one was likely to steal a load of wood. Layers of planks laid down in soft sand made a floor that didn’t shift much. There wasn’t much light, and the noise from the ocean far below drowned out any sounds that might be made up here.

  In short, it made a perfect place for Moira to practice.

  There was a great advantage to being a modest maiden in winter. The loose, long-sleeved, high-necked gowns and wimples she wore allowed her to wear her fighting clothing, mail and all, and no one noticed. Heavy winter fabrics did not betray so much as a hint of chain mail. She didn’t bring her sword and dagger up to the timber room, but there were plenty of pieces of wood of the right size and shape there already. So once a day—and a different time of day each time, if she could manage it—she would, over the course of an hour, first get back to her room and put on her mail and armor, then find a way to get to the timber room, where she would doff her dress and begin her stretching exercises, moving into the fighting exercises as soon as her muscles were limber. It was frustrating, not having a partner to practice with, but at least it was practice, and she always tried to push herself a little more each day, in speed and accuracy. When she was tired, but before she was winded, she would go back to her room, take off the armor and hide it again, and go on about her business.

  It was particularly interesting to be up there during a storm. Only one lantern could be made to stay alight, and the shifting shadows made footwork and blade-work a challenge. The wind howled through here; the place was like a chimney. She was exceptionally careful about the lantern. Under these conditions, if a fire actually started up here without first being blown out, it would be uncontrollable in an instant, destroying decades’ worth of valuable wood.

  Though of course, with the wind howling through the place, it was unlikely that a fire could catch strongly enough to avoid being extinguished.

  And still nothing happened. Except that Massid and her father began to play chess every night after the remains of supper were cleared away.

  After the first night, she remained to watch out of curiosity. Their play reflected, she thought, their personalities. Her father played without speaking during his own turn, fiercely intent and intense, and scowling whenever he lost a piece. The Prince of Jendara was a complete contrast, outwardly relaxed, a smile on his bearded lips, apparently listening to Kedric’s playing and occasionally commenting on it or the game. But as she watched him, she became aware of a predatory glitter in his eyes just before he was about to swoop down on an opposing piece, and a little smile of satisfaction when he knew he was going to win.

  Or, more rarely, his smile grew icy, and his speech less easy and more punctiliously polite when he knew he was about to lose. And when that happened, there was a flash of pure rage for just the barest fraction of a moment that made her shiver.

  It was particularly frightening the second night of the second storm, when the wind and waves were crashing against the rocks below with such force that the stones of the keep groaned, and there was enough lightning they hardly needed lanterns. Chess was one game she had not mastered, so she couldn’t really tell what was happening on the board, but her father was grinding his teeth in frustration, and Massid’s eyes had that satisfied glitter as he toyed with his goblet. And then, all in an instant, her father’s face went from angry desperation to utter triumph. He swooped down on the board and moved a piece, slamming it down in front of Massid’s king. “Check and mate!” he shouted.

  And for a moment, Massid’s face went black with rage.

  Now, that was a phrase that Moira had often heard before, but she had never actually seen it happen, and had often thought it a picturesque fabrication.

  Now she knew better.

  It wasn’t that his face physically darkened—it was that his whole demeanor changed, and his expression for that instant was so suffused with the bitterest of hatred that it seemed to go black.

  It only lasted a moment; it was gone so quickly that if she hadn’t felt that shaken by what she had seen, she might have doubted the expression was there at all. But she had seen it, and it was there, and she knew that if, in that instant, Massid could have gotten away with it, he would have killed her father, and possibly everyone else who had witnessed his defeat.

  But by the time her father looked up, Massid was wearing an expression of rueful amusement. “I did not see that coming, my lord,” he said graciously. “A most unorthodox move. I congratulate you.”

  Her father was not a gracious winner, but at least he didn’t gloat too long. Massid’s mask slipped a trifle, but he managed to maintain it long enough to excuse himself and retire for the night.

  Moira went to bed feeling her insides quivering. If there was such a thing as a spirit of pure ruthlessness—too impersonal to be evil—that spirit dwelled within the Prince of Jendara.

  And woe betide whoever crossed him in something he really wanted.
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br />   She had seen the face of the enemy. It frightened her in a way she had not expected to be frightened. It was one thing to face the possibility of having to deal with a forced marriage. It was another thing entirely to see what she had seen behind the pleasant mask.

  The thought kept her in a restless half sleep that night, and she woke early to the sound that told her another storm was on the way. Her mind was preternaturally clear, and the first thing that came to her was that this storm would probably arrive on or about Midwinter Moon—the longest night of the year, and the highest tide until Midsummer Moon.

  Not a good time to be having a winter storm as well. Any ships out at sea on that night would be better off well away from the coast.

  In fact, if the waters surged in too high, parts of the keep would have to be temporarily abandoned. That hadn’t happened in decades. Certainly not while Moira had been alive.

  But the keep had probably weathered a hundred such storms, and would weather a hundred more. Whatever was in the lowest levels would be taken elsewhere; probably not much, actually, or at least, nothing much worth saving. They’d been dug as hiding places and escape routes, and there was always sea water getting in….

  Well, when the storm came, they’d be flooded.

  Two days, she thought, listening to the waves outside. Three at the most.

  Part of her was still exhausted from the restless night, but the rest of her could not lie still a moment more.

  She rose from her bed and dressed herself before Anatha could arrive. There was a tension in the air today, or at least, it felt that way to her.

  And yet, when she ascended to the Great Hall, no one else seemed aware of it.

  Everyone could read the signs of the impending storm, however, and it didn’t take a sage to figure out that a storm combined with Midwinter Moon meant trouble. Small boats needed to not only be pulled into the sea caves, but winched up above the highest high-water mark. Large boats were manned with skeleton crews and sailed to the nearest safe harbor. The flotsam and jetsam that had collected since the last bad storm down in the lower keep levels was dragged out and sorted through, with anything deemed worth keeping packed properly away, and what was left over taken off to the rubbish pile for the next high tide to wash away farther down the coastline. The sea doors were checked and reinforced, supplies hauled down from storage places above, the heaviest of shutters locked in place over the most vulnerable windows.

  With all this activity, Moira did not dare to slip away to the timber room to practice. With every able-bodied person scurrying on or about the keep making preparations, the cook was not bothering to lay out regular meals. Food was left in the Great Hall for people to snatch in passing.

  This left her with nothing to do, staying in the Keep Lady’s rooms in order to remain out of the way. Even Anatha was busy somewhere….

  She tried to sit at her embroidery, and could not manage to set more than a stitch or two. At length, she rose and began pacing back and forth in front of the window. She had measured the space in steps at least twenty times, when a light tap made her jerk her head toward the door like a startled deer.

  “I have been told, in no uncertain terms, that I am in the way, my lady,” said Kedric, pushing the door open with one hand, the other clasping the neck of his lute.

  “As am I,” she admitted. “I am too much the lady to be permitted to work with my hands, and not enough of one, it seems, to be allowed to direct the work.”

  “Then we should obey Lord Ferson’s directive and stay out from underfoot,” Kedric replied lightly, and shut the door behind him.

  His expression went from moderately amused to dead sober, all in an instant.

  “Lady Moira, is there anyone among your father’s people who is a magician or a wizard?” he asked urgently.

  She started but covered it swiftly. “Why do you ask?” she replied cautiously, wondering if he had some way of detecting the spell on her bracelet and the little message capsules.

  “Because I have several times been to the old nursery at night, during calm times and during storm,” he replied. “And during calm nights, when someone walking guard or otherwise outside the keep might take notice, the light from the beacon is where it should be. But on nights of storm, it again comes from the wrong place. If the cause was some freakish reflection, it would not behave in such a manner, and the only way I know of to make such a thing happen is by—” he hesitated “—by magic.”

  Should she trust him? That was a good question, and she too hesitated before she answered. She still did not know who he served.

  “Lady Moira,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. “You must trust me. I have had word from the King and his cousin concerning you. The Countess Vrenable has identified you as one of her Grey Ladies. I serve the King in a similar capacity. The Countess was not aware of my presence here until after you had left Viridian Manor, or perhaps she would not have been so ready to send you here.” He grimaced. “I know that you have been sending the Countess information using the doves at the top of the cliff. I also know that you have no means of getting information back in return, except by some visitor, and your father has arranged for the road to Highclere to be closed since your arrival.”

  She eyed him dubiously. “Then how are you getting word from my mistress and the King?” she demanded.

  He laughed mirthlessly, and shrugged his good shoulder. “My lady, I am the king’s wizard. Or one of them, anyway. I am an alchemyst. See here—” He pushed up his sleeve, and tattooed around his wrist was the image of the Serpent of Wisdom, the great snake that eats its own tail, the symbol of the alchemysts. It was the same side of his body as his hunched shoulder, and she wondered—had he always been so crippled, or had that deformity been inflicted upon him in the service of magic? “When I think it safe, I speak to my own master, who also serves the King, in the fire. But since you showed me the moving beacon, I have been extremely careful, because anyone who suspects that I am an alchemyst will know I can do this. If there is another magician about, he will have the power to duplicate what I do, and can intercept my messages in his own fire. And I ask you if there are any magicians among your father’s people because the only way that I know of for the beacon to change its apparent position is by magic.”

  She shook her head, to his obvious disappointment. “Never, not since my mother died, and even she had only the touch of Moon and Sea magic she needed to be invested as Keep Lady. She was pregnant with me at that time, so both of us were bound to the service of the keep at the same time.” It was her turn to laugh mirthlessly. “Trust Father to manage things so that he didn’t have to bring a sage in for a second Investment Ceremony. He hates magic—”

  She hesitated. Kedric crossed the room to stare into her eyes as if trying to wrest the thoughts from her head. “What?” he demanded.

  “Perhaps I should have said he hated magic. I do not know that he still does. And perhaps the only reason he hated it once was because he could find no way to make it serve his demands, only those of the King and the keep.”

  “So if he has found a magician to answer to his will—he might have lost his distaste for the Arts Magical?” Kedric hazarded, his eyes narrowing.

  “Maybe.” She shook her head. “But—” she hesitated again “—all I have is speculation—”

  “The speculations of a Grey Lady are as informed as many a man’s certain facts,” he told her. “Speak.”

  “I have only bits of things. Massid’s presence—I thought it was to secure an alliance, but father hasn’t even hinted at a betrothal, much less a marriage, and Massid has made no real effort at courtship.” She shook her head. “The thing is—”

  “Ah,” he said, holding up his finger for a moment. “Here is the other reason for my being here. Your father wishes to persuade you to an alliance with Massid, as you have assumed. I believe he intends to find a way to force you to it, and only the certainty that he cannot do so publicly has prevented him from having you bou
nd over already. He has asked my advice on the subject. He has even toyed with allowing Massid to abduct you, by the way, and it was with great difficulty I persuaded him that this was a bad idea. I finally pointed out that the King would probably send the Corsairs in pursuit, despite the season, since you are his cousin’s fosterling. I believe he wants this dealt with before the Midwinter Moon, and I believe that he intends to find a way to trick you or coerce you into agreeing within the next few days.”

  She turned an indignant and appalled face to him. “Surely you are in jest!”

  He shook his head. “But I have a plan—”

  “Well, daughter.” Lord Ferson’s voice was low, but strong enough to carry to the heads of the nearest tables. “I believe you may have divined my will by now, with regards to a marriage with Prince Massid.”

  Moira’s head came up abruptly, and as she turned to face her father, she allowed her real feelings to show on her face. “Yes, I have,” she said clearly, and more than loudly enough for most of the room to hear her. It was something of a relief to be able to drop her mask at last, enough to show her anger and her resentment. “And I find it difficult to believe, my lord, that you are so willing to flout the law and the will of the King in this matter!”

  If she had not been warned, she might have tried to dissemble. As it was, though her father was not aware of it, his wine had been mingled with a much more potent distilled spirit all evening, courtesy of Kedric, and she had her response ready, hoping to push him into acting without thinking.

  Exactly as she had expected, her father’s face darkened with the flush of anger, and the liquor seething in his veins spoke for him. “I find it difficult to believe that my own daughter, who owes me her life and her obedience, is so willing to flout my will!”