Kellanved's Reach

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘But they’ve long been jealous of your relationship with the king. I should’ve warned you, I suppose, but,’ and he shrugged, ‘it never seemed the right time.’ He let out a long sigh. ‘They couldn’t allow an outsider that much influence … they just couldn’t.’

She noted that he was merciful enough not to add: And you walked right into it.

‘What will you do?’

She shrugged, closed up her single bag. ‘I don’t know. Join the army, maybe.’

‘You? In the regulars? I don’t think so.’

‘Whatever. I don’t know.’

He pushed away from the jamb, appearing troubled. ‘Listen. Stay in touch. I could use someone on the outside – you never know.’

She knew he was trying to be helpful, but she was just angry. Angry at damned palace politics, at the pathetic dance of influence and favour that she thought she’d been above all this time. But mostly she was just damned furious at herself.

She dipped her head in acceptance. ‘Yes, thank you. It’s just … I’m not sure. We’ll see.’

He extended his arm and they clasped wrists, as veterans, and she headed out across the gardens towards the main front doors to the palace grounds. Along the way she glimpsed a few Sword-Dancers, those off duty, watching from a distance. But none approached, and she knew why.

Dismissal. Shameful dismissal.

Better to die in service than endure such. She reached the tall and ponderous iron-bound doors, one of which the guards pushed open a crack for her.

Without, she paused in what seemed a brighter, and harsher, light. The door thumped shut behind her. The bustle, noise and clatter of the city of Itko Kan assaulted her senses and she winced, blinking, shading her eyes.

She realized that for the first time in her life she had no duties, no calling. No … purpose. Nor did she have anywhere to go. A slim purse of coin was all she now had to her name. She strode forward into the traffic of the city and let it take her where it would.

*   *   *

Three days after the disastrous attempt to join the Crimson Guard, Gregar was off duty, playing troughs with his squad-mates, when Leah came and set a hand on his shoulder.

‘Visitors for you,’ she murmured, rather subdued.

A quip died on his lips as he saw that their new sergeant appeared quite serious; she also waved Haraj up. ‘You too.’ She motioned them to follow.

‘Who is it?’ Gregar asked.

She gave them a strange evaluative look. ‘You’ll see.’

Gregar shrugged, unconcerned. Anything to break the boredom of this waiting was welcome. All pretence of actively besieging Jurda had long been abandoned, and their presence had lapsed into plain dull garrison duty. Meanwhile, more and more forces gathered; every would-be princeling, duke, petty baron and man-at-arms east of Cawn seemed to want a share of the glory to come – allies and enemies of both Gris and Bloor. And both had more than enough of each.

Beyond the Yellows encampment stood two men wrapped in long crimson cloaks against a cold drizzle. Gregar and Haraj exchanged looks of wonder, for here were the unmistakable figures of young K’azz D’Avore and the mage Cal-Brinn, of the Crimson Guard.

The Red Prince bowed to Leah. ‘My thanks.’ The girl curtly lowered her head and turned away, probably, Gregar thought, to hide a blush. ‘Thank you for seeing me,’ K’azz continued, to him and Haraj.

‘Why wouldn’t we?’ Gregar asked, bemused.

The young fellow – perhaps Gregar’s own age, he realized – appeared apologetic. ‘Well, my father was not very complimentary.’

Gregar just shrugged. ‘He was right … we wasted your time.’

K’azz and Cal-Brinn shook a negative. ‘No,’ said K’azz, ‘it was sprung on you and that was not proper. You must forgive my father – he believes every man and woman who has ever picked up a sword wishes to join the Guard.’

Haraj rubbed the back of his neck, almost wincing. ‘He’s probably right.’

Gregar peered about, at the passing soldiers – keeping a respectful distance, but always staring, as the bright red cloaks could mean only one thing. ‘So … what can we do for you?’

K’azz nodded, growing serious. ‘As I said, I’ve come to apologize on behalf of the Guard. I – we,’ and he gestured to Cal-Brinn, ‘want you to know that in declining to abandon your comrades before battle you displayed the very qualities we want the Guard to stand for. Loyalty. Comradeship. Honour.’ The young man shrugged, almost sheepishly. ‘Rather than being angered or insulted we should have saluted you. At least, that is how I and many others feel. So, the invitation stands. Who knows, perhaps in the future you may wish to seek us out.’

‘And your father?’ Gregar asked.

‘He will grumble about it,’ murmured Cal-Brinn, ‘but Surat would be in favour.’

Gregar let out a long breath, quite surprised and quite unsure what to say. ‘Well … my thanks …’

‘You will not think poorly of us, then?’ K’azz asked.

Gregar fought a laugh at the thought of his opinion mattering to anyone. He waved a hand. ‘Gods, no. Not at all.’