Yesterday's Kings by Angus Wells

with intricate patterns that were both beautiful and securing, so that as he held it, it seemed to meld with his palm. The quillon was a span of similar wood that seemed less set into the jointure of hilt and blade than grown there. And from it extended a wide, double-edged blade that was manufactured of no material he could define. Certainly it was not metal, but when he touched it to a finger it cut him clean as any razor, and it shonebright as he raised it to the light. He wondered if it was a gift from Lofantyl, an apology for intrusion, and thought that if that were so, he’d received far less from the keep folk.
    He took the knife and set to butchering the deer.

    A BRA SAT FLANKED by Per Fendur and Amadis in her parents’ private chambers. It was a circular table, so that she faced her father and Vanysse, with Amadis to her right and Per Fendur to her left. No servants were present, having delivered the food and wine and departed. This was a discreet meeting. Indeed, so discreet that Per Fendur had suggested she leave. To which her father had voiced opposition, explaining that he had no secrets from his daughter, who would, after all, inherit the keep on his death.
    “Save she’s trothed to Wyllym of Danzigan,” Fendur murmured. “So on your death—which I pray the gods delay for many years—this keep shall come under his command.”
    And he, like his father, Abra thought, is Khoros’s man, and a weakling. She wished she might speak aloud, but that would only endanger her father’s position. Bartram had fought for Kristoferos in the war between the brothers—the War of Succession—and he held this castle only because he commanded the loyalty of the Border folk, and should Khoros look to replace him, the king would likely find himself embroiled in rebellion. So Bartram remained keep lord, but—Abra knew—Amadis was Khoros’s man, and so was Fendur; save the Church looked to its own ends.
    She smiled politely back at Fendur, and then smiled brighter as her father said, “She’s trothed, aye. But whenit comes to it, she’ll decide for herself.” He stroked his thick beard, winking at her. “The gods know, but Wyllym’s an ugly fellow.”
    “Even so,” Fendur said, “it was agreed.”
    “By Khoros, when they were both still children,” Bartram returned bluntly. “Never by Abra. Now she’s near grown, and can make up her own mind.”
    “You’d go against the king’s wishes?” Fendur asked.
    “No,” Bartram answered, “I’d do the king’s duty. But I’ll not go against my daughter’s wishes.”
    Abra saw Vanysse scowl at that, touching her husband’s hand as if in warning. Amadis sat stroking his clean-shaven chin with one hand, the other hidden. Abra wondered if it touched her stepmother’s thigh. Fendur nodded, looking from one to the other.
    “The marriage would please both our king and our Church,” he said.
    “No doubt.” Lord Bartram smiled, teeth showing from under his moustache. He looked, Abra thought fondly, like some great bear, perhaps past its prime, but still powerful—muscle hidden under a weight of comfortable living, but nonetheless dangerous—and smiled at his answer. Vanysse favored her with an angry glance that she ignored.
    “I serve our king and the Church, but my daughter comes first.”
    “Of course. But … A promise is surely a promise, and your lovely daughter was promised to Wyllym. Trothed to Wyllym. Does that not bind both her and you?”
    “Trothed on the king’s command,” Bartram said. “Not hers or mine. Nor her mother’s.”
    “Her mother is dead,” Fendur said.
    As Bartram nodded solemnly, Vanysse said, “I am her mother now, and I approve this betrothal.”
    Amadis voiced his support, and Per Fendur beamed. But then Bartram said, “It’s for Abra to decide,” and looked at her.
    She thought of her father’s future. Did he offend Khoros, who knew what might happen? But he had spoken out for her and left her to decide, so she said,