The roc circled the fortress twice. On the walls and towers, hard-eyed soldiers followed its flight, weapons at the ready until the rider unfurled a banner. Then they lowered their pikes and crossbows, without relaxing their guard. Three years of bloody warfare had left the careless either dead or much wiser.
Elring Castle was little more than a border fortress, a squat keep with two tall towers and a thick wall surrounding a courtyard. A sturdy gatehouse kept watch over the contested frontier. On both towers flags flew: the white-and-blue of Menia on one, the three-headed griffon of Duke Gharre on the other.
With a rush of wind and wings, the giant bird landed in the courtyard. Its rider dismounted: a tall, lean woman in the tight leather of an experienced traveller, with the badge of the Prince of Zuellen. A messenger's satchel was slung over one shoulder. A stablehand with a mop of tight red curls rushed forward, followed by a gaggle of excited youths. Despite the war, rocs were still an uncommon sight.
The rider exchanged smiles and a few words with the stablehand, then tossed her the reins and, with a final pat on the bird's neck, turned to the black-robed chamberlain who had emerged to greet her.
She ran a hand through her short, spiky hair before giving the man the briefest of bows. "Avilia," she introduced herself. "From Prince Aran, with a message for the Duke."
The chamberlain, a slightly corpulent man with large, black eyes set in a pale face, nodded and led her into the keep. Behind them, the stablehand led the roc away to a corner of the yard, shouting instructions and admonishments at her helpers. The soldiers, seeing that the excitement was over, returned to their long watch.
Inside the stone keep, Avilia followed the robed man along narrow corridors and up winding stairs. The place had clearly been built for defence more than comfort. Narrow windows that were closer to arrowslits let in little light, and every few steps revealed a murder-hole or other defensive position.
Only when the chamberlain led her to the highest level and opened a wide door did pragmatism give way to opulence. A wide leaded window dominated the far wall, giving a view out across the rolling moorland. Heavy carpets decorated the walls and covered most of the floor to keep away the chill ingrained in the stone. The cold was kept further at bay by the fire that blazed in the broad stone fireplace, its flames dancing playfully across the tall silver candleholders placed around the chamber.
At the table, with his back to the window, stood a large, imposing man, head down over several large parchments. By his side stood a younger man, slimmer, in the gown of a clerk. He looked up as Avilia entered behind the chamberlain, and their eyes met.
She was aware that the chamberlain was speaking, and dragged her eyes to the large man, who had raised his head to look at her. His broad frame, she now saw, seemed to be pressed down by a great weight, and his face looked haggard. Not surprising, she supposed, after three years of bitter war.
His gaze was expectant. Despite the obvious mental and physical strain, his eyes were as hard as iron. Remembering to breathe, she stepped forward and gave a bow, drawing a sealed packet from her satchel and presenting it to him.
It was the other man who took it. Avilia willed herself not to look at his lean, handsome face, but failed. Their eyes met again, and he smiled courteously. "Thank you," he said. She smiled in return.
"Leave the poor lass alone, Mezler," the older man growled, taking the packet from him and examining the seal. "I'm sure the last thing she wants is my secretary trying to seduce her with his soft manners. Magnificent bird, girl," he continued, addressing Avilia. "A red-backed roc, am I right? Not bad as fighters, but speed and distance are where they excel."
She opened her mouth to speak, but fortunately the chamberlain glided past her. "Your Grace, perhaps we should allow the messenger to retire and rest while we read Prince Aran's letter."
"Perhaps." The large man, now confirmed as Duke Gharre, sat. He still held the unopened packet. "But first -- what's your name? Avilia? First, Avilia, is there any word of mouth accompanying the message?"
Why did her tongue feel like it was made of wool? She cleared her throat. "Only that the Prince is looking forward to marrying your daughter, Your Grace, and bringing peace to Menia and Zuellen." Those hadn't been Prince Aran's precise words. What he'd actually said was
fat-arsed daughter of a bloodthirsty savage
and
I suppose I must, to end this cursed war
.
From the Duke's expression he probably guessed as much. "Very well, girl. Thank you, you may go. Ask one of the guards outside to direct you to the barracks. There will be food and a bunk for you there. I'll have a reply to send Aran tomorrow."
"If I may, Your Grace?" The man named Mezler turned to her. "I should like to ask our messenger about her journey, and the conditions along the way."
It seemed as if the Duke would object, but the chamberlain cut in smoothly. "I fancy we can manage without your secretary, Your Grace." He turned a smile that was as slick as month-old oil on Mezler. His black eyes looked unnaturally large in his pallid face. "I doubt we'll need his expertise on history and heraldry. I myself can handle ink and quill well enough if a scribing emergency arises."
The younger man was nodding. "I fear I will have nothing to add to your deliberations."
The Duke grunted, and waived a dismissive hand. Avilia bowed low and followed the secretary out of the chamber. The corridor outside was lit by a pair of oil lamps. Soldiers stood guard on either side of the door. She saw a few more in a small open room opposite.
By now she had herself under control. "This is most kind of you, Master... Mezler, was it?" She stepped along beside him as he began to stride down the corridor. He smelled better than the last time they met.
Why do I keep meeting him when I'm starved for sex?
"Not at all," he replied. Without looking at his face she knew the smile that he would be wearing. "I can serve His Grace better by speaking to you than as a silent watcher while he and Lord Brago talk. Wait here a moment."
By now they'd reached the end of the corridor. Stairs wound down and up. Instead of leading her down to the courtyard, Mezler opened a small door and went through it. He returned almost immediately, holding a platter with bread, cheese, cured meat and dried fruit. A wine flask was tucked precariously under his arm. "Could you take this?"
She didn't. "Are you planning to wine and dine me?"
He started up the stairs. "I thought you'd be hungry from your long journey. The battlements offer a quiet place where we can eat and talk."
Avilia hesitated, then followed him up. His pale grey gown covered his legs down to his knees, leaving only a pair of shapely calves visible, in tight sueded leather of a soft green.
It wasn't long before they emerged onto the castle's battlements. Besides the guards on the towers, the walls were empty. The small cluster of houses beyond were testament to the danger of living here. Further away from the frontier a town would have sprung up. Only the brave or desperate made their home here.
The secretary chose a spot midway along the battlements and sat, cross-legged, placing the flask and platter before him. "Come, eat," he said.
It was a pleasant day, Avilia had to admit. The autumn sun had fought its way through the cloud cover and bathed the stonework in a soft glow. High above a kestrel circled, occasionally calling a challenge into the slight wind. She sat down opposite Mezler. The familiar outline was visible against his thigh. She assumed he'd chosen to sit that way deliberately, so she ignored it.
Instead, she took the flask and drank. White wine with water, cool and refreshing. She watched as Mezler took a knife from his belt and carved a piece of sausage for her. "What, no suggestive comments?" she asked. "Nothing about how tasty your meat is?"
