CHAPTER SIX

Kyros, the Central Kingdoms

T hey entered Kyros at night by a small gate set into the southern wall of the city. Someone had been stationed there to keep an eye out for them, for the normally locked gate swung open as soon as Maximilian and his party rode close, and, as Maximilian rode through, a man on horseback rode out of an overhang to greet them.

“Maximilian!” the man said, his tone welcoming, if hushed, and held out a hand as he pulled his horse to a halt before Maximilian’s.

“Borchard,” Maximilian said, taking the man’s hand in his, and offering him a wide, unforced grin.

Borchard was Malat’s eldest son, heir to the throne, and a personal friend of Maximilian’s. Despite the fact that Lixel and Garth had told him that Malat had been welcoming, Maximilian still had harbored doubts. To have Borchard here to greet him was the best indication he’d had yet that Malat would be more welcoming than judgmental.

Borchard turned his attention to Ishbel, sitting behind Maximilian, her hands lightly clasped to his waist.

“And a wife,” he said, an appreciative gleam in his eyes. “Maxel, you never said she was going to be so lovely.”

He pushed his horse forward a pace, so he could take Ishbel’s hand and kiss it. Borchard was not a conventionally handsome man, but he had an air of boyish fun about him, and a gleam of mischievousness in his eyes, that appealed to most women.

Ishbel did not resist his charm. She smiled as Borchard kissed her hand, then glanced at Maximilian, her smile fading as she saw the sadness in his eyes.

Borchard caught the look and let go Ishbel’s hand. “Maxel,” he said, “we have heard some of what has happened in Pelemere, and in Margalit before that, and it beggars belief. My father and I are glad of the chance to hear your version of events. My father begs your understanding in not being here to greet you, nor even being able to grant you an audience…but, as I am sure you’re aware, yours is a name spoken with a certain degree of frostiness these days. I and my companions”—Borchard inclined his head at a group of four or five armed horsemen waiting to one side—“shall have to provide you with all the company you need.”

There was a perceptible coolness in Borchard’s tone now, and Maximilian realized their welcome was not quite as guaranteed as he’d first thought.

“A meal and somewhere to rest our weary limbs,” he said, “and we shall be grateful to relate anything you wish.”

Borchard nodded, then turned his horse about and led them into the city.

He led them to a town house situated in a gated courtyard not far from where they entered (a fact closely noted by Maximilian, should, gods forbid, he need to make an escape quickly from this city as well). The town house was a good size, with enough stabling and dormitories for Maximilian’s entire party, and the kitchens were lit and warm: the courtyard was redolent with the savory smell of roasting meat wafting out of the open kitchen windows.

“I can hardly thank you and your father enough,” Maximilian said to Borchard as Maximilian helped Ishbel to dismount. “I’ve been so worried about Ishbel and the strain I’ve put her through.”

“I have heard that you are expecting a child,” Borchard said to Ishbel. “I hope that we can offer you good rest and comfort here in Kyros. Come, let me take you inside.”

Borchard waited until they’d eaten, and then further, until Maximilian had seen Ishbel to the chamber and into bed, before he asked Maximilian about the events of the past few months.

They were alone now—Lixel and Garth having retired for the night; Egalion seeing to the settling of the Emerald Guard—and sharing a pitcher of warmed spiced wine by a fire.

Maximilian took a long draft of the wine from his glass, then held it out for Borchard to refill.

“To be honest, my friend,” he said, “I have no idea where to begin.”

“With Ishbel, perhaps, as she was the reason you traveled this far distant to begin with.”

“With Ishbel, then.” As Borchard sat listening and occasionally refilling Maximilian’s glass, Maximilian related a reasonably full version of the events that had enveloped him ever since he’d left Escator. Some of them Borchard already knew, for Maximilian had stopped in Kyros on his way east to meet Ishbel, and many things Borchard, as his father, had heard from other sources. Maximilian did not relate everything, most particularly not that which had occurred between him and Ishbel in the woodsman’s hut, but in all else he was frank with Borchard, knowing that the information would go directly back to Malat and that Malat would appreciate honesty and directness before all else.

“And so,” Maximilian concluded, “here we are, finally in some comfort due to you and your father’s generosity. Tell me, if you can, what news from Sirus? How badly is my name being bruited about?”

“As to your name, Maximilian, it does poorly, I am afraid. Sirus is certain that you, or your lovely wife, were responsible for Allemorte’s death and that Ishbel is likely deeply involved in some Outlander plot to invade the Central Kingdoms. Maximilian, I hate to ask this of you, but are you certain of your wife?”

Maximilian did not know how to answer that. Was he certain of Ishbel? No, he wasn’t. She harbored far too many secrets, and he was still uncertain of her true relationship with the Coil. She was somehow tied to Elcho Falling…but he had no idea how, or if she consciously concealed what she did know. He wanted to trust Ishbel unreservedly, but “wanting” did not help when so many doubts remained.

Maximilian became aware that he’d hesitated too long, and his mouth lifted wryly. “She has her secrets, Borchard, but I do not think them murderous ones.”

“Perhaps,” Borchard said. “Maxel, Sirus’ accusations are serious. You and Ishbel were the only ones close to Allemorte when he was struck—”

“And Sirus.”

“Sirus would hardly be likely to murder one of his own barons.”

Maximilian contented himself with sending Borchard a deeply cynical look.

“Oh, Maxel, surely not!”

“No, I suppose I do not suspect Sirus of this. All I can say is that besides myself and Ishbel, there were countless servants and guards within two or three paces of us, and the deep stench of a black enchantment hanging over Allemorte’s corpse. And as for Rilm Evenor—neither Ishbel nor myself were within a hundred leagues of that murder, and cannot, surely, be suspected of it.”

“The ‘deep stench of a black enchantment’? You did not mention this earlier.”

Maximilian drained his wineglass and then waggled it before Borchard, asking for a refill. “I do not think Allemorte was the target. I think Ishbel was.”

“Ishbel? Why?”

Maximilian had said nothing to Borchard about what the ring had screamed. How could he? Borchard would not have understood. “An intuition. I can explain it no further, Borchard.”

Now it was Borchard who shot the deeply cynical look.

Maximilian shifted uncomfortably. He wished he could talk to Borchard about the secrets of Elcho Falling, but they were such deep secrets, mysteries only to be discussed among the initiated, and he could not speak of them to his friend.

“Borchard,” he said, “have you heard any news, or even rumor, of troubles apart from those that ensnare the Outlands and Sirus and Fulmer?”

“You want more?” Borchard gave a small snort. “No. Praise gods. The trouble with the Outlands is bad enough.”

“Nothing…no news from the south?”

“South?”

“From the Tyranny of Isembaard?”

Borchard frowned. “There is never any news from the Tyranny of Isembaard, Maxel! They keep themselves to themselves. We are too poor and uncultured to be of any concern to them.”

Maximilian sipped his wine. He’d been concerned that the troubles in the Central Kingdoms had been somehow tied to the necessity for the Lord of Elcho Falling to wake, but if there was no problem in Isembaard, then maybe he could relax a little. Maybe there would be many months, perhaps even years, before he was required to do anything.

Maybe.

“Look,” said Borchard, setting his own wine to one side and standing up, “perhaps we can continue this in the morning. I’m tired, and you look exhausted. I’ll leave you to your rest now, and return midafternoon tomorrow. I ask only that you and yours do not leave the confines of this town house and its courtyard.”

“Of course not,” said Maximilian, now also standing. “Borchard, again I thank you for this welcome, and this town house. You are a friend indeed.”

Borchard smiled, nodded, put a hand on Maximilian’s shoulder, then left the room.

He opened the door to the dim corridor outside, and walked through.

Straight onto the blade of a sword.