XXII

Franzo came back with them, cloaked, with ten of his best fight-ers riding unobtrusively around him. Gold had persuaded the gate warden to open the gates for Hadrann and Aisling to leave. That and the signed and sealed pass from the duke and the warden’s knowledge that this noble was in the duke’s favor and a regular messenger. Hadrann and Aisling had ridden out quietly. The city was often in darkness these days, the streets mostly empty of people save for those with particular business, and the wise among them went in groups or with guards.

Lamp oil and candles were too expensive to waste, and if you stayed in your bed, hunger didn’t bite quite so deep. Even without fuel for a fire you might not freeze to death. There’d been many deaths of that kind as winter wore on, most in the low quarter. Other deaths had often followed, as the besieged of Kars suffered in despair. The guards too stayed inside their warmer barracks as much as possible these days.

Small groups of low-quarter dwellers could attack a home safely if it was not well guarded, the alarm was not given, or, if it was, if they moved swiftly enough. If the attack was unheard, the only sign would be a door standing open when morning arrived. After that some in the low quarter might have food and fuel enough to survive a week longer. Such attacks were one reason some low-quarter resi-dents moved in groups. The other was that too many lone walkers had vanished since the siege began to bite down.

Shastro had given up trying to prevent such attacks. Another assault on the low quarter a month after the first had resulted in the retreat of his guards after much skirmishing with little effect. After that he’d settled for peace in the streets, a few hangings, and a lot of nagging at Kirion. To soothe his annoyance at the lack of effectiveness of these measures he’d drunk more and ignored any pleas for aid from the merchant quarter.

Franzo arrived at the gates, his men about him. Hadrann led with Aisling riding at his shoulder. The gate guard grunted at the pass, accepting a coin eagerly. Aisling had unobtrusively settled a “do not notice them” spell about Franzo and his men as they rode toward the gates. Along with the forged pass it served, and the gates swung open. In Kirion’s tower the bemused guards stood aside. They were suspicious, but Hadrann had come and gone often.

He made his voice stern, confident. “Let us pass. The duke requires to talk with this man.”

The guard eyed him. “I’d like to see a face. Who is he?”

Hadrann snorted. “If the duke wanted all the world to know who he summons, this one wouldn’t be cloaked, would he? Let us pass. Or do I mention that we were delayed by some fool who countermanded his duke’s orders?” The last man who’d done that had been given to Kirion, who’d made an example of him with glee. The guard hastily stood aside.

Hadrann knocked, Keelan opened the door and sniffed. “You’ve taken long enough. His Grace is becoming annoyed. Come in quickly.” He looked at the guards. “Get about your business.”

They stepped back, stiffening into line, eyes frightened. Franzo, still cloaked, entered, followed them to the main room, and stood gazing down on the man who had wronged him. Then he moved to stare down at the dead sorcerer.

“Which of them was responsible?”

“Both,” Aisling said in a soft sigh. “If you give power to a man who has never had responsibility, never been taught that he owes a duty to those he rules even as they owe a duty to him, then you have a ruler who takes what he will and thinks that he is the law. But if a dog pisses upon the carpets and bites whoever seeks to stop it, who is to blame?”

“The owner,” Franzo said sharply. “That he has not trained the beast to know better.”

“Then of these two, the sorcerer was responsible. Whatever Shastro desired, Kirion gave him. He did not teach the man he raised how to rule. Was that man then evil because he thought that as duke all was his and his desires alone were law?”

Franzo eyed her shrewdly. “You are trying to persuade me the duke was more puppet than ruler. Why?”

“I swore to him that he would lie in the Ruler’s Tomb. And that his cousins, whom he loved and Kirion murdered, would lie with him there. Hadrann knows where they were buried. We wish to see that they do lie with Shastro as I promised.”

Franzo looked down at the bodies and shrugged. “If that’s your only request I see no reason to refuse it. He was duke. It sets a bad example to the people if they see a ruler’s body ill treated.” He looked at her. “And you did say that at the end it was he who killed the sorcerer?”

Remembering that tiny flashing blade she nodded. “Well enough, then. Let him have his tomb and companions. But we’re going to need another duke.” His back straightened, “And despite what my clan may think, it isn’t going to be me!”

Hadrann grinned wearily. “I said to Aisling you wouldn’t like the idea, but we do have a candidate. Lord Jam of Trevalyn keep on the Estcarp border. He’s Geavon’s grandnephew and well trained in what responsibility and duty mean. Jam’s oldest son is of an age to take over keep rule, but Jam should have enough years in him bar-ring enemies to care for Kars another thirty years at least—long enough for the land to settle into a solid peace.”

Franzo was approving. “Such a man would likely be suitable. The clan would agree if I spoke for him.” He looked at them. “What of your kin and the city?”

Hadrann answered that. “My father agrees. I spoke to him about it. Aisling and Keelan’s grandfather approves, and he is kin to Geavon. I think right now the city would accept any ruler who had your siege lifted and food and firewood distributed.”

A slow wicked smile spread over Franzo’s face. “Then that is how it shall be.” He pointed a finger at Aisling. “You and your brother shall leave quietly for Trevalyn keep. While you are gone I’ll arrange for trader caravans to be waiting. You shall persuade Jarn into this and return with him and all the pomp you can summon. I shall formally lift the siege and accept him as the new duke of Kars. When he gives the order to bury the duke, with city-wide feasting and wine, food and drink will supplied from the ducal storehouses.”

By now all three of those he faced were nodding. They could see what would happen. Keelan grinned. “By the time the people wake up to the fact that Kirion and Shastro are dead and they have a new ruler, they also will have had time to think. They will have no siege; goods and traders will be back. The country and Kars will have peace, and if Jarn announces some reform at that time too, no one will complain.”

Aisling had been remembering some of the events of the siege. “What about duke’s justice. A lot of people died in all this.”

Franzo sighed, his face sobering. “I know. War is not a toy for dukes who wish to play at soldiers, but if you punish all who committed crimes, then what of those who acted so their families did not starve? What of those whose acts were self-defense. From what Hadrann tells me many witnesses may well be dead. It’s to my mind that Jarn should declare amnesty where the truth cannot be clearly ascertained.”

He looked at them ruefully. “And you convince Jam it’s his work. Sorting out all the cries for justice will settle him in fast, and it will accustom the people to his rule. Hadrann, you’d better forge another letter from Shastro to his captain of the guards. Say that Shas-tro and Kirion are working a great sorcery against the besiegers. It may take a number of days and they cannot be disturbed. You’ve been delegated to make the decisions until then.”

His gaze fell again on the bodies. “And something will have to be done about those too.”

“I’ll see to it before Keelan and I leave. I can spell them with a holding that will last some days. The bodies won’t change.” Aisling’s voice was quiet.

“Good. Then I’d better gather my men and rejoin the army before some fool out there decides Hadrann played me false and panics.”

He tramped out, his men forming up to follow him as he left the palace. Once he was gone, Aisling had the bodies of Shastro and Kirion carried up to the highest room in Kirion’s tower. They were placed on the four-poster there, covered decently, and the curtains pulled about them. Then she laid a preservation spell over the bed and its occupants that would hold about a week; she had that much power and knowledge. After that they might have to chose another method.

The forged papers had convinced Shastro’s guard captain. Hadrann was busy keeping the city under some sort of calm, not an easy task with most of the population desperate. Aisling and her brother chose to ride to Trevalyn keep; it was a swifter easier method of travel. With them went their three guards. They had no idea of what was happening, but they trusted their employers.

The trip was exhausting. Aisling pushed her mount, using her gift to keep herself warm, balancing that with the need not to draw too deeply on what she had left, but she kept up. They dared not waste time on this. As she rode she mourned the man Shastro could have been. If only Kirion had not murdered Paran and Sharna, she was sure that with them at his side, he’d have been a different man, even a good duke. She remembered a night just before the siege when they had danced. They’d hunted earlier, now she teased him as they swung through the figures of an old country circle dance.

“Ah, sire. You trip this as well as any farmer.”

His return smile had been oddly wistful. “I sometimes wonder if I would not have made a good farmer. I like beasts. They never play you false as men do. They love or hate openly.”

“Ah, but a farmer weds. He works all day and has a wife and children. How would that have pleased you, my Lord Duke?”

“Very well, perhaps.” His eyes darkened in remembrance. “Once I would not have minded being wed. I thought of children too. I would have liked that, with her.” He visibly wrenched his mind from that thought. “And you, my dear Murna, will you wed and have a husband, children?”

“If my uncle finds me a man I deem acceptable.”

“Ah ha. Choosy are we?”

“Indeed, my Lord Duke. Better no marriage than an unhappy one. I will always have a place with my uncle, and I have a tiny income of my own. That shall content me if no good man comes courting.”

Shastro opened his mouth. She saw the thought in his face and hastily distracted him. Yet the shadow of memory was still on Shas-tro’s face. Would he have made a good husband with the cousin he had loved? She thought he might have, with his love and his friend to temper him. The minstrel had begun to sing.

Oh, Pagar, duke of Karsten,

He took ten thousand men,

He marched them into the mountains and

None ere came home again.

Shastro snarled into the sudden hush. “Another song, minstrel. That one I like not to hear.”

The minstrel bowed and hastily plucked the strings again. This time the song was approved. He sang at length of Sirion, duke of Kars when the incomers first settled. Apparently the man had all the virtues and then some. Shastro settled back in his seat with a cynical grin as the song wound on. He leaned over to Aisling to speak quietly.

“I doubt the man was any better than Pagar, but distance in time aids forgetting. In the end it doesn’t take much before the people remember only that Sirion pleased them.”

“That’s true, sire.”

Shastro sighed softly. “I wonder what they’ll sing of me when I’m dead. Will I be a hero too?”

“I think it likely, sire. All dukes tend to be heroes once they’re gone.”

Shastro chuckled. “True, although Pagar wasn’t. But then, I’ve not lost near as many as he did. Maybe I’ll get a better song.”

They turned to laughing over court gossip. As they rode now, Aisling remembered that night. It had been so innocent at the time, but in its way foreshadowing what was to come. She wondered, had they been right? Would Kars remember Shastro kindly now he was gone?

Back in the city Hadrann was hiding the death of the two men who’d ruled Kars, each in their own way. If the secret were discovered the people would riot, the guards rebel, and anarchy would descend on Kars. Hadrann had seen to it that small amounts of fuel and food were distributed from Shastro’s storehouses without fuss.

It kept the people quiet for a while longer. The guards had been ordered out to patrol more often in greater strength. They had extra rations added to compensate, so they grumbled but obeyed. In the hills five riders hammered on a keep gate and were admitted. Keelan and Aisling, shedding snow from their cloaks, refused more than a mug of hot trennen and urgently demanded the keep lord.

Once closeted with Jam neither minced words. He listened. It took most of two days, but he was Geavon’s kin, born and bred to serve his land, and once he’d heard everything, he understood the necessity.

“Jannor, my heir, is wed. He has a little daughter already, and his wife bears again. If I am assassinated as duke, then Trevalyn is not rulerless. I will come.”

He rode out with them, almost every man of his who could sit a horse riding in double file behind. Over them waved the banner of the dukes of Kars, taken quietly by Aisling before she and Keelan had left the city. On Jam’s arrival at the Kars gate, Franzo formally raised siege. By the time it sank into citizen minds that this wasn’t their old duke giving the orders at the palace now, they didn’t care. Shastro had caused the siege, given them over to fear and death. This new duke had opened the palace warehouse so that they had something to eat and drink again.

With the siege lifted, many of those who’d fled were already returning, bringing with them in some cases coin to aid those they’d been forced to leave behind. Old Lady Varra was in the forefront of these in a horse litter. Her eyes and tongue were busy as she swept her kin up to her suite and saw to it that they settled in. She herself sought out Aisling for a good enjoyable gossip. She’d always been first to know the news, and dead dukes and sieges were grist to her mill.

Trader and merchant caravans were arriving almost daily now as an early spring contributed to the city’s relief. The markets were filling with fuel, food, wine, horse fodder, and other essentials. The low quarter watched to see how much of the inflow was portable. They’d lost almost three-quarters of their number and all of such scraps of goods as they had ever owned. They settled very happily to repairing their loss of numbers as well.

Jam announced that since so many had suffered they should have a chance to rebuild. Taxes would be remitted by one half for all families who had been present during the siege. In addition, if they could prove to the duke a genuine inability to pay, ducal estate would be kept to a minimum for five years and the taxes halved for that period also. For the next five years they would rise by half of the announced reduction. After that they would return to the original level. Those merchants and tradesmen who believed themselves ruined rejoiced.

Jam saw to the funeral with Aisling’s advice. It was long, boring, and pompous. The feasting and flow of wine afterward was phenomenal. In the end Shastro slept in the tomb of the dukes of Kars. He lay richly clad, the tiny grace knife in his clasped hands. At his right lay the disinterred bones of Paran, his kinsman and friend. At his left, Sharna, cousin and beloved. Aisling stayed as the others left. She looked at those who lay in eternal silence now.

“I’ve done as you wished, my Lord Duke. I hope you all find peace together wherever your spirits wander.”

She grinned in rueful amusement. In the way of people, tales had started circulating in Kars ever since the duke’s death became known. The population had heard that it was Shastro who’d killed Kirion and been spelled to death in return. The people had made from this their own stories. It looked likely that in a short time Shastro would be remembered as the man who’d died saving Kars from sorcery. Well, everyone needed heroes, and, remembering their discussion on how the people saw their dukes, she thought it would have made Shastro smile.

But Kirion, sorcerer, evil puppet master, was not so easily disposed of. Aisling felt that his body still held danger. Wind Dancer, brought in as a test, had spat again, so vigorously his whiskers shook. He’d performed his waste-covering actions, and his tail quivered angrily. Jam wasted no time after that.

“Burn him. Fire cleanses. Use any ceremony you like, but it’s to be public so all can be satisfied how it was done and that he is truly gone. Have priestesses of Cup and Flame there so the people are certain all was done properly.”

Called in, the high priestess from Kars Shrine was adamant. “I do not know the powers with which that fool trafficked, but in some way they hold him even now. Evil resides within him. That binding must be broken.” She made suggestions that met with the approval of Aisling and Keelan.

Kirion’s funeral pyre was in the city square. It was laid with a base of logs of sun-dried wood. Over them Aisling and the priestess laid herbs. Illbane, wound-scour, feverfew, and the tiny delicate flowers of the goddess-love, which always grew about Gunorra’s shrines. Then more firewood, this time drenched in oil. On top of the man-high pyre they laid Kirion’s body. Over it Aisling placed a wall-hanging. It was sent from Aiskeep, one Ciara had made so many years ago. Foolish and evil though Kirion had been, Aiskeep was still his birthplace.

When the time came, four came forward to send Kirion home. Aisling, Keelan, Hadrann—now officially betrothed to her—and, bringing applause, gasps of awe, and gentle laughter from the crowd, Wind Dancer, showing his true size and carrying a smaller flaring torch carefully in his mouth. The high priestess moved with them to pour wine across the bier.

“Go to the goddess, Kirion of Aiskeep. In her light be redeemed.” Fire was applied, and the pyre blazed up. In the heart of Cup and Flame evil howled and then died. The pyre burned for twenty-four hours, until there was only gray ash. That Aisling scattered to the winds of the hills. She had privately burned all her brother’s books, tools, notes, and other items of sorcery.

She rode out of Kars with Hadrann and their three guards a ten-day later. Keelan rode between them, insisting it was only proper they should have a chaperone. They rode joyously, laughing, teasing, talking. Mind Dancer, in his carrysack over Aisling’s shoulder, was sometimes bounced more than the road justified, but he merely growled softly, accepting that his human had her occasional faults. Once at Aiskeep Hadrann called for the finest lightest grade of paper, ink, and quills.

“Why?” Aisling was curious.

He grinned cheerfully at her. “I think someone over-mountain might be interested in events, don’t you?”

“Flames, yes. I’d almost forgotten. I was asked to send a message if the geas was accomplished.” She laughed. “Not that one would have been needed. I felt it when Shastro and Kirion died. Hilarion is an adept and many in the valley have more of the Gift than I do. They’d have known at once as well. But write; they may only know we won, not how we succeeded.”

Hadrann nodded. “I’m sure Estcarp has spies here and there. They’ll know Jam rules Kars. We may even have someone appear here to collect our account. I’ll write twice: once for Hilarion, once for Estcarp if they ever come to claim it. Your grandmother has said she will copy twice more: once for Aiskeep records and once for us to take to Aranskeep.”

He finished the accounts after two days’ hard work and stood, shaking stiffened fingers. At the window a hawk cried softly, a messenger from Hilarion. He tucked the scroll into a firmly tied ribbon, then bound it gently to the bird’s leg. The hawk watched with interest. Hadrann offered refreshment, and stood guard as it ate and drank. Then he watched as it launched from the window. The other finished scroll he laid on the table. Ciara would deal with that.

Once he’d had a brother, one who had loved him and been loved with all the strength of a small boy’s heart. That brother had died ill. Now those responsible were dead in turn. It was done. Over. Aisling brought him another brother and love again. In time he would rule Aranskeep and its people. He would not forget his brother nor cease to love him, but life was for the living and roads must be traveled. He and Aisling had their own path to walk. He remembered the feel of her soft lips against his, and his heart warmed.

Below in the main hall Keelan was uncomplicatedly happy with his grandparents. Ciara was demanding the tale of how they had helped the noblewomen and children to escape. She’d heard it once but wanted to hear it again with old Hannion and Harran. Keelan was delighted to oblige. Trovagh listened, nodding approval. The boy would make a good lord to Aiskeep when the time came.

Wind Dancer sat outside in the courtyard by the gate, his human with him. Aisling would wed in the fall. She would go to live in Aranskeep, and he would go with her. Aisling was smiling to herself. She and Hadrann had snatched half a candlemark alone in the midst of the bustle. His kisses had burned. This was no arranged marriage. She went eagerly to the man she loved.

After some time alone she returned inside to add further details to her brother’s tale. After that she fell into the bustle of homecoming, riding about the garths of Aiskeep, talking to its people, and telling them all over again, at their demand, of the events of the siege and the deaths of Shastro and Kirion. In Kars life in the city settled down through spring and early summer. Traffic began again on the roads until in late summer a minstrel came riding. Ciara greeted him kindly.

“Welcome are you, man. Stay the night and sing for us.”

“Old songs and new as it please you, my Lady.” Old songs he did sing while all sang with him. But at the last he stood. “One last song, good folk. A new song lately sung in the court of Kars before none less than my Lord Duke, an’ it please you?”

Ciara looked at Trovagh. Both nodded. The minstrel smiled, stepped back, and broke into a quiet tune, gentle and unfamiliar. Then he sang.

Kars was well ruled in the year of the Siege

Duke Shastro was lord, of his people their liege.

Shastro the sorrowful, Shastro the kind.

Who knew very well the ruled’s heart and mind.

Ruled he alone. Foully slain love and kin

By an evil man, Kirion, on him be the sin.

Shastro the love-lost, Shastro the lone,

Shastro who’d wed never, his heart a stone.

Aisling glanced across at Hadrann. In some way whoever had penned the song had found a portion of truth. She believed, would always believe, that had the duke’s love and his love’s brother survived, Shastro might have been a different man.

Blood-magic power, cruel black the heart,

Blinding the duke, to the sorcerer’s part.

But Shastro was clever and Shastro had sight,

Shastro was ruler with aid of the Light.

Keelan hid a smile. Precious little Light around Shastro, and none at all around Kirion—that part was true. He remembered his own years of bowing to his brother and being bullied. He’d been tricked often enough by Kirion too. Maybe the duke hadn’t been quite as much to blame as Keelan had once thought.

Sorcerer’s will and his evil desire,

Will drag all of Karsten into the Mire.

His throne our dead bodies, terror his sword.

“Not while I live,” swore Shastro, Kars’ Lord.

Out stood Duke Shastro, his people to aid.

“None die at your bidding, not beggar nor maid.”

Shastro the warrior, Shastro the brave,

Shastro who’d fight, his people to save.

Hadrann listened. It wasn’t the way it had been, yet did one ever know for sure. Kirion had tempted and, with none to hold him back, Shastro had fallen. Who was so strong that offered all his desires he could not fall if there were none to aid? The song wound on before the final verses, where the tune took on a triumphant note.

Wizard for evil, ruler for Light,

Strive they in battle away from Kars’ sight.

Shastro the honest, Shastro the brave,

Giving his life, his people to save.

Honor our duke, let evil take wing.

Dying to save us, of Shastro we sing.

Shastro the hero, Light binds his sword.

Did ever a people have such a lord?

The people of Aiskeep applauded the song. Hadrann added his own approval. Maybe much of the song wasn’t quite how it had happened, but Shastro had slain Kirion, that was the truth. Keelan too was clapping. Kirion was dead; he and Aiskeep were free. That was good enough for him. Aisling smiled at the minstrel, her eyes glittering with sudden tears. It had been the death of Shastro’s kin that had begun the evil. If they had not died he’d have been content.

Well, let him lie content now. The minstrel was singing the song again at the demand of those who had not heard it properly before. Once Shastro had wondered if the people would sing ballads about him after he was dead. She hoped that wherever his soul might wander now, it was with his love and his best friend, and that wherever they all were, they could somehow hear the song Kars sang. Only she of all who’d known Shastro might also know his motives, and she would say nothing, ever. Let him have his tomb and his song. In the end he’d earned them both.

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