BRONWYN
Bronwyn whirled and stepped her way through the reel, grateful that her thick chestnut hair had been securely arranged in an up-do. The succession tournament would begin in only three months. Parties and balls would prove as much of a gauntlet as the melees might be, if her guess was correct. The song ended and she curtsied to her partner and took a step to her left, as was custom. She curtsied again. Her new partner, Lord Hyram Pickell, was an insufferable man, though some thought him handsome. He was too fond of velvets, furs and laces for her taste. Long golden hair framed patrician features and intelligent blue eyes, all fine enough. But his bored expression and nasal, whining, foppish tone made her want to escape to the necessary. How could one be bored while dancing?
In fact, he acts much like Tabor behaves when he is playing the fool, Bronwyn realized suddenly. Her brother was maddening in that state. She studied the simpering baron more closely. Could he be dissembling as well? She decided to try his facade and see if it held. It would amuse her well enough through the dance.
"Tell me Lord Pickell, do you think politics could be compare to a dance?"
His smile wavered only for a moment. It was the eyes that gave him away. They focused on her, sharp and penetrating, before he lapsed back into his lazy, foppish mask. "I had not considered it," he said, turning sharply around her.
"Really?" Bronwyn tossed her head and stepped back. "The side-step, the caper, the gypsy. They've always reminded me of the maneuvers at court."
"How so, fair lady?" he asked.
"You must keep in step or step on others. Fall out of line and you will be embarrassed. Mis-step and you might fall yourself and there's the end to your dance," she said, arching a brow. She shuffled and sidestepped, demonstrating. "Can you not see it?"
"Indeed, milady," he said. The set was coming to an end. With a bow, he flashed a gallant smile. "So it must be important to choose your position well and keep to proper timing. And of course, above all, to avoid mis-steps."
"Indeed, milord."
With a deep bow, Pickell took his place, ready for his next partner. When his eyes lingered on her later in the evening, she pretended not to notice.
#
Bestua bustled, packed to bursting with squires, ladies-in-waiting. Knights, lords, barons and sycophants in various shapes and sizes. Cantors, bards, players and merchants as well as large bands of common folk abounded as the Weldenland capitol prepared for tournament. High King Tenneth had passed away without naming an heir. Instead he had demanded that the Cyntae choose his successor in tournament, as the Weldenland High Kings had been chosen in days of old, the days before the War of the Wyrm. Invoking an old law, he had made the terms binding and specific. Now the Crown would be decided in battle, publicly.
Tenneth had granted enrollment in the lists to any man who could use a sword, bow or lance. Any man, not only the nobles could enter. Such a thing had not been done in centuries. The first week after the proclamation had seen hundreds of travelers pour in. Some boasted, eager to try their hand and win the crown. Others wanted to cash in on the spectacle and its witnesses, using the opportunity to hawk wares and food.
The first set of challenges, tests of courage and arms, would begin in only three months. These would be succeeded by tests of strategy, followed by a final test of character until only one remained. No one knew what the latter tests held.
Rumors abounded. Bronwyn had heard the night before from more than one suitor Arcantor Modric himself would oversee all, speaking for the Cyntae. Others whispered the Cyntae themselves would finally leave their heavenly abode, disguising themselves as ordinary soldiers and participants to judge. One note sent that morning suggested the Bindery Masters would perform with their best students and release the Song unfettered with magical instruments that only they guarded, choosing the best person for the role. Another claimed that the High King's relatives waged a private war with each other and the pageant was all for show. Only one of them could win, whichever survived the other.
Lady Bronwyn collected each whisper, each rumor sent to her, reading them from the parlor of her uncle Hector's manse. When she was in town, an invitation to one of his extravagant dinner parties was prized highly. Her brother had performed countless favors for noble houses throughout the Weldenlands through his unique connections with the Spinners. The Spinners were a network of rogues who clandestinely safeguarded the true Song. Tabor, and by extension, the Lady Brownyn, were repaid handsomely with any tidbit that a courtier could glean in order to gain favor and win a seat at a Demitri table.
The chief bit of information which Bronwyn wished for was not forthcoming, not even from the Spinners. She had been in the city for two weeks and still had no word from her brother. It tried her patience. Tabor had left her a note with her breakfast a month and a fortnight prior, saying he had business in the Middewelde and would send word when it was finished. In the meantime, Cantors had both visited in person and sent missives to their manor in Baehnt. These demanded immediate audience with Lord Tabor Demitri and each request proved more insistent, insinuating that the Baron's prolonged absence was a tactic to avoid their scrutiny. Bronwyn had replied to them with apologies and finally had come to Bestua herself in an attempt to placate the Arcantor and intercede with the King if she could. She wanted to at least discover the charges against her brother.
The day after her arrival, the King died.
However, the tournament had changed everything. Not only had every Conclave visit and message abruptly ended, but Bronwyn had been deluged with other visitors. Officially each came to pay their respects and welcome her to the city, but all were keen to learn what they could about the upcoming challenges without exciting speculation.
Bronwyn tapped her writing desk, pensively reading the morning's correspondence. It all must be answered or she would receive twenty more anxious notes this afternoon.
Her dark hair was swept up into a mass of loose curls that complemented her blue, silver-corded dress. Embroidered at the neck, hem and sleeves in a matching silver knotwork pattern of her native Lowewelde and bound in finely worked silver filigree belt, the dress proclaimed her station without being cumbersome. It also matched her eyes.
She glanced up at the single Watcher that sat above the hearth. Its wise stone gaze fixed on the ceiling of the room as it had for decades. The grotesque had always been inert, even when she was a child, but it still made her nervous. She pushed the fear away and turned back to her correspondence.
The invitations to that evening's various balls and parties she declined, begging their pardon and hinting she was ill. Her only available escort was her aged uncle and while he was a dear soul, he was no match for the suitors who tended to become ever more eager with each dance. Last night was proof of that. They're afraid of Tabor, but Eddard?
Eddard thought she was best married and soon. Bronwyn sniffed and looked at the other letters. There were three. The first was from Seth, written in Spinner's Cant.
The upright man's found his briers but we are carding wool.
Her brother was in trouble but the Spinners were en route to help him. She translated, then checked over the note carefully, looking for any other clue. Nothing. Raising one brow, she held the note over a candle and was gratified to see words form. She read them quickly before consigning the letter to the fire. He was in Siarad? Why?
The second letter carried no signature but held the seal of the High King. A masked and hooded courier had come early this morn and insisted on its immediate delivery to her brother. She broke the seal and stared at the single line, incredulous.
I named my heir. If this finds you without a King, know beyond doubt I was betrayed and murdered. Keep my sons safe. Stop Modric. The heir apparent is –
Bronwyn looked up as the door to her rooms flew open. Her maid, Topsy, stumbled into the room and gasped out, "Dance the shadows my lady!"
She heard the unmistakable tramp of boots at the end of the hallway above the loud protests of Lord Eddard's butler Nigel and sprang at once to her dressing room, carrying only her last two letters. She picked up a small satchel filled with necessities, always at hand when she traveled. The small space, wood-paneled, had been commissioned and added to the manor by Lord Eddard after the style of those found in Fell country palaces. There was one in each bedroom. Bronwyn covered herself with a worn grey cloak and plucked a wide-brimmed hat from its rack, then pressed a rose ornament in the corner of the central panel and slipped into the space that slid open. The panel slid shut, leaving her in a narrow passage that trailed the length of the house. She had run, silent in light slippers, halfway down the passage when the smell of smoke reached her. Blinking back tears, she crouched and crept the rest of the way. Bronwyn didn't breathe until she reached the hidden stair. Then with a gulp, she flew down the steps to the grotto below and to one of the waiting dinghies that would carry her out to the city's canal network and to safety. With any luck, the household would be on her heels, but she dared not let them follow or even see which direction she took.
As the boat slipped out of its moors and into the canal, she turned. Black smoke billowed up from the manor. Flames licked at its glassed windows while nearby trees burned. She heard bells ringing in the distance and murmured a prayer to the Storm King for her uncle. She tucked the letters she held into her bodice and turned away, rowing steadily.
The canals ringed the city with passages connecting them, the outermost pouring into the main dock area and river. Bronwyn turned her boat away from the center of the city, toward the city wall and the area of town known as the Gutter. As she passed under a bridge she pulled out a wig of blonde curls and doffed her hat, tucking her raven hair under it and pinning it deftly. She replaced her hat, securing it with two hatpins and then picked up the oars again.
Several turns later, she moored the dinghy outside a four-story, rambling half-timbered building in the heart of the Gutter. The Spider's Last Hope had been added to over the years until it took up almost half of one city block. Bronwyn hunched her shoulders and dragged one foot. She let one eye droop and pulled her cloak close as she picked up her satchel and approached the entrance, quirking her mouth in a crooked grin as the tavern owner, Ben, greeted her. "Oi Molly, yer a sight fer sore eyes and tha's a fact. Where you bin, lass? Come in, come in."
"I've come fer the tourney," she answered truthfully. "Me mad brother done chased his pipedreams into briers and I knowt fer a fact but thar's the rub. I'll see 'im change his stars while his maties card wool." She winked. "Dancing with shadows, I am."
Ben wiped his broad forehead with his handkerchief and clucked. "Ah then, come and rest yer poor heels with a mug and tell old Ben all about it." He held the door for her. She bobbed a curtsey and ducked into the kitchen. Without having to be told, she turned to the servant's stair and climbed it, up to the attic floor. The heavy door at the top of the stair opened into a large chamber equipped with several tables and a bar. Open windows on both sides let in both light and a cool breeze. She found a table and settled down with a sigh.
Ben plunked a mug of tea and a saucer of honey in front of her and she accepted it with a grateful mewl, spooning the honey in and stirring. The steam spiraled up, reaching for the naked beams that supported the roof. Bronwyn unpinned her hat, setting it on the bench next to her. When she looked up, Seth was sitting across from her.
"They came for you." A statement, not a question.
Bronwyn nodded and pulled the King's letter from her bodice. "Because of this. It came this morning and was meant for Tabor. The Conclave has been hounding me, they've grown bolder in the last weeks. Nearly even threatening. Then the King..." Her voice trailed off. High King Tenneth had been like a second father to her, but she would not let her voice shake. Today she would hold steadfast. She would find the time to grieve when the world was set right again.
Seth read the contents of the note, his normally implacable face darkening. He looked up from the note, his lips thinning in a grim line. "And Eddard?"
She shook her head. "I don't know. They burned the manor. It will be a horrible accident, I'm sure." She picked up the rough mug of tea and drank while Seth gestured to a thin, wiry man and spoke to him in measured tones. He turned back to her, his eyes softening as the man hurried away.
"I'll take care of him. Don't worry."
"Why is Tabor there, Seth? I need him here."
"The Conclave has had a noose set for him and 'twas the best way out," Seth said. "There were other issues. The bard."
"Trystan?"
Seth nodded, confirming.
"The game has begun milady, the long game set in motion so many years ago. The pieces are in play and we must all do our part."
"It's not a game. It's a dance. No winners, no losers, just the endless whirl. Will they come here?" Bronwyn's brow furrowed.
Seth barked a laugh. "Not likely. The city guard would revolt. We keep them well-buttered. I have canaries set to sing if they try. We're safe enough for the moment.
"Are you going to open that?"
Bronwyn looked in surprise at the third letter of the morning, lying on the table, unopened and forgotten. She picked it up and broke the unmarked wax seal, reading.
Not all within the Arcanum wish you harm. Guard the truth and flee, seek aid from within the heartfire but trust not the Rejected.
Wordlessly, she passed it to Seth. He read it, sniffed it, and passed it over a flame. No other words appeared. Nodding, he folded the King's message and signaled to Ben.
"Milady Molly and I require a carriage and supplies instantly," he said. "We have urgent business that cannot be avoided."
"I'll arrange it at once, milord," said the innkeeper. He bowed and hurried down the stairs. He had not been gone for more than a few minutes before Bronwyn heard a loud crash outside the Inn. She rose and hurried to the window looking out into the narrow street. A block away, several wagons had crashed into a gilded carriage marked with the sign of the Arc.
"The canaries are singing, my lass. It's time to fly."
Bronwyn nodded and dropped her "Molly" guise completely. She scooped up her satchel and followed Seth down the steps and into the stable where Ben was readying the carriage.
"No time for supplies," Seth tossed a coinpurse at the Innkeeper and climbed into the driver's seat. Bronwyn dove into the carriage. With a flick of the reins, they were off, driving into the narrow streets turn by turn, deeper into the city.