BRONWYN
Bronwyn never could say after that circuitous drive exactly where they had gone. It was all a blur. Houses, stone walls, ornamented buildings, canal bridges, wrought iron gates and tall, impenetrable hedges flashed by when she glanced out the carriage windows. She spent most of the journey alternately watching behind them to catch a glimpse of their pursuers and trying not to be ill.
She found the ride so disagreeable, it put her in quite a foul temper. She nursed her annoyance, letting it smolder. She used it to keep fear at bay.
Seth was an expert driver. They had rumbled over countless bridges and through several winding lanes when suddenly, a cart loaded high with hay bales pulled out of an alley behind them. At the next turn, the cart's driver banked too quickly, trying to keep pace with their lighter trap. Bronwyn watched as it tipped onto two wheels and crashed, spilling its cargo into the intersection and blocking passage in all directions. Seth turned again, but not before Bronwyn spied a tall man in a hooded black cloak climb out of a coach, gesturing in frustration at the farmer. Several robed figures stood behind him.
Bronwyn turned to face front, blinking in relief. Pursuit was impossible for now. Their coach slowed to a respectable trot. A few turns later, they whisked into a courtyard and stopped. Seth leapt from the driver's seat and opened the carriage door, handing her down. Two footmen closed an iron gate behind them.
"Milady," said Seth with a bow. "Welcome to Terre Manor."
Bronwyn blinked, looking up at the manse in appreciation. The stone edifice rose over a small courtyard with four stories of pedimented windows. A wide marble stairway climbed to an arched front entry which was sheltered by a buttressed, ornate balcony. Seth handed the reins to a footman and drew her up the stairs, tucking her arm under his. She looked at him, inquiring.
Seth shrugged, answering her expression. "They won't expect us to run to a Bindery Master."
The door opened before they reached the top of the stairs. A small, wiry woman held it ajar for them. Dressed in fine, but not too fine, clothing, her hair drawn up into a bun, she peered at them over thin spectacles, quizzically. Bronwyn guessed her to be the head maid.
"Himself said we'd have guests today," she said, coming down the last two steps to meet them. "I'm Miss Crusis, but please call me Ana." She sketched a quick curtsy, barely rising before turning on her heel. "Come along with you then. Himself, the Master Terre, won't return from his classes until after dinner." Disapproval dripped from her tone like raindrops, though whether she disapproved of their presence or of the Master's eating habits, Bronwyn wasn't sure. They followed. Bronwyn had to quicken her step to keep up.
"Why are we here?' Bronwyn mouthed at Seth.
The small man's mouth twisted in a knowing smile before he answered. "Your brother and Master Terre have been working together and he asked me to introduce you if things ever became ...complicated... for us in the city."
Bronwyn wasn't sure if her ire was pricked by Tabor's protective instincts or if she was still grumpy from the carriage ride, but Seth's words stoked a hot flame of defiance in her belly.
"I can take care of myself," she said, teeth gritted.
"Of course you can, love." Seth agreed amiably. They were standing outside a study at the top of the stairs. Miss Crusis motioned to them to enter. Bronwyn let the matter drop. She'd take it up with her brother when she saw him again. If I see Tabor again, she amended, hating herself for the thought. Of course I will.
The room was large and airy, filled with sunlight streaming from multiple tall windows. Couches and finely made chairs sat in front of the bookcases that lined the room. A writing desk sat in a lonely corner. Bronwyn ignored the seats and stood before the books, studying their titles.
"Now then," said Ana, "would you like a cup of tea?"
Bronwyn nodded gratefully, anxious to settle her stomach and relented, sinking into a well-upholstered chair. Seth chose the chair beside her.
Ana rang a small bell on a table. A moment later, a maid entered with a tray of tea and cakes. She poured three cups of tea, added sugar and cream and handed one to Bronwyn. The steam rose from the cup, mildly spicy and invigorating. Bronwyn sniffed appreciatively and took a sip.
"So the King sent you an important missive and the Conclave wants to make sure it never sees the light of day," said Ana, perching on the edge of a settee. "Who did he name? No. Don't tell me. I'd rather not know. The old man was ever a prankster, likely he has left the entire lot to his nephew. Not that that would be much of an inheritance, what with the barons arguing and the Conclave meddling in everything they shouldn't." She took a sip of tea and fixed Bronwyn with a searching look over the top of her spectacles. "You're a bright one. You know this tournament is a sham. The formation is being set and the players have begun their reel. My question is, what will you do with your position in this dance?"
Bronwyn blinked. Seth coughed and snorted, hacking as if his tea had gone down the wrong way. He recovered quickly.
Ana watched him over her teacup, her expression careful. "Do take care, Master Seth, Lady Bronwyn. Don't trouble yourself with answering. I must be off now. Always so much to do, taking care of Himself. I'll leave you in peace. Your rooms will be ready shortly. " She stood and curtsied formally, then strode from the room, skirts swishing purposefully on the carpets.
"That woman is no housekeeper," Bronwyn said, mystified.
Seth laughed shortly. "Indeed not. She was a member of the Arcanum Bindery before she retired. Master Terre's second cousin, once removed, I believe. Like a sister to him. She rules his house with a quick wit and sharp tongue. Says he has no head for such. They have been close since childhood. No doubt the Master told her about us. Tabor worried something like this might happen."
Bronwyn nodded, thoughtful.
"You think it best we stay in the city? Won't the Conclave come for me here?"
Seth shook his head. "I think not. We've side-stepped by coming to a Bindery Master. If we run, we could be taken on the road without witnesses. They can't very well just come charging into this House, even under Modric's orders, without showing their hand. Your uncle's estate burning is one thing. That alone will have the city talking. Rumors already have the next king a puppet to the Arcantor. They won't risk another show of force openly. I'll escort you from now on, milady and see to your safety. But be careful of your food and drink outside this manse. I fear they may try poison ...or worse. "
***
Bronwyn and Seth were settled into their rooms with military efficiency. Bronwyn took the opportunity to wash, finding a clean suitable evening dress in her size lying on her bed. She sat at her dressing table, brushing her hair and looked out the window to the garden. The view was breathtaking. It held a small labyrinth and several varieties of roses she had never seen. A small fountain gurgled next to ivy covered walls. Seeing no sign of Seth, she returned to the study and settled into the most comfortable couch to read poetry. Later, she rattled about, exploring the labyrinth. She dined alone in her small parlor, then resumed her reading. She was almost ready to retire for the evening when the Master appeared.
Sondheim Terre ran his fingers through his tousled grey hair and strode into the study with his arms wide, ignoring all formalities. "Lady Bronwyn Demitri, welcome, welcome."
She stood to greet him and was wrapped in a fierce embrace. He pulled back but did not release her, instead searching her face. "You're just as Tabor described you. Prettier. I'm very sorry you had to shelter here but I trust Ana has taken care of you?"
Bronwyn nodded. "I'm most anxious for news of my uncle. Have you any word?"
Master Terre's eyebrows drew together. "I do not, but doubtless young Seth is seeing to him. We shall be patient and see what the morning brings. Now then, have you guessed what the Conclave hopes to achieve?"
"The succession. They want to control it. If the King left instructions then their tournament winner cannot rise to power."
"And who do you suppose they shall put on the throne? A champion from the one of the Great Houses? One of the princes?"
"A noble, surely. No peasant can defeat Sir Kellen Rathbone at arms. The prince's cousin is their Champion, trained to lead armies since he was a boy. Sir Mallorn, Sir Titus and Sir Gwydion are the most likely to win the day." She counted the off the most prominent warriors from the four Great Houses. "Prince Hector is a drunkard and Prince Falken is too young to properly perform at tournament."
Terre leaned forward. "And what of the barons and minor houses?"
Bronwyn blinked. "Tabor doesn't want the throne and won't enter the game. Lord deClelland the younger is on one of his mad treks through the countryside. The two older deClelland's won't ever be pried out of Perrhil. They're as mad as their brother in their own way. Baron Pickell spends more time here than in the Sundered City but he doesn't strike me as power hungry. I saw him last night and took my measure. He cares for status and his pleasures, not for actual responsibility. He won't seek the crown.
"That leaves House Carpathian. But High Cantor Siles was the only member of that House eligible. He can't seek the crown. He's a Cant–" She stopped, realization dawning in her blue eyes.
"Master, can a Cantor seek the Crown?"
Master Terre regarded her, his face grave.
"Indeed a Cantor can seek the crown. But then again, so can a Bindery Master."
Bronwyn kept her composure. "You're not a young man, Master Terre. And your skill at arms?"
"Call me Sondheim or Sonny if you like, your brother named me such and I've grown rather fond of it."
"Sonny," she smiled.
The Master laughed and winked at her. "He told me it was better than Heimie and asked why my parents hated me." He shook his head. "Your brother would make a fine king, bless him. Pity he won't try."
"He feels it would be a terrible burden and take him away from his other pursuits, milord."
Sondheim took a pipe and matches from the folds of his robe and stood, retrieving a small box from the fireplace mantel. He opened the box and removed a tobacco pouch, filled his pipe and grunted in agreement. "Wise man, your brother. But to answer your question, there is more to arms than swordplay, especially if one plays the games for a purpose other than winning."
The Master leaned forward. "Do you have access to the same information as your brother?"
Bronwyn nodded, then qualified. "I do, but through Seth. I've never enjoyed the family business. I prefer my books."
Master Terre laughed at that. "You are wiser even than Tabor. But perhaps you could use your connections to seek out Lord de Clelland. Urge him to come to the capitol and enter the lists. I think given the circumstances, we should at least try to get the rightful named heir to the city. Then, if things go awry you can produce the proof needed to thwart the Conclave."
"If I send a message they will assassinate him. He will be in terrible danger if they even suspect I've sent him word. Besides, I'm not sure where he is and it will take time to discover. Time I don't have."
"Have faith in your network my dear. The Spinners have more talent and knowledge than you know. They are a knife at the throat of the Arcantor and have long been so. Also, have you met Lord de Clelland?"
Bronwyn shook her head. "I only know him by reputation, but assumed it was mostly lies."
Master Terre laughed again and lit his pipe, puffing thoughtful before he answered.
"Gisle de Clelland is a true knight and general. A leader. He is upright, honest, exacting, vigilant, intelligent and eminently trustworthy. He's also the single most prepared man I have ever met. He thinks four steps ahead of every situation and lives by an honor code that would cause most men to fall under its weight. His men adore him and there is only one thing he hates more than a lie."
The old man tapped his nose.
"He hates the Conclave. Lesser men have whispered about him, describing him as obsessed where the man is single-minded and passionate. But he is no mad man. Gisle de Clelland is crazy like a fox. You let him know that he can thwart the Conclave by entering the games? He will come. He will be punctual and no power on earth will thwart him.
"Send word. Right now he might be our only hope."
Seth appeared in the doorway, his face grim. "I've found your uncle, my lady. His body. I'm sorry."
Bronwyn rose with a cry, aghast. "You're sure?"
Seth nodded. "He was burned badly in the fire and did not survive his wounds. I think the Conclave wished to ensure he would not enter the tournament."
Bronwyn sank into her seat, numb, while Master Terre rose and poured a snifter of brandy for her, placing it before her, his face gentle.
"He loved you very much."
Bronwyn nodded silently, unable to speak. Tears streamed down her face. She took a sip from the glass and then wiped her eyes. Her voice was steady. "Seth, thank you for letting me know. I'll grieve him as he deserves when the time comes. But right now, we have work to do."