bow and arrows.
“No, Jo, you’ll do fine without me,” Flinn answered, then paused. Jo turned around in the silence. Shaking his head, Flinn spoke again. “I’m going inside to work on restoring my armor.”
“I can do that this evening. It’s part of my job as a squire.” Flinn held up a hand to forestall her. “I know, I know, Jo. But there’s a lot of work to be done, and you can’t do it all.”
“…A lot of work to be done?” An odd chill ran down her back.
Flinn only nodded. “Yes,” he said curtly, his eyes glinting. “We’re going after the abelaat.”
Jo felt as though her throat was closing in on itself. “When?” was all she could say.
Flinn’s eyes were dark with compassion. “This week, depending on the weather. When I think you’ve advanced a little more and I get the armor back in order, we’ll head out. I’m tired of keeping Ariac and Fernlover here in the corral. And I want us to be able to gather firewood without looking over our shoulders every minute.
“We’re going to kill the abelaat-before it kills us.”
Chapter IV
Sir Brisbois yawned. The council meeting had dragged on for nearly three hours now. He gazed restlessly at the fourteen lords and knights who lined the small meeting room-the small prison, he thought. Brisbois closed his mind to the discussion surrounding him, his attention wandering to the stone ceiling some thirty feet above. A vague dizziness flushed through him as his eyes traced the intricately carved bosses and the pale murals on the ceiling. Brisbois’ eyes shifted to the huge tapestries that hung from three of the walls. Then his gaze turned toward the fourth wall, which held arching windows filled with leaded glass. He had watched the early winter sun set almost an hour ago through those windows. The brass lanterns throughout the room had magically lit at sunset, their blue-white glow casting harsh shadows across the people’s faces. Brisbois squinted. He had drunk too much last night.
He sat in an unupholstered, ornately carved chair that was distinctly uncomfortable for his angular, lanky frame. Before him was a U-shaped table, its top so perfectly joined that the seams were invisible to all but a master carpenter. Excepting me, of course, Brisbois thought wryly. If I sit here any longer, I’ll have every dust mote in this room catalogued. Beneath his feet stretched a green marble floor lined with gold. It was beautiful and cold and practical-just like the baroness herself, Brisbois mused.
Brisbois stared at the young matriarch, sitting at the center of the table. She was as tall as many of the men there, Baroness Arteris Penhaligon. Her blue and silver raiment set off her chestnut hair and eyes. To many of the older knights, she was the youthful image of her father, Baron Arturus Penhaligon. They revered her because the likeness was not simply physical; honor ran deep in the daughter of the baron. Other courtiers though-mostly younger knights who had never met the old baron-murmured against giving allegiance to a woman. She didn’t even have a husband, they argued. She should provide not only an heir but a husband as well-a proper lord to rule. Brisbois chuckled inwardly; his age placed him among the baroness’ supporters, but his views placed him among her adversaries.
Baroness Penhaligon continued to drone on about lifting the peasantry’s tax burden, and Brisbois, a leer coming to his lips, let his thoughts slip back to the maid he had cornered last night. He closed his ears to the discussion surrounding him.
“…Sir Brisbois? Would you be willing?” The baroness’ voice broke through Brisbois’ reverie. Her brown eyes, hard as agates, bored into him. He was sure she had called upon him deliberately, and his dislike for the daughter of Arturus Penhaligon deepened. She’s got her father’s eyes, he thought waspishly. I remember the old man looking at me in just the same way.
Sir Brisbois hurried to his feet. He bowed toward Arteris. “Of course, Your Ladyship. I should be delighted to handle the matter for you,” Brisbois said smoothly. He held one hand on the silky blue tunic that covered his chain mail and used the other to hold back the ceremonial sword hanging at his side.
“Wonderful,” was Arteris’ sour reply. “Who will you appoint to the committee?” she added.
Brisbois flashed his most disarming smile. “After I’ve given the matter some consideration, Your Ladyship, I’ll report back to you. I have some ideas of my own I need to take under advisement.” He nodded gracefully.
“Good sir knight,” Arteris said with asperity, “we have spent the last several hours ‘considering’ the matter. Enough is enough. Please make your selection now.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Brisbois spotted a furtive gesture from one of the council members. Three seats away from the baroness, Lord Maldrake nodded slightly. Brisbois smiled. Maldrake was Arteris’ cousin-by-marriage and Brisbois’ cohort. “Why, Your Ladyship, I’d like to appoint Lord Maldrake, with your permission.” Brisbois held out his hand toward the blond knight, a younger man clearly entering the prime of his life. Lord Maldrake was considered something of a rake, for he charmed women easily. Most men respected and feared him, and he had the reputation of being ruthless if crossed-a reputation not undeserved.
The baroness glanced toward Maldrake and nodded with icy civility. “If Lord Maldrake accepts-”
“I do, my baroness, with alacrity.” Lord Maldrake, who didn’t rise in deference, was equally icy, his tongue caressing the term “my baroness.” His thickly hooded green eyes glinted darkly. “I’m delighted to attend Sir Brisbois in this matter. I have many excellent ideas for easing the peasants’ burdens.”
The baroness responded, “Splendid, Lord Maldrake.” She turned to Sir Brisbois but touched the arm of the graying gentleman to her left. “And I think I shall appoint our good castellan to the committee as well. Doubtless Sir Graybow’s wisdom and experience will… add to the originality of your plans.” She smiled once again at Sir Brisbois, a smile that showed she would brook no argument. He shot a glance at Sir Graybow, but the old knight’s head was lowered. The baroness stood.
Arteris closed her eyes and lifted her hands toward the vault above. “We thank the Immortals for blessing us with the outcome of this meeting and this day.” Then she lowered her arms, clasped her hands together, and gazed steadily at the council members. “And thank you for joining me today, good friends. Fare-thee-well.” The baroness took the castellan’s proffered arm and left the room. The other members of the council, a number of them grumbling quietly, followed after.
Only Sir Brisbois and Maldrake remained seated. Casually, Brisbois stood and sauntered over to Maldrake. The blond lord tilted the heavy chair back on two legs-no mean feat-and propped his spurred boots on the elegantly carved cherry table. His hard-edged boot marked the table as he tapped his foot distractedly.
Brisbois leaned against the table and peered at his longtime friend. “Thanks for stepping in. I’m afraid I was thinking of other things-”
“The wench I sent you last night?” Maldrake grinned wickedly.
Brisbois felt a momentary shudder; his friend was sometimes so clearly malevolent. Slowly, Brisbois also grinned. “Yes. Thank you for her, by the way. She was a treat-I may even ask for her again.” He shifted his weight to his other foot. “But I missed what Arteris was talking about. What’s she snagged us for this time?”
Maldrake’s chair crashed forward to the floor, and he clapped his hands together. “Hah!” he cried. “This’ll be great fun! We’re supposed to come up with ways to decrease the tax burden on the peasants!”
Brisbois frowned. “That doesn’t sound very exciting.” Maldrake’s green eyes turned malicious. He stood and leaned toward Brisbois. “See, we tell the peasants we’re instituting new tax plans that will help them, but in reality we’ll tax them harder in ways that can’t be traced. I’ll work on that. We’ll pocket the difference. Brisbois, the baroness’ practically begging us to commit larceny!” His green eyes glinted in the lantern light.
Brisbois felt again a stirring of admiration for his friend. “I see, I see!” he said excitedly. “But what about Graybow? How do we get around him?”
Maldrake waved his hand. “Leave him to me. Graybow’s old and starting to dodder. He won’t be hard to handle.” He clasped a hand on the taller man’s shoulder and said, “Yvaughan has dinner waiting in our quarters. Why don’t you join us?” He added spitefully, “She’d be glad of the company.”
Brisbois grimaced. “Is tonight a good night? Your wife waxes cold and warm toward me, Maldrake. I’ve never understood her or her moods.”
“Perhaps she secretly resents you, Brisbois,” the younger knight replied. “Perhaps she resents you for destroying her former husband.” Maldrake’s heavy-lidded eyes gleamed.
