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understand how such things look, through a woman's eyes." She laid her head
against his chest so that her silky red hair brushed his stomach.
"No." said Blade with a sigh. "I suppose I do not." Nor do I understand as
much about what it is to be
"lordly" as I thought I did.
Miera moved against him, more insistently. He decided it was time to forget
about lurking dangers, at least for tonight.
If Blade couldn't save Cyron and Miera from their own stubbornness, he was
determined to save
Cheeky. So the Feathered One was perched on the saddle in front of him the
next morning as he rode over the drawbridge. Miera waved her scarf to him from
the keep window, then he gave his mount its head.
Alsin had set up a system of relay posts running all the way from Castle Ranit
to the borders of the
Duchy of Faissa. By changing horses at each post, a strong rider could cover
what was normally a five-day ride in a single day. Blade compromised, changing
horses about halfway. He spent the night at an inn, and reached Castle Muras
about midafternoon of the next day.
He knew something was wrong almost the moment he rode through the gate. Each
man he passed looked intently at him, then quickly looked away, as if afraid
Blade would read his face. In the stable it was the same. He also saw a
totally exhausted horse with Cyron's brand on it, standing in the stall next
to his.
"Would someone please tell me what happened?" he snapped. "Has my face turned
purple or something?" He spoke sharply, to drive away the cold doubts
clutching at him.
No one answered. Everyone seemed more reluctant than before to meet his eyes.
Then he saw a familiar figure silhouetted against the door of the stable.
Chenosh stepped forward, and Blade saw that his eyes were red and his face
drawn and gray. The doubts were suddenly even more chilling.
"Chenosh, what-?"
"Blade-my grandfather is dead. Murdered. It was yesterday morning, shortly
after you left Nainan. A
messenger from the castle rode straight through to get here with the news."
"What about Miera?"
"She-she fought the murderer. She-she's hurt, and may not live."
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Blade's legs held him up as far as a bench by the door. Then he sat down and
swallowed hard. "All right, Chenosh. Tell me."
"It was yesterday morning..."
Chapter 21
Miera had come down from the keep, to find her grandfather already at
breakfast in his private chamber. He looked her over as she sat down on the
far side of the table.
"You are well, Miera?"
"Now don't you start fussing over me, Grandfather. I'm going to have quite
enough of that from
Richard."
"You have told him you are with child?"
"Of course."
"Miera, your tongue-"
She smiled and reached out a hand to him. "Grandfather, forgive me. But I
think you must understand that the way I speak to men now is what Richard
taught me. I know his way is not the way of the
Crimson River, but-"
Cyron threw up his hands. "Now it is my turn to ask you not to fuss. I
understand. Very well. Blade's way with women is indeed his own, but I will
not say anything against him because of that. A man who fights and leads as he
does can be forgiven many faults."
Miera wanted to go around to the other side of the table and kiss her
grandfather. But she saw a servant approaching, and decided to wait until he
was out of earshot.
The servant was a tall, heavy man, with a bushy head of graying red hair. He
announced that six Lords from Gualdar were in the courtyard below but would
not intrude on His Grace's meal. Cyron thanked them for the courtesy and
promised to receive them in an hour. The servant bent to offer the Duke a
raisin-stuffed chicken. Miera thought she saw metal gleaming in the man's
hair. Now why should he be wearing a comb like a woman?
Suddenly the man's hands went limp and the chicken on its massive silver
platter crashed to the table.
Chicken and raisins flew everywhere.
"You clumsy oaf-!" roared Cyron.
"Your Grace, I beg you. Be merciful. I don't know what came over me...." The
man clutched frantically at his hair. Suddenly his right hand tightened into a
fist, then sprang free of his hair, clutching a long thin dagger. Miera
screamed. Her grandfather looked up, just in time to take the dagger in his
right eye. She screamed again as he slumped back into his chair, blood running
from his nose and mouth. The murderer jerked the dagger free and turned to
run.
This made him turn his back on Miera. She hurled herself across the table, her
gown snagging on something and ripping to the waist, but she clutched him by
the belt. He bellowed and turned, stabbing with the dagger. She felt the steel
drive into her back, but it seemed no more than a pinprick. She clutched the [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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