Rift, Page 2

  A groomsman intercepted them in the courtyard, taking Alistair’s horse and leading the animal to the stables.

  “Your father is in the great hall,” Alistair told her as they passed through the manor’s tall oak doors. “With quite a feast prepared.”

  “He was hoping to impress Conatus,” Ember said. “And he’s likely disappointed that he’s spent a fortune only to have young Alistair Hart appear to collect me.”

  “Not only me,” he said with a quirk of his lips that might have been a smile or a grimace.

  “Someone else is here?” Ember could hear her father’s booming voice as they approached the great hall. He was using the expansive tone Ember knew meant he wanted to convey his importance.

  Alistair leaned close, whispering, “Someone more intimidating than young Master Hart. Though I’m loath to admit such a man lives. But in truth, it is someone your father would be less likely to dismiss.”

  Curiosity brimming, Ember walked as quickly as she could without running. The hall was bursting with color, scent, and sound. Lord Edmund Morrow sat in a carved wooden chair, taller than its counterparts. A long table was overspread by silver platters laden with roasted pheasant, venison, and suckling pig. Wooden bowls were close to toppling under the weight of sweetbreads, piping hot fish stew, and savory pottage. Servants scurried about the hall, refilling empty glasses with crimson wine and amber cider.

  Despite her pattering heart, Ember’s stomach rumbled. This feast was far greater than even the Christmas celebration her father had thrown. Was he so concerned about his reputation with Conatus? After all, hadn’t he spoken of them as a strange, isolated sect that had little to do with the world of court and kings?

  Ember’s mother, Lady Ossia Morrow, sat to the left of her husband. She was dressed in one of her finest gowns of ebony silk. Her hair was pulled into an intricate knot and adorned with gems. Ember’s sister, Agnes, sat to her mother’s left. She was also dressed in a favorite gown of rose and cream silks. Her eyes were downcast as she picked through the meats on her plate.

  The other guests at the meal were warriors—the men-at-arms who served Lord Morrow. Burly and riled up by an excess of food and drink, they toasted and jostled each other, making the most of this unexpected bounty.

  The only person in the room Ember didn’t recognize was the man sitting at her father’s right hand. Unlike the other revelers, the stranger’s demeanor was stiff. Both uneasy and wary. Even though he was seated, Ember could tell he was a great deal taller than her father.

  Catching sight of the new arrivals, Ember’s mother extended her hands. “Alistair! You found her.”

  Edmund jabbed the tip of his knife at them. “Good lad, Alistair. As for you, errant girl, you might have taken a moment to don appropriate attire for this feast honoring our guests.”

  Ember glanced down at her plain and rumpled gown, its hem covered with dirt. “I was walking in the pasture,” she said, cheeks warming with blood.

  “Agnes, take your sister and help her make herself presentable,” her father said. He glanced at the tall man on his right.

  Agnes began to rise, but the stranger frowned. “There’s no need for your daughter to adorn herself.”

  He waved for Agnes to return to her seat, but she hovered, uncertain what to do. When her father’s eyes narrowed, she stood and scurried to Ember’s side.

  “You might hail from the wild north, good knight,” Edmund answered him. “But I expect my daughter to act as befits her station, not as some peasant girl who runs around with straw in her hair.”

  Ember reached up, gingerly running her hands over her tangled locks. Blushing more deeply, she picked several pieces of straw from her hair. The stranger watched her closely, and Ember thought he might be on the verge of smiling. Her embarrassment melted into irritation. Was seeing her scolded like a child so entertaining to this man?

  Still holding her gaze, the knight stood up. He was at least a head taller than her father and even a bit taller than Alistair. Ember glanced at the younger man beside her. Both knights of Conatus had dark hair, but where Alistair had curls as glossy as a raven’s wing, the stranger’s smooth hair was shorn so it fell just below his ears and had a rich color, like a tree’s bark after rain.

  She looked away from him only when Agnes took her hand. “Come, sister. I think the green silk gown would be a fine choice.”

  “Hold!” The knight’s booming call stopped Ember from following her sister. Before her father could speak again, the stranger said to Ember, “My lady Morrow, I am Barrow Hess. Lord Hart and I have come to escort you to the Conatus keep of Tearmunn in Glen Shiel.”

  Ember freed her hand from Agnes’s tight grip and dropped into a curtsy. “I understand, my lord.”

  “Are you prepared to leave now?” Barrow asked her. “We’ve already enjoyed too much of your father’s generous hospitality. If you are amenable, we would take food for the journey and leave within the hour.”

  Beside Barrow, Ember’s father began to sputter. Her mother gasped in horror. Agnes grasped Ember’s arm, as if that gesture alone would keep her in their father’s house.

  Ember looked from her father to the tall knight. “I—”

  “What sort of insult is this?” Edmund jumped up, squaring his shoulders. “I prepare a feast for you and you can’t be bothered to share in it.”

  Barrow gave him a measured look. “I’ve eaten my fill, Lord Morrow. This gesture was a rich gift, but unnecessary. Lord Hart and I are here only to collect what you owe Conatus. Now that your daughter is here, we should be on our way.”

  A chill crept over Ember’s skin. What you owe. Was that all she meant to Conatus? A debt to be paid?

  She felt even colder when Alistair stepped forward, gaining her father’s attention.

  “The Circle bade me remind you, Lord Morrow,” Alistair said slowly. “One life for another. These are the terms.”

  Agnes’s fingers dug into Ember’s skin, but Ember didn’t flinch nor did she speak, even when her sister began to cry softly.

  Their father paled. “Mercenaries you are. Cruel and demanding.”

  “One life for another,” Alistair said again. His gaze fell upon Ember’s mother. Ossia’s lip quivered, but she laid her hand atop her husband’s.

  “You cannot forswear your oath, my lord,” she murmured.

  Edmund snatched his hand from hers and stood. “No. I shall not forswear myself. But I shall journey north with you. We all shall.”

  Agnes threw a pleading look at her mother and sniffled. “But my wedding . . .”

  Ossia nodded, turning to her husband. “My lord, our daughter is but a month from her sea journey.”

  “Her trunks can be packed by servants.” Edmund snorted. “She needn’t be here. Our house travels to Tearmunn on the morrow.”

  Barrow coughed. “Lord Morrow. My orders are to bring the younger lady Morrow to Conatus today.”

  “Tomorrow is as good as today.” Edmund glowered at the knight. “You shall not further offend me by refusing to share this feast and spend the night as guests in my home. We will leave at dawn.”

  “If you insist on making this journey north,” Barrow said, with a slight shake of his head, “we will depart within the hour.”

  Edmund’s face purpled. “You dare to command me in my own house.”

  His warriors ruffled at the exchange. Ember felt as though someone had grabbed her by the throat when she saw several of her father’s men reach for their weapons. She could feel Agnes trembling.

  “Father, please.” Ember started forward, but Alistair put up his hand, signaling for her to keep still.

  “Just wait,” he murmured.

  “I do not command you,” Barrow told her father quietly. “But I will not fail in my own duties. I take your daughter to Tearmunn today. If you travel with us, you will already slow our progress. Three riders would make the trip quickly. The entourage you seem to be suggesting will make our journey longer by days. Delay is simp
ly untenable.”

  Ember was holding her breath, her gaze locked on Barrow. He towered over her father with shoulders set, face calm but unyielding. She couldn’t look away from him. No man had ever spoken thus to her father. Without fear. Without apology. Her pulse rippled with anticipation. It was marvelous.

  Ember’s father puffed up his chest. “I will not suffer this humiliation. Nor will I send my daughter off on a horse with two men like some common woman. She shall arrive at Tearmunn with her maids and her belongings.”

  Barrow glanced at Ember. “The lady alone will return with us today. You may send her things to the north as you wish. There is no place for her maids at Tearmunn.”

  “Enough!” Edmund brought his fist down on the table, the force of the blow toppling several platters and overturning cups. “I will hear no more of this.”

  “Perhaps we can resolve our differences another way,” Barrow said quietly.

  Red-faced and huffing with fury, Edmund scowled. “And what way would that be?”

  “Pick your best men.” Barrow waved at the cluster of warriors in the hall. “If they can defeat me in combat, we’ll depart tomorrow.”

  Edmund squinted at Barrow. “Did you say men?”

  The warriors guffawed, trading grins. Edmund raised his hands and the hall fell silent.

  All traces of Ember’s father’s rage had been wiped away. With a hearty laugh, he said, “I’m tempted to hold you to your words, knight. And guarantee myself victory.”

  “I didn’t misspeak, my lord,” Barrow answered without hesitation. “Your best men. Name them.”

  The chortling of Lord Morrow’s men quieted and soon became angry rumbles.

  “A bold challenge,” Edmund said, his smile hard. His gaze swept over his men. “Hugh! Gordon! Felix!”

  Ember drew closer to her sister as the three warriors eased their bulk from their chairs. Her father had picked well. Not only were these his most seasoned knights, but they were among Ember’s least favorite. Hugh wasn’t horrible, but when she was a girl, his scarred face and missing teeth had frightened her. Gordon and Felix had a habit of leering at Ember and her sister when they passed in the hall. Even worse, Felix had a reputation for cruelty to both the manor’s servants and his hunting dogs. These men would fight hard and, if given the chance, wouldn’t hesitate to seriously injure Barrow out of spite.

  Barrow nodded at the three men. “My lords, choose your weapons.” He turned to Ember’s mother. “My lady, I would not sully your home with combat. Might we move into the courtyard?”

  Ossia nodded, taking her husband’s arm. Edmund led his wife from the room, beckoning his chosen champions to follow.

  The buzz of anticipation in the hall broke into a low roar. The men-at-arms surged after their lord, leaving the hall and barreling to the courtyard. Alistair hung back, offering his body as a barrier between the rabble of men and Ember and Agnes.

  Watching the tide of warriors ebb from the room, Ember jumped in surprise when a low voice, very close, said, “I apologize for this spectacle, Lady Morrow. I hope I haven’t given offense.”

  Barrow had appeared suddenly out of the mob, standing at her shoulder. She looked up and found him searching her face intently. What he was looking for she couldn’t say, but her own gaze was caught in the dark blue-gray of his eyes, their shade like that of a storm-ridden sea. Unable to find her voice, Ember simply shook her head.

  “Are you sure this is necessary?” Alistair asked Barrow.

  “Lord Morrow is in need of a lesson,” Barrow answered.

  Alistair frowned. “Perhaps. But Ember’s father will like us even less afterward, which will hardly please the Circle. Also, I know those men. You’re in for a dirty fight.”

  “Don’t worry about me.” A smile flickered over Barrow’s mouth. He shrugged off his cloak and handed it to Alistair.

  Alistair sighed, muttering, “I wonder if Kael could have avoided a fight.”

  “Your mentor in the Guard?” Ember asked, remembering the name from one of Alistair’s letters.

  “Yes,” he said. “He has a lighter touch than Barrow—but our commander didn’t think a cheerful countenance would persuade Lord Morrow.”

  “Your commander is probably right,” Ember said, and Alistair’s only answer was a rough laugh.

  As Ember and her sister hurried to match the long strides of the two Conatus knights, Agnes whispered, “How horrible! Can’t you stop this?”

  Ember glanced at her. “How could I stop this?”

  “They’re fighting over you,” Agnes said. “Alistair has been our friend since we were children. Plead your cause to him. Surely he’ll convince Lord Hess to release you from Father’s promise. You were but a babe and our father was desperate. This burden shouldn’t fall to you.”

  Gritting her teeth, Ember said, “You know how dear you are to me, Agnes. But I have no desire to be released. I want to go with them.”

  Agnes sighed. “You say that now, but what do you know of Conatus?”

  Ember pulled her gaze away from her sister’s worried face, frustrated by the truth in her words. Conatus was shrouded in mystery—an order of knights sanctioned by the Church, but one whose tasks were known only to its members.

  “You told me that Alistair’s letters spoke of vows.” Agnes stared at Alistair’s back as she spoke. “Vows wherein you would forsake a life of your own.”

  “My life now is not my own,” Ember hissed through her teeth. “If I stay here, I am but Father’s to give to whatsoever noble he chooses.”

  A mewling sound of sorrow emerged from Agnes’s throat and Ember put her arm around her sister.

  “Forgive me, Agnes,” Ember said, cringing at her own thoughtlessness. “I should not say such things.”

  “I know you look upon marriage with scorn.” Agnes kept her eyes on the floor as they walked. “But it is only because you haven’t been struck by love’s arrow.”

  Ember would have snorted, but she’d already hurt Agnes enough. “I hope you find the love you seek in France.”

  Agnes glanced up, but at Alistair rather than Ember. “So do I.”

  Bright sunlight made Ember squint as they emerged into the courtyard. Her father’s warriors had already formed a ring in the open space. Within the circle Hugh, Gordon, and Felix brandished their weapons. Hugh bore a short sword and had a shield strapped to his left arm. Gordon carried a halberd and Felix a spiked mace.

  Lord Morrow’s men stepped aside to let Barrow enter the ring. Alistair led Ember and Agnes to a nearby slope where their parents stood, overlooking the ring. Barrow had drawn his sword. Unlike Hugh’s thick, squat blade, Barrow’s sword was sleek and curving. The men about to fight bore as much resemblance to one another as their weapons did. Like Ember’s father, the three warriors he had chosen to face Barrow were thickly muscled with an impressive girth of chest and shoulders. Their hulking bodies were built like piles of large stones. By contrast Barrow was tall and lean, his form drawn in long, taut lines.

  Barrow searched the courtyard until he found Edmund. “My lord?”

  “Whoever does not fall or does not yield,” Edmund shouted. “My men or this knight of Conatus shall be declared the victor!”

  Brutish hollering rose from the ring of warriors. Agnes shuddered, pleading with her sister once more: “How can you bear this, Ember?”

  Ember barely heard her sister’s question. Her blood was roaring in her ears, her heart drumming heavy against her ribs. Her hands moved restlessly, fists clenching and unclenching. She wished she could hold her sword, even if only to mimic the exhilarating match that was playing out before her.

  Barrow raised his sword in salute to his trio of adversaries. They grunted and shrugged in reply. Hugh and Felix exchanged grins, signaling their anticipation of an easy win.

  As the warriors around them roared for blood, the men within the ring began to move. Barrow kept his sword low, watching his opponents. Gordon bellowed, rushing at Barrow, his halberd aimed to
impale. Barrow sidestepped, letting Gordon’s spring carry him past the point of attack. As Gordon blew by him, Barrow twisted and brought the flat of his sword down on Gordon’s skull. The crack of steel on bone made Agnes shriek.

  “I can’t watch!” She buried her face in Ember’s shoulder. Ember didn’t blink. It was as if she could feel Barrow’s muscles tensing and exploding into action as he fought. Her body hummed with his strength and grace. She’d never felt more alive.

  Gordon crumpled and lay unmoving. With Barrow’s back turned, Felix and Hugh were already on the attack. Felix leapt at the knight, swinging his mace in a broad arc, while Hugh darted around their adversary, keeping his shield up but his sword low.

  Barrow dove, rolling in the dirt as Felix’s mace whistled past his ear. Hugh struck as Barrow lay on his back, but the knight managed to kick Hugh in the stomach with both feet. As Barrow sprang to his feet, Felix brought his mace around. A cry of warning rose in Ember’s throat, but Conatus’s champion spun around, his blade sweeping up to meet Felix’s mace mid-blow. Metal clanged as they struck over and over.

  Recovering from having the breath kicked out of his lungs, Hugh scrambled from the dirt to rejoin the fight. He tossed aside his shield and threw himself at Barrow’s unguarded back. As Felix swung his mace, Barrow dropped to the ground flat as a board. Hugh tripped over Barrow and fell forward. Bone crunched, and a groan rose from the circled warriors when Felix’s spiked mace buried itself in Hugh’s shoulder.

  Hugh screamed as Felix swore and wrenched his weapon free. Blood poured from Hugh’s wound and his left arm hung limply at his side. Barrow had already rolled away from them and was on his feet again. Without pause he darted toward Felix, his curved blade flicking through the air. Gashes began to appear on Felix’s arms and shoulders. Felix winced, stumbling back. With a strangled cry he wheeled around, flailing as Barrow continued his relentless strikes. Felix’s shirt was in tatters, his chest covered with cuts that looked like whiplashes. Breathing hard, he dropped to one knee. Only then did Barrow’s blade pause.