Oathbreaker: A Dark Fantasy Web Serial-Chapter 32Arc 8: : Bewitch

The Bannerlands are a veritable fortress kingdom for all their wide, rolling grasslands and shallow hills. Once, long ago, this had been the bulwark of the subcontinent, where the armies of Urnic lords would gather when all were marshaled to war, and many feudal clans had settled here permanently. The Gate of Aureia, where the God-Queen broke through the Fences of Urn and flooded it with her armies, looms to the west of the great plain. Castles and knight manors once dotted the realm’s canvas in the hundreds, guarding the streams and rivers, ever-watchful over the rich veins of trade that once made this part of the world wealthy.

But then the Aureate Crusades came, and the armies of Urn poured back into Edaea and tamed the marches that’d once threatened us so incessantly. Powers like Bantes had risen, and the Cambion’s shadow retreated far into the benighted hinterlands of the west. All our problems became internal, our eyes turning south to Briarland and then later east, to Elfgrave.

Drought and famine struck the Banner, turning parts of it barren, and that once strong, proud jewel of the mortal realms had withered.

But not died. The knightly clans of the Bannerlands remained strong and fierce, battle tested by generations of lords and ladies feuding for the empty Herald’s Throne. It was good country for mounted knights, and difficult to move through by stealth.

Evangeline’s forces could move across it with impunity. We could not be certain we were safe even by day, without knowing who was thrall to the Vampire Queen. Even if she never conducted some elaborate scheme to release an army of the dead from beneath the world’s surface, there was enough chivalric strength in the Banner to threaten the Accorded Realms, especially if a plague of vampirism spread across it.

The skies and woods would be watched. There would be ghosts bound to the power of our enemy, animals, perhaps even demons.

Even getting to Tall Carreweir, the capital, would have been a quest in and of itself. I had no desire for some sort of trying exodus across the Dark Lady’s domain, where we might take losses and arrive exhausted to a prepared enemy.

No. Instead I decided to use faerie magic and cheat.

I just had to hope I could survive paying the price for it.

Estival Bawn was reputed to be one of the most handsome castles in all the subcontinent, and it did not disappoint.

It was tall without looming threateningly, and strong without being squat. Its white walls rose from an island surrounded by a defensive moat fed by a small, clean lake. Built from white marble and limestone that shone when the sun hit it just right, it had fourteen towers, three of which soared from the central keep as elegant spires. The banners of House Brightling flapped defiantly from the walls, showing the image of a proud sparrow perched on a field divided, white sinister and yellow dexter.

The coach arrived in the evening five days before the Queen’s ball was set to begin. It caught the fading light of day on its silver-gilt dome, the living vines grown along its carriage blazing in shades of gold and crimson so it became visible to the sentries even from afar, as though a bright spot of flame traveled along the dirt trail winding through the countryside. Before it had even come within two hundred feet of the moat, the drawbridge had already lowered to allow the coach passage through the gatehouse and into the bailey.

Later, no one could recall who had given the order to lower the bridge.

The castle’s lady, along with her handmaidens, knights, constable, and steward, were already waiting at the top of the steps leading up to the main keep when the coach pulled in, its trinity of chimera snorting and stamping with energy as they came to a halt. The driver of the troika, a tall, willowy man dressed smartly in form-fitting uniform that included a sharp cap hung low over his eyes, stood to attention with a dramatic stomp of his boot. His voice cracked off the inner walls of the courtyard like metal thunder.

“PRESENTING THE LORD FINN NU, EARL OF MANDRAKES, CHIEFTAIN OF THE WYLDE AND KNIGHT OF WILLOWS.”

And as the courtyard held its collective breath, the door of the beautiful coach opened and a man stepped out. He was tall, with long golden-brown hair streaked with gray, yet his true age was impossible to tell. A youthful vibrance touched the strong features of his face, the hint of an ever-present smile that made the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes seem an aesthetic touch rather than a marker of years. A fey humor gleamed in his bright amber eyes, and a hidden wisdom tempered by sorrows.

He wore a rich doublet of woodland browns and forest golds, the right sleeve missing to reveal a muscular, scarred arm, with a green cape pinned at one shoulder by a medallion sporting the image of a lark. Though he did not come adorned for war, a gauntlet encased his left arm from elbow to finger, wrought of brass and articulated like the finest marion. Over his shoulders he wore the dark brown pelt of what must have been a truly terrible beast, a direwolf scarred and fanged.

It seemed at odds with his fine garments, and yet somehow they melded well — he was noble prince and warrior chieftain at once, a hunter of the Wyldedales come to the fair castles of these more civilized lands.

He was tall — taller than any other man in the bailey, yet moved with the spryness of an elven youth. Those cheerful yet sorrowful eyes took the whole scene in, and then the Lord Finn Nu swept his bare right arm out and bowed low at the hip to the lady at the top of the stairs.

“Forgive mine intrusion, O’ Widow of the Bawn.” His voice was sonorous and musical, deep as an organ pipe and soothing as calm rivers. “I would have sent word, but my road has been long and wearying, and in these dark times I trust no messengers save mine own lips.”

The noblewoman at the top of the stairs looked down on the barbarian with cautious bemusement, her only sign of concern a slight pursing of the lips. The Lady Amelia of House Hare was a shallow-cheeked, tired-eyed woman in her early twenties, and she still wore a black dress and black veil in mourning. She would have been more than half a decade older than Randal Brightling, her deceased husband, who’d been sixteen on the day of his death. Their only child, an infant girl who would never know her father, was held by one of her handmaidens near the keep’s doors.

“I bid you welcome to my hall, Lord Finn Nu.” The Lady Amelia did not approach the visitor, keeping to the top of the steps and surrounded by her court. “Only, I did not expect guests from such distant horizons. You have traveled far to see us, and yet I fear my hospitality may not reach your standards.”

Her eyes flicked to the coach, with all its silver workings and living leaves.

Finn Nu’s expression became sorrowful. “I am aware of the tragedy that has befallen your family, my lady, and I wish to extend my heartfelt regret for it.”

“Your regret?” Amelia Hare lifted an eyebrow. “And are you the cursed usurper who ripped my husband’s heart from his chest while he still lived and ate it? Are you mine enemy, who sits now upon a stolen throne in Carreweir?”

The lady’s attendants all shuffled in muted discomfort. Before the Wyldedaler could respond, movement from the coach drew everyone’s attention. A second figure peeked out, and with a gliding step Finn Nu extended a hand to help them place dainty slippers on the courtyard floor. A quiet intake of breath went through those watching, even the grieving lady of the castle.

The she-elf was breathtaking — literally, judging by the reaction of those who saw her exit the carriage. Her hair was like a waterfall of deep blue curls, her skin like the silver of the moon. Her eyes were those of a woodland doe, black and deep brown even to the sclera, giving her an uncanny gaze that evoked both innocence and inhuman wisdom.

“We are not her,” the elf said in a voice that rang like wind chimes. “And the pain of losing one’s love is a deep and bitter wound that no words of man or elf can comfort. And yet we bring with us a balm that might ease such an ache, if not heal it, and with that medicine an offer.”

Finn Nu introduced the she-elf. “My wife, Lady Erthri Af Aselenos.”

The stiff line of Lady Amelia’s lip wavered. Her eyes remained hard, yet a touch of uncertainty passed over her countenance as she regarded the pair. “And what offer is this?”

“Our road has been long and wearying,” Finn Nu said. “And dark approaches, wherein the usurper’s power waxes… May we not enter your hall and take our ease before we speak of darker matters?”

The constable whispered into the widow’s ear, his countenance one of warning. At the same moment, her daughter began to fuss in the arms of the handmaiden who held her. It was perhaps the latter thing that made the decision for her, rather than the advice of her attendant.

“You may enter, Lord Finn Nu.” Amelia Hare made an imperious gesture, and did it well and naturally. One might not have known her to be the daughter of a Low House before her elevation to wife of Randal Brightling. “Go as you wish, and leave some of the happiness you bring.”

Finn Nu bowed low. “So I shall, lady.”

Into his ear, his “wife” said, “You are not usually so terse, my lord husband. She is grieving and scared, and requires your confidence.”

Inwardly I winced, and felt the masque of the barbarian chieftain waver before I slammed back down on it with my will. Tzanith — damn it, Erthri — was right. Alken Hewer might use few words and speak with grave bluntness, but Finn Nu was a more eloquent character.

After Lady Erthri, two others stepped out of the large carriage. One wore the chainmail and tabard of a knightly squire, with fur decorating the cuffs of his boots and gloves, the symbol of a twisted vine adorning his cloth. He was powerfully built, but young, with his hair pulled back into a faded blond tail to reveal a tanned face and thoughtful blue eyes. At his side walked a slighter figure clad in the brown-and-gold robes of a sanctioned scribe, her face shadowed by a cowl and the tools of her trade kept in satchels and cases weighing down a sturdy belt and harness.

Behind those two, there came a third member of Finn Nu’s coterie. She disdained the muddy floor of the courtyard with a pointed black shoe, honoring the squire by allowing him to help her down. She wore a gown woven of maroon and poison-greens, her brown hair pinned up by a small, sheathed knife.

She shared Finn Nu’s complexion, and the bright color of his eyes, but where he was tall and scarred she was slim and quick, her movements more like a dancer — or a swordsman — than a dainty noblewoman. She looked barely out of girlhood, yet her haughty eyes scanned the courtyard like an empress falcon.

On a long leash, she led a large, sleek hunting cat — or some kind of chimera that resembled it. She did not seem impressed by the high walls of the ancient castle.

“My squire, scribe, and younger sister, the Lady Maeve.” Finn Nu introduced the other three.

“A small company,” Lady Amelia noted.

“I only had the one carriage,” Finn Nu said, his eyes twinkling with quiet humor.

“Hm.” She pursed her lips, but did not question it further aloud. “This way, guests. We have already prepared supper, and there is room aplenty.”

A strange coincidence, that. Or perhaps not.

They spoke deep into the night, that strange group of travelers from a faraway corner of the realms and the Widow of the Bawn. Whatever the reservations of Amelia Hare, they faded quickly and were forgotten as she and her court were charmed by Lady Erthri, who took their host’s only daughter in her arms and kissed the infant upon the brow, leaving a faint light there.

That elf mark would not fade until the ending of Karen Brightling’s life, many years later. The child’s mother begged leave to step away, touched by the gift and ashamed by her own tears. The Wyldedaler accosted her in the corridor outside the dining hall.

“My lord,” Amelia greeted the man with a note of caution. She could not decide if he was fully human, or if some faerie blood lay behind that handsome, ageless face. Was he merely blessed, or did she stare at the mask of a changeling? She felt wary of him, and knew him to be dangerous.

Especially here, when the eyes of her attendants were redirected to a story the she-elf was weaving, one accompanied by the music of a lyre she’d produced.

Finn Nu spoke between the echoing notes of his wife’s composition, his melodic voice low and serious. “I need to speak with you, Lady Amelia.”

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Amelia’s trepidation grew teeth. Why had she not challenged these strangers at the gate? Why could she not remember exactly where this barbarian was from, and yet felt as though she’d always known?

She’d had a lot of wine. Too much. It had gone to her head quicker than usual.

“This is rather uncouth, my lord.” She glanced around at the empty hallway. “My servants are gossips.”

“Yes,” the Wyldedaler agreed. “And you remain a daughter of House Hare, mistress of this fiefdom only until the day your daughter comes into her majority. And there are many who covet this keep, and know you are no friend to the queen.”

Finn Nu’s amber eyes were searching. It might have been Amelia’s imagination, but she thought she could perceive flecks of gold in them.

She felt herself stiffen. “And what are you insinuating?”

“Only that you are in grave danger,” he said seriously.

Amelia spoke in a low, angry voice. “Do you truly believe me unaware of this fact, my lord? That I do not fear for my household and my daughter?”

“You should fear for them,” the maybe-changeling said. “Danger is nearer than you think.”

Amelia took a step back, almost tripped over the hem of her gown. She opened her mouth to scream — her guards were near enough, perhaps they would reach her in time.

Why had she allowed herself alone with this man? Why did I let him through the gate? Am I a fool?

That’s right. She’d had a dream. A dream that guests came in a column of fire and brought with them a promise of… What? Revenge? Justice? Something she needed. She’d told her guard to expect visitors and to lower the bridge when they arrived.

Finn Nu caught her by the wrist in a strong grip, and with his other hand placed a finger to his lips. “I mean you no harm, my lady.”

“You are scaring me,” she told him, and hated the tremble in her voice. What had Evangeline called her? Little hare surrounded by wolves. She’d had nightmares of that terrible woman every night since.

This man in front of her now was a wolf.

Finn Nu opened the fingers of his shushing hand, passed them over his face, and that face seemed to melt.

And I looked at the pale, terrified face of the noblewoman whose house I’d glamoured my way into. She was on the verge of calling for help, and I still held her arm in a grip that was too tight. The only thing keeping her from bolting.

This magic was nothing like I’d believed. It felt like looking at everything from the outside — even at myself (no, damnit, at him). I kept getting flashes of insight into the thoughts and actions of others, even this woman in front of me. Like I was some observer standing at the edge of a play, and yet influenced it with my thoughts, my subconscious will.

Terrifying. If I lost the thread of myself, I could become trapped in this theater. Tzanith’s warnings were the only thing keeping me above water.

“Don’t scream,” I told her. “I’m a friend.”

“Who…” Amelia swallowed as she stared at my transformed features. “What are you?”

“An ally,” I said. “I would like to say I was friend to your husband, but in truth I barely knew him. I was there the day he died. I apologize to you that I failed to kill Evangeline then.”

Then, deliberately and slowly, I unclasped my fingers from her wrist and let her go. She rubbed at it as she pulled back from me, her gaze wary.

“I do not know you,” she said in a tense voice.

“Nor should you,” I told her. “But I need you to listen, because we don’t have much time.”

I could feel Finn Nu trying to reassert himself. It felt something like having a sheet in my hands caught in a strong wind, wrestling with it before it enveloped my face and blinded me, right before I tumbled backwards off a cliff. I grit my teeth and focused.

“In a few minutes, you will not remember that I showed you my true face or that I am anyone other than him, but you will recall what I’ve said and know that I am an ally. Try not to fight it, even when it feels like you should.”

I hated this, twisting someone’s mind, but it was necessary to maintain this charade.

Amelia just shook her head, perplexed and frightened. “What is this?”

“Is it your intention to attend Evangeline’s grand ball?” I asked.

Amelia looked taken aback by the question. “I…”

“No time for doubt!” I snapped. “Answer.”

“No,” she said quickly, blinking. “It is obviously a trap. If I go there, she will imprison or kill me.”

I nodded. “Perhaps.” I considered it just as likely the new queen wouldn’t touch House Brightling, keeping them around instead as a defeated prop after making a display of her authority.

“I am coordinating with my allies,” the lady continued. “While Evangeline parties and flaunts her power, we are reinforcing our keeps and preparing to strike back. We have already sent word to the Emperor. It is our hope that he will send aid.”

I hoped that too, but I also knew that Markham was distracted by multiple other crisis. There was civil war in the Bairn Cities, and then the attack on Tol in Osheim, and in both places the Gorelion had made appearances. It was obviously all coordinated.

And at the same time, the Empress is going south to reassert control over her own realm. No, I did not think Markham would risk open war against the Bannerlands now of all times.

“And you sent an assassin into Carreweir,” I said. “Did you not?”

Amelia hedged. “I don’t—”

“I’m a friend of Olliard’s,” I said. That got her attention, and I let it sink in before I continued. “You should attend the ball.”

She almost laughed. “Are you mad?!”

Finn Nu was. Very much so. Was Alken? I did not like the thought, and yet…

I shook myself out of the wave of reverie. “I… He, my disguise, will be attending. I want to be presented as your guest. The glamour is going to be disorienting, but the more you accept it — believe it — the better it will work on Evangeline’s court. It’s kind of like a plague. We need to pass it around.”

“You want me to spread a plague?” Amelia asked in disbelief.

“Yes. And if we pull this off, your husband’s murderer will get hers.”

Something dark and fierce lit in the widow’s gaze. “You swear that?”

I was well beyond oaths, but I looked directly into her eyes and said, “I promise that if you remain here in your castle and try to mount a military resistance, you will lose. Evangeline isn’t just a warlord. She brings an army of darkness with her, and that is not just poetic hyperbole. And she already has spies and assassins in every castle across the Banner.”

I glanced toward the hall, where Tzanith was distracting the others. “Your constable belongs to the usurper.”

“Nonsense,” Amelia snapped. “He was loyal to my husband, practically like an uncle to him!”

“He is Evangeline’s thrall,” I told her. “Vampires gain influence over those they feed from. He is her creature. I can feel it.”

The touch of blight in the man had been subtle, but not so much that my powers couldn’t detect it. Even after I’d corrupted my magic with necromancy, some of my supernatural senses had actually become more keen.

Amelia’s fear took on a sharper edge, and though I could tell she wasn’t sure whether to believe me, that fear made the choice for her. “What do we do?”

“Let me handle it. I want to be given shelter here tonight — my people will guard you, because I suspect Evangeline plans to make a move before the ball, and she can act through her servants. In the morning, we head to the city.”

With that, I passed my hand over my face and let Finn Nu take over again. His expression became a storm cloud of wrath as he turned back to the dining hall, and he strode ahead of the perplexed, disoriented mistress of the castle.

“Lutbold Whealey!” Finn Nu boomed as he marched back into the hall. Almost as though the moment had been rehearsed, Erthri’s song came to an end with a single lingering note on her lyre.

The constable, who’d sat at a shadowed corner of the long table and spoken little during the night’s conversation, blinked up at the barbarian as he was addressed. “My lord?”

“When did you sell your soul, Lutbold of House Whealey?” Finn Nu’s long cape trailed on the floor behind him like the tail of a dragon as he began to stalk around the table, never for an instant taking his amber gaze off the constable. “When did you forget the face of the boy who was like your own nephew?”

Lutbold had risen from his chair, knocking it back in a clatter in his haste to stand and get distance from this fell accuser. “I don’t… Lady Amelia, what is this?! Are you going to let this man spit madness inside your own home?!”

Amelia stood near the door and said nothing. When her guards moved to intervene, she made a sharp gesture and stopped them. Her gaze never left the constable.

Lutbold looked around for help and quickly realized there was none coming. Sweat plastered his face. He was an older man, in his fifties, with a graying beard and the arms of a soldier. He’d never been knighted, but he was a veteran of the House Brightling guard and wore a side sword.

He went for that sword, only for the thin needle-blade of a rapier to slide through his wrist. He let out a scream of pain and whirled on the Lady Maeve, Finn Nu’s “sister,” who danced back even as she flourished the weapon. No had seen her wearing one when she arrived, but now the sheath was on her hip, apparently having always been there.

At that same moment, Finn Nu leapt up onto the table, scattering plates and drinks as he advanced. The pelt of the wolf on his right shoulder, fangs bared, seemed to snarl silently.

It did snarl. Lutbold heard it, and his heart almost stopped.

“Devil,” he croaked. “He’s a devil. My lady, please—”

Finn Nu kicked at the man, hard. The blow caught the constable in his shoulder and sent him sprawling in a heap, knocking over a chair and dashing his head against one of the room’s columns. Before Lutbold could find his bearings, the barbarian lord leapt down from the table and landed astride him, kneeling down to press a knee against his sternum. The man gasped in pain and found himself unable to breathe.

“When did she take you, Lutbold?” Finn Nu asked in a low, hard voice.

“I abjure you!” Lutbold gasped. Blood poured from his scalp. He could not find more words just that moment.

“Look at me,” Finn Nu said in a voice that rang like cathedral bells.

And Lutbold did. His eyes widened as he perceived the light burning out from the Wyldedaler’s own. Not amber, but molten gold.

Finn Nu grasped the man’s chin and forced their gazes to lock. With a jerk of motion he tore open the man’s collar to reveal the fang marks there. Lutbold struggled harder.

“See there your evidence,” Maeve said from nearby as Amelia and her retainers cautiously peeked around the table to view the scene.

Finn Nu glared down into the constable’s soul, and saw something vile staring back. He spoke to it without fear.

“I’m coming for you, Evangeline.”

She bared Lutbold’s bloody teeth, her slave’s muscles contorting painfully as she infested them. “Who are you? What are you?’ Then in a more strained voice she said, “Impossible! The Wake killed you!”

“My kind are deathless,” he said. “Yours only pretends to be. I know what lurks in you, Evangeline Ark. I am sorry that I cannot save you.”

“Sorry?” Evangeline, staring through Lutbold’s face, gaped at the one sometimes called Finn Nu. “You are sorry that you cannot save me now?!”

“You could have been more,” he told her sadly.

“Where were you when I was a child?!” Evangeline seethed. “Where were you when they drove me into the forest like an animal and set their dogs on me?! Where were you when we starved, when we wept, when we died?!”

Finn Nu only stared back, his golden eyes brimming with regret.

“Choke on your sorries!” Evangeline raged. “I prayed! You never answered my prayers when I needed them, O’ King, but I will answer them now! I will answer the prayers of the lost and the damned, and no more will we have silent gods!”

And she spat defiance into the face of that being. And somewhere inside him, I felt like I stared into a mirror. In the strange beyond-sight of this glamour, I knew Evangeline. I saw bits and pieces of her story.

I heard her brother’s voice as he laughed. “Don’t fear, lads, she’s just my father’s bastard. The scary glare is all show.”

And one of his friends. “My hounds could use some sport. She a good runner?”

“Let’s find out.”

Back then, people had called that man the Knight of Rays. He was said to be a great gallant, a tourney champion and a wyvern slayer. He’d wept like a child and begged as his half-sister slid a dagger into his brain.

A jackal in lion’s clothing. Evangeline was fifty times the knight he ever was. I remembered her at Garihelm, remembered how she’d flown then, before this change.

She’d fought for the Ardent Bough during the war, on the same side as me. She’d protected people. She was and had been a hero.

We saw the night of her death. A voice had whispered to her.

Isn’t it tiring, being weak?

I felt Evangeline’s rage, her helplessness, her pain as the Lindenwurm’s acid ate into her bones.

I can let you fly. Don’t you want to fly?

She hadn’t even hesitated to agree, just like she hadn’t hesitated when she killed the Knight of Rays. It was personal with him. It hadn’t been personal with Randal Brightling, but he’d been in the way.

And he was weak.

Alongside that other, I reached down and pressed the pad of my thumb against Lutbold’s brow. He thrashed.

“Be clean,” Finn Nu said, and light filled Lutbold Whealey's eyes as the vampire fled from him. He collapsed onto his back, breathing hard and sweating, as that flash of light faded.

Amelia approached cautiously after waving her people back. Her voice was hard and angry as she saw the rise and fall of her servant’s chest. “You left him alive.”

“He was possessed,” Finn Nu said as he rose. “And he is still human. My cleric will tend to him, and perhaps he can remember when and where he felt Evangeline’s fangs.”

The constable would have been Evangeline’s assassin. The target was probably Amelia’s daughter, who was also Randal Brightling’s heir.

“Now she knows we’re coming,” Maeve told her brother.

Finn Nu laughed, a fey sound that filled the room and made many of those standing nearby jump in fright. “Good! And she will welcome the challenge.”

He looked to the lady, and his demeanor lost its edge of violent humor. “What is your will, my lady?”

She considered him for a long moment, her lips pressed tight, and then she nodded. “Your people are welcome to stay here tonight, Lord Finn Nu, and I ask for the boon of your protection. In the morning, we embark for Tall Carreweir.”

The steward began to protest. “But my lady, it is too dangerous!”

“And yet it must be done!” She wheeled on the man, her gaze running across all the knights, squires, valets, and handmaids of House Brightling who gathered in the chamber. “Prepare rooms and baths for our guests. They have done us fine service, and I shall reward them with all comforts we may provide.”

Erthri stepped up close to her husband’s side and placed a hand on his elbow. “She is caught in the glamour already,” Tzanith told me through her masque’s lips. “This was well done.”

I’d suspected that Evangeline would have a puppet inside House Brightling, and if my theory on how this High Art worked was correct — which it had been — then it meant we could afflict her with the phantasm even from a distance, by luring her to inhabit one of her pawns. A gamble, since it would have ruined the game had she been insulated from the glamour’s effects.

Now she would be expecting the Lord Finn Nu to attend her ball. Not just expecting, but believing it to be the correct course of events. We would not be impeded at the capital. More than that, Evangeline was caught in the “story” of Finn Nu now. It meant we would better be able to predict her actions, up until the moment I discarded the disguise.

If I was even aware of myself enough to do so when it mattered. That was the other risk.

I stared down at Lutbold through Finn Nu’s eyes, and pondered the words Evangeline had said through him. She’d seen something else, something I did not.

But the thought was lost when Ethri took her husband’s arm more firmly and said, “Let us rest, my husband. We have one more night of comfort before the dangers to come.”

And that seemed good to him.