As I was about to join them Nywulf placed his mount in front of mine.
“Does he live?” he asked.
“Sorry?”
“Don’t play games. Does Rufra live?” He was staring at me but not at my face; he was looking into my eyes the way a warrior does when he is about to fight. His hand was on his sword hilt. His eyes flicked down to my armour. I glanced down to see a spray of blood, arterial bright, across the many-coloured plates that protected my chest. It became harder to breathe. Air struggled in and out of my chest. Nywulf knew. He knew what I was.
“Rufra is very skilled,” I said. “I doubt there was anything in the wood that he could not deal with.”
“Then why isn’t he here?”
“Few could fight multiple opponents without taking some wound.”
Nywulf’s knuckles whitened on his blade hilt.
“But he lives?”
I nodded, and then chose my words carefully, unwilling to give anything away.
“The last time I saw him he was alive. No one else was.”
Nywulf nodded slowly and when he spoke his voice was as threatening as the clouds that herald the great storms of yearsbirth. “Ride to the castle, Girton. Have the healers be ready and pray that Rufra still lives. For your sake if for nothing else.”
I rode Xus as fast as he would go for the castle, sliding off his back and shoving the reins into Drusl’s hands when I reached the stable.
“Rufra’s hurt,” I said, my breath coming in gasps. “I must get to the healers. Then I ran for the keepyard gate shouting for a healer. Minutes later five mounted healers galloped out of the gate with their long grey robes flapping about them. Half an hour later I watched Nywulf ride in followed by the healers and Rufra, slack as baggage, on his saddle. He looked like a child, exhausted after a day’s riding, sleeping in the arms of his parent . From the stricken look on Nywulf’s face I wondered what his relationship really was with my friend—it was clearly far more than trainer and pupil. More grey-robed healers fell into step behind Nywulf’s mount. I was about to follow when a hand stopped me.
“What happened, Girton?”
My master, clothed in the shadow of the gate. She pulled me back into the empty guardroom.
“Raiders attacked Calfey. Rufra chased one into the wood, and it was a trap. I saved him.”
“He saw you fight?”
“No. He was unconscious, but I am sure Nywulf knows what I am.”
“He said so?”
“Not as such. It was more what he didn’t say.”
She leaned back against the wall and sighed. “Well, he has said nothing so far, and outside of killing Nywulf—and from the way he moves I am not sure that is something I wish to try—there is little we can do. You said it was a trap?”
“Yes, men waited in the wood. Rufra killed three before he was struck down. I killed the rest, but I left no sign and bloodied Rufra’s weapons so he will think he finished them.”
She leaned in close to me.
“You should have let him die,” she whispered.
“He is my friend.”
“If what we are is revealed we become worthless to Adran, and she is ruthless.”
“He was unconscious, Master, and a strike to the head can often affect the memory. Besides, the other squires will think he took on seven men alone and prevailed. It will win him respect. Even if he saw me, he’d not be fool enough to throw that away.”
“You hope.”
“I hope.”
She bunched her hands into fists and for a moment I thought she was going to scream at me. Then she unbunched her fists and let out a breath. “What’s done is done, Girton. The queen will want to know what happened.”
“Her son happened.”
“Aydor?”
“Yes, or maybe Tomas. The last attacker told me someone in the castle set this up. It is almost a mirror of the fiction Adran constructed to cover Kyril’s death.”
“Give me details,” she said, and I reeled off an account of the attack and the events leading up to it. “Aydor or Tomas would make sense as no true assassin would do this. Half of Calfey is dead in attempt to accomplish it, and that requires the sort of callousness the blessed excel in.” She spat on the floor. “To sacrifice a village to kill one boy. Madness.”
“It was not just for Rufra; the raiders must have planned to take cows as well. Tomas intercepted them before they could and they rode back to Calfey.”
“They never planned to take cows, Girton. Your friend was the target.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Those raiders who headed back to Calfey chased by Tomas. Why would they do that?”
“To collect their fellows.”
“Their fellows who attacked a village, presumably as a decoy to draw the squires away from the cows? Why run towards more enemy if you knew they were there?”
“I—”
“Because they thought they were safe to do so, Girton. They thought they would be allowed to escape.”
“Why would they think that?”
“Because someone told them it was so.”
“Aydor.”
“Most likely.” She looked at the floor.
“He wanted to kill the remaining villagers, said they were traitors.”
“Probably worried there were bandits in among them who may give him away.”
My hand went to the blade at my hip. “I will—”
“Do nothing,” she said, grabbing my arm. “Nothing, do you understand? Aydor may have been responsible but he may not, Tomas is important too. And what do you think will happen to us if you confront Aydor? Or kill him?”
There was a moment, a passing of time, where the muscles of my arm fought her grip, and then I relaxed and let go of my anger.
“Very well,” I said. But I would not look at her, and I could tell it caused her pain.
“If you would do something, Girton, try and find out why Aydor, or Tomas, would want your friend dead so desperately. That may lead us somewhere. And why did Nywulf allow himself to be split from his squires?”
“He was called away, by Neander.”
“Neander? But he is Rufra’s father—it makes no sense for him to help in such a scheme.”
“Unless Rufra is an embarrassment to him, as a celibate priest.”
“No. I have heard Neander joke about his lust for women with the queen. He has no shame.”
“Master,” I hissed, “we should put an end this dynasty now. Aydor is a beast, his mother too. If we do not act there will be a thousand Calfeys across Maniyadoc.”
“I cannot do that, Girton.”
“Why?”
“Because there are old debts in play here, debts that can never be repaid.”
“Debts? What debts?”
“Once, long ago—” her voice was barely audible “—a thankful girl found a rich merchant’s daughter on the edge of death. She dragged her to a healer even though the merchant’s daughter wanted nothing but Xus’s touch.”