Daylon weighed his answer. The finest weapon-smith he had ever known would not, at least, seek service with a rival lord. The Narrows was free of armed conflict, for the time being, so Edvalt would find little demand for weapons there.
‘Very well,’ said the Baron of Marquensas, ‘then we have no issue, but for the pledge: if you find an apprentice who trains to be your equal, you will send him to me.’
‘I’ll not put another in bondage,’ answered Edvalt.
Annoyed by the answer, Daylon snapped, ‘I would not take a freeman into service against his will. You were a captive in war, and it was my right to put you to death or sell you as a slave. I did neither.’ Both men knew his largesse was solely due to Edvalt’s talent, and not any generosity of spirit on Daylon’s part. ‘I will ask him to serve freely, and reward him greatly if he agrees.’
But the weapon-smith seized the moment. ‘Should I find such a lad, I will send him to you first,’ agreed Edvalt. ‘If he willingly takes your service, that is his choice, but should he wish to make his own way in the world, that is also his right?’
Daylon nodded. ‘Agreed. Then we are done. Take your woman and child and travel safely.’ He nodded to Reinhardt. ‘See that they are given safe conduct.’ As an afterthought, he said, ‘Find him a serviceable wagon or cart, as well, so he might carry his tools with him, and give him half a weight of gold.’
The captain nodded and said, ‘As you command, my lord.’ He signalled to Edvalt to follow him.
Taken aback by Daylon’s unexpected generosity, Edvalt muttered, ‘I thank my lord,’ and the two men departed.
Daylon stood alone at the entrance of his pavilion watching the finest sword maker he had ever encountered walk away. He knew the day approached when he would need many fine weapons. He was just grateful it was not today. He turned and pulled aside the canvas flap.
Stepping inside his tent, Daylon found the clean clothing set out for him by his body man, Balven. He was constantly amused by the fact that the only person he truly trusted in this life was his bastard half-brother. Balven had come to their father’s castle as a boy, to be a companion for the young heir. When their father died, Daylon had kept Balven close at hand as his body servant, but in truth he was a more trusted adviser than any of Daylon’s official advisers.
Balven waited beside a wooden bucket of fresh water and a heavy towel. A proper bath would have to wait until he reached home, but he could at least remove the worst of the mess from his body.
As Balven began to strip off Daylon’s armour, the Baron of Marquensas wondered again about the Firemane baby. What if there was a child out there, destined to plague the sleep of the four remaining kings?
Balven was the younger brother by two years, but he had been with Daylon since the age of six and could read his moods well. Daylon’s mother had done all she could to put a wedge between the half-brothers, but all that she had succeeded in doing was bringing them closer. Daylon had possessed a rebellious nature as a child, and he dared not reveal it to their father, so his poor mother had borne the brunt of it. As a result, the two men were far closer than master and servant.
Balven was an average-looking man of middle height, with close-cropped brown hair and dark eyes; his appearance was unremarkable, but he resembled Daylon in small ways, the set of his jaw, his brow and nose, and how he carried himself. Balven studied his brother’s face as he soaped his body. ‘You are troubled?’ he asked softly. He had anticipated his master’s changeable mood and had a girl waiting in the corner of the tent rather than in Daylon’s bed, as he knew that his brother’s disposition could swing in either direction after a battle. The girl’s brown eyes were fixed upon the Baron of Marquensas, silently awaiting his order.
Daylon considered her for a moment, then shook his head. He felt tired deep in his bones. Balven dismissed her with a tiny motion of his head. She nodded once and silently left.
Daylon watched her depart with no hint of desire. He wished only for a hot meal and a long sleep after today’s bloody work. He endured the cold water and harsh soap; the discomfort was worth the loss of muck and blood. ‘I miss a hot tub,’ he said to Balven as he towelled himself dry.
His bastard half-brother nodded in agreement. ‘I miss home.’
Daylon grunted assent. He also longed for the warm sun on the shores of Marquensas, where his castle overlooked an orchard that ran across the hills and down to the coast of the Western Sea. He missed the rich orange blossom scent on the spring breeze from the ocean and the sheer beauty of his holdfast. He missed his wife’s lithe body and the promise of children. As he donned the robe Balven held for him, Daylon said, ‘Mostly I miss the peace. The sounds of war still ring in my ears.’
‘They echo in mine, as well, my lord,’ agreed Balven. ‘But at least our world didn’t end this day,’ he added in a lighter tone.
Daylon laughed. One of the many things he shared with his half-brother was a love of their father’s library. Balven knew of the legendary Firemane line and the supposed destruction attached to its end. They had almost had an argument before Daylon agreed to participate in Steveren’s betrayal; Balven had contested their joining Lodavico and the others. As was his usual tactic, Balven had argued against the course Daylon had almost certainly already chosen, to explore any failings of logic that the baron might have overlooked; neither man placed much faith in auguries, omens, and prophecies, but after ample wine, the discussion had factored them into the decision, or rather ignoring the legend had, as part of Balven’s last argument on the matter.
‘Food?’
‘I’ll fetch your meal straightaway, my lord.’
Within a few minutes Balven placed a hot plate of beef and vegetables, with some edible bread and a sliver of cheese, next to a full bottle of wine and goblet. He set the small table and departed without instruction. He knew that his half-brother’s mood called for solitude.
Daylon ate alone, his silence broken only by the faint sounds of knackers, scavengers, and body robbers in the distance. Then he fell heavily into bed.
DAYLON HAD A DAGGER IN his hand before he was fully conscious. He listened. It was quiet, though occasionally he made out the shout of a distant sentry or the faint sound of looters arguing over spoils. He heard a rustle in the corner and sat up, blade ready. Had the camp girl returned without bidding? As the fog of sleep lifted, he decided that a camp girl would not lurk in the corner but would have probably slipped into his bed.
Then Daylon heard a strange sound. He took up his night lamp and opened its shutter to illuminate the tent’s interior. In the corner where the girl had waited lay a bundle of cloth, and he could see it moving.
He approached it warily, as he would not be the first noble of Garn to be gifted with a venomous serpent or rabid animal. Then he recognised the noise and knew that the cloth held something far more lethal.
The Baron of Marquensas crouched and pulled aside the covers to see a tiny face looking up at him. He held the light close and saw large blue eyes in a little round face and a forehead crowned with wispy hair, silver-white in the lamplight. In that moment, Daylon was certain that this baby was the last of the Firemanes, as certain as he was of his own name. He guessed that the child’s fine silver-white hair would turn a brilliant copper when it was two or three years old, but around the baby’s neck a woven copper wire had been placed, and from it hung a gold ring set with a single ruby – the signet ring of Ithrace, the king’s ring.
Who had put this child in his tent? How had that person passed his sentries, or stolen past Balven, who slept before his threshold? He gently picked up the child to examine it in the light of his night lamp and saw it was a boy. The child looked into his eyes and Daylon was even more certain that this was the Firemane baby.