Havoc's Daughters

Chapter 4 - Night 1: Imrys (part II) - Spectre

I know what caused that rain. And Dirk Alzarin knows, too.

 “Increase our speed tomorrow,” Imrys ordered General Ursine, his voice brisk. “I want to reach Mirze Vale by day after tomorrow, at the latest.” 

“Yes, Sire,” the general replied. Probably, Ursine already expected the army to reach its destination by then. Still, Imrys’ body relaxed. At least he’d done something. His manservant, Glynam, shuffled about, lighting lamps. Some of Imrys’ gloom lifted as the objects and occupants of the tent came into sharper focus. 

A trip from Kingsport to the Mirze valley normally took messengers four or five days with dry saddle, roads. A hasty flight back had taken Imrys three. 

Yet for the last seven days, while his family was fighting off a deadly enemy, all Imrys had seen was the back-end of the mounted guard in front of him. 

If only I’d had a brother. Imrys’ fist smashed the bread until crumbs escaped between his fingers. If only Father had been able to wed whom he pleased instead of that Spiveian fancy piece who couldn’t be trusted to produce more than one legitimate heir. With a ‘spare’ they’d have risked military training. 

He glanced at Esek, Count Varandes, and felt a small twinge. Recruited by then Prince Daphed on the Adamantine Campaign, Esek had fought from the time he’d been able to walk. Imrys could count on the Guard Commander to put the pieces together, to explain to Imrys what was really happening.

But I’d have to ask.

Imrys considered the Guard Commander out of the corner of his eye. There was no lamp or taper in the corner behind him, and with the black walnut shade of his skin, the Commander was good at being overlooked in the shadows – though not so adept as Falcon, of course. His strong features and wise black eyes were the same as always, but for the first time it occurred to Imrys that the man’s hair was white, a close-curled cap where once tight black braids had kept order. Yet another reminder that the Old Guard, his father’s loyal and able advisors were…old. And that Imrys had no such coterie of his own generation.

Not anymore. 

On cue, Imrys heard a Guardsman’s challenge, out in the dark. A moment later, a figure appeared, sweeping off a plumed hat so tall it would not have fit under the canvas roof, and making obeisance. 

At first glance, and in the lamplight of the tent, Imrys took the stylish green doublet for one of his Heralds’. But not even the Heralds learned to conquer a room simply by entering, nor to bow with such flair.

Despite the screaming ache in his legs, Imrys rose, smiling, to greet Beryl, Count Helminthes. 

“My lord King!” Imrys’ friend hailed him. “I met Justice Marshal D’Strigides on the road, yesterday, in the company of a small army. He should catch up within a day or two of our reaching the Mirze Vale, but I felt it was my duty to come ahead and support my Liege. I cannot wait to reach the border, so I can rescue my lady, Diannah!”

This was delivered with Beryl’s usual drama. Imrys knew he’d been courting Diannah Pereger for the past Court season, but so far he’d seen no sparks of attraction despite Beryl’s delivery. Imrys winced at the thought of his tempestuous cousin, and he wondered if he shouldn’t warn his friend just what family he proposed to marry into. 

He ignored the sting of guilt that he hadn’t yet warned Diannah about Beryl. 

Faelian would have done that.

“My thanks.” Imrys had to smile at his friend’s exuberance and loyalty, despite the wooden expressions of the Old Guard. Beryl had no more experience at war than a noble orphan, raised at court, could be expected to have. But Imrys felt his heart lift, just to have a friend his own age near. When not even Falcon could find King Daphed’s assassin, it had become terribly clear, to Imrys, just how few people in the country its new king could trust.