The Queen of Swords Read Free Page B

Glandyth, after his failure to take Castle Moidel, had returned in a rage to the Court at Kalenwyr to ask King Lyr-a-Brode for an army. Perhaps next time he came he would also bring ships which could attack from seaward while he attacked from the land. Such an assault would be successful, for Moidel’s garrison was small.
    The sun was setting as they made for the main hall of the castle to take their evening meal. Corum, Rhalina and Beldan sat together to eat and Corum’s mortal hand went often to the wine jug and far less frequently to the food. He was pensive, full of a sense of profound gloom which infected the others so that they did not even attempt to make conversation.
    Two hours passed in this way and still Corum swallowed wine.
    And then Beldan raised his head, listening. Rhalina, too, heard the sound and frowned. Only Corum appeared not to hear it.
    It was a rapping noise—an insistent noise. Then there were voices and the rapping stopped for a moment. When the voices subsided the rapping began again.
    Beldan got up. “I’ll investigate…”
    Rhalina glanced at Corum. “I’ll stay.”
    Corum’s head was lowered as he stared into his cup, sometimes fingering the patch covering his alien eye, sometimes raising the Hand of Kwll and stretching the six fingers, flexing them, inspecting them, puzzling over the implications of his situation.
    Rhalina listened. She heard Beldan’s voice. Again the rapping died. There was a further exchange. Silence.
    Beldan came back into the hall.
    “We have a visitor at our gates,” he informed her.
    “Where is he from?”
    “He says he is a traveler who has suffered some hardship and seeks sanctuary.”
    “A trick?”
    “I know not.”
    Corum looked up. “A stranger?”
    “Aye,” Beldan said. “Some spy of Glandyth’s possibly.”
    Corum rose unsteadily. “I’ll come to the gate.”
    Rhalina touched his arm. “Are you sure…?”
    “Of course.” He passed his hand over his face and drew a deep breath. He began to stride from the hall, Rhalina and Beldan following.
    He came to the gates and as he did so the knocking started up once more.
    “Who are you?” Corum called. “What business have you with the folk of Moidel’s Castle?”
    “I am Jhary-a-Conel, a traveler. I am here through no particular wish of my own, but I would be grateful for a meal and somewhere to sleep.”
    “Are you of Lywm-an-Esh?” Rhalina asked.
    “I am of everywhere and nowhere. I am all men and no man. But one thing I am not—and that is your enemy. I am wet and I am shivering with cold.”
    “How came you to Moidel when the causeway is covered?” Beldan asked. He turned to Corum. “I have already asked him this once. He did not answer me.”
    The unseen stranger mumbled something in reply.
    “What was that?” Corum said.
    “Damn you! It’s not a thing a man likes to admit. I was part of a catch of fish! I was brought here in a net and I was dumped offshore and I swam to this damned castle and I climbed your damned rocks and I knocked on your damned door and now I stand making conversation with damned fools. Have you no charity at Moidel?”
    The three of them were astonished then—and they were convinced that the stranger was not in league with Glandyth.
    Rhalina signed to the warriors to open the great gates. They creaked back a fraction and a slim, bedraggled fellow entered. He was dressed in unfamiliar garb and had a sack over his back, a hat on his head whose wide brim was weighed down by water and hung about his face. His long hair was as wet as the rest of him. He was relatively young, relatively good-looking and, in spite of his sodden appearance, there was just a trace of amused disdain in his intelligent eyes. He bowed to Rhalina.
    “Jhary-a-Conel at your service, ma’am.”
    “How came you to keep your hat while swimming so far through the sea?” Beldan asked. “And your sack, for that matter?”
    Jhary-a-Conel acknowledged the question with a wink. “I