Evermore

Phillipe did not want to think of what had happened to Sherwood after that. "Perhaps someone's idea of a tasteless joke, my lord."

"Indeed. Someone who should be beaten until their bones are dust." Locksley's voice lost all feeling. "Scarlet, take it down."

"My lord, perhaps I should speak to Jayr about it," Will said slowly. "So that she may—"

Robin of Locksley snapped out an arm, seizing his seneschal by the front of his shirt and dragging him around to face him. His eyes never left the banner. "Take it down," he said, his dents acérées gleaming like white daggers, "carry it outside, and burn it."

Will's voice trembled as he said, "At once, my lord."

"I will be on the range. Come to me when it is done." Locksley released him and strode away, leaving both seneschals to stare after him.

"What is this?" Phillipe asked, looking up at the banner. "Guisbourne is dead, Sherwood destroyed. Who could possibly wish to honor their memory?"

"I don't know," Will muttered. "But God save his soul, for if my master finds him it will shortly be leaving his body."

Although a few stragglers had yet to check in, the Kyn attending the tournament had in large part arrived. Jayr sent word to the various tresori and seneschal that the first gathering would be an early evening assembly in the guards' hall. As in years past, the lords and their jardins would come to exchange greetings and news with one another before the tournament officially began.

It took some diplomacy, of course. The large round tables and seating had to be arranged so that none held a particular advantage over the rest of the room. All of the goblets were filled with the same vintage of bloodwine, and a server was assigned to each table so that no one was kept waiting. Byrne would make an appearance, as he always did, but he would likely do little more than introduce the seigneur and allow him to address the assembly.

Things had changed in the last year, however, and Jayr knew that the American Kyn had become restless. Michael's first decision as seigneur, to allow Richard's chief assassin, Lucan, to create a new jardin in the south of Florida, had not been a popular one. Nor was the seigneur's decision to confront Richard in Ireland and take back his sygkenis after the high lord had abducted her. Now he had opened their borders to the French and Italian Kyn, and territorial lines would have to be redrawn. Some did not agree with Michael Cyprien's leadership; others were fearful of the future changes he would make to their long-established way of life. The fact that his sygkenis was the first human to be turned since the Middle Ages fascinated some, but troubled most.

If they made it through the night without any incident, Jayr thought, it would be a minor miracle.

Once she saw to the guests' needs, Jayr occupied herself by circulating, exchanging greetings with the other seneschal present, and silently observing their masters. The ruling Kyn seemed more secretive this year, guarding their looks and keeping their voices low as they spoke with old friends. What Jayr overheard indicated that the Kyn's main concerns centered around the newcomers, and what lands they would be accorded by the seigneur.

"I petitioned Richard a dozen times to extend my territory into Canada," one suzerain, a ruling lord in the Midwest, complained to his cluster of friends. "I have business interests in the north, and my men desire new hunting grounds. Now I expect the seigneur will give them over to the French."

"Can you blame him?" one of the Irish-born lords asked. "They are his closest blood Kyn."

"I told you to petition the seigneur before the tournament begins," the suzerain's wife said as she plied her fan. "Make it plain to him that you have first claim, or might have, if the high lord had been more generous."

The Irish lord nodded. "'Tis well-known that Cyprien has no more love for Richard. You could work that to your advantage."

"Or petition his sygkenis to endorse the claim," the wife put in. "I have heard she is weak. Some say she is still human enough to succumb to talent."

"Do we know anyone who can introduce us?" her husband asked.

Jayr stopped beside the suzerain's wife. "I will be glad to introduce you to Dr. Keller when she joins us, my lord. The seigneur, you see, has charged me with her protection." She rested a hand on the dagger hilt in her right hip sheath. "It is a charge I take most seriously."

The female glowered. "Who are you to—"

"We are much obliged for your advice, seneschal." As the suzerain spoke, he put a restraining hand on his wife's arm. "Women have no head for these matters. I will petition the seigneur directly."

"As you wish, my lord." Jayr bowed and, hiding her satisfaction, moved on.

Chapter 9

It was some time later that a curious hush fell over the guards' room. Heads turned and hands froze in mid-gesture. Jayr followed the direction of the stares to the side entry doors, where a Kyn lord and his entourage stood as if waiting to be announced or greeted.

Jayr's hands went to her blades before she realized what she was doing and dropped her hands.

The newcomers' lord stood tall and straight in a long black coat and polished boots; long dark hair spilled to curl about his broad shoulders. His face might have been carved by an ambitious hand from pure alabaster, save for a tightly controlled mouth and dark eyes so thickly lashed they seemed bruised. A thin chain of silver relieved the funerary grimness of his garments; on the end of it hung suspended a chunk of crystal striped with uneven bands of green and purple.

Fierce as the new lord appeared, it was not him but his entourage that held the room riveted. A dozen silent, motionless men in flowing black robes and dark blue turbans surrounded him in neat ranks. Each carried a curved sword hung by a scarlet cord from his wide waist sash. Dark beards covered the bottom half of their swarthy faces, while their narrow black eyes beheld the room with decided indifference.

The dark lord had brought with him Saracen guards. Saracens, against whom the Kyn had waged war during their human lives.

"God have mercy on us," Harlech said as he came to stand beside her. "What are those heathens doing here?"

"The suzerain of this castle does not bid welcome to his guests?" the dark lord asked in the silence. He delivered his question in flawless, unaccented English made beautiful by the deep, melodic quality of his voice.

Jolted by the reminder of her duty, Jayr strode forward. "Suzerain Aedan mac Byrne welcomes all Kyn to the Realm, and glad I am to announce your arrival, my lord. If you will but give me your name, I will make you and your men known to our other guests."

The dark lord's face turned toward her. Eyes like soot-scarred crystal flicked a single glance over her before shifting back to gaze upon the room.

He did not know who she was, and obviously would not lower himself to ask.

"I am privileged to serve Suzerain Byrne as seneschal." Jayr stopped a few feet short of the lord and his entourage and offered them a deep, respectful bow. "Jayr, my lord, at your service."

The dark eyes subjected her to a second, longer inspection. Not a single muscle moved in his face, but he gave the impression of affronted displeasure. As Jayr straightened, he looked into her eyes, at her hair, and then at her mouth.

He knows me, Jayr thought, bewildered. Just as she opened her mouth to ask how, the dark lord walked past her without a word.

Gasps, whispers and more than one smothered chuckle abraded Jayr's ears. She kept her face from reflecting her humiliation, but her heart pounded painfully in her chest. Among the Kyn, refusing to return such a direct greeting as she had offered was the bluntest and most direct of insults. It meant that in the dark lord's eyes, Jayr did not exist. Even the Kyn who disapproved of her serving as Byrne's seneschal had never subjected her to such public censure.

He sees you are female, she told herself, serving in place of a male. That is what offends him.

It still stung, no matter how Jayr rationalized it. She wished Byrne would arrive, so she could stand at his side. Being near him was the reassurance she needed now, both of his regard and her place among the Kyn. Whatever the dark lord might think of her, she had earned both.

A shorter, auburn-haired man shouldered his way around the Saracens. The dull green and poor fit of his garb made him appear shorter and plumper than he was. He strode up to Jayr with a wide smile on his broad face.

"My ill-mannered master is Ganelon of Florence, the Lord Nottingham," he told Jayr, speaking loudly enough for the rest of the Kyn to hear. He sketched an unsteady bow. "I am his seneschal, Skald."

Jayr clasped hands with him and greeted him as an equal, although she kept an eye on his master. "Nottingham is an English name."

"My lord's father hailed from that region," Skald said. "My lord deeply honors his memory."

Nottingham, Jayr recalled, was but forty miles from Sherwood. "We received no notice of your visit, brother."

"I fear the Brethren burned us out," the seneschal told her. "There was no time for anything but immediate, uncomfortable travel. Word of this tournament was sent to us before we left Italy; my lord thought it best we come here." His smile turned rueful. "You cannot tell it by his demeanor, but we have come to beg sanctuary."

"I see." No, she didn't. She had never heard of a Kyn lord named Ganelon, of Nottingham or Florence or any other city, and she doubted the arrogant Italian would stoop to ask for anything, much less haven. Perhaps he served the high lord as a spy. "May I ask your lord's title, so that I might make him known to my master?"

"My lord Nottingham has not yet been granted official rank among the Kyn. We have lived in solitude since rising to walk the night, you see." Skald's gaze bounced from her face to the assembly with uncommon interest. "I hope our lonely state will come to an end here in America, brother. 'Tis said that your seigneur is known for his largesse."

He thought her a male, when it was well-known among the Kyn that she was not. Perhaps what he claimed was true, although Jayr found it hard to believe that the Italian had sequestered himself so completely. Even the most remotely located jardins kept in contact by various means, and sent emissaries back to Europe to meet with the high lord on a regular basis. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">