Free The Fall of Neskaya by Marion Zimmer Bradley Page A

crimson rays over the walls of Castle Ambervale. Men stood at attention at the gates and along the battlements. Tents, picket lines, and food storage bins sprawled across the broad fields to the east, where once summer trading fairs were held. A squadron of spearmen drilled under the shouted orders of an officer, while other men walked sweating horses dry, cleaned weapons, and raked the ground smooth for tomorrow’s armed practice. Smoke arose from the cooking pits. To the south, a village, still bustling with activity, hugged the river bank. A breeze brought the aroma of bread newly baked for the evening meal.
    Rumail of Neskaya nudged his horse forward, though the weary animal needed no encouragement with home in sight. A shouted hail went up at his approach. At the threshold of the castle, two guards stepped to his side, greeting him with that deference born of fear to which he was long since accustomed. As he rode through the sally port, between the newly reinforced gates, he glanced up at the twin banners of Ambervale and Linn, noticing the bright stitching, the freshly oiled hinges, evidence everywhere of discipline and readiness. With Verdanta secured bloodlessly by marriage, Damian could turn his attention to Acosta, maybe even the outlying provinces of Aldaran. And from that mountain stronghold, the hill kingdoms leading to the lowlands, Valeron and the Hastur lands. Yes, his brother would be pleased with his news.
    In the courtyard, a gaggle of maidservants wearing white caps and aprons chattered as they swung their buckets to the well. Other servants carried baskets of green-and-gold summer marrows and baskets of steaming round-loaves and meat buns to the kitchen.
    Rumail’s lower back twinged as he swung down from the saddle and handed the reins to an impeccably-liveried servant. Years of service in the Towers had sapped his physical vitality, yet he would gladly pay that cost a thousand times over. Let ordinary men think him a sorcerer, for their superstitious terror was far better treatment than he’d received as an impoverished bastard. Even the respect accorded him as his brother’s representative, voice of the King, paled by comparison to the heady sense of power born of his own abilities.
    The coridom of Ambervale Castle welcomed Rumail with a deep bow, escorting him to his quarters himself, rather than delegating this task to an underling. Having bathed, shaved, and dined on roasted barnfowl with bramble-berry compote and soft white bread, Rumail presented himself to his brother.
    Damian Deslucido, King of Ambervale and now Linn and tomorrow who knew what besides, sat in his high carved chair on a raised dais, talking easily with his coridom and a pair of men Rumail did not recognize, but guessed must be lesser nobles, possibly from Linn by the cut of their vests and the embossed leather trim of their boots. Empty scabbards hung from their belts.
    “Your Majesty,” one of them said as Rumail approached, “the levies are too much. We have not enough men to bring in the harvest as it is. We still have not refilled our granaries from your—from the war.”
    “We will speak more of this later. Once true peace is achieved, full bellies will surely follow.” Damian dismissed the man with a gesture. As the coridom escorted the two men from the presence chamber, Damian stepped down and embraced his brother.
    Rumail was struck, as many times before, by how compelling and yet how uncomplicated Damian was. Not handsome, he radiated something deeper, something which drew men to him and fired them with his visions. Charisma or glamour came close to describing it, but neither were accurate, for then Rumail would have been able to defend against it with his laran. No, this was something different, so that whenever he came into his brother’s presence, all resentment at his lesser status melted away as he gave himself willingly to Damian’s cause.
    And what a cause it was. Their father, the unlamented King