The way to Lord Emery Pollard's pavilion wound around the privy trenches, beyond the budding cookfires, and down the path marked off on both sides by banners that rose from the ground like weeds. With a thousand men between here and there, the trek was usually a slow one, and the afternoon's rains had left the grounds muddy as well as crowded. I shouldn't have worn these boots, Emmen thought, looking down at them gloomily. They were good supple leather, bought with the rupees he'd claimed as prize at the last melee he'd won, and just now splattered with water, mud, and something that looked suspiciously like shit. It probably is shit, like as not; we've been here long enough. That would be just my luck.
Dusk had fallen, turning the sky purple and the ground treacherous. Lord Emery's camp sprawled out for miles between where the castle town ended and the castle moat begun; it was easy to lose himself, and Emmen did. All around him, the inhabitants of the camp continued their everyday routines. Bright as stars, torches and nightfires bloomed all around him, bringing with them the smell of smoke and cooking meat. Unseen men sang songs of victory and the hunt, their voices rising amongst the great pavilions and lowly tents. Nearby, a man was juggling half a dozen knives to the delight of some homely camp followers and drunken men-at-arms. Well away from others, two archers were attempting to outshoot each other at fifty paces.
Emmen felt the stares, heard a few ragged cries of "milord" and toasts to the young lord of Rourke. The attention made him feel glad, despite the fate his fine boots were consigned to; it was easy to feel alone in a host forty thousand strong, but his birth had spared him that. And so much else as well.
Twenty-one and comely, Emmen Rourke had been born heir to rich lands south of Lake Hylia, a storied keep...and all the crofter's daughters he could ever want. Emery Pollard himself had given Emmen his spurs at sixteen, for acts of valor in a small skirmish with Calatians on Hyrule's southern border. Knighthood had only increased the arrogance and vanity that came along with being tall and strong and handsome; it didn't help that, over the past five years, he'd grown into a tourney knight of some repute. Three years ago he'd even been champion at a tourney held on these very grounds in honor of Queen Zelda's name day. How right the world had seemed the moment he'd unhorsed his last opponent, one of the king's sworn swords; how shy and sweet the beautiful young queen's smile had been when he gave her the Queen of Love and Beauty's laurel. How he'd dreamed of stealing the queen from the king and taking her across the sea to make a kingdom of his own; how the singers would love him...
...and then his lord father died.
Truth be told, Emmen had never liked his father, the Lord Myron Rourke; the older servants in the castle whispered that when Emmen's mother died in childbed, the joy had seeped out of the old man, leaving only rage and bitterness. Emmen could well believe it. He wanted to joust and hunt and wench; his father wanted to sit in his solar and brood on all the slights he'd suffered, especially those injustices done him by the Pollards. His death had come almost as a relief; at least, Emmen reflected when he heard the grim news, he'd never again have to hear his father prattle on in that gloomy tone of his about some bog the Pollards had seized.
His father's death presented certain complications for Emmen, so the young man couldn't enjoy his mourning like he wanted. As the only child his lady mother had seen fit to give his father, he stood to inherit the Rourkes' seat of Thirdcrown. Apparently, the founder of House Rourke, some hedge knight in service to the king, had known the queen of the time a deal better than he should have. The queen loved him so well she'd given him three crowns, that he might make a seat of his own in the rich South. The hedge knight gave a crown to each of his sons, and used the third to build his seat. House Rourke had borne the queen's three crowns on their banners ever since.
Well, those crowns must have been pitiful paltry things. Thirdcrown Castle was a poorly built heap of stone that froze in winter and reeked perpetually of mildew, dogs' urine, and the stink of the nearby bogs. Despite all the fabled fertility of the South, Thirdcrown was hedged on three sides with the swamps that belonged to House Pollard; the forest on the fourth side was filled with fat brown rabbits, rare animals that helped swell the family coffers, and little else. Nevertheless, Emmen was declared Lord of Thirdcrown at nineteen, in sight of the Door of Time and the old king to whom he'd been made to pledge fealty, with all the lands and incomes that came alone with the title.
Lordship presented Emmen with a series of amusements. He had all the crofter's daughters he wanted, to be sure...but aside from their maidenhoods, there was nothing else to be gained from the poxy slatterns. And as the young Lord of Thirdcrown he had no lack of marriage offers...but truth be told, he'd sooner have a nice whore than any of the pimply young maidens that had been paraded before him prior to the war.
Ah, yes...the war.
Emmen was Emery Pollard's cousin as well as one of his lords bannermen. They shared a taste for good food and wenching, and even their names sounded alike...but Emmen had never trusted him. Living at Thirdcrown with his father and his father's ghosts had taught him that only his immediate family members could be trusted, and them not very far.
Yet, when Emery called his banners to go to war against his brother Berent and the queen, Emmen answered his summons. He came to the aid of House Pollard with all his strength mostly to kick his dead father in the mouth...but also because he still harbored thoughts of stealing the queen and taking her with him across the water once the battle was done. He remembered, faintly, how he'd tried to convince Emery to spare the queen as they talked of storming Hyrule Castle over a game of tiles. It had been spring then, and Emery's temper had not been quite so short.
"They need not all be killed, coz. The queen..."
"The queen has been married for ten years, and she's still barren. Berent shuns her bed; they say he prefers common strumpets. Like brother like brother, eh?" They'd shared the laugh and Emery won the game of tiles, which ended all talk of sparing the queen.
It was summer when they finally marched against Hyrule Castle with all the strength of the south. The Crown countered with the power of houses like Morley, which could field three thousand swords at best. The battle had passed as a dream for Emmen, who covered himself in glory by commanding the van while Emery commanded from the rear. The day seemed almost won, and then...then Hyrule Castle lowered its portcullis, drew up its drawbridge, and from the parapets the king dared the South to lay siege while his garrison threw down dung and cheered.
He'd found no pleasure in this bloody siege, not even in the camp follower who made him smile in the night. Emmen was young, and tired of this waiting; he wanted to kill something. Instead, he'd been reduced to a messenger bird, slogging through the mud in his good boots to wait his lord cousin's pleasure.
He was nearly past the banners now; night had turned them black as rot. Unconsciously, one of Emmen's hands slid inside his doublet, where the folded parchment was hidden safe and dry. Messenger bird or no, I must do this, he knew. I have the bird, I have the letter, and soon Cousin Emery will have the truth...
A monstrous vision of scarlet silk, Emery's pavilion loomed before him. Before the entrance to the pavilion, half a dozen watchmen in Pollard's livery stood sentry; they lowered their spears when they saw Emmen approaching and one of them called out a challenge. Giving them a good look at the three crowns on his pure white doublet, Emmen stopped before the guards and looked down at them, putting his height to good use. "Out of my way, or you'll learn who goes there," he growled, and they moved aside.
Bigger than the great hall at Thirdcrown, the pavilion contained everything a lord could need and more: a feather bed covered with shaggy furs, chests overflowing with clothing, a polished table stocked with writing quill, inkpot, and rolls of parchment and sheepskin, braziers for every corner and some besides, baskets filled with sweet-smelling rushes, bowls filled with ripe fruit, and flagons filled with dark sweet wine. Along one wall were enough weapons to stock an armory. Who knew a man who owned naught but swampland could be so rich?
Playing at tiles with a man-at-arms Emmen did not know was a man in a red jerkin and wool breeches dyed a soft yellow, the colors of his House. When Emmen entered he looked up quickly, then returned to his game. "I knew you'd come, coz. You always seem to appear just when I'm about to win." When the man-at-arms cackled and pocketed a handful of silver rupees his gaming partner looked up for good, green eyes studying Emmen without the least hint of warmth.
Emery Pollard, Lord of the Misery Maze and Lord Paramount of the South, would have been considered nothing but common at royal court, Emmen knew; of middling height and build, he had a mouth full of crooked teeth and features so ordinary that it was hard to say how old he was. He had been born amongst the bogs of Misery Mire, a grim place that bred grim people. His lusterless brown hair had grown long as a maid's, spilling straight and fine across his shoulders and down his back; his catlike green eyes, common among the lords who ruled south of Lake Hylia, did not smile when his mouth did. Men were quick to call Emery cold, but he was ambitious, in truth; Emmen had discovered that quickly. The third son of Lord Collin Pollard and Lady Elyn, by rights he should have gone on to rule some swampy holdfast in his lordly brother's name...but the gods had a different plan for him. When he was twenty, his oldest brother Berent married the Princess Zelda, and the title of Lord Pollard passed to the second son, Derren. But Derren soon died strangely in a hunting accident, and by twenty-five Emery had it all: ownership of a large chunk of the South, political power, and the promise of a good marriage. Now he was thirty, and still he sought to climb.
"You always thought I was good luck before," Emmen said lightly. He picked a pear from a bowl and bit into it, not caring in the least about his impropriety. The juices exploded in his mouth, tart and perfect.
"When we played at forfeits in the brothels, you mean?" Emery laughed. "Well, you always were good at getting the girls out of their clothes. But that is no subject fit for my lady wife's ears, and I'm sure my man is anxious to piss away his fortune in a game of tiles elsewhere. You may leave us, Grenn." His voice turned tender as he turned his attention to his wife. He beckoned her closer with a hand. "My lady..."
Garbed in smoky silk, Lady Pollard sat in a rocking chair with her sewing in her lap. Mira her husband called her, since he couldn't pronounce her true name, and it seemed to serve. She'd been a virgin princess when Emery found her across the water, the youngest daughter of a king with too many heirs. To hear the servants tell it, she was still a virgin. If he doesn't want that sweet little thing he could give her to me, Emmen thought, eyeing her. I could show him how it's done. Sure, she was all of fourteen and every week seemed to have a fresh crop of pimples that she was inclined to pick at till they bled, but cousins lent each other helping hands when they needed them.
Abandoning her sewing, Lady Pollard crept timidly toward her husband and yielded to the embrace he gave her when he rose. "Leave us, child," he commanded, silencing any protest she might have made with a lingering kiss. When their kiss broke, he spoke again, though it was doubtful she understood a word her lord husband said. "Fetch a servant and get them to bring me supper. A nicely crisped capon, I think. And a flagon of iced milk, the day has been hot."
Emmen couldn't keep his mouth shut. "Is that wise, Cousin? I've heard a few of your lords complaining that we're eating the land bare..."
Emery didn't want to hear it. "Of course it's wise," he said, giving his cousin a cool look as his wife shuffled meekly out. "I know no surer way of working up hunger than by talking to you."
Soon they were alone, and here came the part he dreaded. Emmen liked jousting well enough but he hated controversy, this dueling with words. Nevertheless, he pulled the parchment free of his doublet and held it stiffly out to his cousin. "You know I wouldn't interrupt you at your tiles unless it was a matter of import. A bird delivered this letter to my pavilion this morning. I think you should read it."
Emery had been pouring himself a cup of wine but he stopped to come retrieve the letter. His bright green eyes squinted with suspicion as he studied the broken wax seal. "Queer," he muttered as he picked up his cup. "I cannot make out the sigil, but it seems to me I know these colors." He unfolded the letter and started to read, bringing the cup to his lips. He took one sip and flung the cup away with all his strength. It disturbed a basket of rushes as it fell, wine and slender reeds spraying in all directions as the cup landed against the floor with a tinkling glass crash. "Damn that pox-ridden bitch," he growled, red-faced. "Damn her!"
Once, his cousin's temper might have made Emmen cringe; once, he might have fled until Emery's fit of rage had cooled. But he was made of sterner stuff now, and all he did was blink. "We ignored the whispers for far too long," he reminded the angry lord. "They said she was gathering swords around her...that men were slipping south of Lake Hylia in numbers greater than before..."
"I don't care what our scouts said!" Emery started pacing, in an attempt to calm himself. The parchment was already balled up in one of his hands, Emmen noted. "How long has she been free?"
They were discussing Lady Morley, of course. Not Emery's lady mother, who'd been a Morley before Lord Collin married her, but the new one. She and her lord husband were Morleys both, distant cousins hastily wed. Her husband had been cut down in the battle before the siege, but the Morleys had always been ardent supporters of the Crown, and Emery wanted to take no chances of being cut down himself when his star was rising. As she was traveling back to her husband's keep several knights sworn to House Pollard ambushed her and her modest honor guard, marching her south to a "comfortable" captivity at the dread Misery Maze till the war was won. And now, after nearly a year, she'd found her way out of the labyrinth.
"The letter does not say," Emmen admitted, "but our scouts have learned the truth. Knights and spearmen left behind to garrison the Stony Stream have been marshaling their strength for an attack on the Mire to free their lady. They started to march during the last moon's turn, unbeknownst to us. You left Misery Maze lightly garrisoned, and when your guards heard about the host marching on them, they abandoned the castle almost to a man. Those that were foolish enough to stay were put to the sword when Morley's men stormed the keep and freed our captives."
"Bloody cowards." Emery slammed a fist down on his game board, making the tiles jump. "I'll have their heads. Every one."
"You left thirty gaolers to guard a hundred highborn captives. What did you expect? I told you, we should have kept Lady Morley close, as you kept your lady wife close. I could have insured her loyalty by wedding her." It was not something Emmen would have minded. He'd seen Della Morley once, and she was too beautiful by half: with long dark hair that fell in loose curls around a face so comely it would have melted even Emery's frozen heart, she was high-breasted, slender, long legged, and ripe for bedding. He would have been pleased by a marriage to such a woman...only now she was marching north clad in chainmail, with swords all around her. It was a shame.
His cousin snorted. "Insured she'd slit your throat, you mean. Even if she didn't, I'd never be able to get you away from her. But no more about what might have been. She's free now. This letter..." He glared down darkly at the crinkled parchment, as though it had committed some crime. "I like it not at all."
"She says she's amassed a huge host. That she means to besiege us besiegers, if we do not meet her terms. Her terms are generous, she says..."
"I know what she says! Do you think I am some fool, that I cannot read the words behind her words? When she says she's amassed a huge host, what it means is that she's conscripted every cowherd and crofter she could find and armed them with spears. I've no doubt that I could deploy half of my horse to deal with her mighty host, if it should come to battle between us. What concerns me is the letter itself. She writes surprisingly well for someone fresh from the Maze, and she seems to like writing, judging from the length of this bloody letter. You are not the only one who received a letter, Emmen, I promise you. If word of this should reach the castle..."
That would mean blood, Emmen knew; he was not foolish enough to deny that. "They will never know of Lady Morley's march," he said confidently. "I have archers ready to strike down any bird that comes within a league of the castle."
"But?" Emery was frowning.
It's hardly an appropriate question. But Emery's seen me at worse. "You..." Emmen hesitated, wondering. "It would gladden my heart, coz, if you told me why this siege is so important. The men would like to know as well. You've never told me, and, well, since you will not accept Lady Morley's terms..." He knew he wouldn't by now.
Something cold bloomed in Emery's lovely eyes. "I've never told you my reasons, that's true enough. Nor will I. Leave it be, for the love you say you bear me." He sat down before his tiles again, grabbed a nearby cup, and poured himself more wine. "A hundred highborn captives freed. A shame. They could have been powerful inducements to get their Houses to support me when I come into my power. Could have been. Everything I do seems to turn to dross in my hands. This siege, this with the freeing of those captives, Della's march...my father tried to warn me, but I would not listen. My father was a cold man, Emmen, cold. He died when I was ten, but I knew how he was. And I swear, sometimes it feels like I'm turning into him." He took a long drink.
My father was hot enough for the both of you. Emmen held his silence, hoping that Emery would say more about his father, but he never did. "You say you have your archers on the lookout for birds," Emery said finally, sounding less somber. "But there are other ways to get word into a castle..."
"Not that I know. Hyrule Castle is locked up tighter than a maiden after dark."
"Very droll. Berent told me a droll story the last time I came to pledge my fealty, a notable achievement for a gouty dullard like him. When the castle was full of suitors begging leave to take Princess Zelda's hand, a thief tried to enter undetected. Perhaps he wanted to steal her crown or her maidenhead, who can say? Well, this thief entered the castle through its sewers, a poor way to go undetected if you ask me, but he never did. He just dived into the moat, pulled off a grate and climbed in. Hyrule Castle shits into its moat, you know. One day after my brother's royal marriage, some diligent servant was cleaning the cellars and pulled up a grate. He found the thief's bones, well cleaned." Emery laughed. "Easier going out than in, they say, but we ought to take no chances. I want guards posted by the moat, in case Lady Morley tries to tempt some hedge knight short of coin."
"As you say, Emery." Emmen did not like to think on what would become of the man stupid enough to try to enter Hyrule Castle through its sewers. Last week eleven men had been thrown from the castle walls. They were half-starved, unwashed...and quite alive when Emery started to question them. He did most of the "questioning" himself, Emmen heard, watching cold-eyed while the soldiers writhed and screamed and bled beneath him.
"The Hyrules besieged this castle once, before they were kings and when this castle was known by another name," Emmen's cousin was saying. "It took them four years to force the inhabitants to yield. I would gladly do the same as the Hyrules did three thousand years ago, but I don't have four years." He turned sharply away. "We must be done with them before Lady Morley's force arrives. The trebuchet has not been built that can breach Hyrule Castle's walls, storming the castle is too chancy, and I mislike the thought of offering peace. She's given us a moon's turn to consider her terms, for which I'm duly grateful. We'll make the most of it, I'm sure, and then we'll smash her host to bloody bits. I may even consent to sharing the fair Lady Della and the pretty queen with you once the battle is done, as we often shared wenches down in the Mire. Won't that be pleasant? You and I, we do love our cousins." Emery Pollard stood, the heat in his eyes making them sparkle like emeralds. "First, though...we must draw the castle out."
How? Emmen might have asked, but by then he knew.