Darkwalker on Moonshae - Douglas Niles [7]
“I’m Robyn, and this is Tristan.”
Daryth looked at the prince quizzically. “Your… sister?” he asked, indicating Robyn.
“No. Robyn was raised as my father’s ward,” explained Tristan, suddenly eager to clarify the relationship.
He remembered, momentarily, how annoyed he had been at the way Robyn had looked at the thief after the fight. She was looking at him that way again, something more than curiosity in her eyes.
“The pleasure is all mine,” offered the thief. “I’m afraid circumstances prevent me from – urf!” Erian gave a sharp tug to Daryth’s cloak, cutting him off in mid-sentence.
“Not so rough, Erian,” Tristan told the guard. “He offers no resistance.”
Erian almost sneered at the prince, but settled for turning his back in disgust.
“Very perceptive,” muttered Daryth, nodding his appreciation. “As a matter of fact, I hope to convince you that this is all a giant misunderstanding. In truth, I like this little town, and intend to stay here – for a while anyway.
“You see,” he continued as if in confidence, “I’m really no sailor. I came here on the Silver Crescent, working my way.
“I, a master trainer of dogs, forced to such… Well, anyway, your little town seemed like a convenient location. I was going to settle down, start an honest business -”
“But temptation got the better of you,” concluded the prince.
“Er, I am really very sorry about that. Rather mischievous of me. If I had known then what I do now… but I suppose there’s no sense crying about it.”
The group reached the gatehouse, and the bulk of Caer Corwell towered above them. The great wooden palisade stretched to the right and left until it curved out of sight around the crest of the knoll. The gatehouse, which stood astride the road at the top of the steep, rocky knoll, consisted of a large stone building with four squat towers at the corners. Since the road allowed the only easy access from the coastal plain to the knoll, it was the most heavily defended approach. As usual, however, the heavy wooden gates stood open, and the sturdy portcullis beyond was raised out of the way.
Daryth stopped for a moment and cast a hurried glance back at the festival grounds and the harbor. For a second, his eyes scanned the scene, as if seeking something.
“Move, you,” ordered Erian, giving Daryth a shove through the open archway in the gatehouse. Tristan stepped forward to rebuke the guard, but paused at the pressure of Robyn’s hand on his arm.
“What can we do?” she whispered, urgently. “Surely he doesn’t deserve to die!”
Her tone brooked no argument, and in any event, Tristan shared her sentiment. “He seems like a decent fellow,” he said in a low voice. “But the king will look harshly on any thief who has preyed on festival-goers. What can I do?”
“I don’t know,” she replied, irritated. “Think of something, for once!” Before he could reply, she dashed forward and caught up with the guard and his prisoner as they entered the sunlit courtyard. Cursing under his breath, Tristan followed.
A dozen moorhounds came racing from the kennel at the far end of the courtyard. Sniffing and wagging, they swarmed around Tristan, investigating Daryth and Robyn as well. They kept their distance from Erian, since the big guard’s heavy boots were well known to dogs who ventured too close.
Daryth looked surprised at the savage appearance but friendly dispositions of the large dogs. He talked to them, and stroked their shaggy necks. Soon they all crowded around him, following him as he walked along, prodded by Erian.
Reaching the doors to the great hall, the prince, suddenly inspired, turned to the man-at-arms. “You are dismissed, Erian,” he announced. “Tell my father we wish to see him!” Robyn flashed him a look of surprise.
The guard opened his mouth to protest, but Tristan cut him off with a stern gesture. “Very well,” the big man shrugged, then turned and moved across the courtyard.
Apparently Daryth, busy scratching the chin of Angus, Tristan’s oldest hound, did not notice the exchange. He was absorbed in the veteran hunting dog, which wrinkled