Blood and memory, p.5
Blood and Memory, page 5
The man had visibly swallowed, unprepared for such an assault. He would be in serious trouble with Jessom, but it paled by comparison to his king’s wrath. He had motioned the gatekeeper to pass over the seemingly inconsequential parcel, then had bowed low and handed it to Celimus, face burning from the embarrassment of being shamed in front of the other soldiers.
He had tried to salvage some small pride. “Apologies, my king. I am following orders.”
“Indeed,” Celimus had replied drily, his anger quieted. “It looks like something of no matter anyway. I’ve been expecting some new jesses for my hawk. It’s most likely those,” he had lied, wondering if the contents could possibly be what he dreamed of holding in his hands.
“Yes, sire,” the man had said. He had bowed once again for good measure and sighed with relief as he watched the King stride away to pick up the conversation with his horse handler as though no interruption had occurred.
Celimus smiled now to himself in memory as he chewed another mouthful of his favorite cake. There was no warmth in the expression, though, only malice.
“Farewell, Koreldy,” he whispered, wondering again whether the finger had been cut off before his enemy died. If so, Romen would have known it to be an assassination—and on whose orders. He certainly hoped so.
There was a knock at his chamber door. It would be Jessom. He covered Romen’s finger with the linen and put down the lid of the box.
“Come,” Celimus called.
Jessom arrived, his hands full of parchments. “Good morning, sire. I need you to sign some papers, if you please.” He noticed the King was suppressing mirth and in fact had already heard about the parcel’s delivery, but he had not yet connected the two.
“I’m rid of him, Jessom.”
“Rid of whom, sire?” the man asked absently, setting down the pile of papers and shuffling them into a neat pile before the King.
“Why, Koreldy, of course. Care to take a look?” Celimus pushed the small box toward him.
Jessom felt a thrill of elation. She had done it! He contrived a brief expression of confusion for the King’s benefit.
“Whatever is this, my king?” he said, staring at the proffered parcel but not yet picking it up.
“Open it.”
He did as asked, lifting back the linen and pausing theatrically, knowing that not making an immediate exclamation would drive Celimus to distraction.
“Well?” the King said irritably. “Your man triumphed.”
Jessom carefully re-covered the lid on the bloodied finger. “As I see.”
“Are you not sharing my glee?” Celimus was indignant now.
“Of course, your highness. I am extremely gladdened we achieved your desire. It is always my aim to please, sire.”
Celimus ignored the maddening obsequiousness. “Your man?”
“Hmm?” Jessom deliberately busied himself with the papers. He did not want to answer any questions about the woman he knew as Leyen and he knew she would certainly not appreciate him divulging any information about her. “These are quite urgent, my lord.”
Celimus pushed them away. Some fluttered to the floor. “Jessom, are you being deliberately vague?”
“No, sire. That is not my intent.”
“Then tell me his name.”
“My king, we have discussed this previously. I do not wish to involve you in any matters that may incriminate you. By just knowing the name of the killer, you haplessly become part of the intrigue.”
“But I am the intrigue, Jessom.” The olive gaze narrowed.
Jessom knew he must never play Celimus for a fool. The King was pretentious and often petulant; he had many qualities that might cause a less perceptive person to consider him a dolt. That would be a mistake, however, for Jessom knew Celimus possessed the sharpest of minds, the cruelest of tongues, and absolutely no remorse for the suffering he caused. The King missed very little. He would have to tread carefully now.
“Bring him here to Stoneheart,” the King added, reaching for his third cake.
Jessom’s throat constricted. This was everything he did not want. “I’m not sure I can do that, sire.”
“Why not?” Celimus asked, casually brushing almond crumbs from his shirt. He slumped farther in his chair, lifting one leg to rest on a nearby stool. “Tell me why this is impossible.”
Jessom knew not to trust the relaxed stance. “This assassin is not easily contactable, I must admit.”
“Then find him. I wish to meet him.”
“May I ask why, my king?”
“Because, Jessom, someone who has done my bidding where others have failed rises in my esteem. This man is useful to me. I wish to know him, speak with him, perhaps even discuss further…tasks.” He chose his words with care. “Have you paid in full?”
“The last installment on proof of death, sire,” Jessom answered unhappily.
“And now you have it. Your man will have to collect that payment, and when he does, you will bring him before me. Do you understand?”
“I shall try, sire.”
“No, Jessom. You will not try. You will do.” The voice was no longer casual. There was clear menace despite the softly spoken tone.
The Chancellor nodded his acceptance. Keen to change the subject, he said lightly, “So you are free of the Thirsk influence, my lord king? That must make you happy.”
“Not yet free.”
“Oh?” Jessom said, bending to pick up the spilled papers.
“There’s still the matter of the sister. Once she is dealt with, I will have rid myself entirely of all connections to the Thirsk family. So this is what I’m proposing. I want you to find out everything you can about the disappearance of the lovely Ylena. Where did Koreldy take her? He pulled the wool over my eyes on that occasion. I really believed he was going to use her and cast her aside. It suited my needs, I suppose, and I allowed myself to be duped. I shall find her, though.”
Jessom was not surprised at the King’s quick change in temper. Suddenly he was charged with energy, all previous threats pushed aside. Jessom fought the temptation to shake his head at the unpredictable nature of the monarch. It made him a very dangerous individual. “How much do we know of Koreldy’s movements?” Jessom said.
“Nothing, in truth. He slipped out of Stoneheart on the evening of Thirsk’s funeral feast. No one saw them leave, although I’m told one of my guards spoke to him earlier in the day in a little-used courtyard.”
“It had a gate, I presume?”
The King nodded. “The same gate where apparently Thirsk’s dog caused a commotion that night.”
“Ah, that was the diversion, then. Not that I understand how one gets a dog to cooperate,” the Chancellor said, picking up the King’s line of thought, pleased to see Celimus nod. “Where did the closest road lead, your highness?”
The sovereign frowned. “That would be toward Farnswyth, I suppose.”
“It’s a start. I shall make inquiries. Did you make provision for Koreldy to have any staff during his brief stay?”
“A page, I think. I know not which one. Why?”
“It may lead nowhere but you never know what a servant overhears. I will look into it. Thank you, your highness.”
“Good. Now, about my lost taxes and revenue. Any progress?”
“I have men infiltrating the entire Legion, sire.”
“You remain convinced it is someone from within our own?”
“Yes, sire.”
Celimus became quiet for a few moments. Jessom knew something bad was coming, although it had nothing to do with him. Tax collectors from all over the realm were being ambushed far too regularly for it to be merely random bandit raids. It had to be someone from the inside leaking information.
“In that case,” the King finally said, “today and for every day that we do not know the culprit, two men from the Legion—I don’t care how they are selected—will be wheeled. Take strong, healthy men. Fear will spread like the plague. They’ll yield the perpetrator very quickly.” He took another cake.
His servant bowed, hoping to be given permission to depart. As he moved toward the door, the King stopped him. “And Jessom?”
“Sire?”
“When you find Ylena Thirsk…”
“Yes, your majesty.”
“I want her killed.”
“Consider it done, my lord.”
Jessom left the King’s chambers troubled. He had not successfully deflected Celimus from his desire to meet Leyen. It was going to be hard work to persuade her to come to Stoneheart, but he had no choice now but to try. She had to be tracked down.
4
CAILECH STOOD OVER THE PRONE FIGURE THAT WAS SLUMPED AMID THE FILTHY STRAW OF THE TINY CELL THAT SAW NEITHER DAY OR NIGHT. Buried in the mountain out of which the fortress had been hewn, it might as well have been a tomb. Gueryn, the prisoner, hoped it would be.
“Is he dying?” the King asked, his jaw working to temper the anger he felt. Cailech rarely wasted words and the man he spoke to knew to offer the same courtesy.
The jailer nodded. “Willing himself to death, my lord. He hasn’t taken food in a long time.”
The jaw worked harder. “Water?”
The man shook his head. “Doesn’t talk, doesn’t move much either.”
“I should have been told,” Cailech said, disgusted. “Summon Rashlyn immediately. Leave us.”
The jailer disappeared, well aware that he had not pleased his King. He called for a runner and a message was sent for the strange, dark man nobody cared for but who was barshi to the sovereign.
Inside the cell, Cailech paced as he thought. He had no idea who this man was, other than a soldier in the infamous Legion. Initially his delight in capturing the soldier had been purely because he could make an example of a Morgravian through torture and humiliation…salvage some sense of revenge for his people, who had lost a fresh group of their own to the cruel King from the south. The senseless slaughtering of innocent youngsters, not even warriors, offended Cailech deeply. He had planned to make the brash new King pay. Except then he had been distracted by the curious behavior of Romen Koreldy toward this same man. Why Koreldy had returned to the Razors after the intense warning he had received at the time of his previous visit remained a mystery. Romen—whom Cailech could not help but like and to some degree admire—had spun a web of excuses, none of which resonated as truth to the Mountain King, although he could not prove otherwise. Until Romen had fled the Razors, Cailech had not relished the thought of killing a Grenadyne, and the Koreldy family had already lost too many members by his hand. But now his life was forfeit. Koreldy’s odd attitude to this Morgravian soldier when they had met on the night of the great feast piqued the King’s attention. How and from where did they know each other? Why had Koreldy stepped in for the prisoner and argued to save his life? And why, in turn, had this man given up his own chance at living, squandered his brave escape attempt to lead mountain warriors away from the trail of the other escapees, Koreldy and the woman, Elspyth of Yentro?
And so King Cailech, who could tease at a secret as a dog gnawed at a bone, did not kill the Morgravian soldier as his heart wanted to. Instead, driven by instincts he was still unsure about, he had incarcerated him. Had even had near-fatal wounds healed and cared for to preserve the Morgravian’s life, in order that he might prove useful in luring Koreldy back to the Razors and to death.
Cailech had not taken the escape of his prisoners with any grace. If not for the recapture of Gueryn le Gant, he would have had his own men executed for allowing the three Morgravians to slip past their guard. They had had help of course, through Cailech’s own second in command. Lothryn’s deceit was a matter that continued to make the King’s gut twist, for first and foremost they were the closest of comrades. Brothers, no less. It seemed unthinkable—even now—that Lothryn had chosen betrayal and Cailech was uncertain yet whether this was because of the woman he seemed to have developed sympathies for; or because his wife had died birthing the King’s son; or, most likely, Lothryn’s disapproval of Cailech’s recent treatment of captured Morgravians had burgeoned into a far more damaging issue. Whatever it was, it mattered little. Loyalty had been asked, Lothryn had refused to give it, and now he had paid.
Returning his thoughts to the prisoner below him, the King felt sure that Koreldy was not finished with this one yet. He would return to rescue him and then Cailech would deal with them both. He smiled humorlessly at the thought.
His musings were disturbed by movement from Gueryn. A flicker of the prisoner’s eyelids told him that the starving man was aware of the King’s presence. However, he also knew the candle that the jailer had lit threw a deceptively warm pallor over the Morgravian. The chill was biting and the constant drip, drip of water in one corner of the cell was enough to drive anyone mad. It had created a mossy slime down one rough wall and the earthy smell from that growing mass did little to mask the stink from Gueryn, who had long ago given up caring for himself or his health. In fact, he had deliberately lain amid his own dirt, hoping infection would find his old arrow wound—a gift from Cailech—and kill him. He was clearly determined to die.
All of this enraged the King, but he held on to his famous temper now as he spoke to his prisoner. “Understand, Le Gant, that I will keep you alive. I must, for you will bring Koreldy back and not only will I have his secret but I will also take his life, which is now forfeit. I know you hear me, soldier.” The man did move now, properly—enough to let Cailech know that he was paying attention.
“Why the silence, Morgravian? I would have thought you’d welcome some company by now.”
“Not with you,” the voice croaked, weak but still tinged with anger.
Cailech nodded, pleased to have the recognition. At least the prisoner had not lost his wits.
“We will make you well, Gueryn. And then you will return here to your dungeon.”
“And I will repeat the process,” Gueryn said defiantly, still not opening his eyes.
“As will I. You might crave death, soldier, but I will not grant it. Get used to the idea and make it better for yourself. Choose to live. Who knows, you might even see Koreldy before you both die at the time of my choosing and manner.”
“You’re so naive, Cailech,” Gueryn chided, weak as he felt. “No wonder Celimus isn’t worried about a threat from the north,” he lied. “He knows you can be provoked into a hasty decision and your kingdom dismantled at the time of his choosing and manner.”
Gueryn knew his words would enrage the man who stood over him and he waited for the kick or punch that would surely come. Instead he heard the King of the Mountains choking back his anger.
“Don’t be so sure, soldier. Your king is the ruin of Morgravia and I will be its ultimate destroyer.”
Gueryn had no time to respond, hearing footsteps and knowing this would be the healer arriving, the strange man who had brought him back from the brink of death once before.
“Sire,” said the new voice.
“I want him made well again—no matter what it takes,” the King growled.
Rashlyn nodded. “I shall see to it.”
Cailech grunted. “And this time he’s to be force-fed and watered daily.”
“It will be done, my lord.”
Gueryn was moved immediately from the dungeon to a room he recalled from his nightmares.
It was where he had watched Cailech unceremoniously execute the kind, brave woman known as Elspyth. She was a Morgravian, captured with Koreldy. How he had cheered inwardly when she had stood up to the King. And it was she who had patiently cut away the stitches that bound his eyelids together so that he could look upon his rescuers. The one he thought was Wyl—who had spoken to him as if he were Wyl—turned out to be a handsome mercenary from Grenadyn. The man had certainly known Wyl, but the disappointment had cut through Gueryn as keenly as a blade. Elspyth was as pretty as she was feisty, while his early torturer, Lothryn, who had turned friend, was, as he had imagined, a huge, dark man. His beard softened his strong jaw, while his eyes revealed a depth of kindness he could not have guessed lived in this person when he was blind. Gueryn could not imagine what fate had befallen the mountain man who had betrayed his king. No ordinary man, mind. He had been the second in command and so the defection would have been a damaging blow to Cailech. Gueryn was glad. He wished he could deal damaging blows of his own, but he was so pathetically weak that his only way of fighting back was to try to kill himself. That had been a fight in vain. The cruel healer was preparing to bring him back to full strength so they could continue laughing in his face.
Gueryn had never felt closer to tears. He was not a man given to emotional outbursts. Trained by the stoic Fergys Thirsk, he had been taught how to keep his thoughts and emotions in check. He had had many reasons to weep in his life and since adulthood had given in to none of them, but he was tempted now. He felt useless—a senior soldier of the Morgravian Legion and personal attendant to the Thirsk family, not even offering resistance to the enemy.
He spat.
“Save that,” Rashlyn called over his shoulder. “No use in wasting precious liquid or I’ll do just as my king asks and give you the added humiliation of having men hold you down and force food and water into your throat.”
Gueryn sighed. He remembered Elspyth’s sad end, how her blood had gushed from Cailech’s savage cut and congealed around Gueryn’s boots, marking him as her killer, all because he had refused to tell Cailech what he wanted to hear. Blackmail was only one of the King’s weapons. Gueryn remembered how Rashlyn had smiled as she died, his eyes sparkling with pleasure. He would not hesitate to hurt Gueryn, if given authority. For now his job was to heal and Gueryn came to the painful realization that the King of the Mountains was right. It was pointless fighting, for they would continue the cycle that would keep him alive—if not fit—until he was of no further use. But perhaps he could still strike some damaging blows. He could not think clearly enough yet, for his mind was dulled by the starvation and thirst, but he promised himself to think on ways to hurt Cailech.
