Rebels cage, p.32
Rebel's Cage, page 32
part #4 of Elita Series
For twenty, perhaps thirty years the Hermit of Shan Moss, and a dozen other lesser prophets, had been foretelling of a dark angel who would come to Lusara and tear the Church in two, along with warnings that Mineah would once again take on human form and help fight the war against sorcery. But how much of that was real and how much interpretation had always been impossible to tell.
But Nash knew. He’d always known.
‘Godfrey?’
His hands clenched against the fear he could no longer deny, he said, ‘Give Kenrick as little as you can get away with. If he’s sworn you to such secrecy, the chances are he won’t risk giving it to someone else to get a better translation. Besides, there are few men outside the Guilde who would have either the knowledge or the resources to do it. I doubt Kenrick can do anything terrible with such a prophecy anyway – but let’s not take that chance. After that …’
‘What?’
Godfrey lifted his chin, taking a chance of his own. ‘You have to pass the information on to … Robert Douglas.’
There was little change in Osbert’s expression. He just looked away, pale light from the misty windows bleaching colour from his face. ‘That’s your solution, is it?’
‘Solution? I don’t have one, Osbert! Why do you keep thinking I have?’ Godfrey strode forward, grabbing the man’s arm again. ‘This is something beyond you and I. We neither have the power nor the forces to battle this – but he does. You have to give him every ounce of ammunition you can or you hinder his ability to win.’
‘And if he does?’ Osbert hissed. ‘Will we be any better off than we are now?’
‘Could we be worse off?’
‘Oh, yes, I assure you we could.’ Osbert pulled away, pacing up and down. ‘You don’t know Nash like I do. The things he’s said, the things he’s done – you have no real idea what you’re talking about. No, I can’t …’ He stopped, his chest working hard, his back to Godfrey as though he were afraid of what he would see. ‘You could be right – but if you’re not, if Vaughn was right and Robert and Nash are in league together, then—’
‘They’re not in league, I promise you!’
Osbert did turn then, his eyes full of sadness. He made no attempt to question how Godfrey knew so much about Robert. Instead, he said, ‘They’re both sorcerers, Godfrey. It goes against everything I’ve been taught. I just can’t … trust, the way you do. I don’t have that kind of faith. I’m sorry.’
With that, he unlocked the door. Seconds later, there was nothing left of him but the sounds of his footsteps on the stone floor beyond.
*
Another clash of steel had the crowd cheering. Another grunt had the crowd silenced in anticipation. Another scuffle of sawdust against stone had them hissing with mass empathy. The audience moved in a single action, one goal, one emotion along a single line.
Kenrick stood on his balcony, bare hands pressed against the stone balustrade, and looked down. Brilliant torches circled the courtyard, flashing yellow against the dark walls, making faces detached and iridescent in the night. The fight continued below, two master swordsmen from Sadlan in the north, their curved blades and bright clothing sufficiently exotic to cause more than a ripple of interest. They circled one another, each carrying his own minor wounds. Kenrick had wanted a fight to the death, but the Church had frowned upon such a means to celebrate the goddess Mineah.
Another cry from the crowd set his head aching again. His friends, or rather, those young men who attended him out of either fear or greed, lounged at tables and in chairs along the width of the balcony, either watching the fight or drinking or playing some game or other.
Why did he bother with them?
His skin itched. It burned over the place under his shirt where he’d put Osbert’s translation. He’d had only enough time to read it once before having to put it away, out of sight of these listless fellows.
A prophecy. Secrets Nash had been keeping from him. Something called the Key. Others called the Enemy and the Ally. A history going back perhaps a thousand years or more, Osbert had said. But there were things missing, words Osbert had been unable to trace, meanings he would only be guessing at. No amount of pressing had made him commit further, so Kenrick could only assume he was telling the truth – Osbert was a notorious coward.
He needed to do something. Merely knowing Nash had a plan and goals that did not include him was one thing. But did he want to be involved? Did he want to stop Nash getting what he wanted? Was it worth trying to take the prize from him at the end, whatever it was?
And if he didn’t, if he did nothing at all, if he let Nash have his head, go on and achieve whatever it was he believed was his destiny, then where would that leave Kenrick?
Alive or dead?
‘Sire?’
The quiet voice came from his left, away from the others. He looked up to find a cup of something held out to him, offered by his cousin. ‘What’s that?’
‘Honey mead. Your head aches, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well,’ Andrew shrugged, ‘my aunt tells me this works wonders for an aching head. She made me try it last year when I fell from my horse and hit that tree, you remember?’
‘The way I remember it,’ Kenrick added, taking the cup, ‘you hit the tree and then landed in a bog.’
Andrew’s eyes drifted innocently away. ‘Er, yes, that might have been the same occasion. I can promise you that the mead did me no harm. Aunt Bella says it’s easier on the body than ale or wine.’
When another shout from below hit Kenrick hard, he took two swift mouthfuls of the stuff, surprised to find it nowhere near as sweet as he’d been expecting, and tasting faintly of lemons. Frowning in puzzlement, he drained the cup and looked back at Andrew. ‘What’s in it?’
‘You like it?’
‘I’ve tasted medicines much worse.’ Kenrick handed the cup back. ‘Tell your aunt to be careful. She should remember that it’s against Guilde law to go about practising the healing arts.’
‘Oh,’ Andrew rushed to clarify, ‘this is no healing remedy. It works the way warm milk does, when you can’t sleep.’
‘Warm milk?’ Kenrick could only laugh. Though his cousin had spent half his childhood here, at court, the other half was filled with the pleasantries of country life and a gentleness that Kenrick could barely imagine. He wandered around behind a veil of naïve innocence, emerging with this friendly smile and solicitude for those in need. An odd combination for anyone in this dangerous world. Occasionally, Kenrick was tempted to wipe that genial smile from the boy’s face, awaken him to the harsh reality of life, but those thoughts never lingered long. ‘Warm milk is for old men and babies.’
Andrew wasn’t offended. He was never offended by anything. He just shrugged, his gaze drifting down to the crowd below. Musicians played on the other side of the courtyard while outside the castle gates were tumblers and jugglers and many other festivities.
Kenrick wished they would all just go away.
‘How is your head now, Sire?’
With a frown, Kenrick turned back to him. The pain, to his surprise, had, almost gone completely. ‘Are you sure there is no medicine in that?’
‘None at all, Sire.’ Andrew was grinning, looking a little smug, and despite his mood, Kenrick couldn’t quite bring himself to say anything to dispel it. At least somebody was enjoying themselves tonight.
With another roar, the crowd announced the end of one fight and the beginning of another.
‘Is it something you can talk about?’
‘No,’ Kenrick shook his head. ‘Not this time. I told you not to ask, didn’t I? That I would talk if I needed to?’
‘Of course, Sire. I’m sorry.’
‘Damn it, Andrew!’ Kenrick straightened up, but Andrew had already backed away, just one step, but it was enough to make Kenrick pause.
His whole court, in fact, the entire country was afraid of him. All except this boy, his cousin. His father’s cousin’s son, to be precise, but the nearest thing to family Kenrick had left within Lusara. Until he could win Tirone over and get the Princess as his wife, Andrew would remain the only person he could place any trust in at all – however fragile. He had no faithful, Bonded Taymar at his beck and call, no powerful Malachi allied to him. Instead, he had a country which feared and despised him, courtiers who dared not disagree with him, a dying Bishop and a cowardly Proctor – and this fourteen-year-old cousin who had never done anything to hurt him and seemed to genuinely desire to help him.
He often thought he hated the loneliness more than anything else.
On any other night, he would have called for DeMassey to bring him some private entertainment, but he doubted he would enjoy it this time. He was too tired, too sick of the whole silly game – and his flesh burned with the need to make some sort of decision about the prophecy.
With a sigh, he reached out and swung his arm around Andrew’s shoulders, as close to an apology as any King could allow himself. Then he let the boy go, asked for another cup of mead, then retired for the night, heading for the darkness of his bedroom and the quiet he would find there.
*
For a while after Kenrick left, Andrew didn’t move from the balcony. He didn’t dare. He knew the others were all looking at him, could almost feel their stares raking up and down his exposed back.
They hated him, each and every one. Hated his kinship to the King, his youth, and perhaps most of all, his almost-casual relationship with a man who terrified them with his unpredictable moods.
His stomach tumbled and squirmed at his own temerity, at the need inside him to offer the hand of friendship to one who was in league with Nash. He could never explain it to his mother, or Micah or anyone – but he’d never been able to help himself. Kenrick was like a sponge, Andrew the few drops of life-giving water. The need was there and he had no choice but to provide as much as he could. Even if it made him ill, even if the mere proximity to Kenrick brought black images surging forth in the distant recesses of his mind. He would have nightmares tonight, as he always did, but what was a little lost sleep, if he succeeded in soothing another of the King’s moods.
His own head began to ache, but he didn’t reach for the mead for himself. It didn’t work for him, only for those he gave it to. Instead, he bade goodnight to those who could not hide their observation of him, then retired quickly and silently.
*
Thick, swirling clouds drifted around him, warm and welcoming the way clouds weren’t when he was awake. But was he awake now? Or was he sleeping, drawn down to the depths of non-being where he could make his body do anything, where his powers were all sharp and alive and enough to overcome any threat, either from friend or foe, where he was not alone but instead walking some parallel path that gave him the strength his father had had, and not the weakness that had killed him.
It was too dark in this place he’d made for himself. Too dark and too damned cold. But this was the dungeon he’d created with his own hands, carved out of rock too old to bring back to life, too wasted to do more than shed blood upon it and feast the black-eyed demons inside him who were always so hungry.
He’d been a baby when they’d come for him. A child no older than the one who was his only friend now, though what kind of friend would he be if he saw these demons, the ones who never really left him alone, so did that mean he wasn’t lonely with them, or that they made him lonely? They’d come out of his skin when he was just a child, come out and ate away at whatever feeling he’d had for his mother so that when she was killed before his eyes, he felt so little that it might have been a dream, like this one, except that he was not asleep now but mercifully—
Awake.
Kenrick pulled in panicked air, then held it, listening too hard, so hard that his heart pounded and deafened him. His eyes were wide open, painfully darting from one black corner to another.
He was not alone. Somebody, some thing was in his bedroom and he didn’t dare move a muscle in case …
‘Ah, my King, I see I have awakened you.’
Kenrick’s entire body twisted up in shock and horror and half-asleep terror. He scrambled up the bed, pulling blankets with him as though they would be protection against this real, live demon.
‘Nash!’ his voice came out sour and hoarse. ‘What the hell are you doing? How did you get in here? What … how did you get all the way from Ransem? I thought you couldn’t travel …’
A light flared across the room, not too brightly, but enough to make him squint for a moment. The candle moved, approaching to the accompaniment of steady footsteps. Nash halted by the side of the bed and raised the candle.
Kenrick’s heart stopped.
‘Forgive me,’ Nash smiled with a face entirely devoid of scars. ‘I had intended to surprise you, but it seems I have mistimed my attempt. Perhaps I should have waited until morning.’
The pain in Kenrick’s chest beat him into breathing again, though it was harsh and uneven. He knew his mouth was open, but his eyes could not stop roving over the man before him, picking out things he’d thought were lost forever: the useless injured arm now holding the candle aloft, the eye, once burned from that face, now gazing steadily at him alongside its mate.
Nash had healed his wounds. Had he regenerated fully?
Kenrick wanted to throw up. He swallowed bitter bile and blindly reached out for the cup of mead he’d left on the bed table. He drained the liquid in one mouthful and sat up properly. ‘What did you do?’
‘Don’t concentrate on what I have done, but on what I haven’t.’ Nash placed the candle on the table and sat down, pulling a bag onto his lap. ‘This is but an interim measure, enough to allow me to move around, to complete some pressing tasks that can wait no longer. I still need to regenerate fully, to regain the bulk of my powers – but this will serve me in the meantime. If nothing else, it will allow me to spend more time at court, to help you.’
Blinking hard, Kenrick frowned. ‘Help me? To do what?’
‘Why, whatever you need. Tirone’s girl, for one thing.’
The prophecy. The question tripped across Kenrick’s tongue like a threat and vanished down his throat. No, not yet. Not until …
‘And to celebrate my return to Marsay, I have brought you a small gift.’ Nash reached into the bag and brought forth an orb, larger than the last one and almost pulsing with an energy Kenrick could feel from the other side of the bed.
Despite his fears, despite his nightmares, the orb drew him closer, his nausea replaced by anticipation. ‘Is that … what I think it is?’
Nash nodded, a small smile on his face. ‘I was a little unfair to you over the Salti business. It was my fault for not preparing you better. If you can forgive me, I would share this blood with you, to heal those wounds of yours that are most visible. Unless you no longer wish to—’
‘Yes!’ Kenrick almost reached out for it, but stopped, his eyes on Nash. ‘Yes, I want it.’
‘Very well. Lie back down and turn your palms open over your chest.’ Nash put the orb between his hands and instantly Kenrick felt the sudden drain on his energy, almost pressing his eyes closed. ‘You need do nothing else. Just allow yourself to go to sleep. In the morning, your face will be healed and you will be a little tired, no more. After another day, you will feel better than ever before. That’s it, let your eyes close. There, my King, just trust me. I will take care of you.’
*
Though the morning was the warmest so far this winter, Osbert could not stop the icy chill which rattled down his spine to pool in his belly. No numbers of decades’ practice could give him control of his expression as he stared at the young man seated so casually at his breakfast table, sipping something that smelled of honey and pulling the meat off a piece of chicken with good appetite.
‘It’s a miracle, isn’t it, Osbert?’ Kenrick took a bite of crusty bread, munched on it, then turned to another plate before him. The bedchamber was empty now, servants and pages having been shooed away for this audience. ‘I have already sent word to the Archdeacons to say a mass of thanksgiving. As they left, I heard murmurings that it was the work of Mineah, since it happened on her day. I do feel blessed that she has seen fit to touch me in this manner. Help yourself to wine, Osbert, before you fall down.’
Osbert poured from the first flask, tearing his eyes from the scarless face. He swallowed hard and fast, almost choking on the liquid. Kenrick didn’t seem to notice.
‘About that matter we discussed yesterday.’
‘Yes?’ Osbert looked up, then immediately wished he hadn’t. Kenrick had not only lost the ugly scar on the side of his face, but appeared healthier and stronger than ever before.
His thoughts rebelled at what might really be the cause.
‘Yes,’ Kenrick continued, popping a slice of peach into his mouth before gazing up at Osbert with a smile of pure serenity on his face. ‘Some time over the next day or so, I wonder if you could have the matter whispered in a few taverns here and there.’
Osbert frowned in confusion. ‘Sire?’
Kenrick swallowed again, laced his fingers together and began carefully, ‘That prophecy you gave me – I read it a few times and it seems to me, this Enemy is supposed to fight the Dark Angel in some way. I want you to have it whispered that I am this Enemy. The people must see that I’m the only thing standing between them and whatever evil they fear. But it must be done subtly, understand? There is to be no suggestion that either you or I had any hand in starting the rumours. Can you do that for me?’
Suppressing the desire to roll his eyes, Osbert said, ‘Yes, Sire, I can do that.’
‘Very good. That’s all.’
Osbert put his cup down, bowed and headed for the door, but Kenrick’s words brought his feet to a halt.
‘Just remember, it must be done secretly and subtly. With Nash back at court, I can’t afford to take any chances.’
