“You knew I couldn’t be with you,” she whispered. “Not after – I just couldn’t.”
Orrin nodded. “You knew I never meant any harm … didn’t you?”
As much as it tore at her, Bashara did know. He was just a boy – a boy that she loved, wounded and bleeding and dying and Bashara had turned to Rebecca. She knew Rebecca’s ability to heal had to be a secret, but she was desperate. Bashara had begged her friend to help, and out of friendship, Rebecca did.
Orrin had tried not to tell, of course. He hadn’t meant to betray anyone. He’d even tried to wash the blood out of his tunic before he went home, but the fabric was still torn. His mother still noticed, his father still demanded answers…
He’d cried along with Bashara when the soldiers came for Rebecca, dragging her from her family to answer for her actions. The old Duke hadn’t killed magic users outright, like his son now did. No, the elder Korith had them imprisoned, so they could be questioned and studied. Rebecca had never returned.
“I knew,” was all she said.
The laws against magic were much more strict now than they were then, and now it was Orrin enforcing those laws. He knew first hand that magic was not always evil, he was alive because of it – and yet he willingly served the Duke whose policies killed so many.
“I haven’t forgotten her, Basha.” It was an apology, of sorts.
“Neither have I.” Bashara was grateful for the approaching dusk that hid her tears, and the years of practice that kept her voice steady even while her heart broke. She thought of Rebecca again, her blonde curls and her dark brown eyes and her smile, and she couldn’t keep the hurt down.
“How can you do it, Orrin?”
His touch on her hand became still. “Basha… This is my job.”
She let out an indelicate snort. “You’re killing people, Orrin. People like Rebecca. There are other jobs.”
He snatched his hand away and turned to face her, bright blue eyes sparking with frustration in the dim light. “What would you have me do?” Bashara winced at the venom in his voice. “Farm? Our land was taken when we sympathized with magic users, remember?”
“Orrin—”
“Or would you rather I played nursemaid to the Duke? Maybe that would that be more suitable to you?”
“I am maid to his Lady, Orrin.” Bashara’s stomach twisted as it always had when Orrin was cross with her, but she spoke her piece. “I lace up her dresses and I brush her hair and I fluff her pillows! I don’t kill anyone.”
“You still work for him, as I do. His money feeds your family; his policies keep you silent – just as they do me. Never assume that I enjoy my job, Bashara, never think that I don’t see her face every time I’m sent out. But I do what I must for my family. Just like you.”
Bashara hid her face in her hands. “I hate this, I hate this, I hate this,” she whispered. She heard Orrin breathe deeply, and then his arms were around her and she couldn’t stop herself from weeping.
The very smell of him was an embrace in itself; the warmth of his arms was a home she could never live in. Rebecca was dead. Orrin was alive. No matter where the fault lay, it changed nothing. How was it possible to love someone so much, and still hate them – and yourself?
Orrin awkwardly stroked her hair, whispering what she needed to hear until she was finally calm. “I would do anything to make this right, Basha, I just don’t know what I can do.”
Her storm of tears subsiding, Bashara wiped her eyes and remembered why she had come. Reluctantly pulling out of the circle of his arms, she looked up at him and took his hands.
“Would you help me to help her?”
He looked puzzled. “Help Lady Korith? How could I help her?”
Bashara bit her lip. How deep did Orrin’s loyalty run – and to whom?
“She needs information, Orrin, and it’s not something she can get from her husband.” Afraid he would refuse, she tried to explain and convince him all in one breath. “She had another baby, Orrin, one before Lucian, it was a girl but it wasn’t the Duke’s. Korith had the baby’s father killed and Bethcelamin thinks he – or someone – might be after her daughter, too. With Lucian dead she’s terrified of losing her other child, and she— well, we don’t know what to do.”
Orrin said nothing for a long time. Bashara began to worry that she had said too much, that she had been wrong in trusting him.
“You’re saying that this girl we’re hunting, this terrible threat, the most dangerous thing since the Lich King … she is Lady Korith’s daughter?”
Bashara was stunned. “You know of this?”
“We all do. We’ve been looking for her since before the Annual Council,” he said. “They never said who she was, though.”
“Has anyone found her?” Bashara wondered if there was hope to be brought back to her Lady after all.
Orrin shook his head. “I don’t think you want us to, Basha. We’re supposed to kill her.”
Bashara’s hand flew to her mouth. “No!”
Orrin shrugged. “I can’t change the order, Basha. I can tell you that every squad sent out after her has returned empty-handed. A few days ago, a party of Hunters brought back a man who is somehow involved, but it’s been quiet since. Beyond that, I don’t know anything.”
As much as Bashara had wanted to return to Lady Bethcelemin with more, this would have to be enough. “Orrin, thank you. I …”
Orrin leaned down and brushed his lips across Bashara’s cheek, tasting the last of her tears. “Basha, I love you.”
Her heart thudded unsteadily in her chest, and she nearly forgot to breathe. Never once had he said the words, not even when they were young and inseparable and everything was perfect. She had known it, she thought, or perhaps it was just hope, but to hear it … the smile made her cheeks ache.
They stole a few more moments, and when they finally walked hand in hand back across the training field, they parted in front of his barracks with a soft kiss.
18
“Chancellor?”
Garen looked up from the papers strewn on Ving’s desk, visibly annoyed at the interruption. It had been just over a week since he’d sent Duke Korith home to Epidii, putting himself in position to pursue the fugitives. Fugitives who, thanks to his Lordship’s men losing them in Cabinsport, already had a two-week lead. There was much to do, and no time for distraction. He produced the steward’s name after a moment’s pause.
“Corben,” he acknowledged.
The steward set down a small tray. “Your wine, Chancellor. Your young lady is eager to see you, your men have arrived, and a soldier from Duke Korith’s army swears he brings news that must reach your ears alone.”
Garen took a swallow of the wine and closed his eyes for a moment, appreciating the welcome change from His Lordship’s overly spiced swill. Midlands wine was unquestionably superior. “What exactly does the young lady want?”
Corben blinked. “She did not say, Chancellor. Also, my Lord Ving requests an audience as soon as you are available.”
Garen got the distinct feeling that Ving’s steward didn’t like him. He rubbed at his lip. “Inform the young lady that I will send for her when I require her, I am not to be disturbed.”
“Yes, Chancellor.”
“Send the soldier in with my men, Corben, and your Lord may share my afternoon meal if he wishes.”
“Yes, Chancellor.” The steward bowed and retreated.
Garen drained the last drop of wine and returned to the accounts before him. The expansion of the arena and the inn were coming along well. Satisfying, to see how quickly the men worked once they understood that their lives depended on it. Ving’s treasury was suffering, since Garen had spared little expense in revitalizing the town. It was most likely this financial injury which Ving wished to discuss.
“Your men, Chancellor.” Corben returned with Tovar and Tomal, as well as a uniformed man who stood at proper attention despite his obvious weariness. The twins slipped across the room and settl
ed into the chairs flanking the desk, silent and graceful as cats.
Garen looked the soldier over. “Your name?”
“I am called Osborn, Chancellor Garen.”
“What brings you here to me, Osborn?”
The young man shifted from one foot to another. “I’ve come from Cabinsport, m’Lord, with news … for you.”
Garen stood and crossed to the uniformed man. He stopped uncomfortably close to him, staring him down with a broad smile that never reached his eyes. The soldier did his best not to squirm.
“Shouldn’t you bring any news of importance to Duke Korith?”
The boy steadied himself. This was a test, he was certain. “Our whole unit is loyal to you, Chancellor. Cap’n Hollis told me to come. I can run faster than them, I’ll be back with the squad before they reach the palace.”
Satisfied, Garen returned to the desk. “Speak then, Osborn. I will not delay you longer than I must.”
The soldier licked his lips. “You’re looking for the girl, right? The one the Duke sent us to kill?”
Garen nodded, leaning back in the leather chair.
“Well, I met this other girl in Cabinsport. Sarah. She’s a seamstress, and she’s real pretty, and anyway … she said she had seen her.”
Garen raised an eyebrow. “Reports mentioned no witnesses beyond the Innkeeper and his wife.”
“Well, she didn’t talk to those soldiers, sir. She didn’t want trouble. She told me after we … well, she and I were …”
“I understand.” Garen motioned for him to continue. “What does she know?”
Blushing, Osborn continued. “Sarah saw the girl. Said she was real little, with a long braid. Swore her dress was soaked through with blood. She said there was a man with her at first, said she was his sister. Another man came in later, and they got out of there in a hurry.”
Garen imagined Korith’s soldiers had been the source of the urgent departure. “Continue.”
“The brother told Sarah the girl was simple – you know, dim. So Sarah didn’t think it was strange that the girl didn’t talk. But after they were gone, that night, Sarah’s brother told her that he’d been at the inn that morning and the girl did say something.”
Garen was leaning forward now, too impatient to wait for the stumbling story. He gave the boy’s mind the tiniest of pushes. “Tell me everything.”
Osborn suddenly found himself babbling, desperate to give Lord Garen anything he needed, eager to make him proud.
“Sarah said her brother said the innkeeper lady introduced the girl to the brothers, and when they went to the girl’s table, the girl said something out loud. He didn’t actually hear the word, she said, but he felt it. He said it made him think of a bunch of people being killed, but no one he knew.”
Osborn kept talking, as if he couldn’t stop. “Sarah’s brother was at the inn because he likes one of the girls that works there, and I guess she told him that there were rats downstairs the size of dogs, coming in from a basement that shouldn’t even be there. That’s why the brothers and the girl went down there, because of the rats. But she said her brother said that the girl said there were rocks blocking the hole now, so no rats could get in – only the rocks were on the other side, inside the other basement. Not the inn side. Sarah thinks the brothers and that girl escaped down there, and put the rocks in the way, and that’s why no one can find them.”
Suddenly dizzy, Osborn took a deep breath.
Garen smiled, content. “Who else knows this?”
The soldier blinked. “N-no one, m’Lord. I only told the captain that a girl I was with said something you might want to hear, and he sent me right off. He didn’t even ask. He did want me to mention him, sir. Cap’n Hollis.”
Garen smiled wider. “Excellent. Well done, young Osborn. Get yourself something to eat from the kitchen before you head back.”
“Yes, m’Lord.”
“And I don’t need to tell you to hold your tongue?”
Osborn shook his head, eager. “No, m’Lord. I won’t tell a soul.”
“Dismissed, soldier.” Garen did not trust the boy, of course. But he did trust his own power – the information released by the push would disappear in minutes. By the time Osborn reached the kitchens, he would have no memory of why he had even come. So useful, the push.
Garen licked his lips, remembering how he had pushed His Lordship’s delectable wife into giving him the location of the Dwellers ... and how thoroughly he had enjoyed it. But this was not the time, that was a memory for later.
“Tovar,” he said. “Tomal.” The twins sat straighter. “You two are now Captains of the Guard. I will inform Ving later today. I need to know everything. Things not even the Earl knows. I want no surprises, and I trust only you.”
“Understood, Lord Garen.”
“Work together. Know this town. Know the people. For the curious, you are keeping the peace for the upcoming tournament. Make friends. Woo wenches. Report to me at least twice a day, my door is never closed to you. Go.”
The twins nodded as one and stood. “Immediately, Lord Garen.” With a curt bow, they were gone.
The Chancellor leaned back, propping his boots on the wide desk, allowing himself a moment of contentment. Things were developing nicely. The three fugitives couldn’t stay underground forever. They would avoid Cabinsport for fear of the Duke’s soldiers still searching for them, and any of the other towns in the region were far too close to Epidii for comfort. No, they would find their way to the Midlands, and news of the tournament would bring them right where he wanted them.
Melody… He caressed the name with his mind, conjuring an image of a slight, pale young woman on her knees before him, head bowed, her black braid brushing the ground. He much preferred silent women, but still, he could find a way to work with Melody’s vocal magic. Especially if she was as powerful as he suspected.
Garen closed his eyes, touching the core of his talent with affection, and pride. It took extraordinary ability to possess and control such power, and he would soon discipline Melody to do the same at his command.
Jayden Korith hated this child he had never seen, for her connection to both the mage that fathered her, and Korith’s own wife. He’d fought for years to suppress any rumor of the girl’s existence, but he still wanted her dead— Garen had other plans.
On his own he could easily sway Korith, push him in any political direction he chose, but why waste his talents? Garen was destined for much greater things, he knew. Things an obedient partner of equal power would help him achieve. Melody would be that partner.
With luck, he thought, the girl would be as intoxicating as her silken-skinned mother. Garen had originally selected Bethcelamin as his magical partner, but she had proven to be … stubborn. No matter, he would soon have her daughter. He indulged himself with the memory of Bethcelamin, beneath him, helpless to stop the flood of information he demanded she provide. There was no sweetness in the world like the taste of an unwilling woman.
She loathed him, he knew. Not just the weight his words held in her husband’s ear. Somehow Lady Korith suspected that it had been he who had killed her Solus. He had, of course. Assassinating the mage to earn the future Duke’s respect was only one of many calculated moves along his path. The old Duke’s sudden, fatal “illness” had been another. Being Korith’s Chancellor offered him enough benefits to endure the pompous man’s stupidity until he could fulfill his true destiny.
His Lordship’s arrogance was boundless— suppressed or not, the magic in Bethcelamin’s bloodline was nearly as powerful as Solus’. Yet Korith truly believed that his own “untainted” blood would “purify” the child he planted in his wife on their wedding night. Fool. The child was anything but pure.
Lucian had inherited his father’s stupidity along with his features, but his mother had gifted the boy with more insight than was comfortable. He had been making inquiries, Korith’s son, assembling out of rumors and hearsay the story of Bethcelamin and Solus.
Lucian had learned of the child born of the mage and his mother, learned that his father sought to have that child killed. He also discovered, however, that Garen opposed the idea— and that was information the Duke could not hear.
The Chancellor and his sources had misled and delayed the boy for a time, but Lucian was as persistent as he was self-righteous. Garen had been forced to take matters into his own hands. He had briefly considered Lothaedus for the task, but in the end, Lucian’s death was too important to trust to anyone else. Fortune, ever his mistress, had smiled on that decision.
First, a drunken Lucian had been thoroughly bested in an impromptu street duel just before Garen arrived. He’d only needed to finish the job. For Korith to then blame the murder on a fighter from the Arena, closed by the Duke that same day? Garen could not have asked for a more perfect scapegoat for his actions that night. Yes, Fortune herself was beside him in this, and he would not fail.
19
“No,” Kaeliph whispered, sinking to his knees beside the others. “No, it can’t be.”
The climb from the beach to the top of the steep rocky hill had been grueling for all three of them, but Jovan and Melody were worsening at a frightening pace. They needed warmth, and rest, and healing – but there was nothing up here.
Kaeliph looked around, back over Smuggler’s Cove behind them and the open field before them. The closest town would be Cabinsport, he realized, though in their condition it would take much too long to return there. Even if they made it, Kaeliph thought, there would be only soldiers, no healers. He sat back on his heels, struggling to hold back tears of defeat.
Melody let hers fall. It couldn’t end like this, she thought, shivering in the chill breeze. There had to be more. Why would she have been given the strength to come this far if there was nothing else? Why not let her die in the lighthouse, or to the rats, or to the cold gray eyes that had killed Gorlois and the other Dwellers?
She lay on her belly and let the tears soak into the ground. The itching tendrils of pain – up to her ribs, now – squeezed constantly in malicious triumph, weakening her in ways she didn’t understand. Her leg was an inescapable, unfamiliar thing, no longer her own – and worse; she could feel the phantom agony of Jovan’s wound as well.
Awaken Page 13
