“We can arrange that.”
Moonbeam’s restless hands stilled, then his thumb stroked along the blade of his knife, stroke, stroke. The time had come, at last.
Purpose.
“But there can be no knife,” Jethren had said over and over. “Understand? You can’t lay a finger on him. If you do, they’ll know it’s us, and if we’re dragged to the flogging post for treason, then who’ll be loyal to the true king?”
Moonbeam understood that, and so he had continued to visit them all at night, in preparation for the day when Keth Jethren said, It’s time.
Except that Keth Jethren was too busy worrying about the scouts and the search for Kendred, and his daily orders, and Moonbeam suspected he had never been able to see the ghosts. That false king’s pain was brighter than the breathing part of him. It was time to free him from pain and let him join the ghosts.
Moonbeam knew all about pain, every kind, from white-hot to dull blue.
Extraordinarily quick and nimble, by age four he’d been his father’s pride until the night Anderle Vaskad killed the boy’s family before his eyes, one by one, as a lesson in who held the power of life and death.
After that his memories splintered, and stayed splintered as Vaskad began brutal training to make him into the world’s best assassin as a gift for Mathren Olavayir.
But that dream ended the Night of Blood, when Keth Jethren as a little boy crawled into Moonbeam’s hiding place, and held his hand until the screaming died away.
After that Moonbeam had two purposes: the one Keth’s father trained him to was to kill Mathren’s murderer. The one he chose was to protect Keth Jethren, the little boy who shared everything with him, who brought bandages when Moonbeam was bleeding, who kept his secrets after the bad days, who didn’t laugh when Moonbeam signed about the ghosts. Who never tried to make him talk, because Moonbeam had learned early that the wrong words were so very, very painful. Better never to speak at all.
Jethren was the one who found the medicine that made the ghosts—who Moonbeam didn’t want to see again until they could become real—turn into smoke.
Moonbeam was very good at moving about without anyone knowing where he was. He stole a jug of the very best bristic, and carried it back to the royal castle.
The false king glowed pain-red and yellow, blue only after they forced the bitter drink down his throat, if he didn’t cough it up. He said the drink hurt his stomach, and Moonbeam saw the way he curled around it while glowing with the orange pain of fire. Moonbeam had watched for days, until he heard the way to free him from the pain. And there would be no knife, just as Jethren said.
It was time.
Moonbeam drifted along the shadows to wait until the hour past midnight, when he saw the golden light snuff in the tiny window next to the big open windows that belonged to the king.
Then he moved noiselessly to the second floor, and into the king’s chambers.
Moonbeam poured out the bristic very carefully, and as gently as a nurse with a newborn, put one strong, scarred hand under Arrow’s head and with the other hand helped guide the cup to his lips.
Arrow was beyond wondering who this shadowy figure was in the dark. His head sank back as the longed-for, sweet fire lit up his veins.
Oh, the burn was so very, very good.
It was so good, so very good to just lie in the warmth of that fire, and think back to when he was a second son, riding around the three hills of Nevree. His heart pumped hard as if he were galloping and his limbs turned to water, but that was all right as memory surged and billowed around him, impossibly bright. The wind had never smelled fresher, the sun warmer, and even riding no longer hurt. The horse’s gait was so gentle, slowing and slowing, and as he reached farther into those long sunny days of boyhood oh! There he was at last, Sinna singing.
TWENTY-ONE
Connar was in the bath when Fish appeared with neatly folded clothes. “You’d better come,” was all he said.
“What?” Connar barked, surging out of the water.
Fish looked away, his throat working. “The king—” He stopped, as all through the castle the great bells began to toll in steady rhythm.
Connar thrashed into the clothes then ran up the stairs four at a time. He noted armed guards at every landing, for the first time in memory, and raced past them. He burst into the king’s chamber, still barefoot, his wet hair slapping his back. Armed guards had blocked off the landing at both ends, put there by Jarid Noth, who stood just inside the king’s interview room, not far from where Danet leaned against a table, blanched of face.
Connar pushed past a couple of runners and walked into the bedroom, the old healer bent over Arrow lying on the bed, at first glance peaceful, but Connar had been around the stillness of death long enough to recognize it.
He turned away. “What—when? Was no one on duty?” he snapped, whirling about to glare.
Poor old Nath stood by, looking as if he’d been gutted. “I went to bed at midnight. Same as always. He lay peaceful, like every night. He drank his medicine. Everything the same—”
The old healer straightened up from the bedside. “Not the same. There is a strong scent of drink here. Bristic,” he added.
“Impossible,” Nath whispered. “There was no bristic in this room. You can ask Aldren, who helped me change the king’s sleep shirt for the night. We checked everything before he went to sleep, and I never left the outer chamber until I retired.”
All eyes turned to the far cupboard, which Arrow could not possibly have reached—even if it had contained any liquor.
Connar bit back the words Why was there not a close perimeter guard? He knew no one had been stationed to watch all night on the landings. Arrow himself had said it was a cruel, stupid duty. The night guard patrolled, and the halls were not empty for long between circuits.
As if reading his mind, Jarid Noth said, “The night patrol reported nothing out of the ordinary. After midnight, everyone moving about is noted down. Everyone. I can bring the chalkboard, but I assure you, all looked exactly as usual.”
Connar’s memory brought an image: drill court, and Andas’s bright head as he talked about—
“Where’s Andas?”
“They’re having breakfast,” Danet said, brows meeting. “Why?”
“Something he said yesterday—no. The day before. He might...he might have meant well.”
Danet snapped, “Fetch him. No one else,” she added, and runners ran.
Andas ran in a short time later that seemed unconscionably long to those still standing there. His wide eyes turned in question from one to the next, then at last to the still figure, and rounded in starkness. “Is he—what happened?” He whispered, as if speaking too loudly might disturb that figure on the bed.
Connar fought to keep his voice even. “Did you bring Da a little gift last night? Meaning well?”
“Gift?” Andas repeated.
“Bristic. Did you give him a little?”
The old healer spoke up, voice dry as corn husks. “From the smell, this was not a little. There’s a pool of it still in him.”
Andas’s mouth rounded. “No! I only came over with Noddy yesterday, after Restday drum. Then we went out riding. And I was with Evred the rest of the day, until we went to sleep—wasn’t even late, because we had to rise early for the road—”
Danet lifted her hand and the babble shut off. “Go sit in there. Wait. Do not move.”
And when Andas moved like a figure in a dream, she shut the door and turned to Connar and the runners. “Who else would do this to him? If there’s that much in Arrow, then it’s deliberate.”
Fnor said quietly, “Assuming Andas Farendavan would want to give the king this drink, is he good enough to bypass all the patrols?”
“Boys,” Danet said heavily, “can do anything if they put their minds to it.”
No one pointed out that girls could be just as sneaky. There was no use in that. Absent of clues, they had absolutely nothing to g
o on.
Danet shut her eyes. “Let him go. Even if it turns out he’s lying, what could we prove except teenage stupidity? Andas loved Arrow. He would never have wanted him dead. I’d stake my own life on it. Let him go.” At last the tears she’d been fighting began to spill as she said, “Someone has to tell Noddy. I think it had better be me.” To Jarid Noth and then to Connar, “The word will spread fast. You two make sure everything is orderly. No one speak of bristic. Including to Noddy. Let him get over the worst of the shock first, while we try to figure out who is responsible.”
Connar could not bear to look at that frail figure on the bed again. He pushed his way out, then another thought occurred:
Hauth.
He yanked his hair into its clasp, pulled on his boots, and left his chamber. As soon as he got downstairs, he was surrounded. In that mysterious way of astonishing news, by the time he had crossed the castle to the military wing, moving at his fastest walk, somehow word raced ahead of him and shock radiated through the castle.
Strictly controlling his own upset, Jarid Noth dealt with the castle sentries and guards. Connar faced a crowd of King’s Army lancers, Riders, and boys a year out of the academy. “I want a triple perimeter patrol,” he said in his field voice.
“Is there...danger?” an eighteen-year-old forgot himself enough to say.
Connar glared. The boy stood rigid, eyes down, face red. The king was dead—they all knew it—they were excited, but under that, he saw the signs of fear, the same signs he saw before a charge.
“No,” he said. “No danger. Because there is no danger, we’re going to patrol to demonstrate that all is in order. Understood?”
This time the thud of fists against chests and a resounding “Understood!” echoed up the stones.
He meant what he said, but the motivation was to clear out all these staring the eyes, the busy mouths. It was too easy to imagine Hauth sending one of those old Olavayir Nighthawk men to sneak into the king’s bedroom.
The urge to hurl guards at the man was nearly irresistible, but his own culpability required a personal visit: he should have confessed Hauth’s idiocy to Arrow years ago. But he hadn’t. For so many reasons that made sense at thirteen, and then sixteen, and then he’d tried not to think about it for years.
Noddy had Ma, and Noren, Ranet, Vanadei and all the second floor and the third floor as well to surround him. Right now it was important for Connar to take care of the dirt before he could face Noddy.
But even with the king’s army battalions out riding around the city, there were still so many people coming at him from all sides, each with urgent questions to be dealt with. All day he labored until Fish appeared, silently holding a tray. Only when he smelled coffee and saw the wine-braised fish and tartlet did Connar permit himself to become aware of the headache pounding his temples, and his gnawing stomach.
Jethren appeared behind him, silent, clearly waiting for orders. Connar glared his way, then at Fish, who he knew regularly reported to Hauth. He was fairly certain Jethren no longer did, but he was one of those Nighthawk men.
He slammed down the coffee cup. “Where were you last night at midnight?” he rapped out.
Fish’s head moved back, his eye wide with surprise. “You gave me liberty yesterday after the watch change,” he reminded Connar. “I was with Hibern,” naming his lover in the city. “Came back at the clang.”
The “clang” being the single bell one hour before the dawn watch. Which was as usual. Connar picked up the mug again, knowing he could question Fish’s lover—who might or might not tell the truth, but Fish’s clear astonishment, and the question in his face, made the suspicion die down. They all knew the king had died, but not about the bristic. Fish seemed totally bewildered instead of guilty.
Connar turned his narrowed gaze to Jethren, whose brow furrowed in unspoken question. “You gave us liberty. I was at the Sword with Sholt and Iceheel.”
Connar pinched his fingers to the bridge of his nose, wishing the headache would lift. It was so easy to throw suspicion at these men who all were connected with Hauth. He needed to deal with Hauth himself. That was the source of his distrust.
“Fish, go see if my brother wants me, but if he’s buried in the entire family pack—”
“Connar-Laef!” Jethren and Fish were violently thrust to either side. “You’d better come,” Vanadei whispered, terror making him almost unrecognizable.
This time Connar ran up the stairs five at a time, skidding around the corner, and bolted down the hallway faster than he ever had as a boy.
He nearly ran down Noren, who was just then coming out of the heir’s suite, her eyes red and puffy, her expression ravaged. Ranet stood behind her, but Connar scarcely gave her a glance as Noren signed, “He won’t talk to me.” Her hands stiffened so that the tendons stood out, and her eyes closed, tears leaking from beneath her lashes.
“Where is my mother?”
“She was with Quill. She wants him to drop everything and investigate....” She twirled a finger in the air, the sign for Bristic.
Vanadei opened Noddy’s door, and gestured for Connar to enter. “He’s in there.”
Connar bushed past.
Bunny crouched directly outside Noddy’s bedroom. She looked up with red-rimmed eyes. “He won’t let anyone in but you.”
Connar pushed open the door and looked inside the bedroom, which at first seemed empty, the bed neatened, everything in order. It was lit by a single candle. But then what looked at first like a shadow in the far corner shifted, and he saw Noddy sitting in the corner, his knees drawn up.
Never in either of their lives had Connar thought his brother small, but Noddy looked small, somehow, with one arm thrown around his head, his face turned into his elbow as he wept.
Connar crossed the room in two strides, and knelt down. “Noddy.”
Noddy gave a great, shuddering sob. “I can’t do it, Connar. I can’t.”
Connar smelled blood. He frowned, eyeing Noddy twisted up, and said in a different key, “Noddy? Did someone hurt you?”
The wakening anger roused Noddy enough for him to straighten slightly, revealing a wet, dark patch over his left shoulder, seeping downward. His right hand still clutched a blood-streaked knife. “I tried...I tried, but I can’t get past my ribs.”
Shock reverberated through Connar. “Noddy, give me the knife.”
“Don’t make me be...in there,” Noddy sobbed.
“I’m not making you do anything.” Connar forced his voice low. Quiet. “Noddy. Please. The knife first.” As he spoke, he closed his hands around Noddy’s blood-slippery fingers, and gently loosened the hilt.
He set the knife well behind him, and clasped Noddy’s huge hand, sticky as it was, and said, “Talk to me, Noddy. Who tried to make you do what? I’ll kill them—”
“They said I have to go into Da’s room.” Noddy’s voice was husky with horror. “I can’t do it. I can’t.”
“You don’t have to do anything right now,” Connar said. “I’m here. I won’t let anyone in until you want them. But you have to tell me, what happened here?”
Noddy just wagged his head, lost in grief, until Connar said, “Noddy, the first thing people are going to say is that I stabbed you.”
Noddy’s head jerked up at that. He roused, mouth working. Then his face crumpled. “It hurts so bad. And when they said I have to...I thought.... Kill the pain. I can’t take Da’s place. I can’t be in that room.”
Connar got it then. Noddy had taken the knife to himself.
He let out a breath, then another, the hammer in his head relentless. He tried to gentle his voice. “Noddy, you’ve been Sierlaef all your life. You knew that one day you would be king, the way Da always wanted.”
“I can’t do it. I just can’t.” He sobs. “I don’t even have any children, but you do. You’ve got the girls, there’s a chance of a boy. Or maybe Bunny will have one and....”
“The children don’t matter right now,” Connar said.
“You’re young. We’re all young. Children will happen, just as you said.”
Noddy reached for the knife again, and when Connar blocked him, Noddy gulped in a shaky breath. “I thought, if I killed myself, then you can be king. And I don’t ever have to go in Da’s room. I can’t do it, Connar.” He broke into deep, convulsive sobs.
“Noddy, we can wait. The castle is quiet. The city is quiet. There is no enemy at the gate. You don’t have to face anyone now.”
Noddy looked up, wiping his blood-smeared sleeve across his face. “I won’t feel different tomorrow. I don’t even want tomorrow to come.”
Connar gritted his teeth, recognizing the old, immoveable Noddy.
Then Noddy’s forehead creased, and his voice rose, pleading. “Connar, it can be like Da and Uncle Jarend. You know. Da let Uncle Jarend go home. He knew how to be jarl. Uncle Jarend said for Da to be king. Second brothers inherit. It happens all the time.”
“But I don’t know how,” Connar said. “You’ve sat in with Da all these years. I’m your commander. I don’t know the first thing about what you do up there in the state wing.”
“That part I know,” Noddy said, wiping his eyes again. He sat up a little, which Connar thought a good sign. “I like doing it. You can do the rest. You stay in Da’s room. You sit on his throne. You talk to the jarls at Convocation. And if there’s trouble, it’ll be like the first kings, who commanded the army. Please Connar. Please.”
Connar began to see the possibility. This was not Hauth’s bloodbath—not even close. “You want to divide the duties? We can do that,” Connar said, trying to think past the first trickle of relief, now that Noddy wasn’t reaching for that knife.
Then he heard a rustle behind him as Danet entered.
Noddy said before Connar could frame words, “Connar says he’ll be king. I don’t have to be in Da’s room. I can stay where I am.”
“All right.” Danet’s shoulders sagged. “If you boys are agreed, then that’s what matters.” And when Noddy looked up hopefully, she said slowly, encouragingly, “As long as you both agree, I don’t care who’s king. However, this much I know from experience, tradition is as strong as law. When we summon the castle to the throne room, Noddy, you have to be king long enough for people to see you hand the sword to Connar. If that’s truly what you want.”
Time of Daughters II Page 77
