by Jane Glatt
“No my Lord, please no,” Wynne sobbed and clutched at his leg as he moved past her. Thorold shook his foot free and then kicked out, the toughened leather of his boot thudding against Wynne’s shoulder and spinning her backwards to land hard against the door frame.
“Leave my mother alone!” Brenna shouted, her fear burned away by her rage.
“And what will you do about it?” Thorold stopped three steps from her and laughed. “She’s mine, as are you. I could kill you both and no one would care.”
“You’d kill your own flesh and blood?”
“My dear wife has been insisting I get rid of you for years. I don’t think she much cares how I do it.” He held up the knife, her mother’s knife, so it flashed in the torch light. “I think this will work nicely, don’t you?”
Despite her fear, despite the clammy sweat she felt trickle between her breasts, Brenna stayed where she was, head up, eyes on him as he took one step, then another, towards her. Now he was close enough that one long-armed swipe with the knife would open her throat, but still she didn’t move, didn’t drop her gaze from his. If he was going to kill her she wanted him to remember the anger and hatred in her eyes, wanted the way she died, without fear of him, to taunt him always.
“Ah such a brave child. Such a foolish, brave child,” Thorold said. “Too foolish to realize that there are so many ways to create fear.” And then he quickly stepped back and grabbed Wynne by the arm and yanked her up.
“No!” Brenna reached forward and her hand brushed her mother’s arm for just a second before Thorold wrenched Wynne away.
Holding her against his chest, he backed up into the doorway of the workroom. After a brief flash of panic, Wynne Trewen stopped struggling and lifted her head.
“Good,” Thorold said as she quieted, unaware of the determination on his captive’s face. He smirked at Brenna. “I see the fear in your eyes at last. I was going to let your mother watch you die but now I see it will be much better this way.” Then he reached around and placed the knife against her mother’s throat.
“Run Brenna,” Wynne Trewen said, her last words ever before the knife bit into her neck. With a cry Brenna lurched forward as blood fountained from her mother’s throat. Thorold yelled and stumbled backward into the workroom. He let go of her mother, who slumped to the floor, then he tripped and sprawled beside the old worktable.
“Mama, don’t die.” Brenna dropped to the ground beside her mother. She grabbed her mother’s shawl and pressed it against the wound, trying to stanch the blood even as the healer in her recognized that it was too late - her mother was already dead. Brenna gently wiped the blood from her mother’s face and laid the soaked shawl across the spreading stain, covering the gaping wound in her throat. Her head bent, a great sob lodged in her chest and tears rolled down her cheeks. She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt and looked up. The Duke’s prone form lay on the hard packed dirt, her mother’s bloody knife a few feet from his hand.
“I’ll make you pay for this,” Brenna said. She staggered to her feet and took one unsteady step towards the Duke. Even as she wondered why he was on the ground, why he was so far away from his victim, he sat up, eyes dazed, and reached wildly for her mother’s knife. His fist closed on it and Brenna stopped. Knife held towards her, he got to his knees.
Brenna’s chest heaved with grief and pain and hatred. As much as she wanted to hurt Duke Thorold, she knew she was no match for him physically. And her mother had told her to run, had sacrificed her life so that Brenna had this chance. She must take it, must make her mother’s death have some meaning.
“Guards!” Thorold’s voice was as a croak. He lurched to his feet, blade pointed at her.
She couldn’t retrieve her mother’s knife. Not now.
“I will make you pay,” Brenna said as she backed away from him. “Someday.”
With a quick look behind her she stooped to pick up her pack. She took a deep breath and looked at her mother’s face, relaxed and peaceful in death, before she turned and headed for the loft. She’d go out the window and across the roof to the woods. The dogs would have a hard time picking up her scent if she stayed high until she was into deeper snow. Then she’d head to Kingsreach and away from Duke Thorold’s lands. It was the largest city in Soule and she was good at hiding. Thorold’s men wouldn’t find her there.
two
Brenna slipped in through the window, careful not to open one of the shutters too widely. She’d spent the better part of two days assessing the inn and knew that the leather hinge on the left-hand shutter was weak and caused the wood to scrape the windowsill. It was less than three hours before dawn and any noise would sound loud in the quiet night.
From the window ledge she carefully eased one soft-soled foot after the other onto the floor. She took a quick look back at the courtyard. The stables sat silent, doors shut tightly against the cool, spring air. A weak light spilled into the night below where the kitchen backed out onto the courtyard. No doubt the baker was getting bread ready for early travelers. She saw no sign of the inn guards – good, she’d not been noticed.
She gently nudged the shutters back in place, careful to make sure they were in the same position she’d found them. The guards employed by better inns, such as this one, were former Kingsguard. They were well trained and observant. But so was she. Brenna had never been caught in her six years as a thief.
She listened to the steady breathing of the room’s single occupant and slowly matched her own breathing to his as her eyes adjusted to the near darkness.
The room was on the second floor - one of the middle rooms - so there was only the one window that faced north. The narrow bed was pushed up against the east wall and a small dresser topped with a washbasin was wedged between the bed and the door.
To her right was a small chair laden with what smelled like well-worn clothes. She wrinkled her nose in distaste. So much for priests being closer to the One-God than the rest of us - the man’s clothing smelled like a mule wet down with cheap wine.
The room’s occupant had left his pack leaning against the door, a country trick to try to foil anyone bent on opening the door. Brenna gave a silent snort of derision. Someone in the hall could snatch the bag and be gone with it in two breaths.
Nothing in the room looked out of place so she focused on the sleeper. It seemed her information about this priest was correct and he’d overindulged in drink, as was his habit. His breath smelled sour and an empty bottle lay on the floor by his bed. A cup with a few drops of dark liquid still clinging to it stood on the washstand.
She silently padded over to the bed. By the throne! The priest was sleeping with one hand curled around the object she’d come to collect. He must be very determined to make this delivery to the High Bishop. But why was the High Bishop was collecting this for Duke Thorold of Comack?
In the six years since she’d fled to Kingsreach she’d been prying into the duke and his affairs and according to her information he’d been quietly collecting similar weapons for a while. She had yet to figure out how to make him pay for her mother’s death, but she would, one day. For now, she stole goods destined for him. It was only a minor irritant for the duke, but Brenna had a secret satisfaction knowing he’d be furious if he learned that she was responsible.
Eryl’s description of the object was accurate, as always. She could clearly see the cracked red leather of the scabbard and the shine - pure gold, according to Eryl - of the knife hilt. On the crosspiece two red rubies winked dimly even in the dark room. Something about the knife felt old, ancient even, which Eryl had not mentioned. She briefly wondered if the other weapons Duke Thorold had collected were old as well. It was something to think about later, after she’d stolen this one.
Brenna stood still and breathed softly in concert with the sleeping priest. She had only another hour or so before the pre-dawn sky lightened. She had to find a way to get the knife without disturbing the sleeper.
The priest snorted softly and B
renna rocked back on her heels until he resettled himself. Her luck was holding – the slight shift of the sleeper had moved his grip from the knife hilt to the scabbard. She should be able to slide the knife out without waking the priest. She might lose some of her commission but that was a small price to pay for successful retrieval of the knife. Let Duke Thorold have the scabbard.
After another silent twenty minutes without any movements by the sleeping priest, Brenna reached out to grasp the hilt of the knife.
A shock of warmth ran up her arm and the hilt under her hand started to glow with a clear, white light. Startled, Brenna stumbled back, but instead of letting go of the knife she pulled the cursed thing from its scabbard. Eyes wide she raised the blade, which now shone brightly enough to illuminate the room. There was a muffled gasp and she turned and met the terror-filled eyes of the priest.
Brenna recovered first. She dropped the knife to floor and immediately the room plunged back into darkness. She swore at herself for losing her composure, but how could she have known what would happen when the knife was out of its scabbard? She carefully backed away, feeling her way in the dark room. The window must be right behind her now.
“Guard! Guard!!” The priest had recovered enough wits to sound an alarm. “Help!”
Brenna heard the rustle of cloth as he got out of bed.
Eyes not quite adjusted to the dark after the blinding glow of the knife, Brenna fumbled the shutters open, wincing as one shutter scraped loudly along the wood. Brothers! She was making too much noise!
With a quick prayer to Jik for protection she peered out over the courtyard. No sign of any guards there but she could hear loud steps coming up the stairs. She glanced back to find the priest struggling to move his pack and open the door. One final look and her stomach tightened - a single guard blocked the light that spilled in from the hallway. That meant the other two were somewhere else. Brenna slipped onto the sill, crouched, and reached to grab the roof ledge.
A hand grasped her right wrist, painfully.
“Got him!”
She was hauled up and onto the roof and then dumped at the feet of one of the inn guards.
Brenna swore under her breath as she looked up at the scowling guard. She hoped Eryl would honor their deal and buy her bond.
Kane shifted his weight and listened as Thomas Valden, the High Bishop of the Church of the One-God, petitioned King Mattias. The king slouched on an ornate chair, his gold shirt and deep blue vest only serving to emphasize the sickly yellow pallor of his skin. Brown hair and beard trimmed short, he leaned his chin on one pale hand. Even though it was still the early part of the day, his watery blue eyes were half closed with weariness.
The High Bishop, resplendent in a black silk robe trimmed in silver, sat with balled fists resting on the table in the king’s council chamber.
The council chamber was a relatively small room situated behind the great hall. The king faced his councilors across a round oak table polished by years of sweaty hands and diligent housekeepers. Kane, as always, stood between the King and his councilors, his back straight and his face impassive.
“We must ensure the safety of my priests, Your Majesty.” Valden said. His fist pounded softly on the smooth wood of the table to emphasize his point. The man’s short graying hair was slick with sweat where it escaped his red silk skullcap and his lips were pinched together in a scowl.
“I agree with the High Bishop,” said Duke Thorold. As the head of one of the three duchies, he along with the High Bishop and Kane, who was Captain of the Kingsguard, made up the King’s Council.
“I think we all agree that we must ensure the safety of all of my subjects, including your priests,” King Mattias said.
The High Bishop flushed red at the king’s words, then quickly looked down at the table. His back rose and fell with rapid breaths and Kane wondered if the man was finally going to lose all control and go too far. Duke Thorold leaned over and whispered into the High Bishop’s ear and the man nodded and relaxed his hands.
Kane relaxed and unclenched his hand. He and his Kingsguard were the only ones allowed to wear weapons in the presence of the king, and part of him wanted an excuse to draw his sword on the High Bishop. He professed to be a man of peace but Kane had heard rumours to the contrary. Businesses threatened with boycotts unless they did what the church wanted, families forced to give over their homes in order to obtain salvation. The church denied everything, and often those wronged were either too cowed or too controlled to protest.
Then there were the High Bishop’s ongoing attempts to have the King declare his priests legally superior to the common folk they ministered to. The High Bishop felt that the priests’ dedication and service to the One-God should translate into special privileges and rights. Kane’s opinion was that if they were closer to the One-God they’d receive their reward in the afterlife. Let the ordinary people of Soule have equality on earth.
Kane himself followed the old gods, as his family had done for untold generations. There was a time when he would have reminded the king that not all his subjects followed the One-God. But no longer. The High Bishop was also obsessed with having the king declare the Church of the One-God the one true religion of Soule and Kane was very much afraid that one day the king would be too tired or too ill to care any longer and simply accede to the High Bishop’s request.
Kane said a quick prayer to Jik, the ancient god of balance and order. If the High Bishop had his way on that the country would be divided and plunged into chaos and civil war.
“But Your Majesty this theft was an attack on the Church itself,” the High Bishop said, his voice getting louder. “We cannot tolerate this in any way. Where is the justice? A commoner terrified and threatened a simple man who has dedicated himself to serving the One-God. We must make an example of this thief. At the very least he must die.”
“She,” Kane interjected. “And there is absolutely no evidence the priest’s life was ever threatened. I have personally interviewed the priest and the inn guards, as well as the Kingsguard who were summoned. The thief was not armed and she tried to run as soon as the good priest woke and gave the alarm.”
“Not armed? How can you say she was not armed?” The High Bishop turned to Kane. “She was in possession of a knife, a very fine relic that was being delivered to me personally by my priest.”
“Kane is this true?” King Mattias’ face was lined with the strain of his illness. “We cannot allow thieves to threaten anyone, let alone priests.”
“No we certainly cannot,” Duke Thorold agreed.
Kane let out a breath, slowly. Now that Thorold had entered the discussion he would need to tread even more carefully. Where the High Bishop was all bluster and rash comments, Duke Thorold was measured and patient. If Thorold truly wanted to win this debate, in all likelihood he would, eventually.
Kane focused on the now smug High Bishop.
“I agree completely Your Majesty,” Kane said. “But the weapon was the object of the theft and the thief dropped it as soon as she was discovered. Nor did she have any other weapon on her. She had plenty of opportunity to slit the priests’ throat while he slept if she’d wanted to, instead, even with a knife in her hand, as soon as he woke up she tried to flee. The usual punishments should be handed out - in this case a bond price of two hundred crowns or the equivalent in time worked as an indentured servant.” He’d better ensure the jailer received the full bond price. Anything less and the High Bishop might learn of it and use it in another argument.
“That’s simply not acceptable!” The High Bishop’s face was now an ugly shade of red. “I insist that this thief die. I will not allow my priests to become easy prey for any and all of the common element.”
“Your Majesty.” Kane bowed to King Mattias. “If you kill this thief I believe there will be repercussions. Two hundred crowns is the standard bond price for a case like this. We simply cannot change the laws at will. If penalties are inconsistent thieves may decide they’re be
tter off leaving no live witnesses. It will not, as the High Bishop believes, make priests and nobles safer.”
Kane had no reason to believe that the High Bishop would accept what he said as truth this time, just as he’d refuse to accept it all the other times Kane hade made this same argument. The High Bishop simply refused to recognize that unpredictable laws and punishments had the potential to create uneasiness in Soule. With King Mattias ill and with such a loose grip on the throne Kane feared anything with the potential to destabilize any part of the population. If only the other two members of the King’s Council spent more time in Kingsreach. That would help limit the High Bishop’s influence.
“I agree with Kane on this point Your Majesty,” Duke Thorold said. “The commoners must be given consistent laws they can understand. The consequences of breaking the laws must be equally clear. However,” he nodded in High Bishop Valden’s direction, “I agree with the High Bishop’s concern that we are letting acts against the church and the nobility go relatively unpunished. I suggest at a later date we look at how we can strengthen the laws in this regard.”
“Good. We can leave the immediate issue in Kane’s capable hands,” King Mattias replied. “Thank you Captain.” Mattias nodded in Kane’s direction. Taking this as his dismissal Kane bowed before turning sharply and heading for the door.
From the council chamber, Kane headed immediately to the jail. He needed to talk to Jervis, the jailer. This thief’s bond price could not be bartered down. The High Bishop would not forgive. Or forget.
Kane had no wish to be counted among the High Bishop’s enemies. The man was petty and mean spirited, but he’d become more cunning in the last year or two. With the power of the church behind him he would be dangerous if not handled correctly. And now he was collecting old steel. Kane needed to know why.
He might as well take a look at the thief while he was here. He was curious about how she was caught. By all accounts she was one of the best in the city, not likely to make a mistake, but the priest had woken up and called the guards. According to the reports from the inn guard, the priest’s description had been accurate even before the thief was brought back before him. The inn guard had also sworn that the room was dark when he arrived. So how had the priest been able to see the thief?
