I didn’t know, he said to Bethany, as he brought her around and held her, lengthwise, in front of his chest. His hands were trembling; his knuckles white. I traveled all this way with him-and I didn’t know.
Patriarch of Culverne, she replied, the Line Culverne was bound to Marantine a century ago, and while the laws of the line’s war and the line’s struggle remained with the line’s leader—they were tied to the Marantine crown.
You—did you know?
Yes.
Why didn’t you tell me?
You didn’t ask, she replied, almost tartly. But that faded; now was not a moment for such a game. He did not see fit to tell you, Initiate. And he is ... your king.
What should I do?
You may repeat after me, Darin. No one will know, save you, that the words are not your own.
Darin doubted that very much, but he nodded, and after a moment, fell into a position similar to the one that Gerald held. “Your Majesty,” he said, in a shaking voice, “accept our pledge of service, given to you over the staff of Line Culveme, by her patriarch.” He bowed his head, and then raised it again, to look upon Renar, the first of Marantine—Prince Renar, the thief and the slight, black shadow of childhood memory and game—as if seeing him truly for the first time.
Gerald’s eyebrows rose, but he did not break his position.
“Yes,” Darin said quietly. “Line Culverne survived the treachery.”
The truly-named prince remained short, red-faced, and bedraggled; if anything, the use of his title, spoken so quietly and so reverently within these cramped little walls, made him lose an inch or two of height. Across his face, several expressions struggled for supremacy, none staying put long enough to be identified by either of the two watchers. His hands, clenching and unclenching, seemed to follow those thoughts. And his thoughts were unreadable, unknowable; if his face was a map, the geography of it was alien and inverted. His eyes, red and white around dark centers, sought out ceiling, wall, and floor, not pausing to notice any of them.
But he didn’t seem at all surprised by Darin’s declaration. He took a deep breath, straightened out, and faced Gerald. “Rise,” he said stiffly.
Only then did Gerald leave the ground; Darin remained as he was—at Bethany’s silent urging.
“Open your mouth.”
Without hesitation, Gerald did as ordered. Darin turned away at the sight of the stump that retreated behind yellowed teeth.
“This is what your years of service have gained you. This is what the leadership of Maran has given you over to. We—I— did not prevent it.”
Gerald did not move.
“Close it—I don’t need to see any more.” Angered, he added, “At least if it had to happen to someone, it happened to you. You never did talk much anyway.”
Darin drew a sharp breath; the words, hard and cruel, stung. He opened his mouth to speak, and Bethany bade him be silent.
“I have no home. I have no family. Marantine no longer exists, except as a figment of our imagination. The royal guards have no function and no claim to me; I have no function and no claim over them—you. And I don’t want it. You are dismissed.”
Darin rose, then, and Bethany did not seek to stop him. “Robert—Renar—whoever you really are.”
“Patriarch of Culverne,” was the quiet reply. The slight man inclined his head.
“If all that is true, where are you going?”
Renar was silent and absolutely still.
“Why did you rescue us? Why have you followed us—or led us—this far? You know that we’re going to Marantine.” He turned Bethany around, changing her from a symbol of supplication and honor to a pointer that he could hit the floor with. “You knew who I was. And you know—you’re the only one who knew—who Erin might be. If you don’t care, and Marantine isn’t your problem, why in the hells are you with us?”
Initiate, Bethany said wryly, that is hardly the way to address your monarch.
The sudden twitch of said monarch’s lips matched Bethany’s tone of voice. “That,” he replied, “is none of your concern.”
“Don’t laugh at me!” Darin said, swinging Bethany around until she wavered a few inches away from Renar’s chest. “It’s all of our concern. Why do you think we’re going? We want to free the kingdom!”
Dark eyes narrowed as Renar spoke again. “You’re barely free yourself.” His voice was cool, but not loud. “How do you expect to ‘free’ Marantine? Will you walk in beside your Lady and the old man? Fire a few buildings with some strange sorcery and expect the city to just come apart? Will you wish away the army within Dagothrin’s walls? Will you single-handedly destroy the Lesser Cabal that governs with Church might?”
“No. Yes. I don’t know! But we’ll do something!” Bethany hit the floor sharply as Darin’s hands shook.
“You’re all fools, then.”
“And what are you? You were going to come with us!”
“Yes,” he said oddly, crossing his arms and leaning back against the closed door. “But I was going to accompany you as just another stupid fool.” His lips lost even the trace of a smile, no matter how condescending. “I wasn’t going as the rightful heir to the Maran crown.”
“That’s what you are.”
“Darin,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m hubristic and incautious to the point of idiocy—but even I know that it takes more than blood to be a king. I wasn’t raised to lead or rule, and if I did, the Bright Heart alone knows how briefly the kingdom would last.” He gave a little bow.
“Liar.” Darin’s cheeks were as red as Renar’s.
At this, the uncrowned prince looked up, and Gerald glanced to the side.
“That’s not why you won’t do it,” Darin continued. “You just don’t want to feel guilty anymore. You don’t want to have to explain why you spent years doing nothing. ”
Initiate! Bethany’s voice was cold and hard. Enough!
But Renar only smiled bitterly. “This is to be a night for destroying secrets, isn’t it?” He bowed again. “Very well, Patriarch and hereditary keeper of the king’s conscience.” He bowed, and when he rose from it, his face was paled and twisted in a grimace that hovered between pain, distaste, and anger. “You are quite right.”
Darin opened his mouth to speak, but found that he suddenly had nothing to say. Shoulders shaking, he lowered Bethany and leaned against her as if the argument had aged him.
“I tried to warn them,” Renar continued, almost conversationally. “I was disowned for it. And I will be honest, Patriarch: I was angered.” He shrugged, as if the anger were dead, a thing of the past. “You learn fire—but fires have already played in the streets of Dagothrin. Most of the friends that I had there died in them. I have no army to lead into battle; no way of taking even the city.”
Gerald stepped forward then, breaking position. He placed one large hand on Darin’s shoulder, and one on Renar’s. And he shook his head, denying the last of Renar’s words. He let go of them both, then reached out to grip Darin’s staff midsection. With his free hand, he touched his chest and bowed his head once again.
“What do you mean?” Renar said softly, almost urgently. He crossed the room, opened a drawer in the spare little desk beneath the window, and cursed. No paper. Frustrated, he turned back and met Gerald’s gaze.
Deliberately, and very, very slowly, Gerald’s lips moved in an exaggerated mime of speech.
Renar’s eyes widened for a half second, and then his lips curled in the shadow of a smile. “I’m not to escape either of you, am I?”
Neither Darin nor Gerald answered.
“Gerald, could you reach—could you notify—the remainder of the royal guards and the Marantine army?”
Gerald nodded.
The man who decried the kingship seemed to shrink back a few inches. “Will they all be as foolish as you, do you think?”
Gerald nodded again. Darin held his breath. They both watched the subtle play of expression across Renar’s face. The
king looked away and began, fastidiously, to remove his overfine jacket. The long tear was, fortunately, down a near-invisible seam; with some little work, it might be repaired.
“You realize that this was hard to come by?” He frowned. “It comes out of your pay, understood?”
Breakfast was a quiet, somber affair; Renar of Marantine had indeed, in spite of all protests, drunk more than was wise the previous evening, and it showed in the puffy shadows of his eyes. Gerald ate well, if slowly, and Darin, himself a little tired from the evening’s discussions, was hard put to keep up.
“Is there anything left for me?”
Darin looked up, and his eyes grew round. “Erin!”
Erin smiled, and her eyes, for the first time in nearly two months, were a gentle green that sparkled a little more than the morning light could explain.
“That’s Lorie, Mika,” Verdor said, smiling just as broadly. He looked tired but well satisfied. Erin’s left hand was tucked neatly in the crook of his right arm as they walked together across the dining-room floor.
Verdor snorted as he surveyed the near-empty platters on the table. “I knew it. Good thing I told Astor to cook up something extra, isn’t it? Mika, pull out a chair for the lady.”
Darin was already doing just that. As she sat, he said, “You—you look better.”
“Damndest thing I’ve ever seen,” Verdor replied, before a word could leave Erin’s lips. “Just yesterday, I’d’ve sworn she was on death’s door.”
“You said she was fine,” Darin pointed out.
“Yes. Well.” The innkeeper shrugged. “I was right.” He walked around the table to where Renar was cringing. “Hello, half-wit!”
“Verdor—please. Can you play the booming giant elsewhere?”
“No,” Verdor said, with a nasty grin. “Don’t you want my company?” He clapped Renar soundly on the back and, while the thief was busy choking, winked at Erin. She shook her head in mock disapproval.
“Where’s Trethar?”
“In the room,” Darin replied. “Sleeping, I think. He doesn’t like mornings if he can avoid them—we worked late last night.”
“And who is this?”
“That,” Renar broke in, as he massaged his temples gingerly, “is Gerald. Big as Verdor, but thank the Twin Hearts, that’s all they have in common.”
Gerald nodded politely.
“So, half-wit,” Verdor said jovially, “Lorie says you’ll be leaving in a few days.”
“A few minutes,” Renar muttered under his breath.
“Well, well, well. Friendly this morning, aren’t we? I’m beginning to understand why you never bother to look a morning in the face.”
Renar had time to draw breath—a deep one which signaled the onset of a lengthy diatribe—and Darin had just time to roll his eyes, before the front doors to the inn flew open, crashing loudly against the wall.
The morning crowd, sparse and for the most part quiet, surged apart in a sudden panic, taking to the walls like ducks to water. Nothing blocked the view to the doorway; nothing got in the way of the Swords that stood in the Red Dog’s entrance, framed by the rectangular patch of daylight in the narrow street at their backs.
“What in the hells?” Verdor stood slowly, drawing himself to his full height. Renar was already on his feet. In fact only Darin, jaw suddenly slack, remained seated at the breakfast table.
Verdor walked past his back, stopping once to gently squeeze his shoulders in a quiet warning. He wiped those hands on his apron, as he often did when annoyed, and stopped five feet away from the intruders.
“May I help you gentlemen?”
“You harbor a man who styles himself Renar of Dagothrin. Bring him now, and no harm will come to you.”
“Renar of Dagothrin?” Verdor shrugged. The movement did not look casual. “Don’t know him. Do you have a description?”
The Sword tried to look down at Verdor, failed miserably, and forced the tone of his voice to carry the weight of his authority instead. “Short man. Dark hair. Wears a velvet jacket with House Montan insignia.”
“A house lord? Here?” Verdor lifted his hands expansively.
Dark eyes met blue ones in a more telling exchange than words alone could provide. The Sword shook his head sharply, walked into the room until he stood less than a foot away from the innkeeper, and gestured his men forward. They came wordless, but not silent, as they passed around both their commander and the innkeeper.
“Fan out. Find him. You four, check the upper rooms.”
Erin stood against the back wall, her face pale, her eyes blank. Her hand rested against the hilt of her sword, although she’d not unsheathed it.
Renar was nowhere in sight.
Darin breathed a sigh of relief, but found that he could not relax his grip upon the staff of Culverne. The Swords, however, did not seem interested in either him or Erin. Two of them brushed roughly past, sparing less than a glance for a young boy and a wraithlike woman who was obviously too overwhelmed to cause trouble.
How had they known who Renar was? And how had they known he was here? Darin chewed at his lip. He knew that Renar was not, and would never be, very subtle.
Except for the sound of heavily booted feet and the occasional shouted command, there was no noise in the inn. Fifteen minutes passed. Then another fifteen went by, as the Church guards once again gathered in the center of the bar in two precise lines. Their surcoats, black with a glittering red trail in the shape of a broken circle, were crisp and new; their chain mail, for chain it was, was well oiled and in good repair. Even the leathered joints at elbows and knees seemed to stand out in the darkness as the work of an expert. Only their helms were questionable; elegance, slenderness, and simplicity of line couldn’t hide the fact that they were not very functional. Then again, they didn’t have to be; very little challenged the Swords in this, or any other, city.
The captain of this patrol looked grim indeed as he surveyed them. Darin was weak with relief; had he not been seated, he might have fallen. Renar had not been found.
“He can’t have left. We’ve covered all exits. Traynen—did you check with the exterior guard?”
Somebody barked a quick “Yessir” without falling out of line.
“Rooms?”
“Empty, sir. Most of them.”
The captain fell silent, and Darin closed his eyes. He didn’t pray, not this close to Swords.
“Very well, then.”
They were going to leave. Darin’s fingers curled in tight fists as he struggled to stop shaking. They were going to leave, without ever noticing him or Erin.
“Bring in Lord Kellem.”
One of the Swords turned sharply on heel and exited the inn. Almost as an afterthought, the captain added, “Everyone will remain where they are.”
No one even attempted to differ. Where Swords were concerned, silence served best. It was a truth that everyone in the warrens could attest to. The quarterly sacrifices in Verdann were taken from a criminal levy, and not surprisingly, it was a crime to obstruct the justice of the Church or its representatives in any way.
Several heads turned as the door swung open for the second time that morning. The Sword entered and quietly resumed his place in the formation. Following closely behind came a man dressed in a crimson cloak, with burgundy pants topping black leather boots. Emblazoned across his chest in gold thread was a sword, held lengthwise as the horizon for a setting sun.
Lord Kellem.
Darin shuddered, shrinking back. He couldn’t prevent himself from turning his head to look at Gerald. The quiet giant gave a barely perceptible nod.
“Lord Kellem.” The captain bowed. “The criminal in question does not appear to be within these walls at this time. You have seen—”
“I realize that,” Lord Kellem replied distantly. He was already scanning the silent crowd.
“If you could—”
“I will do as I must, Captain. I do not need your advice.” He began to walk into the thick
of the sparse crowd.
Darin’s throat tightened as he realized that Lord Kellem was heading directly toward his table. He tensed, keeping himself very still. But the lord continued to walk in his measured, slow stride; Darin felt the edge of his cloak flutter past his shoulders. He tried very hard to be small and unnoticed and in the end he succeeded; he had not trained so long and learned so many of the lessons of slavery to no avail.
But he felt no real relief as Lord Kellem spoke again. “This one. You, open your mouth.”
Gerald looked down at the lord. His only answer was silence and a tight compression of lips.
“Captain, I believe I need your assistance.”
The captain started forward, obviously annoyed by the tone of the lord’s voice, but just as obviously willing to obey. He had crossed half the distance that separated them when Lord Kellem found that the difference between the station of slave and noble did not eradicate the difference between the stature of the two. A sound that was halfway between a scream and an angry shout was cut off abruptly as he met the captain in midstride.
For a moment the entire room seemed frozen. Then a shocked murmur passed through the crowd—and the ranks of the Swords—like a wave.
Gerald stood in much the same position as he had when Lord Kellem had approached him. His eyes left the stunned Swords only once, to flicker briefly over Darin. His mouth moved, forming one silent word.
That motion, that half-born articulation of lips with no voice, was the key to Darin’s legs. The chair struck the ground and rocked to a halt; no one thought to lift it.
Yes. Leave. Darin’s eyes darted from side to side. The Swords remained in line until their captain’s bark gave them leave to move forward.
“He’s no use to us alive—he can’t talk. Bring him down, quickly. He’s dangerous!” Lord Kellem’s face was red with anger.
If they heard Lord Kellem, they showed no signs of it; their progress was slow and measured. There was no pain here, only wary experience and the benefit of years of training.
Lady of Mercy Page 17
