Michael let out a long, sad sigh and dropped his gaze to his hands which were clenched together in his lap. “The moment I was thrown out of JhaPel, it was too late to fix anything. And that wasn’t your fault.”
“Nanna Tierna told me what happened.” Pol made a soft noise of satisfaction. “It wasn’t your fault, either.”
Prince Leovar groaned loudly, startling both boys, but Pol reacted at once, taking a running step across the room to where the man lay prostrate and kicking him in the head.
“Pol!” Michael exclaimed, shocked. “What if you kill him?”
Pol whirled to face his friend again. “So what if I do? What if we kill them both. So what?”
“I can’t kill anyone,” Michael insisted. “I know what it feels like, all right? I just can’t do that to anyone.”
A disgusted noise growled out of Pol, but he set his jaw and nodded. “Fine, then. Let’s chain them up.” He held a pair of handcuffs aloft, triumphant, and dropped to the floor beside Leovar. He rolled the man over, yanking his arms behind his back and locking on the cuffs as tightly as they would go. Then he turned to look at the duke and said, “Let’s give him his own treatment.”
“We don’t have time,” Michael argued. “We need to get out of here!”
Pol shook his head. “I don’t know what you did to him, but we can’t risk leaving him like this. What if he wakes up?”
Michael didn’t bother to confess that he wasn’t certain what he’d done, either, and pushed himself to his feet.
It took both of them to wrestle the heavy, uncooperative body of the unconscious duke into position beneath the dangling shackles. Once they’d managed that, Michael climbed back up to stand on the chair, this time to lock the shackles around the duke’s wrists.
The left was easiest to do first, and Michael hauled the heavy arm up and steadied it as best he could as he struggled, one-handed, with the shackle dangling uncooperatively above. It took everything he had to match shackle to wrist, and perhaps it was this distraction or his utter exhaustion from everything including the effort it had taken to drag Terac to the chains, but Michael knew—if only a tic before—that he’d lost control of whatever it was he’d done to the man. He snapped the shackle closed just in time.
But the man’s right hand still swung free.
A roar like that of an enraged animal came from the duke as he gained his feet and swung out wildly, throwing Pol off of him and knocking Michael from the chair.
“Kiska trash!” he shouted, a blow catching Michael across the back of the head as he fell, snapping his head sideways. The next thing he knew he was kneeling, half-sprawled, his hands barely managing to brace himself from collapsing the rest of the way to the floor.
Vail, everything hurts. Even my hair hurts... His mind cleared a little, and he realized he’d been lucky. Or unlucky. He almost broke my neck.
Though he couldn’t see what was happening, he heard Pol yelling. The sound of running, coming closer. A great crash. Oh, Vail—Pol! A long, terrifying silence filled with only gasping breaths. Anger filled the room around Michael like heat from a pyre.
Then, “How dare you,” the man whispered. Michael blinked, trying to focus, and found he was sprawled at the man’s feet. “When I’m through with you, you’ll wish I had killed you.”
Michael looked up to meet the man’s terrifying eyes and clenched his teeth against a desire to beg—to do anything to stop the pain. I won’t beg. SanClares don’t beg.
He wanted to stand up and face this last punishment, like a true SanClare would, but that had become impossible. His muscles simply weren’t able to obey him any longer. He’d come to the end of his strength, distantly amazed that he’d lasted even half as long as he had. It seemed miraculous that he’d managed to put Terac to sleep at all after everything he’d been through in the past many hours. It was a miracle he was still conscious. I was so close...I was almost free.
.:I’m sorry, Jary. I just can’t seem to do anything right.:.
He was unsurprised when the man wrenched his left hand—shackle and all—free from the ceiling, and he was even less surprised when Terac pulled back that same, just-freed arm and back-handed him across the face. But then he’d already known he wasn’t going to get out of this in one piece.
# # #
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Michael thought he may have been unconscious for a moment or two, but he struggled up through confusion and pain to find himself crumpled on the floor. He looked up at Terac who stood over him, furious. The man caught sight of Leovar’s unconscious form and swore as he turned back to his victim. He grabbed a handful of Michael’s tangled hair and lifted him from the floor, tearing a choked scream from his throat.
“Terac—” Michael began then bit his lip. He couldn’t reason with this man. He wouldn’t waste his breath trying.
“Your little friend has provided so much entertainment already.” Terac sounded almost his usual self which made a jarring contrast to his wild-eyed expression. “I think I shall let you view the rest of the fun from here.” And at that, he caught Michael’s once-broken arm in one hand as he loosed his grip on the boy’s hair and yanked him up to the remaining shackle.
“No!” Michael struggled and flailed a kick at the man. “Just stop it! Let me go! JARY!”
“I shall break it again, child.” The man was ice-calm. “If you force me to.”
“Don’t do this!” Michael gave up all hopes of royal dignity. He choked on sobs as Terac closed the shackle around his wrist once more. “He didn’t do anything! I’ll do whatever you—”
The hand flew out again, cracking against Michael’s jaw and splitting his lip. The blow threw him off his precarious balance and dropped him, putting all his weight onto his shackled wrist. The edge cut into his arm and blood ran down as more blood poured into his mouth and down his chin.
“Monster!” a voice shrieked and Michael turned bleary eyes toward the sound, just in time to see Pol lunging at Terac from behind.
The man whirled and swatted Pol away easily, sending him tumbling into the mess, hitting shelves and boxes as he fell. Michael could feel echoes of Pol’s pain mingling with the power radiating from the man.
My power. It isn’t right that he should be able to hurt us with my power!
Michael struggled to get his feet under him yet again, gasping at the pain. Pol was right, he knew. He was a martyr. He would always rather be the one being hurt, but that was because he knew what it felt like when others were hurt. It was best if only one person had to suffer.
And it might as well be me.
Michael closed his eyes and cast a prayer to Vail. By all rights, he should already be dead. He was still alive because the goddess wasn’t done with him yet, and if that was the case, she’d better be prepared to protect him this time, too.
Searing pain knifed through his head as he concentrated on stopping Terac. The pain blotted out everything except his determination to defeat the man. To save Pol. To end this nikking nightmare once and for all.
Just. Stop. This.
Terac made a sound that was almost child-like, irritated, and he froze in his progress toward Pol. The older boy stared at the duke, equally frozen, though in terror. After a long moment passed with the duke still unmoving, Pol’s eyes flickered to Michael, and his shock filled the room, giving Michael a glimpse of himself through another’s eyes once more.
Shize...why do I always look half-dead? He panted, breathing through his mouth, coughing through the blood. And there was so much blood, matted in his hair, staining most of his face, running down his chin and arms and all over his tattered clothes.
“Find the key, Pol,” he rasped then closed his eyes and bit into his battered lip as he braced himself to make one last push.
.:Jary, I’m so sorry. I have to do it. He’ll never stop.:.
I wish he were here, I wish he could hear me, I wish I’d remembered sooner, I—
.:Nylan!:.
Michael fro
ze, his heart hammering in his chest.
.:Jary?:.
.:I’m almost there—:.
A splintering crash came from the far side of the room. An even louder slam followed, shaking the walls.
“Nylan!”
He’s finally come. He’s finally here.
“Stop it, Nylan! You’ll kill yourself!”
“Have to,” Michael rasped. “Stop him...waerlok...”
“Then close your eyes,” Jarlyth ordered. “And let me finish this.”
Michael obeyed his warder, just as he’d always done. But he was beyond the limits of his strength and had nothing left to block out anything.
As the blade plunged into Terac’s chest, Michael felt the man’s shock and confusion and denial as clearly as if it were his own. The pain bloomed out from the center of his body, echoing Terac’s agony, and Michael remembered the pirate ship and what it had felt like to be caught up in someone else’s death.
He didn’t fight it this time. He wanted to, but he was so very tired, and it seemed the easiest thing in the world to slip away into the quiet, painless darkness.
#
Jarlyth swore and shoved past the falling body of Terac Nalas to reach Nylan as Pol stumbled forward in his wake, diving to the floor to look through the bloody mess for the dropped key.
“Nylan, please.” Jarlyth caught up the boy from where he dangled by one wrist, blood running down his arm in sickening streams.
Pol shot to his feet at Jarlyth’s elbow, bleating, “Here! I found it!” His hands shook so badly, he could barely hold the key. He dragged a battered, blood-stained chair under the shackle and climbed on it, reaching up to free his friend.
“He wouldn’t stop.” The boy’s face was ashen with shock. “The duke kept hurting him, and he kept fighting back. I’d think he was done, and he’d get back up—”
The lock clicked as the shackle opened, dropping Nylan into Jarlyth’s arms. “Wake up, Nylan,” Jarlyth whispered. “Please, wake up.”
Harly walked over to join them from where he’d been examining the body, a look of unutterable distaste on his face. “The duke’s really dead. And about nikking time, too.”
Pol flung himself at his uncle, hugging the man around the waist. “I thought he was going to kill us both!” The boy was clearly on the verge of hysteria. “You should have seen Michael—”
Harly returned the boy’s hug. “I know, child. I know. But we need to go.” He looked at Jarlyth, his gaze steady. “We can’t count on surprise this time.”
Jary took a deep breath and nodded. “Let’s go then.”
“But the prince—” Pol began.
Harly shook his head at this. “I’m not ready to kill anyone in cold blood. He hasn’t done anything to us—”
“Yet!” Pol held his ground. “Michael—”
“We can’t go killing everyone who ever spent clink on the boy, Pol,” Harly exclaimed. “Like it or no, it’s what he did.”
Jarlyth felt this was said for his own benefit as much as for Pol’s, but he reluctantly agreed. He knew nothing about this pretender prince, but if Harly thought it safe enough to leave him behind, he wasn’t going to commit cold-blooded murder on his own account.
He shrugged out of his coat and wrapped Nylan in it, wary of his injuries, and settled the boy more carefully in his arms. At the same time, Harly picked up a cloak, which had been left draped over one of the many stacks of papers, and tore out the lining which he then used to bind up Nylan’s wrist.
Pol snatched away his own arm when his uncle tried to examine him. “I can wait! You said we have to go.”
“Right, then.” Harly turned and led the way back to the shattered door.
He’s still breathing, he’s still breathing... Jarlyth thought the chant, making it a prayer to Vail for the boy’s continued survival. He stooped to retrieve his sword, yanking it free without even a grimace of distaste. The man had deserved so much worse for what he’d done to Nylan.
Pol glanced at the blood-stained blade then up at Jarlyth’s face. Whatever he saw there made him swallow hard and hurry to catch up to his uncle.
#
Michael woke with a gasp, knowing where he was immediately. “No!” he choked, and started to struggle against the hands holding him. “No, let me out! Please, don’t make me—”
“Hush, Nylan! Please! You’ll hurt yourself.”
He went as still as a rabbit trying to hide in plain sight from a predator. Jary.
“Forgive me, Nylan,” Jarlyth’s arms tightened around him, and the man’s voice whispered a prayer in Michael’s first language. “Thank Vail, thank Vail, thank Vail, you’re awake. Thank Vail, I found you. Thank you, Vail.”
Michael stayed frozen for several long tics, barely believing the moment was real. But it has to be. Everything’s quiet.
“Jary, I—”
“Thank Vail, you remembered.” Jarlyth pulled back to look Michael in the face, though only dim moons-light illuminated the dark interior. They were in the carriage, and Michael wondered if he could be dreaming all of this—if Terac was just done with him for the night, but he was so badly hurt that he’d fallen into a dream to escape. In case it was real, though, Michael felt it was important that Jary know the truth.
“I hate this carriage,” he whispered, staring up into his warder’s tear-filled eyes.
“We’ll set fire to it when we stop,” Jary promised. “It’ll never bother you again.”
“I didn’t want to,” Michael continued. “I didn’t want to do any of it.”
A spike of pain so profound it nearly made Michael sob overwhelmed his warder’s reserve. “I know, sweetheart. I know that. Don’t talk, now, all right? You’re hurt.”
“Is Varian all right?”
“Yes. Daren’s looking after him. He was so determined to deliver your message.”
“I knew he would.” Michael faded back toward sleep once more. “He loves me.”
When he woke again, the world was on fire.
“Shize!” Risa’s voice hissed while another familiar voice shouted, “I’m going! He hasn’t left yet.”
“Don’t burn me!” Michael tried, again, to escape Jarlyth’s arms.
“Hush, you’re fine,” the man soothed, patient and gentle. “We’re back at the Red Boar. Someone’s gone for a healer.”
“There’s smoke...Midnight Star.” I’m talking nonsense. I have to stop talking, or he’ll think I’m crazy.
“What’s he saying?” Jarlyth demanded.
Pol’s voice. Pol! Thank Vail... “The Midnight Star was right there. It burned down about a year ago. Michael saved all the horses that were trapped and wouldn’t come out.”
“He saw me save the horses.” Michael could feel himself losing consciousness again. He pulled back from the edge of darkness, irritated by its constant pull which kept taking him away from Jary. “S’why he wanted me.”
“Where is he, then?” A brisk voice. Familiar. My healer...
“Jary, is he really dead?”
“In a moment, Nylan,” Jary said, calming.
He does think I’m crazy. I sound crazy.
“Ah, shize,” the healer muttered, and Michael finally focused on a face as the man leaned over him. “He always looks as if he’s been through the wars.” He looked up at Jary and smiled. “Bring him inside, will you?”
#
Jarlyth didn’t want to put Nylan down let alone leave his side, but he’d smiled at the healer and greeted him by name, muttering a half-delirious, “Look, sirra. More scars.”
His wrist was a horrible mess, but for all the lacerations and damage and gruesome amounts of blood, he’d managed not to cut the artery. His face was not much better, but it was hard to see how much damage there was through all the blood.
“It’ll need stitching.” The healer sighed as he examined his wrist first—the worst of Nylan’s injuries. “Must you always require me to sew?”
Jarlyth turned a glare at the man, but his e
yes met Nylan’s instead. The boy gave him a slight shake of the head and a soft smile before returning his attention to the healer.
“You are so good at it,” he whispered. “And then I have such nice, clean scars.”
The man didn’t reply, though he gave the boy a skeptical, raised eyebrow. The girl Jarlyth had seen tending bar before entered the room, carrying a basin of hot water and towels slung over her arm. Another girl followed with a basketful of salves and bandages. The one named Risa looked to Pol’s injuries, bandaging the lesser ones and cleaning him up while he waited his turn with the healer.
Jarlyth left them to it, exiting the room to grab a bit of air and to just have a moment to thank Vail four or five hundred more times for Nylan’s life and restored memory and heroic endurance. He was so brave, so strong, so-
“Sirra, may I speak to you?” Harly asked, unaware he interrupted.
“I should go set fire to the carriage.” Jarlyth’s response drew a confused frown from the innkeeper. “I promised him,” he added with a small smile. “He hates it.”
“There is enough ablaze already, no one would notice an addition.”
Varian’s revelation that the Duke of Reyahl had been the one torturing “their Michael” had set off a near-riot in the street outside the Red Boar. As the news spread throughout Fensgate, it spawned a full-fledged riot. But at some point before he and Harly had headed off to save the boys, the innkeeper had set his plans in motion, taking advantage of the chaos to launch a revolution.
Order had somehow been imposed on the rage and destruction, and from all he’d seen as they’d made their way to the duke’s mansion and back, Jarlyth thought the highborns of Queen’s City had much to fear from this uprising.
Has this really all started because they were angry about what had happened to Nylan?
He followed Harly back down the vast, gaudy staircase into the central salon, empty of gamblers this night but full of people and activity still. People called to Harly, asking questions and demanding decisions. He responded with quick authority. A true leader. He’s been planning this for...years, probably.
SanClare Black (The Prince of Sorrows) Page 35
