He refused to accept that the pale corpse on the bridge was hers.
He poured his power into their bond…
One of the moths had him. He was on his stomach, stretched over her body, and the moth was settling on him, the weight like that of a dog—he felt the…
In the moment that the thing’s probisicis penetrated his back, he took his hate and terror and pushed it right up through the contact, into its body.
The moth exploded.
The poison was lethal, but slower than hermetical counters—he set a construct to cleanse the wound with fire even as he reached for her—
—and found her.
“Anything!” he shouted at the universe. “I will give anything.”
Then, desperation winning over mastery, he pushed her aethereal form off the bridge and into the torrent of green potentia that rushed under it.
The power—the raw power that she channelled so often—washed the caked, burned flakes off her face and left new, fresh skin. Her green gown was gone and she was naked.
He knew his myths, and when he’d held her in the stream long enough, he hauled her by main force onto the bridge, rolled her over and held the leg by which he’d held her in the power.
He had his arms under her arms, his hands clasped under her breasts, when her eyes opened.
She took a breath.
And another.
He pulled her back onto the bridge.
In the real, she was fully clothed. But her eyes were open.
“I thought I was dead,” she said aloud.
The last moth, struck repeatedly by two Fell Swords, tried to reach its prey once more and was spitted on the spear, wielded by Toby, who levered the corpse away from his captain and the nun.
“You’re alive,” Gabriel said. He backed away, his voice strange, his arms still clasped around her as if he was unwilling to let go, and he dragged her away from the corpses of the moths even as Prior Wishart and half the monks of the abbey came at a run, a forest of vengeful swords. There was a long scream from the direction of the cloister.
He was reluctant to let her go. Aware that he had just made a pact with—something—for her life. He could feel it.
He heard the screams. He hauled her into a chair and let her go—one hand lingering on her hair.
It was foolish—stupid—but he had not touched her in so long…
He snapped himself to attention and fell into his own palace.
“There are more of them,” Prudentia said.
He nodded. Having immolated one at point blank range, he had their making in his head, and he knew how to unmake them. More, his rage was such—
“Take a breath,” Prudentia said. “You are badly hurt yourself.”
Instead, he reached out into the darkness, and located them—only three, and those without the ferocity of purpose that had so nearly defeated him.
One was in the town, having killed two women and a child and a cat.
One was in the cloister hunting monks.
One was high in the air overhead, watching. Or rather, monitoring.
Prudentia said, “by offering such a promise you have given something a back door into your soul.”
Gabriel reached out into the night with the same working he had used at the Inn of Dorling. He layered it with a simple working of identity from his intimate contact with the one that had landed on him.
In a flash of golden fire, a low stone house in the town exploded.
To his left, in the cloister, the moth was suddenly outlined in an angry red—and then fell as ash over the rose garden.
High overhead, the largest of all the moths turned away for home.
But Gabriel was sometimes an impatient hunter, and he followed it across the sky with his thought, leaving his wounded body to collapse to the cobbles.
He had never tried this particular form of aethereal movement, and it was terrifying—like being at court while naked. He was bereft of many of his powers—a thing of wind and fancy.
But rage bore him up. Rage cancelled out rational thought and kept him to his mission. He followed the fleeing thing up into the light of the moon, and out, running north to its master.
It didn’t get more than three miles. Gabriel took it in the air and subsumed it, and like a conjuror he caught the single strand of aethereal will by which it was bound to its distant master and he—kept it.
And then he had to find his way back to his body.
When he did, he found it bruised, and with a burn the size of his hand with an ashy black centre high on his back, from which emerged an ugly dark trickle of something that stank.
He touched the growing dampness on his back and his vision tunnelled.
He was in a bed in the infirmary of the abbey. He let his eyes flutter open, and there was the Prior.
“I got them all,” he said grimly. “Is she alive?”
Prior Wishart allowed himself a tired smile. “She’s alive. But your officers have decided that you are not going anywhere today. There are new events, and new reports—the busy world has gone on without you.” He sat on the edge of Ser Gabriel’s bed. “I am not a cruel man—she lives and thrives. Her power cleared the cursed venom from your back at sunrise. I think she is now asleep.”
Ser Gabriel was pinned in the bed by the Prior. He wriggled, clearly reaching for his clothes.
“Give me a moment of your time, Prince Gabriel,” the Prior said.
He handed his charge a cup of warm wine.
“Poppy?” Ser Gabriel asked.
“Only honey,” the Prior said. “You will need all your wits today.”
An hour later—almost noon—they all gathered at the Abbot’s long table in his hall. Ser Gabriel sat with the Prior, and Ser Michael and Ser Alcaeus—with two imperial messenger birds supported on missal stands—sat opposite a swollen-faced Amicia and Ser Thomas, with Ser Gavin and Ser Ricar of the Order, the infidel, Ser Payam, and Ser Christos. There were two other knights of the Order and two lay knights. The Order had many secular members—knights who donated their time, especially to defend caravans or pilgrims.
But next to Ser Gelfred, at the head of the table, sat a young man in blue and yellow checky, whose curling beard and open-faced good looks were marred by youthful rage.
But he mastered himself and rose and bowed to all present.
Ser Gelfred rose with him. “Gentlemen and ladies, Prince Tancredo of Occitan.”
“The Queen’s brother,” Amicia said quietly to Sister Katherine, who sat slightly behind her.
The prince smiled at her. It was like the rising of the sun. Amicia was woman enough to appreciate that, despite his flushed cheeks and the hard, vengeful look around his eyes, his tanned skin and ruddy blond hair and his sharp nose made him one of the handsomest men she’d ever seen. Next to Ser Gabriel’s pale skin and dark hair—
They were a match in size and shape, as well.
The prince was still smiling at her.
“You are, sans doute, the most beautiful nun I have ever seen,” he said with a bow.
Ser Gabriel’s face made a funny twitch.
But he also bowed to her. “It is good to see you alive,” he said.
She felt herself flush.
The other knights—Ser Payam and Ser Thomas and Ser Ricar, all of whom had been badly burned by the ichor in the moths—rose and praised her, and she looked out the window. “It is God, my friends, not me,” she protested, but indeed, the praise of such men was sweet.
Ser Pavalo bowed to her again. He spoke in a language which sounded like Archaic.
“He says that he salutes your great power. He says, it is a gift from God.” Gabriel nodded. “I think he is thanking you for the healing, but I confess my Etruscan’s not as good as his and I’m not sure. Maybe he’s saying you are the most beautiful nun he’s ever seen, too.”
She glared at Gabriel, and he mocked her with his smile.
Prior Wishart cleared his throat.
Gabriel had the
good grace to look abashed. He bowed to the prince. “Your grace—it is a pleasure to have you among us.”
Prior Wishart translated in liquid Occitan, which sounded to Albans like Gallish mixed half and half with Etruscan.
The prince nodded and frowned. He rolled out a long speech, sat back and crossed his arms on his chest.
“The prince says that his cousin Rohiri died this morning, covering his retreat—that he feels like a poltroon, and that he followed this man—this Gelfred—here expecting to save his sister and his own honour. And he says”—Prior Wishart frowned—“some other things which I decline to translate.” He spoke sharply in Occitan to the prince.
Prince Tancredo’s head snapped around. He glared at the Prior, flicked his glance to Amicia, and then flushed.
“I apologize,” he said with a shrug. “I agree. I am not myself.”
Ser Gabriel nodded. “She has that effect on all of us,” he said.
“No, just you,” Ser Michael said. “Well, and the prince.”
Amicia gazed levelly at them, taking her high-carried head and careful diction from her former Abbess. “If you gentlemen are quite finished,” she said. “I believe all of us are interested in rescuing the Queen.”
Gelfred took the Red Knight’s parchment chart of Alba, rolling it out on the table. All the knights present drew their daggers, rondels and baselards, and placed them on the edges to pin the stiff hide in place.
He pointed at Harndon.
“The King—and de Vrailly—hold Harndon. They have five or six hundred lances and a strong infantry force.”
“What of the guilds?” the Prior asked. “My own news is three days old.”
Ser Alcaeus rose. “The guilds are scattered. The proscriptions have driven a great number of prominent city men into the countryside. Ser Gelfred has Ser Gerald—”
“Indeed, he will be in Lorica within the hour,” Gelfred put in.
“But most of the armourers, smiths, and fishmongers, too—have fled the capital.” Ser Alcaeus had a wax tablet he consulted.
“So—de Vrailly has the city,” the Prior said.
Ser Gabriel nodded. “Yes. Win or lose, Ser Ricar and Master Pye made the call for the skilled trades to flee before it came to massacre.”
Ser Ricar nodded.
“This morning,” Ser Alcaeus went on, “de Vrailly led a royal army through the gates to assault the Prince of Occitan’s camp.”
Gelfred nodded. “I warned him.”
“And here he is.” Ser Gabriel nodded.
“De Vrailly and Du Corse, the best of their soldiers, defeated the Occitans after a few hours’ fighting,” Ser Alcaeus said, rather undiplomatically. The prince writhed in his seat. His Alban was clearly good enough to take offence. “My source says that some of the guilds served in the royal army, and that city crossbowmen shot down the last of the prince’s knights.”
The prince slammed his fist on the table.
The Red Knight put a hand on Ser Alcaeus’s shoulder. “Enough!” he said. “The prince doesn’t need to be reminded of his sacrifice. How many lances did he save?”
The prince nodded. “Sixty,” he said. “Knights and squires, sixty of each.” He turned to the Prior and said something.
Prior Wishart nodded. “Spearmen.”
“Mais oui. Bien sur. We did not bring any pages or archers or, as you say, spear-men, as we thought that we were coming to a tourney—a bohars. And not a war.”
Ser Michael leaned forward. He glanced at the captain, who met his eye—encouraging him to speak. “But it is not war yet,” he said.
Bad Tom chuckled. “The barmy King has arrested his own wife an’ your da and it’s not war?” he asked.
Ser Michael managed a thin-lipped smile. “No, by God, it is not, Tom. My father had not paid his taxes, and his loyalty to the crown was…” He shrugged, and his steel pauldrons winked in the sunlight. “Not all it might have been. The arrest of the earl need not be cause for civil war. Nor, I think, is the arrest of the Queen.”
All around the table, men nodded.
The Prior stroked his beard.
The prince looked away, lips pursed in annoyance.
“Killing the Queen, on the other hand,” Ser Gabriel said quietly, “would probably break any remaining loyalties we all felt to the King. Is that not so?”
He looked around. “Gentlemen and ladies, I am a mercenary. I fight for money, and war is my business. In this instance, I find it ironic that I’m reminding you how disastrous war would be for this realm—internal civil war.”
One of the Order’s lay volunteers burst out. “It’s not civil war, Ser Gabriel! It’s all true-hearted Albans agin’ the Galles.”
But Prior Wishart shook his head—and so did Gelfred. Gelfred looked around slowly. “There were more Alban knights—and spearmen—fighting the Occitans than there were Galles,” he said. “De Vrailly and de Rohan have many adherents. Some are greedy men, ’tis sure. But many are merely loyal Albans, fighting for their King.”
Ser Gabriel nodded. “My lords, what we need to do is save the Queen. I think everyone here is aware that I am a warlock. I think many of you know how potent the good Sister Amicia is, as well.” Again, he looked around. Outside, the sun was dimmed briefly by a racing cloud, and then brightened again to a summer-like golden intensity. Easter Monday was a beautiful day. “I suspect that the King is ensorcelled,” he said.
Amicia nodded.
“This King has always been swayed by the nearest opinion, the last word.” He shrugged. “Or so my lady mother, his sister, has always maintained. Such a man would be easy to control with sorcery, I believe.” He looked around. “Whether he is drugged or ensorcelled, the immediate requirement is the rescue of the Queen. That is best done inside the rule of law, by one of us—me, unless you overrule me—fighting on her behalf tomorrow.”
The Prince of Occitan looked startled. Then he spoke to Prior Wishart, and after two or three sentences, he sat back.
“Prince Tancredo asks if you really believe that the Galles will just let you ride into the tourney ground and fight tomorrow? Do you even think that they will hold the tournament? They’ve arrested or attainted most of the participants.”
The Red Knight leaned back, and to Amicia he wore that insufferable look of pleasure he had when he felt he was smarter than everyone else. “They haven’t attainted me,” he said. “Or Michael, or Gavin, or Tom. In fact, no one at this table is attainted except the members of the Order—and the prince, against whom the King has ordered war. The rest of us can legally ride into the lists and fight.” He looked at the Prince. “Prince Tancredo, even tyranny has rules. De Vrailly has to appear to follow the law. He cannot just kill the Queen.”
Tom snorted. “O’ course he can. Boyo, I love ye like a brother, but they can rope us all in an’ kill us, every mother’s son. An’ tell the commons whatever story they please.”
The Red Knight nodded. “I’m not as great a fool as that, Tom. I disagree—but we have several loaded dice in this.”
Tom was cleaning his nails with a dirk as long as most men’s swords. “Eh? Name ’em, y’ loon.” He grinned and waved the knife. “I mean, I’ll come wi’ ye regardless of what mad drivel of a plan you cook up, but I’d like to hear what we have on our side.”
The Red Knight frowned. “I don’t like to lay my plans out.”
The table gave a collective sigh.
Amicia leaned forward. “I think that this time, Gabriel, you must share. We are all risking our lives. This is not one of your military pranks.”
The Red Knight’s face held a flash of annoyance—even anger. But then he met her eye and smiled.
“Yes. Well.” He looked around. “I suppose that if we have a traitor at this point, we’re fucked anyway.”
The men and women of the Order flinched at his bad language. Amicia thought how like a small boy he sometimes was.
“First, we have Gelfred’s men all across the countryside,” he said slowl
y. “Because of them, and their chain of messengers, we have collected the men of the Order and Master Pye’s convoy and all the Occitans who escaped from their camp. That will give us two hundred lances and a solid body of infantry. Not, I confess, enough to face the royal army in the field, if it comes to that. But a potent threat nonetheless, and all of them will converge on Lorica tomorrow morning to cover our retreat.” He smiled at the Prior. “If you agree, of course, my lord, and you, Prince Tancredo.”
“Well eno’ but they won’t cover the tourney field.” Tom was flicking at some black skin where the acid had bitten into his forearms while fighting the moths, using his eating knife to flick the scabs off the already healed flesh beneath.
“No, but your cousin Ranald will,” Ser Gabriel said.
All around the table men turned and commented, or grunted. “Ranald knows the palace and the King’s Guard like the back of his hand, and he’s had four weeks to build—and half of the red banda is with him.”
Tom grinned. “I like that,” he said. “Oh, aye. I like that.”
Ser Gabriel bowed like a small boy at school accepting a prize. “Why thank you, Ser Thomas.” He looked around. “I plan a few diversions as well.”
Amicia thought, He’s still not telling us anything. She leaned forward, greatly daring.
“And you have a plan,” she said. “Let’s hear it.”
Ser Gabriel nodded at her. “I do have a plan. Our greatest ally will be surprise. With my knights, we ride in. I show the Queen’s guerdon and offer to fight de Vrailly. We browbeat them into fighting—I think questioning de Vrailly’s courage ought to get him moving faster than his councillors can stop him. I beat him—and we win.” He smiled. “I think the Galles will be done as soon as de Vrailly’s arse hits the dirt. If the Queen is proven guiltless—”
Prior Wishart shook his head. “I fear you are oversimplifying, my son. The archbishop—I know him, and his type. He will stop at nothing to make sure you are defeated. He will cheat.”
The Red Knight grinned his smug grin. “That’s just it,” he said. “De Vrailly won’t cheat. I don’t think he can.”
Amicia spoke up. “I want to try for the King,” she said.
The Dread Wyrm (Traitor Son Cycle) Page 41
