Dark Lady_s Chosen cotn-4

by Gail Z. Martin

  "I take it Halik and Tadghe reached you?"

  Harrtuck rubbed his beard. "Aye. I had a feeling in my bones we shouldn't have left the queen when Crevan sent us out to put down that uprising. And I was right. It was hardly more than a feast day riot. We turned around to come back as quickly as we locked up the handful of troublemakers, and we were only a day's ride out from the city when your two friends came riding like the Crone Herself was chasing them." He chuckled. "Believe me when I say that it's the first time I've had bards ride down a guard squadron. I took half the group and rode for the lodge, and sent the other half to the palace, just in case." He shook his head, stepping back to make way for Cerise to reach Kiara. "I'm only sorry we didn't get here sooner."

  "Thanks for not shooting me."

  Harrtuck's expression sobered. "I can't lift Crevan's order of banishment, although I can explain why we didn't follow his directions to the letter. But I'm afraid I'll have to take you back to the palace and put you under arrest until Tris comes back." Carroway swallowed hard and nodded. His hand throbbed, making it difficult to think clearly, and blood was soaking through the napkin he had wadded against the wound. The slightest motion of his fingers sent excruciating pain up his arm.

  He watched as Cerise felt for Kiara's pulse and called for a guard to bring her healer's bag

  from her room. "Will she be all right?" Harrtuck asked as Cerise ripped a large enough hole in the side of Kiara's gown to treat the wound.

  "It's a deep cut, but the point of the blade went into the chair. She'll be sore, but it's not the gash that worries me. She's not reacting right."

  "Crevan drugged her with wormroot," Macaria said. She held a cloth against her bleeding temple and was pale enough that Carroway thought she might pass out. "He hit me with the pitcher, and it stunned me. It's good I have a hard head."

  "You're luckier than the guards," Harrtuck said, his voice roughened from the weather. "They're both dead in the guardhouse-poisoned. One of the dogs is dead and the other two looked mighty ill. I'm betting Crevan brought them poisoned meat to shut them up." "Crevan said he'd locked Alle and the servants in the kitchen," Carroway said, not taking his eyes from where Cerise labored over Kiara. Harrtuck barked an order to one of the guards, who left immediately to free the others. Alle joined them in a few minutes, with Jae perched on her shoulder. The little gyregon gave a shrill cry and flew to perch on the top of Kiara's chair. Alle took one look at Macaria and Carroway and left the room, only to return with a bowl of water and strips of cloth for binding. Carroway motioned for her to take care of Macaria first.

  "Looks like you'll have a goose egg tomorrow, but it's not as bad as it could be," Alle said, wiping the blood from Macaria's temple and giving her a cool wet cloth to hold against the injury.

  Alle grimaced as she glanced at Carroway's hand. "That's beyond my skill. When I patched up bar fights with the Resistance, I left the bad stuff for the healers. But I can get you something for the pain." She went to a cabinet at the far side of the room and returned with a bottle of whiskey. Carroway bit back a curse as she gingerly daubed the wound with water to clean it and then splashed it with whiskey. She poured an ample amount of the amber liquid into a cup and pressed it into his good hand. "Drink this before we have to carry you out, too."

  Cerise straightened and stood. They grew silent and looked at her, fearful of what she might say. "Kiara's life isn't in danger, but the wormroot dose he gave her was massive. She's drugged to a stupor, and I have no idea what that will do to the baby." She looked to Harrtuck. "There's no point in keeping her here, since Crevan was the danger. It would be best to get her back to the palace."

  "There's a wagon in the barn," Alle said. "We can leave in the morning if there's no hurry. We're not in much shape to meet up with wolves on the way back by night."

  Cerise nodded. "Agreed. And in the meantime," she said, "I'll see to the two of you as best I can," she said with a look to Macaria and Carroway.

  Harrtuck gave terse orders to his men. He turned back to Carroway and the others. "I'm sorry we didn't get here earlier." He looked down at Crevan's body. "We'll get that out of your way and take it back with us." Harrtuck gave an apologetic look to Carroway. "And I know it doesn't make any sense, but technically, I need to put you under arrest." Macaria looked up sharply, her eyes worried. Carroway gave a slight shake of his head. "I understand," he said, wishing the whiskey did more for the pain. "Surely you can leave him with me long enough for healing," Cerise said, glancing at Harrtuck from where she knelt next to Macaria.

  "For my money, I'd leave him free on his own judgment. But I can't undo the seneschal's edict, and I don't want to make it any worse on him than it already is," Harrtuck muttered. Carroway found himself holding his breath as Cerise turned her attention to his hand. She said nothing, and even her gentle touch was agonizing. His hand curled protectively around the gash through his palm, and straightening out his fingers to let her see the wound made him cry out through gritted teeth. Cerise was silent as she applied a poultice, and Carroway felt her healer's magic closing skin and knitting together tissue. Gradually, the worst of the pain subsided, although the slightest movement of his fingers made his whole hand throb. "I've healed the flesh and sinew, but a hand is a delicate thing," Cerise said. Carroway felt his heart thud in his throat. "I don't know how that will affect motion." "Can I play again?" Carroway asked in a strangled voice, looking at the pieces of Macaria's lute that littered the floor.

  Cerise met his eyes. "I don't know. We'll have to see how it goes. I'm sorry I can't do more." Carroway couldn't bear the look in Macaria's eyes as she gasped at Cerise's words. Macaria reached out to take his uninjured hand, and he knew that she understood just how great a loss it was to him. She pressed his hand against her cheek and brushed her lips against it.

  "I'm glad you're all right," he said quietly, giving her hand a squeeze. She returned a wan smile, and he knew she realized how thin his control was right now. Harrtuck laid a hand on his shoulder. "C'mon, lad. Let's get some sleep. We'll put your arm in a sling tomorrow, so you can handle the reins with the other hand. Don't fret. I've busted up my fingers plenty of times, and I still grip a tankard of ale just fine."

  Chapter Twenty-five

  When the divisionists didn't bother to push a bowl of gruel and a cup of water into his makeshift cell, Cam took the meaning of the sign immediately. No use feeding someone who was going to die.

  It had taken Cam most of a candlemark to wrestle Siarl's body onto the bales of wool that packed most of their prison room. Now, he waited, watching as the pale rays of winter sun moved across the floor of his cell through the gaps between the boards. Outside, he heard Leather John and Ruggs. "The men aren't happy about this," Leather John said. "You've let the king trap us here like rats. So much for your 'glorious' rebellion if we all die."

  "Your men have less spine than a gaggle of milk maids. My men understand that we've drawn the king into a trap. You heard what the runner said-we're in place to make the valley expensive for Donelan."

  "Unless your friend Curane wins his war, that does nothing to free Isencroft. The traitor princess is still married to the king of Margolan. Whether she's here or in Margolan makes no difference. What matters is that the crown of Isencroft remains in Isencroft," Leather John argued.

  "I received a message Crevan sent by pigeon just yesterday. By now, he's eliminated both the princess and the heir. Donelan will have no choice except to declare war on Margolan and nullify the union pact." "And if Donelan dies in battle?"

  Cam could hear the cold humor in Ruggs's voice. "Then Isencroft is ours to remake. We seize the crown and place a king we control on the throne." "Who, you?" Derision was clear in Leather John's voice.

  Ruggs snorted. "I prefer to work from behind the throne. Let some other patch wear the

  motley and be the target."

  "Then who?" Leather John demanded.

  "Alvior of Brunnfen comes to mind," Ruggs replied. "After his father
fell through the ice last winter-an unfortunate accident-Alvior has been most supportive of our cause. He's got royal

  blood-distant, but confirmed. He's the one who maneuvered Crevan into Donelan's sights as a spy. Meanwhile, he's been quietly arming our side. He's had a grudge against Donelan ever since the king gave protection to the twins his father banished. Good reason, too. They both helped put Martris Drayke on Margolan's throne."

  Cam felt as if he'd been gut-punched. His head reeled. Alvior of Brunnfen, his oldest brother. And although he hadn't seen any of his family in the eleven years since he and Carina were exiled, he'd never expected Alvior to side against the king. His chest tightened. Ruggs's words suggested that Alvior had something to do with their father's death. And while Cam had long ago renounced the father who sent him away, the depths of Alvior's treachery made his face flush with shame and anger.

  Unbidden, memories rushed back. Cam and Carina had been barely fourteen years old when their father Asmarr had discovered Carina's healing magic. In the harsh lands of Isencroft's northern reaches, their father had presided over Brunnfen with an iron hand. A distant cousin to the royal family, Asmarr had no patience for the niceties of court. He was as hard as the climate of his lands and as relentless as the cold Northern Sea. For Asmarr, healing only had a place on the battlefield, something to be done for warriors by a warrior- priest. To do more "weakened the herd," as he said.

  Shamed by the birth of twins, Asmarr had submitted to the pleadings of his wife to keep Cam and Carina despite the ill omen. But when Carina's magic manifested, neither the cries of his wife nor the begging of their youngest brother, Renn, would change his mind. Cam and Carina had been banished.

  Ruggs's statement shook Cam. Asmarr was a hard man, but he was never disloyal to the king. Alvior, on the other hand, Cam thought with disgust, had ever only served his own interests. It had been Alvior who discovered the healing Carina practiced in secret and betrayed her to their father. Cam still remembered Alvior standing with Asmarr as the gates of Brunnfen closed behind him and Carina. Alvior had been as expressionless as his father, his eyes utterly lacking in compassion.

  "Won't your patron take exception to us hanging his brother over the wall like a deer from the hunt?"

  Ruggs's laugh was cold. "Mind? I expect he'll reward us. He's been looking for a way to finish what his father started. They're a superstitious lot up north. Swears that Brunnfen's poor

  harvests have been because his father let the twins live." Cam could hear the malice in Ruggs's voice. "The woman is out of our reach. She's gone to Dark Haven, under the protection of its brigand lord. But if I give Alvior a chance for the crown and his brother's head, it's certain to fix a place for me at his right hand." "And the rest of us?" "Loyalty is always rewarded."

  Cam swallowed hard. If Ruggs was correct, then Crevan had already attempted-or succeeded-in killing Kiara and the child she carried. Ruggs seemed confident that Curane had the means to destroy the Margolan army, and Tris along with it. He recalled all too well what Margolan had looked like under Jared's iron hand, and had no illusions that it would be any better when Curane put Jared's bastard son on the throne. All that we fought for, for naught.

  Grief hardened his resolve for the job he had to do this night. There was only one bright spot. The woman's out of our reach, Ruggs had said of Carina. Cam was grateful that Carina was far away in Dark Haven. Jonmarc will keep her safe, Cam thought. That gave him a sense of peace. Maybe I can reclaim some honor for our family, to temper what Alvior has done.

  He could see by the position of the sun that the day was far spent. With his good hand, Cam withdrew the flint and steel Rhistiart had given him from his pocket. He dragged himself closer to the bales of dry wool. Long ago, he had seen a fuller's mill go up in flames when stray sparks from a lantern lit the dust and dung fumes. It had exploded with a boom that shattered the glass in the windows of houses. With any luck, Cam hoped to recreate that spectacle.

  He made a bed of kindling-dry wool near the pile of bales and wedged the flint under his good knee as he struck at it with the steel until sparks lit the dirty fluff. Cam repeated the effort down the length of the bales, painfully dragging himself along until he reached the outer wall. He looked back with satisfaction as the bales quickly caught fire. Before the smoke had grown thick enough to alert Ruggs and the others, the filthy wool caught like dry wood, until the flames roared toward the ceiling, engulfing Siarl's body in a proper pyre. Ruggs opened the door with a curse, and the flames rushed toward the fresh air, forcing Ruggs and the others back. Cam flattened himself against the furthest corner, against the cold outer wall and waited to die.

  All at once, the air around him seemed to glisten like fire. The dusty air exploded with a bang, blowing a hole through the rickety old wall. Deafened from the blast and burned from the fiery bits that rained down on him, Cam crawled with all his might toward the hole as a second explosion lifted the floor beneath him. The gases from the dung pits erupted, and the force threw Cam through the air. He was burning and freezing at the same time. The old mill was a conflagration, sending a pillar of fire high into the frigid night air. Cam laughed through his pain. He landed hard in the deep white snow and surrendered himself to darkness.

  DAY 6

  Chapter Twenty-six

  "Don't move."

  Jonmarc roused from an uneasy rest to find himself staring at the business end of a notched crossbow. The bowman was a vayash moru Jonmarc didn't recognize. Three of his fellows crowded into the pilgrim's chamber, and two of the others held their bows trained on Gabriel.

  "The quarrel might not kill you," the bowman said to Gabriel, who had not moved from where he leaned against the wall, "but it will him," he added with a jerk of his head toward Jonmarc. "So I suggest cooperating."

  Outside, the bells tolled the third hour of the morning. Although the vyrkin shaman had healed Jonmarc's injuries that were life threatening, too many other wounded fighters had needed his assistance for him to bother with the rest of Jonmarc's wounds, intending to heal them later. Exhausted and injured from the battle, stiff from the beating Malesh had inflicted, Jonmarc knew he was not up to another fight. Gabriel's burned and blistered skin had hardly begun to heal, and Jonmarc took that as an indicator that the vayash moru had sustained vital internal damage that was not apparent. Gabriel looked ragged. The odds were against them winning this battle, especially when Jonmarc spotted four more vayash moru armed with swords waiting in the ruined temple. "Malesh was destroyed," Gabriel snapped. "The war is over."

  The dark haired man whose bow was pointed at Jonmarc shook his head. "We were sent by the Blood Council. You're to be brought before them for trial."

  "The Blood Council?" Jonmarc started to sit up, then thought better of it as the bowman calibrated his aim.

  "What nonsense is this?" Gabriel's voice was thick with disgust. "The Council dissolved." "Lord Rafe issued the order for your arrest. You're both to be brought to answer to the Council for your actions. The charge is treason." "Treason!" Gabriel snarled. "By whose measure?"

  The dark haired man's face was stony. "You betrayed the Blood to side with the mortals

  against vayash moru." He met Jonmarc's glare. "And you betrayed your sacred oath as Lord of Dark Haven when you made war against our kind." "I have a few things to say to Lord Rafe," Gabriel said.

  The dark haired man signaled for the other vayash moru to enter. "Bind them. We'll carry them to the carriage on the road so that there are no tracks to follow." A crossbow fired. Jonmarc flinched, expecting to feel the razor-sharp point lancing through his skin. Instead, he saw Gabriel stiffen, his face tight with pain, eyes wide. The bolt pierced his heart.

  "That will make sure he doesn't attempt anything heroic," the dark haired man said, meeting Jonmarc's gaze. "He'll recover. The Council's only requirement was that you be alive to stand trial. They didn't specify in what condition."

  Jonmarc gritted his teeth as a vayash moru came forward to bind his wrists
and jerked him to his feet. Another vayash moru lifted Gabriel as if he were weightless and carried him from the room. Jonmarc looked around the temple at the wreckage from the battle. Where Malesh had fallen lay a pile of charred clothing. Jonmarc winced at the sight of the large bloodstain that marked where he had gone down before Gabriel reached him. Outside, the snow was trampled and dark with ash and blood. Just as the bitter wind struck him, a vayash moru grabbed him hard from behind, squeezing his cracked ribs in an iron grip. Jonmarc fought back a cry of pain as they lifted off from the ground, traveling in a rush of air and snow to touch back down on a rutted road a few minutes later. An expensive black carriage waited for him. The team of four black stallions snuffled and pawed at the snow impatiently. His captors trundled him none too gently into the carriage, thrusting Gabriel in behind him like a piece of luggage, and locked the carriage door. Jonmarc struggled to lift Gabriel as gently as he could without putting any pressure on the arrow that pierced his chest. He managed to get Gabriel onto the carriage seat, where he slumped to the side and sat unmoving. Only his eyes moved, and Jonmarc clearly read pain in Gabriel's gaze.

  "Lovely end to a perfect day," Jonmarc muttered, sitting down on the seat facing Gabriel. The carriage bumped and jostled roughly as the horses raced through the night. After more than a candlemark, the carriage slowed. Out the frosted window, Jonmarc could see the silhouette of a manor house.

  Where Wolvenskorn was notable for its great age and Dark Haven for its austerity, this grand home was much newer, in the style of King Staden's palace. Made from brick and granite, the three-story structure was topped with a carved stone railing. Gargoyles and grotesques looked down on the entrance, which was flanked by two equally large wings of the building. Candles glittered in every window as if the grand home awaited guests for a ball. Jonmarc felt his gut tighten. Too tasteful to be Uri's home at Scothnaran, not ascetic enough to be Rafe's country villa, this had to be Astasia's manor. That alone did not bode well.