The sound she made was less a word than a scream of agony ripped from her soul.
Lifeless eyes stared out at Renda from just ahead—dark, terrified eyes clouded nearly to white and turned somehow wrong, somehow upside down in the darkness where the child’s head had fallen back against the rude tree stump. Her black ringlets hung in limp plugs of sweat and blood around her eyes, around her frozen expression of agony and fear, in that last moment when she knew that no one could save her now, not even her Auntie Renda.
Her pale white hands and feet had been spread wide and pinioned to the stump with a single rope. Her blood swamped the ground below the alderwood stump and clung to the bark in sticky clotted streamers below what was left of her body. So much blood...
Renda planted the blade of her sword in the soil and sank to the ground beside it. No words came, just a guttural rending shriek of rage and loss that filled the glade and echoed through the foothills beyond. Her empty stomach convulsed, and she gagged wretchedly on the ground before the strange altar.
Gikka knelt beside Renda and said nothing, letting the sobs of anger and shock drain out of the knight. Soon, Renda would be ready to find Pegrine’s killer, but not now. Not while the shock of her niece’s torture and death still bled from her eyes. Meanwhile, their quarry moved farther and farther away, and the trail cooled. Time was their enemy.
The thicket surrounding the clearing had been silent when she approached it, so quiet in fact that she had been inclined to ride past. But the nesting birds and the tiny scurrying creatures of the night, even the crickets had made no sound at Zinion’s approach. They seemed too frightened even to call warnings to each other. That curious silence had been enough to pique her curiosity and lead her into the glade.
The silence had told her something else, as well. She had frightened no one away, nor had she heard the sounds of horse or man in the surrounding hills. The killing had been done hours ago, most likely well before sunset, and the killer or killers were already well away. The best she could hope to find, then, would be some fragments of a trail. She hoped it would be enough.
She squeezed Renda’s shoulder once, then rose, picking up the lantern to look around the clearing. She would look over the glade again, this time with the calculating eye of an assassin, of one used to dealing death and concealing it.
She picked up handfuls of the soil here and there and looked along the borders of the glade for broken branches. Almost immediately, she found two marks that might have been partial footprints near the edge of the clearing. With her finger, she completed the outlines of the two prints and sat back on her haunches, staring at them.
The steps had been very heavy, as of an armored man, with the familiar crenelations of a knight’s salleret. The two prints were not just alike, though they were both left feet. Different weights, different stances.
Knights, she thought bitterly, a brace of treasonous knights. But to what end, she wondered, brushing the dust from her leggings as she stood. To what end, killing the sheriff’s granddaughter?
She frowned at the peculiar growth of the ancient trees lining the glade, the way they bunched and crowded at the edges of the clearing like the duke’s vassals at tournament, crushed together in no comfort and each straining to see, aye, but not one to cross the cordon. No cordon hung in this clearing, at least none that she could see, but the boundaries were keen and even, she saw, and likely lined up along the stars as well. This glade was witched, that much was sure, and the way Peg had died spoke of ritual sacrifice.
Gikka pushed aside some bits of dried mud with her nail and frowned. Nights spent huddled for warmth in one Brannford temple or another had educated her in the ways of most of the gods—Bremondine, Syonese, even Hadrian. This glade, this ritual, matched nothing she had ever seen.
Had it been blood alone, it would have made little enough sense. Human blood would desecrate the altars of most gods. And the rest—Rjeinar the Hadrian god of vengeance, Cuvien the Torturess, and a few others—held to strict observances, none of which had been kept here. Blood was a high price, and an innocent’s blood, the highest of all. A price none of the gods took lightly on account of the uncomfortable lot of power it bought of them. To say nothing of the kind of folk as would pay for that power.
But they, whoever they were, had not taken just her blood. Pegrine had been cleaned like an elk, her insides taken away. That made no sense at all.
The killers had taken the blade with them, too; no doubt it was a special ritual weapon and of dear price. One they might use again. Even so, she might have expected them to set it down once, if only for a moment that she could see the size or shape of it. They had not. Likewise she found no indentations for any bowls to catch Peg’s blood or her organs.
She pushed through the tree limbs beyond where she had found the knights’ footprints and proved to herself that her instincts were correct. As she expected, she saw no tracks, no broken limbs on the trees. Not even the spoor of the knights’ horses, assuming, and she thought the assumption fair, that they had ridden here from Brannagh. All she had were two partial left bootprints, and these with no motion to them. Most likely, her knights had stood here for a time, waiting, and then they had gone. But where? She rocked back on her heels, considering.
“Sweet B’radik,” whispered Renda finally, her eyes wide, her lips trembling. She stood, her face a stone mask of horror, and moved toward the terrible altar, raising her sword to cut the rope and free her niece’s body.
“Renda, stay back,” barked Gikka, “please.” The squire’s face was drawn and pale, and the light of the swinging lantern cast strange shadows over her features. “Please. Let me be sure they’ve not...” She gestured toward the child’s body. “That she—that her body’s not set as bait and trap.”
She watched the dull realization dawn in Renda’s eyes. They had both seen the wounded and dead, especially children, set with wicked powders and elixirs, to explode in flame or a cloud of poison when they were touched.
After only a moment, Renda nodded, gesturing for Gikka to do as she thought best. Then she walked away, leaving Gikka to her work.
Much later, Gikka found Renda standing beside Alandro, numb and staring through the trees with her eyes like shining amber against the black shadows. Renda had split the vein of a sacred verinara leaf and consecrated her sword before Rjeinar. A dangerous oath for a knight sworn to B’radik.
Without a word, Gikka also picked a perfect verinara leaf and split the vein with her own sword. But then she picked another, crushed it and ran the length of her blade through the poisonous juice. She did the same with her daggers.
Rjeinar’s priests held that verinara was a holy poison; it would kill only the guilty one. But Gikka did not trust superstition. In open air, the juice went stale within two days, about the time it took for the leaf to yellow—a Hadrian would pin the leaf to his cloak that he might have his revenge before it faded—but during those two days, no one, guilty or innocent, could survive the poison without a draft of anoverinara. Even then, he would spend many days abed praying for a merciful death while the poison burned away the lining of his gut. Without the ano or having taken it too late, a man would bleed away into his belly.
To her mind, verinara was too easy a death for these knights.
“Ever the practical one,” sighed the knight as she watched Gikka sheath her freshly poisoned daggers. Then, with a sad smile, Renda clapped her hand at her squire’s shoulder. “Come,” she said. “We must get her back to the castle.”
* * *
At a cry from the watch at the gatehouse, everyone had come running out to the castle gate to cheer Renda and Gikka and especially little Pegrine on their return home. All the well-wishers stood clumped in a tight wad just inside the gates behind Lord Daerwin and Lady Glynnis, bobbing their heads round one another to be the first to see the lanterns through the darkness.
Both of the lanterns the women had taken with them had nearly burned out, so the horses were over the b
ridge and at the castle wall before anyone could see them clearly. At first, those of the house saw only a single riderless horse, which the grooms recognized presently as Alandro, with a peculiar burden strapped across the saddle. Renda walked beside her horse, holding his rein more for her own comfort than to lead him back to the castle, and as she drew him into the torchlight, the household’s cheer became a gasp of shock.
To Renda’s utter sorrow, she and Gikka had been unable to create any illusion of peaceful repose for Pegrine’s body. They had reached her far too late to be able to bend her limbs into a restful pose; her stiffened arms and legs were obscenely splayed and bent out from her body as if she still lay upon the hideous altar. As further insult to her dignity, they had had to tie her over the saddle on her back, with her head held over Alandro’s flank and her feet stiffly poised above each of his shoulders. Renda had covered the body with her mantle before she tied it down with Gikka’s rope, and now, coming into the light, she saw that the brilliant Brannagh coat of arms had sunk down into the open hollow of the child’s body and was clotted black and red with blood.
Behind Renda, Gikka dismounted behind Alandro, emerging seemingly from the shadows themselves, and began untying Pegrine’s body from the saddle. As the women worked, the knights and servants who had gathered slowly retreated from their helplessness at the horrible scene, leaving only those oldest and best trusted to attend the family’s sorrow.
Renda lay the tiny cloak-covered body at her father’s feet and watched the last light of hope drain from his gray eyes. He only stared down at the horribly twisted bundle that had once been his granddaughter, the sole child of his dead son.
“Pegrine,” whispered Lady Glynnis, kneeling beside the tiny body and touching her fingertips to the little girl’s shrouded face. Renda knelt beside her mother and gently drew her hand away, but not soon enough. The flesh beneath the cloak was hard and cold and contorted into a cry of agony, and at the touch of it, Renda watched her mother’s eyes widen with horror. “She knew such pain and fear. Ah, my poor darling,” the woman breathed. Her hand fell away from the cloak.
“Aye,” answered Renda simply.
But Lady Glynnis seemed not to hear. She stood, and Renda watched her mother look out over the fields, not toward the place where Pegrine died, but south, toward that battleground where the sheriff and his knights had held off an attack four years ago. To the place where her son, Roquandor, had fallen. Now the last of him was gone, as well. She collapsed against her daughter in painful, graceless sobs.
At a wave of Renda’s hand, two serving women wiped away their tears to lead Her Ladyship back into the castle. In hushed tones, Renda suggested that they lead her into the new chapel in the east wing where she might take comfort from prayer, but Lady Glynnis said she would rather go to her own chambers to rest. Her tone was strangely calm, and Renda saw a worried glance pass between the two maidservants. They would not leave Her Ladyship alone tonight.
From just inside the castle door where her mother passed with the servants, Renda thought she could see the pale light of Nara’s habit. The nun had stayed back, unsure whether she would be welcome at Pegrine’s homecoming. Now she came forward trembling, wringing her hands, looking from one knight’s face to another as she passed, looking for some hope in any of their eyes, until at last she stood beside the sheriff and his daughter.
Suddenly, she shrieked. But the scream she uttered was less of anguish than of pure terror, and the old nun stumbled backward, away from the body. Her mouth moved in a babble of prayers and her hands worked frantically until she stood with her back against the castle wall, flattened as if she would press her way right through it.
Renda stepped back, trying to understand.
Nara was warding against some evil presence. She was calling upon B’radik’s most powerful protections, and not for herself—for the whole of Castle Brannagh. But why?
Renda looked back, seeing the still form of her niece on the ground, the equally unmoving forms of her father and Gikka, both of whom stood watching Nara in alarm. Certainly the cold darkness of the clearing had lingered on Renda’s soul during the journey back to the castle, but she did not feel that now except as a memory. What did Nara see here?
Then Renda saw something else that frightened her more than any evil Nara might see: B’radik was not answering the nun’s pleas.
“Nara?” Renda took a step toward her, but at the sound of her voice, Nara only grew more desperate. She turned, screaming in terror, and clawed at the castle wall until her fingers left streaks of blood. A few moments later, her energy spent, she dropped to the ground. By the time Renda reached her side, the glow of the nun’s habit had faded until it was nearly gone.
“You,” shouted Gikka to the two stablemen who had come to take the horses. “Run, fetch a priest from the temple for Nara, and one of power, mind. Quick, quick! Take our horses, go!” At that, the two men leaped into the saddles and kicked the horses into a full gallop toward the temple.
Renda lifted Nara and carried her just inside the castle doors, followed by a pair of the sheriff’s knights. At once, the men gave up their fur cloaks, one that Nara might lie upon it, the other to cover the old woman and keep her warm. She still breathed, though barely, and her eyes were rolling wildly under half-opened lids.
Renda held Nara’s cold hand to warm it in her own, and she brushed her other hand over the woman’s bare scalp, fingering the thin even veil of white hair that spilled down from just above Nara’s ears. The tips of Nara’s fingers had been shredded and deeply bruised against the stone, and thick dark blood oozed and welled. Renda shut her eyes and whispered prayers for Nara and for Pegrine, shutting out the haunting images of the little girl’s face and the slimy black ribbons of blood that they had had to pull from her in the clearing.
“B’radik...” Nara’s lips were dry, and her voice was faint. “Darkness. No light...”
“Hush, Nara,” soothed the knight. “All will be well.”
“Darkness rises and smothers light, ill-fed on dragon’s blood...”
Renda frowned and stroked Nara’s hair gently. “Dragon’s blood,” she repeated softly. The dragon was the emblem of the House of Damerien. She could only mean Damerien blood, Brannagh blood, her own. Renda swallowed hard. Pegrine’s blood. Dear B’radik, what had happened to Pegrine? What did Nara see?
“Darkness, oh, darkness upon us! The prophecy...”
“Prophecy?” Renda looked down at the nun’s face. “What prophecy?”
But upon having uttered that single word, Nara fell unconscious beneath the knight’s hand, as if someone would not let her answer.
Some time later, Renda looked up to see two priests from the hospice, both young and not yet glowing with all the power of B’radik, running through the doorway to Nara’s side. Renda’s heart sank. Surely if Nara could not command the power of B’radik, these two would fail. But as they prayed and dripped a few drops of healing oil onto Nara’s lips, the glow of her habit seemed to brighten just a little—an encouraging sign. Renda stood and backed away, letting the two priests work.
“Renda.” The voice was Gikka’s, coming from just outside the door. When Renda joined her, they walked outside toward where their lathered horses, just returned from the hospice, stood waiting.
Renda looked toward her father and paused. Left to himself, the sheriff had nothing to take his thoughts from the dark shape on the ground before him. After a time, he breathed out, and his body shuddered slightly, ever so slightly.
Gikka followed Renda’s gaze. “He’s older by ten years this hour, weak and weary with his grief.”
Her heart ached for him, ached for his anguish, but she could not allow herself to share in it. She had purged the pain from her heart, at least for now. As she had learned from the war, mourning the dead could wait.
“Has he any insight?”
Her squire nodded, collecting her thoughts. “Two Wirthing knights come calling yesterday asking to stay the tenday.
”
Renda rubbed her eyes. “Yes, I saw them, but I cannot see how…”
“Hear me,” Gikka said, lowering her voice though no one was nearby. “When Matow went to ask their help in the search, they were gone. No leave taken, yet of horses, of clothing, of armor, nothing remains of them. The boot prints I saw in the glade…It could only be these very men.”
Renda thought a moment, then shook her head. “Knights, especially Wirthing knights, allied to Brannagh for a thousand years, would never do such a thing.”
“Not actual knights, Renda. Thieves and worse. Two dead men Jadin found at the river, as would be the real Wirthing knights. These others come posing in Wirthing colors, no doubt with other intention, but they see the child, lead her away and…”
It still made no sense. What brigand would trouble himself to attack Wirthing’s knights, disguise himself to make entry at Brannagh, then take and kill a highborn child when there was surely more profit in ransom?
Gikka seemed to follow her thought. “Killing her that way, they have to know we’d come after, so there’s more behind this than simple coin. Something more remains to be found, something touching on why she died that way. Something we don’t know.” She looked out at the dark road. “But we’ll not find it here.”
“No,” Renda breathed. She moved toward Alandro.
“Something else you should know,” Gikka said, catching her arm. “Your father…Renda, I’ve not seen him so dark and cold, not even when Roquandor fell, begging your pardon.”
“Aye, and with good reason,” Renda looked down at where Gikka held her arm.
“He made clear to me that he does not want them brought back to his dungeons for trial.”
Renda’s gaze met hers.
“No room for knightish nonsense and justice in this. It will be an ugly business, not worthy to stain your honor by.” When she saw that Renda understood, she released her arm and made her own way toward Zinion. “You’ve no need to go; I can see to these myself.” She nodded toward the sad progression of knights and servants that followed Pegrine’s tiny makeshift bier into the castle behind the sheriff. “The family’ll be expecting you to sit the vigil.”
Sword of Hemlock (Lords of Syon Saga Book 1) Page 4
