The Prince of Lies
Page 43
He tried to sit up but fell back, his head spinning. He raised his hand to the light, wondering why he no longer had manacle scars on his wrists from his time in Bedlam. Of course. He was Mal now, not Sandy. The spareness of his flesh had fooled him for a moment.
A movement at his side caught his eye, and he realised that Kiiren was asleep on the bed next to him, fully clothed and curled up like a puppy. He reached out and stroked one of the dark curls with a fingertip, reluctant to disturb him.
“You’re awake.”
She stood in the doorway, her face alight with joy. His wife. Jacomina. He tried to speak, but his throat was dry as dust. She hurried over to the bed and poured him a cup of some pale, sour liquid.
“It’s just small ale,” she said, when he wrinkled his nose. “The doctor said you weren’t to drink anything stronger until you’re up on your feet. I’ll send for some broth when you’re ready.”
He let her fuss over him.
“You’ve been asleep for three days.” She helped him into a sitting position and straightened the blankets around him. “Kit never left your side. How…?”
“How did he find me? The same way he always does, by not giving up.”
“He said you turned away, you chose to stay there, in the dreamlands.”
“I had no choice.” He stared into the distance. “I couldn’t let those creatures get away, they were too dangerous. So, I drew them off, and when they tired of chasing me I hunted them down.”
“You killed them.”
He shrugged. “What would you have me do, take them back to the skraylings in chains, like Ilianwe? We know how well that turned out.”
“And now?”
“Now we are safe. They are gone, and England is free.”
She toyed with the chatelaine in her lap. “When… when I last saw you, in the Tower… you told me you were Erishen, and that Mal is no more.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
Her head jerked up. “You lied?”
“No. But I had to surrender to Erishen, for the healing of our souls to work. For those first few hours he had free rein, and I could only stand by and listen.”
“You were possessed.”
“I suppose that’s one way to describe it.”
“And now?”
“Now… Now I know what Sandy meant. He is part of me.” He took her hand again. “He is part of me, not I part of him.”
“Sandy, or Erishen?”
“Both. But mostly Erishen. Sandy is gone, all but a few memories.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too. But it was the only way to defeat the guisers.”
“And now they’re gone, you’ll stay.” It was not a question.
“Aye, I’ll stay.” He sighed. “For a long time I hoped the skraylings would take us back, Kiiren and me. But I fear they will not. Not me, at any rate. Kiiren was an innocent in all this, and he is still young, with many lifetimes ahead of him.”
“You can put aside your dearest companion so easily?”
Mal scanned her face, trying to read her thoughts without invading her mind. Was she talking about Kiiren still, or herself?
“I may not give him the choice,” he said. “But we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, eh?”
He held out his free arm, and she lay down on the bed at his side, head pillowed on his chest. After a moment she leaned up and kissed him, tentatively, like she was afraid he might disappear again. He hesitated, expecting Erishen’s memories to overwhelm him as they had on the journey to Venice, but the taste of her lips brought back newer and more joyous memories of his own and he returned her kiss at last with a passion he scarcely had strength for.
“Ssh, you need to rest,” she said at last, and pulled him down so that she could lay her head upon his shoulder.
He watched the western sky darken from turquoise to cobalt to deep lapis blue. Rest now, but afterwards? He and his family might enjoy a respite for months, even years, but the guisers would be back; he would wager his soul on it.
The truth was, he could hardly wait.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The masque is over, the leftover sweetmeats sent down to the servants' hall, and it's time to say farewell to Mal and friends - but not without thanking everyone who made his final adventure possible.
Once again I sought professional help with my Latin. The sentences and phrases in the classroom scenes in Part Two were created with the patient assistance of Mark Davies, ARC Research Associate (Classics) in the School of Humanities at the University of Adelaide. Any errors introduced during the writing process are mine.
It's not just the academic stuff that needs researching for these books, though. As an armchair adventuress, I don't have hands-on experience of all the practical skills my characters possess, particularly the more dangerous ones! In particular, I would like to thank fellow author Courtney Schafer for all her help with the climbing scene in Chapter XIII. I can't climb for toffee, so I had no idea what was really practical with the technology of the period.
I mustn't forget the yeoman warders (aka Beefeaters) at the Tower of London, who answered my slightly odd questions about how to get into and out of the Bloody Tower, and more crucially didn't arrest me when I ignored the armoury displays in the White Tower in favour of sketching the castle layout. OK, so maybe I was planning an act of terrorism - just not in this century!
As with previous books, my beta-readers Laura Lam and Alex Beecroft were invaluable in giving a fresh perspective on the story, which always difficult when you know the series inside-out yourself. On that same front, I'd like to thank my editor Marc Gascoigne for his professional insight in catching the areas where I tend to have blind-spots. And speaking of Marc, I'd like to thank everyone at Angry Robot - it's been a pleasure working with you guys for the past three years.
Last but not least, thank you again to all you readers who have stuck with Mal through his adventures and expressed your appreciation via Twitter, Facebook, Goodreads, etc. I can't promise there will be any more - I'm working on a completely new setting for my next project - but you never know...
Anne Lyle
Cambridge, August 2013
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Anne Lyle was born in what is known to the tourist industry in the UK as “Robin Hood Country”, and grew up fascinated by English history, folklore, and swashbuckling heroes. Unfortunately there was little demand in 1970s Nottingham for diminutive swordswomen, so she studied sensible subjects like science and languages instead.
It appears that although you can take the girl out of Sherwood Forest, you can’t take Sherwood Forest out of the girl. She now spends every spare hour writing (or at least planning) fantasy fiction about spies, actors, outlaws and other folk on the fringes of society.
Anne lives in Cambridge, a city full of medieval and Tudor buildings where cattle graze on the common land much as they did in Shakespeare’s London. She prides herself on being able to ride a horse (badly), sew a sampler and cut a quill pen but hasn’t the least idea how to drive one of those new-fangled automobile thingies.
www.annelyle.com
twitter.com/AnneLyle
Table of Contents
THE PRINCE OF LIES
PART ONE
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
PART TWO
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXV
CHAPTER XXVI
CHAPTER XXVIII
CHAPTER XXIX
CHAPTER XXX
CHAPTER XXXI
CHAPTER XXXII
CHAPTER XXXIII
CHAPTER XXXIV
CHAPTER XXXV
CHAPTER XXXVI
CHAPTER XXXVII
CHAPTER XXXVIII
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR