He stepped back and drove the blade in again, and Cameron gasped in shock and pain. Then Marek ripped the blood-soaked sword free and the next thing Cameron knew he was lying on the ground staring up at the night’s sky and the stars twinkling there, fighting their constant, unwinnable battle against the darkness. Then his vision dimmed, those bright shining lights disappeared, faded into nothing, and Cameron followed them.
The last thing he knew, a voice followed him into that darkness, “Take his body into the woods. Let the wolves have him.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
There was a knock at the door, and Harmen hissed a curse. “Just a minute.” He hurriedly restacked the papers through which he’d been searching and stuffed them back into Memory’s desk, sliding the drawer shut. Then he took one glance around the room and opened the door.
“Oh,” Myra said, surprised, “I’m sorry, I came to speak with Memory.” She looked over Harmen’s shoulder and into the room with an inquisitiveness he didn’t like. Nosy bitch.
He stepped out of the room, forcing the woman to take a step back to get out of his way and closed the door behind him. He didn’t like the old woman, didn’t like the way she always seemed to be watching him just a bit too hard. “She’s gone out, left me in charge till she gets back.”
“Ah,” the old woman said, running a hand over the tightly-packed bun of gray-brown hair that always looked ridiculous to Harmen. “Well … I don’t suppose she left any idea when she’d be back?”
Harmen grunted, “She didn’t deign to trust me with such.” He took a moment to take in the old woman’s red face. And was that sweat on her forehead? “What’s got you so worked up?”
She shook her head, “Oh, I’m sure she’ll be back soon. I’ll just wai—”
“Now, now, Myra,” he said, trying a smile, “we’re all on the same side here and, as I said, she’s left me in charge till she gets back. Now, what’s got you in such a lather?”
The old woman looked around as if unsure, and Harmen was tempted to jerk her up and tell her to spit it out. But, after a moment, she came to a decision and turned back to him, “It’s Isaak.”
“Yeah?” He asked, not bothering to hide his annoyance, “What about ‘em?”
“He’s awake. It’s a miracle, given his wounds, but he is. What’s more, he’s speaking. He said he needed to speak to her, her and only her, but … I fear he won’t make it much longer.”
“How long?”
The old woman shrugged, looking more worried now than before she’d told him, “A day. Maybe two. There’s no way to know for sure.”
Harmen grunted, nodding. “Show me.”
***
The first thing that struck Harmen as he came to the door of the small cavern where the sick and wounded were treated was the smell. A sickly, cloying smell of rot and blood. He hesitated at the draped cloth that served as a doorway, turning to the old woman. “I’ll take it from here.”
Myra looked surprised, “I’ll stay of course. He may need someone to—”
“I’ll watch after him,” Harmen interrupted, his voice implacable. “Besides, you said yourself, the man doesn’t have long, a day or two.”
“I could be wrong,” she said, her wrinkled face setting in defiance, “Besides, if his bandages need changing who’ll do it? You?”
Harmen resisted the urge to slap the woman, but barely. Instead, he forced a smile on his face, “Yes.” He leaned in conspiratorially, “There’s no telling what he’s got to report, now that he’s lucid, Myra. And you know no one is supposed to know what goes on with our agents exceptin’ Memory and myself. That way, if someone’s caught, they can’t give up the rest of us. Memory herself said for it to be so, you know that.”
He watched, pleased as doubt began to creep into her stern expression. “Well … you’re right enough, but I think … surely, an exception?”
He smiled benignly—the smile came easier this time—” Well, Myra, I can’t say as I remember Memory sayin’ anything about exceptions. Do you?”
The woman was frowning now, “Well … no, but if she was here she’d—”
“Well, she ain’t here,” Harmen said, his smile still well in place, “and the best we can all do is to keep to her orders while she’s gone, wouldn’t you say? As for me, I sure wouldn’t want to be the one went against her orders. Why, a person like that, she might kick ‘em out of her little family here altogether, don’t you think? Anyway, seems to me you could do with a bit of a rest. Lookin’ a little ragged around the edges.”
He was amused to see real tears threatening in the woman’s eyes at the thought of being set out. As if being forced to leave the miserable, damp and cold caverns full of crying babies and sick people was a death sentence. “Well,” she said, “I just don’t….”
“Tell ya what,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder, a kind father humoring a favored child, “I’ll just ask him a couple of questions, five minutes, no more than that and then you can be back with your charge. How’s that sound?”
She nodded slowly, defeated, “Alright,” she said, “I suppose I could use a short break.”
He nodded back, pleased. “Oh,” he said, grabbing her as she turned to go, “One more thing, Myra.”
She glanced at her arm where he held her then back at him, her eyes wide and round. “Y-yes?”
He shrugged, as if it were of little importance, “He didn’t … by chance say anything to you, did he? Before you came to get me, that was?”
She met his eyes and slowly shook her head, “No. He’d only just woken. He asked for Memory, and I immediately went to get her.”
Harmen nodded and leaned close, squeezing her arm a little tighter, “You’re sure, then? Nothing else?”
She winced in his grip, “No sir. Nothing else.”
Sir. He liked the sound of that. “Good,” he said, releasing her, “Well, you run along. I’ll be done directly.”
Harmen watched her shamble away, her head down, grinning in truth now. Then he turned and went into the room.
Isaak was laid on a small cot, the nubs where his hands used to be covered in tightly packed bandages. His face, too, was bandaged, so thoroughly that only one eye, the only one he had left, was visible. He lay, staring at the ceiling, apparently unable to turn to see who’d entered. “Mem…ry? That … you?”
His voice was a half-heard whisper, each syllable costing him a visible effort. Harmen walked to the bed and stood above him. “Not Memory.” He said, smiling, “No, you’re not so lucky as that.”
The dying man stared up at Harmen, “Y-you.”
“Aye, it’s me.” He grunted, “And I’ll be honest with ya, Isaak. I wouldn’t be expecting any of those sluts in the caves to be chasin’ ya now. Why, you look pretty much like a monster, I’d say.”
He waited, grinning, for the man to reply. When he didn’t, Harmen frowned, “Well? Myra said you needed to talk to me.”
“Not … you. Memory. Have to … tell her.”
“Well, she’s gone,” Harmen said with a sigh, “off to the Divines know where. Anyway, anything you want to tell her, you can tell me. You’ve my word I’ll tell her soon as she gets back. Shit, you can tell her yourself. Myra tells me you’re past the worst of it, oughtta be up on your own two feet in another week, maybe two.”
Hope sparkled in that single eye. “It’s … true?”
Harmen nodded, “So the old lady tells me, and she seems quite sure of it. But if what you’ve got to say’s important … well, you can tell me now, and I’ll let Memory know just as soon as she’s back.”
“Okay,” the dying man said, his head twitching slightly in what might have been a nod, “think … a sp—” he cut off in a fit of coughing, and Harmen winced in disgust as the young man hacked up blood, several specks of which landed on his shirt. “A spy ….” The man said, once he’d regained himself, “in … rebellion.”
Harmen stared at him, his eyes wide, “You’re serious. You mean one of us ha
s turned traitor?”
That almost imperceptible nod again, the one good eye studying him. Harmen frowned, considering, “Well, I suppose it could be true. One of the new families, maybe, someone not too keen on sleeping in caves. I’ll look into it.”
“N-no,” the man said, his voice firmer than Harmen had yet heard it. “Not .. new. Someone high. Someone … Memory trusts. The … pickup. It was an ambush.”
“Sure,” Harmen said slowly, “Listen, you and I know better but … some folks’ll ask if maybe you and Shem didn’t just mess up. Got careless maybe. Shit, might’ve even been the shopkeeper. I never did trust the—”
“No. Not … shopkeeper. Was as … surprised as us. Died trying … trying to save us.”
Harmen nodded, “Okay. Still, and you know I believe you but … ain’t folks gonna think that maybe, you know, you two got careless? Maybe let someone know when your next meeting was you shouldn’t have?”
“No,” the dying man croaked, coughing out fresh specks of blood as he got worked up, “can’t be. Always … changed our times.”
“Sure,” Harmen said, bending over so that his face was only inches away from Isaak’s. “But you had to tell somebody, right, Isaak? I mean … who could have known? Who did you tell? Surely someone knew.”
The man was visibly upset now, sweat breaking out on his forehead, “No … one. Except Memory. Memory and….” He cut off, his single good eye widening in realization.
“Ah, there we are,” Harmen said, sitting in the chair beside the bed, “I knew you’d figure it out. You always were a clever one, weren’t you, Isaak? Always with something clever to say to make a man feel like an asshole and turn the heads of the sluts hanging around in these caverns. Funny. Doesn’t seem like you have anything clever to say now, eh? Why is that, I wonder?”
“Y-you….”
“Yeah, that’s right. Me.” Harmen sighed and jerked a pillow out from under the dying man’s head. “Course, the bastards were supposed to finish the job, but, hey, what can ya do?”
The man’s scream came out as a croaked groan, quickly cut off as Harmen pushed the pillow onto his face. The wounded man fought, but his struggles were pitiful, like a child’s. Before long, they stopped altogether and it was done. Harmen sat back, wiping the sweat from his own brow and tucked the pillow back under the dead man’s head. Then he gave the smile a moment to fade from his face, slowly twisting his expression into one of grief—not too much grief, though, it was known that there wasn’t a lot of love lost between Harmen and the preening fool. Then, mask well in place, he yelled for the old woman.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“Well, what do you think? Leandria?”
She turned away from where she was looking out of the castle window, trying to ignore the feeling of nausea that swept over her as she did, “I’m sorry, Clara. What did you say?”
Clara let out an exaggerated sigh, “Divines help us, Leandria, but you are preoccupied. The dress, of course. How does it look?”
“Oh. It’s … very nice, Clara,” Leandria said, “You look beautiful.”
Clara drew her lips into a pout, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were bored of my company. Why, if a young gentleman looked at me in the distracted way you just did, I think I’d die. Well, I’d slap him first, then I’d die.”
Leandria laughed, “I’m sorry, Clara. You really do look stunning, and if any man is fool enough to think differently, I’ll slap him myself.”
Clara batted her eyelashes, “Well, my sweet, if it’s a date you’re after, you’ve succeeded. As long, of course, as you promise to guard my virtue.”
“That shriveled old thing?” Leandria asked, “Better to let it die. It would be a mercy.”
Clara’s mouth dropped open, and they both laughed until Clara finally sat down on the chair with her. “Now, tell me, please, what’s wrong?”
Leandria sighed, “I think I’m just tired, Clara. I didn’t get much sleep last night.” The truth was, she was quite sure she hadn’t slept at all, and she was tired. They’d spent the last two hours trying on different dresses with servants doing their makeup, an activity she normally would have enjoyed but her sadness at what she’d done to Quintin coupled with the fact that she’d spent nearly the entire morning feeling as if she was going to throw up had somewhat soured the experience for her.
Last night had been terrible in truth, and she had thrown up then, several times, only just making it out of bed to the chamber pot before the sickness overcame her. She told herself that it was just a small fever, brought on, no doubt, by the stress of breaking things off with Quintin, but that didn’t make her hate it any less.
“You’re sure? You’re truly alright?” Clara asked, “You look quite pale. I know that your father asked you to be kinder to Lord Malakson, but surely it won’t be as bad as that. A dance, maybe two, and that should satisfy the king. It’s not as if you have to carry his babies.” She paused then, “Although, I must say that they would be handsome babies, and I doubt if making them would be such hard work.”
“Clara!” Leandria said, covering her mouth with her hand.
Her cousin smiled, “And tell me, what of this secret lover of yours? Is he to make an appearance at tonight’s ball?”
Leandria felt a heat in her face that was more than that brought on by the fever, “We’re not lovers, Clara.” Then realization hit her, and she felt tears gather in her eyes, wiped then away with a finger, “In fact, we’re not anything anymore.”
Clara grasped Leandria’s hand between her own, “Oh, Leandria. What happened? Did he break your heart? You just tell me who this fiend is, and I promise you he’ll never—”
“No, no, Clara,” Leandria said, “It’s … never mind. It doesn’t matter.”
Clara hesitated for a moment then shrugged, sweeping Leandria to her feet and, taking the man’s part, began to lead in a dance despite Leandria’s best attempts to extricate herself. Finally, Leandria gave in with a laugh and they danced.
“Well, then,” Clara said as they danced, “he wasn’t good enough for my cousin anyway, whoever he was. And a man who doesn’t want his identity known … for all we know, he could be a thief. Or something worse. A tax collector, maybe or…” Her eyes widened, “Divines, he could be a priest.”
Leandria laughed despite herself, “Oh, now you’re just being silly.”
Clara raised her chin haughtily and spoke in her best impersonation of Mistress Beatrice, “I’ll have you know, my dear, that young women are never silly. Eccentric, perhaps, or flighty, mysterious certainly, but silly? Never.”
Leandria laughed at that and was suddenly overcome with a dizziness so powerful that she would have fallen had Clara not caught her. “Leandria? What’s wrong?”
“I’m … fine,” Leandria gasped, “I just need a moment.” But she didn’t feel fine. She felt short of breath and her vision was blurry, unfocused.
Clara studied her for a moment then turned to the door, “I’ll go and fetch a healer—”
“No wait,” Leandria said, and her cousin paused. “I’m better now, Clara, truly,” she said and meant it. As abruptly as they’d come, the dizziness and shortness of breath were gone. “Besides, if you call a healer, my father will hear of it, and you know how he is. I’ll be stuck in bed for weeks with priests and the Divines know who else praying over me and making me drink potions that’d make the healthiest soul in the world sick.”
Her cousin watched her, frowning, “You’re … quite sure?”
Clara’s expression was so serious, so intense, that Leandria couldn’t help laughing, “I am. It was just my own stress and a lack of sleep, I’m sure of it. Perhaps I’ll take a nap before the ball.”
Clara nodded slowly, “As you wish, but I’m going to be watching you, Your Highness, and if you so much as miss a single step in the dancing, I’ll whisk you away to the healer no matter what protests you utter, and I’ll tell them to get particularly creative with their concoctions.�
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Leandria laughed. The truth was, she cared little for going to the ball, but it was an important time for the kingdom—the ending of the first half of the year, where her father would thank the Divines for their blessings in the beginning of the year and ask for their help in the remaining months to come. It would also be here that her father would declare the number of the Drawings for the remainder of the year. A number that, despite that snake Saliander Daven’s best efforts, would not be raised. No, she would not miss that for the world. She would attend the ball, even if it killed her. The thought had been intended as a humorous one but, her skin warmed with fever, it didn’t’ seem funny. No. It didn’t seem funny at all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
William, just Will to his friends and mostly “pain in the ass” to his father, walked through the woods, idly hitting trees he passed with a good stick he’d picked up earlier in the morning. The thing about these trees—like so many others—was that they turned out to be bandits instead, big and angry, all of them swinging swords at him, trying to work their way past him to the small cottage at which he and his parents lived.
Still, despite their efforts and although he was hard pressed, Will held them all at bay, his stick transforming—as so many sticks before it—into a golden-handled sword that sparkled in the summer sunlight, a sword to match those from the stories. He parried each of their strikes just in time and answered them with skewering lunges that were, of course, always perfect. After all, make believe wasn’t very fun if you made yourself bad at something.
The bandits came in droves and fell in droves, and Will fought on, resting only for a moment when, after a particularly powerful lunge, he was forced to break off another sword from a nearby tree to replace his own broken blade. He killed many bandits—all of them very, very bad men—but he did it quickly. That was due, in part, to his magnificent … no, legendary skill with a sword and, in part, because if he didn’t find Maggie soon, he’d have to listen to another of his father’s lectures when he got home, a possibility that made him seriously consider letting the bandits have their way.
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