Umbrey stepped between them. “So I have to separate the two of you like rabid dogs? Is this the way brothers are supposed to behave? In here brawling while The Watch is out there storming the streets? You think it’s not enough we have a real enemy to face?”
An alarm sounded in Tom’s brain, like the shrill clamor of a distant bell. He heard Umbrey’s words, but their meaning somehow remained just beyond his grasp. He shoved off the grip of Umbrey’s man and shook his head as though to clear it. “Wait a minute. Wait a minute. What?”
“It can’t be.” Porter glared at Umbrey. “Not him. You must have made a mistake.”
“There’s no mistake. I saw him the night he was born. Same eyes, same mouth, same stubborn chin. I’d know him anywhere.”
“That’s it? You brought him here based on the way you remember a newborn babe to look?”
“You know better than that, Porter. You think we’d send a defenseless babe into another world without anyone knowing where to find him?” Porter opened his mouth, but Umbrey held up his hand to forestall his next words. “I saw him unlock the map. Just as you can. He’s your brother all right.”
Porter’s eyes searched the floor. He clenched and unclenched his fists. “Years we’ve wasted,” he choked out, “waiting for him to come, to save us all, to what end?” He shook his head, a muscle working spasmodically in his jaw. “I’d be better off alone. I’d have been out of the city by now, not trapped here with no Letters of Passage, no compass. I don’t need him. All I need is the map.”
“It doesn’t work like that and you know it, lad. The only way to find the sword is for the two of you to work together.”
Porter released a disgusted breath. “Then we are doomed.”
“My brother?” Tom finally managed to find his voice. “I have a brother? Him?”
Surprise registered on Porter’s features. He looked at Tom, then at Umbrey. “He knows nothing? Truly?”
“What is this?” Tom said. Umbrey’s man moved to hold him back again, but Tom ducked away, coming to stand before Umbrey. “You told me I was the key to unlocking the map—to finding some stupid sword—to stopping this Keegan guy. You didn’t say anything about him.”
Umbrey shot a glance out the large glass window that overlooked the street. “It’s a very interesting story. And you’ll hear it, I promise. All in good time. But first we have to move. Before The Watch returns and—”
“No.”
Tom’s throat tightened and his pulse pounded in his ears. He felt something deep and heavy shift within him. The countless nights he’d spent prowling the rooftops at the Lost Academy rushed back at him. Looking. Searching for something he couldn’t even name. For years he’d battled a longing he’d never understood, as though he were missing some vital piece of himself. He’d been happy enough, he supposed, but vaguely adrift, as though there were something else, somewhere else, waiting just out of his reach …
“I’m not going anywhere. Not until I know who I am. Who he is. Why you brought me here.”
“We haven’t time for this,” Porter bit out.
“No, Porter.” Umbrey sighed. “Your brother’s right. He should know how this all came to be.” He cast another glance out the window, thinking. With a flick of his wrist, he dismissed his men. “Go below and get the provisions ready. Bring the horses around. We leave shortly.”
Once they were alone—just Umbrey, Tom, and Porter—Umbrey propped one hip atop an empty barrel and stretched out his peg leg before him. “All right then, lad. I’ll tell you the tale. It’s not a pretty tale, or a happy one, but I swear on my life every word of it is true.” He scratched the gray stubble on his chin and looked at Tom. “You were born,” he began, “on a stormy night …”
CHAPTER SIX
UMBREY’S TALE
It was a storm the likes of which had never been seen before, and may never be seen again—wind howling through the trees like a pack of angry wolves set loose upon the land, lightning slashing the sky, rain and sleet pouring down in sheets. Amidst that din and wail, a shepherd called Garth was awakened in the dark hours before dawn by the excited bleating of his sheep.
He shook the sleep from his head and shrugged off his blankets. Groping in the dark for his garments, he drew his heaviest cloak about him, laced his boots, and tugged on his cap. He staggered half-asleep to the door and pulled it open, steeling himself for a blast of frigid, wet air.
However, the shock that awaited him was not the storm, but the sight of what had actually roused his sheep: the unexpected arrival of a coach and horses. Thieves, he thought, reaching instinctively for a wooden staff to defend himself. But the silent accusation was discarded before it had fully formed. Even in the driving rain it was evident that the coach was richly appointed, the horses groomed and well fed.
The realization that he wasn’t dealing with thieves brought Garth little comfort. Assuredly it was a bad omen. Only thieves and devils were about on a night like this. If they weren’t one, they must be the other. One thing was certain: no good ever came from strangers who arrived after midnight.
“Who are you?” he demanded, drawing himself up to his full height. “What business have you here?”
His attempt at intimidation failed. His questions were ignored as the group moved with a unified purpose, unmindful of his presence.
“Inside! Quickly!”
Garth’s gaze shot to the man who had spoken. A tall man, he was dressed in an expensive cloak, and it was clear by his tone that he was used to giving orders and having them obeyed. One of the men in the coach handed down what looked like a large, awkward bundle of blankets, which the tall man gingerly took into his arms. It wasn’t until he swept wordlessly into Garth’s home that Garth was able to glimpse the pale, drawn face of a young woman within the bundle. A low moan of pain escaped her lips.
“What … is she ill?”
His question went unanswered once again. The tall man hesitated for only an instant, gaining his bearings, and then laid the woman on Garth’s bed, smoothing the blankets that enveloped her over Garth’s mattress of coarse straw. He bent low and soothed her brow, murmuring soft assurances. The woman gave another moan, but Garth no longer needed to ask what ailed her. Now that the blankets had fallen aside, her condition was obvious. The woman’s belly was as full and round as a harvest moon.
Another woman—a midwife, Garth assumed—trailed after her. She was a hearty, big-boned woman with a plain face and a no-nonsense manner. Spying a low stool near the hearth, she drew it bedside and settled herself upon it. She rolled up her sleeves to reveal strong arms and broad, capable-looking hands. Pressing them against the young woman’s flesh, she silently traversed her great swollen belly, absorbed in her task. Nodding, she gave a soft grunt of approval. “Soon,” she said. “The babes are fine. Healthy and strong.”
The tall man nodded at the midwife’s assurances, but none of the tension left his face. As though noticing Garth for the first time, he offered a stiff bow. “My apologies for disturbing you,” he said. His accent spoke of wealth and education. His gaze swept the room. “You’re alone?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
An odd question; an even odder response. There was no time to consider it, however, for his attention was drawn back to the bed. The pregnant woman, whose breath had been coming in short, shallow gasps, suddenly released a sharp cry of pain.
The midwife turned to Garth and began issuing orders. “More blankets if you have them, else soft cloth and toweling. The finest knife you own. I’ll need water and soap. A shallow bucket. A cup and ale.”
Garth moved at once to gather the requested items and deposited them on the bedside table. That accomplished, he stood back, awkwardly awaiting her next order. But the midwife was oblivious to all but the young woman and her labor. Uncertain what to do next, Garth bent to stack the kindling. He could at least offer the comfort of a fire.
The nobleman guessed his intention. His deep voice cut across the
room. “No fire. No lamps or candles. Leave it.”
Garth hesitated.
His gaze moved to the three men who had filed in behind the woman and her husband. They were stationed at the windows with their backs to the bed. Garth had assumed they stood thus to give the lady a measure of privacy, but a new awareness dawned on him. He studied the tightness of the nobleman’s face, the strain that went beyond his wife’s labors, and suddenly understood. The group was on the run. As the minutes passed and the woman’s agony produced no results, fear seeped into the room like an unwelcome contagion.
The midwife waited for the woman’s latest spasm to pass, then mixed the ale Garth had brought with powdery herbs. She brought a cup to the young woman’s lips. “This will ease the pain,” she said. “Take as much as you can. It will be over soon.”
The woman choked the liquid down. Within minutes another spasm seized her. She was given her husband’s lambskin glove to clench between her teeth. Whether it was meant to stifle her cries or offer some small comfort, Garth couldn’t say. As her pains drew closer together, Garth felt more and more an intruder in his own home. He mumbled something about checking on his livestock, but the excuse was unnecessary, for no one paid him any mind.
The wind drove icy rain into his cheeks, striking his skin like a volley of stinging nettles. He found the nobleman’s team still hitched to his coach, forgotten by the man’s attendants in their rush to get inside. Glad for the chore to occupy his attention, he unhitched the team. Taking their bridles, he walked them into the shelter of his livestock pen, supplied them with food and water, brushed them down, and draped each with a blanket to ward off the chill.
The task was barely accomplished when a small cry tore through the night. The wail of a newborn babe. Within minutes the sound was followed by a second wail, which joined the plaintive cries of the elder sibling. The midwife’s words, insignificant at the time, came back to Garth. The babes are fine. Babes. Twins. He listened, hearing the midwife’s triumphant laughter, followed by low murmurs of congratulations and praise. A small smile touched his lips. The birth had gone well.
Too cold to remain in the livestock pen any longer, Garth returned inside. His eyes moved automatically to his bed, where he found the young woman propped in a sitting position, two swaddled infants in her arms. She looked pale and exhausted, yet a glow of contentment seemed to soften the air around her.
He nodded at the nobleman. “My congratulations, Sire. All’s well?”
The nobleman hesitated for a moment, then, after a glance at his wife, forced a tight smile. He took his wife’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Yes. Two fine sons.”
“Sons, is it? Well done indeed, then!”
But his was the only voice that seemed merry. Quiet tension filled the room, despite the fact that the woman had been delivered of her sons. Garth had expected some celebration, however small. Puzzled at the absence of merriment, he stepped forward. Admittedly, he knew more of birthing lambs than he did infants, but he judged the babes healthy enough. One child was fair, pale skinned, with a small tuft of white downy hair sprouting from the top of his skull. The other boy was darker, his skin a rich olive, his hair a deep chestnut. Funny thing, that. Two babes born from the same mother … both male … one light, one dark …
His thoughts skidded to a sudden stop, colliding with a wisp of a memory, a recollection so faint as to almost be forgotten—a rumor he’d heard a year or two before in a tavern near Langshire. He hadn’t believed it to be true. He hadn’t dared believe …
“Sire! Horses!”
The nobleman rushed to the window. “How many?”
“Keegan never travels with a company of less than twelve.”
Keegan. Here. Shock and icy dread coursed through Garth in equal measure.
“How much time do we have?”
“Minutes—perhaps less.”
The nobleman returned to his wife’s bed, pain and regret etched on his handsome features. “I’m sorry, Helene.”
His wife shrank back, her eyes wild. She clutched the swaddled babes tightly against her chest, her eyes swimming with tears. “No, William,” she choked out. “No. You can’t. Please.”
“I don’t have a choice.” His voice caught. “If there was anything else we could do—”
“No! Please, I beg you. There must be some other way—”
“I’m sorry, Helene.” The nobleman paused for a moment, caught in an agony of indecision, then gently removed the tiny, dark-haired infant from his wife’s arms. He motioned to one of his men. “Take the child and ride to Bethel—”
“It’s too late for that.” Garth shook off the horror that had silenced his tongue, and stepped forward. “Your horses are exhausted. You have no saddles. Keegan will overtake your man in no time.”
Hoofbeats sounded outside, drawing ever closer.
A sob rose from the bed. “William! Quickly! Do something!”
“The child, Sire.” The guard held out his arms, his expression dark. “Keegan will have to kill me before he gets the babe.”
It was a brave declaration, but foolhardy. If they killed the guard, surely they might kill the babe as well. The situation demanded stealth, not brawn. The nobleman must have sensed that as well, for he hesitated.
They couldn’t remain within and fight it out, nor could they outrun Keegan and his men. There was only one solution. Garth moved to the nobleman’s side. “Give me the babe,” he said. “I know this shire better than any man here. There’s a tavern down the road apiece. The couple who runs it has four children, plus another babe just last month. They’re kind people; for a few coins, the wife will nurse your son until I’m able to bring him to you. For a few coins more, they’ll ask no questions.”
The shouts of Keegan and his men echoed closer.
“Sire! They come!” The guards drew their daggers.
The nobleman looked at Garth as though truly seeing him for the first time since entering the cottage. Their eyes met and locked as the nobleman took his measure. Satisfied with what he saw, he gave a brief nod.
The midwife immediately rose. She stripped Garth of his outer garments, then improvised a sling from soft blankets. As she strapped it tightly across Garth’s chest, the nobleman spoke in an urgent whisper. “Do you know who I am?”
Garth nodded. “I saw the crest on your coach.”
“Then you know where to find me.”
“Yes.”
“Bring the babe in two weeks’ time. I should have everything arranged by then …”
The nobleman pressed a kiss against his son’s forehead, then tucked the infant securely inside the blanket’s soft folds. The babe accepted his new lodgings without complaint. Garth shrugged on his shirt, vest, and coat. The midwife threw his cloak about his shoulders and fastened it. Between Garth’s own natural bulk and the layers of clothing, the sling would work as long as the babe remained silent.
The cottage door slammed open, hinges rattling as it crashed against the wall. The fair-headed babe let out a wail of protest at the harsh noise. Garth reflexively pressed a hand to the tiny bundle swaddled against his chest, ready to stifle any cries, but to his relief the dark-haired babe remained silent.
A solitary figure crossed the threshold. Keegan, Garth presumed, though it took a moment to reconcile the actual man with his reputation. He possessed none of the attributes normally associated with evil: no horns sprouting from his skull, no sadistic leer, no bullying swagger. Instead, Garth saw a man of average height and build, graced with a darkly handsome face. He wore a black fur cape and a black leather hat trimmed in matching fur; finely crafted riding boots reached to just below his knees. Aside from the obvious extravagance of his clothing, Garth noted nothing remarkable about the man until he drew off his gloves. His fingernails were impossibly long, so long they curved inward, and were as thick and yellow as a hawk’s talons.
Keegan surveyed the room, his gaze narrowing on the new mother and the wailing infant in her arms. “A
h. I see the blessed event has already occurred. My congratulations.”
He glanced over his shoulder and made a brief motion with his head. Two of his men slid past him. The Watch. Garth’s stomach tightened in revulsion at their presence in his home. Mindful of the babe tucked against him, he held his tongue as they ransacked the room, opening cupboards, rummaging through linens, poking their long swords through food stores, and knocking over neatly stacked kindling.
Pointedly ignoring the guardsmen, the nobleman greeted Keegan with a small but deferential bow. “My lord. What an astonishment. I’d hardly expect to find you out on a night like this.”
“Indeed. Imagine my dismay when I was alerted that you and your charming wife had fled in the middle of the night without so much as a word of parting.”
“Fled?” the nobleman parried lightly. “You make it sound as though we were captives, rather than invited guests.”
“Do I?” Keegan toyed with his fingers, rhythmically clicking his nails together and producing a noise that sounded to Garth like the scurrying of a dozen hungry cockroaches. “Captives,” he repeated. “What a fascinating turn of phrase.”
A heavy silence hung over the room. Having uncovered nothing in the search of the premises, one of Keegan’s men moved to the bed where the nobleman’s wife lay.
“Touch my wife and you die.”
The guard froze, Garth caught his breath, and the nobleman’s men tightened their grip on their daggers.
Keegan arched one dark brow and turned slowly about the room. “My, my. How very gallant.” He gave a careless wave of his hand, indicating that his man should remove himself from the bed. Then he fixed a cool stare on the nobleman.
“Where is the other?”
“Other what?”
“Come, now. Do you truly believe the rumors escaped me? The prophecy? The other babe?” A conspiratorial smile played about his lips. He lowered his voice to a soft hush. “I know it’s a secret, for it’s whispered everywhere.”
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