by Kate Jacoby
Nash took this all in at a glance, then turned his attention to the men within the room. Before him, his back to the door, was Archdeacon Hilderic, Deacon Godfrey at his side. At one end of the table by the fire stood the Earl of Kandar and by him, Duke Tiege Eachern, his kinsman. Duke Donal McGlashen stood on the opposite side of the table with Selar’s chancellor, Dai Ingram, together with Earl Payne. At the other end, close by the window, stood the King.
Vaughn and Nash bowed, but Selar barely glanced in their direction. “Well, Vaughn, I see I don’t need to send for you. Was it chance that brought you here so quickly after the Archdeacon—or were you waiting for him to leave the Chapter House before coming?”
“Sire, I was merely curious to know if there had been any word on the election as yet.”
“Yes,” Selar drew the word out, “I’m sure you were. As it happens, the Archdeacon was just about to tell me the outcome. You were saying, Father?”
Hilderic inclined his head gracefully, “I was saying, Sire, the synod debated long and hard. I am happy to say we finally lighted upon a man whom we believe to possess the qualities necessary for the Primate of all Lusara.”
“And he is?” Selar prompted softly.
“Aiden McCauly.” Hilderic said the words without expression and they fell flat into the room, like a thunderclap.
Selar raised his eyebrows so slightly the movement was almost lost. For a moment, he said nothing, then he left the window and placed his hands on the back of his chair. “Aiden McCauly, eh? An interesting choice. A unanimous one?”
“Almost, Sire.”
“I see.” Selar dropped his gaze and nodded. “And when will his anointing be?”
There was just the slightest hesitation in Hilderic’s voice. “We performed the ceremony immediately after the election. Bishop McCauly is already installed.”
“Already?” Vaughn sputtered. “No preparations?”
Godfrey murmured, “We thought it best under the circumstances.”
“And what circumstances were those?”
But Selar raised a hand to silence Vaughn. “McCauly is already installed as Bishop?”
“Yes, Sire,” Hilderic nodded.
Selar dropped the hand, leaving his eyes on the Archdeacon. After a moment, he nodded again and moved to turn away. “Very well, you have our leave to go. I’m sure your new Bishop requires your attendance.”
The priests bowed and backed towards the door, making Nash step aside to get out of their way. The doors opened, but Selar stopped them.
“Just a moment, Archdeacon. What was the other thing?”
“Sire?” Hilderic paused, with the smallest glance at Godfrey.
“You said you had two pieces of news for me. I take it McCauly’s installation as Bishop was only one. What was the other?”
Godfrey took in a quick breath and spoke over his colleague. “It was nothing, Sire. Only gossip—a rumour.”
Selar smiled. “Tell me.”
Hilderic drew himself up and said, “One of my couriers, Sire, brought me a strange story this morning. It concerns the Earl of Elita.”
Elita! Nash snapped his gaze on the old priest. Elita! What possible...
Hilderic continued, “It appears his daughter, the younger one, Jennifer, was thought drowned as a child.”
“Really? What of it? Has she returned from the dead?”
“You might think so. Apparently...”
Nash steeled himself against the revelation, dreading it, fearing it, but knowing what it would be.
“Apparently she was in fact taken during the Troubles. She was found living in Shan Moss and has now been returned to her father.”
Nash silently reached back and steadied himself against the wall. Feeling the cool stone against his hand calmed him and he quickly brought his reactions under control. Sure that no one had noticed, he turned his attention back to the King as Hilderic continued his story. There would be time later to consider all the ramifications.
“I’m sure Jacob is a very happy man,” Selar murmured, “but is that all? It’s incredible that one of those children taken during your Troubles has actually been found and returned—but isn’t there something else?”
“Yes, Sire. It concerns the person who found her.”
“By the gods, Hilderic,” Selar laughed harshly, “you take an age to tell a simple story! Get on with it! Who is this extraordinary person?”
“The Earl of Dunlorn, Sire.”
Selar froze. The smile which moments ago looked more like a sneer now crystallized into something entirely different. The entire room was silent as all eyes locked on to the King. Behind them, the fire sputtered and crackled, sending sparks flying. No one moved.
“So he’s come back?” Selar whispered. “Are you sure?”
“I’ve not seen him with my own eyes, but the report about Elita is reliable. I’ve no reason to believe the rest of it is untrue.”
Vaughn stormed forward. “We must do something, Sire. You cannot allow him to . ..”
“I can allow whatever I like, Proctor,” Selar cut across Vaughn, then turned back to Hilderic. “Do you know where Dunlorn might be now? Is he on his way here, to Marsay?”
“I know no more than I have already told you, Sire.”
Vaughn tried again, “I can’t believe he’d be fool enough to return! And after so long! What can he want? What are his plans? Did he come alone—or with an army? He must be found!”
“On what charge, Proctor?” Selar’s tone became icy. “So far he’s done nothing wrong that we know of.”
“Nothing?” Vaughn’s voice rose in pitch as his face became suffused with red. “Need I remind you, Sire, of his crimes before he left?”
Selar raised his hand. “Those crimes were dealt with at the time. By all means seek him out if you wish—but no man will lay a hand on him without my leave. Is that understood?”
Vaughn’s mouth became a set line and he bowed. “Perfectly, Sire.”
Selar looked around at the others in the room, then back at Hilderic and finally at Nash. There his eyes narrowed a moment before he turned again to the window. His hand came up to dismiss them, but the movement was halted uncompleted. “Eachern?”
“Yes, Sire?”
“Take a dozen men and go to the Basilica. Arrest Archdeacon McCauly on charges of high treason. Bring him back here and hold him in close confinement.”
“Sire!” Hilderic rushed forward, but Kandar was there before him, his arms barring the way to the King.
“Yes, Archdeacon,” Selar smiled, “I should have told you before but I have been informed of the most disturbing things about your Aiden McCauly. I had thought not to try him but now, in the light of recent events, I feel it is my duty to do so. In the meantime, I would like you to return to the Basilica and prepare to install Anthony Brome as your new Bishop. I would like him on his throne by nightfall.”
“But Sire! I cannot do that. Bishop McCauly...”
“Archdeacon McCauly is a traitor,” Selar snapped, his voice taking on an edge like steel. “I suggest you look to your own conscience lest I find you guilty of the same crime.”
“If you wish to confine someone, Sire, then take me. But you cannot, must not do this. The Church will...”
“Will—what?” Selar moved around the table until he towered above the old man. “If you and your brethren value McCauly at all, you’ll do as I instruct. I would not like to feel it necessary to execute McCauly so soon after his anointing. It would not be pious. Go now and do it quickly, Archdeacon. You will find it’s not so bad once it is over.”
Placing a hand on Hilderic’s shoulder, Selar leaned close and murmured, “You must learn to trust me, brother. I am doing this for the good of the Church and my country. It cannot be good to have a traitor as our Prelate now, can it?”
He straightened up and nodded to Eachern. Steering Hilderic between them, Eachern and Kandar led him away, followed closely by Godfrey. As the doors closed behind them, Selar t
urned to Vaughn. “I assume you were coming here in such a rush to warn me, Proctor? I wonder you didn’t bother to warn me about Dunlorn’s return as well. Or perhaps you didn’t know?”
“No, Sire, I did not. If I had known, I would have done something to prevent it.”
“That’s as may be,” Selar said quietly, moving towards the door. “But remember what I told you. You leave Dunlorn alone.”
As he reached the door he paused, glancing at Nash. “And this, I suppose, was your spy in the synod? You did well, Nash, to go unnoticed like that. Tell me, how was it that the synod did such a foolish thing as to elect the wrong man to the Bishopric? Did they really debate so long? Were my wishes mentioned at all? Was there much opposition?”
“Actually, Sire,” Nash chose his words very carefully, “there was not so much opposition as you would imagine. In the end, it came down to superstition.”
“Apt for the Church. What superstition?”
“They had all heard that prophecy about a dark angel splitting the Church in two. Unfortunately, both Brome and Quinn have dark hair and they felt it was a bad omen.”
Selar straightened up and glanced over his shoulder at Vaughn. “Typical! They go over all that for twelve hours, then choose a Prelate based on the colour of his hair! Hah! And they wonder why I interfere! And as for that prophecy? Well, half the country has dark hair—who’s to say who this damned dark angel is? It could be you, Nash—or even Vaughn’s great friend Dunlorn. He has dark hair, if I recall. Very dark. Attend me tomorrow, Nash. I may have something I want you to do.”
With a bark of ironic laughter, he turned and left them. Slowly the others filtered out of the room leaving Nash waiting on Vaughn. The Proctor stalked off down the hallway. Nash was finally alone.
Someone had found her.
After all these years, someone had found her and taken her home. How had they known who she was? Had they seen her House Mark—or had she finally remembered what had happened to her? No, that couldn’t be possible. She had been much too young to remember. The Mark it was, then. And this Dunlorn character must have known enough about the Marks to work out which House she was from. It was just unlucky she managed to find someone who knew what they were looking at.
And what about Dunlorn? Were all those stories true? Was he the threat Vaughn saw? Was there some way he could be a threat to Nash? Well, it was easy to see that he needed to know more about the legendary renegade—and he had just the person for the job.
Yes, and there was a way to see to the girl as well. A way that would make it easy for him to discover how she had developed over the years, without endangering himself. All he would have to do would be to convince Selar—and that should be easy. A word in the right direction, the hint of a possible danger. Yes, no real problem at all—
However, no matter which way he looked at it, no matter how many questions her discovery brought up, there was one thing which circulated in his mind with pounding repetition. She was back. The Ally. Back at home. Back in the game—and that changed everything.
Chapter 10
The closer Finnlay got to Dunlorn, the more his stomach twisted around, the more he wanted to turn around and go back. Not just back to the Enclave, but back in time. Way back to a day when Robert was more than he seemed, when men looked up to him—when Finnlay looked up to him. Back to a time when things made sense.
Plague not Robert of Dunlorn to Stand the Circle. His place is elsewhere and he has been forbidden to take any path other than his own .. .
As clear as this crisp winter’s day, Finnlay could remember the moment when Robert had revealed his powers, had discovered Finnlay’s talents. It was just weeks before Selar had come, when Robert was still a prisoner within Dunlorn. But that hadn’t stopped him. Together one night they’d crept out of the castle and travelled across the countryside to the mountains. Robert had risked his life—his liberty—to get Finnlay to the Enclave that first time. Even now he could remember the debates, the arguments that had gone on, the shock that rippled through the Enclave at the discovery that both Douglas brothers were born sorcerers. From that first day, Finnlay knew the truth about Robert’s strength, his potential, and it made him proud.
But then Selar had come. With promises and entreaties and the gods knew what else, Selar had taken Robert and bade him betray his country.
A few years later, when Robert had ridden at the head of Selar’s armies and defeated invaders from the north, Finnlay was again proud. When Robert had finally defied the Guilde, Finnlay had laughed with delight.
A few precious moments over too many years, and in one stroke, Robert had destroyed them all—with a lie.
For almost twenty years Robert had told them all the same thing. Had insisted, urged them to believe: the Key’s message to him was private, personal, and had nothing whatsoever to do with the Enclave.
Finnlay had believed that—why should he not? His brother was not in the habit of lying. At least ... not until now. Yes, he knew now that Robert had lied all along—hadn’t the Key told Finnlay as much?
He pulled his horse off the road and into a muddy field. He paused at the top of a rise and gazed across the moorland. In the distance stood Dunlorn, its ancient grey battlements rising above the heather. The twin hills Room and Borlany flanked the fortress and between them flowed the river Mot. It was a castle built for war, immune to siege and able to withstand any force brought against its walls. Dunlorn had never fallen. Not until now.
So why go back, why follow these people heading towards the castle for the annual festival of Caslemas? Why, when he could still hear those words the Key had whispered to him, should he return to face a brother who had betrayed him—or was it just possible that there was still some hope buried in a heart filled with anger?
More likely it was Patric’s prodding. Go home and help Robert: he would never admit it, but he needed Finnlay. It was Finnlay’s duty to Robert that mattered now. It didn’t matter if he had lied, they were still brothers.
Day after day, week after week. After three months, Finnlay had had enough of bloody Patric. What made it worse was that Patric was right. Finnlay did have a duty to Robert, to Dunlorn—
And maybe, just maybe, if he behaved, if he avoided arguing and kept his temper, somewhere along the line he might actually be able to get the truth out of Robert.
That was the only thing that made Finnlay turn his horse down the hill towards the castle. With all these travellers, it would be quicker going across the moor and through Tar Wood. Not that he was in any hurry, but it was approaching dusk and getting very cold indeed. Almost as a final insult, a few flakes of snow drifted down as he entered the wood—
What was that?
He stopped on the edge of a clearing. There before him were the remains of a cart, a dead horse and a figure seated on a log, draped in a crimson cape. Another horse wandered skittishly on the other side of the clearing, its bridle trailing on the ground and coated with blood.
Finnlay jumped down and dashed to the seated figure. “Are you all right? What happened?”
The woman turned at his words, drawing her cloak hood back. Her face drained away his words. Dark almond eyes gazed at him amid skin of the softest cream. Her fine nose lifted towards him and her rose lips smiled hesitantly. Framing her face was a shiny halo of honey-gold hair, cascading down one shoulder. She was breathtaking.
She said, “We were attacked, sir, by a band of robbers. They killed my captain and took my servants. I’ve been sitting here for an hour, hoping that horse will finally calm down and let me near it. I feared I would spend the night in this forsaken place.”
“I...” Finnlay murmured, falling into her gaze. He took in a breath, but all he could think about was his travel-stained clothes, the mud on his boots. He mumbled, “Allow me to catch your horse, my lady.”
She smiled again and for a second time he found it difficult to remember where he was. With some effort, he stepped back and turned to the horse. It eyed him warily
, but made no attempt to run when he moved closer. Slowly and gently he reached out his hand and let the horse take his smell. When it still didn’t run, he took hold of the bridle and ran his hands down the horse’s flanks. There were no injuries so the blood must belong to the murdered captain. He took the horse back to the lady.
“He’s still nervous, so it would be best if you rode my horse instead. It’s getting late, but my home is not far. Allow me to offer you Dunlorn’s hospitality.”
She stood and favoured him with another smile and his knees felt decidedly weak. “You are most generous, sir. Might I know your name?”
Finnlay silently cursed his manners. “Lord Finnlay Douglas, my lady.”
“Brother to the Earl of Dunlorn?”
“Aye, my lady.”
She laughed. “Then I am most certainly in safe hands.”
He rode without stopping, except to change horses. After a day and a half, he collapsed for a few hours’ sleep in a damp empty hovel. When he woke, he tried to force down some food, but the bread was stale and he had no appetite. He rode again, urgent, exhausted. There was so little time. So very little time. If he should be missed ...
In the hours before dawn, his horse stumbled and fell. It refused to rise again. Numb with cold, he left it lying in the snow and continued on foot. Long after sunrise, he staggered into a village, paused for his first hot meal, then arranged the purchase of another horse.
With fatigue blurring his vision, he once again took to the road.
The great hall of Dunlorn Castle was one of Robert’s favourite rooms, so despite the fact that this was a small gathering, he’d filled it with musicians, tumblers and dancers. Bright candles and a blazing fire shut out the winter night and allowed his guests to enjoy Caslemas Eve in comfort.
