It was already late in the afternoon when they emerged from the inn. The sun was a red ball just over the tops of the houses that fined the street. Of the storm that had visited them three days before, there was virtually no sign, other than some grimy bits of snow at the base of the building and under a few trees. The breeze felt good on Mathew's face as he stepped into the warm light of a late winter's day. Bran squeezed his neck affectionately, and Lara gave him an impromptu hug. When she did, he was acutely aware of the pressure of her body through her dress and fervently hoped that nothing showed on his face. They didn't have long to wait. Quinn was the first one out, followed by the mayor, Silas Alman, and the rest of the council. To Mathew's mind, it came as no surprise when the constable strode up to him and extended his hand. He had already observed Quinn's assistants bringing their horses to the front of the inn.
"Well, young man, it has been a pleasure to meet you. I thank you for your cooperation. I would stay longer and enjoy your village, but my men and I have pressing business in Anderon. It's best we get started as soon as possible."
"Is this the end of it?" Father Thomas asked.
"Indeed, Father. In my judgment, this is something that never should have begun in the first place. Unfortunately, the accusation of a murder is a serious thing. I trust you will all understand."
"I understand, sir," Mathew replied.
"I know you do, lad," the constable replied. Turning to Bran and offering his hand, he said, "It has been good to see you again after all these years."
"Just two former soldiers," Bran said, shaking his head ruefully. "I'm a farmer now, and you're the constable."
"Small advancement," Quinn smiled. "There was a time—"
Lara's scream froze the constable in mid-sentence. Mathew lunged just in time to catch Bran as he started to fall backward, with an arrow sticking from his chest. There was blood everywhere. In shock, he lowered his father to the ground as gently as he could. Father Thomas, reacting more quickly, spun around.
"There!" he said, pointing.
Mathew looked up to see Berke Ramsey standing at the corner of the inn, holding a crossbow. His shock changed to rage. Mathew slowly got to his feet and began to walk toward Berke. He saw one of the constable's men start toward Ramsey at the same time. A part of his mind registered Quinn shouting, "Seize that man," and another part saw Berke working the pulleys of the crossbow as he started to fit another shaft into place to finish the job he had begun.
Mathew broke into a full run, covering the distance in
seconds as Berke Was bringing the weapon to bear. He and the constable's man both reached Berke at the same time. Mathew lowered his shoulder and drove forward with all his weight, slamming Berke backward against the inn.
Though bigger and heavier, Berke bounced off the wall with a thud, the crossbow falling from his hands. It took only a second for him to recover. He drew his sword and advanced on Mathew. The constable's deputy, knocked to the ground in the collision, started to scramble to his feet. Mathew reached down and pulled the man's sword from his scabbard, spinning just in time to parry Berke's lunge.
He had been taught all his life to present only his side to an opponent, giving the smallest target possible. Facing Berke full on and using both hands on the hilt of the sword, he struck backward, knocking Berke's blade aside, all of the fencing lessons forgotten. He parried Berke's next thrust in the same manner, almost disarming him in the process. A red haze seemed to settle before Mathew's eyes. In a fury, he smashed his blade again and again into Berke's. After a few seconds, the larger boy began to give ground as Mathew counterattacked with a ferocity he didn't know he possessed. Berke backed away from the onslaught, raising the sword above his head to protect himself. Mathew hammered him with blow after blow, driving Berke to his knees. Carried away by the tide of his own emotions, Mathew never once thought about the subtleties of fencing technique.
He didn't hear Father Thomas scream "No!" when he knocked Berke's blade from his hand and seized him by the throat, forcing him onto his back. The constable's men, like everyone else, watched in frozen disbelief as Mathew's fingers continued to tighten on Berke's throat. Panic took hold of Berke and he kicked wildly, and then less, by a degree and eventually not at all.
Mathew knelt there with his chest heaving, staring down at the dead boy. The constable's men, who had tried in vain to pry his fingers from Berke's throat, released their hold and stood back, staring at him. Mathew also stood up. The heat in his face began to drain away, leaving him with an empty, spent feeling in the pit of his stomach.
He forgot the lamentable creature at his feet and stumbled toward his father. The constable was down on one knee, holding a handkerchief to the wound in Bran's chest. It was completely soaked with blood. Father Thomas had his ear close to Bran's mouth. Mathew could see his father's lips moving, saying something while Father Thomas nodded. To one side, Truemen Palmer had his arm around Lara's shoulders. She was crying. For some reason, he couldn't remember ever having seen Lara cry.
Seconds later Bran's lips stopped moving.
The constable looked up at Mathew and shook his head slowly. A small crowd had gathered, and gasps of disbelief came from everywhere. A number of women began to cry. Hands of friends and acquaintances reached out to touch Mathew on the arm or shoulder, but he never felt them. The enormity of what had just happened began to dawn on him, and he looked around dumbly at faces he had known all his life.
Collin was there by his side and put an arm around his shoulders. So was Daniel. Their faces looked pale and stricken. Father Thomas finally rose after saying a prayer for Bran's soul and also went to Mathew.
"C'mon, Mat," Collin said, "let's walk over here for a bit."
But Mathew just stood where he was, not moving or responding to his friend's urging, staring down at his father.
"Mat," Daniel said, "there's nothing you can do now—nothing anyone can do. Please, just come with us for a bit."
Mathew pushed them away and dropped to his knees. He lifted his father's head and cradled it in his arms. Still not quite comprehending, he looked around him for help, but all he could see were expressions of pain and sympathy.
Collin knelt down next to him and began to pull a cloak up over Bran's face.
"No," Mathew said, seizing his wrist.
"Mat," Collin said gently.
"No," he repeated again.
Collin looked around helplessly for Father Thomas, but he was off to one side talking quietly to Fergus Gibb. Father Thomas saw him as well, and raised his hand slightly, signaling for Collin to wait. Once their conversation was finished, Fergus left, and Father Thomas immediately came to them.
"Mathew," he said softly, "listen to me, my son. You must come with me now. I will see that your father is taken care of."
Mathew started to shake his head again, but something in Father Thomas's tone stopped him. The priest's soft brown eyes were intense, and the expression on his face was urgent. Not fully understanding, Mathew gently lowered Bran's head to the ground. He took the cloak from Collin and covered his father. Father Thomas whispered something in Collin's ear, and he promptly departed, as Fergus had, taking Daniel along with him.
12
Devondale
Bran Lewin's funeral was held the next day. When Mathew reflected on it—and he did many times over the years—he recalled that almost everyone he knew in Devondale was there, along with a number of people he had never met before. Thom Calthorpe and his wife even came from Mechlen, although how they learned of the news, he had no idea.
Mathew seemed to be moving through a fog, hearing only bits and pieces of conversations. He felt isolated and very much alone. He stayed the night at Lara's home, and during that time she never left his side. They didn't talk— couldn't talk. Well into the early hours of the morning, she sat by him, holding his hand, watching the sky turn gray, then blue. And when he broke down and cried, she held his head against her chest and stroked his h
air, rocking both back and forth, back and forth.
Throughout the services, Mathew remembered both women and men crying in the church while Father Thomas spoke. The priest tried to offer words of comfort and talk about a situation that defied any sensible explanation. If someone had asked, Mathew would not have been able to repeat a single word spoken that morning. He just sat in the first row, staring numbly ahead, overwhelmed and disconnected.
When the service was over, people with red-rimmed eyes and puffy faces slowly filed out of the church and stood talking quietly among themselves. Bran's body was laid to rest in the little cemetery.
They had only taken a few steps away from the gravesite when Jeram Quinn approached them, his face somber and he was still in shock like everyone else.
"Mathew," he said, "I just want to tell you that I am so terribly sorry about your father. He was a good man. If there was something I could have done, some way I could have foreseen—"
"Thank you," Mathew replied, shaking the constable's hand. Once again he found himself struggling to hold back tears that were trying to form in his eyes, but his own reticence would not allow him to weep in public. Mourning would come later.
"Thank you," Father Thomas echoed. "If you'll excuse us, Jeram, I'd like to talk with Mathew privately for a moment."
Quinn nodded. "Father, I know this is not the best time to say this . . ." The constable seemed to be searching for the right words. "But you understand the boy will have to come with me. Counsel with him certainly, but afterward he will need to accompany us back to Anderon."
Truemen Palmer, standing nearby, heard the comments and spoke up. "Anderon? What are you talking about, Quinn? The boy's father has just been killed."
"I am aware of that," the constable said quietly. "If there were some other way. But I have no choice, he will have to come with me to face charges."
"Face charges?" the mayor snapped. "Are you insane? His father has just been killed. What's the matter with you?"
"I wish it were not so—truly I do. I like this not at all, but I have a duty to perform."
Through the dull fog of his emotions, Mathew began to realize what Jeram Quinn was talking about. He watched, uncaring, as the constable's men approached.
"You have lost your mind, Quinn," Palmer said angrily. "This is a case of self-defense. You were there. You saw what happened."
Quinn shook his head slowly. "It stopped being self-defense when he knocked the sword from Ramsey's hand and choked him to death. I might have done the same thing myself were I in his place, but it doesn't change anything."
His voice sounded weary and drained.
"Go inside and talk to your priest, lad," he said, addressing Mathew. "We'll be here when you are finished."
"This is ridiculous," Palmer said. "I will not allow you to take this boy with you."
This sentiment was immediately taken up by the people who had gathered. They pressed forward, and the constable's men looked around uneasily. Mathew noticed that their hands were on their sword hilts.
"I wish it were not so," Quinn repeated slowly. "If you choose to believe nothing else, you may believe that." And then, for the benefit of those within earshot, he pitched his voice louder. "My authority comes from King Malach himself, and I have no choice but to do my duty. Perhaps it would be better if you come with me now, son," he said, laying a hand on Mathew's shoulder.
"Take your hand off the boy," Father Thomas said, emphasizing each word. There was a dangerous note in his tone that Mathew had never heard before.
Quinn turned to him, his face suddenly serious. "Do not interfere in the king's business, Father. You, above all people, should know this."
"I said. .. take your hand from the boy," Father Thomas repeated.
The constable's men started forward, but he halted them. "Do not compound one crime with another, I beg you," Quinn said. "Think of what you are doing, man."
"I am thinking," Father Thomas replied, "and I have no desire to hand this boy over to Malach's justice."
"You are leaving me no choice—take him," Quinn said over his shoulder.
"Don't!" someone said sharply from behind them.
Mathew recognized Collin's voice. He was standing off to the side with a longbow fully drawn, pointing an arrow directly at one of the deputies.
"Uh-uh, the same goes for you," Daniel said, speaking
to the other deputy from the opposite side. "Take your hand away from your sword."
Like Collin, he also had an arrow aimed squarely at the man. The deputy halted but did not move his hand. Quinn pulled back his cloak, leaving his sword arm free.
"I'm not as good a shot as they are," Lara said, "but even I'm not likely to miss at this distance."
Mathew mrned quickly to see Lara step out of the crowd, which very wisely moved away. Cradled in her arms was a crossbow, and she was pointing it at the constable. Mathew hadn't noticed when she left him, and he couldn't imagine where she'd gotten a crossbow.
A look of exasperation passed over Quinn's slender face but disappeared quickly as he regained his exposure. He took a deep breath, then let it out.
"Considering all the circumstances, I know what you are thinking," he said to Father Thomas. "I give you my word ... he will receive a fair trial."
"With all due respect, Constable, you have no idea what I am thinking," Father Thomas replied dryly. "Considering all the circumstances."
Quinn turned toward Mathew, addressing him directly. "I know you are an intelligent lad, but you must consider what you are doing. This will no longer just involve you, but your friends as well. I ask you plainly, will you not come with me?"
Mathew hesitated. He looked from Father Thomas to the constable, and then to Collin, Daniel, and Lara. He was balanced on a precipice, and a good many people were watching him.
Throughout the previous night, he had weighed and reweighed his recent actions. He felt no guilt over Berke's death, but the analytical part of his mind knew there would be consequences. In the end, he decided to take whatever came, and was on the verge of telling the constable that he would go with him when something his father once said came back to him. If anything should ever happen to me, you're to go to Father Thomas. Trust him and listen to him.
"I'll stay with Father Thomas, sir," Mathew finally replied.
Both of the constable's men started to move again, but Quinn shook his head. "No," he said. "Enough blood has been shed here, I think. You understand that I will come after you?"
"You are free to try," Father Thomas replied.
The crowd parted as the five of them backed away from the constable and his men. Mathew glanced over his shoulder, surprised to see Akin Gibb and Lucas Emson standing in front of the stables across from the inn. They were holding the reins of six horses.
All the while, Quinn continued to watch them, saying nothing.
When they reached the stables, Lara quickly ducked inside and changed out of her black dress. She reemerged wearing breeches and clothes for riding.
"What do you think you're doing?" he asked, seeing how she was dressed.
"Going with you."
"That's crazy," he said hotly. "There'll be no place for you. / don't even know where we're going, or what I'm going to do now."
"In case you hadn't noticed, I just threatened to shoot the king's constable," she explained patiently. "What do you suppose will happen to me when he finds out I've also had his horses turned loose?"
"You what?"
Mathew looked at Lucas, but the big smith only shrugged in reply.
"But—But—" he sputtered in frustration. "Look, you just can't come. For one, you're not old enough, and for another well. . . you're a girl."
"Why you big, thick-headed . . . my mother was a year younger than me when she rode all the way from Broken Hill by herself. Besides, I can ride a horse as well as you can, or anyone else here, for that matter. What's more, you . .. you ... I don't need your permission to go anywhere. Fat
her Thomas said I could go," she added.
"Father Thomas?"
Lara was already up in her saddle, and from the look on her face, Mathew knew he would have as much chance of convincing the barn door to be reasonable. Father Thomas returned a minute later, having changed out of his black robe into the same high boots and dark greens he had worn several nights ago. After placing his sword in the holder on his saddle, he climbed up and signaled for the others to do so.
Mathew was past the point of being surprised when Akin Gibb also mounted his horse.
"Let's go," Father Thomas said, and started off down the North Road
that led away from Devondale.
The last thing Mathew saw as he looked back at his village was Jeram Quinn watching him ride away.
13
Alor Satar, Palace at Rocoi
Ra'id al Mouli leaned forward in his chair and considered his next move. His flank was in danger—under attack by Duren's white hawk—and his fortress was pinned to his queen by the dark hawk. Generally, he enjoyed playing kesherit, with its endless challenges and combinations. The game was an ancient one—"sheka" in his country and "kesherit" in Duren's. It had other names in other places. He did not particularly enjoy playing it with Duren, however.
Despite the lavish surroundings of Duren's palace, al Mouli would have much preferred to be in his own home, reading poetry in the confines of his tent and surrounded by his wives and children. Being this close to Duren, or any of the other barbarians, was a necessary sacrifice. Politics, he knew, made strange bedfellows. Al Mouli's own father, the previous Kalifar of the five Ba-jani tribes, had told him as much when he was only a boy. Now, forty-eight years later, the wisdom of those words rang true.
When the messenger brought him the invitation from Duren, he had been skeptical. Even as the man placed jars of scented oils and gifts at his feet, his first inclination was to send him away, but prudence had prevailed. It was better to be the ally of a lion than to have one at your back. His country's lack of sufficient natural resources, worsened by a three-year drought and Malach's closure of Elgarian ports to Bajan, sealed his decision to make the alliance.
Mitchell Graham - [Fifth Ring 01] - The Fifth Ring (v1.0) Page 14
