Carbraes’ mouth crimped in pain.
“Keir hoped to heal every troll in the North,” said Gael softly. “Would not that have been a worthy redemption for her treason?”
“It’s easier to believe his death a murder than mere . . . mischance,” grated Carbraes.
“Yes,” agreed Gael, gently. “Vengeance is . . . better than bare grief.”
Carbraes sighed, and answered Gael’s earlier question. “Dreas would have had me pardon her, and send her on her way, to find this putative second lodestone. Not because he could forgive her the slaying of his warriors – that he could never do – but because he would not forego the redemption of those still living.” Carbraes shook his head. “Dreas was even more practical than I am.”
“But this is your decision, would still be yours, even were Dreas still with us.”
Carbraes turned away from the lake to confront Gael straight on. The regenen’s face possessed a peace that had not resided there before. He took his time, studying Gael, weighing . . . perhaps everything.
“You will answer for Keir’s conduct,” he said abruptly. “That she will never take action against those under my aegis again.”
“I will,” said Gael.
“Very well. So be it,” pronounced the regenen. “Take Keir and your droplet of iron and whatever other supplies you need, and set off on your crazy quest. I wish you well of it!” His eyes gleamed for an instant. Mockery? Relief? Resentment?
“Do you wish us to return, when we find the second lodestone?” Gael considered, and then added, “Perhaps you would prefer we keep our distance.”
Carbraes’ lips twisted. “A traitor and the secretarius who failed to unmask her?”
“It was my failure,” said Gael. “Although not my treachery.”
“I never supposed otherwise, Gael.” Carbraes sniffed. “You really believe you’ll find it, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“Then be free to return or not as you deem most wise for us all,” said Carbraes. “I shall trust your word – the very first and only oath you swore to me. You need not swear another.” Did his eyes soften? “Be well, Gael.”
It was goodbye.
* * *
When Gael reached the bottom of the straight stair, emerging into the artisans’ yard beside the hospital, Carbraes’ messengers were in motion, scattering like a flock of scratching pigeons surprised by a feline. As each boy received his regenen’s orders, he dashed off. No doubt one was headed toward the castellanum, one to the stables, and another to the new march. The boy directed to the brig was already ahead of Gael, disappearing under the arch of the gatehouse between the yard and the bailey.
The brig’s opteon would not be taken by surprise, when Gael removed Keir from his custody. Nor the troll in charge of the stables, when Gael requisitioned horses. Unless Barris had already acquired the mounts to leave in Nathiar’s clearing.
Carbraes had promised to extend his watchfulness to Barris in Gael’s absence, ensuring the cook’s safety and well-being. And the troll he intended to replace Gael in the tally room was someone who would protect the denizens of the smithies. Gael could leave Belzetarn with a clear conscience. He’d removed the heavy ring of keys from his fibula and handed them to the regenen, who would bequeath them, in turn, to the new secretarius. The reality of it had still not truly come home to him.
Had Gael’s argument to Carbraes actually worked? Was he about to descend the slope of the bailey and pass out through the lower gatehouse as soon as he released Keir? Really?
The messenger who’d preceded Gael burst out of the front guardroom, sprinting away just as Gael reached the door. Within, the opteon was on his feet, looking perturbed and upset.
“My lord Secretarius!” he exclaimed. “The regenen’s messenger tells me that Notarius Keir has been pardoned and is to be released to you, but Brigenen Dreben declares that he will carry out the sentence for treason as soon as the axe-wielder arrives. It seems the messenger sent to the brigenen has not found him yet.” The troll’s voice wobbled on the edge of hysteria.
“Where is Dreben?” demanded Gael, ignoring the opteon’s incorrect title for Dreben.
“Above, by the cells,” faltered the opteon.
Gael didn’t stay for more, but rushed for the inner chambers and the stair hall. If only the spiral of steps was less tight and less steep, he’d be taking them two at a time. Dreben’s barking voice sounded disastrously from above, echoing in the stone confines.
“Haul the traitor out! Which cell does she occupy? Don’t tell me you don’t know which it is! Lunkheads!”
Gael surged up the last three steps.
The two guards still held their stations at the opening to the corridor, looking uneasily at one another and shifting from one foot to the other. The cell doors remained closed, including Keir’s, thank Tiamar.
Dreben stood on tiptoe at the far end of the corridor, peering through the grating of one of the doors. He wore the brown leather cap that he favored – with its chin strap – and a knee-length tunic of dark orange, secured at the waist by his sword belt.
Gael strode forward, intent on intercepting Dreben before he eliminated the far cells from his consideration and started checking those near Keir. As Gael passed the guards, he murmured, “Stay out of this. It’s likely to get ugly.”
Dreben swung away from the cell door. His wizened face tightened at the sight of Gael. “You!” he snarled.
Gael halted. He was well past Keir’s cell, and it would be prudent to give March Dreben some elbow room. “The regenen has issued fresh orders concerning Keir,” he stated.
“The regenen!” spat Dreben. “I know how to deal with traitors, if he does not!” The march jerked his sword from its scabbard, and charged.
Cayim’s hells! It was just like their encounter on the Cliff Stair two deichtains ago, except Dreben had been armed only with his fists that time. He could do considerably more damage with a blade.
The march seemed to cover the half-corridor length between them in two bounds, jabbing forward with the point of his sword, since the corridor was too narrow to permit a full swing.
Gael, staring at the murder in Dreben’s face, realized he’d been a fool to eschew his magery in his first fight with the troll. And he’d be a dead fool, if he eschewed it now. He barely got his shield of energea up in time.
It was reflexive, not conscious, a remnant from the many times Gael had stood at Heiroc’s side on the battleground, protecting both himself and his king.
Blue sparks sprayed, and Dreben’s sword thrust grated to a halt.
The march adjusted instantly, stabbing high at Gael’s throat, low at his groin, high again at his mouth.
Gael backed hurriedly, slamming his energetic shield up, then down, then up, parrying Dreben’s blows awkwardly. The more comprehensive shield he’d conjured in that last battle – to bring Heiroc and himself safely through the storm of blades – took a deal of concentration and preparation. This more limited buckler required movement.
Dreben’s sword moved like a serpent striking, darting in, here, there, and there. His eyes were intent, and his rage had subsided into a sort of enjoyment. Dreben liked to fight, Gael knew.
The sword flicked in to the left, then the right, then the right again.
Gael found his rhythm, parrying more smoothly, but still backing steadily.
They’d reach Keir’s cell soon, which was worrisome.
Dreben lunged in with his body and elbow, sweeping his blade back and then overhead, just barely missing the vaulted ceiling with its point, which dove down at a steeper angle.
Gael was ready for it, successfully extending the energea of his shield to block both Dreben’s elbow and his sword.
Were the two guards staying out of the conflict as he’d urged them to? Or were they rushing up to strike him down from behind? He couldn’t spare even an iota of attention from the foe in front of him to worry about possible foes behind. Dreben would skewer him l
ike a dead rat, if he did.
Gael met a trio of belly stabs with a thickening of his shield’s energea.
He heard a couple of meaty thuds – someone falling? – behind him.
He and Dreben would emerge into the stair hall momentarily, and then Gael would be in real trouble. Dreben would have room enough to bring his full repertoire as a swordsman to bear. Gael had to do something more than defend himself.
He could unleash the black-edged gold energea that would kill Dreben with a touch, of course. But that was troll-magery. It would slide Gael’s nodes far from their proper locations – the very nodes that Keir had returned to their anchorages just yesterday. And . . . Gael had already killed one march of Belzetarn. He didn’t want to kill another. It didn’t matter that this march had every intention of killing Gael.
He was parrying fluidly now, fully into the rhythm of the fight, his body knowing where the next blow would fall almost before his mind could register it.
The door to Keir’s cell lay at his left shoulder.
He had two more steps backward, and then he would be in the stair hall. He must develop his response before that moment, before Dreben’s options widened considerably.
Gael parried.
Parried again.
And then he stepped back hugely.
Dreben bounded forward, taking that first full swing afforded by the suddenly enlarged space.
Gael dropped his energetic shield to fling a net of energea around Dreben’s blade, ducking as the sword came around in a blow that would take Gael’s head from his shoulders.
Gael twisted the energetic net, pulling the sword from its edge-first orientation to flat-first, and then slammed the weapon to the farthest reach of its arc.
The flat connected hard with the side of Dreben’s head.
The march went down like a sapped wall collapsing.
Only then – as Gael stood panting – did he note that both guards lay in awkward heaps on the floor to each side of him.
Keir’s door burst open, slamming into the corridor wall and vibrating with the force of it. Keir herself emerged before the door was all the way open, leaping into the corridor and then over Dreben’s quiescent form.
“You’re all right?” she gasped, an instant before Gael folded her close. Her hair smelled faintly of summer clover.
“I’m all right,” murmured Gael. Her body felt very good in his arms, but he set her away from him. “You?”
“I could hear the fight,” she said, her breath still rapid, her eyes a little wild. “I was afraid the guards would join in support of Dreben. He is their march.”
Gael smiled. “What did you do?”
She smiled back, calming. “Used a healing discipline on them.”
“Oh?” said Gael.
“When a treatment will be too uncomfortable – or even painful – we sometimes send the patient to sleep.” She knelt beside Skinny, checking his pulse at the neck, then nodding and looking up at Gael. “He’ll awake shortly,” she said. “Shouldn’t we get out of here before he does?”
“Probably,” Gael answered her absently, his attention returning to Dreben. The march’s face was very pale. Was he breathing? Had Gael aimed that sword too hard? Gaelan’s tears! He fell to his knees, reaching for Dreben’s chest. It rose and fell again under Gael’s palm. Tiamar be thanked!
Gael looked over at Keir. “He’s alive,” he said.
She frowned. “That’s a good thing? Gael, he intended to kill you. And me, too.”
“But we will not be here to suffer him further. Or not much longer,” amended Gael.
Her face lit. “Carbraes said yes?”
Gael nodded. “We leave with his full permission.”
* * *
Gael described his final interaction with Carbraes to Keir as they made their way through the bailey toward the stables. One of the cohorts was drilling on the slope, marching in complex and everchanging formations which required considerable space, so Gael and Keir had to maneuver around the edges.
Keir had recovered her equanimity, but her eyes glowed as she listened to Gael’s narrative. “You actually argued him to a standstill,” she said, her tone appreciative.
“Not really,” said Gael. “I appealed to his good judgment, which remains his guiding principle. He’s never capricious, you know.”
Keir repressed a grin. Gael saw her lips twitch upward.
“Very well,” she said, “if you won’t accept my applause for your powers of persuasion, I’ll remind you that you earned Carbraes’ cooperation by your own loyalty to him. He could not have simply wished you farewell and goddess’ speed, if he’d not been certain you would never . . . oh,” – she tilted her head, considering – “turn over a map of Belzetarn’s defenses to his Ghriana foes, for example.”
Gael allowed his eyebrow to lift. “Is it so important that I accept your praises?”
She snorted, delicately. “You did save my life, Gael!”
At the stables, Barris had already obtained horses for them and conducted their mounts outside the citadel, so Gael led the way to the small sally port on the western wall. Had it really been only the day before yesterday that he’d traversed this same path in search of Nathiar?
The beech leaves rustled in a light breeze, sending dapples of sunlight dancing on the ferns of the forest floor and over the roots crossing the narrow track.
They discovered three horses – Gael had been expecting two – in the glade of cherry trees with its bubbling spring. When Nathiar stepped out from behind the mounts, wearing a gaudy robe of yellow suede embroidered with red, purple, and copper thread, Gael knew some surprise.
“Do you accompany us?” he asked.
Nathiar snickered. “Really, my dear Gael. Me? Camping rough? No!”
“Then why –?”
“When Barris asked my direction for the way to this clearing, I thought it simpler to do the job myself,” drawled the magus. “Delegation can be such a bore, don’t you think? Good afternoon, my dear Keir,” he added.
Keir wrinkled her nose, but nodded politely enough.
Gael frowned. What was Nathiar not telling him?
“Also,” the magus continued, “I thought you might like to have this.” He shrugged Gael’s satchel of sketches from his shoulder. “Barris had omitted to pack it, and that would never do.”
“Thank you!” Gael exclaimed, further surprised. He was not accustomed to having the magus as an ally. He hesitated, considering a moment. “Wouldn’t you prefer to keep them yourself? In aid of your magical researches?” Nathiar had expressed a wish – in this very glade – that he’d had access to the information contained by the sketches long since.
“I’ve made copies, of course,” said Nathiar. “I felt sure you would urge me to it, my dear Gael. Or. Really, what am I saying? I tested near three dozen messenger boys for their drawing skills and set the best of them to sketching. So much less fatiguing than doing it myself.”
Gael chuckled and slung the satchel across his own shoulders. “You know that Keir and I depart Belzetarn? For good.”
“I nearly think I know it all, my dear Gael. My dear Keir. Really, Carbraes is a fool,” said Nathiar, his characteristic drawl disappearing from that last remark.
“Oh?” said Gael.
“Dreben will be regenen inside a decade,” snapped Nathiar.
“I thought you liked Dreben.”
Nathiar glanced at Gael in exasperation. “It has always been prudent to cultivate the troll, our new march. But did I stand in Carbraes’ boots, I’d have Dreben’s head from his shoulders tomorrow. Sooner.” Nathiar shook his head. “Carbraes can manage most trolls, but he will not manage this one.”
“Sure you don’t want to accompany us?” asked Gael.
“I’ll give you a leg up,” said Nathiar, surprising Gael yet again. Would the magus really do anything so vigorous, so menial?
But he did, clasping his hands firmly beneath Gael’s foot and boosting him upward enough t
hat it was easy to swing the other leg over his mount’s broad back. He did the same for Keir, and Gael was somewhat bemused to note that the magus engaged in no shenanigans, and that Keir exhibited no reluctance at the close contact. Apparently all Nathiar’s innuendos about Keir were just so much persiflage and nothing more.
The third horse did not bear a riding cloth, Gael saw, but a collection of leather haversacks strapped to a pack harness. Barris had obviously been thorough in collecting all the supplies they would need. If Gael had been more observant, he’d have known there was never any question of Nathiar’s company.
“Follow the brook,” said Nathiar. “You’ll find that after a short interval of rough going, there’s a track that heads northwest. I presume you’re going northwest? Unless you have access to a boat builder?” Nathiar’s drawl had returned.
Gael checked the bags strapped onto his own mount behind the riding pad, settled his seat, and picked up the reins. Only then did he reply to Nathiar, although not with an answer to his question.
“Watch yourself, my friend. Belzetarn will always be perilous.”
Nathiar snorted. “Your friend, Gael? I hardly think so!”
Gael smiled. “Have it your way, then. My rival? I can’t term you my enemy, you know. Not anymore.”
“I’ll watch out for Barris,” said Nathiar abruptly. “And the boys in the smithies.”
“Good!” That relieved Gael’s lingering doubts. With both Carbraes and Nathiar alert, the cook and the scullions should be safe.
Keir had fastened the halter rope of the pack horse to the strap of her riding pad and was gathering her own reins. “Will you look out for Kayd, too?” she asked. “He’s a decanen in the hospital.”
“I know him,” said Nathiar. “And, yes, I’ll be sure he prospers.”
The magus nodded, lifted one hand, and turned away.
Gael paused a moment, wondering if Nathiar might glance back over his shoulder, but he did not. How strange it felt to bid the magus farewell, when Gael was more in charity with the man than he had been in decades.
Nathiar’s robed form faded into the dappled woodland understory, and Gael kneed his mount, urging the horse through the brush growing at the spring’s outlet. The ground was moist and sucked at his horse’s hooves. Then it grew uneven, and Gael had to really grip with his legs to stay on. He could hear the twigs breaking behind him as Keir followed. An odd pang twinged within as he realized he was leaving his tally room forever.
The Tally Master Page 47
