“Did it work?” Orrin asked. He had his answer as Evelyn’s lips moved, but no sound emerged.
Mage closed his book, a slight frown on his face. “She can’t hear us and we can’t hear her.”
“Good work.” Orrin moved to stand at the base of the dais, looking around at his men. “Everyone, pull up your hoods. I don’t want her to see any face but my own.”
His men obeyed as they moved into position. Archer entered the shadows behind Blackhart, bow at the ready. “I don’t like this.”
“You don’t have to.” Blackhart turned to look at him, pleased that the hood concealed his features completely. “You’ve passed the word? The men are ready?”
Archer nodded, his eyes gleaming from the darkness. “They’re ready. You give the word, and the Keep will empty before you’re out the gate.”
“Make sure that they gather the living in the fortified villages,” Orrin said. “Take this.” He tossed the gold ring with the red stone to Archer. “Melt the damn thing down and sell the stone.”
Archer faded back into the shadows. “You sure the Chosen’s gonna agree to this deal?”
Orrin glanced back to make sure that the Priestess hadn’t moved. Her eyes were wide, and she was staring at him, clearly trying to figure out what was happening. He turned back to face the doors, a grim look on his face. “Let’s find out, shall we?”
FIVE
THE doors of the chamber opened on their own accord.
The figure that appeared out of the darkness of the main corridor was a tall, blonde woman wearing plate and bearing only a simple white flag. No weapons, as he’d requested. Orrin relaxed a bit, seeing that she’d obeyed that part of his message.
She was tall and impressive. Her armor had a sheen to it that made it glow in the torchlight. A warrior, and one with experience. Good.
The woman’s gaze flicked from the Priestess to the men in the shadows before she focused on Orrin.
He arched an eyebrow, well aware of her scrutiny. “Lady Bethral, I assume.”
“Blackhart,” the woman replied coolly. “You asked for a parley.”
“I did.” Orrin gestured to the throne. “You see the Lady High Priestess, as promised.”
Bethral looked at Evelyn. “Lady High Priestess, are you well?”
EVELYN almost couldn’t breathe when Bethral walked into the throne room. What was she doing here?
The Chosen had made it clear that there’d be no rescue. But there stood Bethral, fully armored, with no weapons and a small white flag.
Evelyn strained to hear, but the spell cast by the young apprentice had effectively stuffed up her ears and silenced her voice. All she could do was watch as they talked.
Bethral faced her, and asked a question. Evelyn sighed, and shrugged. She pointed to her ear, shaking her head.
Blackhart gestured, as if explaining. Bethral turned back to face him. Evelyn watched as Blackhart stepped off the dais and moved closer to Bethral, as if confiding in her. Their expressions told her nothing, to her growing frustration.
Finally, Bethral nodded, and Blackhart handed her a set of keys. She took them and walked toward the throne. As she drew close, there was a pop in Evelyn’s ears as the spell around her was released.
“Are you well?” Bethral unlocked the wrist chains first.
As the first manacle loosened, a wave of repressed pain passed through Evelyn’s bones. She swallowed hard at the sensation, barely able to manage an answer. “Well enough.” Evelyn looked into Bethral’s concerned eyes. “What—?”
“Can you work magic?” Bethral asked urgently as she unlocked the second manacle.
“No.” Evelyn shuddered, rubbing her wrists. “Whatever those chains are, they’ve drained me completely. I’ll need rest before I can do anything.”
Bethral handed the keys to Evelyn and gestured for her to free her legs. She turned slightly, keeping an eye on the people around them.
Evelyn bent down to unlock the chain on her ankle. She glanced about, and saw Blackhart talking to a group of the hooded warriors who were darting off in all directions.
Blackhart looked their way, but he didn’t meet Evelyn’s gaze. “Leave with her,” he said to Bethral. “You can do nothing with this place.”
“I’m free?” Evelyn whispered as she sat up, confused. What had happened?
Blackhart gave her a long look, then jerked his head in a nod. Evelyn grabbed Bethral’s arm, and stood as he continued. “I will give the orders to my warriors, and then I will emerge from the gates and surrender myself. Your men will let my people pass?”
“I will give the orders myself,” Bethral replied as Evelyn took a few shaky steps. “I have your word?”
Blackhart gave her a grim smile. “For what it is worth, Lady.”
Evelyn jerked her head up and focused on Blackhart. Now he met her gaze, and those hazel eyes were filled with determination and . . . regret. She stared at him for a long breath, and he returned the look.
Evelyn released Bethral’s arm, and walked forward, never letting her gaze waver. “I thank you, Lord—”
“No, there’s no time. Go, and quickly.”
Evelyn made no move to obey.
Bethral reached for her arm. “Lady High Priestess, we must go.” She took her by the elbow, and urged her forward. Bethral bent down, grabbed the spell chains from the floor, and wrapped them around her wrist.
“I will be at the gate within an hour.” Blackhart was looking at Evelyn as he made the promise.
Bethral took Evelyn’s elbow, and headed for the corridor.
HIS men were evacuating the Keep as fast as they could.
Blackhart forced himself to move calmly and smoothly. The odium still lined the halls, silent, dark, and more threatening than ever. He ignored them.
His men, his hearth-band, waited at the main doors, horses ready, their gear packed. His horse bore no gear. He didn’t need any, did he? Blackhart smiled grimly as he walked into the courtyard.
Archer was holding the reins of two horses. Everyone else was already mounted, their eyes on their surroundings, keeping watch.
“Everyone out?” Blackhart asked quietly.
“If they ain’t, they’s too stupid to live.” Archer handed him the reins of his horse.
Mage was up on his horse, shivering slightly. The lad’s cloak had always been thin. Blackhart removed his own and handed it to the lad.
Mage looked down in surprise. “Lord—”
Blackhart turned away, and mounted his horse.
“Put it on, lad,” Sidian said gruffly. “He won’t need it.”
Blackhart turned his horse and started it walking slowly down the road to the main gate. “We’ll take it slow. Give the stragglers time to get out.”
Archer fell in beside him, and the rest followed. They rode in silence for a moment, as Blackhart scanned the grounds.
“You can still escape,” Archer said softly. “We get out of the gate and make a run for it.”
“No.” Blackhart pulled his horse to a stop just shy of the gate. He could see the Chosen’s forces on the road ahead. “We’ll stick with the terms.”
“The Chosen’s gonna kill ya,” Archer pointed out. “For stuff you ain’t necessarily done.”
“My terms. My choice.” Blackhart leaned over and offered his hand. “Keep them safe.”
Archer clasped it hard. “Do my best.”
With that, he urged his horse forward, and the others followed fast, galloping out of the gate and turning north, disappearing into the night. The Chosen’s forces made no move to follow.
Blackhart took a deep breath as he waited for a moment, to let them get clear. The air was crisp and cold, and felt oddly clean. Or maybe it was that his heart felt lighter. They were almost clear of this trap. One more thing he had to try to do.
When he reached the lower gate, he stopped and gestured to the side. A figure emerged—an odium, shuffling forward.
“Guard,” he demanded in a loud voi
ce.
The figure stood there.
“Guard,” Blackhart said again. He expected a nod, the usual response to a command.
This time, the figure nodded its head. “Gaard,” said a dry, empty voice.
A chill went down Blackhart’s spine. None of the odium had ever spoken before. But he returned the nod, and rode forward.
The gates closed behind him, but the chill didn’t leave his spine.
He kept his horse at a walk, and drew up next to the warrior-lady. Evelyn was mounted behind her, staring at him, her blue eyes alight with confusion.
With a flourish, he handed Bethral his sheathed sword. “We’d best be on our way.”
Bethral nodded, and issued orders. He was surrounded in an instant, his hands grabbed and bound.
Blackhart wasn’t looking at the men taking him prisoner. His eyes were fixed on the lovely High Priestess. He allowed himself a smile then. His men were free to protect their families as best they could. Better still, the Priestess was safe with her own people.
And who knew? With any luck, he’d hear her laugh again before he was executed.
SIX
THE tower bedroom was just as much a prison, but far more comfortable. There was light and air and warmth. But this castle belonged to the Chosen, and now he was the prisoner.
Orrin Blackhart paced barefoot before the fireplace. The room was a cell, for there was no way out, other than down. Further, the fetter on his ankle was chained to the wall, the chain just long enough to prevent a dramatic leap from a window. Two guards at the door, and two farther down the hall. He’d give credit to the Lady Bethral, now Warder of this castle. She knew her job well, and hadn’t permitted anyone to abuse him.
Wouldn’t do for the prisoner to be all bruised and bloody for his execution.
He’d known, of course, what his fate would be. It was just the thrice-damned waiting—
The door opened, and Orrin’s eyes shot to the doorway. The Lady High Priestess Evelyn, dressed in white, stood there with a tray in hand.
Orrin’s eyes narrowed.
The Priestess moved forward, and placed the food on the table off to the side. Slices of bread, cheese, and pears were arranged on the plates, and there was a flagon of wine. She seated herself, her heavy white robes swishing the floor as she settled in one of the chairs. “Eat. You can pace later.”
Orrin’s mouth quirked before he could control it, and he moved over to settle in the other chair, the chain dragging on the floor behind him. “Well, at least I need not fear rape and torture at the hands of your Chosen. Nor poison. A very quick, very public execution will be my fate.”
Evelyn poured wine for them both. “Yet you knew this when you surrendered the castle, and returned me safe to my people.”
Orrin picked up a slice of pear. “I knew.”
Evelyn reached for a slice of yellow cheese. “I had to cut this in the kitchens. They would not let me bring a knife to cut it.”
He tilted his head. “You had to fix the plate?”
Evelyn shrugged. “I thought it best, Lord Blackhart.”
“Orrin,” he said on impulse. He wanted to hear her say his name. “My name is Orrin.”
“Orrin,” she said as she reached for the bread. “I thought it better if I prepared the food.”
“Smart of them not to allow the knife,” Orrin said as he looked at the pear slice in his hand. “But I would not take my own life. I accept responsibility for my actions, Priestess. My soul is stained with blood and pain, and I welcome death.”
“If you wish to plead for mercy, I would support—”
Orrin shook his head. “No.” He gave her a wry look. “They would not even fix the plate for you to bring to me. Do you really think the Chosen could pardon me?”
Evelyn looked down at the food. “I have heard talk. Men do foolish things for love.”
Orrin laughed at that. “Foolish? More like dreadful, Lady High Priestess.” His face grew grim. “Not that love had much to do with it.” He looked at her calm face, suddenly curious. “Besides, what would you know of love?”
“We are sworn to obedience and chastity, not celibacy.” Evelyn’s face was still serene as she spoke. “We are permitted to marry with the approval of the Archbishop.” She looked at him, and her blue eyes met his.
For a moment, Orrin had the oddest sensation of hope. A wave of desire washed over him as he thought of the possibility that she might—
But then reality crashed back over him. “Do you know”—he had to clear his throat—“when will—”
She looked away. “They will bring you before the Chosen after her coronation tomorrow.”
“My thanks.” Some of the tension flowed out of Orrin’s body. “It makes the waiting easier.”
“I know,” she said softly. “Eat.”
He popped the pear slice into his mouth, easing the dryness in his mouth. Evelyn poured the wine.
He reached for the simple cup, and looked over at her. “I did want to . . . apologize. For . . . defiling you.”
“Defiling?” Evelyn frowned at him. “What are you—” She paused, then her face cleared. “You mean the kiss?”
Orrin nodded. “I soiled—”
“Oh, please.” Evelyn looked at him, amused. “I’m no fresh-faced virgin, disgraced by your touch.” She held out a slice of bread. “Besides, I had just tried to kill you.”
“Not very well.” Orrin took the food.
They ate in silence, lost in their own thoughts. Once the food was finished, Evelyn rose to go.
“Will you be there, Priestess?”
Evelyn raised an eyebrow. “My name is Evelyn.”
Orrin turned in his chair and looked into her eyes. There was a hint of sparkle there, and of challenge. Something seized in his chest as he realized that he’d never get to meet that challenge. “So it is,” he said slowly. “Will you be there, Evelyn?”
Evelyn’s face grew rueful. “I will. The Chosen wishes to thank me publicly for my efforts. Although I did nothing in comparison to the sacrifices of others.”
Orrin smiled. “It will please me to see you honored. Perhaps you will honor a condemned man with a smile?”
Evelyn looked at him, her face etched with sorrow. “No, Orrin. I do not think I will smile again for quite some time.”
Orrin’s heart lurched within him, but he forced his face into a snarl. “Do not waste your time on one such as me, Priestess. You’ll be the only one to mourn, and more fool you for doing so.”
Calmly, Evelyn picked up the tray. “I’m just as capable of foolish things as any other.” With that, she turned and left.
Orrin Blackhart cursed every god he knew for bringing Lady High Priestess Evelyn into his last hours before his execution.
EVELYN headed for the kitchens.
She could have handed the tray to any servant she passed, but they were all busy with tasks of their own, preparing for the coronation of the Chosen. Besides, walking to the kitchen gave her a few moments to gather her thoughts.
It had been days since she’d seen Blackhart . . . Orrin. She’d been swept into the battle plans as soon as she had returned, and there hadn’t been a moment’s pause until they’d triumphed. But now, in this time before the Chosen’s coronation, her thoughts had returned to the condemned man.
Blackhart, Scourge of Palins. His fate was sealed, and the list of his crimes was being prepared, to be read out before he was sentenced. The entire kingdom would rejoice.
But not she.
Evelyn tried to tell herself that it was her background as a priestess that made her think of this death as a waste. That she regretted that he’d have no chance to redeem his soul in this life. But that wasn’t really true, was it? There was something about him. . . .
She shook herself back to reality. She had far more to think about than a condemned prisoner. The private dinner with the Chosen last night had proved that her work here was not yet done. No, in point of fact it had not yet really sta
rted.
During the planning, the scheming, all preparing for this moment, it had occurred to Evelyn that it would take time to restore Palins to its former glory. Time and hard work. And those efforts had to start right away—the Chosen could not waste a moment in her tasks. If her Throne was to be secure, if they were to succeed, then she had to serve her kingdom’s needs.
And Palins needed everything.
Evelyn nodded once or twice to the people she passed, but she didn’t really see them. In her mind’s eye she was seeing the countryside. The wasteland that was Athelbryght. Farentell’s empty farms and villages. What little she’d seen of the Black Hills hadn’t been good, either.
The Chosen’s rebellion had taken all of the spring and most of the summer. Once winter hit, there would be shortages. If food and livestock could be gleaned from those areas, and whatever supplies the Regent had hoarded—if those were rationed, they might see the winter through. But making it through to the next harvest would be another matter. Hunger and hardship would drain the will and support of the people, support the Chosen needed.
Evelyn sighed. Sometimes it seemed that no matter how many problems you solved, more came to take their place. Harder issues, tougher goals. It would be nice to have a bit of peace, time to think, pray, and meditate.
“Lady High Priestess.”
The call caught her off guard. She turned to see one of the castle guards coming toward her. “Yes?”
“Your pardon, but the Lady Bethral asks that you spare her a moment.”
“Where is she?” Evelyn asked.
“In the Warder’s office, Lady.”
THE previous Warder of Edenrich had fallen in the last battle. Lady Bethral had been the obvious choice to protect the Chosen and Edenrich itself, and she’d moved smoothly to take control of the castle and the city.
She’d already made the Warder’s office her own. Weapons on the walls, a battered table and chairs, worn and comfortable. In one of the windows, a cat lay sleeping. One of the ugliest cats Evelyn had ever seen, with watery yellow eyes, its fur sticking out every which way, black and brown and yellow and a mottled kind of green. A tail so bedraggled as to be an embarrassment. The creature opened one eye, then closed it, completely indifferent to her presence.
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