‘None of that now,’ the guard warned, landing another blow that elicited a low groan from the prisoner. The guards hurried past Katarina and Stetch, dragging their prisoner towards the bowels of the fortress.
‘What did he say?’ a tremulous voice asked as Katarina watched the procession meander across the hall. She turned back to the stairs and found Lady Sarah, the duchess’ sister, using the banister to hold herself upright.
‘An old Sudalrese word, my lady,’ Higgins told her smoothly. ‘Its meaning is not something suitable for a lady’s ears. It seems the man has little love for our Sudalrese cousins.’
‘Oh. Forgive me, I didn’t know.’
‘Of course,’ Katarina told her, ‘think nothing of it.’ She switched her attention to the forgettable Higgins. ‘Thank you for removing the burden of an embarrassing explanation.’
Higgins bowed. ‘My lady. If you will come with me, I will show you to the duke’s study.’
‘I’ll take them,’ Lady Sarah said before Katarina could respond. ‘I’m sure you have other business to attend, Higgins, and it is so rare I meet visitors from abroad.’
‘Yes, my lady. Thank you,’ he added in a voice that suggested the butler wasn’t at all thankful.
Higgins bowed to Katarina one last time, gliding silently away like a wraith. What an interesting man, she thought as the butler made his way across the hall. And a consummate liar. “Not something suitable for a lady’s ears” indeed!
A polite cough drew her attention back to Lady Sarah. ‘Tirian’s study is upstairs.’
Lady Sarah turned and began making her way back up the stairs, and Katarina glanced at Stetch before following, but his face was as unreadable as ever. The prisoner’s outburst had been intended for Stetch, and he knew as well as Katarina the significance of that particular word, one that few people outside of the Sudalrese Isles knew. Not an insult at all, but a plea.
‘Is he really your bodyguard?’ Lady Sarah asked as they reached the top.
‘Yes. My father was quite insistent about bringing him along, although he’s a poor conversationalist and a worse servant.’
‘Hmmm. I suppose arguing would not have done any good. Tirian says that the last man to argue with your father didn’t live long to regret it.’
‘That was the last but one.’
‘Really? And the last?’
‘You could ask him, but I think Stetch is still trying to work out whether death would have been preferable.’
Stetch threw in an affirmative grunt, carefully avoiding Katarina’s eyes as she searched his face for humour. Perhaps he really does feel that way, she thought.
‘One of the Sworn, I would guess.’
Katarina laughed lightly as she followed the duchess’ sister deeper into the castle. ‘According to you north folk, every other Sudalrese traveller is one of the Sworn – merchants, performers, fishermen. Why, if this was true, the entire nation would be Sworn!’
Lady Sarah stopped and wheeled to face her. ‘Is it not true?’
Katarina returned the searching gaze with a dry smile. ‘You give us too much credit, Lady Sarah. While many would wish this were the case, I am sure it is a long way from the truth.’
‘Of course,’ Lady Sarah replied with a patronising smile, ‘how foolish of me to think otherwise.’ She turned and glided down the corridor. Katarina glanced at Stetch, but he just shrugged his meaty shoulders, completely uninterested. Katarina hurried along after Lady Sarah, catching up with her as she stopped halfway along the corridor, opened a door and gestured inside. Katarina headed into the room and found herself in a plain study, bereft of paintings or tapestries. It fitted with what she knew about Duke Tirian, every item in the room serving a purpose. To the right a small fire crackled, a mahogany bookshelf on the near side, while on the far side stood a two-tier bureau, the upper level of which looked to be of the kind where the lid came down to serve as a writing desk. The centre of the room was dominated by a large oak desk that could accommodate even an ample body on its top. There was a worn leather chair behind it, and three more arrayed in a semicircle facing it. A sheaf of papers was neatly stacked on the centre of the desk, but Katarina was sure any papers of note would already be locked away. The door clicked shut behind her, and Katarina turned to find Lady Sarah still within the room, Stetch eyeing her as a cat might study a baby mouse.
‘You will find nothing of value there,’ Lady Sarah told her. ‘The more interesting documents are kept locked away.’ She hesitated a moment. ‘I could get you the key.’
‘I am not interested in the duke’s papers.’
‘No? Then perhaps the Black Duke would be glad of a spy who could pass useful information to him.’
Katarina shrugged. ‘Perhaps he would, but then, perhaps he already has one. Who can say?’
‘I could be useful.’
There was a note of desperation in the woman’s voice, and Katarina didn’t miss it. ‘And the price?’ she asked. ‘There is always a price.’
‘Tirian is going to kill Kartane. If you make sure this doesn’t happen I will do whatever the Black Duke wants.’
‘A bold promise,’ Katarina said, ‘but if you cannot change your brother-in-law’s mind, what makes you think I will fare any better?’
Sarah snorted. ‘I didn’t say you had to convince him. Frankly, I don’t care whether you lie, cheat, or break him out of the dungeons, just as long as Kartane is free.’
‘A prison break? From here? Did you take a fall?’
‘Please,’ Sarah said, ‘you must do something – anything. I already lost him once and cannot bear to lose him again. I will do anything in return for his freedom, anything.’
‘I will speak to the duke on your behalf,’ said Katarina, ‘but I make no promises, just that I will try.’
‘Thank you.’
‘There is something I must know first: did Kartane or the boy with him say anything when they saved you?’
Lady Sarah thought for a moment. ‘Kartane said the assassins killed the real priests. There wasn’t time to say much else, except…personal matters.’
‘I see. Anything else you remember?’
‘He called the boy craven. Does that help?’
Katarina nodded. ‘Perhaps, but keep that to yourself for the moment. You should leave before the duke returns, else it might seem suspicious when I plead on your behalf.’
Lady Sarah’s head bobbed as she wiped a tear from her eye. ‘Thank you,’ she mumbled again, turning and fleeing from the room.
The door clunked shut behind her, and Katarina turned to Stetch. ‘Well, wasn’t that interesting?’
Stetch grinned, adjusting his sword belt. ‘Prison break?’
Katarina sighed. ‘Perhaps I should have told her that we wanted to get her lover free as well?’
A scathing look was Stetch’s only reply. ‘No, I suppose not.’
32.
I don’t like this.
The angel’s fingers dug sharply into Tol’s armpits, pinning his shoulders against her waist. He had managed to wrap his arms around her back, but his head was twisted to one side, the left side of his face nestling in the wet warmth of her abdomen while his body dangled helplessly earthward, Tol’s back bent at an angle that he was sure the Maker had never intended. If he’s real. That was more believable now; if angels were real then, as the abbot would say, it stood to reason that their master, the Maker who fashioned the world of Korte and all its creatures, was also real.
Through the corner of his eye, Tol could just see the landscape below, the ground shearing away as they passed the lip of the plateau, the angel’s laboured breathing and the whipping wind all Tol could hear as they flew over the tops of the apple trees that hugged the earth beyond the plateau’s eastern edge. I’m flying. His heart was racing. It was exhilarating and terrifying all at the same time. I wonder what would happen if… Tol moved a leg experimentally, and the angel wobbled mid-flight.
‘Stop moving, fool.’
I will not cause the death of an angel.
He released his hold on the angel, dropping through the foliage like a stone, branches striking him every step of the way. Tol snatched at a passing limb, pain sparking up his arm as his fall was suddenly arrested. The branch creaked, then snapped and Tol dropped again, tumbling through the canopy and suffering in silence until something hard struck the back of his head and the world blinked out of view.
*
A thunderous slap slammed Tol back into consciousness, and very nearly parted his skull from his neck. He groaned, opening his eyes and raising one hand to rub his face. It was night still, and Tol was propped up against a tree, the lumps in his backpack poking against his spine. He blinked, wondering why he was bothering to massage his face when everything else hurt just as much. Another blink, and a white smear edged into his vision. Tol blinked back the spots and gazed up at her, tantalisingly close but getting further away as she rose to her feet. Her golden eyes drew him in like a tornado and time seemed to slow, a gentle breeze fanning her long golden hair as she stared back at him. Her face was unreadable, but it was those golden pools of light that held Tol’s attention, fixed on him with a strength of purpose unlike any he had ever witnessed. It seemed as though he was the only thing in her world in that moment, and she the only thing in his. He blinked, and the moment passed, her eyes skipping lightly over his crumpled body. An angel, he thought. They’re real. Tol’s heart sank as he followed the thought through to it’s conclusion: and if angels are real then my ancestor killed the man who saved an angel’s life.
‘You will tell me how you came to know my name.’
Tol’s mouth fell open, but his voice faltered. What do I say to an angel? The abbot would know, but the abbot wasn’t here, and if Father Michael had ever shared that information with his students, Tol was either being punished at the time or – and he knew this was more likely – simply not listening.
‘Can you speak?’
He nodded, and tried again. ‘Thank you,’ Tol croaked. ‘You saved my life.’
She nodded absently, as if it was the most trivial thing in the world. Maybe it is to her, he thought.
‘You will tell me how you know my name,’ the angel repeated, ‘and you will tell me what you know of Galandor.’ She hesitated, eyes skimming over Tol once more and coming to rest on his waist. ‘And you can start with how you came by his sword.’
‘His sword?’ Tol followed her eyes. She was looking at the sword Father Michael had given him, a plain, unadorned weapon in an unremarkable burgundy scabbard hanging loosely from Tol’s hip. He cast his mind back. The sword, he remembered, had been on the abbot’s desk when he had stumbled into the study, and Tol had simply assumed it was the old man’s weapon from his former life. Behind Tol, the faded tapestry of the Seven’s first and last stand dominated the room. On the opposite wall, directly behind the seated abbot, were the two rusted iron hooks that had been driven into the stone, a cobwebbed sword balanced upon them. Except… they were empty, Tol realised; the sword had been missing.
‘That sly old bugger,’ he murmured. The abbot had kept the church’s greatest treasure in his own study, seen and ignored by the students and brothers alike. Tol had assumed that the sword was a relic from Father Michael’s former life as a knight, and he guessed every one else had, too. It must have tickled him silly every time someone visited him.
A rustle of restless wings drew Tol’s attention back to the angel, her lips pouting as though starved of attention. ‘The most powerful weapon on this rock in your possession, and you don’t even know what you hold.’ Her head twitched sideways.
‘It’s just a sword.’
‘Just a sword?’ She took a step towards Tol, and he leaned further back against the tree as her eyes flickered with emotion. ‘It is anything but that; anything.’
This isn’t going anything like I might have imagined. She seemed angry, aloof, as though Tol was an inconvenience to be brushed aside when the whim took her. As arrogant as the demon, he thought, and perhaps just as dangerous. She isn’t anything like the stories tell.
‘No matter,’ she told him, the silky cadence of her voice diminishing Tol’s misgivings, ‘the sword can wait. Tell me how you know my name.’
Tol frowned. ‘You mean you don’t know?’
She slithered forward incredibly fast, dropping to her haunches over Tol’s outstretched legs so quickly that Tol jerked backwards, banging his head against the tree and sending a miniature snowstorm down from the boughs, tiny flecks of snow peppering Kalashadria’s golden hair.
Her voice dropped to a whisper as she leaned forward. ‘If I knew, why would I ask?’
Her breath warmed Tol’s face, the soft scent of spring and the infinite depths of her golden irises befuddling Tol’s mind and leaving him short of breath. She smiled, a shy, embryonic thing, and rocked back half a foot as if she understood the effect she had upon him. ‘Well?’
‘It will take a while to explain…’
She read the uncertainty in his features like a map. ‘What?’
He hesitated. I don’t want to make her angry. He sighed, and asked anyway because he knew his survival depended on the answer. Judging by the spreading stain on her left side, the angel’s might, too. ‘Is the demon dead?’
She rose gracefully, towering over him like a goddess with streams of golden hair snaking towards him. ‘Demon?’ The corner of her mouth twitched, the vision of beauty momentarily sullied. ‘Close enough to the true name of them, I suppose. You were its target?’
Tol nodded.
‘What does it want with you?’
‘The same as you, I guess. And me dead; it was pretty clear about that.’
‘It will not trouble you tonight. Its wounds will heal soon though – sooner than yours might.’
It should have been an insult, or maybe even a threat, but the angel delivered it as simple fact, and the ember of anger in Tol’s heart fizzled out. ‘Can we talk and walk?’ Tol raised a sluggish hand towards her side. ‘Are you up to it? Your wound looks pretty bad.’
The angel’s eyes narrowed and she leaned down, snatching Tol’s collar and hauling him upright in a fluid motion that was over before he knew it had begun.
‘I fared better than my foe. Do you doubt my word that he will not trouble you again this night?’
She released Tol, and he fell back against the tree. Her eyes sparkled with restrained anger and he knew that if she chose to the angel could end his life before he could blink. ‘No,’ he said, knowing he had to tread carefully, ‘but I’d still like to put as much distance between me and it as possible.’
She nodded. ‘That is the first sensible thing I’ve heard.’
‘If it’s not dead,’ Tol added, ‘then those men will be coming after me, too. I don’t think I could take them all.’
She smiled, and suddenly Tol didn’t feel cold any more. ‘Two sensib
le statements. Mind you don’t overheat that primitive brain of yours.’
‘Do you want to hear what I have to say or are you just going to insult me?’ The words were out of Tol’s mouth before he realised what he was saying, and he winced at letting his temper get the better of him. Smart move, he told himself, insult an angel and see where that gets you.
She stared at him blankly for a moment, and Tol held his breath, wondering if he had gone too far.
‘Which way?’
Tol took a moment to get his bearings. They’d been heading east when they crashed into the trees. A smattering of broken branches on the ground pointed back to Karnvost and Tol’s eyes followed the line. He raised his hand in the opposite direction. ‘East.’
The angel set off at a brisk pace, and Tol ambled after her, his legs aching in several places from his brush with the orchard. They were still within its dark confines, and Tol realised they hadn’t travelled anywhere near as far as it had seemed when he was dangling helplessly from the angel’s waist. Less than a couple of miles, he guessed as he drew alongside her. Another mile or so and they’d be back out in the open fields with not an ounce of cover for leagues in any direction. She’d better be right, he thought.
They walked in silence for a minute. Tol pinched himself twice to make sure he wasn’t dreaming, but even then he wasn’t sure. No-one’s seen an angel in two hundred years, and here I am walking beside one as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. He bit back a chuckle as he realised that if anyone saw them it might look like they were lovers out for a midnight stroll. Have you met my lover? She’s six feet tall and can cleave you in twain before you can blink. And she’s got wings. A chuckle slipped out anyway and the angel’s head swivelled towards him.
‘Something amuses you?’
‘Not for some time. I’m too busy avoiding people that want me dead.’
‘And questions, it would seem. You will not avoid mine any longer, human.’
‘Fine. And my name is Tol.’ A thought crossed his mind. ‘Tol Kraven.’ He turned to look at her face, but didn’t see even a flicker of recognition at the name. Maybe Galandor didn’t tell her about the Seven. But the angel had asked him about Galandor, and Tol couldn’t understand why. They must know each other, Kalashadria’s watch following Galandor’s, so if she had questions why not simply address them to Galandor? Perhaps she thought of them later, once Galandor had returned to sleep.
Angel's Truth (Angelwar Book 1) Page 22
