by DAVID B. COE
He closed his eyes, fighting desperately to resist the urge to start screaming himself, when at last he heard the opening of the prison door and footsteps on the stairs. Maybe this was why the man had fallen silent.
Opening his eyes again, Tavis climbed awkwardly to his feet and strained to look up at the stairs, expecting to see Xaver or his father. What he saw instead made his stomach heave.
Brienne’s father had come, accompanied by two guards and the prelate of Kentigern’s Cloister of Ean.
“I’m to be executed,” Tavis whispered. “Ean have mercy.”
“It pleases me to hear you invoke the god, my son,” the prelate said, a smile on his thin, bony face. “Perhaps there is still hope for your soul.”
“Have you come to hang me?” Tavis asked, his voice trembling like a child’s. He looked briefly at the prelate, but then shifted his gaze to Aindreas.
The duke’s expression was as hard as the prison walls, his eyes filled with loathing. Tavis had no doubt that the duke wanted him dead, and would have been happy to kill him with his bare hands.
But it was the prelate who answered his question. “No, my son. There will be no hanging today. But the time approaches and the Underrealm awaits. Have you made your peace with Ean?”
“I—I don’t know.”
“There is a cloister in Curgh Castle, is there not?”
“Of course, Father Prelate.”
“And who is the prelate there?”
“His name is Nevyl. I can’t remember his family name.”
“Nevyl,” the prelate repeated, his smile broadening. “Of course. Brother Ortishen.”
Tavis nodded. Ortishen. That was it. The prelate was close to his mother, less so to his father, who still resisted the movement away from the older faith toward Ean worship. The duke journeyed out of the castle once every turn to visit with the prior of Curgh’s Sanctuary of Elined. As Eibithar’s future king, Javan often said, he had a responsibility to listen leaders of both faiths, as did Tavis. But the duchess disapproved, reminding him pointedly that other houses in Eibithar had embraced the cloisters and insisting that it was time Curgh did the same. For his part, Tavis preferred the ancient rituals and meditations of the sanctuary to the somber liturgies of the Ean worshipers. Still, his mother made certain that he spent at least a few moments of each day in the cloister.
“No doubt Nevyl has led you in the recitation of Ean’s Teachings,” the prelate went on.
“Yes, Father Prelate.”
“So you know that Ean values truth above all else. ‘Thy word shall be golden and thy deeds the reflection of thine heart.’”
Tavis recognized the phrase: Ean’s Fourth Doctrine. Had his father been there, he would have pointed out that if Ean valued truth above all else, this would have been the first doctrine. Tavis, though, said nothing.
“Please, my son, you do not want to face Ean with deceit lying heavy on your heart. The Underrealm is a cruel place for those who hide the truth.”
“Yes, Father Prelate, I’m sure it is.” He knew where this was leading, what they wanted him to say. He faced Aindreas again, meeting the duke’s glare as best he could. “You want me to confess to Brienne’s murder.”
“We want you to find peace,” the prelate insisted. “You have taken a life, and must answer to the god for that. Do not face him as a liar as well as a murderer. Confess now, and perhaps your path into the Underrealm will be easier.”
“I can’t do that,” Tavis said, still looking at the duke. “I didn’t kill her.”
“You lying pile of dung!” the duke said, striding forward and striking him with the back of his hand.
Tavis’s ears rang with the blow and his cheek burned. He held his breath for a moment, fighting back the tears that had sprung to his eyes. He kept his face turned to the side, not daring to look at Aindreas again.
“Don’t do this, my son,” said the prelate, his voice as soothing as a balm. “Please. Your life has been destroyed by butchery and lies. Do not make the same mistakes as you go to face the god.”
“I didn’t kill her,” he said again, knowing what the duke would do.
Aindreas’s blow hammered his head against the stone wall. His knees buckled, but he managed somehow to keep his balance. He felt blood begin to flow from high on his cheek, where the duke had hit him, as well as from his temple, where his head had crashed into the wall. More than anything he wanted to be brave, to endure this in a way that would have made Brienne proud, but he could not hold back his tears.
“Confess, you craven bastard!” Aindreas hissed.
Tavis choked back a sob, but didn’t answer.
“Confess!” he said again, mashing the boy’s head against the wall. He brought his face close to Tavis’s, his hands still pushing on the boy’s head. Tavis smelled wine on his breath. “Confess, I say!”
The prelate cleared his throat. “My Lord Duke, I’m not certain that this—”
“Go!” Aindreas commanded, not even looking at the man. “Your work here is done.”
There was a long silence. Tavis was aware of nothing save the duke’s rasping breath warming his cheek.
“Very well,” the prelate said at last. “Ean have mercy on your soul, my son.”
It seemed to take the man forever to climb the stairs and leave the dungeon. All the while, Aindreas did not move, not even to release him. Tavis felt as though his skull would shatter like crystal under the duke’s hand, and he wondered if that was Aindreas’s intention.
But when the prison door finally opened and then closed, indicating that the prelate was gone, Aindreas backed away.
“I’m glad you refused him,” the duke said. His face was red, and his eyes had a wild look to them. “I rather like the idea of you enduring the tortures of the Underrealm for all eternity. I was torn, for a time, because I want to hear a confession. The prelate has assured me, however, that a confession resulting from torture would not spare you after your death. That was why he insisted that I allow you the chance to give one freely.” He shrugged. “Now that you’ve refused him, I’m free to do with you as I please.”
“I swear to you, my lord, I did not do this.”
Tavis would never have thought that a man of Aindreas’s size could move so swiftly. But in a blur of light and steel and swirling cloth that he could barely follow, the duke drew his sword and slashed him across the shoulder.
The boy screamed in pain as blood began to soak into the tatters that were once his banquet clothes.
The duke held out his blade to that its point hovered like a bee just before Tavis’s eyes.
“Every denial will draw blood,” he said. “Every lie will bring pain.”
“But it’s the truth!”
Again the blade flashed, this time along his cheek. Tavis gasped. It felt as though his face were burning, as if the blood running down his jaw and neck were molten earth flowing from a fire crevice.
“Lie again and you’ll lose an eye.”
“When my father sees me—”
“Ah yes, your father.” The duke shook his head. “I think it will be some time before your father or his companions will be allowed down here again. They probably won’t see you until the day of your hanging.”
Tavis closed his eyes, feeling the tears start to flow again.
“You thought that the blood they found today would win your release, didn’t you?”
He said nothing, fearing that any response would bring the blade again.
But even his silence could not save him.
“Answer me!” the duke raged, pressing the point of his sword against the corner of Tavis’s eye.
“Yes,” he breathed. “That’s what I thought.”
Aindreas removed the blade, at least for the moment. “I thought as much. That seems to be what your father expected as well.” He smiled thinly, shaking his head once more. “That blood means nothing to me, not compared to the blood on your dagger and on your hands.” He stepped forward again, gr
abbing Tavis’s shirt in his fist. “Look at this!” he said, his voice echoing off the walls. “Look at it! Her blood is still here on your clothes! And you want me to believe you’re innocent, just because your friends found a drop of blood on a window shutter?”
Tavis was trembling. He looked to the side, then down at the floor. Anything to avoid what he saw in the duke’s eyes.
“Do you?”
He nodded, and it probably saved his eye. The sword sliced into him again, but from the corner of his eye to the top of his ear. Even with the blood flowing into his eye, he could still see. His tears stung like a surgeon’s spirits, but Tavis dared not make a sound. He merely clenched his teeth, waiting for the next cut and wondering what he had done to offend the gods that they should put him through this.
“You think me cruel,” Aindreas said. He offered it as a statement, Tavis noted with relief. No question to answer. “You think that I’m inhuman because I take pleasure in causing you pain. If you had lived long enough to be a father, perhaps you would have understood.”
I’m not dead, he wanted to say. Don’t speak of me as if I am.
Instead he held his tongue.
The duke raised his sword again, but then frowned and lowered it. “If I’m not careful,” he said, “you’ll bleed to death. Best to find another method of persuasion. Unless you care to confess now.”
Still Tavis said nothing. Aindreas came forward, grabbing his left hand and bending back his little finger.
“Answer! Will you confess?”
“No,” Tavis said, as bravely as he could. “There is nothing to—” He broke off, hollering in agony as the duke snapped the bone.
Aindreas took hold of the next finger. “There are nine more. How many must I break before you’ll tell me what I want to hear?”
“Would you have me lie?”
Pain like white fire flared in his mind. Whimpering like a babe, he sunk to the floor, though the duke still held his hand. He sensed Aindreas staring down at him, but he couldn’t bring himself to look up. After a moment, the man dropped his hand and squatted down before him.
“Why do you deny it?” he asked, sounding almost kind. “You must know by now that it won’t save your life, that it will only bring you more pain.”
At that, Tavis did look at him, summoning courage he didn’t know he possessed. “Yes, I do know it. And yet I persist. Doesn’t that tell you something?”
Aindreas slapped him again, this time catching him in the temple where he had hit his head on the stone wall. Tavis held his breath, waiting for this new pain to recede.
That’s my reward for courage.
“It tells me only that you are your father’s son. Like him, you’re stubborn and foolhardy.” The duke looked at him for a few seconds more before standing and shaking his head. “I’ll return tomorrow. We’ll start with the thumbs, I think. I’ve been told that can be quite painful.”
He started to walk away.
“Can I ask you something?” Tavis called to him.
“Of course.”
“Without fear of being struck or maimed?”
Aindreas’s face reddened again, and just for an instant Tavis thought the duke would kick him. After a brief hesitation, however, he nodded.
The boy closed his eyes for an instant. His hand was throbbing, as were his cuts and the bruises on his face. Perhaps it would have been easier to make up a confession. But he could not bring himself to surrender. In that respect he was his father’s son.
“Well?” the duke said, sounding impatient.
“If I had killed her,” Tavis said, looking up at him, “why would I have stayed there in the room with her. Why wouldn’t I have fled from Kentigern?”
Aindreas shrugged. “You were drunk. You fell asleep. I don’t think you planned to kill her. I think it was an act of blind passion, like your attack on Hagan’s boy.”
Tavis’s eyes widened and he felt his face grow hot.
“Yes,” the duke said. “I know about that. It seems drink has been your undoing.”
“What happened with Xaver was different!” he said quickly. “I had just come from a bad Fating! I was distraught!”
“Of course,” Aindreas said, sounding unconvinced. “And just what did this bad Fating show?”
Tavis faltered and looked away. How could he answer? “It doesn’t matter.”
“No,” the duke said. “I don’t suppose it does.”
He turned again and climbed the stairs, followed closely by the two guards who remained. Tavis heard the door open and then he heard the duke say, “He’s not to have any more visitors. Not even his father. If they protest, send them to me.”
The door closed again and the voices began to recede. Tavis took a long breath and started to sob as he hadn’t since he was a young boy. The pain in his hand seemed to hammer at him with every beat of his heart. He felt blood from his face and shoulder drying on his skin, the sword cuts burning like brands. The bruises on his face felt swollen and tender.
Yet it was not the pain that made him cry, at least not entirely.
He had been thoughtless on occasion. Certainly he had been foolish, perhaps even cruel. And he would never forgive himself for what he had done to Xaver. But in this instance he was innocent. He was almost certain of it. The spot of blood discovered by his father and Xaver had to mean something. What a harsh irony it was, that he should suffer so for the one dark act he had not committed.
He heard bells ringing in the city. Probably the prior’s bells, though again he had lost all sense of time. But in the silence that followed the distant toll, he remembered the other prisoner, whose screams had tormented him for days. He strained his ears, listening for any sound, any sign of life. He knew, though, that he would hear none. The man was gone, dead in the forgetting chamber. Tavis had never felt so alone.
Chapter Fifteen
Southwestern fringe of Kentigern Wood, Eibithar
As a young man growing up in Aneira, Jedrek had spent much of his time hunting in the southern portion of the Great Forest, near where the Black Sand River meets the Rassor. His father, the most successful smith in Crieste, the second-largest city in the dukedom of Dantrielle, had considered hunting beneath Jedrek’s station and had tried his best to convince the boy to learn smithing.
“Hunting is for idle princes and unskilled brutes,” he often said. “Young men looking to make their way in the world need a craft.”
Even as a youth, however, Jedrek knew where his talents lay, and he knew as well that his father was wrong. Hunting was a craft for those who treated it as such. Any fool, prince or brute, could travel the forest long enough to blunder across a bear or a wildcat and slaughter it. But to track and kill a single prey took forethought, cunning, and, above all, knowledge of the beast’s habits and needs. By the time Jedrek was old enough for his Fating, he could track wolves over stone and wood elk through a streambed.
Not long after his Fating he learned that people could be hunted as well, and that the rewards were far greater. The skills required, though, were the same: patience, guile, and an understanding of one’s prey.
In this case, Jedrek’s prey was Qirsi, which made him dangerous in ways even the most accomplished Eandi swordsmen were not. But the fact that this man, Grinsa jal Arriet, was a white-hair also told Jedrek much of what he needed to know in order to track him across Eibithar. Jedrek knew which inns he would seek out along the way and to whom he would turn for help. Other Qirsi were not likely to be very helpful if Jedrek went to them asking questions, but by the same token, those Eandi with whom Grinsa had dealings were far more likely to remember him. Lone Qirsi travelers were something of a rarity throughout the Forelands, particularly in the north.
It helped as well that Jedrek knew where the gleaner was going, just as it was easier to hunt a wildcat once he found its den. He had waited four days before going after him, just as the Qirsi woman had instructed. The trail was already cold between Galdasten and Curgh. He knew it, so he
didn’t even bother looking. He merely rode southward across the Moorlands, pushing himself and his mount as hard as he dared. Whatever the limits of the gleaner’s magic, he was no match for Jedrek in strength or stamina. None of the Qirsi were. If Jedrek rode fast enough for long enough, he’d catch him.
When he neared Heneagh, as the sun set on his third day of pursuit, he began stopping in towns and asking questions. He was bone-weary, his legs and back aching. It had been some time since he had ridden a mount so hard. But when the Eandi smith in a farm village just north of Heneagh told him that he’d shod a horse for a tall Qirsi traveler two evenings before, all of Jedrek’s pain seemed to vanish. The grey-haired man believed that the stranger had stayed in the village overnight—there was a tavern that catered to his kind on the far side of town, the smith said.
Jedrek couldn’t have asked for more. He had made up two days on the gleaner already, and he could cover the rest of the distance in Kentigern Wood, where the Qirsi was less likely to notice his approach. He briefly considered going to the inn to check on the smith’s story, but quickly thought better of it. It was a small town; chances were that the old man was right. Better to make an informed guess than to raise suspicions with too many questions. Thanking the smith with a five-qinde piece, he left the village and continued southward, crossing the Heneagh River by the light of the moons and riding to the northern boundary of the wood before stopping for the night.
Jedrek resumed his pursuit with the first light of dawn, feeling like an army commander who had guided his soldiers to the high ground for a coming battle. In the wood, he could track anything or anyone, and having grown up in Aneira’s Great Forest, he could ride among the trees at a good pace. Even after nearly two days, the Qirsi’s path was obvious. Hoof marks on the forest path, broken twigs and trampled leaves where the man’s horse had rested and fed, and, late in the day, freshly blackened ground where the gleaner had cooked a meal and warmed himself as he slept. He even found a few white hairs in the dirt beside the remains of the fire. They were long and fine, obviously from a Qirsi. It seemed that the gleaner did not fear being tracked, or was merely too careless to know any better. Whatever the reason, his marks on the forest were unmistakable. By the time evening fell, they had begun to look very fresh as well.
