Cort grabbed Harth's arm.
"What?" Harth snapped. "No, I haven't even said anything yet!"
Isaic raised a hand. "Wait. Let him talk."
Kai nodded, but he dropped his hand to the dagger at his belt.
"Go ahead," Isaic said. "Tell me about all the witches in my city."
"I . . . don't actually know much about that," Harth said. Isaic's eyes narrowed, and he hurried on: "Only Syntal does. But she's still alive. I can nearly guarantee it. The Fatherlord wants her. Marcus won't kill her—he has to bring her back to Tal'aden."
Isaic scoffed. "How does that help me?"
"It doesn't. Unless you get her out."
The Prince fumed. "That's what you came here for? You were supposed to be bringing support, not begging for it!"
"That's what I'm trying to do! She can still help you. You just have to order her freedom."
Order her freedom, Kai thought mockingly. What a sehking dolt. He allowed himself to relax—there was no treachery here, just run-of-the-mill stupidity. "Your friends were taken in by the Tribunal. They don't answer to the Regent. The only one who can order them freed is Marcus."
Harth sputtered. "That's it? There has to be some way―"
"It's the Tribunal," Kai repeated. "There's not."
"Are they in a temple dungeon, though?" Cort asked.
"Of course they're―" Kai started to snap, then realized what Cort was driving at. He held up his hand, thoughts churning. "Well, now, wait. No, they're probably not. The temple dungeons are full up, been full for months—they didn't even throw Ben in Majesta." He looked at Isaic, weighing his words carefully. "There's a couple different ones they've been using. Redbrick's for the riff-raff, drunks and such. I'd guess they're in Samson's, over in Broadside. If there's witches involved, that's probably where Marcus would want them."
"That's a city prison," Isaic said.
"Yeah. It is." Order her freedom. Kai shook his head. "They'll obey the order there, but if you give it, Marcus will still have your head by morning." He turned the problem over in his mind, picking at it from every angle. Unless . . .
"What about a transfer?" he said. "We'll go pull her out, say we're moving her to the Majesta dungeons―"
"Shephatiah will never agree to that," Isaic said. "There's no room there."
"No, but he doesn't have to. We'll get 'attacked' on the way. She'll escape." That's crazy, Kai, he told himself as he watched their faces. The dumbest idea you've ever had.
"It could work," Cort said.
Isaic looked grim. "Marcus will see right through it."
Kai sighed. He's right. They were playing with a live cobra, here. One mistake, one miscalculation, and the Prince would get bitten. So grab the snake, Captain. Get it away from him. "I'll give the order."
Cort's eyebrows shot up. He looked at the Regent, who shook his head. "It has to come from me."
"No, it doesn't. I know the boys in Samson's. They're Trius's, but they're not happy about the Tribunal having the run of the place." That was glossing over some of the details, but it didn't matter. This was the only way to keep Isaic out of it. "They won't question a transfer order, especially one that gets a witch out of their cells. And when Marcus comes sniffing around, the trail will end with me." He snorted. "Bastard's been trying to get rid of me since the day he got here. Hates me, for some reason. He'll love the chance to take me down. I suspect he won't think about it too hard."
Harth finally spoke up. "You might want to leave the city afterward. Won't be safe here."
Kai shrugged and looked at his prince. "Say the word."
Isaic hesitated, the conflict plain on his face. He won't do it lightly, Kai thought. That's something. "It'll be dangerous, Captain," he finally said. "I'm not sure it's worth it for one witch, even if she does know several others."
"It's not just one," Harth put in. "It's three. Syntal, Angbar, and Lyseira are all witches. Lyseira works miracles without the Church's blessing. The other two are chanters."
Chanters? Kai had heard the word, but didn't know what it meant, exactly. My God, we are in over our heads here.
"And if I know them, they won't leave without their friends. Six total." Harth looked at Kai. "Like I told you the first time."
"Six ain't gonna be much harder than one," Kai returned, "so long as they're all in Samson's." Something occurred to him. "Hey. Is one of them that witch that's been robbing people? Putting them to sleep?"
"No," Harth said. "That's someone else."
"Do you know her?"
Harth hesitated. "Why?"
"For the escape. If another witch puts us to sleep and breaks them loose, our story looks even better."
"Ah. Good idea. Actually, yes. I'll take care of it."
"Good." Kai turned back to the regent, heart thudding. "Well, Your Highness?"
Isaic chewed his lip, eyes bright with calculations.
Then he gave one sharp nod.
Grimy and dark, named for the Blackboot captain who'd built it, Samson's prison had a reputation for brutality. While Redbrick housed loud drunks and petty thieves, rarely for more than a few days at a time, Samson's kept the kingdom's worst: traitors, horse thieves, and murderers. Most of its cells were underground, packed in rows tight as a graveyard's, where its inhabitants saw no sun or friendly faces.
Kai drove up with a jail wagon just after midnight, after confirming that Marcus had returned to the palace for the night. Stormsign, he couldn't help but notice, for a second day in a row. Yesterday, it had been the sun. Tonight it was the crescent moon: spinning slowly in the sky, shifting colors from white to blue to red and back again. As a rule he tried not to be superstitious, but the moon wasn't supposed to spin, and he wasn't surprised to find his stomach turning with it if he watched too long.
"Last chance," he muttered to Cort as he reined the horses in. "Can't order you to do this." He hadn't wanted to bring the boy, but it would be a hard job alone, and the kid had offered.
"Sure you can," Cort said. "And if anyone asks, you did."
"Might not save you," Kai told him, "if it comes to it."
In answer, Cort jumped down and started for the door. I'm gonna double his pay, Kai thought. If we survive this. He climbed down and hurried ahead. "Let me do the talking. I know this lot. You just play the dumb brute."
Cort gave a grave nod. "Always do."
Kai opened the door and nodded to the man at the table inside before pressing wordlessly past. The guard glanced up, returned his nod, and said nothing—just how Kai wanted it.
Another door. Short hallway to the left. Quick flight of stairs ending in a small guard chamber before the cells. It had been years, but the place hadn't changed. The real question was who would be sitting in that final chamber. One of Demetrius's loyalists would kill the whole plan before it started.
He fought the urge to hold his breath as he turned into the room. Try not to look like a goddamn criminal, he reprimanded himself. You belong here. You're not doing anything wrong.
"Captain Kai!" A squat, blond man scrambled to his feet as Kai came in. "Good eve, sir!"
"Duncan." Kai gave a sharp nod, masking an ocean of relief. He couldn't have gotten luckier. Duncan worshipped the ground Kai walked on, and his adulation had only grown since Kai had become captain of the Crownwardens. "Gotta make a transfer to Majesta."
"The witches?"
"Yeah, some new ones that came in last night?"
"Right." Duncan took a heavy ring of keys from his belt and unlocked one of the chamber's three doors, the one that led to the maximum security hall. "Won't be sad to see them go. That Marcus―" He cut off, eying Cort.
Kai followed his look. "Cort's fine. No loose tongue on him."
Duncan gave a curt nod. "That Marcus knows his business," he finished. "The screams were . . ." He lowered his voice, despite Kai's reassurance. "Well, I'll being hearing 'em in my dreams tomorrow."
Kai nodded. He thought of his son and blinked the horror away before i
t could seize him by the throat.
The door groaned as Duncan hauled it open. "Thought they were full up at Majesta?"
Kai spread his hands: Hey, friend, I know as much as you do. He handed Duncan the list Harth had made for him. "Here's the names."
"M'sai." Duncan took the list and sat down at the registry book, running his finger down the entries. "Yeah. Seth Rulano's in forty-seven. Angbar Shed'dei . . . looks like they moved him to thirteen. Then he's got Smith and the other Rulano in the same cell: Forty-nine." He wrote the numbers on Kai's list as he spoke.
Smith, Kai thought. "He put the witches together?"
Confusion flickered in Duncan's eyes, then cleared. "No, the other Smith. The one who killed Mad Matthew. The witch's brother, or somesuch."
"Where's the witch, then?"
"The ravenhead?" He shrugged. "Don't know. Marcus said he moved her—wouldn't tell me where."
Sehk. Isaic's words echoed in Kai's head: Not sure it's worth it for one witch. And that one wasn't even here.
"Other than that, they're all still here, except for . . ." Duncan tapped one of the names. "Ig-natus?" He pronounced the name with a hard t. "Ardenfell? Don't have him."
"He didn't come in with the others?"
"Unh-uh. Never here."
Sehk, he thought again. He could feel Cort's eyes on him; he didn't need to turn to see the question in them. Is this still worth it? Does it even make sense? Two of the six missing, and one of them the main reason he'd come? Maybe he should fall back, regroup, check in with the Prince.
Again he thought of his son, alone and screaming in one of these black holes. By all accounts the kids on Harth's list were only a few summers younger than he'd been when they took him.
"Well, we'll take what you got," he said.
"Right then." Duncan stood up. "It's just through here."
Door thirteen was at the end of the first hall, on the left. It opened to a stone closet, stuffed with a heap of sodden flesh, reeking of sehk and blood. The heap moaned. Somewhere within the mass of bruises, a pair of brown eyes blinked at him.
"Sehk'akir," Cort breathed, covering his mouth and recoiling. Duncan nodded several times, tightly.
Is that what they did to Bastion? Kai wondered. Is that what they did to my boy? "Angbar?" The word scraped out of his throat. "Angbar Shed'dei?"
The Bahiri whimpered. If he could have moved, he would've tried to curl in on himself.
Who does this? Kai demanded, aghast. Who possibly could? His heart opened; he wanted to kneel next to this poor kid, to soothe him. We're here to help you. Help is here.
He swallowed the words. They'd get all of them killed.
"All right, Rothshire, bring him up to the wagon."
Cort paled.
"Majesta won't wait all night, Loyalman! If he can't walk, you're gonna have to carry him."
Angbar emitted a low, broken moan: the most horrible sound Kai had ever heard. He turned his back on him and looked at Duncan. "Next?"
Kai braced himself for the worst at the next door. But he found the young man inside sprawled out and fast asleep, with both ankles chained to the wall. Except for some bruising around the neck and face, he was unharmed. Unlike the Shed'dei boy, he was even still clothed. "They drugged this one," Duncan explained. "They've got us giving him a couple leaves of ensilla every few hours. You've got to open his mouth and put it straight on his tongue. He's got Preserver training, so if he wakes up . . ." He glanced at Kai. "They know all this at Majesta, right?"
"Yeah," Kai said. "Of course."
The last room was two doors down: two naked, bleeding bodies hanging by their broken arms from the wall. One, a young woman, had the word Witch burned into her stomach, her entire body mottled with bruises. The other, a young man, had only empty sockets where his eyes should be. Dried blood streaked his cheeks. He woke when the door scraped open.
"Lys," the blind one wheezed. "Is it him?"
"No," Kai said. "Just the guards. We're moving you."
The prisoner said nothing else. Cort released him and guided him out as Duncan unlatched the girl's manacles. She slid limply into Kai's arms. He carried her out.
Minutes later, he and Cort had finished loading everyone into the back of the wagon. Kai had just fed the padlock through the latch when he heard a groan.
He stopped and searched the darkness. The sound came again.
"Did you hear that?" he asked.
"It wasn't them?" Cort said.
He waved him to silence, listening. The street stood empty and quiet. Then it came again.
Kai craned his head up, disbelieving. That sounded like it came from the roof. "Help me," he grunted, slapping the padlock closed and jogging to the prison wall. "Push that over here." He pointed at an empty crate near the door.
Cort obliged, and Kai climbed up—gingerly, his old knees grinding. Then his head cleared the eaves.
"Bitch's tits," he breathed. Syntal Smith lay naked and moaning on the prison roof.
"What?" Cort craned his head up. "What is it?"
"She's up here," Kai whispered.
"Who?" Cort said, before it registered. "The ravenhead?"
"I gotta . . ." Kai gave a short jump, trying to climb up. "Come here, push me up."
Cort hurried over. "How in Hel did she get on the roof?"
"Scorched if I know." With Cort's help, he managed to get one creaking leg over the eaves, then slowly drag himself up. Be careful, old man. You fall off here, you won't be getting back up. He climbed the rise, staying low and slow.
Broken legs, just like the others, and every finger snapped. Her back was livid with sunburn. "I think she's been up here all day," Kai called softly. "Watch the edge; I'm gonna lower her down to you."
She woke when he touched her, eyes wide and accusing. "Shhh," he said. "It's all right. I'm a friend."
"Where . . . am I?"
"You're on the roof at Samson's. I'm gonna help you down. We've already got your friends out."
"My books. Did you . . . get my books?"
Kai did a double-take. Did she just ask about her books? "No. I don't know where they are."
"I need them."
"No. You need to get out of here while you still can."
She tried to argue, but was in no condition to fight back. He lowered her down to Cort, who carried her to the jail wagon. With his help, Kai managed to reach the street in one piece himself. He climbed into the wagon and took hold of the reins.
"Well," Cort said, "that was easy." He started to climb up, and Kai stopped him.
"It was supposed to be. The hard part's on the way. And you're not coming."
Cort sighed. "We've already been over this―"
"No. This is where it gets really ugly. You're not part of it." He snapped the reins, leaving Cort standing dumbfounded behind him.
He'll thank me, before this is over.
Kai pushed Cort out of his mind and followed the route Harth had planned. Leyton to Crownsward, north past the public baths—a roundabout route to Majesta, yes, but when Marcus questioned him, he would just say he was trying to avoid the main throughways.
The entrance to Old Castle Backway sneaked up on him: a rundown alley barely wide enough for the wagon. He brought the horses around wide and eased them in.
Ain't this a little sehk hole, he thought. Good spot for an ambush. I wonder if this is where—
It happened fast: a sudden apprehension, whispered chants in the dark, a wave of exhaustion—
Then the world went dark.
ii. Isaic
He didn't sleep. He didn't even try. He glanced briefly at a bottle of wine, felt his stomach turn at the mere sight of it, and spent the night in the library, sifting through the annals of old kings.
His mother had often tried to persuade him to come down here. The old kings were different, she said. You could learn much from them. And he'd sworn the blithe promises of the young—earnest and heartfelt, with the weight of a feather. Angelica's education lef
t little time for other pursuits, and of course, it included its own solid grounding in history: the Church's history, straight from the Chronicle.
Tonight, he needed to hear from his mother. He found her voice in the story of Valore Gregor III, who led his army in battle against an invader from the Tairen Sea, and of Laurin Gregor, the queen who served as regent when her husband fell ill, whose quick reaction to an imminent threat contained a plague that would have spread death to every corner of Darnoth.
Just like you, his mother whispered from the pages. My brilliant, defiant son.
These rulers had never consulted the Church before doing what had to be done. They never waited like lapdogs for the Fatherlord's commands. These, he was sure, were the stories she had wanted him to find—and in one of the books, her hands guided him to a folded scrap of yellowed parchment, a page torn from the journal of Ordech Gregor II.
Yes, the Church acts as God's will on Or'agaard, and the King's ordination is an extension of that will. All of the King's authority comes from God. All of his wealth, his power, and his right to rule derives from that divine investment.
But while it may appear to the peasant that such ordination is purely boon, it in fact confers terrible responsibility—for the welfare of the kingdom, its people, and even the Church. This responsibility is placed directly at the feet of the King. Abdication of it, even back to Akir, is the gravest of kingly sin.
The Gregors were chosen by God for a reason. The Church was never meant to rule directly.
By the flickering lantern light, as Harad stood silent guard behind him, he read the passage again and again. When dawn crept over the stacks, he took the slip of paper and put it in his pocket: a secret talisman, a source of forgotten power.
He broke fast, bathed, and dressed. "Is there any word from Thorn?" he finally asked one of his servants.
"No, Your Highness. Should I send a runner to his quarters?"
"No." If Melakai had returned, he would have reported immediately. This was not the time to begin acting the fool. "No, that won't be needed. What is my schedule today?"
"Father Marcus requests your presence for a number of signings in your receiving room. Then this afternoon, you have tea with the emissary from Ornbridge."
A Season of Rendings Page 55
