And Night Descends (The Third Book of the Small Gods Series) (13 page)

A movement in the dim shadow behind the horse doctor distracted Stirk for an instant, but he kept his eyes on the tall man. When it happened again, he dared a glance. The fresh straw on the floor shifted, stopped, shifted, stopped. Likely a rat or other vermin, but curiosity threatened to consume him, making him nearly forget the threat of the pitchfork pointed at his gut.

Something resembling a large, hairless spider missing three legs scuttled out of the hay. Seeing it made Stirk’s heart jump with fear—he loathed spiders—then he recognized it for what it was.

My hand!

It crossed the floor toward Enin on the tips of its fingers. Stirk found it difficult pulling his gaze from its movements, so much like an animal on the prowl, but forced himself to look away lest Enin guess its presence. He let a growl escape his throat, hoping to scare the horse doctor back.

“You have to believe me,” the gaunt man said. “I’d never do anything to hurt Bieta. Or you.”

“Just ‘cause you didn’t kill her with your own hands don’t mean you’re not responsible.”

Enin’s expression changed; the fear in his eyes loosened and they turned watery. The pitchfork sagged in his grip, the tines drooping toward the floor. Behind him, the hand inched forward, pausing a single pace back of the horse doctor’s heel.

“Stirk—”

“My ma’s dead. You deserve to join her.”

“You don’t understand.”

“What don’t I understand? That if it weren’t for you, she’d be alive? And I’d have both hands?”

“You don’t understand that I wouldn’t hurt you or her because…”

His voice trailed off and his gaze fell away from Stirk’s. The big man’s heart leapt in his chest for fear he’d notice the hand, but he didn’t. Instead, the horse doctor tossed the pitchfork aside and looked back into Stirk’s eyes. Tears brimmed his lids; one spilled over and rolled down his cheek.

“I wouldn’t hurt you because I’m your father.”

Stirk stared at the man, struggling to decipher what he’d said. Somehow, this last time Enin opened his mouth, to Stirk’s ears it sounded as though he’d spoken a different language.

“What did you say?”

“I’m your father, Stirk.” Enin’s face relaxed a little. “Bieta didn’t want you to know. It’s why I protected you.”

Stirk’s head swirled. When had the horse doctor ever protected him? And how could he be his father? No, Stirk understood the process that made a man a father, but he didn’t know how he never suspected. Stirk had surveyed every man who ever visited his mother, searching for someone with similar features to his own, wondered if each might be the one.

He’d never considered Enin.

“Protected me?” He lifted his handless arm, pointed it at the horse doctor in accusation. The severed hand on the floor behind him scuttled closer. “You call this protecting me?”

“Yes. If we hadn’t ensured the prince’s life continued, you and Bieta would surely have been killed.”

“She was killed,” Stirk snapped. “Do you see her standin’ here by my side?”

Enin’s chin dropped to his chest. “It didn’t work out how I’d hoped.”

“Damn right it didn’t.” He took a step toward the horse doctor, jaw clamped tight and hand curled into a fist.

“But I had to try. I had to give you a chance to survive.”

“Bieta didn’t have no chance.”

“I wish I could bring her back.” Enin raised his head; dim light gleamed in the wetness on his cheeks. “I wish I could make you safe.”

Stirk went to move closer, but hesitated, the horse doctor’s tone giving him pause. Was it possible the man told the truth? His eyes narrowed and he surveyed Enin’s long, gaunt face, narrow shoulders, his sunken chest. He bore no resemblance to Stirk, and yet he wondered.

Is he my sire?

Under other circumstances, he’d have dismissed the notion. But after so much speculation, and with his mother gone, the prospect of having a father seemed more desirable than ever.

“Are you speakin’ the truth?”

Enin nodded fervently. “I am.”

“Then why didn’t ma tell me? Or you?”

“She begged me not to.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Season after season, I paid the tanner to let you stay in the storeroom of his shop, but Bieta didn’t want you to find out. She was a proud woman.”

He might tell the truth.

No proof. His lying.

He might be my father.

He’s a liar.

Enin must have seen the internal debate playing out across Stirk’s face. He reached out a comforting hand and took a long pace forward. During their exchange, neither of them noticed the severed hand make its way to Enin’s feet. It grabbed hold of his ankle as he took a second stride, the grip throwing him off balance.

Enin waved his arms in the air, attempting to prevent himself from toppling, but failed. He twisted as he fell, landing with his back to the ground and the pitchfork he’d cast aside. The four points sank deep into his flesh; he gasped a harsh breath through his mouth. He’d barely come to rest before the severed hand scuttled its way up his body faster than one might have imagined it could move.

Stirk stood motionless, gawking.

The fingers wrapped themselves around the horse doctor’s windpipe and squeezed; Stirk’s other hand mimicked the grip. Enin grasped at it, trying to pry it away, wincing at the pain of the pitchfork sticking him in the back as he did. He pulled at the fingers, but the severed hand’s grip proved too tight. His fingernails scratched the back of the hand and Stirk sucked in a quick, pained breath.

Enin directed his gaze toward Stirk, his eyes wide and bulging from the lack of air reaching his lungs. The big man recognized the pleading expression flickering in them amongst panic and fear. For an instant, he considered diving forward, prying the should-be-dead fingers from around his throat, and saving the fellow who claimed to be his sire.

Liar.

Bieta wouldn’t have kept it from him. She’d told him he’d never meet his father and, though he’d always watched for the person it might be, just in case, he didn’t believe his mother lied to him. The horse doctor, however, feared for his life.

A man’ll say anything when he’s afraid of dying.

“Stirk,” Enin wheezed. He held his hand out toward the big man, fingers splayed in a last, desperate act of begging for mercy and forgiveness.

“Liar.”

Stirk crossed his arms, acutely aware of the stump pressing against his chest as the hand that once resided there tightened its grip on the horse doctor’s throat. First, the color drained from the man’s face, then some returned as his lips turned blue. The arm he held out drooped, his energy draining until it settled onto the fresh hay scattered about the floor.

A spark of hope burned at the back of Stirk’s mind, wishing he had a father and Enin might be that man. But the spark was smaller than the fiery rage burning over the death of his mother, so he watched as the blue in the horse doctor’s lips spread to his cheeks and his eyes rolled back in his head.

The hand held on a while longer, like it wanted to make sure it had truly extinguished the man’s life before releasing its grip and crawling to Stirk like a dog awaiting a reward for a trick well performed.

He picked the hand up, stroked it, stored it in the pocket sewn in the lining of his jerkin, and left the horse doctor’s shop determined that, the next time he took a life, he’d use the hand still his own.

XIII Trenan—Bound for Ikkundanna

They prompted their horses faster, passing a line of wagons leaving the city along the Sunset Road. A weapons merchant, a spice wagon, an open wain covered by a poorly tied sheet of canvas with fabrics of many colors bulging out from beneath. Three covered wagons accompanied them, each carrying a variety of foodstuffs and supplies as the caravan made its way to the kingdom’s many outlying towns to set up market and sell their wares.

As they found their way past the front of the column, Trenan glanced back and wondered if they should have searched the wagons. He slowed his mount, thinking he might go back to do just that, but then changed his mind. No merchants would offer transport to initiates of the Goddess, certainly not one dressed in the red cloak of deadly disease.

The master swordsman put his heels to his steed, urging it to catch up to Dansil. He settled his pace when he did, his mare keeping stride with the bigger gelding the queen’s guard had appropriated.

It’s just a horse.

But it was more. He’d need to keep a tight rein on the queen’s guard or their search for Danya might go seriously astray. He put the thought from his mind for a moment, thinking of the red shroud he’d glimpsed through the crowd when he heard the princess call his name. Might it be a clue where she went?

“Ikkundanna,” Trenan said, putting voice to his thoughts.

Dansil’s head jerked toward the master swordsman. “What did you say?”

“Ikkundanna. When I saw the princess and her companion fleeing the square, she was wearing the Goddess’ red smock.”

“So you think we should risk catching our deaths based on a cloak of crimson cloth? No fucking way.”

Trenan’s gut knotted and his jaw tightened, but he willed his body to release the tension.

“It’s the only clue we have,” he said, holding back the verbal lashing he’d rather have given the queen’s guard.

“Not much of a clue. We’ve probably ridden past them already, them being on foot and all.”

“Don’t underestimate the resourcefulness of your princess. Or the influence of those of the Goddess.”

“A disguise, is all that was. Why would the Goddess’ bitches give a flying turd about the princess and her imaginary quest? Probably she and some street urchin she hooked up with stole them to hide from you.”

Dansil stared straight ahead as he spoke, but Trenan saw the corner of his mouth quivering as the queen’s guard fought to keep from breaking into a smile. Would he really let his sour feelings for Trenan interfere with their search for Danya and Teryk? He swallowed his anger, but it caught in his throat.

“What would you have us do, then?”

“Hmph,” Dansil grunted. “Were it up to me, we’d’ve returned to Draekfarren with Strylor and your puppy, sent a force of men out to find the whelps while you faced the king’s wrath, likely ending up in Dreemskerry like you deserve.”

Trenan bit down hard and forced air out through his nostrils. The anger he’d been suppressing grew, its red hot glow fanned to a flame by Dansil’s words. His legs gripped the sides of his steed tighter and his hand instinctively released the reins and moved toward the hilt of the crownsword.

“What is your problem?” the master swordsman demanded. “There need not be others around for you to treat higher ranking officers with respect.”

“Respect? You jest. Respect is earned, not given. How can I respect you after what I’ve seen you do?”

Trenan raised an eyebrow. “What in the king’s name are you talking about?”

“Funny you’d use the king’s name in that manner, having fucked his wife and all.”

The statement caught Trenan by surprise, draining the blood from his face and leaving his cheeks cold. His mouth opened to reply but no words made their way to his tongue.

How could he know?

Was it possible Ishla confided in a guardsman? Or had he overheard her speaking with one of her ladies-in-waiting? Trenan doubted either to be the case. They’d both see dire consequences should their secret become known; it would cost the master swordsman his freedom if Erral felt generous, his life if he didn’t.

She wouldn’t tell. He’s guessing.

When Trenan had no retort, Dansil pivoted in his saddle to face him, putting no effort into concealing the malicious grin contorting his lips. In that instant, the swordmaster understood the queen’s guard knew his secret.

“Bet you’re wondering how someone like me found out something no one else knows, ain’t you?”

“You’ve lost your mind,” Trenan replied, adding steel to his tone, a practice he’d mastered through years of commanding soldiers. “No such thing has ever happened. I should have your tongue from your head for even suggesting it.”

“Exactly how I’d expect a guilty man to react, and your conviction might make me doubt my information if I hadn’t seen it myself.”

“Impossible. There’s never been anything to see.”

“I was just a pup,” Dansil said as though he hadn’t heard Trenan, “an adventurous lad exploring the castle late at night, avoiding guards and sneaking to places young lads aren’t supposed to go. It’s amazing what you find in a castle late at night. Even more amazing who you bump into sneaking out of rooms where they shouldn’t ought to be.”

Dansil had shifted in his saddle again to face forward as he spoke, continuing his story without looking at Trenan. The master swordsman felt little relief for not having to experience his malevolent smile; he let his hand rest on the pommel of the saddle, a hand’s breadth from his weapon.

“Who’d’ve expected the queen to creep out of the room occupied by the soldier who’d given his arm for the king?”

Trenan’s mind drifted back to the night, but not borne on the fond memories and longing with which he usually recalled it. Instead, he remembered the youth who’d knocked on the door, entered without permission. He’d all but forgotten it, dismissed the occurrence from his mind, but now he realized it meant Dansil wasn’t guessing.

No use denying it.

“She came to give her thanks, nothing more.”

“In the dead of night? I bet she gave her thanks.” The queen’s guard brayed a harsh laugh. “She gave her thanks and you gave her something else, didn’t you?”

“Nothing happened but conversation. She was pleased I saved her husband and wanted a moment alone to tell me.” Trenan hated the way his words sounded: hollow, empty. To him, the truth they attempted to conceal shone through like a beacon in the night.

Dansil again continued as though Trenan hadn’t spoken.

“I took a while to realize what you’d given her on that night she gave you her cunny.”

Trenan’s fingers wrapped around Godsbane’s hilt, his eyes narrowed.