Blood and Memory (20 page)

The handsome eyes of Celimus regarded Jorn intently now and the gaze felt suddenly too direct and intimidating. Jorn felt his resolve crack slightly, but he rallied his courage and mastered his fright, resisting the temptation to blurt out everything he knew of Leyen and her intentions—which was little enough in truth. He instinctively cast his own gaze down and this was perhaps his final undoing. It might have been that if Jorn had held his sovereign’s cold and compelling look, the unpredictable nature of his king might have erred toward leniency. Instead it swung toward cruelty. The King could tell the youth knew very little and would hardly be privy to a secretive and highly qualified assassin’s intentions, yet it nagged instinctively at Celimus that he was being beguiled somehow.

“He lies; wheel him!”

Jorn heard the hammer of his own heartbeat in his ears. He slid toward the floor, dazed with shock, and noticed for the first time three words scratched into the stone before he lost consciousness.

“My king, please—” Jessom attempted, alarmed himself at such needless torture.

“Don’t even think to contradict me, Chancellor,” Celimus warned, his voice hard, eyes glittering. “I want him wheeled. He’s not strong enough to resist the pain. I will know whether Leyen is true to my cause or not.”

Jessom knew that Leyen was true to no one but herself, but this was not an occasion to test his majesty’s temper with the truth. He nodded in acquiescence, keeping his head bowed, so he heard rather than saw the contemptuous swagger of the King’s departure.

The Chancellor motioned to the dungeon master, and when the man had listened to his grave words, Jessom turned back to Jorn. “I’m sorry, lad,” he said, and meant it.

But Jorn did not hear the apology or feel the rough hands that grabbed his limp body and removed him to a part of Stoneheart he had never imagined he would have to see.

It was a genuine surprise for the skilled team of torturers Celimus had assembled since taking the Crown that the youngster lasted as long as he did. Battle-hardened soldiers facing the same breaking of limbs beneath the crushing wheel had either begged for the mercy of the sword or had simply died from the shock. Jorn sadly survived the initial smashing of his joints, expertly done by a man who asked no questions but simply went about his gruesome business with quiet expertise.

Normally he would have prolonged the session, taking his time placing the wooden block beneath the sweating, usually shrieking victims before bringing his heavy mallet down in punishment. The two pelvic joints and their subsequent breaking usually won the greatest attention from the condemned, but the man sensed this young lad did not deserve prolonged punishment and he pleased the two other onlookers by doing his job swiftly.

This meant they could get onto the second stage of pulverizing Jorn’s skeleton beneath the crushing iron wheel that the men rolled slowly over his body. The pace was such not because they wanted to lengthen his suffering but because the wheel was so enormously heavy it took some doing to get it rolling. As it turned, the men openly marveled at the young fellow’s capacity to withstand what was regarded by most in the profession as the most intolerable pain one could inflict on a person.

He was embarrassingly brave to the end and they felt ashamed that this was being visited on a youth, both of them wincing at the loud popping and cracking of the lad’s bones until the weight reached his chest and finally stopped the faint, erratic heartbeat.

Jorn took his final agonizing breath, vague satisfaction skimming through his blurring thoughts that he had not let himself down, despite the chilling screams that escaped his throat. His last conscious thought was not of Ylena but of the three words scratched in his cell. As Jorn died he made the final connection in a fleeting moment of high clarity. He sent a dying prayer to Shar to preserve the Thirsk line and ensure his brave death was not in vain.

They were normally expected to use the crushing wheel over the entire length of the victim’s body, but as soon as Jorn’s eyes clouded with death, the two men rolling it stopped.

“Enough!” one said. He was good at his job but did not like hurting the innocents and there had been too many of those in recent times. “I’m not crushing this one’s head for his majesty’s pleasure. He’s suffered enough…and with courage.”

“Are you sure?” his companion said. “It’ll be our own guts the King hangs us from if we’re not careful.”

“Jessom wasn’t happy over it. He said to make it swift.”

“Got nothing out of him, though, did we?” the other man admitted.

“Nothing to get, probably. Come on, roll it back. At least if his family collects the body, they can see his face is whole.”

“Can’t say the same about the rest of him,” commented his fellow torturer. He whistled, looking at the state of the shattered, bloodied mess of a body before them.

Later that day, when Jessom had reason to visit the King’s chambers, Jorn was the sovereign’s first question. “Did the page reveal what we wanted to hear?”

“No, my lord king.” Jessom did not have to work at being solemn. He was still in a distracted mood over the morning’s events.

Celimus glared at his chancellor, hand poised over the parchment he was scrawling his mark upon. “Surely?”

“He took whatever secrets you feel he may have had, sire, to the grave with him.”

Celimus stood, angry at being beaten by a youth. “He was wheeled as ordered?” he stated. It was just short of an accusation.

Jessom kept his voice even. “Yes, sire. Exactly as you instructed,” he lied. “It seems the boy survived an interminable time. Not until the iron crushed the very beat from his heart did he relinquish his grip on this life.” Inwardly the Chancellor felt proud of the boy. This was one death he did not agree with.

“He gave nothing?”

Jessom gave a deprecating gesture that suggested he did not believe there was anything to give.

“He spoke no words,” Celimus qualified, ensuring his oily chancellor kept nothing from him.

Jessom kept his voice even, expression blank. “Just the usual assortment of shrieks and groans, sire. No words.”

“Admirable,” Celimus said, pausing by the window to consider. “For he surely withheld something. Where is the body?”

“Ready for burial, I presume, sire.”

“I want you to think, Chancellor.”

“Pardon, sire?”

“Think, man! I employ you for your fluid mind. What are we missing? There must be something we have overlooked. Ponder it—find the solution for me by tomorrow and report back. We shall meet in the morning after my dawn ride.”

Jessom could only bow. He felt a pit open in his stomach at the thought of meeting Celimus tomorrow with no answers. The King’s tantrums usually resulted in someone’s death.

“By the way, no burial for Jorn. Impale him. Have it done on the main road into Felrawthy.. just in case.”

“As you wish, sire,” Jessom said, weariness overcoming him. He knew there probably was not much left of Jorn to impale anyway. Was there no end to this man’s brutality? He kept his voice steady. “I shall see to it now.”

“And I shall see you tomorrow, Chancellor, with answers to my questions.”

Elspyth had taken the rest of that day and all of the night to surface from her bleak, virtually catatonic state. When she did she knew it was time to leave the two kind families who had cared for her. She could tell her brooding presence unnerved the youngsters and the once-lively chatter of Ruth and Meg was now guarded, the women not wishing to impose on her sorrowful mood.

As the carts rolled to a pause at Five Ways, an aptly named spot, where five roads led to different regions of the realm, she took her leave, in spite of the families’ protestations, which Elspyth knew were mild. She mustered a smile for the group and hugged both the women, especially Ruth.

“I will worry after you,” the kind woman admitted.

“Don’t,” Elspyth assured. “I’m really very capable.”

“You know you are welcome to stay with us,” Meg offered.

Elspyth felt a surge of gratitude. “Yes, I do. But I must find Koreldy’s sister—that’s where I was headed when I stumbled onto your path.”

“I’m sorry again, lass,” the still-abashed Ham said, handing her a small sack of food.

She took the sack and squeezed his hand to reassure him that she held no grudge. “You’ve all been so very good to me. Better I hear it from kind souls than from those who might take pleasure in such news. I’ll be fine, I promise. It was just a shock, and once I deliver a message to the Koreldy family, I’ll be able to get back to my own life,” she lied.

She hoped none would ask where this elusive sister might be or indeed where Elspyth’s home was. None did, and after another round of awkward farewells, the carts rolled on their way, headed east toward Briavel’s border. Once they were out of sight, she took stock of her situation. She turned toward the road that led northeast—a more direct path to the duchy—and set off. She still felt as though her mind were blank; first Lothryn’s plea for help and then the news of Koreldy had left her decidedly empty.

“It’s up to me now,” she said aloud on the lonely road.

Hearing her own voice sounding so defiant gave her courage. First she would keep her promise to Wyl and find his sister, ensuring Ylena was given the protection of the Duke of Felrawthy. That done, she would return to Yentro—perhaps Lothryn had been wrong and the old girl had survived. Once there, she could gather together whatever monies she could, perhaps even sit out spring, before heading far north and into the mountains. She did not relish the forbidding Razors at the close of their winter, but then she remembered the terror in Lothryn’s voice and knew she could no more sit out the season than fly to Felrawthy. No, she would collect some fresh gear, a few funds, and leave immediately for Cailech’s stronghold.

Suddenly the only thing that mattered to her was discovering Lothryn’s fate, and if she died in the process, so be it. His love had offered her the first relief from loneliness in a lifetime and she was not about to relinquish it without a fight.

Once again, Elspyth found herself a lone figure on a dusty road headed toward the unknown. She squared her petite shoulders, lifted her chin, and began her long walk to fulfill a promise.

Ylena and Pil joined the straggling bunch of people and animals roaming through Dorchyster Green’s town square. It was market day and the smell of newly baked bread and steaming meat pies that pervaded the air sharpened their hunger.

“When did we last eat?” Ylena asked, looking longingly at the wheels of cheese and potted meats.

Pil’s belly was growling. “I can’t remember, my lady,” he said, avoiding the ponderous tread of a cow pushing by. “But we should move on, for I fear we have no coin.”

Ylena’s despair snapped to anger. “This is not right. I have money—I just don’t have it with me. I’m so sorry, Pil.”

“Hush now,” he soothed, taking her arm. He understood. She was used to fine things in life, not having to wonder where her next meal might come from. In truth, he too had lived a comfortable existence at the monastery, where food had always been plentiful. “Come, let’s continue.”

They had stopped by a stall of fruit, the bright colors arresting both their gazes and their bellies groaning together as a new smell, roasting meat, seemed to mock them.

“To where?” she demanded. “We cannot go another day without eating.”

She was right, but all he could do was shrug. “Short of stealing, my lady—and I could never do that—I have no solution.”

“Then we shall beg!” She sounded so resolute his jaw opened to speak, but no words came out. “Yes!” she answered his unspoken question. “I shall sing. I have a comely voice, or so I’m told. So I shall sing for our food…and you…you shall dance a jig beside me,” she added desperately.

“All right,” he said bravely, hoping the bouncy lilt to his own voice would help her find the confidence to humiliate herself so. “Anything’s worth a try and I am certainly hungry, my lady.”

A smile ghosted her mouth, but there was no warmth to it. “Come, then, we shall position ourselves over there by the well.”

He followed her, wondering how she fathomed she might be heard above the din of the market.

“Here,” she commanded. “Lay your hat at our feet.”

Pil did as asked, embarrassed. “You don’t surely expect me to dance, my lady…please,” he beseeched, adding, “I find it hard enough to walk without tripping over.”

“You don’t have to,” Ylena said, smoothing her tattered skirts and tucking back her untidy hair. “It was just a thought—but make sure you smile at the passersby. We need their pity. It’s a shame you didn’t have your pate shaved—being a monk would have helped our cause,” she said distractedly, clearing her throat.

Pil said nothing. He steadied his gaze toward his feet and waited. However, when the first bright note emanated from Ylena, his eyes widened in amazement and his glance unwittingly flicked sideways to watch her.

Her voice was pure and beautiful, like a young bird released to soar toward the sky. Pil recognized the song. It was a ballad of high sorrow, telling the tale of two youngsters who had grown up together to become lovers and whose rapture for each other was blessed by the gods. As the story unwove, the man is murdered by a jealous admirer of the woman’s. And so the tale went, lengthy and sad, pulling at the emotions.

Pil noticed a small crowd had begun to form. Ylena had chosen well, for the song had many verses—certainly lengthy enough to attract attention. He stepped away from her, realizing his presence was no longer needed. The gathering listeners had eyes only for the beautiful, albeit disheveled, woman and her song of grief. She hardly paid them any care, and so she did not notice the coins being dropped into the hat or how large and silent the crowd suddenly was.

Pil noticed it all, especially the emergence of a broad, older man who stepped out from the Dorchyster Arms, the town’s inn.

He was clearly a wealthy noble from his garb, and even in his winter years, Pil noticed, he remained a handsome, vital man. Once-yellow hair had dulled to buttery white and it was pulled back severely from his face, accentuating the wide, square lines of his features. His beard, worn short, was a motley of yellow, silver, and even reddish hues that added to his attractiveness. Deep-set sea blue eyes regarded Ylena and he held up his gloved hand to the man beside him to stop the fellow talking. This was a man used to giving orders and being obeyed; even the set of his generous mouth suggested he was powerful, a leader of men. Pil watched him stride from the inn’s entrance deeper into the square. People stepped aside, pulling their goats and donkeys out of his way.

Pil saw the noble’s eyes narrow in concentration as Ylena reached the peak of the song’s tragedy. Other men, the noble’s own no doubt, began to gather nearby.

Ylena’s song came to its heart-wrenching end and cries of appreciation went up in the crowd, people surging forward to toss coppers into the rather full-sounding hat. But it was the nobleman who shouldered through the people now and Pil took account that they all moved easily aside, some bowing, women curtsying.

This was no petty lord.

Pil approached carefully, bending to pick up his hat. Ylena had slumped to lean against the well, her eyes closed, her energies spent, and her emotions no doubt in further turmoil, as the song was so obviously about her and the man she had loved and lost. The nobleman reached for her hand. It occurred to Pil that the man had already recognized her status, despite her tattered, dusty appearance, for he was touching his lips to her limp knuckles. It must be the clothes, he realized. Only noblewomen could afford such quality garments.

“My lady.” The older man spoke gently. “You sing like an angel.” His voice was tender, but Pil felt sure his men rarely heard this tone.

Ylena’s eyes fluttered open, but she gave no recognition other than to effect a brief curtsy of sorts. “Thank you, sir. I’m hoping my voice will feed myself and my companion tonight,” she said, glancing toward Pil and then back again into eyes the color of a stormy sea.

“Shar’s Wrath!” the man exclaimed. “But you need not sing for your supper, madam. Who is your family? I demand to know who leaves you in this state?”

“My family?” Ylena breathed, hardly above a whisper. “My family,” she repeated, “is dead, sir.” She looked up, the dirt of their travel—despite its best efforts—unable to mask the beauty beneath. “I am all that’s left, my lord, and am on the run from those who would do me harm.”

The noble made a sound of frustration. He looked behind and signaled to one of his men.

“She’s weak, pick her up!” he commanded, taking off his cloak.

The man obeyed and his lord laid his own cloak about Ylena, at which point Pil thought it necessary to step forward.

“My lord,” he said, bowing. “I am Pil.”

“And?”

“Apologies,” Pil offered. “I am a monk—well, novice, in truth—and have been instructed to stay close to the Lady. She is ready to faint from hunger. She has been recuperating with us for some weeks and I fear our journey across country has set her back.”

He hoped he had made good account of himself. Brother Jakub had always cautioned that brevity was a desirable trait.

The man regarded him briefly before saying, “Follow me,” and Pil found himself all but trotting to keep up with the elderly noble, hat in hand jangling from the coin weighing it down. They returned to the inn and were taken straight to its dining room. Their redeemer barked orders and suddenly the room was a frenzy of activity. Men appeared and disappeared, taking their instructions from their chief and going about whatever business he required.

Before long, the smell of bacon wafted toward them; it made Pil dizzy with anticipation.

“Eat first,” the man commanded, “then we’ll talk.”

Ylena was given a posset of sweetly spiced milk, which she drank without comment, although her glance toward the girl setting it down was filled with gratitude. Pil was given the same and he swallowed the contents of the cup, feeling its healing warmth hit the spot immediately.

“Thank you, my lord,” he heard himself say before the excitement of seeing slices of fresh bread smeared liberally with butter accompanied by thick rashers of sizzling bacon stopped whatever he might have said next.

He ate with gusto and in silence, his glance darting toward Ylena, who nibbled hungrily on her bread, not yet daring to touch the meat. The noble ignored them for the time being, talking quietly with the man Pil presumed was his second in command. Pil finished his meal and felt immediately drowsy, although the luxury of sleep would elude him for now.