Blood in the Water (46 page)

Aremil’s distress was so all-consuming that trying to restrain it snapped the Artifice linking them. Tathrin was glad of the chair beneath him as his knees gave way.

He opened his eyes to see Sorgrad and Gren both looking intently at him.

“What’s happened to Charoleia?” Gren demanded.

“I don’t know,” Tathrin protested. “Aremil can’t find Branca.”

“Let’s see if wizardry can outdo Artifice.” Sorgrad was already pouring water from the washstand’s ewer. The broad basin glowed with bright green light.

“Where is she?” Gren took a step away from the door.

“Watch the door.” Sorgrad dropped ink into the water.

“What can you see?” Tathrin found the bowl blindingly uninformative.

Sorgrad set the ink bottle down. “Can you find any scent, any pomade?”

“What’s the matter? Can’t you find her?” Tathrin began searching among the oddments left on the mantel shelf by whoever had fled the room.

“No,” Sorgrad said simply.

Tathrin hated himself as he asked the inevitable question. “Is she dead?”

How could he possibly hide that from Aremil? How could they have been so stupid, to let the women travel unescorted? So many mishaps could have befallen them on the road.

“I don’t know.” Sorgrad was oddly surprised. “I’ve never tried scrying for someone dead before.”

“You do and I’ll slap you,” Gren growled from the doorway. “Trifling with necromancy.”

Tathrin concentrated on the task in hand. Inexplicable though it was, it was still preferable to thinking about what might be happening to Branca. “I’ve found some shaving balm. Why—?”

“Some mages use ink, some use oils.” Sorgrad poured the soiled water into the slop bucket. “Mellitha swears by perfumers’ essences.”

“Try looking for Charoleia,” Gren suggested.

“I’m doing that.” Sorgrad swiftly refilled the bowl and took the crystal vial. He poured a little of the sharply scented balm into each palm, as if he were about to soothe freshly razored cheeks. Instead he slid his hands into the water, heedless of his cuffs.

Tathrin watched tendrils of green light weaving around his fingers. The white ceramic bowl glowed emerald. Then the surface of the water clouded, hiding Sorgrad’s hands. A floating image formed.

“Who’s that?” he wondered, horrified.

“A dead man,” snarled Gren.

“Madam Mage Jilseth’s let us down,” Sorgrad hissed.

Charoleia sat in a high-backed wooden chair. Her wrists were securely bound to the sturdy arms; another rope wound around her neck, forcing her head upright. All her bindings were bloodied, the skin beneath cruelly scored where she had struggled. Bruises were plain on her pale skin, a trickle of blood clotting one nostril.

A man stood by the chair, wearing an elegant green doublet with a gold-embroidered collar. Slender and disconcertingly blond, he was no Mountain Man, Tathrin quickly realised. He was a wizard though. Scarlet magefire danced on his palm. He touched his other forefinger to it, lifting free a petal of flame. His face mocking, he delicately brushed it against Charoleia’s ringlets. Her hair burned with a crimson flash. She writhed against her bonds, fresh blood flowing.

“How much do you think she’s told them?”

Tathrin was recalling Sorgrad telling him that sooner or later, everyone broke under torture. The Mountain mage didn’t think much of it. You might hear the truth or you might just hear what the suffering victim thought you wanted to hear. Finding out which was which only wasted more time.

“He’s a dead man!” Gren’s fist came down to smash the bowl.

“No!”

A flash of lightning seared Tathrin’s vision. Blinking, he saw Gren had been thrown clean across the room. Bemused, the younger Mountain Man lay motionless, staring at his brother.

“He’s dead,” Sorgrad spat with barely restrained violence, “just as soon as I’ve scried enough to take us there.”

For an instant, the vision in the bowl vanished. Tathrin saw Sorgrad’s fists clenched beneath the water, his knuckles white even through the bright sorcery. Then, to his mingled horror and relief, the awful scene reappeared.

“Where are they?” he asked hoarsely.

“Evord’s scouts said Iruvain was heading for Adel Castle.” Now icily calm, Sorgrad drew the spell outwards, mercifully shrinking Charoleia’s tormented image.

“Trissa!” Tathrin gasped.

Charoleia’s maid lay in a corner of the room, sprawled senseless. Her hair had almost all been singed away as had the sleeves of her gown, burns livid beside the rope scars on her wrists.

“There’s that bastard Karn,” Sorgrad breathed.

Tathrin couldn’t conceive how the gaunt man could be watching this outrage so impassively. He looked up as a slithering noise distracted him. Still sat on the floor, Gren was running a whetstone along a dagger, his face murderous.

Sorgrad was still intent on his spell. “Let’s see what we can see.”

The image rippled and blurred and a new picture floated on the water. Tathrin saw the castle surrounded by empty turf, four-square on a rocky island shaped like a flat iron. Towers kept watch at the corners, with a squat keep pressed against the rear wall. A gate opened onto a path running to the island’s pointed end. A wooden bridge hung from posts driven into the lake bed, stretching across the turbulent water to a smaller fortification on the shore.

Even before they reached that shore fort, anyone attacking the castle would have to fight their way through the swordsmen camped along the lakeside. Mercenary flags fluttered all the way to the walls of the town built where the lake emptied into a narrow river. Duke Iruvain had managed to join forces with Lord Geferin and Parnilesse’s army.

No matter. Loathsome as being carried by Sorgrad’s magic was, Tathrin didn’t hesitate. “We can’t wait for Evord to mount an attack on that castle.”

“We’ll have them out of there soon enough.” Sorgrad was looking intently at an image of the keep’s pitched, tiled roof now filling the washstand’s bowl. “And that mage and that bastard Karn are dead men. Then it doesn’t matter what Charoleia and Trissa have said.”

Tathrin looked down at the scrying and frowned. “But where’s Branca?”

Chapter Thirty-Two

Litasse

Adel Castle,

28th of Aft-Autumn

Rain drummed on the tiles overhead. She looked out of the corridor’s mean window, grimed with lichen. Never mind the town on the lakeshore; she could barely see the far side of the castle. Even Iruvain couldn’t fret about the exiles attacking today.

She was only delaying the inevitable. Reluctantly Litasse approached the garret. She flinched at a shuddering gasp within but forced herself to open the door.

“Minelas!”

The wizard stood over the older of the two captured women. He wasn’t content with searing away her chestnut hair any more. He had ripped her gown open to drop his magefire on her naked skin. Crimson flames slid down, slow as molten wax, leaving a blistered trail. The lace cupping the woman’s breasts smouldered. The stink tainted the room, already airless with the fire in the hearth. Minelas had discarded his doublet, sweat sticking the shirt to his back.

Rising bile burned Litasse’s throat. “Can’t you see she’s fainted?”

The woman’s head would have slumped to her chest if not for the wizard’s cruel bindings.

“Perhaps.” Surveying his handiwork, Minelas absently snuffed the flame at his fingertip as if it were some ghastly candle.

As he smiled, Litasse was revolted to see his eyes dark and sleepy, his smile languorous with satisfaction. In the open neck of his shirt, blisters marred his own hairless chest. The linen hung loose at his waist and she saw one button of his breeches was undone.

“What are you doing?” As soon as she spoke, she regretted asking.

The wizard brushed back his sweat-darkened hair. “Finding out what she knows.”

Litasse couldn’t bear to look at him. She turned to the motionless figure in the corner. “Karn?”

“The bitch is neck deep in all the exiles’ plots,” he said doggedly.

“She wouldn’t talk to save her maid!” Litasse tried not to look at the pitiful figure dumped like discarded laundry.

How long would the tortured maid’s screams echo in her memory? And Minelas’s mocking laughter as she fled the room, hands pressed to her mouth, her stomach heaving. Was the wretched creature still alive? Litasse was afraid to find out, for fear of drawing Minelas’s attention back to the poor woman now her mistress had escaped him into unconsciousness.

Karn rubbed at his forehead, scowling. Litasse sympathised. A sick headache assailed her whenever she set foot in this ghastly eyrie.

“Let some fresh air in here,” she ordered.

“Good idea.” Karn forced open a casement with a grunt, the hinges squealing in protest.

Minelas stroked the unconscious woman’s neck, tender as any lover. “That might bring her round.”

Litasse went over to Karn and laid a hand on his forearm. “What do you think she can tell us that you don’t already know?”

He looked at her, merciless. “She knows who killed Master Hamare.” He glanced at Minelas. “When we find out, he can help us kill them.”

Could that possibly be worth this depravity? Hamare would still be dead. Litasse turned unwillingly to Minelas.

“If she comes to her senses, ask her about Hamare’s murderers. But nothing else.” She smoothed her brocade skirts with nervous hands. “Lord Geferin’s rooms are only two floors below.”

Minelas drew a deep breath of the cold air now flowing through the window. “No one will hear a thing. No one will even know I’m up here.”

Misgiving pricked Litasse. What would the mage do without anyone to see, with no one to hear him or his victims’ cries? Sudden rage overwhelmed her.

“Is this all you can do? Torment helpless women? Where’s this magical aid you promised?”

The wizard rounded on her so fast that Karn’s hand went to his sword hilt.

Minelas laughed at the haggard man. “Do you really think you could save her?” He waved a hand at the foul weather outside. “What about that, Your Grace? Don’t you appreciate my efforts in slowing the Soluran’s army? He’s up to his hocks in mud and his men are cold and wet and discouraged.”

“So are ours. So are Lord Geferin’s,” snapped Litasse.

Minelas wagged a reproving finger. “I’ll expect your apology, when I’ve riven Evord’s forces with lightning and drowned his fallen men in the mire. And no one will suspect a thing, after so many days of storms.”

“Karn! Come down to the Great Hall with me. Iruvain’s sure to have questions about Ridianne, as will Geferin.”

Choking on her disgust, Litasse left the room in a whirl of gold and lace. She stopped at the top of the stairs, still trembling.

“Your Grace?” Karn pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes for a moment.

“You must get some sleep.” Litasse hurried down the stairs. If only she could leave behind what she had seen so easily.

A pace behind, Karn grunted. “Maybe later.”

“Ask Pelletria for one of her tisanes.” Looking over her shoulder, Litasse tripped. She would have fallen headlong if not for Karn’s swift hand.

“Your Grace?”

They had reached the landing below.

“Where—?”

The stairs they had descended were no longer there. Litasse stretched out a shaking hand to the lime-plastered wall. Instead of feeling its roughness, her fingertip disappeared. She snatched her hand back, gasping.

“How many men could he hide with an illusion like that?” Karn asked with new interest.

“I don’t know.” Litasse felt unaccountably soiled though there was nothing to see on her finger. A rush of noise escaped an opening door below. “Quick, before someone comes looking.”

Panic goading her, she plucked up her petticoats and ran down the remaining flights. Karn was half a pace behind her.

“Your Grace.” His hand on her shoulder slowed her as they approached the dining hall’s doors.

Pelletria was wringing anxious hands beside them. “It’s all right. Lord Geferin’s yet to come down.”

“Iruvain?” Litasse smoothed her hair, finding her palms were damp with sweat.

“Just taking his seat.” Pelletria adjusted the set of her pearl necklace. “He’s ordered only three places laid at the high table,” she warned.

So Lord Roreth was still shivering out by the waterside, ostensible command of the bridge his reward for whatever he’d said to displease Iruvain.

“Very well.” Lifting her chin, Litasse nodded to Karn to open the door.

Instead he looked back up the stairs, veiled warning in his eyes. “Your Grace.”

“Your Grace!” It was Lord Geferin, followed by a youthful lieutenant from his personal guard.

The Parnilesse lord bowed low before taking both of her hands. He leaned forwards to brush a kiss on her cheek, unmistakable invitation in his eyes.

“My lord.” Litasse dropped her gaze demurely.