Blood of Mystery (36 page)

That’s impossible, Grace. He’s the prettiest man you’ve ever
seen. Surely you’d remember him.

“Don’t fear, my lady,” the man said, nodding to Grace. “I know how to keep a secret. I won’t reveal what I’ve heard. So I’d appreciate it if you could rein in your companions.”

Grace glanced at Beltan and Vani, then shook her head. Grudgingly, the
T’gol
stepped back, and the knight let go of his knife. Grace gestured for the man to sit.

“What’s your name?” she said.

“You can call me Sindar. It’s as good a name as any.”

His words should have troubled her, but they didn’t. “Why don’t you think we’ll be able to book a ship?”

“The port has been closed,” Sindar said. “By order of the duke, no ship is allowed to sail in or out of the harbor.”

Grace chewed her lip; that might explain why the Onyx Knights hadn’t landed in Omberfell. At best they had been able to sneak a rowboat ashore with a single knight, who had then ridden to Kelcior for reinforcements.

“I haven’t heard of any such order,” Falken said.

Sindar gestured to the door with a long hand. “Go to the docks yourself and ask. But don’t waste too much time. For I must sail away on my own ship before sundown.”

Falken grinned, and it was not an expression of humor. “You speak smoothly, Sindar. But now I see your true intention. I’m a bard by trade, so let me tell your tale. First you lurk about an inn known to be frequented by nobles. Then you eavesdrop on a group of newcomers and learn of their intention to hire a ship. So you tell them no ship can leave port, except, conveniently, for your own. Next you offer to bear the strangers to their destination for a modest fee, then you lead them to your ship. Only you have no ship, and when the hapless strangers reach the docks, the miscreants you work with jump out and rob them. Well, I’m sorry to inform you, but we’re not such simple travelers.”

Sindar appeared nonplussed by these words. “No, I don’t believe you are.” He stood up. “And you’re right about one aspect of my tale. I do have a ship, and it can leave the harbor—unlike any other ship you’ll find in Omberfell. However, I have no need to rob you in secret, for I can do it openly. My fee for bearing you to Toringarth is anything but modest. And my ship leaves at sundown tonight. Be here an hour before if you truly wish to go.”

With that, Sindar gave an elegant bow, then turned and left the inn for the street outside.

Beltan let out a whistle. “That was a peculiar fellow. You don’t think he was serious about the duke’s order, do you?”

“I can’t believe he was,” Falken said. “All the same, I’m going to go to the docks and find out.”

“I’ll come with you,” Vani said. “I wish to see if this thief follows us.”

Grace gazed at the door where Sindar had vanished. “Did he look familiar to any of you?”

“No,” Beltan said, scratching his chin. “Though I will say his eyes are almost the exact same color as yours, Grace.”

41.

It was midafternoon, and a mist of rain had begun to fall over Omberfell as Grace and Beltan made their way through clean, ordered streets to the city’s market.

Vani had gone to the dockyards with Falken to help the bard see about hiring a ship, and Grace had asked Beltan to accompany her on a mission to buy supplies. If they were going on a long voyage, it would be good to have some extra foodstuffs with them. More importantly, this seemed like a prime opportunity to give the knight and the assassin some time apart.

They found the city’s market in a broad plaza, and it was as efficiently run as everything else in Omberfell. The stalls were organized according to what each was selling, prices were fair, and people waited in patient lines to pay their coins and take away their goods. Soon Grace and Beltan carried several packages wrapped in cloth, containing hard cheeses, nuts, and dried figs.

“That was the worst market I’ve ever seen,” Beltan grumbled, as they walked.

Grace glanced at him, puzzled. “Really? And here I was thinking I haven’t had that much luck shopping since my last trip to Safeway.”

“Oh, sure,” Beltan said, glowering. “If you like excellent goods at cheap prices, I suppose it was just fine. But did you notice? Nobody was selling ale.”

“You just had ale at the inn, Beltan.”

“What’s your point?”

She shifted the packages in her arms. “I’m not really sure.”

“I tell you, Grace. There’s something wrong in this town. I don’t care how tidy or pleasant-smelling it is, there should have been ale in the market. It’s like they don’t want people to have any fun. There are dark forces at work here.”

Grace couldn’t say she shared the same feeling. As far as she could tell, for all the prevalence of gray, Omberfell was one of the nicest cities she had seen in the Dominions. She almost hoped it took Falken and Vani a few days to find them a ship. The journey had been long and exhausting, and she knew it was far from over. It would be good to pause and rest, if for just a little while. Besides, while she still wasn’t the best judge of human nature, she had a feeling Beltan’s dark mood didn’t really have to do with ale.

“Why do you hate her?” she asked before she could consider the wisdom of it. “Vani’s saved all of our lives more than once.”

Beltan looked away. “I don’t hate her.”

“You have a tendency to act like it.”

“You’re mistaken, Your Majesty.”

Grace winced at the sharpness in his voice, but she wasn’t going to let go that easily. “It’s Travis, isn’t it? He loves you— you know he does. Only maybe you’re afraid he might love Vani, too. That’s why you can’t stand her.”

Beltan came to a sudden halt, and Grace nearly collided with his shoulder. He looked at her, and she swallowed. It had been a long time since she had seen the knight really angry, and now she wished she hadn’t so casually invoked his ire. His face was hard; in that moment she remembered he was a man of war.

“It could be easy to hate her, you know,” Beltan said, his voice rough. “If she was wicked, if she was foolish, if she led us time and again into danger with her actions, then I would despise her. But she’s not those things, is she?” He sighed, his anger fading. “She’s beautiful, and strong, and, as you’ve reminded me, she’s risked herself to save our lives—my life— with her deeds. How could I possibly hate her? And how could I possibly blame Travis for loving her instead of me? After all, she’s a princess of an ancient people. And I’m just a bastard who murdered his own father.”

Grace’s heart crumpled in her chest. She wanted to say,
You’re one of the finest men I have ever met, Beltan of Calavan,
and Travis does love you.
But before she could, the deep toll of a bell rang out.

The sound of the bell came again, closer this time, echoing off slate roofs. The crowd that had filled the avenue parted as people pressed themselves close to the houses on either side, leaving the center of the broad street empty.

“What’s going on?” Grace said.

Beltan glanced around. “It looks like they’re making room for some sort of procession. Whatever’s coming, I don’t think we want to get in its way.”

They hurried to one side of the avenue, but since the crowd was already densely packed, they found themselves in the front row facing the street.

“Be careful, my lady,” said the man standing next to Grace. He was a merchant by his well-made but plain garb. “You must be sure not to stand any farther into the street than those around you when he comes. Our line must be even.”

She shook her head. “When who comes?”

“Why, the duke, my lady.”

So Beltan was right—a procession was coming, one led by the Duke of Omberfell.

The merchant craned his neck, as if eager to catch sight of the coming parade. “The duke has been preparing himself for great trials, my lady. They say he will soon ride to war.”

“War?” She clutched the packages to her chest as she was jostled from behind. Beltan held out an arm, trying to keep the crowd from pressing too close to her. “War against whom?”

The merchant seemed puzzled by her words. “Against the enemies of the Master, of course.”

“The master? You mean the duke?”

“Nay, my lady. The duke serves the Master even as we do. Surely you know that.” A hint of suspicion crept into his gaze. “You do know, don’t you?”

“I’m new to town,” she said, hoping that was a good enough excuse for any ignorance.

The bell tolled again. This time, she saw the source of the sound. Four men carried a wooden frame from which the bell hung. Another man trailed behind, striking the bell at intervals with a hammer. The men were filthy, their backs bowed. Blood crusted their ragged tunics, and chains clinked around their ankles as they trudged along.

“Who are they?” Grace whispered to herself. However the merchant heard and answered her question.

“They are transgressors.”

She looked at the man. “Transgressors?”

“Ones who have gone against the Edicts.” His eyes narrowed. “You do know the Edicts, don’t you?”

Her chest felt suddenly tight; she struggled for breath. “I’m not...that is, I...”

Despite the press of the throng, the merchant took a step back from her, his eyes growing wide. “Everyone knows the Edicts, my lady. Even a little child.” He began to murmur quickly, as if speaking the words of a litany, pressing his hands together. “One cannot resist the will of the Master. One cannot do things which the many do not. One must give one’s heart should the Raven ask for it...”

Grace clasped a hand to her mouth, but she couldn’t stifle her gasp of fear. Beltan glanced at her, concern in his eyes. Before she could speak, the merchant raised his arm and pointed a trembling finger at her.

“You’re a heretic,” he whispered. “You disobey the Edicts, just like those transgressors. But I won’t be tainted by you.” His voice rose into a shrill cry. “Heretic!”

Until that moment, people had been watching the street, but now several turned their heads in Grace’s direction.

Beltan leaned close to her. “We’d better get out of here.”

However, at that moment the full body of the procession rounded a corner and marched down the avenue. A man on a gray horse rode at the fore, and there was no doubt he was the duke. He wore elegant black clothes, with a long cloak trailing behind, and his expression was proud and fierce. An ornate scabbard was slung at his side, and gems glittered on his fingers. However, it was not his finery Grace stared at. It was the symbol drawn in ashes on his forehead. It was the wing of a Raven. Or a blind, staring eye.

They marched behind him four abreast, and Grace could see no end to their procession: a line of figures in black. Their robes had heavy hoods, but some had pushed the hoods back, and their foreheads bore the same symbol as the duke’s. Except some were marked, not with ashes, but with a puckered brand.

From the midst of the procession rose a series of wooden poles, their bases gripped by the black-robed ones. Atop the poles, swinging like leather skins filled with water, were lashed limp figures. It took Grace a long second to realize they were people. Or had been, at any rate, before their hands and feet were cut off, and their eyes plucked out. Bile rose in her throat.

So that’s why things are so ordered and efficient in this city,
Grace. If you dare to go against the rules, if you dare to be different somehow, this is what happens to you.

More of the figures in black robes marched around the corner, and more. A chant rose on the air.

drink the ice
breathe the fire
Shadow be your lover
chain the mind
still the heart
Darkness rules forever

Most people watched the procession, but a few more had noticed the merchant’s accusing finger. He was silent now, his face a mask of revulsion, still pointing at her. Others gestured in Grace’s direction. Angry murmurs of
heretic
and
witch
ran through the crowd.

Beltan shifted the parcel he held and grabbed Grace, propelling her through the crowd, snarling at people to get out of their way. Most did, shrinking in fear before the big knight, but some resisted. The packages were knocked out of Grace’s hands. She tripped over them and would have fallen but for Beltan’s grip on her arm.

Now others picked up the merchant’s cry.

“She’s broken the Edicts!”

“Heretic! You befoul the name of the Raven!”

“Get the witch!”

Beltan was no longer just pushing. He swung the package of food, knocking several people aside, then let it drop. A man clutched at Grace, and Beltan punched him in the face. Blood and teeth flew. Someone screamed.

Grace gathered her will. If they were going to accuse her of being a witch, she might as well do the crime. But there was no mist to weave into a wall as she had done before. What else might she be able to use? Then she felt the life strands vibrating with fear and anger around her, and she knew. She reached out with her mind, grasping the threads of the people around her, then with a thought, she tied them all into a tangled knot.

At once, people began tripping over one another, flailing as they stumbled and fell to the street. The ordered line of the crowd became a churning sea of chaos. Shouts of pain and confusion rose on the air. In the street, some of the Raven cultists paused, staring.

“Now, Beltan,” Grace said, clutching the knight’s hand.

He roared, using his free arm to toss a man out of their way, then pulled Grace toward the mouth of an alley. It was cool and dark inside. They ran, and the noise of the crowd echoed after them. After a dozen yards they came to an intersecting alley. Which direction should they go? In moments, the mob would see where they had gone and would follow.

“This way,” said a musical voice.

Grace turned and saw him standing in the mouth of a shadowed archway. He was barely visible in his dark cloak, but she caught a flash of silver hair, a glint of vivid, green-gold eyes. Beltan sucked in a breath.

The other motioned, urging them toward the archway. “Quickly. They’re already coming.”

Then he was gone.

Grace felt Beltan’s hesitation. However, shouts rang out behind them. There was nowhere else to go. She tightened her grip on the big knight’s hand, and together they ran through the archway, following Sindar.