Dark Heart (19 page)

‘“Enough men believed me to start the rebellion. Others latched on to me to promote their own causes. The
Domaz Skreud
records that many were at that time discontented by their remoteness from power in the Vale, and ascribes this awareness to me. This is not so. It became part of the rebellion, but I did not promote it. Nevertheless, I used it. I am guilty, but not in the manner the scroll suggests. I looked to lead men to knowledge of, not rejection of, the Most High. I hoped also that the Most High might reconsider his methods, and perhaps learn to understand what it is like to be mortal and afraid of oneself. To know what it is to doubt.

‘“I slew Sthane, the only man willing to stand against me when I finally came to drink of the Fountain, just as the scroll says. I regret this. But I do not regret drinking of the Fountain. And when the Most High appeared—too late—and in his anger loosed at me the Jugom Ark, his flaming arrow of justice, taking off my hand, I thought it a small price to pay.

‘“So I paid the price, and my fellow men learned the nature of the God who rules them all. Yet within a generation the
Domaz Skreud
became the accepted wisdom, and my sacrifice was maligned. Would you not be angry at such a turn of events? That an entire people ignored my attempt to save them, instead making of me their betrayer? Whatever it takes, I will put right the record. If matters require I liberate Falthwaite from its misapprehensions, I will not shirk from doing so.”’

‘Falthwaite? How long since Faltha was called that?’ Conal asked. No-one replied, and after a pause Moralye continued.

‘“I place this scroll in the archives of the newly built Hall of Scrolls in this new city, the replacement for all that was lost. It is protected and hidden by a keeping spell, one of many things I have learned in the last two centuries. It will be discovered only when a certain question is voiced within a certain distance of the document. That you are reading this means the question has been asked. You may even have asked it. Therefore you want to know whether I am who the scrolls say I am. My answer is yes—and no.

‘“I have one last plea. Watch your world. Some day the Most High will seek to raise another as his Right Hand, someone to confront the gods who usurped him. He will be as I was, young, naïve, unaware of what is being asked of him. He will rise to power rapidly. He will be confused. Frightened. But no one will listen to him, no one will offer him the help he needs; everyone will see him as the solution to their problems, and thus his own struggles will be ignored.”’

Stella choked back a sob.

‘“He must not be allowed to succeed. The Most High suffered the rebellion of his children; he himself must confront and end that rebellion. If this Right Hand is alive in your time, bring this scroll to him. If I have not found a way to end my own life, bring him to me. I will prevent the Most High using humans to mend the mistake he himself made.”’

‘Put it down,’ Stella said. ‘Stop reading from the scroll. Please. I cannot listen to any more.’

Moralye laid the scroll down on the table and looked up at her. Stella saw the woman’s face was white, possibly as drained of blood as her own.

I was right about the Right Hand,
said the voice in her head.
It happened as I predicted.

Yes, Leith was everything you said he was, and much more. Except he wasn’t the Right Hand. And he wasn’t like you. You never understood him.

Stella took a deep breath, put her finger to her lips, waited until the others nodded, then worked her way out of the cubicle and bade the others remain where they were. Ena, of course, was forced to accompany her.

We will talk of this, and many other things,
he sent to her.

I have no intention of ever meeting you face to face,
she replied.

She had a direction: his thoughts came at her as though borne on a breeze. Over there, in that far cubicle. She approached him carefully.

Ena said nothing, but seemed tense. Stella put her finger to her lips again. ‘No noise,’ she whispered in the girl’s ear.

No intention of meeting me? But you have already met me, and recently.

The man in the cubicle had his back to her, his body turned in the opposite direction from his seat, his gaze intent on the place she had come from. Even from behind she could tell who he was. He had not seen her approach in the dark, as she had not carried a lantern. She eased herself into the seat opposite him. Ena let out the tiniest squeak as she sat down. A splinter, perhaps.

He froze, then turned to face her.

‘Heredrew,’ she said. ‘We need to talk.’

‘Greetings, Bandy,’ he said, seemingly unperturbed. ‘Or, should I say, Stella. And hello to your young friend.’

‘Heredrew,’ she said, thinking swiftly, her thoughts swirling over the horror growing beneath. Ena was a child, but might remember or even understand the most inconvenient thing. ‘I need to establish something. Are you the master, or merely a servant?’

‘You think I might be a servant? Disabuse yourself of the notion.’

‘Then put out your hand.’

‘Which one?’

‘Either one will do. I will know who you are when I touch it—or when I do not.’

‘I will save you the trouble,’ Heredrew said. He leaned a little closer and turned his head so none outside the cubicle could see his profile. Instantly his face changed. It was subtle, his disguise, but effective. Sitting before Stella was the face that had haunted her nightmares for years.

So much for keeping Ena ignorant.

Every muscle in Stella’s body strained against her will, begging her to flee. Her stomach rose into her throat. She commanded herself not to weep, or shriek, or vomit. She had not realised she would need such self-control, or that she possessed it.

‘You knew I was alive,’ the man opposite her said gently. ‘Why struggle with the knowledge now?’

‘Do you need to ask?’ she said through clenched teeth. She began to doubt her ability to make it through this confrontation. ‘And why was your first word to me not an apology?’

The man’s face shifted and he was again Heredrew. ‘I hope you don’t mind me restoring my disguise. Remember, the face you know me by is itself an illusion. You have seen my real face, I think, and I doubt you wish to see it again.’

A hint of bitterness in his voice.
Good.
Anything she could use, she would use.

Courage, now.
She waited, saying nothing.
This man is proud.

‘How can words express sorrow?’ he said eventually. ‘I will not lie and say I regret bringing you back from the dead, despite the horror I have inflicted on you. But I will apologise to you for striking you down, and for using you shamefully in front of your friends. I will find a time and a place where such an apology is meaningful. You shall have it then.’

‘And so I am expected to believe that evil has whitewashed himself so easily?’

‘Of course not,’ the man snapped. ‘By your lights I remain evil. By my own, I am changing. Losing one’s hands is a chastening experience. I am being forced to change. Who is to judge whether that change is for the better? I happen to think there is no “good” apart from the benefit to the interests any act of goodness serves.’

‘Hence the difference between you and me,’ she said.

‘Yes, there are differences,’ he agreed. ‘You may not view them in the future as you do now. Time will tell the story, as always. But there are also similarities, my queen. You and I are the only—’

‘
Don’t you call me that!
’

She all but spat the words at him. Her body had begun to shake, a delayed reaction to the discovery. She tried to keep her hands still, but she had no doubt he was aware of her fragility. Ena would be frightened. Perhaps she had been foolish to confront him so soon. No time to regret this choice. Keep him off balance.

‘I am not your queen. I never was, I never will be. I have some questions to ask you, and that will be the end of it.’

‘Questions you can ask me alone of anyone alive, because of the similarities you and I share. Very well, I will answer as many as I can. But do not be deceived: I answer them not because I am good; and if I cannot answer them it is not because I am evil. I am prepared to help you because I want your help. I have questions I would like you to answer. Turn and turn about?’

She held his gaze for a long moment. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Here is my first question. Hold still.’

A look of puzzlement crossed his regal features as she leaned towards him.

Then she spat in his face.

She watched him carefully. This was the moment. She was willing to risk everything on her guess in this matter.

She had spat in his face once before, on the battlefield, the first time Falthan and Bhrudwan forces had come together. He had forced her to watch the Battle of Skull Rock, stood her beside him as he directed his forces, his
Maghdi Dasht
, with magical power. She had found power of her own there on the battlefield, and had fought him, distracting him by spitting in his face. He had struck her down, and she had nearly died, but the Falthan army had escaped his wrath.

She remembered every emotion that had flickered across his face that day, and watched them repeat themselves: shock, hurt, anger. She even saw his arm twitch, as his anger sent a message to strike her.

But the arm did not move any further. Instead, his face settled into a wary gaze as her spittle made its way down his cheek like a slowly widening wound.

‘My first question,’ she said.

‘Was the answer what you expected?’

‘No.’

‘I am surprised myself at the answer I gave,’ he confessed as he wiped the fluid away. He looked neither pleased nor angry.

‘Do you have a question for me?’ she asked. ‘In a moment I will have to return to the others. You may accompany me as Heredrew, if you wish. I will not utter your other names here.’

‘You are wise.’

‘Your question, then.’

His words snapped out like the crack of a flag. ‘Would you have come to An—to my keep in search of me?’

‘Not the question you intended asking.’

‘No.’

She smiled. Not a pleasant smile. ‘You know the answer.’

‘Yes.’ He smiled in turn. ‘I do. But I wanted to hear you say it.’

‘I will not give you the satisfaction,’ she said. ‘You have your answer. Now, come with me, or leave this place. The other questions can wait.’

Conal waited in the cubicle with increasing impatience. His anger, always somewhere near the surface these days, was barely under control. He was a priest, after all, a dedicant of the Halites, and ought to be treated with more respect. More significantly, he held the salvation, or at least the rehabilitation, of the Destroyer’s Consort in his hand. A detailed report of his time with her would eventually be given to the Archpriest, which would be enough to complete the as-yet unfinished seventh Mahnumsen Scroll. His name would grace the cover.

He battened down the unworthy thought. There were other, better reasons to be spending his time with the Falthan queen. She genuinely sought to mend her ways, and Conal could well be the agent of her repentance. That was an important thing, irrespective of whether his name was attached to the seventh scroll.

But since she had met that accursed Dhaurian scholar in the desert, Stella Pellwen had forgotten all about Conal of Yosse. She had ceased meeting with him to explain her conduct in the Falthan War. And now she ran off to a place of research—a scriptorium, no less, the one place he longed to immerse himself!—without even inviting him. He was hurt, that was what he was. Hurt.

Did he feel something for her? Another thought to be suppressed. She was not of the Koinobia, she was of dubious morality—and she was ninety years old, by Mahnumsen! Yet he breathed her in whenever she passed. He listened, really listened, to whatever she said. She had been the centre of his studies, and was now the axis of his thoughts.

He watched as she walked towards the cubicle, the girl in tow. He could see nothing apart from a crescent of light caressing her face, but he knew it was she. A hundred things told him: the speed of her walk, the way she cocked her head ever so slightly to the right, the shape of her hair. Who was this accompanying her? The man was tall, extremely tall. He searched his memory. Of course. The man who had journeyed part of the way across the desert with them. Stella said he had healed Phemanderac. What was his name?

‘Let me reintroduce you to an old friend,’ Stella said to those sitting in the cubicle.

‘Heredrew,’ said Conal, cutting across the queen’s introductions, angered she had invited the man here, another person to gather attention rightfully his, pushing him into the background. ‘We have questions for you.’

‘And I have answers,’ the stranger said easily as he folded his frame into the relatively small space afforded by the cubicle. ‘Such as they are.’

‘Where did you go after you healed Phemanderac? You seemed to vanish into the desert!’ Conal said.

‘This is the sorcerer who healed me?’ Phemanderac exclaimed. ‘Sir, I thank you.’ He held out his hand, evidently to shake that of his benefactor.

Heredrew made no move to take it. Instead, he inclined his head, as though embarrassed. What was wrong with the man?

‘I am sorry I did not remain behind to supervise your recovery,’ he said in a low tone. ‘But such healing incapacitates me, and I was embarrassed to have the lady Bandy see my weakness.’ He looked up, shamefaced. ‘You see, I conceived an…er…an affection for the lady during my short sojourn with you all, but said nothing to avoid accusations of taking advantage of your hospitality. I have conquered it now, and tender my apologies to Bandy and to all her companions.’

He turned to Stella, who stared at him with wide eyes—as well she might. An affection? The impudent dog!

‘My lady,’ he said, his voice strong and clear in the darkness, ‘I am truly sorry for the harm I have done you. Will you forgive me?’

The limited light made it difficult for Conal to see Stella’s face, but he could see enough to know there was something wrong. Her face had paled and she was working her mouth, as though trying to speak through some overmastering emotion. What could it be? Had she actually fallen for the stretch-limbed brute?