Destined for a King (19 page)

But the steel merely glimmered faintly in the low light, a reflection of the torchlight from the wall sconces. No blinding thunderbolt summoned from the heavens struck the hall. Nothing.

The hollow echo of the blade's ringing filled the emptiness in Torch's head. Nothing. Nothing had happened.

“Was this supposed to prove something?” Hammerfell asked mildly.

Torch locked his knees, half expecting the justiciar to deal him a deathblow then and there. Through the whirl of his thoughts, he sought a reply, but nothing came to him. Damn it all to the lowest of hells. Had his mother been mistaken about the sword's powers and provenance?

Hammerfell swung the weapon. The blade flashed through the air in a series of arcs. Torch steeled himself against the reflex to duck away. He'd learned to cow those particular impulses as a lad younger than Owl. He would stand strong and prove himself brave to the last. But though Hammerfell never touched him, each
whoosh
ing downstroke seemed to strike him like a spear through his gut.

“There's a lovely balance to this blade. I'll give you that.”
Whoosh.
“And a cunning enough trick that makes it appear to flame.”
Whoosh.
“I suppose if we've proven anything, it's all to the credit of the smith who forged it.”
Whoosh.
“Such weaponry has not been produced in these lands for an age and more.” Hammerfell sheathed the sword. “I might even believe this blade did come from the palace armories. King Magnus will be delighted to have it back.”

Torch's back teeth ached with the force of holding his jaw steady. Fury and confusion seethed through him, yet he would not allow the reaction to show. But curse it all, how could he have been so wrong?

“Ask him about his other weapons, lord justiciar,” Tarr spoke up.

Composure. More than ever, Torch needed to maintain it. He could not allow any one of the assembled lords to believe this hearing wasn't progressing to his liking. “Other weapons? I've nothing special to note. Swords, battle-axes, war hammers, maces, crossbows. All the usual choices.”

“Tell me about the crossbow bolts,” Tarr persisted. “What have you been using on them?”

Torch dug deep below the layer of impotent fury to his inner well of sarcasm. “I find the contents of a slops jar produce the desired effect.”

“It cannot be that. In less than a day, over a third of my men have sickened from wounds that should not have felled them.”

Good.
And wasn't that the bitterest of ironies? His enemies were weakening and he was in no spot to take advantage of the situation.

From behind him, a rustle whispered through the hall. Light footsteps, unhampered by the clink of chains, unsettled the rushes on the floor. Calista. At least she'd missed his moment of humiliation.

He turned. The last time he'd seen her in this hall, she'd approached in the splendor of that queenly golden gown. Her eyes fixed on some point behind Hammerfell, she advanced dressed in simple linen, but no less lovely, with her hair floating about her like a dark cloud, long and loose.

In the next instant, he realized why she'd left it unbound. The sight had nearly distracted him from noting the white cloth about her throat. Bandaging. Rage surged through him anew at the reminder that someone had dared lay hands on her.

“Calista.”

She didn't react. Her gaze didn't even flicker in his direction. What in the name of all that was holy was going on?

“What has taken so long?” Hammerfell demanded of the guard.

“I had to seek her out, my lord,” came the reply. “I found her in the stillroom.”

“Did you require something of me, my lord?” Calista asked. “If you intend me to help with the wounded, I am needed elsewhere.”

“As a matter of fact, yes.” Hammerfell slumped back in the lord's seat and drummed his fingers against one of the armrests. “The prisoner would claim you as his wife. What say you?”

Calista stood tall and steady. Not even a waver in Torch's direction. Once more, he bent his entire will to a single thought.
Look at me. Acknowledge me.
She was his last fraying thread of hope of swaying the Strongholders' opinions to his cause.

“He cannot be my husband.”

“
Liar!
” The accusation erupted from deep in Torch's chest. “You stood before an entire assembly. You stood before the gods and proclaimed me by my true name.”
You gave yourself to me so sweetly. Was that a lie, as well?

“Others have attested to this.” Hammerfell's gaze hardened. “Would you have me believe they are all telling falsehoods?”

Calista lifted her chin, her dark hair swinging about her face. “The marriage was not within the bounds of the king's law. Not when I named the man falsely.”

“Why would you go through with a wedding to one such as this at all? When you were promised to the king himself?”

“What choice did I have with a sword all but at my throat?” She raised a hand to press her fingers to the bandaging about her neck. “Whatever vows I swore may be set aside, as they were given under duress.”

Every last word from her viper's lips was a knife that flayed yet another bit of skin from Torch's body. Hammerfell slicing him open from shoulder to groin with his own sword couldn't be more painful. At least this farce of a hearing—this farce of a life—would be over.

How could she? How could she stand before the hall and deny him? And she was supposed to be his destiny.

Hammerfell rose. “The man who stands here before me, the brigand known as Torch, I declare him a baseborn pretender and an outlaw.”

This was it. Torch had nothing left to lose. Calista's betrayal had obliterated whatever reason he'd had to guard his tongue. “Pretender? Outlaw? Lesser men than you have called me worse.”

“For the taking of Blackbriar Keep and the defilement of the king's intended bride,” Hammerfell continued, “you shall be taken to Highspring Moor to await Magnus's pleasure.”

“Oh, I can just imagine the sort of tender mercy he'd show me.”

Hammerfell raised a brow. “Indeed? And you claimed the kingship. Tell me, in his place, what manner of death would you choose for yourself?”

“If I told you, would you respect my wishes?”

“You are a renegade and deserve no respect. All I know is Magnus wants you alive, although perhaps I should send a foretaste of the gift I would present him. Your sword hand should do nicely.”

Calista screamed.

Hammerfell ignored her. At a snap of his fingers, two guards grappled Torch. He forced his body to go loose, his entire being a dead weight. Still they dragged him before the lord's seat. His stomach filled with lead. His sword hand. Killing him outright would be kinder.

Calista turned her head away.

One of the guards yanked Torch's right hand forward. Hammerfell already had Torch's sword unsheathed. Flames glittered along its edges as he raised the blade.

Clang!

The sword-stroke vibrated through Torch's entire being. A white-hot light obliterated all else.

From somewhere far off, Torch heard a clatter. The sound echoed through his mind for a score of heartbeats. Little by little, his vision cleared to the rhythm of the throbbing in his wrist.

Gods, it ached like an entire tribe of Avestari had galloped over it on their chargers.

Ached, but not the bright, hot pain of a clean slice.

He shook his head. His hand came into focus, cuffed by the iron shackle. He flexed his fingers to be certain. Yes, still attached to his body.

Impossible.

He snapped his gaze to Hammerfell. The justiciar's entire arm twitched, useless, at his side. His face betrayed stunned shock before he masked the expression.

Torch's sword lay in the rushes at Hammerfell's feet, tendrils of smoke uncurling from the blade. As Torch watched, they disintegrated into the air.

“Take the prisoner below,” Hammerfell spat. “Give him a day to consider the concept of mercy while he still can.”

One of the guards shoved Torch, and he stumbled. His knees broke through the rushes to hit the cold flagstones beneath. A flowing length of cream-colored linen appeared in his field of vision. Calista, and here he was, sprawled at her feet like a supplicant.

Look at me.

A glance showed him naught but averted eyes. Rough hands hauled him to his feet and pushed him toward the corridor. Toward the dimly lit stone steps that led downward. Toward the overcrowded cell where Hawk was waiting, along with the rest of what remained of the Brotherhood.

“What did they want of you?” Hawk demanded the moment the door slammed shut.

“They wanted to discredit me before all the lords of the Strongholds.” Moreover, the justiciar had succeeded, thanks to his wife's betrayal. Not even Torch's sword had cooperated.

Or had it, when the moment counted? Torch curled the fingers of his right hand into a fist. He could no longer be certain.

Had the shackle about his wrist turned Hammerfell's stroke aside or had some other force been at work? Something had blinded Torch in the instant of the blow. A spark raised by the striking of metal on metal, or the fabled lightning of his blade, loosed at last?

Death to the unworthy,
but Hammerfell still lived, and he still possessed the sword. Who was to say his next strike wouldn't land true?

As a sign he might point to as proof of his claims, whatever happened now was useless. Any of the Strongholders could deny that that light had been more than a spark.

“We may as well face the truth,” Torch said to the cell at large. “My quest to regain my father's crown has failed. We're to be taken to Highspring Moor and turned over to the mercies of the Ironfist.”

“No,” cried a voice. In the dark, Torch was unsure which of his men had protested. “The throne is your destiny. You have always said so.”

He bit back a bitter smile. “So I believed.” And his utter confidence and conviction had led them here. “For your sake—for all your sakes—I wish you'd had a little less faith in me. You might have escaped with your lives.”

“We're not dead yet.” That was Hawk. “We could still try to escape when they move us.”

“That we could,” Torch replied. If nothing else, an escape attempt might ensure them a quicker end than if their fate was left to Magnus's notions of kindness. Some of his Brothers might even taste freedom once more. It was the least he could offer them after the loyalty they'd shown him. “How fares Owl?”

Out of the dark, a hand clapped him on the shoulder. “The same.”

After the humiliation of the hall, Torch expected he had nothing left. No feelings, certainly, not after that sword stroke. The blow had left him numb, but at the thought of Owl, unaccountable rage burst into flame inside him.

Damn it all to the lowest hell, it wasn't fair. Owl was just a boy, yet he'd stood like a man before an opponent of far greater skill and experience—and all to defend a maid. Owl had stood up for what was right. How could any of the Three allow a mere boy to be beaten down like a mongrel for acting like a hero out of one of the old legends?

If anything was wrong, deeply and morally, about this situation, it was that. And Torch had led them all to this juncture, just as surely as he'd planted the notions of defending the weak into the mind of that boy. Him and his thrice-damned utter faith in this notion of destiny.

Calista had supposedly been part of that destiny, and she'd proven herself no better than a lying bitch.

He clenched his fist around the Stone at his throat. Its edges bit into his skin.

The hand returned to his shoulder, squeezing for a moment before relenting. “Now is not the time to lose hope.” Brother Tancrid. He recognized the voice now. “The tale of the years is full of stories of men, low-born and noble alike, who found themselves in hopeless spots, and yet prevailed. Ask any of the Avestari the history of their people and he will tell you how a collection of wild tribes banded together to defeat the Dragon Lords of the South. Why, your own Vandal ancestors—”

“What of them?” Torch cut him off. This wearisome talk of history did nothing to resolve their current situation. “They have rightfully sat on the throne at Highspring Moor for centuries.”

“They didn't always. Before the Vandals came out of the wilds to subjugate the Strongholds, the others fought over the throne. If I told you some of the old names of the men who have sat there, you might even recognize a few. Have you never heard the devise ‘Death to the unworthy'?”

An odd sort of thrill passed along his spine. “It's only written on the scabbard of the sword I bear.” Or, more accurately, bore.

“That devise belonged to the Tarr family, the last to sit in the palace at Highspring before your ancestors. The lord of Kinwood Keep might even claim the Vandals themselves were the unworthy ones.”

“But they did not die. They prevailed.”

“Exactly. I like to think the original Vandal king possessed a sense of irony that he did not have that scabbard remade. Or he believed the Tarrs were, in the end, unworthy themselves.”

Torch held up a hand. “Can the tale of the years tell us how a group of chained men might escape a keep that possesses no bolt-hole?”

“I can think of no instance offhand, but if I were to meditate on the matter, I might come up with a plan.”

“What do you require to meditate other than time, which up until now, we've had in abundance?”

“What do you mean by
up until now
?” Hawk broke in.

“If we mean to attempt an escape, we've little time to formulate a plan. They will come for us tomorrow to send us to Magnus.” Or they'd come for him, at least. There was nothing to stop Hammerfell from sending the rest of the Brotherhood to the Usurper in pieces.

“I might yet unearth an idea from the lore accumulated in the earth.” Brother Tancrid's voice seemed to float from somewhere just behind Torch's ear. “I need only to take another journey.”

“Do you have what you need for such a journey?” Torch wasn't completely certain of the specifics. The last time, the Acolyte had only asked him for a quiet room where he would not be disturbed, a commodity in rather short supply at the moment.

“Alas, I exhausted my supply on the last quest.” Brother Tancrid reached out and touched the Stone at Torch's throat. “I have no more, but you do.”

Calista scrubbed the heel of her hand across her sand-filled eyes and cast a glance about the stillroom. Bits of herbs and vials, mortars, and pestles littered every available surface. Some of the mess was intentional—should anyone question what she was about, she could claim she'd been making healing balms for the wounded. But her principal creation now lay dissolved in several wineskins.

A rush of energy that made her want to run shouting through the bailey overlay her bone-deep exhaustion. She must contain it. What she needed to do now required stealth and secrecy.

She handed a wineskin to Tamsin before laying a hand on the girl's shoulder. Whether to steady the maid or herself, Calista had no idea. “Do you know what to do? Repeat it back to me.”

“I'm to convince any guard I come across to have a drink with me.”

Mindful of the sentry outside the stillroom, she lowered her voice to a whisper. “And?”

Tamsin gave in to the urge to roll her eyes. “I'm only to pretend to drink.”

“Don't even wet your lips if you can avoid it.” Calista had no way of knowing how strong the potion was. Her mother's scrolls had been vague on the subject of the lethal dose. It depended on too many variables—the concentration of the decoction, the weight of the person imbibing, the manner of delivery. She could only pray she'd gotten it right.

“We've been through the plan a hundred times by now. I'm to make certain no one from Blackbriar gets any.”

Calista nodded. As a healer, she should not condone the death of anyone at her hands, but she'd already drawn weapons against her enemies. Poison was simply another weapon, if more insidious than a drawn blade, and her need had become desperate.

“But if I come across the cavalier who tried to take me, I'll give him double and a knife in the bollocks besides.” Tamsin patted the handle of the dagger she'd tucked into her apron. Since yesterday, she'd gone nowhere without it.

“Do not take any unnecessary risks. I will need you.” Calista laid a hand on her maid's shoulder. “I do not wish to see you come to grief.” The Three only knew their fate would be dire if either one was caught. “Now go. Carefully.”

Calista followed Tamsin to the door of the stillroom, hovering just beyond the sight of the sentry, while her maid strolled over the threshold. This was their test. If all went well, her plan would continue. If not, she would have to pray they could dispatch the single guard without raising the rest of the keep.

She strained her ears toward the darkened bailey. Dawn would steal over Blackbriar Keep soon enough, and with it, whatever punishment the king's justiciar had decided to visit on Torch. If she meant to intervene, she must do so while Torch was still whole.

For the thousandth time, the scene in the hall played through her mind. It had taken her entire force of will to maintain the façade of cool detachment. In her heart, she'd yearned to look upon him, to know he was unharmed, yet she knew too well she'd give away her feelings if she permitted herself so much as a glimpse.

Still, she would never be able to erase the whistle of that blade cleaving the air in its descent, nor the awful shrieking clang as it struck metal. Metal, not flesh and bone, thank the All-Mother.

No, not now. She could reason out what had happened once this was over. Once Torch was safe. Most of all, she had to believe Torch's safety was the only possible outcome tonight.

She forced herself to heed what was happening in the bailey. Tamsin giggled, and the low rumble of masculine laughter soon followed. Good. As long as the girl could convince him to drink…

Calista closed her fingers about her wineskin of Kingsbane. The moment Tamsin eliminated the threat of discovery, Calista had her own task to perform, one far more dangerous than pretending to flirt with the guards.

She closed her eyes, ears straining. Outside had gone quiet, eerily so, for all it was the middle of the night. The chirp of crickets echoed loudly in time with her pulse. Then—

A heavy grunt, a sigh, a dull thud, followed by the even rhythm of footsteps sauntering across the packed earth of the bailey.

One down, but how many more did that leave on the walls? In the stables? Standing before the door to the dungeon? The Stronghold lords had complained of losing men, yet enough remained to hold the keep. It would only take one to catch her.

She swallowed a knot of fear and poked her nose into the night air. She must forge onward. She had to, now that she'd sent her maid to set up everything. An indistinct lump sprawled on the ground several strides away.

Hand on the knife at her own belt, Calista tiptoed closer. No movement. Only deep silence, and the grave and the coppery scent of blood. She leaned over the body. By the All-Mother. The pale moonlight revealed a dark stain spreading beneath the sentry.

Good gods, what did that mean? Had the Kingsbane not worked or had its effect simply taken too long to suit Tamsin? No time to seek out the maid and ask. She'd have moved on to her next target.

Retreating to the protection of the walls so she could flit from one shadow to the next, Calista stole into the slumbering keep and padded into the hall. Here and there, the bulk of sleeping men dotted the floor. At least, they'd be fortunate to be sleeping until Tamsin caught up with them.

Holding her breath, she crept toward the stairs and climbed. In the deserted upper corridor, a glimmer danced on the floor before the lord's chamber. She caught her lip between her teeth. Was the justiciar still awake? Had some innate sense of self-preservation alerted him trouble was afoot?

Back to the wall, she eased near enough to peer round the jamb. The flickering glow of a rushlight revealed Starke Hammerfell sprawled across her father's bed. With one beefy arm flung carelessly above his head, his mouth open and emitting soft snores, he hardly looked dangerous.

Calista let out a breath and fingered her wineskin. This was going to prove almost too easy. All she had to do was tip some of her doctored wine into the man's open mouth and await the result.

And pray she'd made a proper batch of Kingsbane.

She stepped over the threshold. Out of nowhere, a hand clamped over her mouth while long fingers grasped the wrist of the hand that automatically reached for her knife. Her heart buffeted her ribs like a battering ram. Her shocked cry emerged as a whimper.

“Not one word,” a voice hissed. A familiar voice, thank the Three, speaking the tongue of the Aranya. “What do you think you're doing?” Mother breathed into her ear.

On the mattress, Hammerfell turned his head on the pillow and muttered unintelligible words. Calista watched him with round eyes until he settled back into sleep.