Lady Of Regret (Book 2) (24 page)

Rathe laughed grimly. “The dead do not frighten me.” The dead walking about killing the living, however, was another matter entirely. He kept that to himself.

“And lest you forget,” Loro said to Yiri, “there’s all that tripe about his honor. Jathen gave him back his life, and now he seems to think he’s obliged to give Jathen what he wants.”

Rathe did not waste a breath explaining himself. Honor was one of the few things that could never be stolen, but did require diligent labor to keep ahold of it. “At the camp, before the Wardens attacked, she invited me to come to her, should I survive. I see no reason not to indulge her.”

“Very well,” Yiri said, eyeing him mistrustfully. “I accept your help.”

“We will see who accepts help from who,” Rathe said, knowing full well the moment would come when he must deal with Yiri and Horge’s claim to the Wight Stone. He hoped Horge would side with him, but the man seemed beholden to his sister, even at the cost of his own life. Time would tell.

Chapter 29

The four companions crouched in the trees a little way off a road that skirted farmlands, and ended at Ravenhold. The fortress perched between the flanks of two densely forested mountains. The setting sun painted its high, pale walls a dusky rose. Flapping Shield and Raven banners soared atop turrets studded with arrow loops. Sentries paced the ramparts, wielding halberds and crossbows. Rising high behind the walls, great towers and keeps, some flat-roofed, others with spires or onion-shaped domes, kept vigil over the surrounding lands.

“Seems tidy,” Loro said uneasily.

“And very much alive,” Rathe added.

Yiri shook her head. “There is naught but death here.”

“If so,” Rathe questioned, glancing at the farmland north of the fortress, “why do they grow crops? Do wights have a taste for turnips?”

“’Tis not as it seems,” Yiri insisted. “And, as it happens, wights eat
anything
they lay hands on, if their master allows it.”

“How do you mean to get us in, without losing us our heads in the bargain?” Loro asked.

Rathe studied the workers in the distant fields, the numerous guards, the open gates leading into the fortress. To Yiri, he said, “You mentioned a stream that flows down from the mountains, and passes through a culvert to water the fortress.”

“I did,” she said slowly. “I also told you it is guarded by an iron grate, with openings no larger than my fist.”

“Iron rusts,” Rathe said. “With a bit of leverage, we can pry it open.”

“If that fails?”

“Well,” Loro drawled, “the good Lady of Regret did, after all, invite our esteemed Scorpion to come into her presence. Mayhap we should just walk up and hail the gate?”

Rathe ignored the mockery. If it came to it, he would do just that. For now, secrecy suited him. Last he wanted was to fight off more wights. “If the grate proves too difficult, we’ll look for another way.”

“Easy as that, is it?” Yiri flared. “Just wander round the fortress, poking and prodding, looking for a hidden way in?”

“You have a better idea?” Rathe countered.

Before she could speak, a horn sounded on the curtain wall, and a score of lancers charged from the gates of Ravenhold, the Shield and Raven emblazoned their snowy tabards.

“They’ve seen us!” Horge cried. “We must be away!”

“We cannot outrun riders,” Rathe said, drawing his sword and stepping into the road. He was almost glad the problem of getting into Ravenhold had been taken out of his hands.
Almost
. He glanced back at his companions. “Not all of us, at any rate. I will distract them. The rest of you, run. Stay hidden, and you will escape.” That smacked of a fool’s desperate hope, but he took what hope he could, where and when he found it. “Of course, I’ll expect you to come back for me.”

Only Loro laughed, and him darkly. “I’ll stand with you, brother, until I cannot.”

That pronouncement of support sent dread crawling through Rathe. Another man, a true friend and brother, had said much the same to him, who had stood at his side until the end. For that loyalty, Thushar had lost his head to the axe of King Nabar’s executioner. Rathe was not keen to lose another friend.

The riders closed the gap, thundering hooves sending up a billow of dust.

“Go,” Rathe commanded. “I’ll not think less of you.”

“Enough of this dripping shit,” Loro said gruffly, joining his side. “This is no time for gallantry. We enter together, or not at all.”

Timid Horge nodded agreement, and Yiri said, “I’m more a help at your side, than tromping about in the Tanglewood.”

“Very well,” Rathe said, putting on the remorseless face he had so often worn while commanding the Ghosts of Ahnok. “Your lives are in your hands. I will not carry the burden of your death, should you fall.” That was a lie, the callousness of it a last bid to put his small company on the path to safety.

None of them budged, and Rathe felt a forgotten tingle of pride. They were his company of soldiers, small as it was, and they had chosen to stand by him. He could ask no more. “Make ready,” he ordered.

As Yiri and Horge joined him, the horsemen parted around the foursome and formed a tight circle. When twenty lances lowered, tips sharp and barbed and bright as quicksilver, Rathe felt the first niggle of doubt about his decision to trust the Lady of Regret’s goodwill. Perhaps she had fooled him into exposing himself.

One of the Wardens, wearing a crimson-and-white braid of rank on his shoulder, nodded toward Ravenhold. Raw sores covered his neck and hands, and Rathe guessed he must have been changed before death took him.

“I think he wants us to enter the fortress,” Horge said, incredulous.

“Or he wants us to drop our guard,” Loro cautioned. “The moment we show our backs, they’ll run us through. It’s what I would do.”

Rathe held ready, looking deeply into the darkness of the officer’s visor. If an answer lay within, he could not find it. “Your lady summoned us. Do I have your word you will do us no harm?”

“He’s a dead man,” Loro said, exasperated. “What do the dead know of keeping their word? Let Yiri roast them, and be done with it.”

Rathe’s eyes did not so much as flicker from the Warden. “Speak, or give some sign of your intentions,” he warned, “or you shall all die in the next breath.”

The Warden cocked his head to the side. His shoulders started to shake. He made no sound, but Rathe could not mistake the indication of laughter.

Of a sudden, the officer sat straighter, pointed his lance at the fortress. Rathe looked askance at the other horsemen. The Warden gestured, and his men lifted their weapons.

“Sheathe your sword,” Rathe told to Loro.

“This is madness.”

“Perhaps,” Rathe agreed, sliding his blade home. If he was wrong about Lady Mylene, then he could well be leading his friends to their doom. But then, whether or not they had known it at the time, doom had always been a shadow hovering over the entire venture.

Accepting the gamble with as much confidence as he could spare, Rathe set off. His companions fell in behind.

The Wardens of Tanglewood came last, silent and grim as executioners.

Chapter 30

Ravenhold’s gatehouse, large as any keep Rathe had ever seen, was no stark utilitarian structure. Vines and flowers in full bloom hung from gilded trellises. On the walls, bright murals of unparalleled artistry and finely woven tapestries mingled with friezes carved by master stonemasons. In numerous arched niches stood lifelike sculptures of past heroes, each wearing garments bearing the Shield and Raven device. Those stone legends silently observed the passing of four strangers and their shaggy beast of burden. So, too, watched motionless guardsmen, eyes hidden amid the darkness behind their visors.

Keeping his face smooth, Rathe said, “Ravenhold seems very rich.”

“Aye,” Loro said. “And finer than the king’s palace in Onareth.”

Unbending and sour as ever, Yiri said, “The stones of these walls have more life than those who live behind them. Bear that in mind, when you meet the Lady of Regret.”

Rathe detected the underlying suggestion that he should not hesitate to attack their host, should the opportunity present itself. And if he failed to act, Yiri would not.

Beyond the gatehouse, the Wardens of Tanglewood dismounted and gave their reins to other guardsmen, then formed a hollow square round Rathe and his companions. Without a word, they set out, forcing the foursome to walk, or get trampled underfoot.

The fortress opened around them. There were many folk within, all who kept their distance. Maidservants clad in snow-and-crimson livery bustled between buildings and various keeps, carrying everything from brooms to baskets. Masons crawled like ants over scaffolding of surpassing height. By Rathe’s estimation, they were constructing a bridge to join the inner curtain wall to the outer. At the stables, resembling a palace in both size and splendor, grooms curried horses. Stable boys pushed barrows. Neither the grounds, nor the buildings, nor the cobbles over which Rathe and his companions strode, looked to have ever weathered a single winter.

“Look,” Loro said, indicating the workers and servants with a sweep of his hand, “how they hide their faces from us.”

Rathe could have named it coincidence, but each time he felt eyes upon him, he turned to find a face twisting away, or someone ducking behind a pillar or wall, or quickly vanishing through an archway.

“And why do they light no candles or lamps?” Horge asked, searching dark windows and arrow loops.

“The dead need no light,” Yiri whispered harshly.

After the silent Wardens marched them through a broad gate in the inner wall, they halted on the far side. Soft pattering splashes rose from delicate fountains. Columned gazebos, with domed roofs overrun with greenery, sheltered within gardens painted in a riot of blossoming color. It was a place made for celebration and life, yet not a single soul strode the many paths, or appreciated the calming sounds and honeyed scents.

The officer pointed down the cobbled path to a soaring keep of ivory stone. The last light of the fading sun kissed its hammered copper dome. Beneath a portico roofed with a wide balcony, two guards stood on either side of an immense pair of bloodwood doors.

Rathe stepped forward, wondering why the Wardens had not taken their weapons. He might have been glad for the oversight, except that he did not believe it was an oversight. More likely, the Wardens had no fear of armed men.

A sharp curse turned Rathe. Horge was trying to yank Samba’s lead rope out of the officer’s hand, and the yak was grunting in agitation.

“Let him take the beast,” Rathe admonished.

Horge reluctantly dropped his hands. Showing a rare bit of courage, he growled, “If any harm comes to Samba, I’ll have off your stones.”

The officer’s shoulders shook again with laughter, but no sound came from behind his black-slitted visor.

Rathe left him to his silent mirth, led his company up the wide steps to the entrance. One guard swung a door inward. Light from a hundred lampstands burst through the arched doorway, so bright Rathe raised a hand against it.

“You have come.” The woman he had seen outside Wyvernmoor, and again in the forest, floated out of all that radiance and halted before him. Her white dress absorbed the light, giving the silk a radiant glow. The same radiance saturated her golden tresses and pale skin, granting her an otherworldly beauty.

“
You
,” Yiri hissed.

Horge babbled, “What deceit is this?”

“Gods and demons,” Loro cursed, looking uncertainly between the pair, “what’s the matter with you two?”

“’Tis the murdering wench who killed Mama!” Horge squawked. A belt knife flashed into his hand, and he rushed her.

Rathe reacted without thought. In one deft motion, he knocked Horge’s knife flying across the portico. Another flash of Rathe’s hands sent the ragged fellow crashing to his back. He lay there, the hurt of betrayal brimming in his eyes, and mouth working to recover the breath knocked from his chest. Neither the guards nor the woman had moved.

“Help up our friend, but keep him in hand,” Rathe told Loro. He glanced back to the woman. “Do they speak true, did you murder their mother?”

Her remorseless blue gaze fell on Rathe. “I am Wina, Lady Mylene’s handmaid. And, yes, I put an end to Mother Safi’s cruelty, though I did not know she had children. Had I known, perhaps things would have turned out differently. Perhaps not, as Mother Safi cursed Ravenhold with a plague only she could cure, and then refused to help without exacting a steep price. Part of which was to try and kill me.”

“Lies,” Yiri hissed.

Composed, Wina cocked an eyebrow at Rathe. “Long has it been since anyone has guarded my person, save my Wardens. You have my gratitude.”

“I came neither to earn your favor, nor to protect you.”

A faint smile touched Wina’s lips. “Why have you come, warrior?”

“I seek to pay a debt to those who follow the Way of Knowing. They gave back my life, and for that I must give them the Wight Stone. I’m told it is here.”