Reign of Ash (18 page)

“There’s another possibility,” Penhallow said. “From the Knights’ point of view, they, too, were exiled. It’s been widely rumored that some of the Knights who escaped and went into hiding were never found. Quintrel may be steering us toward the Knights, for whatever reason.”

He paused. “If so, we must proceed with caution. The Knights have not wished to be found for a long time.”

Connor looked at the manuscript. “What about that?” he asked. “I handled it, and it didn’t open any memories.”

Lowrey smiled. “All in due time, lad. As we suspected, Quintrel left memories that trigger to time and place. Take the book with you. When the time is right, you’ll be able to tell us what it means.” Connor gathered up the journal, map, and manuscript, along with the four disks, and placed them in his pack as the others readied to return to the castle.

Outside Almstedt’s crypt, they moved through the corridor toward the central chamber but halted abruptly at the sound of rushing wind, and the hue and cry of men rushing to battle.

“We’ve been discovered!” Geddy cried, terror clear in his features.

The temperature in the main chamber was now icy. The sound of running feet echoed from every direction, yet what they saw hurtling down each of the five corridors were blue-green orbs of light, bouncing and bobbing, moving with fearsome speed.

“What’s happening?” Connor asked, feeling his throat constrict with fear as they began to back toward Almstedt’s crypt.

As they watched, the orbs began to cluster, expanding and shifting until the forms of men appeared. Within a heartbeat, they stared out into the chamber to see two opposing spectral armies facing off against each other. One side wore the livery of the king’s guard of Donderath, while the others were outfitted in the armor of the Knights of Esthrane.

Battle cries echoed from the stone walls as the two sides rushed toward each other. Though neither side had physical form, Connor and the others could clearly hear the clang of swords, the pounding of footsteps, and the curses and cries of men as the two sides battled fiercely.

“By Torven’s horns, what’s happening?” Geddy stared wide-eyed at the spectral battle. “If they turn on us, we’re trapped like rats.”

“They don’t want us,” Penhallow said quietly. “They don’t even know we’re here. This isn’t a show for our benefit.” He looked to Lynge. “There’s more than one reason the necropolis is off-limits to all but a few, isn’t there, Lars?”

Lynge nodded. He watched the spirits battle with an expression that was unnerved, but far from Geddy’s unabashed terror or the fright that paralyzed Connor. “The spirits of those buried beneath the castle do not rest,” he said quietly. “Over the years, there have been many reports of spirits reenacting the circumstances of their death. Lovers’ fatal quarrels, duels to the death, assassinations: Down here, they never end.” He paused. “Some of the early kings who fell in battle were buried near the mass grave that held their soldiers’ remains.”

“So what we’re seeing is a battle between the king’s troops and the Knights, relived by the spirits of the dead?” Lowrey murmured. “Fascinating.”

“‘Fascinating’ isn’t the word I would have picked,” Connor retorted. “We’re trapped.”

“If they’re just ghosts, then they can’t hurt us, right?” Geddy asked in a quivering voice.

Connor was relieved, because the same question burned in his mind, though he was loath to be the one to ask.

“That depends,” Penhallow replied, his body tensing as he watched the flow of battle.

“On what?” Geddy squeaked.

“On which side won this particular battle,” Lowrey finished the sentence. “And by my estimate, the Knights are losing.”

Lynge paled. “Which means, from the point of view of the king’s forces, we stand on the side of the traitors.”

Connor’s heart thudded in his throat as he watched the ghostly battle. With every moment, more of the Knights fell to the swords of the king’s forces. The Knights were badly outnumbered though they fought valiantly. “What happens if the king’s men win, and they find us?” Connor asked, dry-mouthed.

“Treason is punishable by death, lad,” Lowrey replied.

“Can ghosts kill?” Geddy asked in a small voice.

“If they’re strong enough,” Lowrey answered. “And here in the place of the dead, they’re at their greatest strength.”

“It would be best not to test your theory,” Penhallow said, never taking his gaze off the battle as it surged and ebbed. “We need to leave, and we can’t return the way we came.” He looked to Lynge. “You said the Knights had multiple escape routes. Can you lead us out?”

Lynge shook his head. “For obvious reasons, exploration of the older areas has been limited,” he said, nervously wetting his lips.

They backed away from the sound of battle, toward Almstedt’s crypt. “Let’s see if we can find an entrance to a passageway from the crypt,” Lynge said. Geddy stood watch at the door as the others began to work their way around the room searching for a hidden opening.

It was only then that Connor realized that the temperature within the crypt had fallen to reach the icy cold of the corridor beyond. He felt the hair on the back of his neck rise and turned to see Almstedt’s ghost standing behind them. “Lynge might not know how to get us out, but I bet he does,” Connor whispered.

Penhallow turned to face the ghost. “Will you help us escape?”

Almstedt nodded and wordlessly raised his right arm, pointing toward one of the walls of his crypt. Lowrey poked Connor in the shoulder to nudge him closer to where the ghost stood. “Maybe he’ll show you how to open a secret door,” Lowrey whispered.

“We can’t wait long. Our side isn’t doing too well,” Geddy muttered, watching the battle in the corridors.

Almstedt’s spirit glided over to the wall and laid a hand over one of the images of Esthrane on the mural. In the painting, the goddess was conveying a pennant with the heraldic emblem of a diagonal blue bar to the kneeling Knights. Connor edged closer, his heart thudding, and let his fingers feel their way over the image of the pennant. He found a depression and pressed, hearing a satisfying click. One segment of the mural swung inward, exposing a hidden passageway.

“Thank you,” Connor murmured to the ghost, who stepped aside to let the others pass.

Penhallow led the way. Lynge followed, with Lowrey right behind him. Connor held the panel open, waiting for Geddy to catch up. Geddy remained frozen in place, watching the battle in the corridor, too afraid to move.

“Come on!” Connor hissed, as the battle began to work its way toward them, rushing down the corridor and spilling into Almstedt’s crypt.

A bright light flared, and Almstedt’s ghost appeared, standing between the escape corridor and the thick of battle. Geddy found the nerve to begin his run toward freedom across the crypt with Almstedt in the center, blocking the advance of the enemy soldiers. But as Almstedt turned to engage one of the combatants, two ghostly soldiers nearest Geddy stumbled with the momentum of their sword blows, staggering backward into Geddy’s path. The soldier’s blade slashed downward, and the Knight’s spirit swung his own sword to parry, but the blow went wild, catching Geddy through the chest.

Blood spurted from a gash in Geddy’s chest. Connor shouted Geddy’s name, but Geddy clutched at his bloody shirt, the look on his face a mixture of shock and horror. Connor started forward, but an ice-cold hand grabbed Connor’s wrist and dragged him into the darkness of the corridor, pulling the panel shut behind him.

“We can’t just leave him!” Connor protested, fighting to break Penhallow’s grip on his wrist.

“We have no choice. It was a mortal wound,” Penhallow replied grimly. “He’s beyond our help. Almstedt will hold the entrance. With luck, the battle will play itself out and no one will come after us.”

Numb with shock, Connor stumbled along, barely keeping his footing on the rock floor of the corridor as they ran down the passageway. Lynge’s lantern bobbed ahead of them. Connor depended on Penhallow’s ability to see in the dark to guide them, as little of the lantern’s glow reached them. Twice Connor slammed into rocky outcroppings, bruising his shoulder and leaving a gash on his temple.

Gradually, the corridor warmed from the icy chill of the ghostly battle. The passageway twisted and turned and eventually led them to a carved stone wall.

“We’re trapped,” Lynge said, feeling his way across the rock face with his free hand as he held the lantern aloft, looking for a hidden opening.

Behind them, the sounds of battle carried up the corridor. “Almstedt may not be able to hold them much longer,” Connor warned.

Penhallow slipped toward the front and began to press his fingers into the stone carvings, stopping after a few moments to tap the wall. He stood back, and a smile crept over his features. “Aha,” he murmured.

“Anytime would be good now, Lanyon,” Lowrey prodded.

Penhallow arranged his hands over a section in the center of the carvings so that his fingers formed the shape of Esthrane’s constellation. He gave a push on the five points simultaneously, and they heard a
click
as a hidden latch gave way. The heavy door pivoted on a central fulcrum, opening a narrow access through which they slid one man at a time, latching the door behind them.

A dozen more steps brought them to an opening in the foothills above the city. Connor drank in the cool, fresh air and the sight of stars in the night sky overhead.

“We should be safe now,” Penhallow said. “The spirits are bound to their crypt. They can’t follow us here.”

“That doesn’t help Geddy,” Connor said.

Penhallow laid a hand on Connor’s shoulder. “Your grief is admirable, but it would not serve his sacrifice to allow the enemy to gain the advantage. Now that we know which disks are missing, we need to find them.”

“Four pendants, plus the one Connor wears and King Merrill’s disk,” Lowrey observed. “Perhaps McFadden has found his family’s pendant. That’s seven disks accounted for out of thirteen. And we know Reese has interest in the old families.” He met Penhallow’s gaze. “I’d say the race is on.”

“C
ome on, Mick, wake up!” Piran Rowse’s voice seemed painfully loud, but Blaine guessed that might have more to do with the pounding in his temples than Piran’s actual volume.

With a groan, Blaine felt consciousness return. Every bone in his body ached. He lay in the snow, gradually becoming aware of just how cold he was and realizing that his feet and hands were numb. He tried to move his arms and legs. Everything hurt, but at least his body still worked.

Piran extended his hand and Blaine pulled himself up to a seated position, then swayed as his head threatened to explode and his vision blurred. “The others —” he began, then winced at the throbbing in his head.

“We all made it over the fence,” Piran replied. “Skin of our teeth, it was, with those storms behind us. But we made it.” He gave a nod to the right, where Blaine saw Kestel and Verran moving gingerly. Kestel carefully shook the snow free from the folds of her cloak, and Verran brushed snow from his tunic and trews. Piran appeared to be the most recovered of any of them. Their horses, looking no worse for the long, frantic chase, were milling about well inside the stone wall.

Piran was crouched in front of Blaine, and now he cast a worried glance behind him, toward the hamlet of Riker’s Ferry. “Can you stand?” he asked quietly. “Because we’ve attracted the attention of the town folk.”

Blaine gritted his teeth and forced himself to stand, doing his best to ignore every aching joint and a blinding headache. Piran also got to his feet, carefully keeping his hands away from the sword that hung at his belt.

Blaine looked at the small crowd that had started to gather. Fortunately, they were not brandishing swords, but he could see that most of the men were carrying staves and small tools that could quickly become weapons should introductions go poorly.

Blaine took a step forward, making sure both hands were in plain view and far from his sword. “My friends and I barely outrode two storms. We mean no harm.”

An older man at the forefront of the crowd nodded. The others looked to him, and Blaine guessed he was the village elder. “It’s fortunate none of your companions were hurt,” he said. “Welcome to Riker’s Ferry.”

“I’m Mick,” Blaine said, deliberately not using his given name, “and my friends are Piran, Verran, and Kestel.”

“I am Helgen,” the older man replied. “I head the village council. What brings you and your friends so far into the backcountry?”

Blaine had been expecting the question. Given how far Riker’s Ferry was from more heavily traveled roads and major towns, it was inevitable. He had not, however, expected to have to pass the scrutiny of the entire town at once. “We came from Castle Reach,” Blaine said. “We’re looking for a friend of ours who went missing after the Great Fire.”

Helgen’s eyes narrowed, and he looked up at the lingering crowd to wave them off. “Go on, get about your business. I’ll see to our visitors.” Gradually the small group dispersed, looking disappointed there hadn’t been more to the incident.

“Bring your horses, and let’s go get a pint at the pub. The tavern master can see to your horses, we’ll get you warmed up, and you can tell me what you’re really doing out here on the backside of nowhere,” he said with a glance at Blaine.

Piran shot a look at Blaine, who shrugged. They gathered their horses, and Blaine fell in step with Helgen. Piran and Kestel followed, with Verran bringing up the rear.

Blaine looked around as they walked down the main street of Riker’s Ferry. From the map, he knew that the Pelaran River bordered the far side of town, where the ferry was located. Before the Great Fire, most traffic bound for Castle Reach and the harbor would most likely have taken the bridge, a day’s ride to the south. Riker’s Ferry was off the main route for the majority of the merchants, caravans, and traveling fairs that had moved freely about the kingdom before the war. The town’s less-than-ideal location no doubt accounted in part for the fact that it had the look of a small farming village rather than a bustling hub of commerce.

“Looks like your town weathered the Great Fire pretty well,” Piran observed.

Helgen nodded. “Out here, we’re not much of a target,” he replied.

He’s conveniently not mentioning the fact that they’re null magic
, Blaine thought.
Yet that has to be the main reason nothing here looks as if it was even touched.
He looked from side to side as they traveled up the village’s broad main street, noting that the taverns, shops, brothel, and stable looked weathered by the years.
In other words
, Blaine thought,
they look completely normal, not as if they’d been blown to bits and cobbled back together.

“It’s rather nice to see buildings that aren’t smashed to pieces or burned to a crisp,” Verran observed. “Most places near Castle Reach took a pounding in the war.”

Helgen gave a wan smile that did not reach his eyes. “For once, our inconvenient location was a blessing.”

Blaine glanced around the Ram and Boar as they entered. It was modest but not shabby. Near the bar, he saw several men with the look of farmers or herders standing with mugs of ale, while a handful of other men played cards or dice at tables near the fire. Everyone looked up as they entered.

Helgen spoke a few words to the barkeeper and motioned them to sit with him at a table near the back. Blaine noticed two young men seated at a nearby table. Both of the men looked like peddlers or tinkers, dressed in worn jackets with ragged sleeves and scuffed boots. They were deep in their own conversation and did not look up as Blaine’s group settled in at a table.

“Bring some food with that ale!” Helgen shouted back to the barkeeper. “It’s cold outside.” From the kitchen, they heard a muffled assent.

A stout woman, probably the barkeeper’s wife, bustled to bring them their drinks. “He’s got stew tonight. Mostly potatoes and onion and some deer meat. A bit of that and some bread should warm you up,” she said. “If you’re needing a room, we’ve got beds upstairs. If you’re early to bed, you’ll get a spot. If not, there’s room on the floor and plenty of blankets.”

She paused, her gaze lingering on Kestel, as if trying to make out what a woman was doing traveling among men and attired in tunic and trews. “If you’d like, dearie, you can sleep down here or in the kitchen, keep you away from the gods-awful snoring.”

Kestel smiled warmly at the woman. “That’s kind of you.”

If she had any concerns over the nature of Kestel’s business in town, the woman seemed mollified by Kestel’s answer and relaxed a bit. “All right then, it’s settled. He’ll be out with that stew in a moment. Holler if you’ll be needing more ale.” At that, she turned away and bustled back toward the bar, where several of the other customers were holding aloft empty tankards to be filled.

Helgen looked at Blaine, and his blue eyes held a wary intelligence. “Now please, if you will, I’d like the real reason you happened upon our little village.”

Blaine took a sip of his ale, watching Helgen carefully. “As I said, we are looking for a friend of ours who went missing just before the Great Fire. He was a mage named Vigus Quintrel.”

Helgen’s mouth turned up slightly at the corners, bemused. “Why would a mage come to a farming town like this?”

“Because magic doesn’t work here,” Kestel replied, smiling at Helgen. Her smile, coupled with her blunt observation, seemed to surprise the man.

“Magic doesn’t work anywhere, not since the Great Fire,” Helgen said, eyeing Kestel warily.

“But it didn’t work in Riker’s Ferry even before that, did it?” Kestel pressed, leaning closer. “That’s why we thought our friend might have come here. We think he was afraid something like the Great Fire might happen, and he thought this was safe.”

Helgen was silent for a moment. “We may not be one of the main trading stops on the river,” he said finally, “but before the Great Fire, we had our share of strangers coming and going. When the fires came, people stopped traveling. There wasn’t anywhere for them to go, once the castle and its city burned.” He gave a sharp, short bark of a laugh.

“At first, everyone was afraid to go anywhere. Then when it got closer to winter, people got up the nerve to leave. Since then, there’s been a steady trickle of people finding their way here. Some just travel until they run out of provisions, and so they stay. Others, well, I imagine there are as many stories as there are vagabonds. So long as they don’t cause trouble, and they’ll work for their food, we don’t usually care if they stay.”

“What about before the fires?” Kestel asked, leaning forward and turning the full glow of her attention on Helgen. Piran sighed and leaned back in his chair, and Blaine knew his friend was resigned to watching the master interrogator go to work. Verran looked amused, but his attention was elsewhere and his gaze darted around the room. Blaine guessed Verran was scouting the room for easy marks or taking in the details with the practiced eye of an experienced thief.

Before Helgen could say more, the barkeeper announced that he had just tapped a fresh keg, precipitating a rush of patrons to the bar. When the ruckus died down, Blaine returned his attention to Helgen.

“Before the fires, we were an unlikely destination for a mage of any sort,” Helgen replied. “As you’ve obviously guessed, our location is… unusual. Our boundaries roughly match the area where magic didn’t function. That spared us from the Great Fire, and it’s protected us from magic storms like the ones you fled.”

“A null spot,” Blaine said. Helgen startled just a bit at the term, and Blaine had his confirmation that the council head had heard the term before. “Hard to believe that some in the village didn’t realize the opportunity that presented. Riker’s Ferry would have been the perfect sanctuary for people who’d gotten on the wrong side of a mage, or were under a curse, or had some unfortunate run-in with magic.”

A flicker in Helgen’s eyes preceded a curt nod of his head. “In some circles, it’s been quietly known for a long time that our little village could be a good place to disappear. We didn’t get a lot of folks like that, but so long as they kept their heads down and didn’t attract anything dangerous, we let them stay. There are other folks who settled here because magic was a burden for them,” Helgen said quietly. He fixed Blaine with a challenging look. “Out here, people mind their own business.”

A kitchen wench approached with a tray laden with bowls of steaming stew and loaves of freshly baked bread. They fell silent as she set the meal on the table and bustled to refill their tankards. When she had gone, Blaine cleared his throat as the others began to eat.

“We didn’t come to make trouble, or to bring any trouble with us. We’re just looking for Quintrel or for information about him. We know Quintrel traveled around, and that right before the fires, he had some powerful enemies. He might have wanted to disappear,” Blaine added. “A place like Riker’s Ferry would have been the perfect place for him to do that. If you can steer us to the right people to talk with, we’ll be on our way tomorrow.”

Helgen said nothing for a few moments as he ate his stew, and Blaine wondered if the man intended to answer. When Helgen had finished his meal, he wiped his mouth, took a long draught of his drink, and sat back in his chair. “Vin at the bar sees most of the strangers who pass this way. Ellie, over at the Rogue and Damsel, meets most of the men sooner or later.” He leveled a glance at them. “She runs our whorehouse.

“They’re your best bets, I’d imagine, for finding what you want to know – assuming your friend even passed this way,” Helgen continued. He pushed his chair back from the table.

“I’m glad you and your friends weren’t hurt by the storm,” he said, looking at Blaine. “I’ve already made arrangements with Vin for this meal and your lodging tonight. But tomorrow, perhaps it’s best if you and your friends head back toward the city. No telling when another storm might come our way.” With that, Helgen bid them farewell and made his way to the door.

When Helgen was gone, Piran leaned forward, frustration clear on his face. “What a load of shit! I’d bet a gold piece he knows more than he’s telling.”

“You don’t have a gold piece, so it’s a safe bet,” Verran replied. “But I agree that he’s either lying or hiding something – or both.”

“And if he wants us to talk with the barkeeper and the madam, it’s also a good bet that they either don’t know anything or wouldn’t tell us if they did,” Kestel added.

Blaine nodded. “Agreed. So we’re going to look like we’re taking his advice, then do a little sniffing around on our own.” Blaine looked toward Verran. “Verran, stay here at the tavern and see what you can find out, from Vin or from the patrons. Pull out your pennywhistle, play them some tunes: You know how to work the crowd. I doubt Quintrel broadcast that he was a mage or used his real name, so just ask around about strangers from the city. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“What about me?” Piran asked.

Blaine grinned. “I’ve got the perfect job for you. Go over to the Rogue and Damsel, and see what the ladies have heard.” He palmed a few silver coins and passed them to Piran. “Mind, I’m not paying for your entertainment,” he warned. “Just be on your best behavior and see what you can learn from the ladies.”