Sinner (16 page)

Through the gate, and to the bridge.

The bridge. The magical guardian of the way into Sigholt. Would she challenge them? Stop them?

“Greetings, lovely Zenith,” the bridge remarked, and then her voice tightened. “And you, treacherous son.”

Drago stiffened. Even the bridge knew how to hurt.

Zenith spoke rapidly, hoping the bridge would continue to keep her voice down. “We are out for a stroll, bridge. Do not concern yourself about us.”

“There has been trouble in the past few days,” the bridge said. “And Drago has been amid the thick of it. I cannot let you pass. I
will
not let you past. He tricked me once before.”

“No!” Zenith said. “Please, bridge, we mean no –”

“No.”

Zenith could feel Drago rigid next to her, and was terrified he would attempt to run across the bridge, regardless of the consequences.

“We can always swim the moat,” she whispered.

“No matter what you do,” the bridge said, her voice implacable, “you will not get past. Especially with what you carry, hated son.”

Zenith looked again at the sack Drago had under his arm.
What was it?

“You seem to have misunderstood, bridge,” said a low voice, and Zenith and Drago swivelled about in shock.

WingRidge CurlClaw walked slowly towards the bridge from the Keep. He nodded at them, and then spoke again to the bridge.

“Drago walks as one with that sack. Let him pass –”

“I do not believe it!” the bridge hissed. “
Him?
”

“Always,” WingRidge said.

There was utter silence. Zenith couldn’t believe what was happening – what was WingRidge doing? What was he saying? Why hadn’t guards swarmed out of Sigholt to seize them? Why –

“Then pass,” the bridge said grumpily.

“Go on,” WingRidge said, and pushed Zenith. “Go!”

Drago needed no further prompting. He set off across the bridge at a run, and after a moment’s hesitation Zenith followed him.

“It would help,” WingRidge said to the bridge, “if you did not mention what has just happened or what I have just told you.”

The bridge thought about that. “I find it difficult to believe that Drago –”

“The Maze unwinds in many and varied ways,” WingRidge said, “and few understand its conundrums.”

C
aelum had called Askam, Herme and Theod to the map-room just before dawn to arrange the final details for Drago’s execution, when WingRidge and another of the Lake Guard knocked and entered.

The Lake Guardsman stepped past his captain, and bowed. “Drago is no longer there, StarSon.”

“
What?
” Caelum stopped himself from seizing the birdman’s tunic only with the most strenuous of efforts. “What do you mean – ‘Drago is no longer there’?”

The birdman’s face remained expressionless. “StarSon, when we opened the cell this morning he was gone.”

Herme and Theod exchanged looks, neither sure what to think, and Askam muttered under his breath.

Caelum looked at WingRidge. “How could this have happened?”

“As yet I cannot say, StarSon. Perhaps SkyLazer,” he indicated the birdman who’d entered with him, “can further enlighten us. He was in charge of Drago’s guard last night.”

“SkyLazer? Well, man,
you
tell us how this could have happened!”

“StarSon, we had guards posted the entire length of the corridors leading to the cell. Three guards stood outside
Drago’s cell itself. They have reported that there were no visitors and no sounds throughout the night. They are good men all, StarSon, but if you like I can summon them and you can test the truth of their report for yourself.”

“No, SkyLazer.” Caelum subsided. “That will not be necessary. Askam? I want you to mount a search of the Keep. Take whoever you need, and send several units around the shore to Lakesview as well. He could be hiding in the town.”

“As you will, StarSon. And if we should find him?”

Caelum regarded him steadily. “I do not care what condition he is returned in, Askam. Breathing or not. Just make sure he is returned.”

Askam understood perfectly. His mouth tightened into a small smile as he bowed to Caelum and then left the room.

Caelum turned to the other two noblemen. “Herme? Theod?”

The two somewhat reluctantly stood forth. Both wanted nothing more than to escape themselves; important business awaited them to the west. Would this delay their departure?

Curse the SunSoars’ curious attraction for deep crisis, Theod thought, keeping his face neutral. It was a remarkable achievement if they managed to get through a child’s name-day feast without the need for a war council in the middle of it.

“Yes, Caelum?” Herme said.

“I want you two to lead a patrol through the closer Urqhart Hills. If he managed to get past the bridge…
damn
…the bridge! She must know what has happened! I should have thought of that sooner!”

WingRidge’s face tightened a little, but no-one noticed.

Caelum turned back to the birdman from the Lake Guard. “SkyLazer, see to it!”

“My Lord,” said SkyLazer, and he stepped to the window and spiralled down.

“The bridge has aided Drago before now,” Caelum said to WingRidge. “I’ll see her torn apart brick by brick if she has done so again.”

I wish you luck, WingRidge thought. More powerful mages than you mortared her together. “She was duped that time, Caelum.”

“Then she could be duped again.
Damn
that bridge! Is she not supposed to protect us? Herme, Theod, what are you still doing here?”

“We thought to wait for the bridge’s news,” Theod said. “It would be pointless for us to scour the hills if the bridge knows where he is.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Caelum muttered irritably. He stared at the window. “What can be keeping SkyLazer?”

At his very words, SkyLazer fluttered at the window, grasping the frame and swinging in.

“Well?” Caelum snapped.

“Nothing,” SkyLazer said, and unnoticed to one side WingRidge visibly relaxed, relieved the bridge had remained silent. “The night and morning was quiet. The only ones who passed were routine patrols.”

“Then we won’t be needed –” Herme started, but Caelum interrupted.

“No. I still want you to search the hills. I…I want to be certain he has not escaped this Keep. Get to it.”

Theod waited on his fidgeting horse as Herme mounted.

“We came to Sigholt for a Council, Herme,” Theod observed roughly, “not a manhunt.”

“Still, it gives us a chance for a morning’s ride, my friend,” Herme said, settling himself in his saddle, “and a further chance for you to whittle down that bulk of yours.”

Theod put aside his ill humour and laughed good-naturedly. His grandfather, Roland, had been famously fat, but Theod was a slender man whose frame nevertheless belied a whipcord-taut strength.

“And now we are set to hunt one of the famed SunSoar brood?” Theod said as Herme reined in beside him. “I can hardly blame Drago for slicing the lovely RiverStar to bits. Her tongue could cut roast beef from a distance of thirty paces.”

“Theod!” Herme said, looking about anxiously. “The very walls can hear! Watch your tongue!”

“Well.” Theod shrugged. “I suppose we’d best set off on this manhunt His Starriness has given –”

“Theod!” Herme’s voice hissed between them. “Be silent!”

Theod grinned at him, but he kicked his horse forward and said no more.

The hills surrounding Sigholt were not overly high, but there were scores of ravines and gorges within two hours’ walk from the lake and Keep, and a thousand more shadowy spaces amid the tree ferns and undergrowth that could hide a man. Herme and Theod rode for the morning and part-way into the afternoon, dividing the thirty-strong company into three groups to scour as much territory as they could, but the blue enchanted mist was thick and the hills secretive, and by mid-afternoon they had found no trace of Drago.

“I think Drago must still be creeping about in Sigholt’s cellars,” Theod said, reining up next to Herme’s mount. “My friend, the sun sinks and we have all missed our lunch. Might I suggest –”

They were interrupted by a shout. One of the forward riders was trotting back towards them from a small ravine to the south-east.

“Sir Duke? Sir Earl? There is a track in that ravine. Someone has walked down it recently. A man, by the size and depth of his boot marks, and a woman. A birdwoman, for wings have left faint trail marks after her footfalls.”

Herme and Theod glanced at each other, and spurred their horses forward.

The tracks appeared for about fifteen paces just inside the ravine where there was a patch of soft ground.

Theod swung down from his horse to inspect them more closely. Eventually he looked up, his eyes excited. “Herme? These are –”

“Not Drago’s?” Herme said smoothly. “Well, we have done our best.”

He waved away the rider who’d accompanied them. “Ride back to the patrol and tell them to turn for Sigholt. This manhunt is useless. Drago must still be in Sigholt or its surrounds.”

“Yes, my Lord,” the man said, and wheeled his horse about.

Theod waited until he was out of earshot, and then stood straight. “Herme? What are you doing? These are clearly Drago’s tracks. Look, there is the distinctive square heel of those boots of his.”

“So what would you have us do, Theod? Ride after him and hunt him down for Caelum?”

Theod frowned, and looked uncertain. “Well…”

“Well, no, my boy. Drago suits our purpose far more on the loose than shut up in Sigholt, or buried in a corpse yard.”

Theod’s face cleared. “Of course! Caelum might spend weeks searching for him.”

“Or at the least be so consumed with worry about him that he won’t think clearly on ‘other’ issues. A free Drago will create fear and uncertainty and confusion, and that cannot suit us better.”

Theod tore a small gorse bush from the damp soil and wiped out the tracks.

“Then it is just as well we found no trace of him, eh, Herme?” he said, as he finally remounted his horse.

Herme grinned, his face appearing years younger. “Just as well, Theod. We must impress that fact on the man who thought he’d found tracks here. Now, let’s ride back and eat.”

“Nothing,” Herme reported to Caelum, his face weary with the effort he’d expended on the search.

He and Theod still sat their horses in Sigholt’s courtyard, Caelum and Askam standing before them.

Caelum nodded, his own face lined with worry. “I thank you, Herme, Theod.”

“Our patrols found nothing in Sigholt or Lakesview, either,” Askam told them. “Where could the snake be coiled?”

“Stars knows what mischief he could get up to out there,” Caelum muttered. “What is he doing?
Where is he?
”

The silence dragged out four or five heartbeats before Theod spoke up.

“We, ah, we would ride out in the morning,” he said, “with your permission, StarSon.”

“What? Oh yes, I suppose so. Askam, will you stay a while? I may yet need a mounted force to help the Strike Force search.”

Askam half bowed. “As you wish, StarSon.”

“Perhaps Theod and myself could escort the Princess Leagh home,” Herme said.

Both Caelum and Askam looked up sharply, first at the two horsemen before them, then at each other.

Askam shrugged. “I don’t see why not, Caelum.”

“I’d prefer Zenith to take her back via Spiredore,” Caelum said. “It’s quicker and safer.”

“She would be no trouble for us to escort –” Herme began, but Caelum waved him into silence.

“No. Zenith can take her. Now, gentlemen, if you would like to wash and eat, I would see you in the map-room at dusk.”

But Caelum could not find Zenith anywhere. Having spent the morning and afternoon searching for Drago, the Lake Guard spent the evening looking for Zenith, as did every soldier in Sigholt. Nothing.

Finally, late at night, Caelum called the search off.

“Well, maybe it is best you take Leagh with you in the morning,” he said wearily to Herme and Theod, and the two noblemen nodded, hiding their relief.

“As you will,” Theod said, and they bowed and left.

Caelum was sure he knew where Zenith was. As soon as he had the map-room to himself he sent his power surging out.

WolfStar! WolfStar! WolfStar!

And the Enchanter appeared, curious at the desperation in Caelum’s call. “Yes?”

Caelum stared at WolfStar balefully. Again he had appeared out of thin air; that was an enchantment Caelum could only accomplish with the utmost concentration and power, and yet WolfStar made it look like a five-year-old child’s accomplishment.

“Where’s Zenith?”

WolfStar raised an eyebrow. “Zenith? You told me to stay away from her. I have done nothing to her.”

He turned and walked away slightly, his golden wings rustling irritably, his back stiff as if with affront.

“She’s not in Sigholt,” Caelum said. “Neither…neither is Drago.”

WolfStar whipped about. “What? He is not dead?”

“Both have disappeared. I…I had not thought to connect their disappearances until this moment.”

WolfStar stared, chewing his lip, as Caelum told him what had happened since dawn.

“I will find them,” he said once Caelum had finished. “They will not escape
me!
”

T
hey ran south and east through the Urqhart Hills, Drago leading, Zenith some paces behind. They had plunged into Sigholt’s protective blue mists almost immediately on leaving the bridge, and Drago wanted to get through them before the alarm was raised. He didn’t understand the enchantments that had created the mist, and he was afraid the mist could trap them as easily as it could hide them.

As he ran, he kept the sack tightly under one arm.

Two hours after dawn it was clear that Zenith needed to rest. She was heaving for breath, stumbling along, catching at anything she could for support. Drago pulled her under the overhang of a cliff and almost pushed her to the ground as she still protested she could go on.

“Damn it, Zenith. Why didn’t you tell me you were so exhausted! We will sit here a while.”

“Only a few minutes, Drago. I just need to catch my breath.”

He looked at her. “As long as you need.”

She nodded, dropping her head into her hands and heaving as much air into her distressed lungs as she could.
She was normally so fit, but her struggle with Niah had weakened her physically as well as spiritually.

Drago studied her silently. He didn’t know why she had helped him, or why she was even still with him. She had wings, and could have been leagues away by this stage. On foot, those wings were far more hindrance than help.

She said she’d done it for love, but Drago could not quite bring himself to believe that.

“Can this mist trap us?” he asked, once Zenith was breathing easier.

“I don’t fully understand it, but, yes…I think that it could.”

“How much farther does it extend?”

Zenith ran her hands back through her hair, lifting it out of her eyes. “Another hour or two on foot, perhaps.”

“And then where?” he asked softly.

She was silent for a while before she answered. “The Island of Mist and Memory.”

“What? Gods, Zenith! How do you expect us to get there? It’s a hundred leagues…more!”

“Drago –”

“
Stars!
You might as well have left me back in the –”

She grabbed his wrist, furious at him. “Back in your cell? Except you wouldn’t be in the cell now, would you, Drago? You’d be a skewered mess on a litter being carried to the corpse yard!”

He pulled his wrist away, but he did so gently, and when he resumed speaking his voice was more even. “Why the Island of Mist and Memory?”

“StarDrifter is there.”

Drago sat and thought about that. StarDrifter might well be pleased to see Zenith, and gods alone knew she’d be glad to see him, but would their grandfather be pleased to see
him?

But where else could he go? At the least he could hide in the jungles that covered the greater part of the island.

He grunted, thinking of living his life as a wild man of the jungle. He was sure many would think it a fit end for Drago the Treacherous. Stay away from the jungle, children, or Drago the Treacherous will eat you!

“I thought we would go through the forests,” Zenith said softly. “Cut across into Minstrelsea once we are out of the Urqhart Hills.”

“They’ll have captured us long before then.”

“Maybe, maybe not. Drago…”

“I know. WingRidge.”

“Why did he help us? He is supposed to be devoted to Caelum.”

Drago chuckled, and Zenith caught her breath. Drago so rarely smiled that she’d forgotten how it lit up his face.

“Then I admire WingRidge’s ‘devotion’,” Drago said, still grinning, and Zenith found that her mouth also had curved in a small smile.

“But I don’t know, Zenith,” Drago continued, his grin fading. “WingRidge was ever the mystery. Frankly, I have never understood him. Sometimes I caught him staring at me with such a strange expression on his face…”

It was the strangeness of that expression that had unsettled Drago the most. He’d learned to deal with looks of loathing, contempt and even fear – but WingRidge had been so unreadable that Drago had avoided him whenever possible.

Zenith noted the discomfort in her brother’s eyes and decided to change the subject.

“We’ll get to the forest, Drago. We will,” she said firmly.

“And it will protect us,” Drago said slowly. “No armed patrol is going to be able to ride through it, and Caelum can’t send hunting hounds through there. And
shadows are ever good for fugitives. We’ll be safer there than anywhere else.”

The trees of Minstrelsea hated weapons above all else – save, perhaps, hunting. The magical forest was full of creatures so fey and precious that any man who went near the forest with a weapon or a hound rarely survived the touch of the first shadow along the forest’s shaded walks.

Zenith’s eyes slipped to the sack Drago still held tight under one arm. “What’s in that sack, Drago? I cannot scry it out.”

That brought a smile to Drago’s lips. “Well, well, so the SunSoar power
does
have its limits, does it? And as to what this sack contains, that’s neither here nor there for the moment, and I have no intention of opening it within this enchanted fog.”

He looked at his sister. “Come,” he said, rising to his feet and holding out a hand to Zenith. “It’s time to go.”

For another hour they struggled through the mist. The sunlight penetrated the fog, but only weakly. Rocks and chasms alike loomed up suddenly, so that both had to be careful that an unwary step did not plunge them into a gorge. Zenith moaned occasionally and clutched at her head, but whenever Drago asked she insisted she was well enough to continue.

But just as they reached a deeply shadowed section of the rocky valley they were traversing, Zenith suddenly groaned and, falling forward, clutched desperately at the back of Drago’s tunic.

“Zenith! What is –”

He broke off as he saw her face. It was deathly pale, and shone with a sickly sheen that couldn’t be totally blamed on the mist.

“Zenith?” He slipped an arm about her.

He could feel her heart thudding crazily against the wall of her chest. “
Zenith?
”

“Zenith,” she whispered. “Is that my name? No, no, it sounds wrong somehow.”

Drago tightened his arm about her. “What are you saying?”

She raised her head and stared at him. “What am I doing here? I have my duties to attend to. The First should not be so far away from the Mount.”

She wriggled in his grasp. “Who are you to touch me as you do?”

And then she moaned as if sick almost to death, and half collapsed onto the ground. “No! No! My name is
Zenith!
”

She took a deep breath, shuddering with the effort, and then she managed to straighten and smile at her brother. “Why do we stand here? Come, there are surely only a few more minutes left of this mist.”

Two long hours later, almost mid-morning, they broke free of the mist. Drago did not know whether to stand and take great gulps of the sun-drenched air, or crouch down to peer overhead for the Strike Force scouts he was certain would be searching for him.

Behind him Zenith stumbled into the sunshine. Her fine gown was shredded about the hemline, and her cloak had a great tear in it, but she had managed to regain some of her composure. “Where are we?”

“In the hills above Gundealga Ford, I think,” Drago replied slowly, although he wasn’t completely sure. It had been years since he’d ridden through these ranges. He studied Zenith carefully. There was something badly wrong with her. Her mind, he thought, because apart from a few scratches and bruises there was nothing wrong with her body.

“Zenith, look, there is a sheltered spot in the glade beyond the rock outcrop. You need to rest. We both do.
We are free of the damned mist, and perhaps it would be better to wait for the night to continue moving.”

She didn’t even hesitate. “Yes…will you take my arm, Drago? I do not know how much longer I can walk.”

He helped her across the rocks and into the dappled shade of a small grove of golden ash trees. As soon as she sank to the ground, Zenith curled into a tight ball.

“And when you wake, Zenith,” Drago said quietly, “you are going to tell me what is wrong.”

“Mmmm,” she murmured, and let sleep claim her.

Hugging his sack tightly to him, Drago sat by his sister through the hours of the day, watching her, wondering, watching the sky and the lower Urqhart Hills, wondering.

Thinking.

Here he was a fugitive, running from those determined to kill him.

He had never felt freer in all his life.

His fingers tightened momentarily about the sack, and he smiled slightly.

Drago relaxed against the trunk of a tree, daring to think that he and Zenith might escape, daring to think that he might actually have a chance to take control of his own life. What would that be like, to be whoever he wanted?

He’d said to Zenith in the kitchens that even if he left Sigholt, word would spread that Axis’ untrustworthy and evil son, Drago, was travelling the land and that doors everywhere would be closed to him. He’d said he would have no chance at a life anywhere.

But was that true? What if he dyed his hair, grew a beard, assumed a new name, a new identity? What would it be like to wander as a travelling pedlar, or seasonal labourer?

What would it be like to be
liked
?

Apart from Zenith, and to a lesser degree Leagh and Zared, Drago had never known what it was like to be extended friendship and love. He’d first come to an awareness of his unenviable spot in Sigholt’s life when he was about three. He could remember the day clearly. He’d been playing alone in the courtyards of Sigholt, toddling about among the piles of hay and manure the stable lads were mucking out of the horse stalls, when he’d suddenly spotted the cook’s wife carrying her six-month-old infant into the sunshine.

She’d had a blanket over one arm, and she spread it out and sat herself and her baby upon it. After a few minutes the cook had called from the kitchen, and the woman had gone inside after checking that her baby was safely asleep.

Curious, for Drago had not seen a baby this small previously, he toddled over. His face was set in a frown of concentration and his fists clenched with effort, for the stable lads had left the cobbles wet and he did not want to slip over. He was about four or five paces from the blanket when the mother had re-emerged from the kitchen.

She’d taken one look at his frown and fists, then screamed in total panic.

Her baby had woken and begun to scream as well, and so also did Drago, as thoroughly frightened as mother and baby.

The woman had snatched her baby to her, and then literally spat at Drago. “
Get you gone from my child! If you come near him again I will kill you!
”

At the commotion a dozen people had come running, including his parents and Caelum, then about four or five.

At that time Azhure was heavily pregnant with Zenith, and when she had seen the woman and screaming baby,
both staring terrified at Drago, she had cried out herself, and caught Drago by the shoulders, spinning him about.

“You will
never
go near any baby! Do you understand, Drago? When my baby is born you will
never
go near her…
do you hear me?
”

In fact, Drago could hardly hear her above his own sobs, but he nodded violently anyway. Even worse than the screams and the words was the ring of people about him, all wearing varying degrees of revulsion, disgust and fury on their faces.

You will never harm another baby again, Drago
…

Think to kill again and you will be killed yourself…

You will never be allowed to harm again…

We will never forget what you did…

Against Caelum…

Against Tencendor…

We will never trust you…

Never…

Never…

The thoughts and words of accusation and hate rang about him and Drago began to spasm with his own hiccuping sobs. What was happening? Why did everyone stare at him with such hate? Why? Why? Why? He fell to the ground and hid his face in his arms.

Eventually they’d left him there, curled up into a tight ball – as tight as Zenith was now – against the hatred and disgust.

Caelum had been the last to leave, and Drago had caught a peek at his face from under his own arm.

It was such a mixture of terror – terror of
him
– and hatred and disgust that Drago had closed his eyes as tight as he could. Closed them against the world and everyone in it.

There he’d lain, wishing somehow he’d wake from this frightful nightmare, when a small cat had bumped
her head against his arm. Reaching out to the only thing that had shown him affection, Drago had hugged the cat to him, and she’d snuggled into his chest, her body reverberating with the strength of her purring, and Drago had sobbed anew.

No, Drago had never forgotten that day.

He’d grown silent and withdrawn. Sullen, his parents said. Zenith had been born shortly after that event, and all Drago had known of his sister for the first four years of her life was her distant cry, or tiny footfall. His parents had never let him near her until she was four.

When he was five it was RiverStar who’d finally told him why everyone hated him so much. She’d told him with a smirk on her face, revelling in his hurt. Drago hadn’t believed her, hadn’t
wanted
to believe her, and had in fact asked Axis to tell him it wasn’t true.

Axis had stared at him, silent, and turned away.

Drago hugged his sack tighter to him, tears glinting in his eyes. He had hated himself for a while, hated himself for what he’d done to Caelum, but over the years that self-hatred had been turned back out against the world that hated him. He’d spent his teenage years deep in bitterness, then his twenties and thirties as deep in resentment. How was he to know if he’d actually done what legend stated?

And finally, by the time he’d reached thirty-five, his mortality had struck deep. His siblings were all highly magical, enchanted creatures, revelling in youth and power and the adoration of all who saw them.