The Lords of Valdeon (15 page)

A pair of hands began to clap from the far end of the Great Hall. It was Felix Cristiano, steward of San Angelica. The massive port city on the western coast was home to Rafael, bearer of the Fox Ring. Its steward was expected to rule in support of his ranger son, but the two of them despised each other. While Rafael served in the Sacred Guard, his father had taken control of the city and allied himself with Julian.

"Bravo. I'm sure your impassioned speech turned every heart toward peace. You would make a great statesman, Duke Pacarro." Felix walked past the Lords of Valdeon and turned his back to his son. Rafael the Fox sat rigid, watching his sire take center stage.

"Many tales of Jorge Pacarro's courage circulate about the barracks of Valdeon's army. His loyalty to the throne and his ranger are well known. He was even given a plot of land and a dukedom by the king for his services. No one would question his motives for standing before you now. I would go so far as to say he believes what he has just told you." Felix stopped to clasp his hands behind his back. "But does this same loyalty blind Duke Pacarro to the truth? The Lion Ring is lost. Think, my friends. Why was it lost? Why would the Jalora allow such a catastrophic thing to happen?"

The room erupted in panicked murmurs. It was a question Jorge had asked deep in his heart, but hadn't dared voice aloud. A self-satisfied smirk stretched across Felix's lips. It was as if he knew Jorge's thoughts. No matter. Julian's puppet was deliberately trying to incite panic. He had to be blocked by the one weapon that could take him out of this verbal battle for peace.

"You are no one to judge the Jalora's motives, usurper. I will leave such questions to be answered by the Sacred Guard. If you weren't so driven by greed and ambition, you would trust the word of the rightful lord of San Angelica." Jorge's fingers ached to grasp the handle of his hatchet. One throw and the serpent's tongue would be silenced forever.

Face glowering with rage, Felix took a threatening step toward Jorge. "Perhaps the services of the Sacred Guard are no longer needed, Squire?"

The tip of a blade pressed against Felix's throat. It twisted until the tiniest of scratches drew blood. Rafael the Fox stood before his father with the expressionless face of justice. His eyes, however, glowed with fury.

"Your tongue has wagged enough for one day. Leave me before I have reason to silence you permanently." Rafael stared after his father until Felix had disappeared down the corridor. The room waited in silence until Fox had joined the other rangers once more. Wolf gripped Rafael's shoulder as he passed, then he gave Jorge a slight nod. Jorge bowed to the Lords of Valdeon and sat back down next to Cesar.

"I must get you home quickly, Jorge. The rangers might make you the Chancellor of Valdeon after today."

Jorge smiled. "You would never catch me in his silly contraption he calls a hat, my lord."

He turned his attention to the eastern prefects. They looked frightened, as well they should be. Julian's only hold in the west had been completely discredited. After Felix's inflammatory statement about the Sacred Guard, no one would dare associate with him. One plot had been extinguished, but how many more were smoldering in the halls of the palace? The next few days would be interesting.

Chapter Ten

Seth held a great sword before him. The tip of its blade was fixed upon his opponent's murderous heart. Hungry fire devoured the grassland about them. Neither noticed its deadly flames slithering closer like fiery serpents. Every thought, every ounce of energy was focused on the life or death struggle with the mortal enemy before them. Heart pounding, the strange new power surged against his will. Then in a moment of uncontrolled rage, Seth threw back his head in a roar. Power shook the ground between them. He began to fall.

He lifted off the pillow, gulping in breaths. The pungent aroma of herbs and sweat hung heavy in the air. Seth’s nose couldn’t ignore the stench any longer. Getting out of bed, he hurried to the window and opened it. The cold air of early morning felt good against his face. Rubbing his eyes, he looked out across the empty fields. How had he gotten to Paddy's Inn?

Adjusting the small lantern on the table, he raised the lights in the bedchamber. A simple chest of drawers stood against the wall. He lifted the plain white pitcher from its top and poured cool water into the basin. The sensation was heaven upon his face. Seth closed his eyes, forcing the fog of illness from his mind. Memories, full of horrific images, came at him in a rush. His memory of that night grew stronger now as anger pushed aside the grief. Some moments were missing, but one detail burned in his thoughts. Pavel Sandor, his mother's murderer, was still on Marianna.

Clean clothes and a pair of boots waited for him in a chair next to the chest of drawers. Steadying his weakened body against the wall, he pulled on the trousers. The effort it took to finish this simple task helped him to understand how close to death he'd actually come.

Sunlight hadn't quite reached the hall as he made his way to the common room. The inn was quiet this morning, as if he were the only guest. A chair squeaked in the corner. Fergus McCloud sat at one of the tables. His stern features concentrated on the books and parchments spread out before him. Body remaining still and upright, he used his left hand to ease the walking stick a bit closer.

"Emma and I may leave this shabby prison today. Doctor McFadden insists you stay here until your strength returns." The headmaster's hard eyes remained upon the parchment in his hands. "I expect you to recover soon, boy. You’ve been enough of a bother. I will not have a malingerer living in my house."

"What makes you think I'd stay under your roof for a moment longer than I must? My reasons for remaining friendly with you are gone."

"So, the truth is out at last." Fergus lifted his gaze and gave him a humorless grin. "What will the town think of your sainted mother when her secret comes to light? Who will be the saint then, eh boy? Their dearly departed Anne McCloud or the man who raised her bastard son?" He struggled to his feet and began gathering his belongings. "Your mother may have catered to your every whim, but I will not. You will do as I say, boy, or you will be out on the street. And another thing. I don't want you near those Logans again."

"I'll be out of your home as quickly as I can manage, Headmaster. We need not see each other again except in passing."

Fergus’ crippled figure lumbered out of the door. He spared Seth one last nasty look. It held the same wild anger he'd seen the night the headmaster had fought with Seth's mother. She'd warned Seth they were alone and without means the night she died. He understood now what she meant.

Paddy pushed the kitchen doors open with his back. Dishes rattled as he carried in a breakfast tray. Riley came in behind him, a half-eaten sausage link in his fingers. The other hand held firmly to the pot of fresh tea. He grinned a welcome, but his good humor disappeared when the headmaster's door slammed shut. Riley hurried around the bar to stand beside Seth.

"What did old Fussbottom have to say?"

"He was simply being his usual charming self."

"I'll bet." Paddy slammed the tray down a little too hard. Sausages rolled off the plates to hide amongst the utensils.

"Dismiss me out of my own rooms and complain about my food, will he? Good riddance to the foul creature. Teb! More breakfast! Seth's awake and hungry. Have a seat, boys."

They took their plates and plucked up the stray sausages. Seth sniffed at the meat in his fingers. It smelled of pork and thyme. His stomach growled in demanding gurgles until he took a bite. Even grief couldn't sway his need for food.

"Okay, Seth?" Riley sat down beside him when Paddy had gone back to the kitchens.

He nodded. "How long have I been here?"

"Nearly a week."

He'd been in a sick bed for almost a week while a killer was free to roam about the island? Too much time had passed. The trail for Sandor had grown cold, but there was still a chance. The villain's fear of the ranger had been evident even in Seth's stupor. He'd been warned to watch over Seth. Sandor was still close.

Other memories suddenly pushed their way into his thoughts. A white face and blue lips. Cold, dead hands. Seth pushed away the image quickly.

"They’ve buried my mother then."

Grief had come into his life without warning. Its heavy presence invaded the room, muting his quiet words. Forks clinked on plates as they ate in silence. Riley slumped in the seat next to him. Rubbing nervously at the back of his neck, he was struggling to find the right words.

"I'm sorry, Seth." Riley put a tiny vile onto the counter beside his plate. "You dropped this while you were, um, not yourself."

He plucked it up and held the tiny bit of glass closer. Remnants of a rather foul liquid coated the bottom. This vile he remembered well. The taste of death would haunt his nightmares for a good long while.

Their host pushed back into the common room carrying more eggs, potatoes, and sausage. He nodded with pleasure as he looked upon Seth's empty plate. The dish didn't stay empty for long. Paddy piled on more potatoes and meat.

"I’m sorry for quarantining your pub. Did it cost you business for an entire week?"

Paddy gave him a wave. "No worries, Seth. I made out the better for it. Someone gave me a full week’s lodging for the entire inn. A stranger came just before the constable and Riley here brought you in the wagon. He paid me a little extra to keep silent, but I reckon I can talk about him to you."

"A stranger? Was he tall? Taller than me, I mean? And did he wear a great cloak?"

"You met him then?"

"Yes. We've met."

This ranger was taking a great deal of interest in him. Seth sorted through his remaining memories from the night of violence. He'd worn a badge on his chest with “Jalora Legion” spelled out in gold letters. Sandor had feared him, but Emma treated the ranger with deep respect.

"Did this ranger give you any idea why he's taken such an interest in me?"

Paddy closed his lips tightly and pushed away from the bar. Sweat had formed along his brow and bubbled up on his bulbous nose. Shaking hands began to fuss with the dirty dishes as he stacked them on the tray.

"Raiders didn't kill my mother. Someone else murdered her and tried to kill me too. The ranger came into my room and saved me from someone with a heavy Tslavic accent called Sandor."

Paddy’s face turned white and he gripped Seth’s arm in warning. "Pavel Sandor? Are you absolutely sure? No. It's not possible. That murderous snake can't be here on Marianna. Seth, promise me you’ll not speak to anyone about what happened or mention his name again. Danger will follow if you do. You too, Riley."

Riley shrugged. "I don’t know enough to tell anything."

"That’s enough excitement for you today. I should have kept my mouth shut as it is."

"Wait. What about the ranger, Paddy? What is the Jalora Legion? Please tell me. I've so many questions."

The older man frowned and wiped at his sweaty head again. Eyes normally willing to hold Seth's gaze waivered and looked down at his hands. He shook his head slowly.

"Please, Paddy. You don't know what it's like to find out nothing you thought you knew about yourself is the truth."

"I suppose not. Very well, you have to right to know about the ranger at least. Before I settled here, I lived in Lea where their legion headquarters is." His quick glance to the door was full of fear. "I’ve seen them in action. When a ranger pulls his sword, nobody stands a chance against him. Fastest thing on two legs, they are. Let’s hope he doesn’t return to Haven Bay anytime soon."

"He seemed willing enough to help me, though he definitely wants something in return."

"They aren’t sweet and cuddly, boy. A friend of mine got himself into trouble with the law once. He made the mistake of trying to fight his way to freedom. One of those rangers split him right in two. There. That's enough of that."

Paddy picked up the tray and pressed his back against the double doors. "Keep what I've told you to yourselves. Trust me. You don't want to interfere in ranger business."

"Why don't we just ask Emma about the ranger?" Riley asked when Paddy had left the room. "I saw them together. Emma seemed very friendly with him."

"The ranger has left Marianna. He's not our primary concern right now. I have to find my mother's killer. He's going to pay for what he's done."

Somewhere Pavel Sandor was watching and waiting. Their battle of wits was about to begin.

The days passed much too quickly as Seth recovered. Dread at returning to the McCloud home was regrettably replaced with acceptance. His first morning back in the somber dwelling found him standing before the mirror to regard the unthinkable. The Grey Cliff Isles had many different waistcoats men wore to mark them in their trade. Marianna had four types alone. He’d been cursed with the dullest among them. Fingering the unadorned black waistcoat of a scholar, he frowned at the image. Even the buttons were dull.

"This is no longer my fate," he whispered to the sickly looking young man in the mirror.

The future with its unknown paths was no longer a worry. His will was intent upon one thing, finding his mother's killer. The father who had abandoned his child, his mother's true identity, and the mysterious ranger would have to wait. He'd seek out their mysteries after his next meeting with Sandor. Provided he survived the exchange, of course.

A loud bang beneath him announced the start of the day. Good. The headmaster had left for school. Now was the time to search for clues from his mother's secret life. Steadying his nerve, he crept to her bedchamber door. He reached up on the door frame where she'd kept her key. His fingers came away empty.

"Your uncle has the key." Emma came to stand at his back. "He refuses to let me pack up her things. I think he's taking her death harder than he'll admit."

Her sympathies for the man rankled. He let the cold facade he used with the headmaster stretch across his face. Emma, too consumed with her own grief, didn't seem to notice his bubbling anger. She patted her eyes with a worn handkerchief. Dressed in bonnet and cloak, she appeared ready for a long walk on a cold morning. Sprigs of dried heather peeked out of the basket she wore on her arm.