The Lords of Valdeon (30 page)

His hopes of restored glory and power faded for a moment. Leo had taken his Lion Ring into hiding were Julian could not follow. The Regent's Medallion was missing along with the barbarian who had taken it. Things were not going to plan, but there was still hope. The Pacarro tribesman couldn't hide forever. He was still with them, spying for the Wolf.

"Tell Lord Gorman he has my assurances I will have the Regent's Medallion in my hands very soon. No one will dispute my right to rule. Valdeon is as good as mine. Then we can discuss the taking of Andara."

"You may tell him in person, Prince Julian. He will arrive in San Leonora when the sun sets on the third day." Whisper's voice faded into the stone of the catacombs. "I bid you farewell."

Gorman's coming would mean open warfare. It would be a catalyst for pulling the men of Valdeon together under the Wolf. In times of war, the Sacred Guard ruled Valdeon. No one would question them then. Julian's chances to take the throne would be soundly beaten.

"Ill news, Andarian?" The changeling stepped out of the shadows, a contemptuous grin upon its face.

Always lurking about, watching every move he made. Julian stormed past it without a word. Its sharp laughter thundered off the bones of his ancestors. His approach in dealing with the creature had been wrong. Rather than embracing an ally he could manipulate, he'd alienated a particularly venomous enemy.

The changeling — when it wasn't amusing itself goading Marcellus — had proven useful. It had discovered a spy among them. Jorge Pacarro was the miscreant tattling to the Lords of Valdeon. He was solely responsible for every botched intrigue and failed mob.

Deeper into the catacombs, they came to an antechamber. More torches lined the room. Bits of fabric and discarded boots had been haphazardly thrown along the tombs. This was Zoya's playroom. He couldn't understand why a man would stay and play her games rather than turn tail and run after seeing those who'd come before him. He shifted his eyes away with a mixture of disgust and familial pride.

Bright light from the chamber beyond beckoned him. The Dirge had taken up residence within the tight crawl spaces between bodies. Their own emaciated features were perfectly suited to their new chamber. They slept now. All five of them were in hibernation, silent as the graves about them.

Zoya sat cross-legged upon the tomb of a long-dead queen. Marcellus leaned beside her, careful to keep his eyes away from the tombs. Julian smirked. Zoya and Marcellus were uneasy around his grotesque pets.

"There you are, Brother, and you have brought Armando with you." Zoya gave him her wicked little grin when Marcellus pushed angrily away from the tomb.

"I wish, my sister, you would spend more time aiding me in my efforts to save Valdeon. It seems you are more intent upon playing your frivolous games. And you, Marcellus. What of the barbarian? Why is his blood not upon your sword and the Regent Medallion in my hand?"

The precious symbol of power would end all of Wolf's barking. He'd sent his best men after the medallion. All they had to do was take it out of a glass cabinet. A barbarian from the west had bested them. Jorge Pacarro may have retired from his service as legion squire, but he still remained loyal to the rangers.

"We've tried to find him, my lord prince. It is as if he has disappeared again." Marcellus gave Julian a nervous glance. "I have told our allies about the bounty you've placed upon his head. It doesn't seem to be motivating them."

"Perhaps it is not money that I must offer. Tell them I will grant a position in my court for the man who brings me Jorge Pacarro's head."

The changeling drifted past him to lean next to Zoya on the tomb. Shaking its head, the borrowed features twisted in a sneer. Zoya rested her hand upon its arm and smoothed her fingertips upward. The changeling caught her hand, twisting it sharply until Zoya cried out. Then it threw her touch away with a laugh.

Her eyes sparked with angry fire for a moment. The spark within their depths began to smolder. She had chosen her game. This time the prey was refusing to play. Marcellus's sharp steps hurried to the tomb. He grabbed Zoya's arm and pulled her away. The changeling laughed. Clever creature. The prey was playing his own game. Perhaps there was a way Julian could use it to his advantage.

"Those bumbling fools won't find him. You'll have to draw the barbarian out of hiding." The changeling's sharp grin stretched toward Marcellus.

"How? We've tried everything to bait him." Marcellus folded his arms, staring dangerously at his rival.

"Not everything. What would you do if someone threatened to harm me, Marcellus?" Zoya pressed her body against him. "Would you hide away in a storeroom? Or would you defend me?"

He put shaking fingers under her chin. "I would kill them to save you, of course."

"Of course," the changeling snickered.

"Don't you think this barbarian would do the same? Threaten the friend he holds most dear and watch how quickly he rushes into the light." Zoya pulled the small dagger Julian had given to her and began plucking at her fingernails. "I wish it could be Fausto De Quintaro. His death must be another day. We need to draw western blood. Who better than Xavier the Wolf's mentor?"

Marcellus stared at her, his eyes twitching madly. "Killing Cesar Santiago is a death sentence for the man holding the assassin's blade. Even if he could get close enough to try the deed, Wolf would stop him before he could reach the old man."

"We must see this done at a time and place the Wolf will not expect. If the Lords of Valdeon are otherwise occupied, our assassin will do his job and our friends will hide him. The man who does this for me will go down in history as a true patriot!"

"I would be your logical choice, of course." The changeling tilted its head with a shrug. "I am, after all, the most skilled among your men."

"You? Always skulking in the shadows like a coward." Marcellus lifted the sleeve of his shirt. Several cut marks sliced his skin. "These represent all the lives I've taken. What do you know of killing and death? If the deed is to be done, then I'll be the man."

Julian went to him then and put a hand on each shoulder. "You are my greatest ally, Marcellus. Your future king will never forget the courage you show today."

The mad fool gave him a proud smile. Julian returned it. Marcellus should have listened to his own counsel. He'd been right about Wolf. The ranger would cut him down before he reached Cesar. No matter. The barbarian would be drawn out into the open. Then they would have him and the Regent Medallion. It would be his greatest pleasure to wave the golden necklace in Lord Gorman's hideous face.

Chapter Twenty-Four

The Great Hall within the Palace of Kings had seen war and destruction in its centuries-old existence. Rebuilt many times, its walls were a patchwork of old and older. Jorge found inconsistencies in its brickwork convenient. Discreetly covered by tapestries, they offered an abundance of hiding places. He'd used them frequently in the past few weeks to spy on Julian and his treacherous band. Many plots had been stymied by the Lords of Valdeon due to the information he'd overheard.

He kept watch now as the prefects assembled to bicker again over the future of their country. These meetings were tiring for men of action. Even the eastern prefects, dressed in their colorful plumage, seemed strained with temper. Many times their eyes would shift from the Lords of Valdeon to the bastard prince. A few of the eastern lords — Fausto De Quintaro for one — kept their gaze firmly on the chancellor as he spoke. Those faithful to the Altar would not be enough to stand against Julian’s supporters.

Their dark prince sat upon the small dais beside the chancellor. He was a hand's breadth from the king's seat. His covetous fingers stretched absently toward it while his eyes remained upon Wolf. Open contempt was in their depths.

Jorge shifted his attention to the twitching man beside Julian. He'd made the mistake of passing too close to the beast once. The faint odor of rotting blood mixed with cherry blossoms and spice wafted around Marcellus De Costa. He was the breath of death and the hand of madness. The killer warranted close surveillance, but he was not Jorge's target today.

A man approached Julian, carrying a tray with spring water and fruit upon it. The prince waved the tray away without acknowledging his new valet, Armando. Jorge had witnessed Julian's resentful behavior toward his attendant before and had grown curious about the man. His face was a familiar one, though Jorge hadn't placed him at first. Then he remembered their last meeting many years ago. Armando had been one of Leo's lion friends.

Why would a lion friend offer himself into service to the king's bastard son? It was a mystery Jorge was determined to solve. He'd spent the past few hours following the man, hoping to gather clues as to his purpose. Armando's behavior was peculiar for a man in service to the prince. He wasn't a subservient domestic when they thought they were alone. Rather he behaved as an equal to Julian. One who enjoyed toying with his irritable employer.

Julian may not have craved refreshments, but the chancellor certainly did. Benito stepped away from his position on the dais and took up a glass of wine offered to him by the servants patiently waiting at the side of the room. Wolf and the other members of the Sacred Guard followed. Their emotionless faces revealed nothing about their moods, but Jorge knew them well enough to know rangers weren't immune to impatience.

Conversation and ambient noises rose into a loud buzz. The room was in movement. Prefects mixing with one another as they took refreshment under the lights of the Great Hall. Jorge kept his eyes focused on Armando. The valet stood quietly against the wall, outside the chaos. Jorge grinned at his good fortune. Armando had chosen to stand beneath one of his hiding spots. Finally, a chance to get a close look at the man.

He slipped from behind the tapestry to crouch low on the floor. Jorge crept along the wall unnoticed. Lifting the edge of the next massive tapestry, he crawled along the small ledge the cloth was designed to hide. The dust of many years puffed into the air before him. He swallowed the cough trying to escape his throat and took a slower pace. Better to show caution than risk attracting the attention of an observant onlooker.

Counting the paces, he calculated Armando's location. Jorge stopped and pressed his fingers on the age-worn material. Heaven forgive him, he pierced the antique tapestry with his dagger. The blade sawed down a few inches until he had an unobstructed view of Armando's head.

Obviously bored, the valet took an easy stance. Dark hair peppered with age fell straight against his ears. A meager mustache lined thin lips. He looked a few years older than the last time Jorge had seen him, but nothing out of the ordinary leapt to his attention.

Warmth began to radiate from his skin where the Regent's Medallion had touched him. Jorge put his hand upon the spot. Nothing met his touch, only the skin he'd been born with. He smoothed at his side. The sensation was coming more often. Why now?

Suddenly, Armando's tray flew upward a few inches as if something had bumped it. Water and fruit spilled on the sleeve of his left arm. He set the tray down upon one of the chair seats and squeezed at the fabric of his sleeve. Armando was careful to pull the material back down over his arm, but Jorge had seen the skin beneath. Leo's Lion Friends were known by three deep claw marks slashing across the left forearm. Armando's were strangely absent. The Jalora's magic could not be faked. This imposter was pretending to be a lion friend. The why and the how of the pretender's performance was for Xavier the Wolf to uncover.

Jorge backed down the narrow ledge toward the edge of the tapestry. Cesar was standing, face red with fury, in the center of a handful of eastern prefects. One of them was the butcher De Costa. Julian had let his rabid pet off his leash. De Costa leaned against the table grinning insolently at Cesar. Alberto, Fausto, and the Lords of Valdeon stood beside the chancellor, speaking in low tones. They hadn't noticed their old friend had been surrounded by a dangerous crowd.

"How do we find what the Dragon cannot, My Lord Santiago? It would be as difficult as finding civilized conversation in the west." De Costa's insult drew a nervous laugh from Julian's other lackeys.

Cesar bristled at the young man’s rudeness. Jorge recognized the look upon his lord's face. His temper was up again. Rather than showing caution and remembering his advanced age, he would try to teach these young men manners.

"As I have said before, we must urge the Dragon to return to the Altar of Providence. He must bring all the bishops with him. Perhaps the combined strength of these rangers along with the Lords of Valdeon can ascertain the ring’s whereabouts."

Foreign interference of any sort wasn’t a popular idea among Julian's supporters. The legion's presence would squash Julian's lusts for the throne in short order. Emboldened by the bitter grumblings of his friends, one of the young men broke away from his circle and advanced upon Cesar.

"We don’t need foreign rangers on Valdeonian soil. Would you have rule over San Leonora handed over to them?"

"Don't be a blasphemous fool! The legion will protect the Altar for all of Andara’s sake. It is their duty in such times to follow the Lords of Valdeon. Do you not trust in the Sacred Guard? They are Valdeonian after all and follow the Jalora without question."

"That is a feeble old man’s wisdom."

"No, that is a sober man’s wisdom. Your mind is still awash with drink."

He turned to walk away. Jorge's tension eased until the young men crowded around Cesar to block his escape. De Costa took a step back, standing outside their circle. A sick smile of anticipation twitched upon his lips. What game was he playing?

"Tell me, old man, do you honestly think anyone will miss a relic like you?" The young man lifted up onto the table and sat down, dangling his legs.

Jorge pulled his hatchet and let it fly in one practiced movement. It split the table, stopping a few inches from the young man’s groin. Wetness spread across his britches. The dark spot grew as Jorge yowled the infamous Pacarro battle cry.