Trial of Fire (11 page)

Who?

Kenrick straightened up, pulling his gloves back on. He looked around to where the forest thickened again, then south. In the faint distance, he could see the outline of Maitland Manor.

Swinging up onto his horse, he turned back to the road.

*

With a grunt, Micah Maclean sank the shovel’s blade into the fresh earth, then once loaded, he turned and dumped it into the last grave, patting down the dirt before getting more. Around him, the people of Maitland – those who had survived the Malachi attack – laboured with him. At least he had help now; if he’d had to do the whole thing alone, it would have been a nightmare. As it was, he could scarcely think of a more horrible task, but nonetheless, it had to be done.

Malachi had come to get Andrew, but Robert and Jenn had been there to stop them, and Finnlay and Micah had done what they could. Jenn had been injured, a dozen Malachi were killed and the rest had come here, to the Manor, burned the house and put to the sword not only fifty of its inhabitants, but also Andrew’s aunt and uncle, his own surrogate parents. Micah assumed that was done in a fit of spite …

He’d wanted to burn the Malachi bodies, for what they’d done, but in the back of his mind, a voice scolded gently, reminding him that he was not
the monster they were and that, as a good man, he should treat all creatures with respect – even those he’d had a hand in killing. He’d grown to hate that voice.

As he bent to pick up the shovel again a shiver ran through him. The memories were so close to the surface, too new to be easily forgotten. They’d haunted him night and day. Even the comfort of Sairead’s presence had been denied him.

In the days that followed the attack, after Robert had hurried Jenn and Andrew off to the Enclave for safety, Micah had come here to begin this terrible work. At first he had toiled by himself, burying the dead, for the survivors had run from the terror the Malachi had wrought. They had seen sorcery at work that awful night; Micah could not blame them for staying away.

Alone, he had dug graves for Bella and Lawrence. He’d found remnants of the rich curtaining to wrap their bodies in; as he laid them to rest he whispered what prayers he could remember.

After that, he’d dug more graves in the shade of the huge oak tree which was so much a part of Maitland’s setting. He’d been injured himself and sleep contained his nightmares; it was hard, sorrowful work as he discovered one body after another in the ruins of the Manor. After a few days some had come back, hoping it was safe. Then at last, he was no longer alone.

When he levelled off the last of the fresh earth, he straightened up, stretching the kinks out of his back. The others continued with their tasks, some burying, others putting up name-stakes, saying prayers, and mourning. Behind them stood the blackened shell of Maitland Manor, grim underneath the pewter sky. Once this day was done, the burying would be finished and he could finally rest.

A flash of colour caught his eye. He looked up and instinctively took a step back, but there was nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide. As the host of soldiers took the last turn in the road, everybody stopped work, their fear almost palpable in the air.

Micah did nothing. He tried not to hold his breath, tried to ignore the hammering in his chest. Why hadn’t he thought that Kenrick might come looking for his cousin? Word of the attack had obviously reached the capital; was Kenrick here to make sure Andrew was dead, or to find out if he was alive?

As the men spread out to secure the area, Micah frowned. Kenrick was asking questions of the people nearest to him. From the look on the King’s face, it was clear that the attack had not been his idea; so Nash had done this without Kenrick’s permission.

More to the point, was this something that could be used to their advantage? Robert would know how best to use this to drive a wedge between Nash and Kenrick; after all, that was why he needed Andrew in the first place, so the boy could take care of the King while Robert fought Nash.

If Micah said anything to Kenrick, he’d risk being recognised: Kenrick had seen him fight alongside Robert on the field at Shan Moss. Though eight years had passed, Kenrick might still associate him with Robert, and then all Robert’s plans would be for naught.

Behind him, soldiers picked through the wreckage of the Manor, shouting to each other. As far as Micah knew, there were no more bodies lying cold amidst the ruins, and there was definitely nothing those men could find that would be a danger to anyone. Bella and Lawrence had lived blameless lives; their only crime was that Jenn, Bella’s sister, was a sorcerer, and she’d left her son to live with them – but neither Kenrick nor his men would know anything about that.

‘You!’

Micah started and turned back to find Kenrick before him, staring down at him from his horse. Almost too late, Micah gave a deliberately clumsy bow; it had been a long time since he’d bowed before a king and it would do nothing for his disguise as a farm worker to do so in a polished manner.

Of course, the king he’d last bowed to had been this boy’s father, Selar. Kenrick resembled him in all the wrong ways: Kenrick was tall and broad-shouldered, with fair hair and smouldering brown eyes. He stared down at Micah with disdain, but there was caution there, and enough worry to give Micah hope.

‘Sire,’ he murmured, keeping his whole stance as subservient as possible.

‘Who have you buried here? Those folk say Lord Lawrence and his Lady are amongst the dead. Who else?’

Micah swallowed hard, still unsure as to what to say. ‘I know not, Sire. The fire burned most beyond recognition.’

Kenrick waved his hand in irritation. ‘Yes, but what of His Grace, the Duke? Has anyone seen the boy? Was he here when the attackers struck?’

Consumed with indecision, Micah allowed a nervous glance towards the Manor. If he said Andrew was dead, what would Kenrick do? If he said Andrew was alive, would Kenrick go looking for him – would he challenge Nash for the sake of his cousin?

Would such an action precipitate Robert’s own plans? Damn him for always relying only on himself and never trusting anybody else to help him.

‘Well, man! Speak up! I want an answer! Have you seen the Duke since the attack?’

Honesty. That voice spoke up loud and clear now. And yes, he still hated it.

‘No, Sire, I have not seen the Duke since the attack.’

‘Then he is dead?’

Honesty? Why not? ‘I could not say, Sire. I did not see the attack on the Manor.’ All absolutely true. Not a word spoken in falsehood. This was too easy.

‘Then he is alive? If he’s alive, then where is he?’ Before Micah could move, Kenrick reached out towards him, then clenched his gloved fist. Instantly, Micah was frozen to the spot, unable even to breathe.

By the gods, he had no idea Kenrick has this much power – did Robert know? Did Andrew?

Though he knew deep down it was futile, his body tried desperately to draw in air, to ease the growing pain in his chest, but nothing happened. Kenrick jumped down from his horse, came close to Micah and peered at his face, as though the answer could be found there. An unholy fury burned in his eyes, flooding his face with a kind of ugliness Micah had never seen on Selar.

‘If my cousin is not dead, then where is he? Who has him? Why did you not protect your lord and master with your own life? Why are you still alive?’ Frozen, Micah could do nothing to stop the blow to his face, but Kenrick’s power released him at the same time and he fell backwards, stumbling over the grave he had just finished filling.

But at least Kenrick had lost interest in him. Even now the young king was calling to his men. He swung up into his saddle and kicked the horse savagely, galloping back towards the road, his men following.

It was only then that Micah noticed Forb’ez in amongst them.

*

Kenrick rode into the night, paying no attention to the fast-wearying horse beneath him. His men had the wisdom to say nothing, riding beside him in silence.

Andrew was nowhere to be found, although if he
had
been dead, then surely those remaining would have known, as they’d known of Bella and Lawrence’s fate.

But Forb’ez’s story remained the same: there had been a fight, and Kenrick had now seen the evidence. It was certain Malachi were involved, and they did nothing without Nash’s orders – so, for one reason or another, Nash must have sent DeMassey’s Malachi south to Maitland. The only question remaining was why. If Nash had wanted Andrew dead, then he’d seen some threat to Kenrick’s throne. There was only one rebel in Lusara; Kenrick still shuddered even to think his name. But though Robert
Douglas had been a thorn in his side for a long time, not once had he ever made an attempt on the crown, and if he did, he would hardly use Andrew; he would take it himself.

So, if there was no threat, that left him with only one possibility: Nash wanted to use Andrew as he’d used Kenrick. Nash wanted to …
replace
Kenrick with Andrew. It made perfect sense. Andrew was not a sorcerer, despite the rumours about his strange mother; not only that, but he was the most amenable boy, still young enough to be manipulated and trained. Nash could place Andrew on the throne and control him without any effort at all. Then he could do away with Kenrick and his defiance – and most especially, his powers – without losing his control over Lusara.

Perfect – but only if Nash had succeeded in grabbing Andrew. Perhaps that’s what Nash had intended all along with his Prophecy. There had been evidence of two fights: one in the forest clearing, and one at the Manor. The real battle had been in the forest; the attack on the house had been punitive only, suggesting the Malachi had
not
got what they wanted.

Kenrick smiled in the darkness. DeMassey had failed. Nash had failed. Somehow, Andrew had escaped. For the moment at least, that meant both of them were safe.

For the moment.

Until Nash came up with some other scheme, or until Andrew reappeared. Or until Kenrick finally grew strong enough to rid himself of Nash altogether. After that, neither he nor Andrew would be in danger again, and there was only one way he could do that.

Kenrick’s smile widened, rumbled in his belly until it emerged as laughter: after all these years, he would finally make Nash
pay.

*

By the time Micah was finished and the remains of Maitland was cleaned up, all the livestock were taken care of, all the people sent on their way, it was long after dark and Micah was ready to drop witch exhaustion. Shutting out the images of his work, he trudged back to the cottage Bella and Lawrence had given him so many years ago. He’d come to protect Andrew and they’d seen his presence as a risk. Even so, they’d allowed him to stay. Now the irony made his heart heavy. In the end, Andrew had been the risk, and they’d paid for it with their lives.

He knew the way along the path well enough to see it in the dark; he knew the sounds of the woods around him, and the cold chill in the air still waiting for spring warmth to banish it. It had been a long winter this year, longer than any he could remember. Right now, he could hardly recall the last time he’d seen the sun.

The cottage was dark and lifeless when he arrived, as it had been every
day for the last two weeks. He opened the door, felt along the window ledge for the candle and flint he left there. With the candle to show him the way, he lit a fire, then another lamp, and set about warming up the stew left over from last night.

It was done. In Andrew’s name, in Jenn’s name, he had buried Bella and Lawrence and taken what care he could with Andrew’s inheritance. Now all he had left to do was to sit here and wait for Robert to return, as, inevitably, he would. And then?

He heard the sound more because he was expecting it than because the soft noise reached his ears. He was at the door almost before he’d registered his reaction. He pulled it wide open, and then hissed in a breath of disappointment.

‘Gilbert. Come in.’ Micah turned, leaving the door open for the other man to close behind him. From habit, he took down another cup from the mantle and poured brew from the pot hanging over the coals. Before he straightened, he gave the stew another stir. He didn’t have enough to feed two. With luck, Gilbert wouldn’t be here that long.

He turned to find the other man seated on a stool by the table. Micah handed him the mug, then began slicing bread ready for his supper.

‘I see you had a visitor today. I take it Kenrick didn’t recognise you?’

‘Obviously not,’ Micah muttered.

There was silence a moment, then Gilbert rose to his feet and placed his half-empty cup on the table before Micah. ‘If you wish to change your mind, you should say so now. I’m risking an awful lot on your involvement.’

‘I never said I’d changed my mind.’

‘And yet, your enthusiasm wanes further each time we meet. Is it me? Or are you no longer certain you wish to do this?’

Micah put down the knife, rested both palms on the table top and looked up at the man before him. Gilbert Dusan was tall, but just as his niece was beautiful, Gilbert was almost too ugly for words. His complexion had been scarred by disease as a child; his hair, rust-red and streaked with dull grey, was long, plaited with a leather thong. Heavy eyebrows sat over small amber eyes, but his face was dominated by the large nose and crooked teeth. Micah could see a little family resemblance, though; the man was Malachi, after all.

‘I am certain I wish to do this,’ Micah stated firmly, the conviction sitting in his stomach like a rock, making him feel ill. The price was rising as each day went by. ‘But I would be more at ease if you would allow me to see Sairead.’

‘My niece is not entirely sure she wants to see
you.’

‘Then let her tell me that. How can I know those are her words? You sent
her away and you prevent her from returning. Is it not enough that I have betrayed her? Betrayed my own friends? Must you separate me from my own wife? Especially now?’

The moment he said the words, he bit his lip, wishing he could take them back. But it was too late; Gilbert’s gaze narrowed and the tilt of his crooked mouth altered to hint at a smile.