Trial of Fire (18 page)

Kenrick came to a halt, his fingers suddenly itching, his imagination abruptly darting from one thought to the next. He’d wanted to do this for a long time – had
needed
to do this, but until now, he’d had neither the opportunity, nor the means, and it had been far too risky for him to try. Now fate had given him this chance and if he didn’t take it, then he would deserve whatever it was Nash had planned for him.

Forgetting Forb’ez, he reached out and pushed the door open. He stepped inside, remembering late that he needed to look more casual than he probably did. Even so, his gaze eagerly swept the room, seeing little in the darker corners beyond vague shapes that might be people. In the foreground a few men sat at tables, mostly eating meals from wooden plates. Only one looked up, and that briefly. The rest ignored him, sipping from ale mugs and tearing coarse brown bread apart. The room was as dirty as the street, the ceiling stained beyond his imagination, the floor something he dared not look at. Even the fireplace in the wall opposite gave out an air of poverty and filth. How anybody could sit in this place and eat was beyond him.

A wave of revulsion swept over him, but he swallowed hard and chose a table in a corner by the door. He took a seat with his back to the wall and carefully arranged himself there, using the arrival of Forb’ez as cover.
Leaving the other man to order if necessary, Kenrick then closed his eyes almost completely and sent his Senses out into the room.

He found nothing, but that didn’t surprise him: he’d found nothing on the countless occasions he’d tried this since returning last night. But this time he had another weapon. Sure he was not being watched, he took hold of the small bag he had tied to his waist. Keeping it beneath the table, he put his hand into the folds of hessian until it could cup the glass seated there. Only then did he look down at the Bresail.

He’d had this one made for his own personal use; it was a small glass bottle almost perfectly spherical in shape, with a tiny opening at the top, stoppered by a piece of cork and a wipe of wax. Inside was the faintly coloured oil Nash had imported from the southern continent. Resting at the bottom of the bottle, surrounded by the oil, was, he’d been told, an
ayarn
, a stone once used by a Salti sorcerer to wield his powers – a Salti now long dead.

Kenrick had no idea how or why this device worked, only that it did. He’d seen it work week after week as it showed him how many Malachi he had at court, so that Nash could keep track of them, to ensure they were not planning on betraying their alliance. And he saw it work now as it began to glow in his hand, warning him of the presence of a sorcerer other than himself. More than one, in fact.

He almost laughed with delight, but his stomach twisted in anticipation and it was all he could do not to leap to his feet and declare his interest – but this was not the way to go about it. With his hands shaking, he settled back, letting the Bresail complete its task.

The glow increased and the glass began to feel warm in his hand. This was a good sign, as it meant that the sorcerers nearby were strong. Kenrick closed his eyes again, fumbling to allow his Senses to filter through the Bresail. He’d seen Nash do this once, but the older sorcerer had refused to explain how it was done.

But somehow, his clumsy attempt brought direction to his Senses. The men he wanted were sitting in the back of the inn, under cover of the shadows Kenrick could not penetrate.

He opened his eyes and looked up. For a minute he could almost see the faces he wanted, but the moment passed. Then, abruptly, there was movement, and his heart began to pound. Almost belatedly, he closed the hessian bag, hiding the presence of the Bresail, but it was too late. Footsteps came towards him and he turned to find a young man standing before him, of perhaps twenty years of age. His hair was cropped short, coppery, and matching that of his eyebrows and equally short beard. His skin was more olive than pale, as though he were used to much more sun than this. His
entire bearing both warned Kenrick and sent a thrill through him. This young man held himself like a warrior who feared nothing – the same stance held by every Malachi Kenrick had ever met.

The man stared at him for a time, then looked briefly at Forb’ez. He took another step forward and returned his gaze to Kenrick. ‘What cause have you to use such a device?’

Surprise flooded through him – he’d not expected a Malachi to
know
when the Bresail was being used. Nash had said nothing about—

But of course, there was a lot Nash kept to himself – and that, really, was why he was here.

Taking a fortifying breath, he straightened up, gestured to an empty chair and nodded to Forb’ez that he should wait outside. As the older man left, the younger took his place, never once taking his eyes from Kenrick’s. Such steady scrutiny was not easy to bear.

‘What’s your name?’ Kenrick began carefully, keeping his voice low. ‘Why are you here on your own?’

‘My name is my business, and so is why I am here. I ask again, what cause have you with that device? Is it to hunt us down? Surely you could leave such work to another and not soil your hands.’ The tone was level, the expression gave nothing away, and yet there was nothing but contempt in the air around him. This young man knew exactly who he was, and more importantly, who was his ally.

It was time to take a chance. ‘Where is DeMassey?’

‘Dead,’ the young man replied, blinking slowly.

‘And your brothers?’

‘Gone to bury him.’

‘And you are left here alone?’

Another slow blink, but this time, silence.

‘You are left alone here to keep watch? Or to effect revenge?’

The young man moved to get to his feet, but Kenrick reached out and caught his hand, exerting the smallest amount of pressure. He could not do this without taking a chance. He’d done so ten years before, and he’d made an ally of the most powerful man in the country – but that same man would also kill him at the first opportunity. He’d been a child then, unable to understand what he was doing, or the man he would help. He knew more now, could read a stubborn loyalty in this young man’s eyes, in his brooding silence. He could do this.

‘Just listen to me,’ he urged in a whisper, looking swiftly around the room once before releasing the hand. ‘You blame Nash for DeMassey’s death? So do I,’ he lied. ‘But that’s why I’m here.’

‘You owe your throne to Nash; you are his friend.’

‘Only until the day he kills me.’

The young man’s eyes widened a little, surprise filling his face for a moment. ‘What do you want?’ he asked bluntly.

‘I want you to help me.’

The young man shook his head. ‘I am not allowed to speak for my people. You must address your request to Gilbert Dusan or Felenor Calenderi.’

‘I only want
your
help.’

A flash of anger lit the young man’s face. ‘I will not betray my people.’

‘Nor would I ask you to, unlike Nash.’ Kenrick paused a moment, then took a deep breath. ‘I want you to teach me.’

The young man stared at him a moment, looked to the back of the room, then to Kenrick again. He frowned and sat back. His eyes closed and remained that way for a few seconds, then he opened them again. Kenrick waited as their safety was confirmed.

‘Well?’ he asked, already knowing what the answer would be and barely able to stop himself from crowing in triumph. ‘Will you teach me what you know about sorcery?’

‘Will you help my people avenge the Baron?’

‘At the first opportunity. If you can kill Nash for me, I will be for ever in your debt. I can’t see that we have any goals that would cause conflict, can you?’

That gaze ran over him again, flinty hard at first, then softening to a satisfied grin. ‘No. You have yourself a teacher.’

‘Excellent!’ Kenrick rubbed his hands together. His oldest dream was about to come true. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Rayve, Sire. I was DeMassey’s best student.’

‘Good.’ Kenrick got to his feet. ‘Gather your belongings. From now on, you have rooms at the castle.’

He waited while the young man retreated to the back of the room, to where another man sat in the darkness. The two talked for a few minutes, then Rayve left and headed upstairs for his belongings.

Kenrick smiled and turned for the door. Stepping outside was nowhere near as hard this time as he’d expected.

‘I don’t like this.’

Margaret paused in chopping carrots and looked up at the man standing close. Murdoch was a powerful figure, aged somewhere around fifty, with the strength of an ox. His gruff exterior hid a gruff interior, but his sense of humour and genuine kindness had won its way into many hearts. He’d been one of Robert’s most loyal and staunch supporters and had worked with him every summer for the past eight years. He alone had been Margaret’s source of information about her oldest son throughout that period.

‘What don’t you like?’ she replied, keeping her tone as soft as his. She looked around at the night’s camp, which was buried in a nest of trees below a barren hilltop. As usual, everyone was about their allotted tasks; in an hour they would eat and soon after that, sleep. She prayed, along with everyone else, that tomorrow would bring them to their destination – wherever that was.

Murdoch pursed his lips; he barely glanced over his shoulder, though Margaret could tell which way his gaze went: the same as everyone else’s, to the separated bed, Robert wrapped in his blankets, grabbing a few hours of sleep as Jenn and Finnlay held the mask over the Key to keep them all safe. The lack of direct leadership from Robert had an odd effect on the group. To see him so vulnerable made everyone – Margaret included – more than a little scared.

‘Robert looks like he knows where we’re going,’ Murdoch murmured.

‘But?’ Margaret returned to chopping vegetables; she had hungry people to feed.

‘But …’ Murdoch looked up at the sky and the faint stars he could see through the trees. ‘He’s putting us directly in Nash’s path.’

‘What?’ Margaret dropped her knife and turned to face him.

He met her gaze with unhurried concern and nodded slowly. ‘Judging from where he said Nash started, and from where we started, our steady eastward journey—’

‘We were heading more north today …’

‘Making it even worse. If Nash was determined to find us at the Goleth,
he would have been heading due west and a little south. If we’re not careful, we’ll make the whole mask business a complete waste of time. Nash will stumble upon us as we sleep!’

Margaret bit down a gasp; her eyes turned to where Robert lay. ‘Have you spoken to him about this?’

‘He’s barely able to function, Lady Margaret, let alone hold a conversation. If we don’t find this place within a day, the mask will slip anyway. As soon as the others finish setting up camp, I plan to speak to them. Serin’s blood, we don’t even know where we’re heading.’

‘You
don’t know? But I thought …’ Margaret’s voice trailed off. She’d been afraid to ask. She’d sensed the tensions running between them all; for all that she’d lived at the Enclave for more than eight years, she was still very much an outsider in all this. Without the powers of a sorcerer, or the education they had, she could never be a real part of this coterie, but even so, her own gifts, meagre though they seemed some days, gave her the insight she needed. She would have loved to have spoken at length to Robert, but apart from a few words after his arrival at the Enclave, she’d been able only to observe him from afar. She’d known she would have to wait. ‘You can’t mean he’s doing this deliberately.’ Margaret looked back at Murdoch, unsure what to believe. ‘He must have a plan.’

‘If he has a plan, then he needs to tell it to the rest of us. If not?’ Murdoch left the question unanswered. ‘After supper, we’ll talk with the others. I’ll get you some more firewood.’ With that he was gone, leaving Margaret with her supper.

*

‘Andrew! Andrew, come on. Talk to me!’

Andrew put his hands over his ears, shut his eyes and curled up onto the rock where he was sitting. He was watering the horses again tonight, and they stood before him, ankle-deep in the stream, oblivious to his discomfort, huge black warm shadows in the darkness.

‘Andrew!’

Even with his ears covered, he could still hear Guy’s voice. Any minute now, his friend would find him and he would have to make some excuse and go back to the camp. He’d not been able to face Guy the last two nights, since he’d revealed Robert’s plans for him. He couldn’t get the picture of the shock on Guy’s face out of his head, the dawning understanding and the horror at Andrew’s refusal.

He knew; he felt the same things himself.

By the gods, what was he supposed to do? He only had two family members left alive: his mother and Kenrick. What kind of person was he that would kill his own cousin? What kind of man was he
not
to? Certainly
he couldn’t even think about what had happened with Helen without his stomach starting to rebel, but connecting that to Kenrick just seemed like some horrible fable conjured up to scare children.

But this wasn’t the first time he’d heard of Kenrick’s bizarre activities; he’d had nightmares as a boy – of course, that was exactly why he’d been told, so that he
would
be afraid, so that he would be obedient.

And the man telling him had been his own father. He remembered quite clearly sitting on his bed, his father on a stool before him, huge hands clasped together, his heavy jaw set in determination as, with little inflection in his voice, he’d told one story after another, until Andrew was certain he was making it up. But it had worked. He
had
been afraid – and not just of Kenrick.

So now Robert said he had to kill Kenrick – but what if he
couldn’t?

‘Andrew?’

He froze. This voice was much closer – and completely different. Quickly, he uncurled himself and sat up, turning to find Helen standing there, a faint frown on her face as she looked at the horses, the stream and the distance he was from where the orange glow of fires lit the camp.

‘What are you doing out here?’