Trial of Fire (49 page)

‘I hate you!’ he hissed, moving away, his feet taking him in the direction of the camp. ‘I hate you.’ And then he turned and ran, and the freedom of it almost made him feel ill.

*

Finnlay heard the words, even though he didn’t want to, and shouldn’t have. But he’d been watching from the bushes uphill, needing to see with his own eyes what Robert was doing, so he couldn’t miss the heartbreak in the boy’s voice, the flushed face, the abject disappointment that his hero of all these years had turned out to be such a tyrant himself.

He left his hiding place and approached his brother slowly. He’d lost count of the times he’d longed to tell Robert that the boy he was trying so desperately to train was his own son. Years ago, he’d even threatened Jenn that if she didn’t tell Robert, then he would – but he’d kept his silence. And now it was entirely probable that Robert would never know that the boy he would put on the throne was his own flesh and blood, the child he’d always longed for, the heir he believed would never be his.

‘I wanted to tell you what a wonderful teacher you are,’ Finnlay began,
also noticing in the quiet morning how Robert’s head hung low after his son’s angry departure. Now it rose sharply and a frown creased Robert’s face.

‘You think I
enjoy
doing that to him?’ Robert spread his arms wide, appealing to the whole world. ‘You think I want him to hate me? Kenrick is going to slice him to shreds if he doesn’t—’

‘But he seems to be doing so well—’

‘Yes, he is. But he’s got it all here—’ Robert thumped his own chest, ‘and it needs to be up here, in his head, where he can believe in it. Oh, Finn,’ Robert sighed, ‘you should have seen him yesterday, at the mine. I was so proud of him. But his father was a monster who beat his wife for sport, who enjoyed killing people weaker than himself. Andrew is going to be
King
, Finn. I have to push him—’

‘And until he pushes
you
—’ Finnlay didn’t finish that comment. Robert was already walking away.

‘Don’t interfere, Finn. Not if you want him to live.’

Godfrey hurried up the stairs, flanked by his Guilde escort. It had been a long time since he’d been inside the Guilde Hall and this occasion filled him with no confidence whatsoever.

Osbert had been unusually silent for the last few days, declining Godfrey’s weekly invitation to dinner with some excuse of pressing work. Since Godfrey had more than he could manage of his own, he’d not thought too much about it, but now – now he knew there was something wrong.

The bells of the Basilica were still ringing the end of evening mass, and as he passed by the narrow windows on the staircase, he could see the people of Marsay streaming out into the square, pulling cloaks around their shoulders against the cool spring evening. They’d been blessed with some warmer weather the last week, but it had rained all day today and he’d done his best not to think of it as a bad omen.

He wished there was some way he could know what was going on. He could – and did – send messages, to McCauly at St Julian’s, and he felt confident that they would be passed on, but there was no way McCauly could send any messages back. Godfrey was cursed with living in doubt, only hoping that he was helping and not hindering.

His escort turned a corner, taking him down a wide corridor where impressive double doors led off to both right and left. To his knowledge, he was the only non-Guildesman ever to have been allowed this far into the Hall. Every other time he’d been there had left him filled with dread.

But he held his head high as he paused before the smaller, less impressive door at the end of the passage and waited for the guard to open it for him. He was announced and ushered inside.

Osbert’s study was a wide, open, panelled room with two fireplaces, and a huge oval table in the centre. The Proctor himself had lost weight over the last months, and there were shadows under his eyes that had never been there before. With a bark at the guards to wait outside, Osbert dismissed his men and waved Godfrey closer. He sat at the table, where books, papers, scrolls and parchments were scattered everywhere, with seemingly no order to them at all. Two heavy candlesticks sat at either end, thick with melted
wax, yellow with use. Osbert himself looked no better. His face was as pale as the wax, the lines around his eyes as baggy. With his elbows on the table, his hair lank around his ears, he planted his hands on the papers.

‘By the mass, Godfrey, just look at this.’

‘At what?’ Godfrey hesitated to move closer – this was Guilde business and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

‘Don’t you know? Can’t you see? Have you heard nothing at all?’

That heavy hand of dread pressed against his chest once more. ‘Heard what?’

There must have been something in his tone that made the Proctor look up. It took a moment for his eyes to focus, and then, with his voice harsh with an emotion Godfrey couldn’t name, he said, ‘It’s started.’

‘Started?’ Godfrey’s eyes widened, his blood rushing to his face. But he didn’t dare hope, not yet, not without proof. ‘What has started?’

But Osbert had seen his reaction and simply shook his head. ‘The rebellion.’

*

‘I don’t give a damn what you suggest!’ Kenrick took his cup and threw it against the opposite wall, splashing red wine against the grey stone. He took one look at the blood-red stain then turned back to his council arranged around the table. They were all watching him with ill-concealed trepidation. Were they really more afraid of him than they were of the Douglas?

‘I don’t want suggestions, I want facts! I want solutions! I want somebody to tell me how in Serin’s name twenty
peasants
’ – he spat out the word like it was poison – ‘managed to capture a fort manned with seventy trained soldiers! That border is now open wide! Do you have any idea how many malcontents will have crossed over by now? Enough to take two more border posts at least!’

He stalked the length of the table, eyeing each man opposite him, noting who cringed and who met his gaze. ‘Where is my army? I want this – this petty rebellion crushed!’

‘Sire,’ his Chancellor objected, raising his hands in supplication, ‘with the loss of those taxes, keeping an army for more than a few weeks will be impossible.’

‘I won’t need it for more than a few weeks!’ he bellowed, ready to let loose more than mere anger. ‘Just do it! The man who brings me the head of Robert Douglas will become the wealthiest man in the country! Now go!’

Almost as one, they all scrambled to their feet, bowing profusely and backing out of the door faster than Kenrick had thought possible. Their cowering frames so incensed him he picked up the wine jug and threw it
after them. It clattered to the ground, leaving wine streaked across the tiled floor.

And then the room was empty.

He stood at the head of the table, where written reports and accounts of the attacks nearly covered the ancient wooden surface. Somewhere in there was a letter from Tirone, confirming that, under the circumstances, he would not give his permission for Kenrick to marry his daughter, Olivia. Until Lusara was peaceful, until Kenrick succeeded in quashing this rebellion, Tirone would admit no further Embassies on the subject.

Of course, what Tirone didn’t consider was that without Olivia and the dowry she would bring, without Mayenne’s wealth behind him, Kenrick was in no position to guarantee the damn girl’s safety. Well, so be it. Gilbert was due back at court tomorrow – that would be his first task, to get that girl away from her greedy father!

‘This is all your fault,’ he ground out, not turning to face the man he knew had entered the room in silence.

‘My fault, Sire?’

Kenrick pressed his fists to the table and waited until Nash passed him, his pace idle, his urgency nonexistent, as though he didn’t give a damn if Kenrick lost the throne.

And perhaps he didn’t any more.

‘Yes, your fault. For ten years you’ve kept promising to teach me about sorcery – and yet, what have I learned from you?’

‘You think that would have prevented this uprising?’

‘It’s not an uprising! It’s just a few idle peasants stirring up trouble, using
my
gold! Douglas is testing me, no more.’

‘So you don’t intend to take this seriously.’

‘I’m taking it a lot more seriously than you. You were the one who kept telling me that I should wait to press my suit with Olivia. So I did, and now look what’s happened! Douglas has overtaken us! You promised me you’d get rid of Tirone’s last son – and yet, the boy still lives and Tirone has no need of either me, or the protection I could give Mayenne. And without his support, I’m left stripped bare! This
is
your fault, damn it, Nash. I demand you do something about it!’

Nash reached the jug still lying on the floor, and picked it up, setting it on the table. Then he collected a fresh goblet, pulled the stopper out of a flask of his favourite wine and poured some out. ‘What exactly would you have me do? I am at your disposal, of course. I have already supplied you with vital information.’

‘What? In telling me my own cousin has now changed sides and is fighting with the Rebel? Why should I take your word? You were the
one who ordered the Malachi down there to abduct him in the first place.’

Nash took a mouthful of wine, savoured it, then swallowed. ‘Sire, I assure you, my purpose was to get the boy to safety. I had suspected Douglas would try to take him for his own reasons. I thought to bring him back here, where you yourself could protect him. Alas, DeMassey failed in that regard, and nobody has seen the boy since.’

‘Which only proves that he is missing, not that he is with Douglas. Why would he become a rebel, eh? He’s always had my love. He’s my cousin, the closest thing I have to an heir – and he knows that. It would be in his best interests to remain my friend. Besides, Andrew is a child, too meek to go looking for a crown on his own.’

‘But certainly malleable enough to allow somebody else to put him there, a personality as strong as Robert Douglas, perhaps?’ Nash paused, holding up his hand to beg for peace. ‘Sire, I have tried to explain to you what I have learned. I warned you Douglas would attack like this, with mosquito bites all around the country, that he was no longer in a position to field a large army. I also warned you that McCauly has been working on the people, warming them to the idea of sorcery, and now Andrew’s mother appears to them to be the new incarnation of the goddess Mineah. This is indeed a serious situation, and yet you refuse to listen to me. I cannot see how I may help you if you don’t.’

Kenrick stared at Nash, knowing hatred flowed out of his gaze and into the air between them. He couldn’t help it and gave up trying to stop it. Instead, he looked away, back down at the maps and papers on the table before him. He had to ask. If he didn’t, he could regret it for the rest of his life – which wouldn’t be that long.

‘What do you suggest, then?’ he asked ungraciously.

‘How long until your army can be ready?’

‘I’m told another week. Osbert will have a thousand men ready to ride by then as well.’

‘Fine. Send them out in bands of two hundred, in every different direction. Keep yourself another five hundred. Your first priority is for the people to see you, see your men, see the Guilde and know that although the rebel has drawn first blood, you are by no means unable to respond. By all accounts, each of his bands is small, two dozen men at most. You go first to intimidate, second to capture.’

‘And what good will that do, other than have my men running all over the country?’

‘Oh, so you know where Douglas is, do you? You know where to send your army?’

Kenrick blinked once, then stabbed his finger on the map. ‘I must not leave Marsay unprotected.’

‘Why?’ Nash moved closer to pour himself some more wine. ‘Afraid your cousin might slip in behind your back and take your throne?’

‘Andrew would never do that,’ Kenrick replied, with a puzzling certainty. ‘If I send my men out like that, how do I fight Douglas?’

‘By taking hostage the only thing he really cares about. Send your men to the places his rebels have already hit, collect a dozen innocent locals in each place and put them to the sword. Send out word that unless Douglas submits himself to your justice, you will execute fifty or a hundred in each town. If nothing else, that will reduce the number of raids he and his men make.’

Kenrick had to admit, it was a solid plan. ‘And then what – because you know he won’t give himself up.’

‘No, he won’t – but he will keep going, and when the rest of his men don’t, you’ll be able to track him down eventually. The people will turn from him because of your justice. It will only be a matter of time before you will see the end of him.’ Nash coughed a little and drained the rest of his wine, wincing as he did.

‘This could take months. I don’t have the finances to keep armies in the field that long, and you know it.’

Nash nodded, his eyes dropping to the table. After a moment, he looked up. ‘Fortunately, I have been preparing for this day for a long time. There is gold available to pay your armies—’

‘And?’ Kenrick prompted.

‘If we had Malachi to help—’

‘So it’s Malachi you need to work with, is it?’ Kenrick strode to the door and yelled. ‘Rayve!’

Moments later, the young man appeared, his usual somber face giving nothing away as he bowed and looked at Nash. For his part, Nash raised his eyebrows, betraying his surprise.

‘I know you, don’t I? You were one of DeMassey’s men, weren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ Rayve agreed. ‘I was his student, and proud to serve under the D’Azzir.’

‘I had thought you had all returned home with DeMassey’s body.’

‘Yes,’ Rayve refrained from answering the question. ‘Your absence was noted. We were also saddened to see you were not able to allow the Lady Valena to accompany the Baron’s body home.’

Kenrick noted with some pleasure how Nash stiffened at that, though he gave nothing else away.

‘Sad, yes,’ Nash agreed, ‘but alas, it was not possible to free her from her duties for so long.’