Tyrant's Blood (15 page)

Now Piven looked at the mother, who had been unconscious just moments ago. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘You’re not even a man yet, ordering us about. Who are you? Why are they following your orders?’

‘I need you to get up and leave.’

‘What?’

‘You heard me. Please leave if you want your family to live.’ And then Piven smiled. Its warmth reached across the room and stilled her shivering; it seemed to calm her ragged mind and ease her heart of the pain.

‘This is not my fam…why must I leave?’ ‘It could be dangerous for you to be near,’ he said reasonably.

‘My son, I don’t understand.’

‘Neither do I,’ Piven answered. He glanced at the pair on the bed. ‘We have only moments. If you want your boy to live, go!’

The appeal in his voice must have got through to her because she hurried towards the door. ‘Are you really going to help them?’

‘No one else can,’ he replied gravely. ‘Shut the door behind you.’

When he heard the latch of the door dutifully drop closed, Piven moved swiftly. Laying a hand on each victim, he raised his head, closed his eyes, and reached for the light within. He found it easily and as soon as he touched its blinding brilliance he
channelled it through him and from him, gathering it up into an invisible force that he shepherded towards his suffering companions.

‘Let this work,’ he muttered to himself.

He could just hear the man’s rasping breath so he knew he clung to life. Looking within the child, he saw that the flame of life flickered unsteadily with none of the heat that now raged around the child’s body. Something about this pair niggled on the edge of his mind but he ignored it. He needed to give this his all.

Cooling and calming and life-giving, Piven’s magic moved with a sure touch, finding every inch of its recipients that needed healing. And as he felt the deftness of that healing touch working its miracle, Piven heard the roar of the flames outside intensifying, screaming their rage that he would dare defy their fury.

But there was also another reason for those flames talking to him. They knew and they were ready to fill him with their darkness.

Mercifully, no other villagers had been burned; the only other victims that were touched by the repercussion of the fire’s wrath were a few hundred mice, several starlings and a sleeping cat trapped inside with the hay.

Outside, the people of Green Herbery watched with a horrified fascination as the barn finally collapsed in on itself and then—they would swear it must have been a rogue gust of wind—the fire appeared to surge with a new ferocity, burning with a queer ‘blackness’, as some of them would later agree. The flames arching, bending, reaching almost as one, straining to leap across several houses to scorch the trees surrounding the cottage of the Widow Layton.

Inside, Piven felt the invisible shadows creep deeper with sinister stealth within. He possessed no ability to control this new entity that seemed to be gathering around and within him. He found a smile, though, as the boy seemed to slough off his stupor.

‘Who are you?’ the little voice asked.

‘I’m Petor,’ Piven answered. ‘And you’re Roddy, aren’t you?’

The boy nodded, eyes wide and wondering. ‘I ran into the barn to get Plod.’

‘Plod?’

‘My cat.’

‘Ah,’ Piven said, fearing Plod was cooked, but he was saved a response by the door bursting open.

Roddy’s mother’s scream came out silently. Her hands were clasped to her mouth and her eyes were even wider than her son’s, filled with disbelief.

‘He’s well,’ Piven said as she swept Roddy into her arms. He cleared his throat. ‘But I’m not sure about your husband, let’s see if—’

‘He’s not my husband,’ the woman stammered through tears and shock. She kept kissing Roddy’s head. ‘He’s a stranger, like you. He told us his name but I’ve forgotten it.’

Piven blinked.

‘Is he alive?’ she asked, haltingly, none of the amazement from her voice gone.

‘He hasn’t moved. Perhaps we lost him.’

At these words, the man on the straw pallet flinched; his whole body jerked, in fact, and then he groaned.

Piven was at his side in a moment. ‘Slowly, breathe slowly, deeply. No, don’t move, not just yet.’ He stared into the man’s face, still blackened, though only from the smoke and dust. ‘I’m Petor.’

‘Help me up,’ the man said, his voice raspy.

Piven pulled him to a sitting position. An awkward silence settled around the strange quartet in the room, broken by the arrival of the woman who’d gone to get supplies, balancing a jug of water, linens, the animal fat salve and various other items she’d obviously grabbed in her frantic rush to do as she had been told. ‘I think I’ve got everything. I even brought some—’ She stopped still, her mouth open, her expression filled with a dozen questions.

‘Look, Aunty Fru, I’m not burned,’ Roddy said, standing proudly to twirl around and prove that he was whole.

The jug smashed to the boards and as it broke spilling water everywhere, it broke the spell within the room. Suddenly everyone but Roddy was demanding an explanation from Piven.

Piven put his hands in the air, buying time. But he couldn’t think of anything to say.

‘How can you explain this?’ Roddy’s mother asked. ‘How? I saw my son—he was roasted like a piece of meat.’

‘Hush, Em,’ the woman called Fru admonished, nodding at Roddy.

‘The pain,’ the man commented. ‘I know I slipped into death. I’m…I’m certain of it.’

Piven looked around at them wildly. He had been stupid. He should have let Lo take his own as he saw fit. If their god wanted to claim their lives, who was he to deny him?
Another god?
his mind’s voice queried. Why else would he be able to wield this magic? He was a good person. He knew it. He wanted to help others, he wanted to be loved as he’d been as an invalid youngster. He’d been trapped for so long; mute, his thoughts unable to be expressed, his ability limited to simple actions. Even though his mind could handle complex ideas, it was as though they could only last for so long before they fractured into thousands of pieces. And all he had been able to do for too long was smile. He craved affection and gave it in droves. He had loved everyone and he knew he had been loved in return. Why shouldn’t he save people from death with this ability of his?

‘You weren’t dead,’ he answered the man. ‘Just close. A minute or two of life left, perhaps.’

‘But they were burned!’ Fru exclaimed. ‘Now look at them,’ she said, wiping away soot and grime from Roddy’s face to reveal perfect skin beneath. ‘Not so much as a light scorch!’

Piven looked at the women’s expressions of accusation. It was as though he had done something wicked rather than good. He felt the now familiar fury rising.

‘What are you?’ Roddy’s mother demanded, looking suddenly repulsed by him.

Her horror shocked him. The aunt’s expression reflected the same sentiment. Pained by their fear and naked loathing, he surrendered to the darkness that had been tapping at his shoulder for too long.

His face contorted into an expression of hate. ‘You will remember none of this,’ he said, his hand making a slow, small sweeping motion.

Without looking back, Piven ran out of the Widow Layton’s cottage, using the back door to escape being seen. He headed cross-country, following the tiny rivulet that would lead him back to Greven and safety.

He didn’t see a man stagger slightly as he watched Piven’s retreating figure, nor did he see a boy whose sharp eyesight watched Piven until he was no longer visible. And neither of the watchers was aware of each other, or their silent promise to follow the stranger.

Freath looked down at the sword in his belly, clearly baffled by what he saw. ‘Majesty?’ he groaned.

Faris’s shock was overwhelming; he was down on his knees between king and servant, immediately cradling the wilting Freath. ‘Leo,’ he all but whispered in his disbelief. ‘What have you done?’

Leo’s lips were pulled back from his teeth in a primeval snarl. He withdrew Faeroe and flung the sword to the side, where it clanged against a boulder. The king looked somewhat confused, a mix of loathing and triumph on his face. ‘I have fulfilled my oath. Freath himself gave me permission.’

Jewd was already signalling for help but Faris could see it was no use. ‘He risked so much for you,’ he accused, his own fury threatening to explode.

The dying man must have sensed it, despite his shock and pain. ‘Stop,’ Freath choked out. ‘It is done. The king has acted.’

Leo stood over Freath. ‘Just as I could never know what passed between you and my mother, you could never know what promise I made that was witnessed by Gavriel de Vis. But he will never forget, Freath, and wherever he is, I hope he feels this moment and knows it to be the moment of your death as I promised him a decade ago. You killed my mother. Whatever your reasons were, however honourable they might have been, you murdered the queen of Penraven and I have now avenged her death as a dutiful son and fulfilled my oath.’

Faris saw the deep sorrow in Freath’s eyes, watched the man nod his acceptance of the accusation but murmur nothing in reply. Faris exerted all his willpower to refrain from speaking. He had never heard such a load of rot in his life. The Valisars were deranged if they’d put an angry childhood oath, fuelled by fear and an overload of emotion, ahead of a precious life—a life that had been given in the service of that same family.

Jewd recognised his building fury because Faris felt a reassuring and very firm hand squeeze at his shoulder. His friend bent down. ‘It’s not worth it. He’s a dead man,’ Jewd whispered.

Faris knew Jewd was right. And not even Lily was nearby to offer any relief with her clever medicines. ‘Get the king away from here,’ he replied, disgusted by the very sight of Leo but keeping his voice even.

‘I’m already gone,’ Leo said, turning to pick up Faeroe. ‘But I’ll not clean your blood from my sword, Master Freath. I recognise it has been, in the strangest of manners, loyal to the Valisars. I hope before you take your last breath that you will pay me the same due.’

Leo didn’t wait for an answer. He followed a scowling Jewd down to where the mules had been tethered, away from the bloodied scene.

Freath didn’t need a physic to tell him that his time was short. He could feel the life bleeding out of him with each hard breath he
took. The pain was irrelevant. It hurt but he knew it wouldn’t last long and until then there were important things to say. He knew now he could trust Faris. Was it his imagination, or had the night begun to lift? Perhaps he might be granted one final dawn before his pathetic life was taken.

As if he could hear him, Faris spoke. ‘Dawn’s almost upon us,’ he said, his voice thick with regret.

‘Come where I can see you,’ Freath demanded, rallying for whatever little time was left.

Faris eased from beneath Freath’s head and crouched at his side. ‘Freath, I was slow to react; if only I’d—’

Freath gave a soft sound of dismissal. ‘Don’t waste the words or the time,’ he said, his deep voice slower than usual as he worked hard to keep it steady. ‘There are things to be said.’

‘But I want to say on behalf of Leo that his betrayal of you is—’

‘Forgiven,’ Freath cut him off. ‘Let me talk, Faris. Pay attention because I won’t have the strength to repeat it.’

Faris nodded as Freath took his hand. Freath felt a firm squeeze and he found a smile for the outlaw.
Who’d have imagined this?
he thought. ‘As much as the king wants Loethar’s head, it is not the emperor who is his true enemy. Surrounding Loethar are creatures far worse in their intentions. Assure Leo that as long as Loethar is in control, the various compasses are safe. Should anything happen to the emperor, a person like Stracker would take charge and there’s no accounting for the savagery that would follow. Stracker has no scruples—no soul, I fear. Do you hear me?’

‘Yes,’ Faris dutifully answered. ‘I will warn him.’

‘Use Loethar to keep that balance of power for the time being. In the meantime, it is Vulpan you should now fear. Leo must be kept from him. I trust Loethar when he says that Vulpan’s talent is uncanny. Whatever he is, Loethar is not a liar, nor a sensationalist. He is amazed and impressed by Vulpan.’

‘I’ll take every care, I promise you.’

‘Find Piven. He is alive. Blood or not, the people will rally to his name.’

‘How do I find him?’

‘A man called Clovis. Kirin will know.’

Faris nodded.

Freath continued, despite the struggle to talk. ‘Corbel de Vis will not be dead. I have no idea where he is but I suspect he was sent away to protect that family. I can’t think why else. But he must be found, as must Gavriel. Those two were privy to information I can’t know or guess at. Their father was raised alongside the secretive ways of the Valisars and no one was closer to that family than De Vis.’ He coughed and blood gushed through his fingers where he pressed the belly wound. He could feel its warmth against his chilled fingers and realised he could no longer feel his toes. Death was reaching for him. ‘Lo! That hurts. Forgive me.’ He breathed hard a few times to steady himself. ‘The twins will re-ignite the flames you need to fire the Set’s collective memory of what it once was. Their names, together with Valisar, are synonymous with what the Denovian Set was built upon. They know things, those boys. Mark my words, Faris.’

‘I give you my word I will try to find them.’

‘So many oaths flying around. Look at the trouble it got me into,’ Freath said and chuckled. ‘Is dawn here?’

Faris looked up, although he didn’t need to. ‘The sun will be risen shortly.’

‘I hope I can hang on for a little longer, then. I would feel the warmth of a new dawn upon my face before I go to Lo.’

‘I’m sorry, Freath,’ Faris said, genuine sorrow in his tone.

‘I know. It is not your fault and it is not his. He has suffered much and he is a true Valisar in his duty. I’d never have thought it of the lad I knew but I see the family blood runs strongly in his veins.’

‘If only he had the magic. That would be helpful.’

‘I don’t believe it exists,’ Freath admitted breathlessly. ‘But
Loethar does. He got it into his mind somehow that you have to eat people of magic to absorb their power.’