Waterborne Exile (34 page)

“Perhaps you would feel more at home at Lynesreach, my lady.”

“Perhaps. But the sun sets over the land there, instead of over the sea. Everything is turned about. And Vasic was keen that I should return to Highkell with him. I thought…”

After a moment’s silence Marten pressed her to continue. “You thought, my lady?”

“It does not matter what I thought, Marten. I was mistaken. I shall make it my business to return to the sea as soon as is practicable.” They had reached the staircase to her private chambers. “I thank you for your company, Marten. You are my first freemerchant.”

Marten bowed. “It has been a privilege, my lady.”

Drelena sent the servant ahead to prepare refreshments and paused at the foot of the stairs. “Perhaps you will know: Vasic’s previous bride. I was told she died in the collapse of the tower. I feel her presence acutely here, as if her soul has been taken into the very stones of the place.”

“She is of an ancient line, my lady. They all of them had an affinity with this place, I cannot deny it. But if you fear she haunts you…” He hesitated. She must have heard the rumours, otherwise why would she be asking? “You have spoken of this to your husband, I imagine?”

“I did. He was… less than helpful.”

It seemed his surmise was right: the Lady Drelena was in need of friendship. “I’m sure you have heard the rumours, my lady.”

She nodded. “I have. Many, many rumours. Do you have more to add to them?”

“It is said in these parts, my lady, if you want to know the truth you must ask a freemerchant.”

“But you claim to be no longer a freemerchant.”

“That is true. I may have been too hasty in accepting the judgement of others. But that is by the by. Whatever rumours you may have heard, I can assure you the Lady Alwenna lives. I have spoken with her myself.”

“Truly? So the sense she is sometimes watching me is no more than foolish superstition?”

“I can assure you she would wish you only well, my lady.”

“They say she cursed Vasic and all in his household. He himself told me the curse only lifted when she died – that was his proof.”

“It is usually easiest to believe what we most want to believe.”

“That is no answer, freemerchant.”

Marten smiled. “There were no freemerchants present at the wedding ceremony, so I have only the word of the Lady Alwenna herself and her servant as to what happened that day. I know her nature enough to be confident she would offer you only support.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“My lady, I will let you be the judge of that. I think your husband the king chooses to disbelieve me. Weigh what you have been told and, perhaps, ask yourself who stands to gain most by lying to you.”

She tilted her head to one side. “I shall do just that. We will speak again, freemerchant.”

The priestess stepped back into the cover of the crowd as the freemerchant turned to usher the Lady Drelena through the door. She wanted to hear more of that conversation, but it would have been too obvious to follow them inside. What was the meddling freemerchant up to now?

A hand caught hold of her arm and she twisted round, startled. Durstan dropped her arm as if stung. “What are you about, Miria? With the queen gone this is your chance to speak with Vasic.”

No, she would not suffer the indignity of being rebuffed by the king again. “Prelate, he has no need of me at present, not with his fresh-faced bride to keep him company.”

Durstan frowned. “You swore to serve the Goddess, did you not? This is what she requires of you.”

“But…” Why waste her breath? “Very well.” The Goddess would sooner have her tell him what she’d overheard the freemerchant saying to the new queen, but she bowed her head and said nothing more.

The king was surrounded by a press of courtiers who were placing bets on an impromptu fistfight inspired by the encounter between the champions. She made her way round to the far side of the crowd, out of Durstan’s line of sight. Let him think she was following his instructions. She doubted very much the king had given her as much as a moment’s thought in recent days. In all honesty, she preferred it that way. He was a poor replacement for his late cousin. And for all his pawing she’d learned nothing of use, and was not even half a step closer to exacting vengeance for Tresilian’s death.

She drifted away from the crowd, to the edge of the yard. A small section of the parapet had collapsed – presumably during the earthquake that had accompanied the wedding. Some said a powerful curse by the Lady Alwenna had been the cause of it. She wasn’t sure she believed that: surely if the Lady Alwenna had been possessed of such great power she’d have brought the entire summer palace down around their ears. She had no doubt the exiled queen had the sight, but…

She noticed old Marwick at the edge of the courtyard, speaking with that captain. What was his name? Peveril? Yes, that was him. The king had been pleased with the captain’s service of late. She’d caught the man eyeing her with speculation more than once, when she had still been favoured by the king. As well, then, to move no closer to them. Peveril laughed at something, and clapped one hand on Marwick’s shoulder – they had to be sharing a great joke.

A shout went up from the crowd and she glanced that way. The fight had seemingly begun. Goddess knew how any of them could see what was going on. A clatter and a sudden movement caught from the corner of her eye pulled her attention back to the two men. Marwick was toppling backwards, off-balance, the wooden barrier over the collapsed section of wall tumbled behind his legs, tripping him. His arms flailed in an attempt to regain his balance, and he clutched wildly at the broken edge of stonework before dropping from sight.

Peveril leaned forward over the yawning gap, one hand resting on the edge of the stonework. He pulled back, turning slowly, his features composed. For a moment his eyes met hers. She recognised what she saw there. It was as if she’d held up a mirror to her own soul: an obstacle had been removed from his path. In that split second of recognition, she had no doubt what had transpired in the instant she had looked away from the two men.

Knowledge like that could get a person killed, where a man like Peveril was concerned. He looked to the crowd and shouted out. “Goddess! The old man just lost his balance and fell.” One or two at the edge of the crowd glanced his way idly. A soldier ambled over to see what the fuss was about. Peveril’s eyes met the priestess’s once more. They both knew, and they both understood. This secret could prove to be her undoing. Or she might turn it to her advantage.

She slipped away into the crowd.

The moon hadn’t risen yet. Brett unsaddled his horse by the last of the daylight and settled down to rest. He felt uneasy, as if stopping here was the last thing he should be doing. But his horse needed to rest, even if he didn’t.

He settled down with his back to a boulder. He might as well doze himself, rather than fret about problems he’d not yet encountered.

He was walking over a vast, empty landscape. Every so often rocks twisted beneath his feet, tugging at his ankle. He knew he had to go on: if he did not, the thing that was pursuing him would catch up with him. And it must not happen here, for there were too many people who would be harmed as a result. The sand beneath his feet grew deeper and deeper, until every step became a struggle. The land was no longer flat and he was climbing a steep hill, sliding back half a step every time he took one foot off the ground to place it ahead of the other. The air about him grew colder and colder, and the last traces of light faded from the sky as one by one the stars were obliterated by a huge shadow that crept overhead.

Brett woke with a jolt as the shadow fell over him and he sat up, shivering. It was a huge relief to see the constellations above him in the night sky, just as they always had been; the Hunter rising to the south and already watching over his meagre camp, while the moon was cresting the eastern horizon.

But his relief was short-lived. For all the reassurance the night sky offered him he could not shake the sense something was terribly wrong. He could not stop here any longer; he had to ride on. He saddled his horse again and mounted up, pushing it on towards the mountains with a growing sense of urgency.

He’d been riding for an hour or so before his horse pricked up its ears and raised its head, snorting. The animal tensed beneath him, reluctant to move forward. Ought he dismount and lead it? But if there was danger ahead, he could lose precious time vaulting back into the saddle when he should be fleeing. His horse halted, planting its feet stubbornly, then off to one side another horse whinnied. Brett slid down from the saddle, keeping his horse between himself and the unknown traveller. He’d heard too many tales about savage folk who lived in these hills; if the Goddess willed that he had to walk straight into their camp, then so be it, but he need not make an easy target of himself.

He approached quietly, his horse settling now he was on the ground next to it. He could make out a bulky shadow that must be the horse he’d heard, its head raised, following his progress. He was perhaps half a dozen steps away from the animal when a figure sprang out from behind a boulder, startling his horse, which spun away. As he struggled to regain control of the animal he was grabbed by the neck and a cold blade pressed against his throat. The scent of blood enveloped him.

“No closer, friend, or it’ll be the last step you take.” A hand pressed against his windpipe. But he knew the voice.

He coughed. “Have you run mad, Erin? It’s me, Brett.”

The hand about his throat loosened, then he was released altogether.

“Oh, thank the Goddess. You’re here just in time. I didn’t know what to do.”

“In time for what?” He could see her now, could see her hands were covered in blood. “What’s happened?”

“I couldn’t stop the bleeding for ages–”

From the cluster of boulders beyond the horse came a thin infant wail. Brett knew then whose blood it was on the girl’s hands.

Weaver couldn’t have told how he found himself in the throne room that morning. But he was standing there, with the priestess and Durstan to his right. He was becoming resigned to these lapses of memory – to coming to an awareness of his surroundings with no recollection of how he’d got there, or of his purpose in being there. He scarcely troubled to question his orders from the prelate and the priestess any more, even though he harboured resentment against every word they spoke. He was forced to throw in his lot with them for now. Had he been given a choice he knew he would have chosen otherwise but the fog that obscured his mind hid the reasons from him. Yesterday…

Yesterday…

Or it may have been the day before. But he knew he had held a sword in his hand.

The great doors to the throne room swung open and the assembled courtiers made their obeisance as the king, followed by his entourage, entered the room. Once again, the new queen was among them. As Weaver straightened up she caught his eye for the briefest of moments. Her expression was cold as stone. Yesterday she had left the arena after he and Rekhart had fought. The name sprang to his mind as abruptly as the fog receded. He and Rekhart had fought. Every step and every parry of that dread fight came to his mind, and suddenly the pain in his side was explained. He and his friend of how many years’ standing? At least a decade. He and his friend had done their utmost to kill one another. And Rekhart ought to have won – by all the laws of nature, that blow to his chest should have killed Weaver. He should not be the one standing here now. The moment of clarity was unsettling; perhaps the fog that so frequently occluded his mind was to be preferred.

Vasic had seated himself on his throne and was speaking. “… Lord Marwick’s untimely death it is meet that I expand my personal guard. With immediate effect I shall appoint the soldier known as Pius to their ranks.” He looked over at Durstan. “We will discuss the further terms of our agreement in private at the end of this court session.”

The priestess glanced over at Weaver. Something had displeased her – and not Weaver’s appointment to the king’s personal guard. Marwick’s death, then. Had she had some dealings with the old man behind Durstan’s back? It seemed unlikely. More likely, perhaps, that measuring her success against Weaver’s would jeopardise her position in Durstan’s eyes. Whatever the truth of it, they must have reached the parting of the ways. Thank the Goddess. The priestess’s presence abraded his soul, a constant reminder of things he ought to recall but could not. There were moments when he felt close to grasping the missing pieces, but… She’d told him she’d help him remember, but she’d done no such thing. She’d used him as her personal servant and treated him like…

The kitchen boy. Lying strapped to a heavy stone bench, arms tied down so he couldn’t move. His eyes fixed on Weaver, as if he expected him to help. As if he trusted him. That three-sided blade, efficient but ruthless. And when he’d turned away she’d been there watching, Tresilian’s priestess…

Tresilian. An awareness of failure washed over him. He’d betrayed his king, in thought, in word and in the flesh…

“You will take your orders only from me, or from Sir Kaith.” Vasic’s voice intruded, sharp and hectoring as if he was repeating his words. “Is that understood?”

An answer was required. “Yes, your highness.” Weaver bowed.

“My steward will see you are furnished with suitable accommodation and livery then you will return here within the hour to take up your duties.”

A man Weaver presumed was Vasic’s steward appeared before him and led him away down the length of the throne room. Vasic was addressing Durstan.

“How many more such men can you bring me?”

Durstan’s reply was lost to Weaver as they stepped out through the double doors.

Alwenna’s recollections of the journey were hazy at best, but the pain tearing through her abdomen was very real. She had the vaguest memory of the stitching process, Brett helping hold her still as Erin stitched the wound across her abdomen with linen thread teased from her own garments. They’d given her some kind of herbal infusion that had rendered her thoughts sluggish, and had the effect of shoring her up in a dim place where there was nothing but her pain.