The Fall of Neskaya (49 page)

Coryn took a deep breath, searching more deeply. These men did not feel like ordinary bandits, who would surely have sought easier prey than a force of armed men. The minds of the ambushers felt oddly familiar, but they were on Verdanta lands; he might have known some of them. The leader . . . yes, there he was . . .

Recognition flashed across Coryn’s mind. His horse surged forward at his urging, splashing across the stream and up the opposite bank. In the wide space of the trail, he lifted the reins and halted.

“
Petro!
Petro, come out!”

A long silence answered him. Then leafy branches fluttered and a twig snapped. A man moved from the shadows, difficult to see in the dappled light. His vest and breeches were stitched together in shades of tan and green, like a harlequin woodsman.

“Who goes riding in this forest? Who asks for Petro of the Green?”

“I had rather give those answers to Petro himself.”

“He stands before you.”

Now Coryn laughed outright. “Petro, come out! It’s Coryn!”

“
Coryn!
” A voice, familiar but roughened, called out from behind the rocky outcrop. Coryn jumped from his horse’s back and caught his brother in his arms.

“You disappeared—I could not find you!” he cried, pounding Petro’s back, then drawing back to look at him.

“I could hardly send word to Tramontana,” Petro shot back. He called out the others of his band, mostly younger sons of smallholders, one minor noble who’d fled from Acosta, and a slender youth with rough-cropped red hair and a sprinkling of freckles across a snub nose, bow in hand and quiver across back . . .

All her girlish prettiness, her love of adornment, had been pared away, leaving a core as spare and supple as a whip. She grabbed him in a quick embrace, her body taut. As the bare skin of his cheek brushed hers, Coryn sensed how she had woven her
laran
in something akin to the shield Coryn had created to contain the bonewater dust. From more than a few yards away, she and anyone close to her became telepathically invisible. Her barriers were like a mat of fibers, each weak and flexible, but so tightly intertwined that nothing could penetrate. No wonder he had been unable to sense her or Petro, who had never had much
laran
.

He remembered the sweet, playful sister who had taught him to stitch a silken bag for his starstone out of scraps she’d pilfered from the patchwork basket. Perhaps with the return of peace and order, that young girl would emerge once more.

By this time, Coryn’s men had come to investigate, and for a long while everyone shouted and exclaimed and hugged each other. Petro’s band was part of a larger group which mostly ranged along trade roads, doing what damage they could to the Ambervale occupiers, burning what supplies they could not carry off.

“And a rough life it’s been, too,” Petro said. His voice sounded different, hoarse around the edges as if it had been damaged. His manner, too, betrayed a wariness masked by his bantering words.

“But you didn’t come all this way merely to see to our ease,” Petro said.

As Coryn told the story of the border battle and Belisar Deslucido’s defeat, Petro’s face contorted in a black, triumphant rictus. Several of his men cheered. Only Margarida did not smile, but continued to stare at Coryn and Rafael’s men. She’d lost all the modesty of a gently-reared woman of a minor noble house.

Petro eyed Coryn’s band, measuring them. “But perhaps your coming is just what we need. We’ve been waiting for the time to strike. Deslucido’s grown complacent, thinking we no longer pose any real threat to his rule here.” He glanced at Rafael’s men. “Now we have a real chance.”

“What about Eddard? Could he rally men from inside?”

Margarida, who had been listening silently, shook her head. “It’s said he’s still alive, though none have seen him for this last half-year. Deslucido’s left a watchdog here, a snake-brain named Lotrell, Eddard’s ‘chief councillor’ and jailer. He gives orders in Eddard’s name.”

Coryn described his mission. “King Rafael means to harry Deslucido to the ground, whether it be in Acosta or Ambervale, should the Oathbreaker flee there. To this end, he has sent these men to restore Verdanta to us.”

Petro took Coryn’s arm. “Walk with me apart. We must discuss this further.”

They went back up the trail, far enough to not be so easily overheard.

“You have been talking about using King Rafael’s men to free Verdanta,” said Petro, “and for this we all will be grateful. But what will he demand in return? Are we to become a vassal state to Hastur as the price of our freedom?”

Coryn paused, taking in a deep breath. The smell and texture of these woods stirred memories. There was no other place which tasted so strongly of home. A thought whispered through him, that after he had restored his family, he would have a home again, a place he could always return to, a place he need never leave.

“I can’t speak for Rafael Hastur or anyone else,” Coryn said. “I do know that he is a man of strong principles. I have never seen him betray a promise or turn against a friend. I believe him when he says that all he expects is for those battle-worthy men who can be spared to join on the assault on Acosta.”

“Ah, but how can you know that for certain?” Petro’s eyes glittered. “Has it occurred to you that doing so will strip us bare, open to anyone who wants easy prey? Or have you switched your allegiances so thoroughly that you cannot see the danger? Have you become a pet and lackey of this lowland King?”

“I serve Neskaya Tower, and Neskaya answers to Hastur,” Coryn answered with quiet dignity. He looked back to where Margarida and the men waited in the pools of shade and sunlight. “Help us get into the castle. Together we will oust Deslucido. After that—”

“After that, we are free men and beholden to no one,” Petro said in that bitter-edged voice. “Or you could order these men to stay and strengthen our defense.”

“I have no authority to command these men except in their master’s cause. For now, let us fight together, side by side as brothers should, for Eddard and our sisters. For Verdanta.”

“For Verdanta.”

Petro was better than his word. He broke the parties into small groups, each with a different entry route into the castle, each with a different objective. Once inside, Rafael’s men captured or disabled the captain of the guards and all five chief Ambervale officers. Margarida led a smaller force to seize the armory and stables. Coryn, flanked by the two assassin brothers and one of Petro’s men, began a search of the family apartments. They encountered and as quickly dispatched anyone in white and black who challenged them. A couple of older servants recognized Coryn and ran to spread the news.

Alarms sounded, as if from a distance. Coryn and the others made their way to his father’s suite of rooms, guarded by four armed Ambervale soldiers. Coryn hung back to let Rafael’s men do their work. Within moments, two lay dead, one winded and hamstrung, and the last had fled, bleeding. Coryn set his hand to the door latch.

“Who is it? What do you want?” came a quavering voice from inside.

The door swung open. One of the assassin brothers gestured for silence. He slipped through the opening, his mate covering him with drawn steel.

“Who is there?” came the voice again. A man’s voice, old and frail. It tugged at Coryn’s memory. Wild hope flared within him—
his father, still alive?
Had the reports been a hoax, set to mislead and sow despair? No, he had felt the black emptiness in place of his father’s life energies.

Coryn stepped into the room. It was empty. The voice, mumbling now, came from the inner chamber. Coryn rushed ahead, past Rafael’s men.

White of hair and skin, swathed in the same color, an old man stood beside the bed, frozen in midstride. Sheets wound around his hips and trailed on the floor. Two servants, a dumpy, middle-aged woman and a half-grown boy, cowered in the far corner.

No, not his father.

Eddard, old before his time, shrunken from a sturdy, vigorous young man to a wraith. One emaciated hand reached out, trembling.

“Speak! If you have any mercy in you, speak!” Eyes gleamed in their sockets like twin orbs of pale marble, without any hint of pupil or iris.

Merciful Avarra! No wonder Deslucido let him live!
Pity swept through Coryn, pity for his brother’s shame.

“Eddard,” Coryn said softly. He touched the bony fingers, clasped them in his hand. “It’s me, Coryn.”

“Coryn? Oh no, he’s safe, far from here . . . Coryn?” Eddard turned his head, but not before Coryn had caught the glint of tears.

“Sir,” said one of the assassin brothers. The other had disappeared to check the rest of the suite and returned. “We cannot stay here, not until the castle is properly secured.”

“In a moment,” Coryn said. “Eddard—” Quickly, he outlined the situation. “The people will need a Leynier to lead them, to tell them Verdanta is free.”

Eddard lifted his arms, wasted even through the folds of his night shirt.

Coryn grasped one shoulder. “I’ll be back once we’ve secured the castle and grounds.” Petro’s man indicated he would stay with Eddard. Coryn turned to follow the assassin brothers.

“Wait!” Eddard cried. “My wife and son! My Adrian! They’re under guard—Lotrell—Damian’s jailer—he has orders to kill them—”

“Where are they?”

“Servants’ quarters—if he hasn’t moved them.”

The servants’ quarters were at the far end of the east hall. To detour there would take them well out of the areas they needed to sweep clear to secure the castle. “Go on!” he told Rafael’s men. And then, to Eddard, “I’ll find them!”

He started down the hallway toward the east wing. Margarida appeared like a shadow at the branching. She held a knife as long as her forearm, poised as if she knew how to use it. Knees bent, body turned to present the smallest target, she glided toward him, hugging the wall. When she saw him, she lowered the tip of the knife.

“Eddard?” she asked.

“He’s alive, but we’ve got to find his wife and child before they’re used as hostages or killed outright.”

“Lotrell.” Her voice was tight, clipped.

She hates him to hide her fear.
Something had happened to her—the
laran
armor, the set mouth, the eyes like stone.

Margarida lifted her chin. “There is no need to search. I know where he is. Before we could secure the armory, Lotrell snuck in, carrying a sack. It could easily have held a small child. He barred himself inside before we could cut him off. Well, he’s not going anywhere. If we can’t get in, he can’t get out.”

Without need for further words, they walked down the corridor together and down the broad stairs. Margarida’s stride was as free and strong as any man’s. She had, Coryn reminded himself, lived and fought among men in the forest as one of them.

The armory was a long, stone-walled extension to the castle, more shed than fortress. It was used for storing things besides arms, the picks and shovels used to fight fires, livestock equipment, straw for archery practice. Narrow, un-glassed windows let in light but kept out the worst of the weather. The inner door had been barricaded so that the only entrance was the outside door facing the stables.

A handful of castle servants had gathered a distance from the door. A few carried makeshift weapons, one old woman a broom. There was no doubt that Lotrell held a hostage. Shrieks of childish terror issued from the armory. One of Petro’s archers stood on a makeshift platform of barrels and planks, bow drawn and arrow aimed through one of the windows into the dark interior.

“Call off your dog! I see him at the window!” roared a voice from inside. “Or the brat dies! By Zandru’s bloody hell, I swear it!”

The man lowered his bow and glanced at Margarida. “He’s holding the child above an old rack of swords. They’ve been turned and fixed point-up. Even I can’t aim that well.”

Touching the starstone at his throat, Coryn reached out with his
laran.
He caught the harmonics in the archer’s gruff voice, followed by a wave of renewed panic from the boy. From the man inside, desperation. He was no longer thinking but acting on instinct. Margarida’s analogy of a snake fitted him perfectly. His mind twisted and darted, wily and devious as he sought a means of escape.

“He can’t keep it up forever,” one of the other men said.

A woman raced around the castle wing, sobbing, “Adrian! My baby!” Coryn barely recognized the sweet-faced woman who was his sister-in-law. Once rosy-plump, she’d grown thin, but not decrepit like her husband. Although her flat breasts swayed beneath her loose gown, she moved with vigor. She rushed for the armory door.

Coryn, sensing her goal, moved to cross her path. He caught her in his arms. For a moment, she fought him, pushing mindlessly onward, flailing at him with her fists.