The Gate of Bones (11 page)

If they but knew it, they would thank him for cutting off their use of their Magick now, saving it for the years to come. But of course, his mother's and his work on the fortress hadn't damped all magic use, not entirely. He could smell it here in these rooms. FireAnn, no doubt, using that part of her that came from her background in herbcraft and witchology, and healing. There was Magick in every move she made on behalf of her charge although very little now, yet some seeped in. She could help it no more than he could. He wondered if Eleanora even knew or, if knowing, was grateful. He doubted it. She would believe, as she had been erroneously tutored by her father, that Magick renewed itself, like wind, air, water. . . .

Jon's face settled into a grimmer expression. He steepled his fingers, watching FireAnn carefully. She looked the Irish witch, with her fiery hair all in curls, captured but not tamed by the kerchief she always wore, and her dress with its over apron of many pockets. Even with her back now to him, he could see the stiffness in her posture, the sign of her hatred for him. He made no attempt to hide the disdain he felt for them either.

“Yes, left. No rescue being plotted today, I fear.” He paused, after drawing his words out, then added, “Oh, forgive me. I did not mean to put a damper on the news.”

“You meant exactly such a thing, you little shit,” Eleanora muttered, her voice muffled by the towel about her head. “I hope to be around when someone wipes that smirk off your face.”

“I hope you will be around. Alas, you seem to grow ever weaker, even with the tender care of FireAnn.”

A loud, less muffled curse answered him. FireAnn removed the towel as she turned about, and both women stared at him with venomous hatred.

Jonnard returned their stares. “Don't blame me,” he stated, “if your training has been erroneous these many years and now you suffer the consequences.”

“Consequences?” Eleanora's mouth twisted as if she fought not to hiss the word at him. “Your mother is a parasite and those Leucators . . . those
parasitic constructs
. . . are what takes the life from me breath by breath and gives it to her.”

He straightened, with a yawn. “Fun time is over. You would do well to remember you are here by Isabella's sufferance, and should be accordingly grateful.”

“Grateful?” FireAnn spat on the wooden floor. “You sided with a viper, lad. Take care it doesn't bite you in the ass as well!”

Eleanora reached out a slender hand, trying to keep it from trembling, as she laid it on the other's arm. “FireAnn,” she cautioned.

“Yes, FireAnn, you should listen.” He started to turn away, but bitter words brought him abruptly about face again as FireAnn cried out, “Oh, yes, fine advice from the son who murdered his father for his mother's sake.”

“You know little of us, I see, for all the time you've spent here.” Jon drew his chin up. “My father was burned out, done, and he would rather have died than have lived a day without Magick coursing in his veins. I did him a kindness, like putting an old, crippled dog to sleep. He knew that, and she and I know that.”

“I'm certain you tell yourself that on nights when you cannot sleep.” Eleanora looked into his face, and held her gaze firm.

He smiled again, coldly. “I sleep quite well, thank you. Let us pray you do.”

He slammed the huge door into place at his exit, using strength from outside his own body to do it, feeling the very timber shake at his touch as he dropped and then locked the bar down.

Fool! He'd let them get to him, after all.

Who would have guessed that there were days when he missed his father Brennard keenly? Who would have guessed?

Jon tossed the key in his pouch and tied it away again, and left the prison wing.

Gavan frowned at Bailey. “At this point, I doubt I need to say how dangerous that was.”

“I was trying to keep up.” Bailey shifted her weight from one foot to the other, patted her pony's neck, and tried to look contrite but didn't quite succeed. “It's not my fault you guys went off and left me.”

His rainwater eyes darkened to a stormy blue, and his mouth opened to drop a scathing reply when Trent called out, “She's right—it wasn't her fault. Look here,” and he traced a line along the hillside only he seemed to see. “This was laid here, and it's only Bailey's luck she's the one who was misled by it.”

Gavan's mouth snapped shut. He traded a look with Jason, who said quietly, “What is it you see, Trent? We can't see it.”

“Ah. Well,” and he snapped his fingers. “It's like a fence, a low one. Probably the horse sensed it and just started trotting alongside it, not willing to cross it. It's not a real barrier, more like a . . .” He frowned and drummed his hand on his thigh. “More like a nudge. It's fading now, even as we speak.”

“So, someone would have been singled out, regardless, if they ran into it.”

Renart shuddered. His hands went white-knuckled on his reins. Gavan thumped his shoulder. “Not meant for you, my friend. One of us.”

“I've seen the wolfjackals,” the young trader said tightly. “I didn't like it.”

And he must not have, to be so blunt, Jason thought. He nodded. “It isn't a deadly trap, or it would have been.”

Bailey tilted her head at him, and made a scoffing sound.

“Sure, you defended yourself, I'm not saying
that.
I'm saying, he probably wanted another captive, if anything. So you foiled that plan.” Gavan regarded her. “But what did he say to you?”

She shrugged. She'd already recounted most of the conversation. “That I was blooming and made Eleanora look old. Something about being on my dance card.”

Gavan frowned. Renart coughed and looked at the ground, studying something there he found fascinating. The boys stared at her. Then Jason said, “Well . . . he is right.”

“Nah.” Rich shook his head, and traded a glance at Stef. “You think?”

“It's Bailey,” Stef protested loudly.

“Right. It's Bailey.”

Jason watched her a moment longer before saying, “But Bailey has always been kinda . . .” He muttered something as he kicked his pony in the ribs and trotted off across the terrain.

“What did he say? What?” Bailey looked around.

No one answered. Then Renart gave a little bow and said, “I believe, little miss, he said beautiful. I could be mistaken, though.”

Bailey tossed her head, ponytail flying, a pleased look on her face as she turned away.

Gavan twitched in his saddle. He looked over the horizon. “That settles that,” he muttered.

“Settles what?”

“Everyone mount up. I'm going to knock on their door, rather hard, before we leave.” Gavan swung his wolfhead cane out, and tucked it under one arm, like a lance or spear, as he put his heels to his horse's flanks and the beast galloped forward with a tiny squeal of eagerness.

“What are you doing?” Rich called out.

Gavan looked over his shoulder, his cloak flowing about him. “There are times when you have to let a snake know that you know it is a snake.” He caught up with Jason and cried, “Follow me!”

“Oh, boy!” grunted Stefan, and thumped his sandals on his sturdy pony's sides. The horse grunted, too, before breaking into a spine-jolting trot after Gavan. One by one, they wheeled around to follow. They crested the hill in a line, ready to follow Gavan in whatever he planned, but he reined up hard and looked down, then pointed a hand across at Renart.

“Are we at the right spot?”

The trader had come chugging up the terrain last and reined to a weary halt, his face pale. He blinked at Gavan, unthinking for a moment, then looked down across the valley and shock dawned across his face.

“They're gone. It's . . . it's empty.”

An evening wind had arisen, growing autumn cold as it swept over them, and down into the valley, where the broken ruins of an old wooden fort lay abandoned.

Gavan's jaw tightened, then he said slowly, “We saw it less than an hour ago. They couldn't have pulled out in an hour. Even with crystals. That would have been a massive operation, and we'd have
felt
it, if nothing else.”

“They can't be gone.”

Trent stood in the stirrups of his saddle, as if he could gain a sight the others couldn't, his gaze sweeping the valley. He said nothing.

“Don't bother,” Gavan said harshly. “Your Talent is to see Magick where the rest of us cannot. Not to see what isn't there at all.” He looked at Renart. “Are there other forts in the area? Any at all . . . within a week's ride, say?”

Renart thought hard, then nodded slowly. “At least two, I'd say. This is a boundary here, of the Warlord's old kingdom. There would be ruins of fortifications across its old borders. There was no need to keep the forts, because now we have the Holy Spirit to protect us.”

Gavan ignored the last of Renart's information. He made a chopping gesture at the valley. “Then we saw a projection. A trap, far more elaborate than that set for Bailey. It's a good thing we didn't ride into it.” Gavan pivoted his horse around. “They've grown strong. Far too strong.” He put his horse into a slow canter, back the way they had come, as the sun showed signs of lowering toward evenfall.

Trent shook his head and caught Jason by the elbow as their horses jostled close. “It's
there,
” he said quietly.

Jason looked back. “Think so?”

“I know so.”

“But then . . . how . . . why?”

Trent shook his head. “He wouldn't believe me. Even you aren't quite sure. That's some Talent I have, isn't it?” He bit his last words off bitterly, shoved his boots into his stirrups, and rode off, leaving Jason alone for a moment on the hillside.

There or not . . . if Jonnard and the Dark Hand had accomplished anything, it was to make them all doubt themselves a bit. Jason frowned heavily before turning for home.

A
FTER AN APPEAL from both Rich and Stef when they turned in their mounts to the Avenha strongholding, Gavan let the boys Crystal on their own to Naria, the town where Stefan had found a weapon-master. Gavan defended his decision by commenting, “Stef is more than a shapechanger, he's a berserker, and that energy has to go somewhere. Better he should use it in the training arena rather than pacing about us restlessly. He'll come home tired and bruised and happy, and Rich will keep him from trouble.”

Trent's hand twitched, drumming thin air, but he merely shrugged. Bailey gave Renart a hug which made Lacey squeak indignantly from her bodice pocket and the laughter broke the tension a little. Jason rubbed the back of his neck in relief, not liking the unhappiness shadowing his friend's eyes.

Not to be believed . . . he knew how that felt. Or rather, not being able to walk in the truth of his own life. That was what he'd left. Trent still struggled with it. Admitting he had no Magick, that his crystal was dead and stayed dead . . . had been hard. But in that admission to everyone around him, Trent had also discovered he did have Talent. Just an obscure and difficult one to understand, let alone train. He could see what they did, or the trails, the remnants of it. He could see just what it was he lacked. A blessing and a curse, as he'd often told Jason.

Jason understood that well. He put his hand on Trent's shoulder, and gripped it, waiting for Gavan to draw the rest of their group together for Crystaling back to the academy grounds. It was dark, and late, and a chill wind had risen with a hint of fog to come later. This was a land of seasons, and discovery, and danger.

“What do you think Gavan meant by berserker?” Bailey asked, as the headmaster lingered for a moment to talk to the chieftain and his daughter, and Renart. Their hushed voices and turned backs shut out the younger Magickers, and she had joined the boys with a toss of her ponytail in protest.

“A berserker is a warrior.” Trent shrugged. “He uses his anger to fuel his fighting, lets nothing get in his way. Old legends had them turning into bears and other large creatures. Maybe it wasn't legend.”

“You think?”

“It's a possibility,” Jason told her. “Maybe it only happened once or twice, but the witnesses remembered and related it, and hundreds of years later, we think of them as folktales. But now we have Stef. So maybe.”

Bailey stroked Lacey's head thoughtfully, looking over the hill and caveside encampment of Avenha. Campfires dotted the area like smoldering orange eyes, and the smell of woodsmoke stung their noses. The actual city below lay shrouded in darkness, still abandoned for the moment. “I just can't . . . you know . . . I can't imagine Stefan killing anyone.”