The Swans' War 1 - The One Kingdom (51 page)

"No," he heard himself whisper.

Dease felt a hand laid gently on his breast.” He had come to warn me, Dease. He'd had to fight Samul on the road here, killing Samul's horse and riding off." Toren took a long breath.” My own cousins... my own blood plotted my murder. Beldor, Samul"—a second of hesitation—"and Arden." The hand on his chest tightened a little, then relaxed.” Perhaps others. Arden was shot while he confessed. Can you not remember? Did you find Beld or Samul beyond my wall? Was there anyone else?"Fragments of memory came back to him, stabbing into his mind like shards of glass. He gritted his teeth against the pain.

"Someone ..." Dease grunted.” Yes, someone upon a barrel at your garden wall.""You were coming to speak to me?""Yes." Dease racked his brain.” About what had happened at the ball..." Dease remembered now. He had stood at the wall and aimed the arrow. Not Beld. He was to have been the assassin. Had he killed Arden? But if so, what then had happened? Had he fallen? An image of Beldor came to him— staring at him in rage.

"It was Beldor," he blurted.” He must have struck me.""Was he alone?"

"I—i don't know. Bloody hell, Toren, but it's all a jumble.""It will come back. You'll be whole again. The same happens to men in the joust, sometimes. But it was Beldor. You're sure?"Dease nodded his head. What was he saying? It was him. Though Beld had knocked him down and apparently taken up the bow. Dease had known it was not Toren in the door.

He should have realized it was Arden, though. Who else looked so much like Toren? But Arden shouldn't have been there—not this night.

"Beldor must have shot Arden believing it was you." "Yes. Or murdered Arden when he realized what he was doing—giving the traitors away." The pain in Toren's voice was almost more than Dease could bear.” I can't believe that Arden would be involved in such a thing. Beldor—yes, easily. He has hated me for years. Samul. . . Well, he has the courage of his convictions and never doubts that he is right." The hand resting on Dease's breast took hold of his forearm.” I have only you I can trust, Dease. Only you. The others shall pay for their treachery. I can't tell you what sorrow it brings me, but it must be so. There will be a war, I fear, and there can be no place among the Renné for traitors. We will hunt them down, Dease. They can't get far." Toren gave his arm a squeeze.” Only you," he said, his voice breaking. And then he began to weep, sobbing again and again, "Arden. Arden."

ON THE FINAL NIGHT OF THE FAIR A SUDDEN WIND FUNNELED down the Westbrook, blowing down tents and tearing away branches. The Fael scurried around their encampment, driving home pegs and rigging ropes and poles to secure the tents to the ground. Tuath thought it felt like a cold breath from some some ancient, sentient mountain. It made her shudder, and not just from the cold. She had been working by candlelight, trying to capture a vision in threads. All Tuath had thus far was a fair woman with two faces, one perhaps a mask set on the back of her head, but it was hard to be sure.

When the wind broke upon the camp, she made certain her embroidery hoop was safe within a trunk and then ventured out into the wind-battered night. All around her tents were luffing like sails. A gust took hold of her and she bent forward, pushing against it, unable to look directly into the wind, which threw broken leaves and grit into her face.

There were no lanterns that could hold a flame in such a wind, but the sky remained empty of cloud, so the camp was lit by frantic moonlight that fell between madly swinging branches. The horses were restive; and one or two had broken their leads and thundered through the camp, men chasing after them or leaping out of their way.

Tuath turned her back to the wind and the whole scene was revealed to her: hunched figures scurrying this way and that in the flailing moonlight, tents convulsing like strange animals in agony. The trees bent and creaked as their branches were forced back until many cracked and shattered, falling heavily to the ground.

And then it was over—as though a door had been closed against the storm, except that it was silent. For a moment nobody moved, so startled were they. And then a single oak leaf floated down before Tuath, and she set off at a run across the encampment.

She found Rath's tent half blown down, like a horse up on its hind legs only. Nann was there, trying to peel away the layers of fabric, pulling at them frantically with strong, pudgy hands. In a moment she found the door and pulled open the flap, throwing the fabric over her and swimming through it. Tuath was only a step behind.

"Rath? Rath!" Nann called.

They rolled the fabric back, to let the moonlight in, and there found the story finder, lying peacefully in his bed, his mouth opened as though he would begin a story. But no breath escaped those lips. Nann bent down and gently put her ear to the old man's narrow chest. Tuath saw Nann's eyes close suddenly and tears flow. Rath's spirit had fled, borne on the breeze. Around them the fabric of the tent moved to a small wind, and then it was still again. A final whisper, and then silence.