Tigana (70 page)

Devin sped in pursuit, flying down the hallway, skidding into a left turn around a corner at the far end. There were rooms at intervals all along and an arched entrance to the infirmary’s small temple at the opposite end. Most of the doors were open; most of the rooms were empty.

But then, in that short corridor he came to one closed door; Savandi’s trail led there and stopped. Devin clutched
the handle and threw his shoulder hard against the heavy wood. Locked. Immovable.

Sobbing for breath he dropped to his knees, grappling in his pocket for the twist of wire he was never without: not since Marra had been alive. Since she had taught him all he knew about locks. He untwisted and tried to shape the wire, but his hands were trembling. Sweat streamed into his eyes. He wiped it furiously away and fought for calm. He
had
to get this door open before the man inside sent the message that would destroy them all.

An exterior door opened behind him. Steps thudded quickly down the hallway.

Without looking up, Devin said: ‘The man who touches or hinders me dies. Savandi is a spy for the King of Ygrath. Find me a key for this door!’

‘It is done!’ came a voice he knew. ‘It is open. Go!’

Devin flung a glance over his shoulder and saw Erlein di Senzio standing there with a sword in his hand.

Springing to his feet Devin twisted the handle again. The door swung open. He charged into the room. There were jars and vials lining shelves around the walls, and instruments on tables. Savandi was there, on a bench in the middle of the room, hands at his temples, visibly straining to concentrate.

‘Plague rot your soul!’
Devin screamed at the top of his voice. Savandi seemed to snap awake. He rose with a feral snarl, grabbing for a surgical blade on the table beside him.

He never reached it.

Still screaming, Devin was upon him, his left hand gouging at the priest’s eyes. He slashed forward and up with his right in a hard and deadly arc, plunging his blade in between Savandi’s ribs. Once, he stabbed, and then again, raking savagely upward, feeling the blade twist, grinding against bone with a sickening sensation. The young priest’s mouth gaped open, his eyes widened in astonishment. He
screamed, high and short, his hands flying outward from his sides. And then he died.

Devin released him and collapsed on the bench, fighting for breath. Blood pounded in his head; he could feel a vein pulsing at his temple. His vision blurred for a moment and he closed his eyes. When he opened them he saw that his hands were still shaking.

Erlein had sheathed his sword. He moved to stand beside Devin.

‘Did … did he send …?’ Devin found that he couldn’t even speak properly.

‘No.’ The wizard shook his head. ‘You came in time. He didn’t link. No message went.’

Devin stared down at the blank, staring eyes and the body of the young priest who had sought to betray them.
How long?
he wondered.
How long was he doing this?

‘How did you get here?’ he asked Erlein, his voice hoarse. His hands were still shaking. He dropped the bloodied knife with a clatter on the tabletop.

‘I followed from the bedchamber. Saw which way you went until I lost you around the back of the temple. Then I needed magic. I traced Savandi’s aura here.’

‘We came through the hedges and across the cloister. He was trying to shake me.’

‘I can see that. You’re bleeding again.’

‘Doesn’t matter.’ Devin took a deep breath. There were footsteps in the corridor outside. ‘Why did you come? Why do this for us?’

Erlein looked defensive for an instant, but quickly regained his sardonic expression. ‘For you? Don’t be a fool, Devin. I die if Alessan does. I’m bound, remember? This was self-preservation. Nothing else.’

Devin looked up at him, wanting to say something more, something important, but just then the footsteps reached the
doorway and Danoleon entered quickly with Torre close behind. Neither of them said a word, taking in the scene.

‘He was trying to mind-link with Brandin,’ Devin said. ‘Erlein and I got to him in time.’

Erlein made a dismissive sound. ‘Devin did. But I had to use a spell to follow them and another on the door. I don’t think they were strong enough to draw attention, but in case there is a Tracker anywhere around here we had better get moving before morning.’

Danoleon seemed not to have even heard. He was looking down at Savandi’s body. There were tears on his face.

‘Don’t waste your grief on a carrion bird,’ Torre said harshly.

‘I must,’ the High Priest said softly, leaning upon his staff. ‘I must. Don’t you understand? He was born in Avalle. He was one of us.’

Devin abruptly turned his head away. He felt sick to his stomach, hit by a resurgence of the raging white fury that had sped him here, and had driven him to kill so violently.
One of us.
He remembered Sandre d’Astibar in the cabin in the woods, betrayed by his grandchild. He was seriously afraid he was going to be ill.
One of us
.

Erlein di Senzio laughed. Devin wheeled furiously around on him, his hands clenched into fists. And there must have been something murderous in his eyes, for the wizard quickly sobered, mockery leaving his face as if wiped away with a cloth.

There was a short silence.

Danoleon drew himself up and straightened his massive shoulders. He said, ‘This will have to be dealt with carefully or the story will spread. We can’t have Savandi’s death traced to our guests. Torre, when we leave lock this room with the body in it. After dark, when the others are asleep we will deal with him.’

‘He’ll be missed at dinner,’ Torre said.

‘No he won’t. You are the porter. You will see him ride through the gate late this afternoon. He will be going to see his family. It fits, just after the Ember Days, and in the wake of the news from Chiara. He has ridden out often enough, and not always with my permission. I think I have an idea why now. I wonder if he ever really rode to his father’s house. Unfortunately for Savandi, this time he is going to be killed by someone on the road just outside our valley.’

There was a hardness to the High Priest’s voice that Devin had not heard before.
One of us
. He looked down at the dead man again. His third killing. But this one was different. The guard in the Nievolene barn, the soldier in the hill pass, they had been doing what they had come to the Palm to do. Loyal to the power they served, hiding nothing of their nature, true to their manifest cause. He had grieved for their dying, for the lines of life that had brought him together with them.

Savandi was otherwise. This death was different. Devin searched his soul and found that he could not grieve for what he had done. It was all he could do, he realized with a sense of real uneasiness, to refrain from plunging his dagger again in the corpse. It was as if the young priest’s corrosive treachery to his people, his smiling deceit, had tapped some violence of passion Devin hadn’t known lay within him. Almost exactly, he thought suddenly, the way that Alienor of Castle Borso had done, in a very different sphere of life.

Or, perhaps, at the heart of things, not so very different after all. But that was too hard, too dangerous a knot to try to untie just now, in the staring presence of death. Which reminded him of something, made him suddenly aware of an absence. He looked quickly up at Danoleon.

‘Where’s Alessan?’ he said sharply. ‘Why didn’t he follow?’

But even before he was answered, he knew. There could only be one reason in the world why the Prince hadn’t come.

The High Priest looked down at him. ‘He is still in my
chamber. With his mother. Though I am afraid it may be over by now.’

‘No,’ Devin said. ‘Oh, no.’ And rose, and went to the door, and into the corridor, and then out through the eastern doorway of the infirmary into the slanting light of late afternoon, and began, again, to run.

Along the back curve of the temple dome, past the same small building as before and a little garden he hadn’t noticed coming here, then back, flying, down the path to the High Priest’s house, and up on to the portico between the pillars, as if rewinding events like a ball of wool, to the window through which he had leaped such a little while ago. As if he could race back not only past Savandi, past their coming here, but all the way back, with a sudden, incoherent longing, to where the seeds of this grief had been planted when the Tyrants came.

But time was not rewound, neither in the heart nor in the world as they knew it. It moved on, and things changed, for better or for worse; seasons changed, the hours of sunlit day went by, darkness fell and lingered and gave way to light at dawn, years spun after each other one by one, people were born, and lived by the Triad’s grace, and they died.

And they died.

Alessan was still in the room, still on his knees on the simple carpet, but beside the bed now, not by the heavy, dark oak chair as before. He had moved, time had moved, the sun was further west along the curving sky.

Devin had wanted to somehow run his way back through the moments that had passed. That Alessan might not have been left alone, not with this. On his first day in Tigana since he was a boy. He was no longer a boy; there was grey in his hair. Time had run. Twenty years’ worth of time had run and he was home again.

And his mother lay on the High Priest’s bed. Alessan’s two hands were laced around one of her own, cradling it
gently as one might hold a small bird that would die of fright if clutched too fast but would fly away forever if released.

Devin must have made some kind of sound at the window for the Prince looked up. Their eyes met. Devin ached inside, wordless with sorrow. His heart felt bruised, besieged. He felt hopelessly inadequate to the needs of such a time as this now was. He wished that Baerd were here, or Sandre. Even Catriana would know what to do better than he.

He said, ‘He is dead. Savandi. We caught him in time.’ Alessan nodded, acknowledging this. Then his gaze went down again to his mother’s face, serene now as it had not been before. As it very likely had not been for the last long years of her life. Time, moving inexorably forward for her, taking memory, taking pride. Taking love.

‘I’m sorry,’ Devin said. ‘Alessan, I’m so sorry.’

The Prince looked up again, the grey eyes clear but terribly far away. Chasing images backwards along a skein of years. He looked as if he would speak but did not. Instead, after another moment, he gave his small shrug, the calm, reassuring motion of acceptance, of shouldering another burden, that they all knew so well.

Devin suddenly felt as if he could not bear it any more. Alessan’s quiet acquiescence was as a final blow in his own heart. He felt torn open, wounded by the hard truths of the world, by the passing of things. He lowered his head to the windowsill and wept like a child in the presence of something too large for his capacity.

In the room Alessan knelt in silence by the bed, holding his mother’s hand between his own. And the westering sun of afternoon sent light in a golden slant through the window and across the chamber floor, to fall upon him, upon the bed, upon the woman lying there, upon the golden coins that covered her grey eyes.

C H A P T E R   1 6

S
pring came early in Astibar town. It almost always did along that sheltered northwestern side of the province, overlooking the bay and the strung-out islands of the Archipelago. East and south the unblocked winds from the sea pushed the start of the growing season back a few weeks and kept the smaller fishing boats close to shore this early in the year.

Senzio was already flowering, the traders in Astibar harbour reported, the white blossoms of the sejoia trees making the air fragrant with the promise of summer to come. Chiara was still cold it was said, but that happened sometimes in early spring on the Island. It wouldn’t be long before the breezes from Khardhun gentled the air and the seas around her.

Senzio and Chiara.

Alberico of Barbadior lay down at night thinking about them, and rose up in the morning doing the same, after intense, agitated nights of little rest, shot through with lurid, disturbing dreams.

If the winter had been unsettling, rife with small incidents and rumours, the events of early spring were something else entirely. And there was nothing small, nothing only marginally provocative about them.

Everything seemed to be happening at once. Coming down from his bedchamber to his offices of state, Alberico
would find his mood darkening with every step in the apprehensive anticipation of what might next be reported to him.

The windows of the palace were open now to let the mild breezes sweep through. It had been some time since it had been warm enough to do that and for much of the autumn and winter there had been bodies rotting on death-wheels in the square. Sandreni bodies, Nievolene, Scalvaiane. A dozen poets wheeled at random. Not conducive to opening windows, that. Necessary though, and lucrative, after his confiscation of the conspirators’ lands. He liked when necessity and gain came together; it didn’t happen often but when it did the marriage seemed to Alberico of Barbadior to represent almost the purest pleasure to be found in power.

This spring however his pleasures had been few and trivial in scope, and the burgeoning of new troubles made those of the winter seem like minor, ephemeral afflictions—brief flurries of snow in a night. What he was dealing with now were rivers in flood, everywhere he looked.

At the very beginning of spring a wizard was detected using his magic in the southern highlands, but the Tracker and the twenty-five men Siferval had immediately sent after him had been slaughtered in a pass by outlaws, to the last man. An act of arrogance and revolt almost impossible to believe.

And he couldn’t even properly exact retribution: the villages and farms scattered through the highlands hated the outlaws as much as or more than the Barbadians did. And it had been an Ember Night, with no decent man abroad to see who might have done this unprecedented deed. Siferval sent a hundred men from Fort Ortiz to hunt the brigands down. They found no trace. Only long-dead campfires in the hills. It was as if the twenty-five men had been slain by ghosts: which, predictably, is what the people of the highlands were already saying. It
had
been an Ember Night after all, and
everyone knew the dead were abroad on such nights. The dead, hungry for retribution.