Trial of Fire (32 page)

*

‘Sleep well?’

Father John came into the room with a jug of steaming water in his
hands. He was followed by four servants, also carrying huge jugs, which were poured into a bath that had been placed before the fire. One by one the men left, and John closed the door behind them.

‘How do you feel?’

‘Better. I could sleep for a week, though.’

‘I’m sure you could – but the Bishop has things he needs to talk to you both about, and some decisions need to be made. After that, I think you’ll be allowed a little more sleep – although as it is, you’ve slept more than a day.’

Andrew swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up. With a stretch, he got to his feet and padded over to the fireplace and the bath. John had left out towels and clean clothes for him and the water looked inviting.

‘Don’t be too long,’ John smiled, heading for the door. ‘And call if you need help. I’ll be back shortly to take you down to the Council Chamber.’

The moment the door was closed, Andrew stripped off his remaining clothes, awfully tempted to simply toss them into the flames, he’d been wearing them so long. No wonder John wanted him to have a bath.

He sighed as he sank down into the water and picked up a bar of yellow soap. This was luxury. The last time he’d had a bath like this had been at Marsay, just after—

Just before he’d left, after Kenrick had appeared in public with his facial scars miraculously healed.

No: He wasn’t going to think about it any more!

He washed quickly, before the water could get cold, and was almost dressed by the time John came back to show him to the Council Chamber. They were halfway down the staircase when his stomach let out a growl loud enough for the priest to hear. John laughed, but although Andrew tried to laugh with him, it sounded false to him.

The Council Chamber was a beautiful room that Andrew knew he couldn’t really appreciate because the long table was almost groaning under the weight of food. He could smell it the moment he walked in. Fortunately, Finnlay was there, already eating, and the sight of a friendly face was enough to make Andrew’s appetite blossom even more. He sat down opposite Finnlay and tucked into to a bowl of porridge and sweet preserved fruit, augmented with hot rolls and fresh sliced ham and a mug of steaming brew. It took three helpings to sate his hunger, by which time, Finnlay had finished and the others had all arrived. They took seats and watched him.

Watched
him
, not Finnlay.

It made his skin crawl. Every time he looked up, someone was staring at
him: what were they expecting – that he turn into a King in front of him? If Kenrick was such a bad King, then what was he supposed to do? How could he learn about being a King from anybody
but
Kenrick – and when he turned out the same, who would they get to replace him?

When the Bishop arrived, everybody stopped talking. Andrew got to his feet, but McCauly waved him back to his seat. There were smiles all around, even from Finnlay; it was like they were all talking this language he’d never learned, and they were never going to teach him. It was like they didn’t want him to know what was going on; he was a stranger, and they didn’t trust him.

‘How do you feel now, Andrew?’ McCauly asked kindly, pouring himself some brew. He didn’t dress like a Bishop of course, but it didn’t make any difference: there was something about the man, about his eyes, or the way he spoke – something that marked him as a priest. Both John and Godfrey had the same look and it was vaguely comforting. ‘Do you feel rested? I see you’ve stopped eating.’

‘Only for the moment,’ Finnlay added with a grin Andrew couldn’t quite match.

‘Well, I’m afraid that you won’t get to rest for much longer.’

‘Why is that?’ Finnlay asked, as if he were expecting trouble.

‘Because we leave at midday.’

‘Leave?’ Finnlay looked first at Andrew, then at those seated along the table. ‘Does this have something to do with Patric? Where is he?’

‘You can see Patric when we’re done here.’ Aiden pulled up a chair beside Andrew. ‘How much did Robert tell you about his plans? Not too much, I would guess.’

‘Try just about nothing.’

‘He told us very little, but he did at least leave us detailed instructions showing how he had orchestrated everything, so all we need to do is send off signals to people he’s worked with throughout Lusara. There are also people here ready to go back, armed for the conflict, including some Salti. You have no idea how much work he’s put into it, how we were both hoping for and dreading your arrival: dreading because he’d told us the signal would come only if he were dead, and hoping, because we knew it would be the beginning of the end for Nash and Kenrick.’

Andrew didn’t understand any of this, and Finnlay was looking confused. ‘I’m sorry, what signal? What plans?’ he asked.

‘Robert has set up across the country people who are willing to rise and fight against the tyrant, in pockets here and there. People able to fight and win a local battle, in areas where it is essential to Kenrick that he maintain power. This morning, the letters were sent telling them to begin.’

Andrew felt a cold wash across his stomach, tangling with the food he’d just eaten and heralding nausea. A moment later, he found he was standing, pushing his chair away from the table. ‘Today? You … ss-sent letters?

As though he understood the terrible turmoil rattling through Andrew, Aiden continued solemnly, ‘That was Robert’s plan. That’s why he told you to come to me: so that I could set it all in motion for him.’

‘Set it in mm-motion?’

‘Andrew,’ Finnlay said, trying to calm him, ‘you don’t need to—’

‘Yes, Andrew,’ the Bishop interrupted, his eyes steady on Andrew’s face, ‘your rebellion has begun.’

Early morning mist rose off the river, thick white tendrils reaching for the ghostly sun, leaving the hill Kenrick was standing on seem like an isolated island amongst the clouds. Before him, laid out like a map, sat the Vitala River, and the capital, Marsay in its centre, connected only by the narrow causeway. From this distance, it all looked remarkably peaceful, clean and tidy.

‘My lord, are you ready to begin now?’

Kenrick swung around to where Rayve stood a little down the other side of the hill, away from the city’s view – assuming anybody could see this far. The King moved until he could stand beside the young Malachi. ‘Very well. What are we doing today?’

‘You need to learn how to move things: all sorcerers can move small things with barely a thought, and how well they do it depends on how much practice they do. But if you have substantial abilities, you are able to move larger items, sometimes quite impressive distances.’

‘Really?’ Kenrick found himself smiling in anticipation. ‘So, if I was really strong, would I be able to, say, move a mountain?’

Rayve replied sternly, ‘Nobody is strong enough to do that much. But I have seen huge rocks moved, carts, horses, even trees shifted beyond their natural capacity. Be warned, though, it takes a great deal of skill to be able to use this trick in combat, so don’t start playing around with it or you may end up breaking something you can’t fix.’

Kenrick chuckled. Rayve was the most grave of characters, and took absolutely everything utterly seriously. He did smile, but only when he thought it appropriate, not because he thought anything was actually funny. Kenrick was constantly tempted to poke fun at him; only the threat of losing him as a willing teacher stayed his hand. ‘Very well, how do I begin?’

Rayve began to walk downhill a little. ‘Moving objects requires using your imagination to picture your hand exercising the force required. I will set out some rocks here, and when I give the word, I want you to raise your hand and think about moving them. Not far, just a foot or so will be enough. Remember, it is important to practise the skill of shifting the object, not the distance nor the size – at least, not yet.’

Kenrick watched as Rayve moved around kicking up melon-sized rocks for him to practise with. ‘When did you say this Felenor Calenderi was due back in Marsay?’

‘He did not say, my lord. Only that he had important and urgent business to attend to in the south.’

‘Sounds like he’s trying to avoid me.’

Rayve straightened up, shaking his head earnestly. ‘No, my lord. He is true to his word. Since DeMassey’s death, he has taken responsibility for those D’Azzir working in Lusara. He has broken his ties with Nash and no longer wishes to support his plans.’

‘But he’s willing to support mine? I find his sudden change of heart disturbing.’

Rayve spread his hands. ‘At least allow him to convince you himself, my lord. As soon as he returns, he will speak with you.’

‘And if I make a proper alliance with him, and he has already declared himself against Nash, where does that leave me?’

Rayve put the last rock in place and came back to stand at Kenrick’s side, his gaze sweeping down the hill to where Kenrick had left his guard, safely out of the way.

‘My lord,’ Rayve murmured against the cold, grey morning, ‘you know of the process of Bonding?’

A band of tightness caught hold of Kenrick’s stomach. ‘Yes. Nash Bonded my father, and ruled him utterly, leaving him with no will of his own. I am sure Nash ordered my father to die by Douglas’s sword, but I will never be able to prove it.’ He turned to find the young Malachi’s eyes on him.

‘We believe that Nash has somehow found a way to Bond Malachi.’

‘What?’ Kenrick hissed, horrified.

‘This breaks every promise he made to our people, violating the trust the Chabanar placed in him. More than that, this Bond is invisible. There is no deadness in the eyes to give it away, no noticeable change in personality. But we have heard enough whispers amongst our people, and seen enough young men and women fail to return home when they were supposed to, fail to carry out their duties with no discernable reason. And too many of them refused to return to Karakham with DeMassey’s body, which for us is a sacred ritual. Felenor and I both received special permission to remain behind, given the circumstances.’

Kenrick turned to the rocks placed on the hillside and carefully pictured one having Nash’s face. With a violent gesture, he swung his fist, pushing with whatever power he had inside. The rock jumped off the ground about three feet, moved down hill an inch or so and fell – like a rock.

‘Damn it, you said this was easy!’

Rayve studied him. ‘It is never wise to use your powers in anger, my lord. While they might be stronger, you have less control.’

‘What difference does control make? If Nash has Bonded Malachi, we’re all …’ He didn’t finish. The last thing he wanted right now was to lose his temper in front of Rayve. ‘Fine. Let’s get on with it.’

No wonder Calenderi didn’t want anything more to do with Nash – neither did Kenrick. What other nasty surprises did Nash have waiting for him? With a private guard of Bonded Malachi, Nash was virtually invulnerable to any kind of attack – not that Kenrick had exactly planned one, but the idea had occasionally crossed his mind. Now he had no weapon at all – and even learning to use his abilities properly would not give him something to fight Nash with.

But Kenrick was not sure whether he wanted to fight Nash, or merely to survive against him; until the sorcerer returned to court, Kenrick had no idea where he stood with the old man. There was still no sign of Andrew, but that could mean that Nash had him away somewhere, turning him into something horrible, like himself.

But that was unthinkable: Andrew was impressionable, but he had never raised his voice in all the years Kenrick had known him, not once had he been rude, or cruel, despite how he’d been treated at court … Although there had been one time, many years ago, the first time Andrew had come to Marsay, for the funeral of his parents. He and Andrew had met for the first time, in the Basilica, and Andrew had reacted as though he’d seen a monster. At the time, Kenrick had been mortally offended and demanded his father put the boy to the sword immediately, but Selar had been busy planning his invasion of Mayenne and wouldn’t take Kenrick seriously. So the boy had been allowed to go home unmolested, and Kenrick had promised vengeance on him at some later date, when Andrew had grown large enough to defend himself.

But that day had never really come, and Kenrick had long since forgotten the incident, and his desire for revenge, when faced with his ridiculously innocent cousin. It was impossible for him to remain angry with Andrew for more than a few minutes, and if Nash intended to use him in some manner, he would have to work very hard to get him to change his natural character. Perhaps in the end, Nash might even fail.

He glanced aside to find Rayve waiting patiently, as though able to read the scattered thoughts going on in Kenrick’s head. Well, good luck to him. Kenrick raised his hand again, thinking about moving rocks, and pushed. To his surprise, the first one slid downhill about a dozen feet, then came to a sudden stop.

‘Well done, my lord. Minimum effort for maximum results. Just remember that it is very dangerous to use too much power in one go when you are untrained. Your body is simply not capable of withstanding such strain.’

‘How dangerous is it?’ Kenrick frowned. Nash had said nothing of this over the years.

‘Sorcerers have been known to die from overextending themselves. This is why we have training.’

‘Of course.’ Kenrick turned back to the rocks, pushing one after the other in exactly the same way, stopping only when he’d run out. Rayve left him to set up another line.

There was so much Nash had never told him: he did things in secret, ignoring the fact that they were supposed to be allies, working for the same goals. Nash had promised him that Tirone of Mayenne would find himself without a single son to inherit, and with the lovely Princess Olivia as Kenrick’s bride, but the last boy was still alive, hidden away somewhere where even Nash’s assassins had been unable to find him – and Olivia was no closer to being his than a year ago.

Of course, he could always pursue his original line of thinking and take her himself: after all, if he had Felenor Calenderi wanting an alliance, what better way for the Malachi to prove their loyalty than to bring him his fifteen-year-old cousin as his bride? He could even get Godfrey to marry them, and once he’d consummated the marriage, there would be nothing Tirone could do to stop him. That way, when the last boy died – as Kenrick knew he would – there would be no bar to him taking the throne of Mayenne, the way his own father had repeatedly failed to.