Trial of Fire (4 page)

Payne held the letter out to McCauly who took it, his gaze suddenly wary. As if in answer to a question, Payne nodded, putting his hands on his hips. ‘It’s what we’ve been expecting. Bishop Brome is dead.’

Without thought, Aiden drew the sign of the trium over his forehead and shoulders, his whisper emerging from habit alone. ‘The gods grant him peace.’ He paused only a moment. ‘Who is elected Bishop in his place?’

‘There was no election. Brome appointed his successor. The synod ratified the appointment the same day.’

‘Oh, sweet Mineah, not another—’

‘The new Bishop is Godfrey.’

Aiden’s eyes widened in surprise. John himself was delighted. If another man had to stand in McCauly’s place, he would prefer it was his old friend Godfrey than any other.

‘And Kenrick?’ McCauly barely moved. ‘He has accepted Godfrey as Bishop?’

‘It seems he expected it. Godfrey anticipates no trouble, though he writes only the day after his enthronement. There is more in the letter.’

‘Of course.’ Aiden opened the pouch and extracted the single sheet of paper. He read in silence, then folded the letter up, handing it back to Payne, his expression clearly disturbed.

‘Thank you for letting us know. Father John and I will go to the chapel and say prayers for Bishop Brome’s soul, and for Godfrey, that the gods will guide him in his new role.’

*

As the last breath of incense died away, Aiden got to his feet, keeping his hands clasped together. At his age, his knees should be shaky with the hours he’d spent on them, on cold stone floors, praying – but somehow, his body remained strong, as though the gods were determined to ensure he survive long enough to win this fight. In dark moments such as this, that gave him hope.

He sensed rather than saw John moving around the chapel, putting things away, blowing out candles until just two were left, along with the presence light suspended above the altar.

This was a tidy building of round arches and clear glass windows, though not really big enough for Bleakstone. There were memories here, of him marrying Robert and Galiena, before the poor girl was murdered by her brother, Kenrick. Memories of others, too, men who had fought and died at the Battle of Shan Moss.

Brome. The man who had supplanted Aiden as Prelate of the Church in Lusara. The man who had destroyed a Church so needed by the people, and had done so out of his own vanity. But that man was now dead and facing the judgment of the gods. Who was Aiden to judge? Had Brome had any more choice than he? If Aiden had not been imprisoned, would he have had the strength and the skills to hold the Church together? To do what was right? To fight the evil on the throne, and that which lurked behind it?

No. The truth was, Brome, like them all, was a man of the times. He’d had no more choice than Aiden, no more power to change his fate than anyone else.

And equally, there was nothing Aiden could do to stop Robert putting his own son on the throne. By the gods, if he knew … Aiden knew Robert and Jenn had spent one night together before her wedding, how Robert had seen that as a weakness in himself, an inability to withstand the Prophecy. For fifteen years he’d believed he had betrayed Jenn that night. Aiden could well understand why she’d never told Robert, why doing so now would scare her. But would she say something when she discovered Robert’s plans?

The truth was there really was no alternative to Andrew, no other way for Robert to free Lusara and be left with something other than civil war. Still, it seemed appropriate that the bastard son of a rebel and a sorcerer should go on to rule a country known the world over for its vengeful stance against sorcerers.

Straightening, he signed the trium over his forehead and shoulders, then turned and led John from the chapel. He paused long enough to close the doors behind him, then looked up to find Payne waiting for him, leaning a shoulder against the wall, arms folded. Patient.

Long ago, before any of this madness, Everard Payne, Earl of Cannockburke, had been one of Robert’s closest friends. Though living something of the life of a dilettante, his heart had never wavered from the cause of freedom, though his methods might sometimes have been a little unconventional. Even so, despite the years, Payne was certain Aiden could still surprise him.

‘You never say,’ Payne said after a moment, his tone conversational, ‘what it is that’s really worrying you, deep down. After all this time, I can’t help wondering why. More to the point, I wonder why it is you won’t confide in us – or is it perhaps that you can’t?’

‘Deep down?’ Aiden heard John move away a little to give them some privacy. He took a deep breath and laced his fingers together. He had always known that one day he would be expected to answer these questions. Nevertheless, he said, ‘You know my concerns. I have voiced them often enough.’

One side of Payne’s mouth curved up in an ironic smile and he gestured vaguely. ‘Ah, but you see, that’s my point. You only ever voice the concerns we would expect you to have. I am no priest, nor am I a sorcerer – and even I can see you’re hiding something. I simply want to know why you don’t trust us enough – surely by now we have proved ourselves worthy?’

A deep weariness rippled through Aiden, making him sigh. He turned to the diamond-paned window beside the earl and rested his hands against the rough stone embrasure. ‘You should know that trust is not the issue here. Serin’s blood, Payne, you know what Robert’s like.’

‘So you admit you are hiding something.’ Payne tilted his head back to study the ceiling a moment. ‘And Robert won’t let you talk about it? Am I right? Damn him! He’s been doing this too long on his own. He’s forgotten how to treat his friends, how to work with us. Doesn’t he know—’

Aiden watched the younger man quickly fold up his anger with sharpedged discipline. There was once a time when such discipline would have been beyond him.

Payne returned to the point. ‘You’re worried about Robert, and him fighting Nash. You think Robert won’t survive? That he can’t beat Nash?’

Aiden swallowed hard. These were the shadows of his nightmares, not things to be spoken aloud, even to this man. He straightened up and began to turn away, but Payne’s hand shot out to stop him. Aiden ground out a reply. ‘I can’t know what will happen between them. Not even Robert knows. How can you ask me?’

Payne raised his voice a little and called, ‘Father John?’

‘Yes, my lord?’

‘Robert – is he or is he not supposed to be the most powerful sorcerer ever born?’

John remained where he was. ‘Aye, he is. At least, as far as we know.’

‘And Andrew’s mother?’ Payne’s gaze bored into Aiden then.

‘She is very powerful, my lord. Robert believes as powerful as he. But—’

‘But?’

‘Her powers are different to the rest of us. Her skills are in different areas.’

‘But you’d say they’d … complement Robert’s? Would that be a fair judgment?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

Payne dropped his hand, but his gaze didn’t falter. ‘You know all this, Bishop. So what are you hiding? If trust is not the issue, then what is it? Is it not in all our interests for us to know? Will Robert mind so much if you tell me?’

Aiden almost laughed at the silliness of that question, but it did at least
break the moment for him. He sighed and turned back to his window where nothing but the dark night could be seen. Stray snowflakes stuck hard against the corner glass. This was not about Andrew at least, and for that, he was grateful. ‘He didn’t want you all to know because he’s not entirely sure about it himself. There was no point in worrying you unnecessarily.’

‘And yet, here we are …’

He’d warned Robert this moment would come one day. ‘There is an ancient Prophecy. Robert was given it as a child and it’s haunted him since then, driven so many of his actions and dominated his decisions. In it, he is told he is destined to fight some one called the Angel of Darkness. And there is another mentioned, called the Ally, which we know to be Andrew’s mother, Jennifer.’

‘And Robert? Is he named in this Prophecy also?’

‘He is called the Enemy.’

‘Enemy, eh?’ Payne pursed his lips. ‘And all this is something to do with Robert being a sorcerer? And Jenn as well? And Nash, I assume you mean he is this Angel of Darkness?’

‘He is.’

‘Then is not Kenrick named also? And what of Andrew? If this is to be the stuff of Prophecy, then surely they are also a part?’

Aiden spread his hands. These questions had plagued him for years, and Robert too. ‘Unfortunately, we know too little about the Prophecy. Robert has spent most of his life studying the history of sorcerers, and I the last eight years. We are desperate to learn its true meaning, and perhaps gain some clues as to what we can do to increase Robert’s chances of beating Nash. Robert even sent his friend Patric to Alusia in search of the last rogue tribe of sorcerers in the hope they might be able to help. It’s been almost a year since we last heard from Patric and to be honest, I have given up hope that he will ever return, let alone bring us good news.’

‘What kind of news could he bring?’

‘I don’t know.’ Aiden paused, the truth sitting in the pit of his stomach like lead. ‘All I do know is that Nash knows more than we do, more than Robert does, and in this game, knowledge is everything.’

Confused, Payne tilted his head. ‘How so?’

Aiden sighed. ‘You mentioned Jenn, how strong she is and how her powers complemented Robert’s?’

‘Yes?’

Unable to watch the as the truth sank in, Aiden turned and began walking back to the main keep. ‘Nowhere in the Prophecy does it say she’s
Robert’s
Ally.’

A frantic banging on the door woke John out of a nightmare. He sat up panting, trying to clear his head, but the noise didn’t stop. With a groan, he rolled out of bed, stumbling on the rug, and reached the door in time to wrench it open before the next bout of banging. ‘What is it?’

Lord Daniel stood before him, his sandy hair all over the place, trying to push his arm into the sleeve of a jacket. ‘Sorry, Father, but there’s a beacon lit on the cliff. A ship has foundered on the rocks and we’re on our way out to help.’

‘Just let me get dressed. I’ll meet you down there.’

Lord Daniel was gone before he’d finished speaking. Pushing his own hair down, John grabbed the first clothes he found, barely able to see in the inky night. The last week had been a challenge as he tried to learn as much as he could, but early on, he’d been told of the beacons and the cliffs along the southern coast of Flan’har. It was an unwritten law: when ships were in trouble, everyone living within sight of the beacon would go to help. At this time of the year, pilgrim ships crossed the Gulf in flotillas, the better to ward off pirates; if just one of these ships went down, there could be hundreds of lives at stake.

John grabbed his cloak and ran down to the courtyard, taking two stairs at a time. The yard was already full of mounted men and soldiers, along with the Bishop, Payne, Deverin and Daniel. Owen was giving orders for things to be made ready in case wounded needed to be brought back to Bleakstone; already lights were glowing through scattered windows.

Shouting commands above the clatter, Payne soon had the gate open. John took the horse handed to him and swung up into the saddle; as they cleared Bleakstone’s gates the bitterness of the night really hit him. The cold was enough to freeze the breath in his chest, but worse than that was the fog. He could see nothing and, from habit, immediately reached out with his Senses, hoping somebody better than he was responsible for keeping them on the road.

In the furthest distance, he could see the beacon glimmering, a faint yellow glow in the coal-black night. He rode hard, determined to keep up and not be a burden; though it wasn’t long before his fingers froze in his
gloves and he lost feeling in his feet, still his horse galloped on steadily, warming him with its movement. As the glowing beacon grew nearer John could finally smell strong salt on the air.

Without pausing, Payne led them towards a rocky beach nestled between two tall cliffs. They were not the first rescuers to arrive. Already torches stood along the beach, while men rowed tethered boats into the pounding waves. John dismounted and frowned into the night, hoping to see the wreck, but there was nothing out there other than darker shadows, which his Sight could not penetrate.

He had no time to wonder then as more people were pulled from the water, injured, freezing, half-drowned. Fires were built high above the waterline; he gathered driftwood to keep them stoked, and tore up bolts of cloth for bandages. From time to time he manned the ropes and his hands grew raw hauling boats back from the sea, laden with people too cold to cry, too scared to move.

He had no way of knowing how long they worked, only that the fog finally cleared just before dawn. By then, they were clearing salvaged cargo from the boats and the wreck had all but disappeared. Now and then he caught sight of the others, and more than once he saw the Bishop on his knees, signing the trium over some still form. Did these people know who he was – or did they care only that a man of the gods was prepared to give them absolution?

John didn’t need the dawn to see the strain on the Bishop’s face, the deep grief for those dead, and the genuine joy that so many had been saved. It was not so common to find a priest who was still able to love the people from whom his vows kept him apart, and to show that love so openly.

As the last threads of night disappeared, John pulled his cloak around him and headed to where the others were making ready to mount up again. He’d long since lost his gloves and his belly was cranky for want of food, but he was, for the moment, still warm and that was a lot more than many of those poor pilgrims, most of whom had been put upon carts and taken to Colteryn, or nearby farms. Two cartloads had gone to Bleakstone, where they would be fed and rested before being helped on their way.

The ring of steel on steel broke him out of his reverie. He turned around to find Deverin stepping back, his hands raised in a gesture of peace. Before him stood a young man, long hair wet and bedraggled, tossed by what wind was left. He held his sword easily before him, a mark of quality training. His clothes were foreign, long robes rather than jacket and trousers, and they were torn and ragged, still dripping water from the sea.