Waterborne Exile (38 page)

“There were no illusions, your highness.” Now Weaver understood.

“Is that so? Do you imagine I’ll take your word for it, turncoat?”

“No, your highness.”

“Indeed.” Vasic drew his sword from its scabbard, studying Weaver’s face for a reaction. “Let us put Durstan’s handiwork to another test, shall we? A test of my own devising. You will stand there, and remain perfectly still while I run this sword through you. You will not move, or shout out, or protest in any way. Is that understood?”

If Weaver was accepting, if he didn’t fight back, could this be the end to it? To think he might not wake another day to the aching sense of loss, to the crushing certainty of his own failure. If all it took in the end was obedience… “Yes, your highness.”

Vasic smiled. “Very well then. Before I begin, you will remove your sword belt.”

Weaver undid the buckle and pulled the belt from about his waist, dropping it and the scabbard on the floor nearby.

“And now you will remove that brigandine. I will not risk blunting my blade on it.”

Weaver untied the fastenings one by one. Would Vasic require him to be bound, too, just to ensure his own safety? He guessed he would. Although the king would require a servant for that; he could hardly ask Weaver to bind his own hands. Weaver shrugged off the brigandine and padded jacket and dropped it on the floor next to his sword belt.

“The shirt, too. There’s no point putting a hole in good linen.”

Weaver tugged the neck loose and peeled the garment off over his head, dropping it with the rest.

Vasic studied him for a moment. “With the number of scars on you, one or two more should make little difference.”

“No, your highness.” Goddess, why wouldn’t he get on with it? “Would you have me kneel, sire?”

Vasic tilted his head to one side, considering. “No. I want to see you fall.”

“Very well, your highness. I believe I am ready.”

For a moment Weaver thought Vasic’s nerve would fail him, but the king licked his lips and raised his sword, elbow high, smiling an odd, tight smile. “I believe you are.”

Vasic drew in a breath, then plunged the sword between Weaver’s ribs.

The pain was immense, as if Weaver’s chest had been torn in two and the separated parts set on fire. Vasic withdrew the blade and Weaver sucked in a shuddering breath, waiting for the dread sensation of blood filling the cavities in his lungs. But he drew in only air, and though he swayed on his feet, he remained standing. Vasic lunged at him again and Weaver staggered back as the sword sliced into his belly, dropping to one knee as Vasic twisted the blade and withdrew it. He remained there, seemingly held up by the magnitude of his own pain, as Vasic stepped back to admire his handiwork.

“Well, now, soldier. I thought you would have fallen by now.” With a high laugh, Vasic spun round and smashed the pommel of his sword into Weaver’s face. It missed his left eye by a hair’s breadth. Weaver was forced to set one hand on the ground to maintain his balance. He heard, rather than saw, Vasic take several steps away from him, boots crunching once more on the broken glass.

“How long should it take, soldier?”

What, death? Days, like as not. It had last time, in the cellar of the summer palace… What a time for his memories to regain focus. “I do not know, your highness.”

“Stand up, then. Let us see what you are made of.”

Weaver pushed himself to his feet and straightened up, fully expecting his body to fail under the effort, but it did not. The pain from his injuries should have brought him low, but he managed to stand without assistance. He had to press one hand to the wound in his belly to prevent his entrails spilling out.

Vasic stared at him a long while in silence, then went over to his throne and sat down, sword still in hand, pressing the fingertips of his left hand to his forehead.

“Leave me. Take your clothes with you, and leave me. Now.”

“Very well, your highness.” Weaver stooped to gather up his garments and sword belt with his free hand, stepping in his own congealing blood as he did so. He made his way stiffly down the steps of the dais, the pain so great he doubted he’d manage as much as half a dozen steps further, but somehow he held together. It was a long walk to the doors of the throne room.

Weaver paused at the end, one hand on the door handle. Vasic still sprawled in the throne, watching his progress. He didn’t appear pleased with his morning’s work. A trail of dark blood stretched from the pool on the dais, marking Weaver’s progress along the throne room. He hadn’t kept to an entirely straight line after all. Weaver found that oddly reassuring: some tiny part of him must still be fallible – and human.

“Go on, then, I dismissed you. Find a healer to clean you up. And send Durstan’s bitch of a priestess to me.”

Weaver tugged the door open and stepped out into the antechamber. A crowd had assembled there and they recoiled in horror as he approached them, stripped to the waist, blood-covered, clothes and sword clutched to his belly. Only the priestess stepped forward, eyes wide.

Weaver gestured towards the throne room. “The king wants you in there.”

She nodded and slipped through the door.

Weaver made his way through the anteroom expecting with every step that the pain would overwhelm his body, but that moment never came. He ignored Vasic’s order to see a healer and instead limped back to his quarters and dropped down on his bed. If he didn’t wake in the morning it would be no great hardship.

The prisoners were sleeping when Marten had the guard unlock the cell door. Drew sat up hastily as he recognised the noise of the keys, blinking in the unaccustomed light of a lantern.

“You’re to come with me, Drew.”

Drew stood up slowly, easing his limbs. He asked no questions, but followed in silence behind Marten as he led the way up the stairs. Behind them the door banged shut and keys grated in the lock. Marten heard a low exhalation from Drew.

Marten opened the door to an unoccupied guard room and ushered him inside. A bundle of clothing sat on the wooden bench. “We haven’t much time.” He reached down and unlocked Drew’s manacles. The flesh of his wrists was rubbed raw beneath them. “The clothing there is for you, as is this royal pardon. All charges have been dropped and it has been noted in the official records.” Drew gaped at him, but took the sheet of parchment he offered, examining it in disbelief.

“Is this real? Not… some kind of trick?”

“It is real. As of this moment, you are a free man.”

Drew set the parchment down on the bench. “But…?”

This wasn’t the naive novice who’d sailed from Vorrahan with the Lady Alwenna. “I understand you would not be welcome in Brigholm.”

“No.” The wonder on Drew’s face clouded for a moment. “In the end I was not sufficiently grateful.”

“Well, you’ll find I’m not looking for gratitude.”

“But my freedom has a price, nonetheless.”

Marten inclined his head. “I have work for you, if you care to take it on.”

“What sort of work? Is it legal?”

“It is legal. It is the sort of work you would be well suited to, if you are prepared to enter the precinct once again.”

“That is a high price to ask.” Drew shrugged off his filthy shirt and dropped it on the floor before donning the freshly-laundered one.

“I realise that, but you are uniquely suited to the role.”

“I’m listening.” Drew removed his leggings and pulled on the clean ones. A leather pouch fell to the floor from the bench.

“It concerns the Lady Alwenna. I have learned the precincts in the Outer Isles boast extensive libraries. They have recorded many of the old ways, and hold extensive records of the royal family history and the seers’ lore.”

“I see. Is this to satisfy your curiosity in some way?” Drew picked up the leather pouch, twisting the fastening between his fingers.

“Not at all. This is to repay a debt to her. I understand from what little Vasic and his advisors have let slip that the seers are uneasy some great evil has awoken. That blade you recovered from the rubble is tied into it in some–”

“She needs that blade. Have you found some way to return it to her?” The youth’s expression had become intense.

Marten nodded. “I believe I have – and that is why we do not have much time.”

“You have it with you now, don’t you?”

Again, Marten nodded. “And that is why I would charge you with this research. You understand enough of this business to grasp the import of what you read.”

Drew flexed his fingers. “I understand next to nothing – but I have witnessed much that I do not understand.”

“And that is more than the rest of us can say.”

“You could hand me the dagger and I could take it to her.” Drew made the suggestion sound almost casual.

“There is one better suited to that mission – one who will be less susceptible to the dagger’s wiles.”

Drew smiled ruefully. “If you knew the nightmares it gave me… even here since I’ve been under the same roof… I do not understand why it can still tempt me the way it does. Are you proof against it, Marten?”

“I gave it up once, and I shall again. Within the hour if we can settle your business now. Will you take on this task?”

“I never thought to return to the precinct,” Drew said slowly. “But any journey that takes me further from the blade can only be a good thing.”

Marten nodded. “So you’ll do it?”

“I’ll do it.”

“Then I have letters of introduction for you, to go with that pardon. One recommends you to the Lord Convenor of the Outer Isles, the other to the prelate of the main precinct. They have been written by Master Bleaklow, trusted servant of the Lord Convenor. He is a good man. You will no doubt meet him there in the fullness of time.”

Drew glanced at the letters before stowing them in the leather pouch. “He is here at court?”

“For the time being. There has…” The boy needed to know what he was getting into. “You should know the Lord Convenor’s daughter, recently married to Vasic, died in a tragic accident last week.”

Drew stilled. “Then it was she who… who fell? I dreamed of it. Goddess rest her. It was no accident, that much I can tell you.”

“No, it was not, although is not yet common knowledge. But… she will be avenged. In the meantime, you must learn what you can from the Outer Isles libraries. I could not have hoped to find a better man for this task.”

The commotion at the entrance to the valley caught Alwenna’s attention immediately. She squinted into the morning sunlight: a rider on a common, cobby horse. Not a freemerchant, she guessed, as the guards held him back from entering the valley proper. She set down the bucket she had been carrying and raised one hand to shield her eyes from the sun, ignoring the twinge of protest from her newly-healed scar.

The man carried himself like Weaver. He climbed down from his horse and moved aside with one of the guards. They spoke, their attitudes calm. Then she saw the guard nod. Both men turned her way and the guard raised his hand, pointing. Her stomach knotted, before realising he pointed towards Marten’s home. The newcomer did not remount, but led his horse across the canyon floor in the wake of the guard. The newcomer moved in every way like Weaver. Her heart quickened. But it couldn’t be, could it? Not after all this time? If it was him, wouldn’t she have known beforehand?

Then again, her acuity had waned in recent weeks. She had believed she had learned to control it. Perhaps the dark power was fading now – it might have been linked with Tresilian in some way… Her marriage to her cousin might after all have been instrumental in bringing the whole thing about.

As if he sensed her scrutiny the newcomer paused and she saw his shoulders twist as he raised his head and scanned the sloping ground where she stood. Again that knotting of her stomach. But how could it possibly be Weaver? A voice hailed the newcomer from a doorway further down the hill and Rogen strode out to meet them.

Alwenna could not help herself. She watched as Rogen approached the newcomers, then raised his ruined hand to his shoulder. The newcomer responded in freemerchant fashion. Voices carried to her on the breeze, the words indistinguishable, but the challenge in Rogen’s voice evident. They vanished inside Rogen’s quarters while a boy took charge of the horse.

She was tempted to go down to see what was happening, but the baby was due to wake soon.

Alwenna had finished feeding the baby and set her down to rest again when she heard footsteps outside. She moved over to the doorway and drew back the blanket covering the opening.

Weaver. Alwenna stared. Every contour of his face was familiar. The fine white scar on his chin still showed through the stubble. The set of his shoulders as he waited for her response was unmistakable. It was him, there could be no doubt. Yet, he was somehow subtly changed. He wouldn’t hold her gaze, as if he feared – what? What could he fear from her? She owed him everything.

“Weaver.” Her voice wasn’t as steady as she would have liked. He looked sharply at her then. Goddess, could he ever forgive her for fleeing with Marten, leaving him behind in the burning building? How had he escaped? How had he found her – was he here now for revenge on Alwenna for leaving him? For killing his liege lord? For finally, at the very end, failing to trust him enough? Could she ever hope to make amends?

Weaver bowed, a creditable court-style effort.

“Your servant, my lady.”

She shivered. They had so much to say, so many questions to ask, and to answer, but she had no idea where to start.

“You survived.”

“After a fashion.”

“I thought…” She sat down on the boulder outside the door. “Forgive me, this is a shock.”

“It was a shock to me, too, my lady.”

Was he attempting humour? She squinted up at him, but his expression was as hard to read as ever. “How so?”

“Death, my lady. It is not comfortable.”

“Then you are… You were…”

“I am the newest member of the grey brethren. Although Durstan has plans to change that soon enough.”

“Durstan?”

“Prelate of the order at the summer palace. He has joined forces with Vasic now. Much has changed these past weeks.”