Chapter 31

Crys Donal rode Eryd Bench’s chestnut mare through the Pearlis town gates, nodding to the watchmen as he passed.

“Shar guide you,” they called to the lone rider, who raised his hand in friendly salute but said nothing in return.

Not long afterward a black carriage, like any other public carriage that plied its trade on the streets of Pearlis, also left the gates.

“How long, Gordy?” one of the watchmen cried as the driver paid his toll, recognizing him from the pool of men who entered and exited the city many times a day with paying passengers. The man shrugged and the gatekeepers caught sight of two women in the carriage whom they recognized as Lady Bench and her daughter. “Evening, Lady Bench,” one said, showing the right courtesies.

Helyn Bench smiled back, the men never knowing how much courage that gesture took. The younger woman did not look at them at all. “Onward, driver,” Lady Bench called.

It was at least another fifteen minutes before a petite figure, cloaked in blue, walked a horse out of the city gates to whistles of approval from the men. It was not dark yet, so they could see her pretty features set in a pale face. Fortunately for Elspyth, they could not see the dark bloodstain on her cloak or the fierce effort it required for her to urge the horse to carry her gently beyond the reach of King Celimus.

She forced a smile and said, “See you soon, lads,” as if she were only going to be away for a few hours, then she too disappeared down the road. She knew she had two bends to get past before the third one would remove her fully from the watchtower’s view. It felt like a lifetime and she wondered if the guards were wondering why she was riding so slowly down the road.

Finally she caught sight of Crys Donal. He rushed toward her, and as much as she wanted to be composed and not show how sick she was, Elspyth all but fell from the horse as she leaned toward him.

As they had done before, the strong arms of the Duke of Felrawthy cushioned her and carried her gently to a patch of soft grass. “Fm sorry you had to do that, but—” he began.

“Hush, Crys,” she replied. “There was no other way. It would have looked too odd for Georgyana to ride out after her mother’s carriage, especially alone.”

“We can only hope those guards make no connections. Two of us were strangers and easily forgotten,” Crys reassured. Elspyth noticed how his gaze softened when it fell upon the Benchs’ golden-haired daughter. She felt another pang and reminded herself that Crys did not belong to her. She had pushed his gentle advances away too often. She was spoken for…if, perhaps, only by a dead man, she thought sadly.

Crys glanced toward Lady Bench, who sat on a milestone staring straight out before her, clearly dwelling on thoughts of her beloved Eryd. He walked over and put his arms around her. She was a friend of his mother’s, who was about the same age. He tried to imagine how Aleda must have felt watching Jeryb Donal die. Crys was sure Eryd was dead by now too, and knew the effect of his death on Lady Bench would be no less painful than if she had witnessed it.

“I’m so sorry, Helyn,” he said softly.

“Are you sure it’s useless, Crys? I mean—”

He cut off her teary words; they were too painful to listen to again. “We cannot risk Georgyana, Lady Bench. You must see to her safety first. I promise you I will return to Pearlis, but first I insist on ensuring that you three ladies are out of danger.” He hugged her again, suspecting that her inclination was to send Georgyana on with him and take her chances back in Pearlis. “Please, Lady Bench. Celimus showed no mercy to my parents, or my brothers, the youngest of whom had barely reached your daughter’s tender years. He will have no qualms about killing you, Lord Bench, Georgyana, and anyone else who looks to be getting in his way.”

“In the way of what?” she said.

“Of whatever it is that he wants,” Crys replied. “He is mad, Lady Bench. He dreams of empire. The upcoming wedding is a sham. He will destroy Valentyna and Briavel one way or another—it just appears more respectable if he can do it diplomatically. Listen to me,” he said, taking the liberty of turning her face toward his earnest one. “If he was prepared to murder my father, who was the most loyal of Morgravians, then he will respect none of his senior counselors’ lives. Please trust me.”

“So you think Eryd is already dead,” she said, her voice flat.

There was no point in attempting to placate this woman with empty words after making her and her daughter flee for their lives. “I do.”

She did not break down into sobs as he had expected; she did not even shed another tear. Instead she echoed the words of his mother. “Avenge him,” she said, “for our sakes.”

“Celimus has many deaths to answer for, my lady. I intend to make him accountable for each of them, rest assured.”

She squeezed his arm, unable to speak for her tumbling emotions.

“Come, we will ride in pairs now,” he continued. Elspyth was breathing hard, and Crys reached for her hand. “Can you go a bit farther?”

“Yes, let’s go,” she said, enjoying, despite herself, his touch in front of Georgyana.

“You and Lady Bench ride together, Elspyth. Georgyana can come with me,” Crys said, instantly putting to rest any delusion that he was not utterly infatuated with the young noblewoman. It was fitting that he should align himself with his own kind; they would make the most handsome of couples, Elspyth thought.

She scowled privately but convinced herself that her acid mood was caused by the throb at her shoulder.

“Where are we going?” Georgyana asked, unaware of the sour emotions the pretty woman by her side was feeling.

“They will expect us to go north,” Crys said, “as we all have homes and links there.”

“So we go south?” Georgyna finished for him. He smiled indulgently.

“Yes, my lady. South to Argorn.”

Jessom stared at the sputtering candle. Its erratic flame held his attention in the otherwise darkened room.

His thoughts were distracted, roaming. A light perfume wafted up from the soap leaf he had used to wash his hands after touching Eryd Bench’s body. He had killed twice himself, and had had many deaths carried out at his order, but none had ever felt like this one. Lord Bench’s death had been as unpleasant as it was unnecessary. Unpleasant because Jessom had been forced to administer the poison personally and very much against his own will, and unnecessary because it had achieved nothing but another dirty secret to keep hidden.

He linked his newly washed fingers as he contemplated the afternoon’s pointless proceedings. To the King, the report of another killing, no matter how high ranking the victim, was akin to hearing that a kitten from the kitchen cat’s latest litter had died. He just kills on a whim, Jessom thought bitterly. Bench and his fellow lord could have been so easily diverted, sent on some special mission even, but left alive, retaining their importance in the fabric of Morgravian life. “Shar knows, that fabric is wearing very thin,” the Chancellor muttered.

If even Lord Bench had been questioning the King and his motives, then this was surely the end of the road, for Eryd Bench would never have considered making his concerns public without much soul-searching. How many others had doubts? Jessom wondered. How many others disapproved of the King’s actions?

“Civil unrest is next.” Jessom finished the thought aloud.

It would only take someone like Crys Donal, now the Duke of Felrawthy, to stir up sufficient emotion and the civil unrest could turn into an uprising. Jessom was not so naive as to believe that the famous Legion would not follow its instincts, which would be screaming in favor of Lord Donal after what had happened in the north. The Legion had suffered several blows recently—enough to provoke the men into turning against the King they hated.

Jessom listed them in his mind: Alyd Donal, Wyl Thirsk, Ylena Thirsk, most of the Donal family, Rittylworth’s holy community. Even the death of King Valor of Briavel was beginning to be viewed suspiciously, particularly given that Wyl Thirsk had been in Werryl on the King’s business when he had lost his life alongside Valor. Jessom had heard mutterings that the circumstances of the two deaths were not as cut-and-dried as they were said to be. Then there was Jorn, a popular lad around Stoneheart—his torture and death had hit hard, and for what result? The Legion had not recovered from the deaths of its own men either—all in the pursuit of missing taxes. Too many had been impaled and left to die long, horrible deaths. Celimus was too cruel, too quick to punish without consideration of the repercussions.

As for all the mercenaries who had lost their lives—well, few cared, but Jessom was tired of killing for no good reason. Almost all could have been spared; they had been on the Crown’s side anyway.

He slammed his hand down on the table in frustration. And now Lord Bench was dead and Hartley was languishing in the dungeon. Jessom had finally rebelled against Celimus. He would find a way to spare Hartley yet; he refused to kill pointlessly again.

Jessom lit a fresh candle and extinguished the sputtering one with a pinch, hardly feeling its warmth on his fingertips. He was too deep in thought about his own future. He assessed his options. They were few and mostly unpalatable. He could remain with Celimus and stay loyal to his belief that the King of Morgravia was too strong to be challenged. He could raise the Legion himself by telling its officers the truth, but then what? They could unseat Celimus but there was no heir, which potentially meant some distant relative from Parrgamyn perhaps laying claim to the throne. Jessom’s experience of the Parrgamyse told him that this was not a wise path. Alternately, he could argue that a new dynasty be created from within—with someone like the new Duke of Felrawthy, perhaps—but such a transfer of power would be messy, full of internal strife, and not guaranteed to be successful or bloodless. Third, he could leave. Disappear tonight and begin a new life elsewhere. But where? And if Celimus survived as King, he would have Jessom hunted down. The Chancellor could not bear to dwell on what the King would do with him when he was caught…and he was sure he would be caught, even if it took Celimus years That left one last option. And as he reflected on its merits, he realized it was, without question, not only the best of the alternatives but was perhaps his most inspired idea ever. If it worked, he would never have to worry again. If he failed, it meant an horrific death. He must take precautions.

He would need the help of an expert in fashioning a fail-safe capsule of the juice of the Deathbloom, a plant so rare most people had never heard of it. If he was caught in this last and desperate measure, then he would not hesitate to bite down on the capsule, which would deliver death so swiftly that no one would even realize what had occurred. By then, his body would be stiff in the rigor the plant’s poison so effectively provoked.

He smiled thinly. “Not that I intend ever to take that capsule,” he whispered.

Wyl stared at Aremys through Ylena’s glazed vision. He must have passed out momentarily, he realized; he had slumped to one side and must appear dead. It looked as though the fight had gone out of the Grenadyne. The King was pacing before him, poking his finger into his chest, sneering at him with cutting words. The two guards on either side of Aremys looked uncomfortable. Wyl fought the pain back as Gueryn had taught him and righted Ylena’s frame against the hearth. No one saw his movement; everyone was intent on Cailech.

Wyl had to move, broken leg and dislocated shoulder aside. Go down fighting—was that not the Legion’s way? He rallied his spirit and called upon everything left within him to find the strength to move toward Aremys.

“So you don’t deny Maegryn’s murder?” Cailech demanded of the mercenary, his anger back under icy control.

“No, sire. It was a mistake.”

“Mistake!”

Aremys blinked. There was no way out of this, no possible explanation—except the truth, of course—for the death of the stablemaster. Aremys no longer cared about Cailech and the peace treaty or about the Mountain People. In truth, if he boiled it down, he cared about the man trapped in the broken woman’s body in the corner, he cared about a man driven mad with pain and anguish by being transformed into a horse, and he cared about bringing about the death of a southern king.

Nothing much else mattered—not even his own life, it seemed, because it had not occurred to him to include it in his list. He stole a glance at Wyl and realized he had moved. Not dead, then; brave Wyl was forcing his broken body toward him. What could the two of them achieve against two huge warriors and an enraged king who was now reaching for his blade?

“Lost for words, Farrow? Perhaps this will loosen your tongue,” Cailech said, swiping his knife across the Grenadyne’s face.

Aremys saw the red splashes spatter Rollo’s face. The man blinked but said nothing. To his own credit, Aremys hardly flinched. Perhaps it had been too fast. How he found the strength he would never know, but he enjoyed it. “Haldor be praised that your blade is kept so keen, Cailech. I didn’t feel a thing.” The King’s gaze narrowed as he watched the bright blood drench the face of the man he had called friend, the man he had thought might fill the yearning gap that had been caused by the loss of Lothryn. But this man was now facing death because of Lothryn.

“Why, Aremys? You could have had it all with me,” Cailech said, a touch of sadness creeping into his tone.

“Because you are a puppet king,” Aremys replied, defiance rising in him as he accepted death. He could see the pulse at Cailech’s temple beginning to throb.

“Explain yourself, Farrow.”

The mercenary shrugged, reveling in his nonchalance. It was amazing to let go of fear; he suddenly felt empowered. This was how Wyl must have felt when he was baiting Celimus into killing Ylena at Tenterdyn—except Wyl had not expected to die, he thought, a rueful grin creeping across his bloodied face.

“Answer me!” the King roared, raising the blade.

“I’m not afraid to die, Cailech, so threatening me will not help you learn what you need to. But I shall tell you anyway. You are a puppet to Rashlyn. Ask your men. Ask Rollo here what he thinks of your mad barshi and the way he controls you. Ask poor Myrt, who would have crawled over the very ice caps for you but hates you now for what you have done to Lothryn at the barshi’s whim. You are controlled by the mad sorcerer. He uses magic on you, my king, and makes decisions for you.” Aremys felt the change of atmosphere in the room immediately. The grip of his captors lessened and he saw Cailech’s face move through a series of expressions from disbelief to rage.

“You lie!”

“No, Cailech. Look at your men. Ask them. You turned Lothryn into a beast. Galapek is an abomination—abomination—but it was not your idea, was it, sire? It was Rashlyn’s. And now the Morgravian prisoner has disappeared. Where is Gueryn le Gant, your majesty? Magically twisted into another abomination, that’s where. Can your people trust you with this sort of misery and sorcery hanging over them?”

Before Cailech could respond, Rollo broke in. “My king, is this true? Have you used magic on Lothryn?” Cailech’s hesitation in replying was damaging.

“And now he’s going to have Myrt killed, Rollo, because he knows the truth too.” Rollo dropped his hands from Aremys and his second followed suit. “I cannot permit this, sire,” he said, shaking his head, disbelief raging in his eyes. “I hate the barshi. But I loved Lothryn like a brother, and Myrt is our leader even though you are our king. You would kill the two men I trust most? Rashlyn is evil, sire.”

Cailech’s eyes darkened in the granite face. “Do you challenge me, Rollo?” The warrior backed away. “I don’t know the truth, sire. I don’t understand any of it. If Myrt killed Maegryn then I wish to hear why. I want his side of the story, not the words of Bore, who would sell his own grandmother to get into your good books.”

“I order you to take this man to the dungeons,” Cailech said. His words were slowly spoken and chillingly intense.

Rollo shook his head with equal slowness, hardly believing he was defying his own sovereign. “Not until you bring Rashlyn here…and Myrt.”

The room had become still with tension. Cailech stared at Rollo and then back at Aremys. His silence was telling as he considered his options. Finally he nodded wearily. “Go. Bring them both here.” Relief flooded the warrior at the King’s capitulation. He wasted no time, nodding first to his second to follow and then to Aremys, who would have liked to thank Rollo for his courage. It was pointless, though. As he stared at Cailech and the King returned the glare, both knew the Grenadyne would not live a few moments beyond the warriors’ departure.

As the door closed behind the two Mountain Men, Cailech rounded on Aremys.

“I know you don’t intend to let me live long enough to clap eyes on Myrt again, sire,” Aremys said, playing for time.

“How instinctive of you, Farrow. I’m glad we understand each other.”

“Lothryn got to be a horse. Nothing so exotic planned for me, Cailech?”

“Nothing leaps to mind,” Cailech growled, stepping closer.

“Or do you have to wait for the puppeteer to arrive to make the decision for you? So he can cast his magic and make you dance precisely as he wishes?”

Cailech shook his head in mock disgust but Aremys could see him grinding his jaw. And then his hopes were destroyed. Cailech turned nonchalantly to gaze down at the figure of Ylena Thirsk, who had painfully and silently crawled the length of the room, a trail of blood behind her.

“Ah, Ylena, good. You’ve arrived painfully, I see, and just in time to watch your rescuer die. I think Aremys was counting on you to divert me while he took care of me, although I have to wonder what he had in mind, as neither you nor he carries a weapon. Perhaps he was going to bite me to death.” The King laughed. “Here, my dear, let me help you,” and he reached down almost tenderly to pick her up.

Aremys felt his gut twist. It was over, then. Cailech was right; he had been counting on Wyl to achieve some diversion. Between them they might have been able to get the blade from Cailech and hold him off until the others returned.

“There we are,” Cailech said, placing a grimacing Ylena into a chair just in front of Aremys. “Now you have a good view.” He lifted her skirt to look at her leg and made a tutting sound. “Nasty. That must really hurt. I’m constantly impressed by your courage, Ylena.” He returned a savage gaze to Aremys.

“How would you like this done, my friend? Throat? Gut? Heart?”

“May Haldor rot your soul, Cailech!” Aremys said, helplessness washing over him. He looked once more upon Ylena. “I’m sorry I failed you.”

“You haven’t yet,” Wyl answered. “Remember who I am. Use me!” he urged.

Cailech smiled. “Such a brave pair. What is it between you two? I could almost feel jealous. You seem to have each other in some sort of thrall. It’s not ardor or lust, for I would have sensed that. It’s more than that—”

Aremys was not going to listen anymore. “Get on with it, then, and look to your back, Cailech. Celimus will never allow you or the son you foisted on Lothryn’s wife to live.” He rolled the die once more.

Perhaps in Wyl’s fighting words there was a chance yet. “I’ve already told Celimus about Aydrech.

Security in case you did not keep faith with me. He’ll come looking for you both. The boy will not live to see a year, I predict.”

That was it. That was Cailech’s weak spot, he realized. His love for the child and his desire for an heir were more important than anything else in the world to him. Aydrech was his softness.

Cailech’s subsequent howl at the biting threat was filled with a venom that Aremys had only previously experienced in battle. It was beyond anger or fear. It was a rage people reach when there is nothing else to care about but the kill. Many hardened fighters spoke of the moment when nothing but blood—the enemy’s blood—could cleanse them of that hatred and wrath. Aremys watched the blade rise and closed his eyes, expecting to die. It was up to the gods now.

It was no god that came to his rescue that day but a damaged man trapped in a woman’s body; broken and bleeding, he somehow found the strength to push the enraged King still further.

“And Celimus will not spare the child any pain,” Wyl said, watching the blade also. “He’ll probably drag Aydrech behind his horse, or simply impale your weeks-old son…he might even roast him and feed him to the royal hounds,” he goaded the King.

This time Cailech roared as the blade descended and it was Ylena who took the mighty blow that nearly cleaved her in two, cutting flesh and sinew, cartilage and bone, finally coming to rest buried between her breasts.

Her sad, lovely eyes met Aremys’s as she fell to her death at last. Her gaze was triumphant.

Cailech groaned. The sound was deep and guttural, and filled with rage. He was bent double, his body shaking and his large hands clutching his head as it swung angrily from side to side, as if in denial. The Mountain King suddenly arched his back and clenched his fists, his expression a contortion of such pain that Aremys took a step back. Cailech let out a final low and desperate growl, slumping forward before he straightened, staring at the bright blood on the hand and arm that had dealt the murderous blow. The King took a deep, shuddering breath and lifted his formerly light eyes to meet Aremys’s.

Aremys, hating to have put Wyl through more pain, noted their curious ill-matched color and did not know whether to cry with relief or share the despair of loss. He laid his hand onto the hard, muscled arm of King Cailech and whispered, “Welcome back, Wyl.”

Wyl Thirsk, now King Cailech of the Razors, flexed his broad shoulders and sighed. “Let’s go find our friends,” he growled in Cailech’s deep voice.