Blood and Memory (31 page)

“Stupid boy!” Crys cried. “Daryn never could keep a cool head.”

“Pandemonium broke out, my lord,” Pil said, and the new title was not lost on his audience. “One of the riders fired an arrow into Daryn’s chest. He dropped like a stone. Your mother screamed and fell to the ground beside him. He may still have lived for a few moments, my lord, but I could not tell. Your father had already drawn his sword. He didn’t stand a chance. He fought bravely, but they brought him to his knees, my lord.”

“Stop!” Elspyth interrupted, tears blinding her. “Crys—I—”

“I will hear it all,” Crys growled, ignoring his own free-flowing tears. “Say it—all of it!” he commanded.

Pil shivered and nodded. Jakub had always warned him to stick plainly to the facts when conjuring up an important event. He told it precisely as it had unfolded, hating every painful word and its effect on Crys.

“They beheaded him, my lord duke. It was not clean. I had to look away. They held your mother, made her watch. When it was done, they took her and tore off her clothes. They raped her one after another in the courtyard. Your other brother, Jorge, appeared from the stables but died also, fighting for her dignity.”

At this, Crys fell to his knees and screamed, beseeching the heavens for deliverance from this nightmare. Elspyth threw herself on top of him, arms around him, weeping as hard as he was. She alone could understand his pain, wanted to absorb it for him. He cried in her embrace for a lengthy time while Pil sat, head bowed between his knees, in his own horrified silence.

Finally they heard Crys’s voice, croaked and muffled.

“Pardon, my lord?” Pil said gently.

“I said how! How could they know?” the new Duke of Felrawthy screamed into the novice’s face. He had moved so swiftly, Elspyth had fallen backward but Crys did not seem to care. He had the monk in a viselike grip, their faces barely inches apart.

Pil stammered out the final, crushing item of information. “Brother Tewk, my lord. He was a spy.” He began to weep. “I led him to your family, asked them to make him welcome. I tried to keep up the pretense, stick to the story we’d all agreed to. But, my lord, I could not lie to a man of the cloth. I didn’t mention about Wyl being Faryl, of course, but I admitted that I had brought Ylena to Tenterdyn.”

Crys looked as wild and angry as an injured beast. He shook off Elspyth’s touch and pushed Pil away as he dragged himself to his feet, running blindly toward the shadows of the trees where Pil’s horse had fled to.

“Leave him,” Elspyth said. She could feel the tension build in her own jaw until her temple throbbed, so frightened was she to ask the question. “The Duchess?”

“I don’t know. I have no idea whether she lives or died.”

She felt sickened. “You’re sure everyone else is dead?”

He nodded, although a sob escaped him. “The Duke definitely. Jorge was hacked down and Daryn’s body didn’t move after Aleda was pulled from him. The arrow had hit in the region of his heart.”

“Shar’s Despair…all of them, all of them,” she whispered to herself, shaking from the trauma of realization. “I led you to Brother Tewk. It’s all my fault. Again. I did it! I am a curse!”

“No, Elspyth. How could you know of the impostor? I fell for it too. Anyone would have.”

“How did you get away?”

“I fought him. I sensed him watching me closely when the first of the deaths occurred. Something about him suddenly felt wrong. It all began to add up—the fact that I sang a well-known hymn on the way to Felrawthy with him and he didn’t know the words. Plus he said he’d visited Rittylworth, yet couldn’t remember Brother Bors—everyone knew Brother Bors, he was over ninety years old.” Pil shook his head. “I suddenly realized I’d been duped. When I saw them hurt Aleda, I began looking around for a weapon. I knew it was stupid; how could I fight them? But I needed to do something, but he grabbed me…and that confirmed his betrayal. So I fought him with everything I had, knocked him unconscious, through luck more than anything, and then I fled. I climbed out of the window and ran across the rooftops as I had done once before with Ylena. They never knew I was there, so I was able to get to the stables, steal a horse, and come after you and Crys.”

“Did you kill him?”

“Brother Tewk?”

She nodded.

“No, I…1 think he was just stunned.”

“Then he will tell them about you and they will come after us,” she said, newly panicked.

Elspyth leapt to her feet and walked to Crys.

“Go away, leave me!” Crys roared, rounding on her.

“Listen to me now,” she begged. “They’ll be coming after us, Crys—I’m sure of it—and they will slaughter what remains of Felrawthy. You are its duke now. You are all that’s left. We will avenge them but not unless we get you to safety, now.”

He laughed bitterly. It was a horrible sound. “Duke of Felrawthy, you say.”

She looked around at Pil. “Get the horses readied, yours is over there,” she said, taking charge. “Crys, look at me. We have no time for recriminations, not yet anyway. We must flee and save our lives.”

He groaned. “Elspyth!”

His broken expression tore at her heart. “I know,” she wept, reaching for him.“ I know. But you have to be strong now. You will get your war with Celimus, but you have to—”

She never finished what she was about to say. He took her into his arms and sobbed into her hair. She shook her head toward Pil and he obediently took the stray horse back toward the others. It felt frightening to hold this man so close. Elspyth felt a dangerous stirring spark between them. She pulled away, shocking Crys with her sudden movement of rejection.

Gazing directly into his hurt, dashingly handsome face, she spoke softly. She hoped he would recognize her affection for him, if not right now while he hurt, then later when he was rational and understood her heart was already claimed. “Come now—we must get you to safety.”

“Where?” He looked lost.

“Briavel. They wouldn’t dare follow.”

He nodded, capitulating to her strength and suddenly glad to be led. He understood how it must have felt to be Ylena not so long ago. “Let’s go,” he said, a grimness to his voice Elspyth had not heard before.

Celimus sat atop a chestnut mare, his new prize in the royal stables. He called her grace, which was befitting. She was light, elegant, and the swiftest horse he had ever ridden. He was still breathing hard from their gallop—he had given her the rein and allowed her to let loose with her superb speed. Cooling her carefully, he walked her toward a tree where he would wait. Jessom and his falconer would be a while yet catching up. He bent to stroke her head and she tossed her mane, keen to be off again.

“Not so fast, bright one. There is business to be done yet,” he cooed.

The King took a draft of water from his flask and surveyed the beautiful landscape about him.

“I must have an heir for all of this, Grace,” he said, tapping her finely muscled neck. “I want him to have two thrones, at least”—and he laughed—“even better, three. I want him to be called Emperor… after me, of course. For good or worse, Empress Valentyna will be his mother and I shall teach him to mock the pretender, Cailech, whose head I shall have preserved on a spike outside Stoneheart for eternity.”

He drank again, noticing the two riders finally appearing over the crest of a small rise.

They arrived panting. “Sire,” the falconer said. “We are ready. I have your three favorite birds. We’re positioned down there, your majesty.” He pointed into the distance where two men could be picked out.

“I won’t be long,” Celimus said to the falconer, who dismissed himself with a nod to his king and a glance at Jessom, who was catching his breath.

“I think we should introduce a new rule, sire,” Jessom commented once the man had departed and he felt more composed, “that you should not ride without at least one guard.”

“Bah! This is Morgravia, man. I have my bow with me,” the King said contemptuously.

“Nevertheless,” Jessom replied somewhat imperiously. It was his favorite retort.

“I won’t be babysat. I am a king.”

“My very reason for suggesting the higher security, your majesty. Your status demands it.”

Celimus nodded reluctantly, but it did not mean he would concede his position.

Jessom left the topic for now. “Did you want me to watch you work your birds or shoot arrows at deer, my lord, or is there a reason I’m freezing my balls off in this thoroughly fascinating landscape?”

The King laughed. Jessom’s sensibility about when to jest with his sovereign was always masterful.

“I’m meeting someone. Not for castle ears.”

“Ah,” his man replied knowingly. “Do you want me involved in the conversation or hidden, sire?”

“You may remain. Here he comes now,” he said, nodding toward a lone rider.

“Excellent timing,” Jessom noted, shivering at the bite of the spring morning. “Who is he, my lord?”

“His name is Shirk. He ran an errand for me.”

“I see,” Jessom acknowledged. It was all he needed to know. Shirk was clearly one of the King’s newest henchmen, sent off to tackle unsavory tasks that could not be given to the Legion.

They watched him approach. “Lady Bench?” Celimus inquired of his chancellor while they waited, his glance not moving from Shirk.

“Having a large party in a few days, I gather, sire. Her husband is on one of his rare visits to Pearlis, though I imagine he won’t remain long.”

“He’s a wanderer, that one. However, my father suggested I listen to his advice. Much as I detested my father, his advice was sound. I have found Eryd Bench, so far, to be reliable counsel.”

Jessom nodded, remained quiet, waiting for his next instructions.

“So nothing out of the ordinary for Lady Bench, then?”

“Not that I can tell, your highness. I’m having her household watched day and night, as you requested. There have been no odd comings or goings.”

“Good. Keep her under watch.”

“Another week, sir?”

“That should do it. Ah, Shirk.”

“Your highness.” The newly arrived man bowed in his saddle.

“This is Chancellor Jessom. You may speak freely.”

The man nodded at Jessom. “Thank you, sire. Shall I report?”

“Go ahead,” Celimus said, looking down toward the falconers as if it did not matter one way or the other to him.

Jessom noticed the man’s clothes were of sufficient quality to cost reasonable coin. A well-paid mercenary, then.

“We found no sign of the Lady Ylena Thirsk or the woman Leyen you described.”

The Chancellor noticed his king’s jaw clench in disappointment. He alone was sharp enough to see and read Celimus’s subtle mannerisms. He dreaded to hear what was coming, wished once again that his king had asked him to handle this particularly delicate mission. It needed finesse and he could only imagine the damage he suspected he would be left to mend.

“But?” the King asked, his tone still deliberately casual.

The man nodded. “One of the sons became uncooperative when we questioned the Duke. He drew a sword.”

“I see,” Celimus said. “Something to hide, then. And did you handle it as I recommended?” he asked, choosing his words with care.

Jessom feared what was coming. Surely nothing had befallen the aristocratic Duke and Duchess?

“Yes, your majesty. Precisely how you required. The Duke, Duchess, and the sons are dead.”

Jessom flinched. He tried to set a blank expression on his face but was sure he was unsuccessful. This was a dire revelation. He felt his normally controlled thoughts spinning frantically to imagine the consequences. How would they cover this new atrocity? This was well beyond even his slippery and dark notions of manipulation. He could not come up with a single scenario that justified the slaughter of the loyalists in the north who single-handedly shielded the southern half of the realm from invasion. In his short experience, Duke Jeryb had shown himself to be steadfast and true to the Crown. He had a bright intelligence and his information flow to the King could only be admired. He ran his legionnaires with a firm, fair hand, and Jessom, even from his much removed position, could sense that the Legion admired the Duke and his fine family in the same manner that they had admired the Thirsks. Killing the youngest son had been a horrific mistake—one that had occurred before his arrival, to be fair, but still he had been chilled to hear of it. And although it had been covered well, they were still dealing with the repercussions of the murder. The remains of the boy could still reappear and undo them all. He could not begin to imagine how they might explain away five new deaths in the same family and yet already his mind was racing toward how they might do just that.

“You’re quite sure they’re all dead?” Celimus asked, fixing the man with his unnerving gaze.

The Chancellor saw the mercenary blink. It was the first time Jessom noticed the man hesitate. It was a slow, nervous, and altogether telltale sign that perhaps all had not gone according to plan.

“Well, the Duke’s head is no longer attached to his body,” the man replied with an unsure grin. “His wife, well, she’s dead, I’m sure of that. I know one of the men checked and the—”

“How did you deal with her?” Celimus asked, his tone innocent but his intense manner far from it.

“As you required, sire. We humiliated her.”

“You raped her,” Celimus said.

“Yes, your majesty. Each of the men took a turn with her. I think the last half dozen were riding a corpse, your highness…pardon my language.”

Celimus was unfazed. “But someone checked her pulse,” he said.

Again the man nodded, more dumbly this time, Jessom noted. The man was clearly not so sure of the Duchess’s current state of health.

The King let it be. “The sons…three of them dead?”

The mercenary looked up sharply now, his eyes roaming desperately from his king and then with more of a beseeching expression toward Jessom.

Jessom helped him out. “There are three sons. The heir is Crys—golden-haired, tall. Handsome, they say. The other two are darker, more like the mother. One is Daryn, the other Jorge.” This was his first and only contribution to the conversation, but his words made the mercenary visibly pale.

“I see,” the King said, understanding all too well. “Which one didn’t you deal with?”

“The handsome one, your highness,” the mercenary stuttered. “There was no sign of him.”

Celimus kept his voice even, his disgust in check. Jessom felt a little sorry for the well-dressed man before them, for it was now very clear—to the Chancellor anyway—that his days were sadly numbered. “Is there anything else?”

“Yes, my king.” The man tried to speak crisply but failed, perhaps already sensing his own demise. “Our spy…er, Tewk his name is, posed as a monk and was making his way to Felrawthy when he met a young woman. Her name was Elspyth. She was not important, according to Tewk. She was passing through the duchy and paying a visit to the family to give a message from her aunt, who apparently knew the Duchess. Tewk was careful to check that Elspyth did not resemble either woman we were following. The next day she sent a young novice by the name of Pil to return the donkey she had borrowed from Tewk.”

“So, with this fellow, Pil, to interrogate…” Celimus began.

Shirk looked abashed, both for the interruption and what he had to say next. “The youngster escaped over the rooftops, sire.”

“But you’ve caught him,” Celimus said.

Jessom felt genuine pity for the cornered mercenary. The King’s voice, so well controlled, managed to imbue a horrific sense of threat all the same.

The mercenary nodded eagerly. “We’re giving chase, your highness. We should have him by now.”

“A novice you say? What was he doing with your spy?”

The man began to shrug but shook his head instead to avoid offence to a sovereign known for his erratic moods. “I don’t know the answer to that, sire, but he introduced Tewk into the family. Tewk felt he could learn more about whether the two women had been at Tenterdyn.”

“And did he?”

“Yes,” the man uttered triumphantly. “The women had been there. The novice, in fact, had brought the noblewoman to the family.”

Oh, you poor fool
, Jessom thought. This should have been the first item in the report. He feared for the man’s next few minutes.

“Shar’s Wrath, man!” Celimus bellowed, leaning in his saddle to strike the man hard across his face, toppling the mercenary from his horse. The King leapt down from his own mount, all feline grace, and in one smooth movement kicked Shirk so hard, he was unable to get back to his feet again. The man lay on the ground, coughing, groaning in pain. “Where are they?”

In obvious agony, the man spluttered his answer. “The woman, Leyen, goes by the name of Faryl, sire. According to the novice’s information, she did not tarry long at Tenterdyn. There’s no trace of the noblewoman and the young monk said he delivered her and departed the Duke’s residence almost immediately.”

“Lies!” Celimus roared. “Felrawthy protects her. I was right to suspect the Duke. He was not loyal to me.”

Jessom thought otherwise. The Duke had given no reason to be considered anything but loyal to the Crown. The truth of the death of his son might have changed that, but so far he imagined that had all been kept secret. “Sire—” He attempted to speak, but was rewarded with a glare so fierce he closed his mouth and sensibly opted to remain silent.