Dark Haven (51 page)

“With all due respect, Lord Curane, the battle has gone hard on ‘military men.’ We lost General Arnalt when the East tower collapsed in the bombardment. General Eddig burned with his garrison when one of the fireballs hit the south wallwalk. General Nerin lost an eye to shrapnel.

Siencen and I are the only two generals still uninjured. Our ranks are down by a third. There’s precious little room to dodge boulders inside stone walls,” Droston said.

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“Are we beaten so easily by a boy king?” Curane thundered. “Every day, Martris Drayke becomes more vulnerable. His army weakens. And while he’s busy here, our man at Shekerishet grows closer to solving another problem.

“The net’s tightening around the new queen. And as it does, our partners in Isen‐croft are making sure that Donelan is far too busy with his own problems to worry about Margolan.”

Curane smiled. “Great plans take time. Just a while longer, and we’ll be the regents behind the crown—not just of Margolan, but of Isencroft as well. A handsome payoff for a bit of messy work, wouldn’t you say?”

“I learned a long time ago that a soldier should never count on his pay until the battle’s been fought,” Drosten replied. “Especially when magic’s involved.”

CHAPTER TWENTY‐EIGHT

The Isencroft night was bitter cold. Cam secured his horse at a hitching post down the street from the Stray Dog Inn, tethering him lightly for a quick departure. He looked at the brightly lit windows and sighed. Although a few minutes by the fire and a mug of ale would feel good, he decided that it was best to avoid being seen too often inside the inn. He’d worked out a way to leave a message for Kev— a com on an unused back shelf in the stable was the signal for a meeting the following night at eighth bells.

For two months, Kev had watched and reported. The bit of information the stable boy provided had helped Cam piece together details of the divisionists—and of what seemed clear to be an outside power behind them. Cam ducked down an alley, careful to make sure no one was 437

following him. From the trampled snow and the muddy hoof prints leading into the stable, Cam guessed it was a busy night at the inn. Moonlight filtered in to the stable through cracks in the walls, catching dust in its rays.

“Kev?” Cam hissed. He drew his sword. It wasn’t like Kev to be late.

“Kev’s right here.” A pox‐faced man easily Cam’s own size stepped from one of the empty stables. Kev was pinned in the big man’s grip, a knife against his throat.

“Let him go.”

The pox‐faced man shook his head. “Too late for that.”

Kev’s eyes grew wide, but there was no chance for him to scream. The man behind him drew his dagger across the boy’s throat in one swift movement, slitting him from ear to ear. Blood soaked Kev’s shirt and his body tumbled to the floor.

“Leave him as a warning,” the pox‐scarred man said. He looked to Cam with a cold smile. “On the other hand, you’re much too valuable a hostage to waste.”

Cam’s sword was ready as the two dozen men sprang from the shadows, swords drawn. Cam launched himself at the two men closest to him. He ran the first through with an inside thrust, and parried the second man’s charge, taking only a cut to his forearm. A third man ran at him from behind, and Cam kicked,

catching his attacker off guard and throwing him clear. He overturned a hopper of feed, filling the air with dust and momentarily blinding his attackers.

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Cam coughed and sputtered, hacking at the dark shapes as they struggled through the dust. At least three men blocked the door closest to the inn, and Cam could see another three outlined in the far doorway.

“Get him.”

Four fighters approached him from the right, and three more from the left. Cam stood his ground, heart pounding. Two swordsmen charged and Cam met their attack, holding them off although he was tiring quickly. He heard a stave whistle as it swung through the air, catching him across the small of his back. A mace jangled as it flew, and blinding pain radiated from Cam’s right leg as the heavy spiked ball connected. He fell and a boot slammed down on his right hand, breaking his grip on his sword. Another boot kicked him hard in the ribs, snapping bone. Cam struggled for breath. Two men hauled him to his feet, and a third landed a solid punch to his jaw.

Cam felt teeth loosen and his head swam.

It was over. Someone bound his wrists tightly with rough rope. One of his attackers punched him in the kidneys and Cam groaned. The silhouetted figure moved toward him.

“I expected better from the king’s champion.” He delivered a hard punch to Cam’s stomach, and Cam doubled up, retching. “You shouldn’t have come here.”

“Go to the Whore.”

Cam could see the man’s face now. While the men who attacked him might be common thugs, everything about the man’s eyes marked him as a professional.

Cam struggled to stay conscious. “Donelan won’t deal with you. Not even for me.”

The pox‐scarred man shrugged. “We’ll see.” He reached out for Cam’s left hand and noted the 439

signet he wore, the crest of the King’s Champion. “This will do nicely.” With a jerk of his head, he directed Cam’s guards to drag him over to one of the feed bins. The man forced Cam’s hand flat against the bin and drew his dagger, slicing off his ring finger. “Now, Donelan will know that we’re serious.” He took a kerchief from his pocket and wrapped the severed finger with the ring in the piece of cloth and handed it to one of his men. “Leave this near the guard house where it’ll be found. Mind that you’re not seen. It should be enough to begin a conversation.”

He turned his attention back to Cam. “I think our luck just turned. And so did yours.”

Fading in and out of consciousness, Cam tried to count the turns and bridges as the wagon lurched along the rutted roads. Every bump jarred his broken leg, sending shooting pains from ankle to thigh. His hands were

numb from the ropes that secured his wrists. He struggled to breathe with the dust. Cam could feel the roads change as the wagon rolled from the town’s plank road onto the hard‐packed dirt of the main road, and then onto a rough farm road. Finally, the horses stopped and two men dragged him down from the wagon. .

“Damn, he’s heavy.”

“Shut up and lift.”

They dumped him on the floor and jerked off the hood. Cam blinked and coughed. They were in an old millhouse. In the shadows, he could hear rats. Cold winds blew though the rickety walls and up through the paddle‐wheel’s opening. One of the men secured Cam’s wrists to the prongs of the massive gears behind him. “He’s not going anywhere, not on that leg.”

The pox‐faced man left his conversation and walked toward Cam. “I gather you’ve been wanting to meet me. I’m Leather John.”

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“Donelan won’t pay a ransom, if that’s what you’re after. He’ll hang hostage‐takers before he’ll negotiate.”

Leather John shrugged. “Suits me. We’re not afraid. Not afraid of the King’s Champion, and not afraid of the king. All we want is an independent Isencroft.”

“You won’t get it from Curane, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Who said anything about Curane?”

“That’s who Ruggs is dealing with, isn’t it? What’d he promise you? That if you keep Isen‐croft tied up while Curane wins the throne in Margolan, he’ll send Kiara and the baby back here and everything will be wrapped up with a bow?”

“What do you know about Curane?” Leather John’s voice was dangerous.

Cam was too angry to worry. “Curane’s got Jared’s bastard son locked up in a keep on the Margolan plains. If Tris Drayke dies, that bastard becomes king of Margolan—with Curane as his regent. Jared wanted Isencroft all along. So will Curane—Isencroft and Margolan. He’s just keeping you busy until it’s too late.”

“You’re lying.”

“Why else would Curane care about your rebellion? What’s in it for him?”

“You’re lying!” Leather John’s voice rose a notch and he backhanded Cam hard enough that 441

Cam’s vision blurred.

“I’ve been to Margolan. I’ve seen what Jared’s done to it. Towns looted. Farms burned. Whole villages hanged—”

“Shut up! Shut the hell up!” Leather John tore a strip from a feedback and gagged Cam with it.

He was breathing hard and his eyes were wide. “No more lies.”

Leather John turned to his men. “Send out the raiders tonight. Burn out anyone who gets in our way. Start with the Stray Dog Inn. Let’s make sure Donelan gets our message.” Leather John raised his sword. “Isencroft independ‐”Isencroft Independent! Isencroft Independ‐He jerked Cam by the hair to look at him. “The people don’t want a joint kingdom. We don’t want Margolan taking our women, polluting the blood. Curane understands about blood. He understands. Blood tells.”

CHAPTER TWENTY‐NINE

“There’s Truly no end to the people who’ve come,” Carina exclaimed as she looked out at the courtyard of waiting patients. Old women, carried in carts or on the backs of men, women with difficult pregnancies, children with fevers, and wounds that would not heal. Despite her efforts, each new day lengthened the line of those who waited.

“They’ve come from several days’ ride,” Neirin observed. “Perhaps they fear that after the 442

wedding next week, your priorities may shift to other concerns.”

Carina smiled. “I doubt it. Jonmarc knew when he brought me here that healing was part of the bargain.” A month had passed since Winterstide, and true to his oath, Jonmarc had set a date for a ritual wedding. After the

disturbances at the holiday, Dark Haven had been quiet, falling into the slower rhythms of winter. Talk of the wedding captivated the gossips, and many of the people who came for healing wished Carina well or gave her a wedding blessing.

“It’s the first time in a hundred years that the Lord of Dark Haven has taken a bride here at the manor,” Neirin said, smiling. “Quite an honor for us. And an omen, perhaps, of brighter things to come.”

“Right now, the only omen I want is to smell lunch cooking,” Carina laughed. “It’s just mid-morning, but I’m famished!”

“I’ll have the kitchen send up something,” Neirin promised. His attention was distracted by a noise near the doorway. A young man pushed through the crowd, still brushing snow from his heavy cloak. He made a low bow when he approached Carina.

“Greetings, Lady Vahanian.”

Carina looked at the newcomer. He was slightly built, perhaps a few years younger than herself, with close‐cropped reddish‐blond hair and a patchy beard. His skin was reddened from the cold, and his cloak was wet with snow. “My name is Adon, from the village of Westormere. They sent me here to see if I could convince you to come back with me. There’s a fever taken hold, a bad one. Our hedge witches tried, but they can’t do nothing for it, and some of them took sick as well.” He dropped to one knee and bowed his head. “Please, m’lady, I know it’s a lot to ask, but I’m afraid for my village. There were three dead just this morning. There’s no one else who can 443

put it right.”

“How far away is Westormere?”

Adon raised his head. “Not a candlemark distant, m’lady.”

Carina looked at Neirin. “I could be back before sundown. If it’s plague, there’s no time to waste.”

“I’d feel better if Lord Vahanian rode with you. He’s out in the fields. Please, m’lady, wait until he gets back. Go in the morning.”

Carina looked at Adon. “How many in your village are sick?”

“Almost all, m’lady. My farm’s on the very edge, that’s why I was well enough to ride. There are about sixty people in the town, m’lady. Might be about a handful that aren’t feverish. Please, m’lady. They’ll die if you don’t come.”

Carina looked back to Neirin. “I need to go,” she said. “Please, make the people here as comfortable as you can while they wait. I’ll be back before sundown.”

“Please, Carina, you must take guards with you. Lord Jonmarc would never forgive me if I let you go without protection.”

“Fine with me—sounds like I’ll have work for them to do when we get there.”

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Less than a candlemark later, Carina, Adon, and ten of Jonmarc’s guards were on the road for Westormere. Bundled in Carina’s saddlebags were enough herbs and poultices to treat a wide range of maladies. The snow was deep as a tall man’s knees, and even on the road, it was higher than the horses’ hocks. Nothing moved in the forest except hares flushed from cover by the sound of their approach.

Though it was not quite midday, no one was about in the streets. Shops were closed and no guard met them at the village edge. Carina heard the bleating of sheep and lowing of cattle unused to remaining all day in their pens, their keepers too ill to take them afield.

“Come with me, m’lady,” Adon said, helping Carina down from her horse. “I can take you to the houses of those who are the sickest. Then we can set you up in the tavern great room, and the rest can come to you there. No one’s about, so I doubt the tavern keeper will mind.”

Carina pressed two of her guards into service carrying her saddle bags of medicines. Four went to patrol the town, and the other four remained close to Carina, walking two ahead and two behind. In this small village, Carina felt embarrassed by the guards’ presence, but she knew Jonmarc would angry if she were to go without protection. He would be upset enough when he learned about the trip, she thought resignedly.

Adon knocked at the front door of the first house, a wattle and daub home next to the bakery. A faint groan answered them as they pushed the door open. It was cold inside. The fire had died down to embers, and Carina sent a guard to fetch wood and build up the fire once more. Adon helped her light the only two lamps in the building, and Carina sent another guard in search of lanterns. Huddled in bed were a woman and her two children.

“I’m a healer,” Carina said with a smile, hoping to win the woman’s trust. “I’m here to help.”

The woman and her children were hot with fever, their skin flushed, and their hair matted with 445

sweat.

“It’s grippe,” Carina said, leaning back once her examination was complete. “Worse than what I’ve seen up at the manor, but I can help.” She beckoned for Adon. “I can’t do this alone. For this much healing, I’ll need to draw energy from other people. It doesn’t hurt and it won’t harm you—you’ll be a little tired, that’s all. Will you permit me to draw from you?”