Lord of the Rose (34 page)

She circled around the silent, fuming Powell in the firelit clearing. In truth, Selinda wasn’t certain why she thought an immediate execution was such a bad idea. When she thought of Dara Lorimar, bleeding to death beside her father’s savagely battered corpse, her hands clenched and bitter tears came to her eyes.

It was true that this man, Jaymes Markham, had borne the dead man’s sword away from his ruined mansion.

She looked at Sir Powell, who, though he glared at her, had apparently exhausted his arsenal of opposition. Indeed, the veteran officer looked old, weary, dejected. Selinda felt sorry for him.

He straightened to full attention as she resumed the argument, his demeanor frosty but obviously, now, resigned.

“Don’t you wonder
why
the Lorimars were killed?” she asked.

“Yes. Yes, I often think about it,” Powell admitted. “But what makes you think this villain is capable of telling the truth?”

“At least in Palanthas he can be questioned by all the experts in my father’s realm! Clerics and mages can query him, and maybe their unique skills will ferret out the truth!”

“That may be so, but the danger! The chance of escape, or rescue. Remember, he has three accomplices still at large, need I remind you? There are too many risks involved—”

“Oh, come on, Uncle Siggy,” she said, employing the pet name she had lavished on him when, as a little girl, she had bounced on Sir Sigmund Powell’s knee. “Do you think a dwarf and two gnomes are a threat to a hundred worthy knights?”

She sighed, put her hands on his arms, felt the strength there and the loyalty for which she loved him. “I know you only have
my best interests at heart, and I don’t mean to cause you any more grief.” She raised her hands to his shoulders, squeezing. “Really!”

His posture remained rigid, but she saw the gradual softening in his eyes. Slowly, he relaxed, finally raising one of his hands to cover her own. “The man is a villain! A treacherous assassin, and who knows what else he has done as an outlaw?” he said. “If he should bring any harm to you—”

“He won’t,” Selinda said firmly. She smiled slyly. “Just think, if we had returned to Palanthas by sea, as you had planned, we never would have found him. You should be congratulating me for bringing us this way, allowing you to capture the most celebrated fugitive in all Solamnia! The least you can do is obey my wishes in this one simple matter.”

“Ah, my lady. As ever, I obey you. But this matter is far from simple. I remind you again: What if he should escape?”

“That is something, dear Uncle Siggy, I shall count on you to prevent!”

Jaymes felt the rough bark of the apple tree chafing against his back. His arms were shackled behind him and around the trunk of the tree, so there was little he could do to ease the pain. When he twisted his head, he could see the big fire, glowing between a ring of trees, and he sensed that the princess was over there, talking about him with the leader of the knights. The knights had found the sword, Giantsmiter, and of course they had taken away his crossbow and dagger. His magic ring, a gift from Coryn, remained on his middle finger of his right hand, all but useless behind his back.

It didn’t take any great stretch of imagination to realize that Princess Selinda had played him for a fool, lulling him into a sense of security before springing her trap. Why had he listened to her? If he had simply knocked her over the head, he would be far away from here by now, across the stream and safely onto the plains. Instead, he had followed her like a bumbling puppy.

How Jaymes had underestimated the princess—to think he had been so busy admiring her courage, her cool assessment of risk and danger, when all the while she had been playing a game, pulling him around like a pet with a ring through its nose.

Still, regrets were a waste of time. What was done was done. He wondered about Dram and the two gnomes—there was no sign of them. They must have escaped in the confusion. The loyal dwarf, no doubt, would remain nearby for a while, looking for an opportunity to stage a rescue. Jaymes shifted, counting ten knights within sight of where he was sitting. Half were watching him. The rest were staring into the surrounding darkness. A whole regiment of dwarves couldn’t rescue him under the circumstances. Far better to hope that Dram, Carbo, and Sulfie were far away and safe.

He heard a stirring among the guards, saw several of them straightening to attention as someone approached.

“My lady!” one protested. “You should not come near the villain!”

“Nonsense.” He recognized Lady Selinda’s curt, confident voice. “He is well restrained, I’m sure.”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Then I am perfectly safe, Wendell. Of course, you may keep an eye on us, but please do so from over there. I would like a few words with the prisoner, in private.”

“But—my lady!”

“In
private
, Wendell.” Her tone was gentle but steely at the same time.

The knight called Wendell stalked over to Jaymes and glared daggers at him. “Not a hint of any threat to the lady—not a gesture, the merest expression, of disrespect—do you understand? Or I will be only to happy to cut out your black heart and feed it to the crows!”

Jaymes met the knight’s murderous stare but made no reply. Wendell’s hands twitched, and he looked ready to deliver a sharp kick with his iron-shod boot. Instead his face contorted, and he spun about, taking a dozen steps away. He stood there at attention,
his eyes fastened on the prisoner with furious intensity.

Selinda came over and sat on a stump of wood. She wore a sturdy leather skirt split up the middle, with woolen leggings and an unadorned shirt. Her blonde hair was looped into a ponytail behind her. She sat easily, leaning her elbows on her knees as she studied Jaymes. She had a curious expression in her eyes—amusement, mingled with wariness and contempt—and her slender fingers interlocked as she joined her hands before her.

“I told you Dara Lorimar was my friend,” she said quietly. “Her father was like an uncle to me. If you killed them, you will suffer their fate. How did they die? Did they suffer?”

Jaymes winced, looking away. He drew a breath, felt her eyes boring into the side of his head. “Tell me the truth now. Do you know how they died?”

“She died with a sword in her hand,” he said, finally. “I think the first blow killed her—she did not suffer long in any event. The lord … it was worse for him. His leg was broken, he was bleeding from several stabs. In the end it was the fire that killed him.”

He looked, saw that her eyes were shining, wet with tears that did not spill onto her cheeks. Her fingers were taut, the knuckles white. “And the Sword of Lorimar? How came you to bear it?”

Jaymes met her look. “He dropped it when he fell. It was too valuable to consign to the flames, so I took it away,” he answered.

“Thank you for your honesty,” she said, her voice hoarse, and, for the first time, absent its usual quality of confidence and command.

“Why do you pick at these scars?” he asked.

She snorted. “These are things I want to know. I have
many
questions,” she added, noncommittally. “After they execute you, I fear it will be too late to find out some of the answers.”

“Are they going to kill me this very night?” he asked, trying to keep his voice level, uncertain he wanted to know the answer.

“Captain Powell wanted to get on with it, yes, but I have
persuaded him to wait until you can be taken to Palanthas for a proper trial.” She stood up now, and there was no sense of hesitation, regret, or amusement as she stared down at him. Her eyes might have been fire, but her voice was ice. “When the high court finds you guilty—
then
I will be ready to watch you die.”

Dram Feldspar’s belly was wet, but he dared not raise himself out of the muck. He glared over at Carbo and Sulfie, but the two gnomes needed no warning—they, too, had flattened themselves along the stream bank, all but buried in the mud, concealed by a dense clump of cat-tailed reeds as the file of knights rode past.

The three of them had spent a cold night here, a mile or more from the grove where they had initially made such a pleasant camp. Dram had seen the knight’s captain as he found Jaymes’ sword. The officer had called out an alarm, summoning his men, sending them toward the abandoned house where the dwarf was certain that his companion was hiding. All of the captain’s attention was focused on that ruined manor.

Dram had wasted no time collecting the two gnomes, snatching up a few possessions easy to grab—including the bag of sulfir Sulfie had been carrying—and slipping past the sentries.

The dwarf and the two gnomes had been able to crawl away from the grove unseen, into the muddy stream. They crawled some distance away from the Solamnic camp. Late at night they heard some commotion, and Dram had inched back close enough to overhear the conversation between a couple of guards. They referred to “the prisoner,” and the dwarf knew his old friend was doomed.

Just an hour past dawn, a few scouts had emerged from the apple grove, cantering northward, splashing through the stream a hundred paces from where the three of them were dug in. Shortly thereafter, the rest of the company rode by, several outriders flanking either side of the main body. Dram and his companions burrowed into the reeds as one of the outriders came dangerously close.

At last the dwarf dared to raise his head, watching the troops pass. He spotted Jaymes, the warrior’s hands shackled to a saddle, another set of chains linking his ankles under the belly of a steed. He rode in the middle of a dozen knights, every one riding with one hand on the hilt of his weapon, one eye on the prisoner.

A moment later the dwarf spotted someone else who stood out from the bulk of stern knights. This person was indisputably a female, a woman who rode astride her horse, not sidesaddle, her posture every bit as proud and capable as any knight. Her golden hair streamed in a plume behind her head as she dug her spurs into her horse, joining the pace of the swiftly cantering knights.

All rode through the stream without breaking stride, the horses surging up the far bank, thundering onto the plains, heading north. In a few minutes they had vanished from sight, but Dram gestured to the gnomes to stay put. Sure enough, the last scouts emerged from the grove some ten minutes after the main body had departed, spreading out, riding watchfully behind.

Once again the three squeezed down amidst the reeds as the last knights passed. The leather-clad scouts on their light horses headed north in the wake of the column, eyes roving from side to side. It seemed to take forever before they dwindled to specks.

Only then did Dram struggle to his feet, muttering and cursing as he tried to wipe the stinking mud off his tunic. He settled for rinsing most of it from his beard. Finally, with the two miserable, complaining gnomes in tow, he too started northward, following the easily distinguishable spoor of the knightly column.