Rebel's Cage (Book 4) (26 page)

For a moment, the desire to flee almost overwhelmed him, but then, almost without his own volition, his hand turned and the door creaked open. He peered around it and found the gallery empty. Sick with relief, he slipped inside and closed the door silently behind him.

He was alone and, with relief, he released the shift. He gulped in air, letting it out steadily, trying to calm down a little. He wiped sweat out of his eyes and looked around. What was it about this place that made his skin crawl? Even without Nash in residence, there was some quality in the air that made him clench his teeth, even when he consciously tried not to.

He listened carefully for a moment, then started off towards the other end of the room.

Eight years ago, when he’d been a child, he’d been tempted enough to agree to an alliance with Nash, believing that he was clever enough and powerful enough to rid himself of Nash once he’d received the training he needed. But as a child, he hadn’t known enough to understand that Nash would
never
train him to be so strong that he could destroy his own teacher.

So he’d been forced to experiment on his own, to play with powers he knew he didn’t really understand, and the results so far had not been positive. Nash knew about the scar on his face, but not of the other scars on his body, the other … damage he’d caused in trying to heal it.

There were two doors before him. To the right was Nash’s bedroom. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.

It was too dark to see anything of use. He closed the door behind him and conjured up his own light, just enough to identify a candle standing on a table at his left. With a flick of his fingers, he brought it to life.

The room was big, wide and fit for a lord of noble birth and esteemed lineage. An enormous bed was draped in rich thick comforters; there were rugs on the floor and other furnishings of great quality. This was, undoubtedly, the bedroom of a very wealthy man. But, like everything else about Nash, it was hidden away here, out of sight, where nobody could learn anything from it and use it against him.

There were books on the desk, ancient yellow pages and worn and threaded leather bindings. Kenrick picked up one after the other, blind excitement filling him now, and flipped through each book before putting them aside. The worst part was, he didn’t really have any idea what he was looking for, or whether he would know it when he saw it. For all he knew, it
was something totally innocuous – but all that talk of the Ally and the Enemy, that had to be something written down, he was sure, and more likely than not, it would be old.

Forcing himself to slow down, he looked through the books more carefully, pausing here and there when he found a page of illumination or a note on a separate sheet. Very little made much sense to him, as most of the books were written in languages he was unfamiliar with. The candle had burned down a whole inch by the time he finished, none the wiser. There were no other notes on the desk, nothing else to look at.

Picking up the candle, he began behind the door, poking into crevices and behind pieces of furniture.

He was halfway around the room before he found a small alcove, underneath one corner of the bed, shunted into the wall as though by accident. There was nothing different about it, except that it felt a little warm compared to the rest of the wall.

Pulse rising in anticipation, he placed his hand against the stone, feeling with more than his flesh for something that might give. Abruptly, the stone shifted. It moved back, then swung inwards, leaving a hole in the wall where a leather pouch sat flat against the stone.

His heart leaped a beat, then settled down to a steady pounding. He lifted the pouch out and sat on the floor, setting the candle down by his knee.

There were five sheets of paper inside, one of which was obviously a scrap of something else, something larger. He scanned each one but could read far too little. Just the odd word here and there – until one leaped out at him.

Prophecy.

*

Taymar, the ever-present, the ever-useful, the ever-efficient, had outdone himself. By the time Nash emerged from the pool, rested, invigorated and ravenously hungry as he was at no other time, his efficient slave had organised a pavilion erected, a cot bed put together and a light meal laid out on a table under the wan stars. With his skin still tingling from the spring waters, Nash allowed himself to remember what it had felt like
to have a whole body, to have all his power at his fingertips. A pleasant memory, touched with a bitterness that ate away inside him, an acidic hatred.

It had once been so easy for him to move about, to pursue his goals, to subdue his opponents with little more than a thought’s worth of effort. Now he had to rely so heavily on Taymar, on his Bonded Malachi – and on men such as DeMassey and Gilbert Dusan, whose loyalty was always to be split between Nash and Karakham. These visits to the springs and the pale power of those sorcerers he’d bled over the last few years had served only to seal up wounds, not heal him. He needed the blood of another sorcerer to become at least able-bodied again. A strong sorcerer would return him to full power, to the point where he could face both Enemy and Ally.

And if he found the one he wanted, the one he
desired,
the one whose blood-power would sustain him forever, then …

He had so little time left. Perhaps a year, no more. The Enemy had done so much damage, and yet, so little, in comparison to what
she
had done, how she had betrayed them both.

But he would make her pay, even as he loved her, he would make her pay. He was weak, but he was not dead yet. He just needed to regenerate fully and then Robert Douglas would meet his match.

And if the Prophecy came true, if he found the one he was looking for, then he would need no more regenerations, he would find the Key, take the Ally, incinerate the Enemy and blow away his ashes in triumph.

*

Prophecy.

‘You bastard, Nash,’ Kenrick breathed into the cold air. He looked at the other pages and saw the same word on all but the scrap.

He had to find someone to read these for him, to figure a translation, but he couldn’t take them or Nash might find out and if he did, Kenrick would be dead before he even had time to think about it.

But at least he’d finally found something! And so easily, too. Just sitting there, in that little …

His heart stuck in his throat and he choked for air.

Found so easily.
Too
easily? Had Nash made things easy for him because … because there was some trap here? Or had Nash some means by which he could tell that Kenrick had been riffling through his private things …

A wave of dizziness made him stumble. He fell against the desk and tried to breathe. He felt sick, horribly sick.

Nash. Nash had done this to him, hadn’t he? Afraid Kenrick would grow stronger than he. Afraid Kenrick would take over—

His nausea eased and his dizziness faded. He straightened up a little, to find the candle burned halfway through. Beside it rested twenty books, some open, some closed, other notes and things he’d already gone through. Invaluable things he couldn’t read due to his ignorance.

He began to laugh.

No. Nash would never go to the trouble of protecting all this with subtle traps and signs to alert him of intruders, because he believed in himself too strongly. He would never believe Kenrick would have the courage to do something like this – and who else would come here, knowing this was the place to look?

The fear and its side-effects fell away from him. Quickly now, he picked up the pages and candle and returned to the desk. He drew out paper and pen, dipped it into the ink and began to copy.

By the time the candle was burning an inch from the bottom, he was finished. He left his copies on the desk to dry and put the originals back in the pouch and then into the wall. Slowly now, he checked around to make sure he had disturbed nothing else, then he gathered up his treasure, folded the sheets and slipped them inside his jacket. He put the candle back on the desk, blew the light out and set about his escape.

By the time he reached his horse, he was laughing with triumph.

*

His Malachi guards built the fire up high; Nash was in no mood to sit inside his pavilion. Nor was he, thanks to his dip in the pool, inclined to sleep. Instead he sat, a rug over his knees like the old man that he was, and listened to Taymar reading aloud the reports sent by his Bonded spies, from Mayenne, from Karakham, from Alusia and Budlandi – and, of course, from Flan’har.

Especially there. Where else would the Enemy hide?

Of course, he wasn’t dead. He had the power of the Key to keep him alive, no doubt. But still Nash puzzled over
what
Robert Douglas was doing. Nowhere in these reports was a single whisper of an army being formed, of supplies being amassed, of any other sign that full-blooded rebellion was at hand. Could it be that the Enemy had
not
yet recovered from his wounds, was, even now, in a condition similar to Nash?

A slow smile drifted across his face. He could hardly think of a more delicious punishment. All that tall, elegant warrior’s power, the stubborn good looks that would turn any head – all twisted and warped and maimed and ravaged?

He couldn’t afford to think along those lines, for he would be too disappointed to find he was wrong.

Nevertheless, the complete absence of Robert Douglas from Lusara was intriguing – and made his need to regenerate more urgent: for the longer it took the Enemy to come, the quicker that moment would arrive.

And this time, he had to be ready.
This
time, Nash would end it, once and for all.

A movement to his left and he looked up. Shapes were emerging from the darkness, shifting amongst the twisted trees, heading towards the light.

‘The Envoy, Master.’

‘So I see,’ Nash nodded. ‘Put those papers away and see if you can find another chair for him.’

*

The windswept plains of Budlandi were visible in the eyes of the man who faced him. Dark eyes, like his own, surrounded with fine white lines, of sun damage more than age. This man had travelled far. His patience, like Nash’s was unbounded. He
sat in his chair, his body arranged in lines of elegance rather than comfort. His robes of cobalt blue and ochre red were apparently unable to keep the northern winter at bay, and yet, this Envoy seemed wholly and completely at home.

Nash could only respect such discipline. It would be a challenge to Bond one such as this – and perhaps he would, one day in the future. For the moment, however, there were pressing matters of business to attend to, matters of gold and property, and funds to cover the costs of his growing operations. And matters of hidden spies.

The desire for control was a hunger never fulfilled.

He waited until wine had been poured for them, until attendants had moved back to a discreet distance. Then he asked the first, necessary question. ‘Is your Prince prepared to pay my price?’

‘He is, on the condition that you can prove the quality of the goods before he buys them. I’m sure you can understand the position he is in. This is not only a matter of security for him, but one of great pride. His ancestors will bestow divine favours upon him if he is able to restore his family to their former glory. If however, the goods are inferior – or … fake,’ a smile accompanied this, ‘then his shame will be only equalled by his anger.’

Nash matched the smile, and he took a moment watching the expression on the other man’s face as he did so. ‘I am a great believer in ancient traditions,’ he said evenly, ‘in regaining a man’s rightful possessions, in fulfilling a destiny he was born to.’

‘I rejoice to hear you say so.’

‘The gold?’

The Envoy gave no outward sign, but two of his men moved forward, carrying a chest between them. The lid was opened to reveal sacks of gold and silver. That was all the promise Nash needed. This had become so much easier than he could ever have hoped. He smiled again and turned to his right.

‘Chiel?’

The young man emerged from the shadows with barely a sound. ‘Yes, Master?’

Nash watched the Envoy, saw the eyes widen in speculation, and some degree of greed. ‘You will go with this man, do all that he says. When you arrive at your destination, you will pledge your allegiance to the Prince and give him your whole-hearted loyalty. You will perform whatever actions he deems fit and do all you can to esteem the honour of his family. Do you understand?’

Nash waited then, listening carefully for the rehearsed pause, the faint question in Chiel’s voice. ‘Master?’

Then Nash turned, giving Chiel the benefit of his full attention. These orders must be believable, or the Envoy would never convince the Prince. ‘You will do as I say. Do you understand?’

Chiel looked at Nash. ‘Yes, Master.’

Nash got to his feet, leaning on his stick. ‘Take him now, before I change my mind. Tell your Prince he has what nobody else in the world has: his own private sorcerer.’

Andrew pushed his cloak hood back and peered up at the sky. All day the clouds had tumbled together, different layers of them, gathering as though for a storm. It was entirely possible that the heavens would open before they could reach Maitland.

He risked another glance at Micah riding silently beside him. The older man didn’t look particularly perturbed, but then, he rarely did. Not only that, but he hadn’t made any measuring glances upwards, had spent no time at all turning his face into the wind and not once had he sniffed the air, all of which Andrew had done at various different points during the day. This could mean one of two things. Either Micah already knew what the weather was going to do to them, or he believed that they would reach Maitland before it could matter. Or both.

With one final look up, Andrew settled and placed all his chances on one bet, putting all his certainty into his voice. ‘Snow.’

‘Nope.’

‘Damn it, Micah,’ Andrew swore. ‘How do you do it? Are you sure? If it’s not snow, then what is it?’

Micah smiled but didn’t look at him. ‘Sleet. Later tonight.’