Rebel's Cage (Book 4) (40 page)

‘Oh?’ Godfrey’s interest shone bright in his gaze, though his tone was light, casual, giving nothing away to those who could hear them. ‘I wish him luck. I will pray for him.’

Andrew did his best to show something in his expression that would let Godfrey know that John was heading for Flan’har, hoping to find Bishop McCauly. After a moment, Godfrey nodded slowly, his smile deepening, and Andrew knew he’d succeeded.

‘How are your Aunt and Uncle?’

‘Very well, thank you.’

‘Will we see them at court this spring?’

‘I believe they intend to visit, yes.’ Andrew’s voice dropped a little. ‘How is Brome? I’ve heard so many conflicting reports.’

Godfrey said, ‘I’m not a doctor, I can’t really tell you much, except that he’s not getting better.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

‘I know, my son. Still, you should—’ Godfrey broke off, his gaze shifting to somewhere behind Andrew. ‘Good morning, my lord Proctor.’

Andrew turned, his smile fixed in place. ‘My lord.’

Osbert gazed down at him and bowed properly. ‘Your Grace. Caslemas greetings to you and your family.’

‘Thank you.’ Andrew knew he should stay and ask questions, learn about the laws and about other things the Guilde were doing, but there was something far too forbidding in the Proctor’s gaze. ‘If you will excuse me, my lord, Archdeacon. The King is expecting me.’

He knew Godfrey saw the lie, but didn’t care. There were better things he could do with his time today, and he wanted to be about them. He gave both men a smile, then headed for the first row of hawkers’ stands, his nose already twitching with the enticing scents.

*

‘He doesn’t like me, does he?’

Godfrey stared at Osbert, surprised at the admission, and that Andrew’s likes and dislikes should matter to Osbert at all. ‘I don’t know whether he likes you or not. He’s never said.’

‘He made a quick exit. And see, he’s nowhere near Kenrick. Maybe that’s the problem, he’s in too close with the King. Still,’ Osbert paused, still frowning in the direction the boy had vanished, ‘he just doesn’t seem to be the type to fit well with Kenrick.’

‘You mean he’s neither stupid nor apathetic?’

Osbert grunted a laugh, the first Godfrey had seen from him in a long time. The Proctor let out a long sigh. ‘I need to speak with you. Alone.’

‘Now?’

‘Yes, now.’

*

Vague noises echoed against the walls of the vestry, seeping through the stone from the crowds outside. Despite the weather, Caslemas had always been Godfrey’s favourite time of the year, and being able to celebrate mass without Brome along to spoil it only made it more enjoyable. He felt warmed and refreshed, ready to face whatever the new year might have waiting for him. Almost.

He locked the door before making his way to the robing table. Osbert watched him, his recent smile far from his current expression.

‘What’s wrong?’ Godfrey carefully removed the silver stole from around his neck, giving it a ritual kiss before placing it on the table.

‘When you gave Kenrick a copy of the new Church laws, what did he say?’

‘Very little. Why?’

‘I don’t know. He’s been different since he got back. Haven’t you noticed?’

‘I haven’t seen that much of him.’ Godfrey lifted the embroidered surplice from his shoulders and laid it beside the stole.

Osbert remained silent as he did so, then he spoke again, his
voice both harsh and hesitant. ‘I need you to listen to this as a confession.’

Godfrey stopped, eyes wide. ‘Confession? Why, you haven’t made confession since …’ And the last time he’d had such a request, it had come from DeMassey.

‘No – I don’t have a confession to make – well, I probably do, but this isn’t about that. I just need to have your most solemn vow that you will never repeat this to anyone. If you do … by the gods, if you do, I am a dead man for certain.’

Godfrey looked up into hollow eyes reflecting a ghostly light. ‘Of course. Whatever you wish.’

Osbert seemed unable to release the tension lying in his chest. His fingers touched the edge of the table, tapping lightly. ‘In a few minutes, I … Kenrick is expecting me. Expecting me to give him something. A … a translation. I have no idea where he got the original scraps of text but they’re ancient and I …’

Moving carefully, Godfrey reached out and placed his hand on the Proctor’s arm. Rarely had he seen the man this agitated.

Osbert took the gesture of reassurance and continued, ‘I think he stole it from Nash. I don’t think Kenrick – or indeed, any of us – are supposed to know anything about it.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because the translation is … is a prophecy of some kind. It’s filled with terms I can’t begin to understand, but it warns of the most terrible consequences if somebody called the …’ Osbert swallowed and continued, ‘the Angel of Darkness is allowed to triumph.’

Godfrey’s hand dropped as shock flashed through his body. Too many things began to make too much sense. All his previous contentment dried up as the awful truth soaked into him. ‘Angel of Darkness? A … Dark Angel? Sweet Mineah!’

He turned away, his thoughts reeling, but Osbert hadn’t finished.

‘I did the best translation I could, but there are still things I can’t make out. However, I have prepared a lesser version to
give to Kenrick. I have no idea what he intends to do with it, but I can’t imagine his knowing the truth would be a good thing, do you? Or do you think I should give him everything I have?’

For twenty, perhaps thirty years the Hermit of Shan Moss, and a dozen other lesser prophets, had been foretelling of a dark angel who would come to Lusara and tear the Church in two, along with warnings that Mineah would once again take on human form and help fight the war against sorcery. But how much of that was real and how much interpretation had always been impossible to tell.

But Nash knew. He’d always known.

‘Godfrey?’

His hands clenched against the fear he could no longer deny, he said, ‘Give Kenrick as little as you can get away with. If he’s sworn you to such secrecy, the chances are he won’t risk giving it to someone else to get a better translation. Besides, there are few men outside the Guilde who would have either the knowledge or the resources to do it. I doubt Kenrick can do anything terrible with such a prophecy anyway – but let’s not take that chance. After that …’

‘What?’

Godfrey lifted his chin, taking a chance of his own. ‘You have to pass the information on to … Robert Douglas.’

There was little change in Osbert’s expression. He just looked away, pale light from the misty windows bleaching colour from his face. ‘That’s your solution, is it?’

‘Solution? I don’t have one, Osbert! Why do you keep thinking I have?’ Godfrey strode forward, grabbing the man’s arm again. ‘This is something beyond you and I. We neither have the power nor the forces to battle this – but
he
does. You have to give him every ounce of ammunition you can or you hinder his ability to win.’

‘And if he does?’ Osbert hissed. ‘Will we be any better off than we are now?’

‘Could we be worse off?’

‘Oh, yes, I assure you we could.’ Osbert pulled away, pacing up and down. ‘You don’t know Nash like I do. The things he’s
said, the things he’s done – you have no real idea what you’re talking about. No, I can’t …’ He stopped, his chest working hard, his back to Godfrey as though he were afraid of what he would see. ‘You could be right – but if you’re not, if Vaughn was right and Robert and Nash are in league together, then—’

‘They’re not in league, I promise you!’

Osbert did turn then, his eyes full of sadness. He made no attempt to question how Godfrey knew so much about Robert. Instead, he said, ‘They’re both sorcerers, Godfrey. It goes against everything I’ve been taught. I just can’t … trust, the way you do. I don’t have that kind of faith. I’m sorry.’

With that, he unlocked the door. Seconds later, there was nothing left of him but the sounds of his footsteps on the stone floor beyond.

*

Another clash of steel had the crowd cheering. Another grunt had the crowd silenced in anticipation. Another scuffle of sawdust against stone had them hissing with mass empathy. The audience moved in a single action, one goal, one emotion along a single line.

Kenrick stood on his balcony, bare hands pressed against the stone balustrade, and looked down. Brilliant torches circled the courtyard, flashing yellow against the dark walls, making faces detached and iridescent in the night. The fight continued below, two master swordsmen from Sadlan in the north, their curved blades and bright clothing sufficiently exotic to cause more than a ripple of interest. They circled one another, each carrying his own minor wounds. Kenrick had wanted a fight to the death, but the Church had frowned upon such a means to celebrate the goddess Mineah.

Another cry from the crowd set his head aching again. His friends, or rather, those young men who attended him out of either fear or greed, lounged at tables and in chairs along the width of the balcony, either watching the fight or drinking or playing some game or other.

Why did he bother with them?

His skin itched. It burned over the place under his shirt
where he’d put Osbert’s translation. He’d had only enough time to read it once before having to put it away, out of sight of these listless fellows.

A prophecy. Secrets Nash had been keeping from him. Something called the Key. Others called the Enemy and the Ally. A history going back perhaps a thousand years or more, Osbert had said. But there were things missing, words Osbert had been unable to trace, meanings he would only be guessing at. No amount of pressing had made him commit further, so Kenrick could only assume he was telling the truth – Osbert was a notorious coward.

He needed to
do
something. Merely knowing Nash had a plan and goals that did not include him was one thing. But did he want to be involved? Did he want to stop Nash getting what he wanted? Was it worth trying to take the prize from him at the end, whatever it was?

And if he didn’t, if he did nothing at all, if he let Nash have his head, go on and achieve whatever it was he believed was his destiny, then where would that leave Kenrick?

Alive or dead?

‘Sire?’

The quiet voice came from his left, away from the others. He looked up to find a cup of something held out to him, offered by his cousin. ‘What’s that?’

‘Honey mead. Your head aches, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well,’ Andrew shrugged, ‘my aunt tells me this works wonders for an aching head. She made me try it last year when I fell from my horse and hit that tree, you remember?’

‘The way I remember it,’ Kenrick added, taking the cup, ‘you hit the tree and then landed in a bog.’

Andrew’s eyes drifted innocently away. ‘Er, yes, that might have been the same occasion. I can promise you that the mead did me no harm. Aunt Bella says it’s easier on the body than ale or wine.’

When another shout from below hit Kenrick hard, he took two swift mouthfuls of the stuff, surprised to find it nowhere near as sweet as he’d been expecting, and tasting faintly of
lemons. Frowning in puzzlement, he drained the cup and looked back at Andrew. ‘What’s in it?’

‘You like it?’

‘I’ve tasted medicines much worse.’ Kenrick handed the cup back. ‘Tell your aunt to be careful. She should remember that it’s against Guilde law to go about practising the healing arts.’

‘Oh,’ Andrew rushed to clarify, ‘this is no healing remedy. It works the way warm milk does, when you can’t sleep.’

‘Warm milk?’ Kenrick could only laugh. Though his cousin had spent half his childhood here, at court, the other half was filled with the pleasantries of country life and a gentleness that Kenrick could barely imagine. He wandered around behind a veil of naïve innocence, emerging with this friendly smile and solicitude for those in need. An odd combination for anyone in this dangerous world. Occasionally, Kenrick was tempted to wipe that genial smile from the boy’s face, awaken him to the harsh reality of life, but those thoughts never lingered long. ‘Warm milk is for old men and babies.’

Andrew wasn’t offended. He was never offended by anything. He just shrugged, his gaze drifting down to the crowd below. Musicians played on the other side of the courtyard while outside the castle gates were tumblers and jugglers and many other festivities.

Kenrick wished they would all just go away.

‘How is your head now, Sire?’

With a frown, Kenrick turned back to him. The pain, to his surprise, had, almost gone completely. ‘Are you sure there is no medicine in that?’

‘None at all, Sire.’ Andrew was grinning, looking a little smug, and despite his mood, Kenrick couldn’t quite bring himself to say anything to dispel it. At least somebody was enjoying themselves tonight.

With another roar, the crowd announced the end of one fight and the beginning of another.

‘Is it something you can talk about?’

‘No,’ Kenrick shook his head. ‘Not this time. I told you not to ask, didn’t I? That I would talk if I needed to?’

‘Of course, Sire. I’m sorry.’

‘Damn it, Andrew!’ Kenrick straightened up, but Andrew had already backed away, just one step, but it was enough to make Kenrick pause.

His whole court, in fact, the entire country was afraid of him. All except this boy, his cousin. His father’s cousin’s son, to be precise, but the nearest thing to family Kenrick had left within Lusara. Until he could win Tirone over and get the Princess as his wife, Andrew would remain the only person he could place any trust in at all – however fragile. He had no faithful, Bonded Taymar at his beck and call, no powerful Malachi allied to him. Instead, he had a country which feared and despised him, courtiers who dared not disagree with him, a dying Bishop and a cowardly Proctor – and this fourteen-year-old cousin who had never done anything to hurt him and seemed to genuinely desire to help him.

He often thought he hated the loneliness more than anything else.

On any other night, he would have called for DeMassey to bring him some private entertainment, but he doubted he would enjoy it this time. He was too tired, too sick of the whole silly game – and his flesh burned with the need to make some sort of decision about the prophecy.