Rebel's Cage (Book 4) (42 page)

He didn’t have time for this – if he missed his chance this time, it could be months before another came along, and he had neither the energy nor the patience to wait again. He’d already had more than his fill of waiting.

Cold leached into him, numbing his feet, his hands, his face. The old wound at his side ached sharply. It would probably bleed again. He could numb it later with the potion, but again it would take longer to heal.

On and on he stumbled until his outstretched hand smacked
against something hard: a wooden wall. Gasping with relief, he moved along it until he found the door. He lifted the latch and dragged the horse inside.

He had no strength left with which to make a light, but his eyes adjusted quickly, once he’d scraped the ice away from his lashes. Old rotting hay was strewn in places over the hard-packed dirt floor. Up the other end, there were some chicken coops, and in the roof was a dovecote – all very empty, just as he remembered. But it
was
relatively dry, and out of the wind, for all that the walls rattled like a warning of Hell. Robert took his horse into the nearest stall, dragged the saddle from its back and picked up a fistful of hay. He rubbed the horse down as best he could, using the exercise to warm himself. He found an empty bucket, scooped some snow into it and put his hands around it. It took minutes for his powers to wake up enough to melt the snow. He drank, let the horse drink, then he curled up in a corner, wrapped in his one blanket and cloak.

He’d had many more comfortable beds in his life, but few so welcome.

*

He knew the dream moments after the agony struck. The pain, deep in his side, snatched his breath away as he struggled to chase after Nash. Every step was a battle of its own, every second of his existence another touch of war. When would it end? When would he finally stop running, stop struggling and just sink into oblivion?

He fell to his knees, hands sinking into the sodden ground of the battlefield. Behind him, a wind swept through Shan Moss, tempting him with promises impossible to keep.

‘Robert?’ A hand on his shoulder made his flesh tremble. He looked up to find Jenn kneeling beside him, her blue eyes almost violet in the odd light which washed across the empty battlefield. ‘Robert? All this pain, it’s just the demon. It’s not real. You have to believe that. You have to believe me.’

But she’d betrayed him. How could he believe her?

‘Please, Robert,’ her voice distant now, as she turned towards Nash, as the Prophecy said she would. ‘Please understand.’

Robert lurched forward, reaching out to grab something of her, but his hand touched nothing but icy stone, his knuckles grazed. He opened his eyes and sat up. Immediately the old wound yelled its complaints loud enough to make him groan.

It was still dark, but the wind had died a little. His horse seemed content, shifting slightly from one foot to the other, eyes almost closed.

Robert couldn’t go back to sleep. Instead, he reached over for his saddle-bags and pulled out the sack buried at the bottom. He weighed it between his hands, feeling its roundness, its faint warmth.

He’d resisted this moment. But that was silly. After all, if he’d not wanted to learn about the orb, why had he taken it from Kenrick – just so Kenrick wouldn’t have it?

There were side benefits to this, but there was also another driving purpose in his actions. This orb was identical to the Key, only much smaller. In what other ways was it the same?

Without thinking, he slipped the orb from the sack and placed it carefully on the floor in front of him. He crossed his legs, planted his elbows on his knees and studied it.

Only Finnlay had ever even seen one of these before, in his too-close encounter with Nash. Back in the days of the Cabal, they’d been common, but the knowledge of their purpose and uses had been lost, along with a lot of other sorcerer heritage.

Robert reached out and picked it up. The surface was hard, with a texture that felt both smooth and rough at the same time. His fingers skimmed over it, feeling for indentations and scars, any indication that it could be opened. It appeared to be made of stone, but it also glistened a little, as though moistened by dew.

Was that how the Cabal had made the Key, five hundred years ago? They’d simply put together an orb, ten times the size of this one, and placed within it all the things they’d needed kept safe? Or was the Key, like this orb, capable of much, much more than that?

Nash used these orbs to collect blood he later used to heal his wounds and regenerate himself. Somehow a sorcerer’s blood could be absorbed into the stone and the power used to
heal in a way that nothing else could. So was it Nash’s own powers that made it happen, or something about the orb itself?

Kenrick had been about to use it, probably to heal those scars on his face. Old scars, so he’d only just got the orb. So Nash had given it to him. And Nash hadn’t been around.

So the power was
in
the orb.

Taking a deep breath, Robert closed his eyes and gingerly sent his Senses out over the intriguing surface. He had no idea what he was looking for, but it was worth a try.

For seconds, he felt nothing, and then, as though gradually awakening to his aura, the orb’s surface changed, became more open, like a sponge. Wary, Robert probed further, allowing his Senses to be absorbed into the orb.

Darkness gathered at the edges of his awareness. He might have been looking into an unlit room from a window high above, but there were subtle differences. This room had the power to suck him in. Already he could feel the pressure on his muscles, as though he would be bodily consumed. He pushed back and suddenly the thing began to heat up beneath his hands. Warmer and warmer it grew until, with a hiss, he dropped it back onto the floor, his eyes open, his body scrambling back out of the way.

‘Serin’s blood! It’s … alive!’

He reached out for it again, ready to fight, but the orb was cool once more. Carefully, he put it back into the sack, but as he twisted to replace it in his saddlebag, he noticed something odd. His wound no longer hurt. The constant dull ache that kept him company most days had vanished. Curious, he prodded his side with gentle fingers. Yes, it still hurt when pushed, but the ordinary pain was gone.

Shaking his head in wonder, he curled up inside his blankets again. Perhaps he would get some more sleep now.

Or perhaps he would lie awake for the rest of the night pondering this new horrifying question – why had the orb dulled his pain, when nothing but a drug could normally have that effect?

*

‘But Micah, that doesn’t make any sense!’ Andrew almost
twisted around in his saddle to pursue his point. ‘Why would he do such a thing knowing it would fail?’

‘It makes perfect sense,’ Micah kept his eyes on the road, on picking out where the snow wasn’t so deep and where the horses wouldn’t founder. ‘And failure wasn’t the issue. Simply causing doubt was enough.’

‘So Duke Robert had men hang things in Shan Moss, linen and bells and other stuff, all to make it look like the forest was haunted? Surely somebody noticed it was all faked?’

Micah couldn’t help smiling. It had certainly been an interesting idea. ‘I’m sure there were many men in Selar’s army who looked and saw nothing but the props. But there were also men who saw and believed the forest was full of sorcerers, or ghosts, or some other monster. Father Godfrey reported hundreds of men ran away that first night. Those were men who did not face the Duke’s army the next day.’

Andrew kept his silence for a while. Micah waited for the next question, the inevitable quiz every time the subject came around to Robert. But this time, there was something else beneath the surface, something prompting the interrogation which had begun almost the moment Micah had met up with him, the moment the guard had been sent back to Maitland and left them alone to travel south.

‘What is it, my lord?’ Micah asked softly. ‘Did something happen at court?’

Andrew looked up guiltily, then recovered quickly. ‘No, not really. I mean, nothing more than usual.’

‘Since you rarely speak about what is usual, I find it difficult to imagine.’

When Andrew said nothing else, Micah pressed on, needing to know for his own sake as much as the boy’s. ‘Are you having difficulty with your friends?’

A shrug was quickly followed by a dry laugh. ‘I don’t exactly have a lot of friends at court, Micah. I’m Kenrick’s cousin. My father was a man everybody in the country hated. Why would anybody want me as a friend?’

‘But you can’t help your family. Any reasonable man would know that. If they got to know you …’

He broke off. The look on Andrew’s face spoke more than any words might. It was enough to make Micah remember exactly how it had been at court with Robert and Selar, the machinations, the scheming and manoeuvring by some who would stop at nothing to gain power and influence. Proctor Vaughn had been such a one, and Robert had fallen from grace as a result.

‘Tell me something, Micah.’

He looked up, composing his expression. ‘If I can.’

‘Do you think my father was an evil man?’

For a moment, the thought almost made Micah laugh out loud, but he quelled that impulse and instead, focused on the memory of Tiege Eachern, the man who had married Jenn.

‘Well?’

Andrew was looking at him with a little fear in his eyes, and also, perhaps, a need for confirmation of something. Micah had to tread very carefully here, or he could cause some irreparable damage.

But he could also not forget that Eachern had beaten Jenn, had almost killed her with his own hands.

‘I don’t know that he was evil. I only knew the man for the months after your mother’s marriage, until you were born. I did my best to stay out of his way.’

‘He didn’t like you, did he?’

‘No.’

‘And you didn’t like him?’

Micah shook his head slowly. ‘No.’

Andrew looked away, his gaze drifting out towards the distance where the flat plains rose eventually into hills that would lead them further south.

‘I barely remember him,’ Andrew whispered eventually.

‘And that worries you?’

‘If people are going to hate me because of him, I think I should know why.’

There was something horribly sharp in Andrew’s tone, though he had spoken softly. Micah frowned, but couldn’t stop himself asking, ‘Do you remember the night your father died?’

Colour flushed his face. Andrew kept his eyes averted and said, emphatically, ‘No, Micah, I don’t.’

And there was a finality to those words that rang a deep warning in Micah, a warning he could do nothing about.

*

The first thing Robert noticed was the wind dropping. He got up from his uncomfortable bed and crossed to the barn door. Peering out, he saw the snow had stopped and a weak sun had appeared.

Quickly, he packed up his things, saddling the horse with hands still cold from the bleak night. He’d slept badly, again. He should have felt rested, but the orb – or worrying about the orb – had whispered throughout his slumber, leaving him with an urgency to be away, to hurry to make up for lost time.

Pulling the horse behind him, he pushed the door open enough to get them out into the cold air. He turned to shut it, but he was no longer alone.

‘Step away from the horse. Keep your hands where I can see them.’

A flash of movement from the corner of his eye, and the animal was taken from him. Something hard and sharp was pressed to the small of his back, encouraging him to face the wall. Brisk hands relieved him of his sword and the dagger in his boot and then he was abruptly released.

Silence followed, then, ‘You may turn.’ This voice was different to the other. Vastly different. This had the tone of absolute command to it.

Robert moved. The barn stood on the side of the ridge, sheltered from the worst weather by scraggly trees above. The slope here was gentle, covered in white, disappearing into a view below invisible in the grey mist.

To his left stood a dozen men, one of whom held his horse, another held his weapons. They watched him like he had the plague, keeping their distance. But it was the man who stood before him who commanded his full attention. The man watched him with an odd mixture of caution and interest. His robes were of the highest quality, but sombre and dull in colour. He was not especially tall, but thin, almost gaunt. Silver
hair was cropped closed to the skull above a face that might have been sixty or so years old. Scars of some childhood disease marked one side of his face, while one eye drooped a little beneath brows fine and expressive.

He looked oddly familiar.

‘I was told you might pass this way,’ the man began and the soldiers behind him shifted with unease. ‘I was also told I was a fool to expect to find you and yet, here you are. I should add,’ the man paused, turning his head slightly to indicate his men, ‘that I was also warned I would pay for this risk with my life, that even taking your sword from you would mean nothing. So tell me, will you kill me as you killed my brother?’

‘Your brother?’ Robert murmured, frowning. He hadn’t killed anyone’s brother since … ‘By the gods! Tirone!’ With that, Robert bowed deeply before the King of Mayenne, shock washing cold through his body. When he straightened up, he found the soldiers gone and Tirone studying him with genuine curiosity.

‘Forgive me, Sire,’ Robert continued, ‘I did not recognise you.’

‘Had Selar and I grown so different then?’ Tirone waved a wrinkled hand to dismiss the subject. ‘Not that it matters. As children, he was fair where I was dark, tall where I was not. I made no attempt to emulate his other attributes. I cannot say I am disappointed you failed to know me immediately.’

There was definitely a resemblance, Robert now realised, but surprise still addled his mind a little. What was Tirone doing here, in secret? Or had he come with an army at his back? Surely things hadn’t grown so bad so quickly?

‘You’re surprised to see me.’

Robert nodded, pulling his gloves from his belt. ‘Of course, Sire. Your letters never mentioned you might visit in person. And I agree with your men, you have taken a great risk coming here.’ He shoved his hands into his gloves. ‘Why did you?’