The Hollow Crown: A Novel of Crosspointe (14 page)

Keros smiled with real humor. “Margaret is breaking with her family to help Weverton. Her brothers will likely drown her when they discover what she’s done.”

She shrugged. “It costs me little to help him and I do not mind making trouble for the regent. He and his wife are gutterscum.”

“On that, at least, you and I agree,” Keros said.

Prickly silence fell between them. He was spinning from seeing her alive, and
here
. His mind drifted unwillingly to that brilliant day when they went off to swim at the river. The insects had been buzzing, and her hand had been warm in his. They were young, and so ready for each other. They had kissed and he had run his fingers over her skin, so hot it was almost feverish. They made love for the first time, there in the grass—swift and desperate at first; the second time slower and more gentle. He still remembered the soft sweep of her tongue on his, the sweet and salty taste of her skin, and the soft, urgent cries they’d both made.

The memory was a knife in his chest. He savagely thrust it from his mind. And not just that one, but all the memories of his life in Etelvayn, from the sound of his mother’s voice to the laughter around the dinner table. He wanted none of it.

He intended to stay awake, but found himself dozing despite himself. His battle in the Riddles had taken far more out of him than he liked. He felt the
presence
in his mind. It was coiled and quiet now, but he felt it watching, waiting. For what? For him to use his majick? That would be soon enough.

He woke again when the hack stopped. He blinked groggily. Ellyn was watching him, her face expressionless. He sat up and reached for the handle and stumbled down the steps. The rain was falling heavily. A stream ran down the middle of the street and puddles abounded. Keros didn’t bother to offer Ellyn his hand. He turned to pay the driver and then wordlessly started away. He wound a circuitous route to the safe house. They were followed a short way by two women with sagging, withered bodies sporting bruises on their faces. Keros turned and glared at them and then walked on. They didn’t follow farther.

The two majicars slipped inside the safe house without any more adventures. As he keyed the wards, Keros half expected that the thing in his mind would rouse, but it remained quiescent. The entrance opened sluggishly and closed more so. He shook his head. What was happening to the majick?

He circled the horses, who nickered and scraped their hooves on the courtyard pavement. It wasn’t that he didn’t know how to ride. In fact he’d started riding when he was but three seasons old, sitting in front of his father, brother, or mother; later he had his own pony, followed by a spirited horse. But horses belonged to his old life and the boy he used to be. Now he wanted nothing to do with them.

“You told them you couldn’t ride,” Ellyn observed as she followed him inside.

“I haven’t since—” He resisted the urge to spit. “I don’t anymore. I doubt I remember.”

“It isn’t something you forget.”

“I can try,” he said and stirred the fire before putting more tea on. He rifled through the shelves for something to eat. He wasn’t that hungry, but he needed to be busy. He put on some rice and stirred in dried apricots, raisins, cinnamon, salt, pepper, and a pinch of shifta grown in Beynto dal Corus for a little heat. He stirred it as it began to boil, aware of Ellyn wandering aimlessly about.

“How strong are you?” she asked suddenly. “Are you a master?”

“How can I be? I’m not in the guild,” he said. “Only the Majicar Guild can name you a master in Crosspointe.”

She snorted at his prevarication. “If you were?”

He blew out a breath. What did it matter? “Then I’d be a master.” He looked at her, brows raised “You?”

She shook her head, chin raised, eyes snapping. “I’m a journeyman. There are few master majicars in Azaire.” It was an accusation.

“That’s because you are too far from the sea,” he said. “
Sylveth
is what gave you your majick and it’s what feeds it. Why do you think the Kalpestrine was outside the Pale?”

“I am no stronger here than I was in Azaire.”

“Then maybe you were a meant to be a journeyman.”

“You should come home. Azaire needs you.”

He gave a sharp shake of his head. “No. It is not my home. I never lived there. I was born in the
sylveth
and Azaire means nothing to me.”

When the rice was done, he spooned it into two bowls. Ellyn took hers and sat as far as she could get from him.

“This is good.”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” he said dryly.

“I never thought I would ever see you cook anything,” she said.

“I enjoy it and I don’t have servants. Either I feed myself or I starve. It seemed wise to learn to cook something edible.” He smiled, happy enough to talk about something harmless. “It has come in handy. For many seasons I served aboard ship. I healed those who needed it and in return, they kept my secret. During the second season, the ship’s cook went overboard in a storm. I volunteered to man the galley and they were pleasantly surprised to find me capable. I remained their cook until—”

“Until?” she prompted.

“Until recently. When I got involved with the Ramplings.”

“How did that happen?”

He shook his head. “Not a story for Azaire, I think. But you may ask Margaret if you like.”

His words shut the door on any more conversation. They each finished eating and drank their tea. Margaret and Weverton had still not returned and Keros went to lie on one of the bunks in the other room. He had a feeling there would be little enough opportunity to sleep in the next few days and felt heavy with exhaustion.

A hand on his shoulder woke him. He sat up groggily.

“Time to go,” Margaret said. Her voice dropped and she sat beside him. Her hair was wet and her cheeks were flushed. She reached up and brushed his unruly hair away from his eyes. “Are you all right?”

He wanted to dismiss the question with a casual affirmative, but it was pointless. As little time as they’d known each other, she understood him. They were very much alike. “I’ll survive,” he said finally.

The corner of her mouth rose in a wry smile. “There’s something to be said for celibacy. No nasty surprises turning up later.”

He chuckled. “There’s something to be said for a willing woman and a warm bed, also.”

“True. But it’s risky.”

He sobered and glanced through the doorway. Weverton was watching them. He was scowling.

“I don’t think your friend likes you sitting on my bed with me,” he murmured.

“My friend?” She glanced behind and then back at Keros, disbelief coloring her voice. “You are maggot-brained.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I do. Come on. We’ve a long way to go.”

She stood and Keros followed her out, aware of Weverton’s brooding gaze. Keros suppressed the urge to laugh. Nicholas Weverton had his prick in a knot over Margaret Rampling. The gods were laughing.

Outside the horses were already saddled and loaded with fat packs and rolled blankets inside oilskin sheets. Weverton went to his bay and mounted, reaching out an imperious hand to Margaret. She eyed it a moment, then took his hand and leaped up behind him.

“I guess that leaves us,” Keros said without looking at Ellyn. “Front or back.”

“I’m the one who knows how to ride,” she said sardonically, and swung up on the gray. She dropped her foot out of the stirrup and Keros put his toe in and pulled himself up behind. He settled his hands on the cantle. He was reluctant to touch her. He didn’t let himself think about why.

Weverton wheeled the bay and Margaret opened the ward. This time the gate didn’t open fully, though there was room enough to squeeze through. As he closed the ward, Keros boosted it with his own majick. It shut quickly and the thing in his mind twitched and settled.

They trotted out into the alley and broke into a canter. The rain was still falling heavily, enough to cover the noise of their passing. They left the Riddles and passed through Cranford. Before long Keros felt his legs start to ache as he clamped his thighs tightly. Ellyn was right—his body remembered how to ride. He felt tears burn in his eyes as he squeezed them shut. The memories didn’t want to stop with riding, but fled to the stables and racing out along the flats and from there moved to faces and sounds. He choked on a sob, his fingers clawing into the leather.

The next turns of the glass were an agonizing journey through the memories of his childhood. Every one was drenched in the horror of that day when the Gerent’s soldiers had come, of watching them march the villagers into the sea in groups of ten, and the carnage as the spawn came wriggling and crawling out of the waves, only to be hacked to pieces. But the soldiers did not stop their dreadful project and slowly the villagers were decimated.

How many more villages had vanished the same way? How many majicars had the Gerent required before he stopped
? The thoughts made Keros want to puke. But, no. He caught himself in a hard grip. No. It was an old story and old pain. It no longer belonged to him. It belonged to the middle son of Ryerdal of Etelvayn who had died some fourteen seasons ago. Keros was a different man—not really a man at all. He was spawn.

He released the memories and the unbearable pain, letting them wash away with the sheeting rain, and relaxed into the rhythm of the horse.

The spare mare was tied beneath a traveler pine. She was a red chestnut with white socks. She whinnied ringingly as they approached. They all dismounted and Weverton set about saddling her. He spoke softly and rubbed her down with a rag before unrolling her saddle from its oilskin sheet. Within a few minutes she was tacked up and ready to go. Weverton handed the reins to Keros.

“I can put a lead line on her if you need it,” he said coolly.

“I’ll manage,” Keros said.

“Where are we going?” Ellyn asked.

“South of Lake Ferradon. We’ll follow the river to the lake.”

There was nothing else to say. They mounted, Margaret behind Weverton again and Keros and Ellyn riding separately. They turned south, tracing their way around the outside of Cranford at a trot. The rain lightened and turned back into a drizzle. Weverton looked over his shoulder at Keros.

“You learned to ride quickly,” he observed. “It’s quite impressive for a man who’s never sat a horse before.”

“Perhaps I underestimated my abilities.”

“Or maybe you lied.”

Keros smiled. “That’s a possibility too.”

Margaret looked at him, her face hidden from Weverton. She grinned and winked. Keros felt himself grin back and his chest swelled. He did have a place here in Crosspointe—a home.

They rode until darkness fell. The rain quit at the same time. They found a clearing near the river and set up camp. They collected a pile of wet wood and built a fire pit. Keros lit it with a spark of majick and soon the flames were roaring merrily. They tended the horses, rubbing them down and cleaning their hooves before giving them each a bait of grain. Margaret and Keros dug in the packs, bringing out vegetables, cheese, bread, and potatoes. Keros put the vegetables and potatoes into a pot of water and set them to boil. In the meantime, Weverton and Ellyn strung a thin line between two trees and hung the coats and cloaks to dry.

They spoke little. Keros was too tired and his body ached. Ellyn watched everyone with a sharp gaze, and Weverton brooded, staring down at his linked hands as he sat by the fire. Margaret paced circles around the clearing. After a few minutes, she wandered away into the trees, heading for the river. Keros followed her.

“Am I insane?” she asked as he came abreast of her. “To think that helping Weverton could make him a Rampling ally?”

“He is at least the enemy of your enemy,” Keros said. “That makes him your friend.”

“Still, I’ve risked a lot that isn’t mine to risk. Ellyn is a majicar and a spy from Azaire. Nicholas is—” She shook her head. “Ryland is going to slit my throat. I walked Nicholas into a safe house and I told him what you are. I told him what
I
am. He will not hesitate to use any of this against me—against the Crown. I am a fool.”

“Surely not. He will owe you for your help, and he does not take such debts lightly.”

“He is a pragmatic man and will not hesitate to do whatever he thinks necessary to further his goals.”

“And if I promise I will keep your secrets?”

Margaret and Keros both started, turning around. Weverton stood behind them, leaning a shoulder against a willow tree.

“I wouldn’t believe you, even if I wanted to. I may be helping you rescue your son, but I have not forgotten who you are and what you’ve done.” She shook her head. “This is pointless.”

She stalked forward, heading back to the camp. Nicholas straightened and his hand flashed out as he gripped her arm. She stopped, glaring at him.

“This isn’t settled,” he said softly.

She tipped her head. “Is that a threat?”

He shook his head. “It’s a promise. You have risked a lot—sacrificed a lot—for me and my son. I will not let it hurt you.”

She smiled and it was as bitter as lye. “That’s what sacrifice is: you suffer so someone else doesn’t have to. You can’t stop the consequences. No one can. Even if my brothers forgive me, they will never trust me again. Keros will never be a secret from you again. And you—” She grimaced and yanked away, disappearing into the trees without another word.

Keros met Weverton’s gaze. “You want her.” It wasn’t quite a question. The other man tipped his head slightly as if in agreement. “Why?”

For a moment he thought Weverton would not answer. Then, “She’s . . . remarkable.” There was a lot of meaning in that word.

“You have hundreds of women begging to climb in your bed. Pick one of them—pick all of them—just leave her alone. She’s not for you.”

Weverton laughed, a harsh bark. “You sound like a jealous lover.”