The King's Sons (The Herezoth Trilogy) (11 page)

There
was no mistaking the leer in Linstrom’s eyes as he gazed back at the sorceress.
The fact that she had called him Evant, and only she, all evening, was not lost
upon Vane either; to consider this Lottie caused far less pain than watching
his childhood companion. Vane inwardly blessed the stranger. She and Linstrom
must be lovers. Perhaps married?

At
that point, the woman behind Vane spoke out, stepping forward. She was the one
he’d heard laugh at Francie’s expense. She wore a plain dress, a housedress of
simple cotton, but it was clean, looked new, and accentuated her busty figure.
She had pinned her hair away from her heart-shaped face: no simple operation
with her mass of long, rust-colored curls, though the look suited her.
 
By the way she gave Lottie a good shove, Vane
guessed the two were rivals. This second woman looked older than the full-faced
blonde, but not by much, and she addressed Linstrom specifically.

“Lottie’s
a sentimental fool. The councilor’s not a child, and she sure isn’t innocent.
She took a seat on
our
council and
then lied to our faces about who she is. We should punish her for that. To lie
about her name…. I’ll cast befuddlement spells so strong the creature won’t
know her name from mine. If you think she’s panicked now….”

Lottie
fixed her rival with a cool glare. “What’s the point in that? To teach her a
lesson she’ll hold for some minutes before we end her life? Agatha….”

Agatha
rose to the challenge, straightening up, puffing out her chest. “That loathsome
cretin is Francie Rafe. She with her barely existent magic stole sorcery’s
place from the Magic Council. From history. We all deserve our shot at her, not
just Terrance! I most certainly do. I’ve spent the last three days figuring out
how to get word to three Yangerton papers
about the interview scandal. Found a couple of scribes who write for each
and who, I figure, we can bully easily enough to print the story. What makes
Terrance worthier than me to… express my displeasure with the councilor?”

At
Agatha’s words, Linstrom lashed out at his right-hand man. “She’s right, hang
you. If you’re going to drag the councilor in here, dangle her like a bone
before a pack of wild dogs, you could at least have restrained yourself. Kept
her in decent condition. Did you feed her at all today? Give her water?”

Terrance
shot, “She’d have soiled herself on the library floor. Listen, what’s done is
done,” and Lottie rolled her eyes at him. The others watched the argument with
expressions varying from interested to hostile to annoyed. A number seemed
frustrated with Terrance, including Gertrude. To Vane’s dismay, the young woman
told her cousin:

“This
fool stole your council seat. You could have left a piece of her for me. You
could have….”

Terrance
responded, “She’s alive, isn’t she?”

“Barely,”
said Gertrude. “Barely, and I don’t…. I wouldn’t want the final blow.”

Then
Lottie reclaimed the conversation. She refused to address Terrance. “That woman
has suffered enough, Evant. That’s plain to everyone. She won’t last through
more harsh treatment.”

Agatha
noted, tossing her head lightly enough to avoid disheveling her brownish-red
hair, “We could cast some healing spells.”

Lottie
argued, still speaking to Linstrom, “We aren’t torturers. If Terrance robbed
Agatha of her fun, then she can hold that against him, for he’s the guilty
party. You will kindly kill Francie Rafe, right now, or I’ll do so for you, and
I won’t be happy about it.”

Linstrom
said, “We aren’t torturers, no. I must make that plain to everyone here,” and
staring into Francie’s pained face, he muttered, “
Dwerma.
” A sleeping spell. Francie’s head rolled down against her
chest as, still bound to her pole, she fell into enchanted slumber.

 
“
Sangray
Muerr
!”

Linstrom’s
spell opened a gash on the side of Francie’s neck, though no weapon wounded
her. She bled in great spurts. Blood splattered Lottie, and the sorceress
jumped away, horrified, to clean herself with magic. Waves of crimson soaked
Francie’s arm, which her torn sleeve had exposed, and drops trickled down to
stain her chest. Agatha, who had stepped back to avoid the spray, smirked to
see Lottie aghast.

This
was Vane’s moment. So far, his plan was succeeding, though Gratton’s warnings
ran through his mind.

Your cover can’t be
blown. Linstrom won’t only slit your throat, he’ll know the king’s aware of him
and launch his assault the following hour.

 
“I’ll get rid of the corpse.”

Linstrom
narrowed his eyes at his newest accomplice, and Vane stared right back. Stares
held no danger unless the duke buckled beneath them. At eighteen, Vane had
never quailed under the Duke of Yangerton’s steady eye; he wouldn’t cower
before Linstrom either, not with ten additional years of life behind him.

“I’ll
get rid of the corpse,” Vane repeated. Blood continued to trickle down
Francie’s neck, but had lost the force to gush outward. By all appearances, the
woman was dead. “Hell, I’ll dump her before Ingleton’s front lawn. He worked
with the woman. Might even have been fond of her.”

Linstrom
would never let him do such a thing, not with Lottie listening. Not if the two
were lovers. As Rickard, Vane had to make the suggestion, and Linstrom
acknowledged his creativity with a wry smile.

“That’s
not necessary. Just dump her in a park somewhere in the capital. Someplace
she’ll be found, and found soon.”

Vane
would bring Francie to Howar’s living room, above the bakery. Partsvale was close,
much closer than Podrar, and he preferred not to move Francie a great distance.
Transporting was hard enough on someone healthy.

Rexson’s
spy sliced Francie’s bonds with an incantation, made certain he grasped her
shoe—he pressed it against her foot as he lifted her damp, limp body in
his arms—and he transported after telling Linstrom, “I’ll meet with you
tomorrow. I want to wait near the corpse. Make sure someone stumbles across
it.”

* * *

Vane
laid his friend on Howar’s rug. She bled through it immediately. So much
blood….

A
spell to heal Francie’s gashed artery. Then one to seal her shoe against her
foot, just in case. Vane closed her wound and undid the incantations that had
altered his appearance, so she wouldn’t find herself with a stranger when she
came to. He cast a vanishing spell to rid her and the room of blood, not bothering
with the stains on himself, and then pressed a crimson finger against her
freshly cleaned neck. If her foot had lost contact with that ruby….

Francie
was alive. Her pulse was far from strong, but it was present. Vane moved her to
the bed and sat with her unconscious form for half an hour, shedding silent
tears and loathing himself more than he could ever have deemed possible.

He
hadn’t done a thing to stop Linstrom, to prevent him taunting her and then
slicing open her neck as though it were an orange. That silence would have been
inexcusable had Francie been a stranger, and Francie was….

Francie
was one of the people he held dearest. They rarely spoke alone, but he had been
convinced for years he would have married her, had he not married August before
Francie appeared at that interview for the Magic Council. And he’d let Linstrom
bleed her dry.

Vane
should have blown his cover. What excuse did he have for not attempting to grab
Howar, transport to Francie and grab her too, and then get out? Back to Podrar?
To anywhere? If only Howar had been nearer, not clear across the library. If
only Vane could have risked exposing his identity….

No,
he told himself. That hadn’t been an option, was never an option.

Linstrom won’t only slit
your throat, he’ll know the king’s aware of him and launch his assault the
following hour.

After
thirty tortured minutes, Vane heard Francie stir. He grabbed her hand and told
her not to move, just to lie there. “You’ll be all right. I’m Vane. I’m with
you.”

Francie
opened her eyes and blinked. She tried to speak his name, but made no sound.
Vane cursed and cast “
Desfazair
,” a
spell to unwork or to end most incantations. That did away with Terrance’s
muting spell.

“Vane?”
she croaked.

“Listen,
Linstrom tried to bleed you to death. I sent an enchanted stone to you, which
is why he failed. It’s in your shoe, and it’s keeping you alive. I healed you,
but you can’t take your shoe off, not for some days. You lost far too much
blood. I think the stone replaced just enough to keep your heart beating. You’d
die without the stone, you understand?”

Francie
nodded, then grimaced and raised a hand to her head. “Water,” she said, through
swollen, split lips. Vane found a pitcher of clean water in the kitchen. He
propped Francie up and helped her sip from a glass. As he lowered her to lie
down, she protested, “Hold me. Please. Just hold me.”

He
was still covered in her blood. He hadn’t cleaned himself off yet, but she
hardly seemed to care, so he held her. She needed to feel a friend close to her,
and that small concession was the least he could do after forsaking her like he
had. August would never resent the favor.

Francie
held her eyes closed and her head against his chest. “The vertigo,” she said.
“It’s awful.” Her voice was weak, and it cracked, but he could understand her.

“You’ll
be all right. I promise, you’ll be all right. That Terrance, did he rape you?”

“I
never knew his name.”

“The
one who abducted you. Auburn hair and beard. He raped you?”

“In
my apartment. Yesterday.”

Vane
let out the strongest swear he knew.

“He
bound me by hand. Because he knew about my power.” The whole kingdom did. “He
knew I’d relive his attack every moment my skin touched those knots. His
hatred, his disdain for me…. They were in my head. Pulsing through my veins.”

“Don’t
think on that, Francie. I swear to you, I’ll see the monster pay. I’ll kill him
myself if I have to.”

“Vane,
what’s going on? Where did he take me? Who were all those people? Is there…? Is
this some kind of conspiracy?”

“Rexson
sent me as a spy, but don’t worry about that. Don’t think about anything that
happened back there.”

“And
the future? Should I ignore that too? What if I have that snake’s child, Vane?
Birth a sorcerer?”

“You’ll
have all the support you could ever want from me and August. From the crown,
you understand? But we’ll announce your death in Podrar. Tomorrow. I can’t have
my cover blown. I have to keep that monster close if I’m to take revenge.”

Francie’s
blackened eyes were still closed. “Say I’m dead,” she consented. “Say anything
you must. I don’t care.”

“Don’t
forget your mother’s in Podrar.”

My
mother hates me. Brother does too. They don’t matter.”

“You
say that now.”

“They
don’t matter,” she insisted. “Don’t talk. Please don’t. Just hold me. And swear
on Teena’s chickens you’ll take care of me. I’ve nobody else, Vane. Nowhere to
go.”

Every
important childhood promise they had sworn on Vane’s aunt’s fowl. “I swear on
Teena’s chickens, the council and I will take care of you.”

Vane
and Francie sat in silence until Howar burst in some time later. Thankfully,
the baker was alone. He gaped to see Francie alive and Vane transformed to his
true self.

“You
saved her?” he sputtered. “How did you possibly save her? The amount of
blood….”

Vane
spoke over his ally. “Get the nearest doctor. Now. Can he be trusted?”

“I
imagine so,” said Howar. “He’d be on our side if he knew what Linstrom’s about,
and he’s discreet. Most physicians are.”

Vane
ordered, “Go get him. Wake him. Drag him here if you must. What time is it?”

Howar
said, “Past midnight.”

Vane
swore. “I’m due at the Palace.” He’d promised Francie he wouldn’t leave her,
and he wouldn’t. Not alone. “Run, Howar.”

Howar
returned in twenty minutes with a doctor and his young apprentice, a student of
some kind.

“I
have to see the king,” Vane told his colleague. “He’ll think I’ve been killed.
Francie, will you be all right? Until I can get back? You can trust these men.”

“Hurry,”
Francie urged. “You have to go, I know that. You should have gone a long time
ago. But hurry back.”

Vane
warned the doctor to leave her shoe alone, finally took the time to vanish
Francie’s blood from his clothing, and transported to the Palace stables.

Vane
found Gratton, the king, the queen, and Hune waiting for him in Rexson’s
antechamber. Every face looked gray, and the room smelled vaguely of sick, as
though someone had been ill. Gracia, perhaps: she looked grayer than the rest.

Gratton
gave Vane a reassuring nod, and the king clapped his duke on the bicep, to
assure himself Vane truly had arrived. The queen fell back into an armchair,
overcome by her relief, and Hune told his father, “I told you he’d come.
Something held him up, that’s all.”