The Shadowed Throne (45 page)

Something hit her on the back of the head so hard, it made coloured lights explode in her eyes. She stumbled and recovered, but then another blow came, and another, and after that the fight was more or less over. Cuts appeared on her arms and shoulder. A stab-wound opened in her forehead, making blood run into her eyes. She tried desperately to fight back, wrapping a hand around her throat to protect it. But how could she hit an enemy she could not see—an enemy who was impossibly fast, impossibly strong? Saeddryn pressed in on her, slicing up her hand, then grabbing her wrist, wrenching it away to expose her throat.

Laela shoved at her, and screamed.
“Help! Help me!”

And then Saeddryn screamed. The hand holding Laela's wrist let go, and as Laela staggered away, she saw her enemy fall out of the shadows and onto the floor, where she began to writhe and tear at herself. She screamed again, garbling meaningless words, then got up and began to run around the room, smacking into the walls and furniture as if she couldn't see them at all. Near the archway that led to Oeka's nest, she stopped and began to bash her head on the wall, over and over again.

Bleeding and shaking with shock, Laela stared. “What the—?”

Do not be afraid,
said a voice in her head.

Laela started. “Oeka!”

The illusory image of the griffin appeared in the middle of the floor, wavering a little before it stilled and became more solid.
You are hurt.

Laela ignored her and looked toward Saeddryn. The old woman fell to the floor, sobbing incoherently. “What in the . . . ?”

You have nothing to fear from her now,
said Oeka.

“What did you do to her?” Laela exclaimed, unable to look away from the awful spectacle.

Struck into her mind,
said Oeka.
I have unbalanced the part of her that tells her where she is. She cannot tell what part of her life is happening now; she is lost in her own past and cannot escape.

Laela blinked slowly. “Uh . . . what?”

I have driven her insane,
Oeka said dispassionately.

As if that were a signal, Saeddryn got up. She was shaking, and her eye bulged with terror, staring straight at Laela.

Do not be afraid,
said Oeka.
She cannot see you any more.

“Right.” Laela ran to the door and opened it, yelling for the guards. They came running through the audience chamber, where they would have been able to see and stop any normal intruder. When they saw the blood and wounds on the Queen's body, they looked shocked. “Milady!” one said.

Laela pointed back into her room. “Grab her, yeh idiot,” she snapped.

The guards, well trained, entered and made straight for Saeddryn. As they approached, however, she seemed to wake up in some way. She turned and ran straight through the nest, staggering this way and that. Laela ran after her, along with the two guards, but they were too late. Saeddryn reached the ledge outside and stepped off it into the void.

Gone.

O
ff in Skenfrith, Heath sauntered along a corridor in the upper levels of the governor's tower, humming a tune.

In all his life, he could never have imagined that something like this would ever happen to him—and he had a very good imagination.

His goals in life had always been simple. He loved money. But more than that, he loved power. Not the sort of power that came from governing others, though. No, Heath enjoyed a more subtle kind of power: the power of knowing what other people didn't and the power of making them believe whatever he told them.

Heath was a born liar. He was also very clever, and he knew it. He'd noticed that he was smarter than everyone else when he was a boy, and from that moment on his brain had become his favourite toy.

The thing was, as he had discovered, a lie
didn't
have to be completely believable for people to believe it. It could be as outrageous or preposterous as you wanted it to be. The real trick wasn't coming up with something plausible; it was making people want to believe it.

And so Heath had created his own personal credo, and it had served him well. Dress neatly, always smile, and be confident. Dominate with confidence. That was his motto, or would have been if he'd ever bothered with mottoes. He never had, though. So-called “real” work was for suckers; Heath had the gift of making people do whatever he wanted them to, and, for the last ten years, he'd swaggered happily through life, taking what he wanted and somehow managing to be admired for it.

Even now, it hadn't changed.

And they'd
caught
him! They'd kicked his door down and hauled him off to prison, and he'd begun to think that maybe, just maybe, the game was finally up. But he kept smiling anyway, kept on treating the world as if he owned it, and even as a newly minted convicted criminal, his faithful credo had kept on working.

Forget punishment; even in the face of being mutilated for life, he'd turned the situation to his advantage. Now he was living in a griffiner tower, mingling with some of the most powerful people in the city, and even if he wasn't allowed to leave, nobody dared lay a hand on him. Not now that he was one of Lord Caedmon's friends.

Making friends with the young griffiner had been easy. The man was obviously feeling isolated, and no wonder, and in his situation, a friendly face and a cheerful voice was just what he needed.

And then there was that very attractive young woman who worked alongside him. Heath's smile widened slightly at the thought of her. Lady Myfina, oh yes. Watching her with Caedmon was a lot more amusing than it should have been. Heath kept wondering when Caedmon would finally stop making a fool out of himself and just tell Myfina how he felt. Much longer, and Heath might just get tired of waiting and have a try for her himself.

Chuckling at the thought, he reached the door he had been making for and opened it.

Caedmon looked up as he entered and greeted him with an open smile. “Heath! Hello! What are you up to?”

Heath grinned back as he strolled over and made his usual bow. “Coming to have a word with you in fact, milord. If you're not too busy.”

“No, no, of course you can talk to me.” Caedmon got up from his seat, putting aside the paperwork he'd been looking at. “What's up?”

Heath ran a finger over his moustache. “Now . . . I've been thinking this over for the last day or so, and it's occurred to me to make a couple of observations.”

“Yes?” Caedmon prompted.

“First of all,” said Heath, “I can't help but notice that your mother doesn't seem to be around any more.”

“You didn't know she was here,” said Caedmon, immediately tense.

Heath winked. “Didn't I?”

Caedmon relaxed and laughed. “All right, then, what of it?”

“I know she's left,” said Heath, more seriously. “And I know where she's gone as well, and why, so let's not waste time over that.”

Caedmon's eyes narrowed. “Oh yes? And what do you
know
, Heath?”

“I know she left nearly a month ago, and I know she was heading for Malvern. I also know she went alone.” Heath put his arms behind his back. “Yesterday, I overheard certain people whispering. There are rumours that Lady Saeddryn isn't quite herself any more.”

Caedmon's expression did not change. “And what do you mean by that?”

Heath had finally lost his smile. “The people who cared for her in Fruitsheart came here with you. Lady Saeddryn somehow managed to come all the way to the city on her own, in the snow, in no time at all. She also has scars all down her body from wounds she couldn't possibly have survived. That tells me a lot, milord.”

Caedmon said nothing and only waited for his friend to continue.

“So she's gone to Malvern,” Heath concluded. “Sent by you to kill the Queen. And don't worry; I haven't told anyone.”

Caedmon folded his arms. “So what does this have to do with you?”

“Well,” said Heath, smile reappearing. “The other observation I had for you is that, even though I've been employed by you for nearly two weeks by now, I haven't actually been asked to
do
anything. So now that I have something in mind that I could be useful for, I've come to suggest it to you.”

“Which is?” said Caedmon.

Heath came closer. “Let's not pretend here, milord. Your mother should have reached Malvern a long time ago by now. If she's as fast as I think she is, she must have reached it before I even came here. But we've heard nothing back. And trust me, if the Queen were dead, the news would be all over the country. Lady Saeddryn went to Malvern, and she's disappeared. If she's a prisoner, then you need to know about it. If the Queen has her, that changes everything. In any case,
we need to know
.”

“I know,” said Caedmon. “What are you going to do about it, then?”

“Simple,” said Heath. “I'll go to Malvern. I'll be your spy.”

Caedmon stared. “You'll what?”

“Go to Malvern,” Heath repeated. “Nobody knows who I am, and you know how good I am at finding things out. And I have people in Malvern who can help me. Believe me, nobody lives the life of a scumbag like me without making a few useful friends.” He grinned.

Caedmon frowned back. “How do I know you won't just run off the moment I let you go?”

“You don't,” said Heath.

“Then why should I let you?”

Heath shrugged. “If you don't give me permission, I'll go without it. Why not just keep it simple? I'm no use to you here.”

“I'll think about it,” said Caedmon.

“When should I expect an answer?” Heath pressed.

“Soon.”

Heath nodded. “I'll go and pack.”

H
eath had known perfectly well that Caedmon's “wait and see” had only been for show, and he was right. Within less than a day, he had permission, and the moment it arrived, he left Skenfrith without waiting to say goodbye. He was used to leaving quickly and quietly. He also knew how to leave without being noticed although he'd never had to sneak out of a city that was being guarded as carefully as this one. It was the whole reason why he'd lingered on in Skenfrith in the first place—and therefore the reason why he'd finally been caught. Under normal circumstances, he would have moved on well before the authorities tracked him down. War, he decided, was a pain in the arse. The sooner it ended, the better. And he, Heath of no fixed name and no fixed abode, would help see to it.

In the face of that, a few guards were nothing.

Before he did anything else, he took the opportunity to pay a visit to the house he'd rented—the same one where he had been arrested. Naturally, by the time he levered a window open and climbed in, his possessions had all disappeared. Probably sold to pay off the money he'd stolen. What a waste.

But they hadn't found everything.

Listening all the while for any sign of danger, Heath slipped into the bedroom that had been his. The bed had been stripped, but he flipped the mattress over and slit it open, and sure enough, golden oblong tinkled onto the floor. He scooped them up, scarcely able to believe that nobody had had the brains to check the mattress. The mattress was the
first
place anyone would hide money. Maybe he'd stitched up the hole too neatly.

The mattress money, though, was nothing. He'd only planted it as a decoy in case anyone caught him.

The money under the floorboards was a decoy as well. They'd found that, all right. They must have decided to insult him by assuming that was everything.

Shaking his head sadly, Heath opened the drawers in the now-empty cupboard and lifted out the false bottoms. Gold and silver gleamed seductively underneath. He pocketed the lot—careful to hide a few oblong in his boots just in case.

Having money in his pockets again made him feel much more confident. Complete, even.

With that out of the way and a new spring in his step, he headed for the pantry. No food in it, of course, but the old, broken, and obviously empty wine barrel was still lying on its side in a corner. He opened it and took out the bundle hidden inside.

With that done, he made a quick search of the rest of the house, where he pocketed a few odds and ends before sneaking back out and into the city.

He went to the marketplace next. A smile and a wink to a certain female stall-holder gave him more than enough time to steal a small bag of flour, and with that hidden in his pocket, he slipped into an alleyway, hid behind a garbage heap, and set to work.

A very short time later, a sad, ragged old man came limping out the other end of the alley. His hair was grey and hung over his face, and he walked with a pained, hunching motion, supporting himself with a crutch. He looked so weak and pathetic that he attracted several pitying looks and even a few offers of help as he crossed the city, heading for the main gates.

They were open, and various carts and other travellers passed in and out without too much trouble though a group of guards stopped most of the larger wagons to search for anything suspicious. Caedmon hadn't completely closed down the city, then. He probably wouldn't until the last moment. No sense in starting a siege before there was anyone to do the besieging.

As it was, nobody paid any attention to the poor old man as he shambled through the gates and away.

It was a long walk to Malvern, but he didn't have to go very far before a trader offered him a ride, which he accepted. Sitting on the back of the cart full of wooden goods, Heath sat back and relaxed. Of course, if he'd wanted to, he could have just shown the guards the letter from Caedmon, which ordered anyone loyal to him to help the bearer, but that would have been too easy. And nowhere near as fun.

H
eath travelled steadily on toward Malvern over the next few days, switching his mode of travel and changing his disguise several times in the process. Sometimes he walked, sometimes he rode with whoever was going in the right direction. Sometimes, he was the old cripple, sometimes he was a simple farm boy off to seek his fortune, sometimes he was a middle-aged father going to rejoin his family in Malvern. Every persona came with plenty of good stories to tell and a voice chosen for the outfit.

When he reached Malvern, he chose the old beggar again to get in. Best be as unthreatening as possible.

He hadn't visited the place in nearly a year—his policy was to wait a good chunk of time before coming back to an old hunting-ground—but it hadn't changed much. The last time he'd been there, Arenadd had still been King. He'd even seen the old man once—“old” being a relative term. As far as Heath could tell, he hadn't looked old enough to sell milk in the marketplace. But he'd been ruling the country for almost twenty years at that point, so Heath was prepared to take that in his stride.

The only real difference that he noticed now was that there were fewer griffins flying over the city than he remembered. That must mean that the unpartnered weren't back yet. Interesting. What was keeping them away so long?

Mulling this over, Heath set out to pay a few visits. He had left several stashes of money and other supplies around the place, and he was pleased to find that many of them were still there. The canvas bag in the canal was the hardest to find—it had been one of his better ideas.

He left them where they were, taking a little money from each one to refill his pockets, then struck out—slowly—for an undistinguished group of houses down in the grubby south end of the city. He shuffled along a particular street, looking vague and asking passers-by for money or food if they could spare it. Since this was a poor district, he got very little in the way of return, but that was all to the good.

Part-way along, he pretended to stumble, stood there shaking his head dumbly for a moment, then moved toward the nearest door, apparently at random.

He knocked on it with his stick.

It opened, and an old woman peered at him. “Yes? Who are ye?”

“Could ye spare some food for a poor old man?” Heath wheezed.

She looked slightly annoyed. “What, do ye think this is a charity? I never saw ye around here before—are ye lost or somethin'?”

“Of course!” said Heath, in grateful tones. “Thankye, kind lady, I'll be gone before ye know it.” With that, he elbowed his way inside without further ado, with as much confidence as if he'd just been invited in.

The old woman turned on him. “What the—? Get out! Go on, shoo!”

Heath hustled her away from the door and shut it. Ignoring her protests, he barred it as well.

Then he relaxed. “Whew!”

The old woman looked nervous. “Now just stop there a moment—I'm sorry if I was—ye can have somethin' to eat, just sit down.”

Heath grinned. “Thanks! You don't mind if I just tidy myself up, do you?”

Without waiting for an answer, he took off the ragged blanket he'd been using as a cape and put the crutch aside. Straightening up, he removed the false hump and shook the flour out of his hair and beard.

“There!” he said as he dusted himself down. “I feel fifty years younger.”

The old woman's face slackened. “What . . . ?”

Heath smiled at her and reached down to touch her shoulder. “Hello, Mum.”

She cried out and lunged forward, hugging him. “Hennie! Oh sweet moon, it's really ye!”

Heath pulled a face. “Ugh. Five years away, and I still can't stand hearing that name.”

She let go and put her head on one side. “Oh? What are ye callin' yerself this time, then?”

“Today it was Mabon. Last week I think it was Pedr. Names get old if you wear 'em too long.”

“So ye always said,” said the old woman.

“But you can call me whatever you want,” said Heath, with a gentleness in his voice that nobody else had ever heard.

When she smiled, her eyes showed the same brightness as her son's. “I'm so glad to see ye again, Hennie. All this time I had no idea if . . .”

“I told you I'd be fine.”

“But ye never came back t'visit, never sent me a letter, never—”

“Mum, you can't read.”

“I would've found someone t'read it to me!” she said sharply. “Where have ye been?”

“Everywhere,” said Heath, truthfully. “I just came back to Malvern today. You're the first person I visited.”

“Came back just to see yer old mother, eh?”

“Not quite. Mostly, but not completely.”

“Oh?” She looked keenly at him. “What are ye up to this time, then?”

“Let's sit down,” Heath suggested. “I'll take that food if it's still on offer, too.”

Shaking her head and muttering with exaggerated annoyance, she let him sit down by the fire and fussed about with bread and cheese and some cheap wine, which she warmed up over the fire.

The food was poor, and the wine wasn't much better than alcoholic vinegar, but Heath ate it as if it were just as good as anything he'd had in the governor's tower with Caedmon. For him, it was a taste of home. Not something he'd tasted in quite a long time.

His mother watched him eat, not saying anything much. She was obviously hiding just how happy she was to see him again, and Heath let her keep it hidden. It was just her way.

“I think you'll be proud of me,” he said once the food was gone.

“Will I?” she said at once.

“I think so.” Heath nodded. “Your Hennie's gone up in the world recently. Oh yes—before I forget, this is for you.”

She took the bag of money and looked at its contents with astonishment. “All this? For me?”

“More, if you want it,” said Heath. “And there'll be even more to come, believe me.”

She looked up, full of sudden suspicion. “Hennie, what have ye done? What are ye mixed up in this time? Just tell me the truth.” Her voice was laced with despair.

Heath held up his hands. “It's all right. Mum, it's all right. I'm fine. I've got a new job.”

“What kind of job?”

“I'm working for someone rather important,” said Heath, relishing the suspense.

“How important? Who is he?”

“Lord Caedmon Taranisäii.”

His mother gaped. “
What?
What the—? Hennie, this is
not
funny. How dare ye come here with this stolen money an' feed me lies like that? Lie to other people, lie to yerself, but how could ye lie to yer own mother?” She threw the bag of money on the floor and actually aimed a blow at him.

Heath dodged it. “Mother!” he said sternly, seeing the tears on her face. “Stop that right now and calm down. I am
not
lying. Look at this.” He took Caedmon's letter out of his shirt, and showed it to her.

She squinted at the paper, then looked up at him. “What's this? What's it say?”

“It says, ‘By order of Lord Caedmon Taranisäii of Malvern, all those who are loyal to the true King of Tara are commanded to give the bearer of this letter whatever he needs and to protect him from the usurper and her minions.'” Heath pointed to the bottom of the letter. “See there? That's his seal. I watched him put it there myself.”

His mother looked at the letter again, then back at him. “Hennie, are ye bein' serious? Is this . . . is this real?”

“Yes. Mum, I'll slit my own throat if this is a lie. It's not. I know Caedmon Taranisäii. And his friend, Lady Myfina, and the governor of Skenfrith, Lady Isolde—she doesn't like me much.”

The old woman said nothing.

“I shouldn't be telling you this,” Heath continued. “If anyone in Malvern finds out about me and this letter, and why I'm here, then I'm a dead man. But I came here anyway because I had to see you, and I told you the truth because I trust you.”

“Oh . . . oh
Hennie
!” His mother let out a sob and hugged him again.

He patted her on the back. “There, there. It's all right. I wouldn't have believed me, either. I don't think even I could sell a lie like that.”

“Tell me all about it,” she said, her eyes shining with tears. “Tell me
everything
. I won't tell a soul.”

“I know,” said Heath. He took a deep breath and began to do something he hadn't practised in a very long time: He told the truth. All of it.

“You're right,” he said. “I'm a criminal. Or was. I spent the last seven years making money by lying to people. I kept moving around to keep ahead of the law until I got stuck in Skenfrith. I was there when Lord Caedmon and his friends came and took charge, and I decided to stay a while longer rather than be caught trying to leave. I got careless. I was caught.”

“And then?” his mother prompted. She didn't look very surprised by any of this.

“And then I was taken to see the governor, Lady Isolde. And Lord Caedmon was with her. I recognised him straightaway, of course. Young man, not very experienced. But cleverer than he looks.”

“Yes?”

“Yes,” Heath nodded. “Anyway, long story short, he took a liking to me and decided my mind was too useful to waste. So he let me off as long as I stayed with him and did whatever he needed from me. I've been living among griffiners for the last two weeks.”

“Didn't they punish ye?”

“Not really. I wasn't allowed to go anywhere or own any money, but I had fun. I'm telling you, Mother, griffiners know how to live! And Caedmon—I made a point of getting close to him. He's a good man. And his friend Lady Myfina—” Heath whistled.

His mother chuckled. “Watch it, boy, or ye'll be in trouble again.”

“Oh, I don't know,” Heath shrugged. “Last time I got into real trouble, I came out better off than before.”

“Why are ye here in Malvern, then?” asked his mother.

“On an assignment,” said Heath. “To find out what's going on.”

“A spyin' mission, eh?”

“More or less.”

“What's it pay, then?”

“Nothing,” said Heath. “Only in virtue. Caedmon's making me pay back all the money I stole. At this rate, I should be out of debt by . . . oh, in about two hundred years.”

“This is incredible, Hennie.” The old woman turned serious. “Ye're playing a part in history. Ye'll be in them books up at the Eyrie one day.”

“If I live long enough,” said Heath.

“Ye will.”

“I plan to.”

“I don't believe it!” the old woman cackled. “My son, fightin' the good fight against that half-breed bitch, standin' up for the real Taranisäiis—yer father would be so proud!”

“I hope so,” said Heath. He stifled a yawn. “It was a long trip to get here. I'm exhausted, honestly. Anyway, tomorrow I'll be going off to talk to some people and do some listening, but if you don't mind, I could do with a place to sleep—”

“Of course,” she said. “Stay as long as ye need. But listen—”

“Yes?”

“I've been seein' a bit of yer old friend—Mostyn. Remember him?”

“Short man?” said Heath. “Pimples on his chin?”

“Aye, that's him. Pimples have got better, though.”

“What about him?” said Heath.

“Ye should go see him. I've talked to him a bit, an' it sounds like he's made some interestin' new friends, if ye know what I mean. I think they might be able t'help ye.”

Heath nodded. “Thanks. I'll go and look him up first thing in the morning.”

He was lying, of course. But she didn't need to know that.

E
lsewhere in Malvern, somewhere in a dark place, Saeddryn lay on her side and stared at nothing. She had been lying that way ever since she had come to be there, paralysed by shattered bones and crushed organs.

By now her body had long since repaired itself, but still she hadn't moved. Her eye was glazed, her mouth open. Only her mind was active, but there was no coherent thought left in it.

Old memories played themselves out around her, as real to her as if they were still happening. But they came in bits and pieces, never settling into a whole. She didn't know where she was, or when, and there was nothing for her to grasp hold of that might let her think or even realise what had happened to her.

Eventually, one memory in particular strengthened and grew bolder in her mind.

Saeddryn's eye focused on something only she could see. Very slowly, her mouth twitched into a smile.

“Arenadd,” she whispered. “My Arenadd.”

Even in her madness, she was not alone. Somewhere near but far, in a place no living thing could reach, the Night God watched over her warrior.

Beside her, Arenadd watched, too. His face was as dispassionate as his master's. “Won't you help her?” he asked.

I cannot,
said the Night God.

Arenadd glanced at her. “Well then,” he said. “It looks like you've lost, Master.”

The Night God showed no anger.
She may be healed,
she said.
But without a partner, she will need help.

“From who?” Arenadd asked dryly. “You?”

I will find a way,
said the Night God.

“You always do,” said Arenadd.

Incredibly, the Night God smiled at him.
Your cynicism is amusing. Do you truly believe you understand me? That you can predict me?

“I've got a pretty good idea by now,” Arenadd said, with a sly glitter in his eyes.

No,
said the Night God. She turned away from Saeddryn's ravaged form and focused her attention on Arenadd.
No, you do not know. You have much to learn, little shadow. And I must teach you now.