Trial of Fire (26 page)

‘There is no guarantee that what you saw had anything to do with the Lady Jennifer,’ Benedict insisted, keeping his voice calm. The last thing he needed was hysteria. As it was, it was hard enough to contain the villagers and their nightly visits to the remains of the castle.

‘But when you combine that with the other reports we’ve received—’

‘We must notify the Bishop of what is happening here, Brother. There must be an investigation into the miracles—’

‘We need to set up a shrine—’

‘We need to say prayers—’

As the voices rose in excitement and reverence, Brother Benedict called once again for silence. Obediently, they quieted and he took a breath. ‘You have seen these lights with your own eyes?’

Stanley nodded solemnly. ‘Yes, Brother.’

There was nothing else for him to do. While he had to avoid hysteria, he also could not afford to ignore the growing signs. If they were true, then perhaps the country might finally have some real hope to hold onto. ‘Very well, tomorrow I shall write to Bishop Godfrey and inform him of what we have seen here. We will await his judgment on whether the matter requires an Inquisitor. Until then, I ask you all to avoid speaking of this to the villagers. There are enough rumours flying around about the Lady as it is.’

As Stanley beamed at him, the other monks signed the trium and turned to leave his office. Stanley bowed low, then turned to go.

‘Brother Stanley?’ Benedict stopped him.

‘Yes, Brother?’

‘In the morning, please set me down a written account of all you did tonight which led you to seeing the lights on the crag.’

‘And the figure on top of the crag, talking to the thunder?’

‘Yes, all of it.’

‘Brother Benedict, it would be my pleasure.’

*

Nash rode without mercy, without care and without repentance. He’d never really understood those concepts anyway, so doing without them as he raced across the country was no loss. He barely looked at his men, and he allowed himself to forget entirely about Valena. Instead, he changed
horses whenever their speed began to flag, and stopped only when his bright, vibrant new body begged for rest.

He took all the roads he could, using their greater speed, enjoying, when he could, the pleasure of seeing the peasants scramble out of his way, of villages and towns scattering stock to clear his path, the chaos and the anger around him serving to feed his own. Not once did he stop, nor even so much as call out a warning. Explanations were for the weak.

Somebody had to pay. Why not Lusara?

That thought kept him amused for four days and nights, until he reached the foot of the Goleth mountains. Hills surrounded him, patched with plowed fields, woods and pasture. Before him rose the mountains, the highest in the country: all sharp edges and grey stone, still laced with white and bitter cold. An interesting place to hide a community of sorcerers, he thought, but they’d not been found for more than five hundred years, until
he
had come along.

Nash smiled and kicked his horse into motion; his men followed unquestioningly, as always. He had sent scouts out to discover the best route to the Goleth itself and this was it: a narrow trail winding up through the foothills until the land turned rocky and became a mountainside. A small monastery to the north was the only feature in the land. He smiled again at the thought of how horrified the monks would have been to discover there were all these sorcerers no more than half a day’s ride away.

An hour into the mountains thick cloud descended, creating a uniform blanket of grey over everything. The air was moist with the possibility of rain, which then became a reality, falling softly and steadily until Nash was soaked to the skin. He did not pause for one moment, pressing on for hour after hour, never once checking over his shoulder to ensure he was still being followed. He almost didn’t care. The rain was equally determined, crowding him onto the path, keeping his face down until the path turned a corner and he knew this was it.

He’d not seen this in his vision, nor found anybody in the valleys below to tell him what to look for, but if he’d wanted to hide in the mountains, this was how he’d do it: a huge rock, the size of a house, jutted out into the path, with a narrow space to slip behind it, and then a dark tunnel of some kind, too short to consider, too unimportant – because on the other side—

On the other side was – by the Blood!

Nash slipped down from his horse in awe. The tunnel had opened out onto the mountain top. Steep rocky walls framed a field of solid green, the rock rising in sharp fingers to the sky. The ground everywhere was trampled with recent footprints, though there was no sign of life. He didn’t expect any.

It was perfect. No wonder they’d been so safe all these centuries.

There were more tunnels, and doors leading below ground. He left the horse and walked towards the nearest one. It was dark inside, and very cold. With a flick of his hand, he brought forth a light, bright enough to see where he was going. Even as he strode down the slope, he heard footsteps behind him, echoing into corners as yet unseen.

This place was incredible. Every step he took opened up another tunnel, another passageway. There were rooms leading off in every direction: living quarters with furniture left behind, kitchens, eating halls, washing areas, alcoves where peat was stored for fires, caves with shelves lining the walls, abandoned bottles of ale, lamps hanging from the ceiling, rugs on the floors, discarded clothing. So much had been deserted in the rush to leave before Nash could get here: so much was left behind for him to examine.

The caves went on endlessly. After an hour of wandering, he lost count of the beds he’d found, of the family rooms, of his estimation of how many people had once called this place their home. He’d had no idea of the size of the place.

He came to a halt at the entrance to the biggest cave of all, a huge cavern the roof of which rose further than his light could reach. This was a most unusual cave: on one side, a separate room was walled off with an ancient panel, carved with extraordinary workmanship. The room it hid was even more astonishing: the walls, from floor to ceiling, were painted with stories he barely had the patience to read, but that first glance showed he had to. This room told the story of the Salti, and how they had made this place their home.

With amazement, he sank down into a chair left in the corner of the room. Almost six hundred years before, Malachi and Salti had been one, the Cabal, escaping from war in the southern continent. They’d brought the Key with them, which had then split them into two warring groups. The Malachi had travelled further north and founded a great city on the edge of a windy plateau, giving it the name of Karakham. There they had prospered, and there Nash had spent many years, living under his true name of Carlan.

The Malachi had flourished, building towers and palaces, their artists more skilled than any in the world. The Chabanar was one of the most beautiful buildings he’d ever seen – and yet there was something so powerful about this one small cave that made all the riches of Karakham pale into insignificance.

This
was determination: not only to shield themselves from the Malachi, but also to live here, in caves underground, hidden in the bowels of the highest mountain in Lusara, apart from all the luxuries they could have
demanded and yet, with these paintings, still able to keep their vibrant history alive. The Salti Pazar had not only survived these centuries, but had flourished, had developed such a strong community that it could up and leave literally at a moment’s notice. He’d had no idea at all: he had never guessed that this place existed until a few short years ago, and yet, obviously, he’d known the Salti had the Key hidden somewhere. He had not expected this underground city.

Nash stared at the walls, shining his light on patches of colour here and there, tracing the major historical moments until he found one he recognised all too well, where the paint was a little fresher than the rest: a great forest, a clearing, two armies facing each other, and three figures in the clearing – two battling with awesome powers, the third standing to one side, her hands raised to stop the battle. Shan Moss, nine years before. Why
had
she stopped them? The Enemy had been about to use the Word of Destruction, which would not have killed Nash, but he would have heard it, learned eventually how to use it himself. She might have realised that, but how could she have known the Word wouldn’t kill him?

Unless she’d been afraid it would kill the Douglas, and keeping him alive was more important to her than killing Nash. He had been such a fool – Douglas had called him that, before their battle, had said something about all the things Nash had missed along the way, details he should have paid attention to, and by the blood of Broleoch, he’d been right. So many opportunities lost because of his blind determination to achieve one thing, ignoring the often-true fact that sometimes the best way to get one thing is by focusing on another.

The light in the small cave shifted and changed as footsteps came towards him, echoing around the hard walls. Taymar appeared at the door, a lighted torch in one hand, two men behind him bearing lamps. There was no expression on Taymar’s face, no wide-eyed surprise at what he’d seen in these caves, just the simple and predictable acceptance of any Bonded man.

Nash had been blind for too long. It was time to shine light on some corners of this world. He’d been given more than a new body with this regeneration; he had been given a fresh chance to finally achieve what none of his ancestors had, and he would die before he’d let anybody stop him – even himself.

He got to his feet and unhooked his cloak. Swinging it over the back of the chair, he gave out orders. ‘Make sure the horses are brought inside and taken care of. Get fires lit in the kitchens and see if there’s any food been left. Send somebody to find me a pen and some paper and ink and bring it to me here. After that, I want everybody except Valena’s guards to go on a
room-by-room search. I want to know exactly what has been left behind – especially any books. Go.’

Taymar took a lamp and handed it to Nash, then he and his comrades disappeared, leaving Nash alone listening to the echo of their voices around the caves. With the lamp held high, he began a careful examination of the paintings, the stories that were so important to the Salti that they wanted to be reminded of them every time they came into this chamber.

The Douglas had said he’d underestimated his enemies, would lose in the end because of this. But this was something he could change, and his first step would be to learn all he could about the people who had followed the Enemy, Robert Douglas, into battle against a King and the Angel of Darkness: to learn what he could about this remarkable and determined people – before he destroyed them utterly.

To Andrew’s surprise, the weather was kind to them as they rode away from the mountain hideaway. Before they’d left, Jenn had given the caves the name of Sanctuary, because Robert had first been safe there, and now they and the Key were being protected. The orb’s Mask, that he’d had a hand in creating, had so far protected the Key perfectly, though Jenn was determined to test it regularly, just in case.

But it was hard riding away, even though the sun was shining and there was just the smallest of breezes rippling through the treetops. Sanctuary had been just that, and as long as he was there, he wasn’t following Robert to where they’d find Kenrick and Nash and …

He couldn’t get the thought of his destiny out of his head; it was like a shadow which followed him around night and day, so no matter what else was happening, no matter if he was happy or sad, the shadow reminded him constantly of what he still had to do.

Finnlay rode in front, constantly scanning the landscape. Andrew couldn’t help but remember what Finnlay had said to him about Kenrick, about being King, about killing. And about Helen, by the gods, how could he— He just couldn’t work out why he didn’t want to kill Kenrick, no matter how appalling Kenrick was. He could not stop thinking that the King was his cousin, his flesh and blood. They’d grown up together, and, in many ways, they were equally isolated. Though it was true that there was something about Kenrick that made Andrew’s skin crawl, that didn’t mean—

No. He was never going to understand this, but Robert was still going to make him do it, whether he thought he
could
or not. He would have had better luck getting his father to do it: it was just the kind of thing Eachern had excelled at – in fact, killing was the
only
thing he’d excelled at. How disappointed he would have been to find his own son baulking at such a prospect. He wondered what his father
would
have said, if he would have refused, touting family loyalty, or would he have done the deed without question and reaped the benefits? And why was he suddenly thinking about his father so much lately?

He rode in silence between Robert and Finnlay, cantering when he was
told, saying nothing if he wasn’t spoken to. The brothers chatted now and then, about inconsequential things, making Andrew wish he had a brother too, someone with whom he could share that kind of history, with whom he could enjoy the sort of bond the Douglas brothers had. Someone he could confide in, who would not think him a coward.

They stopped in a small town just after midday to purchase bread, a piece of salted bacon, hard cheese and some vegetables. Andrew took his share, packed it into his saddle-bags and mounted up, once more riding behind Finnlay until they were out of the town. He had no real idea of where he was. It felt like he’d been on horseback most of his life now. Apart from the few nights at the Sanctuary, and the one at the Enclave, he had been travelling for nearly two months, since he’d left Marsay what felt like a lifetime ago. At least his expertise on horseback was increasing with the practise.

‘Andrew? Are you listening?’

He blinked and looked up to find Robert riding alongside him. They were following a road, the sun still high overhead. Finnlay was a little in front, riding in and out of the dappled shadows cast by the trees lining the road.