Voice Of The Demon (Book 2) (9 page)

‘Of course,’ Osbert nodded sympathetically. ‘Would you tell me, Your Grace, exactly what happened? The details of the accident that led to the untimely death of your dear brother?’

Robert allowed his eyes to flicker to the casket and back to Osbert. ‘Is that why you’ve come? To interrogate me? And now of all times? By the gods, Governor, I’ve been back in Lusara almost a year and you choose this moment to test my loyalty to the King?’

The attack had caught Osbert off balance – as it was intended to do. After all, he’d come here with thoughts only of sorcery. However, if there was no sorcery involved – and if Robert had indeed just taken his dead brother home having gone nowhere near Kilphedir – what could Robert know of the rumours?

Ah, ignorance. What bliss!

‘My visit here is sanctioned by the King, Your Grace, but it is not to test your loyalty, I assure you. I come merely to find out the circumstances of your brother’s death. There have been whispers, Your Grace. I seek only to find the truth.’

‘The truth?’ Robert arched an eyebrow. ‘I’d love to know the truth myself. All I know is that I fell from the cliff. When I awoke at Elita, my memory of the incident had gone. When I did remember the following day, I took myself back to the forest below the cliff and tried to find my brother. I assumed he must be there somewhere, looking for me, perhaps afraid that I’d been killed in the fall. What I found was his broken body, tangled among rocks in the river.’

There was a bitterness in his voice that was only partially for show. Without pausing he continued, ‘Did he fall trying to find me? Did he fall trying to save me? If I’d regained my memory sooner, would I have been able to save his life? I
don’t know, Governor. You want the truth, but I can’t give it to you. I only wish I could.’

He held Osbert’s gaze for as long as he dared, then deliberately looked away, giving him time to broach the next, inevitable subject.

‘Forgive me, Your Grace, but these rumours – I fear there is much evidence.’

‘Rumours of what?’ Robert grunted, not turning back.

‘Two woodsmen claim to have seen your brother in the forest by the river. They say he was working sorcery. He was imprisoned but escaped. I came here to—’

‘Sorcery! In Lusara?’ Robert’s head snapped round. ‘Are you mad? What kind of idiocy is this? Some trumped-up charge of the Proctor’s? I told you, Finnlay died! I pulled his body from the river with my own hands – or are you accusing me of lying?’

‘No, Your Grace . . .’ Osbert stammered, trying to keep up.

‘But you won’t leave here until you’ve seen proof with your own eyes, is that it? Proof you can take back to the Proctor? You take the word of two woodsmen over mine?’

Osbert shut his mouth and took in a good breath. He clasped his hands together and nodded – once. ‘I could lay the rumours to rest if you would allow me to see the body, Your Grace. Surely that is for the good?’

Robert shook his head slowly. ‘Yours, perhaps, but not mine. No good can come to my House by opening this casket. I’ve already given orders that I don’t want my brother’s body to be seen. His injuries were terrible. If I’ll not let my own people see him, why should I let you? You come here with only rumours and suspicion.’

‘I come also with this.’ Almost triumphant, Osbert held out his hand. There, sitting neatly in the palm was Finnlay’s ring. Robert reached out to take it, but Osbert pulled back. ‘I’m sorry, Your Grace, but I fear I must insist.’

Robert kept his eyes on the ring a moment longer, then there was a presence beside him: Deverin.

‘My lord, it would be better to allow the governor this one concession. Then we can let Lord Finnlay rest in peace.’

‘Yes, Deverin,’ Robert nodded, his voice a murmur, ‘you’re quite right.’

Doing his duty, Deverin set about removing the banner and loosening the nails in the top of the casket. Robert used the time to focus his thoughts. This was going to be so very hard. Attempting something he’d never tried before – without even his
ayarn
for support – and in front of such a dangerous audience. What if it didn’t work?

He reached down deep, brought forth an image of Finnlay. He held it tight and controlled – then began to change it. Remove the scar from his face, build up the bruises, the cuts, the bleeding. Then overlay that with broken bones, a coarse and bloody gash across the throat. Then colour, white and blue, black now for the blood. Then reach out and place it over Micah, lying within the casket.

And, may the gods forgive him, the smell of a body now two weeks old.

There was a scrape of wood as Deverin lifted the lid clear. Robert kept his face averted. He couldn’t control his expression and the illusion at the same time.

There was a gasp and the scrape of leather against stone. Then the lid was moved back in place. Deverin did not knock the nails in, but instead came around to stand close to Robert. Only then did Robert dare release the illusion. He sighed and turned to face Osbert.

‘Forgive me, Your Grace,’ Osbert bowed slightly, clearly shaken. His suspicions must have run very deep. Or perhaps the man had no stomach for the sight of blood. ‘This has been a great intrusion. I see you have visitors awaiting your presence. I will withdraw and return to Marsay. Thank you for your patience.’

Robert waited until he backed to the chapel door. ‘Osbert?’

‘Your Grace?’

Walking up to face the governor, Robert replied grimly, ‘I would have my brother’s ring back. It should be buried with him.’

Osbert hesitated – but what choice did he have? ‘Of course, Your Grace.’

The ring was dropped in Robert’s hand and Osbert
removed himself and his companion. The glow of yellow disappeared down the passage just as the sun peeked out from behind a cloud. ‘See them off my lands, will you Deverin?’

‘With pleasure, my lord!’

Robert closed the chapel door before helping Micah out of the box. He still had to get back downstairs to see his friends and assure them that they had no cause to worry about him. After the funeral service he would send them home – the fewer people involved in this madness the better.

As Micah climbed out, he smiled. ‘It worked!’

‘Yes, strangely enough. Deverin helped – though unwittingly.’

‘No, that’s not what I mean. You didn’t pass out. I can tell – it wasn’t even a strain, was it?’

Robert came to a complete halt, his eyes on Micah. ‘No. Not even a bit.’

Micah, suddenly full of himself, folded his arms, totally smug. ‘You don’t need an
ayarn
any more, my lord. You’re just like Jenn. That’s why the Key destroyed it. Maybe you never needed it at all!’

Glancing down at the ring in his hand, Robert had to smile himself. ‘Why is it that you always see these things before I do? What am I doing wrong?’

‘I see them because I’m not a sorcerer, my lord.’

‘Thank the gods for that,’ Robert laughed. ‘You’d be absolutely unbearable if you were!’

‘Just look at him,’ Hilderic hissed, ‘hovering around the King like a snivelling hound hungry for scraps. McCauly still languishes in prison and Brome doesn’t give a damn. He makes me sick!’

Godfrey turned away from the window and the scaffold erected outside. He glanced around the hall to check the
proximity of those closest to them. Fortunately this time, they were quite alone and nobody would have heard Hilderic’s venom. Nevertheless, Godfrey kept his voice low and his tone as gentle as possible. ‘Be careful of what
you
say in here, Brother. Within this company are those who would report any trifle to the King in order to secure their own position.’

Hilderic grunted and clasped his hands beneath his cassock. His face was still full of clouds, however. Godfrey frowned at him, then turned his attention to the others. The hall was half-full of lords and ladies, magnates, Guildesmen and priests. All preparing to go outside and witness the execution like a flock of carrion ready to pick over the bones of their less fortunate brother. At the end of the hall, by the throne, stood Selar, majestic in crimson and gold. Vaughn, Brome and a dozen other men stood around, all of them conscious of the King’s slightest word, all ready to do whatever he bid. The Alderman, Nash, stood out in the crowd, distinguished by his quiet dress and composed demeanour. He said nothing, spoke to no one – but Selar knew he was there. It was obvious in the small glances he threw Nash, in the slight raised eyebrow he received in return.

‘They’ve grown close, those two,’ Godfrey murmured. With any luck he might be able to distract Hilderic away from Brome. ‘It’s hard to tell, though, whether Nash is a good influence or bad.’

‘A Guildesman?’ Hilderic whispered fiercely, his white eyebrows raised in horror. ‘How can that be good?’

‘You heard his report to the council. He said that there was no real proof that sorcery was once again alive in Lusara. If it had been Vaughn he would already have called out the troops for a holy war. Imagine the arrests, the burnings, the hundreds of people falsely accused.’

‘Osbert hasn’t returned from Dunlorn yet, or even sent word. He may bring further proof with him.’

Godfrey nodded slowly. ‘I doubt it. Even if there is something going on, Robert’s far too clever to let anything slip. He hasn’t survived this long by being careless.’

Hilderic turned a suspicious eye on him. ‘Then you believe there’s something to the rumours?’

‘I believe in the gods, Brother,’ Godfrey murmured to cover himself. ‘Anything else is pure conjecture.’

‘Conjecture or not,’ Hilderic grunted, turning towards the doors as they opened to admit the Queen, ‘there’s no doubt Selar intends to go through with this. One way or the other, Baron Blair will die a traitor’s death today and neither the gods nor rumours of sorcery will save him.’

*

George, Earl of Kandar, took up his usual position to Selar’s right. There were others beside him on the platform before the scaffold, but he paid them no attention. Beyond the crowd of courtiers, the courtyard was filled with towns-people, jostling for a view of the coming proceedings. The noise of anticipation was immense: so too was the smell and the heat.

He glanced across at the King. Selar looked tired, but not remotely uncomfortable. There were whispers that he’d not been sleeping well and that he’d been drinking to excess a little too often. But it was only over the last week and George wasn’t inclined to worry. Selar’s moods were often difficult to read – one of the reasons why he was so feared by those who lived around him. There was no way to guess which way he would turn from one day to the next.

There was only one consistency. His treatment of Rosalind, his Queen.

Knowing he would likely be observed, George shot only a brief look at her as she sat beside her husband. In profile her lips were pressed together, her auburn beauty flushed. Her hazel eyes glittered with fearful resolve. Hardly aware of the crowds before her, she kept her children close, as though afraid they would be dragged from her. As Kenrick sat oblivious at her feet, she took Galiena’s hand and turned to Selar, her voice low so only those closest could hear.

‘I beg you, my lord. Please reconsider. Your children should not be witness to this. They are too young.’

Selar barely acknowledged her. ‘Silence your protests,
madam. I was a child of four when I first saw a man quartered. It did me no harm.’

‘And were the following years free of nightmares, my lord?’

As Selar turned his full gaze on her, Rosalind flinched, but continued, her voice shaking. ‘Sire, this crowd will show your children that pain is a toy to be played with, an entertainment. Is that what you wish them to learn?’

George swallowed, hardly daring to breathe. The challenge was there in the air between the King and Queen, the kind of challenge only Dunlorn had ever dared voice to Selar.

And only he had ever got away with it.

Selar reached out and grabbed Rosalind’s wrist, pressing it down hard against the arm of her chair. Rosalind gasped, but could not escape his grip. Selar brought his face close, his eyes flaring with barely contained fury. ‘Remember your position, madam. This traitor despised the throne your son will inherit. Kenrick must be witness. They will both stay and you will say not another word. Defy me again and you will be sharing the scaffold with Blair.’

As Selar released her and turned away, George had to fight the urge to comfort the Queen. Sitting there with rigid back and eyes straight ahead, she looked isolated and scared. After all these years as Selar’s Queen, of treatment such as this, Rosalind could still muster the spirit to fight him, even though her only recourse was words, and she found the experience always terrifying.

For the sake of her children, Rosalind regained her composure. A movement from the arch opposite drew George’s attention. Blair was being led out, his hands bound, his head high. Before him was a priest, intoning the Prayer for the Damned.

‘Oh, blessed gods of thunder and rain, we beseech thee to forgive us our dread sins. Though we have committed the greatest of crimes against your law, we beg you in mercy to receive our souls . . .’

From his demeanour, it was obvious Blair was begging nothing. He stuck his chin out and didn’t even flinch as the crowd jeered and flung curses at him. The moment he stood
on top of the platform before the noose, Selar rose to his feet, his hands raised to silence the restless crowd.

‘Rupert, Baron Blair. You have been judged guilty of treason. This, the most heinous of crimes, must be punished with as much force as we can achieve. Treason cannot be treated lightly when it is a betrayal not only of a vow made unto the gods, but also unto the person of your sovereign lord. This betrayal we feel keenly. We would rather have remained your friend than become your executioner. And so it is with heavy heart that we pronounce sentence on you, Baron. We pray the gods will have mercy on your soul.’

With that, Selar nodded to the black-hooded executioner hovering beside Blair. He lifted the noose over the old Baron’s head and stood back. Again the priest prayed aloud, his voice increasingly drowned out by the chanting of the crowd. Then a lever was thrown and, with a jerk, Blair fell through the trapdoor, his legs kicking at air. A shout went up from the crowd.