“Clermont!” he shouted hoarsely. “It’s her!” When he got no response, he looked over to where the captain lay on his back in a pool of blood.
Hartigan, squatting next to him, shook his head. “He’s gone, sir.”
That’s too bad, Destin thought. I intended to kill the bastard myself.
“Get everyone out of here and lock the doors,” he said. Gently, he rolled the girl over. Her breathing was wet and labored, and she kept her golden eyes fixed on Destin’s face as if memorizing it. “Go to the Breaker, you heartless bastard,” she gasped. “You’re too late.”
No! Destin ripped open her velvet coat and the linen shirt underneath to get at the wound. The blade had entered just beneath her rib cage. Blood welled from the wound, trickling onto the stones beneath her. He put his ear to her chest, listening for the wet sound that would tell him she had hit a lung. Her breathing was clear, but the flesh around the gash was oddly cold, something only a mage like himself could have detected.
Icy fear channeled through him. The girl was damaged, despite all his efforts to prevent it. Worse, if what he’d heard about this bloodsworn blade was true, she was as good as dead already.
The question was: should he let her die or move heaven and earth to save her? There were things he needed to know before she died.
He gripped the lapels of her coat, lifting her a few inches off the floor. “What does it mean—that magemark on the back of your neck? What does it signify?”
“You tell me,” she whispered. “Damned if I know.” Her eyelids fluttered, and she slipped into unconsciousness.
“Who are you?” he growled, wanting to shake her. “Why is Celestine hunting you? What does she want with you?” That answer, if he had it, would have helped him decide.
But he didn’t have it. Since he couldn’t raise the dead, and he had to answer to the king, he’d have to save her if he could.
Though he was a mage, Destin knew nothing about healing. He’d never been encouraged to develop that skill. And he wouldn’t trust anyone in Delphi enough to put her into their hands.
He had to get her to Ardenscourt. If anyone could help her, it would be the healers there.
He looked up at Virdenne and Hartigan, who were standing by for orders. “I’ll need a carriage and team on the double, and supplies for a week on the road. Also a dozen men ready to travel.” He said this, even though he suspected that if it took a week to get to Ardenscourt, he’d be delivering a corpse.
21
ASH MEETS THE KING
Ash slumped forward into a bow that put his forehead on the ground. After a moment, he heard Montaigne say something, and then the blackbirds seized his arms and lifted him to his feet, turning him to face the king. He could not have stood unassisted. He was weak and disoriented, nearly overcome by the pain and disorder he’d assumed from the baker. His eyes still burned and his vision swam from the effects of the Darian stone.
Ash had been filthy before he had entered the palace. Now he was acutely aware of his torn and bloody breeches, his hair plastered down with well water, the acrid stink of kerosene. He tried to wipe at his face with his sleeve, but the guardsmen had tight hold of his arms.
The king stood amid a small group of noblemen, dressed as if they had come directly from dinner. They hadn’t done any firefighting, since their clothing was pristine. One was a thickset man in an Ardenine army uniform, his hair and eyes the color of razorleaf spit. The braid on his shoulders said he was a high-up.
Marin Karn, Ash guessed, commander of the Ardenine army.
But that wasn’t the biggest surprise. That happened when his vision cleared enough that he could look past the king and see Lila Barrowhill, standing behind and a little to the right of Montaigne. Their eyes met, and for a split second, hers widened in shock and alarm. Then she cleared that away, replacing it with a faint, puzzled frown—the appropriate response to a charred scarecrow like Ash. One you’d never seen before in your life.
Bloody bones, Ash thought. What is she doing here, being all chummy with the king of Arden?
He hastily shifted his gaze to the ground, trying to clear his own face of any telltale expression.
“Who are you?” the king asked.
“Adam Freeman,” Ash replied softly, keeping his eyes fixed on the stones of the courtyard as thoughts bullied their way into his head. If he weren’t so thoroughly wrung out, he could kill the bastard on the spot. In his present condition, he’d be lucky to strangle a gnat. He had no weapons. He’d lost his healing kit somewhere in the cellars, and he’d thrown his only shiv at the bloodsucking priest.
He made a mental note: always carry spare weapons.
“Where did you come from?” the king asked.
“I work in the stables, Your Majesty.” He hoped the king wouldn’t recognize him and recall his display the day Crusher went down. He guessed in his present state he’d be hard to pick out.
“We have a healer working in the stables?” The king’s tone was incredulous. “Are you a healer of horses?”
The rest of the bluebloods chuckled and nudged each other.
Ash shook his head, which was a mistake, since it set his head to spinning again. “When I came here, I applied to work in the healing halls, but they said they didn’t need anyone. So Marshall Bellamy took me on.” He stole a glance toward the kitchen. It appeared that the fire was entirely out.
“We always have a need for healers, Freeman,” Montaigne said. “Especially those who perform miraculous cures. Where did you receive your training?”
Ash looked up, finally able to meet the king’s eye and speak without snarling. “My mother was a healer, my lord. She taught me something of it. My father didn’t approve, so I am also very good at mucking out stalls.”
The nobles chuckled again.
“I see.” The king stared at him thoughtfully, stroking his chin. “It appears you have a gift. In fact, I’ve never seen anything to match it.” He was talking around the issue of sorcery, but it lay there between them, nonetheless.
“I would recommend caution, Your Grace.” This was a new voice, and Ash looked up to see that it was one of the king’s companions, a tall, spare man in dark religious garb. A great rising sun of Malthus was emblazoned on his tabard, and he wore the keys to the kingdom on a heavy gold chain around his waist.
Bloody bones, Ash thought. It’s the principia himself, the spiritual head of the Church of Malthus. Ash racked his brain, trying to recall the man’s name. Ah. That’s it. Cedric Fosnaught.
Do they all drink the blood of mages? Ash wondered. Or is it just the Darian Guild? He sent up a prayer for the latter.
“This healing could be miraculous,” Fosnaught continued, “a manifestation of the Redeemer’s mysterious mercy. But the man may not be a true healer.” He looked around the circle of bluebloods, his expression grave. Making sure he had his audience. “It is possible he is a sorcerer.”
So either Malthus did it, or I’m dead, Ash thought. But he said nothing. He knew he was on very treacherous ground. Malthus could have the credit, as far as he was concerned.
Receiving no response from Ash, the principia gestured toward Hamon. “This healing could be no more than an illusion. The flesh could be corrupt beneath the skin.” He produced a thin blade from within the folds of his robe. “Perhaps we should open him up and see.”
At this Ash tried to lunge forward, but found himself still restrained by the guards. “Don’t lay a hand on him,” he said, forgetting himself in his outrage. “He’s been through enough tonight. Leave him alone.”
“Perhaps the mage fears exposure,” the priest said calmly. “Your Grace, for safety’s sake, I recommend that he be delivered to my office for examination by the Hand.”
The Hand of Malthus was the team of inquisitors maintained by the principia of the church. All priests, and all adept at the art of torture, or so Ash had heard. It was said the Hand could force a confession out of any man, guilty or not. Or, to say it another wa
y, they had never yet interrogated an innocent man. Montaigne often used the red-clad priests of the Hand to punish his enemies, when it suited him politically. At least that was what was said in the Fells.
This church is bound to have my blood, one way or another, Ash thought.
The king shook his head. “Father Fosnaught, I disagree.” The note of warning in his voice was unmistakable. “This boy is no sorcerer. I can always sense the taint when it is present.”
The principia bowed, his face tight and unhappy. Likely he knew better than to contradict the king.
In one of those ironic twists of fate, the king of Arden had intervened to save the life of someone he’d marked for death.
Odd that nobody suggested that they search him for an amulet. That would have been the most undeniable proof. It was as if they all knew how to play this hypocritical game.
Montaigne turned to his cadre of guards. “Take this boy to the guest quarters. See that he has a bath and a change of clothes. I’ll want to see him in the morning.” That was said loudly, for the benefit of everyone. And then Montaigne turned and spoke softly to Karn.
Suspicion flared in Ash’s muddy mind. What did that mean, the “guest quarters”? Was it code for the dungeon? Had he been recognized after all?
The two guards who had hold of him made as if to escort him away, but Ash dug in his heels. “Am I to be taken prisoner for helping a man, Your Majesty?” he demanded. “Is the practice of the healing arts illegal in Ardenscourt?”
The king looked up, surprised. “No, my boy,” he said softly, making it clear his patience was being sorely tried. “Here in Ardenscourt we reward those with talent by washing the filth off them and finding them something useful to do.” He nodded to the two guards. “Proceed.” He turned with a swirl of his velvet cloak and strode across the courtyard, his courtiers following, like a comet with a long tail. Two blackbirds began sliding the baker onto a litter in order to carry him inside.
The guards had their hands on Ash’s arms and he could feel the tingle of magic in them and he knew there was nothing to do but submit. They led him in through the servants’ entrance he himself had breached earlier in the evening, slowing their steps to match his stumbling gait, half-supporting him when he faltered. They walked back through the palace, past the staircase where he’d met the Darian brother, and kept going.
Given how the day had gone so far, Ash half-expected the Darian brother to appear at any moment, condemning him by calling out his name. But he saw only the usual servants and scribes, who quickly moved out of the way, staring after them after they had passed. No doubt he looked like a prisoner, towering over his two guards. They were probably wondering what he was guilty of.
Finally, they entered a quiet part of the palace, tastefully appointed, lined with sumptuous suites and apartments. At least this didn’t seem to be the way to the dungeon. Windows along the hallway looked out to formal gardens, still blooming with cool weather flowers. They passed libraries and game rooms, all empty of people. At the far end were more modest quarters, maybe meant for ladies and attendants of residents of the guest suites, rows of plain wooden doors, all the same. Ash’s escorts stopped in front of one of them, pushed the door open, and stood aside so he could enter.
It was a small, plain room with a stone floor, and brightly woven We’enhaven rugs scattered here and there. There was a fireplace at one end with a small sitting area, and a bed at the other with a trunk at its foot. There was no window. No way out that he could see.
His two guards stepped outside and closed the door. Ash stood awkwardly in the center of the room, faint with fatigue, unable to put two thoughts together. There was a looking glass on the wall above a pedestal sink. His image in the glass was frightening. His face was reddened, as if sunburned, and his eyes a flaming red from the effects of the Darian stone. He supposed he looked like a demon, though the king must have assumed that it was the result of the smoke and the flames.
Ash lowered himself onto the raised stone hearth and nervously shoved his fingers through his filthy hair.
A brisk knock at the door aroused him. Two chambermaids pushed it open without waiting for a response, dragged in a large metal tub, placed it close to the hearth, then left again. They returned moments later with a trolley loaded with buckets of steaming water. These were big, muscular, sturdy girls who lifted the buckets of water easily and poured them into the tub. Then one of them laid a fire in the fireplace, which she lit with a coal from a tin box.
While Ash watched from his seat on the hearth, the servants came and went twice more, bringing more water, and soap and scrub brushes and towels. Then they stood on either side of the tub, as if awaiting further orders.
The hot water in the tub looked wonderful. Ash decided that if he were going to be arrested or knifed to death, it might as well be after a bath. He creaked to his feet, his body remembering every bad thing that had happened to it. “Thank you,” he said. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to take my bath now.”
They moved forward in tandem, like well-matched carriage horses. One of them began untying the cord at the neck of his tunic, and the other fumbled with his trousers.
“Stop that!” Ash stepped back hastily, nearly stumbling over the edge of the hearth, clutching the top of his breeches, which were in danger of falling down. “I can manage on my own,” he said firmly. “Although I may not look like it now, I’ve taken a bath before.”
Though Ash had been brought up in a palace, staff at Fellsmarch had more important things to do than bathe him, once he’d left the nursery. That prepared him for his years at Oden’s Ford, where students were expected to clean their own rooms, change their own linens, and walk across the commons to the bathhouse. Though it came as quite a shock to some, the school was known as “the great equalizer,” humbling the proud and raising up the less fortunate.
After some protest, and with many backward looks, the servants left.
Ash waited a minute or two to make sure they were gone, then stripped off his filthy clothes and dropped them on the floor. Wearing only his amulet, he eased into the hot water gratefully, despite the stinging of the wound on his leg and all his bumps and bruises from the cellar. He sank down to his chin and soaked. Despite his best intentions, he promptly fell asleep.
When he awoke, he noticed to his chagrin that someone had been in and taken his clothes away. New clothes were laid across a chair. He decided he’d better finish up before anyone else intruded. First he washed his face again and rinsed his eyes before he got soap in the water. Then, using the soap and scrub brushes, he scrubbed himself from head to toe, cleaning out the wound on his leg as well as he could. It looked like a clean cut, and not too deep.
It was hard to get out of the water. Despite the fire on the hearth, the room was chilly. He climbed out and wrapped a towel around himself. As if by signal, the bathing girls burst back through the door, bringing warm towels to dry him off with. This time, Ash submitted. He was too tired to resist.
“You look much better, sir, without that layer of dirt,” the smaller girl said approvingly. She ran the tips of her fingers over the muscles on his chest, raising gooseflesh. “We don’t see many men who work with their backs for a living. It looks well on you. And you’ve a fine backside, too, if I may say so. It’s all muscles, not like them who sit all day.”
“He has a nice frontside, too,” the bigger girl said, elbowing the smaller one. “That’s a fancy neckpiece you got on,” she said, reaching for his amulet.
“Don’t touch that!” Ash yanked it out of reach.
“I wasn’t going to steal it,” the girl said, pouting a little.
“How did you cut your leg then?” the small girl asked. “Looks like a bad gash.”
“I don’t know how that happened,” Ash said.
They had a basket of fragrant lotions and ointments that they wanted to use on his burned face and the cut on his leg, but he refused. He thought of asking for his remedy bag from the st
ables, but then remembered that it was likely either burned up or lying somewhere in the maze of passages in the cellar.
The servants finally left him on his own to get dressed. The clothing that had been left for him consisted of smallclothes and a tunic and trousers in a soft, plain-woven fabric of a dark brown color, like bark. They were comfortable and fit as if they had been made to size. There were soft brown boots, also. He wondered what had happened to his old clothes, in case he was expected to give these back when his audience with the king was over.
He padded barefoot to the door and opened it a crack. The bathing girls were gone, but two blackbirds stood just outside. They both turned and looked at him, hands on the hilts of their swords. He closed the door and sighed. He sat down in one of the chairs by the fire, feeling trapped and helpless and half-sick and hungry and dead tired. It would take a while to recover from healing Hamon, and in the meantime he’d be close to helpless.
Well, sul’Han, he thought, you were hot to get into the palace, and here you are. Maybe when he had a little power on board, he could take advantage of it.
He lay down on the bed and was almost asleep again when he heard voices raised out in the hallway. This went on for a few minutes, some kind of argument, and then the door opened. It was Lila, still wearing the clothes she’d had on in the courtyard—a white blouse, black skirt, and deep blue overdress with a laced bodice.
Ash sat bolt upright and swung his legs over the side of the bed, suddenly wide-awake.
Lila put a finger to her lips, closed the door, waited a minute, and put her ear to it. Then she circled the room, poking behind draperies and tapestries and looking under the bed. She crossed the room and stood over him, hands on hips, and said, “Have you lost your mind, princeling? It wasn’t enough that assassins tried to murder you in your bed? I saved your ass, and this is the thanks I get? You turtle my wine and come straight here so they can have another go?”
One thing you had to say about Lila: she knew how to launch an offense.