But she could remember the vicar’s prayer over her.
Jondralyn knew that her father and Roguemoore and the rest of the Brethren of Mia believed the Church of Laijon was run by men who were grossly misled and that all things holy existed more for gaining money and political advantage than anything of the divine. In the past she could sing the hymns and mouth the platitudes with the most devout of citizens, but over time she had become like her father, seeing very little evidence of Laijon’s work in the church. Or in the grand vicar.
She remembered the incident in Rivermeade with the wild boar that had given Leif Chaparral his permanent limp. It had been Denarius who had ministered to his injuries then. Jovan’s, too. And she knew it was that history between Jovan and Leif and the grand vicar that bonded them together, left them beholden to one another, all to the detriment of Gul Kana.
She thought back to her own Ember Gathering at seventeen and the blessing that had followed. The ceremony and blessing had been a complex affair involving covering herself in ash and holy oils, and the ritualistic cleansing of her body, an affair that she’d mostly tried to forget. Still, that singular strange series of events and rituals had been the first time she’d ever let doubts about the validity of the Church of Laijon and the men who ran it creep in. When she’d brought her concerns up to her mother, Alana had agreed that the Ember Gathering was invasive to one’s privacy, but she told her daughter to pay it no mind and consider it naught but a necessary ritual every woman in the church had to suffer through but once. And Alana had also advised her never to feel guilty about it.
How long have I lain here? No. She wouldn’t blame herself. She knew right from wrong. She’d felt violated during the Ember Gathering and she felt violated now. The blessings were wrong in every way. Especially this latest one. It was all coming back so clear now. The grand vicar had been with the quorum of five, too. Vandivor. Donalbain. Spencerville. Leaford. Rhys-Duncan. Five lecherous men. And my brother was there! And Leif Chaparral! And Glade! She could picture all their faces now, especially the lust-filled visage of Leif’s younger brother, Glade. Where Jovan and Leif had treated Denarius’ blessing like some sort of sacrament, like some sacred ritual akin to their Ember Lighting Rites, and were solemn and reverent throughout, Glade’s eyes had gazed upon her nakedness and vulnerability with the twisted gleam of a rapist. And Tala would likely be betrothed to the cruel lech like some kind of human trophy. . . .
I will not let them win! I will not let these evil men win!
A moth fluttered up out of the pile of blankets at the foot of her bed, circling in untamed patterns around a candelabra near the door. She followed the haphazard flight of the moth, wondering in her delirium if it even existed. Everything looked slightly skewed though her lone eye. And the moth’s humming in her ears soon became a roar.
She gazed about her bedchamber. At least they moved me from that stale infirmary. She took comfort in her room, in the familiar surroundings, the soothing pastels of the walls and columns, the rich maroon rug, and the arched ceiling above she had stared at many a long and sleepless night. Her bookshelf was there, none of the books disturbed. It was a fear of hers, someone rearranging her books, borrowing them, ruining them. She never loaned them out. They were her possessions—the only physical possessions she cared about anyway. She loved each one like a friend. For they had been her friends over the years. Just being in her bedchamber, in her own personal space, never failed to ease her mind at least some. Despite the annoying noise of the moth!
She allowed her mind to relax. Focus. I will win! Jovan has not defeated me yet. As long as I can still grab a breath, I will fight on. She felt the bandages on her face, the pain of her ravaged flesh underneath. These injuries will not be the end of Jondralyn Bronachell. . . .
The moth’s humming turned to a low grinding noise that entirely filled the room. That’s no annoying bug! Jondralyn, startled out of her delirium, sat straight up in bed, searching for a weapon, anything. Her heart beat heavily.
Across the room, her bookshelf slid aside and a breeze from the passageway beyond bit into her skin, dark and forbidding.
Into the room emerged Squireck Van Hester in a heavy dark cloak. He was followed by Hawkwood in a similar cloak. As the two men stood in the center of her bedchamber, Jondralyn wondered if indeed she was losing her mind to her injuries and fever. Do I dream this too? Her hand went immediately to the bandages covering her face; she was suddenly ashamed of her injuries in front of Hawkwood. Apparition or not, she gazed at him in mute suspicious wonder.
“Are you okay?” Squireck broke the silence. In two giant steps he was kneeling at her bed, one nervous hand seizing her forearm, the other reaching for her bandages. He stopped short, jerking back, hesitant, embarrassed.
“Is it really you, Squireck?” It hurt to talk, but at least her words were not slurred. She felt no concern at all that Squireck was seeing her in such a vulnerable state. There was naught but love and concern on his face. But her roaming eye kept wanting to land on Hawkwood. I could be the most deformed grotesque he’s ever seen. A pent-up breath escaped her lips as her eye finally did focus on him. “They told me you were in Purgatory.”
“I was.” With a stiff gesture Hawkwood swept aside a lock of hair from his face. “For a few minutes anyway.” As his piercing orbs lingered on her, she so desperately desired to feel his touch. She wanted to swipe Squireck’s hand away and reach out for Hawkwood. Instead she just sat there, numb to the fact that she was seeing either of them again. The Gladiator and the Assassin. They must know that, as the Princess, I failed miserably! And sudden doubt crept in, brushing away her earlier resolve. Am I truly an instrument of the great One and Only, part of some arcane scriptural purpose?
Hawkwood stepped around her bed. He wore dark leather riding breeches and a white shirt under his cloak. His face was paler than normal, his movements not as fluid or assured. During her time in the infirmary, Baron Jubal Bruk had informed her that Hawkwood had suffered injuries of his own in Ravenker. Still, he gave her a gentle smile, and in that one look, all her apprehension faded. And how could I not feel safe with him, this captivating brave man who watched over me the entire length of the King’s Highway, the one who kept me alive? The one who stitched my wounds?
“How is it you are here?” She just wanted to hug him. But my face! She also wanted to hide. Is he real and not some cruel dream? “What happened that has brought you back to Amadon? You went west with the dwarf.”
Hawkwood relayed to her the story of his travels with Roguemoore, of meeting Ser Roderic Raybourne’s ward, Nail, at the Swithen Wells Trail Abbey. He told her of Roderic’s death. He told her of his journey to Ravenker with Roguemoore, Godwyn, and several of Nail’s friends from Gallows Haven. How they had taken Forgetting Moon into Ravenker the very same day she was to meet with Aeros Raijael, told her of how Nail had lost the battle-ax and angel stone to two of the White Prince’s henchmen. He told her of how he had fought a Bloodwood assassin named the Spider, and been sorely injured and possibly poisoned. How he had saved Nail in the end and let the ax and stone go. “And then I saw you on that litter in Ravenker,” he finished.
She looked at him, almost heartbroken that it was because of her that he had been captured and thrown into Purgatory. “How did you escape?” she asked him, immediately cursing the obviousness of the question. He escaped before. He merely did it again.
His look was calm as he answered her. “I walked myself out of that dungeon moments after they escorted me down there. Gault provided a good distraction. The chains were easy to slip. I escaped through the same tunnels as before. I again found myself bobbing in Memory Bay. Made my way to Rockliegh Isle, figuring that once you heard of my escape, you would search for me there. I was as surprised to find Squireck already there as I am sure he was surprised to see me wading ashore. We’ve had many discussions. And that is why we are here now.”
As he described his escape, all she could think of was what he must think o
f her now. If he sees me as grotesque, he masks his revulsion well. Her mind was a flurry of thoughts. None of them made much sense. “Surely Jovan would have informed me that you’d escaped, searched my chambers for you.”
“I’ve a suspicion Jovan doesn’t know I’ve escaped. I doubt Leif Chaparral has told him yet. Together they are deceitful and worthless, even to each other. That your brother proposes to make Leif captain of the Dayknights will surely doom Gul Kana. In times past, the Dayknights were formidable fighters, something to be reckoned with. Ser Roderic Raybourne, Borden Bronachell, they were real Dayknights, hard and tough and true. I’ve known few men who could kill a Bloodwood. But Ser Roderic could. Your father could. Leif and Jovan together couldn’t even kill a gnat.” His face showed real disgust.
She pondered his words. Hard and tough and true. Just moments before Hawkwood and Squireck had entered her chamber, she had felt that kind of resolve within herself, the resolve to fight on and not let her brother win. But now, all she could see was her own lack. “I’ve proven to be of as little use as Jovan,” she muttered.
“You were kept in the dark about Jovan’s real plan for you,” Hawkwood said. “He and Leif meant to betray you.”
“No,” she answered. “Tala warned me. And I did not heed her warning.”
Squireck squeezed her arm. “Jovan’s court is full of scheming and deceit. None of this is your fault.”
For some reason, the Prince of Saint Only’s words bothered her. She said, “I must accept my part in things. It is Jovan himself who is kept in the dark by those closest to him. Denarius, Val-Korin, they all deceive him. Leif Chaparral, too. They’ve convinced him that I was behind the assassination attempt. That Hawkwood, Roguemoore, and I planned it. That is why my brother betrayed me: he thinks I betrayed him. And I suppose I did betray him. Just not in the ways he thinks. I never hired an assassin.”
“I was not aware of any assassination attempt until I returned to Amadon and heard the rumors,” Hawkwood said.
“After you and Roguemoore left, my brother was stabbed in his chambers. Val-Gianni said it was fortunate none of the puncture wounds hit anything vital.”
“Sounds like the precise knife work of a Bloodwood.”
“But why stab him and leave him alive? What purpose is there in that?”
“It is always a game with Black Dugal and his Bloodwoods.” Hawkwood grew pensive. “There is something behind the attack, though, some endgame we won’t foresee until it is too late.”
“But what of you, Jon?” Squireck squeezed her arm affectionately again. “Tell me exactly how this happened to you.” His eyes rapidly scanned the bandages wrapped around her face and head, her arm still in his tender, yet nervous clutch. “How can I avenge you? I will make it right. I promise.”
Where Hawkwood was cool and composed, there was something wild and desperate about Squireck. She recalled visiting him in the dungeon under the arena with Roguemoore and Tala. His demeanor was the same now as that day in the dungeon. Apprehensive. Though he was all muscle and might under his cloak, and though he physically towered over Hawkwood, there was a grave insecurity about him. Though he had worn Tala’s wreath of heather so confidently in the arena, stood up to Jovan in Sunbird Hall with such powerful majesty, the fact was, Squireck was a puzzle to her now.
She looked at her former betrothed with both gratefulness and concern. “Why have you risked coming here, Squireck?”
“I could not stay alone on that rocky isle in the middle of the bay one day longer, Jon. I am a free man. By the will of Laijon and the Blessed Mother Mia, I earned my freedom. My triumph was written in the stars. The Constellation of the Wreath was mentioned in the Moon Scrolls.”
Constellation of the Wreath? Does he truly believe it? The Way and Truth of Laijon also hinted that the answers to some prophecy could be found in the constellations of stars. She wondered about the spiked red helmet Tala had taken from his cell as payment for the wreath she’d made. Whatever happened to that dour thing? “But for so long you denied killing Lucas,” she said. “And then you admit to the murder as if it is no great deal. I do not understand.”
“I never denied killing Lucas. I just never pleaded guilty. I remained silent, for not even I can stop the will of the great One and Only. My very freedom speaks to the righteousness of the Brethren of Mia’s cause and Laijon’s continued blessings upon us. Archbishop Lucas’ death at my hands hath served a greater good.”
“Did you really kill him? Why?” Do I want the answer?
“As I told you and Jovan and everyone else in Sunbird Hall, as I was leaving the crypt with the Moon Scrolls in hand, Lucas found me, barred my exit. We struggled together and he fell. He hit his head and lay unconscious. Yet I knew if he awakened, he would alert all to my theft. I smothered Lucas with my own hands.”
“But you were found out anyway,” she said. “Archbishop Spencerville claimed to have witnessed the event. His accusations match your description of events almost exactly. So to what purpose did Lucas’ death serve?”
“I asked myself that very question many long and lonely nights in my prison cell. But in the end, ’twas all part of Laijon’s plan, for he is wise and his ways are glorious. And our ways are not always his ways. Stealing the scrolls was only part of his plan. My imprisonment and triumph in the arena were another part. And Tala’s wreath another. ’Twas written in the stars. Even you are part of his plan, Jon.”
Whenever Squireck spoke of the arena or of Lucas’ murder, it was with utmost certainty and confidence in his voice. “You seem so assured of things,” she stated.
“I feel that surety deep within my own bosom. Now that Roguemoore has gone off in search of Blackest Heart and Afflicted Fire, Laijon’s spirit speaks to me still, telling me what I am to do.”
“And what is that?” She asked the question now that he was not as apprehensive and nervous as he’d previously seemed.
“I aim to rejoin Jovan’s court as the ambassador of Adin Wyte. Once I have ingratiated myself back into the king’s favor, I will still work for the Brethren of Mia here in Amadon, but with an inside knowledge of Jovan’s court. Then I will reclaim my place as a knight of Saint Only and avenge the destruction of my father’s kingdom.”
“Step one foot in Jovan’s court and he will hang you,” she said.
“You are wrong, Jondralyn. Denarius lay his hands upon me in blessing, claimed in the name of Laijon before all Sunbird Hall that I was innocent, that I was now free to walk without stain before our Lord and all men. If your brother will not honor the Arena Incantations of the grand vicar and recognize me as a free man, then I shall challenge him for the Silver Throne itself.”
“Step one foot into Sunbird Hall and Jovan will surely execute you on the spot or throw you into Purgatory.”
“He will not.” His fingers gripped her arm. “He will come to see things as I do.”
“Do you know how to escape Purgatory as Hawkwood does? Because that is where Jovan will send you.”
A bitter look crossed Squireck’s face. “I will not be subject to death or captivity ever again. I will regain my place within your brother’s court, or I will kill him.”
“You will never regain your place in his court.”
“I could.” Squireck’s jaw was set firm, resolved. “With your help I could, Jondralyn.”
“Jovan hates me.”
“Once he sees the wisdom in the words I mean to speak to him, he will raise me up in his armies as an ally, and I will reclaim my homeland, and we will be betrothed once again, securing our kingdoms together against the White Prince.”
Her gaze flew to Hawkwood of its own volition. His face remained impassive. “What of the weapons of Laijon?” she asked. “What of the return of the Five Warrior Angels? And lest you forget, the Brethren of Mia’s cause. We three are part of all this, you, me, Hawkwood. The Gladiator. Princess. Assassin. What of that?”
“My plan will help speed the Brethren’s cause,” Squireck answered. “Help
us find the remaining weapons of the Five Warrior Angels.”
She scooted herself backward in the bed, pulling her arm away from his grasp. “I’ve already dispatched Val-Draekin to find Roguemoore and tell him of my fate. Seven days ago he left, if my reckoning is right. The Vallè will take Hawkwood’s place at the dwarf’s side. Under the circumstances, I have done the best I could for us in that regard. They will bring back the weapons.” It seemed she suddenly couldn’t even form a coherent thought. Her face ached under the bandages. She repeated, “I have done what I can in that regard. To help the Brethren’s cause.”
“I still must speak with Jovan.” Squireck stood.
“It will be your death.”
“I agree with him, Jon,” Hawkwood interjected. “Squireck cannot stay on that island, hidden, forever. Even I will search for a new place to hide. Squireck must make an effort to regain his place in your brother’s court. Were I in his place, it’s exactly what I would do.”
“I suppose I can see the wisdom in the plan,” Jondralyn said, surprised at how quickly she agreed with Hawkwood, when he was merely proposing the same thing as Squireck.
The Prince of Saint Only seemed to notice her swift reversal too. His voice had turned crisp. “Hawkwood and I discussed many things on Rockliegh Isle. First and foremost, I demanded he take me to see Ethic Shroud and the angel stone.”
“And I insisted Ethic Shroud remain where I found it,” Hawkwood said. “Hidden. Even from him.”
“And I will not believe Ethic Shroud has been found until I see it with my own eyes.” Squireck would not meet Hawkwood’s eyes.
Jondralyn glanced at her bookshelf, third book to the left on the top shelf, where she had safely hidden the parchment Hawkwood had given her. And she had not pulled it from its hiding place since. “I have seen Ethic Shroud, Squireck.” She tore her gaze from the shelf. “And the angel stone. Will you not believe my word?”
The Blackest Heart Page 24