“Say it.”
“Say what?”
“Whatever it is you want to say but are holding back!”
“Are you certain later would not be better, in your current humors?”
“Now!” Eoghan thundered.
“Very well.” Correen sighed, and the sound bore the heaviness of a feeling long kept. “There’s been more news from the kingdom.”
Eoghan dropped down in his chair and waved his hand. “Go on, then. I don’t care how bad it is. I want to measure it against the words Oldwin uses when he comes in here to give his own reports.”
“Word has spread of Mortain’s treachery against the Medvedev. Somehow, this has made its way across the kingdom, and now there are even more stirrings of rebellion.”
“Against Aiden?”
“Against you!” Correen cleared her throat. “Against you,” she said again, this time with less enthusiasm. “For there is no disabusing anyone of the belief that Lord Quinlanden acted under your command in everything he’s done so far.”
“But he’s a rogue!”
“Would you like me to spread that word?”
Eoghan groaned and slumped lower in his chair. His bones hurt today, more than usual. They felt as if they were shrinking, pulling him inward. “No, for the only thing worse than my command of his acts is my ignorance of them. Tell me more of the rebellion.”
“My men have sent word of an army marching upon Whitechurch. From the Southerlands.”
“Oh? Let them raze it. Perhaps that will be the satisfying end we all crave.”
“Eoghan. If we know of it, then so do Quinlanden’s men, and Mortain. And if they know of it, then they will meet force with force. There will be war.”
“How many times have I said that I do not want war in this kingdom!”
Correen closed her eyes. “What we want is not always what we get. I cannot slow the hand of time, or stay what is already in motion. We should discuss the deployment of the Rhiagain Guard.”
“Are you my Master of War?”
“No, but you also do not have a Master of War, as you’ve not replaced the one our father dismissed.”
“Then who leads my armies?”
“Your generals on land, and admirals for your small naval command. From the Isle of Belcarrow. I could have them here by supper tomorrow.”
“I already told Oldwin I will not deploy men.” Eoghan inhaled. The dry air burned his tender lungs. “Do you know how little of this he tells me? He parcels it out, careful words with sinister smiles. He was here only this morning, and he said nothing of the Medvedev rumor. Nothing of the men marching upon Whitechurch. He speaks of little pockets of rebellion, kept down by Quinlanden’s men. And I have allowed this. I have allowed Quinlanden’s men to subdue those who have not betrayed me as he has. Is it any wonder the kingdom believes this comes from Duncarrow?”
“What would you like me to do, Eoghan?”
“I think... I think Oldwin is working against me, Correen. How could I have been so blind?”
“Can I speak honestly?”
“Have I ever asked you to lie?”
Correen sat down across from him. She dropped her voice low. “Father locked the sorcerers away for a reason. He knew they were dangerous. That they could not be trusted. That no matter what gain there was to be had in what they could do, what they knew, it was not worth the price. And I think you’ve known for a while that Oldwin works for no one but himself, but you’d hoped what he could bring you would be enough.”
Eoghan buried his face in his hands. “But it isn’t enough. He’s given me nothing. And I fear he will take everything.” He looked up. “What does he want? What does Mortain want?”
Correen shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t think Father knew, either. And that scared him, as it should scare you.”
“What do I do?”
“I don’t know,” she said after a pause. “It will not be so easy to put them back in their box.”
“I could have them arrested. They’re powerful, but my Knights of Duncarrow could subdue them.”
“You could.”
“What? You don’t think I should?”
Correen glanced toward the door with a careful look. “Brother, I do not think that the sorcerers were locked up for so long because they were forced to be, but because they chose to be. Metal and stone alone is not enough to subdue creatures who possess their power. If you put them back in the sky dungeon, this time they’ll not bother to feign as if it has any power over them at all.”
“Then what?”
“Did you know there are new prisoners in the sky dungeon? Has he told you?”
“New prisoners? Who?”
“Esmerelda Warwick, and the Ravenwood. Ravenna.”
Eoghan gasped. He nearly laughed. “The old fool did it. He wasn’t lying after all.”
Correen reached forward and clasped one of his bony hands in hers. “Do not let this ease your mind on Oldwin! He’s done it to distract you, Eoghan. To keep the child entertained so the father can do as he pleases.”
Eoghan’s smile faded. “I say again, Correen, then what?”
“For now, play his game. Be the unwitting boy king he takes you for. For the only way to win against him is to let him think he is winning.”
* * *
They made camp south of Oak Hill, just miles from the Southerlands border. Wyat waited until he heard their breathing slow before he dropped to his knees, eyes to the sky and the Guardians.
“Oh Guardian of the Unpromised Future, I beseech you to keep your watchful gaze moving, and to pass over the bodies of Anabella and Stefan, for their promise is yet to be fulfilled. And to you, Guardian of Anguish and Tribulation, I say, with fealty and kindness, that you have spent enough upon these two. Let your work be done.” Wyat closed his eyes. The air was warmer here than it had been, and he let it pass over his flesh with gratitude. Here, they could sleep outdoors, safe from the elements. “And at last, Guardian of Rebirth and Renewal, I beseech you, most of all, to see within the hearts of Anabella and Stefan and in that sight witness their worthiness of you. Of a new life, and the happiness that comes with it. They have not endured this much in the purview of your brethren for naught.”
When he was done, Wyat traced his finger along the path of the Guardians and then kissed his finger. He stood, looking down at the sleeping woman and child.
“What would you have wanted, Darrick? This? Am I still on the path you would’ve set me upon?” he whispered with a sigh. Too many years had passed. He no longer knew the man he’d once loved with near the same commitment as he’d given the Guardians. This Darrick, fresh from five years of hard labor, was not the same man, and he couldn’t know what he wanted. Did he even still possess the same idealism? The same belief in truth and honor?
Wyat walked down to the stream that ran adjacent to their small camp. He’d do about anything to take a dip, but he’d have to be satisfied with refilling their skins. A few hours of rest, and then they needed to be back on the road. Not long now until Whitecliffe, and their next gamble with safety.
And Darrick, if the Guardians willed it.
He was in the middle of relieving himself when he heard the crunching sound. He strained to see in the dark. Nothing. But then the sound echoed, again. He finished his business and quietly buckled his trousers, dropping one hand to his sword.
Wyat stepped quietly through the forest. He could still see nothing, nothing to confirm the sounds. He heard Stefan cry out and he quickened his pace, returning to the camp just in time to see the boy being carried off.
“Stop!” Wyat cried. He released his sword from its sheath, and the sound of metal filled the cool air. “Drop the boy!”
The thief cast a quick glance over his shoulder and cried out, “He’ll fetch a meal or three! Shouldnae ha’ left him alone!” The thief bolted back into the forest, toward the hill.
Anabella started to rouse. She looked at Wyat, groggy, confused. “What’s hap
pened?” Her eyes widened. “Where’s Stefan?”
“You stay here!” Wyat cried, pointing the sword first at her and then in the direction the thief had taken Stefan. “Take out your dagger and stay put!”
Wyat flew through the brush, ignoring the sting of branches slapping his face. He moved faster, but it seemed the thief had twice his speed and had gained nearly enough distance to be free.
Wyat pushed harder, leaping over logs, even the dead carcass of a bear. At last Stefan’s red hair flashed under a spill of moonlight. He was getting closer, but not close enough. Not nearly close enough.
Panting, Wyat reached within himself for whatever reserves still remained. He screamed out a groan and launched himself into the night, well aware his heart might explode in his chest if he pushed any harder.
Ahead, Stefan screamed. His horror tore a hole through Wyat.
As the night air slapped him, Wyat remembered the small axe strapped to his waist. He’d used it just that night for firewood, sharpening it on whetstone while Anabella heated their stew. He reached for it, struggling against the leather strap. Years before, as a boy, he’d been the best at throwing daggers. His father thought he’d enter the Rhiagain Guard, maybe train as an assassin, but Wyat had no hunger for blood, or for war. His only desire was to learn.
But he had no choice now. It was this, or lose Stefan to the thief, whose own hunger must have been greater than all Wyat’s defenses against him. Slowing only slightly, he released the axe and raised it up, dropping it behind, near his ear. He said a silent prayer to the Guardians and then, channeling the remainder of his energy into the weapon, he let sail the axe.
The axe whistled as it passed through the air. The thief must have heard it, and his curiosity got the best of him as he turned, just as the axe split his forehead in two.
Wyat ran until his legs gave out, which happened at the same time the thief dropped to his knees. A viscous stream of blood flowed from where the axe was embedded in his head, flanked by two startled eyes. Stefan rolled out of his arms, and as soon as he hit the forest floor, he stumbled toward Wyat.
“I only wished for a meal,” the thief said, breathless, before falling to the side.
Stefan wrapped himself in Wyat’s arms, sobbing. “It’s okay, Stefan. Everything is fine, now. You’re safe.”
“He was going to eat me!” Stefan cried. His tiny hands made fists around Wyat’s shirt.
“He wasn’t going to eat you. Come, let’s go back to your mother.” Wyat lifted the boy in his arms and turned away from the dead man, before either of them could dwell on the horrific scene too long.
When they returned to camp, Wyat dropped Stefan into his mother’s arms and went to roll his bed and pack his things. “If there was one, there will be more. We have to leave now.”
“Shh, baby, easy now,” Anabella said, comforting her son. “Wyat. What happened?”
“We can speak of it later. For now, we have to go.”
“I won’t go until you tell me.” She stood, reaching for his arm. “You’re shaking.”
“I killed a man!” Wyat cried. He recoiled from her touch. “I’ve never taken a life before now. I swore I never would.”
“You did it to protect Stefan.”
“My reasons don’t matter when a man is dead.”
“Wyat, they do matter. The Guardians don’t expect you to be idle when someone means you harm. Do we have any ale left? You need something to calm you.”
Wyat stumbled away from her, flailing his arms. “I don’t need ale. I don’t need your words. I don’t need the deed erased.”
Anabella backed away. She pressed one hand to the back of Stefan’s head, as if protecting him. “Then tell me what to do.”
“Pack. We’re leaving tonight.”
“For you. What to do for you.”
“Nothing.” Wyat emptied his bowl from the evening’s meal, shaking the remnants into the dirt, before shoving it in his bag. “I told you. I don’t need anything.”
“Perhaps we were wrong to leave Duncarrow when we did,” Anabella said, sighing. She packed with one hand, holding the hysterical Stefan with the other. “If we’d waited a little longer—”
“You’d be dead if you’d waited,” Wyat rejoined. “Correen had been growing that seed in Eoghan for months, perhaps years. There was no greater threat to Eoghan’s seat than Stefan, and daily she reminded him of this. She would’ve had you tossed into the White Sea, forgotten to all.”
“Is this better?” Anabella hissed. “We’re not safe anywhere! You took a life to save my son, but that man isn’t the first to die on his behalf, is he? What of those lives Assyria took to protect our secret? I cannot live like this, Wyat, and neither can Stefan. I cannot bear the burden of these lives on my conscience, nor of your own horror at being the bringer of death. Of what will happen to you if Eoghan or his men discover what you’ve done for us.”
Wyat closed his eyes. He inhaled, filling his lungs, releasing some of the night’s poison back into the air. His hands still trembled, but there was nothing he could do about that. Not now. “We’ll be with Darrick soon, and he will know what to do.”
* * *
“Ravenna! Wake already!”
Ravenna could hear her name, the sound of Esmerelda’s voice, but both felt like they were at the end of a long hall, or part of her dreamscape. It seemed important to follow the sound. She opened her eyes.
“Oh, thank the Guardians!” Esmerelda cried. She swayed, gripping her belly, and blew out a measured breath. “I think I know where we are. I’ve heard my father talk of this place. The sky dungeon.”
As Ravenna blinked reality into existence, she could see they were in a small room, made of stone. Behind Esmerelda was a tiny window with bars, and to her right, a desk. “The sky dungeon?”
“Aye, at Duncarrow. They put all their prisoners at the top of the tallest tower. They don’t fear their escape because the only way out is death.”
That sounded a bit like The Rookery, Ravenna thought, but the revelation was quickly replaced by a splitting pain in her head as she tried to sit. A tight sound escaped her as she winced. “They must have never had a Ravenwood prisoner, then. My raven form can fit through the bars. I’ll go for help.”
Esmerelda’s face fell. She didn’t want to be alone, that was clear, but she didn’t say it aloud. “Right. Right! You can fly to Jesse, and he’ll know what to do.”
Ravenna whipped her head around to take in the remainder of their surroundings. She was sitting upon a bed made of straw. Now that her senses had begun to return to her, the putrid scent coming off bedding that had probably never been washed made her gag hard enough to clap her hands over her mouth. Beyond that, a pot for relieving. The desk from before. A pile of sticks and rocks in the corner, assembled in a way that reminded her of how Nyssa and Torrin would play with random things from the Wintergarden at Wulfsgate. And vellum.
It was better than the bottom of the rough sacks they’d been held in for days untold, but not by much.
“Someone was recently here,” she said.
“What do you think happened to him?” Esmerelda asked. She had trouble being still. She shifted from foot to foot, eyes passing over the same things, over and over.
“Her, I think,” Ravenna replied. “I think a woman was here. And maybe a child.”
“A child? In here? That’s incomprehensible,” Esmerelda said. “I hope they escaped.”
“Your hope would be wasted on any unfortunate enough to find themselves here.”
“You should go,” Esmerelda said. The words looked as if they pained her. “Quickly. Before they return.”
Ravenna approached her. “Will you be okay here, by yourself?”
Esmerelda sucked in a hard breath. “I have no choice, do I? Go, before I find I’m too weak to allow it.”
Ravenna hesitated and then kissed Esmerelda at the side of her mouth. “I swear to you, I won’t leave you here to suffer. I’ll raise an entire army if I
have to.” She read the fear in Esmerelda. “Esme, I won’t let you deliver this child here, in a prison.”
Esmerelda dropped her eyes. “Don’t promise me anything, Ravenna. I find my strength in truth, not pretty lies.”
Ravenna lifted Esmerelda’s chin with her finger. “I’m not your father. I’m not Ryan, or Jesse, who would speak their words with the best intentions, not knowing how they inadvertently place you deeper in the cage. If I make it away from Duncarrow, then it would take death to keep me from returning for you.”
Esmerelda laughed quietly. “We were hardly friends before this, and now you talk as if we are sisters.”
“Have you any sisters, Esmerelda?”
“Only brothers.”
“I have sisters. I didn’t choose them. They didn’t choose me. But I choose you. My sister in choice.”
“There are worse choices,” Esmerelda said, with a light twinkle in her eyes.
They both turned in a snap toward the sound of the cell door creaking open. A man. Ravenna had never seen him before, but there was something strange and familiar about him, like laying eyes upon one sharing your blood for the first time. His eyes belied someone of great age, but he seemed no older than her own father. The lines drawing his face into hard sections confused her further on this matter.
He raised a hand and the cell door slammed closed behind him.
“Sorcerer,” Ravenna whispered. Esmerelda huddled closer to her.
“Was it the magic, Mistress Ravenwood? Or had you sorted this out even before that?” the man asked. His grin sent a chill straight to her feet.
Ravenna regarded him with a hard stare.
“I’ve heard of your kind before,” Esmerelda said, eyes narrowing. “Was this your cell? I’m surprised you were so willing to surrender the accommodations.”
“Mine was down the hall, Lady Warwick. Or do they still call one a lady once they’ve feigned their death and forsaken their family?”
“And what do they call you?” she demanded.
“Oldwin.” He affected a light bow. “I’ve come to arrange your marriages to the king. How fortunate you both are that my men came across you in your travels.”
The Broken Realm Page 41