by Anthony Ryan
I didn’t wait for the inevitable insult-laden argument and ran towards the shrine as fast as I could.
I had to fight my way through a thickening crowd of congregants to get to the shrine’s door, feeling scant optimism for what I would discover inside. Still, the amount of blood slicking the aisle was a grim surprise. A dead man in a Supplicant’s robe lay close to the door. Pausing to glance at his features I saw no one I recognised, but I did glimpse the mail shirt through a rent in his robe.
Hearing an overlapping chaos of shouts and pleading from the altar, I shouldered past a pair of company soldiers, both bloody from wounds to the face and arms, coming to a halt at the sight that assailed me. The shrine’s clerics lay dead on the steps to the altar, the Ascendant among them. Most of the noise came from the throat of the lord of exchange. He was on his knees, held in place by Ofihla’s gauntleted hand while she used the other to level a sword at his neck.
“I didn’t know…” the noble choked out repeatedly. “By all the Martyrs I didn’t know…”
The sound of weeping drew my gaze from the begging noble to Ayin, her slender, shuddering form pressed against Brewer’s broad chest. He lay at the foot of the altar steps, face slack and utterly still. Moving closer, I saw Ayin clutching at the trio of crossbow bolts that had pierced his breastplate.
“Get up,” Ayin told him through a veil of tears and snot. “She’s gone and you have to go and get her…”
Crouching, I pressed a hand to Brewer’s brow, the flesh cool and soft, lacking all life. He was beyond even the Sack Witch’s skills now.
“She didn’t want swords in the shrine,” Ofihla told me, swordpoint still pressed against the scrawny neck of the lord of exchange. “Only let Brewer escort her in. We came running when we heard the noise.” Her heavy jaw worked as she bit down on a curse. “They had a dozen swordsmen seeded in the crowd and a few others posing as Supplicants. Held us off while they took her out the back.” Her eyes flicked to meet mine, bafflement vying with fury. “She didn’t even fight, Scribe.”
“Sergeant Swain?” I asked. “Wilhum?”
“They went off in pursuit. The sergeant ordered me to get what I could out of this one.” She dug her armoured fingers hard into the lord of exchange’s shoulder, drawing forth a pained gasp.
“The Ascendant,” he said in a plaintive sob. “It was his request that she attend. I know nothing!”
“He’s dead,” Ofihla pointed out. “You’re not, yet.”
I rose and moved to one of the slain clerics. Like the dead man at the door, his mail was revealed by the deep slashes that had opened his robe. However, I judged from the crumpled, gory ruin of his head he had been felled by a blow from a brass candlestick. Brewer’s work, I concluded with a spasm of grief. The dead man’s features were obscured by blood, but I felt a dull pulse of recognition as I peered closer. Stooping to grasp the slick mass of his hair, I raised the dripping face from the tiles, finding the lean features of a wiry fellow I had seen some months before. He was cleaner then, I reflected, letting the wiry sergeant’s head fall to the tiles with a wet smack.
The mad bitch is going to die, one way or another. Lorine’s words from the forest, now given additional meaning.
“This is one of Duke Rouphon’s men,” I said, moving to Ofihla’s side. “It’s my guess they’ll be taking the captain to Castle Ambris. Assassinating a Risen Martyr in a shrine simply wouldn’t do. They need a speedy trial, but at a defensible place with a good-size audience to witness it.” I stared down into the twitching eyes of the lord of exchange. “Do I have it right, my lord? And I caution you, I have a very keen ear for lies.”
A feverish calculation played out on the noble’s face before a hard jerk of Ofihla’s hand forced a reply from his lips. “They had a Crown warrant!” he blurted. “And a letter with the duke’s seal. What choice did I have?”
I stepped back, watching Ofihla wrestle with the prospect of murder, a bead of blood swelling on the point of her sword as it pressed yet harder against the noble’s pallid flesh.
“You faithless wretch!” she grunted, sound judgement overcoming rage as she cast the noble away. Killing so senior a Crown agent would be a disastrous act, even now when all seemed lost in any case. Ayin, however, was never one for judgement, sound or otherwise.
As his lordship sagged in relief, she fell on him, feral and ferocious, her knife hand blurring. Blood rose in a thickening spray as she drove the lord of exchange down, the knife stabbing his face, neck and eyes, rendering him unrecognisable in a scant few seconds. I felt no inclination to intervene and Ofihla’s good sense also prevented her from attempting to drag Ayin off before she was done.
“Bad men…” she gasped, rising from the noble’s mutilated corpse, sniffing as she palmed the dripping gore from her nose. “Bad men everywhere.” She turned to me, baring red-stained teeth and wearily brandishing her knife. “Kept it close.”
I replied with a smile of my own before turning and striding for the door.
“Where are you going, Scribe?” Ofihla demanded.
“Castle Ambris,” I told her. “Where the fuck else? Are you coming?”
The watch sergeant on the eastern gate was disinclined to surrender his horse, then disinclined to argue the point when he found himself on his arse nursing a recently punched nose. My stolen mount was a sturdy, shaggy-footed mare bred for strength rather than speed, but I’d managed to get a fair gallop out of her.
My desire to get to Castle Ambris was a feverish need when I set out but cooled as the journey wore on and the mare slowed to a canter then a walk. The reduced pace gave me time to reflect on what precisely I intended to do when I reached my destination. I knew the duke and any Crown agents involved in this enterprise would want the deed done quickly. The sooner Evadine was condemned as a heretic and all suggestion of her martyrdom suppressed, the better it would be for king and Covenant. In all likelihood, I would be fortunate to arrive in time to witness Evadine’s execution, never mind prevent it.
My pondering faded when I noticed the bodies lying on the verge ahead. I halted my mount, resting a hand on my sword, eyes scanning the trees on either side of the road. A glance at the corpses revealed a trio of men-at-arms in Shavine ducal livery, bearing wounds that told of recent and frenzied combat. One, however, was unarmoured, clad in the light garments that bespoke a messenger rather than a man-at-arms
“He was bearing missives for the king.”
I jerked at the sound of Swain’s voice. He stood at the edge of the forest, bloody mace in hand and face drawn in a suspicious glare. Hanging from his belt was a leather tube that I assumed contained the unfortunate messenger’s cargo. “Where’ve you been, Scribe?” he asked in a tone that indicated he’d expected me sooner.
“I’ve known grandmothers who could run faster than this nag,” I said, dismounting. I led the horse from the road, nodding to the messenger’s tube. “I assume you would like help reading that?”
Swain’s features tensed a little in offence, but he duly tossed the tube into my hands. He could read, and write a little, but not particularly well. “Come on,” he said, turning. “We’re camped nearby.”
“It’s an account of her trial,” I told Swain and Wilhum a while later before reading aloud the contents of the single sheet of parchment. It had been the only document in the messenger’s care and bore the irregular, sprawling text that told of an unskilled scribe writing in haste.
“‘His Gracious Majesty is hereby informed that Evadine Courlain, formerly known as the Lady of Leshalle and Aspirant of the Covenant of Martyrs, was today found by lawful assembly of noble and cleric to have engaged in the vilest forms of treason and heresy. To wit: the connivance with agents of the Sister Queens of Ascarlia to deliver the port of Olversahl into their hands and the heretical and patently false claim of martyrdom and resurrection by virtue of the Seraphile’s intervention. Sentence of death is proclaimed under the laws of both Crown and Covenant and will be carried out within tw
o days. Should His Majesty deign to grant mercy to this vile traitor, his wishes will be fully respected.’”
“Lying bastards!” Wilhum said. His injured arm was confined by a sling and he paced back and forth, though his pallor and the stains that discoloured his bandage indicated he would be better off at rest. He and Swain had engaged in a headlong gallop towards Castle Ambris, blundering into the messenger’s party with no time to lay an ambush. Wilhum’s haste and rage had made him uncharacteristically clumsy, falling victim to a blow from the third man-at-arms after quickly dispatching the other two. Luckily, Swain’s mace had accounted for the final soldier before he could finish the job. The messenger had taken the unwise if admirable decision to try to flee rather than surrender his charge, suffering a thrown mace to the skull for his pains.
“It’s signed by Duke Elbyn,” I said, lowering the missive, “and a long list of clerics and nobles, only one of whom matters.” I extended the parchment to Wilhum, pointing out the relevant signature.
“Sir Althus Levalle,” he said, his face taking on some colour as his anger deepened. “So, the Crown has a hand in this.”
“Crown Company, at least,” Swain said. “As for the king, the fact that he’s not here may mean something. And why delay for two days? The deed will be done before the message even reaches the capital.”
“Appearances.” Wilhum winced and adjusted the fit of his sling, fury and pain vying for control of his features. “Should the commons be angered by this, he can claim he wasn’t told of it in time to intervene, so remains blameless. I’d wager the two-day interval is so they can raise the scaffold and gather an audience. Simply killing her within the castle walls with no mob to stand witness makes it murder, regardless of any farcical trial they might have held. They’re afraid. That’s something.”
“Afraid or not,” Swain mused, running a hand over his chin, “they’ve got Crown Company and the duke’s full complement of men-at-arms. Even with the full company, fighting our way through to her would be next to impossible.”
“Two days from Farinsahl is a hard march,” I said. “But not impossible for soldiers committed to their cause. I’d be surprised if Supplicant Ofihla hasn’t already put the whole company on the road.”
Swain gave a helpless grunt, shaking his head. “Still won’t be enough. Numbers favour them, and no amount of devotion can sway a battle when the odds are so uneven.”
“Devotion…” I repeated, voice faint as his words struck a chord in my head.
“Scribe?” Swain’s expression was one of reluctant insistence. He still harboured doubts about me, as well he might, but seemed to have acquired some modicum of regard for my cunning.
“You and Wilhum should retrace the road,” I told him. “Find the company and speed their march as best you can. As for numbers, I doubt that will be an issue.”
“It’ll be close,” Wilhum warned. “Executions are always carried out in the morning.”
“Then we’ll need to force a further delay. If they want this to be a proper legal proceeding, then they’ll have to observe the required forms. Which offers an opportunity.”
“For what?”
Considering the stratagem I was about to suggest, the absence of a nauseous churn in my guts was remarkable. The curse of a Doenlisch is worse than all others, the chainsman had said. She bound you tighter than I ever could…
“I don’t suppose,” I said, “you brought my armour with you?”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
“Look upon this traitor!”
The formal denunciation had already begun by the time I began to push my way through the crowd, an unseen but commanding voice calling out from the scaffold. The thickness of the gathering, far more numerous than the few score that had come to gawp at the demise of Duke Rouphon, obscured my view but I could make a fair guess of who would be present on the scaffold. The speaker’s voice, however, was one I couldn’t place.
“This most dire blasphemer of the Covenant’s truths! Behold her shame and her guilt!”
Despite the fact that dawn had broken only a few hours before, some of those who had gathered or been compelled to witness this ugly spectacle were already drunk and reluctant to shift without a hard shove. Those roused to anger by my aggression forsook their snarling threats when they took full measure of my appearance. My armour was still in Farinsahl, but Wilhum had been wearing his when he accompanied Evadine to the Shrine of Martyr Ihlander. It all fitted me quite well and some hard work with cloth and spit had burnished the blue enamelled plate to a fair shine. So, to the eyes of the sober folk who scrambled aside, and the quailing drunkards, I appeared a knight. More than a few even bowed and knuckled their foreheads as they cleared a path.
“Do not be fooled by her face, good people! For it is but a mask! A veneer that covers unspeakable maleficence!”
“What’s that mean?” I heard one churl mutter to another, drawing an equally baffled response.
“Dunno. What’s ‘veneer’ mean?”
I was close enough to make out a portion of the dignitaries arrayed on the scaffold now, finding scant surprise at the sight of Duke Elbyn. I had caught only a partial glimpse of him at the Traitors’ Field and I found him an unedifying figure, distinguished mainly by the sour impatience of his expression. He was flanked by a number of retainers but Lorine was absent from his side. I greatly doubted he had any inkling where his wife had been a week before, or any other night for that matter.
“Not content with selling one of the beloved jewels of this realm to our hated heathen adversaries in the north, this vile deceiver has also dared to award herself the mantle of Martyr! Is there no terminus to her well of depravity?”
The speaker had a fine, strong voice that would have been commanding but for his choice of words. Evadine always knew not only how to reach the ears of her audience, but how to capture their souls with words they understood. This was the voice of a man in love with his own eloquence who, I suspected, couldn’t care a quarter-shek for the opinion of this mob. I slowed as I neared the front of the crowd, the speaker finally coming into view, finding that I knew him after all.
“And so good people,” Aspirant Arnabus proclaimed, “I ask you for the last time to behold the traitor.” His arm shot out to cast an unwavering finger at the woman in the white shift standing a few paces to his side. Arnabus’s narrow face, which had seemed unusually pale that day at the king’s encampment, was now florid and beaded with sweat. I couldn’t tell if it was due to fear or relish.
Evadine’s features were, by marked contrast, placid to the point of near indifference. Always pale, her skin seemed as white as the shift she wore and there was something statue-like in her placidity. Her wrists had been bound with rope but her expression betrayed no pain. Rather it was one of patient expectation, the face of a woman suffering through a tedious conversation she was too polite to curtail. Of fear, I saw no sign at all.
She was flanked by two kingsmen of Crown Company and, standing close to the edge of the scaffold, a large knight in full armour, his breastplate emblazoned with a brass eagle. Not finding the King’s Champion here had been a gamble, but a calculated one. By all accounts Sir Ehlbert Bauldry had taken on the role of the old duke’s executioner only with extreme reluctance. Much to my relief, it seemed he had refused to besmirch his knightly honour with any part of this liars’ farce. Sir Althus Levalle, however, indulged no such scruples.
“I ask you to bear witness to her just execution and harden your hearts against pity.” My gaze snapped back to Aspirant Arnabus as his voice grew in volume. “I ask that you, as loyal subjects of King Tomas, take heed of what you see this day. And finally, I ask, having heard all the charges against her proven, will any come forth to bear arms in this traitor’s defence?”
“I WILL!”
I allowed no pause between question and answer, making sure to roar the words out as loud as my throat would allow as I pushed my way through the last few churls. A line of ducal men-at-arms stood t
o the front of the scaffold and reacted to my appearance with predictable alarm. The closest levelled halberds and scrambled to form an arc around me.
“I come to bear arms in defence of one unjustly charged!” I called out, raising my longsword above my head and drawing it from the scabbard. The sky was partially overcast that morning but I was lucky in catching a decent gleam as I held the bared blade aloft. “As is my right! The right of all subjects of Albermaine under the laws set down in the first Tri-Reign!”
I turned as I spoke, keeping the sword raised and casting my words to the crowd. “A subject of any station may make this challenge, be he churl, knight or beggar! Will you honour it, or let this proceeding be seen for the charade it is?!”
My gaze swung back to the platform, finding a parade of shocked faces, with three notable exceptions. While the duke and his retainers engaged in a good deal of excited muttering, Aspirant Arnabus regarded me with upraised brows but no special sense of unease or grievance. I fancied I saw his lips curve a little and, if anything, his face resembled that of a child presented with a new and unexpectedly delightful toy.
Evadine also smiled, bright and welcoming, but displayed none of the cleric’s surprise. I understood in the short interval during which our eyes met that she had harboured no doubt that I would come.
Sir Althus Levalle didn’t smile exactly, his broad features forming something that was more a satisfied grimace that made me wonder if he too had anticipated my appearance.
“Who is this man?”
Duke Elbyn got to his feet, striding to the edge of the platform to regard me with all the agitation and anger so lacking in Aspirant Arnabus. When presiding over impending slaughter at the Traitors’ Field the duke’s voice had at least contained an attempt at nobility. Now I found it so peevish and childlike I wondered how Lorine had managed to stomach his company for so long, never mind conceive his heir. He addressed his question to Arnabus, flapping a hand for emphasis. “Who is he to interrupt this… important occasion?”