“I told you to guard her with your actual life, traitor,” Doone jeered.
“Better a traitor than a fraud,” Nate taunted in return.
Beau reached for the awl he’d taken from Doone’s, but it was too small to be useful now. Desperate for something, anything, he grabbed a large fallen tree branch. After testing the weight in his hands, Beau raced around the corner just in time to see Doone, armed with both dagger and cutlass, lunging at Nate.
Quick as ever, Nate jumped back, forcing Doone to miss his mark.
Beau pressed himself back against what remained of the corner of Mastery House and peered out just far enough for Nate to spot him. In that flash of a moment their eyes met, and they silently agreed on a plan.
“You’re not very quick, are you?” Nate taunted as he raced atop a pile of rubble.
Doone followed fast on his heels, but not before Nate started firing broken bricks at Doone, forcing him to duck.
The time was now.
Beau cocked the branch over his shoulder and raced into the fray aiming for the back of Doone’s head. But the moment he got within striking distance, Doone spun on him. His pursuit of Nate quickly abandoned, Doone lunged for Beau. But Beau was ready. Swinging the branch wildly, he held Doone off just out of reach as Nate scrambled down from his perch atop the ruins. His blade grasped tight, Nate came tearing at Doone’s back.
But before Nate could get close enough, Doone turned and threw his dagger.
Time stopped; the very air froze as Beau watched Doone’s blade hit Nate in the thigh. As if in slow motion, Nate’s face lit up in a laugh only to melt slowly into a cry of anguish as he collapsed to the ground.
The sound that escaped Beau’s mouth then was like nothing he’d ever made before—it was a cry, a roar, loud and fierce enough to startle even the deadliest beast. Without another thought he went tearing toward Doone, brandishing the tree limb like a saber. Back and back he forced Doone into a corner. His moment had come. Beau pulled the branch back, primed and ready to land a crushing blow. Then one misstep on a pile of rubble and he lost his footing. Fight as he might he couldn’t keep from landing hard on broken glass and bricks.
Throwing off the pain, Beau scrambled to get back up. But Doone was right there, the point of his cutlass inches from Beau’s heart.
“I knew threatening Mastery House would flush you out,” Doone crowed.
“That wasn’t very hard to guess.” Beau gasped against the pressure of the blade. “But the real problem is, how do you plan to force me to do your bidding?”
“I have a charmer,” Doone said. “Yours.”
“Really? Are you certain you—” Beau began when the sound of glass breaking underfoot announced a new arrival.
“Absolutely certain,” Doone said, his eyes lit up with delight.
He pulled his blade back just enough so that Beau could turn his head and see what Doone was seeing—Cressi stepping out through the blasted wall, walking slowly and calmly.
Too calmly.
Beau started to call her name, to warn her away, when Trout appeared behind her, the tip of his sword pressed to her back. Beau lunged for her, but Doone caught him just as Trout stopped dead in his tracks.
“Why are you stopping, you idiot? Bring her here!” Doone shouted as the strangest look bloomed on Trout’s face. And that’s when Beau saw it; the point of a sword emerging through the front of his bloated belly. With a sigh and soft cry Trout collapsed in a pile just as another figure darted out from amidst the ruins.
Moving with the speed and grace of a hawk on the hunt, Himself pulled his sword from Trout’s back with one hand and grabbed Cressi with the other.
Pinned to the ground by Doone’s blade, Beau screamed for him to release her, but it was too late. Himself shoved Cressi through the gaping hole back inside. Beau watched helplessly as her arms pinwheeled to try and stop herself from falling. But it was no use. Cressi lost her footing and stumbled forward, her head slamming against an overturned table.
Ignited by rage, Beau grabbed the closest thing at hand, a large brick, and threw it at Doone’s head. The brick missed, but Doone faltered long enough for Beau to scrabble away. He went running for Cressi’s side, but before he could reach her, Doone grabbed him by the neck, spun him around, and landed his fist straight into Beau’s nose.
As Beau’s neck snapped back, daylight turned to black, filling his mouth with the taste of copper and grass. He tried to fight through the pain, through the haze. But it was too much. The world around him was spinning too fast. Beau’s stomach came up to meet his throat as he staggered and crumbled to the ground.
The sounds of shouting and the shushing of swords slicing through the air teased at his mind. Somewhere he heard Cressi’s voice, either real or imagined, urging him to wake up, to fight back. Slowly, painfully, as if crawling through mud, Beau clawed his way back to the world. One eye opened, then the other, looking for which of the two villains—Doone or his father—would have their blade to his throat now.
But no one was there.
As Beau scrambled back to his feet he realized Doone and Himself were going at it, their swords dancing through the air, each trying to gut the other.
Squinting through the pulsing pain, Beau found Cressi in the blown-out remains of Matron’s salon exactly where she’d fallen—still. Lifeless.
“Please, please,” he whispered, pleading for her to be alive. He waited motionless, hope trying to ignite until at last he spotted it. Though shallow and ragged, her chest was rising and falling.
Beau was struggling to pick her up and carry her away when one of Gerta’s scouts emerged from down the darkened hallway and scooped Cressi from his arms.
“This way,” the scout whispered, beckoning Beau as he melted back into the corridor. Beau started to follow when he was pulled up short by a clawlike grip.
“You don’t get it,” Doone cooed as he locked his arm around Beau’s neck. “You are mine.”
Beau was fighting to push him off with all he had when Himself came hurtling toward them through the blown-out wall.
“Run!” Himself commanded as he threw his weight into Doone, knocking Beau free.
All that happened next passed in a blur that Beau would only be able to fully reconstruct after many days.
While Beau sprang to escape, Doone swept his cutlass through the air. Beau saw Himself jump back, his face lit up in surprise, at the very same moment as Gerta and a swarm of her scouts appeared. Shouts and orders filled the air as the scouts brandished their blades, all descending on Doone. Beau had nearly made it outside when he saw Himself stumble and fall.
“Get up!” Beau shouted, but Himself only smiled and raising a hand, reached out through the chaos for his son.
Without another thought, Beau rushed to his side. He tried to pull Himself to his feet, but that’s when he saw it—a river of crimson seeping through his father’s velvet cloak. He’d been struck straight through the chest.
“Lean on me,” Beau counseled. “I’ll get you help.”
“It’ll heal,” Himself said.
“We have to go, get out of here,” Beau pushed.
“I think your friends have us covered.” Himself tipped his chin, forcing Beau to look behind him.
Gerta had Doone pinned down, her scouts surrounding him on every side.
“I didn’t understand. Didn’t know why you came out here,” Beau began, his words catching in his throat. “I thought you came to . . . to—”
“Kill you,” Himself said. “Collect your charmer?”
Beau nodded.
“I would have,” Himself said. “But your charmer . . . Whatever she threw into the fire, it showed me what I’d buried long ago. What I forced myself to forget. I saw her as if she were standing right there.”
“Saw who?” Beau pressed.
“Your mother.”
He’d seen her too. Those images of happiness that had filled his head—his parents standing in the library, Beau as an infa
nt cradled between them—weren’t regrets of a life he never knew. Nor were they just echoes of the paintings. They were memory. Truth.
Beau tried to prop his father up, but Himself was growing heavier, stiller by the moment.
“She loved you,” Himself said. “Loved me.”
“I know,” Beau whispered.
“I didn’t.” Himself paused to swallow, to find more strength. “I couldn’t let myself. I listened to the wrong people. Forgot who I was, who I could have been. Who I wanted to be.”
Himself took Beau’s hand. He was so cold, Beau tried to will some warmth into him.
“Don’t forget yourself.” Himself’s voice was nothing more than a whisper now.
“I won’t,” Beau vowed. “But you’ll help me remember. Remind me, tell me. Right?”
Himself sank back against Beau. Where he’d been so heavy moments earlier, now he was light. Too light.
“Right?” Beau repeated, desperation bleeding through. “Right?”
Yet the only answer Himself gave was the thinnest smile followed by a sigh, a whisper of breath.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
After
Beau sat at the desk, staring out the window, wondering when the first snows would fall. He should have been writing—finishing what he started. But he just couldn’t do it.
It wasn’t a matter of finding the right words. Those would come, they always did. Nor was it some deeply buried wish for the work to be ongoing, for his task to never end. All he’d wanted since he began was to get to the end. To put down the final period.
The problem was, he was beginning to doubt there ever could be such a thing.
When Beau set out to rewrite The Histories, it seemed a clear and straightforward task. All he had to do was tell the truth, chronicle events as they’d really happened. And for a long time, he thought he was succeeding. He faithfully spoke with people all over the Land to hear their perspectives, to collect their stories. He worked hard to reconcile conflicting accounts. He thought he’d be able to weave it all together into a kind of tapestry of truths so that future generations could know exactly how and why the Manor had fallen. And how to prevent it from ever rising again.
Yet the deeper he dove, the murkier it all became.
Not even Cressi and Nate always agreed with Beau’s memory of how things happened. Facts, it seemed, were always colored by point of view. And that’s why he was dreading finishing the work. No matter how clear and thorough he tried to be, he’d never be able to control how readers perceived the tale he was unwinding. Even after he was long dead, history would keep rewriting the story. Time distorts all truths.
Still, it hadn’t kept him from trying. Until now.
Maybe it was just the day weighing especially heavy on him. Cressi had told him to take some time. He had enough on his mind without trying to finish the book too. He thought the distraction would do him good.
Yet once again, and as always, Cressi was right.
Beau wiped the nib of his pen clean and blotted the still-wet ink on the page, allowing himself to sink into the dread of the news they were awaiting.
It was possible the rumors were wrong, gossip. But his gut, and Cressi’s dreams, warned him away from optimism.
Beau banked the fire in the hearth and headed for the door, stopping as he always did to look at the two paintings his mother had left him. It had become a kind of ritual, a way to say hello every time he entered the room and goodbye when he left. It was silly, he knew that, but it always made him feel loved and gave him strength.
Beau stepped out into the corridor to find Cressi waiting for him.
“She’s coming,” she said. “Are you ready?”
“As much as I’ll ever be.”
“Where’s your—”
“I left it downstairs.” Beau filled in the thought. “We’ll get it on the way. How is he today?”
“Faring very well. I tried a new brew and it gave him more relief. I think this one will do it.”
“Good. I can’t bear to see him in pain.”
“Me neither,” Cressi agreed.
They continued the rest of the way down to the first floor in silence. But as soon as they landed in the marble entryway it was hard not to get caught up in the lively mood.
Morning lessons had just ended, and the halls were filled with children racing outside to play, but Bea stopped as she always did whenever she saw Beau. Some mornings she brought him a flower or a piece of her morning bun, but today she wore a serious look on her face.
“I want you to know something,” she declared.
“I’m listening,” Beau replied.
“I like my name now, and I’m going to keep it!” And with that, Bea went running to catch up with the others.
“I’m glad it’s no longer a burden to any of us,” Beau said as Cressi stopped one of the taller boys zooming past.
“Have you seen Nate yet, Pervis?” she asked.
“No, sorry, not this morning,” Pervis panted, eager to be on his way.
“All right, well, thank you.” Cressi brushed back the boy’s messy fringe of hair. “Have fun but stay away from the veils!”
“Sure, sure!” Pervis laughed as he raced out the door.
“So, are you ready then?” Cressi asked Beau.
“I need to stop in the library first, get my robe.”
“You know, you don’t have to wear it. Just because the others decided to maintain the tradition doesn’t mean you have to as well.”
“I want to.” Beau was adamant as he headed into the library. “I need to. I feel like it’s been the only way to change the story attached to it.”
Beau stepped into the library, a place he’d avoided for a very long time. Unlike his mother’s rooms, ripe with the scent of lilies and apples, which gave him solace, the very scent of cloves made his stomach lurch. He hadn’t even allowed anyone inside the library to clean up for a long while. But then the time came to expel the ghosts of the past. The Manor’s new residents deserved access to the wealth of knowledge kept there.
Beau found his father’s council robes hanging on a hook next to the children’s painting smocks. The walls, which had once been draped in tapestries depicting bloody battles and adorned with swords and weapons, were now covered in maps, colorful paintings of the alphabet, and math formulas. Transforming the library into a classroom seemed the most fitting purpose Beau could ever think of.
Cressi offered to help Beau, but he waved her off. The robes weren’t nearly as heavy or ornate as they’d once been; he’d had the heavy gold buttons and fur trim removed and repurposed for more practical uses. After they’d established the new order of the Land, he’d thought long and hard about never putting on his father’s robes. He found them too intimidating. But then the others convinced him there was something to be said for maintaining some of the old rituals—changing them to fit new ideals. And so Beau agreed, as long as all the council members designed and wore their own robes as well. Never again would one person dictate the choices others could make.
Together, Beau and Cressi headed to the council chambers.
The rooms in the back hallway were the last remaining vestiges of the old Manor system. It had been decided by unanimous consent that the Leadership Council, the members of which had been elected by the people of their districts, along with their trusted advisors, should still meet at the Manor. For what better reminder could there be of who they were serving than having their offices in the new Academy of Letters and Learning.
Beau and Cressi entered the council chambers, where four of the other members were already gathered. Woolever, the representative from the Upper Middlelands, greeted Beau with a broad and friendly smile, while Topend’s Parvenue nodded solemnly. Jakers, a farmer from the Lower Middlelands elected to represent that district, still had a hard time looking Beau in the eye. But it was the cordwainer who gave Beau the heartiest greeting. He still couldn’t believe that he’d been elected by all the craftsmen in the
Land to represent them. He celebrated his good fortune by vowing to supply every child at the Academy with a new pair of boots every year they were in attendance.
“Not arrived yet?” Beau asked.
“They say any minute now,” Woolever replied.
“We should all take our seats,” Parvenue intoned. “The moment demands formality.”
“The moment demands patience,” the cordwainer replied. “I could no more sit while we wait than dance a jig.”
“Highly irregular!” Parvenue puffed. “The old Himself would never have stood for such a break with protocol.”
Parvenue was having a hard time letting go of the old ways, which caused tension with the others. But Beau took a different view. At least Parvenue was changing, if slowly, and was taking the rest of the Topenders along with him.
“The model of my family’s rule is gone,” Beau reminded him. “The only thing that matters now is the work we’re all doing for the people of the Land.”
“Has no one seen Nate this morning?” Cressi asked.
“I heard he rode out to meet the messenger,” Jakers said. “He couldn’t stand the waiting for her arrival any more.”
“Sounds about right. Think I’ll go join hi—” Beau began when the door flew open.
It was Nate, hot and sweaty from his ride, followed by Hugo.
“It’s as we feared.” Nate shook with disgust. “Tell them, Hugo. Even saying it makes my stomach lurch.”
“The rumors are true,” Hugo reported. “Our scout confirmed it with her own eyes. Doone’s gone and pledged loyalty to Torin.”
Beau let the news wash over him. He kept waiting for it to hit him hard, scare him, turn him inside out. But he’d known this was coming ever since the day some of Doone’s loyal followers from the Lower Middlelands blasted a hole in the side of the dungeons, allowing Doone to escape. They had taken Barger and Cook along with them, presumably as hostages, which was the only small solace Beau could find. He’d no sooner pay to see Barger released than grant him immunity for his countless crimes against the people of the Land.
Cressi lay a comforting hand on Beau’s shoulder.
The Verdigris Pawn Page 24