Lorcan was asleep, lying atop the covers in his robe and nightshirt, his long hair fanned on the pillow like blood. Rory Shearing was standing over him. He was gazing down at the sleeping man with an expression that could have been resentment or could have been distress, it was hard to tell.
Don’t let him be a harbinger, thought Wynter, turning to look. Don’t let him have come for my dad.
As if reading her thoughts, Christopher whispered. “What does it want?”
Wynter rose slowly to her feet, Christopher held onto her wrist a moment longer, then let her go. She crossed quietly into her father’s room and stood at the foot of Lorcan’s bed.
“Hello, Rory,” she said.
Old Songs, Best Left Unsung
Ghosts rarely focus on that which doesn’t interest them. So Rory Shearing ignored Wynter completely. In life, he had been a good fifteen years older than her father, but Rory had died so many years ago that Lorcan’s age had caught up with his, and now they could have been peers.
Rory tilted his head, and some trick of the light against his transparent face made it dear that he was, in truth, regarding her father with enormous love and sympathy. The conviction that Rory was a harbinger rose up again like vomit in Wynter’s throat.
Behind her, Christopher was trying to stand, and she whispered to him to stay where he was. He must have decided to obey her, because his frustrated gasps and mutterings abruptly ceased. Wynter glanced around at him and had to smile at the way he was glaring at Rory, his useless dagger held at the ready, should the ghost decide to attack her.
“Who is he?” Christopher whispered, his eyes on Rory.
“It’s Rory Shearing,” she replied softly. “He was my father’s commander in The Haun Invasion, during Jonathon’s father’s reign. A great warrior and a good man. My father was very fond of him. He led the defence of Profit’s Pass?”
She phrased it as a question, thinking it impossible that Christopher wouldn’t know of the Battle of Profit’s Pass. But there wasn’t an iota of recognition in his face. Why should there have been? she realised. Christopher couldn’t have been more than three years old at the time of the invasion, and living way up north in Hadra. He would have been blissfully ignorant of the terrible, brief war that had threatened this distant Southland kingdom.
“Rory, Jonathon and my father took a small group of men, and against all odds, defeated the last of the Haunardii at Profit’s Pass,” she explained. “Rory’s men were out-manned, outmanoeuvred and under-supplied. They were cut off by the weather and practically starved, but they defeated the enemy, broke up their supply route and turned a certain defeat into a victory within weeks.”
Christopher grunted in admiration, and Wynter turned back to watch Rory as he stood over her father. “Poor Rory died very soon afterwards,” she said. “He was only thirty-three, same age as my father is now.”
“Your father must have been fierce young.”
“Seventeen.”
Rory continued to ignore them completely; they may as well not have been there. He seemed to be waiting for something.
Wynter had to admit that she was very surprised to see him here. Apart from the fact that this wasn’t Rory’s usual sphere of influence, Lorcan and Rory Shearing’s ghost had never communed in the past. In fact, her father had often tried to discourage Wynter’s regular visits to the avenue that Rory haunted.
The dead should remain dead, darling. You’re only halting his ascent to heaven, encouraging him to hang about.
But she had been a wilful little minx, and despite her father’s gentle disapproval, she’d always returned to her wistful playmate. Wynter knew that she must be honest with herself now, there could only be one reason for the spirit’s wordless vigil over her father’s sickbed.
“Rory,” she whispered, tears in her eyes. “Are you here to…?”
Lorcan moaned in his sleep, and Wynter heard him gasp as if in pain or fear. “Dad…?” she said, her fingers tightening on the footboard. Both she and Rory leant forward slightly as the big man’s breathing quickened and he shifted uncomfortably on the bed.
“Stop him!” cried Lorcan suddenly, making Wynter jump. “Stop!” And his eyes flew open and snapped immediately to where Rory’s ghost was leaning over him. Rory smiled, and Lorcan gave him a quizzical look. “Rory,” he whispered. “I was dreaming of you.
“That you were,” said Rory, his voice as subtle as snow falling on snow, so subtle that you could almost convince yourself you hadn’t heard it.
Lorcan glanced down to where Wynter stood, silent and staring, at the foot of his bed. “Baby-girl,” he whispered, obviously alarmed to see her there. He glanced across at Christopher. Then he looked up into the ghost’s kind face once more. “Oh, Rory,” he said softly. “I’m not ready!”
Rory Shearing shook his head. “Not my job,” he smiled, and Lorcan relaxed with a shaky sigh.
“Thank Jesu!” Lorcan said, and Wynter closed her eyes and leaned her forehead on the footboard in relief.
“What do you want?” Christopher asked, his voice hard and suspicious. Lorcan glanced at him, frowning, but Rory ignored him altogether. To Rory, Christopher didn’t exist. Wynter probably didn’t exist at this moment. Only Lorcan existed, because Rory was trying to tell him something.
“The boy,” Rory said to Lorcan, gesturing with his hands, and trying to concentrate. “Jonathon’s…” his voice trailed off, and he gazed wordlessly at Lorcan for a moment, his hands poised.
Wynter groaned. She had forgotten about this frustrating ghost talk. Trying to speak to them was like trying to hold water in your fingers. It seemed they were too distant to keep track of many things. After a while, most of them focused on only one subject. Like Heather Quinn and her obsession with death. Or the Hungry Ghost and its obsession with food. But Rory was trying very hard to concentrate, she could see that, and she willed him to get a train of thought going that he could communicate to them.
“Jonathon’s boy?” asked Lorcan, keeping very still, trying not to disturb the ghost’s efforts. “Which of his boys? Alberon, is it? The young boy? The white boy?”
Rory closed his eyes and swayed like water-weed for a moment, drifting in and out of focus. “Jonathon’s boy,” he whispered, as if recalling him in a dream. “He does not understand… just paper. Just… ideas.”
Christopher growled impatiently, and Wynter and Lorcan shushed him as one.
Rory opened his eyes again, staring down at Lorcan. “The men,” he said, very clearly, his voice almost a real sound. Lorcan’s lips parted in dismay. He gazed up into Rory’s urgent face and Wynter could tell that the words the men had significance for her father.
“Our men, Rory? The twenty-four? Our twenty-four?”
Rory blinked at him, his face puzzled, he had forgotten already.
Lorcan pulled himself up in the bed and reached his hand out, as though to grab the front of Rory’s ragged uniform. His fingers passed through sun-filtered air.
“Rory! Do you mean the twenty-four?”
“The twenty-four,” repeated Rory, his face clearing. “Aye. The men.”
Lorcan abruptly put his hand to his eyes, and Rory watched as the big man struggled with some inner turmoil. The ghost’s face was unusually alert now, really seeing the man before him. Wynter began to feel uncomfortable at the way Rory was staring at her father. Ghosts weren’t meant to focus on you like that. It wasn’t done. Rory’s tissue paper words drew Lorcan’s gaze back up, and Wynter saw her father swallow down his emotions and grind his teeth in an effort to listen without tears.
“They have forgotten,” Rory told him, “everything but victory.”
Lorcan’s distress turned to confusion. “What do you mean?
“The men. The boy. Ideas. Old songs best left unsung. It was all for naught… all for naught, Lorcan… He used it again.”
Lorcan nodded, his eyes hollow. “I know.”
“Now… he wants to take it back…”
“
He’s right to, Rory. He should. We all agreed.”
Rory leant down, and without warning, brought his ghostly face up dose to Lorcan’s. The big man recoiled from the sensation of ghost breath on his skin and Rory leaned closer. For a moment, Lorcan was staring directly into the dead man’s eyes. And the dead man was staring back. Lorcan’s hands began to shake, and he made a desperate noise in his throat. He seemed unable to look away.
“The men don’t agree,” hissed Rory. “They’re with the boy!”
Wynter jerked in panic as her father began to choke.
“Hey!” Christopher shouted from the door, and Wynter heard the chair scrape as he pushed himself from it. “HEY!”
Lorcan released a horrible rasping breath, as though he were being strangled, and Wynter leapt forward as Christopher stumbled his way to her side.
“Dad!” she shouted.
But then Rory stood up, breaking eye contact, and Lorcan slumped forward, his hand to his throat, his face scarlet. He immediately held a hand up, and Wynter and Christopher came to an obedient halt.
Wynter fidgeted at the edge of the bed, glancing anxiously between Rory and her father as Lorcan got himself under control. Behind her, Christopher staggered like a drunkard and grabbed at the footboard, his knife still held out in shaking defiance of the ghost.
Rory Shearing was standing dreamily looking down at the now glaring Lorcan.
“So,” rasped the big man, his hand still to his throat. “Where is he? The boy?”
Rory tilted his head, looking quizzical.
“Rory!” Lorcan slapped the bed loudly, demanding that the ghost concentrate. “RORY! Sharpen up!”
Rory frowned, and seemed to focus on Lorcan again, “Yes…” he said. “The boy…”
“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To tell me where the boy is? You can’t possibly think it’s right. That he bring it into use? That he drag it all out into the light? After all…” Lorcan paused, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “After all you sacrificed to bury it.”
Rory frowned suddenly and looked behind him, as though he’d heard a sound. Instinctively they all followed his gaze. He was staring intently at the far wall, but there was nothing there that they could see.
“Rory?” asked Lorcan uncertainly. “Where is Alberon?”
Rory tore his eyes from the wall. “That is what you need to know?” he asked.
“Yes!” said Wynter suddenly. “Yes! Dad! Tell him yes!”
“Yes!” said Lorcan.
Rory looked behind him again. “I must go.” He glanced at Lorcan. “I will do my best.” He ducked his head and raised his hands, as though someone had shouted in his ear, and looked behind him again. “I have to go!” he cried, glancing about him in panic as if uncertain where to turn. He bolted suddenly, and Lorcan yelled and pulled his legs back as Rory passed through the bed. Without a sound, the ghost disappeared into the far wall.
They looked about tensely for a moment, waiting to see if anything would arrive in pursuit of him, but there was nothing. Just the faintest scent of gunpowder in the air.
“Good Frith,” murmured Christopher as Wynter guided him around to sit on the edge of the bed. “You palace folk lead interesting lives.”
Lorcan looked at his daughter. “Seems like fate is pushing us to find that boy,” he said.
But what for? thought Wynter. When we find him, do we help him? Or do we deliver him to his father and his doom?
To Wynter’s surprise and dismay Christopher slowly lowered himself onto his side and curled up like a cat on the bed at Lorcan’s feet, his head in his arms.
Lorcan and Wynter exchanged a look of alarm. “Are you all right, boy?” asked Lorcan.
“Oh aye,” whispered Christopher, his voice muffled by his arms. “I just need a moment to hold onto my breakfast.”
Wynter patted his foot, and Lorcan grimaced in amused sympathy. “You stay there as long as you like, boy, you make a grand bed-warmer.” And he tucked his toes in under Christopher’s belly.
“Agh,” exclaimed Christopher softly. “Your feet are like blocks of ice.”
Lorcan lay back on his pillows. He folded his hands on his chest, gazing thoughtfully at the ceiling. “Rory Shearing…” he mused, his face grave. “I need to think.”
“Lorcan,” Christopher asked, head still cocooned in the protection of his arms. “Has this to do with The Bloody Machine?”
Lorcan started and gave the young man a frightened look. “Hush, boy!” he said. “What you don’t know won’t kill you.”
Christopher snorted. “Oh, I’m not so certain about that. I know less than nothing, and I’m still getting my head kicked in.”
Lorcan’s expression vied between amusement and despair as he looked down at the young man at his feet. Without thinking, Wynter reached and covered Christopher’s feet with the hem of his robe.
“Thanks,” he said.
“Bloody theatre folk,” grated Lorcan, poking Christopher gently with his foot. “Always with the dramatics.” Then he leant back and resumed his pensive observation of the ceiling.
Wynter looked at her father’s pale face, the ever present trembling in his fingers, and she made a snap decision. She turned to leave.
Lorcan glanced at her in alarm. “Wynter!” he said sharply, as though it had just struck him, “What were you doing here anyway? Is there trouble in the library?”
“No, Dad,” she said, turning to smile at him. “I just wanted to look in on you, that’s all. I’d better go.”
At the hall door she paused, her hand on the key. An image came very clearly to her mind of Pascal Huette, reaching down to enclose that child’s hand in his own. She knocked her forehead gently against the wood of the door. They left the baby, crying in its cradle. Jesu Christi. Her father would never forgive her – she’d never forgive herself – if they didn’t at least try to save these men.
She went back into Lorcan’s room and stood resignedly in the door. Lorcan glanced across at her. Before she even spoke, he was dragging himself up and heaving his legs over the side of the bed.
The Protector Lord’s Men
“God help me… I hate this.” Lorcan’s voice was tight with uncharacteristic bitterness, and Wynter assumed that he was referring to his physical weakness. She said nothing, just patted his arm and continued to keep watch up and down the torch-lit passageway, ready to warn him should anyone appear.
They had taken much the same route that Jonathon had shown them the day he’d half-carried Lorcan back to his rooms, and, so far they had been almost completely free of public scrutiny. But this was the last section where it would be possible to remain secluded from the public eye, and Lorcan had stopped to catch his breath, and to try to gather his wits before donning the mask of Protector Lord. He was sweating and shaking, and Wynter was more and more convinced that she’d made the wrong decision telling him of the apprentices.
They had left Christopher sitting up on Lorcan’s bed, his head tilted back against Lorcan’s pillows, squinting disapprovingly as the big man made himself presentable. “You’re a bloody fool,” Christopher kept saying. “Razi will kill you dead.” Now she was wondering if Razi would even get the chance. She resisted the urge to ask, once again, that they return to their rooms. Lorcan had become quite irritable with her the last time.
“I hate this constant panic. I wish I could just have a moment to sit down and think,” Lorcan continued, and Wynter realised that he hadn’t been speaking about his illness at all.
He was reading the ceiling in that pensive way of his, his eyes roaming the carefully layered cobbles as if deciphering Sanskrit. “I hate this constant reacting,” he said. “It’s all I seem to have done for the last five years. React, react, react. No time to plan, no time to organise any kind of defence, before the earth shifts and the tides turn, and we’re on the move again. Oh Wyn!” He groaned suddenly, putting his hand to his face, and for the first time in her life, Wynter heard defeat in her father’s voice.
“I’m too tired for this. I’m just…” He took a deep breath.
Wynter bit her lip in sympathy. But even as she was putting a comforting hand on his chest and opening her mouth to say, it’s all right, Dad. Let’s go back, Lorcan was pushing himself from the wall and looking purposefully at the short flight of steps at the end of the passage. “Up those steps, across the rose garden, another flight of steps, and then the library,” he said, as if making a deal with himself, “all right.” He breathed out and launched himself forward, looping his arm across Wynter’s shoulder.
“Once we’re at the top of the steps you’ll be in full view,” she grunted. “You’ll have to walk alone, Dad.”
“Just get me there, girl!” his angry growl silenced her. They took the steps with careful deliberation, and paused at the top for him to gather his defences. Then Lorcan pushed back his shoulders, took a breath and stepped out into the sun.
The rose garden was empty as they closed the door behind them, but Lorcan didn’t bend from his rigidly self-imposed pretence. He walked slowly, with squared shoulders and ramrod straight back, his only concession to his terrible condition the bruising grip he had on his daughter’s shoulder. Wynter kept just a touch too close to his side. She glanced up at him. Who do we think we’re fooling? she thought, look at him!
The granite steps into the other wing were almost his undoing. There were only six, but Lorcan stood at the foot of them, staring, his body shaking. Then he dug his fingers into her shoulder, leant forward and took each step like a man assaulting a mountain crevasse.
At the top, he sagged, and she moved to put her arm around his waist. “Stop that!” he hissed savagely and straightened.
Then they heard the shouting.
“Shit,” said Lorcan tonelessly and started forward again.
Once inside the cool shadows of the tiled corridor, the sounds were very clear. At the end of the hall, the library door was open, and inside was the source of all the noise. Small children were bawling. There was an old man shouting, and other men too, yelling. Over it all, the mingled voices of three young men were screeching in fear and anger.
The Poison Throne Page 24