In a moment, Owen was back on his feet, somehow finding the energy to move despite his exhaustion. He could just make out the forms of two men wrestling on the floor, as well as the writhing and howling figure of the man near his feet, whom Owen had just been fighting. Without pausing to think, Owen drew his dagger, dropped a knee onto the man’s chest to hold him in place, and then stabbed him repeatedly. The man’s screams changed into a wet, gurgled cry.
Moments later, the pounding of boot steps announced the arrival of others, and torchlight flared through the gateway of the stable as Keep-Captain Awde, Lieutenant Sayer, and Fin rushed in, swords in hand. Behind them, a crowd followed. Somebody grabbed at Owen, but he yelled and threw the person away, his mind still roiling with the need to stay alive.
“Leave him be!” roared the keep-captain.
The terrified horses continued to scream, stamping at the walls of their stables. Some men ran to calm them; others held the arms of a young man with short dark hair. Owen didn’t know him, but he must have been the one who saved Owen’s life. On the straw-covered floor of the stable lay all three Ballard brothers. One of them, Trystan Ballard, the eldest of the Ballards, writhed and moaned on the ground, clutching at his bloody eyes, the front of his tunic drenched in glistening blood.
Owen glanced at his own hand still gripping the bloody dagger. He stared at it in confusion.
Keep-Captain Awde moved in front of Owen, holding his shoulders and staring into his face. “Toscovar, I asked you if you were okay.”
His heart hammered against his chest, and he had to look down at his body, running his hands over his throat and ribs before he realized he wasn’t bleeding, hadn’t been stabbed after all. He nodded, still gasping for air. “Think… think so.”
The keep-captain turned away, leaving Owen.
Sayer knelt down next to the still-writhing Trystan Ballard but then shook his head. “Gut wounds.”
“Do it,” said the keep-captain.
Do what?
A moment later, Sayer put the point of his sword over Trystan’s heart and plunged it deep. Trystan gasped once and then died.
Owen stared in horror. He had done that. Sayer had only finished what he had started, putting the man out of his misery. The veterans had been right. He was capable of killing.
Keep-Captain Awde spun on the young man being held by the inn’s patrons. “Who are you?”
The young man was tall, with a swordsman’s wide shoulders. His short dark hair was disheveled, with bits of straw stuck in it. His eyebrows were thick, and his nose had clearly been broken before and had healed poorly. He was unshaven, and his tunic and hose were threadbare and dirty, giving him the appearance of having slept in the wild for days.
“Dilan,” the young man with the thick eyebrows answered. “Dilan Reese.”
Owen edged closer. “Captain, I think he saved my life.”
“This true, Dilan Reese?” Keep-Captain Awde asked.
Dilan cocked his head toward the two remaining Ballards, unconscious and still lying on the straw-covered floor, Emrys and his older brother Ralf. “I had no silver for the inn. Thought I’d sleep in a stall, at least get out of the rain. The fight woke me up. Three against one, couldn’t do nothing.”
Keep-Captain Awde glared at the other patrons. “Sure you could. They all did.” He sheathed his sword and jammed a finger at the innkeeper and his customers. “The inn is closed for the night. All of you go home. Now!”
A muttering of angry protests rose, mostly from the innkeeper, but the crowd did as ordered. Owen glared at them as they left. They had all known the Ballards were there, probably inside drinking. His face flushed with heat.
“What of them?” Sayer asked, indicating Emrys and Ralf Ballard.
“Clap ’em in chains,” said the keep-captain. “We ride back to the castle tonight.” He turned to face the innkeeper, still present. “But first, we eat. Free of charge.”
The innkeeper’s face tightened. “But—”
“Be glad I don’t burn your stinking hovel to the ground.” The keep-captain turned to address the men holding Dilan Reese. “Let him go. Come, Dilan Reese. Eat with us. As it turns out, you have no need of silver this night.”
Chapter 2
Modwyn
The duke’s bedchamber in Castle Dain stank of sickness and rot, a nearly palpable miasma so thick it could almost be touched. The only light came from a flickering candle that sat on a table, its melted wax flowing over the holder and hardening on the surface of the wooden table. Modwyn Du’Aig, the twenty-five-year-old physician newly appointed to the noble Dain family, sat beside Duke Oskaley Dain’s sickbed, silently watching the sleeping man, with clinical detachment.
A human life is such a fragile thing, he mused.
The old man was close to the end of his life. His bony chest barely moved as his breath rasped in and out. The long hairs within Oskaley’s nostrils quivered and danced with each exhalation. Soon, even that sad attempt at breathing would stop altogether. Modwyn’s new liege lord, Duke Oskaley, Lord Dain of the northern duchy of Wolfrey in the kingdom of Conarck, was dying.
Modwyn may have graduated from the physicians’ university in the capital only three months before, but he recognized the certainty of death. Staring down at his patient, he whispered, “What keeps you going, I wonder? Why do you fight the inevitable?”
The old man didn’t answer, nor had Modwyn expected him to. He had been asleep for most of the day since suddenly taking ill the day before.
“What keeps any of us going?” Modwyn answered for him, plucking free a loose thread from his dark-gray physician’s robes.
He rubbed his palms over his face and stared at the closed door. Soon, he knew, the Lady Danika Dain, the duke’s daughter, would return and once again demand Modwyn do the impossible—save the ailing duke. He sighed, rose, and stood near the open window to feel the summer breeze brush his face as he watched his patient out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t have that much longer to wait, Modwyn knew. His charge’s breathing was becoming more erratic.
From the window, Modwyn saw the town below, Wolfredsuntown, was nearly dark, as was to be expected at that time of night. The townsfolk would be sleeping, protected by strong walls, surrounded by their fat little children—warm, safe, and happy. In the morning, they would wake with the sun and go about their day. Each day was the same.
What is that like—to be safe, to be happy?
To be loved?
When the bedchamber door softly opened, Modwyn roused himself and forced a smile upon his features. As expected, the Lady Danika Dain slipped inside the bedchamber and then softly closed the door behind her. The only daughter of the duke, and still a maid at twenty-five years of age, she was a vision of loveliness and noble upbringing—the product of a life of privilege and wealth. A small woman, she always seemed… larger somehow, more forceful than one would expect. She had large, clever brown eyes and long dark-brown hair tied up in a bun. As always, Modwyn’s pulse quickened at the sight of her.
She nodded once in polite greeting and then sat down on the bed beside her father, her normally impish smile a tight line of worry. “Is he worse? He looks worse.”
“The same, my lady.”
Her father moaned, his body shuddering.
Her eyes accused Modwyn. “He’s in pain.”
Modwyn approached, took the old man’s hand in his, and measured his pulse, watching Danika out of the corner of his eye. She wore a fine blue gown with wide flowing sleeves and a darker suede corset that accentuated the swell of her breasts—and they were indeed nice breasts, he knew, with fat, rosy nipples that begged to be pinched and sucked—or bitten. A pity she had only allowed him to examine her once since he’d taken service with her family.
Modwyn ran his palm over the old man’s forehead, already knowing it would be hot and feverish. “I can give him dream-flower my lady, ease his passing.”
“I’d rather you cure him,” she snapped, glaring at him.
“He’s only sixty-four.”
Modwyn fought down an irritated impulse to snap back at her. “Sixty-four is not young, my lady. Each of us is called to stand before Father Craftsman in his own time. I’m sorry, but a better world is awaiting your father.”
Lady Danika remained silent while Modwyn moved to a nearby table, picked up his mortar and pestle, and ground the petals of the sleeping flower, mixing them with gray marsh fungus to dull the sharp taste.
Once again, the duke’s door opened, and a young man, a teenage boy with a mop of unruly blond hair, slipped within the bedchamber—Palin Dain, Danika’s only brother, the thirteen-year-old boy who would soon be the new Lord Dain of Wolfrey. The gods have to be laughing.
The boy joined his sister and fidgeted nervously beside the bed. The old man muttered in his delirium again, speaking nonsense. Danika patted his cheek, whispering soft words into his ear. The candlelight shone upon her locks of tightly wound hair, creating a nimbus around her head, reminding Modwyn of the stained-glass portraits of the saints in the physician’s university in the capital.
Modwyn’s pulse quickened, and he thought of a woman who lived in the castle, a widow with five children, who worked in the kitchens and had little prospect for another husband. Desperate to secure a future for her children, she would suffer any indignity. While Modwyn had no intention of marrying some northern goat with five children, he would still visit her later that night, no matter the hour. He would plow her hard from behind, imagining it was Danika.
The boy wore a fine green tunic, the collar and sleeves edged with fox fur. Over his thin shoulders, he wore a short black riding cape fastened with a small silver lion’s-head clasp. The hem of the cape was splattered with mud. The boy had been meeting with local landowners earlier, Modwyn knew, and must have rushed back to be by his father’s side. The men he had been visiting were influential northerners, men whose support Palin would need in the days to come. He shared his sister’s good looks, the same light splatter of freckles across his nose and cheeks, but in truth, he was too young to grow a beard and looked more maid than man. Modwyn himself was clean-shaven, with only a meticulously trimmed goatee and mustache, but that was different. Most physicians needed to carry themselves above rough men.
Lady Danika rose and hugged her brother, burying her head into his thin shoulder. He hesitated and then lightly patted her on the back before meeting Modwyn’s gaze. “Well, Doctor?”
Modwyn cocked his head, carefully considering his words. “My Lord Dain, it is as we discussed earlier. Your father’s humors are out of alignment, and I fear no medicine will change that.”
“But… Doctor, are you sure? Our grandfather lived to eighty-four. Something must be wrong. This illness was so sudden.”
Wodor help me, he even whines like a maid.
Silence settled over the chamber, interrupted only by the labored, irregular breathing of Oskaley. A storm of emotions flashed across Palin’s young face, and Modwyn was certain he was only moments from tears.
“There is nothing anyone can do,” Modwyn said. “It is his time.”
“How… how long? When should we…?”
“I would send for a priest now, my lord. Before the sun rises.”
Palin’s face was ashen.
“So soon?” whispered Danika.
Oskaley groaned once more and turned his head to the side.
“Father Craftsman calls to him,” Modwyn said.
“Go,” Danika told her brother. “I will stay.”
Modwyn set the mortar and pestle down on the bed table. “My lady, it will be some hours yet. You should rest, eat something. I will stay with the priest.”
“I don’t—”
“I will send for you both if he worsens.”
Her brother held his hand out, and she reluctantly took it, climbing to her feet. “Just a bit,” she mumbled. “I am tired, and we need to wake Father Cotlas.”
“What about the new man, this… Father Bowen?” Palin asked.
Danika shook her head. “No. He’d want Father Cotlas. He knows him.”
Palin bit his lower lip, staring at his father. As expected, tears swelled in his eyes.
Modwyn took her place, sitting on the edge of the bed. He took the old man’s wrist once more. “Go, my lady, my lord. I promise I will send for you if he worsens.”
Palin wiped his eyes. “I’ll be in my chambers.”
The Dain siblings left, leaving Modwyn alone with his patient once again. Modwyn stared at the closed door for some time then rose and tiptoed across the bedchamber before placing his ear against the door. Hearing nothing, he opened it and looked both ways down the empty castle corridor before closing it again.
He stared at his patient. “Well, Oskaley, it’s just you and I.”
Modwyn eased himself into a chair near the bed and considered the old man’s face. His breathing was wet. His lungs were slowly filling with mucus. He’d be dead by sunrise. A fly buzzed through the chamber, landing on the contents of the pain medication that now sat forgotten. The old man moaned again.
Modwyn leaned in closer, putting his lips near the old man’s ear. “Just let go, Oskaley,” he whispered. “Why fight the inevitable?”
As expected, the old man didn’t answer.
Modwyn once again reached to take the old man’s pulse, but when Oskaley’s hand darted out and gripped Modwyn’s wrist, he nearly shat himself.
“I left him,” Oskaley said, his voice surprisingly strong. “I left him to her.”
Modwyn stared at his patient, too surprised to think clearly. Oskaley’s eyes were clear, lucid.
How is this possible? He can’t be recovering.
“I don’t know you,” Oskaley said, fear and emotion in his voice. “Are you the new priest? I must confess. I have to confess.”
Relief flooded through Modwyn—Oskaley wasn’t lucid after all, wasn’t recovering. Modwyn might have been new in the castle, but he had tended the old man for weeks, and Oskaley knew who he was.
“Please,” said the old man, tears forming in his eyes. “I must confess.”
Modwyn gripped his hand, leaned in closer, and smiled. “Yes, my son, I am a priest. Confess.”
Relief flooded into Oskaley’s wet eyes. “Lies, Father. I’ve been living with lies for so long now, ever since that day in the catacombs, in the Great Crypt beneath that cursed fortress.”
Modwyn squeezed Oskaley’s fingers, causing the old man to wince in pain. He released his grip. “Please, continue, my son,” he said. “Confess your sins. Hurry, before it’s too late.”
“I lied, Father. I lied to everyone. I ran that day. I was so frightened. I left my own brother to that monster.” A coughing fit took him then, consuming him for several moments. When he finally could, he continued. “I ran away, Father… a coward.”
“No, my lord. You and your brother were heroes. You killed her, saved everyone in the kingdom. You used Sight-Bringer to destroy her. Only you escaped the resulting cataclysm that brought down the ceiling of the Great Crypt when Sight-Bringer shattered within her foul heart.”
“No, Father.” The old man shook his head. “All lies. She defeated them, all of them. I… I hid near the entrance. I saw Belion the battle mage break his own staff—that was what brought down the ceiling, not the destruction of Sight-Bringer. That’s when I ran.”
Modwyn sat back, stunned, brushing Oskaley’s fingers from him. The bedchamber seemed to spin about his head as he struggled to process that revelation. “She… she didn’t die?” he finally whispered.
Oskaley, his eyes brimming with tears, nodded. Spit ran from his mouth into his white beard. “Please, Father, others must know. The king must know. I have kept this secret too long.”
“She’s not dead,” Modwyn repeated, as if he couldn’t believe the words.
The revelation coursing through Modwyn was like a monstrous wave that swept his world clean. Staring in disbelief at the sad, pathetic shell of a man who had just admitted harboring
the greatest secret of all time, Modwyn saw him as he truly was. For almost fifty years, he had lived a lie. Oskaley was no hero.
How did anyone ever believe he was? It was absurd.
Outside the chamber’s open window, he heard a red-tailed orkey cry out, its stuttering call echoing through the dark night. Simple folk believed the orkey’s cry heralded great events. Modwyn chuckled, shaking his head. Great things, indeed!
“Father, please,” whined Oskaley, squeezing Modwyn’s hand. “I have confessed. I can’t go to meet my brother without forgiveness.”
Modwyn considered his patient, almost moved by his begging. He leaned in closer, putting his mouth near the old man’s ear. “I do forgive you. You have done me the greatest service this night, finally telling the truth, admitting your crime.”
Oskaley’s eyes widened in confusion as Modwyn stood abruptly, yanking the pillow out from beneath the old man’s head.
The orkey’s cry echoed in the dark once more.
Chapter 3
Owen
Fin helped Owen put the two Ballards in irons while Keep-Captain Awde, Sayer, and Dilan Reese went inside the inn. Fin sat the Ballard brothers down against the outside wall of the stable. “Go get something to eat,” he told Owen,” then come take my place.”
“Aye, thanks,” said Owen.
As Owen was turning away, Emrys Ballard glared at him through sullen eyes, looking more like a savage cornered animal than the boy with whom Owen had spent so much of his youth. Owen glared back at Emrys, rubbing his ribs where one of them—perhaps even Emrys—had repeatedly tried to stab him. In the dark, with Owen wearing his cloak, the Ballards hadn’t seen his armor. If they had, he would’ve been dead.
Owen shuddered as he turned away from Emrys and entered the inn. The captain and Sayer sat at a table, their backs to the wall, facing Dilan Reese, who sat across from them. Owen plopped down beside Dilan just as the barmaid brought bread, cheese, wooden bowls of stew, and mugs of beer.
The Vampire Queen Saga: Books 1-3: (The Vampire Queen Saga Boxset) Page 2