The clouds were too thick to see stars but thin enough that the sky was a paler shade of black than the silhouetted trees of the forest beyond the walls. The enchanted mist that veiled the Fane kept to the trees, forming a ring of wispy white fog around the castle that she could see even from two furlongs away. But inside the walls, the grounds proper were shrouded in black and even blacker shadows that created a monochromatic landscape where only motion distinguished one thing from another.
Though it was too dark to see detail, Glain could orient her view from memory. This window was north facing and overlooked the rear of the keep—the herb and vegetable patches directly below and the sheepfold and old orchard beyond. The apple grove was ancient and stretched all the way to the outer wall. To the east, in daylight Glain would have a glimpse of the ruined dormitory that had once housed the apprentices; and to the west, a portion of the faerie meadow.
The apple trees swaying with the breeze caught her eye, and Glain wondered if the waning winter was whipping up a last bluster. For a while she watched their spindly, naked boughs bend and wave against the misty white background of the enchanted veil, and then she noticed something else in motion on the ground.
It was coming closer toward the Fane. Glain stared hard into the shadows, waiting for the dark and indistinct mass to take recognizable form. The shape moved with the cadence and intent of a living thing like a stag or a horse. As it drew nearer, she realized it was more than one, a pack or a herd. And once they were very near, Glain knew it was neither.
Approaching the Fane from the apple grove was a cluster of hooded and cloaked persons. Three, or maybe four—she couldn’t be sure, and they were completely indistinct in the dark and from this distance. Presumably Stewards, but who, and up to what? This was odd and unexpected, but not unheard of, and probably nothing more sinister than a few of the novices daring themselves to brave the grove at night. But given the frightful happenings taking place in the Fane, it was more than a little possible that something far more dangerous and even illicit was afoot.
Glain watched until the group disappeared beneath the eaves, assuming they would enter the castle through the kitchens. If she hurried, she could be in the corridor on the main floor by the time they made their way back to the sleeping porches in the east annex. And if any of them happened to be one of the new prefects she had assigned or any of her fellow acolytes, they would have no choice but to face her.
She took the stairs as quickly as she could, growing more suspicious and angry as she ran. Just as she reached the grand vestibule, she paused, thinking she heard voices down the west annex hallway, just ahead of her. Instead, she realized the murmurs, now accompanied by footsteps, were overhead. They had taken the service stairs.
Cursing herself for not having thought of it first, Glain ran back up the stairs, as far as the second-floor landing, and paused again to listen. She waited and waited, but heard nothing more. Somehow she had missed them.
Suddenly, a rustle from below reached her ears. She leapt down the steps to the vestibule and turned down the west annex hallway toward the kitchens and the sound of approaching footfalls.
“Will you be taking your morning tea in the scriptorium, Proctor?” The attendant was startled and clearly embarrassed to see her so early, thinking he was late to his duties.
Glain struggled to give a polite nod and turned straight around, winded and aggravated beyond words. She made her way back up the stairs to await her tea and mull over what might well have been the longest night of her life.
Master Eldrith could not stop wringing his hands. Whenever his fingers were not purposefully occupied with a quill or a cup or a task, they took to nervous fidgeting as though they were under the direction of a mind other than his. And so Eldrith had unconsciously adopted the annoying habit as a way to keep himself under control.
It did not seem to be helping much, the wringing of hands. If anything, it keyed his nerves to an even more frantic pitch. Eldrith tried clasping them on his desktop while he waited, and then in his lap. Lastly he held them clenched at the red and gold tasseled sash that belted his vestments as he took to pacing back and forth behind his desk, beneath the leaded glass window depicting the sigil of Castell Banraven—a white raven rising on a red shield.
Drinking did some good, but he found it difficult to partake of wine without sodding himself into a stupor. He glanced at the cabinet on the opposite wall, reassuring his conscience that just one cup couldn’t hurt, and then remembered he had thrown out the last of the port in an effort to keep himself from succumbing in moments like these.
The door latch clicked and nearly sent him to his death by way of terror. But it was only Algernon, thank the Ancients, come to report. Eldrith was almost too afraid to ask.
“Well?”
Elder Algernon scuttled into the rectory and closed the door behind him. “The Hellion scouts have returned. They have abandoned the chase for now.”
Eldrith sighed aloud with relief. “Then Thorne got away.”
“If he did, it’s no thanks to you,” Algernon snipped. Gnarled and shriveled as he was, the old man had plenty of snarl left. “If I hadn’t stepped in when I did, you’d have gone through with it. You’d have given him over.”
Eldrith hoped not, though he wouldn’t dare swear it. “But you did step in, Algernon, just as I knew you would.”
“No more men of the Ruagaire Brotherhood will come to harm so long as I can do something about it.” Silver cups clattered as they rocked back and forth on their stems. Algernon had gone to the cabinet and was rooting through it. “Where the bloody hell is the port?”
Eldrith winced a little and reluctantly reached behind the draperies for the silver flacon he had hidden on the windowsill, setting it down on the desk a little too hard. “Here. It’s claret, though, not port. Might as well bring two cups.”
Algernon gave him a reproachful scowl but brought two cups anyway. “What excuse did you give?”
“That Thorne sensed mage sign more quickly than I expected and ran before he could be stopped.” Eldrith eyed the wine sloshing into the cup far too eagerly. “Not so hard to believe really, given Thorne’s reputation. But our new prelate was not pleased.”
“Hah,” Algernon scoffed. “Where is he now?”
“Retired to his chambers, finally.” Eldrith was sickened to think of it. He missed the featherbed in his former room and the other creature comforts the dark mage had commandeered. “I have no idea what goes on all night in those dungeons, and I hope to never know.”
“Thorne will be back. He will want answers.”
Eldrith knew this was true, and in fact he was counting on it. “If anyone can save us, it is Thorne.”
Algernon coughed out a wry chuckle. “If he tries, he’ll end up no better off than Trevanion for his trouble. Even the great Thorne Edwall is a small challenge to this black sorcerer. He’ll need an army of mage hunters, all of them at least as good as he is, if not better.”
A shiver rippled along Eldrith’s spine. The blackened, malformed remains of Martin Trevanion had burned visions of unimaginable horrors into his mind. At night, he could still hear Martin’s screams. And yet, despite several days of soul-gutting torture, Trevanion had died without uttering a single word, not even a hint at the whereabouts of the oldest mageborn stronghold in the White Woods.
Eldrith swallowed the wine in one gulp and pounded the empty stem on the desk. “Keep pouring, Algernon. And keep praying that you’re not the next ‘inquiry’ on his list.”
“I doubt the black mage worries much about me.” Algernon narrowed his eyes and unfurled a thin, mocking smile. “I am a very old man with a very poor memory, Eldrith. And you forget. I’ve spent all my days in Banraven. I believe I just may be the only one of us left who has never been to Elder Keep.”
Eldrith tasted the salt of his own sweat as tiny, cold droplets erupted on his upper
lip. He snatched the cup up nearly before Algernon had finished filling it and sucked the wine down. “By the time this is finished, you may well be the only one of us left at all.”
Algernon no longer bothered to hide his disgust or dress it up with sarcasm. “How could you have been such a fool?”
“How was I to know what he had done?” Eldrith snapped back, trying to sound less defensive than he felt.
“You knew enough,” Algernon accused. “For years we’ve heard rumors he was inciting sedition. Drydwen herself warned you against him, and then there were Trevanion’s reports of odd happenings near Fane Gramarye.”
“I never imagined what he had become.” Eldrith’s knees would no longer hold him upright. He wobbled to his desk chair and slumped into its overstuffed arms. The empty cup still clutched in his hand mocked his defeat. “What he was capable of.”
“You underestimated him. Or worse, you overestimated yourself.” Now Algernon mocked him. “To my knowledge, your grace, arrogance is not one of the four virtues.”
Eldrith was mortified. When the dark mage and his legion had arrived at Banraven, demanding the Brotherhood surrender their sanctuary, Eldrith feigned submission and opened the doors to evil. He had believed he could contain it, even conquer it. He had been wrong.
At least he now understood Machreth’s intentions, though the knowledge kept him up nights. Having been thwarted in his attempt to overtake Fane Gramarye and the well of knowledge it guarded, the dark mage had set his ambitions on Elder Keep and its secrets. Eldrith now had no choice but to accept that Machreth would spare none of the Order in the end. The power of the Ruagaire, should they ever regain their strength in numbers, was the only force Machreth still had any reason to fear.
“I have to hope you are right about Thorne,” Eldrith said. He had taken to wringing the stem of his cup. “If somehow we could get word to him, he would find a way to warn Drydwen. At least then the prioress could prepare a defense.”
Algernon showed a faint glimmer of interest. “If Eckhardt and Gavin Steptoe are still alive and Thorne can find them before the dark mage does, Drydwen might stand half a chance.”
Eldrith nodded, though he didn’t really believe there was even half a chance. Thorne was uncommonly skilled, but even with Eckhardt and Gavin to help him the odds were insurmountable. The best mage hunter who had ever lived had already fallen. But if the Ancients were still listening, perhaps Eldrith’s prayers would count for something. Drydwen was a powerful guardian, and the last three mage hunters of the Ruagaire Brotherhood were the strongest of their generation. With the blessing of the Ancients, anything was possible.
Failing that, however, Eldrith’s last recourse was the hemlock he’d saved for himself. All he would need was the courage to take his own life before the black mage decided he had no more use for him.
THIRTEEN
Glain stood as regally as she could at Alwen’s right side. The Sovereign had taken her seat to await the presentation, and Glain was nervous. She was also exhausted and still concerned about the mysterious band of cloaked figures she had witnessed in the orchard that morning. Even worse, the black camlet robe itched, and she fought the urge to dig her nails into her arms. It did not suit her, the proctor’s mantle, no matter how hard she tried to make herself comfortable in it. There had been thankfully few occasions that had called for it, but this was a day of days. Cerrigwen had surrendered.
The hurried, late-day inquiry was closed to all but those Alwen herself had summoned. Ynyr and Ariane had been invited to hear the testimony, as had Hywel. The king and his two most trusted men had taken a distant position to Alwen’s left, against the wall that separated the receptory from the scriptorium. Glain presumed he meant to observe inconspicuously, but Hywel was the sort of man who drew attention whether he intended to or not. Ynyr and Ariane lingered just inside the main door, clearly as uncomfortable to be called to the proceedings as they were to be in each other’s company. Emrys and three lieutenants of the Cad Nawdd, including Odwain, who was the youngest of the MacDonagh clan, guarded the entrance.
Glain had never seen a mage hunter, but every Steward knew of the Ruagaire Brotherhood. Indeed, all the magical beings and plainfolk in the neighboring provinces both admired and feared them and their mysterious ways. The Ruagaire were a centuries-old sect of enforcers that had been commissioned by the first Sovereign’s council, in the long-ago days when there had been many guilds. Their order, though now little more than a band of magical bounty hunters, had once been given the sacred charge of upholding the laws and edicts set forth by the leadership council that governed the practices of all of the mageborn societies. But like the Stewards, they were a dying breed. An encounter with one of their kind was extraordinarily rare.
The hunter called Thorne Edwall led his party into the Sovereign’s receptory. He walked with an athletic grace that was uncharacteristic of a warrior, but he carried himself with the confidence of one. Everything about this man was dark and intimidating—his mood, his manner, and his dress. Even his hair and beard were black. All was dark but his eyes, which were the most luminescent blue Glain had ever seen.
Flanking Thorne was Rhys, which pleased Glain so much she had to remind herself not to let it show for fear of embarrassing them both. She had missed him more than she’d expected. Last came Finn MacDonagh, who escorted Cerrigwen as if he were a lord accompanying a noblewoman to a royal court. Except that Cerrigwen was bedraggled and covered in muck and blood, and her hands were bound. It was a somber sight to see a Steward shackled, even when it was deserved.
Thorne addressed a proper bow to Alwen. “Your wayward sorceress is returned to you, Sovereign. Not without incident, I’m afraid, but that was no fault of hers.”
Alwen nodded in somber acknowledgment. “You’ve earned your silver, then.”
“No,” Thorne said, more assertively than most would dare speak to Alwen. “Not yet. There is still the matter of the Cythraul and their master. I shall return to the hunt just as soon as you’ve finished with me here.”
“You are more than welcome to rest and reprovision yourself from our larder,” Alwen offered. “Whatever you may need is yours for the asking.”
“You are more than gracious, Sovereign, but the sooner I am on the trail the better, and I have everything I need.” Thorne paused. “I do have one request.”
“Yes?” Alwen was still listening to Thorne, but her gaze had travelled past him and was now trained intently on Cerrigwen.
“If you’ll allow it, I should like to keep your young soldier in my company for the remainder of this commission. He has proved himself a valuable partner.”
Alwen’s attention returned fully to Thorne, and her expression softened, almost enough to allow motherly pride to show through. “It is his choice to make, but I grant my leave if he decides to go with you. Aiding your efforts also serves our interests.”
She looked past Thorne, at Rhys. “Well?”
Glain’s breath caught in her throat. It hadn’t occurred to her that he could leave again so soon. She remained silent and stoic at her post, ignoring the crushing ache in her breast. It would be beyond improper to speak out, unless she was asked. And even if she were, Glain would never admit her objections. Her personal concerns had no place here.
Rhys answered without hesitation. “If you can make do without me, I would very much like to see this business through to the end.”
Glain’s hands clenched so hard the nails dug into her palms. He had yet to look at her, and she was forced to consider that he might be intentionally avoiding her eyes. If Rhys were struggling with the conflicting desires that were plaguing her, it did not show. If anything, he seemed eager to leave again. The realization gnawed at her heart.
“I can think of no better use of your talents,”—Alwen’s expression hardened again, and her tone turned cold—“considering only half the threat to the Stewardry has bee
n found and contained. Finn MacDonagh,” she commanded. “Step forward, and account for yourself and your charge.”
Rhys and Thorne stepped aside to make room for Finn, who led Cerrigwen toward the small dais with an air of nobility that Glain could not help but admire. The Crwn Cawr were the most honorable of all the guardsmen ever to pledge their lives to the Stewardry, and oddly, Finn’s unwavering devotion to Cerrigwen inspired hope. However it was he had been carried astray, he had held to his pledge.
“I would not presume to speak for Cerrigwen even if I knew what to say,” Finn said, his voice soft and plain, but still dignified. “But I will account for myself and my son. Pedr and I have done as the blood oath demands. There is but one duty of the Crwn Cawr Protectorate: to do whatever must be done to keep the guardians safe, no matter what the cost.”
“That may be the literal word of the oath,” Alwen said. Her eyes widened with restrained although obvious anger. “But wouldn’t even the most blindly devoted member of the Protectorate recognize the wrong path and at least question the wisdom in following it?”
Glain was surprised by Alwen’s disdain and irked by what she believed was an unfairly delivered reproach. Alwen had shown Nerys considerably more compassion for a far worse betrayal. Finn could not be faulted for following his orders.
If he was disturbed, Finn did not let it show. “Oh, I questioned plenty, Sovereign. But in the end I made my choice. I make no excuses for it—or apologies, for that matter.”
Alwen scowled as she regarded Finn, as if she were pondering the merit of his existence. He bore up well under her scrutiny, better than Glain thought she would do were she in his shoes. He never pulled his gaze, never lost his air of resolve. After a few moments, Alwen took in a deep breath and let it out in a huff.
The Keys to the Realms (The Dream Stewards) Page 13