by Sarah Remy
Liam hesitated. It occurred to him to wonder why Jacob hadn’t gone first to Avani for help.
“Sir. I’ll go.” The second lie was more difficult than the first, and Liam worried his expression would give him away, but Riggins had no reason for doubt.
“Aye, good.” The captain brightened. “Tell her the king’s got a fine falconer on hand for just these sorts of injuries.”
“Yes, sir.”
Pleased, Riggins ceased fiddling with his arrow and sheathed it with its fellows in the quiver he wore on his back. The arrows were fletched with the red-and-black-barred feathers taken off special hens bred by the royal bowyers for just that purpose. Liam eyed the arrows with ill-concealed yearning. He was a competent rider and could shoot a bow from the ground with reliable aim, but as a mounted archer he was just as reliably inaccurate, and not even practice would earn him a spot in the king’s cavalry. He knew he’d make a capable foot soldier. He didn’t regret the path he’d chosen, but he couldn’t help admiring the arrows and the status they described.
Riggins offered Liam a hand up. “Give Lady Avani my regards,” he said. “And when you’re back, finish chopping those mannequins. We’ll burn the pieces tonight, feed the bonfire until the flames are lofty enough for Holder to see. Wherever he’s hid, he’ll know his creatures will never walk in Wilhaiim again.”
Chapter 6
Brother Tillion was a dangerous man.
Mal, lounging cross-legged on an upturned beer barrel across the bailey from the priest, studied Tillion with clinical interest. The theist, balanced upon an empty casket almost identical to the one Mal had claimed, was the image of grace and stamina. Gone were the tremors Mal had noted in Tillion’s hands only a day earlier; absent was the staff required to ward off vertigo. In the temple garden Tillion had walked with the hesitancy of a man who feared each step would be his last. In the bailey, an adoring crowd spread at his feet, Tillion was lithe and confident as any acrobat, quick to turn and challenge a detractor or bend low and bestow blessing on the brow of a zealous devotee.
“Opion,” Baldebert suggested from beside Mal’s barrel. He, too, watched the priest, but with an expression of open disgust. Tillion’s entire purpose in preaching was the defamation of Baldebert’s older sister—Roue’s queen and Renault’s newly betrothed. Mal appreciated Baldebert’s acerbic scowl, as Tillion had just finished loudly promising the one god would blast the Rani to ash should she dare set one foot on flatland soil.
Mal said, “Opion dulls the senses. Does he look dull to you?”
Mal had clothed himself in a disguise of villein’s shirt and trousers. A rimmed farmer’s hat obscured face. He’d put lifts in his boots to hide his small stature. Fingerless gloves shielded the ring on his finger from view. He’d not gone so far as to change the shape of his broken nose with clay putty, although he had been sorely tempted.
Baldebert’s deceit was of the magical variety. Pinned to his breast he wore a shiny new silver brooch in the shape of branch and sapphire berries. The original bone pin had been part of the royal treasury for generations. Its concealing sorcery allowed kings and queens to walk amongst their subjects undetected, a rare freedom and a carefully kept secret. The theist spells protecting the Bone Cave had proved too much for that brooch; the silver had smoked, nearly burning Baldebert in his attempt to rescue Liam from Armswoman Lane. The bone hidden within had shattered, necromancy dissipating along with the spirit that had kept the spell alive.
Much later, Mal had searched the ground outside the cave, sifting through a detritus of toys and flowers laid in memorial as well as a scattering of well-gnawed sheep bones in the hole where Holder’s brindled hound had lingered for a time waiting for her master. He’d found the damaged, misshapen silver and all but one of the fifteen faceted sapphires that had decorated the brooch.
He had carried the pieces back to his laboratory, hoping to learn something of spell crafting from a necromancer long dead. But when he’d laid the pieces out for examination he’d seen the way of it with startling clarity. While the spirit tied to the sliver of bone the old magus had used was fled, impressions of the vocent herself remained still in the metal, like fingerprints on a dusty tabletop.
It had been the work of an afternoon to remake the brooch to Mal’s own specifications. The new bone he took from the foot of a Kingsman who’d dropped dead of liver failure not two days earlier and whose spirit still haunted Mal’s cold room, unwilling yet to move on. Despite an unhealthy appetite for Whitcomb wine, the soldier was a good man—a strong, bright star in Mal’s head. It took little convincing to bind the haunt again into the throne’s service. The bone of the man’s smallest toe, disguised in the brooch as a sapphire-flowering silver twig, anchored his spirit to the bauble. The strong, bright star would fuel a new concealment spell for more generations to come before at last burning to nothing.
“Craft a hundred of these,” Baldebert said, and Mal realized he’d been staring at the brooch now pinned to the prince’s tunic. “You’d have an invisible army.”
“And what would I do with an invisible army?” Mal pulled his gaze from the silver bauble. It was difficult, lately, not to shelter in his head. The world around had grown strange since he’d suffered deep water madness. Where once he’d tolerated the useful shine of a dead man’s spirit, now the living also sparked, tantalizing. Vitality tapped seemed a far more efficient use of sorcery than a haunt slowly unspooled.
“I meant for His Majesty, of course,” replied Baldebert. His face still showed the damage done him by Avani’s magic. One eyebrow was all but burned away, the flesh about it reddened.
“Of course.” Brother Tillion’s life force was no brighter than those surrounding him on the street below: he was as human as his admirers. Nor was his star in any way diminished by the brain malady Mal was certain he suffered.
“You’ve been staring at the man like you’d enjoy opening up his skull and taking a peek inside,” said Baldebert. “And that absurd brimmed hat does nothing to hide your inclination. Mayhap you should have worn this damn jewel after all.”
“I’m not the one needs protecting,” Mal retorted. He hopped onto the street, pausing to stretch kinks from his legs. “That mob would be inclined to tear you to pieces if they saw your pretty face, and I’m not sure our priest would do anything to stop them. Brother Tillion is a dangerous man.”
Baldebert blinked, puzzled. He touched the ivory manacles hanging on his belt. Then he sighed. “I’m not torn to pieces, so your new jewel must be as potent as the old. Am I now excused from this experiment, Doyle? I’ll admit, I begin to dread your increasingly more frequent summonses. I have political machinations of my own to attend to. I don’t need to be drawn into your mischief, as well.”
“You are not excused.” Mal adjusted his hat to better shade his eyes. “Not yet. We’re going hunting.”
“He’s not here.” Hands on hips, Baldebert studied Holder’s farm from the road. To either side of the dirt path wheat had begun to lie down in the final throws of summer. On the hill above Holder’s land the crop had been left to go to seed. “Why would he be here?”
“Someone’s been feeding the animals,” Mal told Baldebert. Baldebert, shielded by the bone pin, stood safe from unfriendly eyes in full view of Holder’s barn. Mal slouched out of sight in the uncertain shade of a stunted oak tree. “Those we passed in the lower pastures, and those cows there.”
Baldebert contemplated the black cattle with vague distaste. “Probably the same Kingsmen who pass by here on patrol twice a day, just to keep an eye on the place. He’s not home. If I were him, I’d be riding for the northern steppes fast as humanly possible.”
“Go down and take a look,” suggested Mal. He plucked a ripe plum from a pocket in his trousers and took a bite, watching Baldebert while he chewed. The juice burst across his tongue, tart.
Baldebert’s eyes diminished to thoughtful yellow slits. “Is this some sort of test?”
“Aye. Of the pin on yo
ur breast. If Holder’s down there, I’m hopeful he’ll not see you coming.”
“Hopeful, you say. And what will you be doing, while I flit in and out of a cow barn all unseen?”
“Walking the perimeter,” answered Mal. He flashed Baldebert a grin. “Shout if you need help.”
Baldebert snarled. Mal ate his plum, waiting for the admiral’s curiosity to overcome his pride. It did, rather more quickly than Mal had expected. Gritting his teeth against words better left unsaid, Baldebert whirled away. He strode down the gentle hill toward the barn. Mal finished his plum, spat the pit into dirt, then slunk the back way down the amber knoll through the failing crop. Holder’s cattle watched him approach. They were all four fine specimens, their black Hennish coats buffed to a shine beneath a new layer of dust. Mal hopped the paddock fence. The cows followed him around the modest turnout while he checked the level of water in their trough and then kicked over a mound of fodder.
It was possible the patrolling Kingsmen had been told to toss the beasts hay, and fill the trough. Just as possible a neighbor was tending to their needs—although Holder’s closest neighbor was not close at all. And yet—Hennish cattle were a rarity, valued by the throne for their unusual black skin. Hennish leather was a luxury reserved for Wilhaiim’s magi.
“Not so much demand now as there once was.” Mal pulled the gloves from his hands. He stroked the wet nose of one bold cow, enjoying the animal’s curiosity. “I imagine you’re glad of that.” The cow had intelligent brown eyes and an abundance of life pulsing in her veins. How effortless it would be to borrow just a thimbleful of that energy, a few days off her life, and use it to ease the ache in his back leftover from a long night sat in an uncomfortable chair by the bed of their uncooperative desert prisoner.
The cow wouldn’t know to miss the stolen hours.
Mal scrubbed the palm of his hand gently up and down her muzzle.
A shadow passed overhead, blotting blue sky. Mal dropped his hand and looked up. Not the black raven wings he half expected, but a white-tailed hawk drifting on sluggish breezes. The relief he felt made him puff out a breath in bitter self-mockery.
He’d never been afraid of Jacob before. He didn’t intend to start now.
He jumped the fence on the other side of the paddock, leaving the cows to their own devices, and continued along the property’s edge. He’d visited the site twice since Holder had gone missing, but always in the company of soldiers and in his role as vocent. It took a clever man to hide his secrets from Mal but Holder had been born into a family long associated with magic, and it was possible the farmer had help.
Down a steep incline from the barn the remains of a burned-out cottage smudged the earth black. A single stone chimney stood proud at one end of the broken edifice. Saplings grew up out of the cracked foundation, green leaves turning to yellow. Mal stepped around them, ducking low to keep the chimney between himself and the barn. Baldebert had disappeared from sight. The barn door was closed. But for the soft lowing of the cattle and the distant scream of the hawk overhead, the day was quiet.
He crouched, bending to peer into the ruined hearth. It housed an abandoned mouse’s nest and a collection of pebbles. Bracing to stand, he pressed his palm against stone, and when he turned he had company. Consternation made his pulse jump. He had to clench his fists to stop spitting green sparks from betraying his agitation.
The man stood naked in the rose-gold light of winter twilight. His flesh was stippled from shoulders to groin with the bleeding stripes of recent punishment. An iron chain wrapped about his waist and thighs, shackling him to a sturdy sapling. Mal could smell freshly cut pine boughs and smoke. The man’s head was bowed, long hanks of gray hair obscured his face. He coughed, and spat, and turned his head, and saw Mal.
His eyes were the color of good beer—not a haunt’s fiery blue. He wasn’t dead. Nor was he still living.
“Brother,” he said, peering at Mal from beneath beetled brows. “What are you doing here? Run, you fool, you cannot help me—”
Mal jerked. The apparition vanished. In the paddock a cow slapped her sides with her tail, disturbing a cluster of flies. Mal glanced over his shoulder. The barn door was still closed. The hawk circled overhead. Only the briefest of moments had passed.
This time when he crouched, he did it with concentration, blowing dust and dirt from the chimney stone. He took his dirk from his belt and used it to scrape ash from the stone, careful not to touch the rock with his bare hands. He found the trick stone halfway down the chimney: a brick made of mortar and crushed bone cunningly crafted to resemble gray stone. The brick was clean of ash; it had been placed in the chimney after the gutting fire.
Mal steeled himself, pressed his hand flat against the false stone, and looked around.
“Brother,” the apparition begged, looking straight at him. “My brother. What are you doing here? Run, you fool, you cannot help me—” He gasped, faltering as a lash came down from above, ripping flesh beneath. “Run, run!” Another tearing lash, and Mal choked on gathering smoke. The chained man looked up and away, challenging an enemy Mal could not see.
“We have done nothing to deserve this!” he screamed. “Nothing! We are your neighbors, your cousins! Arden—Arden Cooperson, I see you there!” Coughing, he withered against his fetters. “Beau Lovett! I see you both! Who was it, then, who kept the sidhe from your daughters and your doors? They’ll rise again, Arden, Lovett, and who of us will be left to save you?”
The stench of burning flesh and heated metal was overwhelming. Eager flames licked at the tethered man’s feet. His screams turned to shrieks.
Mal snatched his hand from the chimney. He bent double, gasping. Smoke made his eyes smart and run. The taste of charring flesh lingered on the top of his tongue. He swallowed hard to keep from vomiting.
Mal, Avani slipped through the cracks in the walls of his mind. Effortlessly, she bolstered his failing courage. Together they were so much more than they were apart.
What is it? What is that you’re seeing?
It’s not real. He knelt in the dirt, eyes closed. It’s not real.
It felt real, horribly real. Is it a vision? Put your head down between your knees until it clears. I can still hear the poor man’s screams.
I don’t have visions. But her practicality eased some of his shock, made it possible for him to open his eyes and catch his breath. The cows had wandered away and were nosing at their fodder, backs turned. The sun warmed his scalp. The hawk had vanished from the sky. Bees buzzed in the clover near his feet.
You’ve had two that I know of, Avani replied tartly. She resented his cavalier dismissal of all things spiritual. Mal had an impression of her loom, the sound of her shuttles at work, the aftertaste of Baldebert’s black tea in her mouth.
Not a vision. A memory. He recollected the golden spires growing out of Roue’s verdant forest like great jeweled flowers, the “memory keepers” erected to honor the beloved dead. A private remembrance. I triggered it by mistake.
A monument to a burning man. Avani’s shuttles stilled. His murder. Was he magus?
Mal didn’t answer; there was no need to confirm what they both already knew. Avani glanced up from her loom.
What are you up to, Mal? Where are you? Somewhere pleasant, under blue sky—are those cows?
Holder’s place. He felt like a lad caught with his hand in the pie plate, but he didn’t try to hide his discomfit, hoping she wouldn’t see past superficial guilt to deeper secrets.
Not for the first time he wished he’d had the strength of heart to sever their bond before it rooted.
Holder’s place? She left the loom for the Goddess on her hearth. When she buffed the idol’s golden skin with her thumb, he felt phantom metal against his own flesh. Well. Let’s see it again, then.
Are you certain? He was no stranger to the grotesque. He’d long ago learned, for the throne’s sake, how to be stoic in the face of another’s suffering. But this was different. Whether or not the m
an deserved it, this was execution for the sake of extermination, a uniquely flatlander crime.
A uniquely human crime, mayhap. Or not. The sidhe would rid this world of mortals, had they the means. Whoever he was, he was one of us, Mal. Someone thought enough of him to seal his death in stone. He deserves our witness. Her grief crept into Mal’s heart and nested there. Mayhap we’ll learn his name.
As you wish. Resolved, he turned back to the chimney. When he pressed his palm against the false stone, Avani stood within him. The magus appeared at once, flames superimposed over honeybees and clover.
“Brother! My brother. What are you doing here? Run, you fool, you cannot help me—”
The door to Holder’s barn hung from a metal track. When Mal pushed, it slid open along small cogs, an elegant contraption. The barn was cool and dry, the inside tidy as any cottage. The earthen floor was swept clean. Stacked hay filled the loft above. Sunlight filtered through uneven slats in the peaked roof, pooling on the floor. Three of the original box stalls remained but the rest of the barn had been cleared to make space for Holder’s handicraft. Augurs, chisels, rolled burlap, pieces of brass and iron, and a collection of miscellaneous cogs covered the surface of a long wooden table that ran the length of one side of the building. A bucket of water stood beneath the table, the water murky with dust and disuse.
“There’s an anvil and forge out back,” Baldebert reported, from just inside the barn. “Forge is cold. His wagon’s there and two more oxen. Cellar beneath the barn—the larder’s been rummaged. He’s lit out, just as I said. And I wager he’s not coming back any time soon.”
Mal chose a spiral of shaved wood from Holder’s worktable. It was a fine white walnut, the sort used to craft a wardrobe or a jewelry chest. More white curls dusted one corner of the table. Mal brushed them aside, baring a large pair of carpenter’s sharp-edged pincers.