“That Chosen they got, she’s cagey smart. She’s not coming at us direct. She’s using Lord Fael’s men to hold us off while she goes for the Regent’s throat. Might work, too—if we don’t get moving to reinforce them.
“You ain’t got enough control to order the odium out on your own. And the Baroness ain’t here. And if the Chosen takes Edenrich, the first thing she and the other High Barons will do is come for us.” Archer took another sip. “Ain’t good.”
“Put extra men on the walls,” Blackhart said. “If there’s no word by this time tomorrow, we’ll risk sending out messengers.”
Which meant the talk and the honesty were over. Archer stood, and picked up his gear without another word. But even as he closed the door, he caught the movement of Blackhart’s gaze toward the ceiling.
BLACKHART laid his head back on the chair, and stared at the ceiling as Archer closed the door behind him.
He could see no way out of this trap. His men, their families, the people he’d worked so hard to protect. . . .
And he couldn’t get the sound of her laughter out of his head.
Blackhart took another drink, and let the bitter wine lie on his tongue for a moment before he swallowed. Dry, bitter—all the land could offer in these times.
The Baroness would return, that bright light of a priestess would be extinguished, and he’d go on toward the end. There was no other way that he could see at this point. All the possible doors were closed, locked, and barred from one such as he.
And one such as she should curse his name. The attraction he felt . . . that was dangerous. He should just forget it—and her. He had other things to worry about.
His stomach rumbled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten. Orrin stood, deciding to go down to the kitchens rather than send for something. He could check on supplies that way, yet another concern. Then maybe some of Reader’s brew, to help him sleep.
As he left his chambers, he found himself wondering if the Priestess had eaten.
THE tower bedroom was just as much a prison, but far more comfortable. There were light and air, for one thing.
Evelyn sighed as she knelt on the rug by the fire. It was hard not to feel grateful, but she resisted the feeling. It was still a cell, for there was no way out, other than down. The fetter on her ankle was attached to the wall with just enough chain to prevent a dramatic leap from a window.
The flames of the fire licked at the wood, and she basked in the warmth. Warmth, light, air . . . and no rats.
She was still afraid, but it was easier to concentrate now, easier to think. She tested the chain that ran between the manacles; it was strong, but not so short that it impeded her.
Didn’t impede movement, that is. The manacles were still draining her of her magic. She could cast no spell; her hands might just as well have been tied. But the sick feeling had faded a bit. She still didn’t feel right, but she could at least move without wanting to throw up.
If a chance came for freedom, she vowed to take it, whatever the risk. The Chosen would expect it of her, and she’d rather die fighting than not.
Evelyn closed her eyes, bowed her head, clasped her hands, and tried to pray.
The door opened, but Evelyn didn’t bother to open her eyes. Her jailers made a habit of checking on her regularly, so the only precaution that Evelyn took was to cover the silver ring on her right hand with her other hand. So far, she’d been able to keep it, apparently at Blackhart’s command, but that would last only so long. She’d keep it no longer than she’d keep her life.
She’d thought of destroying it; the idea that it might grace Elanore’s hand made her ill. But when she’d gone to pull it off, the star had appeared in the gemstone, and she’d stopped. Where there was life, there was hope. . . .
“Eat now. You can pray later.”
Evelyn’s eyes snapped open. Blackhart was seated on a corner of the bed, a tray of food beside him. Evelyn rose slowly, looking at the plain fare. Bread and cheese, butter and dried apples, with a flagon of wine.
“They tell me you aren’t eating.” Blackhart pulled off a hunk of bread and spread it with butter.
Evelyn said nothing, but her stomach grumbled.
“You have my word that nothing is poisoned,” Blackhart added.
Evelyn looked at him.
Blackhart gave her a sardonic look. “Not sure I’d take my word, either.”
“It has nothing to do with your word,” Evelyn said softly. “If you wanted me dead, you’d have no need to use poison.”
Blackhart nodded. “True enough. Still. . . .” There was a glint in his eye as he tore off a hunk of bread and took a bite. “Eat,” he commanded, offering her the remainder.
Evelyn sat on the other side of the bed, the chain dragging across the rug behind her. She reached out and took the bread. She held it for a moment, hesitating. “There seems little point—”
“You are hungry. There is food.” Blackhart offered the cup of wine. “Stop thinking, and eat.”
Evelyn looked into the cup. “Is this wine looted from Athelbryght? I won’t—”
“Those bottles are gone, or kept for the Baroness’s private use.” Blackhart grimaced. “This is what passes for wine in the Black Hills.”
There was bitterness in his voice, and Evelyn thought that odd. She took a sip, only to be taken aback by the taste. It was very dry and acidic.
“And this may not be the fine white bread of Edenrich, but it fills the belly,” Blackhart said.
The bitterness was still in his voice. She made no comment, just started eating the bread. It was coarse and dark and chewy, but tasted wonderful.
They ate silently for a moment. Blackhart took a bite of everything, even going so far as to sample each piece of dried fruit.
“Tell me of the ring.” He gestured at Evelyn’s hand.
“The ring?” Evelyn blushed slightly. “It was a gift from a merchant. I healed his son’s high fever, and he gifted it to me. I’m told that by keeping it, I am too vain, too materialistic, but it gives me joy.” Evelyn extended her hand slightly. “It’s a white star sapphire. In certain kinds of light, there’s a star that shines within the stone.”
Blackhart snorted. “Seems a small token for saving a man’s heir.”
Evelyn smiled wryly. “A man who stole it told me that it’s worth only a few silvers at best. The stone is flawed. But I love to see that star shine in the stone.”
“When did he tell you the value of the ring?” Blackhart’s eyebrows went up. “As he removed it from your hand?”
“When he returned it.”
Blackhart gave her a long look, then stood and left the room without a word.
Evelyn studied the door, but when Blackhart did not return, she finished the food in silence.
ORRIN cursed under his breath as he descended the tower stairs. Archer was right, he should just take the woman and get her out of his system. Elanore would not mind, since the Priestess would be raped before she was killed anyway, but for some reason Orrin could not bring himself to do it. Because though he could perform the physical act—hell, ached to perform the physical act—he’d destroy the laughter in those eyes.
He’d made his choices long ago, and the darkness of his soul was a result of those choices. He’d commanded the human warriors for Elanore, and aided her to create undead abominations to use against her enemies. Watched a woman he had been intimate with turn into a monster, and had followed her down into the mire without hesitation. He cursed again, thinking of the woman in white.
Archer waited at the bottom of the stairs, an eyebrow arched. “Did you—”
“No,” Orrin snapped, trying to step around him.
Archer blocked his path. “You and the Baroness, both smitten fools. She’s being stupid, haring off to secure her Josiah in the midst of a war. And now you, with this priestess. You can’t afford to be distracted, especially—”
“Was there something you wanted?”
Archer stepped bac
k. “Riders in the distance—coming hard. They’re ours, from the look of things.”
Orrin hesitated for a heartbeat, a pang of regret filling his heart. But he clamped down hard on that, and turned toward the main hall. He strode carefully at a set pace, making sure his steps were calm, strong, and even. Finally, word had come. If Elanore was but a day or two behind, they could still make this work, protect his people. If she was close. . . .
The main doors were already open, and men were gathering in the courtyard beyond. The odium were there as well, lining the walls, their gray flesh falling from their bones. They would stand there and rot until commanded to move or attack. Orrin walked out to stand at the top of the stairs, grateful to feel a breeze. It would keep the stench down. He could see the riders passing the outer wall and spurring their horses forward.
More noise, and Orrin knew that Sidian, Mage, and Reader had arrived, along with the brothers Timothy and Thomas. His hearth-band, ready to support him.
Archer was a step behind, and a soft sound told Orrin that the lanky blond had nocked an arrow in his bow, ready for anything. A wise precaution, but not necessary; he recognized the lads.
“Lord Blackhart!” one of them called as he reined his horse to a stop.
“How far behind you is she, lad?” Orrin called, as Archer eased his stance. The boy almost fell from his horse in his haste, scrambling to kneel on the black marble steps.
“Lord Blackhart.” The lad took a gasping breath, swallowing hard. His voice was the merest rasp. “The High Baroness is dead.”
FOUR
TIME froze. Orrin’s heart seemed to stop in his chest. His worst nightmare had come to pass, and for the barest instant he wanted to turn and run. But then the lad before him held out his fist, and unclenched a filthy, blood-encrusted hand to show him Elanore’s golden signet ring.
Behind him, Mage sucked in a breath. “How . . .”
“Are you pursued?” Orrin said, looking at the exhausted group milling in the courtyard.
“No,” the lad responded. “But Lord, we are all that are left.”
Rage washed over Orrin. Elanore had taken thirty good men, and odium on top of that. There were fewer than ten in the courtyard. Damn the bitch.
He swallowed the rage. He looked at the ring, then scanned the courtyard with a rising dread.
Archer stepped forward, hand extended to take the ring still displayed in the lad’s hand. “You look exhausted, warrior. Let’s see to your needs and to the others.’ ”
The lad flushed with pleasure as he stood with Archer’s help. Archer turned swiftly to put the ring in Orrin’s hand, then called out to the men in the yard. “Someone see to the horses. I’ll take these men to the kitchens for a meal and some of Reader’s brew.”
Men nodded. Some turned to their tasks, others ran forward to lead the horses away. Archer had a hand on the lad’s shoulder as he guided him and the others toward the kitchens. He gave Orrin a look, and Orrin knew Archer would get the full story out of the boy and then report. In the meantime. . . .
“Timothy, Thomas, get down to the main gates. Any other stragglers come in, you bring them to me. Don’t let them spread word of this.”
The stocky brothers nodded, and headed off at a trot.
Sidian stood watching over the courtyard. Reader was there as well, looking very nervous. “This ain’t right,” the little man said. “They’re still—”
Orrin turned. “Let’s stay calm.” He looked at the young apprentice. “Mage,” he said softly, “how can the odium still be—” He stumbled over the words.
“Odium are destroyed when the spell-caster who created them dies.” Mage’s eyes were wide, but he met Orrin’s gaze without a flinch. “If she’s really dead—”
“That’s the only way this came off her finger,” Orrin said. He opened his hand again, checking the heavy gold ring with its bloodred stone. For a fleeting moment, a contrasting image of a slim silver ring with a flawed white stone flashed in his mind’s eye.
“I know,” Mage said, swallowing hard.
“If she’s not controlling them, and I’m not controlling them, then who is?” Orrin growled, clenching his fist over the ring.
Mage trembled, but he didn’t move. “I don’t know.”
“What if they turn on us?” Sidian rumbled.
The moment froze again, as Orrin’s gaze went toward the tower where the Priestess was imprisoned. Elanore was dead, he felt that in his bones. The very tool she had made to gain her power would destroy her people. There were more odium than living men in the Keep. And if they started to go into the countryside . . .
There was one chance . . . for his men . . . for his people. The cage doors had opened, and he caught a glimpse of a way out. A chance for his men and their families to survive.
“Sidian, Reader, summon my sergeants.” Orrin stalked back into the Keep. “Mage, you’re coming with me. We need to send a message.”
Sidian and Reader were already moving, calling for the army leaders. Mage scrambled to stay beside Orrin as he strode off. “Where do you want the message to go, sir?”
“To the Chosen,” Orrin said.
SHE’D been left alone for most of the day, alone with her thoughts. One would think a priestess of the Light would prepare for death with meditation and prayer. Evelyn sighed as she knelt by the fire, at the length of her chains. She was trying to pray, but her mind kept drifting to Orrin Blackhart.
For a man who’d plotted her capture and death, he’d treated her decently enough. And though the Baroness would take great pleasure in Evelyn’s death, it seemed that Blackhart would not share in that joy. Odd. She’d spent only a few moments with him, but he . . . interested her.
Orrin Blackhart, Scourge of Palins. A warrior, certainly. She tried to think of what little she knew of him. Mostly rumors. He bore the title of Lord Marshal, and rumor had it he’d worked his way through the ranks to earn the position, with a ruthlessness that all feared. That under his command, the people of Farentell had been slaughtered. Ezren Storyteller had said that the Baroness was using odium, and that she’d used those prisoners to create her army of undead with the support of the Usurper. Evelyn had denied it, but now she’d seen it with her own eyes.
She shuddered. That anyone would engage in those black and evil practices was unthinkable. How could she be . . . interested . . . in a man who would—
The crashing of the door brought Evelyn to her feet, heart pounding.
Blackhart stood in the doorway, a ring of keys in hand. “Time to go, Priestess.”
Startled, Evelyn watched as he moved around the bed to where her ankle chain was attached to the wall, and reached to unlock it. She hadn’t heard any fanfare to announce the arrival of the Baroness, yet it seemed the time of her death had come. But if those keys opened the manacles on her wrists. . . .
She didn’t give herself time to think. She just moved, as quietly as she could. Blackhart spoke as she stepped behind him. “I’m going to—”
She threw the chain over his head, planted her knee in the middle of his back, and yanked back hard. At best she might kill him, at worst . . .
The chain caught in his mouth, cutting off his words. But he didn’t budge, even when she threw her full weight back, putting everything she had into it.
It wasn’t enough.
He moved then. Evelyn heard the keys fall to the floor as Blackhart’s hand gripped her wrist and pulled. He turned in her arms, and she found herself facing a very angry man whose glare pierced her heart. She tried to step back, but the chain around his neck pulled her short.
Blackhart’s free arm wrapped around her, pressing into the small of her back, forcing her against the length of his body. He took a step, and the edge of the mattress hit the back of Evelyn’s knees. She cried out as he pushed her down, covering her with his body, and pinned her wrists to the bed.
Furious, she struggled, opening her mouth to curse him.
“Stupid—” Blackhart cut off hi
s own words, and covered her mouth with his own.
SHE tasted like spring.
Like new green leaves and the scent of warm rain on the air.
He kissed her, wanting more, demanding more. And she responded, exploring his mouth as he plundered hers. Her body softened under his, legs opening to cradle him. His hand drifted down to cup her breast. Even through the fabric of her robes, she filled his hand, and his fingers brushed over—
“Oh, fine. Now you take her.”
Archer’s voice cut Orrin’s spine like a knife. He jerked his head up, staring down at the Priestess he’d just defiled.
Her blue eyes were wide with shock and confusion, her mouth still open, still wet from his—
Orrin stood abruptly, pulling her off the bed. “Count yourself lucky, Priestess,” he snarled as he pulled her toward the door.
Archer stepped back from the doorway. “The Chosen’s envoy is on her way. Already passed the first gate.”
Orrin nodded, and pulled the Priestess along behind him. He marched her through the halls and down the stairs to the main throne room. She never said a word, but he could feel the trembling of her hand.
He was too afraid to stop and answer her questions. Everything depended on the next few moments, and if she tried asking him about the kiss, he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t press her against the wall and take her right there, and damn the consequences.
They entered the throne room, and he rushed her up the dais and placed her on the throne. She stared at him, then frowned. “What—”
Archer knelt, and chained her ankles, using a short chain. He rose and stepped back quickly.
Orrin nodded to Mage. He then moved back from the throne, making a swift gesture that stopped the woman from moving.
Mage had his book in one hand, loose pages poking out the sides. He raised the other hand and gestured, muttering the words of the spell. There was an odd sparkle around the throne, and then Evelyn stiffened, a startled look on her face.
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