Rough hands dragged him upright, and he stiffened in the guard’s unyielding grip. “Torsion? What are you doing here?” Jerrol frowned at him bemused. He was supposed to be recovering in Stoneford.
Torsion’s eyes glittered as he stared at him. “How dare you?”
Jerrol blinked in surprise. The venom in his Torsion’s voice shocked him. “What’s happened?” he asked. “Have you spoken to the grand duke?”
“She is mine.”
“What? Torsion? What’s going on? Did Liliian send you?”
“You still don’t get it, do you?”
“Get what?” Jerrol peered at him. What was Torsion talking about?
“And I thought Taelia was the one who was blind.”
“Torsion? You must help me. Speak to the grand duke. Benedict will declare war when he hears about this. It doesn’t have to be war.”
“I was never a supporter of the Lady. My job was to infiltrate the scholars, to find out who the key players were, and look at you,” Torsion said, his voice distant. “A disgraced King’s Ranger, the Lady’s Captain and you can’t even see what is right under your nose. You can’t tell when someone is deceiving you. Not much of a Captain, are you?”
Jerrol stared at him, his mind numb, still grappling with his words. Gone was the studious scholar with the bowed shoulders. Here was a man full of power and confident with it. No, this couldn’t be Torsion; he was his friend, family. “Torsion?”
“The name is Tor’asion.”
“No, you can’t be. They’ve enspelled you.” Jerrol’s mind spun, it wasn’t possible. Torsion was his friend. Dependable. He thought of him like an older brother.
“Is that your answer? Do you think I’m weak enough to be enspelled? Well, I’m not. Not everyone bows to the Lady. There are alternatives, and we are owed. Our time is coming, and we will rule Remargaren.” His glittering eyes refocused on Jerrol. “Shred the Veil.”
Jerrol’s stomach roiled, and saliva flooded his mouth. He thought he might throw up. The betrayal sliced through him; he had trusted Torsion, like family. His chest ached as he struggled to control his horror, his despair, his loss. Torsion had always been there for him, reliable, sensible.
“But you’ve been my friend for years.”
“Yes, best move I ever made. You’ve been useful. And think, Jerrol. You wouldn’t have got where you are today without my help.”
“Then help me now, Torsion,” Jerrol whispered. His last desperate hope splintered under Torsion’s vicious glare, and he struggled to make sense of what Torsion was saying. Torsion always knew the right thing to do. It was as if his whole life had been a lie; how could he know that anything he had done had been the right thing? How had Torsion hidden this for so many years? Though, in retrospect, Jerrol supposed it was easy; no one had even known about the Ascendants. No one would suspect or had suspected anything amiss. Why would they?
“I don’t think you are in a position to make demands, old man.”
Jerrol’s stomach cramped. Only Torsion used that term. “You were in the tower,” he whispered.
“Of course I was.”
“Helping them. You took Birlerion.”
“Yes, he paid for getting in our way.”
“How did you get here? You were in Stoneford.”
Tor’asion smiled. “Your Sentinals couldn’t hold me. I told Jason I was returning to the Chapterhouse. They believed me; why wouldn’t they? There was only ever one who didn’t trust me, and I can tell you, he didn’t survive. He cried for mercy, like a baby; not that he got it.”
“Where is Birlerion?” Jerrol asked, dread weighing him down.
“I told you he’s dead. I told you he wasn’t to be trusted. You should have listened to me. Now, stop wasting time and shred the Veil.” Tor’asion’s voice hardened as he flexed his hands.
Jerrol tensed as agonising fear gripped his guts. Fear for Birlerion and fear for himself. He was sure this wasn’t going to be pleasant. “I can’t.” His head rocked back as Tor’asion hit him. Pain exploded through his mouth, and he spat out blood. It was nothing to the pain constricting his chest at the betrayal of his lifelong friend but it helped clear his mind and firm his resolve.
“Do it now,” Tor’asion demanded, interspersing each word with a blow to Jerrol’s unprotected body. The guards held him up as he staggered, tightening their grip against the force of the blows.
“You can’t have her,” Torsion grunted out between gritted teeth. “Shred the Veil.”
Jerrol wheezed, his stomach burning. He didn’t bother to try to frame an answer as the words and the punches rained down on him. The blows continued until an angry strike to his head took the pain away as he slid into unconsciousness.
Tor’asion stood over him, panting at the effort. The guards watched him nervously. He lifted Jerrol’s head and stared at the blood-masked face. A tremor went through him, and his grip tightened on Jerrol’s hair. One of the guards spoke up. “If you want him alive, sir, I don’t think he’ll take much more. He ain’t a particularly strong bloke, is he?”
Tor’asion glared at him and then returned his gaze to Jerrol. Stepping back, he released Jerrol’s hair and rubbed his sore fist. “He’s stronger than he looks,” he said, eventually. “Leave him here; tell me when he wakes up.”
“Marianille?”
“Yes, Scholar?”
“Describe to me what the view is out of this window,” Taelia asked. Marianille moved away from the door where she had been standing.
“We are in the East Tower. Your window faces north towards a distant range of mountains, which fill the horizon. They are a mauve colour, and white-tipped with snow that glistens against the azure sky,” Marianille began.
“Ah, a poet,” Taelia murmured.
“No, that would have been Serillion; he always had a way with words.” Taelia winced as Marianille continued. “I’m just describing what I see. There is a courtyard below us, surrounded by ten-foot-high walls made of grey stone.”
“Whereabouts are they keeping Jerrol?”
“I don’t know.”
“And if I ordered you to go and find out?” she asked tentatively.
“Niallerion is already searching. There’s no point both of us turning this palace upside down.”
“Why? He is your Captain. Surely your prime directive is to find and save him?”
“No, Scholar. My purpose here is to protect you.”
“Ordered by whom?”
“The Captain, Scholar.” Marianille raised her voice at a knock on the door. “Immediately below us in the courtyard, there is a small garden with orange trees. There is a stone fountain of a rearing horse in the centre,” she said as she walked over to open the door.
“Oh, is there seating? Could we go and sit in the garden?”
“You have but to ask, my dear, and your wish will be granted,” Torsion said from across the room. She heard him approaching and turned her face towards him, forcing a smile in welcome.
“Torsion, where have you been? Marianille here was just describing the view for me.”
“I was searching for news of Jerrol as you asked. I’m afraid it is not good.”
Taelia smile faltered, and her heart fluttered. “Please have a seat. What did you find out?”
“Jerrol drew his sword on the grand duke. I am sorry, Taelia. I warned you that you couldn’t depend on him. The grand duke is being diplomatic, for the sake of relations with Vespiri, but my understanding is that Jerrol tried to kill the grand duke, not save him.”
“I don’t believe you. Jerrol is here on a diplomatic mission. The only reason he would draw his sword would be to defend himself.”
“Don’t worry. The grand duke is offering clemency; he is waiting for King Benedict’s response before we release him.”
“Release him?” Taelia shivered as she felt a change in the air. It sharpened. And as Torsion spoke, she knew something had changed.
“Yes, he is to be sent home in disgrace.�
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“This is not right. Jerrol would not threaten the grand duke.”
“Your confidence in him is commendable but mistaken. Taelia, you need to open your eyes and see the real Jerrol. He is dangerous. A threat to all of us. I keep telling you his reliance on the sword is …”
Taelia zoned out, ignoring his words as she grappled with the ramifications of what he was saying. If they were accusing Jerrol of attacking the grand duke, then his diplomatic protections would be nullified. They could do what they wanted with him.
Frustration rushed through her. Where was Niallerion? Hadn’t he any news? They needed to be planning to rescue Jerrol not leaving him in the hands of the grand duke. Her attention sharpened as she realised Torsion had stopped speaking.
“I-I am sorry. This is all a bit of a shock. Could you get me a glass a water?” she said, as she raised a hand to her head.
Taelia heard Torsion snap his fingers and cringed. Marianille would not appreciate that, and then, Marianille was beside her, calm and solid, placing a glass in her hand. “Here you are, Scholar. Maybe Scholar Torsion could return to tomorrow, once he has found out the grand duke’s intentions?” Marianille suggested, her voice firm and comforting.
“Yes. Thank you, Torsion. I have a headache; this has all been quite distressing. I think I might rest.”
“Of course, my dear. My apologies for being the bearer of bad news.” Torsion leaned forward and squeezed her free hand and then rose. “I’ll return tomorrow, hopefully with better news.”
Taelia waited until he left and then straightened. “Where is Niallerion? He needs to tell us what is really going on. I need a report.”
“I’ll go and find him, Taelia.”
“Thank you.” Taelia stared across the room towards Marianille. She thought she might throw up. “He said ‘we’ didn’t he?”
“Yes, he did,” Marianille replied, and then closed the door behind her.
It was dark when Jerrol came too, gagging as someone tried to force a liquid down his throat. Everything hurt, especially breathing. His face felt like it was twice its usual size, and his muscles spasmed as he tried to move.
Voices whispered above him.
“Clean him up a bit. He can’t go looking like that.”
“It won’t be an improvement; this man’s been badly beaten. Did the grand duke order this?”
“No,” the soft voice sighed.
“I’d say his nose is broken from the sound of his breathing, maybe cracked ribs. You sure he wants to see him?” the healer asked.
“Yes, and it’s got to be now.”
“That draught won’t take away the pain of moving him.”
“Do what you can. We don’t have much time.”
Jerrol hissed in pain as the healer tried to clean his face. “Sorry, got to straighten your nose now as much as we can,” the voice said as a tight strap was stuck across his very sore face. “Not much I can do, but it will help you breathe.”
The healer helped Jerrol sit up, cutting his bindings, muttering curses under his breath the whole time.
“Enough!” the other voice whispered. “Let’s get him up.”
Jerrol groaned as he leaned heavily against the healer.
“I know, lad, I know. The draught will take the edge off, but I can’t give you any more now.”
The two men steered him out of the cell and helped him up the stairs.
Jerrol’s eyes were swollen shut. He could barely see where they were going. Each step awoke more aches and pains. He wondered what had happened to the guards and where they were taking him now.
He was shaking with the effort by the time they deposited him in a chair. His breath wheezed out in a weird groan, and he hugged his arms around himself, leaning to one side.
“The ambassador, Your Grace,”
There was a fraught silence. “What happened to him?”
“I understand one of your advisors paid him a visit, Your Grace. And intends to return tomorrow.”
“We can’t send him back like that.”
“To be honest, Your Grace, I don’t think they intend on sending him back.”
“I wonder why?” The grand duke stared at Jerrol intently. “Is he aware?”
“Some, Your Grace, though how much it is difficult to tell.”
Jerrol rolled his head to look at the grand duke. He squinted at him blearily.
“Ambassador, I apologise for your situation, though I’m sure King Benedict will not believe me. I was hoping you … well it doesn’t matter what I was hoping. It seems I am in even less control of my palace than I thought.”
Jerrol wheezed. He hurt. His brain wouldn’t work. He tried to concentrate, but his head ached terribly. He couldn’t form a sentence to push out of his battered lips. He couldn’t remember where he was or what he was supposed to be doing. Waves of pain engulfed him, and he groaned as he sagged against the man supporting him.
“Ulfr, I will distract my advisors; you need to get him out of here. Tonight, if you can.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” the soft voice replied.
“He is in no fit state to go anywhere, Your Grace,” the healer spoke up.
“He’ll be dead if he stays here. Hide him until he is fit. We’ll say he’s gone missing or something.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Ulfr replied, helping the healer lever Jerrol out of the chair. Jerrol swayed as their grip tightened. He didn’t remember leaving the chamber, or anything else for that matter.
17
King’s Palace, Old Vespers, Vespiri
King Benedict sat on his throne, acknowledging the delegation from Terolia, his new territory, but he was more interested in an update from the neighbouring Elothia. He regretted sending Jerrol off to Elothia as he was now without his Commander, as well as his Oath Keeper. He feared he had lost his gamble. They would have received word by now if all was well.
As he called an Arifel, impatient for an update, a surprised murmur rippled around the room and Fonorion leant forward. “Sire,” he said in his soft voice, “the Oath is glowing.”
The king rose and stared at the Oath. It was indeed flushed an angry red. He had never seen it glow such a colour; in fact, the only time he had seen it glow, was when Jerrol, his Oath Keeper, was present, and it was usually a golden yellow.
“Does the Oath usually glow red?” Medera Maraine, the Leader of the Atolean Family said from below him.
Benedict turned to her and smiled. “Not often, though I am sure it’s nothing to worry about.”
Maraine pursed her lips. “I understand Commander Haven travelled to Elothia. I hope they listen and his venture is successful,” Maraine said, staring at the glowing words carved in the wall.
“As do I,” the king replied. He paused as Fonorion hissed and stiffened. The glowing Oath abruptly flared a brilliant white and went out.
“Fonorion?” The king watched Fonorion gulp, his face paling. The king smiled at his guests. “Please enjoy the refreshments. I will return momentarily. Fonorion, Lieutenant-Commander Bryce, attend,” he said abruptly, leaving the dais and walking to a side chamber.
“What is it?” he asked as the door was shut behind them.
Fonorion stared at the king. “The Captain,” he whispered, “he’s gone. I can’t feel him.”
“You’ve said that before and were wrong. I need proof this time,” the king said.
“He would not be easy to kill. Not with the Lady watching over his shoulder,” Bryce said uneasily.
“It was a diplomatic mission. He should have been protected by immunity. If they have killed my envoy, then it will mean war, and I do not see how Elothia can gain from that.” The king paced. “What about Marianille or Niallerion, can you still feel them?”
“Yes, they seem fine.”
They were interrupted by a hysterical Arifel erupting into the air above them. Fonorion coaxed him down onto his arm, and the Arifel delivered a small tube holding a note, alongside frantic images of a distressed Taelia, a
nd a severe-looking dark-haired man who was comforting her. Fonorion eased off the tube on his leg, he unrolled the paper and passed it to the king. Sometimes, it was easier to have the Arifel to carry written messages than decipher their haphazard images.
The king’s eyes ran down the tiny writing before he handed it off to Bryce. His face paled. “This can’t be true!” he exclaimed. “It doesn’t make sense; why would Jerrol attack the grand duke? I don’t believe it.”
“Even if he did draw his sword on the grand duke, and I’m not saying he did,” Bryce said quickly as Fonorion tensed. “Jerrol would still have diplomatic immunity. They would have to treat with us, not just execute him summarily.”
“So we have some time to discover what really happened,” Benedict said.
“Wasn’t that an image of Torsion just then?” Fonorion asked.
“Torsion at the palace? Isn’t he supposed to be at Stoneford? How did he end up in Retarfu?” Bryce asked.
Fonorion scowled. “I don’t know. Tianerille reported that she thought there was something off about Torsion, and I know Birlerion never trusted him. What if he is enspelled? What if he is working for the Ascendants?”
“Tyrone’s report said he wasn’t enspelled,” Bryce said.
“He must be. There is no reason for him to be in Retarfu, unless Liliian sent him. But she would have said. Bryce, find out if Liliian sent him.” Benedict paced. “It doesn’t make any sense. None of it.”
“It does if this is all driven by the Ascendants,” Bryce said. “The Ascendants disrupt; they want to rule the world, and Randolf has something they want.” He paused. “An army.”
“That would mean the Ascendants must control Randolf, then,” the king said, “and we walked straight into their trap and handed them the Lady’s Captain.”
“It looks like they didn’t get what they wanted, though. The Veil is still sealed,” Fonorion said.
Sentinals Justice: Book Three of the Sentinal Series Page 13