Sentinals Justice: Book Three of the Sentinal Series

by Helen Garraway

  Selvia leaned forward and patted his arm. “Thank you, uncle.”

  “No promises mind.”

  Rising, Selvia held her hand out towards Niallerion and he gave the gloves to her, and then raised her coat to place over shoulders. Her nails caught his skin as she pulled it closer around her. A sharp sting, sudden and unexpected. He drew his breath in and shook his hand out.

  Selvia turned at the door. “I will send word tomorrow, but be prepared, uncle. I do not intend to let Randolf rule for a day longer than necessary.” Her eyes glittered like sparkling ice crystals in the lamplight as she stood framed by the dark wood timbers. A snow fox in her winter coat, preparing to kill whatever stood in her way. Her icy eyes passed over Niallerion and he wondered what she saw.

  He shivered as the guard opened the door a chill gust blew in. Selvia ignored it and strode out. “Call my carriage,” she instructed and Niallerion raised an eyebrow. At least they wouldn’t freeze to death walking back to the palace, though sitting in such close proximity to Selvia could be a problem. He couldn’t decide which was worse.

  One of the guards trotted off, and Selvia led the way out of the tavern. It was nearly dark. The luminous grey-white clouds heavy with more snow closed around them. Shadowy people hurried through the freezing slush, the crack of breaking ice under foot echoing in the dim twilight. Niallerion shivered in his cloak; the temperature was dropping rapidly.

  The arrival of Selvia’s carriage couldn’t come soon enough, and when it did, one of the guards jumped forward to open the door and lower the step. Selvia climbed in without delay but then twisted around in the doorway, and stared down at her maid. “I promised General Kabil that not a word about today would pass your lips.” She glanced at one of the guards. “See that it doesn’t. Cut out her tongue.” The door slamming shut punctuated her command, and strong arms grabbed Niallerion before he had time to absorb the meaning of her words.

  19

  Back alley, Retarfu, Elothia

  The guards didn’t hesitate and dragged Niallerion into a side alley before the carriage had even moved.

  “Hang on, wait a minute,” Niallerion gasped, trying to dig his heels in, but his boots slid on the ice.

  “Shut it,” the stocky guard with the bristly brown beard said. “It’s too cold out here. Beren, try the shed.”

  As Beren, the skinnier guard of the two, released Niallerion to check the door, Niallerion thrust his hand up under the stocky guard’s chin, snapping his head back. He began twisting out of the guard’s grip but Beren was back, and he kicked Niallerion’s feet out from under him.

  “Bitch,” the stocky guard hissed, following him down to the ground. He pressed a knee in Niallerion’s back. Freezing water seeped into his bodice and through the material of his skirts as Niallerion struggled to free himself. His skin cooled fast. A fist grabbed him by the hair and the man cursed as the wig came away in his hand. Niallerion yelped as the pins ripped out tufts of his hair with it. Instead, the guard grabbed Niallerion by his ears and rammed his head against the icy ground until Niallerion was on the verge of losing consciousness. Niallerion gasped a ragged breath, his face smarting, his head aching and unable to stop the guards from tying his hands behind his back, and hauling him back to his feet. He swayed woosily, trying to blink away the double vision.

  As the guard tightened his grip on Niallerion’s arm, Niallerion staggered into the stockier guard, off balance and desperate. The guard back-handed Niallerion, splitting his lip, and pushed him against the wooden planks of the shed wall. Niallerion scraped his face, hissing as he collected a few splinters. Hot breath caressed his cheek as the guard spat in his ear. “You’ll pay for that, slut. We were going to play nice, but now …”

  Niallerion squirmed and then froze as a knife pierced his skin under his ribs. “Enough,” the guard growled and shoved him into the dim shed. Forced to the ground, Niallerion knelt, his head hanging as he felt his split lip with his tongue. It was beginning to swell, much like his chin. As the door shut behind them, his mind spun, trying to think of ways to escape and coming up blank.

  The sound of a flint striking preceded the sudden flare of light and the guards stood over him, holding a lantern.

  “Let’s see what we have ‘ere then,” the stocky guard said, and tilted Niallerion’s face towards the light.

  The guards peered at him. “Stev, is it a woman?” Beren asked, scowling in confusion. “She’s a bit stronger than I expected.”

  “Don’t be daft, he’s no woman.” Stev waved the wig. “Now why would a bloke be disguisin’ himself as a woman? I am sure the princess would be interested in your answer, before we remove your tongue.”

  Niallerion was silent.

  Cold steel pressed against his throat. “Or we can cut you up piece by piece until we reach your tongue,” Stev said as he pushed the blade in, piercing the skin.

  Niallerion hissed his breath out, keeping as still as possible. The bite of the metal faded as warmth spread down his neck.

  “Search him,” Stev said.

  Beren began patting him down. “There’s too much material to feel anything,” he complained. Niallerion was suddenly glad of the underskirts until he was wrenched upright and the guards began cutting the clothes off him. They weren’t particularly careful and the knives sliced his skin, leaving him slick with blood and only wearing his underclothes. He shivered as his skin turned blue, and his teeth began to chatter. He was forced back onto his knees as he wondered how he had managed to get himself on such a mess. Leyandrii, I am so sorry. I never meant to fail you like this, please forgive me.

  Niallerion shuddered as a gust of icy air cut through him. The lamplight flickered for a moment, casting long shadows across the shed. He twisted his wrists, but the ropes just burned his skin.

  Cold steel pressed under Niallerion’s right eye and his breath stuttered.

  “Now I’ll ask one more time. Who are you and what are you doing spying on the princess?” Stev asked.

  Niallerion’s teeth chattered as he gasped out a nonsensical reply.

  “What was that?” Beren leaned closer.

  “I-I …” Niallerion’s reply was cut off as Beren was jerked away from him. Stev released him with a sharp exclamation that morphed into a gurgling grunt as he staggered back, holding his chest. Blood pooled in his fingers and spurted out as he collapsed.

  A tall shape hovered over Niallerion and then sliced the ropes binding him. Niallerion slowly folded over and his rescuer caught him. A sharp exclamation and he was bundled in a blanket that smelt of horses. “Niallerion? Are you alright?”

  Niallerion groped for the name that went with the voice. Taurillion. Marguerite’s companion. The only Sentinal claimed by Marguerite and not Leyandrii. The only Sentinal with copper-coloured eyes. He was glad that Taurillion hadn’t found him dressed as a woman was his last thought as he collapsed into Taurillion’s strong arms.

  Niallerion awoke in his own bed in his room in the palace. A shaded light cast a dim glow and as he stirred Marianille rose from the chair beside him and leaned over him.

  “At last,” she murmured. “Drink this.” She raised his shoulders and tipped a sweet liquid in his mouth, cider laced with something. He swallowed with difficulty. His lip stung. His cheek smarted. Various other aches and pains made themselves known as he lay back with a groan.

  “Marianille,” he croaked.

  “Not now, rest. Taurillion found you. Footpads he said.”

  Niallerion heard the disbelief in her voice, but his eye lids drooped. The room went blurry but he thought he heard her whisper. “Sleep, my dear, you are safe now.” And all his aches faded.

  The next time he opened his eyes, both Taelia and Marianille were seated beside his bed. Daylight lit the room and the grey light revealed their careworn faces and he felt a spike of guilt for causing them even more concern, on top of all their other worries.

  Taelia tilted her head. “Niallerion? Are you awake?”

  Mar
ianille exclaimed and leaned forward her grip convulsing around his hand, which she had been holding. “Niall! We’ve been so worried. When Taurillion brought you here you were a lump of blood-streaked ice. I thought you were dead.”

  Wincing, Niallerion gripped her hand back at the tremor in her voice. “It was a close call,” he admitted. “How long have I been out?”

  “Two days. You’ve been fortunate, I suppose. You slept through forty stitches, and the removal of too many splinters to count.”

  Ah, that explained his sore face, throat and torso.

  “What happened? Do you remember?” Marianille asked.

  Niallerion shifted and realised he was naked under the covers. Soft furs slid against his skin, trapping the heat. His wrists were bandaged, as were many other places by the tight pull of bandages against his skin.

  “I accompanied Selvia to a meeting with her uncle, General Kabil.”

  “What do you mean you accompanied?” Marianille demanded, suspicion colouring her voice.

  Niallerion’s shrug was cut short by a wince. “I had intended on speaking with some of her ladies in waiting. I heard she wasn’t a very nice employer, so I thought they would be more likely to gossip, but before I got there, I met Selvia and she dragged me with her to her meeting.”

  “Why would she take you?”

  Niallerion scrunched up his face, trying to think of a way out of telling her. “Selvia is scheming with Kabil to overthrow Randolf. She wants to be the new duchess.”

  “That doesn’t explain why she would take you.”

  Exhaling a deep breath, Niallerion gave in. “I disguised myself as one of her ladies in waiting,” he said.

  “You did what?” Marianille was horrified.

  Niallerion flushed. “It seemed a good idea at the time.”

  “A good idea …” Words failed her.

  “What gave you away?” Taelia asked shrewdly.

  “Nothing, which surprised me. I didn’t realise I looked so feminine. It wasn’t until we were leaving that Selvia instructed the guards to cut out my tongue so I couldn’t tell anyone about the meeting. It went pear-shaped from then on.”

  “She did what?” Marianille asked, the blood draining from her face.

  “Fortunately, Taurillion arrived in time to prevent them. I have no idea where he came from.” Thank the Lady, he thought. “The Ascendants are trying to get Kabil to move his army on Stoneford. She said …” he trailed off, staring at Taelia.

  “What did she say?” Taelia asked.

  “I’m sorry, Taelia. Selvia said that Randolf killed Jerrol. She didn’t know the details but it sounded like they have informed Benedict.”

  Taelia stilled, and then shook her head. “I don’t believe it. Randolf wouldn’t kill Benedict’s peace envoy.”

  “He’s lost, Taelia. We can’t sense him. There is no Captain.” Niallerion gentled his voice, even though the words cut him deep.

  “No, I don’t believe it.”

  “Never again,” Marianille said, her voice sharp. “Promise me. You won’t do anything so stupid again. You were reckless going in without support. It is not worth losing your life.”

  Niallerion observed her pale face. The sheen of tears in her silver eyes. She meant it.

  “Promise me,” she hissed.

  “I promise,” he replied, holding her eyes.

  Marianille nodded, once, and released his hand. “Tell us what you heard. Every single word.” She produced a notebook and rested it on her lap, all business. The concern for him absent.

  The next day they let him get out of bed, and Marianille had helped him dress with a curt “I have four brothers. I’ve seen it all before.” Which didn’t ease his embarrassment, but his cheeks cooled as he sat in the armchair in the parlour.

  Marianille handed him a mug of chamomile and aniseed tea. “Healer’s advice, it will help calm the bruising,” she said as she sat beside him.

  He reached across and gripped her hand. “I am sorry for scaring you,” he murmured.

  Marianille sat with her head bent for a moment, and then cleared her throat. “We have enough family lost without you as well,” she said at last, and his heart warmed as she raised her face and gave him a searing glance that made him hold his breath. And then it was gone.

  “We sent off a message to Benedict this morning. We should get a reply tomorrow.”

  “You didn’t tell him about me, did you?”

  Marianille shook her head. “We didn’t want to give him more reasons to demand our return. Taelia is adamant the Captain is alive and we must wait for him.”

  “Where is Taelia?”

  Marianille’s face tightened. “She is with Torsion. She says he is finding out where Jerrol is for her, but I don’t trust him, Niall. He is not just a Scholar. There is something, I don’t know, something off about him.”

  Sipping his tea, Niallerion watched her. Lines traced her brow, and creased around her mouth. The stress of Birlerion’s absence was beginning to show, more so because there was nothing she could do to help him. There was nothing any of them could do. He cursed himself for his foolishness. He had lost days, when he should have been spying on Var’geris and the other one, Sul’enne.

  Marianille couldn’t leave the scholar unattended, though it seemed the scholar had no compunction abandoning Marianille. “I’ll set up a listening device in the Ascendants quarters. They won’t know it’s there, and they won’t know we are listening.” He held up his hands as she tensed. “I promise.”

  Sharp silver eyes inspected him for a moment and then she nodded, and he breathed out a sigh of relief.

  20

  Somewhere in Elothia

  Owen Kerisk awoke in chains. His head felt thick and heavy as if he was fighting his way up through dark treacle to reach the air. He inhaled sharply as a boot connected to his ribs and pain exploded through his chest, but it got some air into his lungs. He deeply regretted drinking that gut rot at the inn last night. He shouldn’t have stayed there. They had caught him unawares.

  “Wake up, sunshine, time to move,” a rough voice said from above him.

  Owen rolled onto his side and levered himself to his knees, swaying as he looked around him. His body ached. His eyes were crusty and sore, and his head thumped painfully.

  “Water,” he croaked.

  A bucket and a dirty rag were dumped beside Owen before the soldier prodded the sleeping man lying next to him with his foot. The man already looked pretty beat up, and he stirred, obviously in pain, at the rough awakening.

  Owen gulped a couple of handfuls of water and dabbed at his face and eyes before they took the bucket away. The bucket was rimmed with ice, and the water was so cold, it hurt. His head ached, oh how his head ached. He looked down at the next man in the chains; a bundle of misery that they had dragged out of the inn last night. It looked like the slightest breeze would knock him over. The innkeeper had tried to stop them, saying he was a paying guest, but the soldiers had ignored him.

  His gaze wandered around the barn in the lightening gloom as more soldiers entered with torches held aloft. Dejected men lay huddled together for warmth, each chained to another. His gaze dwelt on the man that had been dragged out of the inn with him. He wasn’t very big; maybe he’d reach Owen’s shoulder once he was standing. His stubbled chin failed to hide the faded bruises of a recent beating, and he looked drawn and frail. Straggly brown hair flopped over his face, which he moved out of his eyes with a hand that was missing two of its fingers. A dejected and battered sight. Owen rubbed his bearded chin and sighed. He hoped he could walk; he wasn’t carrying him that was for sure.

  The soldiers eventually got everyone on their feet and back in a double file. Owen’s companion huddled in on himself and visibly shivered. They marched them off down the frozen road, boots slipping on the ice. A blanket of snow softened the landscape, blurring its edges and hiding its features.

  Owen lurched through the ice-rimmed puddles, his boots getting soaked. The chai
ns wrenched him forward as the men in front of him slipped on the ice. A trickle of icy water penetrated the leather, and he shivered. Even wrapped in his tattered cloak, the cold penetrated and invaded his bones, and he knew the cold would only get worse.

  The brown-haired man barged into him as he slid on the ice, taking them both down onto the slushy street. The man’s breath was hot on his face, and although his breath hissed out in pain, his grey eyes were surprisingly alert. The guards shouted at them and struck out with their sticks, hauling them back to their feet and pushing them on.

  They were made to march in place as they waited for the soldiers to sweep through a brightly lit tavern. “Keeps you warm,” one of the soldiers shouted, rapping their legs with a stick. “The only thing you get for free in the grand duke’s army,” he laughed, sharing the joke with one of his companions.

  The lieutenant returned with a scowl on his face. “Waste of time,” he complained. “Let’s get this sorry lot back.” He remounted and set a smart pace down the road, leading the way out of what Owen had heard them calling Tortval, which he knew was a small town on the outskirts of Daarl, not big enough to rate a mark on a map.

  Owen tried to picture the map in his head. The only town of any importance north of Tortval was Meerange, a centre of commerce and textiles, feeding the ports of Daarl and Hjull on the coast, neither of which were very large, but busy all the same. There was no army training facility there that he was aware of.

  The air was full of plumes of breath as the chained men were hustled down the road. The men slid into each other as they tried to keep their feet at the fast pace the lieutenant set. Owen reined in his wandering mind and took note of their surroundings. Pinpoints of light indicated where sparse dwellings crouched in their snowy disguise.

  Apart from the echoes of the horse’s hooves and the crack of crunching ice, the night was silent. No animals shifted in the frozen fields. No wind stirred the sparsely-leaved trees. The dark sky was swathed in thick clouds; only the soldier’s torches lit the way.