He blinked, mouth moving mutely. “You’re free…” He breathed. “Can’t you feel it? You’re free.”
She clenched her jaw, eyes boring into him. Then they flicked to the side as her attention went inward. After a moment, she blinked several times, and her brow furrowed. “It’s…it’s gone.” Her teeth shone in a rare smile, but when she grabbed the ring to pull it from her finger, the smile faltered.
“It still won’t come off. It’s gone—I mean, inside it’s gone. But it still won’t come off.”
Harric rubbed his stubbly chin. He didn’t know about the stuck-on-your-hand part of the enchantment. At least, he couldn’t see that part of it in the Unseen. But the Kwendi used magic of all three moons, so he guessed it was possible that part of the enchantment was from the Mad Moon or the Bright Mother, which might not show up in the Unseen.
“But your heart is clear now?” he asked. “Your head is clear?”
She nodded, but her eyes had narrowed and her lips were pressed in a hard line. “How do you know all this? It’s that…creature, isn’t it?”
Harric gave her a cautious nod. “I can see your spirit. I can see that the magic of the ring is gone. But I don’t know why it’s gone. I only know that I didn’t break it. I think you did it yourself. Something to do with…the Phyros Blood, maybe?”
Her nostrils flared and her eyes grew bright. A tear rolled down her cheek, pushed sideways by the rushing wind, and she wiped it with the back of her hand. Above the roar of the fire, he thought he heard her say, “Molly.” She looked back the way Willard had taken the Phyros. “Molly and Gygon,” she said, louder. “I touched them and they…burned me. Burned Rag.”
“Burned out the ring.”
She nodded, hair now streaming behind her. An empty ache tugged at Harric’s heart as he took in her profile. The lines of her neck. The honesty of her gaze. Moons, I’ll miss you, he thought. He already missed her.
Somewhere behind that ache, however, was the bittersweet realization that with her freedom came his own freedom. That he was no longer beholden to the ring or to Caris, no longer beholden to Willard for Caris’s sake. Of course, it was also true that he no longer needed to leave, in order to put distance between himself and Caris to weaken the weaves, either. But that only illuminated the fact that he didn’t want to stay. That he’d changed and was ready to leave. That Willard and Caris would never see good in magic and they didn’t see good in him.
Realizing this lifted something like a stone cap from his heart.
“One last thing before I go, Caris. I owe you an apology.”
She looked at him. Looked right in his eyes, not at his nose.
“I’m sorry I asked you to keep my secret for me, Caris. About the magic. It wasn’t fair, and I want to take it back.”
She nodded, but her gaze remained hard. He comforted himself with the thought that even though she didn’t respect his choices, she had kept his secret. It might have had something to do with the ring’s enchantment, but he hoped it was also an acknowledgement that she knew they’d helped each other—that on some level they were truly friends—and that whether or not they liked it, they were part of each other.
He gave her a deep bow. “Thank you, Caris. Luck grace your trail.”
“And yours.” Her jaw muscles clenched as if she didn’t trust herself to say more. Then she mounted and rode Idgit back toward Willard and Mudruffle.
Harric watched her go. Then, with a deep sigh, he reamed and loaded his spitfires, stowed them, and followed her back toward the others. He stopped when he saw Sir Willard walking toward him up the trail, the red eye of a lit ragleaf pulsing in the fire-reddened dusk. Behind him, a hundred paces up the trail, a couple of lantern lights glowed beside the horses.
“You’re making camp,” Harric said.
The gigantic knight stopped before him and squinted as he studied Harric’s face against the bright backdrop of the fire. “Horses need rest. Forced march for nearly two days. A wonder none went lame.” He pulled the ragleaf from his mouth and exhaled smoke. “Out with it. What must you tell me?”
Harric gave a small bow. “Several things. First, I must depart tonight, as I originally planned. I have given Caris my horse, Snapper, who is Phyros-trained. I’ll take Rag.”
“She approves this?”
Harric nodded.
“Well, I don’t, you selfish knave. The girl’s enchanted to love you. What in the Black Moon do you think it will do to her if you leave? I need her competent to fight, not blubbering in a puddle of foolishness.”
“The ring is broken. Ask her. It doesn’t affect her any longer.”
Bushy eyebrows bristled over the knight’s violet eyes. “How is that possible? How do you know that?”
“Ask her,” Harric repeated. “She’ll tell you.”
Willard took several long tugs on his ragleaf, smoke gusting from his nostrils. “By all the damned gods, you’d better not have hurt her, or I’ll wring your neck and—”
“If I had hurt her, I’d deserve it. But I haven’t. Will you listen?”
Willard clamped hard on the ragleaf, eyes blazing.
Harric forced his shoulders to relax. “Sir Willard, if she says otherwise, I will stay. But she won’t. Just ask her.”
“I will.”
“And now that she’s free, I’ve decided I must go to the Queen. Someone must.”
Willard snorted. “If you want my approval, you have it, and good riddance. Was that what you wanted to tell me?”
“No, there’s more.” Harric took a deep breath in preparation to speak, but then hesitated. Standing so close, he’d become acutely aware of Willard’s restrained anger. The Blood in his veins and the misfortunes of the day had the knight wound up and ready to pop. Indeed, just now he’d nearly burst a vein in his forehead over Harric’s good news about the ring; the rest of his news might be too much for the knight’s restraint.
Harric exhaled and made a decision. “The lore songs say that you and the Blue Order would occasionally grant a short truce to the Old Ones, a time of open speech and meeting without blows.”
“A New Moons Truce. Three days. What of it?”
“I ask for such a truce, if I may, before I share what I know.”
“You’ve done something so heinous you must ask for such a thing?”
Harric made a small, ironic bow. “I do not think so, but you and I have disagreed on such things before.”
Willard’s eyes smoldered. He sucked at the ragleaf until its coal burned bright and white smoke obscured his eyes. “I give you one day.”
“I accept.”
Nevertheless, Harric retreated half a step under the pretenses of glancing back at the fire behind him. “There is no easy way to say this, Sir Willard. And it gives me no pleasure to say it, especially now that Brolli is no longer with us. But Ambassador Brolli was not all he seemed. Of course, we knew and accepted that he had secrets, as we all do. But I discovered the scale of his secrets last night when I saw him using some Kwendi magic to open a door in the air.”
The rag roll went still between Willard’s lips. “A magic door? What foolishness is this? Would you slander him now that he’s gone and cannot refute you?”
“I do not make this up. Why would I?” He then told Willard how Brolli had gone through the door and that Harric had followed. He told Willard he heard the Kwendi elder say there would be no treaty. He described the Kwendi warriors training to fight mounted knights, and the magic of the Kwendi women.
When he’d finished, Willard stood still as stone. Abruptly, his hands squeezed into fists at his sides.
“Truce, remember,” said Harric.
When Willard finally spoke, his voice grated like iron on stone. “Magic doors. Peeking and spying. These lies are as vile as the sneaking jack that spawned them.”
“Sir Willard, I saw all of this. You must believe me. You will be in danger if you go to the Kwendi lands.”
In one quick motion, Willard seized Harric
by the collar and lifted him until he barely stood upon his toes. “Lies.” Rag smoke gusted in Harric’s face. “Vile, faithless lies. Or have you gone mad? None could do and see as you claim.”
Harric felt a calm that he normally only felt at the card table. “I can, and I did. Let me show you how.”
“Show me this magic door?”
Harric thought about it for a moment. “I hadn’t thought of that. But yes. If you let me look through Brolli’s things, I could show you the rod he used to do it—”
Willard shook Harric so hard that the collar burned the skin at the back of his neck. “So that’s your game. You hope to get at the dead ambassador’s toys. I should fling you into the fire.”
“You asked—” Harric choked. “You asked if I could show you the door, and I answered honestly. But I can show you in another way. Let me go and I’ll show you how I know.” Willard shook him again, and again, as if trying to knock different words from him, and Harric gasped between shakes: “We—have—a truce—!”
Willard released him, and Harric stumbled back. The immortal’s eyes burned violet, and his skin darkened with the Blood. “If you do not produce a miracle, I shall not be accountable for my actions.”
Harric rubbed his neck and smoothed his collar. Then he took a few steps back and drew himself up, watching Willard. “You will not be disappointed.” Slipping his hand into his shirt, he removed his nexus from the pouch and held it before Willard. Its glassy surface swallowed all light that fell upon it, like Harric held in his hand a hole in the very air.
Softly, Harric said, “Nebecci, Tasta, Tryst.”
Fink materialized on Harric’s shoulders and looked down in surprise. His wings whipped out for balance. “Oh hey, kid. What’s the trouble?” A sharp intake of breath from Willard drew Fink’s attention, and the imp’s white eyes widened in surprise. “Moons, kid. Didn’t know I was meeting the parents. I would have dressed up.”
Belle flashed from her scabbard in Willard’s hand, and Fink dropped behind Harric with a squeak.
“You traffic with a god?” Willard snarled.
Fink peeked around Harric’s leg. “What? Did he just call me a god?”
“Sir Willard, you gave me your truce,” Harric said.
“I did not give that thing my truce.”
“He is my friend, and if you harm him, you harm me.”
Willard ground his teeth, chest heaving, but stood his ground.
Fink tugged at Harric’s pant leg. “Can we just note that this man said ‘god’?”
“Fink, this is an important moment, and not because he said god,” Harric replied.
“Sorry.”
Harric gave a slow nod to Willard, whose eyes were now wide with outraged horror. “Now I will show you how I was able to learn all I did about Brolli. Don’t be alarmed. When you see—or rather, don’t see—you’ll understand.” Then Harric opened his oculus and entered the Unseen.
Willard’s form seemed to explode with blinding violet spirit strands. As the old knight stared at the space where Harric stood, he made the sign of the heart in the air before himself.
“This is how I know, Sir Willard. I can move unseen through the spirit world. Even Kwendi eyes can’t see me, but I see them. I followed Brolli through the magic door, and I saw everything I told you about. I do not wish to speak ill of the dead, but the ambassador was betraying you, leading you uselessly north, probably to imprison you, like the others. They are preparing for war, and you have to warn the Queen.”
“Kid.” Fink pointed up the trail to where Mudruffle stood motionless in the tall grass, about ten paces away. In the Unseen, the clay of the golem’s body shone only faintly, so he stood out like a dark silhouette against the glowing strands of the vegetation. Fink hopped up on Harric’s pack and held to the straps.
“Sir Willard, Master Harric is charmed!” the golem called. “The imp speaks through him to sow dissension between us. It wishes to ruin your mission of peace so its foul kin can feed on the slaughter of war.”
Anger flared in Harric. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I know all too well, young Harric.”
Mudruffle swept his hand in a high arc toward Harric, as if casting dust upon him. Half an instant later, Fink hissed and slapped both hands over Harric’s oculus.
A warm and heavy weariness had fallen over Harric’s limbs as Mudruffle finished his gesture. It draped him like a heavy, comforting blanket, and his vision blurred. He felt himself swaying over his feet, wanting desperately to lie down and sleep. But Fink’s hands seemed to wake him, and then the sensation passed as quickly as it came.
As he stabilized his balance, Harric saw Willard lying flat on his face.
Mudruffle was hurrying toward Harric’s location in jerking strides.
In the next moment, Willard was on his feet and moving almost too fast to track. Then Mudruffle was flying back into the brush from which he’d emerged, and Willard stood seething, teeth clenched, and trembling with rage.
“Touch me—with magic—again,” he said between what seemed like painful efforts at restraint, “and it shall be—the last thing you do in this world.”
“You must bind him,” said Mudruffle, now struggling to right himself in a tangle of greenery.
Willard picked up the sword he’d dropped during Mudruffle’s spell and scanned the area where Harric still stood in the Unseen. “The boy has my truce and I am bound to protect him. Do not test me in this, Mudruffle. Do not harm him or his”—Willard glared—“his…”
“His god,” Fink supplied.
“False god!” Mudruffle honked. “Spirit of darkness!”
“Fink,” Harric said. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
“Like how, show myself?” said Fink. “You already did that.”
“Enough!” Willard bellowed. “Show yourself, Harric. You have made your point.”
Harric re-entered the Seen, and Willard’s eyes snapped to him.
The knight’s chest heaved with labored breaths. “Leave us. You have told me what you intended. Now leave. And never return.”
“I am not under a spell,” Harric said. “Please believe what I told you about Brolli.”
Motion drew Harric’s eyes twenty paces behind Mudruffle, where Caris led Rag down the trail. Her brow wrinkled as if she was wondering what all the yelling was about, and her eyes were on Willard, who had bellowed the loudest. When she saw Harric and Fink, she stopped cold and her eyes widened to the size of duck eggs. The horror in her eyes as she looked at him smote Harric in ways he couldn’t define.
Willard took Rag’s lead from her and turned the mare around. Slapping the saddle, he said to Harric, “Mount and ride while you have my protection.”
Harric climbed aboard as if moving in a dream. Caris had fastened Spook’s basket to the saddle bow, and must have let the little moon cat out for a while, because he wasn’t mewing inconsolably.
“Sir Willard, this is a grave mistake,” Mudruffle honked.
“Put a cob in it, Mudwizzle,” said Fink.
Willard took the lantern from Caris, handed it to Harric, and slapped Rag’s rump. As the Rag bore him past Caris, her eyes filled with tears. Not for him, Harric knew, but for her oldest friend, lost to forces beyond her control.
“I’ll take good care of her. I promise you,” he said.
Before they drew out of speaking distance, Harric reined Rag and turned to face them. The three stood watching, silent as standing stones and silhouetted by the blaze of the wildfire behind. Mudruffle’s shiny black eyes glittered in his lantern’s light.
“There are no lies between us now,” Harric said. “I leave with a clean conscience. I am no longer your man, Sir Willard. I am no longer beholden to the wedding ring, nor to the strictures of the two laws. I am the Queen’s man. And though you may think only swords can serve Her Majesty, I will prove you wrong.”
Willard spat and made the sign of the heart.
Harric turned Rag and rode. As he passed the camp where Brolli’s body lay, Snapper whinnied and Geraldine let out a mournful bellow, and for some foolish reason, the sounds brought stinging tears to Harric’s eyes.
*
Harric and Fink rode in silence out from the trees of the canyon into a wide, grassy valley. Harric cradled Spook, scratching behind the cat’s ears and letting the vibration of the animal’s purr calm the turbulence in his heart.
In the light of the Bright Mother, the valley seemed a silver sea, the breezes moving in gentle waves among the grasses. Rag tossed her head and snuffed the open air as if in approval, and Harric felt a new energy to her gait. Dark, forested ridges bound the sea on either side, and ahead, the moonlit ramparts of the Godswall towered over its shores, no more than a day and half’s ride away.
As the river curved away to the left to run up the west side of the valley, Harric steered Rag north to cut directly across the grasses.
It wasn’t until much later, when the Mad Moon peeked above the rim of the world, and the Bright Mother rode the western sky, that Fink spoke. “You did well back there, kid. I’m impressed. Or I guess I should say that I did that well, since the whole time I was controlling you like a puppet.”
When Harric laughed, the imp leaned around from behind, his bald head cocked. In a conspiratorial whisper, he said, “Price of heroes.”
“Yeah.”
Fink nodded to the gear behind Harric. “You got something in that pack you want to tell me about, kid?”
Harric felt his guts tighten, but maintained a careful mask of calm. Fink couldn’t know of the hoops; Harric had stashed them well. Unless…unless the imp had searched the pack when Harric was asleep.
Cobs.
“What do you mean?” he said, avoiding Fink’s intent gaze, and stroking Rag’s neck.
“Look for yourself.”
Harric craned himself about and turned his oculus on the pack. The bulk of it glowed softly with smoke-blue strands of spirit essence rising upward toward the moon, but one side of it sizzled with long purple strands that flickered horizontally westward, like the flames of a campfire in a wind. Relief washed over him. “Phyros plasters. Willard gave them to me.”
The Jack of Ruin Page 55