A Trial of Sparks & Kindling (Fall of the Mantle Book 2)

by Yolandie Horak

  The space was so full, she could barely squeeze out from between the boxes. She touched one of the boxes and cleared a trail in the dust. Best not touch anything else. Broken furniture, blunt weapons, and piles of moth-eaten linen filled the room. The carcass of a mouse in a trap decayed in one corner, and dust particles glittered in front of the window.

  She’d disturbed enough of this place. Even if she managed to reach the door through this clutter, it was probably locked. If it wasn’t, she’d have to go down to the base of the tower, then find her way out of the castle. How many people would she have to pass to achieve that? By then, someone would have reported her movements to Frank, and her plan would have failed.

  At least she’d learned how to open this door and had gained a clue about how her door might be opened from the tunnel.

  She stepped back to the passage. Dull footprints remained in the dust on the floor. Ashes. Hopefully her presence here would never be discovered—this room must have been forgotten.

  Cara shut the way behind her, then returned to her suite.

  She’d been right, the switch to the painting was just on the inside of the passage wall, at the same height as the one inside her room. Her hands shook as she shut the painting all the way. What choice did she have but to test the switch? She exhaled as she put pressure on the stone and the painting clicked open. So, it worked.

  Inside her suite, the fire had died down to a low glow. Malak would come to tend the fire, and soon by the looks of it.

  Cara slipped out of her coat and yanked off gloves by their middle fingers. Fine, grey dust fell on the floor around her, and all three garments were patched with powder. The passages might be cleaned regularly, but that storage room certainly hadn’t seen a duster or broom in ages.

  Salamander’s spit, had she left a trail of footsteps from the storage room to her suite? More pressing still, she had to clean what she could before Malak came. All she had was her washcloth in the bathroom, and she hurried quietly to get it. She wiped the floor—ashes, it was good to scrub something—and bundled the coat and gloves under her bed. She’d wash them properly and put them out to dry by the fire once Malak had gone, then see what she could do about the trail she must’ve left in the passages.

  She slipped back into bed and closed her eyes, but her lungs rattled. Every breath was uneven, not like one in deep sleep. Panic crushed her heart in a fist when the lock clicked. She’d never sell the illusion of sleep, so she rushed to the bathroom.

  “Carabelle?” Malak’s tone was shrill, and her footsteps harried.

  Cara lowered herself onto the latrine just as Malak’s head popped into the room. She rubbed her eyes and faked a yawn. “Is it morning?”

  “Oh. Sorry, my lamb.” Malak half-closed the door. “I just came to tend the fire. Are you all right?”

  That had been too close. Twice, she’d almost been caught. There couldn’t be a third time. “Just tired.”

  “Call if you need help.” Malak’s footsteps faded deeper into the bedroom.

  Cara went about her business then returned to bed.

  Malak tucked her in. “There we are, my lamb. Back to sleep.”

  Cara nodded and closed her eyes.

  Malak left a moment later.

  Cara rolled to her back. If only she could determine at what time Malak came to tend the fire. Her quest would be so much easier. She sighed. Her quests were never easy.

  No time for that now. She rose and returned to the passages to clear her dusty footprints.

  Chapter 11

  A few flakes of snow survived the frigid rain and turbulent wind to settle between blades of muddy grass, only to be trampled by soldiers. Not too many months past, Nathan had braved the crowds to see fake snow at the Natalistide market. Now, with him flat on his belly on a hillside in Mordoux, covered with a tarp that did not quite keep him dry in this blasted fine drizzle, stinking of earth and sweat, Natalistide seemed like a tale retold—something that had happened to another man, in another faraway life.

  Every muscle ached. The training Frank had arranged for him was intense. This was only the fourth day, but he moved like a grandfather.

  At least he was still in Collinefort, near Cara, even if he never saw her.

  Yet, Collinefort was the worst place he could be. Also near ethirin. As if his struggle with all the emotions and the worry and recurring need hadn’t been tough enough, ethirin had to be involved. Not a drug he’d ever tried, no. In closed-off Aelland, many of those legendary highs had only been accessible in specific circles. Nathan had sampled some of them but had never managed to find ethirin. Why had Nita insisted on telling him Aimee had used it, and as a result, unearthed all those buried memories? Whatever had happened in the past, ethirin was now within his reach. Somewhere. Just one shot and— No.

  He scanned the hillsides again, but still no sign of Pointy. He’d vanished.

  Nathan’s stomach twisted. If anyone could make it through this, it was Pointy. He could and would kill to survive—a fact Frank now used against him. The two agents Pointy had killed after they’d attacked him had been reported missing. With Pointy’s sudden disappearance, Frank had jumped on the chance to announce Pointy was a suspect in the case of the missing agents and offered a reward to the person who found him.

  As Pointy had predicted, a trio of Intelligence agents had come to interview Nathan at his cottage. Nita had drilled the answers to the questions they’d ask into Nathan’s head, and had trained him to hide his habitual behaviours when lying, so the interview had gone well. Unfortunately, the sneaky part of his brain had already made the connection from lying to Intelligence to lying to Nita about pills.

  A bang sounded to his left.

  Nathan returned to the night of the attack, and the bang came from his gun. A body fell before him, and Pointy went to slit its throat. Cara lay half-naked on her back under the pawing hands of enemies.

  The rain in his hair brought him back to Collinefort.

  A squire had dropped a tray on the cobbles, hence the bang. Fragments of glass were scattered around the tray.

  If not ethirin, he could steal some of Nita’s supplies. He’d done that before. He could take a pill or two and—

  Ghedi tapped Nathan’s back with his staff. “The target is this way.”

  No more thinking of pills. Nathan turned his gaze back to the target. The scope was cold against his skin, and individual droplets of rain became defined with the enlarging lens. Too many of the bolts he’d fired had made holes in the bale of straw behind the target.

  “Take a breath and hold it,” Ghedi said.

  Nathan inhaled.

  “Aim, exhale as you pull the trigger.”

  He pulled the trigger, and steam sighed. The bow twanged, and vibrations ran through Nathan’s stiff shoulder. The bolt carved a tunnel in the rain, but the wind altered the trajectory, and the bolt landed on the outer edge of the target. Below any of the circles, but at least not in the hay. One fewer bolt he’d have to fish out later.

  “Better.” Ghedi’s wrinkled face split in half with his bright white smile. His eyes became fine slits. “Again.”

  The rapid-reloading magazines allowed these crossbows to shoot bolt after bolt, and the string was locked back in place with the flip of a lever—a blessing for a physician who lacked the upper arm strength to pull the bowstring even halfway. Most ingenious of all was the small canister of gas inside the water tank. With a tiny button on the side of the crossbow, the gas canister allowed a burst of gas into the water, which then reacted with and set the water to boil for steam. The gas was inexpensive and plentiful, mined locally.

  Eventually, Nathan had landed multiple bolts in the target, and Ghedi tapped him on the back of the head with his staff. He chose to fight with the staff, despite knowing how to handle many other weapons. One day, Nathan would ask him about it.

  “Good,” Ghedi said. “Now retrieve the bolts.”

  “Of course.” Nathan pushed himself to his knees and ac
cepted the hand Ghedi held out to pull him to his feet. “Thank you.”

  “Anytime.” Ghedi whistled as he crossed to the tarps for cover.

  Nathan unclipped the magazine from the crossbow, then went to the targets. Soldiers chatted as they removed bolts to either side of him.

  So much had happened since the Mantle separated Aelland from the rest of Ehrdia, and Nathan found himself at a disadvantage between these people. Too many of their references and jokes went beyond his understanding, and the Mordian he had learned at school sounded different than the language they spoke. Elements were similar, but many words might have been absorbed from foreign tongues. Languages spoken in the Desolation.

  Not as desolate after all.

  Nathan had been taught in school that the circumstances in the Desolation were too harsh, too wild for anyone of genteel upbringing to survive. That the people were barbarians who could only endure because they were just as harsh and wild as the landscape.

  Like so many other things the Aellish believed as gospel, they were wrong.

  Ghedi hailed from the Desolation and had come to the Seven Kingdoms with Sanshouo’s army. He was a linguist, a man with knowledge of history, politics, geography, and anthropology beyond anything Nathan had ever seen. He was good, kind, and would hold up in the court of any monarch in the world. He’d probably also put some nobles in their places.

  Which meant the Salamander was no barbarian warlord. If a learned man such as Ghedi had followed Sanshouo across the face of Ehrdia, the emperor had to be equally educated, and this war was more complicated than Nathan had imagined.

  Like everything else.

  Nathan pulled free the accessible bolts and replaced them in the magazine. Some of his later shots had burrowed deeper into the hay, closer to the bullseye.

  The crossbow was much different than the rifle he’d learned to shoot during his youth, especially the type of crossbow used by the resistance. Despite the nightmares, the uncertainty and the intense fear of shooting at anything but hay, even he could admit his progress wasn’t bad for a weak-armed physician.

  Would he be able to shoot at anything other than hay? Best not think about that.

  If nothing else, the exercise did him good. In the past, physical activity had given him an outlet for some of his darker thoughts, and the discipline of a recruit’s routine could give him purpose. The physical exertion already left him too tired to spend hours worrying about what he’d done or could do to fix it. Maybe he’d be able to rest if he amped up the physical training.

  A replacement addiction of sorts.

  He could always join the Dvaran training group. Nita was right. This was war, and he’d much prefer being able to properly defend himself and those he loved. If the Dvaran training didn’t end him first. Their regimen was brutal.

  Nathan found a hole in the hay and shoved in his hand. The hay stalks sliced paper-thin cuts into his skin that would itch and burn for hours still. He found the bolt and pulled it free in a cloud of dust, then sneezed. Alongside the hundreds of fine cuts, golden hay-slivers had burrowed under his skin and another sneeze tickled deep in his nostrils. The joys of being a soldier.

  He’d just dug out the final bolt when Ghedi joined him. “The king wants to see you in his council room. Best go right away.”

  Nathan turned towards the keep, but Ghedi had gone a few paces towards the rear wall.

  “Not coming?” Nathan asked.

  “No.” Ghedi smiled. “I’m going up the hill. To think.”

  If only Nathan could go up the hill to think.

  ***

  Nita waited in the hall outside the council room and nodded when she met Nathan’s gaze.

  “You, too?” she asked.

  “Apparently so.”

  At least with Nita there, this meeting wouldn’t involve Cara. Or threats that concerned her. Was this about Pointy’s disappearance? What if Frank had found Pointy? What if—

  The door opened and Martijn Driessen, the Xo’Manjen farmer, stepped into the hall. “The king will see you now.”

  Nita and Nathan shared a glance then entered the council room.

  Frank and Nic sat within, on mismatched chairs around a square table. Flames snapped in the fireplace, and the floor and walls had been covered in hides, carpets and tapestries. Nothing went together. As in Frank’s personal quarters, function was more important than beauty.

  Nathan bowed a moment after Nita’s curtsy.

  Frank glanced up from his reading material, raised a hand, then lowered his face again.

  Always reading, always busy. Was that a part of Frank’s act? A way to exercise his authority?

  Nic smiled. His honey-coloured beard curled wildly, but the hair on his head lay flat and straight, styled with pomade. He winked at Nathan, and his smile turned smug.

  Salamander’s spit, what an ass. For a moment, Nathan could picture himself shooting at something other than hay. Someone. The thought fled as soon as it had come, and his tongue dried. Just one pill.

  Frank signed the bottom of the document and slid it over to Nic. “See to this, will you? Before Duchess Faucigny births a cow.”

  “Of course.” Nic folded the paper in half and slipped it into the inner pocket of his navy-blue blazer.

  “Nita, I’d like a report on your progress in the search for a cure for rot,” Frank said.

  “Of course, majesty,” Nita said. “The ingredients you’ve provided help. We didn’t have stores of many of these in Aelland, and I believe they might make a difference in the effectiveness of the cure. I’ve mixed fifteen variations to date, but I can’t know for sure if any of them work until I can actually test the medication on diseased subjects. Once I’ve tested a few, I should be able to alter or rethink my approach as necessary. If all goes well, we may have a solution within a few weeks.”

  “And if it doesn’t go well?” Nic asked.

  Nita raised both hands. “They’ve been at it for months in Aelland, and probably still don’t have a cure. I can’t estimate how long the process might last. It depends on the ingredients and the illness.”

  “Problem is, you don’t have that much time.” Frank wiped a hand down his face. “The first cases have been reported in rural Mordoux, close to the border on the Confederate side. From Mordoux, it can spread everywhere, considering the trade. We cannot allow that to happen. Nor can we allow the emperor to stop trade, as that would cripple our efforts. So, I’m sending the two of you to an outpost town to test your medications.”

  “Of course, majesty,” Nita said.

  “How long do you need to pack up your equipment, and how many people do you need to help you transport it?”

  “I can be ready to go by morning, majesty. As for the human resources, I’d say about five, depending on the mode of travel.”

  “We’ll send you by caravan.” Frank pursed his lips. “And since this is of utmost importance, I’m sending Ghedi and a group of fifteen soldiers as your escort. They will be instructed to obey your every command. You’re welcome, of course, to take your apprentices along.”

  “Thank you, majesty.”

  “I want you back here as soon as you’ve results to report.”

  Nita nodded.

  “As for you, Cutter, take along whatever you need to set up a permanent base at the outpost. The physician I had stationed there recently died, and since this is in a war-zone, it’s vital he be replaced.”

  A hum filled Nathan’s head. His hands shook, but he clasped them behind his back to hide the fact. Seemed he’d be taken away from Cara and the ethirin after all. “Of course, majesty.”

  “You leave first thing tomorrow. Dismissed.”

  Chapter 12

  Pointy used the cover of dark as his own mantle and crept along the shadows as well as he could with a limp. Collinefort was eerily quiet this time of the night.

  An owl hooted somewhere, and pairs of lovers panted and grunted from some of the tents Pointy passed. Urine splattered as someone took
a leak on the cobblestones, and the soft sounds of snoring sounded like distant thunder. That was all.

  Roicester was different. Always sirens and trains and the chaff-chaff of automotives. Music, people laughing, drunkards or nobles returning from social events. Even Lendley, a city without a nightlife worth mentioning, had been louder after midnight than Collinefort.

  The smells were also different. Roicester had its share of unwashed bodies, their stench usually found around train stations or under bridges, but the police made swift work of removing beggars from public places. The odd joint of smoking weed left pungently sweet clouds around the same places, but for the most part, tobacco cancelled out any other odour caused by human vices. Roicester smelled of concrete and coal. Of flowers and greenery, trees, and a hundred vendors offering food from around the world. Tea and finery.

  Collinefort was a soldiers’ village. Its flavour was metal and ale, piss and sweat, woodsmoke and mud. No finery there.

  Pointy breathed through his mouth. He’d always enjoyed the sacred and covert act of thievery. To move through the dark on soundless feet, with no more than a shadow for cover. In these moments, Pointy became the canid he’d been likened to his whole life. He was his codename, Greyfox.

  Still, as director, he didn’t get to sneak as much as he once had, and the meeting place was bloody far. His legs judged him for his lack of exercise in the months, years, before the arrival of his queen, and the wound at his thigh throbbed in agony.

  Two nights spent in a vacant tent with no heat and not a glimmer of light hadn’t helped with his mood. At least the cut hadn’t festered, and though his muscle was a stone under his skin, the wound healed as it should. He couldn’t stay in that tent another night, however. It wouldn’t do to land himself a lung ailment. More importantly, he couldn’t miss the meeting Sauvageon had arranged. He’d been cut off long enough and needed information.