The jug smashed to the boards and as it broke spilling water everywhere, it broke the spell within the room. Suddenly everyone but Roddy was demanding an explanation from Piven.
Piven put his hands in the air, buying time. But he couldn’t think of anything to say.
“How can you explain this?” Roddy’s mother asked. “How? I saw my son—he was roasted like a piece of meat.”
“Hush, Em,” the woman called Fru admonished, nodding at Roddy.
“The pain,” the man commented. “I know I slipped into death. I’m…I’m certain of it.”
Piven looked around at them wildly. He had been stupid. He should have let Lo take his own as he saw fit. If their god wanted to claim their lives, who was he to deny him? Another god? his mind’s voice queried. Why else would he be able to wield this magic? He was a good person. He knew it. He wanted to help others, he wanted to be loved as he’d been as an invalid youngster. He’d been trapped for so long; mute, his thoughts unable to be expressed, his ability limited to simple actions. Even though his mind could handle complex ideas, it was as though they could only last for so long before they fractured into thousands of pieces. And all he had been able to do for too long was smile. He craved affection and gave it in droves. He had loved everyone and he knew he had been loved in return. Why shouldn’t he save people from death with this ability of his?
“You weren’t dead,” he answered the man. “Just close. A minute or two of life left, perhaps.”
“But they were burned!” Fru exclaimed. “Now look at them,” she said, wiping away soot and grime from Roddy’s face to reveal perfect skin beneath. “Not so much as a light scorch!”
Piven looked at the women’s expressions of accusation. It was as though he had done something wicked rather than good. He felt the now familiar fury rising.
“What are you?” Roddy’s mother demanded, looking suddenly repulsed by him.
Her horror shocked him. The aunt’s expression reflected the same sentiment. Pained by their fear and naked loathing, he surrendered to the darkness that had been tapping at his shoulder for too long.
His face contorted into an expression of hate. “You will remember none of this,” he said, his hand making a slow, small sweeping motion.
Without looking back, Piven ran out of the Widow Layton’s cottage, using the back door to escape being seen. He headed cross-country, following the tiny rivulet that would lead him back to Greven and safety.
He didn’t see a man stagger slightly as he watched Piven’s retreating figure, nor did he see a boy whose sharp eyesight watched Piven until he was no longer visible. And neither of the watchers was aware of each other, or their silent promise to follow the stranger.
Freath looked down at the sword in his belly, clearly baffled by what he saw. “Majesty?” he groaned.
Faris’s shock was overwhelming; he was down on his knees between king and servant, immediately cradling the wilting Freath. “Leo,” he all but whispered in his disbelief. “What have you done?”
Leo’s lips were pulled back from his teeth in a primeval snarl. He withdrew Faeroe and flung the sword to the side, where it clanged against a boulder. The king looked somewhat confused, a mix of loathing and triumph on his face. “I have fulfilled my oath. Freath himself gave me permission.”
Jewd was already signaling for help but Faris could see it was no use. “He risked so much for you,” he accused, his own fury threatening to explode.
The dying man must have sensed it, despite his shock and pain. “Stop,” Freath choked out. “It is done. The king has acted.”
Leo stood over Freath. “Just as I could never know what passed between you and my mother, you could never know what promise I made that was witnessed by Gavriel de Vis. But he will never forget, Freath, and wherever he is, I hope he feels this moment and knows it to be the moment of your death as I promised him a decade ago. You killed my mother. What ever your reasons were, however honorable they might have been, you murdered the queen of Penraven and I have now avenged her death as a dutiful son and fulfilled my oath.”
Faris saw the deep sorrow in Freath’s eyes, watched the man nod his acceptance of the accusation but murmur nothing in reply. Faris exerted all his willpower to refrain from speaking. He had never heard such a load of rot in his life. The Valisars were deranged if they’d put an angry childhood oath, fueled by fear and an overload of emotion, ahead of a precious life—a life that had been given in the ser vice of that same family.
Jewd recognized his building fury because Faris felt a reassuring and very firm hand squeeze at his shoulder. His friend bent down. “It’s not worth it. He’s a dead man,” Jewd whispered.
Faris knew Jewd was right. And not even Lily was nearby to offer any relief with her clever medicines. “Get the king away from here,” he replied, disgusted by the very sight of Leo but keeping his voice even.
“I’m already gone,” Leo said, turning to pick up Faeroe. “But I’ll not clean your blood from my sword, Master Freath. I recognize it has been, in the strangest of manners, loyal to the Valisars. I hope before you take your last breath that you will pay me the same due.”
Leo didn’t wait for an answer. He followed a scowling Jewd down to where the mules had been tethered, away from the bloodied scene.
Freath didn’t need a physic to tell him that his time was short. He could feel the life bleeding out of him with each hard breath he took. The pain was irrelevant. It hurt but he knew it wouldn’t last long and until then there were important things to say. He knew now he could trust Faris. Was it his imagination, or had the night begun to lift? Perhaps he might be granted one final dawn before his pathetic life was taken.
As if he could hear him, Faris spoke. “Dawn’s almost upon us,” he said, his voice thick with regret.
“Come where I can see you,” Freath demanded, rallying for what ever little time was left.
Faris eased from beneath Freath’s head and crouched at his side. “Freath, I was slow to react; if only I’d—”
Freath gave a soft sound of dismissal. “Don’t waste the words or the time,” he said, his deep voice slower than usual as he worked hard to keep it steady. “There are things to be said.”
“But I want to say on behalf of Leo that his betrayal of you is—”
“Forgiven,” Freath cut him off. “Let me talk, Faris. Pay attention because I won’t have the strength to repeat it.”
Faris nodded as Freath took his hand. Freath felt a firm squeeze and he found a smile for the outlaw. Who’d have imagined this? he thought. “As much as the king wants Loethar’s head, it is not the emperor who is his true enemy. Surrounding Loethar are creatures far worse in their intentions. Assure Leo that as long as Loethar is in control, the various compasses are safe. Should anything happen to the emperor, a person like Stracker would take charge and there’s no accounting for the savagery that would follow. Stracker has no scruples—no soul, I fear. Do you hear me?”
“Yes,” Faris dutifully answered. “I will warn him.”
“Use Loethar to keep that balance of power for the time being. In the meantime, it is Vulpan you should now fear. Leo must be kept from him. I trust Loethar when he says that Vulpan’s talent is uncanny. What ever he is, Loethar is not a liar, nor a sensationalist. He is amazed and impressed by Vulpan.”
“I’ll take every care, I promise you.”
“Find Piven. He is alive. Blood or not, the people will rally to his name.”
“How do I find him?”
“A man called Clovis. Kirin will know.”
Faris nodded.
Freath continued, despite the struggle to talk. “Corbel de Vis will not be dead. I have no idea where he is but I suspect he was sent away to protect that family. I can’t think why else. But he must be found, as must Gavriel. Those two were privy to information I can’t know or guess at. Their father was raised alongside the secretive ways of the Valisars and no one was closer to that family than De Vis.” He coughed and blood gu
shed through his fingers where he pressed the belly wound. He could feel its warmth against his chilled fingers and realized he could no longer feel his toes. Death was reaching for him. “Lo! That hurts. Forgive me.” He breathed hard a few times to steady himself. “The twins will re-ignite the flames you need to fire the Set’s collective memory of what it once was. Their names, together with Valisar, are synonymous with what the Denovian Set was built upon. They know things, those boys. Mark my words, Faris.”
“I give you my word I will try to find them.”
“So many oaths flying around. Look at the trouble it got me into,” Freath said and chuckled. “Is dawn here?”
Faris looked up, although he didn’t need to. “The sun will be risen shortly.”
“I hope I can hang on for a little longer, then. I would feel the warmth of a new dawn upon my face before I go to Lo.”
“I’m sorry, Freath,” Faris said, genuine sorrow in his tone.
“I know. It is not your fault and it is not his. He has suffered much and he is a true Valisar in his duty. I’d never have thought it of the lad I knew but I see the family blood runs strongly in his veins.”
“If only he had the magic. That would be helpful.”
“I don’t believe it exists,” Freath admitted breathlessly. “But Loethar does. He got it into his mind somehow that you have to eat people of magic to absorb their power.”
Faris stared at him, dumbstruck.
Freath chuckled. “Not many people know—and I don’t make a habit of sharing this—but I fear Loethar tried to consume a small bit of each of the Vested he killed.”
“You jest.”
“No, my friend. But he has realized the magic was not transferred. And he was probably wise enough to also work out that many of whom he killed had falsely claimed to possess enchantments in a vain attempt to remain alive.”
“So he’s stopped eating people?”
“Yes. I suspect he is confused with the legend of the aegis.” Freath’s breathing had become shallow.
“Aegis?” Faris asked tightly.
“Kirin will explain. Essentially, you must consume some of your victim to trammel him, or bind him to you.”
Faris nodded. “I seem to remember talk of this at the Academy.”
“You went to Cremond?”
“As odd as that sounds, I did, yes. Is there anything I can do for you? Someone I can contact?”
Freath shook his head with difficulty. “I have no family. The problem will now be explaining away my death to Loethar. You will have to be clever for I fear my time has now run out and I can no longer use my cunning to…” Freath winced and another gush of fresh, bright blood overlapped the darker, older blood that had turned sticky.
“Freath!”
Freath felt his hand gripped hard. “You’re a good man,” he soothed. “Brennus chose you well for his son. Counsel him against hurried decisions rather than admonish him over his actions. As much as I hate dying, Faris,” he said, somehow injecting irony into his voice, “our young king made a decision which he felt was based on honor. We must admire it.”
“I can’t admire stupidity, Freath. He is too brash.”
“And you never were?” Freath had a spasm of coughing during which he gave up all hope of holding his wound closed, exposing the glistening mess of his severed insides.
“Never,” Faris answered archly and both men’s eyes met with a soft smile as the sun’s fledgling rays sparkled down through the trees.
“Ah, there she is, my precious dawn. Death’s come to collect me, Faris. I hope Lo continues to bless you with your uncanny good luck and I’ll wish you farewell.”
“Freath?”
“Make sure the king knows I forgive him and that I was loyal.”
“He will know it.”
“Faris, there’s a woman. You must find her. It’s about the royal lineage. I know not…”
He never finished what he was going to tell the outlaw, his body convulsing, before he lay still, his eyes staring toward dawn’s light, the sharply golden beauty seeming wrong as it shone upon this ugly scene.
Twelve
By mid-morning Piven had made it back to the sheltered ledge where he’d left Greven but the older man was nowhere to be seen. Alarmed by his absence and still churned up by the events at Green Herbery, Piven gave in to his emotional and physical weariness, flopping beneath the overhanging vegetation. He sank his head between his knees and tried to blank his mind.
He knew now he could not escape what appeared to be his destiny. He had been fighting it for too long now, believing that if he could just keep directing his magic to helping others he might be able to live as the sunny, loved and affectionate person he had been as a child. But the magic didn’t work by those rules, it seemed. In fact, it didn’t consider his needs or desires at all. It had released him from his void, which he now accepted had been a protection of madness, keeping the magic out. It had found a way to deliver him from the barbarian into the arms of a loving guardian, and to give him a level of maturity and awareness that was uncanny for someone of his age and sheltered upbringing. But it was now exacting its price.
He didn’t know how long he remained staring blankly like that but he was gradually aware of his intense hunger. His throat was parched, even though he’d stopped frequently to drink from the rivulet during the journey back.
“Ah, Lo be praised. You’re safe,” said the voice of the person he most needed to hear.
“Greven!” he said, leaping to his feet and hugging the older man. The affection was returned twice as hard. “You look remarkably well for someone I left here ailing just hours ago.”
Greven grinned, held up a brace of rabbits. “Never felt better, my boy. Look what I caught in the early hours.”
Piven nodded gratefully and was even more appreciative that Greven seemed to sense his inner turbulence and left him alone, quietly going about skinning and gutting the rabbits. Piven found the small axe they carried and dutifully set about chopping down some small branches to build a fire. The smell of the smoke turned his gut but he was too hungry and too eager to slip back into a familiar routine with Greven to dwell on that revulsion.
Finally the roasted rabbits seemed cooked sufficiently for Greven—who had been busily rooting around in the surrounding forest replenishing his stocks of herbs and plants—to lift the meat from the flames.
“Nothing to go with them, I’m afraid,” he commented.
“Nothing else needed,” Piven replied. “My mouth is watering. I’m famished.”
Greven looked at him, a soft inquiring expression on his face. “We’ll just let them cool slightly.” He sat down opposite Piven, regarding him over the flames. “How bad was it?”
Piven dropped his gaze. “Bad enough.”
“Dead?”
“We managed to save two people although the village has lost all of its stores.”
“Did you help?”
He had never openly lied to Greven. “I did what I could.”
“You’re being evasive. Just the way you smell tells me you were involved.”
Piven couldn’t look at Greven. “Two lives should have been lost.”
“And you saved them,” Greven finished.
“I could not let them die. One was a child.”
“And how did you explain your actions to those watching?”
“There were only two witnesses.”
“I see. And you have secured a promise from two villagers whom you can absolutely trust never to mention that a stranger—a youth, no less—strolled into the village one day when it was on fire and conveniently possessed the most extraordinary power to heal and made two victims—almost certain to succumb to their injuries—live instead?” Greven’s sarcasm cut. “These people are so trustworthy that you can rely on them never to make mention of this phenomenon?”
“I did my best to secure their silence.”
“I see.”
“I don’t think you do,” Piven sa
id, feeling the sting of Greven’s disappointment in him. As Greven impaled him with a stare, he wished he had not spoken so rashly.
“Why don’t you explain it? There’s a lot I don’t understand about you recently, Piven.” He lifted his hand at Piven’s leap to protest. “No, hear me out. Something’s happening. I sense it.”
“Sense it?”
Greven blinked, hesitated, and tried to shrug. “Well, feel it, then.” He wasn’t convincing. Piven knew they were both lying. “However you wish to describe it,” Greven continued testily, “you are not the same boy I lived with.”
Piven gave a rueful grimace. “That’s the curious bit. I am.”
“Then why do you strike me as secretive and manipulative and suddenly so careful around me?” Again he stopped Piven from replying. “Before you answer that, I want to say something more. It’s important.”
Piven looked down. “All right.”
“I want you to know that alongside Lily—whom you’ve sadly never met—I love you. I have only truly loved three people in my life. I don’t remember my parents. They died when I was very young. I was certainly fond of the relatives who raised me. But there’s three of you who mean the world to me and I’ve lost two of that trio. My darling wife, my beloved Lily and, Piven, I fear with every inch of my bleeding heart that I am suddenly losing you.”
Piven’s head shot up. “You don’t know how wrong you are.”
Greven shook his head. “I hardly know you sometimes.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Listen to me,” Greven said, his voice instantly gentle—the voice that Piven loved—“you’re growing up, I understand that. It’s probably time for me to let go. My work protecting you is done. You need freedom.” He held out the rabbit. “Eat up,” he said. “Use the knife or you’ll burn yourself,” he added before continuing, “I know you probably need more time away from me—in fact, I think you need to be around people. It was fine while you were a little lad and while you were coming out of your prison. But you’re whole now. You’re intelligent and curious, you’re witty when you’re prepared to let that humor out and, above all, you need company to feel like you belong. Growing up in a forest is all well and good but it makes one insular. I should know, I did the very same thing to my daughter. But she’d had the benefit of spending her early years in town. You haven’t. I’ve had you isolated with only deer and rabbits for company, and a silly old man.” Piven held his tongue. “I’ve decided that we should make for Cremond. It’s a more gracious region and one that promotes learning and inquiry. We might be able to get you enrolled in the Academy there, where you can put that intelligence to good use, perhaps even learn about some of the powers you possess.”
Tyrant’s Blood Page 15