by Mindy Klasky
“You can manage this, Landon. I know you can.” She raised the flask to his lips and caught her breath as he fought for one sip, then a second. She forced a confident smile into her words. “See? The medicine isn’t so bad.”
“This tastes like my dreams,” Landon whispered, and Alana looked away so that he could not make out the sudden glint of tears in her eyes. When she had regained her composure, she forced a tremulous smile and reached out a hand to smooth back the tracker’s sparse hair. Landon raised trembling fingers to her throat. “What happened, Alana? How did you get those bruises?”
Alana could not keep from darting a glance toward Maddock, but she kept her voice steady. “I’m fine now, Landon. Don’t worry about me. What did they do to you?”
“Duke Coren is a very determined man.” Despite his grim words, Landon’s voice grew stronger as the tea took hold, and he paused between sentences to drink more of Alana’s mixture. “I tried to convince him that warriors were on their way—”
“But he knows the People too well,” Alana completed the thought, sick at heart for all that she had taught the duke about the People’s true strength, for every word that she had given him when he was on the Headland.
“I told him that the other coastal folk were joining us.” Landon shifted across Alana’s lap, and it might have been a trick of the bavin’s light, but color seemed to glint in his cheeks, a blush behind the bruises.
“The other—?”
“I told him that Sartain Fisherman was brother to six tribal chiefs. Seven is an important number to the inlanders. I told them that seven tribes would gather together, to come after the twins.” Landon had recovered enough that he could put a boastful tone to his words.
“And he believed you?” Alana asked with incredulity.
“He tried to dig deeper for the truth. I had to provide details about the other tribes’ forces.” Landon set his lips firmly, as if he would speak no more on the subject, but Alana felt his body stiffen. She dared not dwell on the tools Duke Coren had used to draw out Landon’s made-up tale.
“What were you thinking, man?” Maddock exclaimed from his place just inside the doorway. “He’ll come riding after the People as soon as he finds out you lied!”
“And why wouldn’t he have done that before? He could come and attack us for anything—fish, or oil, or bavins. He decided we were all as docile as deer after you fled the tavern!”
Maddock lunged toward the tracker, his hand clenched into a fist.
“Stop it!” Alana snapped before Maddock could connect. “We don’t have time for this! We cannot change what happened on the Headland, or on the road, or here.” She turned to Landon before Maddock could give in again to his own shame at deserting his fellows. “Do you know where Jobina is being held? Is there a separate dungeon for women?”
“Aye”—the tracker nodded—“or so the guards have said. But you won’t find our healer there.”
Foreboding knocked at Alana’s heart as she forced herself to ask, “Where, then?”
Landon could not bring himself to meet the woodsinger’s eyes, and when he spoke, his words were so soft she thought she must have misheard him. “In the royal apartments.” Landon swallowed hard. “Jobina Healer has given herself to Coren.”
16
Alana shivered in her stolen uniform. She and Maddock had overpowered an unsuspecting page, leaving the boy to awaken in a chilly garderobe, wearing nothing but his smallclothes and a lump behind his ear. The high collar of the uniform was tight against Alana’s bruised throat. Before donning the boy’s clothes, she had hacked at her hair, sending her long auburn curls down the dark garderobe shaft. Now, the back of her neck was bare, and she could not keep from reaching up to touch it self-consciously. She swallowed hard and forced herself to take a deep breath.
Trying to summon up the calm she had last felt standing on the Headland of Slaughter, she realized that she could not hear the memory of distant waves above the pounding of her heart. She licked her lips and restrained herself from reaching out to her fellow woodsingers. There was little they could do to help her now, and their distaff chatter might prove a fatal distraction.
Instead, she glanced at Landon, making sure that he was steady enough for what was to follow. The tracker had rallied a bit, now that his clothes had dried and he’d slept for a few hours. Nevertheless, Alana’s heart twisted when she saw how pale he was. His bruises stood out like storm clouds painted on his flesh, and his wrists looked like bare bones where they poked through the manacles that bound them, the chains that had been draped about him in Coren’s dungeons.
The weight of the iron might bow his back, but there was nothing to be done for it. Landon had to look like a prisoner. He had to look like a prisoner, and Maddock had to look like a guard, and Alana had to look like a page. A young boy. A nervous boy.
Hunching deeper inside her stolen uniform, Alana raised her fist to knock on the dead, oaken door. Her entire journey to Smithcourt had been based on secrecy, on keeping her identity hidden. Now, it went against all instinct to knock and call attention to herself.
“Go on, then,” Maddock hissed in her ear, as if he could hear the conflict chasing itself inside her skull. “The guard’s expecting us to relieve him.”
Alana nodded once and clenched her hand into a tight fist to keep her fingers from trembling. She glanced again at the men beside her, and then she pounded on the door.
“Aye?” came the terse reply.
“Mather Devane, reporting for duty,” Maddock called out, and Alana was comforted by the iron in his words. She doubted that the actual relief guard would have sounded more official. Of course, that man had not had a chance to say anything when Maddock waylaid him in the hallway. Rather, he had only gasped and slumped against the wall, with Maddock’s stolen dagger protruding from his ribs. His eyes had looked surprised until Maddock eased them closed with a rough hand.
Alana had tried not to notice how the dead soldier’s head hit the stone wall as Maddock shoved him into a shadowed alcove, secreting the body behind a wine-dark tapestry depicting the inlanders’ Seven Gods. She forbade her eyes to search out the darker bleed of crimson against Coren’s livery, even when Maddock twitched the fabric into folds to hide the wet stain.
“It’s about time,” a voice said behind the door, and then Alana was half ducking behind Maddock, trying to disguise herself behind his soldierly bulk. A guard, dressed in Coren’s bloody-knife uniform, glared at them as he peered into the hallway. He jutted his chin toward Landon. “What are you doing with that bastard?”
“His Grace ordered the outlander brought here. No chance that Bringham’s men will attack the dungeons during the Service, try to liberate the outland dog.”
“Why not just kill him and be done with it?” The guard reached for his own dagger, running a callused thumb along the blade.
Maddock shrugged and muttered an offhand oath, poking at the swaying Landon’s spine. “His Grace thinks the rebel can still be of some use. Who knows? Maybe he’ll be executed publicly after the Service. Show the people of Smithcourt what happens to fools who don’t recognize their proper lord.”
“Hardly worth the bother, eh?” The guard snorted, but he let his dagger slip back into its sheath. “It’d be simpler to do it here and now.”
“Aye,” Maddock agreed, casually reaching down to jerk Landon’s chain. The tracker staggered forward a couple of steps, and he raised glaring eyes at his fellow outlander, but he held his tongue. Maddock gestured toward the closed door on the other side of the room. “How’s the wench?”
“She’s finally stopped carping about going to the Service. Says it’ll be enough to see her lord afterwards. She’s painted for him, hot and ready.” The guard grinned wolfishly.
Alana swallowed the sick taste at the back of her throat, even as Landon’s gaze shot up. Maddock’s easy laugh, though, matched his broad, shrugging shoulders. The little victories of the past several hours had made him into a new man.
The guard sighed. “Well, I’m off to the Service, then.” He stood straight and raised his sword arm in salute. “Davil Hunter reporting the prisoner in good stead and the quarters secure.”
“Mather Devane accepting the report.” Maddock returned the salute.
Alana waited a full count of ten after Maddock closed the door, trying to still the trembling that threatened to seize all her muscles. Then, she asked, “How did you know what to say?”
“I haunted these halls for a week before you found me. I heard enough guards to teach me a few things.” He turned his attention to the dazed Landon. “Are you all right, man?”
The tracker shook his head and staggered toward a low chair. “Take—” He had to pause for a moment to catch his breath. “Take off these cursed chains.”
Maddock complied with a grimace, working the iron key with a quick twist of his wrist. “I’m sorry—” he began, but Landon waved off his words.
Alana retrieved an earthenware goblet from a table across the room. She sniffed at it before she passed it to the tracker. “Wine,” she said.
He swallowed readily as Maddock looked around the room and grimaced. “Not exactly a prison cell, is this? That scheming sow! So, the wench has been preening for hours! Jobina Healer seems to have sold every one of us straight out to sea.”
“Coren can be very…persuasive,” Alana said.
“Are you making excuses for her? That woman would bed her own father, if she thought she’d gain something for her troubles.”
Alana just eyed Maddock, remembering the tale the bavin had told her. She had felt Maddock’s own interest in the healer, a heat that began to explain his current indignation.
She took a moment to cast away her private flicker of shame, her recollection of her own longing for Coren. After all, she had sung the man a bavin! Forbidding herself to reach for her woodstar, to confirm her redemption for that evil with the distant woodsingers, Alana made her voice acerbic. “We’ve all learned a lot in the past few months, haven’t we?” When Maddock refused to look abashed, she glanced about the chamber, settling a pointed look on the exhausted Landon. “Well, there’s nothing to be gained by waiting.”
“Aye.” Maddock sighed, and gestured for Alana to cross before him, casting only a quick glance toward Landon to make sure that the tracker was as comfortable as possible. When the woodsinger reached for the inner door, Maddock hissed, making her wait until he had drawn his sword.
“Surely—” she started.
“You heard what the guard said. She’s welcomed Duke Coren into her bed. There’s no telling how far she’s sunk.”
Alana swallowed her protest and reluctantly pulled her iron dagger from her waistband. “Go ahead, then. I’m ready.”
She wasn’t, though.
She wasn’t ready for the darkened room, for the heavy stink of perfume. She wasn’t ready for the creature who stood by the shuttered window, stiff in a high-necked robe. Jobina’s back was to them, but Alana could see that the healer’s hair was piled in careful curls. Her garment was made of silk, and glinting embroidery picked out a golden sun, along with Coren’s bloody knife. Jobina’s voice trembled as she asked, “My lord? Did you change your mind? Will you take me to the Service?”
Alana answered quietly, “No, Jobina. Coren is not here.”
For just an instant, the other woman stiffened, her straight back changed to stone. Then, she turned slowly, meeting her fellow outlanders with a level gaze. Alana caught her breath when she saw that the healer’s face was painted: crimson stained her cheeks and lips, and her eyes were lined with black. The flirtatious village girl was nowhere to be seen in the stern, death-still woman.
Jobina’s voice was as cold as the iron bars that had locked Landon into his dungeon cell. “I did not think to see you here, Alana Woodsinger.”
“We’ve come to save you, Jobina. Maddock and Landon and I. We’ve come to get you, and now we can all fetch the children.”
“Landon? Then he lives?”
Alana took one step back so that Jobina could peer into the next room. The healer gasped and moved forward, as if she would aid the weakened man. She was stopped, though, by the vicious glare that Landon cast her way. She had enough good sense to step back, to clench her hands into fists at her side.
The healer’s voice was dead as she turned back to Alana. “You’re too late, woodsinger. The Service is about to begin. There’s nothing you can do to save the twins.”
“You lie, woman!” Maddock had tensed when he saw the healer’s painted flesh, and now he raised his naked sword. His hand shook, but his eyes stayed riveted on Jobina’s face.
The healer only laughed in the flickering firelight, a maddened sound in the close chamber. Her mirth was all the more frightening because she did not move, not even to rustle her long silk gown. “So, woodsinger, you bring the coward with you! Maddock, I’m surprised to find you in Smithcourt, when you ran so hard to keep away.”
“Jobina!” Alana exclaimed before Maddock could splutter his rage. “The Guardians work in strange ways.”
“The Guardians hold no sway here, Woodsinger. This city belongs to the Seven Gods. The Seven Gods and Duke Coren. They’re the ones who control our fate. They’re the ones who decide who lives and who dies. Not your Guardians. And certainly not some self-taught coward from the outlands.”
Alana clamped her hand down on Maddock’s angry sword arm and spoke before he could. “Jobina, what does Coren plan?” For a moment, Alana thought that the healer would not answer. Jobina held herself rigid, as if she were carved of coldest marble. “Speak to me, Jobina Healer,” Alana urged, and she just managed to keep her voice civil. “Tell me what you’ve learned in Smithcourt.”
Jobina finally answered. “I’ve learned that Duke Coren is the kingdom’s best hope. My lord must defeat his rival Bringham, or all of us will pay.”
“Fool!” Maddock exclaimed. “Bringham is our only hope! Someone has to fight Coren!”
“No one can defeat my lord Coren.” Jobina’s voice was steady against Maddock’s wrath. “No one should defeat Coren. I’ve seen what Bringham’s men call justice. I know what will happen to all the land, if my lord is not crowned king.”
“Have you seen what will happen when a kidnapper sits upon the throne?” Maddock’s voice dripped with condemnation. “Have you seen a world where a beast rules over men? A kingdom where a man steals children and murders innocent people?”
“I’ve seen far worse than that.” Jobina gazed steadily at her fellow outlanders, her words all the more terrible for her even tone, for her unblinking, painted eyes. “I saw the truth when I was dragged through the Smithcourt streets in a prisoner’s chains. There were children starving in those streets. There were girls—children—with blood on their thighs. Bringham’s men did that. Bringham’s men, when my lord Coren journeyed to the Headland and left them to their own devices.”
“But—” Alana interrupted.
“Duke Coren came to me, woodsinger, after we arrived here in Smithcourt. At first, I thought he was a power-crazed madman, and I lay with him so that I could kill him. But he spoke to me, woodsinger. He spoke to me, and I learned that his seeming madness was well-reasoned. There is no one else who can hold the kingdom together. Two score men have died in the past fortnight alone. Bringham has hired mercenaries, and they roam the city, threatening to geld any man who is not for their lord. If my lord Coren does not become king, the chaos will continue.”
“But Jobina, Coren is not the man you think he is,” Alana said. “He brutalized the twins on your journey to Smithcourt. He murdered an old man, Reade’s teacher.”
Jobina nodded, as if listening to an old argument. “He told me about Kenwald. About how he had no choice. The old man was stirring up trouble. He was inciting Reade to rebel. If the Sun-lord spoke out too soon…If the Service does not come off as intended…The Service is our only hope.”
“What is it, Jobina? What does Coren plan for the children
?”
The healer’s answer came from a distance, and her fingers began to pluck at a line of gold embroidery on her sleeve. “There is a legend among the people here, about the ancient Duke Culain and twins that he rescued.”
“I’ve heard it.”
“Duke Coren has worked out…an arrangement with High Priest Zeketh. They’ll recreate the old story. They’ve asked the people of Smithcourt to let the kingdom be handed over to the twins. They’ve asked the factions—Bringham’s men and Coren’s men and all the other petty lords who vie for the throne—to set aside their disagreements, to lay down their arms, and be ruled by the Sun-lord and the Sun-lady.”
“By Reade and Maida?” Alana laughed incredulously. “But they’re children! Why would anyone let that happen?”
“There is power in the old stories. The twins are a way for everyone to save face. Bringham’s men can admit defeat without being embarrassed. The dragon has fought well, you see, but not well enough. He doesn’t actually have enough soldiers to defeat Duke Coren, in the long run. He can’t afford enough mercenaries. Letting the Sun-lord and the Sun-lady rule is a way for everyone to step back. The kingdom will be controlled by a higher power, by an older force.”
“But Coren brought the children here. Surely Bringham sees that they’ll be nothing but his puppets.”
“Coren brought them, but High Priest Zeketh presents them in the Service.”
“Zeketh, Coren, what difference does that make? They have each other’s interest at heart.”
“If you know that, it’s only because of things you’ve heard in this palace, behind Duke Coren’s walls. Bringham doesn’t know that my lord and High Priest Zeketh are united. The people of Smithcourt don’t know. They truly believe that Zeketh speaks independently. They believe that this is the will of the Seven Gods, that the Sun-lord and the Sun-lady are the answers to their prayers.”
There. That explained the secrets, the lies. That explained Zeketh’s repeated admonitions to Coren’s soldiers not to mention his presence in the smoky room at the base of the palace tower.