The Fiery Arrow

by Bo Burnette

  Thane threw his head back and laughed—a great, cold laugh that sounded stale and out of practice. “Ah, yes. I suppose torture is not Damian’s strong suit. But, you, son of Carraig, are no simple peasant farmer are you?”

  Philip bristled. “Of course not. I’m a carpenter—apprenticed to my uncle. At least I was until a few days ago. No doubt he’ll slaughter me when he finds out where I’ve been.” He lowered his brows. “But let me ask you something.”

  “Please, ask away.” Thane tensed, and the snakes also tightened their coils.

  “Why do you keep calling me by my father’s name?”

  Thane’s eyes narrowed. “Is it not custom for children to be known by their father’s name in Reinhold?”

  “Sometimes,” Philip answered, edging closer to him. “But better yet when a child makes his father proud by making an even better name for himself. A more honorable name.”

  Thane pursed his lips. “And no doubt that is what you wish, to make the name of Philip greater than the name of Carraig, to rise above the weakness and death of your father.”

  What did Thane know about his father? Philip clenched his fists, his wrists still bleeding and braceleted with the ropes which had eaten into his skin. “My father was a good man!”

  The simple statement pushed Thane over the edge. His subtle, crafty visage cracked as he lashed out at Philip. “No, he was not a good man! He was a greedy weakling, afraid of change, afraid of Kenton, afraid of me!”

  So Thane knew something about his father’s death—it was written in his eyes. But what?

  Glancing around at the handful of guards gathered in the cell, Thane lifted his arm and waved them all away. The snake on his arm flicked its tongue in and out.

  “Leave us in peace, please.” His words took instant effect as all the others exited, Cahal glaring and Damian coughing.

  Once they were gone, Philip pointed his broken spear at Thane. “How can you claim to know so much about my father?”

  “Because I knew him, of course.”

  “How?”

  “Didn’t Arliss tell you anything?”

  “She told me you escaped from the Isle of Light the day we all left, but that you did not come with the rest of your clan.”

  “It was never my clan.”

  “And she told me that you had returned after all these years in order to take over Reinhold.”

  “Curse it all,” Thane muttered. “That lass is perceptive indeed. No doubt she has also determined the specifics of my battle plans?”

  “How would I know? I’ve been suspended from a ceiling beam all this time.” Philip continued to glare, brandishing his shattered spear haft. “Now tell me about my father.”

  “What is there to tell? He hated that Kenton ruled over our island, but he also hated that I ruled over the treasury, so he decided that amity with Kenton would get him farther. Thus he hated me, I hated him, and when the plague struck the island, each of us waited for the other to fall dead.”

  “And I suppose you got your wish.” Philip’s voice tottered between a hoarse shout and a trembling whisper.

  “Of course I did,” Thane drew out his long knife.

  Philip tensed, readying his own weapon.

  Thane continued. “The plague took so many. What would be one more among the dead, no matter how he died? Now, fate has brought Carraig’s son to me, and you will also die. But I’m afraid I shall not be so subtle this time.”

  “This time?”

  “Yes.” Thane’s dagger flashed in the torchlight. “It was indeed I who killed your father.”

  Philip let out a fierce yell and threw himself at Thane.

  The snakes awoke and unwound themselves from their master’s arms.

  Cahal returned to Arliss’s cell two hours later, this time bearing another request from Thane.

  “Master Thane wishes for your presence at tea in his private chambers.”

  His private chambers? Arliss stiffened. These invitations were becoming more and more cordial. Ought she accept and haggle with Thane to release her and Philip? Or should she ignore this ignoble villain who continued to try to torture an answer out of Philip?

  She tilted her chin, fixing Cahal with a gaze that she hoped was queenly. “Tell Thane this—until he ceases torturing Philip, I will not consort with him, not for luncheon, not for tea, not for dinner.”

  “And if he accepts your demand?”

  She tilted her head and smiled. “Then perhaps I will be willing to talk.”

  He trudged out of the room without speaking another word, and the door grated into its jamb behind him. Silence prevailed in the outer hall for a long moment.

  Just as she had picked back up the book to continue exploring its contents, the door scraped open again. Cahal reentered, pushing one of the rolling tables on which he had brought her so elegant a lunch the day before.

  A silk brocade cloth, rippling with curious designs, draped over the top of the table and halfway down to the wheels. Perched in the very center of the tablecloth stood a tall, narrow pitcher of tarnished silver; arranged around it, like the petals of a flower, sat a cup, saucer, cream pitcher, honey jar, and a few thin biscuits upon a plate. No doubt Thane considered this a simple tea, but to Arliss it seemed one of the most lovely teas she had ever enjoyed. A cup of tea was never so good as after two days of interrogation.

  Cahal released his grip on the rolling table, grimacing as he poured Arliss a cup of tea. “Cream? Honey?” He practically choked on the words.

  She squared her shoulders. “I can serve it myself, but thank you.”

  Cahal nodded, then backed away, glancing askance at the corner of the tea tray.

  She noticed the slip of paper tucked under the saucer of her teacup. Carefully lifting the saucer with its filled cup, she picked up the note and unfolded it.

  Arliss,

  Be informed that no more harm will be done to Philip’s person this day. However, if you will not meet with me and tell me such things as I have been requesting these past few days, I will continue torturing him until one of you speaks.

  Your friend is safe until sunset.

  Cordially,

  Thane, your captor and cousin

  The closing sentence held a sense of finality: your friend is safe until sunset. Her pleas had won Philip half a day of reprieve.

  The sickening pit in her stomach colluded with her pounding heart. If she didn’t reveal the specifics of Reinhold’s military force to Thane before sunset, Philip would die. And no doubt Thane would force her to watch every moment of his long, painful death. He would revel in the pain he caused by snatching from her the closest thing she’d ever had to a brother.

  She reread the note’s closing. Suddenly her heart froze over. She clenched the piece of paper as she brought it closer to her face, trying to ensure she read it rightly. There could be no mistaking it.

  Thane, your captor and cousin.

  Aye, his name was Thane. And aye, he was her captor.

  But her cousin? What was the hidden meaning of that?

  She set down the note and gulped a sip of tea. She sputtered a moment, finding the tea hotter and stronger than she had expected. It was a deep, heavy tea, almost fiery in its flavor; she felt as if smoking coals were being poured down her throat. In an unusual way, it tasted most delicious.

  Thane, her captor and cousin.

  Her cousin. Thane.

  How many secrets could this one man possibly possess?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: THE VISITOR TO THE CASTLE

  Ilayda grimaced as she wound the bandage tighter around Erik’s lean forearm. She tried to ignore the blood that began to seep from the reopened wound.

  Erik sucked in a breath through visibly gritted teeth, but he allowed her to yank the bandage taut and tie it off.

  “That ought to do it,” she said.

  Filtered by scattered clouds, the afternoon sun streamed through the huge window of the castle library. Erik was sitting in a reading chair—the
king’s reading chair, no doubt—as she bent over him and tended his wound. After the queen and Nathanael had left, pain had seized Erik’s forearm as the scarred flesh began to fester. Thankfully, the bite had been a superficial one, and easily enough doctored.

  Standing up straight again, Ilayda squeezed her eyes shut as she stretched her tense back. How unusual the last few days had been! Never in her life had she dreamed of these sorts of things happening.

  The sun flashed through the clouds and into the open window again, and she squinted. A gust of wind upset the heavy curtains. She pulled them over the blazing light of the window.

  Erik let out a massive sigh behind her. “I should have gone with them.”

  “You? Don’t be silly. With your wound still untreated and unbound, you’d have slowed them down.”

  “I suppose. I mean, I actually wanted to go with them. I want to make sure my brother is safe.”

  “Your cousin,” Ilayda corrected.

  “Philip’s both of those to me.”

  She slumped into a chair by the window. “So is Arliss to me.”

  They held the silence for a moment. Ilayda savored the quiet. Such peace had been scarce the past few days. She sat still, relishing each slow breath.

  Shouts from the village below pierced the silence.

  What was the ruckus about? Ilayda leapt up and pulled the curtains open just a crack. People bustled about in both tiers—probably finishing the midday meal before they continued with the events of their day. From up here, the lowest tier was just a blur of homes and workshops.

  A foreign sound stirred the city, pounding the hard dirt road which wound through the tiers. To Ilayda it sounded like a pair of giants running up the city.

  The creator of the sound rounded the bend from the second tier to the third, approaching the castle.

  It was a man, his deep burgundy cloak streaming out behind him in the autumn breeze. Ilayda squinted. That was unusual enough, but he was just a man, after all. Her attention was more drawn to the majestic creature he rode. It looked rather like a tall, shaven dog, yet it walked too nobly and its face stretched out too long. The creature’s feet (if they could be called that) seemed to be hard, as if carved from obsidian, and created the strange clamping noise that had puzzled Ilayda a moment before. She fumbled through her memory for the creature’s name. This beast galloped through the pages of many books.

  Erik appeared beside her to look through the window. The creature’s name came to her mind just as he spoke it.

  “A horse.”

  Ilayda bounded down the castle stairs and across the great hall. The hoofbeats were getting louder, which meant one thing: the visitor in the burgundy cloak wasn’t stopping until he reached the castle.

  She flung open the double doors and found her father standing outside, his arms crossed.

  Adam glanced nervously at her. “Someone’s coming—riding some thunderous beast.”

  “A horse,” Ilayda corrected.

  He shrugged one shoulder. “You should get back inside.”

  “You really think I’m going to miss the first horse to ever ride through our village?”

  He looked at her again, his face perched on the edge of amusement. “It isn’t safe. Take one of your secret passages, get to the market, and find your mother and Arden. I want to make sure they’re safe.”

  She bit her lips. He couldn’t do this to her. Everyone always did this to her—sent her away just when things were getting exciting.

  But he was her father. And she’d been brash enough the previous day. She nodded stiffly and turned for the path down to the second tier.

  The horseman rounded the main road and cantered up onto the flat hilltop of the third tier. He pulled his horse to a halt and dismounted.

  Ilayda froze, waiting for her father.

  Adam greeted the stranger. “Welcome to Reinhold, sir.”

  The man bowed, slipping one leg forward slightly. The burgundy cloak hid him in a muddy mystery. Dark fabric also stretched across his face, revealing only his eyes—shimmering brown.

  Erik stepped out of the castle, and his eyebrows twitched slightly. “Who are you, and—”

  Lord Adam held up his hand. “Let me take care of this.” He stepped toward the visitor. “Who are you, and where do you come from?”

  “I am a weary traveler,” the fellow’s voice was young but hoarse, “and I seek refuge.”

  Ilayda sent her father a subtle nod. A tired traveler seeking refuge—that was what all the Reinholdians had been when they came to this land. Surely her father could not deny this stranger a place of rest.

  “Weary traveler, indeed.” Adam placed his hands on his hips. “Show me your face before I show you a place to stay.”

  “I am diseased, and the long ride did nothing to help my condition.”

  “Father!” Ilayda strode back over to him. “Let him come in and rest. He needs water and food.”

  Adam leaned close so only she and Erik could hear. “We don’t even know who he is or where he’s come from. He must be connected to Thane’s return.”

  “How do you know that?” Ilayda hissed.

  “I just do. I am a lord.”

  Her eyelids twitched as she resisted the urge to give her eyes a good roll.

  Erik glanced over at the burgundy-caped man. “Perhaps he’s telling the truth. Either way, we can keep a better eye on him in the castle. If it winds up he is connected with Thane, then at least he won’t have wreaked havoc on the whole city.”

  “Perhaps you’re right.” Adam grunted. “But I want you to watch him. Guard him. Don’t let him leave until the queen returns. I must go and inform the rest of the city to be on guard.”

  Ilayda stole another look at their guest. If he wasn’t a citizen of Reinhold—and he clearly wasn’t—then who was he? Arliss hadn’t mentioned there being any others lost other than Áedán.

  So where had this fellow—with his horse and burgundy cloak—come from?

  Arliss had made her decision. No matter what it would cost her father, she would tell Thane what he wanted to know. Losing Philip’s life—and her own life, for that matter—was not worth securing a temporary truce, a mere delay of Thane’s imminent attack.

  When Cahal brought Thane’s final invitation of the day, she accepted, informing the young guard that she would be ready within five minutes. That gave her just enough time to do something about the dreadful state of her clothes.

  Her dress couldn’t be helped. Thane didn’t have any women’s clothes in the fortress, and her old blue woolen thing was in shreds. Still, going to dinner in a simple chemise did not seem suitable.

  She paced about the fancified room, her bare feet slapping against the hard-packed dirt floor.

  She glanced at the far corner and froze when she she saw the thin, budding sprout that had sprung up. It could be nothing but an infant Lasairbláth plant. So it had sprouted—and so quickly! She’d never seen any flower grow—much less bloom—in so little time. Perhaps it possessed some sort of magic.

  On a standing hook near the fiddle on the dresser, thick and long and dark, hung a deep red cloak—almost a muddy red. It draped nearly to the floor.

  The richly lined cloak was a perfect length for her, and she fastened it about her shoulders. She caught a glimpse of herself in the tall looking-glass which spanned the height of the far wall, and gaped at what she saw. She had not glanced in a mirror since the night of her birthday ball, when she was dressed in all her finery and her hair had shone golden in the lamplight.

  Now, her hair tangled and waved its way down her shoulders, weighed down by dirt and sweat from the past few days. Her face was flecked with scratches, and her underdress could hardly be called white anymore. Yet the burgundy cloak somehow transformed her whole reflection. She looked like a queen in disguise.

  A princess on a carven throne, clothed in simple raiment.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: HEIRS TO THE THRONE

  “This is the first time I’
ve entertained royalty here.” Thane lifted his glass and sipped its contents.

  Arliss, too, took a sip from her goblet. A sharply acidic wine bit her throat, and she coughed as the swig traveled down.

  “Hopefully,” she managed, sputtering slightly, “I won’t prove too demanding.”

  On the dais, a fine table had been set for them. All six feet of its length which separated the two of them was filled with all manner of fine food and drink: meat, bread, wine, cheese, and those curious olives of which Thane seemed so fond.

  “This is also the first time I’ve hosted a woman here, as a matter of fact.” He took another sip of the bitter wine.

  It would be impolite to refuse the drink, wouldn’t it? She again lifted her glass and took a sip—a smaller one this time. It still made her sputter.

  “I wonder, have you entertained any guests here at all?” She tried to stifle the burning sensation in her throat.

  He didn’t seem to notice her trouble. “Ah! Now you have hit the nail upon the head! Perhaps you now see why I have pressed to entertain you at my table.”

  “Because you want me to tell you all I know about Reinhold’s military forces?”

  “Mayhaps.” He stroked his short beard. “But that is not the only reason.”

  She inspected him, considering again the note he had sent with the tea. That, more than anything, seemed impossible to explain. “I think I have a guess as to the other reason. But it confuses me.” She leaned into the table, her voice lowering. “Why did you sign your note ‘cousin’?”

  “Does it not make sense to you?”

  “One often calls their close friend or relation ‘cousin.’ Yet the way you have treated me proves you are neither my friend nor my relation.”

  His expression twisted with anguish, and he reached for his face, his hand gripping his bearded chin with pale knuckles. “I—I’m sorry, Arliss.”

  She tilted her head. “After all this, you’re asking my forgiveness?”