“We would be recognized,” Michael said.
“Do you have a better idea?” Kris asked.
Somewhere below, a twig snapped. They fell silent, every muscle tense.
“Someone’s down there,” Stocky whispered.
“Now might be a good time to put our plan into action,” Kris said.
“Unless they’re coming to ambush us,” said Michael.
“If they are, they’ve failed,” Kris said.
The three men drew their swords and crept away from their small camp. The grey wolf rose and limped after them.
Michael split off from the others and made his way down a natural stairway to the base of the cliff. Even in the darkness, a black figure stood out starkly against the snow. The man in black did not seem to hear him, and Michael rushed forward suddenly and pressed the tip of his sword into the small of the man’s back.
“Do not move,” he whispered.
“Keep quiet,” said the black-robed man. “I am your captive.”
Michael moved around his prisoner so that his sword pointed at the man’s heart. Their eyes met. Michael recognized the younger of the black-robed men who had taken Miracle. His eyes were strangely calm.
“You do not need your sword,” said the man. “I will go with you willingly.”
“How do I know that?” Michael asked.
“Because if I was not a willing prisoner,” the man said, “you and your friends would already be dead.”
Kris and Stocky appeared out of the night, the grey wolf with them. Kris cast a questioning look at Michael.
“Let’s take him to the camp,” Michael said. “I want to talk to him.”
The man smiled coldly. “You are very kind,” he said.
They made their way back up the cliff through a lightly falling snow. Michael kept his sword pointed at the black-robed man’s back, but the prisoner paid no attention to it. He showed not a shade of fear.
When they reached the small camp on the cliff, the black-robed man looked around him. “You have done well to find this place,” he said. “It is well-hidden and off the road; I cannot think how you did it.”
“Sit,” Michael said.
“You do not need to play captor,” said the man. “I am here willingly. Remember that.” He sat down next to the remains of the campfire. “You have come to free the girl. I will help you.”
“Why?” Michael asked.
“Because I owe her a debt,” the man answered. His voice grew low so that Michael could barely hear it. “And because she does not belong here.”
“Who are you?” Michael asked. “I will not work with a stranger.” He held out his strong hand. “I am Michael O’Roarke, chief of the Clann O’Roarke of the Green Isle.”
The black-robed man looked at Michael’s hand for a long time before taking it. “My name,” he said, his tongue faltering, “is Christopher Ens.”
“And I am Kris of the Mountains,” said Kris. He stepped closer to the fire, his battle axe in his hands.
“Stephen O’Roarke,” said Stocky, inclining his head. “Stocky.”
“Well then,” said Christopher, “now that we are known to one another, let us get to work.”
“Wait,” Stocky interrupted. “Where’s our proof that you’re our friend?”
“I am not,” Christopher said. “The Order makes no friends, only pawns for its own use. But I want to use you to get Miracle out, and I do not think you object.”
“There is a way into the dungeon,” Michael said. He silenced Stocky’s objections with a look. “A tunnel. We can go in that way, but not out—Miracle is too weak, and there is no room to carry her. We thought we might disguise ourselves as soldiers. Get out of the stronghold that way.”
Christopher shook his head. “It would never work,” he said. “The soldiers in Ordna know each other well. A stranger would never get past the gates. Besides, if you all go in through the tunnel, you will simply give us three more prisoners. You need a way to open the cell door, and that is no easy task.”
“Then what do you suggest?” Michael asked.
“I will arrest you,” said Christopher, looking at Michael as he spoke.
“Are you out of your mind?” Michael asked.
“Not at all,” Christopher said. “I will arrest you and escort you to Miracle’s cell. Your friends will be waiting there, having come up through the tunnels, and together the three of you will overpower the guards—and me, as it must not look as though I helped you. You will take the girl and run for the gates.”
“And we will not be opposed on our way out?” Michael asked.
“Of course you will,” Christopher said. “You must move quickly. The guards may be too slow to act. If not, you must fight your way out. But I will see to it that the gate is opened for you. You will be outnumbered, but with speed and surprise you may well succeed. Once you are outside the gates, I have ways to make sure you are not found.”
There was silence as the companions thought it over. Michael looked to Kris.
“I do not see any other way,” Kris rumbled.
“Aye, Michael,” said Stocky. “I’m willing.”
Michael clapped Stocky’s shoulder. “As ever,” he said. “And I am willing. We will trust you, Christopher Ens.”
The young man in black nodded. “You may be sorry you did,” he said. “But I will do all I can for you. I have only one demand.”
“What is it?” Michael asked.
“Even if the battle overwhelms you,” Christopher said, “do not play the coward. Do not surrender. Get Miracle out. If you fail, you will answer to me.”
Michael smiled. “Your demand does you credit,” he said.
Christopher Ens stood and pulled his black cowl over his head. “When the sun has risen there,” he said, pointing at the sky, “come down unarmed to the frozen stream near the gates of Ordna. I will arrest you there. You two must go to the dungeon at the same time, through the tunnel. See that no one discovers you before we arrive.”
Kris nodded. The lame wolf whined. Christopher turned and disappeared in the snow.
“We’re crazy to trust him,” Stocky said.
“We have no choice,” Michael said.
“We have one choice,” said Kris. “We could give up.”
“No, we couldn’t,” Michael said. His eyes flashed. “Never that.”
Kris smiled. His blue eyes were hard. “Good,” he said. “I wanted to be sure we were all together in that.”
Stocky was the only one of the three who managed to sleep more that night. Kris spent the late hours of the morning sharpening his sword on a bit of flint, and Michael spent it staring into the embers of the fire and listening to he knew not what. The sun had nearly risen to the place Christopher had pointed out when a distant wolf howl filled the air. The lame wolf lifted its head and answered the call. The sound rose and fell eerily in the camp. Stocky sat up and met Michael’s eyes.
“Time,” he said.
“Aye,” Michael answered.
They stamped out the last of the fire and rose to go. At the bottom of the cliff, they separated. Michael took his sword from his back and handed it over to Kris. The lame wolf stayed above. It lay at the edge of the cliff and watched the men.
* * *
Michael’s legs felt weak as he knelt by the frozen stream. Inwardly he cursed himself— now was no time for weakness! The clearing was silent except for the faint tinkle of water beneath the ice. Michael closed his eyes and drew a deep breath of the cold air. He should not have sent both Kris and Stocky away. One of them should have stayed to guard his back. Christopher Ens might well be a traitor.
No, Michael thought. He is no traitor. He is a strange friend, but a friend nonetheless.
Michael turned at the sound of footfalls in the snow. Christopher Ens was coming. A torch burned in his hand.
But no—there was no torch. As Christopher drew nearer, Michael could see that the fire burned in his bare hand. Michael began to rise, his han
d half-raised in greeting, but then his eyes met Christopher’s. The look of hatred there halted him.
Michael tensed to spring, sure that he had been betrayed, when Christopher clenched his fingers and flung them open. A bolt of fire slashed Michael’s face from the corner of his mouth to his temple. Michael staggered at the pain. He covered the wound with his hand. Blood ran through his fingers, but the slash was hot, still burning. Beneath his fingers, the blood staunched, and the skin around the wound became crusted and black.
Christopher closed his hand, and the fire went out. When Michael met his eyes this time, there was nothing in them. They were utterly blank.
“Now we have proof of a struggle,” Christopher said. “Come. They will not suspect us.”
Michael rose warily, resentful of the word “us”—he was not pleased to be joined with such a man. He allowed Christopher to bind his hands and place a hand on his shoulder. The heat of Christopher’s black-stained palm burned even through Michael’s thick winter cloak and shirt.
Christopher shoved Michael forward, and the young chieftain staggered as he walked. The wound on his face still stung, and he winced at a blast of icy wind. They reached the gates of Ordna within minutes.
“Open for the Order!” Christopher called.
Michael heard the sound of men hurrying to obey. The wooden gates swung open. Chains rattled as the iron grid was pulled up, and High Police surrounded the men as they entered the courtyard. Michael glared at them, but said nothing. A man wearing a captain’s insignia reached out to take Michael’s arm.
“Leave him,” Christopher snapped. “He is a prisoner of the Order.”
“Another one?” one of the soldiers called out. “And here we’ve hardly had a look at the last one!”
The soldiers jeered and laughed. Michael hung his head for a moment, inwardly seething. In that moment, the voices of the soldiers died out as if they had been choked. A chill ran through Michael’s veins. He lifted his head and found himself looking at another man, whose face, shadowed though it was by a black hood, he would have known anywhere. It was the cruel face of the man who had led Miracle’s arrest.
“Well, well,” said the Nameless One, stepping closer to Michael. “What have you brought us, little brother?”
“Surely you remember him,” Christopher said.
“Indeed,” said the Nameless One with a smile. “Amazing that he should have followed her all the way here. What do you think? Shall we kill him in front of her so that she might know how dearly her freedom was lost?”
Michael tightened his jaw, but said nothing.
“I have reason to believe he may be of use to us,” Christopher said.
The Nameless One gave Christopher a searching look. There was a clatter in the yard as a big, dark-bearded man approached. Christopher turned and bowed his head slightly to the newcomer.
“My lord Black-Brow,” he said.
“Another prisoner?” Narald Black-Brow demanded. “And what do you plan for this one?”
“Only the best,” said a new voice. An old man in a black robe, his face all in shadow except for the tip of a white beard, stepped up beside Black-Brow. “We will dine with him tonight. We are old friends, Master O’Roarke and I.”
* * *
Miracle lifted her head as a scraping sound met her ears. As she watched, the trapdoor lifted. A head emerged, followed by a pair of massive shoulders. Miracle stiffened when she realized it was not Michael—but in the next instant recognition flooded her. She hardly noticed the smaller man who followed as Kris rushed to her side. She held out her hand to him. He took it in his rough fingers and kissed it.
“Kris of the Mountains,” she said. “My old friend.”
There were tears in Kris’s blue eyes. He bowed his head and shook his grey mane. “You are not well,” he said.
“I have been better,” she said with a weak smile.
Stocky came up beside Kris and bowed awkwardly. Kris thumped him on the back. “This is Stocky,” he said. “A good companion. We’re here to get you out.”
Miracle smiled, but her face was pale under the smile. “Where—”
“Michael is coming,” Kris said. “Soon. And when he arrives, we are all leaving.”
* * *
In the hall of Narald Black-Brow were tables enough for fifty warriors. So the silence of the stone room as Michael was left alone was all the more ominous. Under the direction of Master Skraetock, two soldiers took Michael from Christopher and brought him to the hall. They cut the rope that bound his hands and left him alone in the cold darkness. Michael could make out the shapes of high windows, but all were covered to keep out the light.
Michael sank into a chair at the head table and stretched his hands and wrists. He touched the warped skin on his face and tried to swallow back a sense of panic.
After a minute there was a sound in the hall, and Master Skraetock appeared—out of nowhere, it seemed. He glided to the table and sat down, bringing a goblet of wine to his lips. He poured another and offered it to Michael.
“No,” Michael answered.
“You need not be afraid of it,” said Skraetock. “Or of me. I mean you no harm.”
Michael did not answer.
“Do you know who I am?” asked Skraetock. Once again, Michael made no reply. Skraetock hardly seemed to notice his silence. “My name is Adhemar Skraetock,” he said. “I am the Grand Master of the Order of the Spider.”
“What do you want with me?” Michael asked.
“I want your help,” Skraetock answered.
“And what makes you think I would help you?” Michael asked.
Skraetock smiled as one would smile at a child. “I think, from your manner, that you have been misinformed, Master O’Roarke,” he said. “You seem to think I am your enemy.”
“How do you know my name?” Michael asked.
Skraetock did not answer. Michael could feel the hooded man’s eyes burning into his face.
“You look very like your father,” Skraetock said at last.
Ice pricked up Michael’s spine. He suddenly knew himself to be caught in a far greater trap than he had anticipated.
“We were friends, your father and I,” Skraetock said. “In the days when he explored the mountains, many long years ago. He could trust me. I alone knew what he was.”
Michael did not meet Skraetock’s eyes. He felt short of breath as he groped for the right words to say.
“Did you come here to seek your father, Michael O’Roarke?” Skraetock said. “To discover what it was that Gifted him and set the fire in your family’s veins? The mountain heights will not give answers. Only I can do that.”
“You lie,” Michael said.
“Do I?” Skraetock said. “You have seen my men near your home. We have been looking for your family. You are in danger. I have never forgotten your father. I want to help you.”
Michael’s eyes blazed as he lifted them to the Grand Master’s face. “Was it not your men who caused my father to die?” he asked. “And my mother, and all the rest of their generation? You left us orphaned and alone. What help can you possibly offer us?”
“The Order did not kill your family,” Skraetock said. “You are mistaken.”
“But they were in the village,” Michael choked.
“Do you want answers, boy?” Skraetock asked. “Then cease casting blame without foundation and ask me for them. More than that—help me find the answers. The Gifted are the key to the mysteries of this world. The clann children are Gifted as your father was. He was the first—the very first. I was his guardian, but he did what you are doing: he believed lies and pulled away from me. You need me. Without my protection, you will lose the children as you lost your parents.”
Michael looked away again. He was still trying to breathe; to think.
“Bring the little ones to me, Michael,” Skraetock said. “Let me teach them. Let me protect them as I could not protect your father and mother.”
“And who
must you protect them from?” Michael said. “Miracle?”
“Miracle is greatly deceived,” Skraetock said. “I have brought her here for her own good.”
Michael shook his head. “I saw her,” he said. “I know what you’ve done to her.”
“No,” Skraetock said. “I very much doubt that you do.”
Michael had a sudden desire to see the face beneath the cowl—to know what expression it held. But the shadows were too deep. They thwarted his vision even as Skraetock’s words thwarted clear thought.
“Tell me,” Skraetock said. “Do you know what your father encountered in the mountains?”
Michael closed his eyes. A picture arose before him, brilliant and blazing for a moment only: a vision of a fire that swept across the world but did not destroy. He saw it as his father had described it to him, as he had imagined it a thousand times in boyhood.
He opened his eyes. Skraetock was watching him intently. “Keep your secrets, if you will,” Skraetock said. “But beware, Michael O’Roarke, for you are keeping secrets that will consume you if you are not careful. There are two opposing forces in this world, my young friend. You are in danger of falling in with the wrong one.”
Michael felt suddenly dizzy. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
Skraetock’s voice lowered. “They say he will come back,” he said. “But he is nothing. Throw your lot in with him and you fail.”
Michael looked at Skraetock, his mind straining to comprehend, his eyes empty of understanding. The Grand Master sat back and sighed a little.
“You do not know?” he said. “You do not understand. Well. I am glad that you are not entirely eaten up by their lies. Join me, Master O’Roarke. I will make you understand.”
Michael closed his eyes. The slash on his cheek burned. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth. Confusion overwhelmed him. But then, somewhere deep within, he reached for the anchors he had always known. The children. The memory of his father. And to them he added Miracle—Miracle, so weak, and so wounded by this man who claimed to have answers.
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