by Robin Hardy
Titan laughed wryly. “He was never really deposed. He’s a clever one, hey?” He quaffed the wine with relish.
“What? How so?” demanded Roman.
“Why, somehow he got wind of your coming, and put his brother on the throne as a dummy—a puppet. Graydon still pulled his strings from prison.”
“But—the crucifixions—the black crosses and the Bloodclad—”
“That began with Graydon forming a bodyguard and marking the town dissenters so he’d be able to watch them easier. But when he let little brother have the throne, Galen went crazy, changing his name to Tremelaine, making the bodyguard into the Bloodclad, and executing everybody. Graydon never saw fit to stop him. I think he was more concerned about throwing you off than controlling his mad brother.”
Roman continued to eat out of sheer need, though sickened to realize that Deirdre and Nihl had evidently been tricked into sheltering their own enemy. “Do the townspeople know all this?” he asked.
“No, sir. As far as they know, Graydon really was deposed. When he divined your threat some—oh, a month ago, he and Galen staged a little confrontation, and baby brother took over—he always had a hankering to play the part. Lord Graydon let him do whatever he wanted, as long as he carried out Graydon’s orders from prison. The people hate Galen, but not Graydon.”
Roman chewed thoughtfully, then asked, “How do you know all this?”
“I got good ears,” Titan winked, tapping the side of his head. “And I’m in all the right places.”
As Roman finished eating, Nihl entered with the others. “The door is locked and barred, Surchatain,” he said.
“I saw that it could be,” Roman nodded, “but didn’t see the bar.”
“Lew found it, and the key—” Nihl was explaining when Deirdre ran up to Roman and put her arms around his middle, still overwhelmed by the sight of him. He held her, smiling, while the others helped themselves to plates of beef passed around by Titan.
Deirdre said, “Roman, Vida told me something you should hear. Graydon—the man in the dungeon who defied you—ruled before Tremelaine took control. He lied to us about it. Vida said he told her he wanted to discern our purpose before revealing himself to us.”
“I have learned more than that,” Roman responded. “According to this good man, Graydon has not ceased ruling, even from prison.” Titan then repeated to the others all he had told Roman.
“So you see, Lord Graydon is still Surchatain,” Roman summarized. “He is the one we came to deal with.”
Kam spat, “I knew he wasn’t straight! He took us like blind buyers!”
“He tried to,” Roman remarked thoughtfully, “but instead he lost control of Corona. No wonder he refused to fight with me—he is trying to regain power himself.”
“The liar—the deceiver!” sputtered Vida. “He called himself our friend! And had you not escaped from prison and come for us, he would have allowed Galen to execute us, too!”
Orvis feebly shook his head. “I never could understand how Galen managed to overthrow him—Graydon was always the smarter of the two.”
“What is certain now, Surchatain,” Nihl said with characteristic Polonti coolness, “is that we must kill Graydon.”
Roman nodded grimly. “First, we must insure he doesn’t release the Bloods on the roof. All he has to do is get by us and get to either of those doors to let them out.”
“Surchatain,” Lew interposed timidly, “if you let me have a look, I may be able to jam the hinges on the doors so they can’t be opened.”
“Good,” said Roman. “Go now. Colin, go with him in case he runs into trouble on the way.” As Colin and Lew went out, Roman wiped his hands and invited, “The rest of you that wish, come with me to face Graydon.” No one remained in the kitchen after Roman stalked out.
With an army of fifteen, Roman descended to the dungeon once again. Taking torches, they first went to the hiding place at the end of the passage. To no one’s great surprise, the cell was empty. They split up then, and searched every cell in every tunnel. Graydon and his handful of townspeople were long gone.
Roman and his followers met back at the intersection. “Pater, you’re following a murderer,” Orvis muttered to someone unseen.
Vida looked inquiringly to Roman. Everyone looked to him. He jerked his head toward the stairs: “Back to the kitchen, then.”
On the way, they met up with Lew and Colin returning from their mission. Colin reported gleefully, “This man has the keenest knack I ever saw for ruining things mechanical!”
Roman smiled and Kam slapped Lew on the back. They filed into the kitchen, plopping on tables and benches to rest. Laying his sword aside, Roman asked Colin, “Did you meet up with anyone?”
“No sir,” said Colin, his face growing serious. “No servants or guards. No one.”
“When the Bloods found Tremelaine’s body outside, most of the servants took that as their chance to get away,” Titan informed them. “We would’ve too, had not your pretty wife invited us to your party. But they don’t have much hope of actually getting anywhere.”
As Roman listened, he looked contemplatively out the courtyard windows to the quadrangle, lit orange with the glow of the dying sun. “What now, Surchatain?” asked Kam.
“We wait. And rest,” Roman said, putting his feet up. “Graydon must return to challenge me. The Lord is giving us opportunity to regroup before then. Titan, take a man and find bedding for us to sleep here—I believe this is the handiest place for us. Kam, you take the first watch, then Colin, then Nihl, then wake me for the last watch.”
In short order, Titan and the other servant returned with pallets and pillows which they passed around for all to make themselves comfortable. Taking a pallet, Izana placed it with deliberate carelessness a few feet from Nihl. He glanced at her. “I . . . feel better sleeping near someone who knows how to use a sword,” she explained meekly.
He smiled slightly. “Then stay beside me.”
“I will.” She moved her pallet up next to his and lay down.
Deirdre and Roman settled down on their pallet in a corner of the kitchen, and night spread softly around the walled-in group.
Chapter 11
Restless, Roman sat up on the pallet, his back to the wall, and Deirdre leaned on his chest. Caressing the shimmering brocade shirt and the golden fagoting in front, her fingers inadvertently brushed the brand on his chest. He flinched slightly. She loosed the fagoting to kiss his breastbone tenderly in penance, and he stroked her hair.
“You are beautiful,” she whispered.
“You didn’t say that when I was hanging on that pole,” he returned, smiling.
“Even then, you were beautiful,” she said slowly. “So very . . . very beautiful.” He looked down at her in the shadows, caught by her earnestness. “I remember your being whipped on the post for me, because of my disobedience, and how beautiful you were then, though I did not see it as clearly as I do now.”
He pressed his lips to her forehead, wanting to divert her. “Just wait until we get out of this and return to Westford,” he whispered. “Then I’ll go back to being mean and ugly.”
“No,” she said. “You are too heavenly.”
He felt mildly disturbed. “Adore God, Deirdre. Not me,” he said gently.
“How can I help it, when there is so much of Him in you?” She buried her face defensively in his neck.
He opened his mouth to argue the point, then recalled a time when he had wished for this devotion from her more than anything in God’s whole realm. Now that it was given him, what was he trying to correct? He knew she was not in danger of worshiping him, especially when their lives did return to normal. This was no time for reproof, just accepting her love.
He bent his face to kiss her, then gripped her in his arms. She sighed contentedly. “I remember also,” she continued, “a time when I dreamed of being loved by someone very powerful, who would love me above everything he had. I was too blind to see you standing r
ight beside me, doing just that.”
“That was when you were at the Fair with Laska,” he recalled.
“How do you know that?” she wondered, raising her head.
“You talked about it, and I overheard you.”
“You loved me even then, didn’t you?”
“Oh yes,” he said, tightening his arms around her.
“I wish I had known,” she breathed into his neck.
“Oh no,” he smiled, shaking his head. “You were too young.”
She grinned up at him, but the waning light did not reach into their corner for him to see. So she brought his mouth down to hers to feel her happiness.
Not very far away, Graydon sat alone at a table in a dark room, meditating. When he opened his eyes, he called quietly, “Captain Berk.”
The officer appeared at the doorway, tentatively extending a candle to illumine the other’s back. “Here, Lord Graydon.”
Graydon did not turn to face him, but merely asked, “How did the Lystran kill Galen?”
“He threw him out the window at the end of the corridor, my lord.”
“The one that is leaded and paned?”
“Yes.”
“That is not possible,” Graydon murmured. “No human strength could per-form that.”
“Well, he sure didn’t jump through it!” Berk snorted, stepping just inside the room. He was uncomfortable talking to someone’s back, but Graydon still did not turn around. Berk continued, “That’s the window he came out of, though. My men and I were in the courtyard when it happened.”
“And that is when you chose to run,” Graydon observed dryly.
“How could we know you were still alive?” Berk asked defensively. “And we came when you summoned. So what do you have planned for the Lystrans?”
Graydon folded his hands in contemplation. “Surchatain Roman has taken it upon himself to challenge powers beyond his understanding. Therefore, he must be destroyed by means other than human.” Berk stood very still. “Leave me now, Captain. I have much to do.”
“Of course, Lord Graydon,” Berk shrugged.
“And Captain,” Graydon added, his back still to Berk, “remove that silly amulet from your neck. It does not protect you without the proper words.”
Berk paled, putting a hand to the charm under his shirt. “Yes, my lord,” he mumbled, backing out.
Graydon placed his hands on the table before him and began to utter strange words. Eyes closed, he waited. Then into his mind came the picture he wished to see. It was dark and shadowy at first, but gradually focused to reveal two sleeping figures.
The man in the silk brocade was the Lystran Surchatain. Graydon observed him sleeping deeply, shifting only to tighten an arm around the other figure resting on his chest—the lady Deirdre.
Graydon directed his vision to see that they were in the kitchen of the palace. All the others were sleeping, except for one Lystran on watch. This one was gazing through the kitchen window, but then blinked and glanced around the black room as if suddenly uneasy.
The sorcerer directed his mind once again to the unconscious Surchatain. Then Graydon reached out both hands in front of him and brought them together as if clenching something between them, while he focused his mind on Roman.
The Surchatain stirred and Graydon clasped his hands harder together. Roman’s breathing deepened to a rasp and his face grew anxious in sleep. Graydon, trembling, pressed his hands together with all his strength. Just as Roman began making choking noises in his throat, a cold wash of something spilled heavily over Graydon, knocking him from his chair like a forbidding slap from a powerful hand.
As Graydon lay stunned on the floor, his vision showed him Roman breathing easily again, settling back into undisturbed sleep, before it vanished as behind a slamming door.
Graydon lay where he had fallen, breathless and mystified. At last he struggled to his knees and climbed back onto the chair. “I will have to find another way,” he muttered, then paused at the perception that, perhaps, he should not. But at that thought, a savage voice jolted him: You must! It is commanded you!
Graydon obediently stretched out his hands and began saying words.
In the pitch blackness of the kitchen, Roman awakened at a voice in his ear: “Surchatain.” He raised his head. “You instructed me to wake you for the last watch,” whispered Nihl.
Roman eased sleeping Deirdre from his chest, then rose and took up his sword in the darkness. He followed Nihl to the open kitchen window which looked out into the courtyard.
The night luminaries bathed the neat, hedged yard in soft silver light. The cobbled paths and stone archways, still shimmering with moisture, gave the deserted grounds an air of peacefulness and security.
Roman scanned the grounds, yawning, “You may go rest now, Nihl.”
“I would rather not,” Nihl answered. “I want to hear what happened after Tremelaine took you from the torture room.”
So in whispers, attended by questions from Nihl, Roman related his experiences while tied to the pole on the rooftop—the drunken Bloods, the rain, then Tremelaine’s taking him to the little room and what transpired within. “When I said the name of the Lord,” Roman concluded, “whatever was in that room screamed and blew the door off its hinges. It picked up Tremelaine, carried him to the window, and . . .” he trailed off, watching the courtyard.
Nihl turned to look. “What do you see?”
“Someone in the shadows.” They watched a moment, but saw nothing.
Nihl resumed, “What then happened to Tremelaine?”
“He was thrown through the window to the stone pavement some fifty feet below. He was quite—” Roman broke off again, staring across the courtyard.
This time they both saw him. A figure was loping across the grounds toward the kitchen with sword raised high. Nihl dived through the open window; Roman grasped the casing and vaulted out feet first. They extended their blades in warning.
Heedless, the intruder lunged wildly toward them. His erratic gait suggested broken bones or mental imbalance. As he drew closer, muttering and slavering, Roman’s mouth went dry, for he recognized him.
“Stop!” warned Nihl. The man reared back as though to strike a death blow, but Nihl swung his blade in a sure and fatal stroke to his throat. The attacker fell, quivering. Bemused, Nihl looked down at him, knowing the blow had been well placed. But the man on the ground would not lie still as he should have.
Then Nihl and Roman watched in near terror as his palsied hand grasped his fallen sword. His eyes popped open, and he jerked to his feet like a badly handled puppet. Again he lifted his sword. Nihl violently rammed his blade into the man’s belly clear to the hilt and twisted it back out. Again the body fell, quivering.
Nihl stood over it, breathing very hard, gripping his sword. Roman, who had been immobilized by the proceedings, leaned weakly against the wall and breathed, “Lord Jesus.” The body went still. They watched it, and it stayed still.
Gazing at it tensely, Nihl muttered, “That looks like. . . .”
“It is Tremelaine,” said Roman.
“But . . . I thought that . . . he. . . .”
“He could not have survived that fall. Certainly not to come attack us later.”
Nihl turned to gaze levelly at Roman. “The dog in the village,” he said simply. Roman met his eyes without breathing. “But—are there anakim here?” Nihl asked.
“Nothing so easy as that,” answered Roman. “But from the same source.” He looked down at Tremelaine’s body as if wishing to ascertain that he was really dead without touching him.
“Nihl,” he said, taking hold of the Commander’s arm. “There is no need to mention this to the others.” Nihl nodded gravely.
Inhaling, Roman reached down to grasp the body under the arms. “What are you doing?” demanded Nihl.
“I am going to dispose of him with a prayer of release.”
“I will do that,” insisted Nihl.
“No,” Roman grunt
ed, hoisting the body. “I want you standing watch over the others. Only—”
“I will send a prayer of protection with you,” Nihl responded. Roman nodded and began dragging the body away.
Deirdre awoke shortly after sunrise. She reached for Roman but he was not beside her. Sitting up, she saw Nihl talking quietly with Kam near the window. The others were stirring, rolling up blankets and excusing themselves from the kitchen.
Titan was already standing before the large stone hearth, stirring up the cinders. A servant carried in a gunnysack and dropped it on the worktable. Titan began emptying it of summer fruit to go with the smoked ham and bread already on the table. Deirdre gravitated toward him, catching the lush scent of ripe peaches. Titan winked and handed her an especially large one.
Before eating it, she remembered that she had been going to look for Roman. So she took peaches to Nihl and Kam, asking, “Where is Roman?”
They took the fruit, Nihl bowing his head to her and Kam saying, “Thank you, Surchataine.” But they did not answer her question.
“Where is Roman?” she repeated.
After a moment’s hesitation, Nihl answered, “He left to see to a small task. He will return soon.”
“What is he doing?” she persisted, alarmed at Nihl’s evasiveness.
Before Nihl had to choose between lying to her and disobeying his superior, Roman walked in through the kitchen door, brushing dirt from his hands. “You’re becoming a real morning glory, Deirdre,” he joked tenderly.
She let out her breath in relief, not even attending to his teasing remark. “Where were you?” she asked, handing him the fruit.
“Scouting around the grounds,” he answered, biting into the juicy peach. He ate, then added, “There’s no one around the palace. The gates are wide open. It’s almost as if everyone fled from a coming disaster.”
“Sure they have,” Titan said amiably, putting out more bread and pouring drink. “Who wants to be caught in between two lords fighting it out?”
Roman gathered his brows, asking, “Why then have you come in with me, Titan?”