0857664360

by Susan Murray

  Alwenna was staring out of the window, wondering again if it might be better to break it and risk recapture than remain here, when the door latch clattered and Marten entered the room. He bristled with energy and purpose.

  “Ladies, you are well rested and fed?” His smile was too bright, too determined.

  Alwenna folded her arms. “You lied to us.”

  Marten set one hand over his heart. “Never. I have done what was necessary. Your Goddess will watch over you.”

  Erin jumped up from the bench, anger etched in her face as she reached for her eating knife.

  Alwenna caught her by the arm. “No. When the time comes I’ll cut out his lying tongue myself.”

  “I have no doubt my wife would thank you for such a service, sister, but from what remains of poor Scoular I suspect your fair companion might make a swifter end of me. Please, if you will accompany me, Tresilian is expecting us.”

  Four soldiers were waiting outside and they stepped in behind them as they walked along the cloister and into the great hall. It was largely empty at this time of day, with only a few servants sweeping the stone floor and cleaning the tables. The air was heavy with the smell of lavender. Motes of dust raised by the servants’ brooms hung in the light from the windows along the south side of the hall.

  They carried on up the steps to the dais, past the priestess’ bench and stopped at the door leading to the panelled chamber beyond. They waited there while the guard made much business of knocking on the door and announcing their arrival to Tresilian, before gesturing to them to enter the room.

  Tresilian was seated on a throne-like chair set on the raised dais before the window embrasure. The heavy wooden chair to which Alwenna had been tied was set off to his left-hand side, the leather straps dangling from the arms as if in readiness. Either side of the window stood Curtis and Weaver, neither of whom made any sign of recognition. Beyond Tresilian, in the deep window embrasure, the priestess knelt at the altar table with her back to them, head bent in prayer. Incense burners on either side of the embrasure filled the room with an overpowering scent, while dishes of lavender were ranged along either wall. All this Alwenna noticed as if in a dream. Her eyes were drawn to the ornate dagger lying on the altar table, glinting in the sunlight. Either side of it were two metal bowls, both inscribed with runes – identical to the bowl used to catch her blood.

  Two bowls? She glanced at Erin, who was keeping her head lowered and eyes on the ground. One each? One for each arm? One for each throat? No, surely then they’d have need of bigger bowls. The thought was scant comfort.

  In front of her Marten made his obeisance in formal court style, omitting the freemerchant gestures he normally used. Sycophant, she thought, and two-faced to the last. She could remember his anger of the day before, even if he and Tresilian preferred not to. That at least had been honest.

  “As promised, highness, I bring the fugitives before you.” Marten turned and took his place on Alwenna’s right-hand side, while Erin stood on her left. He clasped his hands before him and lowered his head in suitably submissive style. Beneath his elaborate court tunic Alwenna could see he wore serviceable travelling garments. Ready to make a swift exit if his plans went awry? Some plan of his own that Alwenna and Erin had overset?

  “Dangerous fugitives they must be, to require so many soldiers to keep them in line.” Tresilian ran his gaze over Alwenna and the servant girl. “Wife, remove that peasant’s garb. It does not become you.”

  Alwenna tugged the scarf from her head and shook her unbound hair free.

  Tresilian’s mouth tightened. “I care even less for the way you’ve styled your hair.”

  Alwenna raised her chin. “Your court is teeming with vermin, husband. I would sooner make life difficult for them.” She was aware of a tiny motion from Marten. Did he presume to warn caution? She glanced his way before returning her attention to Tresilian’s face. “I fear my measures to rid myself of them were not extreme enough.”

  Did she imagine Tresilian smiled?

  Behind her one of the soldiers coughed, and Tresilian turned his attention to them. “You four, wait in the great hall until I give you further orders.” He watched, frowning, until they’d withdrawn.

  The overpowering smell of incense was making Alwenna lightheaded. Absent-mindedly, she let the headscarf slide from her fingers.

  The priestess’ voice grew louder as she continued to intone her strange, misshapen words before the altar. Alwenna felt as if she should have recognised them. Tresilian seemed to. For a moment he closed his eyes, his attitude reminiscent of Gwydion when he became lost in meditation. Tresilian opened his eyes, his expression once more dispassionate. She was nothing more than a problem he needed to solve. She might have reasoned with the old Tresilian, the one she knew. This one was a stranger to her, and the time for reasoning long past.

  Marten cleared his throat. “Your highness, I have brought the fugitives as I promised I would. You can have no reason to doubt my loyalty. I beg you will now sign the decrees we agreed at Highkell. That is all I ask, then I shall withdraw from court and trouble you no more.”

  “But Marten, if you withdraw from court you will serve me no more.” Tresilian studied the freemerchant. “And you have been inordinately useful.”

  Marten bowed graciously. “I try my humble best, your highness.”

  “Unfortunately in the matter of Highkell, your humble best has not been good enough.”

  “Highness, I have brought you through death, and you are as strong as you ever were. I have brought you your queen, who is key to the east. Without the support of her people Vasic’s situation is untenable.”

  “It is not enough. I would be stronger than I ever was. You must remove the usurper from Highkell and bring him to me.”

  “Highness, for that you would need an army. I am no general.”

  Alwenna watched them argue. Key to the east? Was that all she’d ever been to her husband? She couldn’t believe that. She realised the priestess had fallen silent, thank the Goddess. She looked up to find the girl had stood up and was staring straight at her with those colourless grey eyes.

  “You mustn’t do this. You mustn’t.” The girl’s voice cracked on the final word.

  Foolish girl. “I’m doing nothing.”

  “Nor will you!” The priestess snatched up the dagger from the altar and rushed forward, throwing herself at Alwenna. Alwenna ducked as the gemstones flashed towards her. Marten grabbed Alwenna’s arm and pulled her clear, sending her sprawling on the floor when her ankle gave way. He drew his sword as Erin caught hold of the priestess’ knife arm, grappling with her. As abruptly as she’d attacked, the priestess went limp and crumpled to the ground, dropping the dagger. It rolled across the floor and came to rest against the foot of the dais, gems bright and vivid.

  Curtis ran forward and dragged Erin away from the priestess, pinning his forearm about her throat.

  The priestess slumped on the floor, her words muffled by sobs. “You mustn’t do it. The king has been singled out for great honour by the Goddess.” She tried to speak with an air of authority, but her voice was that of a frightened child. “You must not fight their will.”

  “Great honour?” Alwenna pushed herself up to her hands and knees. “All of that died with him in the dungeon at Highkell.”

  The girl turned her grey eyes to where the dagger had fallen.

  Alwenna was closest to it and before she knew what she was doing she’d grabbed it by the hilt. The gemstones flared. “This is the only instrument the Goddess needs.” She felt the blood coursing through her veins and that same lightheadedness she’d experienced when Hames died. This was the will of the Goddess, she was sure of it. She’d never been more sure of anything in her life.

  The girl stared, wide-eyed. “You mustn’t. You mustn’t.” She leaped to her feet and dashed for the door to the private chambers beyond, diving through it and slamming it shut. The instant later they heard the sound of the bolt being slid acros
s, then the girl’s footsteps retreating.

  Weaver had moved to Tresilian’s side, his sword at the ready. Tresilian seemed frozen halfway through rising from his seat, unable to tear his eyes from Alwenna. Erin struggled, but Curtis now held her arms pinned behind her back.

  Marten turned to Tresilian. “Highness. Nothing has changed, let us discuss this calmly.”

  “Everything has changed.” Tresilian’s voice was ice. “You have drawn steel in the king’s chamber.”

  “That girl attacked your wife, highness. I sought only to defend her.” Marten sheathed his sword, spreading his hands wide.

  Ever so slowly Alwenna eased herself up from the floor and backed away from the dais, dagger in hand. If Tresilian summoned the guards who were waiting outside, the three of them were lost. Whose side Marten was on, she no longer knew. He seemed to occupy a side of his own in this strange stalemate.

  Knuckles white, Tresilian pushed himself up off the throne. “Give me that blade, Alwenna. It is not for your hand.”

  “Is it not?” She twisted the knife in her grip, admiring the play of light over the runes and gems. “I think it knows my hand, cousin. Do you not?”

  “Sister, he is right.” Marten broke in. “That blade is cursed. You must not use it in anger.”

  Such delicate work. They had no craftsmen to equal it now. “It’s not anger I feel right now, Marten.” The word she would choose was hunger.

  But to share that insight with them would be a bad idea.

  A very bad idea.

  Monstrous.

  Another couple of steps and Alwenna was within arm’s reach of the door to the great hall. She slid the heavy bolt shut with a snap.

  Guessing her intent too late, Tresilian barked a command. “Stop her!”

  Erin yelped in protest. A heavy weight crashed against Alwenna’s side, knocking her to the ground and driving the breath from her lungs, while the dagger fell from her hand and spun away across the floor. All was confusion, a tangle of limbs as she and Erin scrambled to their feet. Curtis had hurled the servant girl against her. Swords clashed behind them. On the dais? Before Alwenna could turn to see she was hauled bodily upwards and pinned in a crushing grip. A glint of light flashed across her vision, then a blade pressed against her throat.

  “Hold hard, freemerchant, or the witch dies!” Curtis bellowed, backing up against the wall while he kept Alwenna between him and the rest of the room.

  Marten had leaped onto the dais to confront Tresilian and now fought him and Weaver. The freemerchant’s movements were dance-like. He was quicksilver, making the other two appear leaden and slow as he drew Tresilian over to the window. “Look to your conscience, Weaver. You know I’m not the danger here.”

  Weaver hesitated, glancing towards where Curtis held Alwenna. He lowered his sword and backed away to the edge of the dais, leaving Tresilian to defend himself. The door to the chamber rattled as the guards outside discovered it had been locked.

  Behind Weaver, Tresilian and the freemerchant fought on. One of the incense burners toppled with a crash. Erin flung herself at Curtis, scratching at his eyes. He shoved her away with his elbow, the motion making his knife blade dig into Alwenna’s flesh. Grim-faced, Weaver jumped down from the dais, and grabbed Erin as she sprang at Curtis a second time. Weaver pushed the girl away to one side, then swung round to smash his sword pommel into Curtis’ face. Flinching, Alwenna heard the crunch of bone cracking beneath the impact and something wet and warm spattered against her face. Curtis’ grip slackened. Weaver dragged him away from her, pounding his face over and over, continuing long after the man had subsided on the floor. Alwenna stumbled clear and found herself next to the jewelled dagger once more. Numbly, she picked it up.

  The guards hammered against the door. Behind Alwenna, from the dais, came a ragged clatter of metal. She spun round. Marten was parrying desperately with a broken sword as Tresilian drove him back against the wall. The freemerchant was her best chance of getting answers to her questions. And she had many questions. She launched herself forward and charged at Tresilian as he raised his sword high and lunged. Heedless of where she placed her feet, Alwenna cannoned against him with no more than a vague hope of knocking him off balance. Tresilian’s sword struck the wall with a clatter of steel against stone as Alwenna went sprawling on the floor.

  Tresilian grunted and he staggered sideways. He turned to Alwenna, eyes widening as he took another unsteady step, then his legs crumpled and he fell over onto his back. The ornate handle of Vasic’s dagger protruded from his ribs on one side, on the other the hilt of Marten’s broken sword. Tresilian’s feet convulsed and a pool of urine spread over the floor beneath him, creeping along the joints between the floorboards.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED ONE

  Alwenna and Marten stared at one another. Marten rubbed the sweat from his forehead and took a deep breath, but for once he seemed to be at a loss for words. Alwenna scrambled to her feet.

  The hammering continued at the door but the bolt was still holding. For now. Curtis was slumped across the doorway, barely recognisable and a threat to no one. Weaver jumped up on the dais next to them, kneeling at Tresilian’s side. He checked his throat for a pulse. “He’s dead. By the Goddess, what have you done?” He glared at Marten. “This man was the saving of me.”

  “Can you still not believe me? This would never have happened if he’d only kept his word.” Marten stooped over the body. “We’ll need this dagger.” He tugged it from between Tresilian’s ribs then hesitated, staring at the blade. The dead king’s blood spread along the runes until it reached the hilt. The gemstones seemed to grow brighter.

  Grimacing, Marten wiped the blade clean on Tresilian’s clothing, then straightened up and tucked it away in his belt. He glanced at Alwenna. “It’s best that I carry it.”

  The hammering at the door ceased.

  Weaver stood up and turned to Alwenna. “Curtis injured you.”

  Alwenna raised a hand to her throat. Her fingertips came away sticky with blood. “It doesn’t hurt.”

  Weaver leaned closer. “It’s only a scratch, thank the Goddess. I thought–”

  There was massive crash against the door from the great hall. It shuddered, but the bolt held. They must have been using one of the benches as a battering ram.

  Alwenna turned towards it. “What do we do now? Stay? Or run? Can we stop them?”

  “Sister, we run as far and as fast as we can.” Marten rattled the door to the private chambers, but it was locked fast. He took up the heavy black chair and smashed it against the leaded window. The first blow caused a bulge, the second burst a couple of panes, the third ripped right through the lead work. He and Weaver set about clearing the shards from the frame.

  “He moved.” Erin’s voice was high and sharp. “The king moved.” She stood with her hand pressed to a cut on her forehead. “See, there it is again.” She stepped back, pointing.

  Tresilian’s feet and hands twitched, convulsive at first, but moving with more deliberation until he could clench and unclench his fists. He drew up first one knee and then the other, his coordination improving with each movement. He pressed his hands against the floor and pushed himself to a sitting position, twisting round until his eyes pointed blindly to where Alwenna stood.

  Weaver took up position between them. “Get out through the window. Now.”

  Erin needed no further encouragement and dashed over to the window. “I’ll bring horses.” She climbed out through the broken casement and dropped to the ground, sprinting towards the stables.

  Alwenna backed away from Tresilian. His impossible, dead gaze chilled her more than anything she’d ever seen. Already he was clambering to his feet. Weaver readied his guard.

  Marten swore and grabbed Curtis’ sword, jumping back up onto the dais alongside Weaver. “Fire. We need fire to stop him.”

  The grate was cold, as might be expected on such a warm day. Alwenna turned in desperation and her foot caught one of the censers wh
ich had been knocked to the floor during the fight. It had burst open and the embers scattered across the floor. They were already cool. She scrambled across to the other, set a hand on it and discovered it was still hot. She fumbled it open, then realised she needed tinder. Her scarf. Where had she dropped it? She jumped down from the dais, just as a great creaking sound came from the door. They’d be through any minute.

  From behind her came grunts and a gasp, then the clash of steel on steel. She risked a glance over her shoulder: Weaver and Marten fought Tresilian, who’d pulled the broken blade from his chest and was parrying their blows with it. Impossible. She scrambled back up to the censer and dragged it over to the window where there were heavy tapestries. She pressed the scarf into the embers and blew gently as she’d watched Weaver. It smouldered for a moment, then died. Hands shaking, she tried again. Behind her came a rending sound as one of the planks forming the door splintered. This time the fire caught and a bright flame sprang from the fabric. Hands shaking, she set it against the fringe of the tapestry. The ancient textile was dry and parched and the fire spread quickly. She pushed the altar table against it and the cloth covering that began to smoulder, then flared. The fire climbed rapidly, devouring the tapestry and racing across the ornate drapery over the window. The wood panelling above it singed and blistered, and smoke billowed up to the ceiling.

  The door to the great hall splintered further and shouts from the other side could be heard.

  “Get out!” Marten yelled over his shoulder as he and Weaver fought Tresilian away to the edge of the dais. Alwenna clambered into the opening, ducking through it as several priests burst into the room from the private quarters. The sudden rush of air set the flames roaring higher. Weaver spun round to force the priests back, just as Marten propelled Tresilian backwards off the dais. The room was filling with smoke. Alwenna clung there in the window embrasure. She thought she recognised her uncle’s scarred face through the smoke before Marten moved to Weaver’s side and they pushed the priests back to the doorway.