“Lord Ingrey,” she said, and her low voice troubled his blood, “I would follow Learned Hallana’s advice and go to the temple to pray.” She cast a wary glance at her warden. “Privately.”
His mind lurched back into motion. It would be perfectly unexceptionable to conduct his prisoner to the temple without her chaperone; at this hour, it would be nearly deserted, and they might converse in plain sight undisturbed. “No one would wonder if I escorted you to the altars of the gods to pray for mercy, lady.”
Her lips twisted. “Say justice, rather, and it would do.”
He backed a little from her and made a sign of assent. Turning, he dismissed the warden to whatever of her own affairs she cared to pursue for an hour, and saw Ijada out of the parlor. When they gained the street and turned up it, Ijada tucked her hand in his elbow and picked her way carefully over the damp cobbles, not looking at him. The temple loomed up at length, built of the gray stone of this district, its size and style and solidity typical of great Audar’s grandson’s reign, before the Darthacan conquerors demonstrated that they, too, were capable of racking themselves to ruin in bloody kin wars.
They walked past the iron gates into the high-walled, quiet precincts, and under the imposing portico. The inner chambers were dim and cool after the bright morning outside, with narrow shafts of sunlight streaming down from the round windows high above. Some three or four persons were on their knees, or prone, before the Mother’s altar in Her chamber. Ijada stiffened briefly on Ingrey’s arm; he followed her glance through the archway to the Father’s altar to catch sight of Boleso’s coffin, set up on trestles, blanketed with brocades, and guarded by soldiers of the Red Dike city militia. But both the Daughter’s chamber and the Son’s were empty at this hour; Ijada turned into the Son’s.
She fell gracefully to her knees before the altar; less gracefully, Ingrey followed suit, sitting back on his heels. The pavement was cold and hard. A silence stretched between them as Ijada gazed upward. Ordering her prayers in her mind?
“What,” Ingrey began quietly, “did you think would happen to you once you reached Easthome? What had you planned to do?”
Her glance shifted to him, though she did not turn her head. In a like undertone, she replied, “I expect I shall be examined, by the King’s justiciars or the Temple inquirers, or both. I should certainly expect the Temple inquirers will take an interest now, given what has lately happened and Learned Hallana’s letter. I plan to tell the exact truth, for the truth is my surest defense.” A wry smile twitched her lips. “Besides, it’s easier to remember, they say.”
Ingrey let out a long sigh. “What do you imagine Easthome is like, now?”
“Why—I’ve never been there, but I’ve always supposed it is a splendid place. The king’s court must be its crown, of course, but Princess Fara told me tales of the river docks and the glassworks, the great Temple schools—the Royal College as well. Gardens and palaces. Fine dressmakers. Scriptoriums and goldsmiths and artisans of every sort. There are plays put on, and not just for holy days, but for the great lords in their high houses.”
Ingrey tried again. “Have you ever seen a flock of vultures circling the carcass of some great and dangerous beast, bull or bear, that is not quite dead enough yet? Most hold back, waiting, but some dart in to peck and tear, then duck away. All hover closer as the day wears on, and the sight of the wheeling death watch draws in more distant kin, hot with fear of missing the best tidbits when all close in at last for the disembowelment.”
Her lips thinned in distaste, and she turned her face toward him in question: What now?
“At present”—Ingrey dropped his voice to a growl—“Easthome is more like that. Tell me, Lady Ijada, who do you think will be elected the next hallow king?”
She blinked. “Why, I assume—Prince-marshal Biast.” Boleso’s elder and saner brother, now earning his rank under the tutelage of his father’s military advisors on the northwest border.
“So many others had assumed, till the hallow king was struck down with that wasting disease, then this palsy-stroke. If the blow had held off for five more years, Hetwar believes the king might have secured Biast’s election in his own lifetime. Or if the old man had died quickly—Biast might have been rammed through on the momentum of grief, before the opposition could muster. Few could have foreseen or planned for this living half death, lasting months, giving time and motive for the worst, as well as the best and all between, to maneuver. To think. To whisper to each other. To be tempted.” Kin Stagthorne had held the hallow kingship for five generations; more than one other kin believed it might now be their turn to seize that high seat.
“Who, then?”
“If the hallow king were to die tonight, not even Hetwar knows who would be elected next week. And if Hetwar doesn’t know, I doubt anyone else can guess, either. But by the pattern of bribes and rumors, Hetwar thought Boleso was to be a surprise candidate.”
Her brows flew up. “A bad one, surely!”
“A stupid and exploitable one. From the point of view of certain men, ideal. I thought such men were underestimating just how dangerous his erratic nature had become, and would have lived to regret their success. And that was before I knew of any bleeding of the uncanny into the mix.” Ingrey frowned. Had Hetwar known of Boleso’s blasphemous dabblings? “The sealmaster was concerned enough to have me deliver a deposit of some one hundred thousand crowns to the archdivine-ordainer of Waterpeak, to secure his vote for Biast. His Grace thanked me in nicely ambiguous terms, I thought.”
“The sealmaster bribed an archdivine?”
Ingrey winced at her tone, so innocently aghast. “The only thing unusual about the transaction was me. Hetwar normally uses me to deliver his threats. I’m good at it. I especially enjoy it when they try to bribe or threaten me back. One of my few pleasures, leading them into ambush and then, ah, into enlightenment. I think I was intended to be a double message, for the archdivine was nervous enough. A fact that Hetwar put…well, wherever he puts such things.”
“Does the sealmaster confide in you?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes not.” Now, for example? “He knows I have a curious mind, and feeds me tidbits now and then. But I do not press. Or I should get none.”
Ingrey took a deep breath. “So. Since you have not taken my hints to heart, let me lay it out for you more plainly. You did not just defend your virtue, there on the top of Boar’s Head Castle. Nor did you merely offend the royal house of Stagthorne by making its scion’s death a public scandal. You upset a political plot that has already cost someone hundreds of thousands of crowns and months of secret preparation. And involved illicit sorcery of the most dangerous sort. I deduce from my geas that somewhere in Easthome is a man—or men—of power who does not want you blurting the truth about Boleso to anyone at all. Their attempt to kill you subtly has miscarried. I am guessing that the next attempt will be less subtle. Or were you picturing some heroic stand before a justiciar or inquirer as brave and honest as yourself? There may be such men, I do not know. But I guarantee you will meet only the other sort.”
Her jaw, he saw out of the corner of his eye, had set.
“I am…irritated,” he finally chose. “I decline to be made a party to this. I can arrange your escape. Dry-shod, this time, with money and without hungry bears. Tonight, if you like.” There: disloyalty of secret thought made public words. As the silence grew thicker, he stared at the floor between his knees.
Her voice was so low it vibrated. “How convenient for you. That way, you won’t have to stand up to anybody. Nor speak dangerous truths to anyone for any honor’s sake. All can go on for you just as it was.”
His head snapped around. Her face had gone white.
“Scarcely,” he said. “I have a target painted on my back now, too.” His lips drew back in a sort of grin, the one that usually made men step away from him.
“Does that amuse you?”
Ingrey considered this. “It stirs my interest, anyway.”
>
Ijada drummed her nails on the pavement. It sounded like the clicking of distant claws. “So much for high politics. What about high theology?”
“What?”
“I felt a god brush past me, Ingrey! Why?”
He opened his mouth. Hesitated.
She continued in the same fierce whisper, “All my life I have prayed, and all my life I have been refused answer. I scarcely believed in the gods anymore, or if I did, it was only to curse them for their indifference. They betrayed my father, who had served Them loyally all his life. They betrayed my mother, or They were powerless to save her, which was as bad or worse. If a god has come to me, He certainly hasn’t come for me! In all your calculating, how do you sum that?”
“High court politics,” said Ingrey slowly, “are as godless as anything I know. If you press on to Easthome, you choose your death. Martyrdom may be a glory, but suicide is a sin.”
“And just what do you press on to, Lord Ingrey?”
“I have Lord Hetwar himself as a patron.” I think. “You will have no one.”
“Not every Temple divine in Easthome can be venal. And I have my mother’s kin!”
“Earl Badgerbank was at that conference that dispatched me. Are you so sure he was there in your interests? I’m not.”
She hitched her skirts away from him. “I,” she announced, “shall pray now for guidance. You may be quiet.” She flounced forward into the pose of deepest supplication, prone on the floor, arms outflung, her face turned from him.
Ingrey lay on his back and stared at the domed ceiling, angry, dizzy, and a little ill. Hergi’s potion was beginning to wear off, he feared. His frustrated thought circled, then drifted, but not into piety. He let his tired eyelids shut.
After a formless time, Ijada’s tart voice inquired, “Are you praying or napping? And are you, in either case, done?”
He blinked his eyes open to find her standing over him. Napping, apparently, for he had not heard her rise. “I am at your disposal, lady.” He started to sit up, stifled a yelp, and lay back more carefully.
“Yes, well, I’m not surprised, you know. Did you look, afterward, at what you did to those poor chains?” She held out an exasperated hand. Curious as to her strength, he grasped her hand and wrist with both hands. She leaned back like a sailor hauling on a rope, and he wallowed up.
As they made their way out under the portico into the autumn sun, Ingrey asked, “And what guidance did you receive for all your prayers, lady?”
She bit her lip. “None. Though my thoughts are less disordered, so a little quiet meditation did that much good at least.” Her sideways glance at him was enigmatic. “Somewhat less disordered. It’s just that… I can’t help thinking about…”
He made an encouraging noise of inquiry.
She burst out, “I still can’t believe that Hallana married Oswin!”
THEY FOUND IJADA’S WARDEN IN THE TAPROOM OF HER INN. SHE was sitting in the corner with Rider Gesca, their heads bent together, tankards and a platter with bread crumbs, cheese rinds, and apple cores on the table between them. The walk up the warm street had loosened Ingrey’s stiff muscles a trifle, and he fancied he strolled rather than limped over to them. They looked up, and their talk ceased.
“Gesca.” Ingrey nodded toward the platter, reminded that he had not eaten yet. “How is the food, down here?”
“The cheese is excellent. Stay away from the beer, though—it’s gone sour.”
Ijada’s eyes widened, but she forbore comment.
“Ah. Thank you for the warning.” He leaned over and nabbed the last bread crust. “And what have you two been finding to talk about?”
The warden looked frightened, but Gesca, with a hint of challenge, merely said, “I’ve been telling Ingrey stories.”
“Ingrey stories?” Ijada said. “Are there many?”
Ingrey controlled a grimace.
Gesca, grinning at the encouragement, said, “I was just telling the tale of how Hetwar’s train was attacked by those bandits in the forest of Aldenna, on the way home from Darthaca, and how you won your place in his household. It was my good word in the sealmaster’s ear that did it, after all.”
“Was it?” said Ingrey, trying to decide if Gesca was gabbling nervously or not. And if so, why.
“We were a large party,” Gesca continued to the women, “and well armed, but this was a troop of outlaws who had fled to the forest and grown to over two hundred men, mostly by the addition of discharged soldiers and vagabonds and runaways. They were the plague of the country round about, and we likely looked rich enough that they dared to try us. I was right behind Ingrey in the van when they fell on us. They realized their mistake soon enough. Astonishing swordplay.”
“I’m not that good,” said Ingrey. “They were bad.”
“I didn’t say good, I said astonishing. I’ve seen swordmasters, and you’re not, nor am I. But those bastard moves of yours—they should not have worked, but… When it became apparent that no one would best you if you had room to swing your steel, one bear of a fellow closed on you in a grapple. I was maybe fifteen feet away at the time, and I had my own troubles, but still—you tossed your sword in the air, grabbed the fellow’s head, snapped his neck, caught the sword descending, and turned and beheaded the bandit coming up behind you. One continuous move.”
Ingrey had no memory of the moment, though he recalled the attack, of course. The beginning and the end of it, anyway. “Gesca, you are making up tales to swagger with.” Gesca was near a decade older than Ingrey; perhaps the staid middle-aged warden seemed a less unlikely object for dalliance to him.
“Ha. If I were making up grand lies for swagger, I’d tell them on myself. At that point, the rest turned and ran. You hewed down the slowest…” Gesca trailed off, not completing the story. Ingrey suddenly guessed why. He had come back to himself while methodically dispatching the wounded. Red to the elbows, the blood smell overpowering. Gesca, face appalled, gripping him by the shoulders and crying, Ingrey! Father’s tears, man, save some for hanging! He had…not exactly forgotten that. He had merely refrained from revisiting the memory.
Gesca covered his hesitation by taking a swig of beer, evidently remembered its taste too late, and swallowed anyway. He made a face and wiped his lips. “It was at that point that I recommended to Hetwar that he make your place permanent. My thinking was purely selfish. I wanted to make sure that you never ended up on the opposite side to me in a fight.” Gesca smiled up at him, but not with his eyes.
Ingrey’s return smile was equally austere. Subtlety, Gesca? How unlike you. What are you trying to say to me?
The ache from his head blow day before yesterday was returning. Ingrey decided to repair to his own inn to find food. He bade the warden to her duty, instructing the women to lock their chamber door once more, and withdrew.
CHAPTER SEVEN
AFTER FORAGING A MEAL OF SORTS IN HIS INN’S COMMON room, Ingrey returned to his chamber to fall across his bed once more. He was a day and a half late fulfilling the Reedmere dedicat’s prescription of rest for his aching head blow, and he apologized humbly in his heart to her. But for all his exhaustion, in the warming afternoon, sleep would not come.
It was no good dashing about arranging all in secret for Ijada’s midnight escape if she refused to mount and ride away. She must be persuaded. If her secret beast was discovered, would they burn her? He imagined the flames licking up around her taut body, evil orange caresses, igniting the oil-soaked shift such prisoners were dressed in to speed their agony. He visualized her swinging from a hemp rope and oak beam, in vicious, senseless parody of an Old Wealding sacrifice hanged from a sacred forest tree. Or would the royal executioners allow her a silk rope, like her leopard, in honor of her kin rank? Though the old tribes, lacking silk, had used rope woven from shimmering nettle flax for their highest born, he had heard. Think of something else. But his thoughts circled in dreary morbidity.
They had begun as messengers to the gods, those w
illing human sacrifices of the Old Weald. Sacred couriers to carry prayers directly to heaven in unholy hours of great need, when all mere spoken words, or prayers of the heart or hands, seemed to fly up into the void and vanish into a vast silence. Like mine, now. But then, under the generations-long pressure from the eastern borders, the tribes’ needs had grown, and so had their fears. Battles and ground were lost; woes waxed and judgment slipped; quality gave way to quantity, in the desperate days, and heroic holy volunteers grew harder to find.
Their ranks were filled by the less willing, then the unwilling; at the last, captured soldiers, hostages, kidnapped camp followers, worse. The sacred trees bore a bumper crop. Children, Ingrey had heard, in some of the Quintarian divines’ favorite gruesome martyr tales. Enemy children. And what benighted mind places the name of enemy on a bewildered child? At the very least, the Old Wealding tribal mages might have reflected on what prayers that river of sacrifice had really borne to the gods, in their victims’ weeping hearts.
Think of something useful, curse it. Ijada’s tart words in the temple seemed to bore into his skin like biting insects. You won’t have to stand up to anybody, nor speak dangerous truths… Five gods, what power did the fool girl imagine he had in Easthome? He himself lived on sufferance, under Hetwar’s shielding hand. Ingrey lent that hand a palpable force, yes, but so did the rest of Hetwar’s household troops; lent, perhaps, a more unique and subtly useful air of uncanny threat, but in the sealmaster’s web of authority he was surely a minor strand. Ingrey had never distributed favors, and so now had none to call in. If he had any chances at all to rescue or redeem Ijada, they would end when the cortege entered the city gates.
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