Angelaeon Circle 2 - Eye of the Sword (20 page)

“Perhaps Marco escaped,” said Trevin.

Catellus shook his head. “When I asked about Marco, Varic told me the boy is fine—and will be as long as I serve him. Otherwise, I’ll not see Marco again. Not alive.”

The king clenched his fists and stood nose to nose with Catellus. “So you stood by while my son was murdered? You forfeited the life of my son for yours?”

Catellus held up his hands and backed into the wall. “I lied. I swear. I was nowhere near. Varic ordered me to stay at the campsite. When he came galloping back, he sent me to the court at Flauren and told me what to say. I didn’t know the truth of the matter. I swear by the Most High.”

King Kedemeth shook his fist in Catellus’s face, hissing, “Spineless.” Red-faced and obviously working to restrain his fist from pounding Catellus, the king turned to Trevin. “This comain has dishonored his office, his king, and his country, and he has direly offended me. But since he is Camrithian, I shall allow you to decide his fate.”

Trevin stepped back, stunned. Death? Flogging? Banishment? Surely the decision was too weighty for a comain to make, even if he was Arelin’s son. “Can his case go before the council?”

“If that’s your decision.” King Kedemeth glared down his nose at Catellus.

Trevin studied the burly comain and saw the only honest path he could take. “I served the enemies of Camrithia for a time,” he said, “because Lord
Rejius threatened to harm my brother if I didn’t comply with his orders. But I’ve been given a chance to make up for it, and I can give you the same, Catellus. I’d like to see you make reparations.”

The king’s eyebrows rose. “How exactly would he do that?”

“He would help me find the rest of the comains, free them if they’re alive, pursue their murderers if they’re dead.”

“Fair,” said the king, “if Catellus can be trusted.”

“He might say the same of me,” said Trevin.

Catellus knelt. “I’ll make amends as best I can. I’d like nothing better than to see Varic and his friends get their due.”

King Kedemeth glared at Catellus. “See that it happens.” He strode to the cell door. “I hope you find your son,” he growled as he stomped out.

Trevin feared his decision had offended the king. He started to follow him out, then turned to Catellus. “Did you know your shield was found abandoned?”

Catellus bowed his head. “Aye,” he said. “I fear the worst.”

Astride a gelding gifted him by Haden, Trevin raced Pym and his roan across the plain toward the foothills and Ledge Rock, reveling in the freedom of the ride. At the base of the granite hill, they dismounted and staked their horses.

Trevin led the climb to the ledge that looked toward the hilly horizon, where a golden shimmer brightened the sky momentarily, then faded.

“That’s the veil,” said Trevin.

“What is?” asked Pym.

Trevin tried to explain it.

“Might be like the ladder,” said Pym. “Clear as air to you, clear as mud to me.”

“Do you hear the hum?” asked Trevin.

“That I hear.” Pym angled his head. “I’d say the sound is behind us.”

Trevin looked uphill. A dark smudge streaked the ledge where he and Haden had killed the wolf dog. Beyond, atop the hill, stood a grove of trees. “Touching the sky,” he murmured.

He concentrated on the hum. When the breeze gusted, it grew louder. When the wind calmed and the tree branches stilled, so did the hum. He sprinted uphill.

The hum was now a clear melodic strain accompanied by a burbling sound. As the breeze nudged the treetops, Trevin followed the lonesome melody to a sweet-sap. Each branch cradled a bevy of doves, their coos rippling like water in a brook.

Then the ground trembled, and the doves rose from the tree, quibbling.

“The horses are spooked,” shouted Pym, scrambling downhill to secure them.

One shall shake
, thought Trevin. He unsheathed the Seer’s Sword and thrust it out at an angle to reflect the tree. It took him a moment to see the mirror image of what he was looking for, but when he found it, he whooped. Nestled in the treetop was a harp. Only the wind strummed its strings.

But as the melody grew, so did the undercurrent in the ground. Trevin looked back at Pym, who held the horses’ reins with all his might, trying to soothe them. Trevin set his sword and scabbard aside and climbed into the quivering tree. Branches lashed at him. Twigs snagged his hair. Leaves whipped his face.

“Hold back, you unruly winds!” Trevin yelled.

Hold faaaaast
, came Windweaver’s reply.
I plaaaaay for yooooou
.

“I see the harp,” Trevin called. “You can stop playing.”

The mournful melody continued.

Clinging to the trembling limbs, Trevin gradually gained height, but the higher he climbed, the more wildly the branches tossed. At last he reached the base of the harp. But as he locked his legs around the shuddering trunk and tried to dislodge the harp, the tree lurched with a loud crack and tipped sideways. Trevin wrapped his arms around the harp, clamping the strings to silence them.

“Peace!” he yelled as the tree tilted. “Peace!”

The wind calmed to a breeze, and the ground stopped shaking, leaving the tree bent at a steep angle.

You seeeee the harp’s miiiiight. Uuuuuse it wiiiiisely
.

“I will,” Trevin muttered at the sky, although he suspected Windweaver
had moved on and was already striding the cliffs of the Dregmoors. He flexed his fingers and carefully pried the harp from its resting place.

The climb down proved easier than the ascent. Branches seemed to pull themselves out of the way to allow the harp to pass. When Trevin’s feet touched the ground again, he snatched up his sword and scabbard and made his way back to Pym.

Pym’s eyes were wide. “You stilled the earth!”

“I stilled the harp, but it nearly shook me out of the tree.” Trevin held the harp at arm’s length, admiring the red-brown wood and the dark runes along its back. “I can’t play it for fear of causing a quake.”

“You can play?”

“Somewhat.” Trevin covered the harp with his cloak and secured it to his saddle. “Dwin and I worked with a traveling tent show for a time. The master taught me to play harp and cut pouches. I was more skilled with pouches.”

Trevin mounted his gelding and took one more look at the trees atop Ledge Rock. Now that Windweaver’s lead had taken him to the harp, Trevin suspected the Archon had answered all his questions. He watched doves flock back to the leaning sweet-sap as he pondered walking the wind.

The answers hit him like thunderlight. He crowed, “Pym! I see!” and took off at full gallop toward Flauren.

revin dismounted and waited at the city gate until Pym caught up with him. An official-looking group of men inspected the outer walls. Merchants and laborers paced in and out through the arched gateway, buzzing with talk about the earthquake.

Pym rode up and dropped from the back of his roan. “You rode like a madman,” he huffed. “What did you see? Were ghouls after us, or were you intent on leaving me behind again?”

“I figured out Windweaver’s answers,” said Trevin as they walked their horses through the bustle of foot traffic.

“Windweaver?” asked Pym.

“Windweaver is the Oracle.”

“I should have known. All that blustering at Windsweep.”

“I walked the wind with him,” Trevin began to explain.

Pym held up a hand. “It’s beyond my ken. Just tell me what he said.”

“As he left Ledge Rock, he said that one harp ‘touches skies.’ Ledge Rock is where we found the harp. Then he said, ‘One sleeps again in stone’ as we were headed to the Dregmoors, a land of stone mountains and caves. Which is exactly where Jarrod suspects Lord Rejius took the stolen harp.”

“What about the missing comains?”

“We spoke of them as we stood on the parapets of Alta-Qan. It makes sense. Catellus said the messages to the comains summoned them to Qanreef.”

“I searched Qanreef high and low,” said Pym. “Could the comains have been shipped as slaves to the southern isles?”

“We’ll go to Qanreef and find out.”

Pym grinned. “When do we leave?”

Trevin wanted to say tomorrow, but as they walked past the black-draped shops, he knew it wasn’t possible. “As soon as the days of mourning are over,” he said.

“Thirteen more days,” Pym groaned.

“Thirteen more long days,” said Trevin.

Trevin expected King Kedemeth to call for him that evening to ask about the journey to Ledge Rock. But the maid who served supper said the king and queen would be sequestered for a day or two with a visitor who had come to pay respects in the wake of Prince Resarian’s death. That night Trevin made sure the harp was securely covered and locked in a chest at the foot of his bed.

The next morning, with little to occupy himself, Trevin took his new sword to the training yard. His muscles needed the workout, and Arelin’s sword had a different heft. The blade was wider, the feel of the handle still unfamiliar to his hand.

Trevin went through the motions of simple passes, but he had to keep stopping to wipe away tears. He had not swung a blade since Resarian’s death, and he couldn’t help reliving the incident. He realized that while weak muscles and a new sword were good reasons for working out, the driving force behind it was guilt. His mistakes in the canyon had cost Resarian his life. He couldn’t undo his errors, but he could practice until the right moves came by instinct.

Advance. Retreat. Cut to the shoulder. Cut to the legs.

Trevin sensed a presence, sunset red. The warrior woman. He gritted his teeth and put more power into his swings.

Diagonal to the right. Diagonal to the left.

“Breathe,” said a husky female voice.

“I am,” he muttered through his teeth. Advance. Thrust.

“Let the sword lead,” she said.

Trevin growled and whirled to face her. If he hadn’t already been catching his breath, he would have done so at the sight of her winsome smile, her flowing brown hair, and her garb. She wore a tunic and leggings.

“I thought you might like a sparring partner, hmm?” She tied back her hair.

Normally Trevin would have welcomed a partner. But the warrior woman? He huffed. “Don’t you have guard duties?”

“The king and queen are together and going nowhere. The king has guards enough. I’m available.” She drew her sword and nodded at his. “You were born to it.”

Trevin shook his head. “No doubt you were. But I wasn’t. I was taught by second-rate masters in a traveling tent show.”

Her laugh was warm and throaty. “It has nothing to do with your birth or who trained you. It’s what you tell yourself as you fight.
I was born to this
.” She took a fighting stance.

Trevin positioned himself. A woman. He would never have believed it. Swordplay with a woman.

“Focus,” she said. “You are a blade with an alert mind and agile legs.”

And with that, they began the most strenuous workout Trevin had ever experienced.

“Balance!” she snapped. “Control!” she cried. “Evade—body first!” she shouted. “You were born to it!”

By the time they finished, Trevin’s sword arm ached, and his legs were sore, but he knew his sword better. He knew his own weaknesses better. And he knew his strengths.