Angelaeon Circle 2 - Eye of the Sword (31 page)

The door shut, the bolt clanked, and the draks moaned. Trevin had never heard such a sound from draks. It curdled his stomach to think that perhaps only a week before, maybe even a day before, they had been fully human. When he had worked with draks at Redcliff, he had avoided asking how the transformation happened. Was it painful? How long before the drak-makers came for him? Who would he home to?

His hand flew to his harp pendant, then to the heart-shaped ruby tucked in his waist sash. Draks usually homed to someone who held a treasured
possession of the soul within the bird’s body. He drew out the pendant. Where could he hide it? Maybe he could toss it into the back corner of the room. Or even slide it under the straw in the cage.

But he couldn’t bear to part with the pendant or the ruby heart. As he clutched the small harp, he realized he wanted to home to the treasures. It didn’t matter who held them. They might be his only path to memories of Melaia.

The room dimmed as the sun angled away from the holes in the ceiling. All the old accusations pressed in.
Thief. Deceiver. Turncoat
. And the one crime he had kept at bay that now refused to be ignored.

He eyed the old drak. A bird was a poor confessor, but Trevin yearned to come completely clean before his voice turned into a squawk.

“I ask forgiveness.” His throat tightened. “I was the spy who told Lord Rejius where Dreia’s caravan was. It’s my fault she was murdered.”

The drak merely blinked at him and stayed aloof.

Chilled to the bone, Trevin rubbed his arms, leaned his head back against the bars, and tried not to retch at the stench around him. Soon he would receive his well-deserved punishment.

hortly after a shaft of sunlight shot through the holes in the roof of the aerie, the two malevolents dragged Trevin from the drak cage and bound his hands behind him. With Grigor leading, Orvis following, Trevin trudged down a dim corridor that ended in darkness.

He concentrated on the last steps his feet would take, tried to inhale a deep breath, one of the last his human chest would feel. By this time tomorrow how would he think? What would he remember? In Flauren, Pym had told him to stride to his death tall and confident. But this was worse than death. Sweat trickled into Trevin’s eyes, and he blinked back the sting.

A maid carrying a basket on her head entered from a side hall in front of Grigor and swayed down the corridor ahead. Trevin thought of Melaia, and his throat thickened.

“Out of our way,” snapped Grigor.

The maid picked up her pace but tripped, spilling her basket. Spindles and balls of yarn rolled across the floor.

As Grigor shoved the woman aside, a hooded figure in a brown cloak leaped from the side hall and plunged a dagger into him. At the same time, Trevin heard Orvis grunt. He turned to see the wide-eyed malevolent on the floor, blood pooling around him, his attacker gone.

The cloaked man helped the young woman stuff the yarn and spindles back into her basket. Then she scurried off one way as the man tugged Trevin the other direction.

They dashed through a maze of hallways. Then the man pulled Trevin into an alcove and cut through the rope that bound his hands.

Trevin peered into the shadow of the man’s hood. “Benasin!”

Benasin put his finger to his lips. “We’re not out yet.” He thrust the hilt of a dagger into Trevin’s hands and motioned for him to follow.

They took a descending corridor, which didn’t make sense to Trevin, but he followed. If anyone knew a way out, it was Benasin.

At last the path leveled, and they headed toward light. Benasin ducked into a storage niche. “A short rest,” he panted. “I’ve not used my feet this much in months.”

Trevin dabbed his forehead with his sleeve. Sweat stung the talon scratches. “Why did you come for me?” he asked.

“I ran into the Asp.”

“Why would he be interested in me?”

“Your brother was with him.”

Trevin’s mouth fell open. “Dwin?”

“You didn’t recognize the young woman in the hall?”

“That was Dwin? What about the person behind me—was that the Asp?”

Benasin nodded. “If they’re doing their job, our way out will be clear. For now we should be safe. Guards will expect us to run out, not in.” He took a deep breath. “Rested?” He didn’t wait for an answer.

Together they ran down the hall toward the light, which turned out to be the enormous cavern of statues Trevin had viewed from above. Benasin led him through the statues, staying in the shadows, gliding from figure to figure toward the far side, where Trevin saw several tunnels to choose from.

Again Trevin sensed streams of thought in the air as the statues watched them flee across the floor.

A light flashed in one of the tunnels, and they headed toward it. As they ducked in, a hand grabbed Trevin’s arm and pulled him aside.

“Dwin!” Trevin whispered, embracing his brother. Dwin was taller, thinner—wiry. By the feel of it, he wore a knife tucked into his belt. Trevin tapped it. “So the maid was armed!”

Dwin drew the blade, the thinnest Trevin had ever seen. It reminded him of a needle. “All maids should carry knives, don’t you think?” asked Dwin. He slipped it back in place.

Trevin grinned. “You were convincing dressed as a maid.”

Dwin ran his hand through his black curls. “Don’t laugh. You were almost dressed as a drak.”

“Are we gabbing or getting out of here?” asked Benasin.

“This tunnel is clear,” said Dwin. “Most of the guards have gone to help with the rock slide that blocked the stairway leading to the throne room.”

“Courtesy of the Asp, no doubt,” said Benasin. “Let’s not waste the time he bought us.” He headed through the tunnel.

“Wait!” said Trevin. “I have to get the harp.”

“Don’t be a fool,” said Benasin. “If you’re recaptured, you won’t live the night.”

“Dwin can help. We’ll not get caught.”

Dwin rolled his eyes. “I’m not invincible. Besides, I’m on the way out too. I have reports to make.” He swatted Trevin on the shoulder. “Race you.”

Trevin sighed and dashed after Dwin. The race was not swift, for the tunnel twisted and turned and sloped upward, but at last they stood panting at the mouth of the passage on the cliffs facing the sea.

A heavy fog bank grayed the waves. Over the soft slap of water, Trevin could hear the faint hum of harp strings. A heaviness settled on him as if a net of chains weighted his heart. He had failed.

“The Asp said he arranged for a boat to meet us,” said Dwin.

“They’ll not find us in this fog.” Trevin rubbed his hand. The pain had eased.

Dwin studied the coastline. “They’ll see the fires in the caves.”

“Warning them away,” said Trevin. “If they try to come close, they’ll be dashed on the rocks.”

Benasin squatted and eyed the fog. “Part of the sea smoke is shifting.” He pointed. “Unnaturally. How does it appear to you?”

A swirling mist danced toward the shore and disappeared into the cloud bank. “Seaspinner,” said Trevin. “Do you think she brought the fog?”

“That I don’t know.” Benasin edged out onto the cliff. “But as long as she stays there, she’ll see us climb down. Once we reach the sea, perhaps she’ll help us.”

A ledge sloped across the cliff, providing a narrow but firm toehold. They edged along it as quickly as possible, hugging the mountainside. Near the bottom the fog thinned, revealing a shadowy bulk offshore.

“There’s the boat.” Benasin wobbled over the rocks toward the waves, shedding his cloak. Trevin and Dwin scrambled after him.

Benasin bundled his cloak and was tying it around his waist when a cry came from above.

“Halt!” An arrow slammed into a crack at Trevin’s feet. He fell back against Dwin. They were completely exposed.

The bowman took aim again. An arrow whistled through the air—and hit the bowman full in the chest. He stumbled back into the cave as his bow and arrow rattled down the side of the cliff.

“Ollena.” Trevin grinned.

Dwin tugged at him, and they sloshed into the rocky surf with Benasin.

Wisps of fog fingered the water and shielded them from view as they swam, but within a few strokes, they left the fog behind. A small ship bobbed ahead in the waves with Ollena standing at the prow like a warrior goddess, her bow aimed at the barely visible cliffs.

Catellus waved Trevin to a rope ladder and tugged him in as he reached the top. Dwin followed, then Benasin. They lay on deck, dripping and panting.

Ollena squatted beside Trevin. “Are you all right?” The wind ruffled her long hair.

“You’re amazing,” he said. “You saved our lives, and I’d hug you for it, but I’m soaked with brine.”

Ollena cocked her head. “And I’m soaked with the smell of the fish these sailors catch for meals.”

“You smell of sandalwood,” said Trevin.

“You smell of seaweed,” said Ollena.

He took her hand. “Thanks.”

She slipped her hand from his. “You need dry clothes.”

Under the first star of evening, the ship plowed through the waves, its sail bulging in the wind. Trevin sat on deck, leaning against a coil of rope, his legs stretched out. Benasin dozed to his right. To his left Dwin picked raisins out of a bowl and popped them into his mouth.

Trevin stared at the darkening sky and mulled over Catellus’s report. The Asp had discovered him hobbling toward the river and had taken him to the
ferry with instructions to hire a boat to wait offshore near the fire caves. Ollena met the ferry when it docked and was livid that Trevin had been left behind. She would have entered the Dregmoors then and there if Catellus had not convinced her of the wisdom of the Asp’s plan.

Dwin shoved the bowl toward Trevin.

Trevin shoved it back.

“You hardly ate supper,” said Dwin. “You have to be starving. I wager you got only rancid chunks of raw meat in the drak cages.”

Trevin groaned. “
That
awakens my appetite.”

“You’re on the way to Qanreef, back to a princess,” said Dwin. “You should be cheering. What’s wrong?”

“The stars are aligning.”

Dwin looked askance at him. “Are you sure they didn’t start the drak process on you?”

“The stars of the beltway align in a certain way only once every two hundred years,” said Trevin. “Those stars are reception points for the stairway that’s supposed to connect this earth with heaven.”

“So?” Dwin shoved the bowl back to Trevin.

“So I failed.” Trevin fingered a raisin. “Melaia needs the third harp to restore the Tree, but I’m returning empty handed. I’ve let the Angelaeon down. Dash it, Dwin, I might as well take this boat to the southern isles.”

“Run from your failure?” Benasin stretched. “I’ve been running all my immortal life. I don’t know about you, but it’s time I stopped.”

“You have good reason to run. But me? I’ve been running from myself. From my own guilt.” Trevin tossed the raisin back into the bowl. It had been easier to confess to a drak.

“Don’t blame yourself. Blame me,” said Benasin. “You’ve been swept into my maelstrom. Rejius and Dreia and I are at the center of it. Unfortunately, with Dreia’s death—”

“Dreia’s death is my fault,” blurted Trevin. “Rejius sent out spies, and I was the one who discovered where she was.
I
informed Rejius about the caravan headed south.”

Benasin rose and paced to the side of the ship. For a long time he gazed into the darkness.

Dwin shuffled raisins around the bowl and said nothing.

Trevin rubbed his right hand. The pain was gone, but he would have it back if he could trade it for the pain of his guilt.

Benasin turned to Trevin. “Is that why you serve Melaia? Is that why you support the Angelaeon? To atone for your guilt?”

“Trevin didn’t kill Dreia,” said Dwin. “He was at Redcliff when it happened.”

“But it was my information that sent the malevolents after her,” said Trevin.

“Did you know they intended a massacre?” asked Benasin.

“Does it matter?” asked Trevin. “There were at least a score of people in that caravan, including Dreia. All of them died. Because of me.”

“All of them died because of Rejius,” said Benasin.