Betrayal (23 page)

She stood and walked slowly to the edge of the orchard. A long, high wall ran well into the distance, as far as her eye could see, down the length of the orchard and beyond. It was built from the same pinkish stone and she presumed it must enclose the Academie.

Sorrel had not divulged much about the Academie; probably because Alyssa had not shown much interest. All she cared was that it provided the haven Sorrel had promised. There was the question of taking the archalyt disc. The way Alyssa felt today
she could do it, even though it meant giving up all hope of a man. There was only one man for her and he was no longer in her life. She loved the idea of the chance to study, to learn more about her abilities. Sorrel said there was a fine and expansive library at the Academie with archives of ancient parchments and books. That excited Alyssa. She could lose herself there and hopefully bury Tor’s memory amongst the dusty tomes.

Looking along the line of pink stone, Alyssa worked out that she could save herself a longer walk if she cut across the meadow and climbed the wall. Had she waited long enough yet? No. She had to keep her promise to Saxon. To pass a few more minutes, she climbed a nearby pear tree and began selecting fruit. If she had not withdrawn into herself so much, enjoying the peaceful surrounds and even begun humming absent-mindedly, she might have caught the sound of distant horses.

Putting three pears into various pockets she set off, happy that she had given Saxon long enough to check all was safe. What was he afraid of? Goth was dead. He had been her only threat, surely? Alyssa refused to spook herself any further. She dismissed her own fears and strode on for half a mile towards the part of the wall which was relatively near to the roadside.

There was a huge tree on the orchard side. That would do perfectly to scale the wall. Sorrel would be furious with her for such an entrance. As she reached the wall, she could hear men’s voices. She assumed
they must be men from the village or perhaps orchard workers. Lifting the cotton skirt which Sorrel had insisted she wear, she began to climb the tree. It was easy. Just like the old days at home with Tor.

Alyssa found herself in unbearably happy spirits. This was a new beginning for her and Sorrel. Finally a place to settle down and she had Saxon with her still. Hopefully he might be permitted to live close by or work for the Academie. She felt carefree for the first time in ages and almost released from Tor’s pull. He flitted through her mind less often now and the pain had dulled to a hard, shiny stone—as she liked to think of it—in her heart. She had decided some time ago to lock it away and only examine it from time to time. Those times were getting further and further apart; she had even given up her infrequent castings to Tor. All she met anyway was the thick, bleak, disappointing void.

With some effort she hauled herself up onto the top of the high wall. She swayed with dizzy disbelief at the scene below. She was looking into a large courtyard. There were horses and men with purple sashes across their chests—at least ten of them. In one heart-stopping glance she took all this in, including the women who were watching fearfully from the parapet above, on the safe side of the Academie. Sorrel was with them; Alyssa could see her bleak expression.

And there in the centre of the courtyard, forced to his knees, with blood running from various wounds and matting his golden hair, was Saxon. His clothes
were torn as was his beautiful body. The men were beating him with clubs but he refused to fall fully to the ground.

Alyssa’s scream echoed shrilly around the yard. When Saxon dragged his head up to look at her, she saw gaping holes where his striking violet eyes had been; blackish blood flowed wildly down his face.

His lovely voice cut through her terror and into her head.

I know you’re there. Be calm, my girl. Please, please save yourself. Use whatever your powers are now. Kill us all if you have to but save your life.

Then, incredibly, the voice she hated most in the world echoed out across the courtyard, its unnaturally high pitch unmistakable. There he was. Standing to one side and gloating.

‘Ah, there you are, Alyssa. We’ve been waiting for you and amusing ourselves with your friend here. I really took offence at the disrespectful way he looked at me so I poked his horrible eyes out. I wish he had screamed and brought you running but the courageous fuck simply groaned. He’s no fun at all for us. I’m sure you’ll be far better sport.’ He laughed his hideous, girlish laugh.

Alyssa swayed dangerously, hanging onto the overhanging branches. This could not be happening! Goth was dead.

Saxon tried to rise but they clubbed him mercilessly, smashing their weapons down again and again on his back. He made no sound but he also did not rise again.

Saxon, don’t…
she begged him across the link, her tears salty on her lips.
Save your strength, save yourself
.

His voice was barely a whisper.
To the death, my child. I must protect you to the death.

She snarled at him.
I’ll throw myself on his mercy if you move again, I swear it.

Another familiar voice. It was Sorrel screaming her anger at Goth. It bought them some time.

‘Oh fuck me, now it’s the old bitch. I’d hoped you’d burned in Fragglesham, you old whore. Why won’t any of you die when I want you to?’

The Inquisitors laughed. Goth was enjoying himself hugely. His prey was completely cornered: she had nowhere to escape to and no way of getting inside Sanctuary, the one place where his influence had no jurisdiction.

The Academie at Caremboche was an untouchable place, protected by the King and ancient decrees, surrounded by mystery. Even Goth would not risk flaunting the law of Caremboche. But then he did not have to. Alyssa was trapped outside while her stupid, screeching grandmother was inside and her beefy, broken friend was at his feet. He would have her within the next few minutes but, for now, this was high fun and a lovely part of his payback for the hideous maiming he had endured that night. He would visit full revenge on her later.

Impossible though it seemed, at that moment Milt and Oris turned into the courtyard. Alyssa guessed
they must have stolen a cart after all, in order to follow them. Light knew, she understood why: Saxon was their father to all intents and purposes and they had obviously refused to allow him to leave them.

Their lovely smiles died as they saw the scene before them and they shrank back in fear. Alyssa yelled for them to run. But, frozen at the sight of the humbled, bleeding Saxon, they clung to each other, not knowing whether to flee or just stand there.

‘Milt, go!’ Alyssa screamed again through her own tears.

Saxon called weakly into her head, the pain obvious in his voice.
The boys are here?
His face reflexively turned towards the entrance to the courtyard.

Fools! Yes, they’re here.

Saxon’s voice was ragged with the effort of holding the link.
Alyssa. Listen to me now. There’s only a few seconds. Climb as high as you possibly can in that tree.

What are you talking about?
she shrieked. She could see Goth waving his horsewhip towards the boys, giving his second-in-command an order.

With huge effort Saxon yelled into her mind.
Climb now, damn you, Alyssa!

With what was surely his final reserve of spirit he yelled out to the boys: ‘Flight! You must perform Flight, boys. Do it now, my lovely sons. Make it perfect.’

Alyssa screamed with fear and despair. She knew what Saxon was going to make them do. And she knew it was her only hope but, in saving herself,
those men below her whom she loved would probably die. But there was no more time to think; she scrambled higher and higher in the tree. She saw the boys following Saxon’s orders; they linked their arms and walked into the centre of the yard.

‘What the fuck are these halfwits doing now?’ asked Goth.

As he spoke, the Academie gates burst open and out thundered Kythay, snorting, squealing and kicking madly. He laid out four of Goth’s men before they had realised what was happening; the others scattered, Goth included.

Saxon linked again.
Now, Alyssa, fly. Fly for me, girl. Don’t let me fail again.

Alyssa let go of all her thoughts, closed her eyes, felt the Green gathering around her and leapt. She pushed out with her powers and, like a ruptured fountain, they spewed magic and she flew, dropping and tumbling towards Milt and Oris who were waiting. It seemed an eternity. While Kythay terrified the Inquisitors and Goth screamed his disbelief, Alyssa landed on the boys’ braced arms which acted like a spring. They tossed her up towards the parapet and her powers lifted her impossibly high in the air, spinning like a top. She finally landed into the strong grip of Sorrel and other women around her.

Alyssa had never felt such combined fear and power before. The impact knocked her almost unconscious; she lay in the safety of Sanctuary, pear juice oozing through her garments like blood.

In the panicked seconds which followed, Kythay miraculously found his way back through the gates, which were slammed shut behind him.

The boys, as if coming out of a dream, began to laugh as they realised what they had done and how high Alyssa had flown. Sorrel watched, sickened, as Goth’s fury turned wild. He picked up a club and bashed Saxon until he lay prone in the dust of the courtyard. He was bleeding, it seemed, from every inch of his broken body. When he offered no more resistance, Goth turned to the boys.

On his hysterical command, arrows were loosed into their slim bodies. Milt was slayed by four and Oris took three. They collapsed against one another, their arms still braced together, the barest smile of wonderment at their achievement still evident on each face.

Goth screamed up at the parapet. He sounded deranged.

‘I am a patient man, Alyssa!’

She did not hear him. She had disappeared into the Green and fled to its darkest spot to hide.

The girl played with the thong which held his breeches on his hips and pouted.

‘Why so soon?’

Tor kissed her softly. ‘I am expected back at the Palace for my duties.’

‘You have duties here, physic.’ She pouted even more.

‘Cassandra, I’m ashamed for you.’

He continued to fasten the black glass buttons of his white collarless shirt which marked him as a man of medicine. Cassandra continued with her attempts to undo them just as quickly.

‘Now stop!’ His voice crackled with humour. ‘I’ll see you again soon but I must away now, my sweet lady.’

Tor twisted away and looked around the room for any stray belongings which might have got cast into
some corner during the evening’s pleasures. He spied his black jerkin.

Cassandra’s voice had hit a whine. ‘You always say that. Yet I must wait and wait and queue behind Dorothea or Shally, and Betsy even told me you made a promise to Sissy Beaton. I’ll kill you if you lay with Sissy!’

Tor laughed. He found his hat, pecked her cheek and squeezed her young breast gently. ‘Just remember, Cassy. I love you best of all.’

She picked up a cushion and hurled it towards the door as he opened it.

‘You are irresistible, you know.’ With a parting wink, he closed the door and took the stairs two at a time.

Girls in various stages of undress called their farewells, most reminding him it was their turn when he was next in the city for a night of fun. Tor stepped from Madame Grace’s brothel and winced at the sharp daylight. A large falcon landed soundlessly on his shoulder. No one reacted. All were used to seeing Tor and his majestic bird.

The falcon preened its feathers and linked with him.
Carousing with the ladies is your business but being late for your Palace rounds will raise Merkhud’s blood to boiling.
The bird stopped just short of clicking its tongue with exasperation.

Tor’s success with women was well known in Palace circles; in fact he was something of a mascot for the King’s Guard. Tor did not mind this reputation one bit. Ever since that night with Eryn he
had derived immense pleasure from the company of women. He was a generous and considerate lover and the girls at the brothel, like Cassandra, often felt jealous if he did not spend his whole evening with them. His manners and gentle ways enamoured them of him quickly; it almost did not matter that he had matured into an extraordinarily good-looking man. For the working girls, this was a bonus.

Tor’s dark, thick hair was now worn longer. Whilst his face had hardened and thinned to make him a handsome man, it was his eyes which caused most comment. They were a remarkable blue, their brilliance often unnerving for those meeting his gaze for the first time. Not intimidating though. Tor’s smile lurked within his eyes constantly and his hearty laugh was infectious.

The last few years had seen him mature into a confident man. Those blue eyes no longer looked awkwardly down. Now he held his head high. Years of training with the Guard under Cyrus had developed his muscles and bulk and now Tor had the body to match his great height.

He absorbed his training under Merkhud with the greatest of ease and Tor’s ability as a healer was unrivalled. Now he was the first to be called to any ailing courtier and remained on permanent duty to the King and Queen. He deferred only to Merkhud, who quietly recognised that the young man’s skills often surpassed his own these days. People said he had taught his apprentice well. Merkhud knew better. He had hardly taught him anything. Tor had
developed his own talent and his audacious use of the power continued to trouble the old man, who fretted constantly at the threat of discovery.

The falcon, Cloot, was talking but Tor’s thoughts had fled elsewhere that bright morning. He was thinking of Alyssa and wondering what she would make of his success. Tor had never stopped believing that one day he might find her again. For all the women who loved him and for all the women with whom he found his frequent pleasures, none could match Alyssa.

He found himself in a pensive mood as his friend lectured him about responsibility on the way back to the Palace.

Tor was consumed by an unrest which had been creeping up on him since Newleaf. He had pushed it to one side, reassuring himself that his life was enviable and that he should not pursue these other nagging concerns. His good sense rarely prevailed in this contest though.

He interrupted the bird.
Cloot, has it ever occurred to you that people must think we’re strange? Me walking around with a mad bird balancing by my ear?

Cloot blinked.
No. Never. I think I make you look rather dashing. In fact it’s probably because of me that all these women fall at your feet. I make you look a little dangerous…certainly romantic.

Tor grimaced.
I’m being serious.

Cloot knew precisely what Tor meant.

I’ve promised that I will tell you if Lys comes to me again but she has been quiet these past five years.
Since coming to the Palace I have not dreamed of her at all. If she still has tasks for me I’m yet to hear them.

Tor strode on, his long legs making easy passage of the distance from the brothel to the more salubrious part of the city. He acknowledged almost all those he passed with a wave, a nod, a smile. His real attention, though, was elsewhere.

But what does she have in mind for me, do you think?
His tone echoed the frustration gnawing at him.

Cloot scolded gently.
Most people can only dream of the privileges you now take for granted. Forgetting the comforts you enjoy, every man likes you, every woman falls in love with you…I think even our Queen is a little smitten. You have a craft to practise and you are not just good at it, you are the best. You have nothing to want for!

Tor’s frustration bubbled over.
Except an explanation for Lys, for you, for this insane power and for Alyssa. Where is she? Why can’t I reach her like I used to? Am I supposed to just forget her? Is that all part of the plan?
he slammed into Cloot.

Aha and so now we have it. I thought we had laid this to rest, boy. You chose your way and Alyssa chose hers. It’s been five summers since you left Flat Meadows; don’t you think that if she wanted you she would have answered you? Written perhaps? Sent word through another? Why do you chew old gristle?

Tor took a moment to consider Cloot’s answer and to calm down. He lifted his hand to wave to a mother and her son on the other side of the street. He had saved the child’s life not long ago from the green
fever. No one had ever heard of anyone recovering from the condition; it had caused quite a stir at the time. Railing against everything Merkhud had instructed, Tor had used his powers rather than his now extensive knowledge of herbcraft and medicine, but then he had already known no herb could save the child.

Whilst the cityfolk claimed a miracle had visited the household, Merkhud had seethed for days before he could even look at Tor. When he had finally confronted him, Tor was glad the West Tower of the Palace was so isolated since he felt sure Merkhud’s fury could have been heard even in the East Tower. Merkhud had spat out his rage, berating his apprentice for ignoring his order to never, ever make use of his magical powers during his duties as physic.

Tor had surprised his mentor by meeting the fury with calm but deliberate resistance and the claim that he would use his powers as he pleased. Something then had broken between them. Tor knew at that moment he needed to be free from the stifling control Merkhud held over him and begin to lead his own life as he chose.

He did not fear Inquisitor Goth or discovery and he refused to accept that his powers should not be used to aid people in need. What else use were they? And then there was Cloot. He had learned to accept his friend in the guise of a bird but who would ever believe such a tale? Who would believe that the magisterial falcon had once been a crippled freak of a man?

He sighed. Cyrus would believe it. They had never discussed the episode of his rescue from the Heartwood, yet from that moment Cyrus had become an ally at the Palace.

He made Tor take up sword lessons and the fighting arts, in which he relentlessly drilled the King’s Guard daily. Though Light knew why, Tor often thought, for he needed no weapons. His powers were more than equal to any aggressor. Cyrus also taught him about fine wine, everything he knew about women and about loyalty and respect to Lorys. Tor knew the Prime had become something of a big brother to him but it had occurred with such subtlety and over so many years that he had barely noticed until now how close he was to the King’s Man.

Cyrus had accepted the falcon from the day Tor and Cloot had turned up in the forest and saved him from an ugly death. He had even lied to the King for him. Why?

And who was Lys? Why had she sent Cloot to him? What was she protecting Tor from? These questions circulated in his mind endlessly. This was not the first nor the last time he would taste them on his tongue.

Cloot had not said anything. Tor knew he had still to answer his question.

Because, Cloot, I love her. Looking back I could almost believe Merkhud took me away from her. I can’t even feel her presence any longer.
Tor reached up and stroked the bird’s head.
I want to find her
.

He heard Cloot sigh.

And I want to leave here for a while and find out what my life is meant to achieve. I want to speak to Lys, I want the Heartwood to talk to me again and I want to eat one of Goody Batt’s pastries!

Cloot chuckled at his friend’s attempt to lighten the moment. But both of them knew there was nothing light about this decision.

Tor walked alone through the cool corridors of the Palace, musing on his outburst to Cloot and his extraordinary decision. He did not feel like work today. It would be the usual offering of sores, sparring injuries, sprains and toothaches which afflicted the Palace’s population on a regular basis.

From around a bend in the corridor, a young lad with straw-coloured hair and freckles came charging up to him. He burst in on Tor’s thoughts of bunions and the very choice carbuncle on Peggy Weltsit’s neck which might be ripe enough for him to deal with today.

‘Physic Tor!’ The boy’s face was pale. He was shouting. His breathing was hard and he had obviously been on the move for a while.

‘Whoa, young Peagon. What’s the hurry?’ He bent down to look Peagon in the eye. Tor surprised himself sometimes at how tall he had become.

‘Please, sir, we’ve been looking for you. It’s the Queen, sir.’

Tor continued to be surprised that anyone would
think to call him sir. He frowned. The Queen had been well when he saw her yesterday.

He cocked his head to one side. ‘She’s ill?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Bad?’

Peagon took a big pull of air. ‘Yes, sir. I believe very bad…er, sir.’

‘Quick, lad. Is she in her rooms?’

He caught the nod of the boy’s head and then lengthened his stride into a run, leaving the panting page well behind. Tor knew his way to her majesty’s apartments. He could have found them blindfolded, or walking backwards, from any part of the Palace. His long legs took the stairs into the East Wing three at a time. He did not bother with the courtesies of being announced. The guards knew him anyway and stepped aside briskly when they saw who was thundering up the stone stairwell. He could almost smell their relief at seeing him.

Inside, he strode past two ladies-in-waiting, their faces pinched. They registered shock at his impolite arrival in their Queen’s rooms but the look on his face was sufficient not to be argued with. One of them pointed a manicured finger towards the bedroom.

Tor pushed through the doors and his eyes went straight to the Queen. She looked serene as always but as pale as he could ever remember; even her lips were as colourless as the cream silk nightgown she wore.

Nyria was propped against pillows in her large gilded bed. Her eyes were closed. King Lorys, still in his riding clothes, was struggling with her
embroidered bed canopy. His broad shoulders and the confined space in which he stood seemed at odds. It would have looked comical if not for the stricken, ghostly expression on his face.

Tor could tell immediately the Queen was fatally ill. He needed no magical powers to know this. Around her were crowded other high-ranking courtiers and Chief Inquisitor Goth. No doubt here in his laughable role as the Palace priest, Tor thought. The Inquisitor privately hated the Queen but publicly went to great lengths to be as obsequious as possible to her. Tor was not fooled and neither was Nyria. Goth was certainly not here to wish her a speedy recovery.

Tor picked out Cyrus who was muttering in a low voice to the King. Lorys nodded and Cyrus withdrew to the back of the room.

Standing by the large picture window, which overlooked the surrounding valley in which the capital sat, was Merkhud. The old man stared out over the lush hills of the beautiful Southern Downs. His normally erect shoulders were hunched today. He must have sensed rather than heard Tor’s arrival. He looked up and Tor saw he was chewing his lip. It was something the old man did when he was angry or distressed…or both.

Lorys broke the thick silence. ‘Tor, lad. You’re our last…’ The King choked on whatever else he was going to say.

Merkhud stepped quickly back to the bedside and whispered something to Lorys. The King coughed lightly.

‘Yes, of course. Gentlemen, please. Let’s allow our healers here to have some peace and space for their ministrations.’

The King motioned towards the reception room but Cyrus was already at the door herding people out.

‘We’ll be outside,’ the King said and shot a look at Merkhud who nodded.

The Queen had not opened her eyes in this time and her breathing was shallow.

The others moved to follow Lorys but not before Goth could level one of his sneers at Tor. Their mutual hate was rarely disguised by either of them.

‘Quick as you can, Inquisitor.’ Tor couldn’t help but needle him. He saw Cyrus lift an eyebrow which said plenty.