Dark Lady's Chosen (15 page)

“Cerise and Alle and I will be fine if you to want take leave until tomorrow morning.”

Macaria nodded, taking Kiara’s intent clearly. “Thank you, m’lady. I would be grateful.” She headed for the door when Kiara called after her.

“Be careful, Macaria. It’s clear we still don’t know all the players in this game.”

“Aye, m’lady. I’ll take care.”

Alone in his room at the Dragon’s Rage Inn, Carroway pushed aside his half-eaten dinner.

The innkeeper, out of long friendship, sent up a full meal. It was plain but filling tavern fare—far better, Carroway knew, than he might hope for had Crevan confined him in a cell beneath Shekerishet. Outside, the winter wind banged against the shutters, howling beneath the eaves. He sipped at his brandy and took up the lute he had laid aside.

Since his confinement, there was little to pass the time except for card games and his music. For the first time since his miserable early days as a fosterling at court long ago, Carroway played until his fingers bled. But the solace he usually found in the music did not come. It was better when Paiva, Halik, Bandele and Tadghe came by. Alone, the time passed slowly.

He hadn’t seen Macaria since the day Crevan had pronounced banishment. Carroway felt her absence most keenly. While he’d accepted the fact that he was in love with Macaria, he knew that as her patron, he couldn’t act on his feelings. The memory of what Lady Nadine had done still hurt too much for him to ever misuse his own power. And yet, he suspected that Macaria actually loved him. He’d been planning to ask Eadoin if she would become Macaria’s patron. Such a change would have removed the barriers, making it acceptable for him to woo Macaria openly. Banishment changed all of that.

Carroway stood as he heard the knob turn. His hand fell to the throwing daggers hidden beneath the sleeve of his tunic, daggers the guards had failed to find in the lining of his trunk when they brought his things from the palace. To his relief, Macaria slipped into the room, gesturing for him to close the shutters as she lowered her cowl. She shook off the snow and stamped her feet.

“It’s a bad night to be about,” Carroway said, knowing his pleasure in seeing her was clear in his face. “But I’ll never turn down the company.” One look at Macaria’s distraught expression,

and he sobered quickly. “What’s wrong?”

He listened intently as Macaria’s story tumbled out. When she finished, Carroway stood, running his hand back through his long hair and pacing in front of the fire. “So I came a hair’s breadth from hanging tonight and didn’t even know it? Please thank Alle for me.”

“I know how close you are to Lady Eadoin. I’m sorry,” Macaria said quietly.

Carroway nodded. “She and Queen Serae took me in when my family died. Eadoin’s been like a grandmother to me. I’ll never forgive Guarov if he was behind something that caused her sickness.”

“We don’t know that,” Macaria said quickly. “And with all that’s happened, there’s been no time to question Crevan. All we do know is that somebody sent linens to Eadoin right before she took sick—and said the linens were from the queen.”

Carroway turned. “Please tell Kiara how sorry I am to have brought this on her.” He swallowed hard. “I swore to Tris that I would lay down my life for him when we fled Jared’s coup. And while I’m fond of living, I would die for Kiara if it’s the only way to clear her honor.”

“She would never ask that!”

Carroway sighed. “As you’ve seen, circumstances may take that decision out of her control.” Macaria left her seat and joined him near the fire, warming her hands at the hearth.

“I hesitate to ask, but is there other news from the palace?”

Macaria nodded. “Tomorrow, we’re taking Kiara to the lodge. She thinks it might be safer there—fewer people, away from court.” She swallowed hard. “It means leaving the city.”

Macaria turned toward him.

“By the time we get back, the king will have returned. Decisions will be made.” Macaria drew a deep breath. “I didn’t want to go away like this. Not without telling you that I love you.”

Carroway caught his breath, silenced for a moment. He spread his hands, palms up. “I have nothing to offer you,” he said, his voice catching. “No patronage. No access to court. My lands and title are worthless. When the king returns, I’ll be a beggar or a corpse.”

Macaria’s gaze was intense, but he could not look away. “Then maybe you’ll finally believe that I never wanted any of those things. You’ve been so noble, keeping your distance. Now I know why. That doesn’t matter to me. I love you, Riordan Carroway, and your music.” Her voice grew quiet. “I always have.”

Carroway reached out to draw her to him, slowly, as if moving might break the spell of the moment. Macaria threw her arms around him, burying her face in his chest, as his fingers smoothed her fine dark hair. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said quietly, pressing his check against the top of her head. “I have no future.”

Macaria pushed back far enough to see his face, and she lifted one hand to touch his cheek. He closed his eyes, relishing the touch. “M’lady gave me leave until the dawn,” she murmured. “We have tonight.”

Carroway’s throat tightened at her words.
It’s what I’ve dreamed of hearing her say. But not
now.
“You don’t know how much that means to me,” he whispered. But he shook his head as she tried to draw him toward the bed. “It’s too dangerous. If they caught us together, you’d lose everything. I can’t let that happen.” He tipped her chin up until she met his eyes.

“I do love you, Macaria. Enough that I won’t see you hurt because of me.” He wiped a tear from her eye with the side of his hand. “There now. At least all’s been said. No more pretending.” He managed a wan smile. “That’s something, I guess.”

“Not enough,” Macaria said, standing up on tiptoe to kiss him. “Not nearly enough.”

“Hold still.”

Cam grimaced as his cellmate tied off the rags he’d wound around Cam’s broken leg to stabilize it. Cam groaned with the effort to sit. “There. It’s the best I can do, given the circumstances, but it might brace that leg a little bit.”

“Thank you. What’s your name?”

“Rhistiart.”

“Well, Rhistiart, I’m sorry you got mixed up in this. It’s not going to go well.”

“I’d figured that much already.”

Only a dim shaft of light came from around the heavy door to their prison. Cam could barely make out Rhistiart’s outline; a hint of dirty blond hair and a thin, finely featured profile. “How did you get mixed up with these guys?”

Rhistiart shrugged and sat back down, fading into the darkness. “I’m a bit down on my luck.

I was the silversmith’s apprentice in the town not far from here. He died suddenly from a fever. I’d been with him for fifteen years; he had no son. But his widow intended to give the shop to her lover, and she drove me out, with a tale that I’d stolen silver. I had nothing. This mill’s been empty all season—the fuller died last winter and he had no kin. It was a roof over my head, and I needed a place to stay.

“Two days ago, your ‘friends’ arrived. I tried to hide, but they found me and threw me in here. I’ve no doubt that they’re brigands. How bad is this trouble that we’re in?”

Although he could not see Rhistiart’s face, Cam smiled at the man’s easy manner and his casual extension of friendship and shared fate.
He could be one of Ruggs’s men, sent as a
plant to get me to talk. On the other hand, there’s nothing to lose. I’m already going to die.

“About as bad as it gets,” Cam replied. “Leather John and his men are divisionists. They mean to topple the king if need be to stop Isencroft and Margolan from joining. Ruggs is even worse.”

“By the Whore! And here I’m thinking you might have Trevved out on a bet.” Rhistiart paused. “Can’t say I’m a fan of seeing Isencroft get mixed up with the Margs. Especially after their

last sorry king, the Demon take his soul.”

“Tris Drayke is a good man: nothing like Jared. He’ll take good care of Kiara—and Isencroft.”

Rhistiart gave a sharp laugh. “Chummy with the royals, aren’t we! And how would you know this?”

Ruggs and Leather John know who I am. There’s hardly a reason to lie.
“Because I know both of them. I’m King Donelan’s champion. And as you put it, I’m a bit down on my luck.”

“Aye, that you are. And your name?”

“Cam of Cairnrach.”

“Well, Cam of Cairnrach, we’re goddess-screwed in this shit hole. Just in case you didn’t know.”

“I’d figured that much out already.” Cam bit back a curse as he dragged himself to the wall and slowly began to work his way around the room.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking for a way out.”

“Already tried it.”

“And?”

“I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“Maybe you’re just not creative.”

Rhistiart laughed. “I’ve been over the walls from floor to as tall as I can reach. My uncle was a fuller. I’d say we’re in an empty dung pit.” He jerked his head toward the wall behind him.

“There’s the door you came in through. Solid and tight, with the hinges on the other side.

And there’s a square of wood just above the floor on that side, maybe square as my forearm, where they probably sent the shit in through a chute. Boarded up tight.”

“How big are you?”

“Beggin’ your pardon?”

“Shoulders. Can’t see you in this light.”

“I haven’t grown a whit since I was sixteen, more’s the pity. A pox-faced actor tried once to recruit me to run away with a traveling company, but it was only to play strumpets, and I wasn’t sure it was all by the script, if you know what I mean.”

“Then Rhistiart, I have a bargain for you.” Cam found the wooden panel and thumped on it with his fist. “Help me find a bit of metal to pry this loose, and if you’ll carry a message for me, I’ll get you out of here before Ruggs kills the both of us.”

Rhistiart’s voice was skeptical. “What about you?”

Cam snorted. “You bound up my leg. Was it thicker than yours?”

“Thicker than my waist, to tell you the truth.”

“I’ll never fit, and even if I did, I can’t crawl back to the city.”

“What kind of message do you want me to carry?”

“A message to the king’s guard.”

“The king’s guard! Do you think I’m fevered? My master’s wife turned me in for thieving silver. I’ll be hanged long before they’ll take a message to the king from the likes of me.”

“I’ll tell you what to say—you’ll have to memorize it, word for word. And I’ll give you the clasp off my tunic. Donelan will know it on sight. I’d give you my ring,” Cam said ruefully,

“but it’s on the finger they borrowed.”

“I noticed that.”

“Here’s the Lady’s own truth, Rhistiart. Ruggs is working for a very bad man who wants to put King Jared’s bastard on the Margolan throne. Only it won’t just be Margolan this time—

it’ll be Isencroft, too. Donelan doesn’t know there’s a traitor, and he doesn’t know Ruggs has a plot to kill him. If you save the king, I’d warrant they’d forget the silver.”

“Biter’s blood! Me, save the king?”

“There isn’t anybody else, Rhistiart. I’m not going to get out of here in one piece.”

Rhistiart was quiet for a long time. “Right then,” he said finally. “A bit of metal. Will this do?”

Cam heard the clatter of heavy objects near his hand.

“Silver?”

Rhistiart laughed. “Hardly. They’re my tools—what I had in my pockets when the brigands threw me in here. And a piece of flint. Will they do?”

“We’ve no other way to pass the time. They’ll do.”

Cam and Rhistiart took turns working at the panel. It had been secured with nails driven through the board and into the stone. After breaking two tools, they discovered a combination of chiseling away at the wood and wiggling loose the nails, careful to make as little noise as possible. In the darkness, there was no way to know how much time had passed, and no assurance their captors would not return at any moment. Finally, the board gave way, and a blast

of fresh, frigid air swept down the chute.

“Might not be the cleanest way out, but if it’s getting that kind of draft, they haven’t plugged up the far end with stones,” Cam said with satisfaction.

“Well, then. Now what?”

“Now you get your ass up that chute as quickly as you can. Hide if it’s daylight. If it’s night, get as far as you can and mind you don’t leave a trail in the snow. You have my clasp?

“Pinned to my shirt.”

“And the message?”

Rhistiart cleared his throat. “I’ve got a message from Cam of Cairnrach, Champion of King Donelan, and his clasp as surety. Ruggs plans an attack on the king. Crevan betrayed you.

Attack the old fuller’s mill.”

“Good. And you can give directions to get them here?”

“If I’m not hanging by my neck.” Rhistiart paused. “What happens to you, if the army sacks this place?”

“The same thing that happens if they don’t. I die.”

“Good to know you, Cam of Cairnrach.”

“Lady bless, Rhistiart. Now get out of here, and run like there’s a
dimonn
behind you.”

DAY 3

Jonmarc stood soberly at the back of the funeral gathering. If the villagers noticed his presence, they said nothing, neither welcoming nor shunning him. Fifteen bodies were wrapped in shrouds and laid on the village green, awaiting the full light of day to afford protection to those who would bury them. Most of the dead were women and children—

easy prey, Jonmarc thought angrily, remembering the
vayash moru
who had swooped from the sky like falcons that had caught the scent of a rabbit. Not until the bright streaks of a red dawn lit the sky did the frightened mourners begin to return to their homes. Jonmarc spotted the same village elder he had approached before the battle.

“Magistrate,” Jonmarc hailed the man.

The old man turned. He looked to be over sixty winters old, white haired but not stoop-shouldered, and by his build, he had been a strong man in his youth. “Lord Vahanian. I guess I should thank you. Without your warning, we wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

“I’m sorry I was right.” Jonmarc looked down. “And I’m sorry about your loss.”