Fire and Sword (11 page)

Prado could see more of his potential recruits moving away, and then he saw the group of riders he had noticed earlier gathering around. He did not want to lose them as well.

“Freyma. Take care of this interfering fool.”

Freyma smiled thinly. “With pleasure.” He stood up and drew his sword. The grieve backed two paces and drew his own slight weapon.

“Hardly a fair fight,” said one of the new arrivals. All eyes turned to the speaker, a tall, thin man with long, graying hair and eyes as dark as a hawk’s. He was mounted on a black stallion, and was dressed in a short coat of well-made mail dented and scraped from many blows. A long sword in a plain scabbard was strapped to his back.

“Maybe you would like to lend him your sword?” Freyma suggested sarcastically.

“No one but myself may ever touch Deadheart.”

“You give your sword a
name?”
Freyma sneered, and many of the mercenaries laughed. “And
Deadheart
at that?”

“I did not name it,” the stranger said equably. “My father’s father called it Deadheart. I saw no reason to change it.” He rested his hands across the pommel and leaned against them, looking for all the world as if he did not particularly care which way the conversation went.

“This is none of your affair,” Prado cut in. “This man is interfering in the queen’s business.”

“And he is King Tomar’s grieve, and since King Tomar is Queen Areava’s subject, he is also on the queen’s business.”

Prado placed his hands on his hips and said in his most authoritative voice: “I have the queen’s commission. My duty is urgent and cannot be interfered with.”

“I know,” the stranger said evenly.

Prado and Freyma exchanged quick glances. “Who, exactly, are you?” Prado demanded.

“My name is Barys Malayka.”

Prado’s eyes narrowed. “I know that name.”

“So you should, Jes Prado. I am King Tomar’s champion. I led the Chandran cavalry against your company at the Battle of Sparro.”

A low murmuring started among the older mercenaries.

“Yes, I remember. You caused me grief.”

“And you and your company caused Chandra great grief during the Slaver War. I tried to reach your banner. I wanted your head to give to King Tomar.”

Everyone looked at Prado, expecting him to explode in anger, but instead he smiled easily. “That was then. Now we are on the same side.”

Barys considered the statement. “Regrettably.”

“Are you here to sign on?” Freyma asked. Prado chuckled.

Barys shook his head. “I’m here on official duty.”

“What duty would that be?”

“King Tomar heard from the queen that you would be recruiting here. He sent me to make sure your methods had changed since the last time you recruited in Chandra.”

“Why didn’t the king come himself if he was so concerned?” Freyma asked chidingly, earning another chuckle from Prado.

“I did,” said a new voice, and one of the riders behind Barys moved his horse out from the group.

Prado’s eyes boggled. There was no mistaking the large, bearded man who emerged from his bodyguard. His hair was grayer than when last Prado had seen King Tomar, but his brown eyes were still the saddest he had ever seen; they seemed filled with the pain of the whole world.

The locals immediately went to one knee, including the grieve. Goodman Ethin was by now sweating profusely, feeling like a rat caught between two very hungry snakes. He wished he had stayed a clothier.

The mercenaries remained standing, but except for Prado all averted their eyes from the king’s gaze. Prado bowed his head the merest fraction. The king ignored him and addressed Goodman Ethin.

“You are carrying out your duty as grieve with commendable bravery,” Tomar said. “Unfortunately, what Jes Prado told you is true. Queen Areava has full knowledge of his actions in this valley last summer, and has given him a special commission which cannot be delayed. All charges against him are dropped.”

The grieve, not daring to look directly at his king, nodded vigorously. “I understand, your Majesty.”

“Stand up,” the king instructed, and the grieve did. Tomar drew his own sword out of its saddle scabbard and handed it hilt-first to the grieve. The grieve took it, his hands shaking like autumn leaves on a tree. “As a sign of my trust in this man, and my determination to see that such devotion is rewarded, he will now carry my sword when acting as grieve in the Arran Valley. If he is in any way harmed or interfered with, I will ensure the perpetrators are hunted down and punished.”

Tomar stared directly at Prado. “Is that understood by all?”

Prado nodded stiffly. No one else said a word.

“How long do you intend to stay in Chandra?” Tomar asked him.

“We leave the valley today. We will pass within a day’s ride of Sparro, then north into Hume.”

“It should take you no more than four weeks.”

“Four or five, depending on how the recruiting goes.”

“Four,” Tomar insisted.

Prado sighed. “Very well.”

Tomar turned to Barys. “Stay with the mercenaries until they leave Chandra.”

“Your Majesty.”

“I hope we never meet again, Jes Prado,” Tomar said to the mercenary, and turned his horse. His guard followed, except for Barys, who dismounted and stood next to Goodman Ethin.

Prado grunted once, and ordered Freyma to continue with the recruiting.

“But there are no more recruits,” Freyma said, and it was true. All the locals who had queued up to sign were gone.

“Time to leave the valley, I think, General Prado,” Barys said lightly.

Olio was leaning against the wall of a house. The timber was old and frayed and he could feel a splinter digging into his back through his shirt. It made him open his eyes. He tried to swallow, then stand erect. He slumped back against the wall. In his right hand he held an empty leather bottle. He held it upside down and a few drops trickled down his hand.

“None left?” he said out loud.

He dimly remembered scrounging the bottle from one of the palace kitchens after his evening meal. If he was going to be a general, he might as well have one last drink. No one saw him take it, and no one stopped him leaving the palace after that. He had walked the streets for what seemed like hours, visiting at least two taverns on the way to resupply.

Olio looked around. It was dark, and he could not see much of the street he was standing on. Judging by the manner in which the buildings leaned in over the street, he assumed he was in the old quarter of the city. There was no one else around. Ten paces from his feet there was a dead dog, small and pale, its eyes milky, with something inside it rummaging around in what had been its stomach and making the dog’s hide ripple.

He tried to stand again, but could only manage it if he kept his free hand against the wall. He took a step, then another, and had to stop. The ground seemed to whirl under his feet and he fell down. Again he tried to swallow, but it felt as if his tongue had been glued to the top of his mouth.

He heard footsteps behind him and he turned. A young woman, her head buried in a shawl, was trying to get past without him noticing. She was dragging along a small boy with a snotty nose and bare feet.

“Mumma—”

“Don’t look. We have to get home.”

“He’s sick, mumma.”

“I’m not sick,” Olio said loudly. “I’m a general. Get me my horse.” Again he tried to stand, but without success. “Better yet, get my carriage.”

“Mumma?”

But mumma just walked faster, actually lifting the boy off his feet to get him past the drunk man.

Olio watched them go, feeling a little affronted. “I’m a prince, too!” he called out after them, but they just kept on going.

“I should have worn my crown,” Olio told himself. He was right next to the dead dog. A rat’s head poked out of a hole in the dog’s belly, sniffed the air, disappeared again.

Even though he was now sitting, the ground still seemed to spin. He put his hands out to steady himself, but they never seemed to connect with anything. He collapsed sideways and lay crookedly, his hand finally letting go of the leather bottle. A moment later two hooded men stood over him. One bent down and gently shook his shoulder.

“He is ill,” said the one still standing.

“He’s pissed,” said the one bending over Olio. He could feel rich cloth under his hand. “A nobleman, perhaps.” He grabbed Olio’s jaw and turned the man’s face so that he could see it. “It can’t be.”

“Who is it?”

“It can’t be.”

He stood up. “Get Father Powl. I will stay here with him.”

“Father Powl?”

“Quickly! As fast as your legs will carry you!”

Primate Giros Northam was woken by a lay brother.

“Your Grace, I have an urgent message for you from Father Powl.”

Northam shook his head of the last dregs of sleep and sat up. The lay brother handed him a wooden cup filled with warmed wine. He swallowed it thirstily, the loose flesh around his neck wobbling like a turkey’s wattle.

“He brings the message?”

“Another lay brother left it with Father Tere, who is on vigil tonight.”

“Give it to me.”

The lay brother took the empty cup and handed him the note. Northam read it quickly, and the words made him groan out loud.

“Is it bad, your Grace?”

“Is the lay brother who brought this still here?”

“Yes.”

“He is go to Father Powl and tell him I am coming immediately. Father Powl is to wait for me.”

“Yes, your Grace.”

The lay brother left and Northam dressed quickly.

“I knew it would come to this,” he said under his breath. “I knew it would end badly. I
knew.”

Later, as he left the palace, the guards could hear him still muttering under his breath.

Father Powl sat in the room where his two student priests had laid out Prince Olio. He had dismissed the students and was now alone with the prince. He cupped his chin in one hand and wondered if God had delivered to him a great opportunity or a great burden.

Powl had heard stories about Olio, of course, but thought them nothing but gossip about a man who seemed to have no obvious vices. But here Olio was, reeking of wine and, Powl was even more disconcerted to discover, urine. To think that the prince would get so drunk he would lose control of his bladder was both a shock and a revelation to the priest.

This could be the lever Powl needed to open up the primate, who had, since Usharna’s death, become quite distant. Powl had been hurt by the colder relationship with his superior, one that before had always been so warm, but had shrugged it off and got on with his duties. This might create a new intimacy between them, the sharing of secret—indeed, almost sacred—knowledge.

The burden, of course, would be the weight on his mind and in his heart of Olio’s downfall. Powl stopped himself. He was not the Righteous God and would not judge his fellow man, let alone a crown prince. Nevertheless, it shook Powl’s conviction in the basic lightness of society’s structure. He had wanted to believe that the members of the royal family were more than human, that they contained in them some spark of the divine. Naturally that could not be expected of the outlaw Lynan, whose royal blood at best ran diluted in his veins and at worst perverted. But here was Prince Olio himself, the gentlest of the all the Rosethemes, brought low by the most common of all vices: excess.

He heard the primate enter the chapel, have a few hurried words with the local priest, and then make his way to the room. Father Powl stood up to greet him. The door opened, and the primate entered. He did not even look at Powl but went straight to the prince. He leaned over and smelled Olio’s breath and then, something Powl thought quite strange, pulled out the Key of the Heart from under Olio’s shirt and gently held it for a moment before putting it back.

Powl cleared his throat. “Your Grace?”

Northam glanced at him, looking distracted. “Hmm?”

“Two of my students returning from duties on the docks found him in a street nearby. They summoned me immediately.”

“Has anyone else seen the prince?”

“Only the chaplain here.”

Northam shook his head. “Too bad. That’s too bad.”

“We can trust the chaplain’s discretion, surely, your Grace? And I will speak for my two students.”

Northam studied the priest more carefully then. “You are sure the students will keep quiet?”

“I carefully explained to them the gravity of the situation; they will not repeat what they have seen tonight to another living soul.”

Northam turned back to Olio. “This isn’t the first time.”

“I have heard ... stories.”

“Yes, everyone in Kendra is hearing the stories now, but none of them know the true story.”

“Your Grace?”

Northam brushed his bald pate with a large hand as if there was still hair there to part. “It doesn’t matter. You don’t need to know.”

“I am your secretary, Primate. Surely, if you carry some terrible burden, I can help you carry it.”

“That is a generous offer, but I must refuse you.” He faced Powl again and grasped the smaller man by the shoulders. “The queen must never hear of this, do you understand.”

“I am her confessor, your Grace; she is not mine.”

The primate released him. “Yes, of course. I know.” He closed his eyes in exhaustion. “You must do me a favor.”

“Anything.”

“Find the magicker prelate and ask him to come here straight away.”

“Edaytor Fanhow? What has he to do with this?”

“No more questions. I can say nothing else to you on this. Just get me the prelate.”

“Of course, your Grace,” Powl said and left.

Northam took the priest’s seat and held Olio’s hand.
I don’t trust that man,
he thought, and immediately felt guilty for having such thoughts about his own secretary, someone who had once been his friend.

And if I let him, could be again. But that would be too dangerous.

Olio dreamed of children again. He searched every cot for his brother. He could hear Lynan’s voice, calling out to him, but he could not find him. There were children ravaged by disease, sores, and injuries, but he ignored them. The room seemed to extend forever, the cots lined up in three neat rows, each one holding a child who needed his healing. But no Lynan.

Then he noticed that the faces of all the children were starting to look the same. They all became boys. Their hair became brown. Their heads became round. They were all Lynan when he was about seven or eight years old. Olio remembered looking after his brother when he was that age.

But the faces kept on changing. Skin became the color of ivory, and the whites of the eyes became a golden yellow.

“Olio!” all the children called. “Heal me!”

He ran from cot to cot, placing his hand on every forehead, feeling his own life draining away from him as he healed each Lynan.

Exhausted, he stopped, sinking to his knees. The children got out of their cots and surrounded him, their pale hands reaching for the Key of the Heart.

“No, Lynan, stop!” he cried out. The Key burned against his chest like a branding iron.

“No ... !”

He woke with a silent scream, every muscle in his body knotted in pain, sweat drenching his clothes. He shot up in the bed, scrabbling for the Key, trying to pull it away from his skin. He found the chain, yanked on it. The Key popped out from underneath his shirt. He touched it, then let go with a gasp and blew on his fingers. He opened his shirt and looked at his chest, saw the burn mark over his heart in the shape of the Key. He tugged the chain over his head and hurled the Key away from him. It clattered onto the floor.

Gasping, Olio swung his legs out of the bed and buried his head in his hands. He started sobbing, his chest heaving. He was afraid and ashamed and confused all at the same time. He did not know what was happening to him. When at last the crying eased, he looked up and realized he did not know where he was. A small room; a single bed. Panic started to well up in him, then he heard two voices, distant, like the echoes of a memory.

Olio stood up unsteadily and went to the door. It was slightly ajar, and he listened through the crack.

“On the street, Prelate! Do you know what could have happened to him?”

He knew that voice. Old, with fading authority.

“He promised me he would stop the drinking.”

He knew that voice, too. Contrite, desperate.

They were his friends, he was sure of it. He should go to them.

“We have to stop him, for his own sake.” The old voice again. “He could even die. Or be murdered. Or fall into the harbor. God knows.”

“How? He won’t give up the healing, but it exhausts him and gives him nightmares. That’s
why
he is drinking.”

“Then make sure he gets more rest.”

“It isn’t just physical exhaustion. It’s as if the Key is taking more from him than just his energy.”

That was Edaytor Fanhow. He was a good man.

“What do you mean?”

And that was Giros Northam. He was a good man, too. And they were talking about him. They were worried about him. He had done something wrong.

“His nature is changing. Did you ever imagine he would become like this?”

“No, of course not. I would never have cooperated with you and the prince if I knew this was going to happen.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“We will stop him, that’s what we’ll do.”

“But he
won’t
stop, I’m telling you. He’s driven to heal those who need his help.”

“He will stop,” the primate said determinedly. “We will tell Areava.”

“God, no!”

“What else can we do? We can’t let it go on like this.”

Olio realized they were talking about him. What had he done? He shook his head to clear it. Something stank. He backed away from the door, but the smell came with him. He looked down at himself, saw the burn again, then noticed the stains on his shirt and breeches. He had pissed in his breeches. There was something else, too. He could smell wine. Cheap, resinous wine.

He heard Edaytor say something, but could not make out the words. He went back to the door.

“Close the hospice!” The primate was speaking now. “I can’t do that. Too many of the poor know of its existence, know that the dying come but leave completely healed.”

“Then move it so that Olio cannot find it.”

“How do we stop him? He is the prince.”

“Then someone must be with him all the time, someone we trust.”

“Who?”

“A guard, a priest, a magicker. I don’t know.”

“He won’t allow it.”

“He will,” Edaytor said, his voice suddenly firm. “He will, or we
will
go to Areava. He would agree to anything to stop us doing that. He is terrified she would put a stop to his healing, maybe even force him to surrender the Key.”

For a moment neither man said anything or, if they did, Olio could not hear them. Footsteps, coming his way. He hastily retreated from the door, ran into the bed, and stumbled. He sat on the floor with a jarring thump and put his hands out to stop himself from falling backward. His right hand landed on the Key. Startled he glanced around, and at the same time the door opened wide. He looked back and saw the grim faces of the primate and the prelate staring down at him. They seemed curiously matched, Olio thought: Northam long and large, with huge hands and feet, and Edaytor shorter but almost as heavy, with the face and gentle nature that seemed priestlike to the prince.

“He overheard,” Northam said.

“But how much?”

“M-m-most of it, I think,” Olio admitted, his voice not much more than a hoarse whisper.

“What happened tonight?” Northam demanded.

“I... I don’t know. I m—m-must have been drinking.”