Thief (Brotherhood of the Throne Book 1) (32 page)

A scribe sat off to one side, quill scratching furiously as he recorded the charges against Rowse - treason and attempted regicide. As members of the king’s Council he and the High Bishop stood to the right of the prisoner. He could feel the High Bishop trembling in anticipation of ‘converting’ Feiren Rowse. He had no intention of letting Valden kill the man before he found out about his role in the Brotherhood, but after that, he could do what he wanted. Stobert in Fallad was willing to tell what he knew, and he had confirmed that Rowse was at the center of it all.

“Feiren Rowse,” the king’s voice echoed in the almost empty audience chamber, “you are found guilty of both charges laid against you. Have you anything to say?”

Rowse lifted his head. “Whatever I did, I did for the benefit of you and Soule, Your Majesty. That is what I pledged to do and that is what I will continue to do for what remains of my life.”

“But how can that be?” Mattias asked. “You’ve admitted to slipping poison in my wine. Just tell me why?”

“It was not to harm you, Your Majesty, no matter how it looks. It was not to harm you.” Feiren’s head dropped to his chest.

Thorold smiled and relaxed. He’d feared Rowse would attempt to place blame on him. He’d been prepared to counter any charges against him, of course. Mattias had probably forgotten the source of the tea he drank every evening, but it was best not to introduce any doubts to the king. Thorold frowned. This meant that Feiren Rowse was sacrificing himself to protect the Brotherhood. He might not be as central to the group as Stobert had implied. Unless it meant that even at the highest levels the Brotherhood was prepared to die for their beliefs.

Mattias sighed deeply. “You leave me no choice, old friend. You will have thirty days to make peace with your gods, after which time you will be hanged until dead.” King Mattias turned and left the hall, the scratching of the scribe recording his pronouncement the only sound in the room.

Thorold grabbed Valden’s arm when the High Bishop started forward. “There will be plenty of time for that,” Thorold said. “You have thirty days, after all.” He turned to watch the prisoner.

Feiren Rowse stood tall and met his gaze.

“You will not win,” Rowse said. Then he smiled.

Thorold kept his anger in check as the prisoner was escorted away. Thirty days was plenty of time. And he’d be there to make sure the High Bishop used every one of those thirty days. Feiren Rowse would regret that comment.

twenty-one

Brenna patted Blaze’s neck and sighed. They’d been traveling for nearly two days and crop laden farmland had slowly given way to open pastures. Stone fences lined the fields to keep the sheep from wandering. They’d stayed off the roads and instead had kept to dirt tracks and paths through fields. Always, they headed towards the mountains.

Unlike the jagged peaks of the Godswall, the Seven Sisters mountains were rounded and flowed gently across the horizon. The closer they got to them the more at ease Brenna felt. She had an odd sensation of coming home.

“I think we should start looking for a place to make camp,” Kane said.

Brenna nodded. The sun was already low in the sky - this far north the day ended early. And she couldn’t complain. She was tired. There were too many odd noises during the night for her to sleep well. Safe sounds, Kane called them - owls hunting, insects chirping - but they kept her awake anyway.

They found a spot for camp and fell into their routine. Kane made a fire and threw some dried meat into the pot of water he’d set to boil while Brenna went in search of extras to add to their stew. A short time later she returned to camp with some wild onions and parsnips. She brushed the dirt from them and cut them up and added them to the now simmering pot. After a quick rummage in her pack she withdrew a bag of herbs and tossed a handful of them into the stew as well.

“Before this I never would have guessed a healer would make a good cook,” Kane said. He dumped an armful of firewood onto the already sizeable stack and brushed his hands on his thighs.

“I know a lot about plants,” Brenna said. “Where to find them, what season to look for them. That includes which ones are good to eat.” She gave the stew a stir and sniffed. “Just because it can be used for healing doesn’t mean it tastes bad.”

She unpacked their two bowls, ladled stew into them and handed one to Kane.

“When will we be in Aruntun?” Brenna asked. For some reason she felt she’d
know
when they crossed the border.

“Tomorrow, I think,” Kane replied.

Brenna nodded. Then they’d be safe. At least that was how she felt.

After dinner Kane went to find more firewood and Brenna made tea. She had first watch tonight. Kane dumped a load of wood on the pile before he unpacked his bedroll.

“Wake me when you get tired,” Kane said.

“I will,” Brenna replied. She’d wake him when he’d slept a few hours, and not before. One of them needed to be rested. Kane tossed and turned a few times but soon his breathing slowed and she knew he was asleep.

Brenna cupped her tea and stared into the fire. She heard an owl hoot off in the distance and she shivered. It was just a bird, unlikely to bother them, but she still wasn’t used to it. She’d take the drunken singing of tavern goers, even the loud brawls, over this eerie quiet punctuated by the calls of wild animals.

To keep herself occupied, she
looked
for old steel. She pictured it before her - pinpoints of light spread out across the map of Soule. In the direction of Silverdale, she could sense clusters of old steel and smaller groups scattered across Fallad. In Comack the lights were farther apart, with none in Dryannon, the capital. And then there was Aruntun. She could feel the presence of old steel, or the echo of it, but she wasn’t able to truly see it. Try as she might, her view seemed to skip past it.

Kingsreach burned brightly for her. She lingered on it, picking out specific people she’d known. Dasid was outside of town, and there were her drill mates. And where was … as soon as she thought of Feiren, she heard it - a tortured cry from old steel she’d felt before. Without thinking, she followed the sound back to its source, and moaned.

Thorold watched indifferently as the High Bishop ran the sword along the left ankle of the prisoner. Feiren Rowse had so far proven stronger than expected. Even days without sleep had not weakened him much. So far Valden had only made simple cuts. And to use the man’s own weapon was inspired. Especially since the sword was another ancient relic of this Brotherhood.

“Tell me what the Brotherhood of the Throne is planning,” Thorold said. He walked two paces and looked down into Rowse’s blood-streaked face. “I know you and that nephew of yours are at the center of it. A Brother told me.” He smiled at Feiren Rowse’s look of doubt. “Yes, one of your precious Brotherhood talked to me. I know all about your prophecy and the heir. Tell me where your nephew and my One-God cursed granddaughter are.”

When Rowse shook his head Thorold stepped back and nodded to Valden. Even he was chilled by the High Bishop’s smile as the sword slid smoothly through the tendon on Rowse’s heel. The scream echoed in the room and blood dripped onto the cold stone floor.

Thorold stepped back up to Rowse. “You don’t need to be able to walk in order to hang. Tell me about the Brotherhood or I’ll have him cut the other one.”

“I’ll never betray them.” Rowse’s face was strained and pale with pain but his voice was still firm.

Thorold nodded at Valden who actually licked his lips before he caressed Rowse’s right ankle with the now blood-stained sword. A quick flick of his wrist and Rowse screamed again, now completely hamstrung.

“What else does a man not need in order to be hanged?” Thorold asked. “Valden, any thoughts?” He watched as the sword trailed up to Rowse’s manhood, covered in a simple loincloth. The tip of the sword nudged the material gently and Rowse turned his head and gritted his teeth.

“No, I think not,” Thorold said. “We need something that won’t bleed quite so much.” The sword continued its way up the man’s chest and across his face, leaving a thin line of red where it slid across his mouth. It came to rest on the left ear.  Thorold walked around the two - prisoner and torturer. He leaned over the blade and spoke softly into the ear. “Again, not yet. I’m afraid I still require our friend to be able to hear me.”

The blade trailed back down the man’s chest and along his right arm. It stopped at the smallest finger.

“Excellent choice, High Bishop,” Thorold said. “I don’t believe the captain requires the use of that when he hangs.”

A scream ripped from Rowse’s throat as the sword jerked downward. A small piece of flesh and bone dropped to the floor amid a growing pool of blood.

“Bind that,” Thorold said. A priest scurried forward and wrapped the stump in white cloth.

“Now Captain Rowse. Unless you want to feel the High Bishop cut off your fingers and toes one at a time, I suggest you tell me what I want to know.”

“I will not betray the Brotherhood,” Rowse said. His breathing was ragged, but he glared up at Thorold.

Thorold slapped Feiren Rowse’s face so hard his head snapped sideways and a tooth landed on the floor.

“I will get you to talk.”

Caught up in Feiren’s pain and the anguish of the old steel, Brenna wasn’t aware of Kane until he was kneeling in front of her.

“Feiren,” she whispered. “They have Feiren.” He nodded grimly then sat down and pulled her against him.

“He must have been discovered,” Kane said. He sighed, a sad final sound. “We knew it was possible. Can you feel it through old steel?”

Yes,” Brenna said. “They’re using his own sword to hurt him. I can feel him, feel his pain.”

“My uncle insisted he be the one to give the remedy. He felt responsible for letting Thorold poison the king during his captaincy.”

“It wasn’t his fault.” Brenna was angry that Feiren would blame himself. “It was Thorold who put the poison into the king.” She leaned into Kane. “I saw it,” she said softly. “When I said goodbye. Just like with the healer, I saw him dead.” She grasped Kane’s hand and gripped it hard. She wouldn’t, couldn’t bring herself to tell him how much pain his uncle was in.

“Is it Thorold?” His voice was soft in the night.

She nodded. “And one other. I don’t know who but I can feel your uncle’s hatred for Duke Thorold.”

“Can … can you do anything for him?”

“Like what?” She looked up unto his grim face.

“My uncle is a soldier,” Kane said. “He would want to die cleanly. Thorold will not let him have that death. Uncle Feiren would not want to betray the Brotherhood.” Kane loosened his grip on her arm and looked away. “Ever.”

Brenna closed her eyes and
reached
for Feiren. Her body stiffened at the shock of shared pain. She was dimly aware of Kane beside her, holding her tight. Then she focused all her awareness on his uncle.

“Feiren”
she called out. A feeble answer led her deeper, until she could reach him completely. Then she was in his sword, she
was
his sword, connected to him by the blood that dulled her bright shine.

“Feiren, it’s Brenna.”

“Oh lass,”
he moaned, “
you’re safe, I know you’re safe.”

“
I’m safe,”
she agreed. “
Kane asked me to release you in the only way I can. He asked me to give you a clean death.”

“Yes.”
His reply seemed clearer, as though he took strength from the knowledge of a quick death. “
Thorold and Valden can’t win. I can’t betray the Brotherhood.”

Brenna felt herself being moved. A hand gripped her and her steel edge slipped into Feiren’s soft flesh. Instinctively she surged from the sword to the flesh, feeling the blood well up as the skin of another finger was cut. She flowed up Feiren’s arm, automatically numbing the nerves and halting the pain. She felt his whole body relax with relief.

“
Are you sure
?” she asked.

“
Yes, yes, yes
.” Came the reply

Brenna glided to Feiren’s heart. It still beat strongly. Gently, she slowed the rhythm until it stopped. She coursed through his body, soothing him. For a brief moment she and Feiren shared his mind before he faded from life. She looked out of Feiren’s eyes at his tormentors, detached from anything except her anger. Then she opened his mouth and spoke.

The sword cut into a second finger and then suddenly stopped. Valden jerked on the blade but to no avail. Thorold stepped closer and heard the prisoner’s last breath. He half turned to admonish the High Bishop. Then Rowse’s eyes opened and he looked directly at him with one green eye and one brown.

“Grandfather.” The voice that came from the dead man’s lips was high and thin, not at all like Feiren Rowse’s. “This death I lay at your feet, along with that of my mother.”

And then the life went out of the eyes and once again they were brown. Valden lost his grip on the sword and it slipped and shattered on the stone floor, its many pieces scattered among the blood of its owner.

Thorold backed up, his hands shaking. The High Bishop’s face was pale and his lips were bloodless.

“Witch,” Thorold spat. That witch. She’d ruined his chance to find out more. He’d teach her to meddle. Wherever she was, he’d find her.

“Witch,” Valden repeated. “Rowse was a witch. We need to scour them from Soule. Blasphemers.”

Thorold ignored the High Bishop. He only cared about the death of one particular witch. Let Valden start a holy war. It might be useful to let the church run the witches to ground, including the Duchess of Aruntun.

Kane hugged Brenna tight as she sobbed into his shoulder. She finally fell asleep shortly before dawn and he simply held her as she slept. She hadn’t told him all of it, he knew. She thought she was saving him, but the truth couldn’t be worse than his imagination. She’d said his uncle had welcomed death but her eyes had been haunted.

Uncle Feiren. Kane’s chest tightened and gulped in a breath. It didn’t make losing him hurt any less, but his uncle
had
died in service to his king. Even if the king didn’t know it.
He
knew. So did Brenna. He cradled her in his arms as he watched the sun rise above the Seven Sisters.

Kane woke up with a start and looked around their camp. The fire had burned out. The horses were picketed a few feet away and munched on what grass was left within reach. Brenna still slept curled against him. He couldn’t have been asleep for more than an hour, but it had been his watch. He could not afford to put them at risk like this.

Gently he slipped out from under Brenna and laid her down. He covered her with his blanket and brushed her hair from her face. She looked exhausted. Her face was pinched and worn even in sleep. He stood and stretched his stiff muscles. Being Captain of the Kingsguard had made him soft. A few hours sitting on the ground and he could barely move. He looked over at Brenna. He’d let her sleep for a while yet.

Kane quickly had the horses saddled and most of their gear packed. He’d made a small fire in order to boil some water and now he took one steaming mug and knelt beside Brenna.

“Brenna, wake up.”

She slowly opened her eyes. Kane knew the moment sleep fell away and the realization of what had happened returned to her. She sat up and hugged her knees to her chest.