Traitor's Masque (48 page)

But he had very clearly meant them. There was stunned silence in the hall. Ramsey found that his mouth hung open and closed it, overwhelmed by astonishment. When he blinked, his eyes stung suspiciously. A glance at Lizbet confirmed that she, too, was holding back tears.

His voice quiet and raw, Brawley tried to explain. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. I meant no disrespect. But if you went out there alone and something happened to you, I don’t think I would survive it.” The older man’s expression was calmer now, but Ramsey could hear the plea for what it was. “My
life
… all of it that matters, nearly every waking moment, has been about protecting you. About making sure, not just that you survived, but that you would be ready to be king. A good king, and a good man. And with this one decision, you could make it—all of it—meaningless.”

Ramsey could not remember feeling so much shame.

Twenty years, he had known Brawley. And when he thought about it, he had learned as much, or more, from the captain of his guard as he had from his father. Not that King Hollin had been a disinterested parent, but he had, by necessity, been a busy one. It had been Brawley who picked him up after childhood scrapes, Brawley who taught him to control his temper and look out for those weaker than he. Given him his first sword and taught him to use it. Protected him from Rowan until he was big enough to defend himself.

It was not that Ramsey held no affection for his captain, quite the reverse. He had simply never realized the depth of what lay between them until Brawley pointed it out. Nor had he bothered to consider what it would mean to Brawley if he died. Brawley’s whole life had been spent in the service of his king. Brawley was unlikely to ever have a wife, or a son of his own. He had committed himself wholly and completely to the Tremontaine princes, and in truth, Ramsey realized, had as much right to be there to confront Rowan as anyone else. Perhaps more.

“All right,” he heard himself say.

“What?” Two voices answered him in shocked unison. Brawley looked as though the rug had been pulled from under him. He had probably been prepared for a drawn-out campaign.

“All right. You can come.”

Lizbet, he could see, was smiling and crying and trying to hide it. Brawley just looked at him stoically and nodded terse acceptance. Their eyes met, suspiciously red on both sides, as understanding and apology passed between them. After twenty years, nothing more needed to be said.

Once Brawley took his leave to prepare for departure, Ramsey turned to Lizbet. “So much,” he said lightly, “for my brief foray into autocracy.”

His aunt patted his arm. “I’m sure you’ll get better with practice,” she offered kindly.

Ramsey snorted. “I’m sure as long as you and Brawley are around to cut me down to size I run no risk of becoming a dictator. Even,” he added, “a benevolent one.”

“Wisely spoken.” Lizbet inclined her head modestly. “Now why do I feel from the expression on your face that you are about to attempt it anyway?”

Ramsey just looked sad. “Because this time we both know I’m right.” His sigh was wrenching and heartfelt as he handed her one of the sets of papers that he carried. “This is my insurance, Aunt Lizbet. It’s not fair and I wish I didn’t have to, but every one of my father’s councilors agrees.”

She glanced over the first page as he spoke, and the sound of her indrawn breath was as painful as he’d feared. “Oh, Ramsey, no.” Her face was white and drawn. “He’s so young. And we’ve tried so hard to keep him out of all this.”

Ramsey wanted to make this easier, but there was no glossing over the truth. “Yes, he’s young,” he replied gently, “but how young was I when my life turned down this road? He has you, and he has his father. He’s a strong boy, and a smart one. And,” he added, “if all goes well, this will never come to be. But for now, I need to do this. For our family, and for Andar.”

Tears ran once again down his aunt’s face, but she nodded. Despite what Ramsey knew had to be deep misgivings, she would understand why he had to do it. And as his advisor, she probably applauded his decision. As a mother, he doubted she could feel anything but pain.

There was little more to do. It was not long till Ramsey and Brawley stood in the bailey, their horses saddled, bags packed, saying their goodbyes. Ramsey had passed by his father’s room, and stood for a quiet moment at the bedside, fighting for words. A simple farewell. The reason for his leaving. A promise that everything would be better soon. But in the end Ramsey left without saying any of it. The truth was too miserable to be spoken aloud and he could not bring himself to offer platitudes, even to a man who could not hear them.

It was not a comfortable trip. Ramsey had never considered himself particularly addicted to luxury, but he gained a great deal of respect for his couriers on that ride. The weather was not always dry, the food was always terrible, and even when they stopped to rest, the pounding of hooves seemed to rack his body. He was grateful that their pace left no opportunity for speech. It was doubtful that either of them would have known what to say.

Three days after they left Evenburg, thoroughly filthy and exhausted, the two men trotted into the thriving border town of Zell. Tired as he was, Ramsey’s heart kicked uncomfortably when he realized how close he was to confronting his brother. How close he was to Embrie.

Ramsey really had no idea how Rowan expected this meeting to proceed. Would the older prince make an attempt on his brother’s life? Try to bargain for his own? And how would they find him? No doubt Rowan had a plan. Ramsey just wasn’t sure he wanted to wait for his brother to carry it out.

They dismounted in front of a likely looking inn, close to the center of town. It was early afternoon, and foot traffic was fairly thick. After days of endless riding with no sounds but the drum of hooves, the miasma of scents and sounds was somehow overwhelming and disorienting. While Ramsey was still blinking to clear his head, a man materialized in front of him. A man both he and Brawley recognized.

Porfiry had been Rowan’s valet for, well, ever, or at least since Rowan had been old enough to choose his own servants. A wiry little man with hard, dark eyes, Porfiry gave Ramsey a nasty, crawling feeling every time they met. This time was no different.

“You were to come alone.” No preamble, no honorific, no expression.

Ramsey bottled up his surge of anger and smiled coldly. “Well, we don’t always get what we want, do we?” He looked down at Porfiry from his somewhat superior height. Ramsey had never been one to flaunt his advantages, but he figured there was a first time for everything. “I didn’t come here to bargain with lackeys. Take me to Rowan.”

Ramsey expected some kind of argument or evasion. The valet didn’t even blink.

“This way.” Porfiry did not wait to see if they obeyed, merely turned and walked away.

“Seems awfully sure of himself for a pipsqueak in service to a traitor,” Brawley observed thoughtfully.

“So he does.” Ramsey narrowed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Too bad we have to put up with it. For now.”

Leading their horses, they managed to follow the frequently disappearing figure of Porfiry as he made his way through the mid-day crowd to the outskirts of town. Eventually, he ducked down a side street past the nondescript frontage of what appeared to be a run-down, unused warehouse. They went around the building, to a tiny side door, where the valet stopped.

“Only the prince goes in.” He appeared unconcerned by the fact that the two men weighed as much as four of him and neither of them looked particularly placating.

“We go together or not at all,” Ramsey replied, “and your master doesn’t have to like it.”

Porfiry shrugged, unruffled, and opened the door. They tethered their horses, shared a significant glance, and went in.

The door opened directly on a steep stair, probably leading to apartments over the workspace below. Brawley, of course, insisted on going first. The stairs ended at a landing, with another door. Brawley didn’t hesitate but pulled it open and stepped inside. Ramsey followed.

The space beyond was largely empty, but for dust, broken crates, and what was obviously a makeshift living space. It was lit only by a single dingy window. There, gazing through the smudged pane with an expression of pained beatitude on his angelic features, was the man they had come so far to see.

Ramsey’s heart gave a brief, aching thud. There was no sign of Embrie.

“Where is she?” His voice sounded harsh in the silence.

Rowan turned to regard him with a quizzical smile, his person as unrumpled as though he graced a drawing room, rather than a dingy warehouse. “She?” The butter-smooth voice sounded genuinely confused. “Who is ‘she’? I confess, brother, I had hoped for a rather more affectionate greeting.”

“I don’t give a damn what you hoped.” Ramsey was too tired to be conciliating and too worried to play games. “I’m here for Em… Trystan, Elaine, whatever. I’ll ask again, where is she?”

Rowan’s expression grew sad. “I don’t know what you must believe of me, Ramsey,” he responded mournfully. “I asked only that you come alone, that we might discuss our differences like men… like brothers! And you have denied me!” He shook his head, the picture of wounded dignity. “It pains me, this distrust that has grown between us. And worse, it seems. You would accuse me of… what?” He appeared genuinely confused. “Abducting young women against their will? Hiding them in warehouses?” Rowan laughed. “Acquit me of such foolishness. I am, I believe, wise enough to know that such accommodations as these would never suit a member of the gentler sex.”

With a supreme effort of will, Ramsey took a death grip on his temper, though his hands fisted of their own accord. This was, perhaps, Rowan’s favorite game. To anger him beyond reason and then pretend it was Ramsey’s fault.

“By all means then, brother.” Ramsey forced his voice to remain even. “Tell me of our differences. Tell me what you want from me. Tell me why I am here. But know this:”—the temperature in the room fell sharply with his next words—“I know exactly what you have tried to do and what you hoped to gain. Your morals disgust me as much as your methods sicken me and I am ashamed to admit that I once admired you. There is nothing you can say, or do, that will change that.”

“Oh, Ramsey… Ramsey…” Rowan’s soft laugh trailed off into the silence. “You always were a poor, idealistic boy. As for what you think you know… I ask you, what have I done? What great crime have I committed?” He held up a hand to forestall comment. “Our kingdom was on the verge of chaos. Father’s policies simply weren’t addressing the needs of our people. If they looked to me for hope, what was I to do? Ignore them? Pretend I had no duty to allay their concerns?”

Ramsey was stunned. Did his brother truly expect him to believe he had acted in innocence?

“When the most vocal among Father’s detractors began to grow violent,” Rowan pointed out, “I had no choice but to join them. Attempt to decipher their plans. Hope to counter them in time.”

Ramsey nearly exploded. “You tried to kill our father, Rowan! I have proof!”

Rowan raised one elegant eyebrow. “Proof, little brother? What proof? Someone told you? Someone overheard someone else?” He snorted. “Even you are not such a fool as to believe that traitors are truthful when caught. And, after all,” he added softly, “our father isn’t dead, is he?”

“Near enough,” Ramsey snapped, feeling slightly rattled by the sheer reasonableness of Rowan’s arguments. “And whatever you claim, Rowan, you left! You ran rather than face me after that business with Miss Ulworth.”

Rowan’s eyes widened fractionally. “Business with… Ramsey, I thought you would thank me!” Confusion radiated from his face. “I thought to save you from marriage with a woman who could never love you as you deserve. What else could a brother do under the circumstances?”

Ramsey was left with his mouth hanging open. He knew…
knew
that his brother was guilty, beyond all doubt. Rowan had conspired against the king and fled when the plot was exposed. But his explanations… they all sounded so plausible. So simple. They made all of Ramsey’s suspicions seem weak, products of an envious imagination. He glanced at Brawley. The older man just stood there, watching Rowan, his arms at his sides, no visible expression on his face. No help from that quarter. Rowan had successfully deflated his accusations within moments, obviously well prepared for everything Ramsey had come to say. A little too well perhaps…

“As you say, Rowan. Perhaps I should have thanked you. And perhaps I will thank you yet.” Ramsey held up empty hands in a gesture of helplessness. “You have answered my accusations and attempted to allay my fears. Except”—he folded his arms firmly and stared pointedly at his brother—“for one. Rowan, where is Elaine?”

It was such a small thing. A tiny twist of the lips. An infinitesimal betrayal of what lay beneath the polished surface. But it was enough.

“Which one, brother?” The mocking tone returned to Rowan’s voice. “I could be wrong, but I could have sworn there was more than one.”

“The one you kidnapped at Westhaven, Rowan. Not the one you had stolen from her home and planned to murder.” Ramsey’s own lips twisted into a sneer. “Or have you planned to murder so many girls that you can no longer tell them apart?”