Traitor's Masque (49 page)

Rowan regarded him coolly. “Still you persist in believing the worst of me.” He shook his head, as if in disbelief. “I never intended to murder anyone! Elaine Westover was safe, under the protection of my men, when they were set upon without justification by your overzealous guards. As for the other,” he continued more softly, locking gazes with Ramsey, “she was nothing but a lying, conniving, grasping little bitch and I ensured that she will never trouble this kingdom again.”

He laughed again, softly and derisively at the shock Ramsey could not manage to hide. “Oh, didn’t you know, little brother? Everything she told you was a lie, concocted to save her own skin. And if you must have a murder, perhaps I should tell you that I found her standing over the body of Lady Westerby, after she killed her to cover her own guilt.”

The blood left Ramsey’s face and his hands shook. His brain stuttered. Embrie. Dead. Embrie. Dead. Rowan had killed her. His own brother had killed her.

“Poor Ramsey.” His brother’s consoling tone was a rasping buzz that cut through the fog of his pain. “Did you love her, little brother? Believe her pitiful, pathetic stories? You always were too gullible.” He laughed yet again, as if in triumph. “Oh yes, that one was quite the actress. She knew exactly how to play you. A professional, in more ways than one, if you take my meaning.”

It was a blatant insinuation. And a terrible mistake. Ramsey’s head lifted and his mind cleared. A painful grief lurked just out of reach, but it had been buried under the weight of resolve. Rowan had betrayed himself at last.

“Such a lovely story.” Ramsey clapped slowly in mocking appreciation. “And how gratifying it must be to paint yourself in the role of savior. I might even have believed you, until that last little bit. You might have succeeded in blinding me once again. But I fear,” he said, somehow sounding calm and collected, “you are quite mistaken in your assumptions.”

Rowan did not move. For the first time, he appeared less than perfectly in control.

“I know who she was, Rowan,” Ramsey said softly. “I met her, long before Lady Westerby convinced her to come to the ball. Her name was Trystan Embrie Colbourne, and she was a lonely, frightened girl, without any friends or family to turn to. Not a spy and definitely not a killer. And you, brother, have just confessed to murdering her.”

For perhaps the first time in Ramsey’s memory, Rowan seemed to have nothing to say. His eyes glittered oddly in the poor light, his entire body tense and still. The silent moments passed, and Ramsey found himself afflicted by uncertainty. What would his brother do now? Continue to assert his innocence? Or accept that his character had been tarnished beyond repair?

When Rowan finally moved it was a slump of defeat. He turned slightly to the window and his beautiful, golden face fell. A sigh, deep and moving, could be heard even where Ramsey stood, watching him carefully.

“Rowan,” he said finally, “why did you call me here? If you believed yourself so innocent of wrongdoing, why hide as though you were guilty? What do you want from me?”

“I wanted you to disappear.” Rowan’s answer fell from his lips like a curse, soft and deadly. “I should have been king. And I could be, even now. All I would have to do is rid myself of you.” His pale face was focused, intent, and a tiny bit flushed. “Of a brother who has been nothing but a pestilence in my life since the day he was born.”

If Ramsey had not prepared himself for that admission days before, it might have been staggering. Now, it only ached. Without even a hint of outward reaction, he removed a roll of papers from inside his shirt and proffered them to his brother.

“Not just me,” Ramsey told him with grim satisfaction. “You would need to rid yourself of a few other people as well. You see, I guessed where your ambitions might lead you, and took the precaution of naming an heir before I came.” Rowan looked startled. “Parry is a blood relation, even if he isn’t Father’s line. He’d make a good king, and Lizbet would be an excellent regent.” Rowan’s flush grew deeper and his lips thinned. “I suspect, however,” Ramsey continued thoughtfully, “that if you ever showed your face in this kingdom again she would not stop to be diplomatic, but would settle for shooting you through the heart without question and without mercy.” It was not an exaggeration and both of them knew it.

“So, I’ll ask you one final time,” Ramsey persisted, “what did you want with me? Did you suppose I would forgive you? Offer you a pardon? Permit you to convince me of your innocence? Or hope that I would agree not to subject you to the crown’s justice simply because you’re my brother?”

Rowan’s expression fell. He said nothing, but looked at Ramsey with a strange expression of pity. Some emotion crossed his face. He seemed tortured, but resigned. And then, without a word, he moved.

It was so fast, Ramsey did not realize what had happened for several moments. Rowan stood there, one hand still outstretched in the motion of throwing. He had put his hand to his belt… lifted… thrown… something glittered… Ramsey turned to where his brother’s eyes were yet fixed on the stolid form of Brawley. Still upright, still silent, but with a bloom of red on the fabric of his coat, where the golden hilt of Rowan’s dagger stood out from high on his chest.

 
Chapter 18
 

Ramsey’s paralysis was broken when Brawley began to slump. He reached his captain’s side only just in time to prevent him from collapsing entirely. Lowering him carefully to the floor, Ramsey ripped off his coat and placed it under Brawley’s head, not once glancing at his brother. A moment’s investigation was enough to ascertain that the blade was lodged just beneath the collarbone, too high to have pierced the heart and too close to the shoulder to have damaged the lung. It was bleeding fast however, and Ramsey dared not remove the dagger for fear of making it worse. Brawley’s face was pale, but he clung to consciousness.

“Ramsey,” he said the name hoarsely, and perhaps for the first time. “Your back, Ramsey,” he whispered. “Watch your back.” He lifted his head slightly to look into the eyes of one of the men he had nearly raised, while the other watched from across the room. “You must not worry for me, boy. Let me be and get yourself out of here alive!”

“Damned if I will,” was the only answer he got, as Ramsey cut off his captain’s sleeve, slicing through the material to bare the wound. Balling up the resulting shreds of linen, he pressed them firmly around the dagger, hoping to slow the bleeding. Grabbing Brawley’s other hand, he brought it up and held it in place of his own, hoping Brawley would have the strength to hold the temporary bandage in place. Then he stood, wheeled around, and crossed the room with a swift economy of motion that might have stunned those who considered him little better than a clerk. His hands were at Rowan’s throat before either of them had time to blink.

Ramsey slammed his brother back against the wall and pinned him, with his hands, his weight and the unrelenting force of his cold gray gaze. For all that Rowan was taller and heavier, for a moment he was as nothing before his brother’s rage.

“You bastard!” Ramsey snarled furiously. Rowan was still and pale and utterly composed, even in the face of murderous wrath. “Why?! He loved you! We all loved you! Why?” Ramsey screamed at Rowan as though he could force an answer from him, but the elder prince remained unmoved. Only the slender, compressed lines of his lips betrayed his tension.

“I’m terribly sorry, Ramsey,” he whispered finally, with the smallest of smiles, “but I did tell you to come alone.”

Ramsey grabbed the front of his brother’s jacket and hurled him sideways.

Rowan did not really resist, and fell to the floor a short distance away. When he sat up, he was still smiling. “I think,” he added, “you will find that when you think about it, all of this is your own fault. You were too busy riding around moping to help Father, too selfish to ask Hester what she really wanted, too infatuated to see through Elaine's masquerade, and too afraid to meet me alone.” Ramsey could only clench his fists and breathe. One breath at a time, in and out, as Rowan’s voice droned on. “I was only trying to help. Even when you convinced Father to disinherit me in your favor, I wanted nothing more than to ensure that our kingdom would thrive.” He rose to his feet. Held up both pale hands in supplication. “And I was rewarded by suspicion and threats. Even now,” he continued, sounding grieved, “I am forced to resort to violence, to protect myself from my own brother!”

“I’ll only ask once more, Rowan,” Ramsey forced himself to remain still. “What do you want? Tell me quickly. Before I decide to kill you here and now.”

Rowan actually laughed. “You seem to genuinely believe that such an action lies within your power, little brother,” he answered, sounding vastly amused. “I am forced to admire your self-confidence, if not your judgment,” he added dryly. “As for what I want, it’s simple. If the crown is indeed beyond my grasp, I wish to be gone from here.” He shrugged, seemingly unconcerned with such a minor setback. “There are other lands, other opportunities, and I prefer not to dwell on failure, but to look forward to possibilities.”

“And what,” Ramsey replied coldly, “makes you think I would allow you to simply ride away, unhindered and unscathed?”

Rowan appeared surprised. “Why, brother, I had not thought you so cold-hearted! Perhaps you have not yet noticed that you have a choice to make.” He smiled beatifically. “Poor Brawley is not likely to survive long without care. And I am quite unlikely to permit you to simply bind me and haul me back with you like a prize boar. In fact, considering that Porfiry is waiting downstairs with a crossbow, I begin to suspect you are outnumbered.”

Ramsey remained silent, trying not to betray his chagrin. The situation was, in fact, looking less than ideal.

“Should you,” Rowan continued, “choose to give me what I want, I will simply disappear, never to trouble this fair kingdom again, and you, dear brother, will be left to tend your faithful retainer and return home.”

“I suppose,” Ramsey replied mockingly, “that eventually you will get around to answering my question. What is this thing that you so desperately want?”

Rowan bowed with courtly elegance. “A writ of passage, of course,” he answered with a flourish.

Ramsey fell silent, thinking. A writ of passage with his signature and seal would permit Rowan to circumvent the warrant that had gone out for his capture. He would be able to cross the border, unhindered. Once outside of Andar, it was unlikely he would ever be caught. His crimes would go forever unpunished, and he would be free to wreak destruction on some other, unsuspecting kingdom. It seemed unthinkable. But…

Rowan broke in on his musing. “And in case you find the faithful Brawley’s life insufficient motivation to abandon your plans for my demise, I find it within myself to offer you this, as well.” Rowan reached into his shirt and produced a vial on a chain. A vial filled with a dark, murky liquid. Ramsey’s heart raced with a sudden, frantic hope.

“And that is…?” He managed not to betray his anxiety. The golden chain dangled negligently from Rowan’s elegant fingers.

“Why, it’s Father’s antidote, of course.”