Traitor's Masque (51 page)

Kyril could not help a short laugh at her honesty. So this was the Embrie his friend had fallen for. Though he noticed she was careful not to mention her middle name. “I suppose I am honored, though somewhat confused,” he replied, politely evasive. He suspected Ramsey would not wish him to reveal the source of their information. “I thought I had met all the Colbourne ladies, and you, I am certain, were never among them. Another branch of the family, I take it?”

“Ah, no.” Her twisted smile suggested painful secrets. “I was not considered suitable for polite company.” Kyril eyed Embrie, wanting more than ever to dislike or disbelieve everything about her. But he had already begun to catch a glimpse of what had captured Ramsey’s attention.

“Are you certain you claim the Misses Anya and Darya as sisters?” he inquired, watching her carefully. “I shudder to think that someone apparently considers
them
suitable for polite company.”

His companion was surprised into a laugh of genuine amusement, quickly muffled. “I see you’ve been introduced,” she responded, her amber eyes twinkling with humor. “Though it’s decidedly impolite for me to say so.”

For another moment the two watched each other, Kyril wondering how much of what he knew was safe to reveal. This Embrie somehow managed to look uncertain, hopeful and resigned all at the same time.

“How the devil did you get out here anyway?” He needed to find out whether she knew anything of Rowan’s whereabouts, and it might be interesting to see how much she was willing to tell him.

“As to the method of transportation,” she answered, “I confess I could not say, having been unconscious for the entire journey.” She hesitated, watching him as if trying to decide how much of the truth to tell. How much he would be willing to believe. “Until this morning I was bound and locked in an empty house, hoping someone would find me.”

Unsurprised, and unconvinced, Kyril nodded to indicate at least surface acceptance of her statement.

“It was suggested to me,” she continued, “that the house was the same one which was used to confine…” She trailed off awkwardly, but it was enough.

The guard had been right, and perhaps Kyril should have guessed it. Rowan’s twisted sense of humor had probably found it amusing to use the same location. Especially if, as Embrie suggested, she had been a prisoner and no one had ever thought to look there.

“It might ease your mind to know that we suspected you had been kidnapped, rather than run away,” Kyril offered finally, a trifle bewildered by his own benevolence.

Embrie seemed startled by this revelation but accepted it. “I confess I had hoped that my kidnapper, at least, would draw pursuit. It seemed foolish to suppose that anyone would be displeased by my disappearance.”

Kyril very carefully did not take up that thread of conversation. While he might be curious about the death of Lady Westerby, this was probably not the time to ask.

“Prince Rowan?” he asked shortly, though he already knew the answer.

Embrie nodded. “He left shortly after I woke up.”

Kyril looked at her curiously. “How did you get away?” Her answer might prove telling. If someone had rescued her she would not now be trudging her solitary way down a deserted road.

Embrie looked at him ruefully and lifted her hands so that the edges of her cloak fell back. Her wrists were wrapped in torn, bloody strips of cloth. “I got tired of waiting,” she said.

Kyril swore and grasped her hands, pulling them down to see the extent of the damage. There appeared to be deep gashes on both arms, and some were still bleeding.

“There was a window,” she explained. “When I realized no one was coming I managed to break it and used the shards to cut the ropes on my wrists.”

And with that, the last meaningful bits of Kyril’s suspicion drained away. He could choose not to believe her words, but it was beyond even his ability to deny the evidence of her blood. They were clearly wounds of desperation. Whether or not she had gone to that house by choice, she had remained by force, yet another victim of Rowan’s cruel machinations.

“How long were you there?” Kyril was startled to feel his anger rising once again, but no longer directed at her.

She seemed to struggle for a moment with remembering. “Six days, I believe. At least that’s how long I was conscious. His Highness left what he claimed was enough food for five days, then said he thought someone would find me by then.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “He laughed when he said it. I could not tell whether or not it was a lie.”

Her eyes opened then, and she grasped his arm without warning. “Lord Seagrave, I know you have no reason to believe me, and I have no way of knowing whether it was the truth, but, before he left, Prince Rowan told me something.” Kyril gestured for her to continue. “He said that if I was rescued, I might wish to tell someone—the King, His Majesty, is poisoning himself! There is a weak tincture of henbane in his gout medicine that is causing his illness. If he stops taking it, he will very likely recover.”

Kyril froze, but his thoughts sped on. The girl could be lying, but to his own surprise he was prepared to guess that she was not. He might have thought the whole performance an act, but for her lacerated wrists. If someone else had damaged her, she stood to gain a great deal of sympathy by reporting it truthfully. And while it was possible that she had known of the poison beforehand and now chose to attribute the revelation to Rowan out of a desire to clear her own name, that possibility took nothing from the import of her words. If they were true… If the king still lived…

“Can you ride?” he asked seriously.

She nodded, but did not at once move towards the horse. “Lord Seagrave,”—her voice was flat—“this is a matter of the king’s life. You will get on faster if your horse is less burdened. Perhaps you should consider leaving me. There will be other travelers, and even if there are not…” She shrugged, a curiously defeated gesture.

“Enough, Miss Colbourne,” Kyril admonished with unwonted sternness. “In the first place, you can’t possibly weigh very much. And in the second…” He frowned slightly. “His Highness Prince Ramsey would never forgive me if I left you.”

She looked startled. Then pale. “I had imagined His Highness would prefer not to encounter me again,” she responded, quietly and miserably. “He can hardly care what becomes of me now.”

Kyril eyed her sharply, but by then he had prepared to mount his horse. Swinging into the saddle, he offered her a gloved hand. Still watching him with some trepidation, she grasped the proffered hand, not without wincing, and pulled herself up behind him.

“His Highness,” Kyril offered, as he turned his horse back the way he had come, “seems concerned with your welfare for some reason.” The sudden movement of the horse nearly unseated his passenger and forced her to grasp his cloak to avoid being left in the mud. “You probably ought to hang on, you know.” He turned his head to look at her. “I promise not to shower you with unwanted attentions if you promise not to dump me off and steal my horse.” A small glimpse of his characteristic humor, it seemed to both of them like a peace offering. Not exoneration precisely, but a willingness to be something other than at odds. The girl… Embrie… flushed under his scrutiny, but nodded, and put her arms very carefully around his waist.

“You should know, however,” Kyril added, “that whatever His Highness may choose to think with regards to your past or your actions, I don’t appreciate being lied to. You made me like you and then you betrayed my brother. The upshot of it is, I’m not at all certain that I approve of you.”

The girl behind him sighed. “Lord Seagrave,” she answered solemnly, “I suppose I should tell you—I’m not certain I approve of me either.”

It had been a less-than-ideal week. Trystan could remember nothing between hearing Rowan’s voice whispering in her ear at Westhaven, and waking up, wrists and ankles bound, slumped in a chair that was the only furniture in a cold, empty room. She had felt sick, with terror and probably with whatever she had been given to keep her unconscious. At first, she was not sure if she wanted anyone to hear her. But as the hours passed and no one came, she began to call for help.

After a while, Prince Rowan had unlocked the door and entered the room. He had worn a strange smile as he watched her, perhaps hoping for a reaction. When she gave him nothing but a cold stare, he had laughed at her. Taunted her with hints of the scene left behind them, of the probable deductions that would be made when Lady Westerby’s body was found. He spun a complicated web of poisonous half-truths that briefly made her feel ultimately responsible for the deaths of Lady Westerby and King Hollin, the collapse of the House of Tremontaine, and eventually a crushing invasion by foreign forces. If she had… If she had not… When her head was spinning sufficiently and her guilt threatened to crush her, the prince had retreated, but Rowan’s mocking laugh had echoed in her ears long after he departed, leaving food, water, and a dreadful responsibility in his wake.

For a time, she believed he was still in the house, listening, hoping she would break. Eventually, she had managed to remember that she was not personally responsible for all the world’s evils, but it did not stop the silence and uncertainty from wearing away her patience and resolve. She had called for him. Screamed at him. Used some rather inventive language if her memory recalled correctly. Eventually, she had realized that he was truly gone. And that she was truly alone.

Despair had descended with a vengeance. The door was solid, both locked and barred. There was a window, but it did not seem to open, at least not with the weak and awkward motion available to bound hands. She had carefully hoarded the food and water. Tried to eat it slowly. Tried not to think about it dwindling, and what she would do when it was gone.

The nights had been the worst. Cold and terrifying. Every noise had seemed fraught with doom. It was, she realized now, a miracle she was still herself, still sane. The memory of Vianne had held her together when nothing else could. Vianne, telling her that she could bear whatever was necessary. That she was stronger than anyone knew. She had clung to those words fiercely, believing that someone would come. Believing she would have a chance to tell someone what she had learned about the king.

On that last day, as she kicked frantically at the window, Trystan had wondered if Rowan had told her about the king’s poisoned medicine only so the knowledge could drive her mad. To torment her with the belief that she could save him if only she could get away. It had nearly succeeded. But she had gotten away, through sheer bloody-minded obstinacy, and a flat refusal to believe that a window would not break if you kicked it hard enough. She had left a lot of blood behind, but had taken her knowledge and her sanity with her. Rowan had not defeated her.

And for now, as she trotted down the road behind a man who despised her, it would have to be enough. She had liked Kyril Seagrave a great deal, but she had forfeited the right to his trust. A fact he had proven by returning briefly to the house she had left. He searched the premises thoroughly, looking, she presumed, for proof, both of her captivity and Rowan’s absence. The latter seemed evident by the complete lack of anything to indicate human habitation, outside of the small room with a broken window. That room contained more than enough to corroborate her story, from the putrid chamber pot to the sickening red stains on the floor. They were larger than she had remembered. Large enough that even Kyril was visibly shaken. He shot her a sharp, considering look, but said nothing.

After that, he had wasted no time returning to the road. The urgency of her news outweighed all other considerations, apparently even Kyril’s doubts about her integrity.

Now, bouncing uncomfortably behind his saddle, there was little to distract Trystan from an endless litany of rather hopeless speculation. Such as wondering what awaited her back at Colbourne Manor. It was probably where she would end up, if Lord Seagrave permitted her to go her own way. Now that he knew who she was, that Elaine was really Trystan Colbourne, would he tell Ramsey? Would Ramsey try to find her? She could only hope not. Whatever was to happen now, her part in it seemed done. She had told everything she knew, and though it could not fully redeem her, perhaps, if the king recovered, it could lessen her guilt. Not in her own mind, of course. That kind of forgiveness would be much harder to come by.

There was, naturally, still the problem of what was to become of her after going home. Vianne had not seemed inclined to let her stay. Malisse would be unlikely to let her remain in the house, especially when she learned that Trystan had exposed a link between the Colbourne name and the plot against the crown. For now, however, Trystan’s mind kept returning to the small but undeniably comforting thought of her room, her bed, and the oblivion of sleep. Malisse was not going to keep her from that. At least not without bodily violence, which was hardly a suitable method of resolution for a well-bred woman.

There was a part of Trystan that knew she would eventually be forced to face Prince Ramsey again, as herself, with no masque, no pretense, no lies to hide behind. She couldn’t decide whether she would rather face execution or be relieved to have it over with. So instead of dwelling on the painful lack of certainty in her future, Trystan focused on the fact that, for now at least, she was safe. She closed her eyes. Eventually, the motion of the horse ceased to matter, her head fell forward, and she drifted into sleep.