Traitor's Masque (52 page)

 
Chapter 19
 

The day of Ramsey’s return to Evenburg was warm and sunny. The spring rains had at least paused, and the whole world seemed green and cheerful. There were birds. And squirrels. Ramsey knew there were squirrels because he had nearly ridden several of them down in his haste to discover if his father still lived. The world seemed so dark, he wondered how it could have the nerve to have squirrels. He also wondered whether the bizarre meanderings of his brain were chiefly the result of grief, worry and guilt, or having gone five days with almost no sleep. Or perhaps all of the above.

Ramsey suspected that the squirrels fled not from the haste of his passing but from terror at his appearance. Filthy, unshaven, rumpled and disordered, with gaunt cheeks and bloodshot eyes—it would be a wonder if they let him in the castle gate. And behind all these pointless musings ran a single, stark thought: my father is alive. It repeated itself. My father is alive. It would be true by virtue of his conviction. He would not let it be otherwise. He had lost his brother and he had lost Embrie. He would not lose his father too.

The clatter of Evenleigh’s cobblestones under his mount’s hooves was nothing less than sweet music. He made his way swiftly to the gates of Evenburg, not even pausing at the guard’s challenge. Dismounting nearly proved his undoing. The world spun as his feet hit the ground and his vision temporarily darkened. Even as he hastily grabbed at the saddle to hold himself up, Ramsey heard the sound of guards approaching at a run. Straightening and glaring balefully was enough to establish his identity and set up a yell that echoed oddly around his already disordered brain. Prince Ramsey had come home and it seemed the whole castle felt the need to be loud about it. Blinking owlishly at his bags, Ramsey decided he didn’t need them and started inside, only to be instantly intercepted by a smiling (
smiling?
), bowing Mortimer.

“Your Highness-” the steward managed to get out before Ramsey was nearly bowled over by a brown-haired female missile.

“Lizbet?” It was indeed his aunt. His giddy aunt. She was beaming at him so happily there were tears in her eyes. “Aunt Lizbet, I have something…” Ramsey began to remove the chain from around his neck, to hand her the vial he had carried so swiftly across the kingdom, but his aunt was too fast for him.

She clasped his shoulders firmly in her small hands. “He’s going to be all right, Donnie! He’s going to be fine!”

Ramsey’s jaw dropped. “Then… the physicians, they… Da is going to be all right?”

Lizbet nodded, tears now streaking her flushed cheeks as another person skidded into the entrance hall and stalked toward them, scowling furiously.

“Ramsey, you brainless idiot! You’re lucky nothing happened to you because if it had I would have killed you myself!” Kyril embraced his friend briefly but fiercely, then pulled back to look at him with an appalled expression. “Ramsey, you look like death. What’s happened?”

“Not here!” Lizbet pushed them both towards her office.

“Wait!” Ramsey looked at both of them uncertainly. “You’re sure? Father is not going to die?”

Lizbet snorted. “At least not anytime soon… not of anything except surliness and frustration, that is. Come, Ramsey. You can see him after we’ve talked.”

Ramsey let himself be led, almost too confused to grasp the truth. His father would live. When they reached his aunt’s office, he sank into a chair with a groan and dropped his face into his hands.

“Ramsey,” Lizbet asked suddenly, a note of worry in her voice, “where is Brawley?”

Ramsey looked up at them bleakly. “Still in Zell, I hope,” he answered, trying to hold back exhausted tears. “Rowan…” a half-sob choked him, born of relief, anguish, and too many sleepless nights. “Rowan put a knife in his chest.” Kyril swore violently, and Lizbet exclaimed in shock, even as she put her arms around her nephew and held him as tightly as she would one of her own children.

“He wanted to keep me from following him, wanted to force me to let him cross the border, so he stabbed Brawley and gave me this…” The golden chain dangled from Ramsey’s fingers. “He said it was Father’s antidote.” Another sob ripped out of his chest. “I had to let him go! I couldn’t stop him. I had to let him go.” Ramsey’s voice shook. “He made me believe that it couldn’t be as bad as it seemed and then…” He looked up at his aunt.

“Embrie’s dead,” he whispered hoarsely. “Embrie is dead and Rowan killed her.”

Kyril snarled in terrible fury, crossed the room in an instant and knelt in front of Ramsey. He took his friend’s face in his hands and forced his prince to look at him. “Ramsey,” he said slowly and firmly, as though speaking to a child. “I don’t know what Rowan told you, but it was a lie. Embrie is alive. I found her and brought her home.”

Ramsey just stared at him, uncomprehending, his expression raw and terrible.

“Ramsey! She. Is. Alive.”

The truth finally found its way through the fog, through the wreck of Ramsey’s mind and heart, to resonate joyfully beside the news of his father’s recovery. Incongruously, the tears he had tried to hold back finally broke free in horrible, tearing sobs. He had not cried like that since his mother died. Even as his shoulders shook with the strength of his emotion, he realized that his primary feeling was now that of relief. Suddenly, the day no longer seemed the worst of his life. It might not have made the top ten. Ramsey could even find it in him to be glad there were squirrels.

“Ramsey,” his aunt said finally, despite her own tears, “I believe whatever you have to say can wait. I will see to it that one of our best physicians is sent to collect Brawley immediately. I will make sure your father knows you are home. You”—she narrowed her eyes at him—“are going to bed. Now!”

Ramsey remembered that he was tired. The world was not entirely right, but it was far closer to right than he had believed for the past several days. And everything that was not yet right could wait for him to…

He only made it back to his room with Kyril half-carrying, half-dragging him. Foster eventually showed up to lend a hand, and together they put the prince to bed. Kyril pulled off his friend’s boots and handed them to Foster, who carried them out of the room with an expression of appalled distaste.

A smile crossed Kyril’s face as he crept out of the room and left Ramsey to his sleep. There could not be a great deal wrong with the world when a valet could spare such extreme malevolence for a pair of mistreated footwear.

It was a very strange homecoming for Trystan.

Lord Seagrave left her at the crossroads nearest Colbourne Manor, mounted on a borrowed horse. They had been largely silent for the final part of their ride, somewhat of inclination and somewhat of necessity. A second horse, borrowed from a crown courier station, had greatly accelerated their progress, especially once Kyril realized that his companion could match any pace he set on horseback. After that, their speed had, for the most part, precluded conversation. What conversation did pass between them had been polite, but strained. Lord Seagrave had not seemed inclined to answer questions, and Trystan had been far too aware of his disapproval to press him.

She arrived at Colbourne Manor just before lunch time, sore and filthy from head to foot, though her bandages at least were clean. Kyril had paused their journey, in the face of her protests, long enough to have her lacerated wrists seen to by a healer. The woman had given both of them a dark look, but asked no questions, only cleaned, stitched and bound up the wounds. Trystan hoped it would be enough. She had enough explaining to do without being required to address the matter of her injuries.

Trystan left her horse with the same lazy-looking man who had driven her to Lady Isaura’s for tea that memorable afternoon, several lifetimes ago. His expression of suspicion disappeared when Trystan pointed out the crown brand on her mount’s shoulder and suggested there would be dire consequences if he failed to treat the animal with care.

Upon leaving the stable, Trystan’s feet turned automatically to the kitchen entrance, but changed course at the last. She wanted Vianne to know she was home, but, more than that, she needed to show Malisse that the old Trystan was gone.

Since her departure, Trystan had known both terror and pain. Experienced both exultation and dread. In truth, she could no longer imagine being frightened of Malisse or her threats. Her stepmother’s power to intimidate seemed so small, so paltry, that Trystan could not even summon the energy to care what she was going to say.

Trystan knocked forcefully on the front door, not without a wince. Perhaps she should have kicked it instead. The door swung open in the firm, businesslike hand of…
Hoskins
? Trystan’s eyes went quite wide with surprise and then crinkled in a silent laugh. The distinguished-looking older man was looking at her as though he had seen a ghost. A very familiar, very welcome ghost. Trystan suppressed the urge to hug him. It would have embarrassed him deeply, so she settled for grasping his hand—carefully—in welcome.

Noting the bandages crossing her palms, Hoskins raised an eyebrow at his employer’s wayward child.

“Long story, Hoskins,” she answered wryly. “But before you say anything, I need to tell you how very, very glad I am to see you back.” The gray-haired butler bowed with great propriety. “How did you…”

There was no need to say more. Hoskins drew himself up with an air of satisfaction. “It seems the mistress had some complaints regarding the competence of my successor. When she was forced to turn him off and experienced some difficulty in securing the services of anyone else, I was only too happy to agree to resume my position.” A conspiratorial smile lurked at the corner of his mouth. “And may I say, madam, how very glad I am to see you returned to us.”

He raised one eyebrow as voices suddenly echoed into the entrance hall. One of them, at least, was unmistakable. Malisse. Trystan and Hoskins looked at each other, dispensed with propriety and rolled their eyes in unison.

Malisse had obviously not been aware of the identity of her caller. She took a single step into the entryway and froze, staring at the filthy apparition before her.

Trystan waited calmly for the diatribe to begin. She expected a certain amount of haranguing would have to take place before she would be permitted a bath. What happened next shocked her.

Malisse walked forward, never once looking into Trystan’s eyes. Her face seemed carved from granite as she approached, gave a stiff nod of greeting, and addressed Trystan in a modulated, well-bred voice. “Welcome home, dear child.”

Trystan’s mouth was not equal to the self-control demanded of it and dropped open.

“We will be lunching shortly,” Malisse continued, “but I’m sure you will wish to bathe and rest. I will have a tray sent to your room, unless you have other preferences.”

Trystan just looked at her stepmother. She could not even begin to guess how she ought to respond. Was this Malisse’s idea of a joke? “Yes, I certainly do want a bath, and food, but I’m quite certain I can see to it myself, Stepmother.”

A false smile, bright as the sun and nearly as blinding, answered her. “Oh no, my dear, I wouldn’t hear of it. Just go on up and I’ll arrange everything. So pleased you have returned!” As though the limits of her politeness had been reached, Malisse abruptly whirled and disappeared.