Voice Of The Demon (Book 2) (39 page)

Yes, this man was indeed a dangerous adversary. Nash would have to keep him in check. ‘Just find the boy.’

DeMassey favoured him with a smile and a flourishing mock bow. Then he glanced distastefully around the room once more and left, closing the door behind him.

*

The autumn night was cold, breathing wet marsh air through the walls of the tower. Nash washed in hot water boiled by his power. He drew the cloth along his skin, dragging the dirt from his flesh and making it red and tender. He dried himself, then pulled a huge woollen blanket around his shoulders. He came to the centre of his room where the rug his great-grandfather had made formed six circles of decreasing size.

Nash stood his ground for a minute before he moved. He knelt in the dark pool at the heart of the circles and threw the blanket back. Naked, he drew the garnet ring from his left hand and held it up before his eyes.

‘Well, Finnlay Douglas, my Enemy. You may have escaped, but I will find you. I know who you are now, and no matter where you are, no matter what you are doing, I will find you.’

He took a deep, calming breath and centred his concentration, pulled in his focus. The ring was buried between his hands and he closed his eyes. In his mind, the circles beneath
him began to glow, each in turn, moving further outwards. He followed them, floating and charged by the power he unleashed. Enticing, it called him onwards into the dark night.

He roamed the land a free ghost, unchained by his body. He travelled high and fast, clear and deep. For hours he pulsed with the energy of a thousand thunderstorms, until at last, as dawn filtered through the tower windows, he rejoined his body and breathed life again into his ancient bones.

Nowhere.

Finnlay Douglas was nowhere to be found.

Except that he
was
somewhere. He was with the Key – and the Key, powerful and vibrant and still very much alive, was protecting and shielding the aura Nash was Seeking.

He opened his eyes and sat back. Absently he slipped the ring back on his finger and stared down at the blood colour suffused with new daylight.

The Enemy did indeed have the Key and was no more than a week’s journey away from Bairdenscoth. Nash had been right all along. Either Lusara or the eastern reaches of Mayenne. One or the other. It didn’t matter.

One day, Finnlay Douglas would have to leave the shelter of the Key – and when he did, Nash would find him. The Enemy was no match for him. The Enemy would take him to the Key.

With a smile, Nash pulled the blanket over himself again and laid down on the plush rug. He closed his eyes and plunged into sleep.

There was nothing so refreshing as washing in bitterly cold water – especially on a freezing morning like this. Still, Micah plunged his face into the bowl, shook it around for a few seconds, then emerged with a roar.

Now shivering, he grabbed a towel and rubbed it vigorously over his body. Soon his skin was red, but warm. Before he could get cold again, he threw on some clothes, ignored the waiting bed and the sleep he really needed and headed downstairs.

Robert was in the hall talking quietly to Owen. He looked up as Micah jumped down the last two steps. ‘I thought I told you to get some rest.’

‘I will, my lord. Later.’ Micah glanced at Owen, then back at Robert. ‘Any word yet?’

‘What? Since you rode in this morning? Half an hour ago?’ Robert shook his head. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve eaten either, have you?’

‘Er . . . no . . .’

‘Owen?’

‘I’ll have something brought up to the winter parlour, my lord. Together with a sleeping draught, I think.’

Robert laughed. ‘See, Micah? I’m not the only one who thinks you’re reckless.’

‘I, my lord?’ Micah asked innocently. Just because he’d spent the better part of the last four days in the saddle didn’t mean he should immediately collapse into a bed. Of course, there were the five days immediately before that – but it didn’t matter. He felt fine. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

Robert shook his head, still smiling, ‘Yes you do. But don’t worry. You’ll pay for it later. Trust me.’

‘My lord?’ Owen interrupted, turning to the opposite end of the hall. There, travel-stained and weary, Deverin was coming towards them, his clothes encrusted in mud.

Robert immediately strode over. The big man, a grin as wide as the sea on his face, said only one thing: ‘Success, my lord!’

With a laugh, Robert slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Well done, Deverin! Any mishaps? Any problems – Where’s Patric?’

‘Here.’

They all turned to find Patric limping into the hall, looking – if it were possible – in even worse shape than Deverin.
Micah immediately went to his aid, taking his elbow and a little of the weight off his feet.

Robert was grinning at them both now. ‘Let’s get you upstairs. Owen, send some food up, will you? I’m sure these battle-weary soldiers are hungry for some Dunlorn fare.’

‘Aye, my lord.’

*

There was hot water for Patric to wash in, but Micah didn’t mind. Rather, he felt a bit sorry for the man – it took years to get used to days on end in the saddle. And Patric was a mass of bruises. Micah helped him get his shirt off, washed out a few of the cuts. All the while, Deverin, ignoring the dirt, plunged into the food Owen had brought them. But, weary and bruised, Patric couldn’t stop talking.

‘It was amazing, Robert. You should have been there. We encountered a patrol every single day we were out. Fortunately, each time we were able to get to Rosalind first. We even stopped and shared an ale with one lot. I tell you, I almost died of fright, but Deverin here just told a few dirty stories and sent them on their way laughing. The worst night was just before we hit the border. Deverin said we should continue on without stopping, we were so close. Ouch!’

‘Sorry,’ Micah murmured, drawing his hands away from the cut on Patric’s shoulder. The smell of hot food was getting to him and the empty hole in his stomach was growling for attention. But Patric wouldn’t sit still, so Micah just handed him a woollen shirt and took a seat at the table.

‘So what happened?’ Robert prompted, leaning back against a cabinet. ‘When you got to the border?’

‘Oh, that,’ Patric reached out for a piece of ham pie and stuffed it into his mouth. He kept talking through the food. ‘Well, it was really dark and there was this wood we had to get through. The Queen was dubious about it, but Deverin insisted we keep moving. Then, before we could get very far, we were challenged.’

‘What?’

‘His Grace of Flan-har,’ Deverin murmured through a mouthful of cheese and onion.

‘Yes,’ Patric’s eyes were alight with his story, his hands
flying through the air as he spoke. ‘Your old friend had sent out an advance party just in case we got into trouble. Well, this guard told us of a patrol not three hundred yards away from us. We were so close to the border we couldn’t risk turning back.’

‘Master Patric did something, my lord,’ Deverin grunted. ‘He was shaking like a leaf, but he had that stone in his hand. The patrol didn’t see a thing and we got across the border without incident.’

Deverin poured himself some wine and climbed to his feet. He joined Robert by the cabinet, wiping the breadcrumbs from his beard. ‘It was a good thing you sent him along, my lord.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes,’ Deverin nodded, ‘to have kept him here for so long would have driven you mad, my lord.’

Micah ducked his head and buried his smile around his breakfast.

‘Correct me if I’m wrong, Deverin,’ Robert began mildly, almost curiously, ‘but would I be right in suggesting that my friend actually enjoyed himself on this mission?’

Deverin nodded gravely. ‘I believe, my lord, that you have judged the situation accurately.’

‘And he didn’t er . . . complain at all?’

‘Aye, he did that, my lord.’

‘What . . . not constantly, surely?’

‘Aye, my lord, constantly.’

‘Now that’s interesting.’

Patric quickly swallowed before he started defending himself.

‘What’s more, my lord,’ Deverin continued, bending his head towards Robert with a conspiratorial whisper, ‘when he did that Mask – I could swear he was smiling.’

Micah couldn’t hold it in any longer, he began to laugh.

‘Leave me alone!’ Patric wailed. ‘I’m tired and injured. There’s no need to pick on me like this.’

‘Pick on you?’ Robert spread his arms in innocence. ‘Nothing of the kind! I’m just receiving a full report of your exploits. I would be derelict in my duty if I did less.’

‘Hah!’ Patric grumbled. ‘That’s the last time I do you a favour.’

Deverin burst out laughing and moved back to the table to slap Patric on the back before taking his leave. When the door was closed again, Patric winced and flexed his shoulder slightly. ‘That man’s a brute, Robert. I don’t know how you put up with him. You and your friends will be the death of me! As for that Duke—’

‘Who? Grant Kavanagh? He’s harmless.’

‘Harmless? He’s the size of an ox and has no concept of degrees of excess. He treated the whole thing like it was some huge entertainment put on for him by his old and close friend, Robert Douglas. I swear, we would have been back two days ago if it hadn’t been for him. He kept insisting we stay another night and drink with him. Even Deverin was in a hurry to leave – and he can really put the ale away. But for some reason, Grant took a liking to me. Kept filling up my cup and watching me drink it. I was sick for half the next day, so we couldn’t leave that night. I swear he did it deliberately.’

‘But you did leave – eventually.’

‘The only way we got out of there was by telling Grant that you would be frantic with worry if you hadn’t heard the Queen was safe. I even suggested you might come chasing after him if we didn’t get home soon.’

‘And that did the trick?’

‘Sure did. The man’s terrified of you. He even admits it – quietly.’

Robert chuckled and came over to the table. He pulled a chair around and straddled the seat, putting his elbows on the back. ‘So the Queen
is
safe. What about Samah and Galiena?’

‘They joined us on the second day in Flan-har. They had no problems at all. They were only stopped once, given a cursory glance and told to move on. The Princess was back to full health the last time I saw her. I should warn you, though, Grant is looking to see you for a visit very soon. He wants to know what this is all about. What I want to know is why he would help with such a thing. I know Flan-har is
independent – but if Selar suspected his son was there, there would be an army crossing that border in no time, amidst talk of annexing the wealthy little state. Why would Grant take that risk?’

‘He’s a kind and generous soul.’

‘Rubbish!’

Robert laughed. ‘And he owes me a favour.’

‘It would have to be a pretty big favour,’ Patric murmured, polishing off the last of the bread and wine.

‘It was.’

Patric looked up at this, then glanced at Micah for help. Micah just shrugged. He had no idea what Robert was talking about.

Patric leaned back in his chair, his hands resting happily on his full stomach. ‘Does he know you’re a sorcerer?’

Robert shook his head and helped himself to some ale. ‘No. But I think he has his suspicions. Why, what did he say?’

‘Nothing . . . exactly. It’s just that, beneath the bluster and bravado, he really is afraid of you. Would that have something to do with the favour he owes you?’

Micah was intrigued and turned to watch Robert’s response. There was obviously a story there, but Robert wasn’t about to elaborate. He just shook his head, giving nothing away. ‘I don’t think he’s really afraid of me – he was just trying to impress you. He does have a vivid imagination, which I’m sure you noticed. Anyway, we can all relax; they’re safe for the moment. The only real problem now is—’

A knock at the door interrupted him. It was Owen with a tanned leather pouch.

‘Forgive me, my lord, but a courier has just arrived for you. He is to wait for a reply.’

Robert took the pouch, opened it and brought out a single letter. He examined the seal, then frowned across at Micah. ‘It’s from Elita. Thank you, Owen. I’ll be down shortly with my reply.’

Micah sat on the edge of his seat as Owen left them and Robert cracked open the seal. He read in silence for a few moments, his face hard and immobile. Patric glanced at
Micah, but neither said anything. Eventually, Robert came to his feet and tossed the letter down on the table.

‘I’ve been invited to Jenn’s wedding. My mother, too.’

A shocked silence filled the room as Robert drifted over to the window. Micah watched him go, then turned his gaze on Patric. It was Patric who spoke first.

‘When?’

‘In just over a week. She’s to marry Eachern at Selar’s order. He’s in a hurry to secure all possible rivals now his son has been stolen away.’

Micah stared at the letter. He could have picked it up and read it, but he didn’t want to. This was too terrible for words. But – this didn’t make any sense. ‘Why have you been invited, my lord? Jacob believes you’re a traitor.’

‘And so I am, Micah – now.’ Robert’s voice was flat and he spoke without turning around. ‘It’s ironic, but it appears that my recent . . . activities have altered Jacob’s view somewhat. He’s also angry about the summary direction given out by Selar. On top of that, he feels that, as I was responsible for Jenn being returned to Elita in the first place, I should be there to help celebrate her wedding.’

Patric had heard enough. He clambered to his feet, knocking his chair over. He hastily picked it up, insisting as he went, ‘But you have to go and stop it, Robert. If you don’t, I will. We can’t let her marry Eachern. The man’s a butcher! His efforts during the conquest made him the most hated man in the country after Selar. His men razed three whole villages to the ground on their own. It’s inconceivable that Jenn should marry him. She must be allowed to follow her own—’

Robert whirled around from the window, his eyes flaring. ‘Destiny? Do you really think I want her to marry. . .’ Then the light abruptly died away. ‘I can’t stop it, Patric, and neither can you. There’s no way we could get her out of there, short of abducting her, and I think she might have something to say about that.’