Voice Of The Demon (Book 2) (44 page)

Robert shook his head. ‘Forget me.’

With that, Robert turned and disappeared through the door, his footsteps echoing down the stairs. Stunned, Micah couldn’t move – then the cold got him. He grabbed a cloak and dashed after Robert. He clattered down the steps into the courtyard, but Robert was already far ahead of him, striding into the stables. There was no one around except the guards high on the battlements. But there was no challenge, no question thrown out into the night. There was just the silence.

Micah ran. His feet pounded on the cobbles loud enough to wake the castle. By the time he got to the stable, Robert had already saddled his horse, was leading it out towards the gate. Micah reached him in time to see the gate silently open without a hand to help it. Stunned, Micah grabbed the bridle, forcing Robert to stop.

‘Must you go? Like this?’

‘Be careful going back, Micah.’ Robert’s voice was gentle, a breath of wind amidst a gale. ‘Once I go, my Mask goes with me.’

‘Robert!’ Micah forced him to turn and look down. In his eyes now, lit by the last vestige of moonlight, there was nothing but an overwhelming sadness.

‘Look after her for me, Micah. Keep her safe.’

In that steady gaze, Micah’s heart slowed and calmed. He nodded. ‘What should I tell her?’

‘Nothing. She knows already.’ Robert leaned down and touched Micah’s face. ‘Goodbye, my friend.’

Then Robert was moving away, riding through the gates of Elita before even the first rays of dawn had touched the sky. The gate closed again behind him, but Micah couldn’t move. All he could see was the image of Robert, riding away.

Micah stayed there a long time, staring at the gate. Then, aching in every part of his body, he turned and walked slowly back to the Falcon Tower. For the first time in his life, he walked alone.

And so the duce in victory stands

upon the broken ashen earth.

In claim of kingship, power and lordship,

the beastly tyrant strides the breadth.

With every step Lusara weeps

and ails for every heart that bled

and aches with every tear that fell

         and mourns and mourns for every death.

Battle of Shanogh Anar
by Thomas McKinnley

Osbert entered the Guilde chapel through the west door, pulling it closed behind him against the spring shower. The bottom of his robe was already wet and his shoes were lined with mud. Even though it wasn’t exactly cold outside, his damp clothes and the natural cool of the chapel sent a shiver through his bones. He had to stifle a sneeze before he dared move down the aisle.

Grey shadows spilled across the tiled floor, interrupted only by a muffled light from the windows above. Edges and corners were unclear and everything up to the black marble altar took on an insubstantial form, dusty and flat. Only the gold plate laid out on the marble had any colour, reflected from the presence light burning below the trium high on the east transept.

Vaughn was there, as he had expected, talking to a man dressed in master craftsman robes halfway along the north wall. As Osbert approached, there was movement by the wall as two workmen lifted a bundle of scaffolding beams on to their shoulders and carried it out. Osbert waited until Vaughn dismissed the master before speaking.

‘You sent for me, Proctor?’ Osbert folded his hands together and tried to banish the abrupt cold from his thoughts. His bones had seen enough of winter for one year.

Vaughn eyed him slowly, drawing his white robe around his shoulders before moving towards Osbert. ‘I take it from the condition of your shoes we have another spring shower. One hopes the phenomenon will not have us flooded out before summer.’

Osbert shrugged – it was unlikely the Guilde Hall would ever be affected by floods, built, as it was, high on the mount of Marsay.

Wandering over to the altar, Vaughn spoke again, his
voice light and uncomplicated. ‘I will assume your spies have had no success in finding out where the Queen has been hidden these last eight months.’

‘My lord, it has been difficult to gather any information over the winter. Even now, as late in the spring as this, I’ve had reports of snow storms in the Goleth ranges. I’m sure—’

‘Don’t fret,’ Vaughn waved a hand but did not turn to face Osbert. ‘The result is not unexpected – however disappointing. How is the King on the subject of his son?’

Osbert paused before answering. That Vaughn had to ask him this question bespoke more than his natural curiosity. Ever since Selar had halted the hunt for sorcerers, Vaughn had barely spoken to the King. It had only been Selar’s public humiliation of the rebel Haddon that had prevented an open split between the two. Now Osbert was the only trustworthy link Vaughn had to the King.

‘Selar is still distraught and determined to get his son back, my lord,’ Osbert replied evenly. ‘He believes Prince Kenrick will be returned eventually.’

‘But until then, his plans for war must wait, eh? After all, he can’t exactly invade Mayenne without an heir to succeed him. No army nor lord would support such an effort.’

There was doubt about such support even with an heir – at least, those were the most recent whispers Osbert had heard. But he was not about to repeat them to the Proctor.

‘So we wait upon the appearance of a child who might not even be alive. Tell me,’ Vaughn turned to face Osbert, ‘have your spies reported any further intelligence of sorcerers?’

The question made Osbert swallow hard, but he managed to answer, ‘No, my lord.’

Vaughn nodded as though he were expecting exactly that response. ‘Come, take a look at my new window.’

He drew Osbert back across the chapel until they stood in the centre of the aisle, gazing up at the north-facing window, still bright with new glass. Even on such a sombre day, the colours sparkled with life.

‘Do you like it? I had it commissioned last year, but had to wait until today for the final installation to be completed.
You see the mountain there? On the left? That’s where the shrine of Alusia stands today. In the foreground you see the bodies vanquished in battle by the glorious figure above. She, of course, is the incarnation of Mineah, triumphing in the defeat of the evil of sorcery.’ Vaughn paused to enjoy the moment. Then he added, ‘So topical for our times, don’t you think?’

Without waiting for a reply, Vaughn turned his gaze on Osbert. ‘Are you certain you found no evidence of sorcery when you visited Dunlorn last summer? No vestige of guilt in the Duke? No sign of hesitation from his men?’

Osbert frowned. Why these questions now? What was Vaughn getting at?

‘No, my lord. I gave you my full report at the time. I saw Finnlay’s body with my own eyes. Haddon was upset at his brother’s death, but I sensed no duplicity from him – nor his men.’

‘And where do you suppose the Duke is now?’

‘I have no idea.’ This was getting ridiculous. Why would Osbert know where . . .

‘Don’t you think it strange, Osbert, that the Queen vanishes from the court – apparently from the country – and soon after, the great Duke of Haddon disappears also? Do you not think it possible that the two events are linked?’

Before Osbert could even gather breath, Vaughn added, ‘Especially so soon after Haddon’s brother is accused of sorcery.’

‘My lord,’ Osbert began carefully, hoping not to offend Vaughn, ‘Haddon left Elita the same night Selar humiliated him. There’s no secret there. And as I said, his brother is dead and can have no relationship with sorcery . . .’

At this, Vaughn smiled. ‘Except that I
know
that Finnlay Douglas
is
a sorcerer.’

For a moment, Osbert was tempted to argue this, but Vaughn gazed at him so calmly and steadily that Osbert had to take the statement seriously. ‘How do you know?’

‘That doesn’t matter. However, I want you to bring it to the King’s attention. Now that he’s no longer protecting Robert Douglas, Selar might find a search for the renegade
turns up news of his Queen and heir. And please, if you think it wise, don’t even mention the idea came from me. Selar would only suspect my motives and not pay sufficient attention to the danger at hand. Can you do that for me, Osbert?’

How could he refuse? And yet, how could he comply? Selar had long since rejected any conversation to do with sorcery. He no longer even pretended to listen. And as for mention of Robert Douglas . . .

‘I’ll do my best, my lord.’ Osbert bowed and turned for the door. Before he could escape, however, Vaughn called one last thing to him.

‘Be sure you attend mass tomorrow, Osbert. I’ve asked Deacon Godfrey to deliver a homily on the new window and the evils of sorcery.’

Osbert slipped out into the shade of the chapel portico to discover the rain had already stopped. Less pleasant was the discovery that awaited him a few feet away.

Nash wore his customary grey robes and a frown of threatening proportions. Osbert swallowed and tried to contain his irritation. This day was deteriorating rapidly.

‘We need to talk,’ was all Nash said.

Osbert led him into the garden over wet flagstones glinting in the sudden sunshine. The borders were bristling with new spring colour while the corner-laid trees danced with pale green leaves, unsullied so far by summer’s heat.

Walking with his hands clasped casually behind his back, Osbert stole a glance at his companion, whose allegiance to the Guilde was displayed solely in the new Governor’s brooch he wore on his right shoulder. For the most part, Nash was seen little in his robes these days, preferring to play down his part within the Guilde in favour of the higher role he played beside the King. In only a week, Nash would be confirmed in another new position – that of King’s Councillor. Yes, indeed, young Samdon Nash had risen far and fast over the last three years. Too fast, in fact, for one who appeared to have only average capabilities.

Osbert tore his attention away from speculation. He’d been over that too many times now and not once had he
ever liked the inevitable conclusion. As much as he had loosely allied himself with Nash, Osbert didn’t trust him as far as the garden wall.

‘When did you get back?’ Osbert asked lightly, looking around. They were alone.

‘I have no time for small talk, Osbert,’ Nash snapped. ‘You told me six months ago that you were already gathering sufficient support to oust Vaughn at the next election. Now I find that you didn’t even bother to stand last week. Why?’

‘Because,’ Osbert replied with a sigh, ‘it would have been a pointless exercise. Vaughn’s popularity has enjoyed a sharp rise over his stubborn position on sorcery. Most of our ordinary members feel the King was unjustified in cutting the hunt short and admire Vaughn’s courage in standing up to Selar. If you’d been around a bit more often, you would have known that yourself.’

‘Don’t you—’

Osbert met the dark gaze without flinching visibly -though it took some effort. ‘What?’

Nash calmed himself a little. ‘I’ve spent most of the last eight months chasing after the wretched Queen, as you well know. When I’ve not been out combing the countryside in the bleakest winter to touch these shores in a century, I’ve been locked up with the King, trying to control his desire to burn down the country looking for his son. What have you been doing?’

It was always so amazingly easy for Osbert to remain calm in the face of anger, even when he admitted to some fear of the man in front of him. Now that he had risen so high, Nash was wont to show his displeasure more and more often. But, no matter how angry Nash was, he still needed Osbert.

‘As it happens,’ Osbert brought them to a halt before a bush of exquisite pink roses, bending to breathe in the perfume, knowing the laziness of the gesture would infuriate Nash, ‘I have been trying to find out more about your secret library.’

‘Oh?’ Nash was visibly unimpressed.

‘Answering such questions as – does it really exist?’

‘Of couise it exists.’

‘And what it might contain.’

‘That doesn’t concern you.’

Osbert turned back to the roses. ‘It’s just that I might find it easier to discover the whereabouts of this famous secret library if I knew what kind of books were in it.’

‘Old books,’ Nash said. ‘Ancient. Some written in the earliest days of the Guilde.’

‘And these would be history books?’ Osbert mused delicately, half-afraid the answer would be no.

But Nash was through with this game. ‘Of course they’re history books! What else would they be? What I want to know is, what are you going to do about Vaughn – or am I to find someone who will solve the problem for both of us?’

Osbert’s heart lurched and he glanced around furtively in case somebody might have approached close enough to hear. ‘You would . . . condone—’

‘I’ve told you before, Osbert,’ Nash replied in a voice of gravel. ‘I need that library. I know Vaughn knows where it is. He’s already hinted at its existence. It must be somewhere here in the Guilde Hall, but we can’t search for it while he’s still Proctor. He would burn it rather than have somebody find it. The choice is yours. Find the library for me – or lose the Proctor.’

With that, Nash turned on his heel and strode away, leaving Osbert almost breathless with horror.

There was no other explanation. His speculations had to be correct – and he had no doubt Nash meant what he said. But . . . if Osbert found the library, what would happen to him next? Would he survive long enough to see what the books contained? Or would he suffer the same fate Vaughn had just been promised?

No. Once Osbert had found the library, he too would be expendable. There was only one solution: to discover where the library was and what it contained before Nash did. He would have to find a way to get Vaughn to tell him.

Osbert left the rose bush and headed for his study. It was time he opened that bottle he’d bought last year. This was the perfect opportunity to see if it worked.

*

The tavern where he and Payne had met in secret almost a year ago was just as awful as Godfrey remembered. Then he had been uncomfortable moving around without his clerical robes; now he felt these rags were a second skin, hiding not only his identity but his treason too. The tavern’s clientele paid him no attention as he took his seat in the booth opposite Earl Payne and Duke McGlashen. Conspirators all, only their unscarred but calloused hands gave away their real place in life.