Forgotten - Kingdom Gone Book 3, page 8
“Enjoy your trip,” Payne said. She waved at the powdered corpse. “Thanks for the abduction and everything.”
“She’s coming with us?” Sariah edged closer and Payne glared back. They both knew any physical confrontation would come down to them, had to be between them.
“Of course she is.” Malcolm didn’t budge, however. “There’s a woman in Westwood who can help you.”
“Like he did?”
“Ungrateful.” Sariah spat and growled at Malcolm. “Why don’t we just leave her to her misery?”
“No.” For the first time since the temple, Malcolm’s spine appeared again. He shook his head and gave Payne a fierce look, his eyes wild and his white teeth showing under his mustache again. “She’ll come with us. She has nowhere else to go.”
He thought they had her, thought somehow that her life on the rocky crags had been worse than this, than a man’s death in the chapel yard and a slinking darkness eating at her insides. His big head nodded again and he moved, stiffly but without hesitation, around the fire. Malcolm risked her proximity long enough to skirt the father’s remains and circle behind Sariah and up the other side of the steps to the chapel entrance. He thought that meant something, thought he showed her how unafraid he was, but Payne measured his path and counted the inches he kept between them.
Malcolm was afraid of her. He vanished inside the building, left her alone with his hound. The girl backed to the far end of the steps and squatted there. Her eyes shifted from the door to the ashy robes and back. Behind her the horse stamped in the shadows beside a low shed.
Payne eyed the remains as well. The robe’s corner lifted in the breeze and bits of the father wafted away on it. Confronting one of them was easier than two, but this one could touch her without dying. She had no dust, and wouldn’t have braved a pocket to get any if one were to be had. Still, a man’s ash would do, a man’s life force would linger in his powder—as good as dust, if one had no compunction.
She didn’t remember how she’d arrived at the temple, or where she’d come from, but she’d spent at least ten years living and breathing magic there. Magic, was the only memory she did have, and her mind swam in it. She leaned forward and lifted the fabric higher.
“What are you doing?” Sariah’s voice squeaked, but she didn’t move any closer, didn’t stand or cry for her partner. She didn’t know enough to be afraid.
“It has power, death.” Payne reached a finger into the soft ash and felt the surge of it. “It means something.”
“You’re mad as hell, you know that? We should have left you in your temple to rot.”
“Have you ever killed a man?”
“None of your business.”
“You’ve never killed anyone.” The powder drifted on the breeze, but enough remained to sink her hands into, to coat her palms and cake between her fingers. Payne called to mind the sigils she knew, let the lines and curves dance through the only memories she carried.
“I’ve seen my share of death, thank you.”
“I can imagine.” But the girl hadn’t. Payne could hear it in the tremble of her voice. She might have seen death, but it sat poorly on her, and watching Payne play with a man’s ashes had her unnerved. “I suspect you’re tired of it.”
“Yes. What?”
“How long have you been following him around, doing whatever he tells you?”
“Malcolm’s a good man.” There—a catch in her throat when she said the man’s name, a revelation of feelings usually held tightly in check.
“I’m sure he is.” The sigil came when she called it, and the dust on her palms glowed. “But he doesn’t really see you, does he? A man with a cause can be short on vision.”
“You talk too much.” The fire had left Sariah’s words. They came flat and dazed now.
“But you are tired of it, of always moving.” Payne turned her palms out, let the sigil flare and saw its reflection in the girl’s eyes. “You’re so tired. You should really rest.”
“Rest?”
“Yes. Sleep now. Sleep.” The sigil, Sleep, burned between them. Payne’s hands glowed, warmed with magic lent her by the man who’d died at her touch. “Time to sleep.”
She could take care of herself, it seemed, with a little help from the deceased. Sariah nodded, wobbled and then curled up on the stairs and closed her eyes. Payne didn’t have a weapon, but she didn’t need one, did she? She could have used a pouch, would have liked to bring some of the father with her in case she needed him again. There wasn’t time, however, and her mind shifted to her flight before the first, steady breaths escaped the sleeping woman. Light spilled from the chapel, but it was pale and dancing and she slunk across it in a squatted with her eyes fixed on the doorway.
Whatever Malcolm pillaged from the father had his full attention, and she slipped to the far side of the chapel and into the shadows without hearing a peep from within. Let him search the stores. They’d do the father no good now. Just let him stay at it long enough for her to get some distance.
She found a dark stretch of fence between the chapel and its shed. The horse was tied to this, tall and square of body with a dull eye. It had to be Malcolm’s own mount, and Payne took a little hope from the bags draped over the beast’s saddle. She’d do her own pillaging and pray there was nothing inside the pouches too valuable, too important that would make him determined to chase after her.
The horse shifted its weight when she untied it. It grunted when she swung into the saddle but made no protest to her at all. Obedient, it followed the softest nudge of her calf and turned away from its master without question.
The road wound in front of the chapel, and the wagon was parked pointing to the right. If that was the way they meant to go, then she wanted left. Would it take her back to the temple, to him? The clouds had collected over the stars again, the night turned back to black. She couldn’t see farther than the hillside, than the little trees on the opposite side of the track. There might be a finger of rock to the left, an ancient circle of columns overlooking a distant sea. Or there might not.
They could have turned the wagon.
No matter either way. Sariah wouldn’t sleep forever. Malcolm could step out of the entrance at any moment. Payne drew the left rein in and squeezed her calves against a willing belly. The horse moved out, softly under a tight rein. Each step thudded just loudly enough to make her flinch, to tempt her to look back. It would take him a moment, once he discovered her trick. He’d wake the girl first, and they’d have to use the wagon or unhitch the other horse.
She kicked with her heels and moved her hands forward so that Malcolm’s proud steed could trot. Payne listened for shouts from behind, but as they rounded the first bend, as the hillside swelled and blocked out all but the tip of the steeple, all she could hear were the hoof beats singing, free, free, free.
Chapter Ten
“Has father sent Malcolm into danger?” Farine twisted and tried to see the results of her hair brushing without having to look in the wretched mirror. Despite the User’s assurances, she couldn’t help but fear the enchantment and each time she passed one of the mirrors her heart paused, as if the glass might snare her again in its illusion.
“How do you mean?” Hadja stared out the tall windows. Her gown riffled in the breeze. It had been overcast, gray and blustery since the faire, as if the weather knew about the breaking of her enchantment and meant to emphasize the dreariness of reality.
“I mean the war, Hadj. Mastral has filled the castle with Users. The king is surrounded by strange elves, and everyone is whispering. Canton will attack Gault. Atla is moving his army over the mountains. The Northern Glade has allied with him. Where is Malcolm in all that? Fighting?”
“I don’t believe we have engaged anyone, Fari.” Hadja turned only enough to look over her shoulder and frown. “Whispers can be misleading. Any war to the north will be handled in the north, and even if it didn’t stay there, the king will protect us.”
“You’ve seen something?” The way Hadja said king had an almost reverent edge to it. “The Powers have spoken to you.”
“No, and don’t roll your eyes either.” She’d turned back to the view, but caught Farine’s mockery just the same. “Our resident Users might think otherwise, but the Powers don’t serve man, were not meant to serve us. It would do them well to remember that, I think.”
“Then what’s the point of them?”
“They have their own point, and it doesn’t require your approval anymore than I do. Think me silly along with the rest of them if you will.”
“I won’t. I don’t, Hadja.”
The maid sighed and finally turned to face the room and her charge. “I know. I’m sorry. My nerves are as high as yours I suspect. Here, let me fix that.”
Farine crossed to her sitting couch and knelt there, handing over her comb and letting Hadja deal with her tresses. The ritual of it, the rhythm of their brushing routine, soothed away the threat of tension between them. Hadja stroked the teeth along the length of her hair and they both settled into the moment.
“Malcolm is safe.” Hadja spoke between strokes, another rhythm. “He’s gone south to fetch something for Mastral from the port.”
“Oh.”
“I didn’t realize you’d miss him.”
“It’s not that.”
“Just feeling off kilter?”
“Yes.” Who could blame her? “Do you think the enchantment would work on me again?”
“Are you choosing that?”
“No!”
Hadja chuckled and the comb paused. “You are asking something more than would it work.”
“Would it?”
“Possibly.”
“And?”
“And.” Hadja’s hand moved. The comb stroked away another tangle. “And I would not allow it, if I knew you didn’t want them to.”
“But father would try if he knew?”
“I’m not sure, Fari. I’m not privy to the king’s thoughts these days.” The word king rang again, odd and sparking more questions. “I suspect he has little to fear in your case. This is your home. It’s all you know. He is your father and your affection for him is not in doubt.”
“But if he asked, if he ordered you to do it?”
“We’d work something out, you and I.” She stopped combing and stepped away, too quickly. Hadja’s back retreated to the windows again. She stared out at the courtyard and the gardens beyond the walls. “Do I pass your test?”
“What?”
“Your User friend has suggested that I might not be trustworthy.” Hadja’s hands moved to her skirts, pressed the fabric smooth and then brushed her own long hair back over her shoulders. “Or something has given you that idea.”
“Hadj.”
“I don’t blame you. I’d wonder too. But you are all I have in the world, Fari, and I did think we were friends after a fashion.”
“Of course we are!” She burst from her couch and flew to the windows, dropping to her knees and hugging her maid’s knees, burying her face against Hajda’s skirts as if she were still a child. “Hajda, you’re my dearest friend. I couldn’t make it through a day without you. How could you think otherwise?”
“Shhh. Stand up, Fari.”
“I can’t. I can’t take all of this any longer. Nothing is like it was, like it—like I thought it was.” She couldn’t bring herself to say like it should be. Even horrified and afraid, the idea of the illusion loomed darker and more threatening than any true vision.
“Well,” Hadja sniffed. “At least we have each other. Come on, stand up. Let’s go to the gardens.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Think how blessed we are, Fari, and that poor girl has no one, not a friend in the world or a soul to call family.”
“She has your Miriam.”
Hadja stepped from her grip, backed away enough to scowl disapproval down on her. “That’s a poor substitute, a stranger, when the child still grieves her lost mother.”
“I know, Hadj, but…” Farine tried to think of a reasonable excuse, a legitimate way to dislike the girl without sounding like a monster. “She’s very rude.”
Hadja took another step back. Her lips tightened until little lines spawned around her mouth.
“But I suppose she has reason.” Farine sighed and watched her maid’s face blossom again. “And it would be nice to get some fresh air.”
“That’s the spirit.”
Something about the way Hadja snatched her wrap from the dressing table, the way her steps sprang, said she’d had no doubt they’d be visiting the garden. Farine shook off a whisper of irritation. Manipulated, certainly. Hadja might be able to get her way, but no matter how sad her story, the girl in the garden set Farine on edge. She didn’t like her, didn’t like them being there at all. And as she sulked out in her maid’s wake, she couldn’t begin to guess why.
Ý
Malcolm’s horse would have run forever if she’d asked it. Beyond putting distance between herself and the chapel, however, Payne feared for her neck if she pushed the mount too hard on the darkened road. The sky still hid behind a layer of thick clouds and to either side the spindle arms of trees reached out, making her duck and flinch despite their distance. Only the shadows witnessed, and if they mocked her, they did so in silence.
Before the steeple had vanished, they reached a fork in the path. Payne nudged the horse right without any particular reason. Both lanes looked identical in the dark, and both wound through a completely foreign landscape. Even as the trees thinned and the sky showed through in flat, black patches, she found nothing, no trace or shape that might give her any bearings. She’d have to wait till dawn. In the light of day, surely she couldn’t miss the tip of a mountain range even in the distance.
The woods were opening, however, and she drew the rein tighter, brought Malcolm’s horse to a soft trot and tried to listen for other hoof beats, for any sound that might indicate pursuit. She heard the leaves rattle, the soft hoot of a distant night bird. She smelled the sea. The tang of salt straightened her spine and she twisted into the wind, sniffing. Salt on her tongue and lips, the breeze speaking of something familiar at last—her chest tightened and she urged the horse into a cautious lope.
The ground dipped here, confirming her proximity to the coastline. Between the shadowy twist of brush, wide expanses of paler land curved under a sky that showed stars again. Something sparkled out there too, even without the moonlight. Payne had only ever seen it from the temple, but she knew the sea just the same. She knew it, and it drew her forward.
The horse snorted and moved out at her urging. The road twisted and sloped more sharply down, and the trees continued to shrink and thin so that she could see more and more of the sparkle of water as she went. The salt thickened here and the scent changed, adopting a fishy undertone that made her nose crinkle. The road widened and Payne guessed the town was coming before the dark triangles of its taller buildings showed on the horizon.
She reined in at the sight of civilization. A town meant people, and not just a few. Could she dodge enough to avoid inadvertently vaporizing someone? Not likely, and the idea of an accidental mishap pushed her back where the sea had lured her forward. She might kill a child, might not be able to keep the curious away long enough to warn them. The reins tightened enough that Malcolm’s horse stopped. It snorted twice before she unclenched her grip enough for its long nose to lower again.
She ignored its protest, the stamp and snort as it shook itself in relief, rattling the saddle bags against her legs. A dark shape broke the line of the roadside ahead, and she rode toward it at a snail’s creep, alternately goading and checking the horse until she’d frustrated it into a steady shaking of the head.
A sign stood beside the lane, crudely tacked together and bound with thin wire, as if it had fallen more than once and had to be re-attached. Payne had to lean down, to guide the horse sideways up to the surface to really see it. Someone had painted it quickly, and what they’d written made no sense at all.
One word on it and only half of a sigil—the sign announced, SHADE, though it couldn’t possibly cast any. The surrounding trees had gone as well, and whoever might find shelter in the brush that was left over would have to be small indeed. There was hardly enough shade to warrant a sign, and the sigil didn’t match the word. They’d taken the guts of the Powers sigil, the four quarters without the sunburst and painted them beside the word. Crude, mysterious, and nothing she’d have time to ponder, it seemed.
The pounding of hooves along the road was way more pressing.
She sat up so rapidly that she teetered, nearly tumbling from the saddle. The horse whickered, exposing their presence, and Payne cursed and tugged harder on the rein than might have been warranted. They wheeled around, overshot and spun again before she got the animal back under her control. By then, the shadows riding toward them were too close not to have seen her.
Two horses and no wagon. They weren’t riding hard but trotted steadily along. Even if Malcolm had another horse hiding at the chapel, she doubted he’d have had time to waken Sariah, saddle the draft horse and catch up with her. Still, she tightened her fingers and got her mount’s attention in case they needed to bolt.
“Who’s there?” The man’s voice was completely unfamiliar. “Is that Derril?”
“No how. Derril’s been nursing a sick goat. Hasn’ left his farm in three days.”
“You there!” The horses whinnied to one another. The men reined to a stop, far enough away to say they were as unsure of her as she was of them.
“He-hello.” Payne’s voice cracked and she had to clear her throat. The horse shifted its weight and she leaned to compensate, checking the rein, keeping contact with the bit and using her leg to nudge him away from the sign a step. She didn’t want to bet on outrunning two men on horses they were familiar with, not with hers still breathing hard from their flight.
