Part 36 (1/2)

”I should have known that there was something wrong when he told me about the swords,” the king grated. ”I am no fool, to be frightened with such kitchen tales, but that sword of my father's-it burned me! Like it was cursed. And then I was given ... the other one.” Although it hung at his hip only a few scant inches away, the king did not look at Sorrow, but instead turned his haunted stare up toward the ceiling. ”It has ... changed me. Pryrates says it is for the best. Said that I will not gain what he promised me unless the bargain is kept. But it is inside me like my own blood now, this sorcerous thing. It sings to me all through the night hours. Even in the daytime it is like a demon crouched beside me. Cursed blade!”

Simon waited for the king to say more, but Elias had fallen into another rough-breathing silence, his head still tilted back. At last, when it seemed that the king had truly fallen asleep, or had forgotten entirely what he had been saying, Simon nerved himself to speak.

”A-and your f-f-father's sword? Where is it?”

Elias lowered his gaze. ”It is in his grave.” His eyes held Simon's for a moment, then the muscles of his jaw tightened and his teeth appeared in a mirthless grin. ”And what is it to you, spy? Why does Pryrates wish to know about that sword? I have heard it spoken of in the night. I have heard much.” His hand reached up and the fingers wrapped around Simon's face like bands of steel. Elias coughed harshly and wheezed for breath, but his clutch did not loosen. ”Your master would have been proud of you if you had escaped to tell him. The sword, is it? The sword? Is that part of his plan, to use my father's sword against me?” The king's face was streaming sweat. His eyes seemed entirely black, holes into a skull full of twittering darkness. ”What does your master plan?” He heaved in another difficult breath. ”T-t-tell me!”

”I don't know anything!” cried Simon. ”I swear!”

Elias was shaken by a wracking cough. He slid back in the chair, letting go of his prisoner's face; Simon could feel the icy burn where the fingers had been. The hand on his wrist tightened as the king coughed again and gasped for breath.

”G.o.d curse it,” Elias panted. ”Go find my cupbearer.”

Simon froze like a startled mouse.

”Do you hear me?” The king let go of Simon's wrist and waved at him angrily. ”Get the monk. Tell him to bring my cup.” He sucked in another draught of air. ”Find my cupbearer.”

Simon pushed himself back along the stone until he was out of the king's reach. Elias was sunken in shadow once more, but his cold presence was still strong. Simon's arm throbbed where the king had squeezed it, but the pain was as nothing next to the heartbreaking possibility of escape. He struggled to his feet, and doing so, knocked over a stack of books; when they thumped to the floor Simon cringed, but Elias did not move.

”Get him,” the king growled.

Simon moved slowly toward the door, certain that at any moment he would hear the king lurch to his feet behind him. He reached the landing, out of sight of the chair; then, within a moment, he was on the stairway. He did not even grab for his torch, though it was within arm's reach, but hurried down the stairs in darkness, his feet as surefooted as if he walked a meadow in sunlight. He was free! Beyond all hope, he was free! Free!

On the stairs just above the first landing a small, dark-haired woman stood. He had a momentary glimpse of her yellowish eyes as she stepped out of his way. Silent, she watched him pa.s.s.

He hit the tower's outside doors at a rush and burst through into the foggy, moonlit Inner Bailey, feeling as though he could suddenly sprout wings and mount up into the clouded sky. He had only taken two steps before the cat-silent, black-cloaked figures were upon him. They caught him as firmly as the king had, holding both his arms pinioned. The white faces stared at him dispa.s.sionately. The Norns did not seem at all surprised to have captured an unfamiliar mortal on the steps of Hjeldin's Tower.

As Rachel shrank back in alarm, the bundle in her hand fell to the rough stone floor. She flinched at the noise it made.

The crunch of footsteps grew louder and a glow like dawn crept up the tunnel: they would be upon her in a moment. Backed into a crevice in the stone wall, Rachel looked around for somewhere to hide her lamp. At last, in desperation, she put the treacherously bright thing between her feet and bent over it, draping her cloak around her like a curtain so that its hem spread out onto the ground. She could only hope that the torches they carried blinded them to the light that must leak from beneath. Rachel clenched her teeth and silently prayed. The oily smell of the lamp was already making her feel ill.

The men who were approaching moved at a leisurely pace-far too leisurely to miss an old woman hiding behind her cloak, she was fearfully certain. Rachel thought she would die if they stopped.

”... they like those white-skinned things so much, they should put them them to work,” a voice said, becoming audible, above the noise of footfalls. ”All the priest has us doing is carrying away stones and dirt and running errands. That's no job for guardsmen.” to work,” a voice said, becoming audible, above the noise of footfalls. ”All the priest has us doing is carrying away stones and dirt and running errands. That's no job for guardsmen.”

”And who are you to say?” another man asked.

”Just because the king gives Red-robe a free hand doesn't mean that we ...” the first began, but was interrupted.

”And I suppose you you would tell him otherwise?” a third cackled. ”He would eat you for supper and toss the bones away!” would tell him otherwise?” a third cackled. ”He would eat you for supper and toss the bones away!”

”Shut your mouth,” the first snapped, but there was not much confidence in his tone. He resumed more quietly. ”All the same, there's something dead wrong down here, dead wrong. I saw one of those corpse-faces waiting in the shadows to talk to him....”

The sc.r.a.pe of boots on stone diminished. Within a few moments, the corridor was silent again.

Gasping for air, Rachel flapped her cloak out of the way and staggered from the alcove. The fumes of the lamp seemed to have seeped right into her head; for a moment the walls tilted. She put a hand out to steady herself.

Blessed Saint Rhiap, she breathed voicelessly, thank you for protecting your humble servant from the unrighteous. Thank you for making their eyes blind. thank you for protecting your humble servant from the unrighteous. Thank you for making their eyes blind.

More soldiers! They were all over the tunnels beneath the castle, filling the pa.s.sageways like ants. This group was the third that she had seen-or, in this instance, heard-and Rachel did not doubt there were many more that she had not. What could they want down here? This part of the castle had lain unexplored for years, she knew-that was what had given her the courage to search here in the first place. But now something had caught the attention of the king's soldiers. Pryrates had put them to work digging, it seemed-but digging after what? Could it be Guthwulf?

Rachel was full of frightened anger. That poor old man! Hadn't he suffered enough, losing his sight, driven out of the castle? What could they want with him? Of course, he had been the High King's trusted counselor before he had fled: perhaps he knew some secrets that the king was desperate to have. It must be terribly important to set so many soldiers tracking around in this dreary underworld.

It must must be Guthwulf. Who else would there be to search for down here? Certainly not Rachel herself: she knew she counted for little in the games of powerful men. But Guthwulf-well, he had fallen out with Pryrates, hadn't he? Poor Guthwulf. She had been right to look for him-he was in terrible danger! But how could she continue her search with the pa.s.sageways crawling with the king's men-and worse things, if what the guardsmen seemed to be saying was true? She would be lucky if she made her own way back to sanctuary undiscovered. be Guthwulf. Who else would there be to search for down here? Certainly not Rachel herself: she knew she counted for little in the games of powerful men. But Guthwulf-well, he had fallen out with Pryrates, hadn't he? Poor Guthwulf. She had been right to look for him-he was in terrible danger! But how could she continue her search with the pa.s.sageways crawling with the king's men-and worse things, if what the guardsmen seemed to be saying was true? She would be lucky if she made her own way back to sanctuary undiscovered.

That's so, she told herself. They nearly had you that time, old woman. It a presumption to expect the saint to save you again if you persist in foolishness. Remember what Father Dreosan used to say: 'G.o.d can do anything, but He does not protect the prideful from the doom they summon.' They nearly had you that time, old woman. It a presumption to expect the saint to save you again if you persist in foolishness. Remember what Father Dreosan used to say: 'G.o.d can do anything, but He does not protect the prideful from the doom they summon.'

Rachel stood in the corridor while she waited for her breathing to slow. She could hear nothing in the corridor but her own swift-drumming heartbeat.

”Right,” she said to herself. ”Home. To think.” She turned back up the corridor, clutching her sack.

The stairs were hard going. Rachel had to stop frequently to rest, leaning against the wall and thinking angry thoughts about her increasing infirmity. In a better world, she knew, a world not so smirched with sin, those who walked the path of righteousness would not suffer such twinges and spites. But in this world all souls were suspect, and adversity, as Rachel the Dragon had learned at her mother's knee, was the test by which G.o.d weighed them. Surely the burdens she carried now would lighten her in the Great Scales on that fated day.

Aedon Ransomer, I hope so, she thought sourly. If my earthly burdens get any heavier, on the Day of Weighing-Out I will float away like a dandelion seed. She grinned wryly at her own impiety. Rachel, you old fool, listen to you. It's not too late to endanger your soul!

There was something oddly rea.s.suring in that thought. Strengthened, she renewed her a.s.sault on the stairs.

She had pa.s.sed the alcove and climbed a flight past it before she remembered about the plate. Surely nothing would be different than when she had looked on her way down that morning ... but even so, it would be wrong to s.h.i.+rk. Rachel, Mistress of Chambermaids, did not s.h.i.+rk. Although her feet ached and her knees protested, although she wanted nothing but to stagger to her little room and lie down, she forced herself to turn and go back down the stairs.

The plate was empty.

Rachel stared at it for long moments. The meaning of its emptiness crept over her only gradually.

Guthwulf had come back.

She was astonished to find herself clutching the plate and weeping. Doddering old woman Doddering old woman, she berated herself. What on G.o.d's earth are you crying for? Because a man who has never spoken to you or known your name-who likely doesn't even know his own name any more-came and took some bread and an onion from a plate? What on G.o.d's earth are you crying for? Because a man who has never spoken to you or known your name-who likely doesn't even know his own name any more-came and took some bread and an onion from a plate?

But even as she scolded herself she felt the dandelion-seed lightness that she had only imagined earlier. He was not dead! If the soldiers were looking for him, they had not yet found him-and he had come back. It was almost as though Earl Guthwulf had known how worried she was. That was an absurd thought, she knew, but she could not help feeling that something very important had happened.

When she had recovered, she wiped her tears briskly with her sleeve, then took cheese and dried fruit from hei sack and filled the plate again. She checked the covered bowl; the water was gone too. She emptied her own water skin into the bowl. The tunnels were a dry and dusty place, and the poor man would certainly be thirsty again soon.

The happy ch.o.r.e finished, Rachel resumed her ascent but this time the stairs seemed gentler. She had not found him, but he was alive. He knew where to come, and would come again. Perhaps next time he would stay and let her speak to him.

But what would she say?

Anything, anything. It will be someone to talk to. Someone to talk to.

Singing a hymn beneath her breath, Rachel made her way back to her hidden room.

Simon's strength seemed to drain out. As the Norns took him across the Inner Bailey courtyard his knees gave way. The two immortals did not falter, but lifted him by the arms until only his toes dragged along the ground.

By their silence and their frozen faces they might have been statues of white marble magicked into movement; only their black eyes, which flicked back and forth across the shadowy courtyard, seemed to belong to living creatures. When one of them spoke quietly in the hissing, clicking tongue of Stormspike, it was as surprising as if the castle walls had laughed.

Whatever the thing had said, its fellow seemed to agree. They turned slightly and bore their prisoner toward the great keep that contained the Hayholt's chief buildings.

Simon wondered dully where they were taking him. It didn't seem to matter much. He had been small use as a spy-first walking into the king's clutches, then practically throwing himself into the arms of these creatures-and now he would be punished for his carelessness.