Part 19 (2/2)

Perhaps he slept, huddled in that cramped s.p.a.ce between the crates and the wall, for it was with a start that he suddenly opened his eyes and found sunlight s.h.i.+ning across the keep. The gates stood wide open, and guards watched the flow and ebb of excited villagers coming in to haggle over bread or to inquire about Lord Odfrey's health.

”Did he lose his eye, poor man?” a fat woman with a kerchief tied about her head was asking loudly.

”We prayed ma.s.s for him yesterday,” another woman, lean and toothless, chimed in.

Others swarmed about, babbling questions and repeating gossip. Rubbing his face, Dain rose cautiously to his feet and worked out the kinks from his stiff muscles. He blew on his fingers to warm them, then sauntered out from behind the crates and melted into a small crowd of serfs haggling with each other over a brace of squawking chickens held upside down by their feet. Nearby, a scrawny child with a dirt-smeared face held the end of a rope tied around a young shoat. The child's eyes widened at the sight of Dain. Swiftly he ducked away into the general mill and press of people, his heart pounding fast, his mouth dry with fear. Anyone could look at him and sound the alarm. Steadily, refusing to let himself run, he kept pus.h.i.+ng his way through the busy crowd, aiming toward the gate.

Ahead, he saw a wide gap between the crowd and the gates themselves. Alert sentries stood there, armed with swords and pikes.

Hesitating, knowing he could never walk alone between those sentries without being noticed, Dain lost his nerve.

Wheeling aside, he eased into the wake of another group of villagers, then broke off and ducked behind the guardhouse. It had no windows at the rear, and there was a narrow s.p.a.ce between it and the wall.

Above him, the walkway for the battlements jutted across the s.p.a.ce like a roof. The sentries up there couldn't see him.

He halted there, his palm pressed against the rough bricks, and tried to regain his courage.

This was a foul place. The stench told him lazy men used this area at night for their latrine instead of crossing the keep. Dain drew a deep breath, and eased his way forward. When the curved wall of the guardhouse took him out from beneath the walkway overhead, he paused a moment and frowned over the logistics of his problem. Ahead of him stretched another open s.p.a.ce to the smithy, then from there, the area in front of the gates remained clear. While he watched, a stooped man and a slim girl entered, both carrying laden baskets on their hips. They paused inside the gates, and the sentries nudged them on.

Dain drew in his breath with a hiss, realizing the only way he could walk out was if he went disguised.

He scowled, refusing to panic. He could do this, provided he used the crowd sensibly and didn't lose his courage.

Ahead of him, the smithy was opened for business, its large shutters thrown wide. Its fire roared in the circular hearth, blazing orange and hot. Dain heard the smith start working at his craft. The hammer made a steady plink, plink, plink noise. Listening to that familiar rhythm, Dain caught a whiff of heated metal. A wave of homesickness washed over him. He missed Jorb with a stab of grief so intense he leaned his head against the bricks and closed his eyes. Why had he ever come to this foreign place, where he'd forced himself to live like a thief, skulking fearfully and risking his life? He belonged in the Dark Forest. It was time to go home, not wander the world. But there was no home to return to. The Bnen had burned the forge, where Dain could have tried to continue the work Jorb had taught him. They had burned the burrow. All of it, everything he knew and loved, was gone. It would always be gone, even if he did try to return.

Bowing his head, Dain let his emotions wash over him. Perhaps it was only that he was so tired, so hungry, so cold. He couldn't reason anymore. He needed rest and a place of safety. That's why he kept wanting to go home. He realized it was going to take him a long time to remember that home was forever lost to him. Home was to be found in the hearts of loved ones, and his would never again stretch out their hands in gladness to see him, would never again call his name with laughter in their greeting, would never again stand steadfast at his side, their affection a warmth that fed his spirit and gave him comfort. The loop of a rope settled around his shoulders without warning. A quick yank tightened it about his upper arms, and Dain was pulled off his feet before he knew what was happening.

He landed hard on his side, grunting at the impact. Instinctively he twisted around, trying to regain his feet, but before he could get up, someone jumped on top of him, pinning his legs while he jerked and struggled to free his arms. A second loop of the rope went around him. Another hard yank nearly crushed the breath from his lungs. His sore shoulder protested with a stab of pain that left him helpless while he was swiftly trussed.

Fearing that he'd been caught by the prince's minions, Dain kept on struggling. ”Be still,” said a harsh voice, ”and do not put your eye on me. I'm protected from your pagan spells.”

Dain recognized Sir Roye's voice. Surprised, he stopped struggling and Sir Roye finished tying him.

With a grunt, the knight stood up, taking his bony knee from the small of Dain's back.

At once, Dain startled struggling again. Desperate and frightened, he knew not what would befall him now, but a glimpse up at Sir Roye's hostile face boded no good for him.

Despite his efforts, Dain realized, he had no chance to pull free. Scrambling to his knees, he paused, his breath rasping loud in his throat. ”Morde a day, but you're a sight of trouble. As sly as a cat, slinking here and there. Why didn't you stay in the garden, where I could have caught you quicker?”

Dain squinted up at Sir Roye, silhouetted against the suns.h.i.+ne. He didn't think the knight really wanted an answer. ”And now you're going to give me to Prince Gavril? You'll enjoy seeing him whip me. Or doyou intend to kill me on his order?”

The knight punched him in the stomach, and Dain doubled over with an agonized whoop.

Sir Roye took a step closer. ”That'll teach you to keep a respectful tongue in your pagan head. I am 'Sir Roye' to you, or simply 'sir'. You call me that, and you watch your tone.”

Toppling over, Dain retched up his breakfast and managed to roll himself over away from it. Telling himself there was surely worse to come, he scowled and tried to ignore the burning discomfort in his belly.

”I've done no wrong here,” he managed to say. ”I am no enemy-” ”You're a d.a.m.ned pagan thief and Thod knows what else. Eating from the winter stores is a crime that merits twelve lashes alone.”

Dain stiffened, remembering Prince Gavril's whip all too well. ”It's no crime to feed myself.”

”And who gave you leave, eh? You answer me that.” Dain glared fiercely up at Sir Roye. ”I saved Nocine's life. I led the lord to the raiders. I helped in the battle. If I have eaten a few apples as my reward, is that so wrong?”

”If you're hungry, you go to the kitchens and beg along with the other mendicants. You don't steal, unless you want a whipping or your hands cut off.” Dain blinked in fresh horror. ”What is man-law, that it should be so harsh?” ”Nothing harsh about it. The beggared have only got to ask for charity. By the holy law of Writ, such have to be fed. But thieves endanger everyone. We have to keep enough in stores to feed every mouth in this place through winter.” ”I thought... Would a pagan beggar be fed? Or would I be beaten for asking?”

Dain asked. ”Does the Writ of your belief apply to folk like me?” The knight squinted at him and said nothing. Pursing his lips, he looked away, then pulled a servant's cap from his pocket and bent down to cram it onto Dain's head. It fitted close to his skull, with two long flaps that came down over his ears.

”You're too much trouble,” he grumbled. ”If it were up to me, you'd be drowned and well out of our way.”

He pulled Dain to his feet, and said, ”But it ain't up to me. Back you come.” ”He will kill me,” Dain said, planting his feet and refusing to budge. ”Let me go, Sir Roye. Do not take me to death.”

”What is this babble?” Sir Roye asked in exasperation. ”I'm not killing you, yet.”

”The prince will.”

”His highness has naught to say about this matter,” Sir Roye announced. ”Now move your feet. I've wasted too much time already tracking you for his lords.h.i.+p.”

Dain grinned at him with sudden hope. ”Lord Odfrey sent for me?” Sir Roye's yellow eyes glittered resentfully. ”Not like you think, you heathen knave. But he's been calling for his boy-Thod rest the poor lad's soul-and that Sulein thinks you'll do as well for him in his fever.”

Down sank Dain's spirits. ”So he really is dying. I don't want to see him.” Sir Roye whacked the side of his head. ”Hold your tongue. No one asked you what you want. Now move!”

He pushed Dain forward, and Dain went, stumbling every time Sir Roye pushed him. Although Dainhalf-expected Sir Roye to parade him along in front of everyone, the knight kept away from the crowds and out of sight of the sentries. Together they skulked along, seeking to pa.s.s unnoticed, and soon Sir Roye was pus.h.i.+ng Dain up a series of steps that led to the battlements. They strode along the walkway, with Dain catching wide-eyed glimpses of the world of field and marsh stretching far beyond the hold's walls.

Before they came to the first sentry, Sir Roye shook Dain hard. ”Keep your eyes down. Don't let them see who you are.”

Dain bowed his head, staggering along as Sir Roye kept shoving him. When they came to the sentry, the man saluted Sir Roye and stepped aside. It was the same with the next sentry, and the next. Soon thereafter, they pa.s.sed through a door into a tower, then walked along corridors and pa.s.sageways, up stairs and down, winding here and there until Dain was greatly confused and had little idea of where he might be inside this maze of stone. Finally Sir Roye shoved Dain into a long, narrow chamber fitted with drains in the floor and stone channels. A fire burned there, and at one end stood a wooden tub as tall as Dain's shoulder, with steps mounting it. Sir Roye whipped the cap off Dain's head and untied him. Dain tried to shake some circulation back into his arms, but as he turned around, Sir Roye gripped him with both hands and pulled his ragged tunic over his head before Dain could stop him.

Wincing at the pain in his shoulder, Dain sucked in his breath and tried not to yell.

Despite the fire, the room was cold. s.h.i.+vering, Dain tried to grab his tunic from Sir Roye's hand, but the knight held it out of his reach. ”Get in the tub,” he ordered.

”Why?”

Sir Roye glared at him. ”Because you stink worse than the dogs. Because I won't take no filthy, gint-eyed knave to my lord with him lying there fevered out of his poor wits. You wash, and make it quick.”

Although he longed to be clean, the idea of a cold bath did not appeal to Dain. He tilted his head at Sir Roye and could not resist saying, ”But have you not heard that we eldin melt when we get wet? We are supposed to be but watery elements, formed into a cloud of appearance, and that is why we-” Sir Roye smacked his head, knocking him backward. ”Get in the tub, and cease that heathen chatter of yours.”

To Dain's surprise, the water was tepid, not icy cold as he'd expected. He enjoyed splas.h.i.+ng about, sluicing off the dirt and filth he'd acc.u.mulated in recent days. A servant came with a bucket and emptied some heated water into the tub. Dain laughed at such luxury, and even ducked his head under the water, then surged up, shaking himself like a dog.

Sir Roye climbed the steps and prodded him with a wooden pole. ”Out,” he commanded.

Dain obeyed, dripping and s.h.i.+vering. A servant wrapped him in cloth and shoved him over to stand before the fire. While Dain dried himself, Sir Roye glared at him thoughtfully.

”What happened to your side?”

Dain glanced down at the bruised and discolored web of skin between his lower ribs and his hipbone.

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