Destined for a King (17 page)

Nothing, and nothing for it. She patted his cheeks, harder and harder, the taps turning into slaps, until, at last, she detected a glimmer of response.

“Brother Tancrid, you must wake up.”

A shudder passed through his body.

“That's it. Come on, now.”

His eyelids fluttered before opening with a snap. In the space of an instant, he was awake and blinking at her. “The dream,” he muttered, his voice rasping and cracked. “So close. I was so close. Need more blood.”

“What?”

He shook himself. “Who are you?” he croaked. “And why did you call me back?”

“It's Calista.” Her gear. That had to be the reason why he didn't recognize her. He expected her in gowns. Except she'd set aside the helmet that hid her face. “The keep is under attack. Please, you must come with me.”

“Water.”

She cast about. A pewter pitcher stood at the side of the bed, but its contents must have long since gone stale in this overheated room. Still, she handed it to him. He passed over the offered cup to gulp directly from the ewer.

When the liquid was gone, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Then he groped at the length of rope that served as his belt. His fingers shook as he clutched at his robes. “Gone,” he muttered. “All gone.”

At least his voice had strengthened, even if he seemed to take no heed of the danger outside.

“If you'll come with me,” Calista tried once more, “I'll take you belowstairs, where it's safer.”

“I must return to my journey.” He laced his statement with harsh tones Calista had never heard from her gentle old tutor. “Why did you take me from the road?”

What in the name of the Three? “Magnus's army is attacking the keep.” Please let her get through to him. “We cannot stay here.”

“No, we cannot.” Thank the gods. “I must get back to my journey. My destination was in sight—nearly upon a secret none have discovered since the Days of Dawn.” He continued to pluck at the rough, brown fabric of his robes.

She spotted a small cloth pouch on the mattress beside him, its sides sunken, and picked it up. Black dust coated her fingers. “Is this what you're looking for?”

He snatched it from her, upended it over his palm, but all that appeared was a sprinkling of the powder, like pepper. “Gone. It's gone.” He cast the scrap aside, and wrapped his arms about himself. “So cold.”

How in the name of the Three could he be cold? Even with the window unblocked, the fire pumped heat into the chamber, making it hotter than a forge. The All-Mother only knew what ailment gnawed at him. He was raving, pure and simple. He'd become unbalanced, when but two days ago he'd been the mild-mannered tutor she recalled.

She bit her lip. Since he was beyond reason, she was going to have to figure out how to cajole him into obeying. “You'll be warmer in a trice if you come with me.”

The instant the words left her mouth, an arrow flew through the window and buried itself in the bedpost. Its fletched tip vibrated a few fingerbreadths from Brother Tancrid's temple. Calista choked back a screech. The Acolyte did not so much as flinch.

“We must go.” She managed to get the words past her tightening throat. The gods only knew what they'd find in the great hall if stray arrows were finding their way through the upper-story windows.
Please let it be a stray.

“I can't go. Not without blood.” And she definitely didn't want to know what that referred to.

“There will be blood to spare below.” Hopefully the enemy's. Not any of Blackbriar's people. Not Tamsin, not Owl, not Papa. Not Torch.

“Not the right blood.”

For all Calista's mounting sense of urgency, Brother Tancrid still had not moved from the mattress. He lay there, hugging himself, his fingers twitching, his spindly legs protruding from beneath his robes.

“Are you able to walk?”

“Need blood.”

An arrow
thunk
ed into the door. If they were going to get out of this at all, they had to move
now.
Calista bent over the Acolyte to help him up. The moment her hand made contact with his shoulder, he clutched at her.

His gaze drifted to the base of her neck. “Not there,” he muttered. “Where is it? Where did you put it?”

With wiry arms, he yanked her to the mattress. His fingers scrabbled at her throat.

She screamed, the echo of her voice coming back to mock her.
There's no one to hear you. No one. No one.

“Hush!” Brother Tancrid barked. His eyes were on a level with hers. Not a hint of kindness reflected in their depths. Nothing but a strange, flat emptiness that froze her heart.

He clawed at her. The delicate skin of her neck stung and tore beneath his nails before his fingers tightened. She gasped for breath, trying in vain to pry his hands from her, but his thinness belied a fearsome strength. One she could not overcome. She could barely move. She couldn't even scream—screaming required air. Black splotches swam in her vision.

“I need blood to walk the road.”

“To the bailey! We're breached!” The cry reached as far as the walls over the din of battle.

Shite. A quick sword thrust dispatched Torch's opponent. He ducked beneath an axe stroke and sprinted for the stairs. “To me! To me!”

Below in the yard, the enemy poured in. On all sides, his men were beset. He swung his blade and crashed into an armored soldier from behind. Metal shrieked as his weapon sheared through mail, sinew, and bone.

Then a shriek of a different sort rent the clangor and chilled his blood. High-pitched. Feminine.

Calista.

Fear seized him, followed by a hot rush of anger. If the women were threatened, all was lost. He must get to his wife. Protect her. Save her.

With a roar, he carved his way toward the sound. Amid the mayhem, a buxom maid dodged the grasping arms of an enemy soldier. Not Calista. Tamsin.

The sight brought no relief. Before Torch could engage the would-be captor, Owl leapt into the fray, clutching a sword in his bandaged fists. A snarl twisted scarred features as the enemy raised a mace. Owl's parry went wide, his blade spinning out of his grasp, and he crumpled beneath the attack.

No!

The moment of distraction cost Torch. A blow out of nowhere rang through his helmet. He stumbled, head pounding, stars swirling before his eyes. The ground flew toward him. Rough arms grappled him, sparing him the fall. His sword dropped, useless, to the packed earth of the bailey.

This was it, then. For the second time in less than a moon's turn, Blackbriar Keep had fallen—and with it, all of Torch's plans.

Torch's head pounded as if his armorer had decided to use it as an anvil. The bite of dank stone served as the only cushion for his body. The feeling, at least, told him he was alive. That and the stench that rivaled a midden heap.

Reluctantly, he opened his eyes to darkness. A paler gray square high in one wall, traversed by bars of black, confirmed what his nostrils already knew. He'd been confined to a dungeon. With that thought, memory came flooding back.

He'd lost Blackbriar. He'd allowed himself to be taken. Yes, and Magnus's men would have orders to keep him alive, no matter that the king's executioner was leading them. True, the justiciar could claim his head and be done with it, but the Ironfist would reserve the pleasure of dealing personally with an upstart like Torch.

The clink of chains broke the silence, as Torch lifted hands weighed down by heavy shackles to finger his Stone. It remained cool. Useless chunk of rock. The least it could offer was advice.

It had led him to this. He required a way out—not only for himself, but for his men. They'd trusted his leadership, and this was where he had dumped them. As long as they were still alive. And then there was Calista. She'd come to him convinced of his cause, hadn't she?

Kingsbane.
The word echoed through his mind like a curse. Were the Thornes playing a deeper game, pretending to believe his claims, the better to turn him over to the Usurper in the end? Was his wife in on it? Did she even realize what sort of punishment Magnus might deal her once he discovered she'd betrayed him in body?

There, at any rate, Torch had prevailed. He'd taken that much away from the Ironfist. A small enough victory if it cost him his life and his revenge.

“Sir?” The voice croaked to his left. “Are you awake?”

Torch raised himself on his elbows to look around. Dark lumps of deeper shadow, each more-or-less human-sized, surrounded him. “Who's there?”

Chains rattled as one of the shadows loomed closer. “Hawk.”

“And who else has joined our little gathering?”

Hawk rattled off several names before adding, “I don't know if we've lost anyone, although some are in a bad way.”

If that statement was true, the Brotherhood would be fortunate, indeed. Or perhaps not so much. Not if Magnus was planning them a warm welcome in Highspring Moor. “Who?”

“They brought in Owl a while ago. He hasn't come back to us.”

An image flashed through Torch's brain of the boy foolishly trying to defend Tamsin against a fully trained man-at-arms. Torch's stomach churned, but he didn't think it had anything to do with the smell in the dungeon. “Can someone see to him?”

“We've been doing what we can. He took an awful blow.”

Once again Torch relived the moment where he stood by, helpless, while that mace came crashing down. “I know. Where is he?”

“We gave the lad a spot by the door.” A metallic clink indicated Hawk must have been pointing. “The air's a bit better next to the grate.”

“Good thinking. What chances do you give us on coming up with an escape plan?”

“They're about the same as a high-and-mighty bastard ever sitting on Magnus's throne,” scoffed an unfortunately familiar voice. The last time Torch had heard it, he'd been beating an oath of fealty out of Rand, for all the good it had done.

“Someone make sure he keeps his gob shut,” Torch called.

Chains clinked, followed by a thump and a muffled
oof
before silence fell again.

“Anyone offers us food or drink, we don't touch it,” Torch went on. “Not unless we make our friend Rand here taste it first.” He didn't think Magnus's men would stoop to poison—not when they likely had orders to deliver him, at least, alive. But he had no idea about the Blackbriar faction.

“So are we all in here together?” he asked Hawk.

“A goodly number of us, both Brotherhood and Blackbriar men.”

“What are our odds if we lure the guards in here, rush them, and cosh them with our shackles?”

“I'd say there's a chance you'd get a few breaths of fresh air, but how far you'd make it after that is anyone's guess.”

“I think we ought to try.”

“To what end? If they're keeping us for the Ironfist, they'll have to transport us. We've a better chance at escape on the journey.” Hawk had a point, but Torch didn't want to leave Blackbriar until he learned what had become of Calista—and whose side she was ultimately on.

“Do you have any idea what the tipping point in the battle was?” Torch searched his memory. All he recalled was a cry that the walls had been breached, but he didn't remember the pounding of a ram or the boom of explosive trickery.

“Someone opened the postern.”

Torch released a string of invective.

“My sentiments exactly.”

“But we've no way of knowing who.”

“It had to be one of the Blackbriar people.”

Not Calista.
Please no. Torch closed his fist about his Stone, as if it might identify the culprit for him, but as before, the Stone remained stubbornly cold and silent.

A rattle from across the cell broke into his thoughts. He tensed, all his senses straining toward the door and freedom. Yes, if he was going to form an escape plan, he needed to start taking stock of the guards' routine—how many stood before the door, how they were armed, how often they changed.

Surely he had enough of his Brothers with him to overwhelm whoever stood sentry, but how far would they get? One man alone was easier to conceal than their numbers, and that was assuming everyone was healthy. Torch needed to account for Owl. He couldn't leave the boy behind.

“Stand clear.” The order came muffled from behind a thick panel of wood. “No one try anything funny now.”

There was a clanking and a shifting of bodies before the door swung open. A wedge of yellow torchlight illuminated a pair of burly guards, helmeted, blades drawn. Between them sagged a third man, smaller and slightly built. The guards shoved him inside, and the door slammed shut again.

Torch squinted into the renewed darkness. “Who has joined us?”

“It's me,” said a mild voice. “Brother Tancrid.”

Damn. But it was hardly a surprise Magnus's men had found the Acolyte. Torch could only hope the man had discovered something useful. “Welcome to our humble abode. I'd offer you hospitality, but I'm afraid any food would be chancy at best.”

With more clanking and shuffling, Brother Tancrid made his way through Torch's men. “It's no more than I deserve. My quest has failed, and I have not the means to undertake another.”

“It is of little import given our current circumstances.” The secret to creating Adamant would hardly help them escape.

“I was close, so close. I journeyed through years and across leagues into the farthest north, where I saw things that even the most learned masters of lore dare not dream of. Alas, I was pulled back before I could gain the knowledge we sought.”

“Unfortunately there was the small problem of this keep coming under attack and falling.”

“Just one more journey.” A pleading note crept into his tone. “Now that I know the way, I could retrace my steps in a trice, if I had but the means.”

“I'm not sure we can do anything about that now. I've got more pressing troubles at the moment.”

“You do have the means.” With uncanny accuracy, Brother Tancrid reached out and touched the clasp at Torch's throat. “In your Stone.”

What was the matter with the man? He talked like someone who wasn't even aware he'd been locked in a dungeon. “Do you have any knowledge of healing?” Torch asked instead.

“I've given the matter some study.”

“Then see to my squire.” Torch gestured toward the door, even though the shadows likely hid the movement. “He's suffered a blow to the head. Once we're safely out of this mess, we can think about that other matter we discussed.”

“As you wish, sire.”

The heady scent of roses did nothing to counteract the sting of Mother's unguent. Calista gritted her teeth against the pain as her mother rubbed healing into the gouge that ran the length of her neck.

Things could be far, far worse. Torch lay in chains, but at least he was alive—for now. As was she.

“Who did this to you?” Mother asked, keeping her voice low. Though they'd been left to themselves, there was no mistaking the role of the mail-clad soldier loitering outside Mother's bedchamber.

Calista bit her lip, unsure how to reply. “I don't suppose you'd believe me if I told you it was Brother Tancrid.” The words emerged, hoarse, from a tight throat.

Mother left off her dabbing to gaze at Calista, her dark eyes narrow. “Do not be ridiculous. As much as we've gone through, now is no time to play childish games.”

Calista returned her mother's stare with a wide-eyed, guileless expression. “I am not playing games.”

“You expect me to believe your old tutor appeared from wherever he's holed himself away since he left us, to attack you? While the keep was besieged?” Stated like that, the truth did sound ridiculous, but Mother had not known of the Acolyte's presence. No one had, apparently—unless Torch had installed him in that upper room. Though how that event had come to pass, she could not say.

“If you prefer to believe Magnus's men did this, you're welcome to.” Not that Mother would sooner believe that version of events, but Calista could hardly bring herself to blame her wound on the Brotherhood.

Mother reached for soft padding to bind over Calista's throat. “Magnus's men have taken your father from me,” she muttered, a note of betrayal creeping into her voice. “They will not allow me to attend my own husband. Barbarians.”

Great beyond, was Mother finally softening her stance on Torch and his men? “Are you talking about Magnus's troops?”

She spat into the rushes. “Even this Torch allowed me to see him eventually, and he wasn't suffering then.”

“How…” Calista forced the question from her lips. “How bad are Papa's wounds?”

Mother threw up her hands, and her sleeves fell back to reveal the fine filigree of tattoos along her arms. “I do not know, as they will not allow me to see him. And I cannot trust these soldiers to know what to do for him.”

Calista swallowed against a knot of worry. “I don't suppose they trust our loyalty, since Papa fought against them.”

“Who are they to question our loyalty when we opened the gate and let them in?”

Mother's question struck Calista in the gut like a spear. “Did Papa break his oath to Torch?” she asked carefully.

“What does it matter?” Mother ran her finger down a column of Aranyan characters that lined one of the scrolls scattered across the bed. “He had to break faith with one monarch or another.”

“But did he break faith with Torch?” Calista insisted. She wasn't at all certain why it mattered so much, when Torch had forced all her father's actions since his arrival at Blackbriar.

“Do you think they'd be holding him under guard, wounded as he is, if he had?” Mother brushed one scroll aside to take up another. The first drifted to the floor at Calista's feet. “But someone had to make us appear loyal.”

Calista caught the long trailing edge of her mother's sleeve. “Are you saying you let the enemy in?”

“Some would say the enemy was already within our walls.” Mother shook her head slowly. So much for her softening her stance. “I merely shortened the battle and likely saved lives in the process. Torch was never going to prevail against so many.”

Though she wanted to argue, Calista held her tongue. She'd seen for herself. Had the struggle for the keep gone on, Torch might have lost even more of his men. He himself might have been killed rather than merely taken prisoner.

The pain that notion brought far eclipsed any residual sting from her scratches. For as short a time as she'd known the man, she could not begin to imagine such vital energy snuffed out for good and all.

But then, if the keep hadn't fallen when it did, there was no telling what might have happened in that tiny, overheated room, either.
Brother Tancrid never truly meant you harm.

She had to believe that, yet he hadn't been himself. If Magnus's soldiers hadn't broken in at just the right moment…

No, he was coming back to himself on his own.

Perhaps.

She shuddered at the memory of his hands scrabbling at her throat until that one unnatural nail broke the skin and drew blood. He'd claimed to require blood, but once he'd spilled hers, he seemed to return—truly this time—from wherever that strange sleep had taken him. The light of recognition had come back into his eyes, followed by shock and horror. His grip had slacked in the instant before the soldiers had broken down the door.

Another memory—one from his ravings—intruded on her thoughts.
Not the right blood.
Apparently hers hadn't been, either, thank the Three, and he'd come to that realization in time.

Still, relief flooded her at the thought of Magnus's men taking the Acolyte off. As much as she treasured her childhood memories of the man, she would never allow herself to remain alone with him again.

“You must get out.” Mother's harsh statement, proclaimed in the guttural tones of her native tongue, shocked Calista from her musings.

“What?”

“You must leave. Take Tamsin and get out while you can. They found you dressed for battle.”

Calista still wore the boiled leather jerkin. Its front was stiff with dried blood.

“They will discover your wedding, if they have not already done so,” Mother continued. “You made enough of a spectacle wearing that gown intended for a king's bride. Do you think Magnus will stand by and allow you to make a mockery of him? Get out while you can.”