Rebel's Cage (Book 4) (41 page)

With a sigh, he reached out and swung his arm around Andrew’s shoulders, as close to an apology as any King could allow himself. Then he let the boy go, asked for another cup of mead, then retired for the night, heading for the darkness of his bedroom and the quiet he would find there.

*

For a while after Kenrick left, Andrew didn’t move from the balcony. He didn’t dare. He knew the others were all looking at him, could almost feel their stares raking up and down his exposed back.

They hated him, each and every one. Hated his kinship to the King, his youth, and perhaps most of all, his almost-casual relationship with a man who terrified them with his unpredictable moods.

His stomach tumbled and squirmed at his own temerity, at the need inside him to offer the hand of friendship to one who
was in league with Nash. He could never explain it to his mother, or Micah or anyone – but he’d never been able to help himself. Kenrick was like a sponge, Andrew the few drops of life-giving water. The need was there and he had no choice but to provide as much as he could. Even if it made him ill, even if the mere proximity to Kenrick brought black images surging forth in the distant recesses of his mind. He would have nightmares tonight, as he always did, but what was a little lost sleep, if he succeeded in soothing another of the King’s moods.

His own head began to ache, but he didn’t reach for the mead for himself. It didn’t work for him, only for those he gave it to. Instead, he bade goodnight to those who could not hide their observation of him, then retired quickly and silently.

*

Thick, swirling clouds drifted around him, warm and welcoming the way clouds weren’t when he was awake. But was he awake now? Or was he sleeping, drawn down to the depths of non-being where he could make his body do anything, where his powers were all sharp and alive and enough to overcome any threat, either from friend or foe, where he was not alone but instead walking some parallel path that gave him the strength his father had had, and not the weakness that had killed him.

It was too dark in this place he’d made for himself. Too dark and too damned cold. But this was the dungeon he’d created with his own hands, carved out of rock too old to bring back to life, too wasted to do more than shed blood upon it and feast the black-eyed demons inside him who were always so hungry.

He’d been a baby when they’d come for him. A child no older than the one who was his only friend now, though what kind of friend would he be if he saw these demons, the ones who never really left him alone, so did that mean he wasn’t lonely with them, or that they made him lonely? They’d come out of his skin when he was just a child, come out and ate away at whatever feeling he’d had for his mother so that when she was killed before his eyes, he felt so little that it might have been a dream, like this one, except that he was not asleep now but mercifully—

Awake.

Kenrick pulled in panicked air, then held it, listening too hard, so hard that his heart pounded and deafened him. His eyes were wide open, painfully darting from one black corner to another.

He was
not
alone. Somebody, some
thing
was in his bedroom and he didn’t dare move a muscle in case …

‘Ah, my King, I see I have awakened you.’

Kenrick’s entire body twisted up in shock and horror and half-asleep terror. He scrambled up the bed, pulling blankets with him as though they would be protection against this real, live demon.

‘Nash!’ his voice came out sour and hoarse. ‘What the hell are you doing? How did you get in here? What … how did you get all the way from Ransem? I thought you couldn’t travel …’

A light flared across the room, not too brightly, but enough to make him squint for a moment. The candle moved, approaching to the accompaniment of steady footsteps. Nash halted by the side of the bed and raised the candle.

Kenrick’s heart stopped.

‘Forgive me,’ Nash smiled with a face entirely devoid of scars. ‘I had intended to surprise you, but it seems I have mistimed my attempt. Perhaps I should have waited until morning.’

The pain in Kenrick’s chest beat him into breathing again, though it was harsh and uneven. He knew his mouth was open, but his eyes could not stop roving over the man before him, picking out things he’d thought were lost forever: the useless injured arm now holding the candle aloft, the eye, once burned from that face, now gazing steadily at him alongside its mate.

Nash had healed his wounds. Had he regenerated fully?

Kenrick wanted to throw up. He swallowed bitter bile and blindly reached out for the cup of mead he’d left on the bed table. He drained the liquid in one mouthful and sat up properly. ‘What did you do?’

‘Don’t concentrate on what I
have
done, but on what I haven’t.’ Nash placed the candle on the table and sat down,
pulling a bag onto his lap. ‘This is but an interim measure, enough to allow me to move around, to complete some pressing tasks that can wait no longer. I still need to regenerate fully, to regain the bulk of my powers – but this will serve me in the meantime. If nothing else, it will allow me to spend more time at court, to help
you.’

Blinking hard, Kenrick frowned. ‘Help me? To do what?’

‘Why, whatever you need. Tirone’s girl, for one thing.’

The prophecy. The question tripped across Kenrick’s tongue like a threat and vanished down his throat. No, not yet. Not until …

‘And to celebrate my return to Marsay, I have brought you a small gift.’ Nash reached into the bag and brought forth an orb, larger than the last one and almost pulsing with an energy Kenrick could feel from the other side of the bed.

Despite his fears, despite his nightmares, the orb drew him closer, his nausea replaced by anticipation. ‘Is that … what I think it is?’

Nash nodded, a small smile on his face. ‘I was a little unfair to you over the Salti business. It was my fault for not preparing you better. If you can forgive me, I would share this blood with you, to heal those wounds of yours that are most visible. Unless you no longer wish to—’

‘Yes!’ Kenrick almost reached out for it, but stopped, his eyes on Nash. ‘Yes, I want it.’

‘Very well. Lie back down and turn your palms open over your chest.’ Nash put the orb between his hands and instantly Kenrick felt the sudden drain on his energy, almost pressing his eyes closed. ‘You need do nothing else. Just allow yourself to go to sleep. In the morning, your face will be healed and you will be a little tired, no more. After another day, you will feel better than ever before. That’s it, let your eyes close. There, my King, just trust me. I will take care of you.’

*

Though the morning was the warmest so far this winter, Osbert could not stop the icy chill which rattled down his spine to pool in his belly. No numbers of decades’ practice could give him control of his expression as he stared at the
young man seated so casually at his breakfast table, sipping something that smelled of honey and pulling the meat off a piece of chicken with good appetite.

‘It’s a miracle, isn’t it, Osbert?’ Kenrick took a bite of crusty bread, munched on it, then turned to another plate before him. The bedchamber was empty now, servants and pages having been shooed away for this audience. ‘I have already sent word to the Archdeacons to say a mass of thanksgiving. As they left, I heard murmurings that it was the work of Mineah, since it happened on her day. I do feel blessed that she has seen fit to touch me in this manner. Help yourself to wine, Osbert, before you fall down.’

Osbert poured from the first flask, tearing his eyes from the scarless face. He swallowed hard and fast, almost choking on the liquid. Kenrick didn’t seem to notice.

‘About that matter we discussed yesterday.’

‘Yes?’ Osbert looked up, then immediately wished he hadn’t. Kenrick had not only lost the ugly scar on the side of his face, but appeared healthier and stronger than ever before.

His thoughts rebelled at what might really be the cause.

‘Yes,’ Kenrick continued, popping a slice of peach into his mouth before gazing up at Osbert with a smile of pure serenity on his face. ‘Some time over the next day or so, I wonder if you could have the matter whispered in a few taverns here and there.’

Osbert frowned in confusion. ‘Sire?’

Kenrick swallowed again, laced his fingers together and began carefully, ‘That prophecy you gave me – I read it a few times and it seems to me, this Enemy is supposed to fight the Dark Angel in some way. I want you to have it whispered that
I
am this Enemy. The people must see that I’m the only thing standing between them and whatever evil they fear. But it must be done subtly, understand? There is to be no suggestion that either you or I had any hand in starting the rumours. Can you do that for me?’

Suppressing the desire to roll his eyes, Osbert said, ‘Yes, Sire, I can do that.’

‘Very good. That’s all.’

Osbert put his cup down, bowed and headed for the door, but Kenrick’s words brought his feet to a halt.

‘Just remember, it must be done secretly and subtly. With Nash back at court, I can’t afford to take any chances.’

Osbert fled. He made it to the nearest privy in time to lose his breakfast, but no amount of determined mental arguments could stay the trembling that ran the length of his body.

Nash was back.

From the window of his bedroom, Andrew could see only the edge of the clouds blacking out the morning sky, but from his sitting room, the entire southern vista crowded in, like hounds baying for blood. He had to ride into that, had to turn his horse, say his prayers and hope the gods would be kind to him. Just how far south he would get today was a guess he didn’t fancy making at this point. But he had no time to play with; he was expected to meet Micah tomorrow, then his mother expected him home after that, and the weather couldn’t stop him.

‘Your Grace? Your horse is ready and your guard awaits you.’

Andrew turned from the window and took his cloak from the page’s hands. His feet itched to get out of the city, and it was all he could do not to make a run for the gates. But in all his years visiting Marsay, and those that he had lived there, he’d never once given in to that temptation, and he wasn’t going to today.

‘I’m coming now.’

The boy bowed and ran in front of him, leading the way through the castle, down massive staircases, along stone-flagged passages, through rooms dimly lit and secretive.

It was impossible to ignore the rumours. Even if he hadn’t heard them himself over the last two weeks, he could see them in people’s eyes as they passed him. Some looked upon him with disdain, neatly couched in a smile. Others glanced at him
as though he might be a spy, or some saviour come to say that none of it was true.

But it was. He’d seen the evidence with his own eyes. So had the rest of the court. A face once scarred and ruined was now whole and new.

He couldn’t avoid those looks thrown at him, though he said little to the greetings murmured in his direction. As Kenrick’s cousin, they expected him to provide some answers, shed some light on the rumours, and say whether they were true or not. He could almost feel their disappointment that he knew no more than they did.

And then there was light, though it was too bright, too cheery, as though denying the snowstorm to come. His guard waited for him on the other side of the main courtyard, a little apart from the other traffic. They too seemed anxious to get away. Maitland was a calm promise in the midst of such chaos.

He’d done his best upon hearing the first whisper. He’d followed it through, tracing it back as far as he could. As casually as possible, he’d sent a number of his guard out into the city, into the taverns and markets, to listen and learn. But all they’d come back with were words that struck a different kind of fear into him.

A prophecy.

Kenrick had ordered a mass of thanksgiving to be said, which the entire court had been forced to attend. He had been blessed with a miracle cure, his face purified of scars he’d gained in battle – though Andrew honestly had no idea how the scars had come to be on Kenrick’s face. But mass had been said, prayers offered up – and then the whispers had begun.

A prophecy speaking of a dark evil come to Lusara, and of a man born to fight it. With a fresh miracle under his belt, Kenrick looked ready to step into the shoes of both saint and saviour. The people, wracked and torn with oppression and fear, were willing to latch their hopes onto anything.

Just being within the walls of Marsay was more than Andrew could cope with now. After two weeks of these rumours simmering over a flame of discontent, it was only a matter of time before the discord erupted, and he wanted to be nowhere
near it when it did. Besides, he needed to tell his mother and Finnlay about this.

They would want to know where these words of prophecy had come from. And perhaps where Osbert had disappeared to, since nobody had seen him since Kenrick’s miracle.

Andrew strode across the courtyard, pulling his cloak over his shoulders, shoving his hands into his riding gloves. With a spring of urgency, he swung up into the saddle and headed for the castle gates.

The black sky loomed ahead, growing darker, more menacing by the moment.

*

The blizzard struck minutes after dusk. Robert barely had time to jump from his horse before the first blast smacked into him, knocking him sideways. He stumbled in already-deep snow, twisting his ankle. The reins slid through his icy gloves and the horse stomped back, eyes wild in the tempest. As a milky swirl of snow blinded him, he lunged forward and grabbed the dangling leather, using the animal’s weight to get back onto the road where he could regain his bearings.

He’d thought he’d have another hour at least before the snow hit. The last village was more than a league back, the next another day’s ride away.

‘Damn it!’ He had no choice but to cut across the ridge and down the eastern side. There was an empty barn there he knew well. Shelter was now paramount.

He wrapped the reins about his hand and used the other to hold the hood over his head, keeping his eyes on the darkness ahead, hoping his enhanced sight would keep him safe.