Rebel's Cage (Book 4) (60 page)

They made room for him as he came out, every man meeting his eyes with some variation of pride or acceptance. Either way, no matter Brome’s decision, Godfrey knew they had agreed. They began to file out of the room, two abreast,
walking slowly. He was caught up in the middle of them, another priest, walking to mass.

They’d prepared the chapel for this ceremony, as though they’d known all along that Brome would die in the middle of the night. Tall, thick candles surrounded the altar. Flowers decorated it, rich cloth draped over every surface. The air was cooler in here, allowing him to breathe a little – but only for a moment.

They brought him to a halt before the altar. The four most senior priests attended him then, removing his outer clothing, washing his hands and feet, drying him with the softest linen – all in complete silence. Then they began dressing him again, in new robes, and the priests behind him began to sing, a hymn he’d always been very fond of. The gentle, caressing sound of their voices soaked into him and he allowed himself to relax a little, to remember why he was here in the first place, to open his eyes and gaze up at the trium on the eastern chapel wall.

For love of the gods, he had become a priest. For love of duty and obedience, he had accepted one position after another, rising through the Church in the most turbulent of times. But it was for love of truth that he stood here this night, dressed in what would always be for him borrowed robes. Love of truth, and a desire, heartfelt and wrenching, for freedom.

The hymns changed, lifting him higher, to the place he needed to be. He barely shook as they began the ceremony, as they placed each symbol of his office in his hands, or around his shoulders. He gave the responses like a man born to it, his voice solid and sure. When they brought him the trium to kiss, he did so with all the love welling up in his heart. When they had him say mass, he did so with all the passion he had ever felt for the sacrament. When they laid their hands on his head, giving him their blessing, he felt the power of it filter through his entire body.

And when they turned him to face his brethren, when he saw the hope shining in their eyes, he could do nothing to stop the tears falling down his face at the mockery they had made of the
primacy, of the blasphemer he had become, and of the crimes he had already committed against a man he held above all others.

‘Forgive me,’ he whispered, as they raised their voices once more in joyous celebration. ‘Forgive me, Father Aiden.’

They led their new Bishop out of the chapel just as dawn began to break on a new day. As he caught the first flash of sunrise through the gallery windows, he could only pray that this was indeed the path to freedom.

Finnlay counted the days, one after another. He kept an eye out for landmarks that would tell him where they were and how much longer it would take to reach the Enclave. He watched each sunset as it fell, longing for sight of mountains and rock and still-frozen ice.

He felt as though they were being followed. No, not followed, chased. He kept asking Robert about it, and his brother would pause long enough to Seek thoroughly – but there was never any sign that they hadn’t got away safely.

Some days, Finnlay felt like screaming. Others, he wanted to find the nearest hardwood tree and knock his head against it a good few dozen times – but the problem with that was Andrew at least would ask him why he was doing it, and framing replies for that boy would be more difficult than convincing his brother to lose his temper.

Once again he was merely a spectator, witness to an odd play unfolding before him. Jenn remained ill, unconscious for most the time. When she did wake, she knew none of them and what words she could speak were nonsense. Andrew stuck close by her, holding her hand, trying to get a little water past her lips, running and fetching anything Finnlay might need when attending to her wounds.

And Robert, dark, solid, walking like a thundercloud looking for a fit place to burst, stayed in the background, answering questions, posing few of his own and, when he thought Finnlay
wasn’t looking, reading from a book he kept tucked inside his jacket.

For three days they rode through into as much of the night as they could bear. Robert would carry Jenn with him, letting Finnlay take her when his horse needed rest. This morning, they had found a hostelry and bought a change of mounts so that even though the sun had set hours ago, they could still keep going. They were past the forests now, skirting the hills surrounding a lake he knew was out there somewhere. He had no choice about the route; instead, he had to trust Robert’s Seeking abilities, to ensure they stayed away from villages and farms, once again travelling as though they were invisible, leaving few marks upon the land in their wake.

What had it felt like to be a free man? Fifteen years. So long that he hadn’t even noticed.

‘We’ll stop here.’

Robert’s voice cut into Finnlay’s quiet horror. He swallowed hard, then slid off his horse, ready to begin the nightly ritual.

*

She didn’t seem to be getting any better, though Finnlay assured him she was. But to Andrew’s eyes, Jenn’s face was just as pale in the daylight, her gasps of pain just as loud at night. More than once, Robert had knelt beside her, put his hand on hers and released enough power to ease that pain. Then she would quieten down, breathe more easily and rest properly.

It still felt like the journey was killing her.

Andrew attended to his tasks as Finnlay checked her wounds, though how he could see clearly in such bad light, he didn’t know. But it was hard not to keep looking over his shoulder instead of gathering firewood, hard to trust that even though Finnlay wasn’t trained, he still knew enough about Healing to keep her from getting sicker.

A flutter of panic rippled across his stomach. He turned away from the camp and stumbled downhill to where a few fallen trees gathered around the trunk of a standing one. He pulled at dried branches sticking up, breaking them off with as much force as he could manage, until he had a pile on the
ground. But he didn’t stop. He just jumped onto the trunk of the next tree and began kicking more branches clear. This was good work. This was physical, better than sitting on a horse all day and half the night, better than having to watch his mother die …

A last kick went wild, throwing his balance. With a half-strangled cry, he twisted sideways and fell, landing hard between the two trunks. Winded, he just lay there for a moment, trying to convince his chest to fill again. Then it did, and he heaved in one breath after another, holding onto a trunk with each hand. A little bruised, and feeling more than a little silly, he rolled to his knees and stood up.

A face greeted him in the darkness, eyebrows raised. Robert waited for him, sitting on the trunk he’d just fallen from. For a moment, Andrew didn’t move. The moonlight was strong, filtering down through still-bare trees and bathing the hillside with a soft light.

‘Running from it won’t help. You do know that, don’t you?’

‘Oh?’ Andrew snapped, scrambling onto the trunk and sliding down the other side. ‘Is this where you give me the big speech on how to deal with fear?’ When Robert didn’t say anything, he looked over his shoulder to find himself alone. He clambered over the remaining logs until he reached the downhill side of the standing oak.

Robert was waiting for him, leaning against the tree, his arms folded, looking out over the hills. Or at least, Andrew assumed that was what he was doing as it was too dark to see that far.

‘How much do you remember of your father’s death?’

Andrew stopped mid-stride, his mouth open in surprise. ‘I … not very much. Why?’

‘Indulge me.’

‘I … I remember you on the battlements, fighting him. I thought you were going to kill him.’

‘And?’

‘And …’ Andrew struggled. He hated talking about this, hated thinking about it more. But to talk he had to think – and remember. ‘He’d been hurting Mother. I … I thought she was
going to die. And then … then he was falling over the battlements and Mother and Father John pulled you up and you got us away.’

Robert turned to look at him sideways. ‘But what of the moment when Jenn actually let loose the blast that killed your father. Do you recall that?’

Andrew felt his cheeks flush. He could only hope they were invisible in the dark. ‘No. I do know she killed him to save your life.’

‘Yes,’ Robert murmured. There was enough echo of something to make Andrew frown – but before he could ask, Robert continued, ‘Did you hate your father?’

‘Hate him?’ Andrew took a step back, shaking his head. ‘What has that got to do with it? I barely remember him. I was just six when he died. Why are you asking me about him?’

‘You asked the same questions of me. I wondered how you would speak of him. Forgive me if I have offended you.’

Andrew came to a halt a second time, forced to reappraise the man before him – the
ambiguous
man before him.

‘It was not fear I wanted to talk to you about,’ Robert said into the night. ‘Instead, I wanted to discuss grief.’

It was suddenly very difficult for Andrew to breathe. He reached out and steadied himself against the tree, closing his eyes and bowing his head.

The voice came close, almost whispering in his ear. ‘You cannot change it by not thinking it. You cannot make it go away by wishing it were gone. You cannot pretend they’re still alive. Grief is a powerful force, and it will strike you down when and wherever it chooses. Do not deny it. And when it does strike, do not be afraid. Like any other power, it will spend itself and fade soon enough. You
will
survive it. Just don’t be afraid of it.’

A hand pressed his shoulder and a tiny amount of power seeped into Andrew as though it were burning him. He twisted away, walking backwards, pointing his finger at the man who would change his life completely – again, for the second time! ‘I’m
not
afraid of it! How I feel about my father has nothing to
do with you! This is all your fault. If you hadn’t … I wouldn’t have been on that road and my mother … if she dies … Why can’t you just leave me alone!’

He turned and ran then, ran up the hill and past the camp. He kept on running until he could barely see signs of the camp fire. Only then did he stop and catch his breath, falling on his knees because he wanted to pray.

But there was only one thing he wanted from the gods.

‘Please, don’t let her die too …’

*

She could hear them moving about, hear their voices. Sometimes they spoke to her. She couldn’t understand what they were saying. She did know them, the three men in her life. Robert, Andrew and Finnlay. Where was Micah?

She felt so hot inside, like somebody had put a shovel of coals in her chest. And every time she moved, her whole side felt like it was tearing off. Or being clawed off.

Andrew was upset. She could hear that much. She needed to hold him, comfort him. Or perhaps he needed to hold her. But he was fourteen now, fifteen soon. Too old for such things. He was a man, not a child.

Sleep crept up, until the voices all sang together and she knew this was not those who travelled with her, but the one who was always with her. The Key said little, but its voice seemed so strong, stronger each day and it murmured, as though it had something important to tell her when she was well enough. She smiled in her mind, promising to listen.

She longed for the darkness, longed for the peace of sleep. Longed to hear the birds sing and leaves to bud on the trees. Longed to hold her son.

Longed to see Robert smile.

*

Soft cloud drifted across the moon hours after everyone had bedded down for the night. Robert sat with his back against a tree and watched frail filaments drape over the bright light, diffusing the disk, broadening the glow.

For once he had chosen a campsite on the edge of a sparse stand of trees, rather than within the shelter of a forest. This
was the most cover he’d seen since the morning and Jenn had grown restless. He’d had no idea the view would be quite so incredible.

He could see clear across the valley, make out the line of brush at the bottom, the stone walling winding its way up the other side, the change in texture to heather along the eastern ridge, and then the darker, bluer shadows behind, hinting at more hills, taller, disappearing into forever.

He could hear birds, sometimes see their lightning-fast dash from one tree to another, a streak of black in the night that happened too fast for him to really see it. There were rabbits, too, sneaking out of burrows he hadn’t noticed earlier. They crept onto the hillside, nibbled, ears and noses twitching, scurrying back underground at the slightest noise.

He tried not to, but he couldn’t stop the parallel thought: this was so like the Enclave. It wasn’t a fair comparison. Salti weren’t frightened rabbits running for cover at the slightest sign of trouble – and they certainly had more weapons at their disposal than sensitive hearing alone. Even so, there was a shared attitude: the Enclave never got involved unless something directly affected it.

And why should it? Why care for a country, a people who would eradicate them if it could?

It was a matter of attitude. And a matter of fear.

He reached inside his jacket and pulled forth the book. He could have made a light to read by, but at the moment, he just wanted to look at it. On the pages was a text in ancient Saelic. Interesting, and certainly worth reading on its own, but there was nothing inside which indicated the purpose behind the book.

And how had it been changed into this shape? How had it remained safe all these centuries? How had it landed in the secret Guilde library at all?

Of course, if Amar Thraxis had really created the Calyx, and he’d done something to it to preserve and hide it from those who would abuse it, then having it stubbornly remain in this inert form was the perfect answer. Everything Robert had ever read about the Calyx supported this idea – but the question
was, if it was hidden from those who would abuse it, how was it to be used by those who wouldn’t?