The Briar King (32 page)

He had begun to gather the pieces of the puzzle—the conjugation of this and that verb, the relation of subject to object—but hadn't tried to put it all together. So, on a clean sheet, he began a running translation. It read:

A frost touched Stephen's spine. What in the name of the saints did he have here? He had never seen an ancient text even remotely like this.

Of course, little had survived from the era of the Warlock Wars. Much of what had been written then was profane and evil, and had been destroyed by the church.

If this was such a text, how had it slipped by? Simply because no one could read it? That was stupid. When the Hegemony brought peace to the north, they had with them some of the greatest scholars in the ancient world. Besides, this language would have been close enough to dialects of the time that any scholar back then should have been able to accomplish with ease what Stephen was now doing with difficulty— translate it by reference to sister languages.

Maybe this one had been hidden or, as Stephen suspected, buried. Maybe some peasant had dug it up in his field and brought it to the brothers at Saint Donwys, who assumed it was a sacred church text, and put it in their scriftorium.

Wherever it had come from, Stephen was virtually certain that it ought not to exist. Just as certainly, when the church learned what it was, it would be destroyed.

He should tell Fratrex Pell all this now. He should go no further.

“Brother?”

Stephen nearly jumped out of his skin. A monk he did not know was standing only a few feet away.

“I'm sorry?” Stephen said.

“Fratrex Pell asked you to deliver the evening meal to the watchtowers.”

“Oh! Of course.”

“Shall I replace that?” The brother waved at the scrift.

“Oh—no. It's something I'm translating for the fratrex. Could we leave it here, so I can take it up more easily tomorrow?”

“Of course,” the fellow said.

“I'm Stephen Darige,” he offered.

“Brother Sangen, at your service. I keep things on the shelves, here. That's one of the new Vadhiian scrifts?”

“There are more?”

“Oh, yes. They've been trickling in for the past few years.”

“Really? All from Saint Donwys?”

“Heavens, no. From all over.” He frowned slightly, as if suddenly concerned. “You'd better get going. Fratrex Pell is mostly patient, but if he asks that something be done, he means it.”

“Of course.” Stephen picked up his free translation and notes. “I'm going to keep these with me, so I can mull them over before sleep. Is that permitted?”

“Of course. Good evening to you, Brother Stephen.” His voice dropped. “Keep you well on the path to the watchtowers. 'Tis said the south path, down by the woods, is longer but more … pleasant. I can explain the way to you, if you would like.”

“I would,” Stephen said. “Very much.”

In the gloaming, with fireflies rising like ghosts departing the world, Stephen felt the chill return. He fought the urge to go straight to the fratrex and reveal what he had discovered.

He didn't fear the curse, of course. Whatever pagan god
had been invoked was long dead, or a captive of the saints. The Black Jester had been defeated and lay dead for more than a millennium. The curse was no longer of any matter.

But any scrift that began with such a strong curse was likely to contain things no man ought to see, ought to have ever seen.

Yet he couldn't be sure. It might prove to be nothing more than a catalogue of dead fiends. And it might contain information useful to the church.

Until he was certain it was irredeemable, he couldn't give it up to be destroyed.

He would read further. If he came across something clearly unholy and dangerous, he would take it straight to the fratrex.

Right now he had other worries. Brother Sangen was either helping Stephen avoid Brother Desmond and his thugs or sending him into their arms. There was no way of knowing which, and nothing he could do about it but prepare himself.

He had the sudden, strange thought that it would be nice to have Aspar White with him right now. The holter was gruff, but he also seemed to know clearly what was right and wrong.

Not to mention the fact that Desmond Spendlove and his bullies wouldn't last a twenty count against Aspar. That was a fight Stephen would love to see.

Then again, Aspar White would scoff at Stephen for being a weak, pampered child. He straightened his back. He couldn't defeat his enemies, but he could make certain that they did not defeat him, even if they beat him to the ground. They would not beat his spirit.

It was the best he could do. It would have to be enough; he only hoped it didn't kill him.

On the heels of that thought, a voice spoke from the forest, soft but carrying.

“Well. What are you about, little one?”

Stephen took a deep breath, for courage, as Desmond Spendlove stepped onto the grass, a wicked gleam just barely visible in his eyes.

It took Stephen a moment to understand that Brother
Desmond wasn't talking to him. In fact, he hadn't even seen Stephen. Quickly, Stephen ducked behind a hummock of hay, peering around the edge of it.

The prey Spendlove and his wolves were gathering around was Brother Ehan.

“Don't call me that,” Ehan cautioned.

“I'll call you whatever I want. What did you tell the new fellow, Brother Ehan? Nothing disparaging, I hope.”

“Nothing he didn't already know,” Ehan replied.

“How do
you
know what he does or doesn't know? Are you that friendly with him already?”

Brother Ehan's chin lifted defiantly. “Come on, Spendlove. Just you and me. Without your dogs.”

“Hear what he called you, fellows?” Brother Desmond said.

“Dogs,” Ehan repeated. “Little bitches following a big one.”

The circle closed in. Ehan suddenly leapt into motion, straight toward Brother Desmond.

He never got there. One of the other cowled figures swung a stiff arm so that Ehan caught it under his chin. His feet flew up in the air, and he landed with a pronounced
whoosh
of air, audible even from Stephen's hiding place.

Stephen felt a knot in his throat. He shouldn't interfere with this; every instinct warned him not to. And yet, from far away, he still somehow felt the holter's eyes on him. Aspar White, however crude he might be, whatever his faults, would never stand by and merely watch this.

“Damned cowards!” Stephen shouted. Or his throat did, anyway. He couldn't remember giving it the go-ahead.

But it got their attention. Brother Desmond and four others started toward him, at a run. Three made a beeline, and the other two circled around the other side of the haystack.

Stephen ducked behind the mound of fragrant straw. He could run, of course, but they were moving
fast
, much faster than he could. They would catch him.

So instead, he dug his fingers into the plaited grass and climbed as swiftly as he could. When he had nearly reached
the top he stayed very still and watched his pursuers meet and mill below.

“He must have run on to the tree line, under cover of the haystack,” one of them said.

“Find him.” That was Brother Desmond, whose face Stephen could suddenly see quite clearly, for a torus of light had appeared around him, a sort of glowing mist.

Saint Tyw, don't let them look up,
Stephen prayed silently.

Whether by the grace of the saint, or because it simply did not occur to them, they didn't but instead spread out and ran for the trees.

That wouldn't distract them long. Beyond the stream and its willow border lay nothing but open pasture, and they would quickly discover that he wasn't there.

Stephen scrambled on over the haystack and slid down the other side.

The two remaining men were still with Ehan; one was holding the little fellow down while the other produced what looked like a heavy bag.

They saw Stephen at the last second, as he kicked the fellow on top of Ehan under the chin. He felt teeth clack together, as the other man bellowed like a bull and swung the bag at him.

It hit hard, low in his back, and it
hurt
. It felt like a sack full of pears, and probably was. Stephen dropped to his knees, tasting blood in his mouth.

The next thing he knew, Ehan was tugging at him.

“Get up, you idiot! They'll be here any second!”

Stephen came woozily to his feet. The fellow he had kicked was lying still, and the other was on the ground, too. Moaning.

“Come on!” Ehan repeated. Then he ran.

Stephen followed, inspired because he could suddenly hear Desmond and the others, calling for them to stop, threatening dire things if they didn't.

He followed Ehan to the forest edge, and then it was all branches scratching at him, sudden outcroppings of unseen rock, and finally a trail that twisted its way uphill.

His lungs felt like a pair of hot lanterns, and the ache in
his kidneys where the bag had hit him turned into a matching fire.

Finally, they dodged back into a clearing. It was now full pitch night, but Ehan seemed to know where he was going.

Just when Stephen thought he couldn't go another step, his companion grasped his arm and pulled him down.

“I don't think they're following anymore,” he panted. “We'll wait here, and see. But they can find us anytime; they probably won't waste the effort.”

“Why—did—we—run—then?” Stephen managed, between savage, painful breaths.

“I wouldn't have, if you hadn't done what you did,” Ehan replied. “But they might have killed us, just then. Next time Desmond catches us alone, it'll be bad, but he'll have calmed them down.”

“They can't just kill us!” Stephen protested.

“Oh, can't they, fellow-boy?” Ehan said. “They killed a novice just two months ago. Broke his neck and dumped him down a well, so it would look accidental. These fellows aren't playing. That was an ogre-stupid thing you did. We're just lucky they left Inest and Dyonis with me; they don't have any saint gifts yet. If it had been any of the others, we
would
be dead.”

Ehan paused. “But—
Eh Danka 'zwes,
yah? Thanks. You didn't know any better. You're a better fellow than I reckoned you for. Stupid, but a good fellow.”

“I couldn't just watch,” Stephen explained.

“You'd better learn,” Ehan said seriously. “You'd really better.”

“Surely if we all got together—”

“Forget that. Listen, they really will leave you alone, eventually. That's the first time they've come after me in a year.”

“Because you talked to me.”

“Yah, I guess.”

Stephen nodded at the darkness, and they both sat until the tempests in them had calmed to a normal-breathing zephyr.

“All right,” Ehan said. “This way back to the dormitory.”

Stephen felt the provision bag, still tied to his belt.

“I have to take this to the watchmen.”

“They'll be waiting for you to do that, like as not.”

“The fratrex told me to do it.”

“The brothers on watch will understand.”

“The fratrex told me to do it,” Stephen said again, “and I

will.” Ehan mumbled something in his own language, too low and quickly for Stephen to understand.

“Very well,” he said finally. “If you insist on being a fool. But let me show you a back way.”

CHAPTER NINE
EXILE

BREATH CAUGHT IN ANNE'S THROAT as Roderick's fingers brushed lightly over her breast. Had it been an accident? He had never done that before. But it had never been like this before, either, their kisses grown so urgent, demanding of something more.

No, here his hand came back to her breast, clever thing. The first brush had been a foray, to see what her reaction would be. But now he was there with confidence, tracing over the thin fabric of her gown, raising her nipple into a little fortress tower.

And his mouth nibbled and bit and licked its way around her throat, till he was standing behind her, panting into the nape of her neck, one hand still on her breast, one tickling over her belly, lower and lower, exploring her like an adventurer in an unknown land.

When she could stand it no longer, she turned in his grip and kissed him fiercely, beginning an exploration of her own around the base of his throat, to his chest where his shirt opened. When their lips met again it was with a furious, passionate tangle as something other than her brain took control, and Anne was pushing and pulling her body against his with all of her strength.