Voice Of The Demon (Book 2) (16 page)

‘Oh? Which one is that?’ Micah tried his best to look innocent. ‘Could you perhaps mean the Enclave?’

‘That’s the one!’ Robert laughed and clapped the bemused Deverin on the shoulder. ‘Congratulations. You’re now one of the damned.’

Deverin was smiling now and shaking his head ferociously. ‘I don’t think so, my lord. Far from it. However, I should warn you that you may have to go through this . . . process again quite soon. I think old Owen may have put a few pieces together himself.’

‘Has he said anything?’

‘Not directly. I can sound him out if you like.’

‘Go ahead, Deverin.’ As the big man reached the door,
Robert added, ‘And since you asked – I’ve always trusted you.’

Deverin bowed. ‘Thank you, my lord. If you’ll permit me, the feeling is entirely mutual. I’ll wait with your horse. If you go out with our patrol tonight, no one will think it unusual.’

Selar paced up and down, dragging his robe behind him. The candles had burned low, leaving thick yellow lumps of wax on the table by the bed. Every time he turned, they shimmered and jumped, but they never spoke back. Just like his court. Back and forth he paced, with such precision he could almost predict how the candles would flicker. They were so pathetic. One blow would send them flying. One puff of air would extinguish them for ever. His power over them was complete, his dominance total.

Osbert had said Finnlay was dead. He saw the body with his own eyes. There was no sorcery in Lusara. Those woodsmen had been drunk, the villagers fooled. There was nothing for Selar to worry about. The little stone they’d kept was nothing. Completely useless. He’d even given the ring back to Robert. It was now surely buried with the boy’s body, deep beneath the stones of that pretty chapel at Dunlorn. No sorcery. . .

So why couldn’t Selar sleep? Why were his dreams so invaded with images he wanted to forget? Why did Carlan’s face keep reappearing? The old traitor was dead. He had to be now, fourteen years later. Nobody had seen him, heard of him, since the night of the battle. He had disappeared. He had already been old, probably past eighty. How could he be alive now?

Well, he wasn’t. That’s all there was to it. And these dreams were just some part of his memory resurfacing with those rumours of sorcery. Now that Osbert had declared
them dead, he would be able to sleep. Perhaps not tonight, but soon, when the truth sank in. Yes.

Selar stopped pacing and sat on the end of his bed. He should call Nash and get the man to make him one of those potions to help him sleep. At least they worked. But how long could he keep doing that? What would happen to his authority if his court discovered he was so close to breaking? How could he keep control if he was always afraid to shut his eyes at night?

He had to lay the ghost of Carlan to rest. He had to make sure the old magician was not now working against him. He could have survived, changed sides and befriended Tirone. Together they could be behind these raiders, deliberately destabilizing the country in preparation for an invasion.

But there were no troops along his borders. No escalation of hostilities and nothing his informants could tell him was proof that Tirone was ready to invade Lusara.

There were just the nightmares: the night of his triumphant battle, his mentor, Carlan, had gone missing. Selar found him by the river. Then Carlan admitted he was a sorcerer. His wizened face leered over Selar, laughing at him, devouring him. Selar would become Carlan’s tool, his zombie, mindless, obedient. He’d known that in a moment. He’d felt such an overwhelming stench of evil he’d stepped back, his foot slipping on the muddy river bank.

Then Carlan had pushed him in.

Then he’d almost drowned.

Then Robert, a mere boy, had saved him, not knowing the man he saved was . . .

The nightmare was always the same. In truth, Robert had saved his life – but in the dark depths of his sleepless nights, the boy’s face turned into a twisted copy of Carlan’s. Selar would never be free of him. Never . . .

Selar stood, walked the length of the room and opened the chest with the ivory inlay. He lifted out two flasks of wine and went back to bed. There was one other way he could make sure he slept tonight.

*

The past, like a demented beast, came back to haunt him every step of the way. From the high moors of Dunlorn, across the flat fields of harvested wheat and once again into the hills. Every league he travelled brought him closer to Marsay. As his horse climbed the final plateau which would eventually drop down to the river Vitala, he found it more and more difficult to believe the last four years had gone at all. In three weeks it would be the anniversary of Berenice’s death: a few days after that would mark the day he had left Lusara, determined never to return.

And now here he was, stealing his way back into the city in exactly the same way as he’d left it. Under cover of darkness, in disguise and unseen by anybody.

The irony of it all was laughable.

*

Godfrey hurried through the torchlit courtyard, trying to keep up with Payne. ‘Are you sure about this?’ he murmured, nodding to a passerby.

‘Positive,’ Payne said without checking his pace. ‘There’s almost no way to get to him without Selar’s permission, let alone get him out. You’ve seen the cell, you know where it is. The whole idea of a rescue is out of the question unless Selar decides to move him. It’s just too dangerous. Too many things could go wrong.’

Godfrey reached the door and pushed it open, waiting for Payne to enter first. ‘Then you can’t help.’

‘I didn’t say that. Just give us some time. With Hilderic on his way to a retreat in a week or so, there’s no urgency.’

With a sigh, Godfrey shook his head. ‘That’s assuming I can get Hilderic to actually leave. You have no idea the pressure we’ve had to put on him to go. Fortunately the other Archdeacons are adamant – and completely impervious to every argument Hilderic comes up with – and there’ve been a few.’

‘He’s a tough one, that’s certain.’ Payne paused long enough to flash Godfrey a smile of encouragement. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll find a way to solve the other problem – if I have to forge the papers, myself.’

*

‘Well?’

Nash glanced sideways at Valena as she poured water out for him to wash his hands. Her eyebrows were raised in question, her sensuous lips pursed in apparent disapproval. Despite the fact that it was his money which paid for this house, Valena moved around it as though it were her own private castle, and he were just a guest.

‘He’ll be looking for me. I have to go,’ Nash replied, plunging his hands into the cold water. Immediately the bowl became stained, but he took no notice.

‘Don’t you ever get tired of playing the faithful servant?’ Valena murmured, handing him a linen towel.

‘Don’t you?’

‘I’m not your servant, Nash!’ Valena snapped back. Abruptly she smiled, ‘Oh, I see – you do like it. You love running here and there at his every command. Your tail wags like a little puppy every time he so much as glances in your direction. Oh, how it must feel to be wanted so, needed and loved so by a King. Most men only aspire to a glimpse – perhaps even an audience. But not my Samdon. No, you want to be his—’

‘Stop it!’ Nash reached out and snatched her hand, drew her laughing into his arms. ‘Why do you delight in provoking me? Do you love danger so much?’

‘Why,’ she murmured sweetly, ‘it is because you are so easy to provoke. You’re so sensitive whenever I mention Selar. Even more these days. I cannot help wondering—’

‘Then don’t. You know why I need Selar.’

‘Yes, yes, I’ve heard it all before. But we’re no closer, are we? Even now.’ Valena reached up and placed her fingers over his lips, deliberately teasing. ‘It’s quite an achievement to have Osbert eating out of your hand, but after seeing Finnlay’s body with his own eyes, it couldn’t have been too difficult to convince him to underplay the situation at Kilphedir.’

Nash frowned and disengaged her hands from his body. ‘We’ve still got problems. Selar’s deteriorating slowly, Vaughn is begging to be allowed a witch-hunt and Osbert is no closer to making Proctor than he was a year ago.’

‘But surely the Guilde realizes how unstable Vaughn is?’

‘They may realize it but they’re all equally terrified of sorcery. One breath of it and they panic. They want a pogrom – and in his current mood, Selar might just say yes.’

Valena stepped back. ‘Then you have to stop him!’

Nash held up his hands, quietened her before Keith downstairs could hear. ‘Osbert’s report has given us a few extra days – however, it does mean that I’ll have to take the next step with Selar. I’ve been putting it off, but I don’t think I can afford to much longer. He must be made to realize the consequences of a hunt for sorcerers.’

*

It was hopeless. No matter how many people John asked, no matter how deep into the city he travelled, no one had heard or seen anyone going by Ayn’s description. He’d quizzed all his contacts, walked the halls of every hospice and tavern in search of her, but she’d disappeared. After two weeks, it was impossible to believe he would find her – alive or dead. There hadn’t even been any pauper’s funeral for a woman looking like Ayn.

Disconsolate, John headed back to Murdoch’s little shop. The street was dark. Unseen, he slipped through the front door and made his way up the stairs to the dwelling rooms above. He knocked once and opened the door.

‘John!’ Murdoch was standing in the centre of the room. ‘I hadn’t expected you tonight.’

His friend looked startled, but it wasn’t until John had closed the door and come further into the room that he saw why. Murdoch had a guest. The man stood by the window, the shutters open a crack. He was looking out and hadn’t moved when John came in.

John opened his mouth to apologize – then stopped abruptly. The stranger . . . that face . . . familiar, and yet. . .

‘In Serin’s name!’ John breathed, clasping his hands together.

At this, the stranger turned his head away from the window, smiled and shook his head. ‘I’m afraid you’re mistaking me for someone else, Father. I apologize for startling you. If it makes you feel any better, Murdoch here
went white when I walked into his shop tonight. I don’t know, you men working here in the city, day after day, I’d have thought you’d be used to a few surprises now and then.’

Murdoch took John’s arm and steered him to a chair, placed a cup of warmed wine in his hand. ‘Perhaps I should introduce you two. Father John Ballan, meet Robert Douglas, Earl of—’

‘Dunlorn and Duke of Haddon.’ John nodded violently, almost spilling his wine. ‘I’m sorry, I just never thought I’d meet. . .’

Dunlorn raised his eyebrows, producing a curious mixture of expressions. There was irony there and self-mockery, too. But something else as well. John tried to pull his thoughts together. Of all the people he had expected to find here, Robert Douglas was definitely not one of them.

‘John?’ Murdoch prodded, ‘were you out searching? Did you find anything?’

‘What?’ John murmured, unable to take his eyes from Dunlorn. For some reason, he’d expected Robert to look more like his brother, but the differences were, upon examination, both stark and yet subtle at the same time. Sure, the basic features were the same, but Robert was a handspan taller than Finnlay, his shoulders broader and more powerful. But that wasn’t all. The face itself was different, more solid – yes, a little older – but also more . . . oh, it was impossible to put a name on it.

The eyes, however, spoke volumes. The deepest green John had ever seen, now glinting with reflected candlelight. They watched John with a combination of curiosity and wariness.

As though sensing John’s unease, Dunlorn smiled again, left the window and came across the room. He gave Murdoch a gentle nudge, then pulled a chair out from the table, faced John and sat. ‘I’ve come to find Ayn, Father. I believe she’s still alive. Have you seen anything, heard or sensed anything that might help me?’

Dunlorn hadn’t taken his eyes from John, but the gaze had changed again, now deeply intense. ‘No, I’m sorry. I’ve been out every night now, but I’ve no idea where she might
be. I was about ready to give her up for dead. How do you know you can find her? How do you know she’s alive?’

Suddenly John felt like a fool. Here he was, sitting in the same room with the most powerful sorcerer ever to walk the lands of Lusara, a legend on the battlefield, a hero to the people, a former King’s councillor and peacemaker in the country – and John was asking damn stupid questions!

He blushed and tore his eyes away. Fortunately, Murdoch came to his rescue.

‘I don’t understand, Robert. We sent young Ben back to the caves only two days ago. He wouldn’t even be there yet. How did you find out about Ayn?’

Dunlorn shrugged and reached out for the jug of wine. ‘It doesn’t matter. If I were you though, I’d keep my appearance here quiet. I’m not exactly welcome at the Enclave these days.’

Murdoch nodded slowly. ‘Yes, Ayn told us what happened. But you’re here to rescue her. Surely that makes a difference?’

‘We’ll worry about that after I find her. In the meantime, I need you to tell me everything. Had she sensed anyone yet? The man she was looking for. Did she know where to look?’

Robert’s voice was low but determined. John burned to question him, ask him all sorts of things – but there was no time. Instead, he told everything he knew, Murdoch filling in the remaining details. At the end, Dunlorn sat back, drained his cup and placed it back on the table.

When he said nothing, John took a deep breath and said, ‘Do you know about Baron Blair?’

But Murdoch interrupted, ‘He knows, John, he knows.’

‘Oh.’

Robert said nothing, only ran his finger around the rim of his empty cup. Murdoch frowned at the silence, glanced once at John, then said, ‘Well, what do you think? Is there any hope? Will you be able to find her?’

‘Oh, I’ll find her, I promise you,’ Robert replied standing up. He moved back to the window and nudged the shutter open again. ‘At the moment, however, I’m more concerned about what else I’ll find. After all, Ayn didn’t just disappear on her own, did she? Somebody has her – and that somebody
doesn’t want to let her go. How many people in the city like that can there be?’