The Keys to the Realms (The Dream Stewards) (22 page)

There was nothing unnatural about that. The proctor’s
mantle
belonged to the office, not to the holder. No one had ever
considered
that it might have been bewitched.

“His eyes in the Fane,” Nerys said.

Glain nodded, sickened by the realization of how she had been duped again and by the lingering sensation of spiders
crawling
on her arms. “Every time I have worn that robe, he has been there with me.”

Nerys acknowledged this truth with a grim nod. “The things he must have seen. Alwen will need to know.”

Glain panicked, ransacking her recollections of the last weeks and days, trying to remembered what all she might have accidentally allowed Machreth to witness.

“Cerrigwen’s confession,” she recalled, which horrified her all the more. “And Hywel’s plan to raid Cwm Brith. Oh great
Gods
, Nerys.”

“It won’t help us to worry about that now.” Nerys glanced past Glain to Euday. “What do we do with him?”

Anger swelled in her chest, crowding the hurt and betrayal until she thought she would burst. “The guards will take him to Alwen while we finish here.”

“And Verica?”

“In due time,” Glain answered, pulling the parchment Alwen had given her from the pouch tied at her waist. “First we reweave the veil spell.”

Glain dismissed the two soldiers with a nod and waited as they dragged Euday away. The two guardsmen who had been posted to mark the gap in the veil held their places. The last two took position to watch over her and Nerys while they worked.

It was a complicated conjuration that was meant to be called by a high sorcerer, a mage far more seasoned than either Glain or Nerys. It had been decided that together Glain and Nerys would be as powerful as Alwen alone, at least for the needs of this spell.

To work this magic, they needed oak bark scored with the magical symbols for strength, protection, and endurance; a
tincture
Alwen had provided from Madoc’s private stores; and a blood offering. The incantation itself was in the old language, but Alwen had explained its meaning so that the younger sorceresses could speak the words with intent.

From the velvet bag she carried, Nerys pulled a measure of silk and a tallow wick end. She knelt on the ground to spread the silk over the flat, rectangular altar stone and set the candle upon it. Then Nerys placed bark shards on the cloth in the pattern the parchment prescribed.

While Glain spoke the blessing words, Nerys spilled three drops of the tincture on each of the shards. The wick end sparked to life and both women sighed with relief. They had got it right so far.

Glain knelt in front of the altar, facing Nerys. Using the bone-handled dagger she carried, Glain opened the skin of her outstretched palm with a cut deep enough for the blood to flow freely, and then repeated the ritual wounding for Nerys when she offered her hand. Together they blooded each of the inscribed oak shards, repeating three times the incantation they had
memorized
.

In so doing, they invoked the power of the four realms—
spiritual
, celestial, natural, and physical—and caused the
elemental
magics to converge in answer to the commands within the
incantation
. Glain begin to feel the familiar shimmering vibration of the veil as it grew stronger. She envisioned the threads of light, energy, and intent intertwining, weaving a patch over the tear in the misty shield that protected the Stewardry from the outside world.

By the end of the third refrain, the spell had done all it could. Nerys offered healing words and bound both their palms. Glain felt gratitude and admiration she had no way to adequately express.

“Thank you,” she said, knowing it was not enough.

Nerys nodded, which implied acknowledgment and nothing more. Glain had no expectations, but she hoped it was a
beginning
. She left Nerys to clear the altar and went to inspect the veil. As she approached the wall near the weakened place, Glain easily sensed the restoration.

“Thank the Ancients,” she whispered, so filled with gratitude she could barely contain it.

But the relief was short-lived and the night air cold. A violent shudder overcame her, and one of the guardsmen was quick to offer his cloak. The warm wool quelled the shiver, but a deeper chill remained. Disgust and sadness and self-loathing returned, and Glain forced herself to summon what was left of her resolve. This was but one tiny victory in a heaping mire of deadly
betrayals
. She could not deny the dark foreboding that the worst was yet to come.

T
WENTY-
O
NE

T
horne observed Rhys from his perch on a nearby stump. He was impressed with how comfortable Rhys had become with the White Woods. This was their third night on the hunt, and though they had yet to
encounter
the Cythraul or any other real danger, Rhys had learned to
handle
the
unexpected
with calm and presence of mind. This was
encouraging
, but still well short of the training of a true mage hunter.

“Tomorrow we will reach Banraven,” Thorne said. “You must be ready for anything.”

Rhys glanced sidelong at Thorne, continuing to polish the blade of his boot knife with a swatch of doeskin. “You think that is where the Cythraul have gone?”

“That is where the trail leads,” Thorne said, reluctant to mention the dark and deadly presence he had sensed in the dungeon.

“Back to their master.” Rhys slid the knife back into the
hidden
sheath in his boot. “To Machreth.”

Thorne nodded. “As I said.”

“Be ready for anything,” Rhys grinned. He wadded up the doeskin and shoved it into his saddle sack and then settled himself near the fire. “I am.”

Thorne was amused by the lad’s bravado, but it worried him. Rhys was sharp-witted and skilled, but occasionally he showed the overconfidence that so often afflicted the young. In fact, Thorne suspected that Rhys suffered from more than one of the usual follies of youth.

“Tell me about the girl.” Thorne intended the directive to sound inconsequential, a natural turn of the conversation. He had been casually manipulating the topics all evening, under the guise of whiling away the time. It had worked well enough so far that Thorne decided to dig deeper.

Maelgwn stretched himself out between Rhys and the fire, eyes facing the forest to keep watch, but making sure his belly was within easy reach. Instead of answering straight away, Rhys rewarded the greedy warghound with a good long scratch. He was not as adept at hiding personal things as he liked to think, though Rhys did finally meet Thorne’s gaze in a halfway convincing attempt. “What girl?”

“The doe-eyed one, your mother’s second.” Thorne humored him, though they both knew which girl. “What is she to you?”

Rhys looked away again, this time busying himself with tending the fire. “You mean Glain.”

Thorne stayed quiet, giving Rhys time to decide what to say, if anything at all. The awkward meetings and forced restraint during that one night in the Fane had made it painfully obvious to him that there was some sort of relationship between the two. It only mattered to Thorne’s purposes if Rhys were obligated or had intentions toward the girl, and this he preferred to know sooner rather than later. The Brotherhood required absolute devotion to the cause, and a man at conflict with his loyalties was unlikely to succeed. However, as a rule, Thorne was averse to prying too much into private matters. Any man worth knowing held certain things sacred in his heart, and he respected that.

“I suppose you’re asking if I care for her.” Rhys was
reluctant
, but not so much that he ended the conversation. “It’s a fair
question
.”

Thorne was amused but kept a sober expression. “Have you an answer?”

Rhys used a half-withered oak leaf to wipe the soot from his hands. “I have feelings for her, but not the ones I ought to.”

This was a far more interesting answer than Thorne had expected. “Do you love her?”

“Not in the way I should.” Rhys let out a weighted sigh. “Not in the way she needs.”

“But it is love, nonetheless, isn’t it?” Thorne counseled. “How are you so sure it is not what she needs from you? Have you asked her?”

“No, which is more my point, actually,” Rhys said,
pulling
absently at the moss on the stones they’d used to ring their
campfire
. “That is a conversation I honestly don’t want to have. As fond as I am of her…”

“As much as you lust for her,” Thorne interjected wryly.

Rhys let half a grin slip. “In
whatever
ways I may admire her, my affection for Glain does not run as deep as hers for me. And even if she were to claim herself satisfied with that, I would not.”

“Ah,” said Thorne, a little sadly. Men of deep passions were destined to know suffering. “So you are a seeker of soul-met love.”

Rhys gave a rueful shrug. “Whatever it is I am seeking, it has to be more than this.”

“Seekers of soul-met love pine for something which is almost impossible to find,” Thorne warned, noticing Maelgwn’s ears, which were alert and pointing toward the woods on the far side of their little
clearing
. “Such a journey is long and lonely, and often ends in despair.”

“So you think me foolish.”

“No,” Thorne countered. “I like that you know your own heart so well. I only mean to point out that there is a reason that most men, and most women for that matter, will make do with whatever measure of love comes their way. The alternative might well be a life without any kind of love at all.”

“A risk I seem to be determined to take.” Rhys grinned.

Thorne gave in to a chuckle, watching Maelgwn again. His head was up now. Something in the woods had the warghound’s attention. “A true adventurer, you are.”

“And what about you?” Rhys’s tone was more direct. “Have you a wife or a woman waiting for you somewhere?”

Thorne almost winced. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t anticipated this question, but it never got any easier to hear. “We are alike, you and I,” he said, “Determined to take the risk.”

“Good.” Rhys grinned at him. “I was starting to wonder if the Brotherhood required a vow of chastity or some such nonsense.”

“There was a time, long ago, when the virtues included
chastity
,” Thorne explained, “but that was quickly abandoned. The men of the Ruagaire are devout men, but they are men
nonetheless
. The life is lonely, and a woman is welcome comfort from time to time.”

“The Ruagaire don’t marry, then?”

“It isn’t forbidden, but most hunters forego a family of their own.” Thorne wanted to answer his young friend honestly, but the conversation put him in mind of things he didn’t like to think about. “It is difficult to keep a wife and children when your calling claims your soul.”

“So, are you still searching for love,” Rhys wondered, “or have you given up on it altogether?”

“Eh,” Thorne scoffed, trying to keep the melancholy from settling over him. “A true seeker never gives up. But he might learn that finding what he’s been looking for isn’t the end of the
journey
.”

“You sound like my father just now,” Rhys said. “He is fond of saying that loving my mother is the easy part—it’s what comes along
because of it that’s hard. But there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for her.”

Thorne nodded. “And that’s what you want for yourself, that same depth of devotion.”

“Yes. Though I don’t think I’ve found it yet.”

“Trust me,” Thorne counseled. “You’ll know when you do.”

Maelgwn let out a low, deep-throated growl and gathered his hind legs under his haunches. Thorne kept his eyes on the trees beyond the clearing and slowly reached down with his left hand to retrieve his blade from the scabbard laid out on the ground beside him. “We have a visitor,” he murmured.

Rhys pulled to a crouch beside the fire, meaning to look as though he were casually tending it, and pulled his boot knife. “There are two.”

Thorne was impressed, and annoyed to have been bested. He hadn’t picked up the second set of footsteps. “Where?”

“They were together, near the tree line across the clearing,” Rhys whispered. “But now I don’t know.”

Thorne could sense someone, or something, stalking the perimeter of the clearing. Whoever was out there was circling them. Suddenly, a shadowy, hooded figure stepped out of the trees opposite them, and Rhys rose to confront it. In the same instant, Maelgwn sprang to his feet and spun on his tail, snarling at something behind Thorne. Before Thorne could fully react, a ropey bundle flew over his head, and Maelgwn let out a muffled yelp. He had been muzzled by mage tether.

A strong hand gripped Thorne’s left shoulder, hard, and steel slid cold and sharp against the base of his throat. “You’re slipping, Edwall.”

“Am I, Steptoe?” Thorne tensed, waiting for the realization to set in. He had managed to reverse and tuck his sword under his left arm so that it was at just the right angle for a quick gut-tearing upthrust, starting at the groin.

The shadowy figure stepped toward the fire and pushed back his hood. Eckhardt held out his empty hands to show Rhys his weapons were still sheathed, all the while grinning at his brother. “Well played, Thorne.”

Gavin pulled back his blade and the threatening grip on Thorne’s shoulder relaxed into a friendly roughing. “I owe your mutt an apology.”

Thorne laughed. “I dare you to take off that tether.”

Gavin stepped around to join the group, and then gawked at Maelgwn in utter amazement. “How is
that
even possible?”

Rhys had already unwound the tether from Maelgwn’s muzzle and was scratching him between the ears.

“Maelgwn likes him. Rhys, son of Bledig Rhi,” Thorne announced, “meet my Ruagaire brethren—the brothers Steptoe. Eckhardt there, and Gavin here.”

“Remarkable,” said Gavin, extending his hand to Rhys in greeting, and then to Thorne. “Other than you, Martin was the only man that beast ever let near him.”

“We’ve been looking for you.” Eckhardt flashed a warning glare at his brother and then gave Thorne an apologetic look over a warm handclasp. “We have sad news.”

“I’ve heard. Master Eldrith informed me just before he tried to have me taken into custody.”

“Eldrith?” Gavin looked at Eckhardt and then again at Thorne. “So you’ve been to Banraven. When, exactly?”

“Nearly a week now.” Thorne cocked a suspicious eyebrow in Gavin’s direction. “Tell me what you know.”

Eckhardt let out a soft whistle, and two chestnut geldings walked out of the woods. He pulled the bags and bedrolls from both horses and tossed them to the ground near the fire. “Settle in, my friend. There’s much to tell.”

“What about him?” Gavin gestured at Rhys. He remained standing, but Eckhardt sat cross-legged on his bedroll next to Thorne.

“I trust him.” Thorne threw the rest of the wood they had gathered onto the fire. “You can speak freely.”

“He is not one of us, Thorne.” Gavin was more guarded than his brother. That was usual, but his terseness was not. “The
canons of
the Order exist for his protection as well as ours.”

Thorne’s jaw set tight and he shot a glare at Gavin. He did not like to be questioned, not even by a man he called friend. “I said he is with me. Speak, or don’t. It’s entirely up to you.”

Gavin returned the glare with a look of aggravation and concern. He still stood, as though he were seriously considering not joining the group. The dread that had settled in Thorne’s gullet turned cold and hard.

“Then so be it,” Eckhardt said, attempting to move past the moment. “There isn’t time for this, Gavin. It should be enough that Thorne trusts him, unless you no longer trust Thorne.”

Thorne’s gaze was still fixed on Gavin, whose resistance wavered at his brother’s challenge but did not collapse altogether. This troubled Thorne deeply.

“If we no longer trust each other,” he said, “then there is no Brotherhood left to honor.”

Still Gavin hesitated a few moments more, before relenting at last. He sat next to his brother, opposite Rhys, wary and watchful of the younger man.

“You say Eldrith tried to have you arrested,” Eckhardt began. “We heard the same thing happened to Martin, only he did not escape.”

Thorne felt daggers stabbing at his innards now. “If it were not for Algernon, I would have shared Martin’s fate.”

“It seems Eldrith is no longer in control of Banraven,” said Eckhardt. “There have been rumors for weeks of an insurrection, that the Stewardry has fallen.”

“It still stands, though no longer under Madoc’s leadership,” Thorne interjected, tipping his head toward Rhys. “The new Sovereign is his mother.”

Eckhardt arched one eyebrow in surprise, though he continued as though he were not the least bit impressed. “Martin returned to Banraven to report what he’d heard, but discovered the bad news had arrived well ahead of him. The dark mage had already stolen the sanctuary right out of Eldrith’s hands.”

Thorne recalled the burning he’d felt as he shot down the chute into the cesspool, and just how close he’d come to meeting the dark mage. “What would Machreth want with Banraven?”

Even as he said it, Thorne knew. Gavin’s eyebrows arched as if to reinforce his worst suspicions. The most devastating of betrayals might already have befallen them all.

“Martin’s body did not survive the torture,” Eckhardt said gently, “but his secrets did.”

Thorne nodded because it was the only way he dared respond. The kind of suffering black magic could bring to a man was beyond imagining, and Thorne felt sick. He was also enraged.

“So, Eldrith sacrificed Trevanion to save himself and would have done the same to me. Is that what you’re saying?”

Eckhardt offered up an empathetic shrug. “Sooner or later Machreth will discover that Master Eldrith also holds the secrets to Elder Keep, but in the meantime he searches for the three of us.”

“What is Elder Keep?” Rhys had been quietly taking in the discussion until now.

Eckhardt and Gavin both looked to Thorne. What Rhys asked was not unreasonable or even unexpected. But having the answer would force him over a threshold that once crossed could never be uncrossed. This was not Thorne’s decision to make.

He turned to face his would-be apprentice. “From this moment forward, I will answer any question you ask. But be clear, Rhys. Do not ask unless you are willing to accept the
responsibility
that comes with having the knowledge. Do you understand what I am saying?”