The Temple of Heart and Bone (34 page)

“Captain!” Ythel shouted as if
the man were across a parade ground.

“Yes, my Lord,” the captain
responded, his eyes alert and attentive.

“The
priest
and I can
insult each other without your supervision. Take your men and leave us.”

“My Lord?” the captain said in
disbelief. It was clear that this was the last order he had expected.

“Leave us. Now, Captain! I will
summon you if needed.” Ythel’s tone brooked no dispute.

“Yes, my Lord,” the captain
replied, saluting. With a curt gesture of his head, the guards formed on his
flanks and followed him from the hall. He closed the doors quietly behind him.

“Speak,
priest
and make it
good,” Ythel commanded, retaking his seat.

Petreus, his face no longer
neutral, returned Ythel’s glare. He remembered the tears and questions he
suffered as Ythel’s soldiers dragged him from the cottage. He felt his teeth
pressing harshly into each other and the muscles of his face aching as they
formed the grimace that glared back at Ythel.

“My niece has just been to
Æostemark,” Petreus ground out between clenched teeth. “She tells me that the
city has been destroyed. Again. She tells me that the destruction is complete
this time.”

“Petreus,” Ythel interrupted
contemptuously, “if Æostemark had been destroyed, I would have heard about it
from more reliable sources than your niece.”

“She also passed by the cottage,”
Petreus continued as if Ythel had not spoken a word. “She brought something
back with her.”

“You
dare
enter that
cottage,” Ythel rose, his cheeks flushing and his voice rasping. “Who gave
you
the right?” The force of his anger had been turned on Chance, but she stood
unflinching before him. Ythel seethed as he waited for her to respond. “Answer
me!” he shouted.

“He did,” Chance replied evenly,
pointing at the hooded figure beside her. Ythel was taken aback by her answer.
He had expected deceit, subterfuge, even apology, but not an answer. The pace
of his fury was broken, like a horse stumbling in its stride. He wrestled to
regain his balance.

“And who are you,
priest
,
to give this whelp the right to enter that which is not yours?”

“I am a man of gentler disposition
than you,” Drothspar’s cold, dead whisper responded, chilling Ythel and drawing
the color from his face. “And I have every right to offer the comfort of that
which is mine.” These last words slithered across the hall to sink into Ythel’s
mind.

“Who are you?” Ythel demanded.

“I am your son-in-law, Ythel,”
the cold voice continued. “I am the owner of the cottage, the husband of your
daughter, and the man who has come to question you. I am Drothspar.” His
rasping words echoed throughout the hall, lingering accusingly about the dais.
He lowered his cowl, exposing his skull to Ythel.

Wide eyed, Ythel took a step
forward just as rushing steps raced toward them from behind. Drothspar felt a
tug at his robes as a sword slid effortlessly through them and continued on
toward Ythel. Petreus and Chance stepped back in shock and Ythel’s eyes widened
further as he watched the point of the blade pressing nearer. Something heavy
hit Drothspar from behind, carrying him and the sword closer to Ythel.
Drothspar grasped the blade and wrenched the point to his right. Thrown off
balance, the assailant behind him passed to his left and tripped on the steps
beside the pale Ythel.

Drothspar pulled the sword out of
his sagging robes and gripped it firmly in hand. He looked at it with interest
and leveled the point at his attacker. It was Ythel’s captain.

“Too late, Captain,” Drothspar’s
skull rasped at the man who’s pallor matched his master’s.

“W-what… what are you?” Ythel
breathed through a throat constricted with fear.

“I am the soul of Drothspar,
though how exactly I am bound to my body I do not know.”

“Are you here to kill me?” Ythel
asked, his eyes eager and pleading.

“No,” Drothspar whispered, “I am
here to ask you about Li.”

“Li,” Ythel repeated, his face
jerking in a spasm of pain. “Li? What can I tell
you
about Li?”

“What did you see in the cottage
when you sent Petreus away?”

“The cottage,” Ythel repeated,
his voice heavy with macabre bemusement.

“What did you see?” Drothspar
insisted.

Ythel was a noble, a Duke, a
leader of men, yet he looked like a child lost without his parents. His eyes
drifted in and out of focus. He was a man accustomed to controlling his
situation, though the situation of his daughter had flown apart despite his
power and station. He looked at Drothspar, at the remains of the man who had
taken his daughter away, and sat heavily on the edge of the dais.

“Blood,” Ythel said finally,
“dark, black, blood.”

“Whose blood?” Drothspar pressed.

“Hers, yours, someone’s,” Ythel
said wearily. “How should I know whose blood it was?”

“She wasn’t in the cottage?”

“There was only blood in the
cottage. Blood and the stale smell of smoke.”

“Did you search the area?”

“My men swept the forest around
the cottage. They searched for two full days. We found nothing.” Ythel’s head
fell heavily in his hands. Petreus stared at the noble with a mixture of anger
and disbelief. Chance stood off to one side watching the exchange. Her eyes
were wide in shock, as if she had just watched a storm carry away her house and
family. Ythel’s captain sat near his master, breathing heavily. Drothspar
stood, silent and unreadable.

“I thought,” Ythel began,
breaking the silence, “I hoped that she had escaped somehow. Escaped with her
husband.” He looked up from his hands. “Escaped somehow with you.” Ythel looked
at the grim form of his son-in-law. “Where were
you
?”

Drothspar regarded Ythel in
silence, feeling pangs of guilt that had started seven years before.

“Where were you,
Son
?” Ythel
continued in painful derision, “Where were you when my daughter disappeared?
Why don’t
you
know where she was, where she is? What were
you
doing when you should have been beside her?” Scorn and contempt filled Ythel’s
voice as he unleashed seven years of fear and anger. Drothspar staggered under
the impact of that voice, reliving his death and his guilt. “
Where were you?
”
Ythel’s shouting echoed mockingly back from the walls.

“I had gone to get honey,”
Drothspar explained quietly. “It was late, a storm was coming. I was walking to
the neighbor’s farm to get honey. I’d forgotten about it. Li and I… Li and I
had an argument. I walked out into the night to get honey.”

“You left her?” Ythel’s words
were little more than a shocked whisper.

“I walked out into the dusk for
honey,” Drothspar continued, gesturing to Ythel with his fleshless hand,
showing his palm as if to prove it was empty. “I was at the edge of the woods.
I saw riders coming from the farm…”

“You left her,” Ythel whispered
again, answering his own question.

“The riders came,” Drothspar went
on, ignoring Ythel. “They left the burning farm and entered the woods. They
were riding toward the cottage. A few of them broke off after me. One of them
killed me—”

“You left her,” Ythel’s voice
sounded in a harsh, accusatory whisper. His eyes burned as they settled on
Drothspar’s skull. Sensing the look, Drothspar’s hollow eyes bored into Ythel.
He drew the rusted dagger from beneath his robes.

“I left her,” Drothspar agreed,
his rasping voice thick with pain and anger. “I died clutching this,” he said
and brandished the rusted blade. The captain’s eyes judged the distance from
Ythel to the armed apparition, but his muscles refused to carry him between
them. Drothspar continued. “One of the riders discarded his sword, pulled
this
dagger from his belt and stabbed it down into my chest. He tried to pull it
free, but I wouldn’t let him.” Drothspar looked around at Petreus and Chance,
at Ythel, even the captain.

“I could never have out-run the
horses,” he explained. “I had no weapon to fight them. I never expected anyone
to fight.” He bowed his head, the weight of guilt pushing it down to his chest.
He raised the dagger, its blade muddy-looking in the sparse light. Ythel’s eyes
lost some of their fire as he looked at the corroded weapon.

“The man who killed me struggled
to pull this free of my body. If nothing else, I knew he could never use it
against my wife.” He paused and lowered the dagger to his side. “It was all I
could do,” his voice rasped slowly, “steal the weapon of my murderer.” The
blade fell from Drothspar’s hand to clatter loudly on the marble floor.

Ythel was no longer looking at
Drothspar, but staring at the dagger on the floor. His eyes widened and he
moved closer to the weapon. His hand stretched out to touch the handle.

“Sweet Maker, merciful Maker,”
Ythel pleaded, his head shaking side to side. He clawed at the handle with his
outstretched fingers, dragging the dagger closer to him. “No,” he said, “it
can’t be, sweet God, please don’t let it be.” He took the handle in his hand
and held up the blade as Drothspar looked down at him. “Oh my sweet Maker,”
Ythel said, his voice breaking, “I know this weapon. I had it… I had it made
for the… for him…”

“Troseth,” the captain breathed
in comprehension, touching a similar looking dagger at his own side.

“Dog’s blood,” Ythel cursed and
threw the dagger across the room. He had turned the blade with his hand and
thrown it aside as if it had cut him. He rubbed his hand and looked for blood.
“It was cold,” he whispered finally. Petreus’ eyes widened and he turned to go
after the weapon.

“Who was Troseth?” Drothspar
asked, his rasping voice neutral.

“My predecessor,” the captain
answered from the floor.

“Troseth was a captain in my
service,” Ythel explained as he looked up from his hand. “He was an excellent
soldier, but he upset Li.” Drothspar looked at him. “It was perhaps a year
before she met you,” Ythel explained, feeling Drothspar’s stare. “Li came to me
one day and said that one of my officers was making her ‘uncomfortable.’ I told
her I’d look into it. The man was following her in his off-duty hours. He
seemed afraid to approach her openly, so he set up elaborate plans to place
himself in her way, to make himself seen.” Ythel shook his head.

“He was too good of a soldier to
lose, so I transferred him to a border company.” He looked at the dagger that
Petreus bent to retrieve. “I gave him that dagger as a reward for his service
and loyalty.”

Petreus’ hand touched the dagger
and he took it away quickly. He shook his hand as if it had been dealt a
serious blow.

“Tell me,” Petreus said in an
almost casual tone, “do you always give cursed weapons as rewards for service
and loyalty?”

“What?!” Ythel exclaimed, his
face reddening with indignation.

“That dagger is cursed,” Petreus
continued calmly. “I’ve never actually touched anything like it before,” he
admitted, “but I could feel it trying to draw the life out of my fingers.”

“Nonsense,” Ythel retorted hotly.
“I had the blade forged by a local smith. Cardalan here has one made by the
same man.” The captain’s hand fell again to his dagger and his eyes rolled
nervously.

“May I see your dagger, Captain?”
Petreus asked politely. The captain drew his weapon and handed it, blade
reversed, to the priest. Petreus inspected the dagger, turning it over and over
in his hands. Drothspar looked at the glittering weapon that could have been a
perfect match to the dagger that killed him.

“Very nice,” Petreus said,
returning Cardalan’s weapon. He noticed the look in the captain’s eyes. “It’s
not cursed,” Petreus assured him. “You can check for yourself, if you like. I
imagine that if Ythel here could feel the chill of
that
dagger,” he
pointed to the floor behind himself, “you could just as well.”

“If there’s any curse on that
dagger,” Ythel said glaring at Petreus, “who’s to say that it didn’t come from
that
.”
He pointed at Drothspar.

“Well,” Petreus said, resting one
hand on Drothspar’s arm, “I suppose I am. To say, that is.”

“What are you talking about?”
Ythel snorted.

“I tried to cast the evil out of
him when I first saw him, Ythel,” Petreus explained as if talking to a child.
“It was really rather spectacular. Not your common, household prayer, I’m
afraid. Knocked the poor boy clean on his back. As you can see, however, he’s
still here. Gave him his voice, too, as chilling as it may be.”

“Priest,” Ythel said between
clenched teeth, “if you hadn’t involved yourself in my daughter’s life,
none
of this would have happened!
”

“My Lord of Ythel,” Petreus
replied, his own voice thick with contempt and anger, “if you would have had
the courage to
face
Gathner, to
stand up
for your daughter and
the man she loved,
you
would have been able to
protect them!
”
Spittle flew from Petreus’ beet red face as he shouted at the man on the floor.