Angelaeon Circle 2 - Eye of the Sword (3 page)

A stinging sensation on his feet pulled him from the dream and brought him fully back to the danger of his situation. Hot muck spat on him with each thick belch of gash below.

“Climb,” Trevin muttered to himself. “Climb or boil.”

craped, bruised, and sore, Trevin headed through the woods toward Redcliff astride Dwin’s donkey. He had returned to the tavern for his mount only to find the horse missing. He suspected Dwin had filched the roan from the tavern post so he could lead the Dregmoorians to Redcliff in style. The dolt.

On the other hand, maybe Dwin knew exactly what he was doing. Maybe he had met with the Dregmoorians before. In that case he was no dolt; he was a traitor. Trevin broke into a cold sweat and nudged Persephone with his heel.

Persey picked up her pace, then settled back into a walk.

Trevin growled. “I can go faster barefoot.” He slid off the donkey’s back and onto a pine cone. “Blast!” he yelled, hopping on one foot, rubbing the other. He was already sore from brawling; he didn’t need a pierced foot as well.

A flutter sounded overhead, followed by a sharp chirp.

Trevin squinted into the treetops. A drak clung to a bobbing branch with its taloned human hands. Not long ago he had aspired to be a talonmaster to the falconlike spy-birds. But then he had seen the shock in Melaia’s eyes when she learned each drak held a captive human soul. Worse, Lord Rejius had kidnapped Peron, a child Melaia loved like a sister, and bound her in a drak’s body. Now Trevin loathed the whole business of mastering draks.

He grabbed a pine cone and drew back to heave it at the bird. Then he froze. Most draks were large and traveled in pairs. This bird was small and alone.

“Peron?” He dropped the pine cone. He had no meat to offer, no glove to protect himself, but he held out his hand and whistled.

A breeze shuddered through the leaves, rippling the drak’s dull black feathers, and the bird flapped away.

Trevin turned back to Persey and yanked her forward. “Come on, beast. You’ll make me late to the feast laid in my honor.”

Persey plodded through the dim woods as if she had all year to get back.

Trevin groaned. The new comain, valiant horseman of the king, was now a shirtless, shoeless donkey drover. “I hope no one sees me entering Redcliff,” he mumbled.

The wind gusted. Leaves danced. A whisper swirled through the air.
Seeeeeker
.

Persey’s ears twitched. Her nostrils flared.

Trevin jerked around but saw no one.

Seeeeeker
.

A shiver snaked up his spine. The same flesh-prickling voice had come to him twice before, both times in the tower aerie.

Seeeeeker
.

Both times he had dashed out of the aerie as quickly as he could. He didn’t hesitate to make a quick escape again.

Seeeeeker
.

Persephone obviously agreed. Trevin barely made it onto her back before she broke into a ragged gallop.

By the time Trevin approached the east wall of Redcliff, the tallest tower of the palace stood dark against the sunset sky, its stately silhouette interrupted only by the form of a body suspended from the parapet. Presumably another overlord who had supported the recent coup attempt. Trevin knew that if Melaia hadn’t captured his heart, he might be hanging from the wall himself. Even now his loyalty to the king was largely unproven. His being late to dinner would not add to the king’s trust. And Dwin … If he had told the Dregmoorians anything traitorous …

Trevin thrust away the thought and headed for the stable gate, which was cloaked in shadows. He pushed on the massive wooden door. It didn’t budge. He pounded on it.

The peephole slid open, and then the barred inner gate grated through its track, and the bolt scraped aside. Pym, a stout, bandy-legged armsman, swung open the door.

“What are you doing outside?” Pym asked. “You’re supposed to be at dinner.”

Persephone nudged her way into the stable, and Trevin ducked in behind her.

Pym chuckled as he ran a hand through his shock of unruly hair. “Did the lady keep your tunic?”

“It was no lady.”

“I guess not.” Pym wrinkled his nose. “You smell overripe. And your cheek is bruised.”

“I ran into Dregmoorians intent on drowning me in landgash. They were headed here.”

“Must be the ones who arrived this afternoon. They caused quite a stir at the gates, they did.”

“Did Dwin get them in?”

“As I heard it, guards detained them while Dwin took their message to the king. They’ve come to propose a peace treaty, they say. Between Camrithia and the Dregmoors. One of them is Prince Varic.”

“
Prince
Varic,” Trevin muttered.

Pym spread hay in a stall for Persephone. “They left their horses here only awhile ago. As for your brother—” He nodded toward the door to the courtyard, where Dwin sat on an upturned keg, grinning.

Trevin clenched his fists and stomped over to his brother.

Dwin eyed Trevin through his black curls. “I knew you’d bring Persey back.”

Trevin stifled the impulse to cuff him. “You made a regal fool of yourself. You led the enemy straight to our gates while, for all you knew, I lay dead at the bottom of a well.”

Dwin waved his hand as if brushing away gnats. “I sent Jarrod for you. Didn’t he find you?”

“I rescued myself, no thanks to you. I could have boiled to death in gash.”

“You think
I
could have pulled you out? That’s why I sent Jarrod. Or is a
warrior angel not good enough for you?” Dwin looked around and lowered his voice. “Besides, I was spying.”

“For whom? The Dregmoorians?”

“For Camrithia. And don’t get all hot about it. You used to spy for Rejius.”

“And I despise myself for it,” said Trevin. “Besides, a spy
gathers
information. He doesn’t get drunk and tell all he knows.”

Dwin shrugged, a sheepish look in his eyes. “I drank one too many.”

“And then led the enemy straight to the king. What if they’re assassins?”

“They’re here for peace.”

“Right. And I’m here to learn basket weaving.” Trevin shoved the door open. “I’m late for dinner. I trust you can find my dagger among your new friends’ belongings.”

“I already have it.” Dwin smirked. “I suggest you don a tunic before you prance in for dinner.”

Trevin slammed the door and headed across the courtyard to the temple, where he and Dwin had rooms. Passersby looked askance at him. The odor of gash hung about him like an aura. He would need more than a fresh tunic.

By the time Trevin reached the palace, torches lit the darkening courtyard. He quickly made his way inside, loped down the corridors, and elbowed through the back-room bustle of attendants laden with baskets of bread, trays of meat, and jugs of ale and wine. He huffed. Feasting seemed a foolish extravagance when the countryfolk could hardly grow enough for their own bellies.

At the serving entrance to the great hall, he paused. Extravagant or not, this feast was for him, and he intended to enter with the assured demeanor of a comain. He calmed his breath and surveyed the room. Lampstands flanked the hall and sent a flickering glow onto the walls. The fragrance of spiced wine, fresh bread, and roasted meats drifted through the air as servants placed heaping trays before nobles and their ladies at tables running the length of the hall. Trevin recognized some of the guests as Angelaeon. Jarrod wasn’t among them. He was no doubt searching Drywell.

King Laetham, garbed in purple, presided over the feast from his usual place at the center of the head table. Melaia sat to his right.

Trevin didn’t have to see her to know she was there. He sensed her as shimmering silver light. But to see her was pure pleasure, and he let his gaze linger. Her loose braid, the color of dark honey, fell over her shoulder as she leaned toward her copper-haired handmaid, Serai, and spoke intently. The gleam in her rich brown eyes rivaled the gold medallion suspended on a chain at her throat.

A barking call for ale rose from the other end of the table. To the left of the king, Varic held his goblet toward a servant. Trevin swallowed dryly. The seat of honor at the king’s left hand was meant for him tonight, not for this wretch. He took a deep breath and strode into the hall, hoping he was rid of the smell of gash. He couldn’t hide the bruise on his cheek.

Melaia looked up, her smile stunning.

Trevin wished the moment would freeze with her gaze locked on his. Never mind his hunger for food.

He smiled back and nodded. “My lady.” As he passed, he let his hand brush her shoulder.

“I see Jarrod found you,” she said. “Your cheek—”

Before Trevin could explain, the king turned his way, his eyes questioning Trevin’s late arrival.

Trevin went down on one knee and briefly bowed his head. “Your Majesty.”

King Laetham nodded, his thick, graying hair oiled and glinting in the lamplight.

“My apologies for being late.” Trevin folded his hands to hide his scraped fingers and angled his head, hoping the bruise would seem a shadow. “I was detained by the discovery of landgash emerging at Drywell.”

The king’s eyebrows arched. “Landgash? So close? I must ride out and see these oddities. I hear they’re strange to behold.”

“They are, sire.”

“You must meet our guest.” King Laetham turned to the Dregmoorian. “Prince Varic, this is Trevin, the young man who will be appointed comain tomorrow. Perhaps you would attend the ceremony with us?”

Varic leaned back in his chair, goblet in one hand, pheasant leg in the other. His face stiffened momentarily, but then he flashed a haughty grin.

Trevin tried to breathe normally and keep the color from rising to his face. He would not bow his head to this Dregmoorian, even if he was a prince.

“Appointing this one?” asked Varic. “I wouldn’t miss it.” He went back to his meal. “Congratulations, sire. He’s a fine figure of a youth.”

Trevin’s muscles ached with the urge to lunge at the prince. No doubt Varic would welcome the fight. Nothing would make a comain look more foolish than assailing a royal guest in front of the entire assembly.

King Laetham clapped Trevin on the shoulder. “I accept your apology for being late. Find me after the entertainment tonight. I have a task in mind for my new comain, but for now my orders are to enjoy your feast.”

As the king waved a hand toward the vacant chair beyond Serai, lamplight glinted from a ring on his forefinger. Trevin couldn’t help staring at the ruby the size of an acorn that adorned the ring.

The king posed his hand regally. “A gift from the Dregmoors. A peace offering.”

“Wonderful, sire.”

Trevin strode to his seat, plopped down, and stabbed a stuffed breast of dove.