Dark Lady's Chosen (44 page)

He did not have long to wait. Before the noon bells rang, the door to his cell opened.

Harrtuck entered first, with a scowl that made his mood plain. Behind him was Lord Guarov.

“M’lord,” Carroway said cautiously. He glanced to Harrtuck for some kind of signal, but Harrtuck looked away.

“How do you like my new construction?” Guarov asked, watching Carroway closely.

Carroway did his best to give away nothing in his expression. “It looks to be sturdy, m’lord.”

Guarov looked around. “I guess you’re entitled to this chamber, as your family was noble, but if it were up to me, I’d have you in shackles in the lower level.”

“It isn’t,” Harrtuck growled.

Guarov ignored Harrtuck. “The queen has not yet awakened. As it stands, your treachery is a hanging offense. But if she and the heir die, the Council of Nobles will have no choice but to charge you with treason, conspiracy against the king and regicide.” Guarov’s dark eyes narrowed, and the muscles of his jaw tightened. “The penalty for which is to be hanged, drawn and quartered.”

Carroway blanched. He tried to keep his face emotionless, but his heart raced and one hand balled into a fist. “I understand.”

“Are you familiar with the process?” Guarov pressed. “They hang you until you’re nearly dead, and a healer revives you. Then you’re broken on the wheel until your bones snap and your joints are sundered, and finally, they take four large horses—”

“For the love of the gods, enough!” Harrtuck said.

“You forget your place,
Captain
Harrtuck.”

Harrtuck’s expression made his feelings clear, but he fell silent.

“I am familiar.” Carroway drew on all of his acting skill to keep his voice steady.

A cold smile touched the corners of Guarov’s face. “There is an alternative. If you were to make a full confession of your crimes before the court, I might be able to get the executioner to shorten your pain. But it would need to be a full confession: that you forced the queen to your bed, and that you went to the king’s lodge in a jealous rage to strike her down, killing Crevan as he tried to protect her.”

Carroway’s jaw was tight. “I understand.”

Guarov met his eyes. “It’s unfortunate about the girl. As an accomplice, she’ll be banished under interdiction, along with any bastard she bears to you.” His eyes gleamed as he saw Carroway flinch. “Do you know what interdiction is? She’ll be anathema, by writ of the king.

No noble house or legitimate inn may give her shelter without incurring royal penalty.”

He paused. “Still, I can be merciful. If she were to renounce you publicly, tell the court that you abused your patronage to take advantage of her and that she feared for her life to go against you, I could be persuaded to lessen her sentence to banishment only. She might find work in a tavern instead of a bawdy house.”

Carroway’s fist tightened until his nails dug into his palm. “Let her renounce me. I’ll be dead.”

Guarov’s eyes shone. “The king may be in the field for months with the army. If the queen dies, this matter cannot be allowed to fester. Listen for the death knell. I’ll see you hang that same night.”

Guarov turned with a flourish of his heavy cape. “See that his door is secured and doubly guarded,” he commanded Harrtuck as he left the room. “We can’t afford another escape.”

When Guarov was gone, Harrtuck looked to Carroway. “I’m sorry, Carroway. I have authority over a mob, but I can’t act against the Council.”

“What have you heard? Is Kiara dying?”

Harrtuck shrugged. “Cerise is worried. Kiara hasn’t awakened. It may be the wormroot.

Cerise still doesn’t know how it may affect the baby. Goddess knows what a mess it made of Tris last year! And unfortunately, we have no idea when Tris and the army will return.”

Carroway turned away, walking a few steps to stand before the fire. “Is there anything you can do to protect Macaria?”

Harrtuck snorted. “I’ve got my hands full protecting you. But it may not be quite as dire as Guarov makes it sound. Alle told me that some of the Council are livid about the way he’s been threatening you. She says Acton practically had a stroke when he heard about the gallows, he

was so angry. Lord Dravan nearly came to blows with Guarov over it. He’s taking this personally, since he was a friend of your father’s. And according to Alle, Eadoin’s gotten wind of it and informed the Council that she will join them in person before the week is through if she has to wake from the dead.”

“I’m grateful. But if Kiara dies, the court will need someone to blame. Crevan’s already dead. I’m convenient.”

Harrtuck nodded. “Aye. And all too few seem to remember Guarov’s ties to Lady Nadine to see that he’s finally taking her vengeance.” He paused. “I hope it doesn’t come to this, but I won’t see you suffer.” He took a dagger from his belt and handed it, hilt first, to Carroway.

Harrtuck met his eyes. “I’ve only seen one man drawn and quartered. I haven’t the stomach to see another—least of all a friend. Many a soldier’s turned his blade on his own wrists rather than give his enemy that satisfaction. ’Tis a quick and honorable way to seek the Lady, if there’s no other choice.”

Carroway swallowed hard and took the blade, concealing it in his doublet. “Thank you.”

Harrtuck laid a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll see that the guards bring you brandy by mistake tonight. Take comfort where you can.”

Jonmarc Vahanian rose just after dawn. His room at Airenngeir, Astasia’s manor house, was opulent, furnished almost as lavishly as King Staden’s palace. A cold breakfast waited on a side table, along with his weapons and a new sword to replace the one broken in the battle at the Lady’s temple. A note in Gabriel’s handwriting drew a rough map to show him the way back to the main road. The house was silent, giving Jonmarc to believe that few, if any, mortal servants assisted Astasia and her brood.

He ate quickly and buckled on his weapons, trying the new sword in his hand. It was perfectly balanced and beautifully made: Jonmarc was certain Gabriel had a hand in its choosing. His body ached as he moved. Vigulf’s healing had cured only the wounds that were life-threatening. Other damage, such as his cracked ribs and the gashes from the battle, still throbbed. Jonmarc bandaged them as best he could, resigned to a painful ride home.

I’m afraid of what I’ll find when I get back to Dark Haven. I saw Malesh burn. I know what
that had to have done to Carina. I have to return. People are depending on me. But Dark
Haven without her will never be home.

He descended the broad staircase without encountering another person, living or dead. The manor house was deserted, its undead occupants safely resting in hidden chambers below.

Jonmarc found a horse tethered outside for him, its saddlebags already provisioned for the ride. Without a backward glance, he swung up to the saddle.

The road was deep with snow but passable. He saw few other travelers, and those he passed gave him wary glances. Knowing how he must look, Jonmarc couldn’t blame them.

His leather great cloak was cut and torn from the battle, stained with blood and ichor. He was dirty with grime and sweat and sported a week’s growth of beard. His tunic was torn open at the neck, dark and stiff with his own blood.
I look like a brigand, or worse. I’ll be
lucky if I don’t have to outride guardsmen to get home.

The day was bitterly cold. Jonmarc did his best to keep his thoughts focused on scanning the road for threats. As for what would happen when he returned to Dark Haven, he kept his mind blank. Time enough for that when he arrived. He ate a cold lunch as he rode, unwilling to chance

causing a scene at a tavern. Candlemarks slipped by, marked only by the crunch of his horse’s hooves.

Maybe Gabriel was right. Maybe Riqua and Taru were able to heal Carina, protect her from
what happened to Malesh.
Part of him clung to that thought as he rode.

Mid-afternoon, he reached a rise in the road. In the distance, Jonmarc could see Dark Haven against the snow-covered mountains, and all hope died. From its tower flew a flag of mourning.

Jonmarc stopped in his tracks. High winds whipped the gray flag. His throat tightened.
I
can’t do this. I can’t bury her.
He would find where they had laid Carina’s body to say goodbye, and then find oblivion in a bottle of brandy.

A new sound carried on the winter wind. In the distance, he heard the clash of steel.

Dark Haven was under attack.

Grief became rage as Jonmarc urged his horse for as much speed as he could muster in the rutted snow. As he neared the gates, he saw his guards engaged against a mob armed with sickles, scythes and axes. With a roar, Jonmarc stood in his stirrups, brandishing swords in both hands. The mob heard him and turned as the beleaguered guards raised a cry in greeting.

“Drop your weapons and go home,” Jonmarc shouted to the mob. “The war is over.”

Three men charged at him. One swung a sickle, while the others were armed with farm axes. Jonmarc’s swords glinted in the sun. The sickle man fell back with a scream as the sickle and the hand holding it fell into the snow. The two axemen closed, but Jonmarc’s horse reared, kicking its huge front hooves to fell one of the men as Jonmarc’s sword finished the other. He stared down the remaining mob.

“Go home. The war is over. The Truce will stand. Leave now, or by the Crone, they’ll carry you home in pieces.”

Caught between the emboldened guards and Jonmarc’s swords, the mob grumbled, and then man by man, began to disperse, straggling off in all directions.

Jonmarc rode through the cheering guards as the manor’s gates opened for him. He slid from his saddle and absently handed his reins to the groomsman who ran to assist him.

Neirin was striding toward him.

“Where is she?”

Neirin pointed, and Jonmarc turned, frowning against the glare of the sun on the snow. A cloaked figure was running down Dark Haven’s broad steps. The hood fell back as the figure reached him, and Carina threw her arms around him.

Jonmarc gritted his teeth against the pain of his broken ribs as he caught her, stunned. It took a few seconds for it to register that she stood in full daylight and that her lips were warm. He could feel the warmth of her breath and the beating of her heart as she kissed him.

“How?” he whispered in a strangled voice as the crowd in the bailey began to cheer.

Carina stepped back far enough to meet his eyes. “It’s a long story. I didn’t think you’d make it back.” She seemed to take in his grimy cloak and the bloody tunic, as well as the newly healed punctures on the side of his neck. Her expression changed, and Jonmarc knew she had extended her healer’s magic. “You’re hurt.”

“Nothing that won’t heal. Now.” He took her hand, amazed at its warmth, too overcome by this sudden reversal to think straight.

It suddenly registered with him that the courtyard was full of strangers. “Who are all these people and how did they get here?”

“They’re refugees. Every spare room is full of them. They got caught in the crossfire of Malesh’s war, or they came here because their neighbors were trying to kill them. Humans,
vayash moru
,
vyrkin
.”

“And the flag?” He could see sorrow in Carina’s eyes as she turned away.

“We thought we’d lost you. So many are dead. Not just the guards who went to fight for you, but the
vyrkin
and the villagers. And the families of the refugees.” She shook her head. “I don’t know how we’ll know when it’s safe to send the refugees home.”

Jonmarc took her hand. “We’ll figure that out tomorrow. I want to know everything that happened,” he said as she walked with him into the manor house. “But first, I had better clean up or you’ll put me out with the pigs.” He gave her a wicked look. “And I have no intention of missing another night with you. Ever.”

Carina called a servant to draw a hot bath for Jonmarc. She saw him wince as he shouldered out of his great cloak and she put a hand against his arm to gently press him into a chair.

“What are you doing? I’ve been in battle for a week. I smell.”

Carina wrinkled her nose. “No worse than all those times we hid in barns and cellars for weeks at a time last year. Or did you forget?”

“At the time, we all smelled equally bad. Now, I suspect you’d notice.”

“I do. But it bothers me more that you’re in pain.”

“It’s not so bad.”

Carina gave Jonmarc a look that let him know she knew he was lying. She swallowed hard when she looked at his blood-soaked tunic, remembering her vision of Malesh’s attack. She touched him with her magic, moving her palm to the gashes and deep bruises of the battle, making them whole. The ribs would take longer, but she sped their healing, easing his pain.

She lifted away his tunic, and caught her breath at the sight of the branded mark over his heart. Carina could feel a shadow of the Lady’s touch. She had healed enough times with Tris to recognize it.

“How did you make the Bargain and live?”

Jonmarc met her eyes. “The Lady owns my soul. Maybe She always did. It seems I’m the Winter Kingdoms’ best bet against some big, nasty badass we don’t even know is out there.

Poor Winter Kingdoms. I guess even the Lady has to make do.”

Carina let her magic fill her, healing the torn ligaments and pulled muscles that were evidence of a vicious battle. Enhanced by her encounter with the Flow, her magic went deeper than before, and Carina felt a raw wound that had nothing to do with blood or sinew.

She gasped as she touched the pain and realized it was mind and not body. Jonmarc reached out to steady her, a confused look on his face. His emotions overwhelmed her: grief, rage, vengeance and finally, in the Lady’s temple, resignation. Carina felt the horror of the last days wash over her and she marshaled her nascent mind healing gift to blunt that pain, not erasing it but making it recede to a manageable memory.

“How did you do that?” Jonmarc asked raggedly as she bowed her head.

Carina looked up to meet his eyes. “Thank the Flow. I was in the middle of healing it when you and Malesh fought. Without the Flow and without Tris anchoring me, I probably wouldn’t have survived. I healed the Flow. And since then, my magic is… different. Stronger. I can mind heal. Taru doesn’t have an explanation, but she has a theory. She thinks the Flow gave me the power to mind heal out of gratitude.”