Lescari Revolution 03: Banners In The Wind (36 page)

'I will go, when I can,' she promised. 'But I'm still needed here.'

Tathrin looked sternly at her. 'You can be there in the blink of an eye with Sorgrad's help, and back again within the day. We need him, Branca. You know that.'

But did Aremil need her? Had the growing affection between them been severed once he learned she had killed that old woman? Had she destroyed it herself, with her wretched rejection, so guilt-ridden?

How many more times did she need to visit that barred and shuttered hall, waters lapping ankle-deep around its foundations, before she accepted that he was gone somewhere, somehow, far beyond her reach?

What would she do when all hope was lost? Wasn't it better to wait and to hope that he might one day return?

She shook off Tathrin's hand. 'I cannot go back to Carluse while Kerith and I must maintain all our aetheric communications, and frustrate Jettin's spying.'

Tathrin grasped her shoulder, forcing her to face him. 'Aremil could help you counter Jettin and relieve your other burdens besides. Then there's this question of Lescar's governance. If we're to save everyone from another year of pointless warfare, we must propose a settlement and soon; to the remaining dukes, to Emperor Tadriol and the Caladhrian parliament. Aremil knows a hundred times more than I do about political philosophies and systems.'

His firm expression wavered and Branca glimpsed the uncertain scholar Tathrin had been. But the trials of this past year had honed his determination, just as surely as swordplay and tough living had hardened his face and body.

'We all need Aremil, Branca, and Saedrin save us, I miss him. Don't you? I long to have him tell me that we were right to start all this upheaval. To tell me that we're doing what we must, however hard it is, to bring about a better future for all Lescari. I need to know that he still believes that. Then I can tell him that I still believe it, when it's his turn to be torn by doubts.'

Branca busied herself rearranging wine glasses. 'There's no reason to suppose I could reach him with my Artifice, even if I went to Carluse, not if Kerith can't.'

'Branca!' Tathrin's irritation stilled her hands. 'He loves you. You love him. You can't tell me that won't help!'

'I--' Tears blurred her vision as the stifled ache of Aremil's absence blossomed beneath her breastbone.

'Are you so ashamed of what you've done?' Tathrin stepped closer, low-voiced. 'Are you so scared of what he might see? When you only did what you had to, to save yourself, to save Charoleia and Trissa? Do you really think he could hate you for that?'

'He's already seen it.' Branca could barely speak.

'Did he drive you away when he did?' Tathrin shot back. 'No, and he won't, any more than he's denied me as his friend, for my violence in this war. I've done far worse than you, Branca. Don't tell me you haven't seen it when you've touched me with your Artifice. I killed two men just for trying to steal my horse, when all they wanted was to escape the battlefield's slaughter. Don't tell me they deserved that!'

Branca found she couldn't escape Tathrin's memories of the battle at Pannal. This was far worse than confronting him through Artifice, where she could have denied both his memories and her own.

She tried to move away but only knocked over a carafe with her hand. Tathrin caught it before it spilled wine across the table.

'It's easier to forgive myself because I know Aremil doesn't hate me for such deeds,' he said gently. 'It doesn't mean I don't bitterly regret what I've been forced to do.'

He took Branca's hands in his own. His fingers were cold and calloused.

'Failla doesn't blame me, any more than I fault her for her choices. She knows that I love her, no matter what. Instead of staying mired in the past, we both look to the future. You're the only one who can give Aremil such peace of mind. He's the only one who can give it to you. Please, go to Carluse and use your Artifice to find him, wherever he has gone. Otherwise he's going to die, and soon. If you don't believe me, ask Serafia. Ask Failla. Ask Master Welgren.'

Appalled, Branca looked up to see that awful truth plain on Tathrin's face. Before she could reply, a polite knuckle rapped on the sitting room door.

'Gren, if you please.' Charoleia sat up straight.

Branca turned away to the window as the Mountain Man opened the door. She heard Charoleia speak.

'Good evening. Please, come in. Would you like some wine, Esquire? Branca?'

It took all her resolve to turn back to face them all. Though she saw no one was actually looking at her. Yadres Den Dalderin hovered on the threshold, regarding Gren with consternation. Few of Solland's elegant salons included warriors in battered leather and chain mail.

'Angovese red, Esquire.' Tathrin was already pouring the fine vintage.

'Thank you.' As Den Dalderin accepted the glass, he looked Tathrin up and down. 'I don't believe we've been introduced?'

'Tathrin Sayron.' The Carlusian bowed with more elegance than Branca expected. 'Of Lescar.'

'Yadres Den Dalderin.' The noble youth returned the courtesy. 'Of Zafer, a little town of still less account.'

Charoleia snorted with laughter. 'Of Toremal, and deep in the Sieur Den Dalderin's councils, when that noble prince advises the Emperor.'

Yadres merely answered her with a smile before addressing Tathrin once again. 'I take it you bring vital news?'

'I don't know.' He shrugged.

Perplexed, Yadres looked to Charoleia. 'My lady?'

'May I?' She extended an elegantly beringed hand and Branca gave her a glass of wine.

Charoleia took a sip. 'His Majesty must satisfy those noble houses who insist the legions should stop this chaos in Parnilesse from spilling across the Asilor. We accept that. She smiled. 'Indeed, we shall be grateful for Imperial assistance. However, we've no more desire to see Tormalin rule re-established across Lescar than his Majesty wishes to become entangled in such a hare-brained undertaking. Even if the legions were to crush all Lescar under their boots, the cost to the Empire, the disruption to the exploration of those new lands across the ocean, could not possibly be worth it. Not when Lescari resentment and resistance would flourish like thistles with the spring, year in and year out.' She arched her brows at Yadres. 'Don't you agree?'

He inclined his head, though his tone was non-committal. 'You are as well informed as ever.'

'Would it help Emperor Tadriol to restrain his noble princes,' Charoleia wondered, 'if we could show you exactly who was guilty of Duke Orlin and Duchess Sherista's murders? This man has also instigated all these recent raids across the river into Tormalin. If that man could be captured, tried and hanged, wouldn't that quench the zeal of those princes so eager for battle? Every advocate would agree such an execution would be sanctioned by law. Unlike wholesale conquest, where three precedents clearly forbid it for every two that might argue in its favour.'

Branca recalled the carefully copied documents that Charoleia had received from Advocate Tathel; thick bundles threaded through with white ribbons bearing the Imperial Archivist's lead seals.

Yadres looked dubious. 'One man overthrew Parnilesse's duke acting entirely alone?'

'Hardly single-handed,' conceded Charoleia, 'but cut off the head and the rest of the snake will die.'

'These are your witnesses?' Yadres looked curiously from Tathrin to Gren.

'No.' Charoleia took another sip of her wine. 'You'll learn exactly what happened from the duke and duchess themselves.'

'What?' Yadres was baffled.

Charoleia looked steadily at him. 'Emperor Tadriol has used magic to determine guilt before now, even if no charges were ever levied against the Relict Tor Bezaemar.'

While that was another name meaning nothing to Branca, they all saw Yadres freeze with shock. Branca could only guess Charoleia referred to some notable scandal.

Charoleia smiled sweetly. 'Make sure to tell Tadriol everything that you see and hear tonight. Gren, show the esquire our witnesses.'

Still scowling, Gren fetched the sack from the window seat. He dumped it on the table without a thought for the pristine cloth.

'Duke Orlin.' He drew out a ghastly bearded head, his fingers tangled in its lank silver hair. 'Duchess Sherista.' Her once lustrous skin was as discoloured as her husband's, her closed eyes gruesomely sunken pits. Whatever had been done to preserve them had left her black hair oddly brindled.

'Saedrin save us.' Yadres was as pale as his linen shirt. He emptied his glass in one swallow. 'But how--?'

'All will become clear, I promise,' Charoleia assured him.

But how exactly were the dead going to speak? Branca saw their mouths had been sewn shut. That must have been done after death, to stop their jaws flapping loose. Queasy, she noted the ragged flesh around their severed necks as Gren thrust Reniack's repellent trophies back into the sack. How hard had those deaths been?

Glass clinked in the awkward silence as Tathrin poured the esquire more wine. Branca took a glass for herself and watched Gren retreat to a distant chair, his blond brows still knotted in a scowl.

Tathrin cleared his throat. 'Did you celebrate the festival with your family, Esquire?'

'Alas, I didn't have that pleasure.' Yadres dragged his gaze away from the sack on the table. 'Did you?'

'No.' Tathrin grimaced. 'Though I was able to be with my betrothed.'

Branca wondered if it was her imagination, or could she really smell a breath of corruption rising from the bag concealing the cadaverous heads?

Chapter Twenty-Four

Branca

The Three Fountains Inn,

Solland, in the Tormalin Empire,

10th of Aft-Winter

The click of the timepiece's arrow down the scale to the quarter-chime snapped through the room like a cracking glass.

Before it moved again, the opening door startled them all. Tathrin was there to stop it with a booted foot, his hand hovering by his sword hilt. He threw the door wide, relieved. 'Sorgrad!'

'Good evening.' The Mountain Man entered and swept a bow worthy of the Imperial Court. 'Esquire Den Dalderin?'

'Indeed.' Yadres glanced at Charoleia.

She gestured towards the unremarkable young woman who followed Sorgrad into the room. 'May I make known to you Jilseth Disimonea, wizard of Hadrumal and adviser to Planir the Black?'

'D'Isimonea?' Yadres looked more closely at the magewoman. 'Of Derrice?'

'Four generations ago,' she replied coolly.

Branca wouldn't have imagined the magewoman was of Tormalin descent. Her skin was pale, her eyes grey and her silky brown hair was shot through with auburn in the lamplight. Such mingled bloodlines were far more typical of Ensaimin.

'I take it this is why I am here?' Walking to the table, Jilseth opened the bag to hold up the duke's lifeless head. She examined it without apparent qualm.

Branca retreated to stand beside Tathrin. Yadres had moved closer to Charoleia's daybed, leaving the table to Sorgrad and the magewoman.

'Madam Jilseth is a necromancer,' Charoleia explained.

'What will her skills show us?' Wide-eyed, the young noble watched Sorgrad emptying a flagon of oil into a deep earthenware bowl.

'I have no idea.' Charoleia shrugged. 'Isn't that proof of our honest intent?'

'You haven't already--?' Yadres gestured helplessly with his empty glass.

Jilseth answered without looking round. 'Necromancy can be worked only once with any earthly remains. So I recommend you all pay close attention.'

'Let's see what Duchess Sherista can tell us.' Sorgrad handed her the dead woman's head. 'Whatever Duke Orlin's crimes, her death must be pure murder.'

Branca saw a muscle quivering in his clenched jaw. For all his composure, she realised he disliked this as thoroughly as his brother.

Even she was struggling to remind herself that she didn't believe in Poldrion's demons. That this callous preservation of the remains of the dead was condemning them to untold tortures. The children too.

Jilseth lowered the duchess's head into the viscous oil and swept her hands across the the bowl in an intricate pattern. The magewoman had dreadfully bitten fingernails, Branca noticed inconsequentially.

The unpleasant smell she had noticed earlier grew stronger. Steam rose from the earthenware bowl and thickened, lingering unnaturally around the rim. Whatever magic was being worked deep within the oil cast up shimmering amber light that reflected off the slowly swirling steam that was following Jilseth's guiding hand.

Now smoke rose from the bowl, acrid in the back of Branca's throat. Striving to ignore the scent of scorched flesh, she heard the oil faintly bubbling. She bit her lip. The inn's staff had assured her this was one of their kitchen's strongest pots. But what if so much oil caught fire?

The tales she had heard as a child clamoured in her memory; of wizards and their incautious pupils seduced by unbounded arrogance and thus suffering agonised deaths. She glanced at Sorgrad. Could his magic save them from unrestrained sorcerous fire?