North Star Guide Me Home (59 page)

Rasten lay on the narrow bed, gazing at the open window. The shutters were latched open and a fire blazed in a brazier, warring with the chill ocean air. The chamber had been altered somewhat since the last time he was here. The bed had been fixed to the wall with sturdy brackets and the window was covered with a grille of sculpted stone. No one would be hurling themselves out of this window unless they took a hammer to the stone lattice first.

His gaze kept tracking back to the window and the sky beyond. He’d expected iron bars, something ugly and heavy as befitted a prison cell, but this … the one who had made it had carved a flowering vine climbing across the stone, bearing buds beginning to open, and in one corner a stone bird perched with wings half-furled, rooting between the shoots with its beak.

He’d spent hours gazing at it. It was the only thing to look at aside from the shifting glow of the fire in the brazier. Who would put so much effort into beautifying something so mundane, when it would be simpler by far to sink some metal bars into the stone and be done with it? The question niggled at him; it had done so ever since the fever had receded enough to let him take stock of his surroundings.

He was back in his old room, the room Sierra had first brought him to when he’d surrendered to the new king, still bewildered and disbelieving that they’d shown him mercy he didn’t deserve.

It hadn’t been their first choice, but when they’d brought him back to Lathayan he’d been raving. He remembered, through the fevered haze, how he’d demanded they bring him here, to the chamber that had been his sanctuary for a few peaceful days.

It was a wonder they’d acceded to his demands, when he’d given them nothing but trouble since they dug him out of the ruins of Stonereach. First of all, he’d refused to let Sierra numb the pain from his wounds. The reasoning had seemed fair to his own disturbed mind, but he knew he’d made a hash of getting others to understand it. It was only Isidro who truly understood. His pain was a gift to her.

Secondly, he was taken by fury that Isidro had thwarted his desire to die. He’d fought him every brief moment of the fall, and had cursed near won — but at the last Isidro had slipped past him and spun the shield to catch him. An instant slower, a moment later, and he would have failed. As it was, Rasten hadn’t been spared the consequences of his plummet into the dark. The bones of his leg were not the only ones broken, and the sharp, brittle rubble had ripped through his flesh like a tiger’s claws. By the time they carved a passage through the wreckage to reach him, Rasten was lost to the deep chill of the earth and the loss of blood, but he’d woken again wrapped in thick blankets with his wounds cleaned and his broken bones splinted.

After that he’d tried to refuse to let Rhia treat his wounds, but they’d been prepared for resistance. They’d bound him with suppression bands, and then when he’d still obstructed their efforts, they tied him hand and foot as well. He’d given up, at that point. One thing his life had taught him was to know when fighting was futile, and how to bide his time and save his strength. He’d let them tend to him, let them think he’d lost the desire to end his life. He’d let them think he was healing.

In the crumbling fort, he’d thought it was resorting to the Blood Path that had tripped him into this pit of despair, but in the weeks he’d lain ill he’d realised it had begun earlier than that. The first stone in the avalanche had come when he’d convinced the Akharians that he would cast his lot in with them.

They’d only believed it because he’d seemed so willing to burn his bridges, and so he’d done those things to Mira. It had been nothing to him, but the way she’d looked at him, the fear in her eyes … oh, she’d put on a brave face, but he could read her thoughts as clearly as if she’d spoken them aloud. She’d hoped the brutality he’d shown her in those few moments was truly just an act … because if not, there wasn’t a cursed thing she could do against him.

He’d felt lost and uncertain for so long now. The future was hidden in fog, and the past a nightmare from which he could barely believe he’d escaped. Those brief moments in which he’d stood over the queen, fists clenched while she cowered at his feet … in those moments he might as well have been back in Kell’s dungeons, standing over a helpless prisoner with a knife in his hand and power pulsing within him straining for release. Kell had played him like a puppet, had set snares and fish-hooks deep into his soul. For half his life, the bulk of his living memory, the only time he’d ever felt any measure of power and control was when Kell turned him loose on a sacrifice.

Ever since that night, he’d dreamed of blood. A tide of it, rising up to swallow him as he lay bound to the bed. How much blood had he shed in his life? How many people had he killed? More than enough to drown in.

He’d dreamed of other things, as well, of Sierra on the rack, of Isidro, his back charred from hot irons. It seemed he’d dreamed of all of them in these last weeks, all the poor souls who’d died at his hands, all those cries in the night.

Why is it I can remember them, but not my family?
Rasten asked himself.
I don’t even remember their names.
Surely that was a sign, if ever there was one. He was not meant to be here. He’d served his purpose.

You can’t heal a mad dog,
Rasten thought.
You can brush the mud from its fur and put a collar around its neck, but it will still turn on you when the demons howl in its head. There’s no reasoning with a beast like that. There’s just the axe, and the spear.

There was a comfort to thinking in such terms. No one blamed a mad dog for its affliction. They just put the beast down before it could cause any harm.

Rasten heaved himself up and slipped his hands under his broken leg to swing it off the bed.

They’d taken off the bindings once the fever had broken and he’d stopped raving, removing the ropes and the suppression bands both. That had surprised him.

On the floor beside the bed lay a pair of crutches. Rasten snatched one of them up, and hauled himself to his feet. Rhia had told him to use them both, but he hated that. He couldn’t bear to have both his hands occupied. He set the crutch under his arm and, clenching his teeth against the ache in his broken leg, staggered across to the window.

Outside, the sky was clear, a deep and empty blue. The breeze smelled of salt and surf, and somewhere he heard birds calling as they swooped on the breeze. It was a mild day for the north, where snow could fall even in the summer.

Steadying himself against the window frame, Rasten reached up to touch the carved bird, forever fossicking for insects. The detail was exquisite. He felt as though it should look up at any moment and fly away, startled by his presence.

He’d thought to smash the grille and clamber through the window, but now, he lacked the heart to destroy it. Who was he, to destroy another’s creation? Hadn’t he done enough damage? With a sigh, Rasten pressed his forehead to the stone.

He took another breath of the sea-smelling summer air, and thought of Sierra. Was she out there, taking in the warmth? Was she breathing easily now, or were her lungs still healing from the ordeal in the chambers below?

They’d tried to give him news of her, both Rhia and Isidro, but Rasten had refused to hear it.

She was his one concern about leaving, and the one reason he knew he had to go. What if she needed him again? Part of him felt that he owed it to her to stay, but that same part also knew that if it came down to the wire again, he’d go back to the Blood Path without a second thought, if that’s what she needed of him.

I’m sorry, Little Crow,
he thought.
I truly am. All that time I spent pushing you, hounding you, making you stronger and tougher … I never thought of what it would mean for you once this was all over.

She cared for him, he knew that. He just couldn’t understand why. He could see the changes he’d wrought in her, in this sweet, kind-hearted girl who’d grown ruthless and harsh in order to survive. He wanted to believe she’d be better off without him, but the phrase
what if
kept dancing around his mind. What if the Akharians rallied and returned? What if another assassin slipped into the castle? What if she needed him?

Rasten screwed his eyes shut.
I can’t,
he thought.
I just can’t. Bright Sun forgive me, I just want it to be over.

He started to turn away from the window when he caught a flash of the sun glittering on the sea. How long had it been since he’d seen a summer’s day like this? He tried to think back through the years, but all he remembered was the cold, grey stone of the dungeons.

The thought made him clench his teeth and ball his hands into fists. It would be easy enough to knot a sheet into a noose and hang himself from the stone lattice, but he didn’t want to die in here away from the sun. Perhaps it would be fitting — after all, so many had died by his hand in places far colder and darker than this — but he wanted to feel the sun on his back, one last time. It would be one last rejection of Kell, a final escape from the chill stone of his prison.

The door to his chamber was not locked. Rhia had made a point of telling him so when she had brought the crutches, though Rasten suspected they’d have people keeping watch on him.

A ripple of nerves made his hand shake as he opened the door. There
were
guards, it turned out, but not where Rasten was expecting. When he cautiously leant out through the doorway, he spied them some few dozen paces away, clustered around a heavily barred door, secured with a chain and lock. They were talking in low voices, but at the sight of Rasten they fell silent, and one started over. ‘Anything you need, sir?’

The honorific felt decidedly strange, but Rasten tried not to show it. Momentarily, he felt lost for words, and in the end he simply shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, and his voice came out so hoarse and rusty he had to clear his throat and try again. ‘No, I … I just wanted to stretch my legs.’

‘As you say, sir,’ the guard said, and with a bow of his head, he began to retreat.

It was a slow and painful progress to the nearest stairs, and then Rasten had to figure out how to negotiate them with a splinted leg. By the time he reached the ground level he was sweating from the effort and reeling with weariness, but he had to keep moving. Anyone who saw him in this state was likely to send for Mistress Rhia, or worse, Isidro.

He turned south, aiming for the entrance to the southern wing. The last time he’d come this way, he’d traced the path in reverse, heading from the site of Kell’s old chambers to the audience room. Back then these chambers were deserted, still full of wreckage. Now the halls were neat and clean, even if many of them stood empty.

Near the entrance, he hesitated again, pausing at the top of the stairs to look down at what had once been the gateway to Kell’s domain.

It looked just the same as it had the last time, the low archway filled in with featureless grey stone. Sierra had promised to open them again, but then, there had scarcely been time to think of such minor matters. He had faith that she would keep her word. He turned his back on it for the last time, and hobbled out into the glaring summer sun.

Outside, he understood at a glance why the palace interior had seemed deserted. Everyone was out here instead. Some of the administrators had brought their paperwork with them. Elsewhere, women and girls clustered in little groups as they spun yarn or wove with backstrap looms. Children played in between, shrieking and tumbling over the grass. Beyond them, to the north, an older lad was chasing a pair of black and white puppies, the pups staying effortlessly beyond his reach.

Where to now? He didn’t want to make a scene. He’d had enough violence and noise for one lifetime. He wanted somewhere quiet, somewhere peaceful.

He lifted his gaze to the top of the wall. That would do. The palace had been built on a rocky outcrop at the edge of the sea, and there was nothing below but water and rocks. With luck, they wouldn’t even have the trouble of dealing with his remains. Perhaps the eels would take him, as they’d taken so many others.

A watchtower in the wall nearby led to the walkway. Rasten started towards it, his hand damp with sweat on the grip of the crutch.
Not far now,
he told himself.

His path led him past another work station, this one oddly deserted. Some pieces of wood had been set out, cut into rough shapes, but the workers were absent, their tools abandoned. Only one remained, a young woman bent over a trestle table, drawing on a waxed tablet. It was far larger than the usual note-tablets folk used, at least four handspans across and three high.

The woman had her head low over her work. It was only when Rasten’s shadow fell across the table that she glanced up, frowning.

‘Sorry,’ he said, belatedly realising that he’d interrupted her, and he tried to move aside. Between the crutch and his broken leg he felt as ungainly as a salmon cast onto a riverbank.

She recognised him at the same moment as he recognised her. So much had happened on the night of the attack, he’d only been in her presence for a matter of minutes, and hadn’t said so much as a word to her. He knew of her only in the most general terms, but from the look on her face, she knew exactly who he was.

Rasten dropped his gaze to the waxed tablet, and felt a sudden rush of desire. ‘Where did you get that?’

‘Had it made especial in the palace workshops,’ the woman said.

As she straightened, his eye fell on the tablet and the drawing … a pair of birds with wings outspread, swooping together across the smooth wax.

Rasten stared at it. Those birds looked familiar. The lines of them, the way the feathers were drawn with light, delicate lines.

He raised his gaze to her face again. ‘You made the screen.’

‘For the window?’ she said, and nodded.

‘Why?’ he demanded.

She looked surprised. ‘Isidro asked me to —’

‘No. Why did you make it beautiful? It’s a cursed prison. Why put something like that in such a place?’