Rebel's Cage (Book 4) (4 page)

A creaking from the other chair warned him – but even so, he couldn’t ignore the man as he stood up. The firelight did nothing to soften the hideous mess that face had become. One eye was permanently closed up, twisted and foiled into a chaos which blended horribly with his cheek, marring one side of his mouth into a permanent sneer. Wrinkled and bitter flesh flaked down his throat to thankfully disappear beneath dark cloth. The right arm still hung in useless abandon while the left gripped a walking stick with gnarled fingers.

So hideously maimed, so badly healed. Hard to believe that inside that rotting shell remained enough power to incinerate this castle, and Kenrick with it.

And all of it was damage done by the Enemy, by Robert Douglas.

Nash gave him something close to a smile, a hideous parody on that face. ‘You’re not contemplating something foolish, are you, my King?’

Kenrick stiffened. Why was it that no matter how hard he tried, his mind still leaked thoughts that this rotting sorcerer could pick up, like dead leaves in an autumn forest? Or was it that Nash knew him better than he would wish?

Nash leaned on his stick and hobbled his way to the other end of the table, where Taymar poured out wine into jewelled
goblets. ‘I’m sure you could indeed abduct the girl, marry and bed her before Tirone could find you – but would that really get you what you want? Mmn?’

The tone was half teasing, half contemptuous, making Kenrick grit his teeth. ‘While we dance around Ogiers, Tirone could have his daughter betrothed and married off to someone else. His demands of me are exorbitant – but even if I could meet them, he’d find other excuses and you know it. Hell, if we had those kinds of riches, would we worry with taking Mayenne? And you didn’t see his reaction to my scars! Why, why can’t we do something about them
now?’

‘You know why.’

Kenrick threw up his hands and sat back. ‘You didn’t see Ogiers flinch when he first arrived. I could tell what he was looking at – and so could my entire court! You have no concept of the humiliation I have suffered – and more so with his stories about the perfect Prince and Princess! I’m the King. I insist you take this seriously.’

A single, baleful glare turned on him then, iciness leaking out of that dark gaze as though there had never been any warmth in the world, ever. Steeling himself, Kenrick refused to move, no matter how much his feet demanded it of him.

With something that was either a sigh or a hiss, Nash hobbled towards him, pausing close enough for the smell of rotting flesh to fill Kenrick’s world, make his skin crawl with the effort to escape.

‘This is little more than vanity,’ Nash spoke, his voice soft and hard, edged with granite. ‘And you have only yourself to blame. I have long warned you against experimenting with the forbidden side of your abilities until I was strong enough to guide and train you. You failed to listen to me and your body now pays the price. This is your mistake, yet you demand I fix it for you?’

‘You said you would,’ Kenrick almost winced at the whining tone of his own voice. What was it about Nash that brought this side out in him? ‘You said it would not be a problem …’

Nash blinked at him. ‘I have told you more times than I can
recall – neither I, nor any sorcerer alive, can heal a wound or mend a scar. To do so is to travel across a line not even I dare cross. I need blood to do as you ask. And powerful blood at that.’

‘Then … then give me the means to regenerate, as you do. You promised you would when we became allies. We need Mayenne – and Tirone won’t give me his daughter while I look like this!’

Nash grunted. ‘You presume too much upon my patience, boy! You would have me give you some precious sorcerer, show you how to use his blood to remove a single scar from your face when I –
I
– require so much more before I can be whole again! The few sources I have been able to find over the last years have only closed up my wounds. And you want a few scars removed?’

Unable to move under that blistering gaze, Kenrick whispered, ‘So what do we do?’

One side of Nash’s face twitched, but the voice dropped low. ‘I suppose we do want the same thing in the end,’ he mused, frowning a little. He turned away then, but didn’t go far. ‘We cannot take Malachi or they will turn against us, but it’s too soon for …’

Though there were secrets there Kenrick burned to know, he just sat and waited. The opportunity would come one day for him to learn more.

Nash shook his head. ‘We have exhausted every possible avenue and yet they’re still out there somewhere. We need to … find them. Now more than ever – but without bringing a battle down on us that we are not yet in a position to win.’

A burn of fear flashed in Kenrick’s stomach; he almost flinched at what Nash was suggesting. He gathered himself, venturing the next necessary question, just to be sure. ‘You’re talking about the Salti Pazar, aren’t you? But you’ve been looking for them for decades. We need sorcerers
now.
We can’t wait for you to—’

‘No,’ Nash stiffened as though in surprise, sniffed in a breath and returned to his chair, sinking down with a short sigh.
When he spoke again, there was something calculating in his tone, as if of thoughts only just considered. ‘You’re right. We don’t have any more time to find them. They’re protected in some fashion by …’

‘What?’

‘That doesn’t matter.’ Nash fell silent then, but Kenrick didn’t dare say anything. ‘Perhaps we should … perhaps there is a way to draw them out in the open, where we can get at them.’

Kenrick frowned. ‘The last time you tried that, we had a battle and Robert Douglas killed my father!’

‘No, that’s not what I mean.’ Nash reached up and took the fresh cup of wine Taymar handed him, sipped and nodded to himself. ‘Yes, I think that is definitely our very next step. Come here.’

Slowly Kenrick moved forward until his back faced the fireplace. Nash flicked his hand. As though from nowhere, a small black ball appeared and hovered in the air between them. Looking more closely, Kenrick saw the rough pockmarks over the surface, saw the dull ochre colour, despite the poor lighting. It was big enough to fit neatly into the palm of his hand. He knew what this was and his excitement, for a moment, almost overwhelmed him.

He dared not touch it.

‘You know what this is,’ Nash said, his tone almost bored. ‘Use it only when you must. Let the blood flow freely into a calyx the first time you use it—’

‘What’s a calyx?’

‘It’s a … shallow bowl. Sit the orb in the bowl. Once the blood has gone, allow yourself a full day to absorb the power you have been given.’

‘How?’ Kenrick’s whisper sounded loud, his gaze never leaving the orb as it hung in the air before his eyes. For so many years he’d wanted to know how to do this, how to prolong his life, to heal his wounds just as Nash had been doing for a century and a half – and now it was there, in front of him. His fingers itched to reach out and take it.

‘Sleep with it between your hands, palms flat against the
surface. You will be tired afterwards, but … your scar will be gone.’

‘But … it’s so small.’

‘Big enough for what you want. You’re still young, you have no further need as yet. Later, I will show you more. Go on, take it.’

For a second, Kenrick’s gaze flickered to Nash. Then he reached up and plucked the orb out of the air. It felt instantly warm and welcoming.

‘Don’t use it unless you’re injured,’ Nash added, settling back into his chair. ‘And don’t go killing Malachi to use their blood or they will turn against us and we will have an enemy we can’t afford.’

‘Then where do I find sorcerer blood to …’

That twisted half-smile returned as Nash looked up at him. ‘Why, Salti of course. And, my King, you can do this part all on your own. In fact, I’m sure you will enjoy it.’

*

The heat of the early autumn night kept Osbert uncomfortable long into the banquet. He could not, of course, loosen any of his formal robes, but instead had to sit at the high table, by Kenrick’s left hand, and continue to pretend that all was well, that this was a happy occasion and not one that might precipitate a war.

More than once he caught Godfrey’s eye; he envied the Archdeacon his position beside Ogiers where he could at least be guaranteed some interesting conversation. Right now, however, the Mayenne Ambassador was engaged in dancing with a Duchess Osbert knew only by sight.

Long bench tables had been set up under the stars, a space left between them for tumblers and musicians and now, for revellers to join the formal dances. Ogiers moved in a gentle and stately manner, befitting his age, but the calm expression on his face betrayed to the Proctor his relief at no longer having to sit near the King.

There had been no bargain struck between them. Tirone of Mayenne had too many demands, was prepared to negotiate on too few of them. Kenrick, still needing to prove himself, had
remained stubborn and the only thing the two men had agreed upon was to meet again in three months and review their respective positions.

Osbert knew Kenrick to be far too impatient to keep to such an agreement. He was more likely to find an alternative solution than to be content to let his ambition rest in the hands of others.

And yet, since his return that evening, Kenrick had been more quiet and thoughtful than anything else. His good humour had returned, making the celebrations a little easier to endure, and even now he sipped his wine rather than guzzled it, smiled a little at the dancers, tapped his fingers in time to the fiddle and drum and generally appeared to be enjoying himself.

So why did the sight of that send a fresh
frisson
of fear through Osbert? Was it because he’d seen the Baron DeMassey and his companion, Gilbert Dusan, enjoying the festivities? Was it due to the fact that those two men were so closely in league with Nash – or was it that Osbert had no doubts at all that Kenrick’s disappearance today must have been in order for him to visit …

Osbert could not find words to describe the man who had turned Lusara into a quagmire of misery, although he had helped Nash to get where he was, unwitting of the danger, unmindful of the consequences.

And Kenrick served Nash as his father had before him.

‘My Lord Proctor?’

Kenrick’s quiet query broke into Osbert’s thoughts and he turned with a carefully schooled expression. ‘Yes, Sire?’

‘What say you of Tirone’s stubbornness? Do you think he will ever relinquish his daughter?’

This was the kind of question Osbert had to face on a daily basis, balancing what he believed was true with what he believed Kenrick wanted to hear – with little room for the harsh reality. If he voiced his honest opinion, the King would be pushed either to anger or to war. If he prevaricated too much, Kenrick would no longer ask him for his opinion, and any influence he might have, however small, would be eroded.

A real King, however, would listen without judgement, never condemning a man for his thoughts.

‘I believe,’ Osbert replied, holding up his cup to be filled by the boy waiting behind the high table, ‘that given sufficient guarantees, Tirone will eventually agree to you marrying the Princess.’

‘I know that,’ Kenrick replied, his gaze not hard but almost quizzical, as though he held a secret, ‘but how many of his guarantees can be dispensed with before he gives me the girl? I have already sent him a dozen shipments of grain to make up for the failure of his harvest – without, I might add, extracting an exorbitant price. I could have sold them to Budlandi for twice what he gave me.’

While still leaving his own people to starve their way through winter, Osbert added silently. He waited while the page filled the King’s cup before replying, ‘It is possible that in six months’ time, his demands will change for the better. Or they might change for the worse.’

‘So I should settle now?’ Kenrick smiled and sat back a little, as though enjoying making Osbert squirm like this.

Osbert watched him for a moment, gauging mood and politics as though they were dancers on the floor below. Survival required sacrifices. ‘Who is to say, within a year of your marriage, that Tirone will no longer be so adamant about your adherence to those guarantees?’

Kenrick’s smile widened. ‘So you’re suggesting that I make promises now and break them later?’

‘Rather,’ Osbert’s guts twisted at what he was saying, ‘that you agree to them now and revise your position later. Conditions change, after all. If Lusara’s harvest were to fail, would Tirone be equally helpful to us?’

‘That’s a very good point. And I could certainly use her dowry, that’s without doubt.’ Kenrick nodded, turning his gaze back to the dance floor. His brows drew together for a moment before he said, ‘How many Guilde laws are there to govern the crime of sorcery? To punish it?’

Osbert blinked at the sudden change of subject. ‘Fifty-six, Sire.’

Again, Kenrick nodded – and suddenly afraid, Osbert shot a glance at Godfrey, who was paying close attention to the entire conversation. Nobody else was close enough to hear over the noise and music.

‘Only fifty-six? How many for murder?’

‘Sixteen.’

Half of Kenrick’s face lifted in an ironic smile. Then he said, ‘How long would it take you to issue fifty-six law changes?’

His heart abruptly pounding, Osbert whispered, ‘Sire? I don’t understand … What do you …’

Kenrick sat back in his seat and turned a flat expression on him. ‘I want you to reverse the laws against sorcery. I no longer want it to be illegal, nor punishable by death. Is that clear enough for you?’

Osbert could hardly breathe. What Kenrick was asking for was … impossible! Those laws had stood for more than five hundred years, created in the aftermath of the old Empire’s battle. Osbert didn’t have the power to reverse them! They could only be felled by majority consent within the Guilde – and such a debate would rage for years before any kind of agreement …

‘Well?’ Kenrick appeared to be waiting patiently for the desired response, leaving Osbert hanging over the edge of a cliff.

‘Sire,’ he began, urging the desperation from his voice, ‘I would not wish to question your wisdom—’