Rebel's Cage (Book 4) (46 page)

‘Why not?’ Finnlay held his breath.

‘The Key told me how the Prophecy ends, Finn. It’s Robert’s ultimate destiny to destroy what he most loves.’

Finnlay sank to his knees to the ground and let out a long, low whistle, shock radiating through every muscle in his body. It all made sense now, didn’t it? Everything Robert had done, his fierce determination to keep Jenn safe, to keep her out of the Prophecy as much as possible. Why he could never allow himself simply to love her, as any other man would.

And now that he … Did he no longer love Jenn? Is that what she believed? And that if he didn’t – and if he did learn about Andrew, and learned to love him, then it would be Andrew who …

‘I’m sorry,’ were the first words that slipped from him, to his surprise. A smile tilted the corner of Jenn’s mouth, but it did not reach her steady gaze.

‘The irony of it is, Robert will still end up loving Andrew, if he gives himself the chance.’

‘Yes,’ Finnlay agreed, ‘not even Kenrick has the heart to hate your boy. Robert hasn’t got a hope. Is that why …’

‘I don’t know what I was expecting. All this apparent evidence that Andrew is connected with the Prophecy – and yet, there’s no direct mention of him, and the Key has never once acknowledged his existence. But there’s just no way around his ancestry and the fact that he’s the last living male of the old royal line. It shouldn’t matter, but I know it does, especially to a people who have suffered as much as these. But Andrew …’ She paused. ‘I’m not sure he has it in him to be King. He’s not hard enough, inside. Not …’

‘Ruthless?’

‘No. He is … his father’s son.’

Finnlay got to his feet and held out a hand to her. She took it and stood, tipping the remains of her brew onto the ground. ‘And?’

She almost laughed then, would have, if there hadn’t been so much sadness in her. ‘Robert will see what Andrew is – and what he isn’t – and he’ll set about changing Andrew to suit his needs.’

‘To suit
Lusara’s
needs,’ Finnlay felt obliged to point out.

‘Come on, Finn,’ she admonished, ‘you know as well as I do those two things have always been the same.’

He could only agree. ‘Well, we can’t sit about here waiting for them to come back. I suggest we head to Elita, find some shelter inside.’

Jenn was moving back to the horses by then, kicking dirt over the fire to put it out. ‘And what if we’re seen?’

‘From what I hear, the locals stay clear of the ruins. They fear ghosts.’

‘As they should. As we all should.’ She took her reins and swung up into the saddle. She tilted her head a little, then pointed towards the stream. ‘Micah’s down there, somewhere. You’d better go fetch him. I’ll see you at the keep.’

‘Does he still breathe?’

The doctor leaned over Brome, listening to his heart with an instrument of some kind. Godfrey looked at Francis standing beside him and tried to steel himself against the answer if it should be no.

‘He still lives,’ the doctor pronounced, straightening up. He turned to his apprentice who held a tray of strange concoctions, bottles and other potions, which had been given to Brome in one form or another over the years, and none of which had helped the Bishop at all.

Godfrey took a step back from the bed, his spine twitching at what he had thought would befall him this day. But then, it would still happen, wouldn’t it? Brome, though mostly incapacitated over the winter,
had
made sure instructions were left, with his signature on them, clear notification that Godfrey and no other was to succeed him to the Primacy.

The doctor grimaced in displeasure and Godfrey’s stomach did an uncomfortable lurch, as it had done every few minutes since Brome had sunk into his current state. The Bishop was now almost beyond speech, movement, and Godfrey doubted Brome could even hear.

And soon Brome would stop breathing, and then it would be all over. For both of them.

Something of his thoughts must have told on his face; Francis firmly took his elbow and steered him to a far corner of the sumptuous room, away from the other priests, the doctors, the servants hovering with fresh sheets, bowls of steaming water, rose petals and rose water to alleviate the stench of the doctor’s prescriptions and the sickness, to rid the thick carpets of it, the heavy drapes and tapestries which covered every inch of stone, and even some of the carved oak panelling that graced the wall behind the massive bed.

‘Please, Francis,’ Godfrey couldn’t take his eyes off the room, ‘if you are around to see it, when I’m like this, please do not let me use people like this, use my position to …’

Francis kept hold of his arm. ‘This is not
Brome,
Brother – this is because he is Bishop. This is entitled to him because of the importance of his position, no more. You will be entitled to no less.’

‘There has to be something we can do, Francis, something we haven’t tried, some doctor from another country, another region that might know something. Perhaps if we—’

‘No.’ With a firm grip, Francis whispered harder and louder, to stop Godfrey. ‘Brother, calm yourself, I beg you.’

The plea silenced Godfrey. He took a long breath and let go all the tension building in his stomach. Francis watched him carefully, then gave him a little room.

‘Forgive me,’ Godfrey murmured, deliberately turning his eyes back to the room, watching the doctor move about, continuing his work, consulting with his bearded colleagues.

Putting it off would not change it. Brome had seen to it that Godfrey would become Bishop in his place and it didn’t matter that he didn’t want the mitre, didn’t feel worthy of it – or that, in his mind, Lusara
already
had a Bishop, even if living in exile
– none of that mattered. Brome would not last the next month, the doctors said. Probably less.

‘I have taken the precaution,’ Francis murmured, ‘of sending letters to our most outflung Archdeacons and Abbots, to give them sufficient time to arrive for both Brome’s funeral and your—’

Godfrey held up his hand. ‘Don’t say it, please. I’m not doing anything until Brome’s instructions are ratified by the Synod.’

‘Of course,’ Francis said. ‘But I’m curious to know how the King will take your new position. Will he even care? Should he?’

Godfrey met Francis’s gaze and the open question sitting there, so far unanswered. Godfrey gave a grunt of ironic laughter, but didn’t take his eyes away. ‘Kenrick will form his opinions regardless of what I do or do not do as Bishop. He will have other sources than my actions to base such opinions on.’

‘As you say,’ Francis agreed.

Godfrey knew what the real question was – and knew that Francis had been sent by others to ask it. The problem was, Godfrey didn’t have an answer. He simply didn’t have it in him to stand there and promise he would be the King’s man, as Brome had, nor could he say equally that he had rebel’s blood flowing through him and that at the first opportunity, he would open the city gates and let them in. He couldn’t – he knew too much about the Malachi and Nash to be so foolish.

So where did that leave his answer to Francis? What did he and the others need – or want – to hear?

Godfrey closed his eyes, lacing his fingers together as if in prayer, and thought back to the last time he’d seen Aiden McCauly, the exiled Bishop who still commanded his loyalty. ‘I can only pray,’ Godfrey replied eventually, allowing words that might have belonged to McCauly to emerge from him, ‘that the King will forgive whatever shortcomings I may have, in the sure knowledge that I will always act according to Church Law and within the bounds of my faith and my conscience.’

Francis’s gaze flickered over him, perhaps looking for something
else, what, Godfrey could only guess. Then, with no noticeable change in demeanour, the Archdeacon turned back to the rest of the room and said, ‘I think I shall order some lunch brought up to the anteroom. The doctors will want refreshment when they’re finished, and you can’t afford to let your strength wane. I’ll be back in a moment.’

With practised hands, Francis pulled the cowl up over his head, moved to the door and slipped out, where, Godfrey was certain, the air would be clearer, the room cooler, and there would be men who would listen very carefully to what he had to report.

The one question remaining in Godfrey’s mind was: had he just signed his own death warrant?

*

A blast of noise and heat greeted DeMassey as he pushed open the tavern door and stepped inside. Oil lamps hung from the low ceiling, but these gave out poor light in comparison to the firepit sitting in the middle of the room. A pig was roasting over it, turned on the spit by a small boy perched on the edge of a stool. The child turned his handle absently, his eyes fixed on the men and women around him, and probably – like DeMassey – half deafened by the noise they were making.

This place, the Two Feathers, was as far from the castle as it could be and still remain within the walls of the city. It had become, for reasons DeMassey had never fully understood, a kind of sanctuary for Malachi working within the capital, a place where they were not looked down upon by those in the court whose titles, wealth and position allowed them to be superior and act accordingly, no matter how new their nobility. And of course, the locals didn’t know that the men and women they drank with were, in fact, sorcerers. That small fact alone was enough to draw his people here.

But it was also that fact that made him wary of the place. If his D’Azzir, along with other Malachi, were comfortable in this environment, what guards would they let down, what small comments would slip through?

Though the laws against sorcery had been lifted …

His face twisted, as if to smile, but he suppressed it.

Some noticed his arrival, but DeMassey paid no heed. He worked his way across the room, stepping between crowded tables, allowing the noise, the smoke and the smells to drift over him until he reached a booth at the back where Gilbert sat alone, waiting for him.

‘I was getting worried,’ Gilbert said by way of greeting. ‘I did say sundown.’

‘I had things to attend to.’ Important things that could no longer wait: arrangements to make that would soon see him clear of this place, for he could not send Valena out without his protection and he could not trust anyone else to look after her, not even Gilbert. ‘Is this really a suitable place for us to talk?’

‘As suitable as any other. If Nash wants to spy on us, there’s really no way we can stop him.’ Gilbert raised his hands and smiled, showing crooked teeth. ‘We don’t have much time. He was looking for us earlier.’

‘Then what did you want to talk about?’

Gilbert stared at him a moment, as though he’d expected more – but what more could DeMassey give? He’d already betrayed everything he believed in, including his own people.

‘Aamin’s thinking of making a trip to Marsay, now that Nash is back.’ Gilbert sat back in his seat, fingering the jug of ale in front of him and surveying the room almost with affection. ‘He sees Nash’s sudden reappearance as a sign.’

‘Of what?’

Gilbert’s voice dropped meaningfully. ‘
We
have no idea how he managed to regenerate, Luc. He vowed he wouldn’t—’

‘Wouldn’t use Malachi?’ DeMassey let out a bitter laugh. ‘He made that promise, but you know as well as I do, Nash can be trusted only as far as you can throw him. I have no doubts at all that he used our people to heal his wounds. I’d kill him for it if I could. But we can’t
prove
it was our people – and he knows it. That’s why he’s been so bold as to come back and show us what he’s done.’

‘Luc, if you hate him so much, why do you—’

‘Why do any of us work for him?’ DeMassey needed to get out of there. ‘We were all fooled into believing he could wrest
the Key from the Salti and give it to us. That ancient promise, and we all fell for it.’

‘Are you saying he can’t get the Key?’

The bitterness filled DeMassey’s throat then, almost choking him. ‘I think he can. I think he
will
. It’s what happens after that which bothers me. Nash has always been far too secretive about his real purposes – and I’m sure you’ve heard the whispers about a prophecy?’

‘I have.’ Gilbert leaned forward, lacing long fingers together on the table. ‘But I think you despair too quickly. I also think you underestimate both the power and the will of our people. Once Nash has the Key, it will be a relatively easy thing to take it from him. We have the weight of numbers on our side.’

‘True – but he has the weight of evil on his.’

Gilbert’s mouth dropped open. ‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning, there is
nothing
he will not do to win.’ Even as he said the words, DeMassey’s stomach lurched at what he himself was trying to do. It had always been a contest between him and Nash, except that now, the stakes were much higher, the risks infinitely greater.

‘Come on,’ Gilbert rose sinuously to his feet. ‘We have to go. You know what he’s like if we’re late.’

*

Nash finished off his wine and put the cup back on the table so that Taymar could hold up the jacket for him to put on. He slipped his arms into the rich fabric, allowing his fingers to smooth over it; it was such a reawakened pleasure to wear fine clothing again. He hadn’t bothered for years, with a body that was twisted and scarred. Now that – on the surface at least – he was whole, the experience was entirely satisfying and one he intended to continue.

Taymar began clearing up his supper things and Nash moved over to the tower window. His rooms in the castle had been left untouched and had required only cleaning and airing before he could move back in. It was almost as if the last eight years had never been – except that, inside, he could feel the seconds slipping away from him; there was still so much to do.

He was whole, but he was not regenerated fully. Powers he would once barely have thought about he now struggled to use, or they failed him completely. Seeking in particular, a skill he had excelled at, often left him numb and blind, unable to see beyond the room he was in.

Frustration boiled inside him. Kenrick had come back to him, once more eager to be of service, anxious to achieve all they had planned together, but there were other things Nash still needed to achieve, and one of those was his immediate and total regeneration.