Rift (45 page)

As he left his cell, Alistair briefly considered seeking out Eira. Perhaps she had need of his help maintaining order. But he readily dismissed that thought. Should she desire, Lady Eira would have no qualms about summoning him. Having given this brief attention to duty, Alistair succumbed to the siren song that called him through the dim corridor.

Passing the few doors that separated his cell from Ember’s, Alistair paused in front of her door. What took place within this chamber once he entered would determine the nature of his relationship with Ember. Alistair knew this truth. He leaned against the door, letting the image of her half-clothed figure slide into his mind’s eye, coaxing him to action.

Ember must have known he was the one at the door earlier that night. Only a trusted friend would intrude upon her at such a late hour. She hadn’t dropped her gown in surprise. The chemise had been falling, released with purpose by Ember’s own hand. She’d been waiting.

Alistair refused to believe Ember had anticipated the arrival of another. How could she?

Despite the sick twist of his gut the thought provoked, Alistair couldn’t stop the needling doubt following his question. Barrow had come upon them. The knight had disrupted what Ember’s skin promised Alistair.

Could Ember have been waiting for Barrow?

Alistair’s roiling stomach tangled itself into a hard knot. No. It wasn’t possible. Barrow had abandoned Ember. He’d cast her off, forsaking his role as her mentor. And hadn’t Alistair restored his own friendship with her in the wake of Barrow’s rejection? Hadn’t he and Ember grown ever closer, slowly returning to the intimacy and trust they’d shared as children?

That history, the knowledge that he knew Ember better than anyone else, assured Alistair of what he’d always believed. Ember was bound to him, and despite her characteristic stubbornness, she loved him. They would marry, and she would be his. Alistair could imagine no other role for Ember in his life, and his loyalty to Lady Eira had secured his future with Ember. Eira had promised to bring changes to Conatus, which Alistair would soon take advantage of. No longer heralding ties to those monk warriors, the Knights Templar, the Conatus Guards’ vows would be of fealty to Lady Eira and Lord Bosque Mar and nothing more. The new order offered Alistair all he desired.

Fortified by this thought, he rapped lightly on the door. And waited. He knocked again, daring to use a bit more force. With Sorcha’s sudden death, most of the Guard would be away from their cells, holding a vigil in the hall below. Waking someone was of small risk, and since Ember had kept away from the gathering of knights when he’d sought her out earlier that evening, Alistair wagered that she’d remained secluded in her bedchamber.

Even after more insistent knocks, Alistair couldn’t hear Ember stirring within. Perhaps her sorrow over Sorcha had driven her into deep sleep. Or still grieving, Ember might be weeping in her cell, too ashamed to share raw emotion with another. Alistair thought Ember all too concerned about showing a brave face to the world. She was strong enough. Maybe a bit too strong. Ember could be a knight of Conatus if it suited her. But she was still a woman.

Convinced that Ember was most likely hiding her feelings, as she was wont to do, Alistair slowly opened the door. As her dearest friend, it was his place to comfort her. He thought of pulling her into his arms, of stroking her auburn tresses to soothe her. His body tightened when his mind pushed its musings further, making him imagine his hands pushing the loose neckline of Ember’s chemise over her shoulders. Watching it fall as it had a few hours before. This time Alistair would catch her hands in his own if she feigned modesty. He would clasp her fingers tightly and look upon her body as he longed to.

In the darkness of Ember’s cell, Alistair clenched his jaw so he wouldn’t groan. The idea of offering solace to Ember as she mourned had been muscled out by desire that felt as old as his bones. He moved forward, slowly through the black.

“Ember,” Alistair whispered.

She gave no answer.

He started toward her pallet, hands outstretched. As he reached to rouse her from sleep, clouds peeled back, uncovering the moon. Translucent beams stretched through the narrow window, giving light to the cell.

Alistair stared at the pallet. The wool blanket lay in a crumpled heap at its center. The bed was empty. He was reaching toward nothing.

The shock of embarrassment was trampled by sudden rage. Where could Ember be?

At the vigil? Her presence there would make sense. After all, Sorcha had taken up the role of Ember’s mentor after Barrow had forsaken it. But if Ember intended to spend the night hours honoring her dead friend, why had she been readying for sleep when Alistair last saw her?

Ember wasn’t one for complacency. If she hadn’t been able to sleep, she might have left her cell. But Alistair doubted she’d joined the knights’ vigil. Ember would be more inclined to contend with her sorrow directly. She could be out walking the grounds. Or riding that horse she loved.

Twin spikes of fear and agitation lodged in Alistair’s chest. Foolish girl. Lady Eira hadn’t yet been able to bring Ember into her fold. That made the young warrior vulnerable. It would take time for Eira to quell the panic in the village, to reassure them that Conatus had been cleansed of its wicked elements and a new reign of justice was about to begin.

A sudden, unwelcome vision crowded out Alistair’s fantasies. An unwanted sound filled his ears. Ember’s screams. Her pale skin blistering and blackening, splitting open like old, dry leather. Her hair engulfed in real flames. Villagers dancing as they reveled in bloodlust, having captured and punished another witch. For what woman but a witch would ride out alone in the blackest of night?

Alistair was running before he reached the courtyard. Once outside, he sprinted to the stable, praying he wouldn’t find what he suspected. Rushing along the stalls, Alistair pulled up at Caber’s holding pen. Seeing that the stall was empty, Alistair bent over, spewing curses and trying to determine his next move. How could she be so reckless?

But Alistair knew Ember’s wild nature would compel her to gallop off without thoughts of safety. He craved nothing more than to tether and tame her.

Frustrated, Alistair resigned himself to saddle his own horse and go out in pursuit. He couldn’t risk Ember falling afoul of witch-hunters.

Before he’d reached the tack room, Alistair abruptly halted, going silent and perfectly still. A flicker of movement had slipped into his peripheral vision. Alistair drew his sword, turning to face the shape that cowered in shadows.

“Show yourself,” Alistair said.

“Begging your mercy, my lord,” a quaking voice answered.

“Fitch?” Alistair peered at the hunched figure. “Is that you?”

“It is, Lord Hart!” Fitch gave a cry of relief.

Alistair kept his sword at the ready. “Why are you skulking in the stables?”

Fitch crept forward, grunting with the effort. In the dark, his body appeared wide and misshapen. When he walked, his feet scraped across the dirt—or so Alistair thought. A moment later, Fitch was close enough for Alistair to see why Fitch had been hiding.

He was dragging a body.

With a hiss of breath, Alistair jumped back. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Please, Lord Hart.” Fitch let the body go and dropped to his knees.

Alistair grunted in disgust to see a knight of Conatus groveling. He jerked away when Fitch reached as though to grasp Alistair’s tabard.

“What I’ve done was to serve Conatus. I swear!” Fitch shook his bloodied fists at Alistair. “They’ve gone mad. They’ll destroy us!”

Making sure his blade was between the cowering knight and himself, Alistair took a closer look at the unmoving man beside Fitch.

“Mercer.” Alistair breathed the knight’s name. Mercer’s face was bloodied, his flesh swelling as it took on violet and gray hues. It was well known that Mercer and Fitch had long been friends. What could have provoked Fitch to attack a fellow knight?

As if sensing Alistair’s scrutiny, Mercer groaned. Fitch lifted a hand to strike.

“No!” Alistair’s command stopped Fitch’s blow. They both watched Mercer, but the knight remained unconscious.

“You did this?” Alistair forced the tremor out of his voice.

“I had to.” Beads of sweat stood out on Fitch’s brow. “He’s a traitor, Alistair. They’re all traitors.”

Alistair didn’t know whether to take Fitch’s use of his familiar name as a good sign or not. But the word
traitor
made his knuckles whiten as he gripped his sword hilt tighter.

“Speak quickly, Fitch,” Alistair said. “Or I shall deal with you only as a cur who dishonors his companions with unprovoked violence.”

“Take me to Lady Eira,” Fitch pleaded. “She favors you. She’ll grant me an audience if you ask. When Mercer wakes, he can be questioned and my words will prove true.”

Alistair grimaced. “I’ll take your confession and pass it on to Lady Eira. I’d sooner see you wait in the barracks for her judgment.”

“No.” Fitch fell over in the dirt when Alistair took a menacing step toward him. Fitch lolled on the ground like a beaten dog showing its belly. “Begging your pardon, Lord Hart, but I fear that I might be implicated in this treachery. I only wish to tell Lady Eira myself so she can see my contrition and restore me to my station. I risked my life to overpower Mercer so I would have proof of this conspiracy against Conatus. Please consider that.”

Alistair found it difficult to feel anything but contempt for this man. Yet his bloodied hands and Mercer’s limp form promised an intriguing tale. And if this treachery he spoke of was true . . .

“Very well,” Alistair told him. “Lady Eira will hear your words. Now get up and stop shaming yourself with this pitiful display. I need your help to carry Mercer.”

Fitch scrambled to his feet, casting a fearful glance at Mercer as though the unconscious man might revive and grab him.

Alistair grabbed Fitch and gave him a rough shake. “Act like the Guard you’re supposed to be, Fitch. Take his feet and lead the way. I’ll carry him at the shoulders.”

Fitch turned away from Alistair and kicked Mercer’s legs apart. Tucking a calf on either side of his waist, Fitch lifted the unconscious man’s lower half while Alistair took care of his torso.

“That’s good,” Alistair told Fitch. “Head into the courtyard. And be quick about it.”

A man twitching and quavering the way Fitch did wasn’t someone Alistair wanted at his back. The two knights, one tall and wary, the other bent over as if on the verge of being sick, made their way across the courtyard.

“She’s likely in the great hall,” Alistair said, directing Fitch to the manor. “And if the Circle is with her, all the better. If traitors are in our midst, it’s a matter to be addressed without delay.”

Fitch muttered something unintelligible in response, but Alistair didn’t bother asking him to repeat himself. He was already questioning his decision to bring Fitch to Eira. What if the man had taken ill and the madness of fever had turned him on his friends?

Still proving his worth to Eira, Alistair detested the thought of raising alarm without reason. It was the cool touch of fear, light on his skin, that kept Alistair moving at a swift pace toward the great hall. No matter how unstable Fitch might appear, something real lay beneath his words. Something real and very wrong.

The corridors of the manor were still. The Guard would be occupied with their vigil, and the staff must have sought their beds for the night. All for the best, Alistair thought. Too many questions were bound to chase after a pair of knights carrying the broken body of one of their fellows. With Sorcha’s death raising alarm only a few hours earlier, further bad news could incite panic throughout the keep.

When they reached the thick double doors, Alistair pivoted to the side, bracing Mercer against him while he freed his other arm and pulled the door open. He took care to leave space only wide enough to carry the body inside.

“This is a private session!” Claudio’s shout stopped Alistair in the doorway, leaving Fitch and the other half of Mercer still in the hall.

Despite his many years as one of two Circle members hailing from craft, Claudio still bore the strength of years working with his hands. He strode toward Alistair.

“Peace, Claudio,” Lady Eira called to him. “Lord Hart is welcome here.”

Claudio hesitated, but didn’t counter Eira’s words, and Alistair quickly pulled the rest of Mercer, and Fitch along with him, into the room.

“What’s this?” Claudio gaped at Mercer.

Alistair glanced back at Fitch. “Let’s put him down. And then shut that door.”

They laid Mercer on the floor while the other occupants of the hall gathered around. Fionn, per his office as a cleric, carried a scroll in his hand. He gazed calmly at Mercer as though the unconscious man were a puzzle to be solved.

Lady Eira spoke first. “What happened to Mercer?”

Before Alistair could answer, Fitch blurted out, “Have mercy, my lady. I swear I’ll confess all.”

“What do you have to confess, Fitch?” Eira asked, her voice cool.

“I’ve done wrong. I thought to betray the cause. But I know I was misled now. I seek to make amends.” Fitch gulped, but when he opened his mouth to speak again, he suddenly yelped.

A hand had wrapped around Fitch’s ankle. Mercer’s eyes were open. With a jerk of his arm, Mercer pulled Fitch off balance. Fitch tumbled to the ground, and Mercer was on him, snarling like a wildcat.

Claudio shouted in surprise and backed away from the struggling pair. Fionn ran across the hall to take cover behind the sacred tree. Eira didn’t move, but neither did she try to interfere.

“Traitor,” Mercer spat as he struck Fitch. “I’ll see you in hell for this.”

“I’m no traitor.” Fitch grasped Mercer’s tabard, trying to shove Mercer off. “You’re mad for believing them. They’ll be the death of us.”

“Stop!” Cian’s clear voice rang out.

Alistair, who’d been about to grasp Mercer from behind and wrestle him away from Fitch, wheeled around. He hadn’t noticed Lady Eira’s sister in the hall. Cian leapt from the far corner of the room and closed the distance between herself and the tangled knights in a few long strides.