The Arcanist (19 page)

Chapter Seventeen

Marcus arrived at the city's walls in the middle of the morning, angry with himself for being so late. He was never late. But the previous afternoon and night he had slept like a baby, knowing nothing but the infinite comfort of a warm soft bed and happy dreams. He didn't understand that. Denetta had been passionate and exciting beyond any other woman he had known, but there had been nothing supernatural in what they had done. Nothing to explain his exhaustion. Had there? All he could think was that whatever the potion the physician had given him, it must have been powerful. Far too powerful.

It had caused him to fail in his duty.

First he had slept right through a battle – a big one if what the handmaidens had told him was correct – as his brother's home was attacked. And he had to admit they were burning an awful lot of strange looking wood when he'd finally been able to speak with them. But had they really been the legendary sprigs as they'd claimed? He couldn't quite believe that – yet he couldn't doubt them either. Nor the fact that while they'd been fighting he'd been sleeping.

Then his little brother had been taken away in the early hours of the morning by his own soldiers and he'd somehow slept through that as well. That was just not right. He should have been there protecting his brother. Protecting his family. His soldiers should have woken him at the least. Their failure to do so bothered him.

He was the Captain of the Royal Guard. He should have been there at the door interrogating his soldiers about their orders. None of his men should have come to his brother's door and taken him away without his knowing what was happening. And even if their orders came straight from the king, he should have been there to make certain everything was in order. But instead he had been passed out like a lush after a hard night carousing. It was a failure of everything he had been raised to do. He was of House Barris! He had a responsibility to it. To his family. A responsibility that he could not fail. But he had.

And now it seemed that he had failed for a third time. He should have been protecting the city instead of sleeping. As the broken walls of Theria grew larger in front of him Marcus discovered that he had failed in his duty as a soldier too. Badly. Theria had been attacked, again. And all while he'd slept. What had been in the potion the physician had given him? Extract of poppies?

It had been a big engagement – and a bloody one. There were tell-tale signs of a pitched battle all around. Bodies lay everywhere. So many of them were laid out in front of the walls that he couldn't count them all. There were more hanging over the edges of them. All of them drenched in blood and most of them wearing uniforms. These were soldiers. His soldiers. The men he was responsible for. There were more of those crazy bunches of twisted wood that were the remains of the sprigs as well. Outside the gate, outside the wall, but also inside the city. There could be only one explanation. The sprigs had attacked the city in numbers and penetrated it. And all while he'd snored!

There were no words to describe how greatly Marcus hated himself when he saw that. When he saw the bodies of his men. His failure had been truly terrible. But there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing at all. The battle was over and all he could do was help with the clean up.

Marcus galloped the last of the way to the city's main gate, determined to do everything he could and quickly spotted the city guards on duty. There weren’t many of them. It was likely that most of them were busy elsewhere he thought. Or at least hoped. The truth was that they could be dead. Still, there was a man waiting to take his horse when he dismounted. A soldier with a bandage around his arm but unlike so many others, alive.

“What happened here soldier?” Marcus didn't even wait for the man to greet him. He just snapped his question at him and expected an answer.

“The tree creatures Sir. They attacked during the night.”

“That much I can see for myself. They were beaten back? How many were hurt and killed?”

“No Sir. They just left Sir. We didn't beat them. They tore all the cannon in the city apart and killed most of the cannoneer. Not many guards survive either.”

The man looked at the ground as he said it, whether out of shame or grief Marcus didn't know. What he did know was that the man had said they'd left. Left when they were winning through. That didn't make any sense. Every soldier knew that if the field of battle was yours you took advantage of it and pressed your victory. And also the handmaidens had told him that these creatures – these sprigs – did not back off. They did not know fear. They did not know hunger or rage either. They simply attacked until they were stopped.

“How many guards survive soldier?”

The man gestured helplessly at the carnage behind him. At the blood soaked bodies everywhere. “Not enough to man the walls Sir. Not even to keep a proper watch if they return.”

“Captain Severin.”

Marcus turned as a new voice greeted him and he forgot his questions as he saw someone with far too much embroidery on his black uniform to be a real soldier approaching. He could never have earned the uniform he was wearing. Which was surely why he could see no rank on his shoulders. And why was the man wearing a veil? But he carried himself with the pride of one. Or the haughtiness of a court noble.

“Yes?”

“I am Lockbar Wright, aide-de-camp to the Right Hand, and I have been entrusted with some orders to give to you. Orders from the king.”

Even as he spoke the man was handing him the writ. Strangely Marcus noted, it was sealed. Why? If the king sent him orders he could just have a soldier bring them to him by word. He didn't need to have them written down and he certainly never had to have them sealed. And when had Lord Julius hired a new aide-de-camp? Marcus didn't know him and he spent hours most days with the Right Hand.

Still, instead of asking pointless questions Marcus opened the orders, tearing apart the royal seal impatiently and reading hurriedly as he tried to figure out what was happening.

The orders were simple. They were even logical. He was to help with the recovery of the injured. He was to try to get as many men as he could back in uniform and to transport the wounded to the infirmary. Then he had to find whatever supplies they might need. That made sense he supposed. But why was he ordered not to attend the king at the court? Why was the court in closed session? Why had King Byron simply sent him a writ?

“What? This doesn't make sense!” Marcus snapped at the man and then regretted it. It was almost as if he were accusing the aide-de-camp of some crime simply for bringing him the orders. “And where is Edouard?”

“Lord Edouard Severin is in court with the rest of the nobles. And these are your orders. The king has entrusted them to you to carry out faithfully. Do you refuse him?”

The aide-de-camp actually snapped the shocking question back at him, despite the fact that he surely didn't even hold the rank of a captain. That was unbelievable. Even insulting. It was the way you spoke to suspects and criminals. Not your commanding officers. And if the man was wearing a uniform then he answered to him one way or another.

“Of course not.”

There was no choice in that Marcus knew. The orders carried the royal seal and King Byron's personal signature. They could not be disobeyed. But it still seemed wrong. And while he was proud to hold the rank of captain, it seemed an odd thing to be addressed as such when in the same breath his little brother was given his rightful title. In fact it almost seemed disrespectful. As if he was being treated as a common soldier and not a lord. And at that by someone who was only a simple soldier at best no matter who he served. No noble would cover his face so.

“Then see to them.”

Marcus started as he heard the man give him an order. For a moment or two he couldn't believe it had happened. And then when he finally did he almost drew his sword and gutted the man on the spot for the gall. As it was, his hand had already found the hilt of his blade. The rudeness was unbelievable. Only his training and discipline held him back. And maybe his remaining shock at the man's gall. Shock that stilled his tongue for a moment. The man turned on his heels and made to walk away before suddenly turning back to him.

“I will advise the Right Hand of your arrival and your acceptance of the king's commands. No doubt there will be more orders for you arriving during the day.”

Then he did finally leave him, marching back towards the city and the court, while Marcus had to wonder if he should simply shoot him in the back. The anger was burning behind his eyes. Who in the seven hells was this man to give him orders? Even the soldier holding the reigns to his horse could see the anger in his face and had stepped away a little. He knew there was trouble coming.

“Lockbar Wright, do you hold either a rank or a title?” Marcus called it after the man, and stopped him in his tracks once more. The aide-de-camp even turned around to face him again.

“I have told you –.” Marcus was in no mood for word games and he fixed the man with his most annoyed stare.

“You have told me who you serve. Not who you are. Now do you hold either rank or title?”

“No.”

Of course he didn't. Marcus had known that from the start. The man was simply some pretentious arse given a uniform.

“Then that is no, Sir, no, My Lord or no, Captain. You may practice those addresses as you return to Lord Julius. And if you have the chance to see me again you will use them correctly or Lord Julius will be searching for a new aide-de-camp while you enjoy a few days in the barracks stockade. Do I make myself clear soldier?”

“Yes Sir.” The man reluctantly snapped out a title. He obviously didn't want to use it, to show any form of respect for his superior officer, but apparently he'd finally realised it wasn't optional.

“Then be on your way.” Marcus dismissed the man, though he still wasn't happy with things. “And be quick about it.”

Marcus ignored the man as he marched off, unconcerned whether he had been angered or upset. Really, he was just pleased that he was gone. For the moment there was work to be done. Perhaps in a day or two he could have a word with the Right Hand about the choice of his aides. He turned back to the soldier holding the reins to his horse.

“Soldier, tell me about the wounded. Where the infirmary is and what the physicians need.” In the end there was nothing else to do but see to the wounded.

It was the final duty of a failed soldier.

Chapter Eighteen

Cold water hitting him was what woke Edouard up from whatever strange realm he'd been travelling through, and he was actually grateful for it. Even though his back was burning with agony and the darkness he'd been living in had been warm and comforting, he preferred the real world. Even when the real world was a cold, dank, dark dungeon. Besides, his dreams had been strange and frightening as he'd travelled between the heavens and the hells. Reality no matter how painful, was better. It was less frightening at least. Mostly.

“Get up!”

A man – the gaoler he assumed – yelled at him for some reason, and when Edouard didn't move because nothing seemed to be working properly he found another bucket of water and hurled it at him. Maybe that was a good thing Edouard decided. When he could smell the thick cloying odour of blood and the sickly sweet aroma of festering meat and knew it was him, fresh, pure water to clean out the wounds had to be good. It was a pity it didn’t feel that way.

How long had he been here? Edouard didn't know but it felt like days. Days during which he'd drifted in and out of consciousness. When he'd dreamed of the seven hells and burned with pain. Days during which he had seen his brother's laughing face and heard his mocking laughter. When he had known he was laughing at him.

“What?” He tried to find out what was happening from his gaoler, but what came out was more a grunt than language.

“Visitor.”

His work apparently done the gaoler thumped his way off to the cell door, and slammed it shut behind him with a heavy thud. It was a very final sounding thud, and Edouard knew that it was meant to be. Very likely he would be staying here until he died. It made no sense, but very little did as he lay there in the dark on the cold stone floor.

“Edouard?”

Edouard knew the woman's voice. He knew it very well in fact and he was infinitely grateful to know she was there. Leona was always welcome in his home. Though of course, this wasn't his home. In fact he slowly realised as he remembered where he was, he didn't want her here at all. He wanted her somewhere far nicer than this.

“Precious.”

Somehow he managed to squeeze the word out, though it wasn't her name. It probably wasn't really even language. But when they'd grown up together, when she'd practically raised him, being a few years older than him, it was what he'd always called her. It seemed right somehow. And she understood.

It took all of his strength, but somehow he managed to roll over a little, so that he could look up at where her voice was coming from. But it was a sad view. He could just make out her face in the darkness, pressed up against the bars of the tiny little window in the solid oak door. No doubt she was standing on the tips of her toes just to see in.

Luckily she probably couldn't see too much. It was simply too dark in his cell. Especially when the only light in it was coming from the tiny window her head was filling. That was for the best. Leona would have been upset if she could have seen his condition. And for some reason he didn't have his vest on. She wouldn't have liked the sight of the rats he could hear scurrying around either. She hated the creatures. She would have been upset and he didn't want her to be upset. Not for him. He couldn't have stood to have seen tears in her eyes or heard her sobbing. Besides, with his mind finally starting to work again he knew what would happen if she did realise how bad things were. She would go to see Simon. From there it would only have been a short journey to her own cell in this terrible place.

There was something wrong with Simon. Terribly wrong. Just the memory of him in that throne room told him that. The anger and malice in his face. The cold, chill of his voice. It was so much more and worse than anything he'd ever known of him before. And whatever evil now gripped his soul in its bitter embrace seemed to have replaced his love of family. But then had he ever truly loved them? Did he love anyone? Or did he only love gold? Edouard wasn't sure. This seemed like a step down into evil even for him, but his brother had never been a good or honourable man to begin with.

Just the memory of his grinning face standing in front of him as he'd been flogged brought the anger flooding back to him. So much anger. It was all Edouard could do to control it as he needed to. And he did need to. He could never show such dark emotion in front of his sister. He could never let her think less of him. Nor could he allow her to get involved as she threatened to.

Edouard told her not to worry; that he was all right. Something she surely knew from what little she could see was clearly untrue. But it was the only thing he could tell her and the one thing she absolutely had to hear. Of course she didn't believe him. And she proved it by promising to do the one thing he couldn't let her do.

“I can talk to Simon. He'll listen to me.”

Edouard panicked. She couldn't do that. The very thought of his sister being locked up in this dark rat infested hole filled him with dread. And that was exactly where she'd end up if she tried to talk to Simon. Worse she might end up being whipped half to death first. Edouard had no idea what had happened to his brother, but he knew it had left him somewhere beyond reason. Beyond any form of decency. Maybe even beyond humanity.

“No! You can't!” He shouted it at her though he never wanted to shout at her at all. But he had to stop her doing something so dangerous. “Whatever hold that black robed advisor has on him, it can't be broken.”

“Then we'll break you out. Innosen says he's going to get you out of here. He has a plan.”

“No!” More fear shot through him and suddenly Edouard was wide awake as he understood what his brother in law intended, and what would happen if he did. It would go wrong. It would go very wrong, and his brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews would pay for it with their freedom or even their lives. He could never allow that.

“But -.”

“No! Simon and that black robed advisor of his will expect it. They're probably already waiting for you to try. It's a trap! Leave me. Get yourself and the rest of the family to safety. Especially the children! Go to Bitter Crest. You're all in danger. I can get myself out of here.”

And he could. He didn't quite know how just yet, but he was suddenly certain that he could. That he had to. It was the only way he could repay Simon as he intended to.

“You're hurt. You're sick. And you're locked up in here.”

Naturally she didn't believe him. Edouard wasn't that sure he would even believe himself. It sounded like madness even to him. But it still had to be.

“I'm a spark. People forget that. Simon's forgotten it. But I am what I am and it's a mistake to forget it. Now get our family to safety; all of them. And don't come back. No one comes back. Promise me that.”

He had to be firm with her he knew. Leona was soft hearted to a fault; a wonderful fault. And though it might cost her her life, she would still return if she thought she could save him. And as for his brother in law, like Marcus and their father he was all about honour and doing the right thing. He would also want to rescue him, no matter how terrible the price. Unless he had another duty that prevented him.

“No! You can't get out by yourself. You need help. We're not leaving you.”

Leona refused and Edouard should have expected it. Of course she could never agree with his demand. But she had to. He knew why she had to. And he knew what might persuade her where nothing else would.

“Yes. You will. You're a mother and you have children to protect; Britta and Henk. You have a husband, Innosen. You have brothers and sisters, a mother and step mothers. All of them are going to end up in here if you don't get them to safety. Is that what you want?”

“Simon would never …” Her voice trailed off as she realised that Simon had already done what she would never have believed he would do. She had no idea what else he was capable of.

“You're a Severin. You are of the House of Barris. And you know Simon's claim to the throne is false. That he is a usurper. We all do. He can't allow that. He's in a precarious position as he works to legitimise his coup. He's desperate, because he knows that if it fails he'll be killed. Hung as a traitor.”

“Simon can't allow any of his family to speak against him. But I've already spoken against him. Marcus will do the same. As will Father. He knows that. And now you want to speak to him as well? To ask him to release someone who openly denied his claim in the Court?”

“He would never agree. He can never agree. Simon will not commit suicide. You know that. Just as you know that sooner or later he's going to come for all of us. That includes you and Innosen and Britta and Henk. And he'll do it any way he can.”

“You have to run. Run before he decides to strike. You have to look after your children and the rest of our family. Get them to safety and keep them safe. Nothing can come before that.”

“Besides, when I break loose from here, all of Therion is going to know about it. Simon will come hunting, and that black robed advisor of his will come hunting too. You have to be well gone before that happens.”

“But what about you?” She wailed at him, her voice filled with horror and despair. “You can't get out of here. You're hurt.”

“Yes I can. But I can't do it while the rest of you are here. I can't put you in that danger. Now leave. The sooner you escape, the sooner I can.”

Bold words of course, and he knew she had to doubt him. How could she not? Which was why he summoned a small flame and let it dance in the palm of his hand. Everyone knew he was a spark but they forgot it when they saw the inventions he was constantly tinkering with. So had Simon. He thought he was helpless without his weapons. Without his technological devices. His toys as so many called them. He would learn otherwise in due course.

“Don't say that! Don't lie to me!” But even as she said it there was finally a hint of hesitation in her voice. She was listening.

“Then don't doubt me Precious. I can escape and I will. But if I escape too early it'll place everyone else in danger. Because Simon will come for you to find me. He will come for your children and the rest of the family. I need to know that that won't happen. Promise me you'll leave the city today. All of you.”

“But -.”

“Promise me! No one gets left behind. No one tries to rescue me. Just go to Bitter Crest and I'll find you in time.”

It took more words and more pleas to get her to promise, and a lot of tears before then, but eventually Leona promised him as he knew she had to. And after a while and even more tears shed she left him. He hoped and prayed she would do as he asked as he heard her leave. But all he really knew was the sound of her foot falls on the cold stone floor outside his cell growing quieter.

After she'd gone and the silence had returned, he was left alone in a cold, dark cell, wondering if he could actually do what he'd said he could.

It wouldn't be easy. There were a lot of stone walls and veiled soldiers standing between him and freedom. And even before that there were the demons of illness and fever to overcome.

The cold water and his sister's love had driven them away for a little bit, and the anger was helping to keep them away, but he knew they would be back. Already he could feel his strength draining away. And he knew that when they came they would drag him down once more into that dark place from whence he had just come. He might not be able to return.

That could not happen. He had to escape this dark, dank hole. He had to kick Simon off the throne he'd stolen and make him pay for his crimes. He had to destroy that dark advisor of his. And then he had to beat his eldest brother into a pulp. Burn that mocking smile off his face and listen to him scream. But he couldn't do any of that if he was dead.

First he knew he had to get well, and unlike Janus he wasn't a healer. He had no gift for it. But what he did have was fire, and he knew he could use it. First to close the open wounds on his back, to cauterize them as a soldier sealed a wound with a hot knife, and then to drive the demons of poison and fever from his body. It would not be pleasant though.

Resolutely he called his fire, summoning it so that it surrounded him, running from his head to his toes. It came easily enough, but then it always did. And it was actually quite nice to finally see the limits of his cell, the dark stone walls with moss and water running down them; the cold grey stone floor, and of course the dark oak door that kept him from leaving. Then he shaped it, letting it dance only over the worst of the injuries on his back.