The Briar King (28 page)

But the holter had gone to find the truth, and he hadn't wanted Stephen along. Whatever it was, Aspar White would surely kill it. Stephen would write a report for the fratrex, but there his obligations ceased. Then he could throw himself head-to-toe into his studies.

“Come on,” Desmond said, clapping him on the shoulder. “It's just a bit before vespers and evening meal. Let's go for a walk. There are things about life at d'Ef that the fratrex wouldn't have told you.”

Stephen glanced reluctantly at the
Amena Tirson
, then nodded. He recased the thin sheets of vellum in their cedar box and replaced it on the shelf.

“Ready!” he said.

Evening calm had settled outside. In the distance, cows lowed, the crickets had begun their nightly stridulations, and the frogs in the Ef lowlands warbled throaty tunes. The evening star was a jewel on velvet in the eastern sky, while the west was
still a bed of fading embers. The forest was distant and green across acres of rolling pasture and vineyard. Stephen and Desmond stood upslope of the monastery, where soft candlelight was beginning to glow in windows.

“The faneway starts in the chapel,” Desmond said, “and finishes out there. It takes about two days to walk.”

“You've walked it, then?”

“Yes. You will, too, soon enough. You aren't a normal novice, from what I hear. The mysteries will be unfolded to you more quickly, I think.”

“I hardly deserve it.”

“No. You don't.”

Something in Desmond's voice didn't sound right. Stephen looked at his companion and saw a hardness set on his face.

“There is an order to things,” Desmond explained. “Or ought to be. I'm here to see that order is kept, do you understand?”

Stephen took a few steps back from the monk. “What do you mean?”

Desmond smiled. It wasn't a very comforting smile. Stephen backed up further, wondering if he should run. He backed right into another monk. It was Brother Lewes, the giant who had lifted the firewood like a willow wand. Stephen tried to jump away from him, but the monk grabbed him by the arm.

Stephen started to shout, but a meaty hand clamped over his mouth. It smelled like hay and cow manure.

“You're new,” Desmond explained. “As I said, there are some things you ought to know. It starts with this: I don't care who you are, or who your family was. Here, you start over. Here, your life begins again. And here, I am your father, your brother, your best friend. I will help you through everything, but you have to trust me. You have to believe me.

“The fratrex thinks you're special. That means nothing to the rest of us. To us, you have to prove yourself. It won't matter what the fratrex thinks of you if you slip and hit your head on a rock, or fall on a pitchfork, or eat the wrong mushroom. It's only the rest of us that can keep you safe from things like that. Do you see what I'm saying?”

There were other monks gathered around now, at least ten of them. They had their cowls up, and Stephen couldn't see their faces. He was beyond panic; he knew he shouldn't struggle, but he couldn't stop. Since being kidnapped, the very thought of being restrained was intolerable. Now, caught in this steel grip, it was reality, and still intolerable. He could barely think, he was so frightened and angry. Tears started in his eyes.

“Brother, release Brother Stephen's tongue, so he can tell me he understands.”

The hand came away.

“I understand! Of course I understand! Whatever you say.”

Desmond nodded approvingly. “That sounded sincere. But I don't know you, Brother Stephen. I can't be sure. And you can't be sure of me. So let's have a lesson, shall we?” He jerked his head, and the other monks converged. Stephen tried to scream, but a cloth was forced into his mouth. His arms were pulled up straight and then his shift was yanked off. He was shoved to earth, facedown, and held spread-eagle.

“Here is your lesson,” Desmond's voice said, from somewhere far away and much too close. “The seven virtues. The first is solidarity.”

A streak of the most intense pain Stephen had ever felt cut his back in two. He screamed into his gag, a shrill hysterical shriek of pure animal terror.

“The second virtue is chastity.”

Another stroke of fire fell, and droplets spattered across Stephen's cheek.

He lost track of the virtues after number three. He might have fainted. The next thing he was aware of was Desmond's voice very near his ear.

“I'm leaving you new robes and a rag. There's a well just down the hill. Clean yourself up and come to dinner. Sit at my table. Speak to no one of this—no one. There are, as you know, more than seven virtues. There are seven times seven.”

The gag came out, and he was released. He lay there, unable to move, to even think of moving, as full night fell.

CHAPTER SIX
MOTHER GASTYA

“THEY'VE SEEN US?” Winna whispered.

“I think so,” Aspar said, pulling on his breeks. “You saw what the witchlights did? Someone called them. They'll know where we are, since witchlights gather around people.”

“Maybe the lights just flew down because there are more people there.”

“Maybe. I doubt it, the way they went of a sudden. And then that burst on the horn. If the man with one eye
was
Fend—he has some shinecrafting. I don't doubt that he could call witchlights. So hurry, dress. We might not have long.”

He cursed silently as he finished yanking on his breeches. Moments ago, their dalliance had seemed worth the risk. Now—how old did he think he was, anyway? He knew better. If he'd known one of their pursuers was Fend …

“Ready,” Winna breathed. She didn't sound frightened.

“Here,” Aspar said. He wrenched two of the glowing crystal globes from the bedposts and handed one to Winna. “It's not much,” he said, “but with the witchlights gone, it's the best we have. Now, this way.”

He went through the arched door onto the balcony. Without the witchlights, there was only a void, and the pale light of the crystals wasn't enough to fill it. Aspar weighed the crystal in his hand, trying to remember where the other balcony was. Then he tossed the sphere.

It struck with a silvery tinkling, and a sudden vague light bloomed, a glowing cloud. The balcony appeared, a low construct
railed in iron wrought to resemble snakes with crowns and feathered tails.

“Can you jump to that?” Aspar asked Winna.

She cut her eyes. “Yes.”

“Do it, then. Hurry, for in a few moments the light will dissipate. When you get there, go in, hunt up all of the ways off of that floor—up, down, out windows. I'll be right there.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Wedge the door to the stairwells. Maybe they'll think we're trying to barricade ourselves in.”

She nodded, braced herself, and jumped. The instant she did, Aspar knew he'd made a mistake. Winna didn't have any idea whether she could jump that far; she'd just said she could do it to sound confident for him. She almost made it clear anyway, but clipped the low railing going in, lost her balance, her arms windmilling, her back to a long drop and stone streets, and the balcony only to the back of her knees. Aspar held his breath, trying not to call out, all his blood racing into his head, his fingers itching to grab her. He bent to jump, in the dim hope he might somehow reach her before she fell, but by then she had recovered—by sitting down, hard.

Winna turned, flashed him an uncertain grin, then tried the casement. It swung open. She turned again, mouthed
hurry
, then slipped through.

Aspar let out the breath he had been holding, drew his ax and his dirk, and slipped back into the room. He crept down the stairwell they had ascended, hours earlier, willing his muscles to relax and his breath to stay even.

Without witchlights or globes it was pitch dark. He smelled dead leaves.

He came to the first landing and listened. Hearing nothing, he wondered if he had been wrong. Maybe no one knew they were here. He kept moving down, silent as a fog in the night.

He stopped on the next landing and crouched to listen.

He heard his own breathing—and something else.

Aspar closed his eyes—unnecessary, since he couldn't see anything, anyway, but it helped him concentrate. He drew a
long, slow breath, tasting the air, smelling nothing but dust. He held the air in his lungs.

There was no sound at all, then, but still he didn't move. He kept crouched, waiting.

And then there was a breath, not his own. He didn't hear it; he felt it on his face.

Aspar struck upward with his dirk, hard, and felt it catch against chain mail. That brought a grunt and a rush of something going by Aspar's face. Aspar reached around, grappling for upper arms; something smacked against his back. His invisible foe shouted then, which helped Aspar find his oppo-nent's face. A helmet belled under the edge of his ax, and he slipped his dirk into something soft where the throat ought to be. He'd guessed right; the scream gurgled off.

Then something kicked him in the chest with the force of a mule, a finger or two to the right of his sternum. Flashes of gold exploded inside of his eyes as he chopped down, found a solid wooden shaft there, and realized a spear was standing out of him, and someone was still pushing on it. He couldn't tell how deep it had gone.

He turned away from the force of the push and lashed out with his ax. It hit something meaty, and someone howled. The spear in Aspar's chest hung free, and then its own weight wrenched it out. That hurt, too, so much that Aspar's knees buckled. That may have saved him from whatever hissed over his head and struck yellow sparks from the wall.

In the brief light a shadow congealed, and Aspar uncoiled from his involuntary crouch, driving his dirk through a bottom jaw and up into brain. He pushed the jerking body back, roughly, and heard someone below grunt as if struck.

“Fools!” another voice shouted, from further down the stairwell. “I told you to wait until—there!” Suddenly the staircase was alive with color, as a swarm of witchlights flew around the curve of the next landing to surround Aspar like hungry blood flies. In the light, he saw three Sefry in a pile, two probably dead, a third farther down, trying to put his half-severed hand back on.

Turning the corner behind the lights were at least four
more. One had an eye patch, but Aspar already knew it was Fend; he'd recognized the voice.

Aspar almost leapt down the shaft at them anyway. He might be able to kill Fend before he died.

But if he didn't, Fend would catch Winna. If Aspar did manage to kill the Sefry bastard, Fend's men would probably kill him anyway, and then
they
would catch Winna.

So Aspar grabbed the spear up from the floor and ran back up the stairs, cloaked in witchlights. At the top, he slammed the door, dropped the bar on it, and wedged the blade of the polearm beneath it.

He touched his chest, and his fingers came away sticky. There wasn't enough light to see how far the blade had gone in. He could stick a finger in, to see how deep it was, but he was already queasy, and that might make him sick. Right now, he couldn't afford it.

So he ignored the wound and followed after Winna, dropping to the balcony and into the next building where Winna stood waiting.

“Where
were
you?” she asked.

“I killed a few. They'll be coming. We have to hurry. You found our next path?”

“Wait,” Winna said. She lifted and upended a large basket onto the balcony. Broken glass poured out with a musical tinkling.

“I found some vases and broke them. Let them land on that, when they jump after us.”

“Good thinking,” Aspar said, feeling a burst of pride. “Now let's go.”

“Out here, then,” she said. “We don't want to go down yet. I think I found a better way. I couldn't see far, but now that we have the witchlights back, we can be sure.”

He followed her to the next window, one at right angles to the one they had just come through. Beyond were roofs, peaked and scaled and close.

They jumped out, Winna leading, and scrambled on polished slate, around the bottom of a steep-pitched spire, trying
to hide their glowing escort from any line of sight their pursuers might be able to establish. Aspar cast his gaze back often. On the other side of the spire was another jump, though it was barely more than a long step. The steep angle of the other roof made the landing less than certain, however.

They went on like that, roof to roof.

Unfortunately, Aspar felt his strength ebbing, and he was getting a bit dizzy. As they came to the edge of the fourth roof, his footing betrayed him and he slipped. Clawing at the slate proved no good, and he went over, but the railing of the balcony below caught his body, hard, held him there long enough for him to get a grip on the iron rails.

By the time he pulled himself onto the balcony and got his breath, Winna had dropped down to join him.

“Are you all right? Did they—” Her eyes widened. “You're
bleeding
.”

“I think we're done with rooftops,” he muttered. “Let's get down to the street.”

“But you're bleeding,” she repeated.

“I'm fine. We can't stop to talk about this, Winna. We have to keep moving, and hiding. Eventually we'll find a way out, or they'll give up.”
Unless Fend knows who he's chasing. He won't give up if he knows it's me.
“This time we'll find a place with no windows.”