The Keep of Fire (64 page)

There was a flash in her mind as their threads connected. Too bright. Tensing, Lirith tried to pull back—she had not meant the Touch to bring them so close. But the power of his life drew her in faster than she had thought. She should have known it would happen—that with no other threads along the Weirding to pull at her the connection would be deep and immediate. But she was so tired herself.

She could feel Durge’s astonishment as life coursed back and forth between them. Lirith tried to close off the ebb, but she was too slow. Images and thoughts sped back along the thread of the Weirding toward her: memories that were not her own.

She saw Durge as a very young man, no more than nineteen, clad only in breeches beside a silver lake, homely in his hawk-nosed way, but grinning, his hair long and flowing, and his chest and arms already hard with muscle as he swung his greatsword: a knight freshly born.

The image melted and re-formed. Now Durge fought in a bloody battle, wielding his greatsword with deadly force, still grinning as men fell before him.

Again the images changed. This time Durge was a little older—in his twenties now. In his arms, he caught a pretty, slender young woman with large brown eyes. He swung her around, and both laughed. Then there was a small form in her arms. A child. Durge bent down to kiss the baby.

Mist passed before the vision, and when it cleared again Durge was alone. He knelt on the ground, head bowed, before two freshly turned graves: one large, one small.

Now the images came faster. More battles, but the grin was gone now, and Durge’s face old, harder, grimmer. Everything was one endless river of gray and red. Then, just as Lirith managed to turn away, she caught one shining glimpse of color: again it was a pretty young woman. Only this time her eyes were not brown, but sapphire-blue.

Lirith’s eyes snapped open, and she fell back, away from Durge. The knight lifted a hand to his brow, staring at her. On his face was a look of horror.

“What … what have you done to me, my lady?”

She shook her head.
I’m sorry
, she wanted to say.
I’m so sorry, Durge. I didn’t mean for this to happen
. But when she opened her mouth, she spoke other words.

“It’s Aryn, isn’t it? She’s the one the dragon was talking about. You love her, Durge—don’t you?”

Now the fear left Durge’s face, replaced by a look
so stern he seemed carved of stone. He scrambled forward and gripped her shoulders. Hard.

“You must never tell her, my lady.” His words stung like the windblown sand. “You must swear to me. Now, and by all that you hold sacred.” He shook her with terrible strength. “You must never tell her what you know!”

Dread at what she had done paralyzed Lirith. She could only stare at his shattered face.

“Say it!”

A moan of pain escaped her. “By Sia, I swear it!”

Durge let go. His face was weary and ashamed. He turned away from her and clutched his hands together. “Forgive me, my lady. Please forgive me. I did not mean to hurt you.”

Nor I you
, she tried to say, but she was sobbing. What had she done to him with her foolishness? She had taken what was private and hidden and had stolen it from him. With a trembling hand, she started to reach toward his broad back.

She halted at the grinding of boots against stone. Both she and Durge looked up to see a dark figure above them.

“Falken!” Durge sprang to his feet.

The knight grabbed the bard as he staggered, then helped him sit on the ground. Lirith crouched beside Falken and held the flask to his lips. The bard drank a little, choked, then drank some more.

He pushed the flask away. “Thank you, Lirith. I … I will be all right.”

She studied him, not at all convinced of his words. Even without the mask of dust his face was pale and drawn. Shadows lingered in his eyes.

“What is it, Falken?” Durge said. “Did you find Dakarreth?”

Falken shook his head. “He’s not here.”

Lirith could only stare.

“I don’t understand,” Durge said.

The bard gripped his hands together but could not stop their trembling. “He’s not in the fortress. Dakarreth. I searched everywhere, but it’s empty. By the look of things he left months ago. And he took Krondisar with him.”

At last Lirith found her voice. “But if Dakarreth’s not here, then where is he?”

Falken turned his head and gazed with haunted blue eyes—back in the direction from which they had come. Lirith went rigid as Durge looked at her. She opened her mouth, but any words she might have said were lost as the wind rose to a keening howl.

“I am greatly pleased all of you could join me at table tonight.”

Grace gazed at the tall, broad-shouldered man who stood at the head of the long table in Spardis’s great hall.
And if we had not, would you have had all of us put to death, my lord?

She clutched her wineglass. That wasn’t fair. Even if what the Spider had told Travis the other day was true—that this man, Lord Darrek, Regent to Prince Perseth, had ordered the murder of all Persard’s personal spies—it was still only one side of the story. And as Grace had learned, in politics there were always two sides. Or three or four.

The regent raised his glass. “We are fortunate to have so many remarkable guests in our keep. In the name of the prince, I welcome you all.”

Grace raised her glass and studied the regent over the rim. At least Darrek paid lip service to Prince Perseth. Yet how long would that last? How long
would it be before the regent ceased to make commands in the prince’s name, finding it more convenient to make them in his own?

Darrek drank, and Grace could not help but watch him. She could see each well-defined muscle move beneath the tanned skin of his throat. Darrek was the most handsome man Grace had ever seen. His body was perfectly proportioned, his fingers long and well formed, and the fine, strong features of his cleanshaven face were utterly symmetrical. His eyes and flowing hair were both as tawny as a lion’s. Only the regent’s lips seemed at odds with his manliness, for they were soft, full, and sensual. Yet it was that incongruity which made the whole so compelling.

Grace’s glance flickered across the table, to Aryn and Beltan. Both stared at the head of the table. So she was not the only one who found it difficult not to look at the regent. She had wondered how it was
this
man who had bested all schemes to come to power in the turmoil following Persard’s death. But maybe she had all the evidence she needed. Who—man or woman—could resist the regent’s sheer physical power?

But there has to be more to it than that, Grace. Pretty only gets you so far. You’ve got to be smart, strong, and fast to beat out twenty other plotting nobles. And ruthless
.

So perhaps she knew more about Lord Darrek than she had thought. Except whether he was sincere in his desire to rule in Prince Perseth’s name, and with Queen Inara’s blessing, until the boy reached the age of ascension.

The regent sat and smiled, displaying a set of teeth that seemed more numerous than the typical human complement of thirty-two. “I am looking forward to being entertained by tales of your journeys, and what brings each of you to Spardis.”

Grace looked again at Beltan and Aryn, hoping the
panic wasn’t completely apparent on her face. Beltan caught her gaze and made a small flick of his hand to either side of him. Grace forced herself to breathe. The knight was right. They were not the only guests who had been invited to sup with the regent. Sitting around them were traveling earls, countesses, and even a wealthy merchant or two—including one who had come from the Free Cities far to the south of Toloria.

All of the regent’s guests—aside from Beltan, Aryn, and Grace—talked, laughed, and drank. Perhaps none of them had seen the results of the Burning Plague on the road to Castle Spardis. Or perhaps they were used to seeing peasants drop dead and had simply ridden on past. And there was no sign of plague in Spardis. Nor would there be, now that Darrek had sealed the castle’s gates.

Grace froze in her chair as a thought occurred to her. When Falken, Durge, and Lirith returned, how would they get back into the castle?

That’s assuming they come back at all, Grace
.

She lifted her glass and drained the contents, hoping the wine would restore the color she felt drain from her face. Aryn cast her a concerned glance. She shook her head. It would have to wait until later, until they were alone. Then she could tell the others about her fears.

“I see an empty glass.” The regent snapped his fingers at a passing servingman. “More wine for the fair lady with the green eyes.” He smiled at Grace, and this time the expression pierced her heart. “You have extraordinary eyes, my lady. I’ve never seen anything like them. They’re not simply green are they, but gold as well?”

Grace clutched the now full glass, trying not to slosh the contents over the rim. She groped for something to say. “Will the queen be attending supper
tonight?” Even as she spoke the words, she winced. What was she thinking?

Darrek’s visage grew solemn—although not angry. “The queen is taking supper in her room this evening, my lady. As she has each evening of her mourning.”

Sympathetic murmurs rose around the table.

Grace licked her lips. She was in this deep and the water hadn’t scalded her yet—she might as well jump all the way in.

“And what of Lord Siferd?”

Darrek’s smile returned. “Look—the roast swan has arrived.”

Grace sighed, glad to have the attention turned away from her. But she noticed that Darrek had not answered her question. What
had
happened to Lord Siferd? She had not seen the chamberlain since just after the regent’s return.

Grace gagged as a burnt smell reached her nostrils. Her stomach turned as she watched servants place several platters on the table, each bearing an entire swan cooked in its feathers. She tried not to think of the burnt husks she had seen in each of the villages destroyed by
krondrim
.

“Some swan, my lady?” a servant spoke beside her.

She clenched her teeth and tried not to vomit as the servingman placed several pieces of dripping, half-cooked meat on the trencher in front of her. More trays of food were brought in: steamed puddings, spiced breads, roasts representing an array of species both mammalian and avian, and confections of fruit and cream. Grace was able to chew on a small amount of bread and was grateful no one made notice of her lack of appetite.

After the meal was well under way, a pair of servants carried another tray toward the table, draped in a white cloth. By the way they bent under the burden it was heavy.

Darrek’s eyes shone. “I have been waiting for this.”

While the men still supported the tray, Darrek rose and plucked away the concealing cloth. On the tray was not another dish, but instead the head of a man.

For a terrible moment Grace thought it to be the head of someone who had displeased the regent, and by the gasps around her she was not the only one with this thought. Then she blinked and saw the head was carved of marble. It was an exquisite likeness. She glanced at Darrek, then at the bust. Save for the paleness of the marble, the two were identical.

The regent spread his arms. “What think you, everyone?”

Nods and murmurs of approval went all around the table.

“It’s beautiful,” Grace said, although she hadn’t meant to speak the words, for they weren’t meant entirely as a compliment. Now that she looked at the bust it seemed familiar. But where had she seen it before?

Darrek bowed in her direction. “Thank you, my lady.”

The regent’s cheeks were flushed, which Grace found odd. Then she saw his gaze linger on the bust, and she understood.

It’s vanity, Grace. That’s the problem with pretty people—they have to keep being told they’re beautiful or else they’ll start to doubt it, along with everything they are
.

“Your Highness, were there not some other members of your party?” Darrek said as he sat down, directing this question not to Grace but to Aryn.

“One is weary from the long journey here, Lord Regent,” Aryn said. “She rests in our rooms, and another stays with her.” True nobility paid off—Grace doubted she could ever sound that assured and gracious.

Earlier that day, when they received the unexpected dinner invitation, Beltan had insisted that he stay with Melia while the others attend. However, Travis had told the knight to go, that he would stay with Melia and Tira.

“As far as I can tell, there’s only one still-conscious adult in this group who isn’t a noble.” Travis had raised a hand. “By the way, that would be me.”

Travis had won out, and Beltan had gone to dinner.

Darrek spoke again to Aryn. “I have not had a chance to meet the knight who sits beside you, my lady. Is he your husband?”

“No, my lord. This is my cousin, Lord Beltan of Calavan.”

“I see.” Darrek’s gaze moved to Beltan. “Am I mistaken in thinking you a warrior, sir? And a follower of Vathris?”

Grace could see the muscles of Beltan’s jaw tense. “I am both, my lord.”

Darrek coiled his fingers loosely around his wineglass. “You know, I could use a bold warrior such as yourself, Lord Beltan.” His gaze flickered up and down Beltan, and color sprang to the knight’s cheeks.

Grace almost laughed and clutched the edge of the table instead.
At least now you know, if nothing else, Darrek has good taste in men
.

“Now, tell me, what has brought you all to Perridon?”

Grace was stunned to see that Darrek’s gaze had returned to her. She fumbled for words. Something told her she really didn’t want to say she had come here to spy.

“King Boreas has heard word of the troubles in Perridon, my lord,” she said, surprised and a little pleased at how quickly the words came to her lips. “He sent me to ask you if there was any aid he might send to Spardis.”

The regent nodded. “That is most kindly of your
king, my lady. But I have recently returned from a tour of the Dominion, and matters are well under control. You may give your liege my thanks, but no aid is necessary.” He ran his fingers lightly over the golden fabric of his tunic. “Now tell me, is this not the finest cloth of gold you have ever seen, my lady?”