Wren (The Romany Epistles) (14 page)

"So you haven't talked to them about it?"

I laughed harshly. "I haven't spoken of it ever to
anyone."

"Until now."

I nodded. Until now. "I will never understand why Deus
let our commander live," I muttered. "Of all of us, he should have
died."

"Deus had His reasons," Iscarus replied.

My heart rebelled slightly at the statement despite the fact
I knew it was true. Deus always had a purpose, even for Catorna. That I could
believe. That I was forgiven for those one hundred seven lives that I took was
another issue entirely. I was never going to be able to atone for them.
No
one is beyond redemption, Tourth.
Wren's words rang through my head. I
didn't agree. I was beyond it, so far gone that there was no hope. I still
thirsted for revenge.

~~~~~

The enforcer’s stronghold squatted across the lower slopes
of Mount Striden. Backed by a scar of raw limestone torn in the side of the
mountain, it festered black and sickly. The eastern wall rose half-finished
among the weaker timber walls. I didn’t see much of the overall layout as we
approached, but what I did see made me question the skills of the planner.
Sprawling walls and poorly placed guard posts made defending impractical. The
rough wooden towers were placed out beyond the foundation of rock, planted on
less secure dirt. A bit of tunneling at their base and the perimeter could be
breached.

On cue, the impressive but shoddily hung gates opened under
the brute force of five men. As we passed through, the gatekeeper’s swears
drowned out the rain and the sloshing efforts of pulling the gates closed
again.

A slight, drenched figure lifting a lantern so large it
looked like it would topple her, beckoned us to follow her across the mud pit
of a courtyard. A wooden pavilion stood halfway between the gate and the
ramshackle keep. She stopped and waited for us to join her beneath it.

“Welcome, Master Gnart,” the girl yelled over the staccato
of the rain on the roof. She eyed me warily. “The master says you are to come
in to dinner as soon as you arrive. They have been eating for barely a quarter
hour in the great hall.”

“Fine, Sash, fine,” my companion grunted as he wrung out his
hat and sluiced water from his cloak ends. “This here is Mistress Romany.”

The girl frowned at me. “Pleased, I am sure, miss. There
should be room in the stables for your horse and the kitchen is bound to have
scraps and leavings.”

“Now here, Sash, you can’t go feeding the Romany table
scraps. The Master is certain to want of her services.”

Sash eyed me suspiciously. “The Romany?”

“The bounty hunter,” Gnart offered as though she was slow of
mind. “The bounty on the western murderer, Svhen Bejork…?”

My breath caught, but I forced it back into rhythm.

“Ah, that.” Sash flapped her hand as though it was a little
thing. “They already know where he is.”

My chest constricted. Gnart’s exclamation of disbelief
covered my involuntary gasp. I just managed to regain my composure when a yell
drew our attention to a small boy running through the rain toward us. Gnart
promptly turned back to Sash and began pestering her about someone they both
knew. Upon reaching the shelter, the boy shook himself like a dog.

“Stable master said to take your horse, miss,” the boy
informed me.

I gestured for the boy to wait and turned back to the couple
arguing in hushed tones. “I am going to bed down my horse. Which way is it to
the main hall?”

“Right through those doors, miss,” Sash volunteered before
Gnart recovered from his surprise that I was going to personally settle my
horse.

I nodded my understanding and turned to the boy.

“Lead on.”

He obeyed. I pulled up my hood again and strode after him.
Behind me I caught Gnart muttering “strange female” before the rain on my head
drowned out the sound of his voice. Let him think what he wished. Strange
female was the milder of the descriptions I gained over the past year and a half.

The stables were warm, dry, and well maintained, a sign of a
man who valued his horseflesh. Whether that was the enforcer or the stable
master was yet to be seen. The boy offered to groom Brone, but I convinced him
to simply show me where the brushes were.

“Are you really a bounty hunter?” he asked as he hung from
the stall wall by his armpits.

“Yes.” I set to brushing Brone immediately, resisting the
urge to linger over the task as I had in the past weeks. Brone complained
slightly at my pace.

“You don’t look like a bounty hunter,” the boy pointed out. “Bounty
hunters are big, stinky, and carry lots of weapons.”

“What makes you think I don’t carry lots of weapons?” I
asked calmly. I hid the smile that pulled at my lips. His description covered a
majority of the others I encountered in my line of work.

The child tilted his head to one side and studied me. I
pulled the brush across Brone’s side for the last time. He finally spoke again.
“I guess you are right. I don’t know about the weapons because you have more
than I thought you did, but you still smell nice for a bounty hunter.”

“I doubt many would agree with you.” I replaced the brushes
and threw a blanket over Brone’s back.

“I do,” a new voice offered.

I swung around and whipped my first knife out of its sheath
and into throwing position, my left hand on the second, before my brain caught
up with my instinct.

“Whoa!” The man raised empty hands to frame his face. Medium
height, brown hair and nondescript face, he would have faded into any crowd,
except to my eyes.

“Keilvey? What are you doing here?” I didn’t lower my blade.
“Where is your master? Where is Hawthorne?” Just the taste of his name on my
tongue made my stomach tense. He served the worst of the bounty hunting scum.
Without morals, crude, greedy, conniving– I stopped my mental list. It did me
no good to dwell on him.

“Hawthorne goes by a different name now, but that isn’t why
I am here. One of the prisoners sent a message.”

Arthus?
I studied Keilvey’s face. The man betrayed
his master once. Could I count on him doing so again?

“The message?” I asked.

“No contact.” It was obvious Keilvey didn’t know what it
meant, but I knew all too well. Arthus’ message confirmed my fear that he
hadn’t made it very far beyond the valley.

“Where is he?”

“Who?”

“The prisoner.” My hand went to my money pouch.

“He is safe for now, but come morrow he won’t be.”

“Why?”

“Another pressed worker identified him for the enforcer as
one of the rebel criminals from the war. He is sentenced to death at noon.”

My throat closed over a lump.
Please, Deus, have mercy.
I studied the man before me. “What will it cost me to have him released and
escorted outside the gates?” I lifted my money pouch.

Keilvey’s eyes didn’t even stray from my face. “Money is not
going to cover this one, Romany. Want my freedom this time. My freedom and
Hawthorne’s head is my price for the prisoner’s life. I cannot have one without
the other.”

Icy liquid shot through my veins and my heart thudded hard
against my ribs as my mind raced. I needed a plan and fast.
Father, give me
wisdom,
I pleaded. Seconds passed as my thoughts moved like molasses in
winter. Then, a revelation dawned. It was a risk. No bigger than others I had
taken before. The only problem was the risk was not all mine. Those I cared for
would also be involved. It all balanced on the character of a man I didn’t
know. I was going to have to– ”

“I will get you your freedom, but I cannot promise you
Hawthorne’s head.”

Keilvey studied my face. His dark eyes weighed my honor. Our
past gave him a solid sampling. Confident that he would settle in my favor, I
sheathed my dagger.

“Deal?” I asked.

“Deal,” he agreed and offered his hand in promise, which I
accepted.

“Now where is the prisoner and how are we going to get him
out?” I asked.

“Follow me.” Keilvey nodded to the boy still watching us
with rapt attention. “Get the foreman, Datar. I have business with him.”

"You need to speak to the Lord about what is consuming
you before the poison is all that remains."

Wren's words wouldn't leave me alone. If Iscarus' presence at
my side wasn't bringing back memories of my childhood, our recent conversation
and my partial confession broke the floodgates of war memories. I could not
staunch the deluge. Then Wren's words, direct, honest, and sharp in their
accuracy, would break through the cracks between the memories. For hours, I sat
in agony, battling demons. Fortunately, Iscarus remained with me the whole time
for I was in no condition to demand an account of any flesh and bone adversary
that might have come to the gate during my watch.

Finally, my replacement arrived, still yawning away the last
of his slumber, and took my place on the ledge. Wordlessly, Iscarus followed me
to the courtyard. I hoped he would let me go to my bed the same way, but it
wasn't his way.

"She is coming back."

"What?" I asked, stopping to turn toward him.

"Wren. She said she is coming back."

"I know." I was confused about why he was bringing
this up now. It wasn't as though I shared the madness in my head. He had no
reason to know I thought about her.

Iscarus studied my face. His own was a glistening mask in
the rain and torchlight of the passing watchmen. He waited until we were alone,
standing in the center of the courtyard like two idiots without the sense to
find shelter from the rain. "She has gotten to you. I can see it. I think
it is a good thing. From what Dardon and Svhen say, you have been too much
within yourself. She is digging at the source of your pain, getting close. Your
anger proves it." He paused as though afraid of saying too much.
"Just don't drive her away because her words hurt."

"What is it with everyone having an opinion about what
is going on in my head?" I demanded. "First Wren and now you." I
threw the words at him. "Just because I spoke a little about my experience
in the wars doesn't make you an expert. No more than Wren is an expert when it
comes to my relationship with Deus or my men. I do not need any of your help. I
have lived quite happily in my own head, without interference, for all of my
life. I don't need anyone's help dealing with any of this. Now leave me
alone!"

I turned and stalked off toward the barracks. I wasn't going
to be able to sleep, but I refused to show Iscarus that. I burst into the main
room, whipping the door closed behind me. Denied the satisfaction of a loud
noise thanks to Iscarus catching it behind me, I almost roared my frustration
in his face. With great effort, I managed to restrain myself and stalk off to
my bedroom.

Iscarus followed me as far as the doorway. He stood there
silently as I violently rid myself of my soaked clothes. He waited until after
I pulled a fresh tunic over my head before speaking.

"A festering sore infects the whole. You are part of
this, a crucial part. For the sake of the rest of us, you need to find peace.
If you do not it will not just consume you, it will consume all of us."
Without waiting for a response, he left.

I extinguished the lantern, threw myself into bed, and
covered my head with my blanket. Distantly I heard someone snoring. More
closely at hand, a murmur of voices came through the walls. With the way things
were happening, they were probably discussing me.

Don't be childish,
my inner voice chided. I grimaced
and concentrated on sleep.

When it came, I wished I could wake from reliving the horrors
of Catorna. Then Aron rose from my memories to lecture me on the condition of
my soul in Wren's voice before setting me on fire. I woke as the dawn lightened
the sky to a gloomy gray. Sweat soaked my clothing and bedding as my thoughts
and emotions reeled. Reflections of the horrors of only two years before
lingered on the fringes of my mind, ready to leap to the forefront the moment I
closed my eyes. Despite a perfectly cooked breakfast, the stench of burning
flesh remained in my nostrils for hours. I purposefully forgot to recite my
prayers before devoting myself to the morning tasks.

Morning dawned overcast and murky. The rain held off, but it
threatened in the air, thick and sluggish. Immediately after breaking our fast,
Keilvey led me into the depths of the prison building. The darkness closed in
on us, a smothering stench of body fluids and rot. I resisted the impulse to
cover my nose and attempted to breathe through my mouth instead. My stomach
rolled in response.

“Here.” Keilvey stopped outside a heavy wooden door hung on
iron hinges. A stooped man leaned against the wall next to the door. He didn’t
respond when we approached, and Keilvey didn’t acknowledge his presence.
Instead my companion produced a key and opened the door.

I obeyed his gesture to precede him into the room, kicking
aside a wooden bowl of rancid stew in the process.

“Arthus?” I asked the darkness. My eyes were still adjusting
to the dimly tinged blackness of the cell.

“Wren?” Arthus stirred, a weak upheaval in the dense shadows
at the back of the room. “Is that you?” The rasp of his voice was painful to my
ears and most likely twice as raw in his throat.

“Yes, come toward my voice.”

“You received my message–” He broke off to cough violently.

I moved toward the sound, ignoring the scuffling behind me.
My instincts demanded I pay some attention to Keilvey, but the intensity of
Arthus’ fit necessitated my response first. Then my hand closed around Arthus’
and the heat of it drove all other thoughts from my mind.
Oh, Father, spare
him, please.