“I should go,” she said. “It’s not safe for me out here after dark.”
“Please,” he said, taking her hand. “Just…sit with me awhile longer. You’re safe with me.”
He saw the look on her face, and he wished he could understand what it was she thought. Her hesitation was brief, and then she sat back down. Her arms wrapped around him, and he allowed his own eyes to close. It wasn’t until he was with her that he realized he never relaxed, that he was always like a coiled spring. But there, with her, he felt able to let it go. He had nothing to hide, and no reason to. Together, they watched the sun sink further, until it was nothing but a glow peeking over the wall.
“Help me down,” she said at last. “Senke wants you to see him before you leave. He seemed certain you wouldn’t be staying tonight. I think he knows you better than I.”
“He understands the world I came from is all. Tonight will be worse, for everyone. I think he knows that.”
The rest were eating when the two came in. Brug and Tarlak seemed to act as if he weren’t there, but Senke greeted him warmly enough.
“Follow me,” he said, leading Haern to a closet built into a space underneath the stairs. He pulled out a wooden crate, wincing at the effort. Feeling guilty, Haern ordered him aside and pried open the crate himself. Inside were an assortment of weapons, from knives to two-handed swords, and various instruments in between.
“I saw your fight with that mercenary,” Senke explained. “That cloakdance you did was something special, but your swords weren’t right for it at all. Here, take these.”
He lifted a pair of weapons out and handed them over. They were long and slender, with the ends gently curved.
“These sabers are designed for slashing, and should do well with how you’re always moving. The points are sharp, but you’ll still have a hard time thrusting through heavier armor. Same with heavy chops, but I have a feeling brute force isn’t your usual method given your speed.”
Haern swung the swords about, getting a feel for their weight. They were lighter than his previous swords, with a slightly longer reach. Their grips were comfortable, feeling natural, like an extension of his body when he wielded them. He could tell they were expertly made.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Don’t thank me. Thank Brug over there. He made them.”
“Just don’t break ‘em,” Brug muttered from the table.
“Both sides will be out for blood tonight,” Senke said, leaning against a wall and holding a hand against his stomach. “You sure you have to go out? People will kill each other just fine without your help.”
He realized they were all looking at him, either blatantly or through the corners of their eyes. In his heart, he felt something harden, as if he wanted to prove them wrong, to show he didn’t care what they thought. But what did it matter? Why did he go out? What might he accomplish? He remembered Deathmask’s biting words.
As if your five years of trying to singlehandedly conquer the thief guilds has worked out so much better.
Something clicked in his head, several pieces tumbling together as the idea took form. He looked to them, then out the window. No, there was nothing out there for him, not this night. Come the day, he’d find Deathmask, assuming he still lived. Perhaps there was a chance to have a legacy opposite his father.
“You know,” he said, feeling a great weight lift off his shoulders. “I think I will stay here tonight, if you’ll have me.”
“Pull a seat up at the table,” Senke said with a smile. “You bet your ass we will.”
22
I n the dark of Felwood’s dungeon, Oric shivered. He sat on a wood cot and listened to the water drip. Where it dripped, he didn’t know. To pass the time, he’d tried to guess, but the echo always seemed to change on him. His cell was completely dark, without a single shred of light. He’d scoured the floor with his palms, but everywhere he touched was wet, and a drop never landed upon him. Still, the search did better to pass the time than thinking about his fate. Anytime he thought of that, or of how long he might be in the total darkness, his head swam and his heart lurched into his throat.
He’d tried talking to anyone else, a guard or fellow prisoner, but his voice only echoed through the emptiness, never answered. For some reason, that always made it worse. Without light, company, or a single meal, time was meaningless. At least two times he slept, and in his dreams he saw color, women, friends. He wished he could sleep more often.
A loud creak startled him from a doze. Heavy footsteps echoed down the hall. Orange and yellow flickered along the walls, at first a wonderful sight but soon painful in their brightness. Holding a hand before his eyes to block the pain, he felt a wretched sight as John Gandrem stepped in, soldiers at his side.
“Stay seated,” he said, “otherwise my guards will open you up in many places.”
“But a man should always rise at the arrival of a lord,” Oric said. He held back a cough. His voice felt scratchy, dry. He remained sitting despite his protest. With how light his head felt, he thought he’d pass out if he stood too quickly.
John crossed his arms and looked down at him. In the yellow light, his skin seemed like stone, old and unmalleable. His eyes looked even worse. For all the stories he’d heard of Lord Gandrem’s kindness, he’d yet to hear a story describe those eyes. Mercy didn’t belong in them, not now, maybe not ever. Perhaps this was the lord of the dungeon, a different man than the lord of Felwood.
“Before we start, there’s a few things you should know,” Gandrem began. “First, I have talked extensively with the boy, Nathaniel. His story is consistent, and most damning. Second, the man Ingram thought he killed, the farmer Matthew, is not dead. Third, my men have already worked over Uri, and how he sang, Oric. I know what you did to that farmer’s wife. The idea that you could claim they assaulted a caravan and held Nathaniel hostage is laughable.”
“I never claimed it. That was Ingram’s stupid idea.”
The faintest hint of a smile stretched at Lord Gandrem’s lips, but then vanished.
“Perhaps. A shame I cut his throat before I could tell him the farmer lived. I plan on ensuring Matthew is well rewarded, as is his wife. But the question remains now, what do I do with you?”
“Well, between the rope and the ax, I think I’d prefer the ax.”
“In time, Oric. In time. See, my biggest problem is not with you, but with your master, Arthur Hadfield. Mark Tullen visited me before meeting with you and Nathaniel in Tyneham. I know he was escorting the boy back, and I’m not a damn fool. Everyone knows he was a potential suitor of Alyssa, and Arthur wanted him gone. Proving that, however, is another matter.”
His soldiers rushed in and grabbed Oric by either arm. Up went his hands, back and above his head. Chains rattled, and then he felt clamps tighten about his wrists. With him safely shackled, John sat on the small cot and pulled his heavy coat tighter about him.
“Now I don’t mean proving it to just Alyssa,” he continued. “She’s a bright gal, and there’s too much here for her to ignore. However, Arthur’s long held those mines at the edge of my lands, always refusing taxes. I want those lands. It is my knights that have protected them. It is my lands his traders travel across to Veldaren. It is on my roads he ships his gold and sends for his supplies. By all rights, they should be mine, and would have been if not for the Gemcrofts.”
“What could I possibly have to do with that?” Oric asked. His shoulders were starting to cramp, and he had a creeping feeling it was about to get a whole lot worse…especially if they left him like this for several hours, if not days.
“King Vaelor has rejected every claim of mine for taxes, no doubt because he fears the Trifect more than he fears me. That, and their bribes. But Arthur has no heir, and he’s never written a will in case he does have a son. Doesn’t want anyone feeling jealous of the brat, or thinking he suddenly stole their wealth. If he dies as such, his lands will be joined with the closest lord’s.”