There were a dozen boys coming up the steps behind the captain.
The captain indicated them with a shift of his eyes. ‘New recruits. Archers.’
Tom nodded. They were likely boys – he’d been eyeing them himself – yeomen’s sons, all big, well-fed lads with good shoulders and muscles. At their head was a boy who looked as if he might, in time, be as tall as Tom himself.
Tom nodded again, and as he rounded the table to greet the recruits he slammed his fist into Low Sym’s head. ‘Don’t move,’ he said.
‘I’ll be in my Commandery,’ the captain said.
Tom bowed, and turned to the boys. ‘Who here can shoot a bow?’ he asked.
‘There’s one other,’ the captain said. ‘Red Beve is lying in the courtyard with a busted noggin. Captain’s court tomorrow for both. Nice and public, Tom.’
Captain’s court was official – not a casual ten lashes and no questions asked situation, but for a crime for which the captain might have a man broken, or executed.
The captain nodded at the boys. ‘Tell the truth and do your best. We don’t take everyone, and your parents have to agree,’ he said.
Tom all but choked on laughter, but the Red Knight was good at this – he was a fine recruiter, while Tom had never been able to recruit anyone for anything unless he had a club in one hand and a whip in the other. We don’t take everyone. He allowed a laugh to escape his gut.
‘Let’s go down to the archery butts and see what you boys are made of,’ he said in what he thought was his kindliest voice. Then he leaned down to Sym. ‘Best lie still, laddy. Captain means to have your guts on a stick.’
Then he followed the boys down the steps to the courtyard.
The captain leaned on the railing of the hoardings that had been assembled outside his Commandery – in effect, giving him a covered and armoured porch that jutted from the walls four hundred feet above the plain. He was watching a party of men – captives? They had to be captives – under the direction of something horrible. They were digging trenches.
As far as his eyes could see, men and monsters were digging trenches. It was a maze – a pattern that he suspected was deliberate, and the scope of it was inhuman and both grotesque and awe-inspiring. The trenches were not in concentric rings, like those a professional soldier would have built – they clung to the ground, marking the edges of every contour like a tight fitting kirtle on a curvaceous woman.
Someone had planned it, and now drove it to execution. In one day.
He wanted Amicia. He wanted to talk to her, but he was too tired and the fortress was too full to find her. But he knew another way – if she was on her bridge. All it required was that he open his door a little. He reached to-
Enter the room. He waved at his tutor, Prudentia, and walked to the iron-bound door.
‘Don’t,’ she said.
She’d been telling him not to do things his entire life and, mostly, he ignored her.
‘You can’t trust her,’ Prudentia said. ‘And Thorn is right outside that door. He waiting for you.’
‘He has to sleep sometime.’
‘Stop!’
He put his whole weight against the door – his whole dream weight – and turned the handle until the tumbler clicked-
And the door slammed back against its hinges and a solid green fog roared into his chamber, enough power to light a city – ten cities-
North of Lissen Carak – Thorn
Thorn grinned as he felt the dark sun – felt him surface to the world of power – and he sent all his power along the contact lines to bind him. No more hesitation. Men of power always tried a direct challenge. Thorn was ready.
Lissen Carak – The Abbess
The Abbess felt the rising tide of Wild power and stopped – she was feeding bits of chicken to her bird, and the plate of raw chicken fell to the marble floor. There couldn’t be this much power in her fortress – she reached out and felt him-
North of Lissen Carak – Thorn
Thorn felt her golden brilliance and he paused, licking at it to taste her, amazed at her potency. Delighted, saddened, angered, guilt-ridden-
Utterly distracted.
The Memory Palace – The Red Knight
He lay on the floor, and Prudentia was trying to reach him, her marble hand inches from his own – her hand and the black and white parquetry tiles were the only things he could see in the roiling, choking cloud of green, the green of trees in high summer. He was pinned to the floor – he could see the shape of the cage closing over him, a phantasm so potent that he could only breathe his wonder as it crushed him – it hesitated. He strained, but it was too powerful, even as it seemed to lose its focus, and he pushed against it his mind screaming ‘Fool, fool, fool-’
The door slammed shut leaving him lying crumpled in the corner of his armoured balcony.
The old Magus stood over him, his staff still glowing, and wisps of fae-fire played along its length. ‘Well, well,’ the old man said. ‘That would be your mother in you, I suspect.’
The captain tried to get to his feet and found himself boneless and almost unable to move his arms. ‘You have the advantage of me,’ he said softly.
The old Magus offered him a hand. ‘So I do. I am Harmodius, Royal Magus, and you are Lord Gabriel Moderatus Murien – Anna’s son.’ He smiled grimly. ‘The Viscount Murien. Don’t try and deny it, you little imp. Your mother thinks you’re dead, but I knew who you were the moment I saw you.’ He got the captain to his feet, and led him across the room to a chair.
Jacques came in with a cocked and loaded arbalest. It was smoothly done – Harmodius had no chance to react.
‘Say the word, my lord, and he’s dead,’ Jacques said.
‘You heard,’ the captain said. He felt as if he had the worst hangover of his life.
‘I heard,’ Jacques said. The bolt-head on the trough of the crossbow didn’t waver.
The captain took in a shaky breath. ‘Why shouldn’t I have you killed?’ he asked the Magus.
‘Is your petty secret worth the lives of everyone in the castle?’ the Magus asked. ‘None of you will live through this without me. Even with me the odds are long. In the name of the Trinity, boy, you just felt his power.’
The captain wished he could think. The Magus’ use of his name – Gabriel – had hit him as hard as the green cage had. He didn’t even allow himself to think the name Gabriel. ‘I have killed, and allowed men to die, to protect my secret,’ he said.
‘Time to stop doing that, then,’ said the Magus.
Jacques didn’t move, and his voice was calm. ‘Why don’t you just shut up about it?’ He shrugged, but the shrug never reached the crossbow bolt’s tip. ‘You being the mighty King’s Magus, and all. You stop talking about some dead boy’s name, and we can all go on together?’
‘Three in a secret,’ the captain muttered.
The Magus pursed his lips. ‘I’ll give my word not to disclose what I know – if you give me yours to talk to me about it. When and if this is over.’
The captain felt as if the floor had dropped from under his feet, and all he wanted to do was jump into the hole and hide. ‘Fine,’ he said. He remembered that Gawin Murien was lying in the hospital, almost exactly over his head. Four in a secret, and one my enemy, he thought. My lovely brother.
‘I so swear, by my power,’ the Magus said.
The captain forced himself to raise his head. ‘At ease, Jacques,’ he said. ‘He’s just sworn an oath that binds – if he breaks it, his own power will be crippled.’ He turned back to the Magus. ‘You saved my life,’ he said.
‘Ah – some shred of courtesy survives in you. Yes, boy, I saved you from a grisly death – he wanted your power for his own.’ The horrible old man grinned. ‘He was going to eat your soul.’