In the Eye of Heaven Part 10

Lady Alwen was nearly kin. He remembered her dark, desperate eyes.Like mockery, the day crept by in silence. Nothing pa.s.sed the door-neither food, nor water. Night came, and Durand lay all the hours of darkness in the deep undercroft below the fortress thinking of the woman in the tower somewhere above. What would he say for himself before the King of Heaven? They were murdering a duke's daughter. One of the crown's closest allies. Armies could ride.The next day, he had guard duty downstairs. He thanked the Host of Heaven.THE PLACE WAS hot. Uncannily hot. hot. Uncannily hot.Gol had him on the feasting hall with orders to make sure that no one left-no one got away. Waves of heat rose from the duke's naked skull like an upturned cauldron.At noon, shouts erupted from the entry stair. One of Gol's men sprawled into the hall, landing on his backside.And then, into the silent heat, tramped a double file of strange men in gold robes. They were priests, though a few had the fierce and bearded look of barbarous warriors despite their robes.

The most formidable was the last to enter: a man over six feet tall who sported a beard like a whole black bearskin. As the others took up positions either side of the door, this man strode slowly into the heat and darkness of the hall. He wore enough wealth for a prince. He was the Patriarch of Ferangore. Where the eye of the merest village priest could leave a man breathless and twisting, exorcism and d.a.m.nation crackled in the Patriarch's eyes. He and those like him were the fist and heel of the Lord of Dooms in His Creation.

The Patriarch crossed his arms over his vast beard and surveyed the feasting hall, taking in everything. He grimaced at the unnatural heat of the air. Every soldier shunned his glance; they all knew about the girl and her child."I summoned you, Radomor," said this man, his voice filling the room. "You did not attend me."The Rooks were moving, bowing and sc.r.a.ping like snakes and curs round Radomor's ankles. One raised upturned hands and smiled. "His Lordship has been occupied with other matters, Your Grace."

The Patriarch's dark eyes flashed toward the little man for an instant, but he stabbed his fingers at Radomor.

"I have heard what you are doing here! I have seen. My priests attended the fire in the city. You have murdered a man. You have burned his hall. It is enough. Your wife and child, you must free. Already, you have gone beyond the bounds of law and custom in this thing, taking matters into your own hands. Think of your grandfather who lies in the high sanctuary. Think of your father who prays at Mantlewell. I know you are a man who acts in earnest. I know you are an honorable man. A man who does not brook betrayal. But I tell you, there is more to learn from betrayal than hatred. Know that the Host Below watches the great ones of Creation." The man's eyes flared in a glance that took in the whole keep and the sickening heat of the air. "Know that the wrath of the righteous is a snare."

Radomor blinked once, slowly. He should not have been able to move under the stare of such a priest The Rooks sneered up from his ankles.

"Radomor, son of Ailnor," said the Patriarch, "truly I tell you that no good will come of your a.s.sociation with these new counselors. Word of what happened at the Battle of Hallow Down has reached us here. The miracle of your recovery. And I tell you: Creation is a precarious thing. Man tampers with it at his great peril. Beyond the protection of Heaven's Host are things past imagining. As real as you or I, the Banished and the Lost are groping now." The man spread crabbed hands against the hot air. "Here. Hunting for the merest flaw in the walls of this Creation. Ask what these men do. Ask them how they scrabble at those cracks."

He stopped, lungs heaving. Sweat rolled and gleamed over his face.

"I have said what I have come to say, Lord Radomor. You have had your warning. Stop now and hope remains for you."

Despite the heat, Radomor's face was dry.

One of the Rooks beamed. "We are very pleased that you have come to speak with us, Your Grace."

His brother Rook nodded. "Yes. Very pleased."

Now the Patriarch held them in his eye. They should have frozen. They should have died.

"It has been most diverting," said one. "Yes," said the other.

"And you have certainly caused us to think." More nodding. "Yes. It is a great deal to think about." "The thought of those things beyond imagining. Groping." He clawed his hands for a moment. "Yes."

The two men stopped and smiled at the Patriarch.

The old priest grimly raised his chin and looked beyond the Rooks to Radomor, enthroned. "Remember my words," he said. And, after a long look at every man in that room, he abandoned the Great Hall of Ferangore.

The Rooks chuckled into the vaults.

ONLY THE R ROOKS moved freely as the vigil wore on. moved freely as the vigil wore on.

Though Durand was a guard, he had become a prisoner. This much was clear to him. And the longer he remained, the more certain he became that Radomor would never relent and that Alwen and her son were doomed. Gol had his eyes on them all, waiting for the first of them to move.

Once more saved from the high tower, Durand played guard now at the top of the keep's entry stair. The oven heat of the feasting hall was on his face and the chill dark of the steps on his neck.

Red blades of dusk had begun to probe the gloom when Durand heard an excited slapping of soles down below. The bottom door rattled, and conversation murmured. As Durand peered down, a stranger was marching up the stairway from the entrance with a Rook at either hand.

Sleek, agile, and armed, this was no Patriarch.

For an instant, Durand, the Rooks, and the stranger crowded at the top of the stair. Then one of the black creatures flashed Durand a grin and scurried into the Great Hall. The remaining Rook favored Durand and the stranger both with a grin as cordial as a corpse's leer.

Durand stood his ground, barring the stranger's pa.s.sage. Though the man seemed half Durand's size, he stood poised on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet, even at his ease. Black hair swept from a face of wide cheekbones and intelligent eyes. There were threads of gray at his temples. White linen slashes marked his black fighting surcoat A sword hung from a knight's belt about his hips.

The Rook kept up his sickly grinning.

Meanwhile, the Rook's brother had bowed low before Lord Radomor.

"Milord, I am sorry to intrude."Radomor's dark eyes moved.

"There is a guest," the Rook pressed. "A deputation. This one, I think, you will wish to see. Baron Ca.s.sonel of Damaryn."

Durand woke up at the name. The stranger raised an eyebrow.

"Baron Ca.s.sonel is high in the employ of the Duke of Beoran," said the Rook. "Was his champion. Now is his greatest liegeman. If you indulge us, Lordship, my brother will conduct him into your presence."

The stranger, Baron Ca.s.sonel of Damaryn, looked from Durand's face to the feasting hall of Ferangore, and Durand stepped aside. Every fighting man in Errest knew of Baron Ca.s.sonel. One in ten thousand, he had fought his way from knight-errantry to a place at a duke's side. The sword at his hip was Termagant, a High Kingdom blade of a thousand winters. There was a story of him at the prince's tournament in Tern Gyre, when Durand was a boy, besting every fighting man in the retinue of the Duke of Beoran, one after another. Now he was a baron and the duke his liege lord. As the man stalked out, everyone in the hall held still.

Ca.s.sonel bowed.

"His Grace, Ludegar, Duke of Beoran, sends greetings," the man said. His voice fit him well: circ.u.mspect "He bids me to offer his respect and admiration to his cousin the Lord Radomor, heir to Ailnor, now Duke of Yrlac."

Radomor leveled his gaze upon the newcomer and uttered the first words Durand had heard from the man since the tower. "Not to my father himself?"

"Your Lordship," Ca.s.sonel confirmed."And you ride messenger?"

"I believe His Grace chose his messenger to demonstrate the esteem in which he holds his cousin."

Radomor closed his eyes. "What would my cousin have you say?"

Ca.s.sonel glanced around the room, even meeting Durand's stare for an instant. Some twenty people would overhear any word that might be uttered. Some men shifted.

"You may say what you will, Baron Ca.s.sonel," Radomor said. "It does not matter."

The swordsman-lord made a slow, shallow nod. "Among the magnates of the kingdom, there is concern over the policies and practices of His Highness, Ragnal, now King of Errest: his intervention in the Heithan Marches, the debacle in Caldura, the patrols on the far borders of the East. In five short years, they have emptied the treasury and thrown the king into the hands of moneylenders."

"I fought in the Heithan Marches, Baron Ca.s.sonel."

"Last survivor of the king's vanguard at Hallow Down. Your heroism is well known."

"Since my grandfather's time, many men have come to this court," Radomor said. "Always, the answer has been the same."

Ca.s.sonel nodded a grave and shallow bow. Durand found his gaze drawn to the man's blade. Ca.s.sonel rested his hand on the pommel.

"I am sure it is so, Lord Radomor. But I am bound to press the case. Your grandsire, great Carondas, is a king of cherished memory. Only in his winter years did he set aside the Evenstar Crown, childless and fearful that Errest would suffer if he should die without issue. It was for the kingdom that he pa.s.sed the Evenstar to Bren, his brother. It was for the kingdom that he married the lady of Yrlac and took this seat. He could not know that he would father a child so late in his life. Many wonder at the miracle of your father's birth, and its meaning."

Radomor shifted. "And still, Ragnal is king."

"A king who, I am asked to explain, has stripped the domains of minor heirs in his wardship beyond recovery. Who has sold possessions, stolen moneys set aside for the maintenance of the land. Orchards have been sold for timber. Forest and common lands have been put to the plow."

"Many times," Lord Radomor said, "my father was asked this same question."

"Duke Ludegar bids me remind you that he has seen widows forced into disadvantageous marriages as merchants and freed peasants buy their way into land and t.i.tles. The sons of our countrymen are made to pay extortionate fines to enter the lands of their forefathers. The wellborn of Errest are taxed without consent to the ruin of our lines."

"And I, Baron Ca.s.sonel," said Radomor, "am not the Duke of Yrlac."

The baron took a moment to glance over the faces standing round, just a fingertip now on the pommel of ancient Termagant.

"I am bidden to say, Lordship, that a window is opening that may not remain so for long. His Grace, the Duke of Cape Earne-a man of thoughtless fidelity-is gravely ill. His son has already been informed of the fine he must pay to enter his inheritance." He inclined his head a fraction toward Radomor. "I am asked to say that it is a sum both beyond reason and beyond the ability of the boy to pay."

Radomor's thumb curled in the carved arm of his father's throne. "The balance of the Great Council shifts."

"This I cannot say.""My father would never agree."

"My duke bids me remind you that yours is the blood of kings. Yours is the sacred lineage unbroken, through invasion to the Cradle Cradle and the fall of the Shattered Isle. With respect, he a.s.serts that the realm cannot long endure a profligate ruler." and the fall of the Shattered Isle. With respect, he a.s.serts that the realm cannot long endure a profligate ruler."

The baron bowed, gaze firmly on the face of the man in the duke's throne. Even in the heat of the hall, a chill pa.s.sed over Durand. It was patricide they suggested. It was high treason.

"Even now, arrangements are being made," said Ca.s.sonel. "Duke Ludegar can make an easy way."

Lord Radomor held his fearsome silence.

"Your men will know how to send your answer," Ca.s.sonel concluded. "I must leave you to consider. But remember, the Great Council meets before the snows."

With this, Ca.s.sonel stalked toward Durand and the entry stair. Durand ought to have cut the man's head from his shoulders-no matter how futile the act. Instead, Durand stepped aside.

The Rooks followed Ca.s.sonel down the stair. Durand stood in the dark with his fists knotted. It was treason. He had seen and been seen, and he was trapped. More of Gol's men watched the door downstairs, and a room full lurked in the hall behind him. He would never get free.

Then, from that hall, Durand heard a whisper. "I'm not sure I like this."

Durand caught his breath. The voice was familiar: Mulcer's whisper skittering down the vaults from somewhere in the Great Hall.

"For G.o.d's sake, do as you're told." Durand could hear Gol's clenched teeth.

"I don't know, Gol. All I thought was we're finally catching hold. Getting a place in a lord's retinue. Now, I wish we'd left these two skulking wretches back on Hallow Down."

"You've got no b.l.o.o.d.y choice."

"What are we doing? Eh? We hire that new lad on. What do we look like? A pack of monsters out of some children's tale."

"We're b.l.o.o.d.y well doing what we're paid to do. It's too late for backing out now, friend."

There was someone dying upstairs.

As Durand listened for another word, he believed himself to be alone in the dark. Like sorcery, then, two grinning faces emerged in front of him: the Rooks. They held him in their eyes, then each raised a hushing finger to his lips. It was all Durand could do not to bolt.

WHEN THE RED fingers of dusk left the arrow loops, Durand left the feasting hall and joined the others sleeping in the undercroft. He worked at his hand. Exhaustion pinned him to the stones and held him asleep. fingers of dusk left the arrow loops, Durand left the feasting hall and joined the others sleeping in the undercroft. He worked at his hand. Exhaustion pinned him to the stones and held him asleep.

HE WOKE, HOURS later, to a voice, purring, "It is dangerous to be a little wise. Better to be a fool, I think. Too late now. We are sorry to lose you. Oh yes." later, to a voice, purring, "It is dangerous to be a little wise. Better to be a fool, I think. Too late now. We are sorry to lose you. Oh yes."

Durand's eyes opened in the black vaults of the undercroft.A voice growled. Durand recognized Mulcer.

Shapes were moving: a black figure-one of the Rooks- squatted over the blond soldier. Mulcer moved, but the Rook raised a hand-just fingertips-though their touch struck the soldier like a pickaxe. He writhed, pinned to the floor like a man in the throws of a seizure. The Rook bent low, close as a grandmother over a cradle. Durand had a dagger, he would use it.

The Rook was lowering his lips, smiling over Mulcer's rigid face. He reached with his fingers-both hands now- peeling lips apart and prying jaws open. Durand made to s.n.a.t.c.h the dagger, but sudden as lightning, a spasm clamped him, too. He looked up into the leer of the second Rook, crouching low over him now, as though he had seen into Durand's mind. A finger of the creature's right hand, the longest sat on the pulse of blood in Durand's throat, and with each heartbeat Durand's muscles wound tighter, creaking his clenched teeth and popping the st.i.tches in his boots.

Through it all, Durand could hear something whispering. Not the Rooks. Many voices, like a rumor pa.s.sing over a crowded room. He could almost feel the breath of their conversations.

His eyes bulged. He strained to find Mulcer. The man struggled with the Rook locked on his mouth. Rhythmic convulsions pried Mulcer's shoulders from the floor, and the Rook was a puppeteer, riding him, drifting above him, pulling with long fingers. Never did he let go. The man's back arched higher and higher, cracking like knuckles.

All the while, the whispering grew louder. Durand could feel their words. The whisperers were coming. An uncanny glow swelled into Creation, filling the room. Durand's eyes rolled to find the source. From every sleeping mouth a tongue of pallid flame now wavered, as the Rooks' pull was drawing out their souls. Any moment, it would all come to pieces.

Then, with a hollow groan, Mulcer collapsed. There was silence.

The Rook grinned to his brother. He seemed to notice Durand, and his smile broadened. A grotesque bulge in the Rook's throat distracted the man a moment then he set a silencing finger over his lips.

The nearby twin released his grip, and Durand sagged free. Mulcer was dead.

And Durand could hardly move.

7. Mantlewell

He was on the door again. He was never alone. Two days had pa.s.sed with the door shut From time to time, the baby's piping cry stirred. He knew the door would never open, and that he could not face the King of Heaven if he allowed things to stand as they were. Too much was happening. He would not help Lord Radomor murder his wife, no matter how she had betrayed him. More than Ca.s.sonel's treason, this this ate at Durand's mind. ate at Durand's mind.

His first impulse was to grab the bar and rush the woman and her child down the stair. The guard standing beside him would have to be put down, of course. Durand could take the man's sword. There would also be the men at the bottom of the stair, the guards in the feasting hall, the men on the keep doors, and a whole city kicked alive like an anthill.

The sword would help there. Oh yes. A smart man wouldn't take on an entire city without, at least, a good sword. Another tack.

He eyed the dull curve of the guard's helmet. If he knocked the man down and yanked opened the door, he might be able to lower the woman and her child to the courtyard from her window without worrying about Radomor's retinue in the keep. It worked for skalds: heroes with bed linens shinnying down towers.

He tried to picture it: fifteen fathoms to the cobblestones with a woman and her baby twisting at the end of bedsheets. A good bedsheet might get him five feet. If Alwen happened to have twenty stout blankets in that room, he stood a chance.

He closed his eyes, mentally changing tacks once more. He must set aside the hopeless heroism. A man might reason with Radomor. Confront him. He saw himself, a stranger in that dark feasting hall, ranting about the man's adulterous wife. It was hopeless, but he could think of no one in all the realms of Creation who stood a better chance. Poor Lady Alwen could not do it. Only the Rooks spoke to the man now.

But Durand had forgotten: This wasn't Radomor's land. Ferangore and Yrlac didn't belong to him; they were old Duke Ailnor's holdings. This was Ailnor's house, and, by all accounts, the Duke of Yrlac was an honorable man who must see all this for the insanity it was.

Sadly, the duke was not in his city.

Durand pawed the back of his neck, grinding out the frustration he must hide from the other guard.

What use was the duke when he was leagues away? Durand looked at the ironbound door. The duke might return at any time, but there was a real danger that Lady Alwen could wait no longer. And how long could the baby live? A few days more, at most. If there was no water locked in that chamber with them, it must be less.

Before he could work out the odds, Durand turned to the other guard. "Going downstairs." The man blinked back at him, more surprised than Durand-just. "You'd best watch here till I get back," he added, and slipped into the stairwell.

This time, before Durand reached the oven heat and armed guards of the Great Hall, he ducked into a side pa.s.sage. Here, he found himself in a corridor lined with arches.

Taking a breath of free air, Durand glanced down the first of these hollow arches, and found himself looking down on the bald head of Lord Radomor himself. Both Rooks twitched from their perches at the touch of his glance-black robes trembling like the legs of spiders. Durand flinched back. They would kill him but that was the least of it: There was more than just his life at risk.