A Man Betrayed (38 page)

There was no doubt
in Baralis' mind that she would have been incinerated on the spot. The only
thing that saved her was the speed of his reflexes. By sending his own drawing
out, he had managed to divert the force. He had taken the backlash upon
himself. There had been no other way; split seconds never made for clever
strategy. With barely an instant to ready himself for the blow, he'd done what
he could-the beginnings of a shielding, nothing more. Still, he had survived
while Catherine would not have stood a chance. Survival wasn't only in his
blood, it was in every cell, in every nerve, in every breath of his body. It
would take more than a failed knight with an actively fighting fate to finish
him off.

The combination of
pain and drugs was dizzying. His head reeled and his body protested even the
slightest of movements. Under the covers lay bandages and under the bandages
lay bums. The skin on his chest was seared like a piece of meat. It would take
weeks, even months, to recover. Still there were options. He might be weak, but
his powers of sorcery were already recovering. The drawing he performed last
night was nothing: a tangent sent out to divert, a tilt upon a table. As long
as he didn't do anything too physical, too challenging, he might still draw
upon his source.

There were certain
techniques that he'd learned in the wild expanse of the Great Plains. Techniques
that specialized in using a person's life force as a stepping stone to
recovery.

A gentle drawing
was all that was needed. The victim provided his own fuel. It had to be done;
he could not afford to spend the next few months confined to a sickbed like an
invalid. He needed new skin for his chest.

"Inform the
lady I cannot see her now, Crope," said Baralis softly. "Tell her I
beg her forgiveness but I am. . ." He thought for a moment. Was it better
to hide his weakness, or was there more profit to be gained from playing the
martyr? ". . . too ill to receive visitors." Catherine might emerge
more pliable after she'd stewed a while in her own guilty juices.

"But, master,
it is the duke's daughter," said Crope, obviously worried about turning
away such an elevated visitor. "Send her away." Yes, let her sit and
worry for a while. She would be most anxious that he not reveal last night's
little episode to her father. After all, there could be only one reason why she
wanted the duke's champion to win the fight. Sweet Catherine was not as
innocent as she looked. Baralis managed a wisp of a smile. Things may have
turned out for the best: he now had a measure of power over the duke's
daughter. The fact that she had turned up at his chambers so early in the morning
was a sure sign that she was worried he might use it.

Crope returned.
Every heavy step reverberated in the tender tissue of Baralis' chest. "She
has gone, master, but she begged me . . ." the huge giant struggled over
the exact wording ". . . she begged me to give you her deepest
sympathy."

"Good."
He had expected no less. A fit of coughing wracked his already frail body. The
pain was distant, like a scene viewed through mist. Although the drugs were
strong, they could only mask, not heal. There was so much to be done; the
betrothal was due to be finalized, the marriage date had not been set, the
court of Bren was still nervous of the match, and at any moment Kylock could
take it into his head to invade Halcus and put everything in jeopardy. Now more
than ever he needed to be fit to fight.

Baralis cursed the
knight. Anyone else would have succumbed to the drawing, either that or sent it
back in its original amateurish form. Absorbing such a blow would have left
Baralis with nothing more than a headache and a mild chest pain. Instead he'd
ended up with a section of skin burnt from his body. When he'd watched the man
die in Hanatta, the original drawing had been strong and true; not so with
Catherine's feeble attempt. The knight must have a strong fate indeed to send
it back with such force. It suddenly occurred to Baralis that he didn't know
the outcome of the fight.

"Crope,"
he called, too weak to raise his voice above a whisper. "Who won the fight
last night?"

"The knight
did, master. Blayze was beaten good and proper." Crope smiled, pleased to
be a source of information. He busied himself preparing a mixture of wine
fortified with herbs. For the first time Baralis realized that his servant had
probably been awake all through the night tending him. "Go take some rest,
Crope," he said.

The man shook his
head adamantly. "No, master. I stay here until you're better."

"Very well,
but you must sleep later. Tomorrow I will need your special help." If he
was going to perform a quick healing, he would need Crope to find him a victim.
It could wait for a day, though; he was not strong enough just yet to perform
the necessary drawing.

Baralis' thoughts
returned to the knight. "How did the duke react when his champion
lost?"

"He made the
knight his new champion on the spot."

A small piece of
the puzzle fell into place: the knight was obviously fated to be the defender
of the duke's heir. He would need watching. Who could tell what part he might
have to play? Baralis tried to keep his mind focused. His job was to search out
anyone or anything that might have some bearing on what was to come. He cast
his thoughts back to the instant when the power had hit him. The memory was
fire and brimstone, yet amidst the pain something was revealed: a glimpse of
the man who had shaped the sending. Every hair on Baralis' body prickled
against the sheets. Powerful people were involved in the knight's fate.
Tavalisk, Lam, Bevlin. The three emerged like ghosts from the backlash.

What did it mean?
Bevlin was a name he hadn't heard in over ten years; a mystic who spent his
days sifting through old prophesies and predicting doom with spiteful glee.
Larn, a place of power and seering; and lastly Tavalisk, the greatest
mischief-maker in the Known Lands. How did they all fit in with the knight?

Baralis shifted
impatiently against the sheets. He needed to be well; people needed contacting,
motives had to be discovered. Nothing could be left to chance. Never in his
life had he felt so frustrated. The only thing he could do today was rest. How
he despised his own frailty. "Bring me the red-stoppered jar," he
called to Crope. In it was his most potent sleeping draught; if he couldn't
act, then he might as well be insensible to the world. When he next woke up, he
would be stronger, able to work as well as think. His hand trembled as he
brought the jar to his lips. Never had there been so much for him to do.

Melli had found a
large beetle scurrying across the floor of her room and was busy making its
life miserable. She was decidedly bored. What had her life come to when the
only way of passing the time was to torment a poor unsuspecting insect? There
was always eating, of course. She let the beetle scurry off and turned her
attention to the breakfast tray. The bacon and sausages had all been eaten while
hot, and only cold roast fowl remained. That and some rather soft and
yeasty-tasting bread. The jug of wine was well watered, so there was little
chance of getting drunk to relieve the tedium. All in all, it was not a very
appetizing selection. The kitchens of Bren were sadly lacking in creativity.

So was the person
who'd furnished her room: bare stone walls and floors, a bed, a chest, a minor,
and a washstand. From the circular sweep of the walls, Melli judged that she
was in a tower, or a turret. There was a high, narrow window, but the view was
of nothing but sky.

Tearing off a
chunk of the loaf, Melli fell back on the bed and began to chew on the moist
and doughy bread. Last night had proven quite entertaining, indeed. The duke
had not been what she expected. He was arrogant, yes, but also rather
interesting. She liked the way he dressed plainly, not indulging himself in
satins and silks. Growing up with her father, Melli had grown used to men who
spent as much time and money on their appearances as the greatest of court
beauties. In fact, all of Queen Arinalda's court had been centered around the
importance of show. Not so with Bren. The duke didn't seem interested in
finery. His clothes were plain, his rooms were bare, and if the food was
anything to go by, his staff was not chosen for their skills at the hearth.

Melli had to admit
that she was a little impressed with his knowledge of the kingdoms, and perhaps
a little intimidated, too. With all his charts and lists, he had been like a
merchant keeping stock of his assets. He was obviously expecting to take the
leading role in the alliance. And he was the sort of man who got what he
expected.

The bolt whirred
softly and then the door swung open. "Quite an appetite, I see," said
the duke.

Melli, who had been
lying spread-eagled on the bed, scrambled to compose herself. In the split
second that it took her to sit up, surprise turned to indignation. "How
dare you walk in here unannounced!" she cried. Her words were not quite as
cutting as she hoped due to the mouthful of bread she was still chewing.

"I dare
because I own this palace and all that is in it, including you, my lady of
Deepwood."

"Is paying
the only way you can get a woman?" Melli was up off the bed in an
instant-if he was going to slap her this time, she was not going to make it
easy by being a sitting target.

"I see a good
night's rest has failed to mellow your tongue." The duke was cool, perhaps
even a little amused. It was difficult to tell.

"I see a good
night's rest has failed to improve your manners." Now that she had
recovered from the shock of him actually visiting her, Melli was beginning to
feel rather exhilarated. It was a welcome change from taunting beetles.
"To what do I owe this pleasure? Have you come here to interrogate me
about my homeland? Perhaps I know the locations of some forests you failed to
circle."

The duke smiled.
"I doubt it." He walked into the room. Although not a large man, his
presence seemed to fill the remaining space. Melli felt as if she could barely
move without touching him. "I have come to apologize."

Melli actually
laughed. The idea of this imperious, unemotional man apologizing to her seemed
ludicrous. "For slapping me, I suppose?"

"No, you
deserved that. I came to apologize fbr dismissing you so abruptly, especially
after you appeared to be taken ill."

Taken ill? Melli
was confused for a moment, until she realized he was referring to the few
minutes that she'd spent fighting off the foretelling. The sight of her
grabbing hold of the desk for support must have been a little strange, to say
the least. Melli tried to play the incident down.

"I was tired,
nothing more."

"Aah,"
said the duke. "If I remember correctly, your tiredness came on just after
the mention of Bren's armies."

"Did it? I
really can't recall." Melli didn't like the way the subject was
progressing. "Anyway, I accept your apology. Though I think you owe me
another one for barging in here without as much as a knock to reveal your
approach." The apology was just an excuse, she was certain of it. The duke
didn't strike her as a man who would waste his breath on such a trifle.

"A second
apology is out of the question," he said. "I rarely have cause to
regret my actions." His hand rested on the hilt of his sword. It seemed
strange that a man would wear such a keen blade and not shield it with a
scabbard, unless, of course, his aim was to intimidate. The duke looked around
the room. "Bailor told me that you asked if you could take a walk in the
grounds."

"And if I
did?"

"Tomorrow I
will be leaving for my hunting lodge in the mountains. You will accompany
me."

Melli didn't know
whether to be annoyed at his arrogance, or excited by the prospect of leaving
the palace. Before she had a chance to decide how to react, the duke made his
way to the door.

He bowed-a curt,
soldierly gesture. "Until tomorrow," he said, and then left.

The jug of wine
was in her hand before the bolt had been fully drawn. Watered or not, she
needed a drink. It was without a doubt the most insipid mix she'd ever tasted,
and it required a good half a jug to produce any effects.

What was the man
up to? An apology? Very unlikely. He had just ordered her to accompany him on a
trip; if courtesy was his motive, then he surely would have taken the trouble
to veil the order in the polite guise of an invitation. No. The good duke had
another motive, and as the wine slowly worked its way into her bloodstream,
warming her skin and loosening her thoughts, she began to realize what it was.

A knock preceded
the second drawing of the bolt. In walked Bailor. Melli didn't feel inclined to
right herself this time. Instead, she lounged on the bed, pouring the last of
the wine into her cup.

Bailor looked a
little saddened at what he saw. "A pretty girl like yourself shouldn't be
drinking so much before noon."

"Your concern
touches me deeply," Melli said. "I'm sure the wine which accompanies
my next tray will owe a greater debt to the well rather than the vintner."

Ignoring what she
said, Bailor began to pace around the room. He was wearing a rather fine robe
in green silk and it flapped behind him like a broken wing. "The duke
appears quite taken with you, my dear."

Melli looked
Bailor straight in the eye and said, "I know." It was the only
possible explanation for the lame excuse and the trip to the hunting lodge. Why
hadn't it occurred to her sooner? At Castle Harvell she had grown accustomed to
the attentions of men, why should Bren, or for that matter, its duke, be any
different?

"He summoned
me to an audience only this morning," Bailor continued, rubbing his hands
together in excitement, "asking about you. Who you are, where you came
from. I wouldn't be surprised if he called for you again today."