Brion DeGrange sat in his study, nursing a glass of wine and staring at it bitterly. There was a time he’d been a real drinking man, but not anymore. The geas wouldn’t let him do anything to himself that might interfere with his duties as head of security. The bastard spell wouldn’t let him get drunk, no matter how much he needed to. One glass of wine an evening, sometimes two. A mug of beer with his dinner. And that was it. He couldn’t get drunk, he couldn’t run away, and he couldn’t even kill himself, let alone the men who’d done this to him. DeGrange scowled at his half-empty glass. He might have been an outlaw, but at least he usually granted his enemies the kindness of a quick death. And he’d never kept slaves.
One day, he would have his revenge. One day.
Until then, he worked hard as head of castle security. Partly because the geas demanded it, but mainly because it wasn’t in his nature to do sloppy work. If he did something, his pride demanded that he do it well. He’d never been able to settle for being second best. Even if that meant killing the man in front of him. DeGrange grinned wolfishly. That was what had got him outlawed, all those years ago, and he’d never regretted it. The bastard shouldn’t have got in his way. He winced as a familiar headache began, pounding dully in his temples. The geas was warning him. If he persisted in dwelling on his past as an outlaw and the things he’d done, the headache would grow worse, until the pain drove him screaming into unconsciousness. He’d learned the hard way that there was no profit in trying to fight the geas.
He concentrated on calm, neutral thoughts, with the bitter ease of long practice. When all was said and done, security at Castle Midnight was never less than interesting. On a good day he could lose himself in his work and go for hours on end without remembering he was a slave. The pain in his temples slowly began to subside, and DeGrange sighed heavily. He drank his wine, hardly noticing the taste. He was getting maudlin again. It was the approaching autumn that did it. He’d always loved riding through the forests in the fall, the changing leaves hanging around the trees like bronzed tatters … he missed the forests. He hadn’t been able to set foot outside Castle Midnight in seven years.
He looked about him, taking in the bare walls of his study. It wasn’t a large room, but it was warm, comfortable, and private. He’d lived in much worse, in his time. He called it his study, but actually it was his bedroom and living room as well. No sense in wasting precious space on a slave, after all. It wasn’t as if he was going to object. The room would have been too small for two people, but there was only DeGrange. There had been a woman once, who’d warmed his heart and given him a reason for living, but the king’s men had cut her down when they stormed his camp. If she’d lived, she would have been twenty-nine this year. DeGrange hadn’t found anyone else after her. The geas saw to that. A close personal attachment might interfere with his duties.
DeGrange shook his head slowly, tears burning unshed in his eyes, gripped again by a familiar feeling of utter frustration. He was trapped, he couldn’t escape, and he couldn’t even strike out at his jailers. DeGrange threw his glass aside, and his hands clenched into fists. He struck out at the tabletop before him, slamming his fists against the unyielding wood over and over again. When he finally stopped, his hands were bruised and bloody and the warning headache throbbed fiercely in his temples. He hated himself for his weakness, but he hated Count Roderik more, and finally that hatred gave him the strength to regain his calm again. One day the geas might relax its grip on him, if only for a moment, or Roderik might make some foolish mistake. When that chance came, DeGrange was determined not to miss it.
There was a peremptory knock at his door. DeGrange quickly thrust his bloody hands out of sight under the table. The door swung open, and Count Roderik walked in without waiting to be asked. The door was never locked: DeGrange wasn’t allowed a key.
“What can I do for you, my lord?” said DeGrange. His voice was carefully calm and polite.
“The Regent’s summoned Lewis, Dominic, and Viktor to a special audience at Court,” said Roderik. “Why didn’t you warn me about this?”
“It’s the first I’ve heard about it, my lord.” DeGrange frowned. “I should have heard something … Either this was a very sudden decision, or he’s discovered that I’m your man first, and his second.”
“Lewis and Dominic weren’t at Court when the actor and I got there.” Roderik paced back and forth in the small room. “They should have got there first. What’s keeping them?”
“I can venture an educated guess,” said DeGrange calmly. He loved to see Roderik getting rattled. “Lewis and Dominic’s private troops have been jockeying for position in the castle for days. If the Regent’s troops weren’t there to enforce the peace, there’d have been open fighting in the corridors by now. Presumably Lewis and Dominic are waiting till the last possible moment to leave their own areas, while their troops make sure it’s safe for them to walk to Court.”
“Yes. That makes sense.” Roderik stopped pacing, and looked steadily at DeGrange. “What do you make of the Great Jordan, now you’ve had time to think about him?”
“He’s arrogant and conceited, like all actors, but that’s not exactly a handicap to impersonating a prince. He’s untrustworthy, of course—he has no real reason not to be. I’ve no doubt he’d betray us in a moment if anyone put any pressure on him. But he seems competent enough. Have you left him alone at Court?”
“Of course not; Gawaine’s with him.”
“That should help to keep him safe from assassins, but if the actor’s to deal successfully with the courtiers, he’s going to need some more subtle help. Perhaps the Lady Heather …”
“Good idea. I’ll go and see her now. What would I do without you, Brion?”
Roderik smiled at him pleasantly, and turned to leave. DeGrange sat very still. Blood dripped slowly from his clenched fists. The door had just started to close behind Roderik when DeGrange surged to his feet and snatched for the sword at his side. The pain hit him before his hand could even close around the hilt, and he collapsed back onto his chair, moaning and clutching at his head. He glared dully at the closed door as the pain died slowly away. Roderik hadn’t even noticed. DeGrange sat slumped in his chair, and his agonized breathing slowly settled.
One day
, he promised himself.
One day …
Jordan was getting impatient. He’d been waiting in the Great Hall for almost half an hour, and there was still no sign of the Regent, or Lewis, or Dominic. The Court was buzzing with conversation, but he didn’t dare join in. He didn’t know enough yet to be sure of not saying the wrong thing. Gawaine stood at his side, calm and unmoving. Jordan had noticed that everyone else at Court tended to give Gawaine plenty of room. He didn’t seem to be much liked at Court, but he was certainly respected. There was a stir among the nearby courtiers, and Jordan looked around in time to see Prince Lewis’s entrance.
His men came in first: a dozen guards in full chain mail, with drawn swords. They all had the hard, untrusting faces and professional wariness of the trained bodyguard. They took their time assuring themselves there was nothing immediately threatening in the Great Hall, then they fell back to either side of the doors as Lewis walked in. He wore his usual brown and green, but a quiet murmur swept through the Court as they saw the chain mail vest he was also wearing. For a prince to wear armor at Court was an open insult to the Regent. Lewis was saying very clearly that he no longer trusted the Regent to protect his life or his interests at Court. The courtiers bowed and curtsied, and Lewis acknowledged them with a vague wave of his hand. The guards watched the courtiers carefully. Jordan studied Lewis as openly as he could without staring. He’d been told about Lewis till he could have recited the man’s life history in his sleep, but Jordan was a great believer in first impressions. Lewis looked normal enough, even handsome in his way, but there was a strained, intense look to the man that grated subtly on Jordan’s nerves. It was as though Lewis was on a tight leash that he might slip at any moment, and run loose, out of all control. Jordan also didn’t like the sleek musculature of Lewis’s chest and arms that spoke of the trained swordsman, or the way Lewis’s eyes lingered on some of the fairer ladies at Court.
Jordan turned his attention to the two companions that had followed Lewis into the hall: Ironheart and the Monk. Ironheart was a tall knight in full battle armor, a strange enough sight at Court, but if he was strange, the Monk was downright unnerving. Just looking at the Monk, Jordan felt a cold shiver run through him, as though someone had just walked over his grave. There was something almost arrogant in the impenetrable darkness that filled the Monk’s cowl, in the blatant admission of his own supernatural nature. Jordan wasn’t sure whether there really was a body inside the robe or not. The arms were folded across the chest so that the cuffs were hidden, and the end of the Monk’s robe brushed against the floor. It could be nothing more than a simple illusion—the Monk was, after all, supposed to be a sorcerer. Jordan remembered the sudden thunderstorm at Barrowmeer, and Bloody Bones rising from his grave. If the Monk had been behind that, he could be more dangerous than Lewis and Dominic put together. Jordan looked hard at the Monk. There was something …
wrong
about him. And then Jordan swallowed dryly as he finally saw that the Monk, of all the people at Court, didn’t cast a shadow.
Jordan decided he’d rather look at Ironheart for a while. The knight stood motionless, a step behind Lewis, wearing full plate armor and a blocky steel helm with the visor lowered. There was no insignia or device on his armor to give a clue as to his identity. It was a knight’s armor, but that didn’t prove anything. In fact, if he was really a knight of the Realm, why wasn’t he called Sir Ironheart? In his own way, the armored knight was as mysterious and anonymous as the Monk. And like the Monk, no one at Castle Midnight seemed too sure of where he’d come from originally. The two of them had simply appeared at Lewis’s side one day, and they’d been there ever since.
It was hard to tell which of the two was feared most. Ironheart was Lewis’s pet murderer. Under Lewis’s direction, he’d challenged seventeen men to duels and killed them all with the great double-edged broadsword he carried slung on his back. Before Ironheart came along, Lewis had been content to do his own killing, but with the crown so nearly in his grasp of late, Lewis had grown cautious. Jordan studied Ironheart carefully. The armor was old and battered, and looked like it hadn’t been polished in years, but it was still clearly in good working order. The bone hilt of the broadsword peered over his left shoulder like a watchful eye. Jordan stared at the helm’s closed visor, and frowned thoughtfully. The man must be boiling hot inside all that armor, but still had made no move to take off his helm, or even to raise the visor. In fact, he seemed perfectly at ease.
“I’m starting to get the feeling I may have joined the wrong side,” said Jordan quietly to Gawaine. “We’re supposed to take on those two? A monk who isn’t there and an armored killing machine? I think we’re seriously outclassed here, Gawaine. All right, we beat Bloody Bones, but you know and I know that was only because we got lucky. A few conjuring tricks and a magic ax aren’t going to be enough this time. I mean, we don’t even have a real sorcerer on our side! I wish I was drunk. I wish I was very drunk. Maybe then my knees would stop shaking.”
“Will you get a hold of yourself!” Gawaine’s voice was no less sharp for being quiet. “We knew about Ironheart and the Monk when we started this. They’re impressive, but not unbeatable. No one’s unbeatable. Now brace yourself, Lewis is coming over.”
Jordan quickly adopted his bland, untroubled face; the one he used when dealing with angry creditors. It was a very calm and relaxed face, with more than a little I
know something you don’t
about it. It worked very well, as often as not. Jordan breathed deeply and carefully, bringing himself under control. Show time. Nothing to worry about. Viktor was just another character. He ran quickly through what little he’d been told about Viktor and Lewis. They disliked each other, but they both hated Dominic.
Dominic is insane, and Lewis is vile …
Jordan smiled easily as Lewis came to a halt before him. Lewis bowed formally. Ironheart and the Monk stayed back a way, politely out of earshot but within easy call. They didn’t bow to Jordan, so he ostentatiously ignored them. He nodded briefly to Lewis.
“Well, Viktor, it’s good to see you up and about again,” said Lewis. His voice was warm and hearty. The smile was fairly convincing, but it didn’t even touch the cold eyes. “I had heard you were quite ill.”
“I was,” said Jordan. “I got over it.” He would have liked to leave it there rather than risk his characterization at such an early stage, but he could see Lewis was waiting for more. Going by its sudden silence, so was the Court. Jordan cleared his throat, and then wished he hadn’t. It made him sound nervous and insecure. “It was just a chill, Lewis; nothing more. I probably caught it on my travels.”
“Nasty things, chills,” said Lewis. “They can get serious. People have been known to die of them, if they don’t take care.”
Oh subtle, Lewis
, thought Jordan.
Really subtle
.
“That’s true,” he said calmly. “All kinds of people. You never know who’s going to catch one next, do you?”
“I take precautions,” said Lewis.
“So do I,” said Jordan. “Lots of them.”
“You certainly sound better. But appearances can be so misleading.”
“Don’t bet on it, Lewis. I feel strong enough to take on the whole damned world.”
Lewis looked at him thoughtfully, and Jordan suddenly wondered if he’d walked into a trap. Lewis was the duelist in the family, after all. Jordan thought quickly back on what he’d said, but there didn’t seem to be anything Lewis could take as an insult. Had he appeared too confident, perhaps? Viktor had looked to be rather a weak sort, but Gawaine had said he never backed down to anyone. Jordan shrugged mentally. What the hell, everyone knew Viktor had been away for four years. Exile can change a man.