Hidden Warrior (10 page)

“He serves me well here! Even Korin says so.”

“Oh, you’re all very fond of the boy, I know. And I’m sure we can find some suitable situation for him. In fact, in my letter I even offered to take him into my household. I can assure you, he’ll be properly educated here.”

Tobin clenched his fists, recalling the bruises on Bisir’s wrists.

“As to why you’re here, well, surely you wish to pay your respects to me after such long absence?” Orun paused. “No? Well, no matter. I’m expecting the king’s reply with this morning’s dispatches and thought it would be pleasant to read the good news together.”

This was far worse than anything Tobin had imagined. Orun was much too pleased with himself. He probably had spies among the king’s entourage and already knew the answer. Tobin’s heart sank even lower; Ki wouldn’t last two days in this household without getting into serious trouble.

Clucking his tongue in feigned concern, Orun lifted a delicate painted plate from the tray and held it out to him. “You’re looking very pale, dear boy. Have a bit of cake.”

Tobin fixed his gaze on the counterpane’s embroidered edge, resisting the urge to knock the plate across the room. Bed ropes creaked as Orun settled back, and Tobin heard his guardian’s satisfied chuckle. He wished now he’d
accepted the stool but was too proud to move. How long until the dispatches arrived? Orun hadn’t said, and the heat was making Tobin dizzy. Sweat prickled across his upper lip and ran down between his shoulder blades. He could hear cold rain spattering against the shutters and wished he were outside again, running with his friends.

Orun said nothing, but Tobin knew he was being closely watched. “I won’t put Ki aside!” he gritted out, looking up defiantly.

Orun’s eyes had gone like black flints, though he was still smiling. “I sent the king a list of prospective replacements, young men of suitable background and breeding. But perhaps you’ve someone to add? I don’t wish to be unreasonable.”

No doubt Orun’s list had been a very short one, made up of favorites who would carry tales. Tobin knew who was at the head of it, judging by the Toad’s smug demeanor last night.

“Very well, then,” he said at last, glaring up at Orun. “I’ll have Lady Una.”

Orun laughed and clapped his soft hands, as if Tobin had made a particularly brilliant joke. “Most amusing, my prince! I must remember to tell your uncle that one. But seriously, young Moriel is more than willing, and the king did already approve him once—”

“Not him.”

“As your guardian—”

“No!” Tobin nearly stamped his foot. “Moriel will
never
serve me. Not if I have to go naked and alone into battle!”

Orun settled back against his cushions again and picked up a cup from the tray. “We’ll see about that.”

Despair crept over Tobin. For all his brave words to Ki and Tharin, he knew he was no match for the man.

Orun sipped softly at his tea for a moment. “I understand you wish to visit Atyion.”

So Moriel was already at work. Or perhaps it had been Alben. He’d heard Orun favored the dark, arrogant boy.
“The estate is mine now. Why shouldn’t I go? Korin said I might.”

Orun smirked. “Assuming our dear prince recalls anything he said last night. But you’re not planning to go today, surely? Just listen to that rain. It’s certain to last for days this time of the year. I wouldn’t be surprised if it begins to freeze soon.”

“It’s only a day’s ride—”

“So soon after your illness, my dear?” Orun shook his head. “Most unwise. Besides, I should think you’ve had enough adventures for a while. When you’re stronger, perhaps. It’s a lovely place in the spring, Atyion.”

“The spring? It’s my father’s house.
My
house! I have a right to go there.”

Orun’s smile broadened. “Ah, but you see, dear boy, you have no rights at all just yet. You’re only a child, and in my charge. You must trust me to decide what is best for you. As your esteemed uncle would be sure to tell you, I have only your best interests at heart. You
are
the second heir, after all.” He returned to his breakfast. “For now.”

Tobin felt a chill in spite of the heat. Behind that smiling mask, Orun was still furious with him. This was the beginning of his punishment.

Too frightened and angry to speak, Tobin strode to the door, intending to leave no matter what Orun said. Just as he reached it, however, it swung open and he collided headlong with Bisir.

“Forgive me, my prince!” Tobin saw pity in the man’s eyes and steeled himself. The king’s messenger must have arrived.

Instead, it was Niryn who swept in.

Caught off guard, Tobin blinked up at the tall wizard, then quickly filled his mind with his anger at Orun, imagining it swirling through his head like smoke in a closed room.

Raindrops glistened in the wizard’s forked red beard as he bowed to Tobin. “Good morning, my prince! I’d hoped
to find you here. How nice that you’ve returned in time for the Festival of Sakor. And I understand you’ve brought a wizard back with you, too?”

His words gave Tobin a nasty turn. Had Niryn looked into his head after all, or did he have spies of his own? “Mistress Iya was a friend of my father’s,” he replied.

“Yes, I remember,” Niryn murmured as if it didn’t interest him much. Arching an eyebrow, he turned to Orun. “Still abed at this hour, my lord? Are you ill?”

Heaving himself out of bed, Orun pulled his gown around him with imperious dignity. “I was not expecting official visitors, Lord Niryn. The prince has come to visit me after his absence.”

“Ah, yes, the mysterious illness. I trust you’re quite recovered, Your Highness?”

Tobin could have sworn the man winked at him. “I’m very well, thank you.” Tobin expected any moment to feel the wizard’s creeping touch in his mind but Niryn seemed far more interested in baiting Orun.

Eyeing his unexpected visitor suspiciously, Orun waved him and Tobin to seats by the fire. Both men waited until Tobin was seated before taking their own chairs.

The old hypocrite
, Tobin thought. So long as there was anyone else around to see, Orun treated him with the proper courtesy.

“The prince and I are expecting a messenger from the king,” said Orun.

“And as it happens, it is in that capacity that I come to you today.” Niryn took a rolled parchment from one deep sleeve and smoothed it over his knee. The heavy royal seals dangled from silk ribbons at the bottom of it. “I received this early this morning. His Majesty asked that I deliver it to you personally.” Niryn glanced down at the document, but Tobin could tell he already knew the contents. “His Majesty begins by thanking you for your care of his royal nephew.” He looked up at Orun and smiled. “And he hereby relieves you of all further responsibility in that regard.”

“What?” Orun’s velvet cap slid askew as he lurched forward in his chair. “What—what does this mean? What are you saying?”

“It’s perfectly clear, Orun. You’re no longer Prince Tobin’s guardian.”

Orun gaped at him, then held out a shaking hand for the letter. Niryn relinquished it and watched with obvious satisfaction as the other man read it. By the time Orun had finished, the wax seals were clattering together on their ribbons. “He says nothing of why! Have I not discharged my duties faithfully?”

“I’m certain there’s no need for concern. He thanks you most graciously for your service.” Niryn leaned forward and pointed out a section. “Just there, you see?”

Niryn made no effort to hide how pleased he was with Orun’s reaction. “The duke’s death was so unexpected, and you were right there, offering your aid,” he went on smoothly. “But King Erius wishes to impose on you no longer, for fear you’ll be too distracted from your duties at the Treasury. He will appoint a new guardian when he returns.”

“But—but my understanding was that the position was permanent!”

Niryn rose and gave him a pitying look. “Surely you, of all people, are no stranger to the king’s whims.”

Tobin had sat transfixed through all this, but found his voice at last. “My—the king, he’s coming home?”

Niryn paused in the doorway. “Yes, my prince.”

“When?”

“I cannot say, my prince. Depending on the current negotiations with Plenimar, perhaps sometimes in the spring.”

“What does this mean?” Orun mumbled, still clutching the letter. “Niryn, you must know the king’s mind in this?”

“It is dangerous for anyone to presume to know King Erius’ mind these days. But if I may, my old friend, I would suggest that your reach has finally exceeded your grasp. I
believe you know what I speak of. The blessings of the Four be with you both. Good day to you, my prince.”

He swept out and, for a moment, the only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the incessant patter of the rain. Orun’s lips moved silently as he stared into the flames.

The air felt charged, the way it did just before a storm. Tobin looked longingly at the closed door, anxious to get away. When Orun didn’t move, he rose slowly. “May—may I go?”

Orun looked up slowly and Tobin’s knees nearly gave way. Naked hatred twisted the man’s features. Lurching to his feet, he loomed over Tobin. “May you
go?
This is your doing, you ungrateful brat!”

Tobin took a step back but Orun followed. “With your smirking and your insults. Old Slack Guts, isn’t that what you and that country bastard call me behind my back? Laughing! At me, who has served two rulers? Oh, you think there’s anything that goes unheard, do you?” he snarled, though Tobin had said nothing. Grabbing him by the arm, Orun shook the king’s letter in his face. “This is your doing!”

“No, I swear!”

Orun tossed the letter aside and jerked Tobin closer. Spittle flew from the man’s lips as he snarled, “Writing to the king behind my back!”

“No!” Tobin was truly frightened now. Orun’s fingers dug into his arms like claws. “I wrote nothing, I swear—”

“Lies. Writing lies!” Orun clutched the neck of Tobin’s tunic and shook him. His fingers tangled in the chain and it dug painfully into Tobin’s neck.

“Turning him against me, his most faithful servant!” Orun’s eyes narrowed in their folds of fat. “Or was it that lackey of yours downstairs? Good Sir Tharin!” Sarcasm curdled the words. “So humble. So faithful. Always fawning on your father like some pathetic stray dog. And always turning up where he’s not wanted—” Tobin saw
something new and dangerous come into Orun’s face. “What did
he
tell the king? What did he
say?
” he hissed, shaking Tobin so hard he had to grasp at Orun’s arms to stay on his feet.

Orun’s grip tightened, making it harder to breathe. “Nothing!” Tobin wheezed.

Orun was still ranting at him, still squeezing, but Tobin could hardly make out the words over the buzzing in his ears. Black spots swam before his eyes and Orun’s face looked as big as the moon. The room was spinning, going dim. His legs wouldn’t hold him.

“What did you say?” Orun screamed. “Tell me!”

Then Tobin was falling and something deathly cold passed over him. As his vision cleared he saw Orun backing away from him, hands thrown up in terror. But it wasn’t him Orun was looking at, Tobin realized, but a writhing mass of darkness taking shape between them.

Still sprawled where he’d fallen, Tobin watched numbly as the shape coalesced into a familiar, menacing form. He couldn’t see Brother’s face, but Orun’s expression was mirror enough.

“What sorcery is this?” the man whispered in horror. He looked uncomprehendingly from Tobin to the ghost as Brother glided closer. Orun tried to back away but fetched up against the wine table. It toppled over, blocking his escape.

Too dizzy to stand, Tobin watched in confusion as Brother raised one spectral hand. The ghost usually descended like a whirlwind, flinging furniture and striking out wildly. This slow, deliberate advance was worse. Tobin felt the rage and menace emanating from his twin; it sapped what little strength he had left. He tried to cry out, but his tongue wouldn’t work.

“No,” Orun whimpered. “How—how can this be?”

And still Brother did not attack. Instead, he simply reached out and touched the terrified man’s chest. Orun let out an agonized shriek and toppled backward over the
fallen table as if he’d been thrown. Sparks flew up when one outstretched hand landed in the fire.

The last things Tobin remembered were Orun’s slippered feet twitching in the firelight and the smell of scorched flesh.

W
ord had traveled quickly through the Old Palace. Mago and his cronies made faces at Ki during the morning run. At the temple Alben bumped into him, and whispered, “Farewell, grass knight!” too softly for anyone but Ki to hear.

As soon as Tobin and Tharin left, he’d taken Tharin’s advice. Slipping out through a servant’s passage, he hurried away to Tobin’s house. The steward answered his knock, looking as if he’d been expecting him. He took Ki’s wet cloak and set a chair for him by the hearth.

“The men are at practice in the back court and Mistress Iya is in the guest chamber. Should I inform them of your arrival, sir?”

“No, I’ll just sit here.” The steward bowed and left him.

Despite the fire on the hearth, the hall was cold and shadowy. Soft grey mist pressed at the windows and rain drummed on the roof above. Too miserable to sit still, Ki paced the room and fretted. How long would Tobin be? What if Orun found some reason to keep him there? Would Tharin come back to give him the news, or would he be stuck here forever with his belly in knots?

Looking up, he found himself at the bottom of the carved staircase. He’d only gone up there once, and that had been enough. Tobin’s father had abandoned that part of the house years ago; the rooms had been stripped of their furnishings and left to the mice. Ki was sure he’d felt ghosts there, leering at him from dark corners.

The duke had used the ground floor when he was in the city. Since his death, Tharin and the guard had been
the only regular occupants. Tharin had a room just down the passage, and the men were quartered at the back of the house, but they kept the hall in use. It always had a homelike smell of house altar incense and embers on the hearth.