Rebel's Cage (Book 4) (25 page)

‘Only what I have already told you, though I cannot guess what it means.’

‘And you’re sure of what you saw?’

‘Yes, Master. I was but yards away.’

‘He’s up to something, I know it. I can almost smell it on him whenever he comes near me. So,’ Nash continued, sinking his teeth into the bread, ‘what is the Baron DeMassey doing in the company of Archdeacon Godfrey?’

‘He was with the priest more than a few minutes. I did not dare get close enough to listen to their conversation.’

‘And then once Godfrey had left the King’s chamber that evening, DeMassey saved the priest’s life by killing the two traitor Guildesmen?’

‘Yes, Master – though I have no doubt the Proctor was the first target.’

‘Interesting.’ It was indeed very interesting. But why would DeMassey be consorting with a priest, of all people – or was it that priest in particular? ‘What can you tell me about Archdeacon Godfrey?’

Taymar formed his thoughts carefully. ‘He appears to be very loyal to the Church. He works with Bishop Brome on most things and has been instrumental in keeping things running while Brome has been incapacitated. From what I hear, he is the one who is busily rewriting the Church laws rather than Brome. For the most part, Godfrey stays out of trouble and manages to offend nobody.’

‘An accommodating man, by the sound of it.’

‘Perhaps. He also appears to be the only person at court who has any kind of relationship with the Proctor.’

‘Osbert?’ That made Nash sit up. He knew Osbert of old, had placed the man in his current position, but he’d long ago stopped trusting him. Ever since his failure to find the secret Guilde library, when he’d shown Nash the empty hiding place filled with the ashes of fifty books. He’d never quite been able to believe that Vaughn would have willingly destroyed what could have been the only real weapon available against sorcery – but then, even searching on his own, Nash had never found a trace of it. Circumstances had forced him to assume Osbert had been telling the truth.

But it was wholly out of character for him to develop a friendship with Godfrey – or any churchman, for that matter.

‘So Godfrey is a good man, but he’s allied himself to Osbert for some reason.’

‘It appears so, Master.’

‘And now DeMassey has become friends with Godfrey as well. My, that priest is very popular. I wonder if it would be worth …’ No, taking Godfrey in for interrogation would get him nowhere. In fact, all it would do would be to scare DeMassey off. This was the first shred of evidence he’d been able to obtain for years about what that man was up to. DeMassey had no honest business dealing with a priest. Nash
couldn’t afford to destroy this first opportunity to get what he needed.

Abruptly restless, he pushed himself to his feet, leaving the walking stick leaning against the stone wall. He walked around the desk with only a little of the limp he normally showed. It had paid him well to feign continued weakness; so many people had underestimated him because of it.

And one man in particular would be looking for signs of an impending recovery. Nash had no intentions of revealing his returning strength until he absolutely had to.

Time. Up until now, it had been his greatest aid, but for the last few years, it had played against him. Though he was stronger than most thought, he was by no means ready to face the Enemy, Robert Douglas. Nor could he face
her
in this state.

Still, there
were
options he could explore, despite what he’d told Kenrick. ‘Taymar, I think I will go to the springs this afternoon. The Envoy can meet me there.’

‘Yes, Master.’

‘Have Chiel accompany us. Prepare to leave as soon as Kenrick has gone.’

Taymar didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he went to the window and looked out. ‘I believe he comes now, Master.’

*

By the time Kenrick appeared at the door, Nash had resumed his hunched posture. ‘Good morning, Sire.’

Kenrick looked like he was in a hurry. As usual, his clothes were of the highest quality, rich without being gaudy. As he strode into the gallery, Nash was momentarily reminded of the boy’s father: the same fair hair, the same tall and warrior-like bearing, though the eyes were brown rather than blue. But the resemblance was fleeting. For all that Kenrick looked like Selar, he had none of his sire’s canny ability to read people, to understand complex political situations.

A failing that Nash had only encouraged.

When Kenrick looked at Nash, his gaze narrowed, as though to hide his surprise. ‘You’re … you look terrible.’

What was it about this boy that irritated him so much? Nash could see himself crushing Kenrick between his fingers like a
green bug; he found it difficult some days, to find the will to stop himself.

Necessity was what kept this boy alive, nothing more.

‘Thank you for your words of concern for my health, Sire,’ Nash began, taking a mouthful of wine and keeping his expression neutral. ‘How many Malachi have you at court now?’

‘Twenty, the same as last time.’

‘And you used the Bresail to check?’

‘Of course,’ Kenrick’s tone was one of weary resignation. ‘You ask me the same question each time. I check on a different day every week. It never seems to occur to you that I want the answers as much as you do. If you distrust the Malachi so much, why do you insist on working with them?’

‘They have their uses.’ And he needed to keep track of those men who served DeMassey, those who were not Bonded to Nash.

‘As do I?’

Nash ignored the petulance and continued, ‘Do you plan to winter at Marsay this year?’

Kenrick wandered along the gallery, fingering idly the long tapestries which hung from the wall opposite the windows. ‘No. Ogiers has confirmed his return visit – but he refuses again to meet me within the safety of the city. Instead, he’s chosen a site near Cewyll. I leave in two days and will be back in Marsay in time for Caslemas, unfortunately.’

Interesting that the Mayenne ambassador was prepared to meet in winter. Perhaps Tirone was starting to take the offer of marriage for his daughter a little more seriously?

‘And how is our little Salti hunting expedition going? Caught any sorcerers yet? I notice that horrible scar still mars your cheek.’

Kenrick stiffened, his face abruptly suffused with red. He opened his mouth, but pulled himself back before he could do irreparable damage.

Nash wanted to laugh, but refrained. It appeared they were both learning restraint. The thought of that depressed him beyond measure.

‘Well?’ Despite the needling, he
did
want an answer. Kenrick might need his face mending, but Nash needed Salti blood more than anything else at this moment.

‘No, no luck yet,’ Kenrick grunted. ‘With all this snow, it could take weeks more for word to filter around the country. And have you heard the Hermit of Shan Moss? He’s prattling on about the incarnation of Mineah and everybody thinks it’s because of me, that she’s going to come back and strike me down because I’ve dared to change the laws. You’re nicely out of this, Nash. I’m the one who has to face the crowds – so don’t you start going on about how much time it takes!’

Nash considered how little time he really had. His last full and complete regeneration had been twenty-eight years ago, just after the battle that won Selar the throne this foolish boy now sat upon. Even though he’d had to repair wounds since that time, this body would cease to function if he did not refresh it completely before it was thirty years old. Though he was surrounded by Malachi, both Bonded and not, to use one would risk his alliance with DeMassey and, in turn, risk all that he would achieve.

‘Of course.’ Nash got to his feet, reaching for his walking stick and leaning on it heavily. ‘I am trusting you to find me a sorcerer I can use to heal these wounds – or don’t you want me back to full strength?’

Kenrick blinked, his expression as flat as an ice-lake. ‘I will get you what you need. But you have to remember that it will take time.’

‘Of course. But the longer it takes, the longer everything else takes. Are we not supposed to be allies?’

‘Allies?’ Something hard and belligerent burned behind Kenrick’s eyes. ‘You tell me nothing of what you’re really up to – and yet, I must come here every two weeks to report to you on what
I’m
doing. You mention useless things like the Key and the Enemy and the Ally and you
know
they mean nothing to me. You promised to teach me to use my powers, and yet you give me each grain of information as though it were gold dust, keeping me from developing enough so that I can kill you! Oh, yes, we’re great allies, Nash.’

Kenrick turned then, as though it was the only way he could stop himself from striking out. ‘You know how many times I’ve heard about that stupid Hermit and his damned visions? Have you any idea of the speculation I have to endure about whether Jennifer Ross’s appearance at Shan Moss has anything to do with it? After all, she was supposed to be dead – but there she was, between you and Douglas, and I’ve been asking you for the last eight years to explain to me what that’s all about and yet you say nothing.’

Nash dropped all pretence of subservience. ‘I tell you all you
need
to know. Have you not done well enough on what I’ve given you so far? Why bother with things that ultimately do not concern you?’

‘Robert Douglas killed my father!’

‘Yes,’ Nash snapped back, ‘and as a result, you became King. Now, you tell me, which would you rather?’

Kenrick stared at him a moment, then looked away, still stubborn, though snubbed into silence.

Satisfied now, Nash moved back towards his desk.

The truth was, he didn’t need Kenrick anywhere near as much as the boy thought – and if he really had to, he could use his replacement, though the mechanics would be awkward. He had one waiting in the wings already; somebody who, if placed on the throne, would probably have the gods writhing in cosmic irony. To make Andrew Eachern, Duke of Ayr, King would be a piece of arrogance he would definitely enjoy, especially as the boy’s mother was the Ally herself. Especially since the boy carried his father’s name of Eachern, a man the entire country had hated.

Of course, they hated Kenrick too, didn’t they?

But he knew Kenrick, and for the moment, he remained controllable. To make a change merely for his own entertainment would be foolish, especially at this stage.

Kenrick stared at the floor, leaving the silence for Nash to fill. He did so as little more than an afterthought.

‘Enjoy your meeting at Cewyll.’

Kenrick grunted and stalked out.

*

Kenrick rode halfway back to Marsay before stopping with his men at a village with a good tavern. There he invited them to drink, have a meal, to enjoy themselves for a few hours. He stayed with them until nightfall. Then, pretending to go upstairs with one of the serving wenches, he slipped out into the stable, saddled his horse and rode back towards Ransem Castle.

His approach took him wide, down into a gully that sheltered him in what was something of a blind spot for the Castle’s defences. He still had fifty and more paces to make across clear land, but under cover of darkness, and using one trick Nash
had
taught him, he knew he could do it easily.

There were lights burning in selected places all around the Castle, but Nash was no longer there. Nor was Taymar. Kenrick had lingered in the stable long enough to learn of the visit to the hot springs. Nash would not be back until tomorrow.

So this was his opportunity, perhaps the only one he would ever have.

Dismounting, he secured his horse to a withered bush in the small icy gully, then straightened up, concentrating on his breathing. When all inside him was as peaceful as it ever got, he pushed hard, taking the mental dimensional step sideways that would make him invisible to any who looked in his direction. With a grin at his own temerity, he set out across the moor, Ransem Castle in his sights.

*

There was almost nothing to mark the area as being any different to that a league distant in any direction, bar the guilty twists of steam which rose from the lake’s surface. Along the edges, strange, ghostly shapes formed in the heated water, some spongy and tantalisingly rough, others hard and dangerous.

There were legends about this place and its springs, stories of gods emerging from the water, of almighty battles being fought over this land, of a flaming body thrown into its depths, to leave the lake bubbling and steaming for eons. The water certainly helped soothe the aches which bled deep into Nash’s bones, and the shorter, sharper pain he lived with each day. He
was certain it aided his recovery, little by little – and any help was worth the effort.

Nash ignored Lake Finiah itself and instead let Taymar lead him into a wooded area nearby, where stunted trees let out branches gnarled and twisted and the land rose enough to create odd-shaped caves that a man had to crawl through. The largest of these opened out, holding a pool of water hotter than any in the lake. The air was different here as well, thick, clinging, almost tangible. With the roof so low and spiked with lion’s teeth, and the area so full of legend and make-believe, Nash had found little difficulty in keeping the locals away. So he had the place to himself.

Already his body tingled in anticipation.

*

Kenrick sneaked into Ransem, stepping around people to squeeze through opened doors, climbing up to slip through a window, flattening himself against a staircase wall to avoid a dozen soldiers marching down.

And he had to be silent. Invisible he might be, but if he made a noise, somebody would hear him. In this place, they’d soon guess what was happening.

His heart raced; his breathing was no more than a stunted gasp as he stole closer and closer to his goal. A thin, dangerous nausea threatened his stability and he had to pause and press his forehead against cold stone before it would go away.

This had better be worth it.

He came out at the top of the staircase and put a hand on the door before him, the one leading to the gallery. He could hardly turn the handle. What if Nash were still here? What if those stories of Finiah Springs were just a trap set for him, to test his loyalty. Kenrick had been here only a few hours ago; nothing had changed. Nash might very well be on the other side of this door, waiting for him.