The Blackguard (Book 2) (30 page)

“Yes. I can return home,” Tarea whispered. She still clutched the blanket to her chest with one hand, and her eyes reminded Alador of a cornered fawn.

He decided to keep her talking, partly for information and partly hoping to see her terror fade. “How did you get here to start with?” he asked. There was peace, so how was it that women were being taken this way, he wondered?

“My mate was a half-breed that came into his magic. He was forced out, so I came here with him. We thought to make a home with him in the guard he’d heard about.” Tarea’s voice broke. “He died when they came to take me from him. They just killed him for no reason. He wasn’t even armed at the time.” She began to cry, despite her vehemence when Alador had first walked into the room.

Alador took the goblet from her shaking hand and refilled it, pressing it firmly into Tarea’s hand and urging her to drink. He hoped, for her sake, that it was drugged. He didn’t know what to make of her story; part of him was glad now that he hadn’t brought Mesiande with him. Would this have been her fate, as well? Would she have been wrenched from him, or would his uncle have used her as leverage for control? Alador realized if Luthian ever found out about Mesiande, that is exactly what would happen. He was grateful that the only ones that knew about her were Henrick and Keelee; he had no doubt that Luthian would use his love of Mesiande to get anything he wished from Alador. At that moment, Alador realized that there wasn’t much he wouldn’t do to protect Mesiande.

They sat and talked for a while about where Tarea had come from, and about her mate, Jayte. It wasn’t long before Alador realized that Sordith was right; the wine was drugged. He took the goblet from the woman and urged her to lie down. Tarea sleepily did Alador’s bidding without complaint. He tucked the blanket about her and returned the goblet to the decanter. For an hour, Alador paced the room, anger seething within him. As much as he wanted to be with Mesiande, regardless of what his father found, he could not be with her. As long as Luthian was in power, he could not reveal his feelings for her or anyone else in Smallbrook. He could see now the true depths of depravity that his uncle was capable of, and he had no doubt that if Luthian ever learned about Mesiande, he would use her against Alador.

Finally, he could contain his rage no longer, and he tore out of the room. “Veaneth! Someone get me that bastard!” He moved down the hall towards the main hall. He grabbed a guard there by the tabard. “Take me to the Master’s room. How dare he try to drug me!?” Alador raged. The guard’s eyes flew open wide; he didn’t even try to bat a lash as he took Alador down to Veaneth’s quarters. Sordith and Jon were right behind him before he came face-to-face with Veaneth. Veaneth must have heard Alador bellowing, as he came stumbling out into the hall, belting his robe shut as he went, his fleshy, naked body quivering with his hasty movements.

Sordith was hissing behind him, “Not the plan, not the plan…”

“Bugger the plan!” Alador bellowed. He grabbed Veaneth’s robe and jerked him forward to his nose. “You tried to drug me. You tried to drug the nephew of the High Minister himself, you underhanded, sniveling dog,” Alador hissed out.

“I assure you sir that the wines have only enough to relax and empower the senses. It would have worn off long before you had decided to leave.” Veaneth had paled and his hand went into his robe pocket.

“Yes, I imagine that’s why the woman in my bed who I gave a drink to so as to make her ready for me is now nothing but a biddable child. Did you plan to rob me of my every slip, Master Veaneth?” Alador drew the man’s face close so they were nose to nose, his posture one of the angry patron, eyes blazing.

“Of course not, milord! I would never cause harm or foul to the High Minister’s kin or guests,” he whined out, not quite meeting Alador’s gaze. “Here, a gift! Let me make it up to you.”
Veaneth pulled a beautiful glowing emerald from his pocket.  “I offer you this as my apology.” He held the stone up, and Alador felt his gaze drawn to it. He knew immediately that this was the object his father had warned him about, but, despite his knowledge, it was all he could do to snap up a magical barrier, something he still wasn’t very good at. The moment Alador’s went up, he heard Jon curse and knew that his friend had shielded as well.  He stepped back a little, still holding Veaneth’s robe.

Sordith was not so lucky. He stepped forward, eyeing the stone. “I think we should take his offer and go, Alador,” he murmured.

Veaneth grinned in triumph. “Protect me! They plan to take it from you!” he screamed at Sordith, pointing at Alador. Sordith, as if by hand of another, jerked and drew his blades, spinning to slash across Alador’s midsection. In that same moment, Alador – who still held Veaneth’s robe – spun so that the blades caught Veaneth across the back. Veaneth screamed and fell to his knees, his emerald falling to the ground. Alador brought his heel down hard on it, but it didn’t break – it rolled next to the large man who’d become nothing more than dead weight in Alador’s hands. Alador released him, staggering backward.

Jon, in the meantime, had turned to face the guard that had brought them down the hall. His robe disappeared and his armor reformed even as the guard’s sword had cleared its sheath. Jon’s hand flashed up, a black arrow forming in it, and he sent it flying toward the heart of the guard before the man had even taken his third step toward him.

Alador heard the rasp of sword and sheath behind him as he stepped back from Veaneth, and spun back to the wall, attempting to change his robes back into his armor. He was caught between Sordith and the other guard, who moved forward, trying to catch Alador between the blade and the wall. Alador dove to the ground next to Veaneth, feeling the sword whistle just past his skin. He rolled to the guard’s feet, kicking out in an attempt to bring him to the ground with Alador. The most he managed was to get the man to stumble for the wall. Alador turned to roll up and saw Sordith bearing down with both swords. There was no way he’d be able to deflect Sordith; he raised both hands in pitiful defense, but Sordith flew over him and disemboweled the guard. Alador rolled back up to his feet, hearing the sound of boots running toward them. “Are you back?” he questioned as he spun about, looking for Jon.

“Wasn’t gone,” Sordith answered as he turned to meet Veaneth’s second room guard. Alador just glanced at him in disbelief.

Jon, in the meantime, had pulled his blade and was caught in a battle with another hall guard. Alador took the moment to shift back into his armor and pulled his sword. He kicked Veaneth over to see that he wasn’t dead; the man was grasping for his emerald, but his fat and his injury kept it just out of reach. Alador struck the glowing stone with his blade, shattering it. Veaneth cried out weakly and started to mouth something; Alador responded by impaling the man through the heart. He couldn’t risk Veaneth casting a spell, not now in the middle of combat. He knelt, leaving the blade quivering in Veaneth’s chest, to search for the keys. It took a moment, but Alador finally felt them cold against his fingers. He stood up, assessing the situation.

“You two need to quit playing,” Alador called out to Sordith and Jon, who were both still engaged with the guards. Alador took a moment to center himself; it took longer than normal to find that well of power within him. He focused on a storm’s magnificence until he felt his hands tingling with power. “Down!” he yelled. Both Sordith and Jon dropped instantly, and Alador fired out two bolts of lightning, one after the other from each
hand. The two guards twitched violently under the bright white light before they too dropped to the ground. Jon and Sordith swiftly dispatched them. Alador reached down and ripped his sword from Veaneth’s chest.

“Ideas. Now,” Alador snapped as he turned and strode for the main hall.

“Can you make fog?” Jon asked, moving forward to stride beside Alador, who nodded in response. “Then you and I can take the four outside. That leaves at least two we know of for you, rogue, can you handle that?” Jon snapped.

“On it.” Sordith turned in the opposite direction when they reached the center entryway.

Jon and Alador approached the main door quietly.  Jon knelt down and nodded for Alador to feed the fog under the door. It took Alador a few moments to sense a source of water he felt safe pulling from, and then a few more to create it into fog. He felt like it took forever, and the pounding of his heart seemed to beat the moments out loudly. Alador had a harder time creating fog – it was difficult to envision, elusive and shifting as it was. The water vapor seemed to form in snake-like tendrils from his fingers. He shut his eyes, not wanting to know what Jon intended for fear it would break his concentration, and continued pulling the water and feeding it through his hands into the dense fog he’d imagined. Alador kept his concentration until Jon put a hand on him.

“That’s enough,” Jon whispered. Alador opened his eyes and shook his hands – they felt cold as ice. He stood, looking at Jon, who lifted his hand to sign that they should wait. The sound of a dropping sword and body could be heard through the door, and Alador moved to
open it. Jon caught his hand. “Not yet. Let the air clear,” he warned softly.

“What did you do?” Alador asked just as quietly. He wanted to look, but trusted Jon enough to know that he should do as he was told.

“Just laced it with a bit of sleeping poison,” Jon answered.

Alador nodded and the two waited. The house was quiet now except for the sounds of their breathing. Alador decided to take it as a good sign – there was no outcry from Sordith. Finally, Jon nodded and they both eased out the door. Alador knelt to check the first guard, only to find that the man was obviously dead. “I thought you said it was a sleeping poison?”

Jon just shrugged. “Dosing is not my strong suit,” he admitted.

Alador grinned. He’d planned to kill them anyway – they couldn’t leave any witnesses that might be able to identify them as members of the Blackguard. He rose and headed for the gates, wary of any other guards that Sordith may not have noted. “Again?” Alador mouthed. Jon just nodded.

The fog was easier this time as the fog was already forming on the streets, rolling in from the harbor.  He could simply take that and pull it slowly together until it formed a ball before him. Alador concentrated, carefully keeping it steady, and watched in fascination as Jon turned it green. Jon nodded and Alador carefully fed the fog through the close-set bars of the gate.   Again, both men dropped. While they were waiting, Jon mimicked holding his breath and dragging them in. Alador nodded he understood. As soon as the two men slumped, he and Jon moved, opening the gate and bringing the guards in. One was still alive, but Jon ended that problem swiftly with his thin dagger.

Alador turned and headed back into the house confidently, striding through the door without caution. Jon followed a little ways behind him, his movements warier. Neither of them saw the waiting guard until Alador felt a sharp pain, cold as ice, driving into his back. His eyes widened in shock as he looked down to see a sword point sticking out from just beneath his ribs. He hadn’t heard or seen the guard…how could they have missed him? Alador dropped to his knees, clutching his chest as the sword withdrew. He was dimly aware of two knives flying over his head; Sordith had arrived, just a little too late. Time seemed to stretch as Alador fell forward, the floor approaching slowly as he sank into blackness.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Renamaum looked down at the small blue dragon that lay battered on the rocks of the shore, broken and floundering. The tide was coming in – the smaller dragon would clearly die if it stayed where it was, but it was large enough that Renamaum would never be able to move it to safer ground. The small dragon looked at him, waiting for death.

“What were you thinking?” Renamaum growled down at it. “Do you think that a battle is a game? That there are rules?”

“I thought all was safe. Our foe was defeated and left the field to the victor,” the small dragon croaked out, thrashing helplessly, its injuries too great for flight.

“Never assume that a foe is defeated. The best ploy is to let your enemy think he has won.” The large dragon nuzzled his smaller flight mate. “You must remember this for your next battle.”

“I do not think I will have a next battle.” The small dragon laid back against the rocks, its breaths coming in great gasps, too exhausted to keep trying to escape.

“
So you will give up and let the ocean’s waves drown you?” Renaumam scoffed. “You fought so bravely for what is right, only to lay back and die now? I thought you better than this.”

The little dragon’s eyes flashed with anger. “What would you have me do? You cannot save me and I cannot fly,” it hissed in defeated vehemence. “When the waves come, I will flounder till I am beat against the rocks.”

“If that is what you choose, then that is what will happen.” Ranaumam shook his head and looked down at the dragon. “I will leave you to wallow in your defeat, but first, allow me to leave one word of advice.”

“Advice when I am about to die?” The smaller dragon growled in frustration. “What possible advice could you give me that would be of any use?”

“When you cannot fly, my dear fledgling.…” The dragon leapt into the air as he called down, “you swim.”

The sound of voices blended fuzzily in Alador’s ears, like an obnoxious buzz. He shifted and felt a strange stab of pain in his ribs. Slowly, Alador opened his eyes for a brief moment…Then quickly shut them against his too-bright surroundings.

“Mistress Vera, I think he’s waking up!” a voice called.

“Don’t shout,” groaned Alador, moving a hand to his aching head. It felt like it thumped along with his heart.

“Yup he’s awake.” That could only be Flame with that boisterous, joyful voice. “Close one, there, Alador. I was sure you were a goner a couple times.”

“What happened?” he croaked out, his throat dry and aching. He was trying – and failing – to piece together how he ended up…Wherever it is he was now.

“Jon brought you in. Said the two of you got jumped. He didn’t have a scratch on him, of course. Figures. Why couldn’t they have stabbed him?” Flame grumbled.

“Flame, no offense, but go away,” growled Alador. The man’s loud voice was competing with the booming of his own heartbeat.

“Fine thanks I get for sitting with you. He’s all yours, Mistress Vera. Woke up grumping.” Flame’s boots sounded off across the floor.

A soft feminine hand moved Alador’s hand away from his head to rest a warm cloth on his head. It felt wonderful. “The potion we gave to keep you still has a kick to the head when you wake. Lie still and give yourself time – it will subside.” The voice was kind.

Alador put his hand back over the cloth, glad for its warmth. “Is Jon really okay?” he asked, beginning to recall the evening. He had no idea what had happened. Had they failed? Had they accomplished nothing? No, Alador knew for a fact that the bag of refuse named Veaneth had died, at least. There was satisfaction in that alone. But he couldn’t ask any questions, not now. Flame must have stayed nearby to insure that Alador stuck to the story of getting jumped. Did Flame know the truth? Alador really needed to talk to Jon.

“Jon is fine. As your friend said, the mage seemed to have escaped without a scratch. I’m afraid you lost whatever slips you were carrying, though. Jon said he gave the man what you both had to stop him from doing any further harm…you should have just given the man your slips to start with. Life is far more precious than a few slips of medure,” she scolded softly. Alador groaned his hand going back over the compress. It figured that Jon and Sordith had cast him in the role of the aggressor. But then again, everyone knew Alador had a temper, so he supposed that fit. His head hurt too much and he had too little information to speak, so he just nodded – and immediately regretted the motion. The sharp intake of his breath must have given him away.

“Lie still,” Vera scolded. “It will pass. I’ll return regularly to change the compress until you can manage without it.”

Alador slipped in and out of sleep, waking when Mistress Vera changed the compress, slipping back under with its comforting warmth. He had no idea how much time had passed when he was finally able to open his eyes and smile at the woman who was putting the compress back into a pail of steaming water.

“Feeling better?” she asked.

“Yes. How long have I been here?” Alador asked. He looked around, taking in his surroundings.

“Three days,” Vera answered. She must have read the alarm on his face – her hands moved to hold his shoulders down before Alador could even try to sit up. “Not yet,” she scolded.
                

“Three days? I’ve been here three days?” he squeaked in frustration, his voice rising an octave.

“You did almost die, Alador. I would think that thanking the gods would be of a higher priority than squealing about a few days of sleep,” Vera chided him firmly. She let Alador go when it was clear he would remain still. “I don’t know what it is with you people in the guard, you’d think you would be grateful for a couple days without lessons.”

Alador put his hand to his chest; the memory of the sword point piercing through his chest was still visible in his mind’s eye. It was tender, but he felt no bandages. “I thought I was pierced,” he whispered, looking back up to the healer.

“You were. In fact, the damage was so bad that we had to send for a mage of the golden sphere. Fortunately for you, a few of them were still around. They tend to be sent out quickly.  He was able to bring you back from Delthera’s door in the nick of time, though it was nearly beyond his skill. The blade barely missed your heart. What kind of man stabs another in the back?”

Alador didn’t volunteer what he was sure was the right answer – ‘a desperate one’ – if the guard had seen any of the bodies they’d left lying around, he’d certainly been desperate. Alador watched as Vera left, then he tried to reflect on what he could remember. Slowly, he was able to remember everything right up to when he’d seen Sordith throw the two knives over his head. He closed his eyes, trying to remember anything after, but nothing came. It looked like he was going to have to wait until Jon came to see him, or until he was released from this temporary healer’s prison.

It must have been several hours later when Alador woke up to find Jon sitting by his bed. Jon looked at him with disdain. “I think it quite unfair that I have to continue my studies while you lay on your back taking a leave of absence.”

“I did nearly die,” Alador pointed out. He managed a weak grin as he put his hand over his chest.

Jon offered him a large tankard of water. “Yes. Thankfully, you didn’t – I would have found that much more difficult to explain,” Jon answered.

Alador took it gratefully. “Were…we…I mean, did they…you know?” Alador looked about to see if anyone could hear them.

“All those that wanted to were loaded into the wagons, along with all the slips you had, and sent out of the city with the dawn refuse wagons. We left the children be – they were happy, and the mothers willing to stay had good care of them,” Jon answered.

“How many left the city?” Alador asked softly. He realized he was thirsty and downed the water.

“All but ten,” Jon answered with a shrug. “For some of them, that was a better life.”

“But then…won’t they know who attacked the stables?” Alador frowned. “My uncle will find out.”

“Oh. Your rogue took care of that,” Jon stated stoically.

Alador looked confused. “How, pray tell, did Sordith ‘take care’ of that?” He eyed Jon curiously and warily, though he felt a huge weight lift off his shoulders as he realized that their plan had freed so many.

“
He told them Aorun sent us.” Jon grinned wickedly.

“That’s going to get him in trouble with the Trench Lord.” Alador looked alarmed for his friends.

“Sordith said that he doubted anyone would put the pieces together, and he was fairly certain that, after the slips he left and a fair amount of the strange wine Veaneth had, there would be few – if any – who’d be able to quite recall the three men that came calling.” Jon shrugged. “It seemed sensible.”

“My cloak? If it’s still there, the High Minister will think it was my father.” Alador panicked and sat up, wincing at the pain in his chest.

“Faith, my friend, faith. It has been safely returned to your father’s home, and the house is once again sealed.” Jon finally smiled. “Your friend Sordith made sure we left no clues behind.”

“I thought you didn’t like him,” Alador pointed out, lying back once again.

“I don’t.” Jon shrugged. “But it’s his neck that’s close to the Trench Lord. It would seem that, at least in this matter, he has a good reason to keep from being linked back to the crime.”

Alador sighed with relief. “Any rumors on the streets or in the halls?” he asked.

“Not that I’ve heard. I have permission to take you back to your rooms.” Jon tossed simple black robe onto the bed. “You might want something to wear. Your armor has already been repaired and sent to your room as well.”

Alador was stiff, but he managed to get the robe on over his head with minimal discomfort. He’d been in bed for three days, so he supposed his stiffness was normal. Jon brought him his boots, and soon Alador was ready to leave. It took effort to move, and Alador felt weak, but the two slowly left the healers’ hall. Alador didn’t see Vera anywhere, but he made a note to come back and check with her later.

“I would have expected to wake up to a distraught Keelee, but I don’t remember seeing her,” Alador stated as they made their way slowly through the halls. Jon nodded, but didn’t answer; Alador picked up on his friend’s silence and glanced to his friend. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “What are you not telling me?”

“I think your body servant has decided to give her services elsewhere,” Jon answered softly.

“Unless she’s moved in with Flame, I highly doubt that.” Alador said stopping in the hall. He said she hasn’t come back from her half-day.” Jon’s answer was factual, with no inflection. “It seemed like the most plausible conclusion.”

“She hasn’t been here for three days? Not even a word to Flame?” Alador asked with concern. He started moving again, this time with more purpose.

“Slow down. You did just nearly die, remember?” Jon picked up pace to keep up with Alador.

“Yes, and in the meantime, Keelee might be in trouble. She warned me that something was about to happen…what if she left to try to stop whatever it is?” Alador snapped out.

“What is it with you and wanting to save everyone?” Jon rolled his eyes as he kept up with Alador. “You are one man. Maybe some people don’t want saving, like those that got left behind in the stable. Ever think of that?”

“At least we gave them a choice, Jon,” Alador snarled. “People should have a choice of who they want to be and how they live their lives as long as that choice does not infringe on the choices of others.”

“You’re an idealist, do you know that?” Jon was finally showing something resembling anger.

“Someone has to be in this god-forsaken city. There is little to redeem it in the eyes of beast or mortal.” Alador was too tired to argue and focused on walking and breathing; his chest burned with each intake of breath.

Jon also fell silent at Alador’s words. They reached his room, and Alador flung open the door hoping to see Keelee there…But she was nowhere to be found in the small room. Her hairbrush was still on the desk. Alador moved to the wardrobe and threw it open. It was still full of her dresses.

“She hasn’t taken another.” Alador sat down on the bed, tired and concerned. “She wouldn’t leave what little she owns behind.” He sat and thought for a long moment. “Jon, can you get me Flame? I have never been to her father’s. I doubt anyone expects me for duty, so I’m going to check on her…If Flame has a pass, maybe he can take me.”

Jon nodded. “If he doesn’t, I have an extra I can give him.” Jon turned on his heel and strode from the room.

Alador forced himself back onto his feet wearily and began to search his desk for any sign of warning or note she might have left. He hoped to find some clue to this warning she’d tried to give him. Finding nothing, Alador moved to go through her things in the wardrobe. At the back of a drawer, he saw a glimmer of silver; he reached deep within, grabbing hold of a tube and pulling it out. It was the silver case that Henrick had given him to write back and forth to Mesiande. Alador’s mind raced. Why did Keelee have it? He slowly made his way back to sit on the bed and stared at it. How long had she had it? Did it ever send? Was his own letter still within? His heart racing, Alador slowly opened the case and dumped out a letter in Mesiande’s hand.