Traitor's Masque (40 page)

Lizbet had been right about one thing: he had spent years thinking of himself as no better than a usurper. Second choice. It was time to act like something more. To shoulder the responsibilities of his birth and his office. To leave no doubt in the minds of his court that he would be king, and that he would protect what was his. His crown, his kingdom, and his people.

When he entered Lizbet’s office a few moments later, he interrupted a meeting. Lizbet, Caspar, Brawley, Kyril, and Mortimer, his father’s steward, were engaged in a tense and heated discussion. Ramsey burst in on them without warning or preamble. He did not give them time for questions.

“Lizbet, I need you to summon every healer, every physician you can find. Get them to my father’s apartments, tell them I will meet with them shortly. Caspar, I need everything you know about Isaura Westerby and Victor Fellton. Location, habits, friends and confederates.” He barely even paused for breath. “Brawley, I need men. Everyone you can spare, without stinting the usual guard, armed and ready to go when needed. It may be tomorrow or the next day, so they should be prepared to stay on alert.” He turned to Mortimer. “The castle stays empty. No visitors until I personally give the word. Any servants you cannot personally vouch for need to be given temporary leave.” The gray-haired man floundered a bit with the enormity of his instructions, but nodded. “Kyril.” Ramsey paused. Met his friend’s eyes. “Stay with me for now. I need to explain. Before I send you.”

The room exploded with motion. Ramsey was grimly pleased that no one questioned him, or argued, despite the answers they were probably burning to know. What had taken place on that balcony? What had he learned? What would he do now? They would find out soon enough, and like him, wish they had not.

When the room was empty, but for him and Kyril, Ramsey found himself looking for words.

Kyril came to his rescue. “Whatever it is, Ramsey, you know I’ll do it.”

Ramsey gripped his friend’s… no, in truth, his brother’s shoulder. “I never doubted it,” he answered seriously. “But you may be gone the longest, so I wanted you to know the truth.” He bowed his head, then looked up, hoping Kyril would be willing to believe him. “Rowan is plotting to take the throne.”

He expected something. Shock, outrage, disbelief.

Kyril only raised one eyebrow. “This is hardly news, Ramsey. He’s been trying to get it back since he came of age.”

Ramsey gaped at him. “You knew? Of the plot?”

Kyril shook his head. “Not specifically. But yes, generally we knew.” He looked speculatively at Ramsey. “We tried to tell your father, but he preferred to believe Rowan was simply selfish and misguided. Never listened when we suggested he might be dangerous.”

Ramsey was left floundering. “You never told me.”

Kyril smiled sadly. “Would you have listened? I know how much you used to love him, despite everything. How much you wanted him to be different. Without proof, could you have brought yourself to believe your big brother was a monster?”

Ramsey wanted him to be wrong, but knew he would be lying to himself. He would not have believed it. Not until tonight.

“Kyril, he poisoned my father.”

It was Kyril’s turn to be shocked. To look like he’d been punched in the gut. “No. Ramsey, not even Rowan would…” He broke off, eyes wide, looking for a way that it might not be true.

“Not directly, no. But he encouraged it. Approved it. Enabled it. He meant to kill Father and disqualify me.”

Kyril turned away from Ramsey and walked across the room. Slammed his fist against the wall in furious grief. When he looked back, his eyes were haunted.

“Why?” It was not really a question, but a plea. For Ramsey to unsay it.

But Ramsey had no comfort to offer. “I can’t begin to pretend to know what he was thinking. But I do know he had help.”

Kyril’s fists clenched. “Who?”

“Westerby and Fellton for sure. I’m certain there were others, but those are the only names…”

Kyril was looking at him speculatively, able to read his friend’s face better even than Lizbet could. “You believe her.” It was not a question.

“Yes. Heavens help me, I do.” Ramsey shrugged helplessly, not sure he could find the words to explain why. Even if he’d had the time. “I wouldn’t have, but it all began to make sense. All the complaints from the guilds involved in the luxuries markets. All the pressure on Father to change his trade policies. Rowan’s absences. This morning, Lizbet told me there has been a Caelani ship lurking off the coast for several weeks. I believe it’s all connected. I’m only guessing, but Rowan may have made promises. All of his known supporters are among those agitating for trade with Caelan. Fellton is already doing it illegally, according to his daughter. What if Rowan promised them a contract? In exchange for making him king?”

Kyril’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. He folded his arms. Paced across the room. Nodded. “It would explain a lot.” He glanced up, clearly confused on one point. “But even if they succeeded in”—he winced—“poisoning your father, you would still be in the way. What were they going to do with you?”

Ramsey laughed softly, without humor. “Oh, that was the best part. They hadn’t even planned it, but I fell into it anyway. Elaine, the fake Elaine, was only an excuse to allow Westerby access to the palace. But then they realized I was interested. Rowan must have lifted the guest list, and my choices, from Lizbet’s desk. By getting Hester out of the way, they ensured I would turn to their little pretender. Who, as fate would have it, is illegitimate.”

Kyril whistled softly at the neatness of it all. “You don’t think she was in on it?”

Ramsey shook his head. “No. I did, at first. I was… not kind, in expressing my feelings about her actions. I wanted her to be responsible for all of it, so I didn’t have to look any farther. But,” he admitted, “the more I thought about it, the more it didn’t make sense. Everything she said, everything she did, didn’t add up to the calculating impostor I wanted her to be.” Ramsey scrubbed his hands through his hair in resignation. “She’s not entirely innocent, but near enough. They used her. Played her like a flute, but she’s not the real villain.”

“Who is she?” Kyril asked curiously.

Ramsey closed his eyes, still feeling the sting of that denial. “I don’t know,” he answered quietly. “I don’t think I’ll ever know.”

“Ramsey,” Kyril asked seriously, “what would you have me do?”

“Find Rowan,” Ramsey said. “I need to know where he has gone and what he is planning. It can’t be good. We may have uncovered part of his plan, but I very much doubt he is without other resources. Other… avenues, of accomplishing his goal. I know it’s asking a great deal. But I need Brawley here, and there’s really no one else I would trust with this.”

Kyril seemed grimly pleased with the assignment. “Any place I should start?”

Ramsey thought about it. “Close,” he decided. “I doubt he’s gone far. He needs to be here in person if he plans to grasp this opportunity. I would start with Evenleigh. Ask around. Report back to me before you leave town.”

Kyril agreed and headed for the door, already anxious to be gone, but Ramsey stopped him.

“Kyril?” The younger man turned back, waiting. “Be careful.”

Kyril offered back a mocking parody of his most courtly bow. “Of course, my liege. You know I’m always careful. But then, nobody wants my job badly enough to kill me for it.”

Ramsey’s lips twisted humorlessly as the two men parted and his own steps turned towards the king’s apartments.

His next task? A new and terrifying fight for his father’s life.

Fortunately for Trystan, it was not far to Westhaven from the village. Less than a mile across the fields. As she drew nearer the house, though, she began to feel cold and clammy with nerves. If Ramsey believed her story, he may already have sent men to arrest Lady Westerby. Or he could simply have set someone to watch the estate. Trystan had no desire whatsoever to be caught by a royal guard while trying to sneak into Lady Westerby’s house. On the other hand, what if Lady Isaura was still waiting up for Trystan to return?

Trystan really couldn’t decide which one would be worse. Caught by a suspicious prince who had barely let her go the last time or by an angry, murderous traitor bent on revenge?

Deciding there was wisdom in caution, Trystan concealed herself in some brush for a while and watched the house. The lights were out, and nothing seemed to be moving. The place might have been empty, but Trystan doubted it. If anyone had been sent from Evenburg, they would almost certainly have passed her on the road towards home, and she had encountered no one. She decided to be optimistic and assume that everything was quiet because everyone was asleep.

As she snuck around the corner of the house, Trystan performed a cursory search of the front walk, in case she had lost her talisman between the front door and the carriage. Finding nothing, she circled the building until she came to the trellis beside her window. Closing her eyes and breathing carefully, she pulled herself up and began the ascent.

Her window was as she had left it. Wincing as she remembered the squeal, Trystan gave it a quick, hard shove. Better one unexplained noise than many. With a single sharp protest, the window gave and Trystan tumbled swiftly into the room. She froze there for a few moments, listening. When it seemed that no one had marked her entry, she dropped her gaze to the floor. The moon gave a little light, but it was still dim enough that she was forced to find her way by feel.

In the end, the room was large, but not that large. After less than half an hour of searching, even crawling under the bed, Trystan became uncomfortably certain that her treasure was not there. She must have lost it after she left the room. On her way down the stairs perhaps? Stifling a groan, she realized that she would have to search the rest of the house unless she wanted this whole uncomfortable business to be for nothing.

Still sitting on the floor, muttering barely-audible curses, Trystan scooted towards the door. When she was almost there, she stopped and listened again. Still nothing.

It should have been a simple matter to stand up, open the door and sneak downstairs. She had been doing it in her own house for years. But even the fear of being caught by Malisse had never been so strong as the strange, creeping dread that held her there, not quite willing to open the door. Her hands should have obeyed her, but they were clutching her skirts.

Disgusted with their insubordination, Trystan shut her eyes, breathed deeply, told herself that no one was awake, and got to her feet. Planting herself firmly to still the tremors, she reached out with tentative fingers for the door handle.

Just before she touched it, the door, soundless and slow, drifted open on a chill breeze from the dark of the hall.

Standing silently in the shadows just outside was the white-robed form of Lady Westerby.

Her dark hair fell down her back unbound, and her dark eyes were pools in her pale face. Her hands were empty. She did not move, only stood in the doorway and watched. Trystan swallowed reflexively. She wanted to glance at the window, thinking to escape that way, but could not bring herself to move. Not with those eyes on her.

“You could have had everything.” The voice was dull, flat and lifeless and it shocked Trystan. It barely sounded like the same woman who had waved goodbye to her so cheerfully earlier that evening.

“Lady Westerby.” She tried to hold her voice steady, but the apparition in the hall unnerved her badly. “You lied to me about Elaine.” Trystan threw out the first accusation that came to her, in an effort to gain some confidence.

Lady Isaura’s expression did not change. “I would have lied about my own mother to gain my revenge, little girl. And Elaine was a spineless fool with no one to mourn her.”

Now Trystan felt sick. She clenched her teeth and swallowed the impulse to vomit. “Revenge?” she bit out angrily. “You told me this was about the kingdom! About doing what was best for everyone! Now it’s about you and your revenge?”

Finally, Lady Isaura’s response carried a bit of emotion. “It was always about revenge! I told you what you needed to hear. I care nothing for politics or trade like that poor fool Fellton and his ridiculous friends. They were always doomed to disappointment.”