Traitor's Masque (50 page)

Ramsey looked up, startled, into Rowan’s eyes, and read only sly triumph. And Ramsey knew, finally, that he’d been beaten.

Rowan could be lying. Probably was lying. But Ramsey could not possibly take that chance. If there was hope for his father, he had to try. He had always known he could never bring himself to kill his brother outright. Now, with two lives hanging in the balance, he had no choice but to let Rowan go. With a brief glance back at Brawley, who watched weakly from behind them, he nodded.

“I believe you know what choices you have left me, Rowan. Very well. Your writ of passage. In exchange,” he continued resignedly, “you will agree to leave. Now. Leave this building, leave this town, leave this kingdom. You will not attempt to harm me, or Brawley, before you do so. You will summon a physician for Brawley on your way out of town. And”—his voice grew harder than flint—“you will never again cross the border back into Andar, or I will see you dead. Do not imagine that I will hesitate to give that order.”

Rowan looked calculating, but only for a moment. He had always known Ramsey a little too well, and this time, he seemed realize there would be no pushing him further. “Agreed.”

From the pile of belongings on the floor, Rowan produced the necessary items: paper, ink, quill, candle, and wax. Ramsey lifted his personal seal from beneath his shirt, where he carried it on a chain. The document took only a few moments to write. The writ permitted free passage to Rowan Tremontaine and his servant, but only for two days. The writ would then expire and Rowan would once again be a hunted man. It also specified that the writ be destroyed when the two men crossed the border. Rowan’s mouth twisted briefly, bitterly, at this provision, but he made no objections. When it was signed and sealed, the brothers carefully completed the exchange. The moment Ramsey grasped the vial he placed the chain around his neck and returned to Brawley.

The older man’s consciousness was clearly slipping. Blood had saturated the torn cloth and continued to seep from around the dagger. While Ramsey fashioned a better cushion for his head, Rowan was gathering his few belongings and readying for travel, a slight smirk pulling at his mouth. Ramsey ignored him until the older prince descended the stairs, at which time Ramsey descended in his wake. Porfiry still waited at the bottom, but this time he held the reins of their horses. Apparently, Ramsey thought wearily, the servant shared his master’s prescience.

“A physician, Rowan,” he reminded as his brother mounted up. “For Brawley’s sake at least, do not fail in this.”

“Why, Ramsey,” Rowan returned mockingly, “why would I do otherwise? Did you suppose I meant for Brawley to die?” He shook his head, a gentle remonstrance. “You must think me a monster.” Then he added, softly and warningly, “If I had wanted him dead, that dagger would have been in his heart.”

Ramsey suddenly felt like weeping. His only brother, by now perhaps his only family. And this was their parting. Perhaps the worst of it was that Ramsey hoped it was forever.

“Go, Rowan,” he said finally. “Get out of my sight and out of my kingdom. Know that I dream of the day when your memory no longer troubles me.”

“Oh, but Ramsey,” Rowan answered sadly, “of course I will trouble you. You will wonder every day from now until you die whether you judged me fairly. You will wonder whether you should have let me live. You will wonder whether I was truly guilty, or whether you wronged me terribly. Every time you sit on my throne you will think of me and when you are old you will ponder what I have done with my life. And you will be afraid, Ramsey, of the answer. You will fear that I may indeed find other lands and other opportunities, and that I will come back, someday, for what is mine.”

He leaned down, then, from his saddle and looked straight into Ramsey’s eyes with implacable coldness. “And I will come back, brother. I swear to you I will come back.”

Without another word, the beautiful golden prince straightened in his saddle and rode away, never once looking back. It was not until he had disappeared around the corner that Ramsey realized he had been holding his breath. Letting it out in a rush, he closed his mind to thoughts of Rowan. They were too raw and painful to contemplate, and he had no time to spare. He would see Brawley settled, ensure that he would be cared for. Then he would ride back the way he had come, without pausing for rest unless he fell out of his saddle with weariness. He would go home. Try to save his father’s life. And mourn for Embrie’s.

Almost without thought, his hand crept into his pocket, and drew out the tiny golden horse. A feeble ray of sun caressed it, struck sparks from its polished surface. He had brought it, hoping they would find her, daring to believe she would be unharmed. That he would be able to at least restore her treasure and return her to her home. Now, it mocked him, with the knowledge of his own helplessness, and with memories of what he had lost. His fault… her fault… none of it really seemed to matter now. Clenching his fist around the horse, Ramsey returned it to his pocket and went back upstairs to wait for the physician.

On the high road to the north, about two days’ ride from home, Kyril Seagrave was in a foul mood. He had set out from Evenburg in company with a single guard, five days before, and was now both deeply weary and impossibly filthy. Most of his search had been conducted in rain and mud, they had been forced to sleep wherever night found them, and their inquiries had turned up precisely nothing. Kyril felt as if he had questioned everyone in Andar but the dogs, with no more helpful result than a handful of quizzical looks and a great deal of head scratching. Rowan had apparently disappeared entirely, and as for kidnapped girls… Kyril might as well have been hunting unicorns.

At least he was now alone with his surly, ill-humored thoughts. The guard had been left behind with a physician the previous morning after coming down with chills, no doubt from their bad habits of riding into rainstorms and sleeping in puddles. He had been a decent enough companion, if unimaginative, but the man had been badgering Kyril ever since they left Evenburg with one, all-consuming idea. They must search The House.

It quickly became apparent to Kyril that his partner had been one of the two men responsible for discovering the real Elaine Westover. The unfortunate fellow was now convinced that the false Elaine must necessarily be hidden in the same place.

Kyril had scoffed none too politely at the idea. Rowan was hardly the sort of person to behave so predictably or foolishly. He was far too canny to use the same retreat twice. But The House was located not far off their road, and when the miserable, sneezing guard had made one last plea, Kyril grudgingly agreed to at least look. It wasn’t as if another layer or two of mud could make much difference. And he was able to justify his capitulation by reasoning that no one had thought to look there yet. Perhaps Rowan might have known it was the expected thing to do, and therefore that no one would have expected him to do it.

Growling under his breath at the uselessness of his errand and the ridiculous circularity of his thoughts, Kyril had followed the guard’s directions. Afterwards, he intended to return home by the most direct route possible. Home, to a bath, and hopefully to good news. Surely by now, someone else had been luckier than he. Even if Kyril himself didn’t quite know what that luck might entail.

He hardly even knew what to hope for. Finding Rowan, certainly. That was a given. Rowan was the only one left who might, if he chose, be able to save the king’s life. And after Kyril had spent several sleepless nights considering ever more inventive methods of making Rowan’s existence as miserable as possible, he would be greatly disappointed if he never had the opportunity to put any of those rather brilliant ideas into practice.

Embrie, however, was another matter. Had it been Kyril’s decision alone, he would likely have left her to her fate. He was not entirely happy with Ramsey’s decision to trust her, and found himself bitterly unwilling to forgive what he still saw as her betrayal. But his friend very clearly still cared about her. Still believed in her. Kyril would hope for the best for Ramsey’s sake, even if he intended to ask some very pointed questions once she was found. If she was found.

Despite his wandering thoughts, Kyril had been watching closely enough that he was able to identify the landmarks the guard had mentioned. A strange old tree hanging over the road. A broken sign with a few meaningless letters half buried in the mud. And a track, barely visible, leading back into the trees.

In his haste to complete what he still considered a useless search, Kyril almost missed the footprints. If his mud-spattered bay gelding had not suddenly stumbled, leading Kyril to dismount and check for signs of injury, he might not have seen them at all. But he did, and the single set of prints pressed neatly into the mud from last night’s rain were too fresh and too strange to ignore. The road had been deserted for miles. There were no towns. No farms. Only one house that he knew of and the prints appeared to have originated from there. They came down the track out of the woods and turned down the road away from him. Small prints. Light ones.

It might have been nothing. There could be a perfectly reasonable explanation for someone to be traveling down the road on foot in the middle of nowhere. But Kyril was nonetheless afflicted with the unexpected sensation of hope. Mixed with chagrin. The guard may have been right all along, and he could have saved them days of searching. Remounting, Kyril spurred his horse in the direction the unknown, small-footed person had taken.

His pursuit was not long. The road curved twice, narrowed as it bridged a swollen river, and then widened abruptly to reveal a long, flat stretch ahead. A stretch that was occupied by a solitary, cloaked figure trudging on foot through the mud. Kyril pressed his horse forward until he drew even with the strange pedestrian, who stepped off the road and turned to face him as he pulled the gelding to a halt. He was greeted by a brief indrawn breath, an almost involuntary sound of surprise.

“Lord Seagrave?” The voice under the cloak was female. Its owner pulled back the deep hood to reveal a face that was at once familiar and not. Chestnut hair. Amber eyes. A pale, slender face with a somewhat pointed chin. Despite the differences from the picture in his memory, Kyril knew at once that he had found half of what he searched for.

He felt an immediate surge of disappointment as he stared at her, comparing her face with Elaine's. Wherever Rowan was, it was now even less likely to be here. The girl was probably no better than a decoy, whose purpose was now finished. This thought was followed by an even stronger surge of anger, that she was alive and alone when everyone had assumed her to be with Rowan, a suffering captive rather than a willing companion.

The girl watched in silence as Kyril struggled with conflicting emotions. He wanted so badly to hate her. If only she had cried. Tried to defend herself with overwrought explanations. Made a bid for his sympathy. Then he might have been able to justify it. But the wary expression in her eyes, the weary tremor in her shoulders finally defeated him, deflating his anger and transforming it into a sort of resigned bitterness, tinged with pity. She was obviously cold, tired, hungry, and miles from anywhere familiar. And she was regarding him without much sense of hope.

“A long way from home, aren’t you, Elaine?”

She looked briefly dismayed, but that emotion seemed to pass, leaving only exhaustion behind. “That, Lord Seagrave, would require that I actually possessed one, a point on which I am no longer certain,” she answered, her voice sounding rougher than he remembered.

Cursing himself for lack of courtesy, even to a woman whose character he doubted, Kyril dismounted and offered her his water flask. She hesitated, but only briefly, then murmured her thanks. Thirst was no doubt a much more pressing concern than pride.

Kyril watched her as she drank, then spoke again, disappointment sharpening his questions. “You claim no home or family, then? Did you steal a name because you had none?”

She darted a glance in his direction, clearly unprepared for the pointedness of the question. There was no way for her to have known that they had uncovered her identity.

“If you knew my family, My Lord, such as it is,” the girl finally replied, a bit dryly, “you would realize that they do not care for sharing. Names or houses. You might also find it evident that any house which contains them ought necessarily be disqualified for consideration as a home.”

Kyril, having met the Colbournes, could admit to the justice of her statement. But he hardly expected her to acknowledge the connection, so he was rather surprised by what she did next. Sighing and closing her eyes for a moment, she turned to face him and looked directly into his disapproving eyes.

“Perhaps,” she offered, squaring her shoulders bravely, “it is time we were properly introduced.” His eyebrows shot up. “Lord Seagrave, my name is Trystan Colbourne, and whatever you may think of me, I am, I confess, very pleased indeed to meet you.” She gestured to the road in both directions. “Though I suspect I would have been pleased to meet highwaymen under the circumstances.”