The Poison Throne (The Moorehawke Trilogy), Page 23

  Razi tightened his jaw and looked away.

  "My Lord..." De Rochelle went on, but Razi warningly glanced at the guards.

  "Simon!" he snapped.

  De Rochelle's back straightened, and Wynter heard him take a sharp irritated breath. "Your Highness," he corrected himself.

  Razi nodded. He turned, and began leading the councilman away from Wynter, whom he still hadn't noticed lurking by the alley.

  "Good man, Simon," he said. "You must remember. I would not like to lose you over a slip of your oily tongue."

  De Rochelle chuckled and ducked his head as they headed towards the indoor arena.

  Wynter opened her mouth to call Razi, but his next words to De Rochelle stilled her. "If the King begins a purge," he said, tapping his crop against his thigh. "It will go badly for him with the people."

  So, Razi knew then. Would he act?

  "Badly for the King means disastrous for you, your Highness."

  Razi's voice trailed out of earshot as they headed into the big barn, but not before Wynter heard him say. "But disastrous for me is wonderful for my brother, Simon."

  God help us, Razi, she thought with a start. What games are you playing? Have you no concern for your own life?

  She hesitated for a moment, then turned to leave, but spun back as Razi suddenly dashed from the barn. Gone was all his courtly composure, and his face was creased with worry. He looked around the arena until he found her, then he gave her a most searching look. De Rochelle must have said something about her presence. Razi met her eye, his expression alarmed.

  "Protector Lady?" he called across the sun-baked exercise yard. "Is all well?"

  She flicked a glance at the guards. Don't forget yourself Razi! she thought, and bowed formally. She realised that Razi thought her father or Christopher were in need of him, and in his concern, all his carefully constructed aloofness had fallen away. She kept her voice cool as she said, "All is most well, your Highness. I was merely taking the air."

  Razi gave her an uncertain look, nodded and turned back to the barn. Simon De Rochelle watched her from the shadows until she left.

  As Wynter retreated up the alley, a flash of movement at the end caught her eye and she broke into a run. She cleared the corner of the feed-store just in time to see Gary Huette racing back to the library as fast as his legs could carry him.

  Damn! Oh goddamn it! Damn it to hell!

  He was going to report back to the others that the Protector Lady had not, as she had promised, gone to speak to her father. But had run instead to her lord and master, the murderer, the poisoner, the usurping pagan bastard, Razi the Pretender.

  Damn it! She kicked the wall in frustration and yelped and hopped and cursed under her breath. Oh, good Frith! as Christopher would say.

  She walked back to the palace completely at a loss. Should she go to the library and try to explain? Would they listen? What if they tried to leave, believing that she was plotting behind their backs? Jesu. If that happened they'd have to explain why to the guards. They'd bring a whole lot of trouble down on themselves.

  There was nothing for it. She'd have to go talk to her father.

  She let herself into the suite and came up short at the sight of Christopher He had dragged one of the round chairs into the retiring room, no mean task in his current condition, and positioned it outside her father's open bedroom door.

  Christopher was sitting upright and wary, staring at something within Lorcan's room. One hand had a death's grip on the arm of his chair. In his other hand Wynter was alarmed to see his black dagger, steadied against his knee, the blade forward and at the ready. The tip of the knife shook slightly. Christopher was afraid.

  Wynter locked the door and waited for Christopher to acknowledge her presence.

  "Girly?" he hissed, without looking around.

  "Yes," she whispered, reaching for her own dagger.

  "There's a ghost in your father's room."

  Jesu. There were no resident ghosts in these apartments! That meant it was a visitation. A spirit wilfully breaking its sphere of influence, acting on impulse and of its own accord. Never a good thing.

  Wynter swallowed and slid her dagger back into place. "Christopher," she said softly, advancing on the tense young man. "You don't need your knife."

  She could hear Christopher's ragged breathing as she got closer and realised that he was terrified beyond belief.

  "It's been here for an age," he whispered, his bruised eyes glued to the apparition, which remained out of Wynter's sight in her father's room. "I came in to visit with your father, but he were asleep, so I came out to fetch a pillow, and when I got back... it were here. Standing over him. Just looking."

  Is it... is it a woman?" she asked uncertainly, thinking of Heather Quinn and of all that a visit from her would mean.

  She sighed with relief when Christopher said, "No, lass. It's a man. A soldier. I'm mortal feared it's going to do to your father like those others, and I have no idea how to stop it..." Christopher gestured with his knife and said uncertainly, "should it... commence to glowing..."

  Wynter understood that Christopher feared that there would be another surge, like the one that had killed the inquisitors and their prey.

  "It's all right, Christopher," she said, moving to his side and putting her hand on his arm. "Ghosts don't tend to harm." Despite her words, she was still reluctant to look into Lorcan's room.

  "Oh aye?" said Christopher dryly. "Tell that to the raw meat we left in the dungeon a few nights ago." He pulled his knife hand free, and continued his anxious surveillance of the ghost. Wynter took a deep breath and leaned across him, resting her cheek on the top of his head as she peered around the doorframe into Lorcan's room. She cried out softly at the sight of the apparition, and Christopher jumped. He exclaimed in alarm as she tried to push past him.

  "No!" he hissed, and grabbed her wrist, pulling her away from the door. His gap-fingered grip felt odd on her arm, but he was quite amazingly strong for such a slim person.

  "It's all right, Christopher," she said again.

  She crouched down level with him so that he didn't have to bend his neck. She put her hand on his and tried to gently pull his crushing fingers from her wrist. "I know him! He won't harm me."

  Christopher's eyes slid back to Lorcan's room.

  Lorcan was asleep, lying atop the covers in his robe and nightshirt, his long hair fanned on the pillow like blood. Rory Shearing was standing over him. He was gazing down at the sleeping man with an expression that could have been resentment or could have been distress, it was hard to tell.

  Don't let him be a harbinger, thought Wynter, turning to look. Don't let him have come for my dad.

  As if reading her thoughts, Christopher whispered. "What does it want?"

  Wynter rose slowly to her feet, Christopher held onto her wrist a moment longer, then let her go. She crossed quietly into her father's room and stood at the foot of Lorcan's bed.

  "Hello, Rory," she said.

  Old Songs, Best Left Unsung

  Ghosts rarely focus on that which doesn't interest them. So Rory Shearing ignored Wynter completely. In life, he had been a good fifteen years older than her father, but Rory had died so many years ago that Lorcan's age had caught up with his, and now they could have been peers.

  Rory tilted his head, and some trick of the light against his transparent face made it dear that he was, in truth, regarding her father with enormous love and sympathy. The conviction that Rory was a harbinger rose up again like vomit in Wynter's throat.

  Behind her, Christopher was trying to stand, and she whispered to him to stay where he was. He must have decided to obey her, because his frustrated gasps and mutterings abruptly ceased. Wynter glanced around at him and had to smile at the way he was glaring at Rory, his useless dagger held at the ready, should the ghost decide to attack her.

  "Who is he?" Christopher whispered, his eyes on Rory.

  "It's Rory Shearing," she replied softly. "He
was my father's commander in The Haun Invasion, during Jonathon's father's reign. A great warrior and a good man. My father was very fond of him. He led the defence of Profit's Pass?"

  She phrased it as a question, thinking it impossible that Christopher wouldn't know of the Battle of Profit's Pass. But there wasn't an iota of recognition in his face. Why should there have been? she realised. Christopher couldn't have been more than three years old at the time of the invasion, and living way up north in Hadra. He would have been blissfully ignorant of the terrible, brief war that had threatened this distant Southland kingdom.

  "Rory, Jonathon and my father took a small group of men, and against all odds, defeated the last of the Haunardii at Profit's Pass," she explained. "Rory's men were out-manned, outmanoeuvred and under-supplied. They were cut off by the weather and practically starved, but they defeated the enemy, broke up their supply route and turned a certain defeat into a victory within weeks."

  Christopher grunted in admiration, and Wynter turned back to watch Rory as he stood over her father. "Poor Rory died very soon afterwards," she said. "He was only thirty-three, same age as my father is now."

  "Your father must have been fierce young."

  "Seventeen."

  Rory continued to ignore them completely; they may as well not have been there. He seemed to be waiting for something.

  Wynter had to admit that she was very surprised to see him here. Apart from the fact that this wasn't Rory's usual sphere of influence, Lorcan and Rory Shearing's ghost had never communed in the past. In fact, her father had often tried to discourage Wynter's regular visits to the avenue that Rory haunted.

  The dead should remain dead, darling. You're only halting his ascent to heaven, encouraging him to hang about.

  But she had been a wilful little minx, and despite her father's gentle disapproval, she'd always returned to her wistful playmate. Wynter knew that she must be honest with herself now, there could only be one reason for the spirit's wordless vigil over her father's sickbed.

  "Rory," she whispered, tears in her eyes. "Are you here to...?"

  Lorcan moaned in his sleep, and Wynter heard him gasp as if in pain or fear. "Dad...?" she said, her fingers tightening on the footboard. Both she and Rory leant forward slightly as the big man's breathing quickened and he shifted uncomfortably on the bed.

  "Stop him!" cried Lorcan suddenly, making Wynter jump. "Stop!" And his eyes flew open and snapped immediately to where Rory's ghost was leaning over him. Rory smiled, and Lorcan gave him a quizzical look. "Rory," he whispered. "I was dreaming of you.

  "That you were," said Rory, his voice as subtle as snow falling on snow, so subtle that you could almost convince yourself you hadn't heard it.

  Lorcan glanced down to where Wynter stood, silent and staring, at the foot of his bed. "Baby-girl," he whispered, obviously alarmed to see her there. He glanced across at Christopher. Then he looked up into the ghost's kind face once more. "Oh, Rory," he said softly. "I'm not ready!"

  Rory Shearing shook his head. "Not my job," he smiled, and Lorcan relaxed with a shaky sigh.

  "Thank Jesu!" Lorcan said, and Wynter closed her eyes and leaned her forehead on the footboard in relief.

  "What do you want?" Christopher asked, his voice hard and suspicious. Lorcan glanced at him, frowning, but Rory ignored him altogether. To Rory, Christopher didn't exist. Wynter probably didn't exist at this moment. Only Lorcan existed, because Rory was trying to tell him something.

  "The boy," Rory said to Lorcan, gesturing with his hands, and trying to concentrate. "Jonathon's..." his voice trailed off, and he gazed wordlessly at Lorcan for a moment, his hands poised.

  Wynter groaned. She had forgotten about this frustrating ghost talk. Trying to speak to them was like trying to hold water in your fingers. It seemed they were too distant to keep track of many things. After a while, most of them focused on only one subject. Like Heather Quinn and her obsession with death. Or the Hungry Ghost and its obsession with food. But Rory was trying very hard to concentrate, she could see that, and she willed him to get a train of thought going that he could communicate to them.

  "Jonathon's boy?" asked Lorcan, keeping very still, trying not to disturb the ghost's efforts. "Which of his boys? Alberon, is it? The young boy? The white boy?"

  Rory closed his eyes and swayed like water-weed for a moment, drifting in and out of focus. "Jonathon's boy," he whispered, as if recalling him in a dream. "He does not understand... just paper. Just... ideas."

  Christopher growled impatiently, and Wynter and Lorcan shushed him as one.

  Rory opened his eyes again, staring down at Lorcan. "The men," he said, very clearly, his voice almost a real sound. Lorcan's lips parted in dismay. He gazed up into Rory's urgent face and Wynter could tell that the words the men had significance for her father.

  "Our men, Rory? The twenty-four? Our twenty-four?"

  Rory blinked at him, his face puzzled, he had forgotten already.

  Lorcan pulled himself up in the bed and reached his hand out, as though to grab the front of Rory's ragged uniform. His fingers passed through sun-filtered air.

  "Rory! Do you mean the twenty-four?"

  "The twenty-four," repeated Rory, his face clearing. "Aye. The men."

  Lorcan abruptly put his hand to his eyes, and Rory watched as the big man struggled with some inner turmoil. The ghost's face was unusually alert now, really seeing the man before him. Wynter began to feel uncomfortable at the way Rory was staring at her father. Ghosts weren't meant to focus on you like that. It wasn't done. Rory's tissue paper words drew Lorcan's gaze back up, and Wynter saw her father swallow down his emotions and grind his teeth in an effort to listen without tears.

  "They have forgotten," Rory told him, "everything but victory."

  Lorcan's distress turned to confusion. "What do you mean?

  "The men. The boy. Ideas. Old songs best left unsung. It was all for naught... all for naught, Lorcan... He used it again."

  Lorcan nodded, his eyes hollow. "I know."

  "Now... he wants to take it back..."

  "He's right to, Rory. He should. We all agreed."

  Rory leant down, and without warning, brought his ghostly face up dose to Lorcan's. The big man recoiled from the sensation of ghost breath on his skin and Rory leaned closer. For a moment, Lorcan was staring directly into the dead man's eyes. And the dead man was staring back. Lorcan's hands began to shake, and he made a desperate noise in his throat. He seemed unable to look away.

  "The men don't agree," hissed Rory. "They're with the boy!"

  Wynter jerked in panic as her father began to choke.

  "Hey!" Christopher shouted from the door, and Wynter heard the chair scrape as he pushed himself from it. "HEY!"

  Lorcan released a horrible rasping breath, as though he were being strangled, and Wynter leapt forward as Christopher stumbled his way to her side.

  "Dad!" she shouted.

  But then Rory stood up, breaking eye contact, and Lorcan slumped forward, his hand to his throat, his face scarlet. He immediately held a hand up, and Wynter and Christopher came to an obedient halt.

  Wynter fidgeted at the edge of the bed, glancing anxiously between Rory and her father as Lorcan got himself under control. Behind her, Christopher staggered like a drunkard and grabbed at the footboard, his knife still held out in shaking defiance of the ghost.

  Rory Shearing was standing dreamily looking down at the now glaring Lorcan.

  "So," rasped the big man, his hand still to his throat. "Where is he? The boy?"

  Rory tilted his head, looking quizzical.

  "Rory!" Lorcan slapped the bed loudly, demanding that the ghost concentrate. "RORY! Sharpen up!"

  Rory frowned, and seemed to focus on Lorcan again, "Yes..." he said. "The boy..."

  "That's why you're here, isn't it? To tell me where the boy is? You can't possibly think it's right. That he bring it into use? That he drag it all out into the light? After all..." Lorcan paused, and his voice dro
pped to a whisper. "After all you sacrificed to bury it."

  Rory frowned suddenly and looked behind him, as though he'd heard a sound. Instinctively they all followed his gaze. He was staring intently at the far wall, but there was nothing there that they could see.

  "Rory?" asked Lorcan uncertainly. "Where is Alberon?"

  Rory tore his eyes from the wall. "That is what you need to know?" he asked.

  "Yes!" said Wynter suddenly. "Yes! Dad! Tell him yes!"

  "Yes!" said Lorcan.

  Rory looked behind him again. "I must go." He glanced at Lorcan. "I will do my best." He ducked his head and raised his hands, as though someone had shouted in his ear, and looked behind him again. "I have to go!" he cried, glancing about him in panic as if uncertain where to turn. He bolted suddenly, and Lorcan yelled and pulled his legs back as Rory passed through the bed. Without a sound, the ghost disappeared into the far wall.

  They looked about tensely for a moment, waiting to see if anything would arrive in pursuit of him, but there was nothing. Just the faintest scent of gunpowder in the air.

  "Good Frith," murmured Christopher as Wynter guided him around to sit on the edge of the bed. "You palace folk lead interesting lives."

  Lorcan looked at his daughter. "Seems like fate is pushing us to find that boy," he said.

  But what for? thought Wynter. When we find him, do we help him? Or do we deliver him to his father and his doom?

  To Wynter's surprise and dismay Christopher slowly lowered himself onto his side and curled up like a cat on the bed at Lorcan's feet, his head in his arms.

  Lorcan and Wynter exchanged a look of alarm. "Are you all right, boy?" asked Lorcan.

  "Oh aye," whispered Christopher, his voice muffled by his arms. "I just need a moment to hold onto my breakfast."

  Wynter patted his foot, and Lorcan grimaced in amused sympathy. "You stay there as long as you like, boy, you make a grand bed-warmer." And he tucked his toes in under Christopher's belly.

  "Agh," exclaimed Christopher softly. "Your feet are like blocks of ice."

  Lorcan lay back on his pillows. He folded his hands on his chest, gazing thoughtfully at the ceiling. "Rory Shearing..." he mused, his face grave. "I need to think."