Asunder Read online

  After what he had done to her, it should be satisfying to see him so disfigured and weak, but Bethcelamin felt no desire to celebrate. His wounds were horrific, and the smell… She covered her mouth with her hand, trying not to breathe too deeply.

  Even Jayden had trouble finding his voice at the gruesome sight. “Garen! What happened to you, old friend?”

  The Chancellor cracked open one eye, and looked from the soldier at his bedside to Bethcelamin, then Korith. He licked his lips slowly. “It’s a … long story,” he croaked. He motioned for Louis, and the manservant leaned in to listen.

  When the Chancellor had finished speaking, Louis nodded.

  “Lady Korith,” he said, turning to face her. “Lord Garen has told me of some herbs that may help cleanse the wounds and ease his pain - Joyflower, and Lady’s Bedstraw. Feverfew as well, but I am unfamiliar with their appearance. Will you come with me to the garden and guide me, so I can get them to Cook?”

  Bethcelamin looked to Jayden, who nodded without taking his eyes from his Chancellor.

  “Of course,” she agreed. “I’ll help however I can.” Clearly there was more at stake than Garen’s comfort, despite the shocking severity of his injuries. Whatever message he had for the Duke, it was not for her to hear. She followed Louis out of the room.

  Jayden Korith nodded at the soldier standing guard beside the Chancellor’s bed, and took a seat beside the ruined body of his friend and advisor. Garen had drifted into unconsciousness, so he kept his voice low.

  “You are from Paltos?” he asked the soldier, recognizing the colors on his uniform.

  “Yes, my Lord. My men and I brought Lord Garen as soon as we found him.”

  “Why was he in Paltos in the first place?” Korith rubbed at his forehead, grateful for the dim light in the quiet room.

  The soldier shrugged. “He said he was returning here, my Lord, but succumbed to his injuries. There was no one to treat him, no one we could summon. We cleaned what we could, but …”

  “I’m sure your efforts were sufficient, soldier. Do you know what burned him? Was it in Paltos?”

  “No, my Lord. Several days past a stableboy came to us, said he’d seen someone bringing a body into the Inn. When we checked, we found Chancellor Garen. He said there was a soldier helping him return to Epidii, but we found no one. We were on a boat that same night.”

  Korith nodded. “I appreciate your speed, soldier. You may take your leave.”

  “Yes, my Lord.” With a short bow, the soldier left, leaving Korith alone to watch the candlelight flicker and shine over the melted, seeping landscape of Garen’s face.

  No one to treat him, the soldier had said. No Healer, he meant. Jayden sat back, touching the scar on his arm from the burn he’d suffered in Paltos when he closed the Arena. He’d needed no Healer, no foul magic. Only vinegar and time. His Chancellor would recover the same way.

  He leaned forward in the chair.

  “Garen?” Not wanting to touch any part of the man, Korith spoke again, louder. “Garen.”

  The Chancellor sighed and shifted, opening his eye once more. “Yes,” he said, his voice weaker than Jayden had ever heard it. “I’m awake.”

  “I am glad you were able to answer my summons,” the Duke said. “In spite of your … this.” He gestured at Garen’s face.

  “Why call me back?” The Chancellor licked at his lips with a dry, cracked tongue.

  “To accompany me,” Korith said. “To Porthold, as soon as you are able. My trip to Valenar was illuminating, old friend. Opinion is shifting in my favor, even in the East. I must act quickly.”

  “Duke Derbin has declared for you?” The Chancellor was unconvinced.

  “He will,” Korith assured him. “When he realizes how many of his Earls support me, he will change his position. Paltos, Foley— even Immthar and Stormpond will be sending men. Thordike can’t continue to stand against me with his own Earls on my side.”

  “Ving won’t be there,” Garen said. “He didn’t survive.”

  Korith brought his attention back to the present. “Survive? Survive what? What happened to you?”

  Garen took a ragged breath. “The girl,” he answered. He didn’t have to explain further.

  Jayden leaned forward, eager. “The witch-child. You found her, then. But where is she? What happened?”

  The Chancellor opened his one good eye and fixed Korith with a serious stare. “Foley is gone. Ving is dead. Tovar and Tomal are dead. The girl is dead. Everyone is dead. But one of the brothers is still out there, somewhere.”

  Korith couldn’t force the words to make sense in his aching head. “Foley? Gone? What do you mean?”

  “Leveled. The whole city. She destroyed it, every inch, and herself along with it. I have never seen such a thing. I only just escaped with my life.”

  “What of the soldiers I sent?”

  Garen closed his eye. “Dead, with everyone else.”

  “You were there, in Foley? When last we spoke, I sent you to Cabinsport. Now you tell me this?” Korith was unconcerned with the loss of the men. “I would hear the whole story, if you have the strength within you.”

  Chancellor Garen shifted uncomfortably in the feather soft bed. The pain shifted with him, inescapable. “The three of them had left Cabinsport before I arrived. I planned to lure the brothers - and the girl - to me. With Earl Ving’s help, I staged a tournament in Foley. The prize was enormous - and they took the bait. They were there, in Foley, within my grasp.”

  He paused, licking his parched lips, catching his breath. “Your soldiers arrived as I was overseeing the destruction of a nest of magic users. Ving had allowed them to survive for years, they existed practically in the open. I was doing your work.”

  Duke Korith nodded, fully immersed in the Chancellor’s story.

  “Your soldiers … the brothers and the girl must have seen them. And then she was there, in the center of town. People were dying. Buildings were crumbling. The ground itself split before her, Korith, and the fire— She commanded the flames beside me as if they were her creation.” His shudder was not faked.

  The Duke rubbed at his forehead and sank back in the leather chair. “How did you escape?”

  “I hid. Anyone she could see wound up dead, and not always quickly. I got out of sight. When she drove the horses out, I caught one. I made my way to Paltos, but… When I arrived, I was in a bad way. One of your soldiers, Orrin, found me. He brought me to the Inn, but when he learned who I was, he ran.”

  “Ran? Why?”

  Garen shrugged, then winced at the resulting wave of pain. “He said he had left his post on the command of a woman. I imagine he was too ashamed to return - even with my promise of a pardon.”

  Duke Korith began to assemble the pieces in his mind. “The forest walker escaped,” he said. “My fool of a wife sent the soldier at the door to Paltos. Calder probably just walked out in plain sight.” He was clearly disgusted.

  Even distracted by pain, it took Garen little time to make the connection. “Orrin.”

  “He will have to die.”

  Garen sighed. “What did you learn from the forest walker?”

  Korith shook his head, the ache there holding steady at the edge of unbearable. “He would say nothing of her whereabouts, and even less of her abilities.”

  “May I suggest, then, that his escape is a boon?” Garen licked his lips carefully.

  “Are you mad?” The Duke stared at his Chancellor.

  “My Lord, I personally witnessed her abilities. I barely survived them. And her location matters little, since she is dead. But the ranger does not know that. He will retrace her steps in search of her, and as close as she was to the brothers, your son’s killer will likely be along that path, or close.”

  The Duke furrowed his brow, considering.

  “Send Lothaedus,” Garen urged. “There is not a better tracker or killer in all of your forces. You know it to be true. I will speak with him personally, tell him all that
I know, anything that may aid him. He will bring the brother to justice, and I will accompany you to Porthold as soon as I’ve recovered.”

  Korith rubbed at his forehead again. His Chancellor might well have a point, but by the Lich his head hurt. “Rest, Garen. We leave for Porthold tomorrow. You’ll ride in my carriage. You and your injuries may well be the best example I have of the dangers of magic.”

  Garen bristled inwardly, but he did not argue. “You’ll send Lothaedus?”

  The Duke stood. “Tomorrow, my friend. Now you must rest. I’ll see that Beth aids Cook with whatever treatment you require – she has a gentle touch, you will do well in her care.”

  The Chancellor cleared his throat. “Thank you, my Lord.”

  11

  Lothaedus chose to walk, in the beginning. There was much to be done before he could approach this girl that had so captivated his friend. If she were even half as dangerous as Garen’s wounds suggested, there would be no room for error. He would have just one chance. She must believe in him completely, she must never doubt that he was anything other than what he claimed – so he, too, must believe.

  He had watched her in Cabinsport, an eternity ago. She had been nervous, fearful - out of place, looking to others for guidance. The forest walker, the innkeeper’s wife, the fighter and his brother… She went willingly wherever she saw the slightest hint of confidence. Whatever she had done since, she had begun her journey from a place of fear. That was his way in.

  As he walked, Lothaedus considered who he should be to earn her trust. Nothing intimidating - no soldier, no fighter. She had shown affection for the dog in Cabinsport, he thought. It protected her, comforted her, asked for nothing in return. The dog was gone, he knew. She would need that feeling again, she would want it more than she could name. He nodded to himself.

  Changing his gait slightly, Lothaedus gave himself the merest hint of a limp. It would give him humanity, make him sympathetic - but it wasn’t serious enough to be pitiable. She still had to believe he could protect her. There would be a story attached to the limp, he decided. He would have stories for everything. He would be a man of words, a man of opinions and narratives and conversations.

  He tipped his head to one side, not too much, just so a lock of hair flopped casually into one deep gray eye. There would be nothing noble about him save his intentions, Lothaedus thought. He would be a traveler, then. A man, no more and no less. A man bordering on simple but smart enough to make his way in the wide world, with no other agenda but doing the right thing.

  Brody, his name would be. Brody Douglas. A good name. A solid name.

  Brody’s voice came to him, rising and falling with the motion of his barely limping gait. Wanted to see the world, he did, and left home when he was scarcely thirteen to see what he could see. And oh, the things he had seen! He was maybe a little slow, his older brother would have told him as a boy, ruffling his hair, but he was plenty quick when it counted.

  Yes, he was Brody Douglas, and he had dreamed of the girl. Dreamed of her for days, her black braid and wide eyes and shy smile, and everyone knew when you dreamed of someone more than once, you were meant to meet them.

  He would meet her, he knew. It would happen when he least expected it, maybe in some small town somewhere when he stopped for an ale and a song at an Inn. Brody would see her and he would smile, and maybe she’d be uncomfortable in a crowd. Maybe he could draw her mind away from the people with tales of his adventures in the wide world. He could tell her the story of his limp, how he had nearly fallen to his death venturing for a closer look at the Storm Falls and had she ever been? It was nearly as beautiful as her…

  Far in the back of Brody Douglas’ mind, Lothaedus remembered that the girl didn’t speak, and altered the course of his mental dialogue.

  Oh, you don’t speak? Brody would ask, and then he would smile and she would trust him when he said no matter, I talk enough for both of us, leastways that’s what my mother - may her soul rest peaceful - used to say. His inelegant words would fall over themselves like waves on a shore, drawing in the girl of his dreams, lulling her into trust. Yes, she died while I was away, he would say sadly, and tell her about the adventure he was having when the thieves killed his mother - may her soul rest peaceful - right in the middle of the street of their little village.

  He hadn’t sworn vengeance, though, them that were bad always got what was coming to them in time. Didn’t she agree?

  Brody Douglas would be friendly, but not overly so, just simple and gentle and good … Lothaedus guided Brody to brush the hair from his eye in a practiced gesture which with time would become unconscious, just as the limp would become. The lock of hair stubbornly flopped right back where it had been.

  Lothaedus solidified the persona and surrendered to it, withdrawing his own thoughts. He was no longer Duke Korith’s Hunter Captain, unmatched in the art of disguise. He was not seeking to capture the girl and return her to Chancellor Garen. No, that man had no place in this search.

  He was Brody Douglas, not the smartest man in the world, but not stupid. He was good with horses, good with his hands, and he had a story for everything. He had dreamed of the girl, and there she was. She looked like she could use some company, was all, and if he could distract her or help her feel safe and comfortable, then he would do just that.

  It was the right thing to do, and if there was anything more worth doing than the right thing, Brody Douglas didn’t know what that was.

  12

  The nobles that had gathered in Porthold were swayed.

  Korith, standing at the front of the room, could practically feel it. His triumph was reflected back at him from the assembled crowd, in the way they shifted in their seats, how they stared at Garen with averted eyes so they could pretend they were not staring. Even their host, Duke Derbin, was nodding in agreement - though he kept his head turned politely away from the sight of the Chancellor’s ruined face.

  It was perfect. Korith had no regrets about the pace they’d set to get to Porthold, arriving in a mere six days despite Garen’s crippling injuries. When Duke Derbin had first seen the Chancellor, he’d suggested they delay the meeting, but Korith wouldn’t hear of it. He’d insisted on addressing the nobles that very night, with Garen by his side. Here, now … it was perfect.

  Everything was falling into place. Torchlight flickered over the glistening, twisted skin of his Chancellor, and Garen’s stony glare lent more support to the Duke’s point than any speech the wounded man refused to give. Korith carried on with the close of his speech. Even the mild ache behind his eyes seemed irrelevant with the taste of success so close at hand.

  Bethcelamin sat at his left, her maid behind her. His wife was radiant this evening, despite the strain of their travels. She seemed a changed woman on the journey, attentive and understanding, listening as he rehearsed the words he would say at this meeting. She offered no argument when he insisted she drink her tea each night for the sake of calming her nerves. Despite the maid’s protests, Korith credited the tea with her improved nature - and her malleable memory.

  She had questioned his story the first time she’d heard it, curious about the young woman who caused such destruction before dying to her own awful power. He’d lied and said the girl was no one, just a random magic user who had been living in Foley. He wasn’t certain she believed him.

  Over the years, Korith had repeatedly insisted to Bethcelamin that she had borne only one child, their son— and up until Lucian’s murder, she had seemed willing to accept that. Since then, however, she had made several references to the daughter she had abandoned before they were married. The tea helped suppress her memory, but not enough.

  He knew of her pregnancy by the mage, of course. There was little he didn’t know about the woman his father had chosen for him - but when he wasn’t able to find them before they hid their wicked offspring, he kept the secret close. Bethcelamin had been the best possible match for him politically - she still was.

  Expo
sing her shameful dalliance with a mage would be to expose his knowledge and disregard of it. That would weaken his own position, which was something he would not do. Not then, and certainly not now.

  There would be even less room for rumors of his tolerance of magic when he was King, and his wife’s recollection of his momentary failure would be nothing short of disastrous. There were other ways to convince her, Korith knew, should her inconvenient belief in the facts get out of hand. He was not above taking a more physical role in her obedience. But that was for later.

  Beth was agreeable enough on the road. She helped with Chancellor Garen’s injuries, repulsive though they were. In the tent when they stopped each night she was warm, and once again willing - for the first time since Lucian’s murder. Apart from her first curious reaction to his practiced speech, she had not so much as hinted at thoughts of the witch-child she’d brought into the world.

  Her renewed affection and the obvious support of the gathered Earls and Barons in Duke Derbin’s hall was a heady mix. Korith thought it might be what being King would feel like. Like nothing could stop him.

  A noise outside the closed chamber stole the attention of his audience. Muffled shouts floated through the thick wooden doors, and Korith frowned. Whoever it was would pay for the disruption, he thought. Something heavy crashed against the door, and a few women shrieked. To her credit, he noted, Bethcelamin made no such foolish squeal - she only took the hand of her maid, and looked to him for guidance.

  Korith maintained his appearance of calm - for her, and for the others. He acknowledged the interruption only by raising his voice, continuing the speech, ignoring the anxious rustling of the crowd. It didn’t work. He frowned as the noise grew louder, and everyone turned toward the two lone guards on the inside of the chamber.