corpse refusing to fade from his sight. He kicked back into Ghost, stabbing his sabers again and again. Warm blood poured across his hands. Steel punctured lung, liver, heart. Ghost crumpled to his knees, then fell upon a gore-filled smear atop the bare floor. Haern hovered over him, one eye swollen shut, the cut on his chest reopened, his face rivulets of blood from cuts of glass, his clothes equally soaked. And then he screamed, the saddened, burdened, victorious monster.
Slowly the sane part of him returned. He thought to carry Senke’s body, to make sure they could bury him properly, but he knew he lacked the energy. Limping over, he knelt and kissed the man’s forehead.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. Thinking of a distant memory, he reached underneath Senke’s bloody shirt and retrieved a pendant-that of the Golden Mountain.
“I hope you’re with him now, Senke. Think well on me. Might not be long before I need you to plead my case to enter within.”
He slipped the pendant over his neck, sheathed his sabers, and crawled out the window. He stayed close to the house, wary of any more traps. At the front, he followed the path. The gateway was empty, and dimly he wondered where Tarlak had gone off to. He stood there dumbly, looking, and then saw him two blocks down the street, his yellow robes rather hard to miss. As he approached, he saw that Tarlak slumped against a building.
“Had to get away,” the wizard said, sounding drowsy. “Just in case he…just in case he came back.”
All across the front of his robes was an ominous circle of blood.
“How bad?” Haern asked, kneeling beside him so he could check the wound.
“Not bad,” Tarlak said, his eyes drooping. “Better than you, from what I see. Where’s Senke?”
The name nearly made Haern choke. Every last bit of his self-control kept him speaking, kept him moving.
“He won’t be coming back,” he said.
Tarlak heard this, went to ask something else, then remained quiet. Tears fell from his eyes.
“He’ll be with Ashhur now,” he whispered.
“Come on,” Haern said, putting an arm around him to help support his weight. “We will too if we don’t hurry. I think there’s about to be a lot of angry people on the street.”
“I think I agree.”
They limped down the street, and whether through luck or the grace of Ashhur, they made it to the Crimson and Delysia’s healing hands without any further trouble.
30
Come the morning, Alyssa awoke feeling like her temples were ready to explode. The dim light hurt her eyes, and she covered them with an arm.
“Milady?” she heard someone say.
“What is it?” she asked. “Can it not wait?”
“Forgive me, milady. My name is Cecil Glenhollow, and I come with a message from Lord John Gandrem of Felwood.”
Alyssa removed her arm and glared. The knight stood over her, looking a mixture of awkwardness and impatience. She wondered what fool of her guard had let the man come to her, especially with her so indecent. She pulled her blankets tight about her and sat up.
“Whatever business you have, it can wait,” she said. “Have my servants prepare you some food, and my guards will-”
“My lady,” said Cecil, “it is about your son.”
Her mouth dropped open, and then she saw the parchment in the knight’s hand. She took it from him and unrolled it. Her eyes scanned, not reading, only looking for the one sentence that meant everything. She missed it the first time, but there it was, just the second line of the entire thing.
I believe you will be pleased to know that, contrary to what you have been told, your son Nathaniel is alive, well, and in my company.
Alive…
She flung her arms around the knight and hugged him as tears wet her face.
“Thank you,” she whispered. The knight stood shocked-still, as if unsure what he might or might not do to avoid insult. Pulling back, she kissed the man’s scruffy cheek, then rushed for her bedroom, not caring that she wore only loose bedrobes.
“You’ll take me to him?” she asked even as she exited the room.
“But, yes…of course,” said Cecil, having to hurry to keep up.
Alyssa couldn’t believe how giddy she felt. Everything the Watcher had said was true. Nathaniel was alive, and now she could go to him, could hold him, could keep him close for the rest of his life as he grew into the man to lead her fortune.
Nathaniel was alive. No matter how many times she told it to herself, it never lost its impact. Nathaniel was alive, alive, praise the gods, alive!
When she arrived at her room, Cecil respectfully remained outside. Hurrying about, Alyssa opened a closet and ran outfit combinations through her head. Someone else knocked on the door, and she told whoever it was to enter without a thought. In stepped a younger man, a distant cousin of hers named Terrance. His features were soft, his reddish-blond hair carefully trimmed. He walked into her room trying to put on a somber face, but he was clearly giddy with news. When he saw the joy on her face, his own lit up. He must have thought she’d be grieving Arthur’s loss, she realized. Foolish man.
“Forgive me for the intrusion,” Terrance said. “When I heard about Bertram’s…betrayal, I went through his things. I’m learning my father’s trade, you see, and he works with accounts and…”
“Hurry it up,” Alyssa said, yanking off her robes and pulling a loose dress over her head. The man flushed a deep red, and he stammered a bit, but he continued.
“Anyway, rumors have it that you wouldn’t be able to pay the mercenaries, or to help with repairs. Bertram told my father, anyway, and several of the servants.” He saw the look she gave and so he skipped to the point. “Thing is, Bertram was lying. I found his ledger for the mercenaries’ payments, and it only comes to a third of your current wealth. Expensive, to be sure, but not near what he…”
She kissed the man, laughed, and then tied a sash about her waist before flinging open another closet and searching for a thick enough coat for the ride north.
“I need a replacement for Bertram,” she said. “And I have no time to search for one, so you’ll have to do, Terrance.”
His jaw nearly hit the floor.
“Me? But I’m still an apprentice, and my father says I can’t own my own store until I reach my twentieth year. To try and manage all this…?”
“Well, you start today.”
“But why? Where are you going?”
Alyssa laughed again.
“I’m going to get my son.”
*
Matthew Pensfield felt the first twinges of consciousness pulling at him, and he resisted. Dull aches felt like the only welcome awaiting him. His gradual awareness thawed from whatever cold sleep it’d fallen into, and he remembered fighting, protecting the boy, Tristan. Or was it Nathaniel? And how was he alive? He was alive, right?
His eyes fluttered open, and there in front of him sat the boy with two names, his head in his hands as he stared at the floor.
“Tristan?” Matthew asked, his voice coming out like a strained croak. The boy startled, but his surprise didn’t last long. A smile spread across his young face, and it lit up his eyes.
“You’re awake!” he said.
“I reckon so.”
