And if Hetwar was not in league with Ijada's would-be murderer, then perhaps a plea for justice would have a chance, here? When else, indeed, was Ingrey likely to come face-to-face with Biast in the next few days? He took a breath.
“There remains the matter of Lady Ijada. If you desire to draw a veil over Boleso's late madness and blasphemy, a trial is the last thing you want. Let the inquest return a verdict of self-defense, or better still, accident, and let her go.” “She killed my brother,” said Biast, a little indignantly.
“The precedent is scarcely a good one for the royal house,” said Hetwar. “As well declare hunting season on Stagthornes, or all high lords. There are sound reasons the Father's Order spent so much effort eliminating that old custom. The rich might without fear purchase the lives of the poor.”
“And they don't now?” said Ingrey.
Hetwar gave him a little warning growl. “It is certainly to be preferred that her execution be swift and as painless as possible. Perhaps she might be granted a sword, instead of a rope or the pyre, or some like mercy.”
And I a swordsman. “There is more going on here than is yet…clear.” He had not wanted to play this card, but their closed expressions terrified him. He had planted his ideas in their heads; perhaps he should give them time to germinate. Should her life be forfeit, then, because I am afraid to speak? “I think she is god-touched. You pursue her at your peril.”
Biast snorted. “A murderess? I doubt it. If so, let the gods send her a champion.”
Ingrey held his breath lest it huff from his mouth like that of a man punched in the gut.
It seems They have. He's just not a very good one. You would think the gods could do better…
His pent breath found other words. “How long, my lords, has it been since the hallow kingship grew so hollow? This was once a sacred thing. How did we dare to come to treat it as merchandise to be bought and sold at the best market price? When did god-sworn warriors become peddlers?”
The words stung Hetwar, at least, for he sat up in open exasperation. “I use the gifts the gods have given me, including judgment and reason. My task, my tools. I have served the Weald since before you were born, Ingrey. There never was a golden age. It was always only iron.”
“Ingrey, peace!”
Biast was rubbing his brow, as though it ached. “Enough of this! If I am to attend the procession, I must go wash and dress.” He stood and stretched, wincing.
Hetwar rose at once. “Indeed, Prince-marshal. I, too, must ride out.” He frowned in frustration at Ingrey. “We will continue this when you have regained a more considered temper, Lord Ingrey. In the meantime, do not speak of these matters.”
“Learned Lewko desires to interview me.”
Hetwar blew out his breath. “Lewko, I know. A most unhelpful man, in my experience.”
“I defy the Temple at my gravest risk.”
“Oh? That's a new twist. I thought you defied anyone you damned well pleased.”
How long they would have locked each other's gazes, Ingrey was not sure, but Biast reached the door first. Hetwar perforce followed, waving Ingrey out. “You had better not lie to Lewko. I'll speak with him later. And with you later.” His gaze flicked down. “Don't drip on my carpets.”
Ingrey flinched, and clasped his right hand with his left. The bandage was wet through, and leaking.
“What happened to your-no, tell me later. Attend on me at the funeral rite. Dress properly,” Hetwar ordered.
“Sir.” Ingrey bowed to his retreating back. Symark, who had wandered away down the hall to examine Hetwar's tapestries, hurried to join the prince.
It was full morning in Easthome, lively with bustling crowds, when Ingrey regained the street and turned toward the river. Ijada was awake now, he felt in his heart. Awake, and not, at the moment, unduly distressed. The reassurance eased him. Without what he now realized was an endemic state of covert panic driving his strides, his feet found their own pace, and it was a slow one. Did this strange new perception run two ways? He would have to ask her. He trudged wearily back toward the narrow house.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE PORTER ADMITTED INGREY AGAIN TO THE HALL. INGREY'S gaze flicked up. Ijada was above, locked in with her warden as instructed, presumably. It crossed Ingrey's mind that while Horseriver's servants and one somewhat-damaged swordsman might be enough to keep a docile naive girl from escaping this imprisonment, it was a woefully inadequate force to ward off attack. Ingrey might foil one assailant-well, a few-several-but a sufficiently determined enemy had merely to send enough men, and the conclusion would be grimly certain.
For some subtler, uncanny attack…the outcome was not so obvious. Could the weirding voice prove a defense? The hum of questionable power in his blood unnerved him still. Earl Horseriver apparently knew, even if Ingrey did not, of the full range of Ingrey's new capacities. Wencel's oblique promise of some sort of training troubled Ingrey's thoughts.
The porter produced a slightly crumpled piece of paper. “Temple messenger brought this for you, my lord.”
Ingrey broke the seal to find a short note from Learned Lewko, the penmanship blocky and neat. It appears my time will be taken today with that matter of internal Temple discipline you helped to uncover yesterday, for which I thank you, it read. I will wait upon you and Lady Ijada as soon as I may following the prince's funeral rites tomorrow.
He climbed to his rooms to have Tesko help change his soaked bandage and take away his town garb to clean the bloodstains. The new stitches proved intact, and the spaces between them had scabbed over again. The unhealing wound was beginning to disturb him. His episodes of bleeding had perfectly reasonable explanations, most having to do with his own carelessness; it was only in his nervous fancy that they were beginning to seem like unholy libations. And if small magics draw a small blood sacrifice, what would a great one do?
His bed beckoned, and he sank down on it. The notion of food was still repulsive, but perhaps sleep would help him heal. He no sooner lay down than his thoughts began spinning again. He had been assuming from the beginning that the motivation of Ijada's mysterious assassin must be political, or revenge for her killing of Boleso. Perhaps such theorizing was an effect of his being so long in Hetwar's train. Yet trying to widen his thinking only made it feel more diffuse and foolish. I know less and less each day. What was the end of this progression, a glum future as a village idiot? The absurd images trailed off at last in muzzy exhaustion.
HE WOKE LATER THAN HE HAD INTENDED, THIRSTY, BUT FEELING as if he had paid off some accumulated debts to his body. Inspired, he sent down orders via Tesko that dinner should be served to him and his prisoner in the ground-floor parlor. He donned town garb again, combed his hair, wondered why he owned no lavender water, considered sending Tesko out to buy some tomorrow, scrubbed his teeth, and shaved for the second time that day as the shadows deepened outside. He took a breath and descended the stairs.
He could not very well fall upon her like a ravening wolf, not least because the accursed warden stood at her side, hands and lips tightly folded. The table, he saw to his dismay, seemed to have been reflexively set for three. Horseriver's servant was surely Horseriver's spy. Simply to dismiss the duenna bore unknown dangers.
Regardless of his own strangely shifting internal allegiances, he supposed he must guard his own reputation as well as Ijada's, or risk being relieved of his post. But he might hazard a smile, and did. He might chance a touch of her hand, brought formally to his lips. The scent of her skin, so close, seemed to bring all of his senses to heightened sharpness. The sheer intensity of her, at this range, almost overwhelmed him.