Five Lands Saga Box Set 1 (Five Lands Saga Box Sets), page 97
Everyone in Daniella’s life had made her feel this way, including him. Jaeme had become a son to Greghor, had looked to him as a father these long years.
They become traitors, too.
“Jaeme,” Hugh said again. “We can take you by force, but if you come quietly—”
“It doesn’t matter,” Greghor said. “It doesn’t matter if you come quietly. If that body speaks to Diamis, then the damage is done. I couldn’t protect your father, and I won’t be able to protect you.”
Jaeme opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Of course, Jaeme thought bitterly. Why bother to improve upon a plan that worked so well the first time? He didn’t want Jaeme to come quietly. He didn’t want to risk that Jaeme might have some evidence against him that would prove him a liar. His uncle was hedging his bets, even though Jaeme possessed no such evidence.
“You filthy bastard,” Jaeme said. His blood rushed through him hot as fire, his entire being suddenly focused on the malicious, carefully hidden smugness on Greghor’s face. With a clarity born of pain, he realized that this was exactly what his father saw. The entire world turned against him, and the gloat of triumph in the eyes of the man who had caused it.
Why? Jaeme thought at the stone. Why now? I did what you asked. I found you. I’m supposed to be your chosen.
The stone did not respond.
How could the will of a god have ended up like this?
Jaeme heard footsteps behind him. Reinforcements must have arrived. Jaeme had only moments left. And though he held Kotali, the miracle that accompanied him had already passed, had served only to strand him here, on the newly formed, fully isolated plateau of Grisham.
With a man who was determined to kill him where he stood, and waited only for Jaeme to resist, to make it seem that Greghor’s accusations were true.
Jaeme could see only one way out. His mind and his heart were in agreement.
He drew his sword.
“Duke Greghoran of Grisham,” he said, using his uncle’s full title, as was required by the statutes of challenge. “I challenge you to a duel of restitution, on the charge of the Betrayal of Oaths.”
Hugh’s eyes widened, and he looked immediately at Greghor. The guards around Greghor tightened their formation a bit, though if his uncle accepted the challenge, they would be forbidden to interfere. The footsteps behind Jaeme stopped as well, waiting, it seemed, for Greghor’s answer.
Greghor stared stone-faced at Jaeme, the hints of smugness gone. Jaeme smiled. He’d thrown his uncle off his game, made the man consider. Did he dare come up against Jaeme? If Jaeme won the duel, by Mortichean law, he would be absolved. The trial by combat would prove that Jaeme’s accusation was correct, that Greghor was the traitor, that Jaeme was innocent. Not that his uncle would survive to face the consequences.
Duels on this particular charge were always fought to the death.
“I will allow you the chance to withdraw the challenge,” Greghor said. “Anyone can see you’re shaken. I do not wish to kill you. You are the child of my heart; I could not bear even to watch you face the justice that waits for you.”
Jaeme clenched his jaw. Of course. That was why his uncle had scared away Daniella. He was taking away everything Jaeme held dear, throwing him off balance so he’d be unable to fight back. Greghor was right about Jaeme’s physical state; on a normal day, Jaeme was easily the better swordsman, but shaken as he was, he could no longer feel assured of the outcome.
Jaeme’s glance fell to the side of Greghor, a few steps behind, where stood a little boy, watching Jaeme with sad, scared eyes. A boy who was a mirror image of Jaeme as a child.
Except that this boy had Daniella’s curls, her bright red hair.
Jaeme was torn between the desire to weep and to laugh. He knew there was no child there, that this child didn’t and wouldn’t exist. Yet still the boy watched him. And Jaeme knew that, like his own mother, he was finally being taken by the madness.
His chances didn’t matter. The Earthstone didn’t matter. Better that he would die here. Kenton would find another godbearer, one who could do his job, like Nikaenor, like Saara, like Sayvil when it came to her turn. Kenton would rescue the stone from his uncle. Perhaps they could carry it to the Chamber wrapped in cloth and not need him at all.
“The challenge stands,” Jaeme said.
Greghor looked at him with fake pity. “Then, dear nephew, I’m afraid I must refuse.”
Jaeme’s heart burned. His uncle was free to refuse by law, but doing so was an insult—the final of many. Under normal circumstances Greghor would be branded a coward, but Jaeme could already imagine the way his uncle would spin it to his favor. He couldn’t bear to fight his dear nephew, bereaved as he was that Jaeme had turned out exactly like his father.
Fine. For the first time, Jaeme understood what drove Kenton forward, seeking justice for the lives of his people, seeking Diamis’ death. It wasn’t about saving the world at all. It was about revenge, pure and simple, because without justice, the world wasn’t worth saving. If Greghor lived, growing fat and old off the suffering of others, then everything else was meaningless.
He couldn’t allow Greghor the luxury of refusing him.
Jaeme’s lips turned up in a humorless smile. He knew he would die. He knew he couldn’t best them all. But if he could only take his uncle with him, at least his death would have meaning.
The footsteps behind Jaeme advanced again. Jaeme looked over his shoulder and found Kenton stepping up behind him. “We’ll take the others,” Kenton whispered. “Your uncle is yours.”
Just around the corner, Jaeme saw Sayvil also watching him, pulling an alchemist hood over her face—bottle-glass covering her eyes and thick leather protecting her face from whatever she was about to unleash. Whatever it was, Jaeme hoped he and Kenton could weather it without protection.
Greghor opened his mouth, no doubt to order the guards to seize Kenton, to arrest them both, but Jaeme spoke over him.
“No matter,” Jaeme said, shoving Kotali deep into his belt pouch. He took a step toward his uncle. “If it costs me my life, I swear on the god I hold you will not leave this courtyard alive.”
The knights behind Greghor charged forward. Kenton and Jaeme both sprang into action, Kenton drawing his sword in one swift motion and putting it clean through the gut of one of the knights before Jaeme even met with his. Jaeme parried a blow from the guard and grabbed his sword with one hand, shoving the man backward. As Jaeme stepped past him to reach his uncle, Sayvil descended on the guard. Her hand clapped over his mouth, and the man choked and sputtered.
Jaeme reached Greghor, who had his sword up to block and was retreating toward the castle doors. Hugh stepped in front of him as the final knight bolted for help. Jaeme couldn’t reach him—not with both Hugh and Greghor between them. Instead he locked swords with Hugh.
“Step aside,” Jaeme said. “You’ve been deceived.”
“You know I can’t,” Hugh said. “This isn’t honor. It’s murder.”
That might be true, but Jaeme no longer cared. He drove Hugh backward with a few quick blows, and Hugh hit the bottom castle step without anticipating it, falling backward onto the stairs.
The guard reached the door, and Greghor backed away, keeping his sword up between himself and Jaeme. Jaeme had already decided to allow the guard to go to keep his uncle from escaping, and hope to the gods that he’d be able to dispatch his uncle before reinforcements arrived, when Kenton hoisted himself up on the stone wall lining the stairs and ran up to the door, killing the guard before he could pull the door open. Greghor turned to keep Kenton from flanking him, and Jaeme used the opportunity to lock swords with his uncle and shove him up against the castle wall.
Hugh scrambled to his feet and advanced up the stairs toward Jaeme. Jaeme would have been caught between them had Kenton not leapt forward and pushed Hugh back down from the stairs with several glancing blows.
Gods, Kenton was fast. And now Greghor was alone. Jaeme’s uncle hopped the short wall lining the stairway and landed on the other side in the dirt. Jaeme followed Kenton’s example and hopped up on the wall with one foot and then jumped down with the other, landing and pivoting in front of his uncle. For an old man with a bad back, his uncle seemed to have taken the jump rather well, and Jaeme imagined his body must be holding together through adrenaline alone.
Much like Jaeme’s mind.
On the packed dirt next to the stair wall, they circled one another, exchanging blows, gauging the other’s strengths and vulnerabilities. Although they’d dueled in practice many times before, this was different. There would be no quarter given on either side; Jaeme had to gain the upper hand, and he had to do it quickly.
They parried and swung, thrust and blocked in a dance older than any other, set to the music of scuffing feet, pounding heartbeats, and ringing steel. Greghor thrust forward, and Jaeme dodged behind an empty cart that had been left by the stairs, causing Greghor’s sword to glance off of the crossbar and leaving him momentarily exposed on the other side. Jaeme leapt forward and Greghor dodged back as Jaeme swung the sword around with a two-handed grip, hoping to strike with full momentum, but missing completely. He whirled around just in time to block the return strike.
Behind Greghor, Jaeme could see Kenton matching steel with Hugh while grinning like the children outside Grisham who’d been playing joust with the bush. Hugh didn’t deserve to die for falling victim to his uncle’s treachery, but if justice was really served, Kenton would come out on top.
Jaeme didn’t see Sayvil, and he hoped she, unlike the guard, had made it out for help. Jaeme’s arm began to ache unbearably, much faster than he had expected, the wounds he’d sustained in the swamp suddenly sparking with pain once more. However, Greghor, also aware that Jaeme was better in combat, was fighting with an intensity Jaeme had never seen from him before; it was the fervor of a caged animal, pushing back encroaching death with every blow. It was something Jaeme recognized, because he felt it too—not the fear of death itself, for death, he knew, was virtually guaranteed. It was the fear of death without justice that drove him forward with a mad focus.
Kenton’s fight had no meaning for Jaeme, except to buy him time. Kenton might win, but even if he did, they were stuck here, with no means for escape, and the rest of the guard would descend upon them.
He ignored them all as he fought, single-mindedly watching for any weakness, any unprotected limb or overextended thrust, until finally, it came. Greghor dodged to the side and stumbled over a small outcropping of dirt and grass, driving him to one knee. Before he could right himself, Jaeme lunged forward, driving the sword point toward his uncle’s throat.
And he hesitated.
For in the space of a heartbeat, he saw Greghor’s wide blue eyes and slack jaw; he saw himself about to kill a man he had loved all his life. The force of the moment, the reality of what he had to do, stopped him for the barest of seconds, the sword tip inches away from its target.
But it was enough.
Greghor rolled away, and with a swift kick, knocked Jaeme’s legs out from under him, sending him sprawling to the ground. They both scrambled to their feet and circled each other warily again.
Greghor flashed Jaeme a triumphant sneer, as sweat rolled down his face. “You can’t do it, Jaeme. You can’t bring yourself to kill me. You’re cowardly and weak, just like your father.”
Jaeme’s chest heaved as he drew in ragged breaths. “You’re the coward. You’ve cost me everything, and now you’re going to die for it.”
Greghor sneered. “For the girl? I’m sure Diamis has grander plans for her than to be your whore.”
Jaeme kicked out, hitting his uncle in the shins and following it with a strike that his uncle barely parried, backing away several steps. “She would have been my wife,” Jaeme said. Gods, even his voice felt raw.
With a growl, Greghor raised his sword for an overhand strike and ran suddenly at him. Jaeme did the same and their swords met in the air above their heads with a loud clang, sending a shudder down his sword arm and more pain in his shoulder.
Greghor used his free hand to grab Jaeme’s wrist, holding his sword still in the air as Greghor’s sword continued its momentum across the blade. Jaeme grabbed for Greghor’s wrist only a second later with his own free hand, but not before his uncle’s blade was behind Jaeme’s head; the two struggled against the other’s arm strength, locked close in a wrestling hold.
Jaeme looked to Kenton for help, but the man was entirely occupied with Hugh, keeping the knight busy with quick, advancing attacks. Jaeme was certain Kenton would have bested him by now if he hadn’t been so studiously edging himself between Jaeme and Hugh to prevent Hugh from helping Greghor. It must have pained Kenton to do so, and Jaeme appreciated the sacrifice.
Around the corner toward the front of the castle, a crowd of guards arrived, entering the courtyard at a dead run. They would both be dead in moments—surely even Kenton couldn’t fend off so many.
A flash of orange shot out from behind the smithy and a ball of burlap and powder broke open on the ground in front of the guards. With a whoosh of air, the powder dispersed, shooting upwards into the faces of the advancing guards until they were completely engulfed in a peach-colored cloud. They coughed and sputtered and stopped their advance.
Clearly all of Sayvil’s trips to the apothecary and the hours in her room with her powders had come to good use.
Jaeme finally managed to push Greghor’s sword from him, up and to the side, but felt a sharp burn as the blade glanced along the side of his neck. The two shoved away hard from each other. He heard the hiss of wind charms as more of Sayvil’s concoctions burst open, and the hacking coughs of the guards as they stumbled through. The silt in the air drifted across the courtyard, and Jaeme’s eyes began to burn and water, but he forced them to stay open, and Greghor did the same.
Jaeme’s free hand touched his neck, his sword outstretched to keep Greghor at a safe distance. He pulled his hand back to see blood smeared across his fingers, oozing from a ragged, shallow wound. Sweat dripped into his eyes, beaded hot across his lips. Greghor brushed sweat off his own brow, his lip curled, but appearing too fatigued to gloat at his small victory.
Jaeme’s legs trembled; he fought to center himself. He pulled together every flagging muscle in his body for one massive hit, which knocked Greghor’s sword arm to the side. As Greghor stumbled backward, Jaeme kicked him hard in the gut, sending him reeling. Greghor’s sword-hand smacked against a tree trunk, his sword flying far from him.
Greghor fell back onto the ground, his eyes wide with terror as he watched Jaeme advance. He looked from side to side, as if beseeching aid from any corner. But Kenton had driven Hugh back around the smithy, out of sight, and the remaining two guards still lay in a heap. The dust was settling over the crowd at the edge of the courtyard, revealing five men all on the ground, swiping at their eyes and hacking.
Jaeme focused on Greghor and felt a kind of calm settle over him, both hot and strangely dispassionate. “At least I’m man enough to do my own killing,” he said bitterly. Then, without a trace of his former hesitation, he plunged the sword deep into his uncle’s chest, feeling the thick resistance of leather and chain mail, muscle and bone. Greghor’s eyes widened further with the impact; he let out gasping groan, sputtering blood out of his mouth and down into his beard. His blue eyes bore into Jaeme’s in fear and accusation, before the spark of life departed from them and his body slid backwards off the blade to slump in an unceremonious heap.
Fifty-six
Daniella’s fingernails bit into her palms as Kenton and Sayvil disappeared around the corner, off to help Jaeme. She couldn’t worry about him now; she didn’t have time for anger or heartache or self-pity, either, though all those threatened to consume her.
She turned to Perchaya and Nikaenor. “Were any of you near the chasm when it opened? Is it wide and deep all the way around?”
“Sayvil and I nearly dropped into the thing,” Nikaenor said, running a hand through his hair with a nervous tremor. “It’s about ten feet across and deep enough that a fall would kill us.”
Daniella cursed. Just enough to make an escape difficult, but not so wide a chasm that Erich wouldn’t find a way across, and possibly already had.
She looked at Buras, who shrugged. “If I knew any other knights or servants more devoted to Lord Jaemeson than to the duke, we could perhaps rally some aid, but asking for help escaping seems more likely to get us all arrested at the moment. Maybe if we hide until your bodyguard comes back with Lord Jaemeson, then—”
“No!” Daniella snapped, then steadied herself. She couldn’t take the chance that Erich might find them. Kenton and Jaeme could catch up with them later. “We need to prepare a way out. With some rope, we could—” she started, but Nikaenor cut her off, his eyes wide.
“Netting!” he said. They all looked at him. “We could use some netting to make a rope bridge across.”
Buras raised an eyebrow. “Netting? Like, nets for fishing?”
Nikaenor flushed. “Or for . . . I don’t know, potatoes. Or something.”
Daniella groaned. Nets would be plentiful in Ithale, but less so here. “Ten feet isn’t that far across. There has to be a beam or something we could use, something sturdy enough—”
“The library ladder!” Perchaya said, and though Daniella could have stood to have finished her sentence, that was at least an object she was familiar with. She’d spent plenty of time scaling those ladders, picking through all the books in Grisham’s library. The first time, Jaeme had stood at the bottom of the ladder and teased her about being more rapturously in love with his books than she was with him. She’d pretended to agree—Grisham had all seven volumes of the rare Language and Peoples of the Banishment translated by Mastersmith Pleo, after all—and he’d reached up and tickled the back of her calf, and she’d laughed and climbed down to join him and—
