Malice

CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

EVNIS

Evnis looked about the feast-hall, taking stock. Things were coming to a head. Tonight. And his rage stopped him thinking straight. A clear mind was what he needed, but Gethin’s decapitated head refused to leave his thoughts. Owain would pay, not for killing his brother, but for robbing Evnis of his triumph, of Gethin witnessing his victory. Somehow it felt empty now, and that made him angry. He kept his rage within. Focus, or your head will be rolling, too.

His eyes fell on the boy with the wolven. Corban. Certainly there was something about the boy, arrogant as he was. He could not deny that it had been quite the duel, especially as he knew Helfach’s boy was no idiot with a sword. And Rafe had a couple of years on Corban. A smile twitched his lips as he watched the lad, sitting with Thannon and a few others, laughing at something. They would not be laughing soon.

Nathair had asked him to arrange a meeting with Corban, said he wanted to meet the boy that had tamed a wolven. Evnis had snorted at that. Tame it was not.

His gaze rested on Nathair, reclining in his chair, observing. From the very first, when Tenebral’s young King had approached him asking for information, he had known. Known that this man was special, had a role to play. And even if his own instincts had not served him so well, still he would have known. The voice had spoken, inside his head. It was not the first time he had heard it, guiding him over the years, but certainly it was the clearest. Serve him. Its command had been unmistakable.

He did not know how Rhin would feel, but she was not his master, whether she thought it or not. Asroth was.

So he had told Nathair about Meical seeing Brenin. That the two had definitely spoken privately, and at great length. Nathair had been grateful, and enraged. He did not shout, there was no outburst, but a coldness had possessed him then. This was not a man Evnis would cross lightly.

It is time, said the voice, a sibilant whisper in his head. He felt a stab of fear, knowing there was no returning from this next step. Do it, the voice snarled.

‘With me,’ he said, Conall and Glyn rising. He looked back once, from the doors. Brenin was still drinking, his head starting to loll. Good. He had been certain the valerian he’d arranged to be slipped into the King’s mead would slow him, but waiting to witness it had been tense. It was a shame Pendathran had not drunk of it as well. Can’t have everything.

He marched into the storm, heading for his hold. His last view of the feast-hall had been Vonn, glaring at him. He sighed. Parenting was difficult. They had argued about the fisher girl, Bethan, again. Vonn had told him that he loved the girl, wanted to be handbound to her. She was pretty enough, all right for Vonn to have some fun with, learn the ways of the world, but handbound? Vonn was destined for much better. Or better-born, at least. That had not gone down very well.

There would be time to smooth things over. After.

Soon they were back through the squall at the hold, Conall opening the door to his tower. He smiled humourlessly at the warrior. It had taken remarkably little to win Conall over. Pride was his weakness. Or one of them. Evnis had only to plant the seed, suggest that Halion was abandoning him for Brenin’s favour, then water it with the King’s very clear disrespect of Conall — a suggestion here, an observation there — and the beast had grown. When he had offered Conall a place in his hold the warrior had been tempted, almost eager, and only a small draw on the earth power had been needed to fan Conall’s jealousy and paranoia.

Evnis headed straight for the basements. The tunnels had been boarded up for some time, after the encounter with the wyrm. But Evnis had known their value and had explored. That was how he had found the exit into the cave.

They waited by the tunnel entrance, and soon Evnis saw the flicker of a torch, and heard the whisper of feet. Many feet. His messenger appeared, sent out alone before sundown. He was not alone now.

A dark file of warriors slipped past him, filling the basement. Forty, fifty, more — all wrapped in black, curved swords jutting over their shoulders. One of them stood before him, waiting.

See it through, he told himself. He stood and walked to the staircase. ‘To Stonegate,’ he said.