“What is it?” he asked.
“Sir, I seen your easel. I seen your paints and brushes there in the study this morning, and…” Her face reddened. “I was outside the door and heard you speaking to Her Ladyship—about her knowing—about her having something to do with it and all.”
“Yes?” he asked impatiently. Sherwood liked Rissa Lyn well enough. but if Lady Dulgath had sent him a message—for the first time ever—he wanted to know what it said.
“Well, I think you’re right, sir. I think she does know—I think she was the one who did it.”
“Thank you, Rissa Lyn, I appreciate you telling me, but—”
“Sir…” She bit her lip and looked at her feet. “I don’t just think she did it. I know she did.”
“What do you mean? Did you see her do something?”
Rissa Lyn shook her head.
“Then how do you know?”
“On account of how I’ve been Lady Dulgath’s handmaiden for the last ten years. Served her since she was twelve years old, sir. I was there when she was carried in after falling off Derby’s back. There was no saving her, sir. Poor Nysa. Her back was broken, neck too. She was dead before they got her to the castle.”
“What?” Sherwood was so focused on the note in Rissa Lyn’s hand he hadn’t paid attention, but those last words were impossible to ignore. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying the Countess Nysa Dulgath, daughter of Earl Beadle Dulgath, died two years ago. His Lordship was crying and wailing like I’d never seen him. She was his only child, the last link he had to his Lady Raychelle. He couldn’t let her die. He had Abbot Augustine bring in that witch, Maddie Oldcorn. Was just His Lordship, the abbot, and me there when Maddie told him his daughter was dead and nothing could be done.”
“Rissa Lyn, Lady Dulgath is alive. She’s right up—You’re holding a note she wrote to me!”
“That’s not Her Ladyship. That’s someone else—something else. I’m telling you because I know you’ll believe me. You can see her for what she is. A mere lady couldn’t have fixed your easel and paints, could she? A mere lady couldn’t have survived being poisoned. And I was there that day when the stone fell. It didn’t miss her, sir.”
“What are you talking about? She would’ve been crushed. The stone was”—he pointed at one of the huge blocks half buried in the grass—“as big as these.”
“And I watched her swat it away like a fly,” the maid said.
Sherwood narrowed his eyes. “Rissa Lyn, have you been drinking?”
She scowled, then frowned. “I have not, sir! And I don’t understand why you act as if you don’t believe me.”
“Because I don’t!” He nearly shouted the words, but part of him was inwardly nodding and whispering, Yes.
“I thought…” Rissa Lyn folded her lips tight to her teeth. “I thought you were different.” Her lower lip quivered. “I thought you’d understand.”
She turned and started to walk away.
“The note!” he cried.
She spun. Tears were in her eyes as she threw the parchment at him. “You’d love a monster when…I’m…I’m right in front of you—damn you! Damn you, Sherwood Stow! Go on. Go to it. Let the demon drag you to Phyre. I don’t care anymore.”
With that, Rissa Lyn ran away in tears, leaving the note fluttering in the grass, blown by the perfect breeze.
Sherwood had memorized the note and replayed the words in his head as he dug his sword out of a pile in the corner of his room. No rust on the metal, but plenty on the man. Sherwood had taken better care of the blade than he had of himself. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d used it, or when he’d done anything more strenuous than a long walk.
Like everything else, he’d inherited the blade from Yardley; where Yardley had gotten it, no living soul knew. Nothing too fancy, the sword had a straight guard and a hawk’s-head pommel, but the work was of high quality and the blade professional, not merely decorative. Traveling artists didn’t carry much, so whatever they kept long enough to hand down was worth the effort. In most kingdoms of Avryn, able-bodied men were required by their lords to own a weapon and use it if called upon. But only nobles and those so authorized, such as soldiers and sheriffs, openly carried. As a result, he, like his predecessors, kept the weapon in his bedroll—out of sight, but close at hand.
Sherwood had been accosted on several occasions. Mostly, one or two toughs came at him, usually armed with only a single knife between them. Pulling the sword from his bedroll nearly always ended the encounter. But there had been times when he’d faced thieves brandishing their own weapons—true highwaymen who weren’t deterred by the show of a long blade—and Sherwood had been forced to fight for his life.
He’d done well. Sherwood was certain he’d killed at least one man but hadn’t lingered to make certain. In another fight, he’d stabbed a young tough, no more than seventeen, through the stomach. He, too, probably died. In more than six fights, Sherwood had survived, suffering just three wounds, and only one of those could be considered serious. Luckily, Yardley had also taught him how to sew up a cut.
Sherwood harbored no illusions of his prowess. He only hoped that if Lady Dulgath required his blade, his skills would be equal to the task. He waited, watching the sun sink into the ocean. It was only three-quarters set, but he couldn’t wait any longer. He wanted to arrive before she did.
Strapping the sword to his waist, he took the stairs two at a time and sprinted out of the castle.
Sherwood, the note had read. Meet me at the cliffs on the west side of the castle at sunset. I need help, and you’re the only one I can trust.
His emotions were a volatile mix of jubilation and terror. The revelation that she both trusted and needed him was a blast of pure joy. That she was so desperate to meet outside the castle, in such a secluded place made him dread what she might say.
Perhaps she wants to come away with me?
No. That would be too much to hope for. He was letting his emotions override reason. Likely she needed him to pass a message to King Vincent, something she couldn’t trust going through Wells or Rissa Lyn.
Sherwood ran across the courtyard and out the gate, making a quick left and hugging the wall before veering off into the grassy bluffs on the blind side of the castle. The wind was stronger there as it came off the ocean with a damp salty blast that permanently bent the hip-deep grass.
She’s scared of someone in the castle—maybe everyone…“You’re the only one I can trust.”
Clearly, she couldn’t trust Rissa Lyn, but did she know her handmaiden believed she was a demon?
No, he realized then, saw it clearly. You’d love a monster when…I’m…I’m right in front of you…Rissa Lyn was jealous and either making things up or suffering from some form of delusion. Regardless of her feelings, she had to realize that wild accusations weren’t going to keep him from Nysa. I’ll talk to her later…let her down easy.
He ripped through the tall, wind-battered grass, which lashed at his feet and legs. The sounds of the surf grew louder; overhead, gulls cried. On the western side, the sunset tower of Castle Dulgath stood on the very edge of the promontory’s sea-worn tip. The eight-story stone pillar, which appeared to be an extension of the cliffs, had no windows on that side. Some sixty feet below, relentless waves crashed against the stubborn stone.
Someone was near the base of the tower—a dark figure standing in the shadowed gap between two of the tower’s massive carved feet. Sherwood slowed his run to a hesitant trot when he realized it wasn’t Nysa, not even a woman. It was a man in a black cloak, the hood up.