“Perhaps the mage fears exposure,” the priest said calmly. “Your Grace, for safety’s sake, I recommend that he be delivered to my office for examination by the Hand.”
The Hand of Malthus was the team of inquisitors maintained by the principia of the church. All priests, and all adept at the art of torture, or so Ash had heard. It was said the Hand could force a confession out of any man, guilty or not. Or, to say it another way, they had never yet interrogated an innocent man. Montaigne often used the red-clad priests of the Hand to punish his enemies, when it suited him politically. At least that was what was said in the Fells.
This church is bound to have my blood, one way or another, Ash thought.
The king shook his head. “Father Fosnaught, I disagree.” The note of warning in his voice was unmistakable. “This boy is no sorcerer. I can always sense the taint when it is present.”
The principia bowed, his face tight and unhappy. Likely he knew better than to contradict the king.
In one of those ironic twists of fate, the king of Arden had intervened to save the life of someone he’d marked for death.
Odd that nobody suggested that they search him for an amulet. That would have been the most undeniable proof. It was as if they all knew how to play this hypocritical game.
Montaigne turned to his cadre of guards. “Take this boy to the guest quarters. See that he has a bath and a change of clothes. I’ll want to see him in the morning.” That was said loudly, for the benefit of everyone. And then Montaigne turned and spoke softly to Karn.
Suspicion flared in Ash’s muddy mind. What did that mean, the “guest quarters”? Was it code for the dungeon? Had he been recognized after all?
The two guards who had hold of him made as if to escort him away, but Ash dug in his heels. “Am I to be taken prisoner for helping a man, Your Majesty?” he demanded. “Is the practice of the healing arts illegal in Ardenscourt?”
The king looked up, surprised. “No, my boy,” he said softly, making it clear his patience was being sorely tried. “Here in Ardenscourt we reward those with talent by washing the filth off them and finding them something useful to do.” He nodded to the two guards. “Proceed.” He turned with a swirl of his velvet cloak and strode across the courtyard, his courtiers following, like a comet with a long tail. Two blackbirds began sliding the baker onto a litter in order to carry him inside.
The guards had their hands on Ash’s arms and he could feel the tingle of magic in them and he knew there was nothing to do but submit. They led him in through the servants’ entrance he himself had breached earlier in the evening, slowing their steps to match his stumbling gait, half-supporting him when he faltered. They walked back through the palace, past the staircase where he’d met the Darian brother, and kept going.
Given how the day had gone so far, Ash half-expected the Darian brother to appear at any moment, condemning him by calling out his name. But he saw only the usual servants and scribes, who quickly moved out of the way, staring after them after they had passed. No doubt he looked like a prisoner, towering over his two guards. They were probably wondering what he was guilty of.
Finally, they entered a quiet part of the palace, tastefully appointed, lined with sumptuous suites and apartments. At least this didn’t seem to be the way to the dungeon. Windows along the hallway looked out to formal gardens, still blooming with cool weather flowers. They passed libraries and game rooms, all empty of people. At the far end were more modest quarters, maybe meant for ladies and attendants of residents of the guest suites, rows of plain wooden doors, all the same. Ash’s escorts stopped in front of one of them, pushed the door open, and stood aside so he could enter.
It was a small, plain room with a stone floor, and brightly woven We’enhaven rugs scattered here and there. There was a fireplace at one end with a small sitting area, and a bed at the other with a trunk at its foot. There was no window. No way out that he could see.
His two guards stepped outside and closed the door. Ash stood awkwardly in the center of the room, faint with fatigue, unable to put two thoughts together. There was a looking glass on the wall above a pedestal sink. His image in the glass was frightening. His face was reddened, as if sunburned, and his eyes a flaming red from the effects of the Darian stone. He supposed he looked like a demon, though the king must have assumed that it was the result of the smoke and the flames.
Ash lowered himself onto the raised stone hearth and nervously shoved his fingers through his filthy hair.