The verdant hills hung heavy with dew beneath a sky like silvered steel. Dark smears of distant rain drifted at the rolling horizon, and the air smelled strongly of spring. Beneath a cacophony of birdsong, Chel stared down at the foaming grey waters of the Roni, swollen and fast with meltwater in the aftermath of the thaw. Now spanning the river’s full width, atop three great pillars of glistening white stone, stood the restored Taneru bridge, its smooth arc travelling beneath three ornate, spiralling towers of the same, all the way to the steep drop of the far bank and the black outer walls of Roniaman beyond. On the distant ridge overlooking the city lurked the Imperial Palace, the vanguard of the restoration efforts. Already there was talk of returning the court to its marble halls.
The voice of Tarfel Merimonsun, called Tarfel the Young, King of Vistirlar, preceded his arrival, carrying over the busy camp. ‘… Once we’re over the bridge, quick wave to the plebs on the free way, grand ceremony at the Dome then back up the free way to the citadel and we can crack on with the feasting. Let’s hope the weather holds, eh? Be a shame for the great unwashed to get … washed out.’
The attendants giggled out of all proportion at the king’s words. Chel didn’t turn. The churning waters at the base of the steep bank had him mesmerized.
Creaking footsteps announced the king’s presence at his side. ‘Magnificent, isn’t it, Vedren? Turns out some of my brother’s endeavours were genuinely in service of restoration after all. I shall be thinking of him as we ride over it. Albeit not fondly.’
‘Ride over what?’
‘The bridge, Vedren, the bridge! Look at it! It’s a masterwork. That carving, those towers, they must have worked from records, I don’t know how. Let’s hope this incarnation lasts a bit longer than the one before, eh?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Are you all right, old chap? You seem a touch down. Still thinking about the siege?’
‘Mm-hm.’
‘Well, nothing to dwell on there, God’s truth. You did more than anyone to avert bloodshed, and certainly can’t be blamed for what happened. Which reminds me, Her Radiance Exalted Matil has sent her felicitations on this august occasion, and her regrets that she cannot attend in person. She’s up and about now, I understand, although she has rather a lot to deal with, as you can imagine. She sent a rather generous gift nonetheless, it’s piled with the others on one of the carriages …’
Chel didn’t turn to look. The king noticed. He leaned in close, his voice low, intimate. ‘You mustn’t brood, old boy. I know you feel like you lost some friends, but in truth, they weren’t really our friends at all, were they? They were mercenaries, paid to abduct us – well, me – and they would have cut our throats at a stroke if the winds of profit had blown otherwise. So come on, chin up. It’s a big day.’
They’d had no chance to speak in the aftermath of Tarfel’s sudden elevation; as head of the kingdom, he’d been whisked away, absorbed at once into the machinery of state, and Chel had barely seen him since. Tarfel’s new minders, the royal staff, regarded Chel with a sort of wary respect, which could have been worse, but seemed to go out of their way to keep him at a distance from their new charge, to whom they had taken with unseemly enthusiasm. On reflection, that distance had suited Chel just fine.
The king put a heavy, gauntleted hand on his shoulder, and at last Chel turned.
‘God’s balls,’ he murmured, ‘that’s …’
‘My brother’s armour, yes.’ Tarfel flexed his arms and shimmered, even in the watery spring sun. His nose had healed a little off-centre, and it gave his face an unexpected, weathered look. Even his beard was coming in, a dark moustache and whiskers giving his face a novel definition.
‘It fits you?’
‘Needed some adjustment, of course. Turns out I’ve got a couple of inches on the old boy. Royal smith assures me I’ll grow into the girth.’
‘No doubt.’
Tarfel signalled to his staff, hovering at the edge of earshot, then turned back to the camp. ‘Come on, Vedren, it’s almost time. Don’t make that face, it would have been a shame to let all Corvel’s preparations go to waste. Need to put on a good show for the citizens. God knows they’ve had little enough cheer of late.’
Chel watched the troops assembling at the camp’s edge, their armour less ornate and gleaming than the new king’s, but no less intimidating. Someone had taken inspiration from the golden lancers of Arowan.
‘Can you trust this bunch, Tarf?’ Chel said as they walked back into the camp. ‘I’m seeing a lot of a certain haircut growing out. At least half of them have to be—’
‘Confessors, yes. Formerly. They’ve renounced the church, of course. I’m reviving the Order of Sentinels, you see, sworn in our first intake. Don’t worry, my friend, you’ll always be my first sworn, even released, but felt it was time to bolster the numbers, eh?’
‘Is that wise?’
The king shrugged. ‘An oath is an oath, Vedren, and they know the penalties. I suspect they’ll keep each other honest. Otherwise …’ He waved an airy hand toward the stakes that still lined the road that led toward the city, looming over the sparse, nervous traffic.
Chel pursed his lips. The sightless eyes of Esen Basar stared back from their distant, lofty vantage. Tarfel followed his gaze. ‘I know you don’t agree, old chap, but think of the message otherwise. I’m supposed to be unifying, remember? Can’t go encouraging another half-dozen lordlings to try their hands. Still, we’ve got his lands to reapportion as favours, should encourage some bold displays of pre-emptive loyalty. Oh, don’t worry, Vedren, I’m not going to try to make you a duke.’
Chel’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.
‘Your Majesty. It is time.’
Vashenda had appeared, looking more formal, more elegant, more ostentatious than ever. She rode a glossy bay, and led a muscular grey stallion in one gloved fist. A mounting block followed, carried by a pair of earnest grooms.
Chel leaned close to the king. ‘You’ve kept her around?’
‘Who better to aid in dismantling a malignant monolith than one versed in its inner workings, eh? She’s sharp. She’ll be useful. Don’t fret, Vedren. You don’t have to watch my every step any more. I was born to do this.’
He stomped up the mounting block, took hold of the grey and hauled himself, armour and all, into the saddle. Vashenda passed him the reins, and a moment later, mounted King Tarfel was walking slowly toward the road, an armoured column forming up in anticipation.
Chel watched dumbfounded. ‘You learnt to ride?’
‘I thought it was time,’ he called back. ‘A king can’t walk everywhere, or go bobbing along on a mule!’
Vashenda remained, looking down from her mount. ‘Your animal will be along shortly, sand-flower,’ she said with an icy smile.
‘An ass, presumably? Or a sow?’
Genuine warmth touched the corners of her mouth. ‘I don’t want to ruin the surprise.’ She geed the horse forward, then turned in the saddle. ‘And don’t worry, sand-flower, we’ve learnt our lessons. Any fucking beggar comes within a dozen strides, plague-ridden or otherwise, he’ll be chunks in a heartbeat.’
Chel nodded, his own smile lukewarm.
‘Most righteous.’
***
Chel’s fears were unfounded. His mount was a sturdy dun, barded in Tarfel’s colours. He was urged to the column’s centre as they set off along the road, to where Tarfel rode surrounded by his new sentinels. Vashenda rode at the column’s head, carrying the royal standard, pennants fluttering slow in the damp air. The wagons and carriages, laden with favours, gifts, and tokens for the expectant crowds, brought up the rear.
‘Come, Vedren,’ Tarfel said, waving him closer. ‘I want you riding beside me. You may no longer be my sworn, but I owe you my life many times over. This kingdom should thank you.’
Feeling his cheeks darken, Chel nudged his horse a token step closer. He tried to focus his mind on the positives. Corvel was dead, his dreams of empire stillborn. Tarfel had no appetite for war, Chel knew that better than anyone. And his intentions were good, his inclinations. He might just need some … steering, that was all. Through the choppy waters ahead. You don’t desert a friend when he needs you most, that’s what his father had once said. His father …
‘Please, my dear Vedren, don’t look so uneasy. Today is a celebration!’
Chel nodded, raising his gaze from the reins all the way to the silvery sky. ‘I’m sorry, Tarf. You’re right. I suppose, after everything, it’s hard to shake the … the … foreboding.’
Tarfel met his eyes with a nod of surprising sincerity. ‘I know what you mean, my friend.’ From beneath his arm he retrieved a gleaming helmet, new, not the one Chel had seen in Corvel’s tent. He lowered it onto his head, then flipped up the visor to reveal a complacent smile. ‘But in all gravity, you must relax. Even if a hoodlum hacks his way through the sentinels, nothing’s going to get through this.’ He rapped the glorious breastplate, which gave a fitting thrum.
Chel nodded with a wan smile, but as they rode toward the bridge his thoughts roiled like the waters beneath their feet.
Nothing’s going to get through this—
Any fucking beggar—
The next time we meet, it won’t be as friends—
A kernel of thought had formed at the back of his mind and was growing, gathering speed, inexorable. An idea, or an image of one. There was something on the bridgeway ahead, a small celebratory decoration of sorts, coloured tassels waving in the wind. He looked up, sharply, up at the darkening sky and the approaching towers, white as washed bone, soaring from the elegant bridge. Strange things they were, with flared tops, odd balconies and projections.
Was that—?
‘Now I know what you’re thinking, Vedren, but we’ve stationed men—’
There, on the middle tower’s exterior: a dark shape, nestled in the winding crevices of its structure. Moving. Climbing. Moments from the projecting balcony overlooking the bridge’s span.
‘Vedren, honestly, listen … Vedren. Vedren! Where are you going! Come back! Your king commands— Vedren!’
The dun’s hooves threw sparks from the pale stone as he raced away.
***
It took far too long to find the tower’s entrance, a narrow doorway guarded by a couple of city watch. His screams to let him pass carried insufficient weight to move them, so he simply charged at them, bundling them out of the way with his good shoulder on dismounting. Then he was inside, pounding up the narrow stairway within, curling higher and deeper into the tower, only the slivers of pearly light from the stairwell’s slot windows for company. The surprised guards gave chase, but slowly. They couldn’t catch him. No one could catch him. Chel ran.
His breath echoed hoarse from the walls over the pounding of blood in his ears, each step sapping ever more of his frantic energy as he climbed above the bridge. He expected – hoped to hear a guard’s challenge at any moment, the frenzied clamour of his progress should have been audible long before he hove into view.
But the tower remained silent above him, empty but for his commotion and the echoes of plodding pursuit from below, only the widening windows giving any sense of progression. A grey glimpse of the bridge below showed the column’s advance, the first riders tramping grandly onto its re-laid white stone. Chel redoubled his pace, lungs burning, legs burning, the old stone of the steps flaking and crumbling beneath his boots.
It was almost a relief when he found the guard. The man lay face-down in a cramped hallway of ugly grey stone close to the tower’s summit, his back to a wide window arch. His throat had been carved, and the floor was dark and viscous from his oozing blood. Panting and dizzy from the climb, Chel leaned down and touched the man’s cheek. Cold, too cold for the recently deceased. From the volume of tacky fluid surrounding him, the man had likely been dead for hours.
The thumping echo of footsteps from the stairway behind propelled him onwards. A door stood at the curving hallway’s end, closed but for a narrow grille. Dark and bloody footsteps led from the dead guard toward it and Chel followed them, merging them with his own. The door was locked, and stoutly so. Chel gripped at the grille and pulled, first gently, then with greater force, until he was rattling it in its hinges. It wouldn’t budge.
‘Yeah, I tried that too. It’s a solid fucker, that one.’
Chel whipped his hands back from the grille and peered into the gloom of the chamber beyond. The voice did not match what he saw.
Two guards lay slumped in his cone of vision, their weapons loose at their feet, their necks slashed, as if taken by surprise and downed without a fight. The chamber bore signs of a struggle, however. In the pale light from its arched windows, Chel saw smashed furniture, an overturned table, broken crates and spilled food. Splashes of blood marked the walls, smeared in places with evident hand-prints. And at the centre of it all sat Spider. The silvery daylight shone from his polished dome, the glint of his many earrings creeping from the bloodied gloom. He sat with his legs splayed, his head bowed, his back to a splintered crate, in his gore-streaked hand a curved, black-bladed knife.
It took Chel a very long time to realize that he wasn’t moving.
A figure drifted past the grille, white-haired and stooping, leaning heavily on a long staff. The figure shuffled toward the overturned table, righted it with a heavy foot, then leaned against it. Dark eyes stared from beneath the ash-coloured hair, below them an eagle’s beak of a nose.
‘Little man,’ Rennic said, with a slight nod.
‘Pig-fucker.’
‘Only my friends can call me pig-fucker.’
The first drops of rain began to fall, plopping through the arch behind Chel, windblown, dark circles on its pale ledge.
‘What happened here?’
‘He didn’t want to die. Took some convincing.’ Rennic leaned back, unable to conceal his wince. Whatever he’d been through with Spider, he was far from unscathed.
‘What was he doing here?’
‘What do you think? He was going for a pair. A collector, that one. Obsessed with his own legend. I doubt that was the ending he had in mind.’
Chel rattled the door again. ‘You going to open this? We can take a walk downstairs, tell the new king how you’ve saved his life. You can join the parade.’
Rennic was still staring at Spider’s inert form.
‘We always had the same ideas, me and him. Same view of things, same inclinations. We worked pretty well, had an understanding. Until now, at least.’ He poked at Spider with the end of his staff, and the man slid sideways, flopping to the bloody stone. He was quite dead, eyes bulging from his sockets, livid purple tongue protruding from his open mouth. Rennic had strangled him.
‘Of course,’ the non-beggar went on, ‘I was the thinker of the two of us. Look what he brought along to do the job.’ He reached down and scooped up an ugly looking crossbow of dark wood from the floor, twanged the string. ‘God knows what he thought he’d achieve with this. Wouldn’t have made a dent in that steel tub.’ He tossed the crossbow away. ‘No, I was the thinker. That’s why I brought this.’
Rennic reached down again, and Chel’s innards lurched.
‘Kosh’s crossbow – what are you planning to do with that? Rennic? Rennic?’
Rennic ignored him. He pushed himself up from the table, leaving the staff propped, and began a slow walk toward the window arches at the edge of Chel’s vision, the crossbow over one shoulder.
‘He was my brother, you know that? Different mothers, of course, I’d never have tolerated the prick otherwise. But we both got our father’s nose. Grew up together, joined up together. Suppose it’s fitting it end like this.’
‘End? Like what? Rennic!’ The guards’ footsteps were getting louder behind him, their panting filling the winding stair.
‘Don’t you ever get tired of asking questions all the time, sand-flower? It’s exhausting. Here’s one for you instead: I lied before, Rennic isn’t my real name; you know what it means?’
‘No, I don’t. Rennic, open the door. The guards are coming. Rennic!’
‘Nor do I,’ he said, and knelt before the arches. He rested the crossbow on the window-ledge, then laid out six bolts alongside it. He began to load it.
‘Rennic! Rennic stop!’ Chel was ripping at the door again, slamming himself against it, hammering at the hinges. ‘Rennic!’
The guards reached the stairway’s end and found their comrade. Their shouts and cries were suddenly deafening in the tower’s confines. Their eyes fell on Chel at the hallway’s end. Swords were drawn.
Chel saw their intent. ‘Fuck,’ he said. He kicked once more at the door to no avail, then his eyes fell on the window.
Tried that too—
The climbing figure.
Chel ran at the guards, who shrank back. Ignoring the acid burning in his legs, he jumped past them, up onto the window-ledge, pulling himself up to the shallow balcony beyond. The chill wind blew thickening rain against him in the sudden cold of the tower exterior, and somewhere thunder rumbled. He tried to fix his gaze on the horizon, keep his eyes well away from the swooning drop to the bridge and the gurgling waters beneath. He could hear the stomp and clop of the column below, its sounds blown up and around him, and the shouts of the surprised guards in the hallway interior.
There, a bloodied mark on the stone ahead: a footprint, and another beyond it. Before the guards could reach him, Chel turned and grabbed for the stone. Focusing only on one grip at a time, one bloodied mark ahead, he began to climb up and around the tower. The wind howled in his ears, blasting gusts of sharp rain over him, leaving the tower stone slick and darkened. He kept his eyes on the bloodied marks, the smears of Rennic’s own climb, forcing his aching muscles to comply while his pulse hammered in his ears. The summit was in sight, a rail of thin stone at the top of his curling path. Greedily he snatched for it, hauling himself up, feet scrabbling, desperate at last to be back on something solid.
The rail gave, a crumbling chunk of stone left in his fist as he felt himself dropping. The empty air yawned beneath him, the sudden yank on his other arm jarring his shoulder, dragging it free, even as his feet scraped in vain for grip against the tower.
A hand snatched his forearm, arresting his slip, jolting his straining shoulder. Another hand clapped over it, then dragged him up and over the crumbling rail. He collapsed to his knees on the rain-slick stone beyond as Rennic stood over him, thick streaks of black washing from his ash-clouded hair in the hastening rain.
‘Thought I’d come up to greet you. Really half-arsed this restoration work, eh?’
From somewhere below came the sound of hammering. The guards were trying to get through the stout door. Chel concentrated on his breathing, trying to suppress the ugly throb from his shoulder, the rain-cut soaking of his clothes.
‘Besides,’ Rennic said, moving to the tower-top’s far side, where a ladder led to the chamber below. ‘It’s a better shot from up here.’
He hefted the crossbow once more as Chel struggled to his feet, flicking rain water from his eyes. Over the lip of the rail, he saw the column spread along the length of the bridge. Tarfel had to be somewhere beneath them right now, riding proud through the rain in his glittering armour, oblivious to the danger that loomed overhead.
A peal of thunder rolled out from the hills, and a curtain of hammering rain washed over the bridge. Rennic raised his arm, sodden clothes hanging slack. ‘You see? Even Almighty God doesn’t want this bastard crowned!’
Chel took a determined step, hands open and wide, imploring, rain streaming down his face. He had to raise his voice over the rush of falling water. ‘What are you doing, Rennic?’
‘I’m finishing the job.’
‘What job?’
‘Torht’s job, the Rau Rel’s job, your job! What we started with Ruumi, what we almost accomplished in Arowan. Destroying the church, lifting the curse from the land. Cleansing the corruption!’
‘Corvel is dead, the Order of the Rose disbanded. It’s over. We won.’
‘Horseshit!’ Rennic replied, setting down the crossbow and draping his soggy cloak over it. ‘It’s all still there. This is about more than just the man, remember? We have to pull it apart, or the next henchman down will simply pick up the reins.’
‘It’s not going to happen overnight, you need a little patience.’
‘You said you cared about doing what’s right! You abandoned us! After what he did!’
Rennic’s snarl was instinctive, his hands clenching. Already they were circling, moving in a slow orbit, a bedraggled stand-off. Below them, the royal procession slogged onwards in the rain, hunched and leached of majesty.
‘The right thing was letting go.’
‘The wicked must be punished! He killed Whisper, he said it himself.’
‘Is this what she’d have wanted?’ Chel said, one eye on the shrouded crossbow. All he had to do was sling it over the side and Tarfel was safe. They were all safe. ‘You throwing yourself away in petty vengeance? She knew the choice she made, denying her that is insulting her memory.’
He didn’t even see Rennic move. An instant later, he was on his back in the slopping rain, feeling the echo of the cold stone at the back of his skull. The centre of his face felt very hot against the rain, the streaming sensation from his nose more than just precipitation.
Rennic stood over him, snorting, snarling, then turned his back, walking back to the crossbow. Blinking through water, Chel pushed himself up on an elbow, feeling the crest of the pain waves rolling out from his head. ‘No matter what he said to you, it was just bad luck, and she gave herself that we could live. She decided. For once, break the cycle of vengeance.’
The big man paused, relaxing his grip on the soaking cloak. ‘And the others, little man? Foss won’t speak to me, he’s taken up the cloth again, rejoined the fucking church that spat in his eye year after year. Lemon won’t leave Arowan … They’re broken, gone. There’s nobody left.’
‘Loveless is out there. You could—’
‘She turned her back, made herself clear.’
‘She left because she’s pregnant!’
‘She left because she chose to. Our paths have forked.’
‘That’s it? After everything?’ Chel was back on his feet, wiping crimson rain from his battered face.
‘It was her decision and she knew what it meant. She treads her path, I tread mine. To its end.’ He swept back the cloak, snatching up the crossbow and setting it back on the rail.
‘You’ll do no good by dying.’
He didn’t turn his head, but his eyes glowed sidelong.
‘Then stop me.’
Chel launched himself across the stone, slamming into the bigger man’s side, lunging for the crossbow. Rennic twisted, anticipating, the crossbow out of reach, a powerful elbow driven back against Chel’s skull. He reeled, head ringing, scrabbling for grip against the splashing stone.
Rennic looked back over the rail, angling the crossbow again. ‘Looks like they’ve stopped,’ he said with his sharp smile. ‘Perhaps to investigate the disappearance of the kingling’s lickspittle into this tow—’
Chel crashed into him again, this time driving him to the weathered stone. They tussled for the crossbow, Rennic’s blows instinctive, his strength enough to wrestle Chel’s hands away. He shoved him, clearing enough space to scrabble back and up against the wall. His breath was coming fast, and for the first time Chel saw weakness in his eyes. He had one hand at his side, the water running from it pink. The fight with Spider had taken its toll.
‘Let me finish it!’ he growled, his breath sharp little fogs. ‘We were doing something good.’
Chel pushed himself half-upright. He was soaked through, coronation robes hanging slack and clingy against his skin. ‘We were doing something necessary! And we did it. Things are different. They will be different. Tarfel isn’t like the others! He’s one of us, he’s a friend. He can make a difference, do something good!’
‘You think he’s so different, little man? Ask him where the alchemist is.’
‘What? Surely she’s still in Arowan, with—’
‘She’s here. Ask to see her. All the silver in the south says you won’t.’
‘He’s not—’
‘You’re telling me you’re happy with this new dawn? The same confessors in golden armour?’
‘All my doubt isn’t worth throwing the kingdom into another anarchist convulsion. I won’t let you do this.’
‘Don’t make me kill you, little man.’
‘I won’t let you kill me any more than I’ll let you kill him.’
For a moment, something gleamed in Rennic’s eyes. ‘Are you going to kill me, then?’
Slowly, Chel drew himself to his feet. He drew the good knife from its sheath. Rennic’s eyes followed it, something dark and hungry within them.
‘I don’t understand you, little man. You’ve lost every fight you’ve thrown yourself into, but you keep coming back for more.’
For a moment, Chel’s gaze travelled the horizon. ‘It was never about beating people down. I fight because … some things deserve to be fought for.’ With great deliberation, Chel tossed the knife away. ‘But sometimes it’s all right to stop fighting. Sometimes it’s all right to walk away.’
Rennic looked to the blackened heavens, baring his teeth in exasperation, agony. ‘We have to do what’s right!’
‘This isn’t it.’
Rennic pushed himself up against the crumbling rail, and Chel saw the cracks from their impact behind him. ‘How can you know? How can you always be so fucking certain?’
‘My father—’
‘Was a fool who threw his life away and doomed his family, and your quest for his post-mortem approval has damned us all!’
Chel felt a faint smile play upon his lips. ‘Loveless said much the same.’
For a moment, the rage left him. ‘Well, she knows whereof she speaks.’ The brows lowered again. ‘How can you claim any kind of—’
‘You’re right.’ Chel stood drenched before him, hands empty, rain plastered to his skin. ‘My father was a weak man, an accidental husband and parent, who wrecked his family’s lives with his own pursuit of righteousness.’
Rennic was silent, and now the fury was gone from his eyes. Rain flowed in streams from his brows and nose, his hair clinging flat and dark around his face. When he spoke, his voice was almost swallowed by the wind. ‘Then … how can you know?’
‘I … I can’t. I just have to have faith, in others, in myself. In Tarfel. He deserves a chance, the same chance you gave me, when you pulled me from a burning palace. That’s why you saved me, right? Because I reminded you of your younger self?’
Rennic was so sodden it was hard to tell if there were tears in his eyes, but it was possible.
‘Give Tarfel a chance to prove himself,’ Chel said, taking a slow, squelching step forward. ‘Give him the chance you gave me, the chance you never got. Tarfel could be a good king, a great king. He can do better, be better than any king we’ve seen in generations.’
‘You’re going to stand over him, are you? Bark orders in his ear?’
Chel paused. Rain was streaming down his face, he’d lost the feeling in his fingers and toes, but his eyes were back on the horizon, his mind cresting the clouds. When it came, his answer surprised him.
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘He should make his own choices. But I’ll be watching.’
The big man met his gaze. ‘And if you’re wrong?’ he said in the quiet voice.
‘Then it’ll be my problem to solve once more.’
Rennic leaned back against the rail, a touch of humour back in his eyes. ‘Oh, really?’
Chel took another step, this time with confidence. ‘He goes the way of his brother … I’ll kill him myself.’
A flash of a smile lit Rennic’s battered face. ‘Now that I want to live to s—’
The rail behind him cracked and split, and a chunk of tower-top fell away, Rennic along with it. Rennic plunged from view, Chel’s lunging hands slapping from his body as he fell. Chel hit the cracked stone, arms outstretched, slick hands clasped on something. Plunging mass dragged him forward until he rocked against the rail that remained. His shoulder began to scream.
Rennic hung suspended from the broken tower, dangling free from Chel’s agonized grip on his arm. Far below, the silver waters of the Roni rippled and churned in the downpour. Rennic swung in space, feet loose and sodden. He looked up at Chel through bloodshot eyes and grinned pink against the rain.
‘Really half-arsed that restoration, didn’t they?’
Chel could only grunt. The fibres of his muscles were tearing like so much old meat, and his shoulder grated in its socket. ‘Climb. Swing. Something.’ Rennic’s weight was pulling him against the crumbling wall, and the cracks were spreading. Another chunk of ancient stone fell away beneath his shaking arms.
‘You never give up, do you?’ Rennic said. ‘You daft bastard.’
‘Hurry! Climb!’ Another crack ripped along the wall by Chel’s head, small stones pattering down the side of the tower, lost in the foaming waters below.
‘Let me go, boy. I’ll make my own way down. Nobody need know I was here.’
Chel’s grip was iron, his arms and shoulders afire.
‘No! Climb! Tell king, Spider dead—’
‘I’m not going to be a king’s pet.’
‘Nor me! Service ended.’
‘Then what are you doing here?’
‘Fighting.’
The wall by Chel’s shoulder began to disintegrate, cracks streaking like forks of lightning across it, flakes drifting free.
‘Let me go, you dunce, your arm will go. I can make the window on the lower floor, dodge all those keen lads in livery.’
‘No!’ He was hoarse from screaming, his tears mingling with the flowing rain. ‘Come back with me, stay—’
Rennic’s voice was quiet in the heart of the storm.
‘You were supposed to be lucky, little man.’ He closed his eyes, letting the rain flow over him. ‘Maybe you were.’
Rennic took a long, slow breath, as the rain ran down his face like tears.
‘Be seeing you.’
Before Chel could shout a reply, Rennic put one hand over his, braced a leg against the smooth stone of the tower, and twisted. His spin wrenched Chel’s arm from its socket, sending a white-hot burst of pain along his arm. He was momentarily blind, screaming at the sudden agony, good hand clutching at the trauma.
It took him several breaths to realize that his hands were empty. Rennic was gone. Bleary-eyed, Chel peered over the broken edge, but below lay nothing but the swirling ebony water of the Roni. And an open window, one floor down.
‘Oh, you spiteful fucker.’
Drenched and broken, Chel laughed bitter tears in the rain.