Rebel's Cage

Book 4: The Books of Elita

by Kate Jacoby, M OILPHANT

Genres: Fantasy; Epic Fantasy

Synopsis

A new tyrant reigns in Lusara, but there are still men and women who would risk all for freedom: these are the darkest days of the Silent Rebellion. Magic, politics and romance combine in a magnificent tale of betrayal and revenge, perfect for lovers of Mercedes Lackey and Robert Jordan. Eight years after the Battle of Shan Moss, a new tyrant reigns in Lusara. King Kenrick dabbles in forbidden sorceries as he follows in the footsteps of his usurper father, King Selar, pursuing dreams of empire. At Kenrick's right hand is the evil sorcerer Nash, who just survived his epic battle with Robert Douglas, He's mutilated, his powers a fraction of what they were, but Nash is determined to triumph . . . Only Robert, Jenn and Andrew can stop Nash's plan for complete annihilation - but can they put aside their own bitter feuds and work together after all the betrayals that have gone before? These are the cold, bleak days of winter, when causes founder and faith stumbles.

Release date: November 21, 2013

Publisher: Jo Fletcher Books

Print pages: 400

Sample

Much has been said about Robert Douglas, the man at the centre of this history; about his character, his honour and about the sometimes secret forces behind his actions. Many stories have been told, of his brave deeds, his strength and his determination to deliver his people from tyranny.

But Robert Douglas was a man both more and less than what legend made of him. The people saw in him the hero they needed; those close to him saw the soul tortured by a prophecy handed to him at the age of nine – an event which would shape not only the rest of his life, but also that of his beloved country.

*

When Robert Douglas returned from his self-imposed exile, he found Lusara struggling under the rule of the conqueror Selar, the Church floundering for leadership and the powerful Guilde growing stronger under Proctor Vaughn. While Selar had once been a close friend, Vaughn had been Robert’s sworn enemy, for the Proctor had discovered the secret of Robert’s sorcery and was determined to destroy him.

The secret Enclave, hidden high in the Goleth Mountains, was home to sorcerers who no longer dared to live in the country, fearing for their lives, from both Guilde and sorcerer Malachi. The Enclave was protected by the powerful talisman known as the Key, which was also used as a guide and a source of information by the leader, the Jaibir. It was the Key which had given Robert the Prophecy.

While the people needed a release from tyranny, those within the Enclave, the Salti, begged Robert to help them – but Robert was a man of honour, and could not reconcile the responsibilities placed upon him with his oath of allegiance to Selar, nor with the terrible fate promised by the Prophecy: that Robert would, in the act of salvation, destroy that which he loved most. This conflict raged within him, shaped his character and informed too many of his choices. Over thirty and more years it grew, becoming something he both despised and feared, a dark stain inside himself he could neither control nor destroy. In his own mind, he called it the demon.

But there was one person who understood both Robert and his demon. Jennifer Ross was abducted as a child by Nash and set to live in Shan Moss forest. Fourteen years later Robert rescued her, discovering she was not only a sorcerer, with vastly different magical powers, but the daughter of the Earl of Elita. Robert returned her to her father, but even as he realised his feelings for her were changing, he discovered that she was part of the Prophecy, the Ally – and if he allowed it to come true, she would be the one he would destroy.

King Selar had a new friend, Samdon Nash. A sorcerer of incredible power and evil, Nash was known as Carlan to his people, the Malachi. He would stop at nothing to possess the Key – and Jenn, the Ally.

Then an accident caught Robert and his brother Finnlay, and the secret sorcerers were no longer secret. Word flew across the land.

As Nash secured his position at court, he used a hideous perversion of the ancient Bonding to tie Selar to him, so the King would lose all free will and become Nash’s puppet. Robert helped the Queen flee to safety with her two children, but Jenn’s impending marriage finally broke him. Despite all his promises to himself, Robert spent the night with her, giving into the Bonding foretold by the prophecy, then he left, sending himself into exile once again – this time determined to stay there and do no more harm.

Though heartbroken, Jenn went through with the marriage to Duke Tiege Eachern, Selar’s brutish cousin. When she found she was carrying Robert’s child, she kept the secret, allowing her husband to believe it his.

This time Robert exiled himself in a remote abbey, hiding even his identity from the brothers. There he met Bishop Aiden McCauly, recently imprisoned by Selar, then rescued, and now living in hiding. The seeds of a deep and powerful friendship were born between the two, who were drawn from their sanctuary by threats to Robert’s brother and an attack on Jenn at Elita.

They raced across the country and arrived at the castle in time to discover those holding siege were evil Malachi sorcerers under control of the third figure in the prophecy, the Angel of Darkness. Even as Jenn went into labour, even as her father was killed and her son born, the enemy was closing in on them, threatening to overrun the castle. Exhausting all his defences, the demon within Robert finally cracked and broke, flooding through him with a fury that could not be denied. From the highest battlements, he let loose the terrifying Word of Destruction, obliterating the Malachi and severely wounding the Angel of Darkness.

*

Five years later, Robert returned again to Lusara, having researched the prophecy as much as he could. But this time he came with a more urgent mission. Selar was determined to invade neighbouring Mayenne, ruled by his brother. Robert knew that Lusara was not strong enough for such a fight, that the only outcome would be defeat, and another tyrant on the throne of Lusara. He sent out word to lords still loyal, asking them to gather their armies and meet him at Bleakstone Castle, in friendly Flan’har.

With her husband’s death, Jenn took her son, Andrew, to live with her sister while she joined the rebels, where she volunteered to help research the Prophecy by making a trip to Bu, in the southern continent. Horrified that she should go alone, Robert went with her. While they found nothing of immediate use to the Prophecy, the trip did heal the rift between them, and Robert vowed to marry her, despite the Prophecy – even as he was forced to accept he might not have a way out of it.

When they returned to Bleakstone, loyal lords insisted that Robert marry Selar’s daughter, Galiena, and upon victory, that he take the crown. Stricken, Robert went to Jenn, but she insisted that he agree, saying that their country was more important than their love. After the wedding, word arrived that Selar was heading for the border. The rebel forces were mobilised.

Jenn headed to the Enclave and was chosen by the Key to replace the dead Jaibir. Trying to stop her, Robert arrived too late – but the Key possessed him, changing both their bodies so they would not age, but last as long as this battle against evil would require them. With Jenn now joined to the Key for life, Robert could no longer trust her, and left to rejoin his army.

Marching with Selar’s army, Nash made an ally of Prince Kenrick. Jenn joined Robert’s army; one night their camp was attacked by Malachi, and a young woman was captured. She gave up no information; Robert was not to know that she was Sairead, the girl Micah, his closest friend, had fallen in love with. Micah had left her to fight alongside Robert.

Kenrick stole into the rebel camp and poisoned his sister, Robert’s young wife. Devastated by her death, Robert prepared his army the following morning, knowing where to lay the blame.

At dawn, the armies faced each other and the fight was engaged. Robert sought out Selar and faced him, struggling to control the demon. But he killed Selar, and night fell, and still the battle was not won.

That night, as Robert slept fitfully, ignoring the pain of his wounds, Malachi once more crept into the camp, freed Sairead, and abducted Micah. The following morning, as the armies lined up for battle, Robert rode into the heart of Shan Moss forest to save his friend.

Robert found Micah in a clearing, bound and gagged, and fought off Malachi attacks before Nash appeared. Robert was stabbed in the back by Sairead – and discovered that she was the girl Micah had fallen in love with. Feeling betrayed, he sent Micah back to camp to warn the rebels, then began his assault on Nash, chasing him through the forest.

They emerged onto the battlefield between the two terrified armies. Nash was severely wounded, his power virtually gone. Robert too was hurt, but determined to last as long as it took. The two sorcerers fired bolts at each other, then Jenn felt the build-up of power and knew Robert was preparing to use the Word of Destruction to kill both himself and Nash: he would defy the Prophecy that had ruled his life with his own death.

Jenn rushed between them, using her own awesome powers to split them apart. Nash was spent, but alive, and Kenrick’s men rescued him from the field. Robert remained standing long enough to see Kenrick’s army racing away in terror and to hear the cheers of his own men. Then he collapsed into Finnlay’s arms.

The war was over and Kenrick, now King, was fleeing back to Marsay, the wounded Nash and dispirited Malachi with him. Micah, desolate to be banished from Robert’s side, left to play bodyguard to his friend’s son, Andrew. Robert’s army buried its dead that night, but Robert himself lay dying, his wounds severe, the demon inside him making them worse.

Finnlay fetched Jenn, hoping she would tell Robert that she loved him and that Andrew was his son, so Robert might have something to fight for. Jenn was shocked by Robert’s injuries. Mindspeaking him, she discovered the demon had all but overtaken him and would kill him before the night was over. She saw that telling him the truth would not make things better. She needed to give the demon something else to focus on – so she told him that she had never loved him, that their one night together had been just the Bonding and nothing else and that surely it was time they put their brief moments together into the past.

The demon struck out at her, but with Robert so weak, it could do no damage. She opened her eyes to find the demon working to heal him – but she saw only hatred in his eyes. Jenn left for the Enclave, knowing that she had lost his love, but that he was now finally free of her, free to fulfil the destiny his country cried out for.

*

For eight years, Jenn lived and worked at the Enclave, teaching and learning, growing closer to the Key, strengthening their bond. She saw her son regularly, but never enough. Rarely would a day pass that she would not wonder about the Prophecy and how it would finally unfold.

Of Nash, there was little word as the years flew by. It was assumed he was recovering, rebuilding himself, using his evil powers to take the blood of other sorcerers. Few were fooled into believing his silence meant that he was finished. They all knew that this was a period of watchfulness, of preparation.

Kenrick grew into his role as King in his father’s place, more than surpassing his sire’s tyranny. Piece by piece, Lusara fell apart around him, and nobody seemed able to stop it.

*

During those eight years, when it seemed darkness would engulf Lusara and swallow it whole, the country prayed for deliverance. This was the time of the Silent Rebellion. And Robert Douglas, Duke of Haddon, rebel and outlaw, waited for something many people should have foreseen.

*

For Robert, the time of waiting came to an end one frosty winter evening, not long after Caslemas in 1370.

Excerpt from The Secret History of Lusara – Ruel

Where are you who would but stand by me,

When sodden ground beneath my feet doth

Trample all the rosy rotten leaves

And winter’s light in ribbon streams right

Through my cold forgotten heart?

Where would you stand then, my love,

When I am needy, grey and pale,

And washed upon this desert shore

Blind with memories of your face

And the touch of ice upon my soul?

Lady Anna Douglas

Alone, he crashed through the forest, his horse stumbling in the deep snow, losing purchase, almost falling, but gaining balance again, sweating, panicking at the chase, the noise, the scent of blood in the air, the cry of the soldiers pursuing him, and his horse stumbling again, grunting, tiring. It was too much to ask. Far too much.

The night was absolute, a yawning cavern of inkiness into which he plunged headlong, escaping fate, escaping punishment and due retribution. Icy air stole his breath away, pinescented and raw, drawing him further and further in, where safety was nothing more than a promise, but where peace was assured for a time.

The horse went down and he tumbled over its shoulder, slipping and rolling down the slope, his path unchecked, gathering snow, sliding, suffocating, disappearing.

He came to a halt, buried in darkness too deep to touch.

*

Silence surrounded him: thick, cloying silence sinking into his bones like treacle, holding him in place like a stake through the heart. No bones broken. No fatal cuts. Nothing that would not heal, given enough time. Only the older wounds still plagued him, those that refused to stay closed.

He listened to the silence, wanting to believe it. The snap and rustle of snow flakes around him sank into the background as he searched for harsher, more immediate noises. The soldiers were gone now, chasing some other figure in the night, losing him in the snow. He tried to reach out with his Senses, but again his injuries cut him short, blinding him to everything he had once taken for granted, making him mercilessly, terrifyingly normal again.

He sighed, patted the snow around his face to pack clear a breathing hole, then settled down, comfortable in his hiding place, resting in the darkness, his natural home.

*

The cold winter night gave him a cold winter dream. His body floated, insubstantial, torn from his control, lost in the maze. He was surrounded. Hurting. Lifted from the elements to feel shapes around him not part of this world. He knew what this was; knew the place, the time, the weapons. Knew what he had to do. He’d already been here a hundred times before.

He ran, plunging through a forest now bare of snow, shifting seasons and years as though time passed in the blink of a lazy eye. He chased the dream Nash, dodging blasts, inflicting his own, wishing he knew Shan Moss better, praying his wounds would not strike him down before he could destroy his enemy, this creature of unspeakable evil. But Nash stayed just ahead of him, too close to ignore, too far away to kill. Even when they emerged onto the battlefield, armies either side of them terrified, shifting back, but not leaving, not deserting him. He didn’t deserve such loyalty. But it wasn’t his loyalty – it belonged to Lusara, to the country he would defend if fate would let him. So the armies could only stand by and watch this battle rage between him and Nash as they threw blasts of heavy power at one another, as Robert danced and feinted, deflected and returned, as his blood seeped out of a dozen deep wounds, as Nash’s powers drained too slowly. Until the moment finally came.

He gathered together all the demon had bred in him, all the anger and fury, frustration, hatred, fear and self-loathing. He pulled it all together inside him, knowing what it would do – and knowing made it worthwhile. Stirring within the depths he felt the Word of Destruction grow inside, pushing up to be spoken aloud, where he could destroy Nash – and himself as well, defying his terrible destiny, even as he fulfilled it. The Word rose in him, perched upon his lips, a heartbeat away from being spoken—

And the ground beneath his feet split open, shuddering and rattling the balance from him, throwing him down, opening a cavern between him and his enemy. Cut loose, the demon soared through him, unfettered and unchallenged, denying every breath of sense and hope. He staggered to his feet. He turned and faced her, knowing what she’d done, knowing she’d betrayed him, knowing he should have known it would happen.

His fist rose to strike, to let the demon loose upon her, letting the pain free to destroy the love that he still felt for her—

He froze. The air of this dreamworld rippled around him, making even the ground under his feet insubstantial. She stood before him, her face expressionless, nothing of meaning in her deep blue eyes.

He would have destroyed her. Just as the Prophecy had said. He would have destroyed her. Even though he loved her.

The voice that came to him was not his own. Nor hers. This was a man he’d left behind too many years ago.

‘You are strong, Robert Douglas. Very strong. Your will is unbroken. But you are also weak. You hesitate. You will never win unless you can learn to be ruthless.’

Before him stood David Maclean, old, white-haired, looking too much like his son, Micah – the man Robert had once considered his closest friend. The father now shook his head, disparaging as always, determined to prove that Robert had always been a traitor to his people.

‘You are weak, Douglas. See, even now you hesitate. The power sits within you. Strike her down now and rid this country of her evil. He has said you must give her up to beat him. Fulfil your destiny as it is written in your heart and destroy her now.’

He felt a trickle of something warm flow over his eye, then saw the red blood as it trailed from a wound on his forehead. He could barely see her now, even as she stood close to him, her hand upon his arm, concern in her gaze.

‘I never loved you, Robert. How could you think otherwise? How could I love a man with such darkness inside him?’

‘Strike her down now, Douglas, while you can!’

And voices rose along with this chant, loud, surrounding him, coming from the armies in the field, their swords raised and glinting in the cold grey sky. The heavens wept, as he wished he could.

The chant became deafening as his knees gave way beneath him, his sword falling from fingers already dying. He’d wanted this to end, and now it was ending. Only the chanting didn’t stop. Instead, it changed pitch, quieted, became a plea. A cry. A call for—

‘Help! Help me!’

Robert wrenched himself from sleep, scrambling out of his snow shelter, eyes blinking back the bright morning light. For a moment, he recognised nothing, then the cry came again and he stumbled forward, the old wound in his side screaming protest. He staggered and slipped down the hill, reaching out for any hand-hold, keeping track of the faint voice, tiny, desperate and young.

He tripped and rolled, coming to a stop on flat ground. A horse, choked and panting, eyed him warily, reins dangling against cracked ice. Before him, stretched out into the distance, was a lake bound in winter, an ice-hole black on its surface out of which thrashed limbs even now losing their last strength.

Robert moved, so swiftly, the horse had no time to react. He wrapped the reins around his ankle, then knelt on the ice, stretching out on his stomach to reach the ice hole. He called out, urging, reassuring, calming. He could hear the ice creak and groan beneath him, feel it shifting, cracking further. If he didn’t get the child to safety soon, they’d both be dead.

He pushed further, until his hands reached water, grasping hold of an arm mid-flail. The cold sent shock waves through him and the arms slipped from his grip. He came forward another inch and the ice cracked open beneath his chest. But it was enough to get hold of the boy with both hands, grab his clothing and pull. Chunks of ice splashed up into his face, the water blinded him and the stabbing pain in his side sucked the breath from his body, but he didn’t let go. He dragged the boy clear of the water, soaking himself in the process, using his legs to inch them back towards the bank, calling out to the horse to back up, to help pull them both to safety.

The boy was still and silent now as Robert hurried the last few feet off the ice. Even as he dragged the frozen body towards the trees, he was already rubbing limbs, stripping off sodden clothing, pulling his own cloak free to wrap around the boy. He set him down carefully, then immediately set to work, kicking snow aside to find damp scrappy wood he could use for a fire. He didn’t care what it looked like, it just needed to be warm. He used his powers to set it alight, turning it into a blaze that would burn quickly, warming air frozen from months of winter. Only when he was sure the boy was no longer in danger of freezing to death did he turn and eye the horse.

It watched him warily, as though able to read his thoughts. He chose to ignore it, clearing more snow from the ground to give the animal somewhere to forage. Give it time to calm down, that was the thing. Give them both time.

He gathered more wood, stoked up the fire, making sure he kept himself warm, since he’d lost his cloak. The pain in his side sank to a dull heavy throb. Two years and still the wound hadn’t healed. He doubted it ever would now, though the doctors insisted it was just a matter of time. But he didn’t have time. None of them did.

The boy hadn’t moved, he just lay wrapped in Robert’s cloak, white face, blue lips, dark hair. Small and slight, a pale shadow about seven or eight years old. Out here alone. On a horse bearing a fine-quality saddle which …

Robert fell to his knees beside the boy, tugging the cloth back from his face to reveal young features that were far too familiar for him to ignore.

‘Andrew?’ Robert whispered. ‘But what in the name of the gods are you doing …’ He stopped, looked up across the lake, putting together last night, and the night before, the directions, the raid, the chase, the route to escape. In the dark, it had been impossible to tell how far he’d gone, exactly where his horse had finally thrown him.

‘Serin’s blood! I have to get you home before …’ No, he didn’t think how this boy’s mother was the woman he’d once loved, the woman who’d betrayed him. He had learned long before that such thoughts were anathema. Instead, he kept everything centred on warming the still body, on gaining the horse’s trust, on putting the fire out and getting Andrew up onto the saddle in front of him. Then, before it could start snowing again, he urged the horse to move and followed the trail back. He could only hope it would take them towards Maitland.

Mist rose between the trees as the sun hit last night’s snow. Their passage was hidden by grey, lit by golden rays too weak to warm. But the movement did that, and the horse beneath them. Robert held onto Andrew, keeping as much of his body covered as possible, feeling, eventually, some twitches, and then shivers begin to rattle through the slight frame.

How in Mineah’s name had he got so far out here alone? Why hadn’t anybody missed him yet? Had he been running from some trouble?

Was his mother nearby?

Such a question almost froze him on his journey, but Andrew began to cough and Robert kicked the horse into greater movement. Soon he no longer needed to follow the tracks, he recognised the landscape.

He paused while still under cover and some small distance from the cottage to Seek for possible trouble, to find out if there was more than one person behind those walls.

All was well, as quiet as it appeared. Carefully, Robert brought the horse to the edge of the trees, where a clearing opened out to face the house. To one side was a tiny stable, large enough perhaps for two horses and a bale of hay. Keeping hold of Andrew, Robert slid from his horse to the ground and made his way around the building to duck into the stable unseen from the house. There he laid Andrew down where he would be safe. The child was shivering violently. Soon his muscles would start to ache and the pain would be enough to wake him up. Robert would have to be gone before then.

He had a moment, no longer, a moment in which to feel a thread of excitement run through him. He had an idea, no more, probably foolish, probably doomed to failure.

He reached out, brushed the hair from Andrew’s pale forehead and pressed two fingers there. ‘Know me,’ he whispered, exerting the power needed to enforce the command. ‘Always know my aura. I will not forget yours. Listen and learn.’

He could hear movement from within the house. He had to go or he would be discovered. ‘Know me, Andrew. I will come back.’

Seconds later, he was back within the darkness of the trees, hiding again, the reins between his fingers, waiting, watching the door, hope rising in him again.

The door opened and a man stepped outside, a frown on his face, a face Robert knew better than his own. Dark red curls shook as Micah turned this way and that, as though he’d heard something and had come out into the cold to investigate. Some other instinct sent his gaze to the ground, to where Robert’s footprints gathered before the stable door. In a flash Micah was inside. A moment later, he emerged, the boy in his arms and words of fear and concern echoed across the clearing before Micah took Andrew to safety inside.

Safety and warmth. Maitland Manor was a ten minute ride away, where Andrew’s aunt and uncle lived, where Andrew lived. The boy was well-loved, cherished and kept close.

But still that thread of excitement ran through Robert, touching something inside him he’d never encountered before. So he was still standing there, in the shadows, when Micah opened the door once more. But he didn’t go far. He simply stood there, staring hard into the trees before nodding once.

‘Thank you.’

Robert said nothing, gave no sign that he was there. He waited for Micah to go back inside, then mounted the boy’s horse and rode into the morning with a fine sense of purpose.

He had a lot of work to do.

The field shimmered in a golden haze of autumn sun and sumptuous cloth. Huge pavilions stretched out to the north and west, rippling in the afternoon breeze: a statement of outrageous wealth and prosperity, and not a little audacity. Pennants of every colour ringed the field, their flapping drowned out by the constant movement of people in the background, cooks roasting whole sides of beef, bakers working a stone-built oven and, behind them, row after row of spit-fires over which fish and fowl were grilled on pikes. To the east, within the shadows of a tidy wood, minstrels and tumblers practised, making ready.

Osbert’s head ached. His feet hurt and his back tingled with the strain of standing for so long. He should never have made the long ride from Marsay in one day without giving himself some time to recover for this event. Better still, he should have had the courage to stay away altogether.

But courage had never been his greatest strength.

At least he was not alone in his suffering. Most of the court was there along with him: the King’s Council, magnates, lords, ladies, priests and his highest ranking Guildesmen. They stood there, in the cleared space between pavilions his Guilde engineers had spent six months creating, circling the long table at which the King sat, all bedecked in their best finery, glittering and glowing with the opulence the King wished to display to the visiting envoy from Mayenne.

But there was something so wretchedly transparent about the whole thing that made Osbert’s head ache more, gave his stomach a queasy sinking feeling; he knew he wouldn’t eat a mouthful of the feast even now being prepared.

‘Would you like some wine, my lord?’

Osbert refused to look at the priest who stood beside him, whispering to avoid drawing attention to himself. Kenrick sat no more than twenty feet away from them, engrossed in his conversation with the ambassador from Mayenne, almost his entire court watching the exchange. It would not do well to interrupt such a tense moment.

‘No,’ Osbert murmured, barely moving. ‘I would not like some wine. I would like to go to my bed, fall asleep and find this was all some sort of sick joke.’

‘I would imagine the King would find such an action mildly amusing,’ Godfrey replied. ‘He is indeed well known for his sense of humour.’

‘As is your good self,’ Osbert added dryly. Judging his moment, he glanced aside at the tall Archdeacon, recognising the familiar ironic expression on a face he’d grown to know almost too well over the years.

As Proctor of the Guilde, Osbert’s place at such events as this was unarguable. Godfrey, however, had won his by sheer determination. With Bishop Brome in frequent ill health, Godfrey was more and more often requested to stand in his place. Without doubt, Godfrey lent any occasion far more dignity than his superior ever could.

Lean and strong, Godfrey’s long face was framed with dark hair which showed little of the passing years, his tonsure still proudly shaved. He, unlike everyone else here, wore only the simplest of habits, black robes lightened by the silver stole draped around his neck, urged upon him by the Bishop himself.

On his better days, Osbert allowed that he and Godfrey had become friends through trials shared and survived. On his worst, he could only admit that they had formed the oddest of alliances, the rules of which had never been spoken aloud.

The only thing he could say for certain was that he trusted this man more than any other at court, even though he suspected the friends Godfrey had would not bear too much scrutiny.

On the other hand, with a King who openly practised sorcery, who was to say Godfrey’s friends were so bad?

‘How long do you think they will bargain?’ Godfrey stepped closer, keeping his voice low.

Osbert paused before replying, listening in to the exchanges between Kenrick and Ogiers, words about grain shipments, imports of cloth and wool. Even to his ears, the demands appeared hopelessly high, which, of course, would go some way to explaining the darkening expression on the young King’s face.

‘I don’t know,’ he replied softly, ‘I understand Ogiers himself is not agreeable to the match. Kenrick will have to convince him before he can convince the girl’s father.’

‘Tirone is afraid of Kenrick.’

Osbert paused, glanced at Godfrey and let out a long breath. ‘Yes, he is. Along with just about ev