Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [194]
“We called and called his name,” Grabar said, taking a step toward the entry. “He didn’t answer.”
“That boy does not do as he’s told,” the Torch said, staring at Grabar with those odd, odd eyes. “A leather strap would have gotten him to safety, but I had none to hand.”
“What happened?” Cauvin asked.
“I have some skill with sorcery,” the Torch admitted—and, shite for sure, it was heresy for a priest to speak of sorcery, not prayer. Might as well confess that his god had abandoned him. “Enough that I knew the Hand had come looking for me and that I could attack them before they attacked me. I spared nothing, save my life—and I would have given that, had I been certain I could annihilate them all in a single burst. I took down four of them before my fire burnt out, but there were more than that. How many more, I can’t say. It is bitter morning to find myself yet alive and the boy gone.”
Grabar took off, shouting his son’s name and flailing the bushes that surrounded the root cellar. Cauvin faced the Torch alone. The Torch spoke first.
“The Hand knew where I was—exactly where I was. Not merely this estate, but here, hidden in a cellar. How did they know?” the Torch asked. “Arizak burnt a body. I was dead to the world, but they knew where to find me.”
The old man’s strength failed; his knees buckled. Without thinking, Cauvin lunged forward, catching him before he collapsed completely. The Torch had been light as a child when Cauvin carried him out of the Temple of Ils and lighter still whenever he and Soldt had carried him through the ruins, but now it seemed that the damned black staff weighed more than he did.
The Torch squeezed his wrist. The old pud’s fingers were as fleshless—and strong—as a hawk’s talons. “How did they know?”
“Frog all if I know.”
“They came straightaway to the root cellar, Cauvin. They knew where to find me, and they took the boy. He’s not outside. Your father will not find him; he’s gone. Why take the boy?”
Cauvin twisted free of the Torch’s grasp. “Because they’re the Bloody Hand of Dyareela!” He snapped, a swirl of emotion and memory getting the better of his tongue. “That’s what they do—they collect children!”
“From the streets, not abandoned root cellars!”
“Maybe they thought you were already dead and they didn’t want to leave empty-handed. Gods all be damned, why blame me?” Cauvin protested. “Why does it always have to be my froggin’ fault? Soldt found his way here without my help. He could have been followed. Froggin’ sure, Bec could have been followed. Blame some other sheep-shite fool for a change!”
There was no other sheep-shite fool. There was only the memory of last night at the Vulgar Unicorn. Cauvin had told Leorin that the Torch wasn’t dead and she’d asked—she’d specifically asked—where he was. She’d been angry when Cauvin could only describe the ruins, not give them their proper name.
The Torch read Cauvin’s mind, “You told her,” he accused sadly. “You went to her, and you told her.”
“No. No—there’s no connection. There can’t be.” Cauvin’s hands shook. He clenched them into fists, but that only made the shaking worse. “There wasn’t time. Whatever I did, it didn’t matter. Couldn’t.”
“Not any longer,” the Torch conceded. “The damage has been done, hasn’t it? The Hand has your brother. They took him and left me behind. I’m the one they wanted, if they wanted vengeance … I was alive—I must have been alive—but they took the boy instead.” The Torch fell silent a moment, then said. “I understand. Four died. But there were more than four. Survivors. This close to my body. Saved by luck—by the grace of their goddess. They saw me, no different than a corpse, and they saw the boy. What would they think?