Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [195]
While the Torch pondered his own question the loudest sounds came from outside the cellar, from Grabar still searching for his son.
“They’re not me, they’re the Bloody Hand of Dyareela. They collect children because children love and children fear more freely than men. They collect children because children can be molded by their love or fear. Children adapt. They remake themselves and become whatever they’re expected to be, whatever they’re taught to be. If a Servant of Dyareela were dying …? If that Servant had learned the secrets of transformation—the poor man’s immortality …? Wouldn’t he have used his last prayer to summon an heir? Better a child heir than a man. Men are willful, but a child is willing.”
The Torch caught Cauvin’s eye. “The greatest trap, lad, is assuming that your enemy thinks the way you do. The Hand has fallen into that trap: They have assumed your brother is the heir of Molin Torchholder.”
Cauvin had no response. He was still reassuring himself that he couldn’t have said anything to Leorin about Bec being with the Torch. He’d blundered badly when he’d revealed the old pud’s existence, his location, but when he’d been with Leorin at the Unicorn, he’d assumed the boy was tucked in safe at the stoneyard. Then Cauvin recalled telling Leorin that Bec had written the Torch’s testament. Unable to hold the Torch’s eerie eyes another moment, Cauvin turned away.
“The Hand believes they’ve found the perfect vengeance,” the Torch whispered. “Stealing my heir, adapting him to Dyareela. And perhaps they would be right … if Bec were my heir. But you and I, Cauvin, we know he’s not.”
There was a limit to the guilt Cauvin could bear while standing still. With one parting word, “No,” Cauvin burst out of the root cellar. He ran to the horse, saddled and bridled and already tossing its head as Cauvin approached.
Grabar had always kept a mule to do the stoneyard’s hauling; Cauvin had ridden both Flower and her predecessor, but never with a saddle or the determination to return to Sanctuary as fast as a horse could carry him. Cauvin had seen the Irrune run to their horses and vault cleanly onto the animals’ backs without missing a stride; and he’d watched lesser horsemen make sheep-shite fools of themselves trying to match the feat. Caution advised leading the horse to a wall and easing himself into the unfamiliar saddle from there. If Cauvin were cautious, Bec wouldn’t be missing, and he wouldn’t desperately need to find Leorin. He gauged the vault blindly and wound up with his belly on the saddle, his arms and legs flailing air.
But Cauvin held on. He righted himself and instantly understood why the Irrune prized their high-backed saddles almost as much as their horses. Seizing the reins, he pounded the gelding’s flanks and was nearly left behind when it bolted—thanks to the damned gods—toward the city rather than away from it. With a bit of luck and a strong right arm, Cauvin got the animal pointed down a narrow path to one of the Hillside breaches.
A galloping horse attracted attention. There were a handful of men studying Cauvin as the gelding picked its way through the breach rubble. Any one of them looked criminal enough to steal the horse out from under Cauvin. For a moment, he seriously considered just letting them have it, but a mounted man—even an awkwardly mounted man—commanded respect. The Hillers kept their greed to themselves.
Cauvin rode until the street traffic was more than he could handle, then he dismounted. If he’d led the horse to the Unicorn, froggin’ sure it would get stolen moments after he dismounted, so he took it the stoneyard, instead. Mina came racing out of the kitchen, Batty Dol a half stride behind her, when she heard the gate scraping. Both women stopped short: Cauvin and a sweated-up horse weren’t what they’d been praying for. Cauvin didn’t have anything to say to his foster mother. He let go of the horse’s reins, trusting that Mina’s deep understanding of value would compel her