The Blood Knight - J. Gregory Keyes [152]
He heard footfalls now. He quickly scooted underneath another table.
The footsteps rang closer, and momentarily the doorway was framed in candlelight.
“Who’s there?” A voice he didn’t recognize echoed his own earlier query.
Stephen almost answered, thinking he might be able to make up some sort of excuse, but then he heard a commotion farther away. He froze, and his palms felt chill and damp against the floor.
He could hear Ehan shouting his name, telling him to flee, the clumping of booted feet, the sound of steel drawing. The man at the doorway made a sound like a curse and ran off.
Ehan stopped shouting.
“Saints,” Stephen murmured under his breath. He patted the floor, searching for the paper that had fallen out. The man in the hall was returning, now, at a dead run.
Stephen’s finger touched the paper, and then he had it and was up, dashing toward the window. It was narrow, and he had to turn to squeeze his way into the cold night air before dropping two kingsyards to the ice-hardened ground. The fall hurt more than he had expected it to, but he felt as if he had fire in his veins.
He ran around the building, searching for the stables. He had the horrible Black Mary feeling of running without getting anywhere, and his pulse deafened him to whoever might be coming after him. The thing from the room seemed all around him, and all he could think to do was run until he found someplace where the sun was up and would never go down.
He found the stables more by their smell than by memory, and once inside, he began hunting for the horse he’d been riding since Ever.
He wished he had light.
That wish suddenly was granted as he heard the grating of the shutter on an Aenan lamp and its fiery eye turned to reveal him. He couldn’t see who held it, but whoever it was had a sword; Stephen could see it projecting into the cone of illumination.
“Hold there,” the voice commanded. “Hold by the word of his grace the praifec of Crotheny.”
For an instant, Stephen stood frozen. The lamp started toward him, wavered, and then dropped to the ground, casting its beam sideways.
Stephen bolted for the open door of the stable. He’d gotten only a few paces before someone grabbed his arm. Gasping, he tore at it, and it fell away.
“You’ll want my help,” a soft voice said urgently. He knew instantly who it was.
“Sister Pale?”
“Your Decmanian memory doesn’t fail you,” she replied. “I’ve just killed a man for you. I think you should listen to me.”
“I believe my friends are in danger,” Stephen said.
“Yes. But you can’t help them now. Maybe later, if they live. Not now. Come on, we have to go.”
“Where?”
“Wherever you’re going.”
“I need some things from my horse.”
“The books? The praifec has them. His men had taken them before you even met with him. Come, or he’ll have you, too.”
“How can I trust you?”
“How can you not? Come along.”
Helplessly, mind whirling, Stephen did as he was told.
LEOFF WOKE to screaming and a damp rag on his brow. The screams, of course, were his own, and for a moment he didn’t care about where the rag had come from. But when it moved, he swatted at it and jerked himself up in the bed.
“Hush,” a feminine voice whispered. “You’ve nothing to fear. Just wait a moment.”
He heard the sound of a lantern. A tiny light appeared, then brightened into a flame, illuminating ash-blond curls framing a heart-shaped face. It was odd, Leoff thought, how he’d never really seen the origins of Mery in her mother, but in this light the resemblance was obvious.
“Lady Gramme,” he mumbled. “How—” He suddenly realized that his upper body was exposed and drew the covers up.
“I’m sorry to trouble you, Cavaor Ackenzal,” Lady Gramme said,