Darkborn by Alison Sinclair

Author:Alison Sinclair
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Fantasy - General, Magic, Family, Science Fiction, Fantasy fiction, Juvenile Fiction, Social Issues, Fiction - Fantasy, General, Romance, Fantasy, Twins, English Canadian Novel And Short Story, Romance & Sagas, Occult fiction, Siblings, Fiction, Science Fiction And Fantasy, Values & Virtues, Good and evil
ISBN: 9780451462701
Publisher: Roc Trade
Published: 2009-05-11T04:00:00+00:00

Six

Ishmael

I shmael had only warning enough of his arrest to realize the futility and dangers of flight. When Eldon shook him awake, it was to tell him that the men had already encircled the wing of the house, armed and in force. His servant had heard Casamir Blondell in the side vestibule, talking to the superintendent about a warrant for murder. Tercelle Amberley, almost certainly, if not the man he had shot while escaping—but how had his disguise been penetrated so quickly? Ruthen would not have betrayed him. Was it Blondell’s doing, then, and if so, why? There was bad blood between them, but surely not that bad. He swiftly rejected the possibility of testing his luck against their mettle; escape was too unlikely to be worth the punishment that would befall Lorcas and Eldon for forewarning him. He rolled out of bed, shedding his rumpled shirt. “Get my leather vest.” The leather vest, with its stiffening of metal links, was armor against knives, and protection for his ribs, at least the first time anyone went at him. “If this goes ill,” he said, “y’need t’tell the Hearnes that it’s Guillaume di Maurier who’s gone seeking their daughter; Hearne knows him, and I’m sure Lady Telmaine knows of him.” He pulled on the vest, a clean shirt, and gloves, and when the footsteps and the pounding came, he made his menservants stand well aside, out of the line of any fire, and opened the door himself.

Sonn resolved two heavy pistols, pointed at his head, from the agents on either side of the city superintendent. He wasn’t sure whether his nobility or his villainy merited such attention. Behind the double rank of public agents stood Casamir Blondell, his form indistinct amongst the echoes, but his expression twisted in anger and loathing. The extremity of that expression gave Ish the briefest of warning before they laid hands on him—it had, he thought, taken them rather a long time to appreciate that in his shirtsleeves, with his gloved hands spread, he offered neither threat nor resistance. He tensed involuntarily as they hauled him forward, reacting to too many memories of similar manhandlings, but he did not resist as they dragged him into the corridor.

“Ishmael di Studier, Baron Strumheller,” the superintendent said, “we are arresting you in the name of the archduke on suspicion of the murder of Lady Tercelle Amberley one night past, and on suspicion of sorcery committed against Lord Vladimer Plantageter two nights past.”

He stiffened in their grasp, his mind suddenly locked with horror at the second accusation and its implication. “Vladimer—” he started to say, unwisely, and the men holding his arms turned the joints upon themselves with the elegant efficiency of men practiced in the technique. He cried out once, in agony, and hung between them, gasping.

“Lord Vladimer, as you surely know, lies senseless in the ducal summer house,” hissed Blondell.

The superintendent’s expression shifted subtly toward distaste. Ish could not allow himself to hope, not with the charge of

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