The Lair of Bones Read Online Free Page A

him,” Celinor said. “There is no proof. Besides, his odd behavior began before Raj Ahten's sorcerers summoned the Darkling Glory. Even if you received a true sending, even if your ‘locus’ is real, there's nothing that should lead you to suspect my father.”
    Celinor didn't want to consider the possibility that his father might be possessed. She didn't blame him. Nor could she argue that his father's odd behavior had begun weeks ago.
    Yet something that the owl of the netherworld had told Erin caused herconcern. It had shown her the locus, a shadow of evil that inhabited one man, even as it sent out tendrils of darkness around it, tendrils that touched others—seducing them, snaring them—filling them with a mea-sure of its own corruption.
    Thus the locus's influence spread, rotting the hearts of men, burning away their consciences, preparing them to act as hosts for others like it.
    Erin had never met Gantrell before, but the fanatical gleam in the captain's eyes, the way he had his men guard Celinor, the crown prince, as if he were a captured spy, made her suspect that he had been touched by a locus.
    And then there was Celinor's father: claiming to be the Earth King, plotting against Gaborn, spreading lies about him to far-off lords who ought to have been Gaborn's allies.
    Perhaps Celinor's father did not host Asgaroth, Erin thought, but he was dangerous by any standard.
    â€œWhat are you two doing over here, all alone?” Captain Gantrell called out. He came sauntering up, the grin splitting his face only a thin veneer to hide his suspicion.
    â€œPlotting my escape back to Fleeds,” Erin said in a jesting tone.
    â€œThat wouldn't be wise,” Gantrell said, attempting to mimic her lightheartedness and failing miserably. Erin could tell that he had no sense of humor. He looked approvingly to his knights, who had mounted their horses, and were now nearly ready to leave. “Well, let's see if we can make good time while it's still cool.”
    Erin forced a smile, but she grew more and more uneasy about Gantrell. Instinct warned her that rather than grin politely as if he were some unwel-come courtier, she'd be better off to slit his belly open and strangle him with his own guts.
    Erin mounted her horse, exhausted from lack of sleep, and rode through the pre-dawn. Every few miles they passed small contingents of knights, all riding south. Camp followers in the form of smiths, washwomen, and squires rode in wains or trudged down the dusty roads. Drivers rode war wagons filled with lances, arrows, food, and tents, everything one needed for an extended campaign.
    After passing a train of twenty ballistas mounted on wheels and drawnby force horses, Erin blithely asked Gantrell, “All this movement before the sun's even up. What country do you plan to invade?”
    â€œInvade, Your Highness?” Gantrell asked. “It is but a normal repositioning of our defenses.” He rode close enough so that she had to urge her horse aside, lest they bump legs.
    â€œIf you were afraid of invasion,” Erin argued, “you would strengthen your fortifications, not mass troops on your southern border. So, who will you invade?”
    â€œI couldn't say, milady,” Gantrell answered with a maddening little smirk.
    So they rode through the morning. The horses nearly pranced as they raced through the chill. The knights’ ring mail chinged like cymbals to the drumming of the horses’ hooves, as if making music to accompany some vast empyreal hymn.
    Erin's fatigue lent the ride a surreal, dreamlike quality. Some thought South Crowthen to be a beautiful country, and it was true: the trees on the hills danced in particolored raiment of autumn colors, and in the more settled areas Erin would ride round a bend and discover a picturesque stone cottage dozing beneath a sprawling oak or elm. Nearby, a milk cow would crop the grass in some green field misted by morning dew,