The Mage Wars

by Mercedes Lackey

  Except that, unlike the boy, he had no sense of exhilaration. His muscles all shivered, and his heart beat double-time with fear and tension. He was only too aware that he was one man, alone, and that this course was madness.

  A moment later, he was crouched in the shadow of the bushes at the foot of the pole, listening for the sounds of anyone else out in the garden. I suppose I could have dropped straight down; one story isn’t too far to fall. Yes, but if I’d broken an ankle, I wouldn’t be able to do Skan much good now, would I?

  He felt the stir of the night breeze against his skin with unnatural clarity. As far as he could tell, there wasn’t anyone nearby on the grounds. That was the way it should be; everyone of any consequence was in the various cleansing ceremonies, and the only people who were excused from the ceremonies were the sick, the injured, the mad (like Amberdrake), and those whose duties forced them to work, like the guards and some of the servants, and probably less than a third of those. This was the quietest the Palace had ever been. Lights were going out in every direction he looked, as servants went from room to deserted room, extinguishing them, in preparation for the Ceremony.

  In this case, the best way to be inconspicuous—if a man with a face as pale as his ever would be inconspicuous here—would be to act as if he was going somewhere on orders. So once he made certain there was no one in the immediate area watching him, he stood up, straightened his tunic, and set off for the Hall of Fragrant Joy at a fast walk.

  He felt as if there were hundreds of eyes on him, and the skin of his back prickled, as if anticipating an arrow.

  He wanted to run, but that was hardly the way to remain inconspicuous. No one ran, here. It simply wasn’t done.

  He couldn’t have run in any case; the path was visible only because it was white gravel in the midst of dark green grass. If he tried to run, he’d probably fall and break his neck.

  Oh, this is blight, Drake. You’re going off by yourself, without any reinforcements. You’ve assumed that Skan will be alone and relatively unguarded, but you can’t be sure of that, now, can you! So you’re going off to play the hero, and you aren’t exactly suited to the role, you know! And what are you going to do when you get there and find out that Skan isn’t alone, hmm! Try and talk your way out of it! I don’t think anyone is going to believe you just went out for a stroll and happened to show up where he’s being held! And with a pale face like yours, you aren’t going to pass for Haighlei!

  The internal voice did nothing to still the fear; not even clenching his hands into fists kept them from shaking.

  Buildings loomed all around him, poking up above the carefully sculptured foliage of the grounds, dark and lifeless. There wasn’t a hint of the sounds that usually filled the night here; no music, no conversation, nothing. Just lightless buildings, with the star-filled sky up ahead, and the white of the path barely discernible in the heavy, flower-scented dark. He couldn’t even make out much beyond the bare shape of the bushes and trees beside the path.

  Thank you so much, Skan, for running off and not taking anyone to back you up. Even leaving Aubri up on a rooftop while you played mighty warrior would have been enough! Now you’re in trouble and I’m running to your rescue like the fool I am. In the dark. Alone. Oh, brilliant, Amberdrake.

  This was as close to being blind as he cared to go, and it took all of his concentration to keep from stumbling over uneven places in the dark.

  Which was precisely why, when a shadow separated itself from the trunk of a tree overhanging the path and flung itself at him, he didn’t have any time to react.

  And he didn’t even feel the blow to his head that sent him into unconsciousness; there was only a sense of timelessness where awareness should have been.

  * * *

  His head hurt—

  It throbbed, horribly, with every beat of his heart. His stomach turned over and there was a taste of blood and something bitter in his mouth. His lower lip stung; he tested it with his tongue, finding more blood, finding it swollen-and cut.

  His arms were twisted under him and behind his back in an awfully odd pose. He groaned, and tried to roll over. What had he done last night that—

  A tugging at his neck stopped him. He couldn’t roll over. In fact, he couldn’t move at all.

  Amberdrake’s eyes opened, but slowly, slowly, for they were sticky and felt swollen, and hurt too, though not as much as his head. He didn’t learn much of anything, however, for there was nothing more enlightening than a yellow marble wall in front of him. He was lying on his side, but someone had “considerately” propped him up and padded him with cushions placed beneath him in a primitive mattress.

  Why does this not comfort met Possibly because I have obviously been bludgeoned and am now tied hand and foot!

  Moving even a little woke pain in his arms and neck, but also told him that much. His arms were pinned together by a restraint at the elbows, behind his back, although they had not been tied so tightly as to be uncomfortable.

  Yet. Of course, I’m a kestra’chern, and I can force my muscles to relax, which might help.

  His wrists were also strapped together, and there was a collar around his neck that was fastened to something behind him; that was what had kept him from rolling over.

  So much for rescuing Skan. Whoever has him must have been watching our rooms. Gods, I hope they didn’t get Zhaneel!

  Blinding pain washed a red haze over everything for a moment; when it subsided, he continued to take inventory of his situation. Curiously, though, he began to realize that he wasn’t afraid any longer. Maybe because the worst has already happened, so why be afraid!

  His ankles were tied together, and his knees, although he could bend both. He craned his neck a little and bent at the waist as much as the collar would allow, to get a peek at the bindings on his legs. His head throbbed, but there was enough slack in his bindings for him to think about getting himself loose.

  If I didn’t know better—

  “Awake?” Skan rumbled.

  “Yes,” he said shortly. “What time is it?”

  “Mid-morning I think. Well after dawn. Which means the Ceremony is already underway.” Skan sighed gustily. “Which completes this disaster, as far as we’re concerned.”

  Mid-morning! Oh, sketi. That means Zhaneel couldn’t get the priests to let her in—or else that they let her in, but wouldn’t let her see the others and started her on her own purification rites. Oh, hell. Oh, bloody hell. She’s the only one who knows where we are! Or where I thought we’d be—but we may not even be there.

  Not just fear rose up in him—but a hint of panic. This was not just a disaster, this was catastrophe!

  He rolled, this time in the direction of the pull on his collar, and managed to get himself faced away from the wall. There was a leash fastened to a ring in the floor to which he’d been tethered, which answered that question, at least.

  Skandranon was indeed trussed up like a bird waiting for the spit. He looked very much the worse for wear, but not really visibly damaged—certainly not as damaged as Amberdrake himself was. Another moment of blinding pain held him breathless for a few heartbeats. Then Amberdrake sat up, but slowly, for he had to inch his way over to the tether point of his leash before he could get the slack to sit.

  His head protested every move with throbs of pain, reminding him sharply of why it had been a very stupid idea to go rushing off to Skan’s rescue without additional help. As if he needed reminding.

  “I suppose you rushed off to my rescue without any additional help, right?” Skan said with resignation. “Of course—everyone was being prepared for the Ceremony, but you’re supposed to be mad and guarding yourself in the persona of Hawkwind, so you were excused as Amberdrake and Hawkwind both.”

  “So that’s where the extra Kaled’a’in came from!” said a delighted voice. “I wondered. There were ten new bodies from White Gryphon, but eleven new bodies parading about!”

  Amberdrake looked up at the grinning madman i
n the doorway, and his stomach turned over again, sending sour bile into the back of his throat. “Hadanelith,” he said tonelessly, his head echoing painfully. “I won’t say it’s a pleasure to see you again. I suppose you’ve come to gloat? That’s trite enough to be in your style.”

  Hadanelith strolled over to Amberdrake in a leisurely fashion, and stood just out of range of a kick, frowning down at him. “You know, Amberdrake, you should never have dyed your hair. It’s just not a good look for you.”

  Amberdrake raised an eyebrow at Hadanelith, and his battered mind finally took in the lunatic’s costume. He blinked, certain he was seeing things. Why would Hadanelith be wearing a copy of one of Amberdrake’s formal outfits?

  “At least you’ve gotten some sense of fashion,” he replied, his mind searching frantically for some guess at what the madman was about to do. His stomach lurched again, and his skin crawled. He’d seen Hadanelith’s handiwork…

  “Oh, this little thing?” Hadanelith smoothed down the beaded placket at the neck of his tunic. “It’s part of the plan, you see.”

  “Which you are going to tell us in excruciating detail,” Skan moaned, as if he at least was not the slightest bit afraid of Hadanelith’s plans, as if being bored was the worst of all possible tortures. “Oh spare us, will you? Good gods, does every half-baked villain have to boast about what he’s going to do before he does it? Can’t you just kill us so we don’t have to endure your boring speech?”

  Hadanelith turned to glare at the gryphon, and crossed his arms angrily over his chest. “Yes I do ‘have to boast about it.’ I want you to know how and why and the means. I want you to know everything, because there isn’t anything you can do to stop it all, and I want you to lie there in agony because you’re both helpless.”

  Skan groaned, but it was the groan of someone who was in dread of having to endure an after-dinner speech, not someone in fear of death. “You haven’t come up with anything new, you know,” he complained. “Whatever you think you’ve invented, some other idiot has tried before you. And Ma’ar was better and more imaginative at gloating than you. Trust me, I know.”

  Amberdrake clenched his muscles to keep from trembling; he knew exactly what the gryphon was up to, and he feigned an equal boredom as Hadanelith turned his back to the gryphon, his spine straight with indignation.

  Listen to what he says, pretend to be interested, and he’ll shut up. Tell him to get lost and take his little speech elsewhere, and he’ll babble like a brook.

  “You and all your friends are finished, kestra’chern,” Hadanelith spat, turning back to Amberdrake.

  Amberdrake yawned stiffly. His lip split and bled a little more. “Yes?” he replied indifferently. “And?”

  Hadanelith’s face grew red with rage. “You think you’re all so clever,” he snarled, flecks of spittle forming at the comers of his mouth. “You think you have everything taken care of. But you hadn’t planned on magic, had you? We have magic, magic that works, blood-magic from those foolish women, and a few slaves and scum we took off the streets. We have magic enough to overcome anything; even if a mage-storm came right this moment, we have power enough to push through whatever we want.”

  Oh, gods. That explains everything. Amberdrake went very, very cold, and struggled not to show it. That was indeed one of the things no one had counted on—that someone was using the power of blood-born magic to push through spells that no longer worked in ordinary circumstances. He began to shake.

  “We have a little surprise planned for the Eclipse Ceremony,” Hadanelith continued, smiling now. “My friends here have a job they want me to do. Now normally, I wouldn’t handle a job like this, but we’re such good friends I thought I’d do them the favor.” He raised an eyebrow archly. “Don’t you want to know what it is?”

  “Find the mind you lost?” Skan suggested. “Or could it be the virility you misplaced?”

  Hadanelith flushed again, and ground his teeth together with rage. Amberdrake was fascinated, despite his screaming nerves. He’d never actually seen anyone grind his teeth with rage before. It was something you could actually hear—and all this time he’d thought it was just a cliché. “We are going to kill the King,” Hadanelith got out from between his clenched jaws. “Publicly. At the height of the Ceremony.”

  He got himself back under control again, with a speed that would have been impressive if he hadn’t been insane. He smiled sweetly at Amberdrake, a smile that struck the kestra’chern like a blow and stopped even his shivering. “And as a little present to you, dear Amberdrake,” he said in a caressing tone, “we are going to kill Winterhart as well.”

  Amberdrake felt his face and body freezing into stone, along with his mind. His vision misted, and there was a roaring in his ears.

  Hadanelith saw his reaction, and his smile widened. “My friends have more than enough power to whisk me away as soon as I finish the job,” he continued with satisfaction. “Everyone will blame you Kaled’a’in, of course. The Black Gryphon will be proclaimed a coward and traitor to his own people, since he disappeared before the King’s disposal. One of my friends has positioned himself to take advantage of all this, since the King hasn’t yet declared an heir. He’ll see to it that the rest of your contingent is rounded up and executed, and that war is declared on White Gryphon. At the end of it all, he’ll be the great hero, and they’ll probably demand that he take the Lion Throne before he can even claim it himself.”

  Amberdrake closed his eyes, fighting off a faint. Winterhart—oh, gods—He had to think, had to keep Hadanelith talking so he could get the time to think.

  “Why should the Kaled’a’in take the blame?” he asked thickly, opening his eyes again. “The Haighlei aren’t fools, you know—they don’t think all Outlanders look alike! You aren’t going to fool them by dressing up in one of my outfits.”

  “Oh, my very dear Amberdrake,” Hadanelith said with a laugh that sent chills down his spine. “My dear, dear kestra’chern! They won’t see me when they see the murderer!”

  His features blurred, and for a moment Amberdrake wondered frantically if the blow to his head had done something to his eyes as well. But nothing else was blurring, and in a moment, Hadanelith’s face sharpened into focus again.

  Except that now it wasn’t Hadanelith’s face.

  It was a face Amberdrake knew only too well, for he looked at it in mirrors several times every day. It was the face that Winterhart knew as her own beloved’s.

  “You see?” said Hadanelith. “These people so abhor magic that they’ll never dream someone might be wearing an illusion! That is the gift I have given these people—my originality. They would never have thought of this. They won’t see me when they see a Kaled’a’in murdering their King and his Consort-To-Be. They’ll see you.”

  He laughed—or rather, giggled—a high-pitched whining sound that set Amberdrake even further on edge. I’d have banished him for that laugh alone, he thought irrelevantly.

  “And the last thing, the very last thing that your dear, faithless lady will see,” Hadanelith continued gleefully, “is her former lover gutting her with a smile on his face. No one will doubt that you are completely capable of killing her and her betrothed; you made that perfectly clear with your dramatic scene in front of the entire Court.”

  With a sickening wrench, Amberdrake realized that he himself had set the pattern for all of this. And it wasn’t the King that Hadanelith wanted—it was Winterhart. He was murdering the King because that was the only way he could get at Winterhart.

  “She should have been mine,” Hadanelith said softly, as if he didn’t realize that he was speaking aloud. Amberdrake sensed the depth of obsession there, and shuddered. How long had Hadanelith been like this? How long had he wanted Winterhart? He must have known he could never have her!

  All those women back at White Gryphon—they were in Winterhart’s pattern. Lean, elegant, strong-willed until he broke their will—why didn’t I see that before!

  “If I canno
t have her for my own, then I shall make sure no one else has a chance to carve her into another image,” Hadanelith whispered, confirming what Amberdrake had been thinking. Then he shook himself, and looked down at Amberdrake again with that odd, foam-flecked smile.

  “A gut-stroke, I think,” he said meditatively. “In at the navel, to the left, and up. She will linger quite agonizingly, but not long enough for a Healer to get to her in time to save her. Treasure that image in your mind, Amberdrake. Hold it until I come back. Then Skandranon and I will play some charming little games, until I decide whether I’m going to teach you some of my arts, or let you go.”

  “Let me go?” Amberdrake said, blinking stupidly, struggling against the multiple blows to his soul.

  “Of course!” Hadanelith giggled again. “Why not? No one would ever believe you, and it would be such a major help to my friends if they were the ones to ‘capture’ you and bring you to justice! I understand that Haighlei executions are terribly entertaining.”

  As Amberdrake stared at him, Hadanelith raised his right hand and wiggled the fingers at him in a childish gesture of leavetaking. “Fare, but not well, dear Amberdrake.”

  Amberdrake expected him to walk out of the room in a normal fashion, but evidently that was not dramatic enough for him. He pirouetted in place—stepped to one side—and vanished.

  “Kechara has all of this,” Skan said hoarsely as soon as he disappeared. “That’s why I wasn’t talking much. She’s relaying it to the others now.”

  Which was, of course, one thing that Hadanelith hadn’t counted on.

  “The problem is that everyone except Winterhart is too far back in the crowd to do any good,” Skan continued desperately. “And Winterhart isn’t a Mindspeaker, so they can’t warn her. They’ve decked Aubri out with a ceremonial drape that’s strapped down over his wings—he can’t fly—”

  “Never mind,” Amberdrake said fiercely, as he willed his muscles to relax here and contract down hard there, and wriggled carefully in place. Got to get the strap around my elbows down first—His muscles protested sharply as he tried to squeeze his elbows together even tighter. Got to get some slack in the ropes—“There’s something else Hadanelith forgot—”