They were silk ropes, very impressive to look at and very strong, but also very slick. If you knew what you were doing, silk was the worst of all possible bindings, though the most ostentatious.
The elbow ties dropped past the joints. Now he could ease them further down.
By squirming and shaking, he managed to inch the bindings around his elbows down to his wrists.
Thank the gods he didn’t tether the elbow bindings to the back of the collar. Inexperienced binders work along the spine only, without thinking diagonally. The way he bound me, it looks nice, but isn’t very hard to get out of—something a real kestra’chern would know.
He curled over backward until he got his wrists passed under his buttocks, then curled over forward and passed his legs through the arch of his arms. A moment later, he had his wrists in front of him and was untying the bindings on them with his teeth.
“I’m—a kestra’chern—Skan,” he said, around the mouthful of slick cord. “A real—kestra’chern. I’ve probably—forgotten—more about knots—and restraints—than that impostor—ever learned. There!”
The cords fell away from his wrists, and the ones that had held his elbows followed them. He unfastened the collar—which was looped through but not even locked!—and crawled over to Skandranon. He could get his legs free later. Now it was important to get Skandranon out of here and into the air!
Skan’s restraints were artistic, but not particularly clever or difficult to undo, either. “Dilettante!” he muttered, as he untied more silk cords and undid buckles. He had to mutter, to keep the fear at bay a little longer, or else it would paralyze him. “Rank amateur!”
Damn knots! Damn Hadanelith! Damn all these people to the coldest hells! I swear, if I had a knife—if Winterhart—oh, gods, if Winterhart—
Knife—Winterhart—
He blinked, and shook his head as the light took on a thin quality. “Is it me, or is the light fading—”
“It’s not you,” Skan said, his own voice rasping and frantic. “It’s the Eclipse! That idiot Hadanelith has to be dramatic, he would never strike at any time but the height of the Eclipse! Hurry!”
“I’m hurrying,” Amberdrake snarled, doubtful if the red haze he saw was due to the Eclipse. “I’m hurrying!”
* * *
Shalaman stood tall and proud beneath his heavy weight of fine ceremonial robes, and surveyed his people.
They were gathered below him in a vast sea of faces, as many as could fit into the largest open section of Palace grounds. The Palace gates had been opened today to the public, as they were only opened on the most important of ceremonial occasions, and citizens of the city had been lined up for days to enter, squeezed in together on the other side of a barrier of guards, to view the Eclipse Ceremony with the Court. They were jammed together so tightly that none of them could move. The sheer numbers were overwhelming. Colors warred with each other, and the glare of sunlight on jewelry threw rainbow-hued flashes up into his eyes at unpredictable moments.
The heat down there must have been unbearable, but no one complained or showed any sign of it. This was the Eclipse Ceremony, and time for changes, and no one here wanted to miss a single word.
They were all silent, as his people seldom were. It was entirely possible to hear birds singing evening songs above the faint murmur of breathing and whispers. The light had been thinning for some time now—triggering the birds to go into their sunset melodies—and although it could not be said that the air was getting colder, the sunlight on his skin burned less with every passing moment.
To his right stood Winterhart, and to his left his three Advisors; otherwise, he was alone on the platform of three steps raising up above the level of the crowd. In his mind, he was alone, for he and he alone could make the decision about the people of White Gryphon. He was the King; they would listen. They loved him; they knew his loyalty to their interests.
He turned his troubled attention, though not his eyes, on the pale-skinned people from the north. They stood in a group, held away from the platform by an intervening phalanx of his personal bodyguards. He had not wanted to show them any particular favor until he had made up his mind.
He had to recalculate everything he had planned last night. All along, although he had permitted them to remain in doubt, he had planned to bring them into the “changes to come” portion of the ceremony, whether or not the actual murderers were found in time. It would have been better if they had been, of course, but that wasn’t strictly necessary. Any words spoken by a Truthsayer during the latter half of the Ceremony had special import, and only today Shalaman had decided to call upon Leyuet to impart publicly all he had learned from the minds of Amberdrake and Winterhart. Having a Bound Couple in the Court would bring special blessings from the gods, and having Leyuet declare Amberdrake’s innocence at that point in the Ceremony would give his words all the force of the Gods’ Voices.
But he would need the Gryphon King to do that, to speak for his friend—and the Gryphon King was not in evidence. Amberdrake could not be there to speak for himself—officially, he was supposedly mad, and the mad were specifically excluded from the Ceremony.
Without either of the two principals, there was nothing he could do about the settlement and the people in it, not with murder charges hanging over them and no one to receive Leyuet’s blessing and declaration of innocence.
He’d sent his men for the kestra’chern a few moments ago anyway, out of pure desperation. The priests wouldn’t like the fact that Amberdrake hadn’t been cleansed, but that was too bad. If Leyuet declared him sane, his presence wouldn’t taint the Ceremony, and once that innocence was made public, the White Gryphon folk could be made allies. But his men weren’t back yet, either, and he had taken up as much time with prayer and chanting as he could.
The one thing he could not delay was the Eclipse itself, and it was about to move into its final phase.
He looked down at the image of the sun’s face, cleverly duplicated in the middle of a square of shadow at his feet. The shadow itself was cast by a thin plate of stone with a round hole in it, which allowed a single round beam of light to shine directly in front of the King. What happened to that round dot of sunlight was replicated in the heavens above, and there was a substantial bite in the circle, a bite of darkness that was visibly increasing. Out there in the gardens, the beams of light that filtered through the tree branches to fall on the ground also had bites of shadow taken out of them, forming dapples of crescents, and those who were wise were watching them instead of squinting up impotently at the sun-disk itself.
Still no sign of the Gryphon King or of Amberdrake.
This must be as the gods have willed it; we have certainly tried for another solution. With a heavy heart, he raised the staff of his office high over his head and began to intone the Words of Change.
And at that precise moment, as if the gesture had called him there, Amberdrake appeared on the second step of the platform out of thin air.
Shalaman stared at him, mouth agape. What—the men must have found him—the priests must have built him a magical Portal and sent him directly here so that he would be in time! He felt giddy with relief. Things were going to be fine after all.
But in the next instant, his relief turned to confusion. There was shouting and pushing down among the Kaled’a’in, and instead of rushing to greet her beloved, Winterhart gasped and recoiled from him.
And there was something very odd, and very wrong, with the hungry expression on Amberdrake’s face. No sane human wore an expression like that!
Shalaman backed up a pace himself, a cold chill falling over his heart as he looked into Amberdrake’s eyes. There was no sign of sanity there, and he wondered wildly if this were the real Amberdrake after all—if the man was demon-ridden, and this demonic side of him had been the one responsible for the murders! Certainly this man looked capable of any kind of evil!
The guards were not responding. Of course they aren’t! I told them myself to
let him through when he arrived, and they can’t see his face, so they don’t know anything is wrong!
Shalaman opened his mouth to call for help—
And could not get any sound to come out.
Nor could he move. He was held in place as securely as if someone had bound him in chains and stood him there. He struggled against his invisible bonds to no avail; they held him fast in the position he had last taken, staff held above his head and free arm outstretched, to the sun.
And the last of the sun slipped behind the moon, throwing them all into darkness.
Amberdrake laughed, a horrible, high-pitched giggling; he pulled a knife out of the breast of his tunic, and lunged up the stairs toward Shalaman while the folk of White Gryphon struggled against the guards, shouting incoherently.
Amberdrake screamed and lunged forward with the knife in a vicious series of slashes, cutting the darkness with the glitter of his blade, displaying a knife-fighter’s threat show, weaving a pattern of death in the air.
The space of a single breath passed, and a slim figure in silver interposed itself between Shalaman and his assassin.
It was not Winterhart—who was dressed in gold, and who was backing away from the assailant with her face frozen in a silent scream.
It was Silver Veil.
Every kestra’chern is taught self-defense, for every kestra’chern may one day require it, she had said once, when he’d expressed worry over her safety. Every kestra’chern knows the body of man and woman, and knows where to strike if need be. He had smiled indulgently, then, and with a hint of disbelief. Those were the sort of things a warrior-trainer said to impress his Captain, and were usually of dubious worth. Now he believed!
The lovely kestra’chern whirled in a flurry of skirts, and kicked at the assassin’s legs, connecting with them expertly and bringing him down on his knees.
But the man was faster than Shalaman could have believed possible; he scrambled to his feet again, and as she tried a second kick, he caught her foot in one hand, then twisted in place and whirled, sending her crashing, gasping, to the ground in a tangle of silver fabric.
And once again, the assassin lunged toward Shalaman, this time unopposed.
Shalaman closed his eyes, the only parts of him that he could still move, and commended his soul to the gods.
At least I shall perish bravely, though I shall not perish as a warrior. Silver Veil, I shall never forget you—
The gods, however, decided that they did not want his soul—at least not right then.
A battle-screech rang out from overhead, and all heads searched the dim sky for its source. Even the assassin jumped, turned, and stared.
Out of the black sun-disk, out of the midnight-at-noon, the Gryphon King plunged with a scream of defiance that shattered the confusion and pierced the spell holding Shalaman captive.
Shalaman flung himself away from the assassin—and toward Silver Veil. The assassin frantically found the right direction—just in time to fling his paltry knife up in puny defense against ten razor-talons and the unstoppable force of stooping predator.
Skandranon, the Black Gryphon, drove the assassin into the stone with a great crunch of breaking bone, sending the blade skittering away—
Just as the sun appeared again from behind the moon, frosting the great gryphon’s wings and glinting off his eyes.
The guards at last realized what was happening and started to rush up to the platform, but the Black Gryphon was not yet finished with his wonder-working. He gripped the assassin’s face with one clawed hand, made a savage gesture in the air with one talon of the other hand—
And the face of Amberdrake melted away, leaving an entirely unfamiliar—and rapidly bruising—stranger beneath the claws of the gryphon.
Shalaman straightened, still keeping himself between the assassin and Silver Veil. The stranger squealed and struggled, then shrieked with pain as his many freshly broken bones announced themselves to him.
Winterhart took a single look at the man and gasped in recognition.
She started to babble something at Shalaman, but in her distress she was speaking in her own tongue and he couldn’t make out a single hysterical word, so he waved at her to be silent. Skandranon mantled at the stranger, all but killing him with his glare. The crushed man soiled himself, unable to stop moving in his sobs of terror.
“Here is your murderer, King Shalaman,” Skandranon rumbled angrily. “Here is the man who slew your courtiers in ways not even a mad beast would contemplate, for the sake of collecting the magic power of death and blood, and who held both myself and Amberdrake captive so that his plan to murder you could be completed. He is an exile from among our own people, and I regret that we cast him out instead of finishing him then. We left it to the forest to dispose of a mad beast that we should have dealt with ourselves. He is the one who used his skill in killing to counterfeit the effects of magic, mimicking death-spells with death-skill. That was why it looked as if a mage had done the deeds.”
“If he is yours—” Shalaman began doubtfully.
Skandranon shook his head. “He is no more ‘ours’ than the garbage that we bury in the clean earth,” the gryphon replied. “We repudiated him and cast him out before we ever met your people. He is not ours, if you are offering him up to our judgment. He is as much yours as any mankilling beast who murders the innocent. He has committed crimes against you and yours, and you may do with him what you will.”
Shalaman took a long, steadying breath. “Then you turn him over to us, to be dealt with by our laws?”
Skandranon narrowed his eyes at the whimpering Hadanelith. “He should live so long.”
“Lies!” shrieked the captive suddenly. “It is all lies! They cast me out because I would not use my skills for their plans! They—”
“Silence!” Skandranon boomed, tightening his claws on the man’s throat until only a faint wheeze could be heard. Sweat stood out on the assassin’s pale forehead, and Shalaman might have been tempted to feel sorry for him, if the accusations against him had not been so terrible, and his guilt so sure.
But just to be certain, Shalaman looked to Leyuet, who shook his head. “I need not even trance, Serenity,” he said clearly, but with immense dignity. “It is this man who lies. His soul—I dare not touch it.” The Truthsayer was gray, and he shivered as if with a fever. “It is vile, filthy—as fully unclean as yours is pure.”
There were murmurs of fear and anger from those in the crowd who were near enough to hear, but no doubt—and those in the first ranks turned to spread the word back to the ones behind. The word passed rapidly as Shalaman waved to his guards to come forward.
The man began screaming again, but his words made no sense. “Noyoki, you bastard!” he howled. “Get me away! You promised! Get me away! Help me! Help me!”
Was there some rescue that was supposed to have taken place? If so, it appeared that this assassin had colleagues. But “Noyoki?” No one? What kind of a name was that?
“Your conspirators have deserted you, fool,” Shalaman said sternly to the struggling, screaming man. “Think of this, as you wait my justice.”
Where is Amberdrake? Could he be the reason that no one had rescued the assassin?
No time to think of that now. The guards dragged the assassin away, followed by two priests, hastily waved there by Palisar, who presumably would prevent any escapes by magic means. The assassin was screaming at the top of his lungs, but his words were no longer coherent.
Shalaman could and would deal with him later. What was important was the completion of the Ceremony.
Silver Veil had gathered herself back up again, although evidencing a limp, and was back in her place. The Gryphon King remained beside Winterhart on the platform. Shalaman turned again to face his people, resolutely putting Amberdrake and his fate out of his mind.
“By the grace of the gods and the strength of my friends, I have been spared to serve you!” he called out in a voice that would carry to the edges of th
e courtyard. “Here is the omen for changes—that Skandranon, the Gryphon King, once as White as his city, has come to my aid in the shape of a Black Gryphon King, and has struck down the murderer of our nobles with his own hands! What say you, my people? Shall we ally ourselves with these honorable folk of the north? Shall we add another Black King to the ranks of the Haighlei?”
The roar of assent was more than enough to drown out any few dissenters. Shalaman bowed slightly in acknowledgment, and turned to Winterhart. He pitched his voice deeply, so as to be heard over the crowd noise.
“Would you give me back the Necklace, my dear?” he asked, looking into her strange, foreign eyes.
She smiled and pulled it off over her head, handing it to him with relief that she did not even try to conceal.
She is soul-bonded to Amberdrake. Surely if something had happened to him, she would know. Wouldn’t she?
He took the Necklace, and walked to Silver Veil’s side of the platform, where she stood flanked by Palisar and Leyuet. One thing at a time, and the first thing must be Silver Veil. She looked shaken, but otherwise unhurt.
Unhurt—except for the fear she had felt for his sake, the shadows of which still lingered in her eyes. That was enough; it gave him all the insight that he needed to see into his own heart.
I never wanted Winterhart. I will find a solution for the problems this will make, later. I will not let this opportunity escape.
“You would have died for me,” he said, as the crowd quieted, sensing more drama to come. He felt their presence at his back, heavy, uncomprehending—but in the joy of the moment, willing to accept anything he decreed. He was the King, and this was the time of changes.
She nodded; Leyuet held his breath. But Palisar, grim, dour Palisar, was—was he smiling? And would he remain smiling when he saw what Shalaman meant to do?
“You would have died for me. Would you live for me as well?” he asked. “Would you live for me only?”
The Mage Wars Page 67