by Emerson, Ru
It was dark, exceedingly gloomy, and eerily still in here, Dahven thought. Their footsteps echoed in the damp, chill hallway; Gyrdan slowed at the entry to the throne room, picked up speed again. A sudden clacking noise brought him around. “What was that?”
“Nothing, sir,” Vey replied. “I—dropped something. Not important.” Dahven eyed him sidelong as they moved on. Vey’s cheekbones were red; odd. He dismissed the whole matter as they started up the main staircase. Odd little noises everywhere—the building creaked and wind whistled through cracks somewhere above them. Somewhere behind and below them, someone was fighting, a swift clash of blades and a shrill cry. Men clattering up the stone floor and into the throne room. A shrill wail echoed across the courtyard—woman or child. Probably the whole women’s wing was terrified half to death. Vey touched his arm, pointed. Above them, at the top of the long, broad flight, a clutch of Vuhlem’s men waited, swords drawn and their faces exceedingly grim.
“It’s inside,” Jennifer announced. Sil jumped at the sound of her voice; it was the first thing any of them had said in hours. “The focus.” Sil’s hands tightened on Ryselle’s shoulders; Jennifer leaned forward, took the village woman’s hands in hers. “Are you ready?” Ryselle nodded once; her face was pale, her mouth set. Jennifer glanced at the grandmother. “I wish you wouldn’t stay in here with us, just in case. You and your heir both—”
“Yes,” the older woman retorted. “And you and yours. Don’t waste time.” Jennifer sighed faintly, closed her eyes, and shifted into Thread.
The one she wanted came to her grasp immediately; deep purple, nearly black, its only sound a high-pitched scree that set her teeth on edge. Not one she had ever needed before now but she’d accessed it days earlier, worked hard since then at instantly recognizing and catching hold of it—at putting the unpleasant noise aside.
Sense of the caravan, the warm cinnamon scent of it, the lemon rinse the grandmother used on her skirts—it faded slowly. Not as frightening as old Neri’s black travel-Thread; still nothing to fiddle with lightly. She bit her lip, brought her full concentration back to Thread, and to searching its length for the stone Vey had carried: attuned to that particular Thread by a Light-Shaper. Not so different, after all, Thread and Light: Lialla had known it gut-deep; Jennifer was learning.
The focus stone was a warm, blue blur that softened the colors of surrounding Thread. Stone and purple, and now the orangy red that sparkled just a little, and reminded her of wind chimes. Between one breath and another, Vision: “We’re in a cold, dark place,” she whispered. Voice inside Thread still felt awful and left her stomach roiled, but Ryselle was something less than proper novice, even: She would need vocal directions to guide her. “Triad—” She was quiet for some moments, then nodded sharply. The unpleasant sense of three as almost one was unmistakable, the presence easily marked by the ruddy glow that dampened sound on all surrounding Thread. Still—she’d done this before, she was ready for that. By feel, not by music—as you practiced these past few days and as Lialla learned it and practiced it all her days. “Up, above us, a little forward.” Men everywhere—she ignored them. It was harder than she’d thought it would be, shifting Vision away from the stone, moving it toward the sense of Light, high above the ground.
“It’s—I sense it now!” Ryselle murmured suddenly. “Light—so much of it! It’s—it’s not the right color, too dark!”
“Weakened.”
Who dares invade this place with Night-Thread? Thread shifted like oil on a puddle; tri-part, chill laughter tried to freeze her very bones. Jennifer bit down on her lip and fought to hold on to what she must. Ryselle shivered.
I dare. You committed mass murder and killed a noblewoman. Did you hope to get away with that? “Ryselle. Now.” She sensed the woman’s nod; Ryselle’s fingers tightened on hers.
We had the orders of our master—
“Arrow of Light—” Ryselle’s hands were wet, slippery, but Jennifer could feel her drawing down Light and slowly, awkwardly beginning to Shape it. Keep them occupied, she told herself. Don’t let them see. If they did;—she wasn’t certain what they could do. Bad to find out if there was anything at all.
She flung the thought at them, let outrage flood it. Orders mean nothing, if it’s so wrong as what you did! Jadek ordered, and his Triad left him, rather than obe! Silver Thread, another corner of her mind ordered; wrap it around herself, and wrap it once again—more length to it, that won’t ever be enough, especially if somehow Ryselle must…
The tri-part voice was not quite so arrogant, she thought; merely fainter, perhaps. Weakened somehow. Jadek’s were old, much older; less apt to expanding the craft, less willing to learn. Afraid! You do not hold us to their standards!
“Ready,” Ryselle whispered; her voice trembled.
“Hold it, just—hold.” Thread echoed with sound; Triad, her voice, Ryselle’s—it was going to make her sick. She swallowed; there was no time for that. She had to search; distract the Triad, she ordered herself angrily, you have to find the one thing. You’re a young Triad! She let the thought fill with her anger, her scorn. So what? Everyone knows that, Vuhlem’s Triad is young, it’s unstable, it isn’t accountable! That’s a lie! Everyone is accountable, anyone who acts deliberately as you did, or with malice—as you also did. You were once all three plain Rhadazi, like anyone else, but you deliberately chose to Shape Light and then to become Triad. Sense of destruction here, a lot of it. They/it must be weakened; she could suddenly, if faintly, detect the water-Thread; the bland, New Age sound left a bad taste in her mouth. She swallowed it. You have no excuse for murder. She saw it all at once: a ball of Light that so oddly resembled Thread, ultrafine, wrapped incredibly tight, noose of silver Thread… “Now,” she whispered. Ryselle’s Light-spear spun awkwardly across her inner vision, jerked back and forth as the girl fought to control it, then flew in a shining arc and dropped. Jennifer looped silver toward the ball of Light; she made two tries, she barely had strength for the third. It caught; she gingerly tugged, then snapped the ball toward her. It flared for one blinding instant, then went dark; flame roared up all around her.
“Focus…” Hard to concentrate; this was probably a more dangerous moment than actually fronting that Triad. Find the focus, use it to get free of this horrid place. Ryselle’s hands were limp, clammy in hers; she gripped them hard. “Focus!” she snapped. “Focus.” The woman’s voice was faint, but she was still there. Nothing else counted at the moment; Ryselle to steady both of them, draw her back through Light to Thread she could again properly hear. The water-Thread receded sharply; the sense of dark, dank walls all around them and then the reassuring blue glow of the focus stone. Jennifer drew a deep breath, whispered the word Lialla had taught her on the road four years before, and regained the real world.
“They’ll pay,” Vuhlem mumbled; there was small stone litter on the steps near the landing and he could see daylight; rain had made the steps dangerously slick already, and plastered his hair to his brow. He hesitated. What were they doing in there? Had they deserted him, too? He shoved hair aside, swore under his breath, came onto the landing and into a patch of pale daylight. He stared at the closed doorway and the ruin of wall above it. For a moment, he couldn’t remember why he was here. He shook his head angrily, gripped the door latch in his free hand, and pulled. Locked, or more likely jammed. He stepped back, looked up. The whole roof must be gone in there; he could see Light pulsing, turning the raindrops red. They were still there, doing something—he shook himself, sheathed his sword. “It isn’t enough, whatever they are doing! They’ll listen to me, by all the gods at once!” He took hold of the latch two-handed and yanked at the door with all his strength. It still wouldn’t move for him, but as he stepped back to consider what to try next, it burst open suddenly; he reeled back from heat and flame that roared out the door, up through a massive hole in the roof.
The fire was as brief as it had been intense, the smell of wet ash and smoke thick despite the destro
yed roof. Blade once again in his hand, he warily edged into the room. Fallen stone everywhere, and fire still licked at the heavy draperies hung to alleviate the dampness of stone walls. Shattered bottles and vials; the air was pungent with nasty, reeking liquids. Vuhlem eyed the destruction in a rising fury, stopped short as his foot came down on something brittle. He rocked back on his heels to stare in shock at the three blackened, twisted bodies.
Gods. What could do that, and so quickly, too? This was no place to be. Go. They’ll come for me; they must not find me here. Go, escape the palace, come against them later. At least choose the time and place for yourself when you front them. His mind felt frozen; he couldn’t think, and there was a thin, high whine in his ears, matching the rapid beat of his pulse. His own apartments—yes, there first! After—he could decide about after when it came, there were ways out of the palace the outsiders wouldn’t know, places in Holmaddan where he could lay low for the time being; if the passages were blocked, well—He shoved the door as closed as he could, shuddered, and turned to go back down. A handful of armed men blocked his way.
Vuhlem stared. He’d heard nothing. Seen nothing. Once, no one would have come nearer me than the landing below, but I heard him! These—most of them were boys, half his age, slender—Was this what the south bred for men?
A slight man in black leathers, a soggy hat, the colors of Sikkre on his sleeve, took one step forward. Two blades in his hands, held with the casual ease of a trained swordsman. “Vuhlem of Holmaddan?”
“Who asks?” Vuhlem shifted his grip on the sword, took a step back. Draw him on, gut him; he’s no match for a man of my size and skills. Take the back stairs before the rest can recover—it isn’t over yet. But the younger man wasn’t drawn; he stayed where he was, though the swords moved to a position that would counter Vuhlem’s.
“I am Dahven, Thukar of Sikkre. We have the Emperor’s orders and his warrant to take you prisoner.”
“Choke on them, Lasanachi rower!” Vuhlem hissed, and brought up his blade. Dahven’s color was suddenly very high; dead silence. To Vuhlem’s surprise, the Thukar shook his head and stepped back a pace; he kept his eyes on the man two stairs above him, gestured. Four large men came around him, backing the Holmaddi against the half-closed door; one of them ripped the sword from his hand, another brought out heavy steel manacles.
Silence. “You’d have liked that, wouldn’t you?” Dahven asked; his voice held nothing but mild interest. “Fight to the death here and now, go out in a blaze of glory.” He shook his head. “However things are in the north, we’re more civilized in the rest of Rhadaz. And you’ve done nothing to earn such an easy end. The Emperor will prosecute you according to law.” He watched without expression; it took all four of the guards to subdue Vuhlem. When the man looked up once more, Aletto had come forward to stand next to Dahven. Vuhlem’s lip curled.
“Even the cripple,” he said flatly. “I am surprised your outland wife permitted you to leave the fort! If you had kept that unnatural female at home, as any true man would, she might still be alive!”
Aletto was very pale; his hands tight on his bo, as though, Vuhlem thought sourly, to keep them from visibly trembling. “No.” Aletto’s voice was low, soft; his eyes murderous. “Will you blame the traffic in Zero on my mother next? You brought all this upon yourself, Vuhlem, and I am here on my sister’s account, to tell you she was responsible for much of the Emperor’s evidence against you.” Cold silence; it stretched. “I hope the Emperor finds a truly unpleasant way for you to die.” He turned and went back down the stairs. Dahven went after him.
Aletto stood in the middle of the carpeted hall, staring blankly toward the main stairs; his hands clutched the tall wooden staff. Dahven touched his arm. “Does—did it help? Being there? Telling him all that?”
“A little, I think.” Aletto cleared his throat, swallowed hard. “Enough to justify coming, yes. For the rest, no, it’s not enough. After Afronsan—deals with him. Maybe.” He sighed. “I’m sorry, Dahven. I don’t think I can walk much farther just now; I’m—tired.”
Dahven eased a hand under his elbow. “Don’t be sorry, you’ve had a bad time of it lately. It was difficult enough for me standing that close to the man.”
“And not attacking him; he wanted that.”
“I know. So did I. Here—they’re coming down, let’s get you out of the way, no need for you to confront him twice. In here.” He drew Aletto through the open door and into Vuhlem’s apartments. Bare moments later, they could hear scuffling on the stairs, Vuhlem cursing furiously. The sounds passed the door, receded down the hall. “The man’s own room; chair and fire. Sit here, thaw a little.” Cool, damp air flowed through the broken window; Dahven turned the high-backed chair to block the wind and shoved Aletto into it. He tried the other door. “Locked or jammed; you’ll be as safe in here as anywhere. I’ll find someone to get one of the carts.” Aletto nodded, let his eyes close. Dahven cast him a worried look and went.
He almost collided with Vey, who was coming back up the hall at a near run, several of the handpicked guard behind him. His face was so pale Dahven could see freckles across the bridge of his nose. “Gyrdan said to remind you we’ve nearly secured this part of the palace. And to keep us with you. Where’s—?”
“Aletto’s in there.” He lowered his voice. “He’s exhausted; he shouldn’t ride from here. One of you go, see if you can get word back to the ridge for him.” One of his guard went back down the hall, clattered down the stairs. “Vey, are you all right?”
Vey nodded; he didn’t look it. “That—you didn’t see what was—on the other side of that door.”
“Oh. It was Vuhlem’s Triad in there, wasn’t it?”
“What was left of it.”
Dahven’s nose wrinkled. “I thought I smelled—well, never mind. The English did a good job.”
“Um—yes. Of course.” Vey turned to look back down the hall. Dahven frowned. Something wrong—he’d worry about that later; too much still going on here.
“Where’s Gyrdan?”
“With Vuhlem. The English ship is sending a boat in as soon as the tide’s right, another hour or so, someone said.”
It was better than the north company escorting him to Podhru, Dahven thought. A man like that—he wouldn’t give up because he’d lost everything, including his freedom. Dangerous. “I hope they know what they’re getting. And that they aren’t wrong about how secure their brig is.” Or that Afronsan hadn’t been wrong, letting the Lasanachi out there to aid them.
“Gyrdan’s sending ten of his own border guards to make certain the man reaches Podhru.”
“Good.” Aletto came up beside him. He was still too pale, but a little more steady on his feet.
“I couldn’t stay in there. And—I really do feel better now.”
“Good,” Dahven said. “We’ll still get you that cart; it’s unpleasant enough out there, I’d ride with you if I could.” That brought up a faint smile. Dahven smiled back. “Don’t laugh at me; you know I’ve got a soft side. Especially now I’m older, wed, and nearly a father.” Aletto waved a dismissive hand; the smile was very briefly in his eyes. “Vey, did Gyrdan want anything else of our crew, or did he say—other than to stay out of trouble?”
Vey laughed shortly. “Stay out of dark corners, was what he suggested. Remember what the Thukara will do to me, personally, if you get mangled; but Gyr doesn’t think everyone’s accounted for. No, nothing else until the women’s wing is secured. He still wants to send a full guard along when you present the Emperor’s papers to sin-Duchess Veria.”
“That’s fine; no drawn blades in the women’s wing, though. Not if it’s been secured. The girl’s almost a Duchess, remember; we don’t want her thinking we’re her enemy, do we?”
Cold wind blew in Vuhlem’s shattered window; Aletto shivered. “This is no place to stay, it’s frigid. Dahven, I’d like to go with you; it can’t hurt to have another Duke in that party, can it?”
“Can’t h
urt at all,” Dahven said. “And you’re right; let’s go down, I’d like to see for myself what’s going on.”
Jennifer groaned as someone’s soft little hand patted her face. “Don’t—I have the worst headache,” she mumbled. It was all she could think for the moment, too much effort to open her eyes.
“You’re both all right.” Gray Fishers’ grandmother. “I have tea for you and a willow bark sachet, if you need it.”
“Aspirin—oh, Lord, lead me to it.”
“Wait, Grandmother, let me help you.” Sil’s voice. Jennifer’s temples throbbed viciously as the younger woman helped her sit up; the grandmother wrapped her hands around a thick, warm pottery mug, guided it to her lips, and held on to it for her while she drank. Her nose wrinkled. Honey in my tea. But under that, mingling with the hot, fruity herb, the unmistakable tang of willow.
“Mmmm.” She took another deep swallow, nodded cautiously. “Think I need to—go flat again.”
“You’re all right?” Sil asked.
“Seem to be. Just—bad headache. Fix it with Thread—in a bit.” There was a soft, low pillow under her head, another under her knees, something fluffy draped over her. “Ryselle?”
“Sleeping,” the grandmother replied. Sil made a wordless little noise; Jennifer could feel her moving away. She wasn’t about to open her eyes while her head was pounding this bad. “I doubt she’ll waken any time soon. You were worn when you broke free but she was utterly exhausted.”
“You’re certain—” She hesitated. The grandmother patted her hand, shifted the fluffy thing.
“I know healing; it’s truly sleep.”
“Good.” Jennifer drew a cautious breath. “How long has it been?”
“Three hours. No, don’t try to move, there’s nothing urgent you need to do, nothing but rest. Green Arrow came a little while ago with a message from the north. They’ve taken the palace, and the Duke.”