by Holly Lisle
He turned back to the viewing glass as he heard Hasmal say, “Will you cut me loose? I need a healer.”
“You don’t know who I am, do you?”
Through the eyes of the man Dùghall had just restored to his life, Dùghall saw Hasmal shake his head. “Someone who appreciates having his body back, I hope.”
The man watching Hasmal laughed, and Dùghall’s attention snapped fully back to the viewing glass. He shuddered at the sound of that laugh. It was wrong. Cruel. It would have sounded right coming from Dafril—but Dùghall knew he’d banished Dafril to the ring in front of him. Which suggested that the man whose body Dafril had claimed had been evil, too.
“You have no idea how grateful I am,” the man told Hasmal. “There I was, ready to do wondrous things, and suddenly that lying Dragon ripped me from my body and threw my soul into the Veil. I wasn’t dead, but I wasn’t alive, either. Things hunt between the worlds—did you know that? Vast cold monstrous hungers that seek out the bright lights of souls trapped in their lightless void so that they can devour them. Annihilate them. Other souls were trapped there with me—I watched darkness swallow some of them. They’re gone forever. I barely evaded that same fate twice. Twice. Being trapped in the infinite blackness of void, hunted by roving nightmares-made-real, facing eternal extinction at any moment—I still don’t know if there’s a true hell, but the horrors of that place will do for me. You, or rather the one you summoned, pulled me out of that.”
He’d been watching Hasmal’s face while he talked, moving closer step by slow step. Twice he’d glanced at the knife in his hand.
His words created an image of gratitude, but some edge to his voice spoke of darker emotions. “You and your unseen friend have powerful magic at your disposal. You’re Falcons, aren’t you?”
Hasmal’s face showed that he had heard that edge, too. He nodded, but warily.
“Working with Ry Sabir.”
Another slow nod.
“I thought as much. Ry’s my cousin.”
Hasmal tried a cautious smile, but it died on his face.
“Good guess,” the man said. “We weren’t friends, Ry and I. My name is Crispin Sabir. Perhaps you’ve heard Ry speak of me?” A soft chuckle. “I see from your expression that you have, and that Ry was careful to tell you all my best points.”
Dùghall’s fists clenched into tight balls. Crispin Sabir. Of all the Sabirs Dùghall had encountered in his years of service to the Galweigh Family, Crispin was the closest thing to incarnate evil he had ever encountered. Hasmal couldn’t have fallen into worse hands.
“I helped you,” Hasmal said.
“Well, yes. Undeniably. But I don’t give that fact much weight. I’m grateful to have my body back—please don’t think I’m not. But you were only trying to save your own life when you summoned your friend.”
“Are you going to let me go?” Hasmal asked.
Crispin Sabir was quiet for a long time. A very long time. Dùghall felt his muscles ache with the tension of waiting. Beside him, he heard Jaim’s shallow breathing, and movement as Yanth crouched at his left shoulder.
“You’re a Falcon. My magic can’t touch you. You’re shielded somehow—I can’t even see the shield, but I can feel its effects. I can’t control you. I can’t make you work for me. If I set you free, nothing I could do would guarantee that you won’t turn on me.”
“My word—”
“I have no love for the trappings of honor, you. I’ve given my own word countless times, and have broken it in the next breath. Expediency rules honor—you know this and I know it, and I would have it no other way. But because that is true, your word is no currency I’d care to spend.”
“I’ve done nothing to harm you.”
“Not that I know of. I grant you that. But you can’t guarantee that you won’t do something to harm me in the future.”
Hasmal grimaced. “I swear on Vodor Imrish, my word—” he started to say again, and again Crispin cut him off.
“No. Don’t waste your breath or my time. I must do something with you. You might make a good prisoner or fetch a decent ransom. But I doubt that any ransom I could get from you would be worth the trouble you would cause me.”
Jaim asked, “Can’t you do something? Travel back through the viewing-glass link—force that Sabir bastard to let him go?”
Dùghall gritted his teeth. “Falcon magic cannot coerce. It is purely defensive. Most times, that’s enough. But Crispin Sabir is the rightful soul in his own body—I cannot do anything that will force him from the choices he makes of his own free will.”
Dùghall felt fingers tighten around his arm, and he turned from the viewing glass to find Yanth a mere hand’s breadth from his face. “Dragon magic could force him. Wolf magic could force him.”
Dùghall rested a hand atop Yanth’s and willed himself to calm. “Agreed. But I am neither Dragon nor Wolf. I am Falcon, and sworn to follow the path of Falconry. As is Hasmal.”
“You have to save him,” Jaim said. “Alarista gave you her life so that you could save him.”
Dùghall turned to face Jaim. “Perhaps I could save his body, but it would be at the price of my soul, and his. Jaim, if he chose to turn away from the Falcon path, he could, perhaps, save his own life. Instead, he holds his shields in place and so protects his soul.”
“Save him,” Yanth snarled.
“There are things worse than death,” Dùghall said softly. “Things more terrifying, more painful. And far more lasting.”
“You quaking coward,” Yanth said. He started to draw his sword. In a flash, three guards’ blades pointed at the young swordsman’s throat. Yanth glared at them and turned to Dùghall. He said, “If I could, I’d cut you a spine, you jellyfish.”
In the viewing glass, Dùghall saw Crispin rest his blade against the rope that held Hasmal’s left wrist. He had moved closer to the trapped Falcon. He said, “Perhaps I ought to let you go. I wonder if you would be as grateful for your freedom as I am for mine.”
Hasmal suddenly smiled and said, “Dùghall, hear me. I want more time. I am not done here.”
“You’re done here,” Crispin said, and in a stroke almost too fast to follow, buried his knife to the hilt in Hasmal’s heart.
Yanth roared, “No!” and Jaim made an inarticulate cry. From her place on the floor near the healer, Alarista awakened from her motionless sleep, keening.
Hasmal gasped. His eyes went wide, and then closed. Dùghall held his breath. Hasmal’s words rang in his head—I want more time. I am not done here. Hasmal’s message had been a code; it spoke of a plan that Crispin Sabir could not suspect, and would not believe.
“More time,” Dùghall whispered, praying that Hasmal would succeed. “More time.”
Within an instant, a faint white light formed around Hasmal’s face, so that his features seemed to be hidden by a thin fog. The expression of pain that had twisted his mouth slowly seeped away; he looked peaceful, and somehow triumphant. The faint white cloud of light grew brighter and spread down his body, setting his torso glowing first, then illuminating his arms and legs. Dùghall could see the changes clearly—Crispin was unmoving, staring at the body. The only sound to come from the viewing glass was the sound of his breathing, which grew harsher and faster as the light surrounding Hasmal’s body grew brighter. When Hasmal’s entire body was bathed in the light, the nimbus surrounding him grew brighter, then brighter yet, until it was too brilliant to look at directly. Crispin averted his eyes, then glanced back as shadows in the room where he stood changed.
The light had lifted away from Hasmal’s body. It maintained its man shape for a moment, then coalesced into a tight, brilliant ball of white fire.
“Get away from me,” Crispin whispered.
The sphere of light began to float toward him, soundless, slow, inexorable.
In the viewing glass, Dùghall saw one of Crispin’s hands raise to form a Wolf power-hold. Light streamed from Crispin’s fingertips, pouring through the radi
ant sphere. But the sphere was undamaged. Indeed, it grew brighter, then larger. It kept floating toward Crispin, still silent, unhurried, utterly implacable.
Crispin turned away at last and began to run.
In the next instant, the view in the glass became whiteness—brilliant blinding light.
Then blackness.
In the tent in the mountains far to the south of Calimekka, wind set the flaps shuddering and snapping, and cold air blew through the gaps in the waxed cloth. Yanth and Jaim stared at each other, and then at Alarista, who still lay unmoving, her head thrown back, her eyes open and focused on nothing. She did not cease her keening; her thin, frail voice shredded the silence.
Yanth spoke first. “What happened? What was that?”
Jaim said, “Hasmal took over Crispin’s body—like the Dragons did.”
Dùghall shook his head. He said, “Hasmal’s last words were quoted lines from the Secret Texts, from the Book of Agonies. The whole passage goes:
‘Then, at the moment of his death, Solander spoke into the Veil. “More time,” he cried. “I am not done here.”
‘From within and beyond the Veil the gods listened, and though his body was broken beyond saving, they had pity on Solander, and did not call his soul away from the world. Instead, in sight of Dragons and Falcons, Solander took form as a sun, as a light unto the world, rising from his shattered shell.
‘And he spoke to all who watched, saying to them, “I am with you still.”
‘And at his words the Dragons feared, and the Falcons rejoiced.’ ”
Jaim said, “His body is dead, but his soul is . . . that light?”
“I believe so.”
“Then what will happen to him now?”
Dùghall touched the darkened viewing glass. “We can only wait to see.”
Chapter 3
The carriage rattled over the cobblestone paving of Shippers Lane, in the Vagata District of Calimekka—one of the few streets open to wheeled traffic during daylight hours. It made poor time; the driver jockeyed for place with wagons filled with ships’ stores bound for the harbor, with donkeys, mules, and oxen pulling farm carts laden with produce just arrived from the country, with public coaches carrying merchants to and from their warehouses and private coaches bringing the rich to and from their ships.
Kait held Ry’s hand; it was the first time she had been able to touch him since they came to Calimekka to infiltrate the Dragons’ city. Now the two of them were alone except for Ian, and Ian kept his eyes pressed to the peephole at the rear of the carriage. Kait knew he was looking for trouble that might be coming after them, but she suspected he didn’t want to have to watch her sitting so close to Ry, either. Both his desire for her and his pain in knowing she loved Ry had been clear in his eyes when he’d rescued the two of them from the cages. And every time he looked in her direction, she could see it still.
Ry leaned over and brushed the side of Kait’s neck with his lips. “I love you,” he whispered, too low for any but another Karnee to hear.
She squeezed his hand and murmured, “I love you, too.”
“I have rooms waiting for us in one of the harbor inns,” Ian said. He was still on his knees on the rear bench of the carriage with his back to them, clinging to the handholds and staring out the peephole. “You’ll find forged papers in the packet beside you. You’re to be Parat and Parata Bosoppffer, from the village of Three Parrots Mountain, first names Rian and Kaevi. Those were as close to your actual names as I could come using backcountry names. You’re minor affiliates of the Masschanka Family taking passage for Birstislavas in the New Territories, where you’re to homestead. You attended the funeral of Tirkan Bosoppffer, who was buried today—his legacy to you was the lands in the Territories that you now go to claim. Your papers are very good,” he noted in an aside. “They would hold up if you used them to take passage, and would probably get you your homestead deed when you arrived if you chose to leave Calimekka.”
“We won’t be leaving the city,” Kait said. “The Dragons are still here, and as long as they are, no one and no place is safe. As much as I would like to never see this city again, there’s nowhere else we can go.”
Ian turned and nodded at her. A wry smile twisted one corner of his mouth. “I expected you’d say that. I still wanted to give you the option of escape.” He turned back to his peephole. “We’ll have to be in the inn for two or three days. Traffic along the Palmetto Cliff Road is watched now—for us to get to Galweigh House, we’re going to have to get a donkey to carry the Mirror of Souls and pack in over one of the mountain paths.”
“You have forged papers that will explain what we’re doing heading there, too?” Kait asked.
“No. No one goes to Galweigh House by any path. If we’re caught on our way there, we’ll most likely die.”
Ry sighed. He told Ian, “Since Kait and I jumped off a cliff to get here, I’ve been operating on the theory that I’m already dead. It’s given me a whole new appreciation for every moment of my life, and has allowed me to keep from panicking.”
Kait looked at him, interested. “Does that work?”
He looked over at her and grinned. “You’d be amazed. The guards came running at me with swords drawn when they caught on to us; I thought, I’m already dead—what can they do to me? So I shouted to warn you, and stood to fight, hoping to create a distraction and give you time to escape. Didn’t work . . . but I still think it was the right thing to do.”
Kait thought about it for a long moment, and decided to give it a try. She visualized herself still, gray-skinned, eyes dulled and open and staring at nothing, breath stopped. I’m already dead, she told herself, and forced her protesting mind to believe it. Already dead. Already dead. In a strange way, it was comforting. The instant she conceded her death, she had already lost everything she had to lose. She became indestructible. She could suddenly focus on what she had to do instead of on her fear of dying. Her goals and the logical steps she would have to take to reach them rose smoothly out of the background chatter of her mind, and the ceaseless shrill monkey voice that howled warning of her imminent destruction stilled. “That works,” she said. “That actually helps.”
Ry nodded.
Ian was less impressed. He said, “As I was saying, you have new identities to use before we get to Galweigh House. But you’ll need to change into the clothes I brought for you now. We’ll have a checkpoint coming up soon—you need to look like poor relations just come from a funeral.” He had stripped off his soldier’s uniform as soon as they’d jumped into the carriage, and already wore his disguise. Dressed in a silk tunic embroidered with copper thread, deep blue pleated balloon breeches, and calf-high embroidered black cloth boots, and with his cropped hair covered by a long blond wig, he looked like the sort of man who could afford to rent a four-horse funeral carriage for himself and his poorer relations.
“Where are the clothes?” Kait asked.
“Compartment above your heads. You have a few moments, but do hurry.”
Ry stood, swaying with the movement of the carriage, and handed down a bundle of green cloth to Kait. He pulled out another bundle, this one brown.
Kait pulled on the outfit Ian had obtained for her. It had once been intended to ape the fashionable funeral wear of the upper classes, though its dyes were muddy and its fabrics cheap. With the cut of it several seasons past its prime, it had descended from merely ugly to truly hideous. As she tightened the laces on the bodice and adjusted the ankle ties of the leg wraps, she decided she definitely looked like somebody’s poor third cousin.
In the time she had taken to get dressed, Ry had scrambled into his new clothes. His were equally ugly—but she thought he looked good in them nonetheless.
He looked at himself, grimaced, then looked at her. “Yodee hoder,” he said in a broad backcountry accent. “Let’s send Uncle Tirkan off with banana beer and an all-night stomp. And when we’re done, you can tuck up your skirts and we can go plow the fields.”
Kait nodded, memorizing his story and Ry’s as well as her own. Her heartbeat picked up. The Mirror of Souls lay nestled in the compartment beneath Ian, easily found by even the most cursory search.
“Get ready,” Ry said, and gave her hand a final squeeze.
“I’m ready,” Kait said. “At least as ready as I can be.”
He told her, “They may know by now that we’re gone. If they question us, or if they want to search the carriage, we’re going to have to kill them.”
“I know.”
Ry said, “We can’t let them get the Mirror back.”
“I know that, too.”
The carriage rattled to a stop. A guard pulled the door open and leaned inside. “Apologies for interrupting you at your time of loss,” he said, “but I’ll have to see your papers.” He gave each of their faces a cursory look, but Kait knew from experience with Family guards that in that quick glance he’d catalogued myriad details about them that he would be able to recall again if questioned.
Ry handed the man his and Kait’s forged documents, and Ian handed over his own papers.
The guard studied her papers and Ry’s first. He read the notations and snorted. “Three Parrots Mountain? Zagtasht preserve you!” He handed Ry the papers and said, “Here’s some free advice, country boy. People in the city aren’t like the ones you know. When you get to your rooms, stay there and hold your vigil in private. Don’t play dice with the sailors, don’t buy drinks for the whores, and don’t go walking down backstreets with men who have a wondrous device to show you that is guaranteed to make your fortune.”