“They didn't know what they were doing,” she said, carefully. “The Compact was not broken intentionally.”
“The Sacred Grove still requires retribution,” the entity said. Hind understood in a moment of brilliant insight. The entity and her Place of Power were connected. If one was harmed, so was the other. “Those who violated it with murder in their hearts must pay the price.”
“But you’re not using them to rebuild the Grove,” Hind said, a vague flicker of an idea shimmering through her mind. “You’re just turning them into plants, aren’t you? You’re not doing anything else with them.”
The entity eyed her, puzzled. The elementals had never been known for thinking in human terms, but then...they were far from human. “They didn't know what they were doing,” Hind repeated. “You could make a different bargain with them and they would be happy to work with you.”
She felt the ground stirring beneath her feet and stepped back hurriedly. The entity was quite capable of losing patience, or growing bored with them, and transforming them both into plants without a second thought. She had to press the advantage while she still had it.
“They could replant your Grove,” she said, desperately. New shoots were bursting out of the ground all around them. Eric lifted Morningstar, but for once saw no possible targets. Slicing the entity in half, even if it were possible, would accomplish nothing. They weren't looking at the entity herself, merely a representation of her. The real entity was hidden within the Sacred Grove. “They could even expand it and heal the land.”
The shoots caught her feet, trapping her. She fought down panic as the wild magic bubbled around them. “You can't rebuild on your own,” she said, fighting hard to keep her voice level. “Let them help you.”
“A new Compact, then,” the entity said. There was a long pause, pregnant with possibility. “Let them keep the bargain and so too will I.”
The shoots faded away back into the ground. A moment later, the green leeks started to transform back, revealing the convoy’s passengers...and seventy very-confused looking visitors. Eric waited until the headman revealed himself and led him out of the throng, introducing him to the entity and waiting for them to seal the bargain in blood. Branet hugged her father as if she would never let him go, while her confused father patted her on the head and told her that he was fine. None of the former plants seemed to understand what had happened to them, although Hind wasn't sure if that was a deliberate mercy or simple carelessness on the entity’s part. She wouldn't have ruled out either.
That night, they watched as the headman’s son was betrothed to the entity’s physical representation, sealing the bargain with his blood. Hind suspected – a suspicion that she only shared with Eric – that the next time the tax gatherers came along, they were in for a nasty surprise. The entity would be very loyal to those who were loyal to her. She danced with Eric in the main hall, ignoring the concern about continuing to pose as brother and sister, choosing to just enjoy herself for once instead. The day afterwards, the convoy resumed its journey towards Garstang.
“So,” she said, as the stagecoach lurched into life. “Where do you want to go when we reach Garstang?”
Eric grinned at her. “I’ll tell you when we get there,” he said, with a wink. “I promise you that you’re going to hate it.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Ah, come in, Master Reginald,” Herod said, genially. “I have someone I want you to meet.”
Reginald entered, carefully. He hadn't seen much of Herod for the last few days and, when he had, it was like stepping into the lair of a dangerous animal. Dark power had crackled around him and eyes that seemed to glow had followed Reginald around the room, just daring him to say the wrong thing. Now...Herod looked almost as he had when they’d first met, back when Herod had promised him a world where commoners knew their place and there were no restrictions on magic. Herod smiled at him as he bowed, wondering if he should prostrate. Last night, Herod had blasted a man who hadn’t shown what he called proper respect.
He looked at Herod as he straightened up and blinked in surprise. Herod was wearing an outfit made from dragon skin. Dragon skin was rare – the dragons tended to object to having their skins harvested by hunters – and sorcerers often used it up in trying to create strange and dark potions, but if it was intact it was a perfect shield against almost all magical attacks. Reginald had never heard of a curse or hex that could break through dragon skin. The dragons themselves were very hard to kill and lived well away from most human habitations. Only cold steel could kill one...and quite a few thousand hunters had lost their lives trying.
“Your Grace,” he said, formally. Herod might be in a good mood now, but he could change at any moment. He’d seriously considered running when the slave had brought him the summons, yet there was nowhere he could go to escape his master’s wrath. “What can I do for you?”
“I have someone I want you to meet,” Herod said, again. He lifted one pale hand and motioned towards the curtains at one end of the room, the curtains that had been hastily installed to hide the burns from when Herod had nearly lost control of his powers. The scorch marks had proved impossible to remove. “Have a look and tell me what you think.”
Reginald’s eyes narrowed in puzzlement. There was no one there. Unless Herod had gone completely mad, or unless one of the secret tunnels opened up behind the curtain, there was no one there...and yet Herod seemed almost normal. Carefully, he opened his third eye and looked...and sensed an absence, almost a tiny space that wasn't there. He concentrated, focusing his mind, and suddenly saw a tiny field of magic that deflected all enquiry. Reginald pointed a finger right at the empty space and prepared a spell, unsure of what it would actually do...
“No need for that, my man,” Herod said, with wry amusement. He looked up towards the empty space. “Show yourself.”
The air shimmered and a man faded into view. Reginald studied him in some astonishment, for he didn't seem to have any face or features. Even when he was looking directly at the stranger, it seemed impossible to make out any distinguishing marks, or even see what clothes he was wearing. His entire form was like a flicker at the corner of his eye, something that was very hard to see even if he was looking right at it. Someone who didn't know to look for him would have missed him completely.
“Master Reginald,” Herod said, his voice betraying a heavy satisfaction at his subordinate’s bemusement. “I would like you to meet Todtsteltzer, an assassin of some small renown.”
“It is a pleasure to meet with you,” Todtsteltzer said. He had a heavy guttural voice, one heavily accented with the west, yet the words seemed to slip into non-existence almost as soon as he had spoken them. “It has been long since I have spoken to a magician.”
“Instead of killing one,” Herod said, pleasantly. Reginald couldn't take his eyes off the assassin, wondering if Herod had introduced them to make a threat to him, a reminder that he could be killed by an unseen enemy. It seemed futile; Herod, with the power he’d drained from the deaths of hundreds of innocent human beings, hardly needed an assassin to swat a wayward subordinate. “Our new friend has killed powerful magicians before.”
Reginald nodded, thinking hard. The assassin was no common assassin, even if he had had a habit of killing magicians, who were very hard to kill. It was clear, just by looking at him, that the magic inside him had taken a freakish path, making him almost impossible to detect and track. He broadcast a magical field that not only gave him near-invisibility, but convinced people that there was nothing where he was and nothing to be worried about. Those with the magic to sense him, invisibility or no invisibility, would be reassured that there was no point in looking for him. The magic wasn't really a discipline, something he'd learned to develop and focus at the Academy or at the feet of a tutor, but something intrinsic to him. It just made him even harder to detect.
“You will be departing this afternoon for Garstang,” Herod said, firmly. “You will be taking Todtsteltzer
with you, as well as a hundred guards and a dozen sorcerers. You will ensure that the Lord of Garstang and his son cooperate in the search for Prince Eric and you will find him, before he can get further away from the Golden Palace. Once you find him, Todtsteltzer will kill him and his bride.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” Todtsteltzer said. His breathing seemed to deepen, a dark raspy sound that echoed in the air. “I shall be honoured to carry out your orders.”
Reginald shivered, suddenly understanding Herod’s logic. Eric wasn't alone; he was travelling with his wife, who happened to be a powerful magician. They would make a formidable team if they were together, but if the assassin could walk right through Hind’s protections and cut her throat before she could react, Eric would be dead seconds later and then Herod would be the lawful Heir to the Golden Throne. It was odd how the thought disturbed him now, yet he had come too far to object. On his back, where he had hastily hidden it, the sword hummed its disapproval.
I’m sorry, he told it, silently.
“You will depart this afternoon,” Herod reminded him. “I suggest that you have one last fling with the castle’s new servants” – there was a hint of an oddly inhuman leer on his face – “and then prepare to depart. The General has prepared the men, but he will not be accompanying you. I need him here for the next step in my plan.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” Reginald said, with a bow. He shot the assassin a glance, wishing that he could see the strange creature’s expression. It was so hard to tell what he was thinking. “I too will be honoured to carry out your orders.”
He kept glancing behind him as he made his way through the Golden Palace’s corridors, wondering if the assassin was following him, hidden under his own magic. If half the stories he’d heard about assassins – a very rare breed of magic, thankfully – were true, the assassin could not only remain invisible, but pose as anyone he pleased. Reginald could summon one of the maids for his amusement and discover, too late, that the assassin had taken her place and the last thing he would see, according to the stories, would be the assassin’s smile. The thought was terrifying. He composed himself with an effort and decided, perhaps prodded by the sword, to take a risk. There was one person left in the castle who could help him.
***
“Are you all right?”
Eleanor held Kuralla as the Oracle shuddered against her, her eyes wide and unseeing as she stared into the future. Whatever power was dictating her visions had been dictating more and more over the last few days, leaving Kuralla weak and shaking. Eleanor had done what she could to help ease the tension, even using her returning magical powers to help Kuralla heal, but nothing seemed to work for long. Kuralla didn't even have the release of telling people about what she was seeing. With Herod doubtlessly listening in to their conversation, she couldn't breathe a word to Eleanor. She had to deal with what she was seeing on her own.
Kuralla shook her head, swallowing hard. “No,” she said, finally. Eleanor was alarmed at how weak and frail her voice sounded. The playful girl had degenerated to a weak and fitful one, one unable even to share what was bothering her. “I just keep seeing...”
She broke off, a new hint of frustration in her voice. “I miss the Sages,” she said, bitterly. Eleanor tensed, and then realised that it hardly mattered if Herod heard or not. “I miss having them around to talk to about the visions, to try to put them in context. I wish they were here!”
The last words were almost a scream. “I keep seeing darkness,” Kuralla said. “I keep seeing too many things.”
Eleanor held her tightly, trying to think of something – anything – she could do, but nothing came to mind. Healing hadn’t worked for long; a basic sleep spell had somehow made matters much worse, leaving Kuralla unsure if she’d been having visions or nightmares. The tiny girl was wasting away before her eyes, yet she could do nothing to help. If Kuralla was all she had left in the world – her parents were dead and her brother was on the run – she had to do something to help, but what?
Two days ago, she’d watched from the window as the Lords had headed home, back to their own kingdoms. She’d dared to hope that some of them intended to raise the banner of revolt against Herod – even though it would have meant her death, or forced marriage to some Lord to give him a link to the Throne – but Kuralla had told her that it wasn't going to happen. She’d said, after the fact, that Herod had used the darkest of magic on them and placed a little of himself into their heads. By the time they got to their homes, they wouldn't just by his loyal servants; they would be part of him. Eleanor didn't understand all the implications – Kuralla had had some problems explaining it to her – but it was clear that there would be no help from that quarter. If Herod had done that to all of the Lords...
Eleanor might have been born a woman, which meant that she couldn't become Empress in her own right, but she was far from stupid and – like Eric – she had learned at her father’s knee. Touched was governed by balancing the power of the centre – the Emperor and his Court – against the various individual kingdoms. In theory, all of the Lords were her father’s loyal vassals – her father had always laughed humourlessly at that – but in practice they often went their own way. He couldn't gainsay an alliance of nobles, which was why he spent so much time ensuring that the nobles couldn’t form a permanent alliance against him. That particular balancing act had collapsed when Herod had assassinated the Emperor and taken power for himself.
She knew that Herod had to have been backed by quite a few of the other Lords and Ladies, but as he grew more powerful, some of his backers were likely to have second thoughts. If they were part of him instead, or simply under his control and unable even to think of resisting, Herod would be the most powerful Emperor in history, easily able to dispose of threats to his rule from the uncontrolled Lords. She turned it over and over in her mind. Was there anything that could stop such a plan once it got rolling? If Herod controlled twenty or so kingdoms, each one with its own army, he’d be a match for the rest of Touched.
She stood up impatiently, unwilling to tolerate it any longer. Kuralla staggered against her and she helped the Oracle to her bed, picking her up and placing her on the sheets. Eleanor had always been strong – her father had encouraged her to build up her muscles, just in case some drunken lout of a noble tried to take advantage of the Princess – yet Kuralla felt terrifyingly light. She had barely been eating every day. Eleanor took one last look at her and walked over to the door. It was unlocked, of course, and she pulled it open, expecting to see a pair of guards leering at her. Instead, she saw an empty corridor, barely lit by flickering glow-lights. Without thinking, driven by her anger, she stepped forward...and froze.
Eleanor would have used some very unladylike words if she'd been able to move her lips, for she’d forgotten the wards. She found herself stuck, half in, half out of the room, utterly unable to move. One leg was extended – the ward had caught her in mid-step – as if she was on the verge of toppling over. She struggled against the ward, but couldn't move a single voluntary muscle. Eleanor had heard of wards that were designed to be lethal – holding someone prisoner until they suffocated, unable to breathe – but this one seemed merely inclined to hold her until someone came along and released her. She couldn't even move her eyes to look along the corridor.
He just had to keep us prisoner, she thought, angrily. She concentrated, trying to summon some of her magic, but the ward absorbed the first flicker of magic effortlessly. Eleanor opened her third eye and studied the ward’s structure, looking for possible ways to escape, yet nothing suggested itself. The ward was designed to trap someone, without killing them, and deflect all attempts at escape. Just for a moment, Eleanor knew what it was like to be born without magic, helpless in the face of forces she could neither understand nor wield.
The sound of tapping footsteps echoed along the corridor, but it wasn't until the person stood in front of her that she could see who it was. She’d expected Herod himself, coming to se
e who had been caught in his wards, yet it wasn't. It was a young man wearing the black hooded robe of a Master Magician, one of the two men – she dimly remembered – who had been with Herod when he had captured her. His face was unnaturally pale; Eleanor, skilled in reading faces, realised that he was having doubts about his work. The thought would have made her smile, if the wards hadn't held her so firmly; perhaps there was opportunity after all.
“Your Highness,” the magician said. He reached out with one pale hand, placed it firmly between Eleanor’s breasts, and pushed. The ward let go and she stumbled backwards, nearly falling over and cracking her head against the floor. The humiliation made her cheeks burn, yet she didn't dare show any reaction at all, not to a man who couldn't be trusted. Her entire body was tingling, as if the wards had sent it to sleep. “I need to talk to your friend.”
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