She looked up at him hopefully. “I could steal some storage gems,” she suggested. “If I were to press them against the ward, I might just be able to collapse the wards long enough to escape...the shock might even kill him!”
“Any magician worth his magic knows how to prevent that from happening,” Sir Pellaeon said, slowly. “Herod will have configured the wards to catch such energy before it fries his brain.”
Eleanor looked up at him sharply. “I didn’t know that you were a magician,” she said. “When were you at the Academy?”
“My talents were considered too slight to allow me entry to the Academy,” Sir Pellaeon said. “Instead, I was apprenticed to the Golden Order when I turned thirteen years old and spent the next twenty years fighting in various skirmishes, some of which included sorcerers and magicians on both sides. I know more than you might imagine about what magic can and cannot do.”
“Oh,” Eleanor said.
“But enough of such talk,” Sir Pellaeon said. “I want you to try a little experiment for me. Can you try catching a number of rats?”
Eleanor shuddered, but nodded. “Yes,” she said. It would be fairly simple to use magic to capture a dozen or so rats. The tricky part would be to hold them captive for more than a few minutes. The rats in the Golden Palace might not be as smart as a human, but they were considerably intelligent and resourceful. “What do you want me to do with them?”
Sir Pellaeon gave her a toothy grin. “Take them down to the wards and throw them through the wards,” he instructed her. “Let me know what happens.”
Eleanor nodded curtly at him, left the cell and took a certain pleasure in replacing all of the locks. There were only a handful of occupied cells and the larger empty cells had been colonised by the rats, who looked up in irritation as she opened the door and stepped inside. She had never been particularly bothered by small rodents – unlike certain Ladies of the Court, who would have had a fainting fit at the mere thought of coming face to face with a rat – but there was an inhuman intelligence in their eyes that was oddly disturbing. Taking a breath, she shaped a field of magic and swept up a dozen rats, levitating them in the air. They started squeaking instantly, creating a deafening racket that sent chills down her spine. The remaining rats on the ground turned and swarmed towards her, answering the squeaks with blood-curdling noises of their own. Eleanor stumbled backwards as hundreds of red eyes moves towards her before she caught her own mistake and raised a ward to protect her. The rats slammed against the ward and pushed hard, but they couldn't even begin to break through. Eleanor backed off slowly, holding the captive rats within her field, and slipped out of the door, using her wards to prevent any of the rats from following her. She let out a sigh of relief as she closed the door and found a sack, dumping the rats into it and using a basic sound-proofing spell to prevent them from being heard by anyone nearby. A moment later, she was back in the secret passageways, heading down towards the exit far below.
“Don’t worry,” she said, addressing the bag as if the rats could somehow hear her and respond. “I promise you that you’ll be released outside the castle and you’ll have your pick of ratty maidens on the outside...”
She laughed at herself as she stumbled through one of the hidden armouries and paused to consider the vast – and secret – stockpile of weapons that a long-dead Emperor had hidden underground. Eleanor had considered trying to use some of the weapons, or perhaps taking them up to her rooms and using them to defend herself if one of Herod’s allies tried to have some fun with the captive Princess, but if they’d been discovered they would have been far too revealing. This time, she picked up a tiny phial someone had left in a hidden drawer and pocketed it, feeling the dark magic surrounding the potion even though her wards. Her father would have been horrified, but Eleanor was determined that she wouldn't marry Herod, even if she had to kill herself to make sure of it. The potion guaranteed instant death and it was supposed to be both painless and impossible to reverse. Of course, the brewer was probably long dead, but her magic lived on.
Eleanor took one final look around the room and descended the steps to the secret entrance. She was rather surprised that Herod hadn't sealed it up or appointed a permanent guard, but like most powerful magicians, he thought magic could be used to solve any problem. Besides, drawing attention to a secret passageway leading into the Golden Palace would hardly be a wise move. She removed the bag from her shoulder, shuddered at the noise of the rats clawing at the fabric and trying to break out, and dumped it on the ground. The rats emerged as one, claws and teeth glinting in the light she’d summoned, and she picked them up with her magic, throwing them towards the wards. They struck the wards...and passed right through. Eleanor ran up the stairs, back into the main body of the passageway and waited. No guards – or magicians – came running to investigate. The wards remained intact.
She felt her mouth fall open into a tight grin. Herod had figured that all of his enemies would be human, so he hadn't bothered to configure the wards to keep out anything else. In fact, doing so would have impeded his own plans; after all, he used enchanted hawks and falcons to communicate, same as everyone else. He’d simply created the outer barrier to block humans, nothing else. She turned and headed back up to the dungeons. Knowing that Herod wasn't omnipotent was heartening, but she didn't see how it could be used to get them out of the trap. It seemed a thoroughly useless piece of information.
“The rats got through,” Eleanor told him, as soon as she entered the cell. She had to fight down a yawn as she spoke. Midnight excursions were tiring and she needed her sleep. Herod might not have bothered to assign them to any actual duties, but she wanted to be ready for any opportunity that might come up for escape. “What does that tell a Knight of the Golden Order?”
Sir Pellaeon didn't bother to respond to her sardonic tone. “Only that there is a chink in the enemy’s armour, one that we can exploit,” he said. The patience in his voice shamed her, even though she was tired...and also making excuses for herself. “It is also our way out of the Golden Palace and onwards to the only place we can go.”
“I see,” Eleanor said, angrily. She bit down on her anger, trying to be worthy of her father and brother. “And how exactly are we going to use this to escape?”
Sir Pellaeon told her.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The Golden City was no longer what it had been, Reginald saw, as the horse took him on the road leading right through the city. Many of the buildings had been knocked down by the fighting – only the temples survived, protected by their wards – and much of the population seemed to be enslaved. He saw a chain gang of men working to clear the rubble and prepare billeting for thousands of soldier and mercenaries, while their womenfolk seemed to be used as serving girls and prostitutes. Where the City Council had once been based, a building that was almost as old as the city itself was now a pile of ashes. No one had bothered to clean up the mess, or even replace it.
He considered, seriously, just turning the horse around and running, but there was no more time. He could run, but he couldn't hide, not from a necromancer with power and malice to burn. Herod could probably track him over the entire world if he had to, eventually finding him and ensuring that his death took months...months during which he would be suffering, yet unable to escape into death. He felt a stab of guilt as he saw the remains of the city and then lowered his eyes as he saw a line of people, mainly older citizens, being marched up towards the Golden Palace. The mercenaries escorting them were laughing and joking as they whipped older men and women forward, yet Reginald found that he couldn't look at them. There was only one use for such people, at least in Herod’s eyes; they were going to become fodder for his power base.
A haze in the distance marked an illusion spell as someone – or something – headed to the north, towards the border with the next kingdom. They had to be zombies. Herod wouldn't bother to hide anything else, but zombies would alert the Grandmaster...and Reginald, at least, had far
less faith in Herod’s ability to use politics to prevent the Grandmaster from interfering. The presence of new zombies suggested that more bodies had been reanimated – it wasn't as if there was a shortage of dead bodies – and perhaps even that Herod had taught some of his sorcerers how to use necromancy. Reginald shuddered and almost fell off the horse, which emitted a sarcastic snort at its incompetent rider. Herod had enticed him into his plans by promising to teach him how to use necromancy, but now he had changed his mind. He didn't even want to learn, let alone use the deadly magic.
He rubbed the horse’s flank and it looked up at him curiously. It was only a few days hard ride to the Academy, Reginald knew and perhaps if he were lucky he could get there before Herod realised what he had in mind. He could explain what was happening to the Grandmaster...and wind up dead himself. The Law was The Law and anyone who was even remotely tainted by necromancy had to die. Even if the Grandmaster was willing to make an exception – and Reginald knew that he had no reason to expect favours from him – the remainder of the Council of Thirteen would refuse. They remembered him as a young student, when he’d played tricks and bullied and...
Just like the Prince of Garstang, the sword mocked, in his head. It had held up a very uncomfortable mirror in front of his face and he could no longer pretend that he could ignore it. It had shown him the truth, the truth that had always been hidden by power and birth, the truth about himself that he had never been able to face. He felt the sword’s hilt with his hand, feeling the endless strata of power within the artefact and shivered. If Herod ever found out that he had it...
The horse outraced the chained citizens as it climbed up the mountain path, barely slowing as it reached the gates and headed through the wards protecting the Golden Palace. Herod had been busy, Reginald realised; there were hundreds of armed soldiers on the wall, all wearing his uniform. They could do the one thing the Royal Guard had been unable to do and protect the castle if something happened to the wards. They were backed up by dozens of sorcerers, some of whom were standing on the lawn, practicing working together in combat. Herod had called many sorcerers to his banner and most of them had come. He wondered, absently, how many of them would remain loyal if they knew about the necromancy, but then, sorcerers had always been willing to do anything for power. Even the warnings about the dangers of necromancy wouldn't force them to slow down and think.
He passed the horse over to a groomsman, not without a certain amount of relief and headed into the Golden Palace. Reginald wanted a bath and a long sleep in a warm bed – perhaps not even a lonely sleep – but Herod would insist on seeing him at once. He met a group of guards who escorted him into the Great Hall, leaving him to wonder if their presence was a threat or simply a warning. He could have burned them all to ash with a single spell, yet Herod’s wards would have no difficulty containing and controlling him until his master could decide how he was to be punished. After losing Eric, he doubted that Herod would be very pleased to see him.
Reginald took a breath as he was announced and then shown into the Great Hall. Herod was standing by an old oak table, one that had belonged – at least according to the writing carved into its legs – to the First Emperor. It had been created by a team of enchanters back in his era and then placed into the War Room, but Herod – for reasons of his own – had had it transported down to the Great Hall, It was covered with maps and charts, some of continents he recognised and others of isolated locations he didn't.
“Master Reginald,” Herod said. His voice was curiously even as he turned to face Reginald. “What news do you bring of the missing Prince Eric?”
Reginald almost froze as Herod’s eyes met his, for they no longer looked human. They seemed to glow with a dull reddish light, one that peered into his soul and saw all that lurked within Reginald’s mind. His face had grown thinner, almost skeletal; Reginald could swear that he could see his skull just under the skin. His movements were odd, almost as if he had to think about moving before he could move, leaving Reginald with an impression of nerve damage. Even so, he could feel the power shimmering within Herod’s wards. If Herod chose to blast him, or ransack his mind, or turn him into a small hopping thing, there was nothing he could do to stop him. He considered, in a moment of madness, drawing the sword and striking him down, but he knew he wouldn't get halfway through the motion before he was stopped and killed.
“The Prince is missing, presumed dead,” Reginald said, finally. “He was buried under the ice and...”
“The Prince is still alive,” Herod said, his voice suspiciously even. He pointed with one long finger towards the Golden Throne. “I have attempted to test the magic worked into the Throne and yet it refuses me. Prince Eric must still be alive.”
Reginald winced inwardly and hoped that Herod didn't see. “I understand, Your Grace,” he said, when the unnerving red eyes locked onto his face. “Even so, I saw him buried under a mountain of snow, seven days ago. How can he have survived?”
“He is the son of the Emperor, the distant descendent of the First Emperor,” Herod reminded him. “He has powers within his Bloodline that he allowed to remain fallow until he needed them. He may have survived through magic, or through assistance from people willing to risk their lives and those of their families to assist him. It does not matter. All that matters is that I know where he is going.”
One long finger reached out towards the maps on the table. “I asked myself why he would head towards Garstang,” Herod said. “The maps suggested that Garstang was a dead end. He could not double-back without us intercepting him, nor could he hope to raise an army in Garstang and turn it against us. Why would Eric, a man who was trained in warfare by the Knights of the Golden Order, put himself in a trap?”
Reginald considered it. Herod seemed to be expecting an answer, which meant – hopefully – that he could be distracted from remembering the part Reginald had played in Eric’s lucky escape. “He wouldn’t,” he said, finally. Understanding dawned. “He wanted to cross the mountains.”
“Quite,” Herod agreed. He tapped the maps. “Assuming that someone could make it through the most treacherous mountain range on the continent, that person could reach Lawless and head down to Candleford. From Candleford, he could catch a boat to Larkrise, his place of power and the only place that will take him in and allow him a base to strike back at us.”
Reginald considered it. “Your Grace,” he said slowly, “won’t he just try to find a quiet place and step out of history...”
Herod’s eyes seemed to blaze with unholy light. “You forget yourself,” he warned. The sudden change in attitude was terrifying. “I know Eric. I know that he was driven, first by his father and then by himself, to become the best Emperor he could be. He was trained in military matters first, and then the softer arts of diplomacy and compromise, the arts needed to rule Touched without necromancy. The wife chosen for him complemented his skills and allowed him to grow. He will not abandon his responsibilities willingly.
“And I have his sister, soon to be my bride,” he added, almost absently. Reginald felt his eyes open wide. The young Princess Eleanor was to marry a man who was becoming less and less human every day? “Eric will not allow her to remain in my hands if there is any other choice. He will come for her even if he is forced to burn half of Touched in the process.”
“His duty is to his people,” Reginald protested, trying not to think about what that could mean for Eleanor. “He can’t abandon them in favour of his sister...”
“The Emperor’s Bloodline is more than magic,” Herod reminded him. “It is a complex series of interlocking obligations and responsibilities, passed down from father to son. Abandoning his sister would be a betrayal of those responsibilities. Eric would not betray them easily. If we allow him to reach Larkrise, he will be able to start building up his power to strike back at us. Worse, the Lords and Ladies who suspect our...motives may rally behind him, giving him a far greater power base to draw on. We cannot permit him to rally his forces
, or we will face decades of war.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Reginald said. Agreement couldn't hurt at this point...besides, Herod was right. A long war would devastate Touched for nothing. “Do we have forces in position to intercept him?”
“Perhaps,” Herod said. “Lawless is...lawless, after all, and my agents may find allies. Even so, we must assume the worst and act to squash Larkrise before it is too late.”
He tapped the map angrily. “I intend to take my army to Larkrise and lay the country waste,” he said. “The population will be enslaved. Their fallen will become part of my army of the dead. Their leaders will be executed and replaced with men loyal to me. And you, Reginald, will be the Lord of Larkrise.”
Reginald stared at him. The position was something of a poisoned chalice at the moment, yet it was tempting, too tempting. Herod wasn't attempting to manipulate him, not really. He was sure that it was a genuine offer, but he no longer wanted it. How could he explain that to a man who had lured him into his orbit by offering wealth and power?
The Black Knife Page 33