by David Weber
Borandas looked at him silently, and the sounds of birds from beyond the open windows were clear and distinct in the stillness. Seconds trickled away, but then, finally, he nodded.
“Speak.” His voice was cooler, more formal, but he sat regarding his cousin levelly, and Brayahs glanced at Bronzehelm for just a moment. Then he squared his shoulders and faced the baron.
“You know I’m a mage. In fact, you know what my mage talents are.” He paused, and Borandas nodded again, slowly, his eyes suddenly very intent. “Then you’ll understand I know what I’m talking about when I tell you wizardry has been at work here in Halthan,” Brayahs said softly.
“ What? ” Borandas snapped fully upright in his chair, leaning forward, staring at him. Bronzehelm looked at him, as well, equally shocked, and Brayahs nodded.
“How?” the baron demanded. “Where?”
“I can’t say exactly how, or what the spell may have been,” the mage replied. “You know the limitations of my talents, as well. But I can tell you where it was cast.”
“Then tell me!” Borandas more than half-snapped, and Brayahs looked at him sadly.
“There,” he said…and pointed at Sir Dahlnar Bronzehelm.
***
“Are you certain about this, Brayahs?”
Borandas Daggeraxe’s face was twenty years older than it had been a half hour earlier, his eyes haunted, and Brayahs nodded unhappily.
“I’m afraid I am, and I wish I weren’t. But not as much as I wish I knew what the spell was supposed to do and how in Semkirk’s name anyone got into a position to cast it in the first place.” Brayahs’ jaw clenched. “And not as much as I wish that whoever the bastard is, he’d picked someone besides Dahlnar to cast it on!”
Myacha sat beside her husband, holding his left hand, her amethyst eyes huge and dark. Despite everything, she’d hoped desperately that the suspicion she’d awakened in Brayahs’ mind had been groundless.
“I wish that, too,” the baron said now, his voice grim and harsh. He shook his head. “It’s not Dahlnar’s fault. I know that as well as the gods themselves do! But how can I ever trust him again now that he’s been…tampered with?”
“We’re not positive he has been,” Brayahs said, remembering the look in Bronzehelm’s eyes as he’d been gently but firmly escorted from Borandas’ office by no less than five Halthan armsmen. The seneschal’s shock had been only too evident, and there’d been a sort of ineffable horror under the shock. Yet there’d been no resistance. In fact, he’d been the first to suggest that Borandas had no choice but to confine him to his own quarters until they could determine what had been done to him…and by whom.
“Come now!” Borandas said even more harshly. “You detected the stench of wizardry both on him and in his office!”
“But what I smelled hadn’t been cast directly upon him,” Brayahs pointed out. “He was present when it was worked, and he obviously doesn’t remember it, but I’m detecting no indication he’s been arcanely altered. And you saw his eyes as well as I did, Borandas. He’s more horrified by the possibility that he’s been forced to betray your confidence than you could ever be.”
“Of course he is!” Borandas scowled. “He’s not just my seneschal-he’s my friend, and he would never have betrayed me in any way if the choice had been his! Do you think I don’t realize that?!”
“No, I’m sure you do,” Brayahs replied. “And I think it’s evident he has been influenced-unknowingly and against his will-whether it was done arcanely or not. There are many ways that could have been done by someone who’d managed to gain access to him and worked his way into his confidence, and not all of them require wizardry. If it was done without using sorcery, I think a good mind healer could almost certainly find and repair the damage, now that he knows there’s something there to look for. And if it was done using sorcery, then I think once the Council of Semkirk gets word to Wencit, he’ll be able to undo whatever it was.” He smiled sadly at his cousin. “Dahlnar’s too good a man for us to allow this-whatever ‘this’ is — to take him away from you forever, Borandas. I promise we’ll do everything we can to give him back to you and to himself.”
The baron continued to stare searchingly into Brayahs’ face for a dozen more heartbeats, and then he slowly relaxed-a little-and sucked in a deep, deep breath.
“Thank you,” he said quietly, and turned his head to smile at his wife when Myacha squeezed his hand in both of hers.
“You’re welcome,” Brayahs said, “but we still have to decide what to do about this.”
“‘We’?” Borandas repeated, arching one eyebrow, and Brayahs shrugged.
“ You have to decide what to do here in Halthan, and what the North Riding as a whole is going to do about it, Milord,” he said much more formally. “As the King’s man, I already know what I have to do.”
Borandas grimaced, but he also nodded, and turned back to Myacha.
“I should’ve listened to you, love,” he said, and his expression tightened once more. “And now I have to decide how far I can trust Thorandas, as well.”
His voice hardened with the last sentence, and Myacha’s eyes went dark with distress.
“You don’t know that whatever’s happened has anything at all to do with Thorandas,” she said quickly.
“No?” He looked into those eyes for several seconds, then shrugged. “You’re right, I don’t know anything of the sort, but given how radically Dahlnar’s advice changed-and how strongly he supported Thorandas’ positions after it did change-I have no choice but to consider the possibility that Thorandas was
the one behind it, now do I?”
She stared back at him, unshed tears gleaming. Then one of those tears broke loose, trickling down her cheek, and she shook her head.
“For what it’s worth, I agree you have to consider the possibility, Milord,” Brayahs said with that same formality. “At the same time, I would respectfully point out to you that Thorandas’ positions haven’t changed anywhere near so radically as Dahlnar’s, and I’ve seldom met a man more aware of the dangers of wizardry then your son.” He shook his head. “I don’t see any more reason for his position on that to have changed than for it to have changed on anything else.”
“If not him, then who?” Borandas demanded bitterly.
“I have my own candidate in mind,” Brayahs replied in a grim voice. “The problem is that I can’t be sure how much my own prejudices are shaping my suspicions at this point.”
“You’re thinking about Cassan.” Borandas’s voice was even grimmer than his cousin’s, and the mage nodded.
“The gods know he’s demonstrated there are very few things he’d be prepared to stop short of, Milord, and he has to have been growing steadily more desperate. If Tellian gains the Crown’s full-blooded support for his present policies-and everything I’ve seen and heard in Sothofalas suggests he will, if he hasn’t already-any chance Cassan might ever have had of regaining the ground he’s lost will be gone forever. I have no idea what that’s likely to do to a man like him, but I think it’s certainly possible he’d be willing to resort even to wizardry as a means of getting what he wants.”
“And Dahlnar’s convincing me to support Thorandas’ betrothal to his daughter would be what he wants, wouldn’t it?”
“It would certainly be a long step in that direction, at any rate,” Brayahs agreed. “But there are those who oppose Tellian’s plans for reasons that have nothing to do with Cassan’s ambitions, and I’ve always thought Thorandas was one of them. So I think it’s entirely possible-and far more probable-that he’s simply taken advantage of Thorandas’ existing opposition to Tellian. Your son loves you, Borandas,” he said much more gently. “He always has, and I’ve seen nothing to suggest that’s changed in any way. It’s far more likely he’s being used without even being aware of it than that he would not only betray your trust but resort to the sort of dark sorcery that tampers with another man’s mind.”
“He’s right, Borandas,�
�� Myacha said softly. “You know he’s right.”
“I know I want him to be right,” the baron whispered. “And that’s the problem. I want him to be right so desperately that I dare not assume he is. Not until the truth’s proven one way or the other. And how will Thorandas feel when he realizes I’ve considered even the possibility that he might have committed treason against me? And against the Crown, if he truly has resorted to wizardry?”
“He’ll realize you had no choice, Milord,” Brayahs told him.
“I pray you’re right,” Borandas said.
“I believe I am. And, with your permission,” the mage stood, “I need to be on my way. His Majesty has to be informed that someone’s using sorcery in an effort to manipulate the Kingdom’s great nobles.”
“What will-?”
Borandas broke off, unable to complete the question, and Brayahs smiled at him a bit sadly.
“What will I tell him, Milord?” He moved his right hand in a tossing away gesture. “I’ll tell him I’ve detected the residue of sorcery on your seneschal and adviser, that Sir Dahlnar’s advice to you has changed dramatically over the last month or two, and how that advice has shifted. From that point, the decision of how to proceed will be his, but if he asks me, I’ll advise the dispatch of a team of mage investigators to Halthan to determine how far all of this might extend. My own talents don’t include truth-reading, but at least two of his Crown magi do have that talent. If he sends them here to investigate and they interview Thorandas, they’ll know the truth about any involvement of his in this affair. Personally, I think they’ll find he knew nothing about it-that he’ll be as horrified and infuriated by it as you and Dahlnar. And”-he looked into his cousin’s eyes-“the questions will be posed by the Crown, and by the magi, Milord…not by his father.”
Borandas looked back at him for a moment, then blinked suspiciously shining eyes and nodded choppily.
“Thank you.” His voice was a bit hoarse, and he cleared his throat hard. “Thank you,” he repeated, and managed a smile. “And on that note, I know you must be going. May the gods go with you.”
***
Fifteen minutes later, Brayahs stood atop the Star Tower, looking down on the courtyard so far below and remembering that final afternoon on Sothokarnas’ battlements.
He believed every word he said to his cousin, yet he also knew that, like Borandas, he desperately wanted Thorandas to be innocent of treason. And if he wasn’t, if he paid a traitor’s price, then Brayahs would never be able to forget he was the one who’d uncovered that treason and led to his cousin’s death.
No, if he is a traitor, that was his decision, not yours, the mage told himself. And whatever comes of this, none of it can change your duty. So it’s time you stopped worrying about things you can’t change and got on with doing what you know you have to.
He shook himself and inhaled deeply.
Fortunately, he knew exactly where Baron Tellian’s hunting lodge at Chergor was, and he’d been there several times before. It was always easier to wind-walk to a known place than to an individual who might be almost anywhere, and it was easier still if the wind-walker had been to that place before, for that gave him an anchor that let him make the journey in a single stride rather than a lengthy series of shorter stages.
Tellian’s lodge had been built in the Forest of Chergor, backed up on the hills in the angle where the upper Ice Sister Lakes drained into the Spear, by his grandfather, who’d wanted a place to hide from what he’d considered the oppressive crowding of Balthar…which had been little more than two-thirds the size of the present city. As part of his escape from civilization (or what had passed for it atop the Wind Plain sixty years ago), he’d opted for a consciously rustic building plan that was deliberately designed to accommodate a minimum of servants during his visits there. Of course, “minimum” was an elastic term, and no Sothoii noble would expect it to apply to stable space, so the lodge consisted of a large, ornamental brick wall around an open courtyard, spacious stables with space enough for at least fifty horses, a large chalet-style main building for himself and his guests, and a second, much simpler chalet with room enough for forty or fifty armsmen and retainers. The buldings inside the courtyard were all built of wood which had been cut right on the site, but he’d employed a small army of carvers and woodworkers to sculpt the eaves and overhangs into fantastic, whimsical shapes. An only slightly smaller army of glaziers had been brought in to provide his lady baronness with stained glass windows for her attic solarium in the main lodge, and the veranda along its front wall was large enough to provide picnic space for half a troop of cavalry.
The protected reserve of forest land around the lodge held game in plenty, and it was about as quiet an isolated a spot as a monarch seeking a patch of calm after a tempestuous Council session could have asked for. That was good; it would give the King and his closest advisors time to think carefully about Brayahs’ news without the inevitable rumors and panicky speculation which would have flown about Sothofalas within hours of his arrival. And it was also the sort of place which left an impression on those who visited it. That was always a good thing for a wind-walker, and he settled into the proper trance, reaching out to that anchor while the winds of his talent rose about him.
There. Talent, memory, and focus snapped into place, becoming one, and he stepped into the winds no one else could even perceive. They whirled him away like a spray of autumn leaves, sweeping him into the space between worlds. He’d never been able to explain that space to anyone other than another wind-walker. It was shot with the roar of his personal wind, sharp tasting like the aftermath of a lightning bolt, crackling and alive with energy that seemed to seethe and dance on his skin in cascades of sparks. It was Something was wrong!
The winds faltered, then shifted, their steady roar turning suddenly into an insane howl. The energy dancing on his skin changed in a heartbeat from a crackling, comforting cocoon into a furnace, fanned by those berserk winds, hissing and popping as it consumed him. Agony crashed through him-agony such as he’d never felt, the like of which no wind-walker had ever described-and he thought he screamed, although no mage had ever been able to decide if a merely human voice could even function in a place like this, and that hideous shriek of the winds would have drowned it anyway.
A trap.
Somehow, the thought fought its way through the red tides of anguish, forcing itself upon him. He had no idea how it could have been done. Indeed, everything he’d ever learned about his own talent told him it couldn’t be done. Yet even in his torment, he knew, but what could he-?
He reached out. Somehow, without even knowing what he was doing, Brayahs Daggeraxe drew upon what had made him a mage so many years before. He felt himself fraying, dissolving, coming apart in the maw of that furnace fury, and somehow he held on. He clung to what he was, to the duty which made him who he was, and fastened his invisible hands desperately upon the winds. They ripped at his palms- his winds no longer, but demons, lashing him with even more terrible torrents of pain-yet he clenched his teeth, refusing to let go, and then, in a way he would never be able to describe even to himself, he wrenched sideways.
He lost his focus. That had never happened. He’d never imagined it could happen, and panic choked him, more terrible even than the pain, as he felt himself spinning sideways, lurching into a darkness he’d never seen before. It was lashed with lightning-a bottomless night filled with the crash of thunder, his winds a tempest, howling like some ravening beast-and he screamed again as he felt that searing lightning ripping away everything he’d ever known or been.
Blackness claimed him.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Boots moved steadily and sweetly, cantering across the parched, golden grass of late summer while Gayrfressa paced him with the peculiar, ground-eating gait of her kind. The gelding was well aware of the courser’s presence. In fact, he had a distinct tendency to act more like a friendly kitten than a warhorse of mature years in her presence, friskin
g around her as if he were a child’s pony, and she regarded his antics with a fond, sometimes exasperated patience.
‹ Of course I do,› Gayrfressa said now, turning her head slightly to better regard Leeana as she caught her rider’s amused thoughts. ‹ The lesser cousins have great hearts. It’s not their fault no wizards fooled about with their ancestors, now is it?›
“No, it’s not,” Leeana agreed. The coursers were remarkably comfortable with the notion that they-like the halflings-were the product of arcane meddling. Of course, in their case it had been a deliberate manipulation all of whose consequences, including the unintended ones, had been highly beneficial-one wrought by the White Council to make those ancestors stronger, more powerful, and far more intelligent. The halflings hadn’t enjoyed that deliberate design process. They represented an accident, a completely unintended consequence and byproduct of the most destructive war in Orfressa’s history, and neither they nor any of the other Races of Man were quite able to forget that.
‹ I don’t really know why they should, › Gayrfressa said reasonably. ‹ What is, is; trying to “forget it” can’t change it. And it’s not as if the halflings are the only “accident!” What about the magi? Or, for that matter, what about the hradani and the Rage? And if what Wencit once told him and Brandark is true, even the elves a re the result of “arcane meddling.” Although it was deliberate in their case, as well, I suppose.› The courser tossed her head in amusement. ‹ I don’t understand why you two-foots worry about it so much!›
“I didn’t say I do worry about it,” Leeana pointed out. “I think the halflings do mainly because of the way most of the other Races of Man are…prejudiced against them, I suppose. And I have to point out that what was done to the hradani wasn’t exactly ‘accidental.’ Or done by wizards who gave a single solitary damn about what happened to their victims, for that matter.” Her tone had darkened. “And they’ve paid for the Rage they have now with over twelve hundred years of pure, unmitigated hell.”