by T. O. Munro
“I don’t understand.”
“My physicians found items on her person which, shall we say, were more than a mere herbalist might carry.”
Kimbolt tilted his head trying to fathom the half-elf’s argument.
Rugan went on. “I wasn’t sure at first. She must have been shielding her nature. However, Bishop Sorenson and Deaconess Rhodra both confirmed my suspicion while Mistress Elise slumbered under their healing scrutiny.” He looked squarely at Kimbolt. “The woman is a sorceress, a practitioner of the art forbidden to humans, a magic user, a criminal.”
The words, baldly stated, struck Kimbolt like slaps. He looked to the side, eyes scanning the ornate carved architrave as he sought for the correct response. “I…”
“You don’t seem surprised, Captain?” Rugan rose from his throne, his own head tilted in enquiry as he stepped towards Kimbolt. “One might almost think this was not news to you?”
“I..” Kimbolt floundered wordlessly like a landed fish.
“Had you some inkling of the criminal nature of she who was abusing my hospitality and my wife’s trust?”
“She was curing Hepdida, everybody knew it, everybody saw it. Even Rhodra.”
Rugan sniffed, “Doubtless the witch found some way to trade present health against a future madness and, oh what a whirlwind we have reaped now the madness is returned. There is no cure for this disease.”
“It’s not a disease!” Kimbolt’s snapped exclamation drew the most piercing of sharp looks from the half-elf. Rugan glared at him through eyes narrowed with curiosity and suspicion.
“What do you know of this disease, Captain?” He asked in a tone so low it rolled like distant thunder.
Twice Kimbolt opened his mouth to speak and twice he shut it in unbroken silence. It was a curse, a curse that had been reapplied, or so Elise had said. Elise who trusted no-one but herself and maybe him. Elise who lay under guard recovering from the assault. They had been attacked, attacked while he was fetching Giseanne.
“Let me speak to her,” he begged.
“To who? The witch?”
“I must found out what happened.”
“We know what happened. The foolish witch’s trick wore thin and it would have been no injustice for her to have perished by it. The crime is that my wife was drawn into danger, drawn in by you.” The half-elf was circling Kimbolt now, fingers twitching like a fencer ready to reach for his blades. “Were I minded to see conspiracy, Captain, and as my enemies know I am, then there is a fertile field in which to dig for it. The criminal witch and the turncoat captain and my wife bleeding at the hands of a lunatic. It is not a difficult puzzle to assemble.”
“You cannot think that any of us had any intent to harm the Lady Giseanne.”
“I can think anything and everything, Captain, and I do.”
“I must see them, see them both,” Kimbolt mumbled weakly.
“The witch will await trial and imprisonment pending exile. The girl will be made comfortable, but I will admit no access to any who might be tempted to let her loose.”
“Niarmit would never have allowed this.”
“The Lady Niarmit is not here!” Rugan’s frayed temper snapped. “And your sojourn in this palace begins to trespass on the hospitality for which I am so famed.”
“What says the Lady Regent to all this?”
“My wife is worn by the cares of a Regency she did not seek and the disappointments of misplaced trust,” Rugan growled into Kimbolt’s face. “And I will take any measure necessary to protect her health and happiness. Now it is a cold winter, Captain. Go back to your quarters and be grateful that, for now at least, I send you no further away than that.”
***
“Your reverence? Are you well,” Haselrig asked the unusually prostrate form of the Bishop kneeling by his simple cot in the antiquary’s workroom.
The Bishop sat up abruptly. Haselrig thought he saw a glint of gold in the suddenness of the movement. Udecht wiped at his eyes with both hands, sleeves flapping as he pressed fingers into his eye sockets smearing wetness across his cheeks.
“Are you well?” The antiquary repeated.
The Bishop turned on him, drawing in a deep breath to begin some familiar rant of rebuke at the antiquary’s betrayal or the misery of the Bishop’s lot. But between inhaling and speaking Udecht’s shoulders fell, his head sagged and the fight went out in his tired eyes. “There are worse than me, Haselrig,” was all he said.
Haselrig fumbled on the table for a scrap of clean cloth and handed it to the Bishop. “Your eyes are red, your reverence.”
Udecht wiped the corners of his eyes with a precise fingertip of fabric.
“There will be a way out of this, your reverence. There is a future.”
Udecht looked at the antiquary glumly. “What way? A future which has Maelgrum triumphant.”
“I am promised Salicia.” Haselrig hesitated and then launched into the hope he had been privately nurturing ever since Xander’s death. “The Master has many cares, he cannot watch too close on all his affairs. I will carve out some kind of life, some kind of domain that moderates the impact of his demands.”
Udecht snorted. “You think you could do that. You think you could curtail his thirst for slaves and for wealth.”
“Maelgrum is interested in outcomes not methods. A good man cannot serve an evil master, but a grey man might, might find some shadow path between good and evil.”
“Is that what you think, how you lull yourself to sleep at night, Haselrig?”
“I crave only enough success and favour to assure me a comfortable distance between myself and the Master.” Haselrig thought again of Odestus the fortunate, given the independence and freedom from the Master’s daily presence. If he could make Salicia another arm’s length domain such as Undersalve had been then life might become if not good, at least bearable. He stretched out a hand to pat the Bishop on the shoulder. “I would take you with me, your reverence.”
Udecht looked up in sharp astonishment, but his question surprised the antiquary. “What of my daughter?”
“What of her?”
“Could you keep her safe too?”
Haselrig shrugged.
“Is she safe now?” Odestus demanded.
The antiquary gave another moue. “I don’t know, your reverence.”
“Let me speak to my niece, let me ask her.”
Haselrig shook his head. “That is not possible, your reverence.”
“Is she dead, have those bastards killed her?”
“No,” Haselrig stretched the vowel in an unconvincing denial and then hastened to provide clarification. “She lives, but the Master would not have you speak with her, he would not have anyone speak with her before his business is concluded. Afterwards?” Haselrig’s mouth stretched in a grimace. “Well, let us just say there is nothing I can do for the Lady Niarmit. There never was.”
“What of her companion, could I speak with him? I must have news of my daughter.”
The Bishop had reached out to grip Haselrig’s arms and the antiquary was surprised by the strength in the stress shrunken Bishop’s hands. He prised himself free. “The thief, Kaylan, is confined separately, your reverence. I may be able to find you a few minutes with him.”
The hope which illuminated the Bishop’s face was distressingly bright, so much so that Haselrig hastened to play down his promise. “I make no guarantees, your reverence. I can but try.”
“Oh Haselrig, please try. I would be so grateful, thank you.”
***
Quintala had stretched the day’s ride to its limit. There was only the blue glow of sky, lingering after the sunset, to light their way into the stables of Laviserve. The lancers’ grumblings at the horse ruining pace, had diminished as the prospect of a decent bed and a meal more substantial than hard tack drew closer.
“Well, Lady Quintala,” Jolander said. “That is a night in the open we have certainly saved, and you will be able to get some rest rather
than stand watch and watch about all night.”
“I like to do it, Sergeant,” Quintala replied. “I could never fathom how you humans can sleep so much.” She stopped short of saying that sleep seemed an awful waste of the little lives the Goddess had granted them. “Besides,” she added. “One can never have too many watch keepers in my brother’s realm. Even the wind whispers at his command.”
Jolander pursed his lips, drawing in the frosty tips of his moustache. “The Queen should be at Lady Isobel’s court by now.”
Quintala frowned. “Maybe not that far, Sergeant. I hope she has drawn an escort from Lady Isobel’s garrison, even at the risk of travelling slower. This Torsden rogue might elect to try and press his suit upon another woman if the charms of Hetwith’s widow are insufficient for his ambition.”
The sergeant’s whiskers quivered at the awful thought. “He would not dare, he could not!”
“There is no telling what a Nordsalve noble might do, Sergeant, some of them are still barbarians at heart. They’d be more at home drinking a desert nomad under the table than eating dainty dishes at court.”
Jolander was all concern for his absent Monarch. “I said I should have gone, Seneschal, you heard me. Her Majesty should have let us escort her.”
Quintala shrugged. “Her Majesty knows her own mind, Sergeant, and neither of us could gainsay her. I am sure the same indomitable spirit will keep any rampant Nordman at bay. Either that or Kaylan’s sword between their shoulder blades.”
The reassurance only partially mollified the big warrant officer. He snapped at his lancers for their untidy dismounts and their failure to have already rubbed their sweating horses down.
Quintala slipped lithely from her own saddle and handed the reins to one of Rugan’s stable lads. Then with a pat on the horse’s neck, she turned along the path through the gardens to the palace.
She saw him coming long before he saw her. Her elven eyes were sensitive to the warmth of his body, his face glowing like a torch with its own heat. For a moment she considered stepping aside into the concealment of a shadow filled tree. She could avoid him altogether, or seize the slight amusement of surprising him, it was always good to have options. But in the end she stayed where she was and even alerted him to her presence with a hail of greeting. “Captain Kimbolt, what brings you to the stables at this time?”
Kimbolt honed in on her voice, eyes stretched wide to try to see in the shadow filled gloom of Rugan’s garden. “It is you, thank the Goddess!” His voice was cracked with emotion. “When I heard there had been riders seen I hoped it would be you ahead of time.”
“There was no need to stumble through Rugan’s gardens just to congratulate me on my horsemanship.”
“Oh Quintala!” Kimbolt was close enough to see her shadow outline and to reach out for her hand and pump it vigorously. “I am so glad to see you.”
The half-elf frowned. The warmth of the Captain’s present greeting ill-matched the blank indifference he had shown at their departure. “What has changed, Kimbolt? What is it?” Quintala demanded. “Is it the Princess? What has Mistress Elise done?”
“Oh Quintala,” Kimbolt sighed. “It has all gone wrong, so very wrong. Your brother is mad with rage and folly and Hepdida is in danger and I can do nothing. By the Goddess I am so glad to see a friendly face.” He seized her in his arms and hugged her then, crushing her in an embrace of claustrophobic closeness.
She wriggled free. “If you at least can tell me what has happened Kimbolt, then we can begin to see what might be done about it.”
***
Udecht ran a finger along the outer edge of the golden talisman. There was a small nick, a tiny unevenness in its outer curve which jarred his finger as he stroked the crescent from tip to tip. It was a beautiful piece. The elegant elven filigree embedded in a traditional design. He turned it over in his hands soaking in the comfortable tranquillity of the grace of the Goddess.
All priests would carry the crescent, not just the tokens that the people sometimes wore, but the genuine article. A symbol of the finest workmanship blessed over night on the high altar of the Archbishop’s temple and dedicated to the service of the Goddess.
Udecht’s own crescent had been a heavier piece, worthy of the third son of a king. It had been his constant companion, the one thing he was never separated from until his brother Xander had taken it from him that night in Sturmcairn. A priest without a crescent, was a priest without a prayer.
The piece in his hand, like its true owner, was slim elegant and extremely powerful. Udecht held it close against his chest letting it soothe him, bringing a peace that he had not shared in months.
But in that moment of blessed relief, in that certainty that the Goddess was not after all gone from his life or this world, there was also a moment of doubt. What was he to do with this heaven sent opportunity?
Haselrig had managed to find him five minutes with the bruised and battered thief. The man’s speech had been muffled by the swelling of his jaw and he had had to turn his head to view the Bishop through the eye that wasn’t entirely closed by ugly green grey contusions.
Udecht had tried to be patient but the thief had his pain and his own agenda to distract him. While the Bishop had been anxious for news of Hepdida, the thief had wanted news of Niarmit and what Maelgrum’s plans might be for them both. It had taken a few precious minutes to establish that Udecht knew nothing and had seen nothing since the morning encounter atop the watch tower. A little while longer for the thief to sulk as he absorbed this disappointment. Knowing that the guard would return in a matter of seconds, Udecht had been somewhat peremptory in making his own demands for information.
What he had gleaned through a mixture of broken toothed mumbles and gesture was that Hepdida was well. She had been ill but she had recovered. She was safe in Prince Rugan’s palace.
He caressed the holy symbol as he played with the concept of escape. It could be done. As a young cleric he had been a dutiful student anxious to find some way to shine and please his father against the martial prowess of his elder brothers, or the easy grace and beauty of his sister.
He had diligently studied every obscurity in the ecumenical manuals. He had learned of the planes and he had learned of gates that could be opened between and within them. He had never imagined the ease with which Maelgrum could stride from place to place or from world to world. But he had learned it was not just sorcerers who could create such passageways. Those holy men and women most beloved of the Goddess and in true extremis could, through long prayer, earn the power to create an opening as Maelgrum did with such facility.
Udecht closed his eyes, escaping in his imagination. A gate between this work room and the palace of Laviserve. He could step in one stride from torment to his daughter’s side. Well, not exactly. One had to know very well the place that one was stepping into and he was not familiar with all the apartments in the half-elf’s magnificent home. He had seen the audience chamber on a couple of occasions, that would be close enough. He had never seen a servant of the Goddess open such a gate. The last occasion, according to that schoolboy research, had been in the time of Queen Nena over two centuries ago. However, it was possible. Escape was possible.
But.
He sighed. There must be a but. Maelgrum was Master of many things, but above all else he was Master of the Planes. To escape through the planes? It would be as subtle and as likely to be discovered as walking out of the main gates in broad daylight. The possibility of escape brought more fear even than imprisonment. To be without hope was desolate. But to have a choice, to be given just one opportunity to make a decision, was terrifying.
Maybe that was the test the Goddess had set him, to see if his courage was equal to the task.
He touched the symbol to his lips and shut his eyes. “What do you want of me, my Goddess?”
There was a sound at the door, just enough warning for Udecht to let the crescent slip into his voluminous sleeves and then Haselrig came in.
***
Niarmit hesitated at another turn of the twisting rough hewn passage, but all she got was an orcish fist in the middle of her back shoving her forward. A ridge of rock on the uneven floor sent her crashing shoulder first against the wall. The thin shirt and the skin beneath it both tore against the jagged rock, but she had not dared raise her bound and broken hands to cushion the blow. The blackened fingers were all at odd ungainly angles such that even the pressure of a gust of wind could evoke fresh waves of agony. The jarring shock of hitting the wall invoked a far greater agony in her shattered hands than the serated rock slicing through shirt and flesh beneath.
“Walk!” the big orc commanded.
“Why?” It was one small word of defiance from a trapped and wretched prisoner, but she flung it as hard as she could.
“Because Camrak tell you to!” For the orc it was an entirely complete response, barring only the raised fist for emphasis.
“Camrak can go bugger himself.”
The fist came crashing towards her face, but the other orc barged into his leader sending the blow wide and into the wall. Camrak swung his bruised and bleeding knuckles at his subordinate, while the smaller orc dodged and pleaded. “Remember, Camrak, Master say we not kill this one.”
“Well you’re going to have to,” Niarmit spat. “Because I’ve followed my last order from an orc.”
Camrak’s broad nostrils flared and his tusk like teeth chomped against his upper jaw. “You do as you told!” He jabbed a finger at her chest.
“Or what?”
Camrak’s craggy forehead creased in cumbersome thought and then his face split in a cheerful grin. “Or we kill your friend, we kill him real good, real slow.”
“Kaylan?” The name slipped from Niarmit’s mouth.
The orc nodded eagerly. “Yes, he not dead, not yet. Now you walk!”
Niarmit shrugged herself off the abrasive rock and resumed her trudge down the twisting pathway. It turned abruptly and opened into a huge cavern, big enough to fit the temple of the Goddess with space to spare. In its centre was a great oval window, through which Niarmit could see a garish panorama of an alien landscape. The shadows of jagged peaks stretched and scampered across the cavern floor as the fast moving sunlight of the other place shone through the shimmering membrane between the planes.