by Mark Anthony
“You're right,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I don't know anything at all. Tell me about the One-Eyed Dude.”
“I know about him,” said another young woman, sliding off a bench. She twirled a lock of greasy blond hair. “If you light nine black candles in a circle at midnight and face west and pledge your soul to him, you'll see him.”
“And have you ever done it, Tiffany?” Jessie asked, turning on her.
The other young woman stared, then shook her head.
“That's because you're chicken shit,” Jessie said. “So shut your face already.”
The blond girl slunk back to her bench.
Travis tried to swallow the sick lump in his throat. “So you've seen him, then?”
Jessie flicked her hair back over her shoulder. “Why should I tell you?”
He said nothing. She wanted to tell him; she would speak if he waited.
It didn't take long. “You can't see him anyway, not really. He's like a shadow in the night, that's all.” The calculating light fled her eyes, and a haunted expression took its place. She folded her skinny arms over her chest, as if suddenly feeling the cold. “But you can see his eye, burning like fire in the dark. He wanted me to give myself to him.”
The others were staring at her, mouths open.
“Did you?” Travis said.
She looked up, the haunted look gone, a fierce grin cutting across her face. “I don't take orders from anybody. My mom told me to stay away from my stepfather, but just like that I had him wrapped around my little finger. She wanted to kick me out of the house when she found out, but I told her I'd go to the police and tell them he touched me. That shut her up. I got out of that pit anyway a few months later, but I still make her give me money when I want it.”
Travis sucked in a breath. She was like Kyrene indeed. He chose his next question carefully.
“So what do they want—these Brights, as you call them?”
She shrugged. “How should I know? All I know is that they're looking for something—something He wants. And they'll bring it to Him when they find it.”
All warmth fled him. He reached into his right pocket, gripping the iron box.
Her eyes narrowed into dark slits. “You know something, don't you, old man? Don't lie—I can tell. That's part of my power. I think maybe I'll tell them about you. I bet they'll give me something good if I do.”
He could hardly speak the words. “Tell who?”
“The Deadies. They work for him like the Brights do. Only they hate the Brights. I did it with one once. He showed me his scar. It was totally awesome.” She ran a finger down her chest, between her breasts. “His skin was hot to the touch, but when we were done, I put my head against his chest and listened, and I didn't hear anything. No heartbeat.”
The others let out squeals of horror and delight at this story, but Travis hardly heard them. He could only stare at the young woman. Beings who came in light, searching for something precious. Men without hearts. A master who gazed from shadows with one fiery eye . . .
Cold fingers caressed Travis's spine. It wasn't just Duratek behind the abductions. He was in grave danger.
Jessie eyed him. “Shit, you really do know something, don't you?”
Her fingers fluttered, and he knew she was weaving a spell. A moment later he felt it—a presence pushing against his mind, probing for knowledge.
Travis didn't even have to speak the rune of breaking. He merely thought it and gave his hand a flick. Her spell unraveled like a cheap cloth, and her eyes flew wide as she staggered back, gasping for breath.
He grinned, a fierce expression. “You're not the only one who can do magic.”
Rage flashed across her face, followed by fear. Yes, she sensed the power humming on the air. Without even thinking to, Travis had opened the iron box in his pocket. His fingers brushed the Stones. “Go before I hurt you.”
“They'll find you,” she snarled. “You can't win against them. That's the one thing I do know.”
He raised his left hand. Silver-blue light crackled around his fingers. “I said get out of here.”
The others let out yelps of fear, then they were running, leaving their boom box behind. Jessie glared at him, her eyes full of hate. She made a hissing, animal sound, then turned and ran after the others.
Travis waited until they were lost to sight, then he sank down to one of the benches. The magic had faded, leaving him weak and empty. He reached into his pocket, pulled out the iron box, and made certain it was tightly shut.
But it was too late, wasn't it? He had opened the box once before, thinking them a world away. Only they were here in Denver. Wraithlings. They would sense the presence of the Great Stones—if Jessie didn't tell the ironhearts about it first. Either way, the result was the same.
Mohg, Lord of Nightfall, knew Travis was here.
31.
A voice woke Aryn in the chill gray before dawn.
Sister, do you hear me?
Aryn flung a hand over her eyes and rolled over. The voice was in her mind. She was dreaming, that was all.
You must listen to me, sister. I have to leave now, and I know not when I shall return.
Aryn's eyes flew open, and she sat up straight in bed. This was no dream. “Mirda, is that you?”
Yes, sister. It is I. Look out your window.
Aryn threw back the covers, slid down from the bed, and padded barefoot across the cold floor. Light seeped into the room as she pushed back the curtain. Below, a figure in a green cape stood in the bailey, gazing upward.
“But I don't understand,” Aryn said aloud, forgetting to project her words along the Weirding. Her brain was still dull from sleep. “Where are you going?”
On a journey of great distance. I am needed elsewhere.
“But we need you here!” Aryn said, her breath fogging the window.
Mirda's voice was reassuring but adamant. No, sister, you do not. You and Lirith are both stronger than you believe. You have all you need to meet the trials ahead of you.
Despair crushed Aryn's heart. This couldn't be happening. Everyone had left them—Travis, Grace and Durge, Beltan and Vani—and now Mirda was leaving as well. She pressed her right hand against the chill glass. But why do you have to go?
There are others who do need me, and I must go to them at once. But do not fear, sister. I believe we shall see one another again before all is through.
There was so much Aryn wanted to say—how afraid she was of the future, how lost she felt, and how much she would miss Mirda's wisdom and strength. However, sorrow had swelled her throat, and for all her power the only words she could spin across the Weirding were, May Sia be with you.
Below, in the bailey, the figure in green lifted a hand.
She will be, sister. She will be.
The figure turned and glided from the bailey, disappearing through the gate just as the sun crested the horizon, transmuting the sky from lead to copper. Aryn gazed at the empty bailey for a long time, then turned to put on her dress and go tell Lirith what had happened.
The dark-haired witch wasn't in her chamber, and Sareth's room was empty as well. The two must already be at breakfast in the great hall. Aryn made her way there, but as she neared the doors she saw a crowd gathered around them. There were several men who were leaders among the Warriors of Vathris, as well as Lord Farvel and other members of the king's court, though there was no sign of Boreas himself. Some of the war leaders were grumbling angrily.
As Aryn approached, Lord Farvel broke away and limped toward her. The elderly seneschal wrung his hands, and his face was lined with worry.
“Lord Farvel, what's going on here?” Aryn said.
“Please, Your Highness, you must not fear. He is quite well—it's a scratch, nothing more. He'll make a swift recovery.”
Aryn gripped his arm. “What are you talking about, Lord Farvel? Is something wrong with the king?”
He blinked his watery eyes. “Why, no, Your Highness. It's not the k
ing, it's Prince Teravian. An attempt was made on his life. It happened just minutes ago. But rest assured—we will find the one who lies behind this terrible deed.”
Aryn could only stare as if struck. Someone had tried to murder the prince? But who? And why?
A disturbing thought came to her. Mirda had departed the castle with strange haste this morning. Could that have something to do with what had happened to the prince?
No, Aryn had been talking to Mirda a little while ago; the witch hadn't been anywhere near Teravian's chamber or the great hall. And she couldn't imagine that Mirda had any designs against the prince.
Yet the witches are scheming something around Teravian—there can be no doubt about that, not after what Ivalaine said the other night in the garden.
Only in the several days since, Aryn had not been able to get anywhere close to Ivalaine.
“Can I see him, Lord Farvel?”
“Of course, Your Highness,” the seneschal said, taking her left arm in a frail hand. “You must be frightfully worried about your husband-to-be.”
Aryn winced. She had been thinking about questioning Teravian rather than asking after his well-being, but that was horrible of her.
“Yes,” she said, “I am worried about him.” And the words were true enough, though it was not necessarily his health that troubled her.
Farvel led her past the gathered warriors to the doors.
“Do not concern yourself, Your Highness,” Lord Petryen said, laying a hand on her shoulder. Petryen was the duke from Eredane who had been among the first to arrive in answer to Boreas's call to war. “An attack on the king's son is an attack on all of us. We will not stand for this.”
“Surely the prince is blessed by Vathris,” said the man who stood next to Petryen. He was one of the men who came from Al-Amún, and Aryn had learned his name was Sai'el Ajhir. To the best of her understanding, Sai'el was a noble title, something akin to duke or baron. Gold gleamed against his dark skin.
Aryn gave Ajhir a sharp look. “Someone tried to kill Teravian. How can you say he is blessed?”
“Because he is, Sai'ana Aryn. The poison was without taste or odor. It would have stolen the life of any other man who drank of that wine. Yet somehow the prince stopped after just one sip. It was as if Vathris himself had warned him there was death in that cup.”
Poison—so that was how the attempt on his life was made. However, Aryn doubted it was the bull god who had helped Teravian avoid the fatal brew. He had sensed it with the Touch. Poison was a witch's craft, and as a witch he was able to detect it.
But then what witch had placed the poison in his cup?
You don't know it was a witch at all, Aryn. Anyone could have bought the potion from some hag or hedgewife.
Farvel led her through the doors. The great hall was empty save for several figures gathered below the high table, on the steps of the dais. Teravian sat on the lowest step, Lirith and Sareth beside him. Boreas stood above, glowering, while several guardsmen—swords drawn—encircled the dais. Aryn broke away from Lord Farvel's grasp and hurried forward.
“Your Highness, are you well?”
Teravian glared up at her, his eyebrows knitted into a single dark line. “Of course, I always enjoy a nice cup of poison for breakfast.”
Aryn didn't flinch at his caustic tone. Instead, genuine concern rose within her. The prince's face had a greenish cast to it, and he clutched a hand to his stomach. She knelt on the step before him, reached out, and took his free hand. He started to pull back, but she held it tight.
“Is there something we must do?” she said, looking at Lirith.
The dark-eyed witch shook her head. “No, I think it is best at this point to let his body expel the poison on its own. Thank Sia, he did no more than touch the cup to his lips.”
The prince shivered, though he was sweating. “I could see it. It was as if the cup was filled with shadows.”
Aryn met Lirith's eyes, and the other witch nodded. So they had both had the same thought. Aryn looked again at Teravian. “What do you mean when you say you saw the poison?”
Boreas waved an annoyed hand. “That's enough of that talk. The only question now is who committed this deed.”
“It was a subtle concoction,” Lirith said. “Brewing it would take great skill with herbs, else the brewer himself might be poisoned simply inhaling the fumes.”
Sareth looked at her. “Who would have that kind of craft?”
Aryn bit her lip. Perhaps the witches truly did want Teravian dead. Perhaps they believed killing the king's son would cause Boreas to break. If so, they were wrong. By the sparks in his steely eyes, this had only strengthened his resolve.
“I have no doubt that poison was meant for me,” the king said, descending the dais. “An assault on my person I do not fear, but an assault on my son is something that will not go unpunished.”
Aryn considered this. Perhaps Boreas was right; perhaps the poisoned cup had been meant for him. Killing the king would have far more effect than murdering his son. “What do you mean to do, Your Majesty?”
“There is treachery in this castle, but I will root it out and destroy it, of that you can be certain, my lady.”
His gaze moved to the corner of the great hall, toward a hulking object draped with a white cloth. Aryn pressed her hand to her heart and shuddered.
It began that morning. The prince was escorted to his quarters, where Lirith tended to him with Sareth's help. Meanwhile, Aryn stood in the great hall with King Boreas. On the king's orders, the massive object that had stood in the corner of the great hall was dragged out to the center—a feat which took a dozen men straining together. Then the cover was pulled aside, revealing the artifact of Malachor.
The artifact was a thick ring of black stone, as wide across as the span of a man's arms. It was suspended on a wooden base in such a clever fashion that, despite its weight, it could be turned with only moderate effort so that the circle of stone stood upright, like the frame of a window with no glass.
Aryn had not gazed upon the artifact in over a year—not since the Midwinter's Eve feast when, at Grace's urging, Aryn had helped to align the artifact, and it had ripped the iron heart out of Lord Logren's chest. For that was the artifact's power, fashioned as it was of a great piece of lodestone which fell from the sky eons ago.
By order of the king, all of the folk in the castle—from lowest servant to highest noble—were rounded up and made to march before the artifact. Guards stood beside it, ready to force anyone who refused—though they could neither wear armor nor hold swords because of the power of the artifact.
As the hours passed, and slanting beams of sunlight crept across the hall, Aryn grew tired from standing beside Boreas. However, the king did not call for chairs, but rather stood stiffly, watching in silence, as his subjects passed by. The only excitement came from those who had not followed instructions and had failed to remove all of the metallic items from their person. More than once the guards were forced to grip the hand of a wailing earl and pull it from the stone because he had forgotten to take off his rings.
By afternoon, Aryn's mind had grown so dull that she didn't see how the commotion started. She blinked as a shout rang out, followed by the barked orders of the guardsmen. A peasant man tried to bolt from the great hall, but the guards caught him and dragged him toward the artifact. He looked like any other serf—small, with a pockmarked face, dressed in drab clothes. However, he fought violently, nearly besting the strength of three large men.
“Let me go!” he shrieked, spittle flying from his mouth. “Let me go, or my master will destroy you all!”
King Boreas took a step forward, his expression curious, dangerous. “And am I not your master, knave?”
The peasant man went still. He stared at the king, and his lips pulled back from rotten teeth. “You will be a slave to him, a thing for him to use and break as he wishes.”
Aryn shuddered at the venom in the man's voice, but Boreas's face might have
been carved of marble. He gestured to the guards, but before they could move, the peasant man twisted out of their grasp. He spun and broke away from them—
—stumbling straight toward the artifact.
“Master!” he gasped.
His body gave a single, violent jerk. In a spray of blood and bone, a dark lump burst out of his chest and flew to the center of the stone circle. The onlookers stared. The only sound was the thud of the man's body as it fell to the floor.
The king returned to his place. “Finish the procession,” he said to the guards.
The last few castle folk hurried before the artifact, faces pale as they glanced at the crumpled body at their feet. Then, blessedly, it was over.
Boreas approached the corpse of the peasant. “Here is our would-be murderer. The artifact will now be moved to the entry hall, and any who would enter the castle must pass by it. All other entrances will be sealed. From now on, no slaves of the Pale King will be able to enter this keep.” He looked at Aryn. “Is that not well, my lady?”
Aryn tried to turn her gaze away from the body but could not. This man had been a tool of evil; surely he had plotted against the king. Yet something told her this was not the one who had slipped poison into the prince's cup.
All she said was, “It is well, Your Majesty.”
Later that afternoon, Aryn paid a visit to Teravian's chamber to see how the prince fared, and to bear the news of what had happened in the great hall.
“How is our patient?” Aryn said when Sareth opened the door.
“Get your grotty hands off of me, witch!” came the prince's voice from inside the room.
Sareth grinned. “He's feeling better.”
Aryn stepped inside as Sareth shut the door. Teravian lay in his bed, and Lirith bent over him. A struggle seemed to be in progress. Lirith was trying to pull down the covers, and the prince was steadfastly holding them up.
“You're not going to cast any more spells on me.”
“I told you, I just want to listen to your heart. I'm not casting spells.”