He sighed noisily, wondering if he should summon a Sister Hospitaler and request a sleeping draft, then dismissed the notion in favor of a small cup of evshan that he sipped as he cogitated, thoughts drifting at random through his troubled mind. Had Chadyn Hymet not fallen victim to that tainted wine matters would be less unsettled. Could that have been planned? No, surely not, for had not Hattim and most of his court fallen victim, saved only by the fortunate presence of Sister Thera? That was an unworthy suspicion! Yet Yrla, in whose judgment and cognitive abilities he had much faith, had spoken disturbingly of a pattern, albeit one she did not clearly perceive. Yet he could not grant credence to her tentative suspicion that Ashar worked somehow through Hattim, for that must surely have required the presence of the Messenger—if, in the first place, one allowed the blasphemous possibility that Hattim had sold his soul—and there was no sign of Ashar’s minion. He had discussed the subject at length with Yrla and Bethany, and the Paramount Sister had expressed her own doubts so eloquently that even Yrla had admitted her suspicions might find their source in maternal concern for Kedryn and Wynett.
He drank more evshan as the one thought gave way to another, this of more personal concern. Did Wynett live? Or did she lie with Kedryn beneath the tumbled wreckage of the Fedyn Pass?
And if she lived, what was her relationship to the Prince of Tamur? That love burgeoned he had seen, as had all who saw them together. Yet Wynett had always possessed a strength of character greater than her sister’s, pursuing her dream of service to the Lady despite all his blandishments, all his reminders of her place and heritage, so perhaps she would—did she live still—refuse the calling of her heart for continuance of the more abstract love. But if not . . . ? He raised the cup again, thinking that if not, then likely Wynett and Kedryn would emerge from the Beltrevan lovers, to marry. And as the elder sister, Wynett’s claim would supersede Ashrivelle’s, rendering Kedryn heir to the White Palace. He sighed afresh, aware that he dallied with ifs and mayhaps while the real problem lay in the marriage chamber of Hattim Sethiyan on the level below, but nonetheless unable to prevent himself reviewing those tempting alternatives. If Wynett and Kedryn lived, and if their unspoken love had come to fruition; if they emerged safely from the Beltrevan, and if they wed; then Hattim, with no slight or insult to claim, must relinquish his ambition and carry Ashrivelle back to Ust-Galich where, Dan- hoped, they would live happily, leaving Wynett and Kedryn to possess the White Palace in due course, and doubtless rule more wisely.
There were too many ifs, too many mayhaps. There was no news and it seemed Hattim must eventually come to the throne. Consequently the more immediate problem was the selection of his successor and Dan’s mind turned again to that; with as little success as before. Weary now, his stomach tight with the weight of food eaten at the banquet, he emptied the cup and snuffed the candle, composing himself for sleep.
Outside, the wind had started up again, rustling about the towers of the palace, rattling shutters and sighing in chimneys. Dan listened to it, remembering that once it had seemed a restful sound, a reminder that he slept snug, secure in the heart of the peaceful Kingdoms. Now it seemed an omen, a threat of lurking discontent, as if some gusty beast prowled the land, its very breath sowing the seeds of malcontent. He shivered despite the warmth still imparted by the glowing hearth and drew the covers higher about his ears.
Then pushed them down as he heard a faint sound from the antechamber. He listened for a moment, then shook his head, telling himself he was childish. Did Palace Guards not stand sentry at his door? And servants sleep beyond? And who would offer him harm, here in the heart of the White Palace? He drew the covers up again, willing himself to sleep.
And heard the door open, the hinges soft on oiled bolts, dim light showing briefly the shape that entered.
“Who is it?” He sat up, the covers falling from his chest. “Who are you?”
No answer came from the figure that glided across the room, but in the red glow of the hearthfire he saw blue robes, brown hair drawn back from a face not quite pretty.
“Sister Thera? I did not summon you.”
“No,” said a voice that hissed far colder than the north wind, “but we have business, you and I.”
Darr stared, hair prickling on his neck, cold dread chilling his very soul, for that voice could not have issued from the slight frame of the Sister who now stood beside him, her lips stretched wide in a smile that was a snarl of feral satisfaction. His mouth was suddenly dry, although cold sweat burst upon his brow and chest as he stared aghast into eyes that glowed red as the coals limning the figure, their intensity sapping his strength, his will.
“What are you?” he choked, the words coming slow and thick around a tongue that seemed to fill his mouth as if swollen with the mortal dread he felt.
“Do you not know me?”
The question held a terrible finality, terminal as the bite of gravedigger’s spade in earth, and as its sibilance still rang in his ears Darr knew the answer, knew that Yrla had been right, knew that an awful pattern unfolded, too late, before him. He opened his mouth to shout, to summon guards, but that rubescent gaze flowered, burning brighter, stilling the words unspoken in his throat.
“I am Taws,” said the creature. “You know me as the Messenger. I am come to do my master’s work.”
Darr stared, his eyes trapped by that horrendous glare, hearing the triumph in the declaration, the gloating tone in the voice that had no right to issue from the lips of a Sister.
“So weak, so foolish.” A hand stroked the king’s face and he groaned at the obscenity of its touch, the hypnotic carmine eyes robbing him of will as the mage savored the moment. “There are none can aid you, Darr. No guards will come, nor Kyrie’s bitches. We are alone, you and I.”
“How?” Darr managed to gasp.
“How?” Taws chuckled, the sound dry as long-dead, grating bones. “Easily. Into High Fort with those weakling turncoats who gave up my master’s work and from them to the one who would accept me. One of your own then, Ashar’s now.”
“Hattim!” Darr moaned, cursing himself even in the depths of his terror for failing to recognize the veracity of Yrla’s insight.
“Aye, Hattim Sethiyan,” the mage confirmed. “A useful puppet; a soul ready for the plucking. And now Hattim Sethiyan is your daughter’s husband and will soon be king—for you will soon be dead.”
“You,” Darr said slowly, forcing the words out through the numbing lassitude that gripped him, “shall . . . not . . . win.”
“How can I not?” Taws chuckled exultantly. “The future king is mine. Mine and through me my master’s. He is Ashar’s creature now, Darr, and soon all the Kingdoms shall belong to Ashar. ”
“No!” Darr husked. “Kedryn . . .”
A hand clamped about his jaws, covering his mouth, the face that was no longer quite that of Sister Thera but something else, something infinitely older, infinitely evil, leaning closer to gust breath that smelled rank with innate wickedness into his nostrils.
“Can do nothing! Be he the Chosen One or not, he is lost now. Dawn shall see Hattim Sethiyan on the throne and my master’s enemies in chains, pawns in my game. If Kedryn lives I shall have him for a plaything, for a little while. And your daughter, Darr! Shall I have her, too? Or shall I give her to Hattim? Shall he enjoy a harem, his claims redoubled by the subservience of both your daughters?”
Darr’s eyes started from his head as horror filled him and he struggled uselessly against the supernatural strength of the mage’s grip. He could not break it and after a while his writhing subsided.
“There is nothing you can do,” Taws leered. “You are lost.”
“The Lady,” Darr mumbled against the restraining hand. “The Lady ...”
“Can do nothing,” said Taws. “Her day is over and Ashar’s night begins. Such a long night it shall be, Darr, with my master supreme over all the Kingdoms. Such a night as this petty world of yours has never known, with your death to ma
rk its twilight.”
The hand left Darr’s mouth then, but all he was able to utter was a single, rasping moan of despair, for Taws gripped his shoulders and forced him back against the pillows as the distorted face of Sister Thera descended, the lips parted, the visage of a succubus filling the king’s final moments of life. He felt that ghastly mouth touch his and in the instant of his dying screamed out to the Lady to forgive him, and to save his soul. Then a swirling redness clouded his eyes and there was nothing.
Taws drank deep, luxuriating in the stolen essence that tasted so fine after so long an abstinence, relishing the moment of triumph, feeling Darr’s spirit strengthen him. He rose slowly from the bed, leaving behind a husk, drained, more than life taken, and crossed leisurely to the door.
In the antechamber servants slept a deep and dreamless slumber, beyond them, in the corridor outside, the guards, still upright, sightless eyes staring at the shadows that flickered about the candle sconces. Taws passed them unseen, moving silently toward the stairs that descended to the lower level where Hattim Sethiyan consummated his marriage.
The mage went unnoticed down the stairs, the red glow fading from his eyes until they were again the green that belonged to Sister Thera. He entered his own chamber and piled fresh logs on the fire, standing close to the flames as he contemplated the furor that must erupt when servants went to rouse their king and found him dead. Before then—though only the chosen should know it—Hattim would be ready, the most loyal of his officers already in the palace, prepared to support their lord in his immediate assumption of the throne.
Nothing, Taws thought, could now stand in his way. Not the Sisters, or Tamur, or Kesh, not Kedryn Caitin; nothing.
Bedyr and Yrla were roused from slumber by the clamor that seemed to fill the corridors of the White Palace. They heard feet pounding beyond their chamber and the shouting of servants, the answering cries of guardsmen, weeping women and grieving men. They rose swiftly, Bedyr delaying only long enough to don shirt and breeks and boots, buckling his swordbelt about his waist as he hurried to the door, accompanied by Yrla, who had merely thrown a robe over her night attire.
All was confusion and Bedyr caught a sergeant by the arm, forcing the man to halt as he demanded what was amiss.
“The king is dead!” the sergeant gasped. “May the Lady preserve us, Lord Bedyr—King Darr is dead!”
Without further ado Bedyr took his wife’s hand and began to run toward the royal chambers, thrusting servants and soldiery aside, his features grim as they raced up the wide stairway and hurried along the swarming corridor.
A crowd was bunched tight about the doors of the king’s quarters, held back by guardsmen, their faces pale with shock beneath the beaks of their helmets. Bedyr shouldered a way through and was granted entry to an antechamber only slightly less populated with nobles and Sisters and soldiers and servants. At the bedroom door two stem-featured officers stood with drawn swords, hesitating before permitting Bedyr and Yrla to enter, closing the door behind them on the babble that filled the outer room.
Inside, a grim calm barely contained the grief and anger of the figures grouped about Darr’s bed. Sister Bethany was there, leaning over the supine form of the monarch, Corradon on the far side, his homely features drawn tense, his left hand clenching rhythmically on the hilt of his sword, Jarl, his chest bare beneath a black robe, his long hair uncombed, at the foot. He turned as they entered, his eyes narrow with suspicion.
“Darr is dead,” he said harshly. “Murdered in his sleep.”
Bedyr looked past him to the corpse. Darr was stretched back on his pillows, his body possessed of that slackness, that total absence of muscular tension that announces death. His face was gray, his mouth gaping wide, his eyes staring sightlessly, no light in them.
“Murdered?” Visions of chaos, of war, roared in Bedyr’s mind. “How do you know?”
“How else?” Jarl grated. “He was not sick, he was not old, but he is dead. This is Sethiyan’s work.”
“Guard your words.” Bedyr set a hand on the older man’s arm, his voice urgent. “It is early yet to level accusations.”
“Who else?” snapped Jarl. “Who else benefits from this?”
“What killed him?”
Bedyr addressed the question to Sister Bethany, stepping past Jarl to come close to the bed, gazing down at the face of his friend with anguish filling him, a desire to weep moistening his eyes even as he steeled himself, knowing that the stability of the Kingdoms must rest tremulously on her verdict, on the events of the next few hours.
“I am not sure,” answered the Sister, her voice careful, held in control by the disciplines of her training. “His heart has burst, but . . .”
She touched the widespread lips, indicating their pallor, the blueing of the surrounding flesh. Bedyr clamped his teeth tight on the nausea that welled as he saw the swollen, blackened tongue that protruded there.
“But?”
“I cannot be sure. I think . . .”
The Sister turned brown eyes in which tears welled to the Lord of Tamur, confusion and disbelief in her voice. “I think I sense magic.”
“The pattern!” It was Yrla who spoke, her voice thick with grief and tinged with fear. “It is as I thought.”
“Yrla!” Bedyr turned to face his wife. “Be sure of what you say. ”
Yrla nodded, dabbing at her eyes with the sleeve of her robe. “Do you not see it now, Bethany? Hattim Sethiyan is now king.”
“Not while I live!” Jarl roared. “Not by means so foul.”
“Be still,” Bedyr ordered, motioning the Keshi to silence. “Hattim will be here in a moment—do we accuse him? Risk war?”
Jarl glared at him, turned to Corradon: “When the murderer appears, arrest him.”
“My Lord?” Corradon stared in confusion, transferring his gaze to Bedyr.
“No!” Bedyr shook his head. “We must be sure of this. Yrla, you say this proves the pattern you sensed—how so?”
“Is it not a . . .” she hesitated to use the word, “. . . natural conclusion? Hattim swept Ashrivelle off her feet to become heir. Chadyn Hymet died most conveniently, leaving Hattim in command of the Galichian forces. Now poor Darr is dead and Hattim has rightful claim to the High Throne. Is that not a pattern?” “How say you?” Bedyr asked Bethany.
“There is logic in it,” the white-haired Sister said slowly, “but it assumes Ashar’s hand, or rather that of his Messenger.”
“If you are right,” Bedyr stared at his wife, a fearful awe widening his eyes, “then the Messenger is in the White Palace and Hattim Sethiyan has sold his soul.”
Yrla nodded tearfully.
“I do not believe Darr died of natural causes,” said Bethany into the silence that followed, “and whilst I do believe I sense the taint of magic here, it might still be poison.”
“Poison or magic,” Jarl rasped, angry, “what matter? It was Hattim’s work and he must be brought to justice. If the Messenger works with him, then we must hunt down the foul creature and slay him, too.”
“Only Kedryn may do that,” said Yrla softly, “and Kedryn is not here.”
The commotion beyond the door grew louder and Bedyr said quickly, “If these suspicions are correct then we face a most formidable adversary. Say nothing—yet—to Hattim or any other. We must meet as soon as we may to talk of this and decide our battle plan. Do you understand, Corradon? Do you agree, Jarl?”
The captain nodded, the Lord of Kesh grunted furiously and said, “Very well.”
The door opened then to admit Hattim and Ashrivelle, both disheveled, llie princess saw her father and threw herself, wailing, upon the bed. Yrla and Bethany moved to comfort her, Hattim stared at the dead king and turned to his fellow lords.
“What has happened here?”
Jarl made a sound like a snarl, deep in his throat, and Bedyr cast a cautionary glance in his direction.
“The king is dead, Hattim.”
“How?”
Bedyr studied the Galichian’s face, trying to read the expression there, seeing eyes that widened, a mouth that slackened, wondering if the shock those movements suggested was genuine or if Hattim was merely an excellent actor. “We are not yet certain,” he said.
“Sister Bethany?” Hattim looked to the blue-robed woman as Bedyr tried to judge the tone of his voice. “What is your prognosis?”
“A burst heart,” the Sister replied, one arm about Ashrivelle’s shoulders. “Perhaps magic.”
“Magic?” Disbelief rang in the word. “How magic? What do you say?”
“I am not sure yet,” Bethany answered. “I require more time. There are touchstones to employ before I may be sure. ”
Bedyr glanced at her, angry that she had let this slip, then dubious at Hattim’s response.
“Touchstones?” said the Galichian. “You would subject our late king’s remains to such indignity?”
“Our king is dead and we would uncover the cause.” Jarl’s voice was cold as unsheathed steel, his dark eyes burning as he glowered at the blond-haired southerner. “Would you seek to obscure such revelation, Sethiyan?”
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