Areyst studied her, then nodded, as if to himself. “What about…?”
“I have at least a day,” returned Mykella. “Perhaps longer.”
“Might I ask why you chose to come?”
“Because of the Seltyr’s daughter.” To forestall his objections, she held up a hand. “The Seltyrs of Tempre have suggested that Klevytr is suited to become Minister of Highways and Rivers. Let us say that I have my doubts. Also, I don’t like having the Southern Guards tied up here for days and days.”
“Can you do something we cannot?” There was a hint of a smile in his words although his face remained serious.
“We will have to see,” she replied. “After I have something to eat and drink. Have they tried to say anything?”
“They’ve called out phrases, but none of us understood what they meant. They did hold up the girl, with one of their pistols pointed at her head.”
“How many people do they have captive in the tower?”
“It’s hard to say. Most likely between four and eight. None of Klevytr’s retainers seemed to know exactly how many people were here because they didn’t know how many came with the daughter. There are three retainers missing.” Areyst reined up before the stables, a separate building set across a courtyard from the west end of the villa. “There are rations and other food in the chamber off the kitchen.”
A guard scurried forward to take the gelding’s reins when Mykella dismounted. As she followed Areyst across the uneven stones of the courtyard, she had to admit that she was sore in places … but not excessively so.
Two women in faded brown trousers and overblouses turned to stare as the commander and the Lady-Protector entered the kitchen from the courtyard.
“The Lady-Protector needs something to eat,” began Areyst.
“Something that’s ready now. Bread and cheese … cold meat…” offered Mykella, “and something to drink.”
“Bread and cheese we have, Lady … but only a bit of cooked mutton.”
“That will be fine.”
“I’d feel … the master he might…”
“That’s fine,” Mykella repeated, “and I won’t say a word.”
Areyst moved toward a table on one side of the kitchen, where he stood at one end, his eyes fixed on her. “You’re certain that will be enough?”
“I’m sure that will be all I need,” she replied, settling gingerly into the wooden straight-backed chair at the other end of the table and unfastening but not shedding the nightsilk riding jacket.
Almost immediately, the older woman appeared with a platter on which was a small loaf of dark bread, a wedge of cheese, and several slices of mutton. Moments afterward, the other woman appeared with a beaker and a pitcher. Mykella studied all the food with her Talent but sensed nothing amiss. “Thank you.”
“Being our pleasure, Lady.”
Mykella hadn’t realized just how hungry she was until after she had eaten all three slices of mutton, most of the loaf of slightly stale dark bread, and half the generous wedge of cheese, all accompanied by something that tasted like apple juice laced ever so slightly with vinegar, yet was not cider. Even her eyesight seemed clearer when she finished.
You need to eat more regularly if you going to rely on your Talent. But hadn’t she reminded herself of that before … perhaps several times before?
By the time she and Areyst left the kitchen and began to walk along the main-floor corridor toward the east wing of the villa—and the tower—the sun had set, and the sky was fading into silver-green-purpled twilight. She could sense retainers in places, but no one actually stepped forward or looked directly at them. At the end of the east-wing corridor was a square stone arch. Behind it was narrow stone staircase leading up to a second-level entrance into the tower. Two Southern Guards with rifles flanked the archway, shielded by the stone.
“Stop behind the arch,” said Areyst. “They’ll fire at anything that goes beyond.”
“Do you have something to stick out so that they will?” she asked.
Areyst pointed to a pole leaning against the wall. The last hand’s length was blackened. “Will that do?”
“It should. When I nod, will you poke it out there?”
“I can do that, Lady.” He smiled.
Mykella concentrated on extending her shields around the pole, as close as she could, because she didn’t want the Ifrits to know what she was doing. She nodded.
Areyst extended the pole.
For several moments, nothing happened. Then the commander lifted it toward the second step. The briefest flash of bluish light flared around the tip of the pole. Following the blue flame came an exclamation from somewhere beyond the top of the steps.
Mykella could sense that her extended shields had blocked the flame, and she said, “Pull it back.”
“Are you there?” she finally called out after easing over to the edge of the archway. “What do you want?”
After several moments, another string of words followed.
Mykella listened, then frowned. She thought she understood some of the words, but it had been easier listening through the Table
“What do you want?” she called again.
“… submit … to … rightful … return … to … Alectorate…”
At least, that was what she thought she heard.
“You are outnumbered,” she pointed out.
“… not … long … you … harm us … revenge … others … when … arrive…”
That didn’t surprise her.
“What are they saying?” asked Areyst in a whisper.
“They want to be our rulers. More are coming, and we’ll suffer if we harm them.” She turned back toward the archway, and said loudly, “When will this happen?”
“… before … you … think…”
“I need a large basket of food,” Mykella said. “It would be better if it were a wide basket so that they can see what I’m carrying.”
Areyst raised his eyebrows.
“The sooner the better,” she added. “I doubt they’re feeling patient, and I don’t want to give them too much time to think about things.”
The commander gestured to the trooper on the left. “Xander … you heard the Lady. Hurry back to the kitchen and have them put together a basket of food, then bring it back here as soon as you can.”
“Yes, sir … Lady.” The freckle-faced young man gave a quick nod and stopped, handing his rifle to Areyst. “You might need this, sir, and it will only get in my way.” With that, he turned and hurried down the corridor.
“You’re going to carry it to them, aren’t you?”
“Of course. There’s a good chance they won’t shoot a girl bringing food who’s carrying no weapons.”
“Can’t we follow you?”
“It won’t do any good,” she pointed out. “If I protect anyone who comes with me, you won’t be able to shoot at them, and if you can shoot, then they’ll be able to kill you with their weapons.”
“What about you? If anything happens to you…”
Mykella shook her head. “You know how to kill them, and you know how to seal the … entrance.” She’d almost said “Table,” but she didn’t want to reveal that aspect of matters to others. Not yet. She lowered her voice. “If I can deal with these Ifrits, before others show up, I’ll have learned more, and we won’t have our forces split. Besides, if anything happens to me, just seal up the tower and post snipers.”
“What about the Seltyr’s daughter?”
Mykella smiled coolly. “If I’m killed, no one is going to care that you sacrificed some retainers and one unfortunate young woman.” It’s only if I sacrifice her and survive that everyone will be upset, not that they really care that much about a younger daughter, but they’ll do anything to discredit me.
It seemed as though a glass had passed before Xander returned with a wicker basket a good half yard across and little more than a hand deep, on which were piled several loaves of bread, cheese wedges, a small ham
, and several jars sealed with large corks and melted wax.
“Good.” Mykella took the basket, then called out, “Food … we’re bringing food.”
After waiting for several moments, she concentrated on strengthening her shields, then stepped away from the side of the archway and moved forward in the dim light from the high side windows, holding the basket before her. She stopped and waited, then took another step, waiting again before she took the third. Slowly and carefully, she made her way up the stone stairs. Finally, she stepped through the archway at the top of the steps and into a small room or foyer. To the left was another set of stone steps leading upward to the third level. The steps were against the outside wall, but there was not even a railing on the inside edge. Directly before her, against the back wall of the chamber, was a flat table. To the right was one Ifrit.
She had to look up at the Ifrit, who stood several yards away, his pistol-like weapon aimed at her. She concentrated on making out his life-thread, a purplish cable that extended, unseen, in the direction of Tempre, linked in some fashion, she expected, through the Table there. It took her a moment to locate the node that held all the threads of his being together, and from what she could tell, he possessed only light shields, if any at all.
“… one … with sense … at last…” A cruel smile creased broad features set in a pale white face beneath bluish black hair. His shimmering tunic and trousers were of a dark gray, as were his boots.
Mykella did not see the other two Ifrits, nor any of the captives. “Where are the others?”
“… they … here … up…” He pointed to the table.
She carried the basket to the table, setting it there gently, but kept her eyes and senses on the Ifrit the whole time. Then she took a step back from the table, positioning herself so she could take in both the steps and the Ifrit.
A voice called down the steps.
A set of interchanges followed between the Ifrit who watched her and the one she could not see, but who, she sensed, was at the top of the next set of steps. After a moment, she realized that both of the other Ifrits were on the next floor of the tower. The gist of the conversation was that the locals had sent a girl with food but that they had not yet acknowledged the superiority of the Alectors. Mykella kept her face impassive, revealing nothing.
After several moments, the second Ifrit appeared, walked down four or five steps of the staircase. He held something like a pistol, and it was pointed at Mykella. His eyes raked over her as if she were a piece of meat. Or one of the cattle. That was what the first one called me.
Mykella shifted her concentration from the first Ifrit to the one on the steps, seeking out with her Talent the node that held his life-threads knotted together. She felt clumsy, but the Ifrit did not seem to even note her Talent efforts until she jabbed and twisted the node apart, with life-threads spraying apart. A single short scream preceded a large body pitching off the steps.
By then Mykella had turned back to the first Ifrit.
For a moment, his eyes had darted to his falling compatriot, but they dropped to Mykella, and the pistol flared blue fire. Although the bolt of flame sheeted off her shields, a needle-knife of pain went through her shoulder, and she winced, then concentrated on the Ifrit’s node. That was made easier because he did not move, but kept flaring flame-bolts at her.
Abruptly, he collapsed, sinking more than falling onto the stone floor.
Mykella turned and hurried toward the stone steps, but had only climbed three when the third Ifrit appeared at the top of the steps. He was huge, perhaps almost three yards tall, and he came down the steps, two or three at a time, moving so fast that she could not focus on his life-thread node. Instead, she anchored her shields to the stone and waited. The blue flashes from the pair of weapons he flourished flared against Mykella’s shields. While the fire again peeled away from the shields, each flame still felt as though a knife had been thrust through her, each blast more intense than the last.
The Ifrit’s mouth opened in a snarl as he realized she was not going to move. Then he crashed into her shields and staggered back, his long legs losing their purchase and straddling her shielded legs as he rebounded back against the stone steps. In that moment, when he was relatively still, Mykella reached out with her Talent and ripped apart his life-thread node.
“The Ancients…”
Then the massive form lay still. Mykella released the link of shield to stone. For several moments, possibly longer, she found herself shivering as the residual needles of pain began to subside. Even when you stopped the fire, you couldn’t stop the pain. Is that so that their weapons work against each other?
Hoping she didn’t have to discover the answer to that question, she bent and shoved and dragged the dead Ifrit to one side of the steps before slowly trudging up to the third level of the tower. There, she could sense people behind a closed oak door. There was no lock, and she lifted the lever.
“It’s all right.” Mykella held her shields as she opened the door.
Inside, five women huddled in the corner. A tall girl—or young woman—wearing a stylish yellow and brown quilted jacket over shimmersilk trousers looked at Mykella. Her eyes widened.
“Lady-Protector?”
“I came as quickly as I could,” replied Mykella. “They’re all dead.”
“Did the guards kill them?”
Mykella paused. What do I say to that? If I say I did, it’s boasting, and I’m a terror. If I deny it, I’m lying and undercutting myself.
“You killed them? Like you did the usurper?”
Mykella nodded. “You’re Seltyr Klevytr’s daughter?”
“Yes,” admitted the tall young woman nodded. “I’m Kietyra.”
Behind them, the servitors were talking.
“They killed some of the Southern Guards…”
“… they killed Rani … and Byhylt…”
One of the women remained huddled in the corner, sobbing silently.
Mykella raised her voice. “All of you need to come with me. There aren’t any more of them. They’re all dead,” she said again, feeling that some of the servingwomen had not really heard what she said. Then she stepped out into the open area that served as both a chamber and the top landing.
“You came personally,” said Kietyra, following her.
“Yes.” Mykella wasn’t about to say exactly why. She started down the steps.
Kietyra’s eyes dropped to the giant form still sprawled on the steps, then the two on the floor below, taking in the shiny tunics and trousers. “They were Alectors, like from the old days, weren’t they?”
“Yes, but I’d appreciate it if you kept that to yourself for now.”
“Are you really an Ancient?”
Mykella laughed, if ruefully. “No, Kietyra. I was born and raised in Tempre, and I’m very much not ancient. I just have a few of the talents of my ancestor.” That was fair enough.
She stopped and picked up the pair of pistols the last Ifrit had carried, and once she was on the level that afforded access to the stairs down into the villa, she recovered the other two weapons, slipping them into the pockets in her riding jacket. Every time she bent, needles of pain went down her back. She just hoped they’d fade before long.
Kietyra said nothing about the weapons but remained close, as Mykella went to the archway at the top of the steps, and called out, “I’m bringing Kietyra and the others out. The attackers are dead.”
Not trusting that someone might fire accidentally, Mykella held her shields as she led the women down and into the east corridor of the villa.
After several moments, Areyst stepped into the archway at the bottom. Mykella could sense his relief … and the fact that it was more than just that she had taken care of the Ifrits.
“… Lady-Protector…” offered Kietyra from beside Mykella, “Thank you.”
Mykella felt embarrassed. “I did what I could.”
The young woman lowered her voice. “I can see it wasn’t that easy. It
hurts for you to move, and there are flat welts all over your face. I won’t say a word.”
“The attackers?” asked Areyst.
Mykella finished descending the narrow stairs, so close that she and Kietyra were elbow to elbow. “I left their bodies there. Moving them would have been difficult.”
“Xander!” called Areyst. “See that Lady Kietyra and her women are escorted to their quarters.”
“Yes, sir.”
Before she stepped away, Kietyra looked again at Mykella, and mouthed, “Thank you, Lady.”
Once the women were farther down the corridor, Areyst turned to Mykella. “You have bruises all across your forehead and face.” Behind his words was far more than concern, yet those feelings were as if locked away. “You need to sit down. This way…”
Is it that obvious? Mykella let him lead her to a side chamber, a sitting room of some sort that looked out on a walled garden lined with miniature trees of various kinds.
“I think I need to work on my shields.” Mykella sat down in the nearest armchair. “How many men did the Ifrits kill?”
“We’ve found ten bodies so far.”
Mykella nodded. After a moment, she said, “I need your help, Commander.”
Areyst smiled ruefully. “You need my help? After that?”
“I need to get back to Tempre, and I’m going to ask a favor. I want you and half the guards that accompanied me to ride out of here and travel a vingt or so toward Tempre. Then I want you to send that half back to Tempre with the gelding, while you and I ride north for several vingts. Then you’ll return to the villa with the spare mount. After several glasses, dispatch the remaining guards from my party, with the spare mount, and send them directly back to the Southern Guard barracks.”
“Lady…”
“Trust me. I need to get back to Tempre. You’ll see.”
Areyst concealed an exasperated sigh. “As you wish, Lady. I must say that I do not understand.”
“You will,” she promised. “We need to go.”
“We cannot do this in the way you wish. I will need to dispatch those who came with me. The men and mounts you brought, especially the mounts, need fodder and rest. I will return with them tomorrow.”
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