Valdemar Books

by Lackey, Mercedes

  His head protested every move with throbs of pain, reminding him sharply of why it had been a very stupid idea to go rushing off to Skan's rescue without additional help. As if he needed reminding.

  "I suppose you rushed off to my rescue without any additional help, right?" Skan said with resignation. "Of course—everyone was being prepared for the Ceremony, but you're supposed to be mad and guarding yourself in the persona of Hawkwind, so you were excused as Amberdrake and Hawkwind both."

  "So that's where the extra Kaled'a'in came from!" said a delighted voice. "I wondered. There were ten new bodies from White Gryphon, but eleven new bodies parading about!"

  Amberdrake looked up at the grinning madman in the doorway, and his stomach turned over again, sending sour bile into the back of his throat. "Hadanelith," he said tonelessly, his head echoing painfully. "I won't say it's a pleasure to see you again. I suppose you've come to gloat? That's trite enough to be in your style."

  Hadanelith strolled over to Amberdrake in a leisurely fashion, and stood just out of range of a kick, frowning down at him. "You know, Amberdrake, you should never have dyed your hair. It's just not a good look for you."

  Amberdrake raised an eyebrow at Hadanelith, and his battered mind finally took in the lunatic's costume. He blinked, certain he was seeing things. Why would Hadanelith be wearing a copy of one of Amberdrake's formal outfits?

  "At least you've gotten some sense of fashion," he replied, his mind searching frantically for some guess at what the madman was about to do. His stomach lurched again, and his skin crawled. He'd seen Hadanelith's handiwork....

  "Oh, this little thing?" Hadanelith smoothed down the beaded placket at the neck of his tunic. "It's part of the plan, you see."

  "Which you are going to tell us in excruciating detail," Skan moaned, as if he at least was not the slightest bit afraid of Hadanelith's plans, as if being bored was the worst of all possible tortures. "Oh spare us, will you? Good gods, does every half-baked villain have to boast about what he's going to do before he does it? Can't you just kill us so we don't have to endure your boring speech?"

  Hadanelith turned to glare at the gryphon, and crossed his arms angrily over his chest. "Yes I do 'have to boast about it.' I want you to know how and why and the means. I want you to know everything, because there isn't anything you can do to stop it all, and I want you to lie there in agony because you're both helpless."

  Skan groaned, but it was the groan of someone who was in dread of having to endure an after-dinner speech, not someone in fear of death. "You haven't come up with anything new, you know," he complained. "Whatever you think you've invented, some other idiot has tried before you. And Ma'ar was better and more imaginative at gloating than you. Trust me, I know."

  Amberdrake clenched his muscles to keep from trembling; he knew exactly what the gryphon was up to, and he feigned an equal boredom as Hadanelith turned his back to the gryphon, his spine straight with indignation. Listen to what he says, pretend to be interested, and he'll shut up. Tell him to get lost and take his little speech elsewhere, and he'll babble like a brook.

  "You and all your friends are finished, kestra'chern," Hadanelith spat, turning back to Amberdrake.

  Amberdrake yawned stiffly. His lip split and bled a little more. "Yes?" he replied indifferently. "And?"

  Hadanelith's face grew red with rage. "You think you're all so clever," he snarled, flecks of spittle forming at the corners of his mouth. "You think you have everything taken care of. But you hadn't planned on magic, had you? We have magic, magic that works, blood-magic from those foolish women, and a few slaves and scum we took off the streets. We have magic enough to overcome anything; even if a mage-storm came right this moment, we have power enough to push through whatever we want."

  Oh, gods. That explains everything. Amberdrake went very, very cold, and struggled not to show it. That was indeed one of the things no one had counted on—that someone was using the power of blood-born magic to push through spells that no longer worked in ordinary circumstances. He began to shake.

  "We have a little surprise planned for the Eclipse Ceremony," Hadanelith continued, smiling now. "My friends here have a job they want me to do. Now normally, I wouldn't handle a job like this, but we're such good friends I thought I'd do them the favor." He raised an eyebrow archly. "Don't you want to know what it is?"

  "Find the mind you lost?" Skan suggested. "Or could it be the virility you misplaced?"

  Hadanelith flushed again, and ground his teeth together with rage. Amberdrake was fascinated, despite his screaming nerves. He'd never actually seen anyone grind his teeth with rage before. It was something you could actually hear—and all this time he'd thought it was just a cliche. "We are going to kill the King," Hadanelith got out from between his clenched jaws. "Publicly. At the height of the Ceremony."

  He got himself back under control again, with a speed that would have been impressive if he hadn't been insane. He smiled sweetly at Amberdrake, a smile that struck the kestra'chern like a blow and stopped even his shivering. "And as a little present to you, dear Amberdrake," he said in a caressing tone, "we are going to kill Winterhart as well."

  Amberdrake felt his face and body freezing into stone, along with his mind. His vision misted, and there was a roaring in his ears.

  Hadanelith saw his reaction, and his smile widened. "My friends have more than enough power to whisk me away as soon as I finish the job," he continued with satisfaction. "Everyone will blame you Kaled'a'in, of course. The Black Gryphon will be proclaimed a coward and traitor to his own people, since he disappeared before the King's disposal. One of my friends has positioned himself to take advantage of all this, since the King hasn't yet declared an heir. He'll see to it that the rest of your contingent is rounded up and executed, and that war is declared on White Gryphon. At the end of it all, he'll be the great hero, and they'll probably demand that he take the Lion Throne before he can even claim it himself."

  Amberdrake closed his eyes, fighting off a faint. Winterhart—oh, gods—He had to think, had to keep Hadanelith talking so he could get the time to think.

  "Why should the Kaled'a'in take the blame?" he asked thickly, opening his eyes again. "The Haighlei aren't fools, you know—they don't think all Outlanders look alike! You aren't going to fool them by dressing up in one of my outfits."

  "Oh, my very dear Amberdrake," Hadanelith said with a laugh that sent chills down his spine. "My dear, dear kestra'chern! They won't see me when they see the murderer!"

  His features blurred, and for a moment Amberdrake wondered frantically if the blow to his head had done something to his eyes as well. But nothing else was blurring, and in a moment, Hadanelith's face sharpened into focus again.

  Except that now it wasn't Hadanelith's face. It was a face Amberdrake knew only too well, for he looked at it in mirrors several times every day. It was the face that Winterhart knew as her own beloved's.

  "You see?" said Hadanelith. "These people so abhor magic that they'll never dream someone might be wearing an illusion! That is the gift I have given these people—my originality. They would never have thought of this. They won't see me when they see a Kaled'a'in murdering their King and his Consort-To-Be. They'll see you."

  He laughed—or rather, giggled—a high-pitched whining sound that set Amberdrake even further on edge. I'd have banished him for that laugh alone, he thought irrelevantly.

  "And the last thing, the very last thing that your dear, faithless lady will see," Hadanelith continued gleefully, "is her former lover gutting her with a smile on his face. No one will doubt that you are completely capable of killing her and her betrothed; you made that perfectly clear with your dramatic scene in front of the entire Court."

  With a sickening wrench, Amberdrake realized that he himself had set the pattern for all of this. And it wasn't the King that Hadanelith wanted—it was Winterhart. He was murdering the King because that was the only way he could get at Winterhart.

  "She should have bee
n mine," Hadanelith said softly, as if he didn't realize that he was speaking aloud. Amberdrake sensed the depth of obsession there, and shuddered. How long had Hadanelith been like this? How long had he wanted Winterhart? He must have known he could never have her!

  All those women back at White Gryphon—they were in Winterhart's pattern. Lean, elegant, strong-willed until he broke their will—why didn't I see that before?

  "If I cannot have her for my own, then I shall make sure no one else has a chance to carve her into another image," Hadanelith whispered, confirming what Amberdrake had been thinking. Then he shook himself, and looked down at Amberdrake again with that odd, foam-flecked smile.

  "A gut-stroke, I think," he said meditatively. "In at the navel, to the left, and up. She will linger quite agonizingly, but not long enough for a Healer to get to her in time to save her. Treasure that image in your mind, Amberdrake. Hold it until I come back. Then Skandranon and I will play some charming little games, until I decide whether I'm going to teach you some of my arts, or let you go."

  "Let me go?" Amberdrake said, blinking stupidly, struggling against the multiple blows to his soul.

  "Of course!" Hadanelith giggled again. "Why not? No one would ever believe you, and it would be such a major help to my friends if they were the ones to 'capture' you and bring you to justice! I understand that Haighlei executions are terribly entertaining."

  As Amberdrake stared at him, Hadanelith raised his right hand and wiggled the fingers at him in a childish gesture of leavetaking. "Fare, but not well, dear Amberdrake."

  Amberdrake expected him to walk out of the room in a normal fashion, but evidently that was not dramatic enough for him. He pirouetted in place—stepped to one side—and vanished.

  "Kechara has all of this," Skan said hoarsely as soon as he disappeared. "That's why I wasn't talking much. She's relaying it to the others now."

  Which was, of course, one thing that Hadanelith hadn't counted on.

  "The problem is that everyone except Winterhart is too far back in the crowd to do any good," Skan continued desperately. "And Winterhart isn't a Mindspeaker, so they can't warn her. They've decked Aubri out with a ceremonial drape that's strapped down over his wings—he can't fly—"

  "Never mind," Amberdrake said fiercely, as he willed his muscles to relax here and contract down hard there, and wriggled carefully in place. Got to get the strap around my elbows down first—His muscles protested sharply as he tried to squeeze his elbows together even tighter. Got to get some slack in the ropes—"There's something else Hadanelith forgot—"

  They were silk ropes, very impressive to look at and very strong, but also very slick. If you knew what you were doing, silk was the worst of all possible bindings, though the most ostentatious.

  The elbow ties dropped past the joints. Now he could ease them further down.

  By squirming and shaking, he managed to inch the bindings around his elbows down to his wrists.

  Thank the gods he didn't tether the elbow bindings to the back of the collar. Inexperienced binders work along the spine only, without thinking diagonally. The way he bound me, it looks nice, but isn't very hard to get out of—something a real kestra'chern would know.

  He curled over backward until he got his wrists passed under his buttocks, then curled over forward and passed his legs through the arch of his arms. A moment later, he had his wrists in front of him and was untying the bindings on them with his teeth.

  "I'm—a kestra'chern—Skan," he said, around the mouthful of slick cord. "A real—kestra'chern. I've probably—forgotten—more about knots—and restraints—than that impostor—ever learned. There!"

  The cords fell away from his wrists, and the ones that had held his elbows followed them. He unfastened the collar—which was looped through but not even locked!—and crawled over to Skandranon. He could get his legs free later. Now it was important to get Skandranon out of here and into the air!

  Skan's restraints were artistic, but not particularly clever or difficult to undo, either. "Dilettante!" he muttered, as he untied more silk cords and undid buckles. He had to mutter, to keep the fear at bay a little longer, or else it would paralyze him. "Rank amateur!"

  Damn knots! Damn Hadanelith! Damn all these people to the coldest hells! I swear, if I had a knife—if Winterhart—oh, gods, if Winterhart—Knife—Winterhart—

  He blinked, and shook his head as the light took on a thin quality. "Is it me, or is the light fading—"

  "It's not you," Skan said, his own voice rasping and frantic. "It's the Eclipse! That idiot Hadanelith has to be dramatic, he would never strike at any time but the height of the Eclipse! Hurry!"

  "I'm hurrying," Amberdrake snarled, doubtful if the red haze he saw was due to the Eclipse. "I'm hurrying!"

  Shalaman stood tall and proud beneath his heavy weight of fine ceremonial robes, and surveyed his people.

  They were gathered below him in a vast sea of faces, as many as could fit into the largest open section of Palace grounds. The Palace gates had been opened today to the public, as they were only opened on the most important of ceremonial occasions, and citizens of the city had been lined up for days to enter, squeezed in together on the other side of a barrier of guards, to view the Eclipse Ceremony with the Court. They were jammed together so tightly that none of them could move. The sheer numbers were overwhelming. Colors warred with each other, and the glare of sunlight on jewelry threw rainbow-hued flashes up into his eyes at unpredictable moments.

  The heat down there must have been unbearable, but no one complained or showed any sign of it. This was the Eclipse Ceremony, and time for changes, and no one here wanted to miss a single word.

  They were all silent, as his people seldom were. It was entirely possible to hear birds singing evening songs above the faint murmur of breathing and whispers. The light had been thinning for some time now—triggering the birds to go into their sunset melodies—and although it could not be said that the air was getting colder, the sunlight on his skin burned less with every passing moment.

  To his right stood Winterhart, and to his left his three Advisors; otherwise, he was alone on the platform of three steps raising up above the level of the crowd. In his mind, he was alone, for he and he alone could make the decision about the people of White Gryphon. He was the King; they would listen. They loved him; they knew his loyalty to their interests.

  He turned his troubled attention, though not his eyes, on the pale-skinned people from the north. They stood in a group, held away from the platform by an intervening phalanx of his personal bodyguards. He had not wanted to show them any particular favor until he had made up his mind.

  He had to recalculate everything he had planned last night. All along, although he had permitted them to remain in doubt, he had planned to bring them into the "changes to come" portion of the ceremony, whether or not the actual murderers were found in time. It would have been better if they had been, of course, but that wasn't strictly necessary. Any words spoken by a Truthsayer during the latter half of the Ceremony had special import, and only today Shalaman had decided to call upon Leyuet to impart publicly all he had learned from the minds of Amberdrake and Winterhart. Having a Bound Couple in the Court would bring special blessings from the gods, and having Leyuet declare Amberdrake's innocence at that point in the Ceremony would give his words all the force of the Gods' Voices.

  But he would need the Gryphon King to do that, to speak for his friend—and the Gryphon King was not in evidence. Amberdrake could not be there to speak for himself—officially, he was supposedly mad, and the mad were specifically excluded from the Ceremony.

  Without either of the two principals, there was nothing he could do about the settlement and the people in it, not with murder charges hanging over them and no one to receive Leyuet's blessing and declaration of innocence.

  He'd sent his men for the kestra'chern a few moments ago anyway, out of pure desperation. The priests wouldn't like the fact that Amberdrake hadn't been cleansed,
but that was too bad. If Leyuet declared him sane, his presence wouldn't taint the Ceremony, and once that innocence was made public, the White Gryphon folk could be made allies. But his men weren't back yet, either, and he had taken up as much time with prayer and chanting as he could.

  The one thing he could not delay was the Eclipse itself, and it was about to move into its final phase.

  He looked down at the image of the sun's face, cleverly duplicated in the middle of a square of shadow at his feet. The shadow itself was cast by a thin plate of stone with a round hole in it, which allowed a single round beam of light to shine directly in front of the King. What happened to that round dot of sunlight was replicated in the heavens above, and there was a substantial bite in the circle, a bite of darkness that was visibly increasing. Out there in the gardens, the beams of light that filtered through the tree branches to fall on the ground also had bites of shadow taken out of them, forming dapples of crescents, and those who were wise were watching them instead of squinting up impotently at the sun-disk itself.

  Still no sign of the Gryphon King or of Amberdrake.

  This must be as the gods have willed it; we have certainly tried for another solution. With a heavy heart, he raised the staff of his office high over his head and began to intone the Words of Change.

  And at that precise moment, as if the gesture had called him there, Amberdrake appeared on the second step of the platform out of thin air.

  Shalaman stared at him, mouth agape. What—the men must have found him—the priests must have built him a magical Portal and sent him directly here so that he would be in time! He felt giddy with relief. Things were going to be fine after all.

  But in the next instant, his relief turned to confusion.