Valdemar Books

by Lackey, Mercedes

  Nothing. Not even a distant murmur of voices. No matter how thick the walls were, this close to the door he'd surely hear something if there was anyone out there!

  Wouldn't he?

  Carefully, he reached out to the door handle, and eased the door open a crack, his teeth clenched as he waited for the hinges to groan. That would be just my luck. But the hinges were silent, and he heard nothing, and there was no sign of a guard on the other side.

  Meanwhile, the logical part of his mind was still worrying away at the problem of who Hadanelith's co-conspirators were. This is—probably—a suite in the Palace, which means that one of Hadanelith's friends must belong to the Court. But who could it be? Unfortunately, Amberdrake had no idea who was quartered where; probably only the Chamberlain would know that. He'd been under the impression that this section of the Palace was about empty. The rooms were not very desirable; they were all too near the outer walls, and the sentries and far-off noise of the city disturbed the nights. There were only a few gardens shared among the suites here, and the entire section was a little too damp during the winter. The only people who lived here, so he'd thought, were those too lowly in status to complain about the rooms they were granted. That seemed to fit with someone of low rank, perhaps exacting revenge for being overlooked and slighted, and finding a shortcut to exalted status as well.

  But that didn't mean that someone who was quite high in status couldn't commandeer a suite or two, especially if they were empty. The conspirators' knowledge of the movements of the courtiers seemed to be that of someone familiar with the ebb and flow of the court.

  Then there was Hadanelith's assertion that one of his "friends" could take the Lion Throne, which also argued for a high status. Yet, all the King's Year-Sons were in the guard of his fellow rulers, which would make it rather difficult for one of them to be there and here at the same time.

  Unless a Year-Son is using magic to transport himself? Oh, surely that would have been noticed! Or—could he have found someone to impersonate him, and crept back here? That's even more far-fetched a notion than the use of magic to transport him. Impersonators are less reliable than magic—

  Or were they? He clenched his eyes closed as he thought about Hadanelith impersonating him, closing in on Winterhart, cutting once to the side, again, up—

  Pull yourself together, Amberdrake. Think. Think about what you have learned. Lifebonded pairs can feel each other. If she was hurt, you'd feel—

  He'd feel sick, he realized with a lurch of his stomach. What if it wasn't fear for himself that was making his hands shake so? What if this was the side effect of feeling his beloved Winterhart die, somewhere far away?

  And what if it isn't? Think, Amberdrake—alive or dead or dying, would Winterhart admire you for shaking and hiding? You have to act. No matter what happens to Winterhart or you, you have to act for the good of White Gryphon.

  Amberdrake eased the door open a little more; there was still no reaction indicating someone out in the hallway. He turned his intellect back to narrowing down or eliminate possible suspects; he had a particular suspicion of his own, and he devoutly hoped it was wrong.

  But the doubt kept recurring—could it be Palisar? It was a horrible suspicion, no matter how you looked at it. It was an unworthy suspicion, because he knew very well he would never have entertained it if Palisar hadn't been so openly hostile to the foreigners. But if the Haighlei had customs and rituals for everything, perhaps the Speaker was prohibited from hiding his true feelings, even if it would mean giving himself away to those he plotted against.

  But he kept wondering... for certainly there was no one better placed than Palisar to know everything about the movements of every courtier in the Palace. Who better to know exactly what was going on, and who better to know which courtier was vulnerable and which was not? Add to that the fact that Palisar was a priest, a trusted priest. Who better to ensure that the chosen victim was alone? If Palisar sent messages to each of the women who'd been murdered, telling them he needed to talk to them alone, wouldn't they have made sure to send every servant off on errands to obey him? He was the King's Advisor, and it might be presumed that the King had a message he wished to send discreetly. He was a priest, and it might be thought that as a priest he had something of a spiritual nature to discuss. Both of those would require absolute privacy.

  And he's a mage—there's another thing. If he's anything like our mages, he's been frantic with frustration at the way magic has been rendered unreliable. Our people have tried every way short of blood-magic to bring things back under control, and even Snowstar admitted to me that the temptation to resort to that is a great one after you've had your spells abort one too many times. What if Palisar has gotten his hands burnt too many times by the storms? What if he didn't resist that temptation to resort to blood-bought power?

  Granted, every single one of those arguments could be applied to every single priest-mage among the Haighlei, but still—Palisar disapproved of the foreigners, of change in general, and possessed everything required to be the one holding Hadanelith's leash.

  I don't know how the succession goes around here, but as a powerful Advisor, he could have some blood-ties to the King. If he has royal blood, he could see a chance at the throne he wouldn't otherwise get.

  Amberdrake touched the door again, easing it open still more. Now it was held ajar enough he could squeeze through it if he wanted to.

  I don't want to, but I don't have a choice. He shivered, and clenched his trembling fingers tightly around the iron bar he carried. Even if Skan made it to the Ceremony in time to stop Hadanelith, if Hadanelith got away somehow, things would be worse than they had been before the Ceremony. It would still look as if Amberdrake had been the one trying to kill the King.

  They're going to want to kill me on sight! The King is going to have orders out to strike first and bring back the body, and I doubt he's going to listen to anything Skan has to say!

  Not that Amberdrake could blame him, in the abstract.

  What am I doing, just standing here? I have to do something to keep the conspirators from rescuing Hadanelith. Good answer, Drake—and as soon as you magically transform into a squad of mercenaries, it will be no worry at all.

  The room began to darken visibly. The last part of the Eclipse must be starting. His time was running out; Hadanelith would strike any moment now! And what if the mages—or mage—wasn't here, but was somewhere else entirely?

  For a moment, he panicked, then logic asserted itself. Hadanelith's not predictable enough to be left unsupervised. He was gloating, so he wouldn't see a need to lie. He is insane, but he was never known to lie. He implied they were here, so they have to be here, probably scrying the Ceremony to see when to snatch their assassin back again.

  That made good sense. It also meant that he'd better do something now.

  Something physical? Against two or more people? Not a good idea. I'm not a fighter. I do know self-defense, but that isn't going to help me attack someone. What do I have left? Bluff?

  Well, why not? It couldn't hurt. It could buy time, and as soon as everything is over, Skan can send me help. While I'm bluffing them, they aren't going to be doing anything but watching me. If Skan can catch Hadanelith, the time I buy could give the King's people a chance to shield him against rescue.

  Assuming one of them isn't Palisar—He shook his head angrily, with cold fear a great lump of ice lodged just below his heart. If he kept on arguing with himself, he wouldn't get a chance to do anything! Time was slipping away, and the Eclipse wasn't going to delay for anyone or anything.

  He pushed the door open, to find himself, not in a hallway, but on the top of a set of stairs. This must be one of the corner towers of Fragrant Joy, where the "suite" was a series of rooms on a private staircase. Very handy, if one was expecting to send an accomplice out over the rooftops at night. And very convenient, if you wanted to isolate a madman in a place he'd find it hard to escape from.

  He stalked noisel
essly down the staircase as the light grew dimmer and dimmer, listening for the sound of voices. The hand holding the iron bar was beginning to go numb, he was squeezing it so hard. He passed one room without hearing anything, but halfway down to the ground floor he picked up a distant, uneven hum that might have been conversation. A few steps downward, around the turn, and he knew it was voices. A few more, and he distinctly caught the word, "Hadanelith."

  He clenched his free hand on the stair-rail, grimly, as his knees went to jelly. It was the other conspirators, all right. Two of them, just as he'd thought, from the sound of the voices. Unless there were others there who weren't speaking.

  He pushed the thought that he might be struck down the moment he crossed the threshold resolutely out of his mind. If he thought about it, he'd faint or bolt right back up the stairs again. His throat was tight, and his breath came short; every muscle in his back and neck was knotted up. Every sound was terribly loud, and his eyes felt hot. He forced himself onward. One step. Another. He reached the bottom; there were no more stairs now. He faced a hallway, with several doors along it. He knew which one he wanted, though—It was the first one; the one that was open just a crack, enough to let light from inside shine out into the hall.

  The staircase was lit by a skylight with frosted glass at the top; it grew darker and darker in the stairwell, until by the time he reached the door he wanted, it was as dark as early dusk. The voices on the other side of the door were very clear, and it was with a feeling of relief that left him light-headed that he realized neither of the two speakers was Palisar.

  It didn't sound as if there was anyone else there; he took a chance, braced himself, and kicked the door open. It crashed into the wall on the other side; hit so hard that the entire wall shook, and the two men sitting at a small, round table looked up at him with wide and startled eyes. Bluff, Drake!

  The room was well-lit by three lanterns; a smallish chamber without windows, it held the round table in the middle, some bookcases against the walls, and not much else. There were more things on the shelves than books, though he didn't have the time to identify anything. The men had something between them on the tabletop—a ceramic scrying-bowl, he thought. So his guess had been right!

  "Put your hands flat on the table, both of you!" he boomed, using his voice as he'd been taught, so long ago, to control a crowd. He hadn't used command-voice much until the journey west; now it came easily, second nature. "I am a special agent for Leyuet and the Spears of the Law! You are to surrender!"

  The two men obeyed, warily and not instantly. That was a bad sign....

  "We know everything," he continued, stepping boldly into the room. "We have Hadanelith in custody, and he is being quite cooperative. You might as well save all of us time and trouble, and do the same. We know he was working for you; we also know that he was the only one who committed those murders. Since you didn't actually commit the crimes themselves, His Serenity the Emperor might be lenient enough to grant you your lives if you show remorse and confess."

  Was that a good enough bluff? Do they believe me? They still looked shocked and a bit surprised, but the signs of both reactions were vanishing rapidly. Too rapidly.

  At that moment, the last of the light faded behind him. Hadanelith was about to strike! He had to keep their attention off that bowl and on him! Or, eliminate the bowl itself—

  Oh, gods. What do I do if they try something? He repeated himself, nearly word for word, taking another step forward every few seconds. And meanwhile, he kept straining his senses, hoping for some warning if either of them moved, hoping to have an instant or two in which to act.

  And do what?

  Skandranon felt a deep-in-the-flesh pain he hadn't felt in a decade, and it radiated out from him badly enough to make Winterhart, Silver Veil, and anyone else sensitive wince. He had been starved and dehydrated, trapped in an unforgiving position for many hours—days!—regardless of his bodily needs, and then forced to fly and fight at a moment's notice. His wingtips shivered with the strain of burning off his body's last reserves.

  I am useless now, physically—I'll be lucky to reach our quarters without collapsing. So all I have left is my mind and words.

  So he muttered about this and that while the last of the Eclipse Ceremony went on, purposely keeping his voice omnipresent. When at last it felt right, and Palisar was speaking to the assembled sea of people, the Black Gryphon caught Shalaman's attention.

  "Amberdrake freed me to save you, before freeing himself," he rumbled. "He may still be in great danger from Hadanelith's accomplices."

  Shalaman's countenance took on a new expression, one that the gryphon instinctively knew as that of the King on one of his famous Hunts. To Skandranon's amazement, he unclasped his ceremonial robes and let them fall, leaving only his loose Court robe, then snatched a spear from one of Leyuet's men. "You tell me where," Shalaman said, steely-eyed and commanding, while his personal bodyguards fell in behind him.

  The Black Gryphon nodded, then closed his eyes, reaching out with hope. :Kechara? Kechara, love—please hear me.:

  :Papa Skan!:

  The voice was there as clear as always, with only a little more than usual of the odd echo that usually accompanied fatigued Mindspeaking. :Papa! Are you having fun?:

  Skandranon couldn't resist a huge mental smile. Kechara wouldn't understand what was going on if he spent two lifetimes trying to explain it to her. What was important to her was "fun" or "not-as-much-fun."

  :Papa? Are you hurt? You feel like you have an "ow.":

  :Yes, dear heart, I got hurt a little. I'm very tired. Kechara, love, I need you to look for Amberdrake. Find Amberdrake and help him. Can you do that for me?:

  There was a pause, and then, :All right! I miss you!:

  Then Kechara was gone from his mind.

  King Shalaman straightened up and repeated himself. "You tell me where."

  Skandranon met the King's eyes and understood. It was The Haighlei Way. He opened his beak to say, "Follow me," then stopped himself. No. That was not what a King would say to another on his own ground.

  Skandranon took a deep breath, refolded his wings, and summoned his last bit of endurance. "Run beside me, King Shalaman, as you run in your great lion hunts, and I will guide you. But we must make haste."

  Amberdrake knew, as he flexed his grip on the silk rope and the bar, that his words and acting had failed him. The novelty of his speech was gone. Bluff or not, his status as just one man would catch up with him. Despite what history would show, for better or worse, now was the time for him to throw himself on fate's mercy.

  He flung the coil of rope at the table, then pulled, twisting his body sideways with all the strength he could muster.

  There was a splash and a scrape, and a moment later, a resounding thunk as the scrying-bowl struck the floor. Amberdrake continued his twist and brought the iron bar down on the bowl to shatter it into a dozen pieces.

  That was it, Drake—your one move. He came to rest on one knee, looking up at the two. But at that moment, he heard—well, it wasn't precisely a voice in his mind, and he didn't quite hear it—

  It was a sense of presence; not words, just feelings, and the aura of boundless cheer and playfulness overlaid with weariness, but bolstered by endless curiosity.

  Kechara? he thought, hard, trying to project the image of herself back to her.

  Feeling of assent. Before he could respond, she sent him a new sensation; intensified curiosity. It didn't take a genius to figure out what she was asking, either. "What are you doing?" was as clear in feelings as in words.

  He was breathless with relief—dizzy with the feeling that he was, at last, no longer alone.

  But how had she figured out how to reach him? She was using his strongest Gift, that of Empathy, to speak with him without Mindspeech! Where had she gotten that idea?

  Fear rose screaming inside him. He didn't have any way to explain what he was doing—not without words!

  Do what Skandranon w
ould do, Drake—do without words—without focused intellect—let her feel it—let her in!

  He had never, ever, lowered his barriers completely with anyone but Winterhart, for an Empath always has to fear being lost in another's emotions—but how could he ever fear little Kechara? There wasn't an unkind bone in her body! He dropped every barrier he had to her, and let her come directly into his mind, just as the light began to creep back and the Eclipse to pass off.

  He felt his body slip away from him—felt his back and arms go limp—

  One of the two men at the table slid noiselessly out of his chair and seized something from a bookcase against the wall. As the man turned, he came fully into the lamplight, making what was in his hand gruesomely plain.

  Amberdrake's stomach lurched, and he sensed Kechara recoiling as well, mimicking his reaction, though she couldn't have any idea what they were both looking at.

  It was a wand, crudely fashioned from bone. It could have been made of animal bone, but somehow Amberdrake knew that it wasn't. No, this was not just any bone, but a human bone, the large bone from the thigh. From one of the earlier victims? Probably. Probably the first. We'll never know who, I suspect. Somehow that just made it worse.

  This grisly relic must be the mage's primary power-focus, the place where he was storing all the power stolen from those Hadanelith had murdered for him, and all the people he had murdered on his own.