by Giles Carwyn
Krellis chuckled. “Doesn’t everyone?”
She crossed the room, laid a slender hand on his arm. He glanced down at it, then back at her. “If he is here, I need to speak with him, please.”
“To what end?”
“I can get him out of the city. I will take you as well, if need be.”
He walked past her. “I must tell you, Ossamyr, seeing you here in my rooms has caught me completely unprepared. That you are here for Brophy confounds me. The woman I remember would smile and whisper sweet nothings as she slit her young lover’s throat. I do not know how to treat with you. Tell me you aren’t in love.”
“Does it matter?” she asked.
“I’m sure it would matter to Brophy. He thinks you betrayed him. The Kher, Scythe, said you ripped his heart out and made him eat it.”
Her gaze dropped to the floor.
“And this bothers you?” Krellis said. “What is a betrayal among lovers and families? Betrayal is as common as scorpions in Physendria.”
“And in Ohndarien?”
He frowned. “And here I was having such a fine time talking with you. Brophy is not here. Even if he was, I would not tell you where.”
Her fire diminished. She nodded. “I understand.” She flipped her cowl up again. “Thank you.”
She turned to go, and he grabbed her arm.
“I never trusted you,” he said through his teeth. “And Brophy was a fool to fall into your trap, but I have to say, I never thought you would betray your husband.”
Half of her face was covered by the wet cowl. “It runs in the family.” She tried to yank her arm from his grip, but he wouldn’t let her go.
“But since you are here, and I have so graciously answered your question, perhaps you could answer one of mine.”
Her eyes searched his. Her breathing came even faster. “You may ask.”
“Could you tell me, perhaps, if Phandir is currently within the city walls?”
She hesitated. His hand tightened on her arm.
“Why?” she asked.
“If I knew where he was, I could eliminate him. He has sent enough assassins after my head over the years. I would like to return the favor, but I would come personally.”
She relaxed. Another surprise. If this was one of Phandir’s ploys, she was playing her part flawlessly.
“What makes you think I would tell you such a thing?” She raised one of her thin, dark eyebrows, yanked her arm again. This time he let her go. That was the Ossamyr he remembered.
“You are here tonight, serving the cause of true love.”
“Mock me and I will leave.”
“Try to leave and I will have you whipped.”
Her eyes narrowed, and she smiled a thin smile. “You would like that, wouldn’t you?”
“I’ve dreamed of it since I can remember.”
“I had whips in my room, and yet you never came to me.” She pushed her cowl back again, shook out her short black hair.
“I valued my throat the way it was.”
“Such a timid boy.”
“Where is Phandir?”
“He is in the city.”
“Where?”
“Assassinating the King of Physendria is not as easy as you make it sound.”
“And easier than you might guess.” Krellis’s mind began piecing the plan together even as he spoke. “I think you want him dead.”
“You seem to think many things.”
“You’ve shared his bed for twelve years. You must hate him.”
“And if I did?”
“I heard that Brophy took a stab at Phandir before they threw him in the Wet Cells. Could it be that you engineered that?” Krellis shook his head. “In front of the whole of Physendria. And then you yanked the rug from underneath his feet.”
Ossamyr’s smile became stiff.
“But not on purpose,” Krellis guessed. “Did Phandir catch you? Did you trade your life for Brophy’s?” He paused, seeing it all on her face. “And so you gave your toy to the king, but it stung this time, did it?”
“Krellis…” she warned, her smile gone.
He held his hand up. “No matter.”
“What makes you think you can succeed where Brophy failed?”
Krellis laughed. “He’s a fifteen-year-old boy. I have had years to plot my brother’s demise. We can have it tonight, if you tell me where he is.”
“How?”
“Imagine if you will, this pleasant scene.” Krellis strode across the room, taking his time. “Fifteen Physendrian guards drag me before his royal majesty. They caught me trying to escape the walls. Think of how Phandir’s face would light with joy seeing me on my knees, nose bloodied, face red. Think of that gloating smile. We all know how he loves to gloat.”
“A fine plan,” she said. “Shall I truss you and beat you now?”
“And imagine his face when the Physendrian guards throw off their helmets and cloaks and reveal themselves to be my fifteen Zelani.”
Her brow wrinkled. “We heard Victeris was dead.”
“You heard right. Victeris did not graduate them. His successor did. We have fifteen. They could strip the minds of the elite guard in seconds. They’d be fighting each other for an hour before they realized their king was dead. In that time I could break my dear brother’s neck with my bare hands. Or slit his gizzard. We both know that Phandir was never much of a swordsman.”
“I see,” she said.
Krellis suppressed a smile. He had her. He could see the sparkle in her eye. “All I need to know is where he is.”
“And then what?”
“We begin the game. How many of his officers would support me if I took the crown?”
She paused. “More than you might think. Many would flock to you. Most, if I supported your cause.”
“And will you?”
She nodded.
“I would give you Physen,” he said. “I will rule the kingdom from Ohndarien, but you could govern Physen.”
“I want nothing,” she said. “Except to see Phandir’s plans in ruins, especially now at the moment of his triumph.”
Krellis moved closer. He could smell her breath. Mint leaves, just as he remembered. “What did he do to you?” he asked quietly.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“If it did, I certainly would not tell you.”
He shrugged. “No matter. I will save my city. You will have your revenge. Then the only question left to answer is whether we can trust each other.”
“I don’t trust you. I trust your ambition,” Ossamyr said.
“A wise bet. That still leaves your ambition. Why would you hand the crown to me instead of taking it for yourself?”
“I don’t want it.”
“I don’t believe you.”
She smiled, though her eyes remained cold. “You should. I’m not doing this for you. I’m not doing it for myself. I’m doing it for Brophy.”
19
BROPHY AND MEDEW bobbed in the ocean at the base of the Windmill Wall. The rain pelted the water all around. Lewlem’s wife remained utterly calm. It was almost unsettling. She floated in the raging seas, stoically turning the handle.
“One mistake and we are dead!” Brophy shouted over the roar of the storm. “We must to do this together. If I lose my grip on you, I’ll drown.”
Brophy glared at the marble wall above him. It rose so high its top disappeared into the falling rain. The water lift was in there, the huge screw constantly turned, catching pockets of seawater and spiraling them upward at a diagonal slant until they spilled into a holding tank at the top of the wall. Brophy and Trent almost rode the lifts once. They had even come this far before, bobbing in this same spot. In the end, they decided against it, swam back to the gate, and drank themselves silly.
The trick was actually getting into the screw without drowning. Brophy had seen drawings in old tomes written by Master Coelho. As the water screw turned, a pocket of a
ir and water would be lifted from one spiral of the wooden corkscrew to the next. Once inside, they would be raised higher and higher until they were spit out on the top of the wall. It was so large that a human being’s weight was nothing.
Finding the entrance of the immense screw would be perilous. If the scoop came around and cracked you on the head, it would grind you up like sausage. The lift spun relentlessly, slave to the windmills above. They would have to time it perfectly and hope that nothing interrupted Medew’s turning of the handle.
“It’ll be moving fast,” Brophy warned. “Stay close.” She nodded, saying nothing. Her mouth was set in a tight line. The tiny Ohohhim woman balked at nothing. Not the burden of the baby, of breathing water, nor swimming down blind into a huge, turning screw.
They dove. He felt the water churning at the mouth of the lift. The scoop swept past them. The revolution was quick tonight with the wind of the storm. Battered by the turbulence, they moved close to the opening. In the darkness, Brophy couldn’t see the edge of the scoop as it came around again. He could only hear it and hope they were in the right place.
Medew’s hand clenched tight to his shirt. The water sucked them forward as the scoop came around again. Brophy grabbed her arm and swam as hard as he could.
They slipped through the gap and collided with a thread of the screw. It spun him around in the darkness. Polished wood slid underneath them and they tumbled as it revolved around them. The water sloshed and slowly settled. Brophy struggled to the surface and raked his claws against the screw, growling.
He couldn’t see Medew, but he heard her cough and sputter. The warbling tune of the music box surfaced with her, and the endless grinding of the screw echoed in the tight space. They swam constantly in the sloshing pool, trying to stay away from the edges of the screw. Brophy kept a clenched fist on Medew’s sling.
“We’ll be out of here soon,” he shouted, his voice nearly lost amid the scrapes and groans as the screw made its revolutions, ever turning. The lift took them up and up until they spilled along a narrow trough and dropped into the holding tank.
The rain continued to fall, splashing all about them, and they kept low in the water. He drew the Sword of Autumn underneath the surface. If they were walking into a fight, he was ready for it.
Brophy pulled himself out of the water and crouched on the ramparts, squinting against the rain. There wasn’t a guard in sight.
“It’s clear,” he hissed at Medew. “Hurry.”
The woman hooked her foot over the edge of the wall and levered herself out of the pool. The water slowly drained from the box and the tinkling music returned.
“Where are the soldiers?” Medew asked.
“I don’t know. The Physendrians should have posted guards on the wall.” Brophy wiped the water from his face and continued down the walk.
He kicked something and looked down. It was a hand, still gripping a sword. A trail of blood smeared the rain-soaked stones where the wrist had been severed. Brophy crouched next to it. He had a sudden urge to taste the blood, but he suppressed it.
“Come on,” Brophy said. “We have to hurry.”
They found the nearest access stairway and raced down the steps into the city streets. Brophy led Medew to an old warehouse at the base of the ridge. They clung to the shadows of the wall as a trio of soldiers ran by. Brophy recognized the Serpent helmets even through the haze of rain. A low growl rumbled in Brophy’s throat, and he stepped out of the shadows toward their retreating backs.
Medew’s hand touched his arm, and he spun about. His fist clenched tight on the pommel of his sword, but she gazed into his eyes unafraid. With one slender finger, she pointed to the black tendrils on his forearm.
“We must hurry,” she whispered.
Brophy shook his head. Clenching his teeth, he mastered himself. “Fine,” he whispered hoarsely.
He spun and led the way. They crept along the wall and ducked through an unlocked door. The warehouse was mostly empty, and Brophy headed for a narrow staircase leading down into the cellar. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs and turned to face a blank wall.
Brophy had never been into the depths of the Heart, but Baelandra had told him about three secret entrances. One of them led from this warehouse near the Citadel. Only the life of the Heartstone could activate the secret doors, but Brophy had a piece. With this shortcut, they could bypass the entire Physendrian army. They would be in the Heart in minutes. He grabbed the heartstone from around the baby’s neck and pressed it against a little divot in the wall.
Nothing happened.
Brophy scraped his pointed fingernails down the stone. “The bitch lied!” he snarled.
“It’s all right,” Medew whispered. “Try again.”
Brophy growled, turning to the tiny woman. He imagined ripping her rib cage open, exposing the beating heart beneath.
Mother Lewlem returned his fiery gaze, calmly cranking the music box. Brophy glanced at the baby’s feet dangling from the sling. The corruption had reached all the way to her toes. He snarled and wrenched his eyes away, gripping the Sword of Autumn with both hands.
Breathing hard, Brophy took a hand off his sword and turned the pendant over, pressing it against the wall once more. He concentrated on the stone, willing it to respond. The call of the Heartstone was weak in the back of his mind, like a whisper in a storm. He concentrated on that faint call until it grew louder and louder. Rock ground against rock and a line appeared in the wall. Brophy roared, clenching his claws. With a guttural laugh, he threw the door open and ran down a dust-covered stairway. Medew followed, and they descended into the darkness below the city.
Running his claws along the wall, Brophy found a sconce and withdrew a torch wrapped in oilskin.
“There’s nothing to stop us now,” he panted. “I’ll light a torch, and we’ll be there in a few minutes.”
After a moment’s fumbling, he found the flint that had been left on a shelf below the sconce. A few strikes against the stone wall, and a spark flew to the pitch-soaked wood, but it did not light.
He tried again. Another spark fell on the wood, but did not catch. Medew crept a few feet past him into the darkness.
“Dammit,” he hissed. Brophy scraped the flint against the wall over and over. Faster and faster he bashed flint against stone. A shower of sparks fell on the torch, but would not catch.
Brophy roared and smashed the flint against the wall. It shattered in his hand, slicing it open. He screamed, punched the wall. He threw the torch into the darkness, then grabbed the sconce and yanked on it, cursing and screaming until it ripped out of the wall.
His guttural voice echoed in the narrow hallway. He barely heard the sound of running feet and snapped to his senses.
That bitch was running! That bitch was running away with the baby!
Brophy charged into the darkness, following the sound of the retreating music box, following the faint glow of the stolen Sword of Winter.
“Give me the child,” he roared. “She’s mine! Mine!”
20
SHARA STOOD in the rain staring into the night. Brophy was out there somewhere, fighting the battle of his life, and she was stuck here for the sake of diplomacy.
Her powers returned steadily after Mother Medew took the child from her. She could easily compel the Ohohhim to let her go. But she had made a promise to Brophy. She would not use her magic against an ally, a friend, no matter the cost.
The Ohohhim had done everything she asked. She had no right to expect anything more, but it still ripped her in half to be so far from Brophy when he needed her most.
Lightning flashed, and Shara saw a small figure shuffling across the deck.
She walked aft and met Father Lewlem near the mast.
“You have suffered long enough, daughter of my heart,” he said. “My men have prepared a boat for you. The need for separation is over. Go, find the man you love.”
“What do you mean?” A thrill ran through her, but it was fol
lowed by the cold prickle of suspicion. “I thought you wanted me as insurance for Brophy’s return.”
The old man shook his head. The rain had washed the powder off his face and his wrinkles stood out in sharp contrast to his pale skin. “Keeping you here was the only honorable way for you give up the child. And your sword.”
“My sword?” Suddenly, it all made sense.
“She’s going to kill him! Medew’s going to kill Brophy as soon as they get inside the city!”
Lewlem held up his hands. “No, no. Only if she has to. Only if absolutely necessary.”
“And who is she to judge that,” Shara shouted.
Lewlem lowered his eyes and shook his head. His long wet hair hung in his face. “Your friend is very far gone. I saw the way he looked at the child the last few days. If he were to lose his fight with the corruption, the sword my wife carries is the only thing that can stop him.”
Shara bit back her anger.
“If you had gone with Brophy,” the ambassador insisted, “you would never have swung that sword. You have neither the skill nor the desire to land that blow. Even if it meant losing the child.”
Shara willed away the image of Brophy snapping the infant’s neck.
“Perhaps you are right,” she admitted, her anger replaced by a sinking dread.
“Sometimes wisdom is a terrible burden,” Lewlem admitted. “I hope your Brophy can continue to follow the sleeve of Oh through the darkness, but I could not take that chance.”
He motioned toward the back of the ship. “Come, the boat is waiting. Lend our cause what help you can.”
21
BROPHY LUMBERED through the darkness snarling and wheezing, dragging his sword along the ground behind him.
“I’ll find you…” he mumbled, “I’ll find you, you bitch, and I’ll rip you open.”
That witch with the painted face was gone. Gone! Disappeared into the black and twisting tunnels. He’d never find her in this maze of endless passages.
“I’ll taste your blood…” he rasped. The tip of the Sword of Autumn made a ringing scrape along the tunnel floor.