Casket of Souls

by Lynn Flewelling

  “Alec, young Selin here tells me that you’re a good man with a bow,” said the duke.

  “He can shoot the eye out of a woodcock at a hundred paces in the dark,” Malthus told him.

  “That’s a bit of an exaggeration,” Alec demurred.

  Reltheus clapped him on the shoulder. “And modest, too. That’s a good trait in a young man. I must have the two of you out to my estate for the hunting. You do hunt, don’t you, Seregil?”

  “Not well, though not for lack of Alec trying to teach me.”

  “And sadly, he’s not just being modest,” Alec put in with a grin.

  For the next hour Seregil and Alec took turns telling altered tales and outright lies for the amusement of their companions, and the duke called them both “friend” before the night was over and renewed his invitation to come with him to the duchess’s salon as he and the other visitors took their leave.

  Seregil and Alec lingered behind in Eirual’s room.

  Eirual yawned behind her hand. “Pardon me, it’s been a long day.”

  “We’ll leave in a moment,” Seregil told her. “But first—”

  She gave him a knowing smile. “You want to know more about Duke Reltheus?”

  “He’s a new acquaintance, and he interests me.”

  “Well, he likes my girl Hyli, and has had more mistresses than you have teeth. But you already heard the best bit of gossip tonight. Reltheus means to marry his son Danos off to Princess Elani.”

  “Who are Reltheus’s friends?”

  “Oh, Earl Stenmir, of course, and Count Tolin. Those are the ones I’ve seen him here with.”

  “I understood he is friends with Marquis Kyrin, as well,” Seregil prompted.

  “Perhaps, but from what I’ve heard of the marquis, he doesn’t frequent brothels, or gambling houses, either. Rather boring fellow, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I would, indeed.”

  “Why this sudden interest in Reltheus?” she asked.

  “I like to know who I’m gambling against.” Seregil rose and kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you, my friend.”

  “It’s very late,” Eirual noted with a mischievous smile. “You could both sleep here tonight.” She patted the bed to either side. “There’s plenty of room.”

  “But if we stayed, we might not get any sleep at all, and we have a busy day tomorrow,” Seregil teased back. “Another time.”

  As he and Alec came down the sweeping staircase overlooking the salon, Seregil grinned as he caught sight of Atre, together with Count Tolin and a few other young lords, lounging with a cluster of courtesans. Atre appeared to be the center of attention, as always.

  “My, my,” Seregil murmured. “He’s certainly making inroads with the nobility.”

  “Not only them,” Alec muttered, and to Seregil’s surprise, he sounded piqued.

  He glanced back and realized that the courtesan Atre appeared to be paying homage to was Myrhichia.

  Just then the actor noticed them and waved. Seregil smiled and waved back. Alec didn’t.

  Outside Alec avoided Seregil’s questioning look. Myrhichia could choose whomever she wanted; he wasn’t even sure why it bothered him so much, except perhaps because he knew Atre.

  “Alec?”

  “That was a good night’s work, wasn’t it?” Alec strode off through the crowd of late-night revelers toward the ornate archway that marked the entrance to the Street of Lights.

  “Yes,” said Seregil, catching up and linking his arm through Alec’s. “Kyrin interests me greatly. Why would a roisterer like Reltheus have such a reticent man for a friend?”

  Alec shrugged. “Reltheus seemed to be sounding us out about Klia.”

  “Yes, and clumsily, too. He certainly takes an interest in the royal family.”

  “If he’s really so interested in Klia, I wonder if he sees her as a threat?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” Seregil murmured. “Something has Reltheus’s attention, and Kyrin’s. My guess is that they think all of us on that list are potential members of a rival cabal. And just because we don’t know about it doesn’t mean there isn’t one.”

  Atre had designs on Myrhichia from the start, but Alec’s unmistakable look of dismay across the room made it all the more delicious a challenge. Were the young man and the whore more than friends? It seemed unlikely given all he had heard and seen of him with Seregil, but clearly Alec felt some warmth toward her. Why else that sour look as he locked eyes with Atre?

  He made room for himself on the couch beside Myrhichia, took her graceful, bejeweled hand in his and raised it to his lips. Looking up at her through his thick lashes, he murmured, “You are lovelier than silvery moonlight on the face of the sea. Your beauty makes me tremble like a green boy.”

  Rather than blushing, as most women did under the influence of his charm, the girl tapped his arm with her fan and laughed. “And you are as charming as the smitten swain you played the other night, dear man. I think he said something of the sort to lovely Aphinia. You are my favorite actor, and playwright, this season!”

  “It’s women like you who are my inspiration,” Atre purred. “Your wit, your charm, the delicacy of your demeanor.” He raised his wine cup to her and announced to their circle of admirers, “I shall include a beautiful courtesan in my next production. When you see her, know she is but my pale effort at homage to the beautiful Myrhichia.”

  The others clapped and laughed approvingly. Myrhichia gave him a twinkling smile as she pulled a handsome golden pin set with a citrine from her dark hair and presented it to him. “Such gallantry deserves better reward, but perhaps this will do until I view the completed effort.”

  Atre tucked it behind his ear like a flower and kissed her hand again. “You are too kind.”

  The evening went on in that vein, flirtatious and witty, but after a time Atre began to get the distinct impression that she was politely putting him off. The more he continued to woo her, the more she spread her favors among the other young bloods. Atre continued to smile, tamping down his resentment. He’d have had any other woman—noble or whore—upstairs by now. It was becoming a matter of pride.

  At last the others drifted away with their own conquests of the evening. Myrhichia was hiding yawns behind her fan.

  Atre pressed Myrhichia’s hand to his heart and gave her his most ardent look. “You’ve won my heart. Don’t break it so quickly.”

  “Break your heart? Why would I do such a thing, Master Atre?”

  “The hour grows late and I fear you’ll want me to leave you. Please, my shining star, don’t send me away.”

  The woman’s smile faltered at that. “Oh, dear Master Atre …”

  “What’s wrong, lovely one?”

  She took his hand in both of hers. “I’m so sorry. I thought your friends would have told you.”

  A little speck of coldness flared under Atre’s heart, but still he kept up his attentive mask. “Told me what?”

  She paused meaningfully, skillful as any actress. “I’m so flattered by your attentions tonight. You’re such a delightful man. But I don’t—entertain actors.”

  “Ah.” He gave her a look of fondest regret. “My apologies for discomforting you.”

  “I’m so sorry!” She sounded quite sincere.

  “Think nothing of it. The pleasure of your company is delight enough.” He took the citrine pin from behind his ear. “Perhaps I should return this to its rightful owner?”

  “Oh, please keep it,” she said, folding his fingers around it. “As a token of my regard, and for all the pleasure you’ve given me onstage, and tonight. I hope you’ll visit again.”

  “Of course I shall!” He rose and kissed her hand one last time. “Know that you occupy a very special place in my heart, broken though it may be.”

  KLIA and her forces had spent the last two days pushing half a troop of Plenimaran infantry—two squadrons of which were marines—out of a wood twenty miles east of the Folcwine. It was their second major v
ictory in the past three weeks and as bloody as it had been, they’d given worse than they’d gotten. In the process they’d cleared the enemy out of a small Mycenian town, and the grateful villagers had brought Klia a dozen pigs and some beer. For the first time in weeks her riders had a taste of fresh meat, if not very much of it.

  It was nearly midnight but reports kept streaming in to Klia as officer after officer appeared at the front of her tent with news of successes and losses. She found herself stifling yawns and at last she allowed Myrhini to announce that she would hear the rest of the reports tomorrow.

  “You’re asleep on your feet,” Myrhini chided as she helped her friend out of her filthy tabard and hung her fine chain-mail hauberk on its rack.

  Klia pushed through the flap at the back of the tent, pulled off her boots, and collapsed on the narrow cot in her breeches and sweat-stained shirt, utterly exhausted.

  Myrhini chuckled. “Sleep well, my friend. You’ve earned it.”

  She lit the night lamp and pulled a blanket over Klia, then went out to her own cot at the front of the tent.

  Tired as she was, Klia didn’t sleep well. Her dreams were filled with the clash of battle and the screams of the dying. Perhaps that saved her life; the moment she felt a hand grasp her shoulder she grabbed the dagger from under her pillow and threw herself off the bed. The night lamp was out, the little room in darkness.

  “Myrhini!” she shouted as hands found her again in the darkness. She struggled, twisting in their unseen grasp, but they held her fast and sudden pain shot through her arms, hands, and right hip.

  She heard Myrhini’s outraged shout and the hands released her. She dropped to the ground and crawled toward her sword rack. Torchlight flared suddenly, illuminating Myrhini lashing out at three men, a fourth writhing in pain underfoot. More riders came crowding in, but before they could kill or apprehend the assassins, the invaders brought something to their lips and fell down as if stricken by magic.

  Klia sprang to her feet, glaring at the others. “How in Bilairy’s name did they get in here? Where are my guards?”

  “Dead, Commander,” one of her rescuers told her. “They’re lying out front with their throats cut. Bastards killed them before they came after you.”

  “Why wouldn’t they have killed me, too?” asked Myrhini as she began checking Klia’s wounds. The men had been armed with daggers, and between the darkness and her struggling they had only managed to inflict superficial wounds.

  “I—I don’t feel well,” Klia said, pressing a hand over her eyes. Suddenly she felt light-headed and nauseated.

  “Hertas, fetch the healer!” Myrhini ordered, righting the overturned cot and helping Klia to lie down.

  “I’m all right,” Klia said, looking at the cut on her arm.

  “It’s not deep, but it’s bleeding.” Myrhini staunched it with the corner of Klia’s blanket, then turned on the others. “Quit your staring and raise the alarm. If there are any other assassins sneaking around, I want them captured. Alive!”

  “Thanks.” Klia winced as Myrhini insisted on looking at the stab wound on her hip.

  “Bastard must have been going for your belly.”

  Klia looked past Myrhini to the dead men littering her room, which was beginning to spin. They wore Plenimaran uniforms. “Looks like we missed a few. They must have been carrying poison in case they got caught. I think—” Her tongue felt thick and she tasted something bitter. “I’m poisoned, too.”

  “If you are, it’s something different, or you’d be as dead as they are,” the other woman growled. “This wound is deeper and bleeding badly. You’re lucky as Sakor that it wasn’t a few inches to the left, or it would have been in your guts.”

  Klia couldn’t help a shudder; gut wounds were some of the worst, and generally ended in a lingering, painful death. But perhaps the poison— It was becoming difficult to form coherent thoughts.

  The last thing she heard was Aden the drysian shouting for hot water. Coldness crept over her, but she could feel Myrhini’s hand warm and sure around hers.

  Klia came around in daylight, sick, achy, and very surprised to be alive. Myrhini was still beside her cot, watching her intently.

  “How long?” Klia tried to ask, but her throat felt swollen and her mouth tasted bitter. Her head was splitting. “Water—”

  “Aden left this for you.”

  Myrhini held Klia’s head up and helped her sip from a cup. The infusion smelled of herbs and minerals, and tasted mildly sweet. She managed a few sips, then gagged it up again.

  “You have to keep it down,” Myrhini told her calmly. “Aden did what he could with magic, but he said you need this to fight any remaining poison. It’s a good thing you bled the way you did, too. Apparently because most of the wounds were shallow, the bleeding washed out the poison, or at least the worst of it. The stab wound to your hip was the worst.”

  Klia flexed her leg and grimaced. “He didn’t have to cut anything out or off, did he?”

  Myrhini chuckled. “No. Here, have some more.”

  “Bilairy’s Balls,” Klia groaned, then doggedly accepted a few more sips. After a few moments of lying absolutely still with her eyes closed, the awful feeling in her stomach began to subside, though her head hurt so bad she was seeing flashing lights behind her eyes. “How did they get past the guards?”

  “And me?” Myrhini sighed. “They killed the guards, then opened the seam at the back of your room with some kind of acid.

  “No sound. Who was on guard?”

  “Two of Danos’s people: Saura and Melkian. I have Captain Beka and her Urghazi on guard around your tent now. Klia, I’m so sorry—”

  Klia waved aside the apology. “Not your fault. The killers knew what they were doing. What do we know about them?”

  “Just that they were soldiers, and must have been specially tasked with your assassination once they escaped from the battle yesterday. They wouldn’t have been carrying poison and acid by chance. Who was giving the orders is a mystery. The survivors of the battle must have regrouped and chosen a leader. I doubt there are enough of them to stage a major attack, but I have the perimeter under full guard.”

  “Well done. I suppose I’d better get a report off to Phoria. You’ll have to write it for me, though. I can’t see straight yet.”

  Myrhini brought Aden’s cup to her lips again. “Drink.”

  Klia drank and the pain and nausea retreated a bit more, enough for her to send Myrhini to her clothes chest for the leather bag containing the small painted wands Thero had supplied her with before she’d left Rhíminee in the spring.

  “I’ll leave you to it, then,” her friend said, and went out to the map room to compose the report.

  Klia pressed the wand to her lips, then broke it, releasing the message sphere spell infused into it. A blue point of light hovered over one broken end. “Thero, I must speak with you,” she said softly, then touched the sphere and sent it speeding off to the south. It was the nature of the simple but powerful spell to find the recipient, wherever he or she happened to be.

  A tingle of magic woke Thero. A message sphere was floating over his face; there was only one person he’d given any message sticks to recently. Heart tripping a beat, he touched it and heard Klia’s whispered message.

  He threw a robe on over his nightshirt and went to the wardrobe, where he pushed aside the neatly hung robes and took a small marble box from a shelf at the back. It was a solid piece of stone until he spoke the command word and the seam under the lid appeared. Removing it, he took out a fine linen handkerchief spotted with dried blood—her blood. Klia had pricked her finger with a dagger and made the talisman for him in Aurënen, when he was recalled to Skala before she was. Blood magic was frowned upon at best by the Orëska, but it was part of the heritage passed down to him through Nysander. With this he could do a sighting, find Klia anywhere, anytime. It was a privilege he was careful not to abuse. Holding the handkerchief between his palms, he invoked the window spell
, opening a portal between them over the long miles that allowed them to see and speak to each other.

  Nothing in her brief message had prepared him for the state he found her in. A blanket was pulled up to her chest, but her shirt was off, leaving her in only her breast band, bare arms on top of the blanket. Even in candlelight he could see how pale she was, and the bandages on her hands and arms; defensive wounds. Her padded glove was off, and her maimed hand rested on her chest, a reminder of the poisoned needle that had nearly cost her not only her hand but her life. No scar, though, no matter how severe, could ever make her less beautiful in his eyes.

  “By the Light, Klia, what’s happened?” he exclaimed softly.

  She managed a wan smile. “Two days of fighting without a scratch, then tonight assassins attacked me in my own bed.”

  “But how?”

  She waved the question aside with obvious weariness. “I don’t have the energy to talk for long. They were Plenimarans, and came after me with poisoned knives. The drysian and Myrhini saved me.”

  “You look ill.”

  “I am, but it’s passing.”

  “What can I do?”

  Klia closed her eyes for a moment and licked her dry lips. “Not a thing, except to bear witness, I suppose. I just—I just wanted you to know. Silly, I suppose, but …”

  Her words sped his already pounding heart. There were so many things he wanted to say to her, but as usual the words jammed somewhere in the region of his heart. All he managed was, “I’m so glad you told me. I wish there was something more I could do for you. I could come there.”

  “No, my friend, that’s not necessary, and might raise a few too many questions, since you’ve no business here.” She paused and shook her head slightly. “I wish you could, though.”

  Every fiber of the wizard’s being ached to brush aside her warning and cast the translocation that would take him to her side.

  “I want you to take word of this to Korathan, and tell him I’m fine.”

  “Fine? All those bandages—”

  “Minor wounds, Thero. It was dark when they attacked and I didn’t make it easy for them.”