But the scarred soldier was faster. He sent his horse leaping over the split ground to reach Rinthella. The woman screamed and scrambled up to run, but he bent low from the saddle and threw her across his mount’s withers. Kicking violently, Rinthella fought him, but he pulled her upright and tore at her bodice, laughing all the while.
Rinthella screamed.
Frantically, Lea called on the earth spirits again. A second furrow raised the dirt, splitting open the ground and running straight at the soldier. His horse reared and plunged back, and Lea turned the furrow to follow him.
“Let her go!” she shouted.
For answer, the centruin pushed Rinthella off his horse so that she fell sprawling across the splitting ground. Her scream of agony horrified Lea, who could not stop the earth spirits in time.
“Rinthella!” she cried.
At that moment she was struck from behind, hard enough to knock her forward onto Ysandre’s neck. The frightened horse dropped his head, and she went sliding off, hitting the ground with a teeth-rattling jolt.
Half-stunned, she had no time to recover before the black warrior had dismounted and was standing over her, his red eyes blazing through his visor. He bent down and ripped the necklace from her throat. The chain cut her flesh, making it sting and bleed, but Lea was too frightened to truly register the pain.
As the necklace was taken from her, that strong connection of hers with the earth spirits, with all quai and elements of harmony, snapped, leaving only a weak vestige of what it had been. Disoriented, she sat up, intending to gain her feet and run, but the warrior was too fast for her. He scooped her up in powerful arms and flung her facedown across his horse.
She was nearly fainting. With all her might she struggled to hang on to consciousness. A strange lassitude was creeping through her body. It did not suffocate her this time, but her helplessness scared her so much she found it hard to breathe anyway.
He climbed into the saddle, his knees bumping into her as he settled himself and dug his feet into his stirrups. When he rested his hand lightly on her back, she felt an involuntary sevaisin connect them before she fought it off. Revulsion overwhelmed her. She thought for a moment that she might be sick.
“Now,” he said in satisfaction. His voice, to her surprise, was refined rather than guttural. He spoke Lingua without a trace of provincial accent. “Fomo! Sound the recall.”
Lea heard the blare of a horn. Its shrill call echoed across the valley, carrying a note that seemed to twist painfully inside Lea as though she’d been stabbed by a knife.
Wanting desperately to see how the Crimsons had fared, she pushed against the side of the horse and lifted her head and shoulders. She saw the foot soldiers stop fighting in response to the horn’s summons. They left the battle and came running across the stream, threading their way through the ruins at a fast, odd gait that to Lea’s eyes did not look entirely natural. She felt chilled and small, her fear so cold and her heart on fire. Choking back a sob, she let her head droop until the sound of shouts made her look up once more.
Those of the Crimsons still able were coming in pursuit. She squinted through the swirling snow, seeing the cavalrymen riding hard in an effort to catch the attackers. She saw their bright cloaks through the falling snow like pinpricks of hope. Courageously they were coming for her with Captain Hervan in the lead. Torn and muddied, he’d lost both cloak and plumed helmet. But he was galloping full tilt, his sword held aloft, his voice yelling war cries like a man demented.
Gratitude swelled inside her. She felt sorry now that she’d been so impatient with him, sorry that she’d wished him a thousand times back in New Imperia and flirting with someone else.
Hurry, please! she thought, wanting to shout it.
Her captor coolly held his position until his men approached and the Crimsons were closing in. The quai of death and violence crisscrossed the air, battering her senses. Whether her captor was delaying flight just to taunt the Crimsons or planning some trick, Lea did not know. She vacillated between hope of rescue and fear that she would see all the cavalrymen die before her eyes.
Thirbe, Rinthella, Fyngie…so many others slain or wounded—their shocked expressions and cries of agony played again and again through Lea’s mind. Grief threatened to overwhelm her, but she pushed it aside for anger—wild, reckless anger, and a desire for revenge.
Lea struggled to resist whatever magic her captor was using to subdue her. Drawing his boot knife, she tried to stab him in the calf, but he was too quick. His gloved hand caught her wrist, crushing it until her fingers went numb. Just as she dropped the knife, he plucked away the small weapon.
“You’ve fought enough, pretty one,” he said to her harshly. “No more trouble from you.”
She opened her mouth to defy him, but the centruin gestured for his attention.
“Now, Commander!” he rasped out in a guttural voice. “Now!”
Her captor sheathed his weapons just as his men reached him at a run. They milled around, swearing oaths if they had the breath, and brandishing their swords. Their commander raised his free hand high.
“In the emperor’s name!” Hervan bawled, galloping ahead of his men. “Let her go!”
The commander in black armor wheeled his horse around, as though intending to flee. Still holding his hand aloft, he called out three words, three terrible words that should never have been uttered again in this world. Three terrible words known to darkness, shadow, and all things evil, words that should no longer have carried power or force. He spoke them with confidence and authority, like a true believer of Beloth the shadow god.
Spikes of pain hit Lea, making her cry out. She saw a black maw of the shadow world yawning before her.
Horrified, Lea could not believe it, did not want to believe it. Without the power of Beloth, no one was supposed to be strong enough to open even the slightest door into the realm of demons. Yet her captor possessed enough power to fling the Hidden Ways wide open. Who was he? What was he? Shocked and disbelieving, she tried to twist herself to look up at him, but his magic still held her all but motionless.
“In the emperor’s name, let her go!” Hervan roared. “You will surrender!”
Without answer, the commander led his men into the shadow world. Just inside, however, he reined up and let his men stream inside ahead of him. He was muttering under his breath as though counting, and Lea felt a shudder of effort go through his body.
“Let her go!” Hervan yelled.
“Fomo.” The commander spoke quietly, but with force.
The centruin on the scarred horse wheeled his mount around, sword already swinging to meet Hervan’s reckless charge at them.
Swords clanged like a thunderclap, and the warhorses thrust hard against each other, bugling in fury of their own. Then Hervan went down, tumbling from his saddle and sprawling on the ground.
A Crimson war cry rose up. Lea saw Sergeant Taime coming at a gallop, his face blood-smeared and frantic. She saw the rest of the Crimsons shouting and spurring their horses faster. Too late, she thought, her heart clutching in despair.
Her captor laughed, low and bleak, and as the grinning centruin spurred his mount through the opening, its hooves crunching over gravel, the commander lowered his hand and spoke a word unfamiliar to Lea. It hurt her to hear it, however, hurt her with the same spikes of pain she’d felt before.
It was as though a veil closed over the world, slowly shutting out the sight of the falling snow, the disorderly halt of charging horses, and the horrified faces of the men entrusted with Lea’s safekeeping. Their shouts grew fainter and fainter, until there was only silence, and a black wall shut them from her sight.
The sense of evil lay thick around her in the darkness, and she felt as though she were drowning in it.
Then a pale, unworldly light began to glow before them, illuminating this place they’d entered. It was sickly gray, not true light, and contained nothing life-affirming or wholesome. Glowing dim and small, it left thick pools of gloom where w
ickedness could lurk unseen. It was light to see by, nothing else. No plant could take nourishment from it. No heart could take hope from it.
Lea trembled, trying hard not to lose her courage completely, and refused to cry. She told herself that she must stay strong, must regain her necklace and find a way to escape as quickly as possible.
Around her, the men were laughing and cheering, slapping each other on the back and raising clenched fists in triumph.
“Mission accomplished, eh, Commander?” the centruin said hoarsely.
“Not quite.”
Before Lea could wonder what he meant by that, her captor touched her back.
A clammy wave of weakness sucked her down. She fought it, to no avail. It was like sliding into a bottomless chasm where she heard no more, saw no more of that evil place.
“No!” she whispered, unable to scream.
Then there was only silence and the terrible dark.
Chapter 8
In New Imperia, Bronzidaec hurried along the broad loggia of the inner palace courtyard, keeping well away from the hot sunlight that could betray him, keeping so close to the shadows that his shoulder brushed the wall stones. He pattered along, hurrying, hurrying so fast he panted. His heart thudded rapidly.
Never before had he taken such a risk, not at noontime, not in bright daylight, not among so many people.
The crowds ignored him as they sauntered along in the cool shade that gave them respite from the autumn heat. Their garments fluttered briefly against his arms and face as he pushed past. Now and then, an individual would glance down at him in surprise, perhaps even swat at him in disdain. Dodging, Bronzidaec hurried on.
Even under the loggia’s shade he felt exposed. His enchanted disguise was thin at best, and he feared the sun might shine straight through him. The old palace, he thought wrathfully, had been full of crannies and deep shadows, but the new palace was filled with sunlight all day and blazed with candles at night. He loathed it here. He told himself that perhaps Master would be so pleased with his news that Master would release him.
You are a fool to believe it, he thought. A century of bondage stretched before him like an eternity.
But perhaps Master would be pleased. Master must be pleased. Bronzidaec had great hopes of being rewarded with more food and permission to sleep on a fine cushion in Master’s quarters instead of having to stay in the women’s pavilion.
But Master would not be pleased if news came to him slowly. Time to hurry, hurry, hurry.
It seemed a very long way to run along this loggia that bridged the women’s pavilion to the central portion of the palace, but at last he reached the end of it and hopped over the threshold and under the arm of a guard who glanced at him indifferently. Officials and courtiers wandered about, conversing in low voices. A pair of men in the bright hues of merchants had cornered an official, talking to him earnestly while he shook his head. Farther down the corridor stood a pair of centruins in full armor over their red tunics, their helmets tucked under their arms. The sight of them made Bronzidaec very nervous. A moment later, an elderly man wearing the emblem of praetinor appeared. He was bowed to by minor officials and ushered away with much courtesy. The centruins saluted and fell into step at his heels, and Bronzidaec felt he could breathe again as he watched them go.
Sniffing the air, he searched for Master’s scent, and found a trace of it. But just as he started off in that direction, there came the tramping of booted feet, and a tax collector strode into sight, his gaze keen and purposeful. He was followed by servants wheeling a small, stout cart stacked with leather bags of coinage, each labeled and wired shut with the Imperial Seal. A company of predlicates marched with the money, guarding it.
Hastily, Bronzidaec darted out of sight behind a marble column. He waited there until the sound of them faded away. Only then did he venture forth. No one seemed to be paying him any attention. Still, he was shaking as he forced himself onward. His small bare feet pattered across the cold stone floors as he flitted from one column to another. He skirted the huge mosaic laid in the symbol of Gault, making furtive signs of defiance as he went, and followed Master’s scent down a long corridor. At the end of it, he dashed through the chancellor’s vestibule and on into a small narrow room beyond it, where Master’s scent was strongest.
But Master was not here.
Hissing in disappointment, he peered everywhere, running to each corner to be sure. But Master was not here.
Lit by a meager window, the room held a long, stout table of wood much stained by ink and littered with parchments and fingers of sealing wax. Three clerks sat hunched at the table, busy making small black squiggles across large, pale sheets of parchment. Bronzidaec had eaten parchment once and disliked the taste of it. But the ink sent twitches of curiosity through his nostrils. Someday, he would very much like to drink some.
But not now, not today when he’d broken Master’s commands and violated every rule to come here. How, he thought angrily, was he to bring Master this important news if Master was not here to receive it? Now he had been disobedient and caused himself much trouble. And all for nothing.
Hesitating near the doorway, he hopped a little to gather his courage, then darted back to the table and stole a piece of sealing wax.
Only one clerk noticed. “Stop that! Give that back!”
Bronzidaec jumped over the threshold and got entangled in some heavy curtains lining the walls of the vestibule.
A huge shadow loomed over him, and a hand closed on his small shoulder, its grip cruel. Emitting a squeak, Bronzidaec twisted and sank his fangs into flesh.
There were few things sweeter than the taste of human blood. In that moment, Bronzidaec was flooded with great delight.
Swearing, the man released him, but by then Bronzidaec had recognized Master’s voice, inhaled Master’s scent. Horrified, he pulled himself into a small knot and went to the floor.
“Sorry! Sorry!” he whispered, so frightened by his offense that he could not truly speak.
Master yanked him bodily to his feet. “Stand up, you fool,” he muttered in an almost inaudible voice. Anger poured off him in waves, radiating against Bronzidaec, who swallowed hard. “What are you doing here?”
“Must speak. Must tell!”
Master glanced around swiftly. “This won’t do—”
“What have you there?” A portly man in a heavy robe of office came up, looking curious. “Someone’s jinja? Extraordinary.”
“Yes, it is,” Master said, glaring down at Bronzidaec fiercely. “The wretch has bitten me, too.”
“Well, don’t suck at it,” another man said sharply as Master lifted his finger to his mouth. “They have venom, you know.”
“Nonsense,” the portly man said, chuckling. “Saeyd, you have a head of leather and wits of wool, believing an old wives’ tale like that. Best have the bite seen to, Jafeen, just the same. It can grow sore if neglected.”
“I shall,” Master said. Ignoring Bronzidaec, he bowed to the other men and exited the vestibule.
Shooed out by a servant, Bronzidaec licked his fangs and followed Master’s scent to a dim corner away from the tall windows. Behind a plinth supporting a stone bust, he found a servant’s door standing ajar. Skittishly he slid behind it.
Grateful to be enfolded in the gloom, he bumped into Master’s bulk, and Master closed the door, plunging them into complete darkness. But Bronzidaec could see in the darkness, much better than he saw in daylight. He sighed happily.
It was a small, cramped space, a landing of sorts with steps leading down inside the thick palace walls.
“You fool!” Master said very softly. “How dare you seek me out, and at this time of day, when the place is full of every—”
“Master, forgive, forgive!” Bronzidaec said hurriedly, driven to interrupt.
Master’s hand swung at him, and Bronzidaec was so rattled that he ducked.
A moment of ominous silence fell over them. “You dare avoid my punishment? You da
re—”
“Please listen!” Bronzidaec said, desperate to tell. “I bring news.”
Master lowered his hand. “Say it, then, and be quick while I think of how best to flay your miserable hide.”
Bronzidaec gulped, but dared not plead for mercy. “I bring news of the lady empress—”
“I know the empress isn’t going to Gialta. All our plans and waiting are for nothing. The creature will not leave her husband’s side. Bah!” He kicked Bronzidaec. “You bring me nothing but aggravation.”
“Wait, Master.” Bronzidaec rubbed his aching side. “I have other news. Useful! Useful! The Lady Lea has been taken captive.”
“What?”
Groveling on the floor, Bronzidaec dared reach out and grip Master’s ankle. “True.”
“Are you sure? There’s been no news of this at court.”
“Very sure, Master.”
Master pulled away. “What do I care about her? We wanted the empress, not—”
“There are many ways to achieve the same objective, Master, yes?”
Master kicked him much harder this time, knocking him into the wall. “When I want an imbecile’s opinion I’ll ask for it. This is useless!”
“But, Master—”
“Get back to the women’s pavilion and stay there. And next time wait until I send for you.”
Bronzidaec pressed his hot face to the gritty floor. “Yes, Master,” he whispered.
“It’s the empress you’re to watch. Do you understand? The empress and no one else! How many times must I repeat this to you?”
“But—”
“Shut up! Never do this again!”
With another kick, Master whisked himself through the hidden door and left Bronzidaec seething in the darkness, rubbing his sore spots. To console himself, he ate the sealing wax. He did not like it when Master was angry with him, but now he was angry with Master. Master had not listened. Master blamed him for news he did not want. Master did not want the opportunity Bronzidaec had brought him at such risk. No one else in the palace knew about Lady Lea. Master should have been pleased to hear such news first. Master, Bronzidaec thought resentfully, was not a very good spy.
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