Wigg and Jessamay came to stand before them. Tristan and Celeste went slowly to their knees. They closed their eyes.
Reaching out, Wigg placed an ancient hand atop each of their heads. For several moments quiet reigned, the only sounds the rustling of the trees and the soft calls of the night creatures.
In quiet, measured tones, Wigg began to recite the ceremony.
CHAPTER XLIX
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WHEN THE PAIR OF PATROLLING WARRIORS FIRST HEARD THE laughter, they thought little of it. With so much activity in the royal residence these days, all manner of noise had become commonplace. The distant laughter waxed and waned, but as the Minions continued down the corridor, it grew louder. The two warriors stopped and looked at each other.
“Do you hear that?” Oleg asked.
Nodding, Justus quickly held up one hand. He turned his head, trying to determine where the laughter was coming from, but with all of the traffic in the hall, he couldn’t tell. Finally he indicated that they should walk on.
As they went farther, the laughter grew even louder, and its timbre changed from lighthearted to delirious. The warriors realized that something was very wrong. Then the screaming began.
Drawing their dreggans, the warriors started to run. Following the frantic screams as best they could, they eventually skidded to a stop before the door to one of the many personal chambers. From inside came the sounds of breaking glass, and for a few moments the screaming became much worse. Then they heard a series of soft thuds, and things went eerily quiet.
Without hesitation, Justus kicked the door. After another kick, the sturdy Eutracian oak gave way and the door banged open. Dreggans held high, the warriors rushed into the room.
The Minions were no strangers to death, but they were unprepared for the sight that greeted them. After making a quick search of the adjoining rooms, they sheathed their weapons.
“Go find Abbey and Adrian,” Justus ordered. “And have a guard detail posted outside the door. Be quick about it!” With an obedient click of his boot heels, Oleg hurried away.
Sighing, Justus shook his head. He crossed the room, parted the drapes, and opened the windows. The sunshine only accentuated the ghastliness of the scene.
ALONE IN HER CHAMBERS, ABBEY POKED HER fork at her breakfast of spotted quail eggs. Shawna had cooked them just the way she liked—slow-fried in a generous portion of fatback. The accompanying hog loin strips and dark gingerwheat toast all looked delicious, but she couldn’t bring herself to eat any of it.
Exchanging her fork for a teacup, she took a sip of the dark, rather bitter brew. She had made the nerveweed tea herself, hoping it would calm her. The cup was still warm in her palms, and the tea felt good going down.
Deciding to abandon her breakfast for good, she stood and walked to her dressing table at the other side of the room. The image reflected in the mirror showed how tired she was from worry and lack of sleep. Sitting down, she picked up her brush and began absentmindedly running it through her hair.
She feared for everyone who had left the palace, but Faegan’s group concerned her the most. They had been away far too long. Given the large number of warriors involved, they should have made short work of the Valrenkians and returned home by now. With each passing moment her worry increased.
With so many members of the Conclave gone, she knew it would be up to her to come to the aid of the crippled wizard and his warriors. In one hour, she was to meet with Adrian in the Conclave chambers. Abbey had an idea, but she would need Adrian’s help to carry it out.
When she heard the insistent banging on her door, near panic gripped her. Dropping her brush to the table, she shot to her feet and whirled around.
“Enter!”
The door opened to reveal a Minion warrior. His chest was heaving.
“What is it?” she demanded.
Still trying to catch his breath, the warrior made a quick explanation. Abbey immediately tore from the room, and the two of them ran pellmell down the corridor.
When they reached the chamber, the doorway was ringed with guards. Brushing them aside, Abbey rushed in.
Sister Adrian was already there. Her face was pale and drawn. Vivian and the warrior Justus stood beside her. No one spoke as Abbey took in the grisly scene.
Lionel the Little was dead. He was naked and blood still dripped from his body. A crude hangman’s noose had been fashioned from his bedsheets and looped tightly around his neck; the other end was firmly tied to one of the room’s chandeliers. Several tipped-over chairs lay near his dangling feet. Abbey realized that he would have needed them all—one stacked atop the next—to have reached the chandelier.
His neck was clearly broken, and his swollen, discolored tongue protruded grotesquely from between his teeth. The bedsheets creaked softly; the breeze coming through the open windows slowly turned his compact body in circles.
In one hand, the gnome still clutched the jagged neck of a broken wine bottle. Wounds on his torso suggested that he had used it to try to disembowel himself.
Justus stepped forward. “This is exactly how we found him,” he said. “I did not touch anything other than the windows and drapes, because I was sure you and the wizards would wish to view the scene intact.”
Nodding, Abbey walked closer to the swaying corpse. “You did the right thing.” She turned back to Justus. “You are sure that there was no one else here with him?”
Justus nodded. “I searched the adjoining rooms, and the windows were all locked from the inside. This appears to have been a suicide. Before Lionel died, his screams sounded insane—just as they say Geldon’s did.”
“Cut the body down,” Abbey ordered. “Take it to the Cubiculum of Humanistic Research. Adrian and I will be along shortly.”
Justus and Oleg took the body down from the chandelier, wrapped it in a blanket, and then carried it from the room. Abbey turned to Adrian and Vivian.
“Do the two of you understand what this means?” she asked.
Adrian nodded. “Satine has just claimed her second victim.”
Vivian scowled. “Who is Satine?”
“I’m sorry,” Abbey said. “I thought that by now Adrian might have told you. Satine is an assassin we believe has been hired to kill members of the Conclave. Apparently, she’s targeting more than just us.” Abbey paused, noting the look of shock on Vivian’s face.
“But this recent attack means far more than that, I’m afraid,” she went on. Walking to the windows, she looked out over the palace grounds.
“What do you mean?” Adrian asked.
Abbey turned around. “Don’t you see? Satine was somehow able to breach the palace walls. She slipped by all of the Minion guards and she killed one of us right under our noses! This was as much an insult to us all as it was an act of assassination. She is as good as telling us that we’re not safe—even here in the palace! When we examine Lionel’s body, I’ll bet my life that we find the same pollutants in his bloodstream that we discovered in Geldon’s.”
“We should close the drawbridge and make an immediate search,” Adrian insisted. “We already know what she looks like. Perhaps she’s still here.”
Abbey shook her head ruefully. “Trust me, she’s long gone. It is far easier to depart this place in the daytime than it is to sneak in at night. My guess is that she waited, then simply sauntered out through the gate this morning with the usual smattering of wounded well enough to leave. How clever! Tell me, can you place the same azure field around Lionel’s corpse that Faegan did for Geldon’s?”
“Yes,” the First Sister answered. “But it will not be as strong. If a necropsy is to be performed, it will have to be soon.”
Abbey looked over at Vivian. “If you will excuse us, the First Sister and I were about to meet in the Conclave Chambers. We have much to discuss. Please stay here and see if you can discover anything else tha
t might help shed some light on what happened.”
Vivian bowed slightly. “Of course.”
After the other women left the room, Vivian’s face darkened. She had not attended the interrogation of the captured Valrenkian, and yet Adrian and Abbey had spoken of Satine as though the assassin’s identity was something Vivian already knew.
Abbey was no fool. Had the herbmistress’ comments about Satine been merely an oversight, or something else? As she continued to gaze out the window, Wulfgar’s servant came to several disheartening conclusions.
Not only had the Gray Fox’s identity been uncovered, but Vivian would have to be even more careful from here on. She must immediately return to the fountain in the middle of the square. Her thoughts turned to the message she would be forced to leave in the burbling water.
Bratach would not be pleased.
CHAPTER L
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SHAILIHA SHIVERED. IT WAS PAINFULLY COLD AT THIS ALTITUDE, and more than once she had been forced to wipe frost from her hair and eyelashes. She and Tyranny wore heavy cloaks to help ward off the weather. As usual, Scars was dressed only in his torn trousers. Smiling, Shailiha shook her head. Like Ox, he never seemed bothered by the weather.
K’jarr and three other handpicked warriors—Crevin, Micah, and Lan—sat quietly beside them. Six additional Minion bearers bore the litter though the nighttime sky. When they landed, Tyranny wanted the four idle warriors to be fresh. All their lives would depend upon it.
They had entered the fog bank two hours ago. Once there, Tyranny had carefully consulted her enchanted sextant, and then told the warriors to change course slightly. She had been eager to confirm the additional enchantments that would allow the sextant both to operate in the fog and to read the stars as well as the sun. She had been greatly relieved when it worked as promised.
The mist surrounding them was wet and dense, making it impossible to watch the ocean sliding by below. But K’jarr had a considerable talent for dead reckoning, and he was reasonably sure about when to order their descent. Until that time they would take advantage of the welcome cover. It was not their intention to immediately approach the fortress.
The previous day had passed calmly enough, giving the Reprise’s canvas-masters a chance to finish repairing her sails. The frigate now had more speed, but she still lumbered more than Tyranny liked.
Before leaving the ship in charge of her boatswain, Tyranny had ordered that the frigate sail in circles, always staying near the same relative position. If the raiding party was to find the ship again, this would be crucial.
Shailiha looked over at Tyranny. The privateer’s expression was grim. Other than when she gave directions to the warriors, she had said little. Shailiha couldn’t help imagining that the captain was thinking of Tristan, and of the private conversation the two of them had shared in Tyranny’s stateroom.
The princess rubbed her fingers together. The tingle in her hand told her that Faegan’s spell was still working. May it continue to hold, she thought.
K’jarr leaned toward Tyranny. “It is time!” he shouted. Tyranny nodded back. K’jarr gestured to the warriors carrying the litter and they started down.
When they broke through the bottom of the fog, they saw that the Sea of Whispers was calm. From this distance, all they could see of the Citadel was a smattering of twinkling lights that floated ephemerally above the waves.
The litter descended in a tight spiral. When they were no more than a hundred meters or so above the waves, the warriors widened the spiral and held their altitude. Tyranny nodded to Shailiha and Scars.
Tyranny, Scars, and the princess stood up, as did the four waiting warriors. The two women removed their cloaks and checked their weapons. Crevin and Micah lifted Tyranny and Scars into their arms, and K’jarr took Shailiha. She wrapped her arms tightly around his neck. By previous agreement, the princess would go first.
K’jarr climbed onto the sturdy sidewall of the litter, snapped open his wings, and promptly stepped off. The warriors carrying Tyranny and Scars went next. Lan followed.
At first Shailiha was sure that she was about to die. The wind tore at her hair and clothes, and K’jarr had difficulty stabilizing his flight. He finally leveled out and soared low over the waves, waiting for the others to join them. Soon the four warriors closed ranks, waiting for the next stage of their plan to unfold.
The litter and the other warriors broke free of the fog. Fanning their wings to gentle the descent, the bearers dropped the litter atop the waves then landed themselves, one by one, and climbed inside it.
Shailiha listened as Tyranny shouted out a series of commands in Old Eutracian. The litter began to glow. Shailiha winced, knowing that this might give away their position, but it couldn’t be helped. Faegan’s enchantment would hold the litter in the same place on the sea, so that on the return leg of their mission they could find it again.
Watching the glow fade away almost immediately, Shailiha breathed a sigh of relief. As long as night reigned, the litter would prove nearly impossible to see. Once Tyranny was again within the prescribed range of the spell, she would utter another set of orders, and the litter would glow once more. It was imperative that they return from the Citadel before dawn—otherwise, the litter would prove an all-too-vulnerable target.
Satisfied, Tyranny ordered the others to form up on Crevin, and they flew toward the Citadel.
There was still a good bit of distance to cover, and the tension-filled trip took some time. As they neared the island, Tyranny ordered the warriors to take them higher, so that she could better scout the terrain.
There was no fog here, and the moonlight revealed the Citadel in all its menacing splendor. Several slaver frigates patrolled the sea around the horseshoe-shaped bay at the island’s southern end, where the rest of the demonslaver fleet lay quietly anchored. But there was no sign of the Black Ships, or the skeletal captains K’jarr had warned them about.
After carefully surveying the island, Tyranny ordered Crevin to lead the group down. They landed behind some rocks, on a part of the shore that closely bordered the fortress’ walls.
The Minions lowered their passengers to the ground. As the warriors closed their wings, they and the women drew their swords. Scars smiled and cracked his knuckles. The only other sound was the restless sea, its waves crashing over and over against the rocks. About a hundred meters ahead, the Citadel beckoned.
The ground rose dramatically, ending at the sheer rock walls surrounding the fortress. Demonslavers patrolled the guard paths at their tops. Tyranny looked over at the warriors.
“Crevin and Micah, I want you to circle around the walls as far as you dare,” she whispered. “See if you can find a way in. The rest of us will wait here. Be quick.”
The two warriors ran to the base of the wall, then crept away in opposite directions.
Her hand clenched tightly around her sword, Shailiha watched the warriors disappear into the darkness. Despite the coolness of the night, her palms had become moist, her mouth dry.
After what seemed forever, the warriors finally returned. Crevin shook his head.
“I searched as far as I dared,” he whispered, “but the wall looks impenetrable and impossible to climb. I believe that the southern gate we saw from the air is the only way in or out.”
“I agree,” Micah said. “Gaining entrance to this place will be difficult.” The warrior smiled, his teeth glinting in the moonlight. “But not impossible.”
Tyranny understood what Micah was saying. To capture a demonslaver, they would have to take to the air again. It was risky but there seemed to be no other choice.
Looking back at the fortress, Tyranny noticed a square stone structure atop the spot where two angled sections of wall joined. A soft, golden glow came from its windows. She assumed that it must be a guard post of some kind. After thinking for a moment, she whispered her plan
to the others. They nodded back.
Crevin hoisted Tyranny into his arms again. Snapping open his wings, he made a short run along the shore and then launched himself into the air.
He flew as fast as he could toward the wall, then spiraled upward, staying close to the fortress. When they neared the summit he slowed and hovered again. Very carefully they peeked over the top of the wall.
There was no one there.
Landing upon the rampart, Crevin set Tyranny on her feet. After a signal from Tyranny, Micah flew up to join them. They made for the stone structure at the corner and flattened themselves up against it. The wooden door was slightly ajar; light poured softly from its windows.
Laughter came from inside. Tyranny carefully raised her face to the window and glanced in. Ducking back down, she whispered a quick set of orders to the warriors, and they nodded back.
Tyranny positioned herself before the door, quickly pushed it open, and rushed in. The warriors were right behind her.
Four demonslavers sat at a table, drinking and playing cards. When the one nearest the door grabbed up his sword and rose from his chair, Tyranny swung her weapon at his throat. She meant to behead him with a single stroke, but her blow landed short. The tip of the blade slashed across his windpipe, and dark blood rushed forth in a geyser. Dropping to one knee, she swung the blade around again, taking off one of his legs. As he collapsed to the floor, she plunged her sword into his heart.
While another slaver swung at Tyranny with a short sword and Micah battled the third, Crevin tried to follow Tyranny’s orders and choke the last one into unconsciousness.
Tyranny barely avoided the demonslaver blade as it whistled around. For several moments the battle seesawed back and forth, their blades striking so viciously against one another that sparks flew. Then the slaver suddenly stopped fighting. His eyes went wide. For a moment he stared into space. With a crash he fell face down onto the table, then slid to the floor, Micah’s dagger sticking out of his back.
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