“Go with Patch,” Dagnarus ordered Silwyth, and then the prince was called away by his commanders and the sound of battle.
Gareth hastened through the corridors, familiar to him, but not to most of the army. He headed straight for the King’s royal chambers. He did not believe he would find Helmos there, but Gareth hoped to find Queen Anna, hoped to be able to persuade her that he had her husband’s interests at heart. Hoped to be able to convince her to tell him where Helmos might be found.
Gareth had been raised in the palace, he knew his way around here better than around his family’s own much smaller house. But he discovered, to his dismay, that the halls looked strange and unfamiliar to him. He wondered why and realized suddenly it was because he had come in from the back. He was seeing everything from the wrong angle. The smoke from burning buildings, blowing through the windows, borne by the wild wind from the sea, swirled through the hallways. The smoke floated past in ragged tatters, sometimes obscuring his vision, sometimes setting him coughing, other times clearing completely.
Gareth ran through corridors with only a vague idea where he was going, guessing it was the right way, but not truly certain. He might have asked Silwyth, who accompanied him, but his mind was intent upon how he was going to deal with Silwyth. The last thing he wanted to do was to ask the elf for help, show weakness.
At length, Gareth entered a corridor and there, in front of him, was the playroom. Memories flooded in on him—memories of a child lost in the palace, memories of a prince’s warm and welcoming smile. Now Gareth knew where he was. He halted and turned to face the elf.
“Leave me, Silwyth. Leave me to do this on my own. If you don’t…” Gareth paused, steeled himself. “If you don’t, I shall use my magic against you. You may be quick with a knife”—he recalled the time he had watched Silwyth stab Lord Mabreton in the back—“but the magic of the Void is faster.”
“What do you intend to do, Master Gareth?” Silwyth asked coolly. “Urge Helmos to escape? Take him to a place of safety? Conceal him from his brother?”
Gareth looked blank, pretended he didn’t understand. “I don’t know—”
“Helmos won’t go with you. He is not a coward, nor is he a fool. Though he may die, that which he is and that for which he fights will live through time. He knows this. He knows that future generations may have need of a hero. Your efforts on his behalf will be wasted and if Dagnarus discovers you betraying him…”
“Leave me, Silwyth,” Gareth said, coldly stubborn, “or I must kill you.”
“I will leave,” said Silwyth, and on his lips was a rare smile, one of the few signs of emotion Gareth had ever seen the elf reveal. “I will leave. But not because you threaten me. I am leaving Vinnengael. I am leaving His Highness. My time here is finished. My time with Dagnarus is finished.” He spit the word from his mouth.
Gareth stared, amazed and suspicious. He coughed in the smoke, but hurriedly cleared his throat, that he should not miss anything of this startling revelation.
“You thought, the lot of you humans, that I served His Highness out of loyalty or love or some other misguided emotion. Indeed I did not. I did not truly serve Dagnarus at all. I have another master.”
“The Shield,” Gareth said. “We knew that. It was by his command that you killed Lord Mabreton. We knew you were nothing but a spy.”
“Spy,” Silwyth repeated calmly. “Yes, for all these years I have been a spy in the palace, a spy on all you humans did and said. I reported it all dutifully to my master. I have been well rewarded. But all that has come to an end.”
Gareth was skeptical. “Why? There is little doubt but that Dagnarus’s forces will be victorious. He will be King of Vinnengael. He thinks highly of you. He trusts you. You would be ideally placed—”
“You are not telling me anything I do not already know,” Silwyth interrupted. “You are not telling me anything my master does not already know and plans for me. But I cannot obey the Shield this time. I won’t obey. I have a duty to the Shield, that is true, but I have a higher duty to the honor of our people. The moment His Highness took the blood of Lady Valura upon his lips, the moment he chose to turn her into a creature damned and accursed, a monster that brings shame and dishonor upon all her people, that is the moment I swore I would disobey my master and leave my post.
“I would avenge her death upon Dagnarus,” Silwyth added, his dark smile twisting bitterly, “but that is impossible. He is invincible, at least now. I will take my vengeance in other ways. There are more ways to die than by death. I will destroy his credibility with the elves. Once I tell the Divine about Lady Valura, the entire elven nation will rise against him. He will win this war, only to face another. And the next he might not win so easily.”
“But what will happen to you?” Gareth asked. “I know something of elven ways. By disobeying the Shield, your life is forfeit—”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. When the Divine discovers that the Shield has been plotting against him, has secretly supported a Lord of the Void, the Shield may find that he has all he can do to keep himself from tumbling down the cliff, much less trying to pull me down with him. I will be considered a turncoat. I will be disgraced and dishonored. But I will have my revenge.”
“Why tell me?” Gareth demanded. “You know I will tell him.”
Silwyth regarded Gareth with disdain and loathing. “I want you to tell him. Tell him I will have my revenge on him. It may be tomorrow. It may be a hundred years from tomorrow. I am patient. I can wait. The waiting for me will be easier for knowing that he will, from now on, live every day in fear. He has many lives, it is true, but that many will I take from him. Is the wine poisoned? What is that strange taste in his food? Is that the flash of a dagger in the moonlight? Is that someone creeping up behind him? The answer to all those is yes! The answer is Silwyth! Tell him.”
The elf turned on his heel and vanished into the smoke-heavy darkness.
Gareth stood a moment in the hallway, confused and afraid, torn in two and cursing the elf. Should I continue on, search for Helmos? Or should I return to Dagnarus, warn him to beware of Silwyth? The elf claimed he was fleeing Vinnengael, but Gareth saw that to trust anything Silwyth said was to trust the roused serpent not to strike.
In the end, Gareth determined, quite logically, that Dagnarus could take care of himself. A Lord of the Void, protected by the magical armor of the Void, with many life spans at his disposal, the prince was certainly not about to fall victim to an elf with a knife. Not this day, at least. Gareth continued his search, heading for the King’s tower room, where he hoped he might find Helmos overseeing the battle from that advantageous position.
If some inner part of Gareth wished Silwyth success, wished that the elf might do what Gareth, with his dead soul, could not do. He acknowledged that dreadful wish and went on.
Vinnengael was on the verge of defeat. Its defenders continued to hold the north wall, though the black fire and the vicious and prolonged assault by Dagnarus’s troops—mercenaries eager for the looting and rapine promised them if they took Vinnengael—had decimated the defenders’ numbers and was wearing down their morale. But behind them, the city was in flames.
Captain Argot had been forced to use his reserve troops to help fight the fires, which were burning out of control, consuming businesses and houses. The citizens were in a panic, trying in vain to save their homes, clogging the streets and impeding efforts to help douse the flames. And then the river dried up, strangely, inexplicably.
The moment he heard that report, Argot saw Dagnarus’s strategy, saw it clearly. Though it meant almost certain defeat, the captain was soldier enough to appreciate the brilliance.
“What a general!” he said to himself in grudging admiration. “What a fine—”
That was his last word, his last thought. An arrow struck him, pierced his eye. He was dead before his body tumbled from the wall.
Word that the Lord of the Void had used his powerful magic to drain the river—Vinneng
ael’s heart’s blood—was a blow to her defenders. The second blow fell when they heard that the prince’s troops had entered the palace from the rear, had taken the palace with ease, and were marching to crush the defenders on the north wall between the anvil of Shakur below and the hammer of Dagnarus behind.
The soldiers remained at their posts, determined to die where they stood, preferring that to perishing in the flames racing through the streets below or being trampled to death by the panic-stricken mob.
High in one of the towers of the palace, Anna kept her lonely watch over poor mad Emillia. The Dowager was in a pitiful state, trembling and sobbing or, what was worse, horribly laughing. Anna did her best to assuage the madwoman’s terrors, both real and imaginary, terrors brought on by the smoke, the tension of those around her, the strange sounds echoing through the palace—sounds of tramping feet and shouted orders, the clash of steel.
The sounds of battle did not last very long. An ominous silence settled over them, choking, like the smoke.
“What…what does it mean, Your Majesty?” asked the healer, who had chosen to remain with Emillia. “Have we won?”
Anna turned from the open window where she had been watching the fires blaze up, one after the other, all over Vinnengael.
“Yes, I’m sure that is what it means,” she lied. “Soon all will be over, and we will be at peace at last.” That much, at least, was the truth.
Screams were audible, even this far away. A child, screaming, perhaps trapped in a burning building, unable to escape…
“What is that?” Emillia cried. “I heard my baby cry! Bring him to me, this instant!”
Anna closed the curtains.
“No, no,” she said, trying to smile with lips so stiff that she feared the smile would make them crack and bleed. “No, no, Your Majesty. Your baby sleeps soundly. And you must try to sleep yourself.” Tears slid down her cheeks.
The rhythmic tramp of booted feet thundered in the hallway. The healer pressed her hand over her mouth, stifling her cries so as not to alarm her patient. Anna reached out, caught hold of the young healer’s hand. Outside the door, war magi stood guard, but their guard could not hold for long. Not against the force that bore down on them.
Light—magical, awful—flashed from beneath the closed and locked door. Voices cried out in agony, blasts and the ringing of swords echoed through the halls. One voice, harsh and cold and horribly familiar to Anna, issued a single command. The door burst asunder, the wizard lock that held it shattered.
Dagnarus strode inside, followed by a Vrykyl and his troops. He paused, his eyes adjusting to the room’s dimness after the flaring torchlight in the corridor.
“Where is he?” he demanded, his helmed head turning, seeking. “Where is Helmos? I know he is here. He might as well face me. His guards are dead…”
“Hush!” Anna commanded. She rose to confront him, pale and cold with anger. “Lower your voice! Don’t you see how you frighten her?”
Emillia was gasping and crying, trembling all over. Her eyes started from her head, her face writhed, her mouth gabbled. She stared at Dagnarus in the black armor, the horned helm, in a paroxysm of fear.
Dagnarus removed his helm, shook back his sweat-damp hair from his eyes. Motioning his men to remain where they were, he stepped forward, to see better in the wavering light. His face registered nothing at the sight of the madwoman, neither pity nor revulsion. Dagnarus did not recognize Emillia. Not at first.
A line puckered his brows. He walked forward another step.
“Mother…”
He spoke the word so softly that it was barely audible. Anna heard it but only because she saw it on his lips.
Emillia straightened, her hands patted her wispy hair. “You there. Chamberlain.” She spoke to Dagnarus, made a gesture that would have once been imperious but, with her withered hand, was only pathetic. “Tell my son that he must come to see his mother. I sent for him yesterday and the day before and still he does not come to see me. He is a wicked, ungrateful child.”
Dagnarus turned his shadowed gaze to Anna. “How long has she been like this?”
“Ever since…” Anna paused, not quite certain what to say or how to say it. “Ever since you left,” she finished softly.
Dagnarus’s gaze went back to his mother. He stared at her and his face set, grim and expressionless. His gaze left his mother, never to go back to her. He fixed his eyes upon Anna.
“Madam, where is your husband?”
“Where he needs to be,” Anna replied steadily.
Dagnarus regarded her long, considering. Then he bowed to her, low and respectful and turned to his men. “Helmos is not here. Move out. Search the rest of the palace. Quietly,” he added. “Quietly.”
Pausing in the shattered doorway, he turned back. “I thank you for your care of her, Madam. I am sorry to have troubled you. I will leave my own guards posted at the door. You will not be harmed.”
Bowing again, he left the room.
Anna’s strength gave way. She sank into a chair, her teeth clamping down hard on her lip so that she would not weep, not when he might be able to still hear her.
“The gods keep my husband safe!” She prayed in her heart. “The gods keep and bless him!”
“Well?” Dagnarus demanded abruptly, coming across Gareth. “Have you found him?”
“The King is not in the palace,” Gareth reported.
Dagnarus eyed his friend. “He’s not? Then where is he?” He glanced around. “And where is Silwyth?”
“He has fled,” said Valura, and there was a hint of emotion in her usually lifeless voice, a hint of dark triumph, as of an enemy vanquished. “The elf has betrayed you, my beloved. Think no more of him.”
Dagnarus looked astonished, dubious.
“What she says is true,” Gareth admitted. “Silwyth is gone. He said to tell you—”
“I don’t give a damn what that traitor says!” Dagnarus snarled savagely. “Where is the King?”
Gareth lowered his eyes. “The servants—those who have not fled—think he might be on the wall with his troops.”
“Helmos anywhere near a battle?” Dagnarus snorted derisively. “I doubt it. You are lying. You would do or say anything to protect him. But no matter. For now I myself know where to find him. ‘Where he needs to be’ his wife said. Of course. He is in the Temple. My brother has run, sniveling, to the gods.”
* * *
The smoke was thicker by far outside the palace. Red-hot cinders rose on the draughts created by the firestorms sweeping through the city. Warriors fought and died by the blazing light. A booming sound, irregular and loud, like the beating of an un-quiet heart, sent shudders through the ground.
“What is that?” Gareth asked fearfully, covering his mouth and nose with his cloak.
“The battering ram,” said Dagnarus with satisfaction. “Shakur is breaking through the main city gate.”
People swirled around them, soldiers running from the battle, soldiers running to the battle and stopping to argue with or exhort those who were fleeing; mothers crying out for someone to find their lost children; husbands searching frantically for entire families that had disappeared. They bumped into Gareth, shoved him, pushed, caromed off him.
One soldier, wild with battle rage, sought to attack Valura. She did not even draw her sword, but crushed the man’s skull, through his steel helm, with a blow from her fist. But even in their panic, no one came near Dagnarus. The Void surrounded him, created an island of calm on which he stood dry-shod as wave after wave of chaos burst on the shores.
He strode on eagerly toward the Temple, silhouetted against the fire, seeming carved out of blackness. Dagnarus did not cover his nose against the smoke, but breathed in the smell of death and destruction, as though it were holy incense.
“We shall have to rebuild Vinnengael, of course,” he said as he walked. “It will rise from the ashes, newborn, ten times more beautiful. I will build a city to make my father proud!”
>
“Not this way!” Gareth cried, pointing, for Dagnarus had been so bold as to walk straight up the front of the Temple steps. “Look!”
The front doors to the Temple were ringed round with war magi. They stood in a semicircle, some twenty of them. A magical shield radiated out from them, illuminated them with a soft white light, as if the moon shone in the midst of the garish flaming bursts of a dying sun. The sight of the war magi gave Dagnarus pause.
“Not even you can fight them all!” Gareth shouted, to be heard above the screams of the mob.
“No, you’re right,” Dagnarus said, eyeing them coolly. “Trust those idiots to waste their energy guarding the Temple when they are needed on the walls. But things will change when I am King! We will enter from the back. I’ll lay wager no one has thought to guard the rear.”
The buttery was guarded, but only by a few magi, who had been sent to ward off looters, those who would take advantage of any type of suffering and turmoil to make off with what they could carry. Those few magi could not stand against the Lord of the Void nor against a Vrykyl. Gareth tried not to look too closely at the crumpled bodies over which he stepped. He was afraid that he might recognize them and, indeed, he thought he saw their former tutor, Evaristo.
Gareth refused to let himself think about that. His soul was in such turmoil, such anxiety and worry over the coming confrontation of brother against brother, prince against King, that he could spare no thought or regret for anything else.
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