Sarabin and Yarra were both quietly weeping and wringing their hands as he entered, but the source of the terrible howling, as Xemion had suspected, was the dog, Bargest. Until tonight, the dog had only spoken in soft tones of supplication, but now, with his grief unleashed, his voice was gigantic. Musea had died in the night. Her still form lay slumped in the stone chair, the candle flame flickering eerily over her as the dog, between howls, urgently licked her feet. “Please, Mistress. Don’t go now, my mage. Don’t leave me like this,” he whimpered.
Seeing Musea lying there, hearing the grief of Bargest fill the great stone bubble, Xemion couldn’t help but be moved. But even as the first tear caught in his throat, the thought that her death might free him from his labours infected it with a tiny morsel of relief. Sarabin looked at Xemion, distraught, and nodded. “She is gone,” he managed to say.
“It is a great loss,” Xemion said consolingly. “She was a remarkable woman.”
A big bubble of grief arose so violently in Yarra’s ancient throat that he could barely let it out. “Yes, yes,” he blubbered. “And just as she was going to begin a recitation of The Thaumatological Lexicon.”
“We’ll never have it now,” Sarabin lamented.
“Don’t go. Don’t go!” Bargest bellowed anew from the floor, filling the cold stone bubble to bursting with the ferocity of his anguish. The poor beast was so distraught he began to run back and forth in the chamber as though searching for her. “I beg of you. Retrieve her. Bring her back.” He was like a large black lion stalking through the darkness, sniffing his way frantically along the aisles and all in between the rows of seats. “Please come back. I entreat you.”
He only stopped when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. The air was suddenly filled with a sweet orange blossom scent, and then a figure in a green, hooded cloak entered the underdome. Xemion could barely make out the face within the shadow of the hood as he stood just outside the flickering ring of candlelight. The woman with him leaned in toward Musea and cupped her hands over her mouth in disbelief. She approached the old Thrall woman and bent over her so that her mass of dark ringlets hung over the body like coils of shiny black smoke. Veneetha Azucena slowly took her hands away from her mouth and Xemion could see her lower lip trembling. As she looked up, the light from the flames fully illuminated her face and he could clearly make out the red threads woven into her hair. As she put her trembling hand on Musea’s cold shoulder, a cry escaped her. This, in turn, set the dog off baying grievously again, and the sound of the two of them in the chamber was almost deafening.
After a time, Veneetha Azucena closed her eyes, took a long breath, and exhaled evenly as though to release the shock. Still weeping, she knelt down and put her hand on Bargest’s back and said, soothingly, “Poor, poor thing.” For a while she knelt between the dog and Musea’s body and tears streamed down from her dark eyes. Her face remained still and composed except for occasional trembling at the corner of her mouth. Slowly her stillness seemed to spread to Yarra and Sarabin until they, too, grew quiet. Then she joined hands with the two of them, forming a circle, and they kept one another’s gaze for so long that Xemion almost began to feel like a spy.
“So, it is done,” Veneetha Azucena said at last, with a grave nod.
“We tried our hardest,” Yarra whispered.
“There is so much we will never recover now,” Sarabin added woefully, shaking his head.
“And … the book I mentioned to you?” Veneetha asked.
“I’m afraid not,” Yarra squeaked, shrugging helplessly.
Sarabin emitted a sharp coughing sound, looked at her sharply, and cocked his head in the direction of Xemion, who still stood silently at the perimeter of the candlelight.
Veneetha Azucena squinted into the darkness and noticed Xemion for the first time. “Ah, there you are,” she said in her sweetest voice.
“I’m so sorry,” Xemion managed to say.
She nodded.
“It is a great loss,” Xemion added.
She nodded again and looked at him piercingly. “But every loss is tainted with some gain, I suppose.” She flashed a wry smile at him.
Xemion looked puzzled.
“I mean, you cannot be entirely aggrieved with this.”
Xemion almost blushed. It was true. With Musea gone there was no reason to keep him here in Ulde. He swallowed and nodded back at her. She saw the guilty look on his face.
“No need to feel ashamed,” she advised in a soothing voice. “There are cross-spells and contrary currents in everything here, being so close to the Great Kone. There’s no action that is not blighted by paradox. You have given good service. You can be proud of that.”
Xemion blushed again, still feeling guilty.
“We will need to give Musea over to her people for a full Thrall burial ceremony, but you needn’t feel you have to stay in Ulde for that. We have finally had word from Lighthammer. The mountain passes are now traversable and there is a supply caravan going to the camp in the morning from the crossroads at Brookside.”
Xemion couldn’t help it. He smiled.
“Yes. Tell them that Veneetha Azucena herself has sent you and they will take you. And take our gratitude with you.”
Sarabin and Yarra tried to add their own remarks to this but a new series of howling laments from Bargest thwarted their attempts. Veneetha knelt down again and put her hand on the back of the dog’s neck, stroking it soothingly. “Poor thing. Poor thing.”
It wasn’t until he had almost reached his lodgings that Xemion realized why the title of the lost book kept tugging at his memory. There were a number of books in the library locket that had another text written crosswise to the regular text, utilizing the spaces between the letters and the lines. Normally due to the actions of what Anya had explained was a series of miniature tumblers and timers skillfully woven into the spines of the books by the Nains who had created them, you had to read a whole book before it could be inserted into its new slot on the opposite side of the locket. But this didn’t seem to apply to the cross-written texts. Indeed, both Xemion and Anya had tried to read some of these cross-written texts but soon found the specialized language and the enormous length of the sentences impossible to understand. When they gave up on such readings they were still able to insert the book into its new slot on the other side of the locket. He dimly remembered now that The Thaumatological Lexicon had been among them. Xemion smiled. He didn’t know for sure how they could extract it from the locket, but Sarabin had a sunscope and Veneetha Azucena had a crystal dome in her ceiling! This book could be saved! Xemion picked up the pace joyfully. Once he got back to his room he hurriedly retrieved his practice sword and took the locket from its place beneath his bed and set off with it back to the underdome.
11
Unexpected Meetings
An early cross-spell had left the roads and other surfaces of the borough of Shissillil without friction. Anything thrown through the various gateways into the borough simply slid away and disappeared. This made the portal on Castle Road halfway along Phaer Point perfect for waste disposal. On evenings like this when the dark was coming in off the sea like a damp, dead sky spirit, this aspect of the portal could also be a kind of blessing to some of the more criminally inclined youth of Ulde, for instance those drink or herb Thralls, who sometimes had to dispose of their forbidden potions and liqueurs at very short notice. During the fifty years since the spell fire, other things had been disposed of here, too: weapons, poisons, even bodies, some said — living and dead. But of all the terrible deeds done here, there were surely very few that were more cowardly than the one about to be committed.
The triplicant terrier, Jackinjo, whose three eyes were currently peering out of the net bag he was captive in, trembled as he awaited his turn. The squeals of the most recent victim still vibrated in his mind, echoing up under the cruel laughter of his captors.
“All right. Next!” a large, half-hidden figure in the shadow of the portal sho
uted. He wiped his lips and nodded at a fellow with a black tooth, who grabbed the mouth of the bag. Jackinjo began to whimper and whine in terror as the big man took up a thick black bat. Jackinjo’s terror increased as the bag was raised.
“Are you ready?” one of the men asked. A ring of leering, laughing youths looked on, gathered about the portal, bottles hanging from their fists or tilted to their lips.
“Ready,” the large one said with a strange drunken leer. “Go!”
The black-toothed fellow flung the yelping dog into the air, and as the bag came down the large man swung his thick black bat at it full force, connecting squarely with it and sending poor broken Jackinjo, with one last truncated yelp, soaring through the portal and away after his fellows, lost forever.
The one with the bat shouted “Yes!” and gleefully took a swig from his bottle. His colleagues likewise broke into fits of laughter and began to jump up and down and suck away at their many bottles and pipes.
Xemion did not at first notice the group as he made his way back to the underdome with the locket. He was distracted by the light of the setting sun, which shone brightly off the dark surface of a pond that stretched along the side of the road. He had to hold his hand up to his eyes to shade them from the brilliant flares of red that reflected off the water. It wasn’t until he was nearly upon them that he noticed the group, and he was shocked when he realized that the hated Montither was among them. What was he doing back in Ulde? This jolt of fear and hatred was for a second mixed with a shred of hope. If Montither had come from the camp, he would surely know whether Saheli was there or not. He doubted that Montither would supply him with an easy answer to this question though, so, because he was on his way there anyways, and would find out for himself soon enough, he decided to give the group a wide berth.
He had almost slipped past unnoticed, when Gnasher, the black-toothed fellow who always accompanied Montither, suddenly looked up. He caught Xemion’s eye and grinned menacingly. “Why, look. It’s the great swordsman.” He laughed, causing his jaw to vibrate up and down as though it were quickly gnashing at something.
Xemion nodded in greeting.
“And how are you today, my friend?” Gnasher asked with mock politeness as the others began to close in around him. Gnasher clapped Xemion forcefully on the back. Montither was standing back a bit, leaning against the portal, his eyes spilling sheer static black hatred.
“I’m in a hurry,” Xemion replied angrily, yanking his shoulder away.
“Oh, no you’re not.” Gnasher had a hint of evil mischief in his eyes.
“Oh, yes I am,” Xemion replied, trying to brush his way through them.
Suddenly, Montither let loose an insane-sounding growl and dashed straight at Xemion, launching his fist into his right cheek, knocking him to the ground. Xemion leapt back to his feet as quickly as he could, but he was reeling and off-balance. Before he could raise his fists to defend himself, Montither struck again. Xemion hit the ground a second time and Montither began kicking him. He caught him on the hip where the painted sword hung. If he had been enraged before, the sight of the object that had so humiliated him was like oil on the fire. Montither flew into a frenzy of kicks and then he ripped the sword away from Xemion and tried to break it over his knee. But the sword was not the least bit brittle. It bent and easily absorbed the force.
“What of your oath?” Xemion managed to scream from the ground, where he was doubled over into a protective ball. Shrill laughter rose from the crowd.
“Who are you calling an Oath?” Gnasher mocked. He turned to the others, snickering. He went to kick Xemion in the head, but Montither stopped him.
“No, he’s right.” he growled suddenly withdrawing, holding his fists at his side, still clenched. There was complete silence. “I swore an oath of alliance.” There was a sinister undertone in Montither’s finely accented though somewhat slurred words. The thugs, knowing that look, knowing the changeability of his moods, looked on with anticipation. “Now get up!”
Xemion rose painfully to his feet, wary in case he had to defend against another flurry of kicks or punches.
“Hold out your hand and I will return your sword to you,” Montither ordered with only the slightest suggestion of a sadistic smile. When Xemion refused, Montither nodded and someone grabbed Xemion from behind. He struggled with all the strength of his rage and indignation, but they were many more than he and all his strength could not tear him free. He jerked his face around toward Montither and sneered. “I’m not afraid of you.”
“Hold out your hand,” Montither demanded. Xemion could smell the stench of vomit and wine on Montither’s breath. He tried to resist. He gritted his teeth and clenched his fist tight, but other fingers pried at it and opened it against his will and held it there, bare beneath Montither’s vengeful glare.
“Now let me return your sword to you.” Montither raised the painted sword and brought it down as hard as he could across Xemion’s palm. Xemion’s whole body bucked with the impact of the blow, but somehow he absorbed it silently and managed to glare back impassively into Montither’s cruel eyes. Again Montither struck and again Xemion took the pain without a cry.
“Coward,” he uttered, looking straight into Montither’s eyes. He braced himself for a third onslaught, but Montither stopped and the painted sword hung for a moment at his side. The slight smile that twitched at the edges of his mouth could not hide the anger that was rising in him.
With a casual motion Montither threw Xemion’s painted sword back over his head. It spun through the air high above the dark swampy water and then plummeted into the blackness with a gulping liquid sound and disappeared. Slowly, Montither drew his long iron sword from its scabbard, keeping his gaze focused almost hypnotically on its fine edge as he slid it in front of Xemion’s eyes.
“I’m going to cut off his hand,” he announced in a strange, overly controlled voice. Montither’s gang laughed out loud at this and several of them began to applaud and whoop and jump up and down.
“Hold his hand over the stone,” Montither ordered. His voice had become clipped and even more haughtily nasal than usual.
“No!” Xemion struggled but his captors were many and they once again had him in position, open-palmed, with his wrist on top of the large rock that Montither had indicated. Montither took the hilt of his sword in both hands and raised it over Xemion’s wrist.
“Hold it tight,” Montither instructed.
“No!” Xemion screamed again as he struggled against his captors.
“Ah, so you can scream,” Montither sneered. “I thought so.” His smile was pure bloodlust.
“No, Montither. Don’t. It’s my sword hand!” Xemion let loose a scream of terror so loud it echoed all along the roadway, causing the Nains and Thralls who were still at work busily renovating the castle, hundreds of yards away, to look up with concern.
Montither paused sadistically and adopted his most aristocratic tone. “Oh, don’t worry, I won’t kill you. I wouldn’t want that. I’d much prefer you to be alive to see what I do to that she-dog of yours in the Phaer Tourney on the equinox.”
The little mob cheered loudly, urging Montither on.
“He’s going to cut her heart out,” chortled Gnasher.
Montither looked into Xemion’s eyes, raised his sword up over his head, and surely would have cut off Xemion’s hand then and there but for the sudden blast of a whistle, a shout, and the sound of fast-approaching footsteps.
“Hey!” a man’s voice yelled angrily. “Stop that!”
“The law!” Gnasher hissed.
Before he ran off, Montither caught Xemion off-guard with another punch to the face that sent him reeling back to the ground. Within seconds, they had all disappeared. Xemion looked up at the person who had rescued him. The man wore a tricorne admiral’s hat and a long black cloak over a red uniform with gold brocade. His face was tanned as though he’d just returned from the tropics, but the hand that he reached out to Xemion was a deep red co
lour.
Vallaine!
12
Little Locket Library
“Xemion!”Vallaine grabbed the young man’s hand to help him to his feet, but Xemion let out such a howl of pain he immediately let go. Standing up on his own, Xemion gazed at his open palm and winced. Where Montither had struck him there were now two raised welts in the shape of an X.
“That looks rather painful,” Vallaine sympathized.
“I can’t hear you very well,” Xemion answered quite loudly. “My ears are ringing. He struck me in the head.”
“What … with the whole mob of them holding you down like that?”
“Yes. They were going to cut my hand off,” Xemion said with barely suppressed rage.
Vallaine shook his head in disgust. “Well, lucky for you the winds chose this day of all days to allow my return.”
“The cowards,” Xemion seethed, his eyes narrowed to slits.
“Who were they? Did you know them?”
“Yes, I know them,” Xemion growled.
“And?”
“You’ve heard of Norud Montither?”
“Not that damaged monster-child of his.”
Xemion nodded, taking some satisfaction from the virulence of Vallaine’s description. “His name is Brothlem Montither.”
“Oh, I know his name, believe me. And worse than that, I know his reputation. In fact, I spoke out against him being here at all, but I was overruled.”
“Well, I humiliated him on the first day we arrived here in Ulde, and ever since then he has hated me.”
“He hates a lot of people — or at least their achievements. So I hardly need warn you, Xemion. Be wary. He is reputed to have killed a young man in Phaeros.”
“He was really going to cut my hand off,” Xemion repeated, as astonished as he was outraged. Vallaine laughed that big rich laugh of his.
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