“Oh, Caids. What have I done?”
And what could she do about it now?
She looked back in the direction from which they’d come. What could she do to get the Black Guard to release the prince and the Jarlkevoso? Had she ever heard of anyone being released from the Black Dungeons? She tapped her sword hilt with her fingers. Surely there must be a way. She started running back, back toward the heavy oak door, back to the candle lantern. There in the darkness were three masked and hooded people who could answer her question.
Parno’s heart leaped in his chest. For a fleeting instant he thought the woman in the doorway was his Dhulyn, the Wolfshead, his Partner. Her lip was even curled back in that familiar wolf’s smile, though it had been years since she had shown that smile to him. Her hair was uncovered, growing in blood red, and her Mercenary badge was perfect and unscarred. Parno had sheathed his sword and taken three steps toward her before he registered what that wolf’s smile meant. He halted and put his hand back on the hilt of his sword.
“Dhulyn.”
“Thief.”
Parno stood still and spread his hands wide. “Now I’m no thief, and you know it.”
“I do beg your pardon. You are not a thief until you leave here with something that does not belong to you. So, you are a would-be thief, since you will not be leaving here.” She took a pace forward and the door swung shut behind her.
“I disagree. I will be leaving, but only with something that does belong to me. You.”
“You were looking for me in that box?”
Parno drew his sword, turned back to the casket, and flipped open the lid to expose the Stone. “This is the source of the Mage’s power,” he told her. “But it belongs to this young lady, making Avylos the thief, and his powers stolen. We came here,” he pointed first to Dhulyn and then back to himself, “to restore the Stone to its proper place and function. So again, we’ll be taking it with us when we go.”
Dhulyn’s eyes narrowed, and her brow wrinkled in a frown. For a moment Parno thought she might be remembering. But then she turned sideways, kicked at the door where the metal tongue of the latch protruded. Her heel hit the latch just right, bending the tongue, and effectively locking the door. Parno had to shake his head in admiration. Dhulyn could now ignore the girls entirely, seeing that they could not get out of the room without his help. Habit made him glance at the open windows, even though he remembered the bars. What Dhulyn couldn’t know is that none of them actually wanted to leave the room—at least not yet.
Parno moved to his left, keeping his feet shoulder width apart and his weight evenly distributed. Dhulyn would shift to follow him—she would correctly assess that he was the danger, not the two young women—and that would give Zania a chance to reach the Stone. What the girl would do with it once she had the chance, he couldn’t be sure, but he had to give her that chance. As he moved, he whistled through his teeth, the same tune he’d played for the children under the wall, the same tune Dhulyn, his Dhulyn, knew so well. She frowned, but continued her own even pacing, as she waited for the inevitable moment when they would be close enough to engage.
“I am Parno Lionsmane,” he said, keeping his eyes on hers and his voice even and smooth. “Called the Chanter. I was schooled by Nerysa the Warhammer. I came late to the Mercenary Brotherhood and my first battle was in the vale of Arcosa. That is where you and I first met, fighting for old Nyl-aLyn, the Tarkin of Imrion. We became Partners then. Last year we were in Imrion again, and you sang to this tune, do you remember?”
He began whistling again, and again, her wolf’s smile faltered. But she pressed her lips together and shook her head, moving it just once to the left, and back again. Her cold gray eyes never moved from his face. All the while he was speaking, he kept circling to the left, and he and Dhulyn drew slowly closer to one another.
“You have told me this tale before,” she said. “Why should I believe you?”
“What do I gain by such a lie? Look in a glass, your own Mercenary badge supports my tale.”
Her left hand floated to her temple, her fingers stroked her badge. She was frowning again. “Tell me what you see.”
“A Mercenary badge, like this one,” he gestured to his own temples. “Yours is blue and green, the colors of Dorian the Black Traveler, who Schooled you. But the Partner’s Line is identical to mine.” He traced the black line going through his badge with the tip of his index finger. “You are Dhulyn Wolfshead, called the Scholar. Dorian Schooled you on his ship, called, like him, the Black Traveler. He took you from the hold of a slaver’s ship when you had seen the Hawk Moon eleven times.”
“You tell a fine story, Mercenary, but I think I know a better one.”
She moved so fast that only Parno’s own finely Schooled reflexes saved him. He arched his body away while at the same moment sweeping her sword down with his own, knocking her point aside when it was only a fingerwidth from his guts. She had moved on the word “think,” he realized, and he could not keep the smile from his face.
It was as he suspected. He parried a blow to his head, flicking her blade up and to one side. Dhulyn might not remember herself, but her body remembered her Schooling, whether she was aware of it or not. He feinted to his right and she followed, but not enough to put her off-balance. “To think is to move, to move is to think” was a saying in the Common Rule of Mercenary training. After being Schooled a Mercenary no longer needed to plan out the steps and moves of a fight, for them there was no longer any difference between thinking and moving.
Dhulyn’s blade sliced through his left sleeve and he jumped back.
When Dhulyn had attacked on the saying the word “think,” it was in unconscious reflection of the Common Rule. He had noticed this in her strategy before, though he could not recall whether he had ever mentioned it.
“You’re always doing that,” he told her. He swept aside her blade with his left hand, followed through with the thrust he would normally execute into that opening, but slowly enough that she could easily parry him in return. So easily in fact that she wrapped her blade around his and came within a hairsbreadth of snaking it out of his hand.
“You mean I’m always almost killing you?”
He grinned. He could give her no quarter, he realized, or she would kill him. Without her memories, she had no reason not to. “Always moving in one of the Shora.” To illustrate his point he executed an attack in three moves to her throat, which she parried brilliantly. “That was part of the Desert Snake Shora,” he said. “Your body remembers who you are, even if you do not.” But I’ll make you remember, he thought. I’ll keep you thinking, keep you aware.
Parno saw movement out of the corner of his eye as Zania took advantage of their position to slip behind the Mage’s worktable. When Dhulyn’s eye flickered in that direction he lunged in, striking like the desert snake. She blocked his sword with the palm of her hand against the flat of the blade, pushing it out to her left and simultaneously stepping in to thrust at his neck. Parno twisted out of the way and took another step to gain himself some breathing room.
He blinked as sweat dripped into his eye. The long muscles of his thighs burned, and he could feel the corded tendons in his wrists and elbows. What else could he do to bring her back to herself?
It was hard to think and plan while keeping her blade from his guts and blood. Switching to the left hand would not help him in this fight, as Dhulyn would simply do the same. He was in the same predicament as he’d been when he fought her in the garden—he couldn’t keep up a defense only. Tired as he was, she would kill him. Even in top condition, Parno needed all his speed and all his wits to stay even with her, they were so perfectly matched. As for now, he could feel exhaustion not so very far away, in the burning of his muscles.
As if to illustrate his thought, Parno felt the cold edge of her blade slide through the skin on the upper part of his left arm, as his block was seconds too slow. He had no reserves left after climbing the wall, after fighting his way t
hrough Avylos’ magic—
The Shora had led him through the magic. Without the Sable Monkey Shora showing him the path, he and Zania would still be standing at the bottom of the wall, or, more likely, in the hands of the Royal House’s Guard. Was he going about this the wrong way? Interrupting Dhulyn, breaking into her unconscious movements, did slow her down a bit, but it didn’t seem to be bringing her any recognition, it did not seem to be triggering any memories for her.
Should he let the Shora have her? If a Shora could show him a pathway through Avylos’ magic, could one also show Dhulyn the path back to herself?
He blocked a thrust to his groin, and another to his throat, stepping back each time.
What did he have to lose?
Rapidly, he ran through the basic Shora for right-handed swordplay, instinctively discarding each one as too simple or too short to engage the level of concentration he thought would be required.
Another thrust, again he stepped back, only to feel against his calves the edge of the bench that ran along the wall. Dhulyn’s smile widened, her lip curling back. Parno could not back away any farther, and she would not let him move to the side.
But now he had an idea. He swept his blade at her face, and leaped backward onto the bench as she flinched away. Then, bringing his sword straight down toward Dhulyn’s head, Parno began the first movements of what she had once called the Older Brother Shora. Parno did not know what its real name was—or even if it had one. Older Brother was not one of the Mercenary Brotherhood’s basic twenty-seven Shora, though it had been the first Dorian the Black had taught to Dhulyn as a child. A specialty of Dorian the Black’s, Older Brother was designed for use against an opponent much taller than oneself, and as such, an ideal Shora for children.
It meant a great deal to Dhulyn, and she had once taught it to Parno on a whim. Though taller than Dhulyn, he was not really tall enough for her to use the Older Brother Shora against him. So long as he stayed on the bench, it would work, he could keep it up, but if she managed to force him down, he knew he would not have the strength to keep his arms lifted, trying his best to mimic the angles of a taller person.
This would have to work. He had no more ideas, and no more strength. She will remember herself, or she will kill me.
“In Battle,” he told her. “Or in Death.”
Dhulyn and Parno moved so fast that Zania couldn’t even distinguish the individual movements of their blades. This was nothing like what she had seen done, and done herself for that matter, on stage.
“Come on, Dhulyn,” she muttered under her breath as if they were on stage and she was giving the Mercenary woman a cue. “Come back to us, come back.” She shivered as the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stood straight. It was one thing to be told that Dhulyn had lost her memories, it was another thing entirely to see her look at Parno with that snarling smile.
Zania sucked in her breath. Blood darkened Parno’s sleeve, though she hadn’t seen the touch that caused it.
A movement at the periphery of her vision. Princess Kera was waving her hand down almost behind the skirt of her gown, and angling her head toward the worktable, and the open casket. Parno and Dhulyn were along the side wall now, Dhulyn forcing Parno back against the bench. The path to the worktable was clear. Her eyes on the two combatants, Zania began sliding her feet sideways toward the Stone. She had her hand out when she saw another flower of blood blossom, this time on Parno’s right sleeve.
Section Leader Megz Primeau was panting by the time she reached the top of the circular staircase. She had run the last few spans in the dark, as the sconces they had lit on their way down to the Black Dungeon had burned out. The Black Guards had been very helpful. It had rarely happened, but as Megz had suspected, there was a way to bring prisoners out again. She had to reach Kedneara the Queen, and persuade her to come. Only the physical presence of the queen herself would stop the Black Guards.
The Black Guards were firm but not cruel. They placed Edmir and Valaika into a cell almost as gently as Edmir’s own nurse had moved him when, as a child, he resisted going to bed. As the cell door closed with an ominously quiet thud, Valaika seemed to awaken from the stupor that had held her since they left the queen. She turned toward the faint glow of the tiny candle that burned in the corridor, and seized the bars of the grating in the door.
“Wait,” she called. “You don’t understand. I would never do this. I would never bring an impostor to Kedneara . . . this doesn’t make sense.” The last few words were almost too faint to hear, but a soft musical voice answered from beyond the door.
“We will give you some time to compose yourselves. There is water to the right of the door. You need fear no pain, or horrors. Since there are no questions for you, your deaths will be quick and painless.”
“Why? Why are there no questions? Why aren’t you going to ask us to betray the rest of this conspiracy?” Valaika seemed to become aware that there was no longer anyone at the door. “Why,” Valaika said, as if to herself. “Unless it is because there is no conspiracy.”
Blinking, Edmir could make out his aunt as a darker shape among the shadows around the door.
“I don’t know who you are, young man; I don’t understand what’s going on, what’s happening. I—you’re an impostor, you’re not Edmir—”
At this Edmir tried again to speak, but all he could manage was a coughing croak that hurt his throat, making him swallow. He could not bear for Valaika to die like this, not knowing him, thinking him an impostor, not understanding why she should have to die. He knew the magic would wear off, as it wore off all women, but would it be soon enough?
“I brought you to Beolind. I brought you to Kedneara. But I would not bring an impostor to the queen, try to take her from her place on the throne. What do I care about her throne? She was my brother’s wife, he loved her, and I was content. I would not bring her an impostor.”
Edmir wished there was light enough for him to show her the scar on his back. It had been the proof that convinced her, back in Jarlkevo, it might have been enough to jog her real memory of him loose. But in this darkness, he might just as well wish to be out and free, sitting next to Zania on the driver’s seat of the caravan, arguing about stagecraft.
Still, he had to try something. Reaching out with his hands, he edged closer to where he could just make out her shape. When he touched her, she flinched away, and Edmir braced himself, expecting a blow. But Valaika relaxed, and let him take her hand. Holding her hand in his, he turned his back on her, and pulled her hand toward his back.
Her arm and hand were tense, but Valaika did not pull away. Edmir thought her resistance stemmed from caution, not knowing what he wanted her to touch, rather than fear.
“What is it? What—oh, that’s right, you can’t speak. Show me, then.” Her arm relaxed more. “Your back?” She snatched her hand away. “What could there possibly be about . . . the scar,” she said, her voice hollow and cold in the darkness. “You had the scar, I remember. And if you had the scar, then you are Edmir. But how? Why did I stop thinking so? Why do I not believe it now, even when logic tells me it must be so? You are not Edmir,” she repeated in that dead voice Edmir knew so well. “You are an impostor.” But now her voice was rising high and tight. He had to do something more, not leave her in this state of confusion.
After all that she had done for him, risked for him, this is not how his aunt Valaika should spend her final moments.
If only this was Dhulyn Wolfshead, he could speak against the palm of her hand, as he had done back in the tent of the Nisveans. Edmir clapped his hands. If Valaika could not read lips with her hands, perhaps there was something she could read.
He felt more than saw Valaika turn toward him, and took her hand once more in his, opening it to expose her palm. Using the tip of his finger, he wrote, “A.” She did not react and he tried it again.
“What are you doing, boy, what is it? I don’t understand.” She pulled her hand away and Edmir let it go. No use upset
ting her further if she didn’t understand. He rubbed at his face in frustration. If only there was more light. He could do it if he were on stage. Zania had showed him all the tricks for making light appear. Or if he could make a flame appear in the palm of his hand, like Avylos used to do . . .
He grabbed Valaika by the shoulder and turned her toward the door edging her backward until she was the right distance from the opening in the door. Between his teeth he whistled a tune he was sure she would recognize, the traditional bit of music that would accompany the appearance of a Mage or Mark in a play. The sound he could make was faint, his mouth was so dry, but he thought that Valaika heard and understood.
Still whistling he held up his left hand, palm upward. He snapped the fingers of his right hand, and pointed to his left.
“What? I don’t see . . .”
Edmir snapped his fingers again and again pointed to his left hand. If he had positioned it correctly, and if Valaika was standing the right distance away, it would seem as though the glow of the candle in the corridor rested on his open palm.
“Oh, Caids. Avylos. The Blue Mage. This is Avylos’ work. Avylos and his blooded magic.” The change in Valaika’s voice told him that the magic was broken. “Then you are Edmir, after all.”
Edmir stepped into her open arms.
“Oh, my Prince,” Valaika whispered. “How I have failed you, and failed myself. Over and over again. My own consort, my Sylria, keeping her debt to Avylos from me all these years, and paying it back in this way. How can I face your father, if he waits for me at the side of the Sleeping God, knowing what I have done. I would rather I had died beforehand, than to bring you to this.”
The Soldier King Page 40