Down through the chambers past swirling stains of glass she went, level after level, one after another, her cloak flaring open to reveal the hilts of her swords. At every step as she descended the dagger's shivering hunger grew.
Almost breathless, she paused above the last staircase and composed herself. No sound of laughter rose from the guests, and the great stained glass windows stood open once more, as she had first seen them. The moonlight rushed inside, and with it the light from the Killing Stars. Scernica stood framed in the window, her skin icy, her copper hair glowing. She held Mirella tightly with a curved knife pressed to the blind child's throat.
The guests cowered back against the farthest walls and into the darkest corners. A circle of nine men all swathed in black hoods and cloaks knelt in the center of the room. Each held a curved knife over a bound and mercifully drugged child. At the center of that circle, Dagoth stood, his robes thrown off, naked as the day he was born, his body as white as the moon that bathed him.
The great bell rang its third sonorous note, so loud and so powerful that an elaborate crack radiated down the length of one of the windows. The kneeling figures raised their knives higher and plunged them downward toward nine small lives. Dagoth threw his arms wide and screamed.
But his scream was short-lived.
At the last possible instant, those nine hands froze. Knife points pricked tender flesh, but no more. Gasps went up from the guests, and some sighs of disappointment. Dagoth stared around, stunned and uncertain, like a man interrupted in the throes of his passion.
Frost descended the last of the stairs and looked with cold green eyes upon the room.
Dagoth extended a hand. "Lord Death?" he stammered. "I don't understand. Have we not pleased you? Is the sacrifice not grand?"
Genius, artist, and madman. "Lord Death is not coming," she answered. She pushed back her hood and cast away the shimagh that concealed her face. "He sent me, instead."
Scernica's violet eyes widened. "You're a woman!" she cried.
Mirella took advantage of Scernica's shock. Pushing the knife away from her throat, she danced away only to stumble and strike her head on the floor, but still she laughed a little girl's high-pitched laugh. "She's a witch! And I brought her to you, Mother, just as you foresaw in your dream! I led her into the city straight to you!" The bandage over her right eye began to show a trace of blood.
"But I've built this temple, prepared sacrifices!" Dagoth shouted. "On this night of nights, even Lord Death must answer my summons!"
Frost unfastened her cloak and let it fall. "I am his answer," she said as she drew her swords. She swept her gaze over the nine unmoving figures in black still kneeling with their blades. At a look from her they raised those blades again and plunged them into their own bodies. She looked back at Dagoth, whose face was now a livid mask of fear. "And Death accepts your sacrifice."
Outside the window, a wolf howled. A pack of wolves answered, and then another pack as every wolf in the desert entered the City of Sins. Frost allowed a thin, tight smile. She had promised them easy prey.
Several of the guests sprang for the doors, but there was no escape. The doors slammed shut before anyone could reach the threshold. Behind Scernica, the great stained glass windows closed tight, and touched by the moon, the room filled once again with phantasms.
Scernica threw her knife. Frost batted it aside. The copper-haired witch screamed and reached for her whip. "You can't match my power!" she shouted. The length of leather uncoiled, snaked through the air, crackling with a deadly, sorcerous energy. Frost merely caught it.
"That is not power," she said. "This is power." She sent the charge back through the whip, and Scernica stiffened, screamed, then clutched her face. Her hair turned instantly white, and her violet eyes exploded into her palms.
"This is not what I planned!" Dagoth shouted. Trembling but desperate, he seized a sword from one of his guests and, brandishing the weapon, turned toward Frost again. "We can bargain! I offer many lives! All I ask is for my own!"
Frost shook her head. "You can't offer what isn't yours," she said. "Death bargains with no man, and no man cheats him. Three stars in alignment this night, and three people will leave this city alive—a withered old woman in the street who tried to warn me; this child, Mirella, your daughter. I am the third."
"The patterns," Mirella whispered as she got to her feet. "I see them clearly now." With an uncertain hand, she pushed away her bandage and looked around the room with the intact violet eyes that had belonged to her mother.
The sword fell from Dagoth's fingers. Looking from his blinded wife to Mirella and finally to Frost, he lurched forward through the red colors and the blues, the yellows and the greens, with his twisted shadow made more twisted by the crack in the window. "Am I a fool?" he asked. "Did I dream too much?" Even now in his last moment, he failed to understand. "Has it all come to this? To nothing?"
Frost had only one answer for him. Sheathing her swords, she put one arm on his shoulder and drew the dagger, the Demonfang. It writhed in her hand like a living thing, and the room filled with shrieks and screaming as all the souls in hell cried out for Dagoth. He barely sighed as she slipped the blade into him, and his head rolled back on his shoulders.
Every torch, lantern and candle in the palace went out. On the great orrery above, the sun, moon and planets went dark, and the orrery itself stopped. The real moon climbed too far above the window, and the Killing Stars slipped out of alignment.
Outside, there was no more music, no more laughter, only the howling and slavering of the wolves. Frost sheathed the dagger again, felt in the darkness for Mirella's hand and hugged the little girl close. Nothing else in the palace moved.
A few soft gasps and strangulated sighs whispered through the room. Then silence once again, cold and final.
"Only three?" Mirella murmured.
"Shhhhh." Frost put a finger on Mirella's lips.
Lord Death had come to the City of Sins.
Proving Grounds
Steve Chapman
Princess Shada did not fear fighting on the Proving Grounds, not until she was informed of the political—and martial—consequences of her either winning or losing the duel. It would be simpler just to punch the idiot who had challenged her in the face, but, unfortunately, she'd already done that.
Steve Chapman is a technical publisher and editor with a large educational content developer. He has had prior careers in engineering and music. He lives with his wife and daughter at the New Jersey shore.
The Princess Shada was lost in a reverie of her own death. She imagined herself drowning in a vat of the dark red wine served at Citadel receptions. The wine had the thickness and scent of blood. It filled her mouth and nose and lungs.
It was a horrible death, but preferable to the actual reception. Shada stood at corseted attention at the far end of the Kings' Hall, a noose of rubies tight about her neck, her blond hair torturously bound, holding a glass of the noxious vintage. Charged with charming a procession of visiting diplomats, nobility and court sorcerers, she had so far managed not to scream.
"Shada." Sienna grabbed her arm. Her dark hair pinned, Shada's sister appeared both pretty and severe. "He's even more handsome than I remembered."
A year or two older than the sisters, perhaps seventeen, the young man approaching them was exceedingly good-looking. His golden hair was precisely combed, his dress uniform spotless. Like the reception, he seemed both perfect and unbearably predictable. Shada would prefer death by claret.
"Master Mulravey." Sienna effortlessly executed a three quarters curtsy. Her mastery of protocol appalled Shada on a regular basis. "It's a pleasure to welcome you and your father to the Citadel."
Rumors swirled that the arrival of Duke Absolom Mulravey and his entourage heralded a wedding announcement. Sienna had traveled to Mulravey's Escala fortress just the month before. Shada tried to stay as far as possible from such Court gossip. She could barely stomach her sister's uncharacteristi
c swooning.
"Your highness." Eric Mulravey eyed Sienna with frank admiration. "You are the loveliest whore at the banquet."
Sienna's face, tense with anticipation, simply collapsed.
Shada felt a sharp bolt of something. Perhaps this was love?
Her fist landed in the center of Eric's face.
* * * *
"You will meet Eric Mulravey on the Proving Grounds tomorrow at dawn. As the aggrieved party, he has chosen Alari staves. Three hits to win." Sir Gregory appeared eager to bludgeon Shada himself. "Your highness."
"I'll kick his ass." Shada had retrieved an Alari staff, five sleek feet of oak topped with a steel point, from the weapons store, and blithely moved it through a six-point exercise. She approved of the selection.
"You will not." Gregory managed not to flinch as the staff passed inches from his face. "Duke Mulravey has six companies of infantry, another two of horse. If he throws in with Aras Langdon's uprising against your father, we face a real rebellion. We invited Mulravey to cement his wavering loyalty to the crown. Not to beat his progeny to a bloody pulp."
"You want me to lose." Shada had suspected the dressing down must be prelude to a more elaborate punishment.
"You must not lose the challenge. The blow to the crown's martial reputation could precipitate the revolt just as easily."
"I can't win or lose?"
"You apprehend the dire situation into which your infantile behavior has placed us, Princess. Bravo."
Sienna sat by the window, staring out over the rooftops of St. Navarre. Traditionally she stood at Gregory's elbow during his admonitory speeches to Shada, adding commentary and the occasional 'I told you so.' She hadn't spoken since they left the hall.
"My father would have done no less," Shada said softly. "Given the circumstance."
"No one heard Eric's slur beside the two of you. Everyone in the hall saw you break his nose."
"You don't believe me?" Shada gripped the staff so tightly she wondered if it might shatter.
"I didn't say that."
Sienna stood up. "Mulravey holds the only crossing of the Dannai River. If Langdon gains the crossing he'll march his full force at us, torching every village that stands in his way. My injured feelings are nothing in the balance."
Astonished at this betrayal, Shada did her best ignore her sister. "What does my father bid me do?"
"Our best outcome is a draw," Gregory said. "No insult to Mulravey, no blemish to the crown. Without appearing to temper your blows, keep him from his hits, don't take your own."
"As you wish." Shada chewed her words, spat them out.
"Eric Mulravey has two years, six inches, and fifty pounds on you. You would be pressed to defeat him in straightforward combat. To fight to a draw without appearing to is decidedly more difficult." Gregory glared. "The King does not believe you can do it."
Shada registered the blow more deeply than if Gregory had driven the weapon clean through her. As he no doubt intended. "He could not be bothered to tell me so himself?"
"At the moment Duke Mulravey requires his full attention. But I see no alternative. You have the skill. It is your discipline that is in question. Caine awaits you in the combat rooms. You have until dawn to master the moves."
* * * *
Ten paces down the torchlit hall, Sienna turned on Shada. "Is it just a basic reflex with you? Someone says something and you punch them in the face?"
"If someone calls my sister a whore, yes." In truth, the right hook had been something of a reflex. Shada was better with her fists than her tongue, and relied on them more than she should. If she had thought for a moment before defending her sister's honor, she might not have thrown the punch. Sienna had grown into a political creature, endlessly plotting causes and outcomes. Amidst the fascinations of court intrigue, personal loyalty seemed to mean less and less to her.
"Eric Mulravey is a practiced diplomat. He wouldn't behave so without provocation. I must have offended him in some way, though I can't think how." Sienna's eyes were rimmed in red. "I've brought us the battle father was desperate to avoid."
"You don't think I can handle him, either?"
"Perhaps you can." Sienna grimaced. "Perhaps you'll bring Eric to a draw with nothing but your dazzling technique. But will you then be able to bear not winning? All of St. Navarre will be watching. You'll down him and bask in the glory and make me responsible for thousands dead."
It had been years since Shada had struck her sister. Lack of practice was all that restrained her now. That, and the possible truth of Sienna's words. Shada needed to escape her sister. Caine beating her senseless was a better distraction than most. She turned to go, and found herself face to face with Eric Mulravey.
A white bandage covered his nose. His blond whiskers and dress uniform were splattered with dried blood. She now found him vaguely attractive.
The two bodyguards behind him reached for their swords.
Shada's blade lay in her faraway rooms. She brought up the staff.
"Princess. I see you are practicing for the morning's amusement." Eric ran a finger along her weapon, to its sharp end. "I pray you are skilled with these exotic staves. It is said the sharpness of this steel causes terrible accidents."
"Do I imagine your grace is planning such an accident for me?"
He smiled beneath the bandage. "I'm going to remove one of your eyes. As I doubt your beauty will prove as robust as my own, your marriage prospects may suffer." He brought her hand to his lips, planted a kiss upon it, and slipped past, studiously ignoring Sienna.
"I can see why you like him so much," Shada said eventually.
"You don't have to fight him," Sienna whispered. "I'll speak to Gregory."
Shada's heart pounded within her chest. She registered a slick, delicious thrill of fear. She had been taught to confront the things that most frightened her, but in truth this was always her first and strongest impulse. She feared the combat, and wanted it, terribly.
The burden with which she struggled was thought before action. She took a deep breath and forced herself to consider the unlikely confrontation. "We're far off the path from the Healer's quarters back to Mulravey's."
Sienna looked back down the stone corridor. "They were waiting for you."
Shada nodded. "Why is Eric so keen to get a rise out of me?"
"To scare you into withdrawing?"
"He knew enough about me to be sure I'd accept the challenge. He knows I won't scare. He thinks he can provoke me into doing something stupid." Shada whirled the staff from her left hand to the right and drove it through the eye of an imaginary opponent. "Because it worked so well the first time."
* * * *
"Shada, this is a terrible idea."
"Eric Mulravey is a practiced diplomat. He insulted you to get the challenge. Now he's gone out of his way to be certain I won't back out." Shada found herself flattered that Eric knew enough of her to take the approach he had. "We need to know why."
"You may be right. With all St. Navarre looking on, he could provoke a greater incident. This is still a terrible idea."
They stood at the bottom of the Sanctum Stairs, which corkscrewed deep into the stone bowels of the Citadel. The damp air smelt of age and the sea, and other things Shada couldn't put name to. She had been born within the ancient walls of the Citadel, but she still found its forgotten places bewildering.
The entrance was twenty feet tall, curved blue stone distinguished from the surrounding wall only by the faint glimmer of topaz and the intricate runes carved across every inch of it.
Sienna held her hand flat, an inch from its surface. "The Passages are dangerous and unpredictable."
"If Duke Mulravey wanted war, he could simply throw in with Langdon," Shada said. "Why put his son to all this trouble? We need to know. Or do you want the blood of thousands on your hands?"
Sienna stared daggers but placed her hand upon the stone and spoke the words. The stone whispered back, voices from long before the Age
of Men, when the Citadel had first risen.
The murmuring vanished, and the entrance stone with it. A perfect circle of darkness beckoned.
Shada followed Sienna through a tunnel barely five feet high, no wider across. Though the walls and floor appeared pitch black, Shada had the impression that she wasn't looking at rock or dirt, but rather a starless night sky. Veining this darkness were green vines, twisting and curling, bursting into glittering blue and white flowers.
The Eidritch Passages had been created long before the Kings of Avone adopted the Citadel as their seat of power. But each ruler in turn found uses for the sorcerous corridors, which seemed to exist in a world slightly to the left of this one. Within them, one could see and hear everything nearby, remaining invisible to those outside. They honeycombed the interior of the Citadel, a spymaster's dream.
"You know the rules," Sienna warned. "Follow only the known paths. Don't stay in any one spot for more than a minute. And if you see yourself within the Passages, run for your life."
She halted at a three-way fork. "Left goes toward the King's household. We go right, to the guest towers."
"And the center passage?"
"Unmapped. Gregory says that King Petrach sent a team to explore it, over two hundred years ago. They never returned, but supposedly our spies still hear them sometimes. Screaming."
Sienna started down the rightward path. Shada stayed close behind.
Torchlight suddenly filled the passage. They walked through an empty room, yet were still within the transparent tunnel, its dimensions delineated by the flowering vines and a faint shimmer in the air between them.
"Mulravey's chambers should be just ahead." Sienna stepped though the wall, and Shada followed back into darkness. Even though the wall was only a foot thick, they moved through yards of black tunnel before emerging into the next chamber.
Armed with an Alari staff, Eric Mulravey tacked back and forth toward a practice dummy topped by the head of a yellow mop, strands of fabric falling across its stenciled face like filthy blond hair. He feinted right then attacked from the left. The steel point tore through the dummy's neck.
Marion Zimmer Bradley's Sword and Sorceress XXV Page 19