Falconfar 03-Falconfar

by Ed Greenwood

  Maera strode over to tower over her parents, ignoring her father's stunned stare. Taking hold of her mother's breast, she squeezed the nipple sharply, evoking another spasm of thrashing pleasure, then squeezed it again. Harder.

  Lady Tesmer's eyes flew open this time, glaring at her daughter.

  Maera gave her a nod, as though greeting her on the road, and snapped, "Free him."

  "Maera!" her mother responded sharply, "I'm not your servant, and your sheer—"

  "Free him!"

  Maera turned away from the bed in a swirl of sleeves and skirts, and snatched up and hurled aside a padded stool and a broad armchair. When she had enough space cleared among the overlapping fur rugs, she began a long and intricate casting.

  "Insolent daughter—" Lady Tesmer began, then fell silent abruptly as she recognized what was forming in the air of her bedchamber.

  It was an upright, palely glowing oval, not a gate but the largest and most powerful sort of farscrying "eye." Something far beyond any hedge-wizard.

  Keeping her back to them and trusting to her hand-shield to protect it against anything they might hurl, Maera allowed herself a tight smile.

  The mere nature of this spell boasted to her parents just how mighty their eldest daughter—their heir, and if any Tesmer thought that only sons mattered, she'd soon eliminate them—had become in matters of magecraft. Which was why she should swiftly demonstrate her loyalty to her parents, and keep herself clean of any apparent involvement in the deaths of her brothers. It would be tiresome to have Lord and Lady Tesmer hate and fear their most capable offspring more than they appreciated her talents.

  Time to begin this mending.

  "I have no wish to embarrass either of you farther," she said, trying to sound both apologetic and loving, "which is why I'm keeping my back turned. If this wasn't of such immediate importance, I'd not have dreamed of disturbing your privacy. Mother, Father... I love you both, and am loyal to you. I think first of service to you, and secondly of the strength and reputation of House Tesmer. I hope you know that."

  She could hear whispers of energetically tugged silk behind her, yet it seemed a long time before her mother replied coolly, "We thought we did know that. Yet in recent days, so much of what we thought we knew to be true has proven otherwise. Trust, once lost, is harder to regain than you might think."

  Had there been an ever-so-slight emphasis on that "you"?

  "Turn around, Maera," her father said, as calmly as if he'd been offering her wine. "You have something to show us?"

  He was offering her wine.

  It would be poisoned, of course, but Maera had prepared for that. The spells that would protect her were surging bright and strong within her, so she smiled and took the proffered goblet with a smile as genuine as she could feign.

  And drank deeply, matching their alert smiles with one of her own that told them, as clearly as if she'd shouted it, I know what you did to this otherwise superb wine.

  Her mother's smile changed slightly. Of course you do, daughter, it seemed to say. You are a Tesmer.

  Lord and Lady Tesmer were both wearing robes now, though neither of them had bothered to do them up. Interestingly, her father's manhood still stood proud; perhaps poison wasn't the only thing in their wine.

  Maera's scrying oval had achieved its full size, and now floated upright like a tall door, stretching from about the height of her knees to just above her head, and about half as wide as it was high. It glowed milkily at one end of the space she'd cleared, showing only swirling clouds to the bedchamber.

  "I do indeed, Father. I did not reveal this to you both earlier only because I did not think it was possible, without knowing—or guessing correctly, and I readily admit I tried to guess—where the persons one seeks have gone. Until a stray notion occurred to me that proved to be correct."

  "Your demonstration that you can match your mother's mastery of cryptic speech is sufficient, Maera," Lord Tesmer said dryly. "I take it you mean to say that you've been curious as to the whereabouts of our runaways, Belard and Talyss? And acting upon some stray notion proved successful?"

  "Yes, Father," Maera told him warmly.

  His eyes twinkled. "So what was this notion?"

  Maera took all the time she needed to reply, choosing her words carefully, and looking to her mother as she did so. "From time to time, although no one is supposed to know, both of you have dealings with a certain wizard. Whose skin is blue. I suspect that both of you in turn know very well that this same wizard, from time to time, has appeared to various of your children—almost certainly including Belard and Talyss, and definitely including me—for his own reasons. I have always thought he was judging us, both individually and as part of House Tesmer, and therefore have obeyed him utterly."

  Lady Tesmer stiffened.

  "I've not found it necessary to obey him in that way, Mother; he has never asked that of me. Nor has he instructed me in working magic, beyond telling me that something he had seen me doing— without my knowing he was scrying—was right or wrong, futile or dangerous, or worth pursuing. With one exception."

  They were both watching her very alertly now, leaning forward, and Maera saw menace in their eyes. If she said the wrong thing, the next few moments would undoubtedly be... interesting.

  "The blue mage taught me just one small magic, and encouraged me to practice it often, telling me it would someday be quite useful. The magic is a small spell that does nothing at all, except elude most tracing spells that seek out magic, until a particular sort of spell reaches out to it. A tracer spell, cast by the same person who cast the first spell."

  Her parents had relaxed. A trifle.

  "So you cast this small spell on many portable items in Imtowers," Lady Tesmer said. A statement rather than a question.

  Maera nodded.

  "And either Belard or Talyss is unwittingly wearing or carrying some thing that you prepared in this manner right now, so you can—and have—traced them."

  Maera nodded.

  "Very clever, Maera. Leave telling us what the item might be, and about our Master's involvement with you, for another time. We, too, have work to do and other matters planned for our day than the pleasure you interrupted. So you've found Talyss and Belard, and are ready to show us where they are and what they're up to—and this, you believe, is vital to the future of the family. Well enough. Show us, and let us know and judge.

  "Oh, and Maera? Well done."

  Maera blinked, and felt herself blush. That was a little distressing, considering she thought she'd mastered control of her face and voice long ago, but then, praise from her mother was astonishing in itself.

  "One moment," Lord Tesmer said crisply, astonishing her again. Isn't he supposed to be the weak one?

  "I want this spell of yours banished in an instant, without showing us anything, if you know of any spell that can be used— by a Doom of Falconfar, say, not just by you or a lesser mage—to trace or identify us through it. Or even be aware of our scrutiny as we watch. Will they be able to see and hear us?"

  Maera shook her head. "No, Father, they won't, and no, I know of no such spell. If I did, I'd never have dared try to find them in the first place. One thing neither Talyss nor Belard lack is malice."

  "Show us, then, Maera," Lady Tesmer said gently, almost fondly. "I have missed our dear little Lyss. And Bel, too."

  Maera almost winced at the acid in her mother's voice, but managed to keep her face expressionless as she nodded, turned, and waved her hand.

  The roiling mists fell away like a dropped tapestry, leaving the three of them looking into another chamber as if through a window.

  It was a high-roofed, formal room, and Talyss Tesmer was kneeling in it.

  One of the watchers in Imtowers growled in rage. Surprisingly, it was Lady Telclara Tesmer.

  IT WAS A high-roofed, formal room. Pillars lined its walls in elegant clusters, soaring up to an ornately carved, vaulted ceiling.

  In front of a broad bed fla
nked by man-high branched candlesticks, Talyss Tesmer was kneeling on a thick, bright, new rauthen-fur rug, right in front of a man.

  He was a Galathan noble, by his looks, clad in a puff-sleeved jerkin and sleek hose, his crisp new garments the very height of fashion. His cheeks were rouged and his hair oiled; he was doused in scent. He was sneering down at Talyss in triumph as her slender fingers worked the laces of his ornate codpiece, and using the riding- whip in his hand to flick the translucent silken sleep-robe from her shoulders, so that it fell around her, attached only to her forearms.

  "Power," she was purring. "I admire power so much, Lord Telgurt."

  "I begin to see what Dunshar's been seeing in you," the noble replied, smirking as his adornment was loosed and swung down and aside, and the woman kneeling before him breathed warmly on what was now exposed.

  "I hope so, lord," she murmured, and thrust her head forward to apply her tongue.

  "If I feel your teeth," the noble snapped, sudden steel in his voice, "rest assured you'll feel my whip. Bear that in mind."

  Her reply was a wordless, murmured affirmative, and Lord Telgurt started to relax and give himself over to pleasure.

  "One thing more," he muttered, his voice less curt and threatening. "Deceive or seek to harm me in any way, wench, and you'll be sharing pleasure with me no longer. Instead, you'll be giving pleasure to my knights and armsmen—all two thousand of them who rode here with me. Understand?"

  "I do," Talyss breathed. "Oh, I do."

  In Imtowers, Maera glanced at her father to see how he was taking this, and saw the same eagerness as on Telgurt's face. Her mother's hand was stealing over to the open front of Lord Tesmer's robe.

  But of course.

  THE KING OF Galath studied the list that had just been handed to him. It was not a short one.

  "Larth," he murmured, arching his brows in surprise. "But he's my age! He knows what harm is done when Galath fights over this throne. Oh, well, I suppose they're paying him well enough... who is paying him, by the way?"

  "We're not sure, Majesty, but we're leaning to it being either House Duthcrown or House Yarrove. I say the families to you, Sire, because we can find—as yet—no hint that the heads of those houses are directly involved.

  "Beyond the fact that those loyal lords can hardly help but notice that infamous wizards are sitting down with them at their feasting-tables, drinking their wine of evenings, and so on," King Brorsavar said dryly. "Well, they've coin enough, to be sure. And here's Memmurth, of course, and Darlamtur, too. Hmm. It certainly seems as if every mage in Falconfar who knows where Galath is has found his way here. I feel almost honored. Now if some mighty mage would just step in through yonder door with a spell to shield me against all of their magics, I could relax and enjoy a decent spell-battle, until the inevitable dagger finds me."

  "Sire!"

  "Oh? Am I not supposed to know what's afoot in Galath? Isn't that what kings do, when they're not busy tyrannizing their people?"

  His steward coughed. "I believe siring royal heirs also comes into it somewhere, Your Majesty."

  "So it does, so it does. You obviously know the tasks, good Ravalan; why don't you put on this crown and ride to Galathgard? The realm needs someone young, vigorous, and—"

  "Expendable," Windstrike murmured from behind the king, before he could stop himself.

  There was a moment of shocked silence in the chamber, as Ravalan recoiled in horror from the royal suggestion, and everyone else gaped at Marquel Windstrike.

  Except Brorsavar, who pounded his fist on the table and roared with laughter, long bellows of mirth that no one dared join in.

  "Now that" the King of Galath gasped, when he found breath enough to speak again, "was almost worth dying for. By the Falcon, I'm going to miss this, when I'm gone!"

  IN THE SCRYING oval, they heard Lord Telgurt groan in pleasure, as loudly as if he was in a bedchamber.

  "Maera, dear," Lady Tesmer murmured then, "you are going to tell us where Talyss is, aren't you? And are we seeing something captured by your spell, earlier, or something befalling right now?"

  "The room is somewhere in the castle of Galathgard, in the heart of Galath," Maera replied. "As you can see, it's not as ruinous as the tales have always told us. And what we're seeing is happening right now, as we watch."

  Her mother smiled and nodded, gaze never leaving the image.

  "Shall I—?" Talyss gasped to the arduke then, taking her mouth off him for a moment, "or would you prefer—?"

  She waved at the bed behind them both.

  "Take it. Take it, then fetch me wine," Telgurt said roughly. "I've some powder; it works swiftly, and then we can do the other."

  He glanced swiftly back at the bed, nodded his head as if it met his standards—and then stiffened as her hot, wet mouth closed on him again, and a slender finger thrust gently up his backside.

  Arduke Brasgel Telgurt was not a man used to curbing his reactions, and he threw back his head and shouted his satisfaction. Talyss murmured loudly, too, repeating the same muffled sound of satisfaction several times ere the noble backed away from her and sat down heavily on the bed, panting.

  "F-Falcon, yes, that was—magnificent! Hurry with that wine, lass! No, cast aside your silks—I want to see you run for it naked!"

  "Takes after her mother, she does," Lord Tesmer murmured, in the bedchamber in Imtowers.

  Maera turned swiftly to see how murderous her mother's face was, but Lady Tesmer was smiling.

  ROD EVERLAR CAME awake sweating, out of a nightmare of Lorontar the archwizard smiling at him and bending to kiss him. As those bearded lips bent to his, they became gap-toothed bone, and the wizard's face a grinning skull, as his laughter thundered all around him...

  "Go to sleep, Lord Rod," Taeauna said soothingly, from beside him. She was pressed right against him, shoulder to shoulder, leather on leather. Sometime after he'd drifted off, she must have shifted over to join him, amalgamating their cloaks and their warmth.

  Rod lay staring up at the dark ceiling, gasping for breath and trying to slow his racing heart. "I had a... had a nightmare," he panted.

  "I know," the Aumrarr beside him said soothingly. "Lorontar giving you the skullface, yes?"

  "How—how did you know?"

  "He always does, to someone trying to sleep here. Some sort of taunting he worked on Malraun, long ago. 'My magic prevails over yours,' I guess. 'You may control this armory, Malraun, but you'll never take refuge in it.' That sort of thing."

  Christ. These wizards. Reaching out beyond death, across half a world to sneer into each other's faces. Warning what they could do, even from beyond the grave.

  AT THE DOOR of the many-pillared bedchamber in Galathgard, Talyss turned, her mouth open wide to show the arduke what was on her tongue.

  She swallowed with obvious relish, and with an almost fond smile said, "My lord Telgurt, I mind scampering through this castle bareskinned not at all; I will be proud to tell anyone I meet that I do your bidding, and have just enjoyed your prowess—but have you no concern that some rivals may use this against you? Deeming your prudence too shallow for high office, when... when high office beckons, as so soon it shall?"

  The arduke barked with laughter. "Hah, wench! You worry for me? How sweet! High office is given to those who seize it! And as for my reputation once I have it, or my misuse of it thereafter; my dear little playpretty, misusing it is what high office is for." He sat up and sketched a mocking bow in her direction.

  "So I thank you for your kind concern, bed-lass, but require you now not to worry, but rather to race like the wind to the sour- faced cellarer I bribed not long ago, and request of him what he agreed to provide me—just a decanter right now, mind; I don't want him following you with two hairy lads and a keg! Why, I— IiiieeeeeEEE!"

  A slender sword thrust up through the bed from beneath, piercing Arduke Brasgel Telgurt almost up to his lungs.

  Belard Tesmer rolled out from under the bed grinning as Talyss raced
across the room to wrap herself around the arduke's face, embracing him tightly and muffling his screams as he died.

  Then she thrust Telgurt's corpse back onto the bed and tore away the lace that adorned his chest, to wipe herself clean of his blood.

  "Overperfumed pig," she said dismissively. "His seed tasted like butter."

  "Did it now?" Belard replied. "He died readily enough—and look! It seems he didn't need his powder, after all! Should I leave you two alone together?"

  Talyss looked back at the corpse. "Don't tempt me, brother." Her gaze lingered. "Hmm. Perhaps you should, at that."

  THE LONG, RAGGED scream brought Garfist awake in a rush, sitting up with his sword in his hand.

  "Isk? Isk!" he shouted into the darkness.

  "Easy, Old Ox mine," his longtime partner replied, from the mouth of the cave. "Everything's fine. Go back to sleep." The two Aumrarr stood at her shoulders, drawn swords in their hands.

  "Who screamed?" he growled. "Someone screamed—I know they did!"

  "Dark Helms," Juskra replied disgustedly, landing on her knees beside him. "It was Dark Helms, this time. I'd take us to another cave, but there isn't another cave."

  "Besides," Dauntra put in, "Being right here to kill everyone arriving through the gate is quite... efficient."

  Garfist yawned. "An' ye Aumrarr are known for yer efficiency, aye." His next utterance was a snore.

  Juskra smiled down at him, then at her fellow Aumrarr. "Efficient. I quite like that."

  "CHARMING," LADY TESMER commented, gazing at the bedchamber in Galathgard through the scrying-window. "Maera, will it harm your magic if we send a spell of our own through it, to destroy— or at least maim—your wayward siblings? I'd—"

  "No, Mother!" Maera said sternly. "If I try that, I'll be certain of two things: destroying this farscrying, and allowing anyone who has any magic at all in Galathgard—and wizards in the hire of nobles have arrived in the castle by the dozens, perhaps scores, by now—to trace us, even after the scrying has ended. Not wise.