by Dragon Lance
“There have been rumors,” Jyrbian said mysteriously.
“I should have you thrown from the parapets!” she laughed. “You know something you don’t want to tell. Besides, you’ve never really trained as a warrior.”
“No one’s trained as a true warrior anymore,” Lyrralt scoffed. “They’re all just honor guards who play with swords and pikes and practice marching in perfect rows. Even the king’s guard is mostly show.”
“You’re wrong, as usual. I’ve watched them train.” Jyrbian twined his fingers with Khallayne’s and tugged her toward the stairs, talking as he moved. “True, I haven’t practiced at marching. But I promise you, my other skills are not lacking.”
Khallayne allowed herself to be drawn away, leaving Lyrralt behind. She couldn’t imagine what gossip Jyrbian must know if he thought warriors would yet again be in demand.
Animal herders were all that were necessary for the raids on human settlements. And the raids on the elven lands, deep in the forests to the south, were easily handled by thieves. The things that could be stolen, beautiful carvings and thick, lustrous cloth, could not be matched anywhere on the continent of Ansalon, but the elves themselves, with their stoic demeanor and their unwavering devotion to goodness, made terrible slaves.
“Jyrbian …” She touched his forearm. Hard muscle rippled under his indigo skin. “Come and eat dinner with me. We’ll go up on the parapets afterward and look at the stars. I have something to tell you. And something I’d like you to help me do.”
Laughing at her with his pale eyes, Jyrbian slipped his fingers under her sleeve and stroked the soft flesh of her wrist. “You’re the most beautiful woman here tonight,” he whispered, “the most beautiful woman in Takar.”
She laughed. Khallayne knew he’d probably uttered the same words to every woman with whom he’d spoken since the party had begun at sundown; certainly he had said them to her every time they’d crossed paths for the past twenty years. And as she had answered for all those years, now she answered smugly, “I know.”
“We do make a perfect pair,” he murmured, holding up her hand, admiring the darkness of his wrist against skin the pale green of sea foam. “Like day and night. Unfortunately … I hope you will forgive my bluntness, but there are more important dinner partners in the room. As my brother is so fond of reminding me, I must be mindful of my duties – and my fortune.” He brought her hand up to his lips, kissed her knuckles, then wheeled away smartly.
“Jyrbian …!” Left standing on the stairs, Khallayne watched in disbelief as he bounded down the steps, his long silver hair, braided warrior-style, swaying back and forth across his shoulders.
Khallayne’s fingers twitched, itching to be at work in the air, inscribing some terrible spell.
“He’s trying to get a special assignment from the Ruling Council.”
Khallayne had forgotten Lyrralt was nearby. Absentmindedly, she tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. “I don’t understand how you can tolerate him sometimes,” she said coolly, watching Jyrbian’s progress through the crowd. “You know sooner or later, the thought will occur to him that the easiest way to ‘make his fortune’ is to inherit it.”
Across the room, Jyrbian joined a group of Ogres standing near the steps to the throne platform. A young woman dressed in a fancy tunic immediately took his arm.
The words of a spell, one they had used when they were children, which made the skin sting as if nettled, leapt to Khallayne’s lips. She had not thought of it in fifty years, hadn’t used it in a hundred, but it would be very interesting to see whether Jyrbian could be as charming if she sent it spiraling through the air. She could almost taste the words, then forgot them as Lyrralt spoke.
He faced her with a mock look of remonstrance wrinkling his forehead. “My father’s minor nobility and wealth isn’t enough to suit Jyrbian. He’s aiming much higher these days. And so far, all it has gotten him is an errand that will make him miss the slave races next week.”
“What errand?”
The closeness of her body, the warmth of her breast against his arm had the effect she desired.
Lyrralt covered her hand with his and leaned closer, answering as if he were not aware of the words. “Some fool errand to Khal-Theraxian for Lord Teragrym.”
As he said “Teragrym,” she turned her face away, afraid that he would see the change in her expression, in her smile. Surely she must look like a wolf, ready to pounce. “Yes, I’ve heard talk,” she said, “about the governor of Khal-Theraxian. Something about a new method of working his slaves that has increased production.”
She composed her expression, molding it to a flirtatious one. Tucking her hand securely into the crook of Lyrralt’s arm and lifting the heavy hem of her robe, she started down the stairs. “Is that Teragrym’s youngest daughter with Jyrbian?”
“No, that’s Kyreli. She’s not the youngest. She’s the one who sings so well. I think Teragrym is hoping she’ll be the next Singer.”
Khallayne’s brows pulled together in a frown that had no playfulness about it at all.
The Ogres made a song for everything. They sang for happiness, for sadness, for rain, for sun, for cold, for heat. They raised their lovely voices in song for the most important thing and for nothing at all, and even the gods paused to listen. Hunters charmed the beasts with the beauty and grace of their voices; slavers lured their prey into shackling their own hands.
Khallayne was irritated by it all. For she of winsome ways, of quick mind and daring beauty, could not sing. She had hair that was like silk pouring through a man’s fingers, eyes that could beguile the most hardened heart, a magical power so natural and strong she dared not expose it. But she could not sing. Her singing voice had all the beauty, the charm, of a stone door scraping over a sill filled with grit.
Lyrralt stopped as they reached the bottom of the stairs. He leaned close and lowered his voice as if imparting a secret. “Have dinner with me. I’ve got something to tell you that’s much more exciting than rumors of warriors.”
She considered him from beneath her eyelashes. Maybe he knew something of Teragrym’s interests in Khal-Theraxian.
She smiled and took his arm once more, settling in against his warmth, and leading him toward the far end of the huge chamber that contained the dining area.
They circled the king’s table, off which nothing could be eaten. It was there purely to be savored, relished, for admiration of the “flavor of the appearance.”
“Have you ever wondered from where this curious custom comes?” Lyrralt asked as he slowly walked the length of the table, admiring the rare ghen blossoms cooked in honey and floating in wine, sea darts and other fish, brought all the way from the Turbidus Ocean, swimming in spices and gingerlike leaves.
“No, I haven’t.” Khallayne followed him, barely noticing the complementary arrangement of scent and texture and color.
As she filled a plate with juicy, broiled scrawls and bread dripping with honey jelly, she asked, “Did you notice earlier, when the Keeper left the stage, that Tenal guards were waiting in the hallway?”
Shaking his head, Lyrralt placed something on her plate that resembled a delicate blue flower.
“I was thinking that perhaps it means one of Tenal’s sons or daughters has been named as successor to the Keeper. She’s well past the age when the Song should have been passed on.”
Though he tried to cover it, she saw that Lyrralt had made the connection she’d hoped he would. He furrowed his heavy, silky brows in surprise. They found an empty table against a wall, somewhat isolated from the other tables, and dispatched a slave for wine.
“I thought it especially odd,” Khallayne picked up the thread of their conversation with false nonchalance. “Because I felt sure one of Teragrym’s daughters would be chosen. …”
“So was Jyrbian.” Lyrralt grinned suddenly. “And he’s pursuing the wrong daughter! He had big plans for tonight … I think I’ll wait until tomorrow to tell him. The look on h
is face will be —”
“Oh, I think we can do better than that.” Khallayne sipped her wine, savored the tartness on her tongue. “Much better.”
Lyrralt paused, goblet halfway to his mouth, staring at the gleam in her black eyes. He’d never seen an expression so wicked, so alluring. Excitement and foreboding surged within him. The runes on his shoulder burned as when they were new. “Is this why you wanted Jyrbian’s help?”
“Yes. But I think you’ll do a much better job.”
She paused. “I’ve got an idea,” she purred. “A perfect idea. It will get us both what we want.”
Lyrralt drew his chair close, leaned toward her. “And what is it you want?” He could feel the heat of her body. “It’s never seemed to me that you strived for the usual things – position, nor even gift of land or a home outside the castle walls. When Jyrbian and I heard you were coming to court, we thought you’d seek to regain your family estate from the Tenal clan. But, unless you’re even more devious than I imagined, I haven’t seen any evidence of it.”
She smiled and touched the rim of her goblet to his. “Thank you, sir. I am even more devious than you imagine. But land is not what I desire. What I have learned in my three hundred years is that land is a transitory thing, easily given, easily taken away on a whim. I seek a more permanent reward.”
“And you will tell me. Perhaps tonight as we walk the parapets?”
She stared at him, speculatively, and slipped a hand underneath the edge of his sleeve.
His eyes widened as her fingers crept upward on his skin. When she touched the edges of the runes, he trembled.
“Wouldn’t your order be extremely pleased if you obtained the sponsorship of Lord Teragrym?”
“How?” He drained his goblet without taking his eyes from the movement of her hand under his sleeve.
“Very simple. I think we can get our hands on something Teragrym wants very much. And we can do it so that Jyrbian would be blamed, in the unlikely event this … redistribution was discovered.”
For a moment, Lyrralt was too stunned to speak. All the blood had drained from his face, rendering his skin a dull grayish hue.
But Khallayne knew she had him – a fish swimming lazily along, complacently, agreeably, right into her net. His mouth was even hanging open in an oval, like a fish gasping for air.
“The runes spoke of this,” he whispered.
Her hand froze, then the tips of her fingers twitched on his skin, on the spongy runes just above his elbow. “Of what?”
He gazed at his sleeve. The runes engraved into his skin were the gift of his god, a sign that his piety had been accepted. Even more importantly, they were a gift to his god. For a race as beautiful and as proud of its beauty as the Ogres, to allow their flawless skin to be marked and scarred was a sign of absolute devotion.
The first markings were not usually shared with those outside his order. Few were privileged to view the first communications of Hiddukel with a disciple. Later, when his arms and hands were covered with markings, he would wear sleeves that exposed his forearms and wrists, as the High Cleric did.
“The runes spoke of many things. Of destiny and revenge. Of position and power. And there was a reference that I didn’t fully understand, until I saw you tonight. To a dark queen.”
“But I don’t understand. I’m not a queen.”
“Your gown, Khallayne. The decoration on your gown, of the Dead Queen. And there’s more. The runes speak of family and revenge.”
She slowly withdrew her hand from beneath his sleeve, scraping her nails along his skin as she moved. There was a humming in her mind, as of bees around a field of flowers, and a cold prickling on her skin. She whispered. “The Dead Queen … That settles it. We’re going to steal the Song of the History of the Ogre from the Keeper and give it to Teragrym.”
Chapter 3
THEFT OF HISTORY
“We’ll need something of Jyrbian’s. A bottle, a container of some kind. A charm, or a jewel. I’ll find a slave who knows in whose apartments the Keeper is staying, one we can trust not to tell.”
So easy. It had been so easy. Lyrralt, though obviously stunned, had not questioned her directions.
He had pushed away his plate of half-eaten food, followed her from the noisy audience hall, and gone, quickly and lightly, in the opposite direction, toward the southern end of the castle, toward his and Jyrbian’s apartments.
The hem of her gown whispered softly on the stone floor as Khallayne escaped the din of the party. She went down, descending into the service passageways of the castle.
As she entered the bustling kitchen, she lifted the hem of her gown off the floor, stepping over a puddle of grimy water. The room was smoky from the huge cooking hearths, humid with the steam of boiling kettles and pots, the uncirculated air choked with the nauseating scent of humans.
Not one of the slaves looked up to meet her quick scan of the room. Just as well. Their ugly pink faces were as disgusting as their scent.
Khallayne snapped her fingers at a small, scurrying slave who wore a serving dress with little grace, as if it were stitched-together cleaning rags.
The girl bobbed a quick but respectful curtsey. “Yes, Lady. May I help you?”
“I need Laie.”
The girl glanced back over her shoulder. “Laie is … occupied, Lady. May I serve you?” She dipped another curtsey, again quick and nervous, betraying her fear far more than did the quake in her voice.
“Occupied? What do you mean?”
The woman bobbed again, never raising her eyes from the tips of Khallayne’s soft leather shoes. “She is —” She glanced behind her for support and found none. “She is …”
“Stand still and tell me where the slave is!” Khallayne snapped, irritated by the bobbing woman and the overpowering smell of so many unwashed slaves.
“Lady, Lord Eneg is in the kitchen!”
Khallayne made a sound of irritation, at last understanding what the mumbling slave was trying to indicate. An Ogre would have to be an outcast to have not heard of the appetites of Eneg.
Khallayne had used Laie many times before, to spy for information, for errands she wanted kept secret. As slaves went, Laie was brighter than most, a wellspring of information, and she knew to keep her mouth shut. If Eneg killed Laie, another would have to be found and trained. “When did Eneg take her?”
“Only just a moment ago.”
Good. There might still be time. It was rumored that Eneg enjoyed playing with his victims.
Khallayne gathered the hem of her gown up above her shoes. “Take me to him.”
Still obviously nervous, the woman led Khallayne to the back of the kitchen, through a low door, and into a long, narrow, dark hallway. A supply passage, Khallayne supposed, built for the smaller, shorter human slaves. It was very different from the wide, sweeping hallways in the rest of the castle.
Khallayne had to duck as she stepped through the doorway into a room. A moldy, sweet smell of sweat and the coppery, decaying scent of human blood greeted her as she stepped over the threshold.
Khallayne spared barely a glance for the room, which was outfitted for Eneg’s sport. The important thing was, Laie was still alive, kicking and whimpering as she tried to pull free of Eneg’s grasp.
With a menacing scowl, Lord Eneg turned around as the door banged into the wall. His emerald skin was splotchy and blemished, so dark it was almost black, glistening with moisture and blood.
When he saw who the intruder was, his expression became a leer. “Have you come to join me, Lady Khallayne?”
Khallayne shrugged, shaking her head. She didn’t see how he could stomach the small, low-ceilinged room and the awful stench. The foul odor of the kitchen was a spring morning compared to the rotting air concentrated in this small space. “I require the services of this slave.”
The scowl returned. “Get another!”
Laie renewed her struggles to free herself.
Khallayne studied him for a
moment, ignoring the slave, then said sweetly, “Lord Eneg, this slave belongs to me. If I had to train another, I would be very displeased.” She rubbed her fingers together, holding her hand up so he could see that the air around the tips of her fingers glowed slightly with the beginnings of a fire spell.
Eneg growled, a rumble deep in his throat so menacing that the slave in his grasp screamed and yanked her hand free. She stumbled and tripped the few feet to Khallayne and fell.
Khallayne gestured toward the whimpering woman. “Surely another slave would suit your purpose as well as this one …”
Eneg took a step toward her. The determination he saw in her face changed his mind. He waved his hand dismissively. “Take her. Send another from the kitchen.”
Khallayne swept back down the low hallway without waiting to see if the woman would follow. No doubt the slave was eager to escape from the hot, fetid room.
In the kitchen, Khallayne pointed at the first slave she saw, a young man no larger than Laie. “Lord Eneg requires your services.” She pointed back down the hallway and escaped into the passageway outside the kitchen.
Laie came stumbling behind her, trembling with fear, stinking of Eneg’s playroom and blubbering her thanks for being saved.
“Hush!” Khallayne said irritably, as the slave thanked her for the fifth time and tried to kiss her hand. Khallayne dipped her hand into the tiny pocket in the lining of her vest and produced a small coin. She held it out so that it was visible in the dim light, but pulled it back before it could be snatched by the slave’s eagerly outstretched fingers. “Do you know which apartments house the Keeper of History tonight?”
Eyes fastened on the dull copper which Khallayne turned slowly in her fingers, the slave nodded. “No, Lady, but I can find out. A tray was sent up earlier.”
Khallayne closed her fingers over the coin. “Then do so. But first, go to your quarters and wash, then meet me here. And quickly, or I’ll give you back to Eneg!”