by Ru Emerson
“I know,” Ysian whispered. “I'll stay with you, we both will. It may help.” She looked over her shoulder. An ominous, barely audible hum came from the bedchamber, and a greenish light flickered, vying with that pulsing red. The Elite Guard retreated. The hum increased, vibrated Ysian's sinuses. Nisana's ears went down, and she flattened herself into Galdan's shoulders, pressing her head into his neck. Galdan turned away, but the sound pressed against the back of his head, hackling his hair.
Someone in the guard screamed; Ysian clamped her hands hard over her ears. The hum was rising to a shriek and a nasty scree now wove in and out of it; under all there was a furtive little whisper, a horrid susurration of almost-words that crawled across AEldra senses. Galdan staggered back into the wall. Faintly, he could hear Ysian chanting in High AEldran, trying to weave a protection around the three of them. So far as he could tell, it wasn't working.
“Are you ready?” The pale hair was plastered to the Guardian's brow; a drop of sweat clung to his chin, fell to join the others darkening his shirt.
Ylia, so much nearer the source of the sound and Power tearing at those in the hall, was beyond speech. She nodded, shifted her grasp on the sword, took the hilts two-handed and fought to raise it over her head. The air was like clotted cream or syrup, movement nearly as impossible as speech. Berd. “Berd,” she whispered. The sound was muted at her lips. Bendesevorian met her eyes across, the wooden statue. He was blinking against the acrid smoke that spread from the pedestal. Ylia kept her eyes on Bendesevorian's, avoiding the baleful thing between them, for she knew it would trap her if it could. They’ re watching, gloating. They know my grief and they rejoice in it. Fury filled her, releasing strength.
Bendesevorian watched the purpose rise in her, turned back to the statue. A last, least thing to neutralize. Malice, evil and more malice; he had been right not to attempt to merely break the spell with a straight blast of Power. You thought, Night's Heir, that I would not see that final trap and avoid it? he whispered. As though I had not seen such traps before, as though in a thousand years I could forget? There: It took an effort that left him half-dazed, for he had attempted no such feats in long years, but it was done. “Now,” he whispered, and there was a half-breath of relief in the pressure from the wooden horror under his hands. “Now!” he cried.
“Berdwyn!” Ylia's answering cry tore the air; strong hands and wrists swung the sword and brought it down hard. Blue flame enveloped the pedestal as the blade sheared through the wooden neck. The head fell to the floor with nightmare slowness. Her point, wedged in the pedestal, came free as she braced her foot against the base and pulled. She went over backward and landed hard as the statue and the fallen head burst into flame. A towering shriek burst the glass window behind it. Ylia rolled away from the sudden heat, watched in stunned silence as Bendesevorian stood before the pedestal and brought his hands together in a clap that thundered. A ball of flame rose above the pillar. “To those who sent you, go!” It shot from the room as if catapulted, shattering what was left of the windows.
It was suddenly, blessedly, quiet in the upper hall. Ylia caught hold of the bedpost and pulled herself shakily upright. She stared at the shattered windows. There was nothing where the Yderra had stood but a pile of ash.
It was quiet in the harbor, save for the distant whisper of water against sand, the lap of waves against hulls and the stone quays. The stars were fading, a faint, greyish line to the east showed the hour. Now and again a figure moved across a deck, change of guard or someone unable to sleep. In the one occupied Tower, a sole red light shone around an imperfectly fitted shutter, and smoke trailed in a thin line from the chimney.
One of the watch shouted the warning as his attention was caught by movement from the north and out to sea: Men clambered from below deck to stare at the swiftly approaching fireball, crouched down in fear, stoppering their ears against the wail that froze the blood of the strongest of them. Several flung themselves overboard but the approaching horror had no business with them; it passed over the crescent shoreline with a howl that seemed to shake the very rocks and turn the water to blood before it enveloped the Tower. Mal Brit Arren stood on the foredeck of the Fury, blinking wine and sleep from his eyes, as the uppermost chamber of the Tower shook with the desperate force of opposing Power. Then, with a roar like an explosion, the shutters blew out, and the seaward portion of the roof collapsed inward.
The unnatural light slowly faded, darkness and silence returned. From the Tower came no sound or movement.
Galdan straightened; the burden was gone as if it had never been. Anxious mind-touch assured him Ylia was unhurt. He set Ysian's restraining hands gently aside, pushed past her and walked into the nursery.
Dark. There had always been a lantern burning; Malaeth kept one for the children. It had gone out, long since. Someone came up behind him with light.
But he didn't need it. This Power in me is no use at all, he thought bitterly, I cannot even protect what is mine, but it works to tell me where my son lies. He knelt. Malaeth's arms were still protectively around the baby. My son. He loosened the fingers gently, picked up the small body and sat back on his heels.
“Galdan?” Ylia's voice roused him—a moment later? a lifetime? He shifted, came partway around, shook his head. He couldn't speak. Ylia knelt beside him. Galdan released Berdwyn into her arms, held them both. His head came down to touch her bowed head, his tears dampened her hair. Ysian gathered Malaeth's frail body into her own arms and wept into her old nurse's nightrobe.
Erken set the lantern carefully on the small table just inside the room, and walked slowly down the hall to dismiss the guard. He stopped short of the bedchamber; Bendesevorian leaned against the doorjamb, his face pale and still with exhaustion. The Duke had to try twice before words would come past the tightness in his throat. “The thing that did this—is it gone?”
Bendesevorian nodded. “It is safe to send the guard away. But you are needed down there.” He gestured toward the nursery.
“I know.” My grandson. He couldn't think about Berd just now, he didn't dare. This Nasath was right. His son had loved Berd beyond sense or proportion. And Ylia: She'd bury her grief, hide it from everyone including Galdan, tear herself apart with it. He'd have to be strong. Mothers aid me, this once I've no heart for it.
10
The sky was a glorious pale blue bowl, the sea a deep green mirror; the pre-dawn alarums might never have chanced—or so Brit Arren thought as he stepped onto the Fury's deck, shielding his eyes against the level rays of early sun. He stretched, inhaled fresh salt air and let it out with a sigh. All that wine the night before, next to no sleep, and not even a headache to show for it. The old man's not so old at that, is he? he thought in some satisfaction. And today—but that a man of sense would keep to himself. His temper was back under control, caution again well to the fore.
He stole a covert glance at the Tower. At this hour, with the sun beating mercilessly on those piles and heaps of greened stone, the damage might have been ancient. No smoke issued from the roof this morning, no candles flickered against grimed windows. No sign of life anywhere, save his own men lining the rails to stare at it. His and those on every other ship in harbor.
Well, let them stare! There was nothing uncommon in curiosity, was there? Draw no attention by the unusual, Mal Brit Arren, and you'll live to see another dawn and others after that.
He stretched again, ambled across the deck to the main mast, back to his cabin. On impulse, he climbed the narrow ladder to the rudder-post, gazed out over the heads of his men. Aye, this is the time, we might never get such another. Something came back at them, last night. What's left up there, if anything is, could be a clever man's, if he were quick about it. He brought his gaze, now thoughtful indeed, down from the Tower to the Fury's deck, picking through the men there, choosing, discarding, selecting—setting aside, until he had a tally of eight. Counting himself and Jon, ten, a good round number in case of trouble. Solid men, who'd no more
fear of magic than he had...
He paused in his consideration, struck by another thought as Jon emerged from the crew's hatch, the blue and red scarf dangling from his fingers, his shirt all untucked, feet bare. Gods of the green deeps, what had done that to the boy? How long has he looked like that and I haven't seen it? Jon Bri Madden was the color of the Tower stones, and even at a ten-length distance, he looked unwell, his eyes red-rimmed, his lower lip trembling until he caught it between his teeth. He glanced around, almost furtively, saw Brit Arren and started sharply. The scarf fell from nerveless fingers, dropped back through the hatch to the planking two lengths below. He swore, ducked back down after it.
Brit Arren stared at the place Jon had been. He's terrified, the older man realized. A sudden pang stabbed at him. Jon had done what he could to disguise his fear of them, but Mal had known from the first how strong it was. He'd pushed the lad into a corner, bullied him into actively going up against the Three ... well, but that was how such things were done, wasn't it? It was how he, Mal, had learned. No different rules for the frightened or the weak. But Jon—he'll crack. The thought gave him pause; suddenly. He didn't want that.
The discovery shook him. “Unlike you, Brit Arren. Why?” he whispered to himself, and turned into the full glare of early sun to puzzle the thing. He was fond of the lad, certainly. But that was all the more reason to push him past fear, into action against the Three, to help him prove to himself that fear—even that much terror—was surmountable.
It surely wasn't that Jon might be his son. A few men had always claimed sons, and more were lately. That often made men protective, possessive toward the lads in question. Fussy, like mother hens. Well, he'd had Jon's mother, but then, he'd had plenty of women and fathered plenty of sons. He had never felt the need to claim any of them. Stupid notion. No, it wasn't that.
He turned back to stare out across the water. Venom's captain had let one of his boats down and part of its crew was rowing in; up on shore, several men were working at an upended rowboat. The smell of smoke and patching tar came across the water to him. Three men sat on the docks mending a sail, and along the northern crescent, women combed the shoreline for shellfish and hauled in pots. All very normal. Go. Go now, before it's too late.
Too late. Perhaps it was, already; some of the anger and the depression that had washed in on the anger's heels was clawing at him again. He swore and jumped down to the main deck.
Jon stepped out of shadow and touched his shoulder. “Mal,” he whispered urgently. “You won't go on with this—this—”
“Shhh. Thought carries, remember?” But Brit Arren grinned at him like a man with no such worries on his mind, clapped the lad a sound blow across the back. Jon brought up a wan smile, but his eyes were black, all pupil, and they strayed toward the freshly toppled roof across the bay.
“Mal, it's not safe!”
“No. Nothing is, since Nod sealed his bargain. You and I talked about the lesser of dangers, Jon. Remember?” He clapped the boy on the back again, but gently this time, “Ye look dreadful. What, did ye take both watches after ye left me last night?”
“I—I slept some.”
“Ah. If you say.” The lad hadn't closed his eyes all night; Brit Arren would suddenly have banked half his take from the Merman on that. A momentary pity for such terror filled him. He shook it off. Pity was for fools. He's a good lad. But I won't take him, we can't afford a weak splice in this, the entire plan will unravel. Jon would feel shamed, when he found out. He'd learn from that, if he was as good as Mal thought.
“Mal?” Jon was gazing at him nervously.
“Well.” He drew a deep breath, let it out as a sigh. “It was what I asked of you, wasn't it, Jon? When I first took you as my back man?”
“I—Mal?”
“Don't you remember?” Brit Arren grinned at him cheerfully. “To serve as my common sense when I wanted to go headlong into some wild scheme. Never mind, Jon. We'll try another time. I'll go ashore in a while, speak with old Brit Unliss.”
“If you—” Jon began anxiously, stopped short as Brit Arren shook his head.
“To cancel our plans, that's all, lad.” Jon's relief was almost comic, it was so sudden and complete. “In the meantime, I need you alert; Fury goes out again tomorrow. Don't want the men to think the old man can't take it, do we?”
“They'd never think that, Mal.”
“Some might, if we gave ’em the chance,” Brit Arren said flatly. “And you know it. We won't give ’em that chance, though, will we, Jon?”
Jon grinned widely. “No, sir—Mal.”
“Good. Alert, I said. Means you take two full watches in my cabin, where it's cool and dark, and you get some sleep.” And as Jon Bri Madden hesitated, “That's an order. I can deal with Ban Brit Unliss without back, I hope! This old man's not so feeble as all that!” That brought a laugh from his companion—not much of a laugh, but the lad was coming out of his funk. “That's better. Get yourself a few hours’ sleep. I may go on into the village for a meal, but I'll be back by nightfall.” He strode off across the deck.
Jon moved back into the recessed doorway and stood in shadow, idly watching as the captain's own boat was lowered. Mal and four of his men set out for shore. Another boat followed moments later. Ten men altogether—
Ten. Heat flooded his face as realization struck hard. He ducked into the captain's cabin, slammed the door and leaned against it, his face red; he was weeping in shame. Mal's gone to do it without me. Couldn't even tell me the truth. Aghast, he bit his lip. He's right not to trust me, even though he doesn't know why. Despair washed through him, leaving him drained.
Someone was shouting up on deck, and a voice from the Venom shouted in reply. Another voice, much further away, yelling something at the female gleaners that brought a roar of laughter and snickers from those still aboard the Fury. Jon pushed away from the door, strode across thick rugs, skirted the table and dropped down onto the bed. He caught up one of the silken cushions piled on the floor, pulled it against his chest and fell belly down onto the soft fur cover. The fragile fabric caught on his chin stubble, scraped against the metallic thread that edged the collar of his unfastened shirt. He wrapped his arms more securely around the cushion, buried his face resolutely in it and closed his eyes.
Silence. The ship, suddenly, might have been deserted but for him. It rocked gently on its two anchor-ropes; overhead and beyond the closed shutters, the tiller creaked softly as it moved back and forth in its oiled locks. There was a mingled smell of salt air, stale wine, oil smoke from the lanterns: all reassuring, normal, familiar. He drifted, the room fading as sleep slipped around him.
A vague discomfort touched his thought, sudden fear: Mal, don't! It drifted away; he snuggled down into the soft fur and fine pillow and let the ship lull him to sleep.
Deep in the folds of embroidered silk, buffered from young skin by a twist of the heavy shirt, the medallion pulsed, matching the boy's heartbeat. The red stones that were its eyes glowered in their fabric cocoon, but they were already fading, the warmth of the metal faded, until even Jon—sensitized to its presence as he was—would not have noticed it had been active at all.
The air was already warm when Mal Brit Arren stepped out onto the docks; men sat along its planked length mending, splicing, gossiping. Two other boats were departing after dropping off crewmen; three others were behind his.
By mid-day, there wouldn't be anyone sitting here, the heat would be overwhelming. By mid-day, two boatloads of men coming ashore from the Fury might attract attention—if there were any with attention left to be attracted. At the moment, it was unlikely any eye would mark him and his men amid the friendly turmoil of Sea-Raiders coming and going. He waited until the second boat unloaded, started casually along the dock toward the path that skirted the towers, worked between the slabbed peaks and led back inland. A lot of men were doing that, too.
Once beyond the last heap of rubble, where the path veered south around dressed stone and f
allen rock and into deep shadow, he stepped back into the shelter of the remnants of a stone lintel. Nine men moved with him, sliding through that opening, down an ever narrowing alleyway between man-shaped and natural rock, into a shallow cave formed by long years of wind and fierce rain. Two men were waiting there: Ban Brit Unliss and his grandson, Den.
Brit Unliss had aged in the three years since Mal Brit Arren had killed Nod Bri H'Larn and become Lord Captain. The lad Den hovered near him protectively, forming a new and stronger hand to replace the fire and curse-withered right. Brit Arren gazed at the lad thoughtfully: grandson. Brit Unliss had claimed the woman Ettra's second boy as his; claimed, too, this youngster as his son's son. Part of Brit Arren sneered at them. To claim so much of a woman as to be certain of her womb! But...
But to have the unswerving devotion Den gave old Ban. Hah. Jon was also useful without such pointless ties, this of fathers and sons was counter to sense: Where there were fathers and sons, inevitably would come daughters and mothers—wives, such as other men took. Already that woman of Ban's dared raise her voice against him.
“There's been no sign of them,” Brit Unliss whispered against his ear.
“Good.” Brit Arren settled his back against rock and stretched out his legs. “How long since any man saw them?”
“I did.” Den's voice was still a boy's treble. “Two bells after sundown, yesterday, at full dark. She went up, said they were not to be disturbed.” Like his grandsire, like most Sea-Raiders, Den Brit Unliss would not call Marrita by name, would speak of her only as “she,” or “the woman.” “I offered to bring them food.”
“She was rude,” Ban said angrily. “There was no cause for it.” Brit Arren waved that aside impatiently. The lad whispered something to the old man that soothed him for the moment, then turned back to the Lord Captain.