“It is not here. It has not come. It does not dwell in her,” hissed a long, cold voice that was not the voice of the Emmeran king, that was not the voice of any human man and never could have been, that was not a real voice at all. But though it was not a real voice and made no real sound in the world, Kehera heard it clearly, more clearly than she had ever heard the voice of her own Power even when she had held the deep tie. She heard it in the place within her heart where she had once heard Raëhemaiëth. It spoke almost in words, almost as a man might speak, but it was horrible. Immanents did not think or speak as people did; it was all wrong that she should hear this one so clearly. This terrible thing must be the Suriytè Power, and no wonder, no wonder the king who held its deep tie was mad: It had taken enough of his mind and his soul that it spoke now in his voice. Although it was strangely unlike his voice. But that couldn’t be right; of course his Immanent must speak with his voice if it spoke at all; she must be mistaken.
The bitter, biting voice whispered into her heart, “No, I see. The Immanent remains in her, but it has hidden. Its tie is buried so deep and is so slender that I cannot use it to draw Raëhemaiëth. Not from so far. Fool! You allowed this girl to break her deep tie before bringing her to me.”
With a gasp of rage, Hallieth Suriytaiän let Kehera go and hit her across the face, hard, so that she stumbled and fell. She let herself fall; anything to get away from him. Forgetting pride in her terror, she scrambled away on her hands and knees, but the servant caught her. He held her by one wrist and by her hair, and though she tried to wrench herself free, she couldn’t break his grip. The king paced away, turned sharply, and came back to glare at her.
“How am I to take Raëhemaiëth now?” whispered the voice, thin and bodiless. “I must have Raëhemaiëth.” There was a slight pause. Then it said, “You must send her to me. My agent will take her and bring her and deliver her to me. Once she is within my precincts, I will draw Raëhemaiëth no matter how thin its tie to the girl.”
Kehera didn’t understand this. Here she was, in the heart of Suriytè, so she certainly was within the precincts of the Great Power of Suriytè. Probably she was too stupid with fear to understand—or maybe she mistook what the terrible Power whispered; it wasn’t actually speaking in words, not words the way men would speak them. Yet she could understand it, or thought she could, through her tenuous link to Raëhemaiëth. The Immanent she seemed to hear must be very deeply tied to Hallieth Theraön; generally the awareness and concerns of Immanences were too removed from mortal awareness and concerns for any such understanding. That was why a human lord or duke or king or queen could draw so freely on an Immanence’s strength—at least if they remained open to its drawing on their own. Their levels of awareness and interest were too different for either to interfere with the other.
Yet this Immanent Power could be understood almost as clearly as a man. It seemed to Kehera that Tiro might have explained something about that once, but she couldn’t remember, and she was too frightened now to remember. She tried to listen and flinch away from listening, both at the same time, and found herself frozen and shivering with confusion and terror.
“I will send her to you,” agreed the king.
“Yes,” hissed the voice, even more clearly than before. “But the way is long and the days run past. I must have sustenance. What will you give to me, little king, if I cannot yet take Raëhemaiëth for my own?”
“We don’t need it. I will take every city in Harivir and make each one a gift and sacrifice to you—”
“I must have sustenance now,” hissed the voice. “What will you give to me?” The Immanence that was speaking was deathly cold, Kehera realized. It was the source of all the cold in the chamber, all the cold in the Emmeran king. Frost spread across the red tiles, delicate and implacable.
“No!” cried the Mad King. He flung up his hands and stepped back, and back again. But Kehera felt it at almost the same time the king must have: a sudden savage struggle beyond the merely physical, and then a great hollow echoing emptiness. But the emptiness was impossible, because the cold voice of the Power was still there, hissing with malice and satisfaction. Kehera pressed her hands to her mouth, cowering as Hallieth Suriytaiän cried out, a thin, desperate sound, and clutched at his face, staggering. He tottered in a circle and tore at his own face, and she knew, she knew that Suriytè was empty, hollow, devastated as Cemerè had been devastated, yet at the same time, despite the hollow booming emptiness that flooded the city around them, the terrible Suriytè Power was still there. It was impossible. She didn’t understand, but it was screaming, too; she couldn’t hear it with her ears, but she could hear it with her mind, and it was screaming and screaming—or maybe laughing, but its laughter was like screaming.
Kehera tore herself free from the slack grip of the servant and fled. She slammed the tower door behind her and wished there were a bar, but there wasn’t, so she fled down and down the spiral stair, clutching at the rough stones of the wall to keep from falling and slamming every door through which she passed. There was no way to bar any of those doors, but if anyone followed, she didn’t hear them. Even so, she feared she might still hear the Suriytè Power in her heart, and wasn’t sure she would be able to hear any ordinary human voice over that terrible soundless voice.
She found her own rooms by simply running down and down and then asking the first servant she met. She didn’t know what the girl made of her. She knew she must look wild and terrified, but the girl at least pointed the way, which was all Kehera cared about. So she found the right door at last and flung it open and darted in, already calling for Eilisè. She barely recognized her own voice, thin with fear and shock.
“Kehy! What did he do?” Eilisè cried, leaping up and coming to catch Kehera by the arms, and at least she sounded normal, if frightened.
The door slammed open again before Kehera could get out more than the briefest stumbling explanation. Both girls whirled around, but it was General Corvallis, his lieutenant, Alen, at his back. The general looked grimly furious, but what he said was, “Here you are, thank the Fortunate Gods! Done it at last, hasn’t he, lost control of the dark Power he’s been playing with and put the knife in his own heart—you, you brought him a mouthful he couldn’t chew, didn’t you, girl? I mean, Your Highness. At last! Thank the Fortunate Gods, it’s over at last!”
The general sounded both glad and deeply horrified at one and the same time, as though he’d hoped for exactly this, but dreaded it in equal measure. Kehera had hardly any idea what he meant, and no idea at all how to answer him. Everything in that tower room had been horrible, but she was sure nothing was over. “Do you know—do you understand what—?” She did not know how even to ask.
But General Corvallis said with grim satisfaction, “He’s let that foreign Immanent he’s been toying with consume his own Power, which is no more than he deserved, making that alliance with Irekaì. Both mad, the pair of ’em, as though the world needed more than one mad king.”
“Irekaì?” Kehera said, faltering. She didn’t understand at all. Methmeir Irekaì was King of Pohorir. A cruel king for a cruel country, which everyone knew, but even if Methmeir Irekaì were as mad and ambitious as Hallieth Suriytaiän, she didn’t understand how the Great Power of Irekay could have allied to the Great Power of Suriytè. Nor did she understand how any sort of alliance could have led to . . . whatever she’d felt in that tower.
General Corvallis said impatiently, “Suriytè has been made hollow; surely you feel that, Harivin as you are? I’m not of Suriytè myself, and I assuredly felt it go! But we may be glad of it; nothing else could have broken the Theraön line. Hallieth Theraön won’t last a week now—not an hour, if I have my way! But this is the tricky part, of course; everyone’s going to move at once. I believe I’ve countered Geiranè, but the man’s no fool; likely he’s moved against me already as well. Assuredly he’ll want you in his hand, Your Highness.”
Kehera shook her head, still too bewildered and fright
ened to think, but understanding that the cold frost-ridden voice must not have belonged to the Irekaïn Power, the Great Power that bound all the lesser Immanences of Pohorir—or through the Irekaïn Power, it might have been the voice of Methmeir Heriduïn Irekaì himself. That made more sense. That would explain why it had come so clearly and understandably to her, but there was no time to think about it now. She declared, “We have to get out. Can you get us out?”
“There’s no hope of settling matters here while your presence stirs everything up, so I certainly mean to try,” Corvallis answered grimly. “When you get the chance, Your Highness, you tell your father he’s in my debt and I mean to collect! I’ll take Emmer if I can; Fortunate Gods know, someone must! But you’re absolutely right, Your Highness. We’ve got to get you back to your father; that’s essential.” He beckoned to his lieutenant. “Alen will take care of you—I must go—I’ll give you the best start I can. Be careful, be safe, be brave, go! Alen, see to it!” He turned on his heel and strode out before Kehera could even thank him.
Lieutenant Alen stepped forward with a quick nod. “We’ve prepared for this. We have men waiting all along the way, but we must go immediately. If we can only get to the edge of the city, we can get you all the way south and safe across the river. The trick will be getting away from the King’s Hall—for this we need stealth and speed, not force of arms. You and your woman must change at once to something plain, as plain as you have. I must ask you to be quick.”
“That brown for you,” Eilisè said quietly, and met Kehera’s eyes. The brown dress was not only one of the least likely to draw attention, but it had a handful of large pearls stitched into its hem.
Lieutenant Alen stepped out, and Kehera let Eilisè unhook her rose silk and changed quickly to the plain dress, then made herself sit still while Eilisè took down her hair and rebraided it quickly, then knotted it up carelessly at the nape of her neck. “Not much we can do about the color,” Eilisè said, stepping back to view the effect with a critical eye. “But you look almost not like a princess at all now.”
Kehera nodded. “At least fair hair is more common this far north. Shall I do yours?”
“I can probably do it faster,” Eilisè said apologetically. Fingers flying, she rapidly redid the mass of her own light brown hair, putting it up in a knot similar to the one she had done for Kehera.
Kehera tucked a few more jewels in various pockets of her skirts and called to Lieutenant Alen, waiting in the outer rooms, that they were ready.
He came in at once, handing Kehera a small bag and tossing a second to Eilisè. “A few coins, a few jewels, enough to last, I hope! Here, girl, take my dagger. Have you a place to hide it in that dress?”
Eilisè pulled the dagger out of its sheath for a moment, turning the unfamiliar length of it over in her hand with matter-of-fact interest. “I’ll find a way. Kehy, we’d better also have those pouches that go under the skirts. I’ve got one, but let me see if I can find one for you as well.” She rummaged in the bottom of one of the chests, pulled out a pouch and tossed it to Kehera. Kehera put a lapis and pearl confection in it, and some more coins that Lieutenant Alen gave her. There was a lot of room left. She glanced around, hesitated, and suddenly picked up the tiahel box. It would just fit, if she forced it. She slipped the bag under her skirts, cinching tight the straps around her thigh, Alen politely turning his back.
And that was all. It had been only moments, and they were ready to escape. Yet it felt like too much time had slipped through her fingers. It felt like it was already too late.
There was only heavy silence in the King’s Hall when the lieutenant opened the door. Except Kehera could not help but read that silence as ominous. Suriytè had lost its Immanent Power; it had been hollowed out.
“We’ve cleared the way, but that won’t last, so fast is more important than sneaky,” Lieutenant Alen declared. “Though we’ll do sneaky soon enough.” He led the girls boldly down the hallway and through one of the doors, which proved to lead to another hallway and then a stair. After that, the hallways Alen chose rapidly became narrower and less inviting. Here at last they began to run across people, but only servants. Most of them seemed to have been shocked silent by what had happened, by the death of the Suriytè Power. None of them seemed to care if a hundred Harivin girls hurried past.
Then Alen led them down a narrow flight of stairs and pushed open a plain, unguarded door, and suddenly they were out in the daylight, in what was plainly a tradesman’s yard. Surrounding this yard was a high wall, probably separating it from the finer areas of the King’s Hall, and across from their door, a gate. The gate was standing open, but it was guarded by five soldiers who stood together, arguing in low voices.
Lieutenant Alen cursed in a low voice. “This gate was to be clear,” he explained. “Someone is countermanding the general’s orders. Still, I know those men; we’ll see if we can just pass through. Please don’t speak, either of you.”
Kehera nodded. Fear had tightened her stomach into a small, hard knot.
“If it comes to a fight, forget about me and just go. I’ll have the surprise, so I should be able to get clear of them, and I’ll catch you up. If I don’t, you must go to the house of Norrey Behalla, on the Street of Drapers, on the east side of the Open Market. You have that? You’ll remember?”
Kehera nodded again. At her side, Eilisè took a deep breath and nodded too. They all walked forward briskly and openly, as though it were the most ordinary thing in the world. Nothing in the world to hide here, Kehera thought, suppressing a devastating impulse to laugh. Just fleeing the King’s Hall in the wake of destroying the Suriytè Power, and Gods know what’s become of your king or what will become of any of you now. She tried not to believe her guilt for all this was emblazoned on her forehead for everyone to see.
“Sir!” said one of the men as they came up, sounding surprised. He lifted one hand in the beginning of a salute, and then, since Alen was not in uniform, changed the gesture at the last moment to a respectful nod. “Do you know what’s been happening, sir? His Majesty—the Power—what happened? What’s it mean?” He barely seemed to notice Kehera or Eilisè at all, too much caught up in the disaster that had fallen upon his city.
“I don’t think anyone knows yet, Voll,” answered Alen. “Corvallis has some people he wants to talk to, the sort of people who might be able to answer for all this, but I don’t know—if you ask me, we’ll never know. Somebody will figure it out, but they won’t tell us.”
“You’re right, yeah,” the other man said miserably. “Don’t ask us what it’s worth, tearing up half the Immanents of Pohorir or starting fights with Kosir and Harivir both at once. Don’t tell us what it costs—”
“We can win it all, take it all back, if we just don’t back up when it gets tough!” declared one of the other men.
“When it gets tough? When it gets tough?” cried Voll, his voice rising. The other man sneered at him.
“No time to debate,” Alen said easily, and waved the girls forward, through the gate and into a much wider outer courtyard. Before them stood the high iron fence, here draped with flowering vines, and beyond that the city itself and relative safety. She didn’t know about Eilisè, but she felt horribly conspicuous. She could hardly believe that no one stopped them, but the soldiers were arguing again and not paying attention to anything else.
Then, from the door behind them, a voice shouted. Lieutenant Alen didn’t turn, but he quickened his stride.
The second shout had words in it that were all too distinguishable. Kehera risked a glance back. Several new guardsmen were running toward the gate. The men stationed there still looked more confused and angry than alarmed. That would last all of thirty seconds, Kehera was sure.
Alen thought so too, and broke into a run, sweeping Kehera and Eilisè before him. Kehera ran with a will, the hidden pouch thumping heavily against her leg.
Even after the alarm had been raised, for a few minutes it looked to Kehera as thoug
h she and Eilisè and even Lieutenant Alen, who had fallen back to protect them, might after all gain the outer fence and the maze of streets beyond without having to fight.
“Can you manage a bit of a climb?” Alen asked them.
“Easily,” Kehera panted, observing the wrought-iron curlicues of the fence and the tough-looking vines.
“Head left once you’re across. That’s the way the Open Market lies, and a hundred fugitives could get lost in that.”
Kehera skidded on the damp cobbles. Eilisè steadied her, and both young women threw themselves at the fence. Kehera’s skirts snagged on a sharp bit, and she used a word that she wasn’t supposed to know and ripped it loose. Behind them, Alen had turned to cover their retreat.
“We’re going to need you!” Kehera reminded him urgently.
“I know!” the lieutenant called back. “Move!”
She moved. She was more than halfway up the fence already, a good twelve feet, somewhat ahead of Eilisè. It occurred to her suddenly that the other woman was holding back, a second line of defense in case Alen couldn’t hold the guardsmen. She used another unsuitable word and climbed faster.
The first guardsman arrived, well ahead of the others. “Hold it right—Raft?” he said. “Raft Alen? What are you—?”
“King’s business,” Alen lied instantly. “Can you hold this line of retreat for me, Pennon?”
“I—” said the guard, hesitating.
“Come on, man!” Alen snapped urgently. “You know me!”
“Yes, but—”
It was hard to know what Pennon might have decided, because at that moment two of the other guardsmen arrived. Kehera, looking over her shoulder in dread, saw how they threw themselves forward without hesitation, and how when Alen ducked aside and killed the first man, Pennon quite reflexively took out the second with a fast sideways cut across the stomach. The man went down, in shock so deep he could not even try to gather up his own spilled intestines. Alen didn’t wait to look; he jammed his bloody sword into its scabbard, whirled and took the fence at speed, with a reckless disregard for his own safety that carried him halfway up in an instant.
Winter of Ice and Iron Page 9