by Cindy Dees
Bekkan stared up at Inan and said to him in a ravaged voice, “I was trapped like you in copper for five thousand years and more, brother, and I have recently been released. I remember you. I know your name. Memory of Inan Domitri lives once more. And I will find a way to get you out of there. Have hope, my old friend, and be strong.” He reached up to lay his hand on the amber just where the trapped man’s upheld hand came close to the surface of the stone.
“No!” the thief exclaimed.
But too late. Bekkan’s palm closed on the amber.
A surge of energy rolled forth from the stone, filling the trophy room with warm, golden light for an instant, leaving a glittering haze behind Gabrielle’s eyelids as she looked away from the dazzling flash.
When she could see again, Bekkan was on his knees in front of the Man in Amber. She rushed forward to his side. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. Fine,” he gasped, clearly not all right. “He just sent me a … deluge … of images. Memories, I think.”
As if Bekkan wasn’t struggling enough already with sorting out his own memories. Lovely.
“We’ve got trouble!” the thief called out. “That burst of light has caught someone’s attention. The Hand are coming. On the run. Three, no four, of them.”
She did not know how he could tell how many guards were coming or how fast, but she believed him. “We must hide!” she whispered frantically.
“They’ll know every inch of this place. Our only hope is to brazen it out,” the thief retorted.
She couldn’t do it! No excuse could explain their presence, pawing through Maximillian’s private treasures in the middle of the night. The guards would know they didn’t belong here. The Hand would search the party and find the piece of septallum, and who knew what else the others in the party might have shoved into their pockets. Her breath accelerated hard. She would be dragged in front of the Emperor, her mind torn open—her breath became shallow and ineffective—and the whole conspiracy would be revealed.
“Hide!” she gasped.
This was all her fault! She’d told them not to touch anything, but they hadn’t listened to her. She should have been more forceful. Used her rank to order them …
The room began to spin gently, and bright spots twinkled behind her eyelids. She stumbled, fetching up hard against Sasha. Her friend steadied her, propping her against the nearest solid vertical object, the Man in Amber.
A surge of awareness rushed through her of another mind, another person’s thoughts intruding upon hers. Oddly enough, the presence was comforting. The word breathe drifted through her mind. Then, two words. In. Out. Was the Man in Amber coaching her on how to manage her shortness-of-breath affliction?
Stunned, she could only watch on as the doors to the trophy room opened and four men rushed into the chamber, swords drawn and torches held high. They were of the Hand, all right. There was no mistaking the gaudy black armor trimmed in gold and red, the Imperial flames climbing their armor in sinuous lines. Not to mention their height and bulk and speed.
Oh, this was not good. Her companions were dead if they engaged these men, which, with their impetuous natures, they surely would. They were all going to be snared and slaughtered like so many helpless creatures.
This was the end.
Time slowed in her mind. A strange peace came over her. The only strong emotion that remained was regret. Regret that she hadn’t been able to spend more time with her children over the years. That she hadn’t been a better mother to them. Funny how facing death stripped away everything else and left behind only the essential truths.
She closed her eyes tightly, sending out her love to her children. If only she could go to them, to tell them how dearly she held them and how sorely she missed them—
Another flash of light startled her. A great circular cataract opened behind her, the cobalt blue of a hot flame around the edge. An opulent ballroom was visible beyond, populated with dozens of beautifully dressed people of exotic races and shapes and colors she’d never seen before staring back at her, fully as surprised to see her as she was to see them.
A young man and a young woman, both human in appearance, stepped through the portal.
“Who goes there?” the Hand shouted. “On your knees! Hands on your heads!”
Neither young person obeyed the commands. Rather, they looked around, clearly perplexed until their gazes lit on Gabrielle.
“Mother?” the young man asked in disbelief.
“Roland?” she gasped. By the Lady, he had the look of Regalo in face, build, and bearing. So handsome. Her baby boy had become a man.
She stepped toward her son, and the soldiers behind her shouted, “Get down or die!”
She looked at the young woman hopefully. “Giselle?”
“Mama.” The young woman smiled.
“Take them!” the soldier shouted.
The young woman frowned as Gabrielle gathered all her strength to fling herself in front of her children in a last act of defiance. The Hand would not kill her babies while she yet lived. Gabrielle made eye contact with her children and smiled serenely, at peace with giving her life to save theirs, if only to extend theirs for a few seconds more.
Roland murmured loudly just enough to be heard by Gabrielle and her co-conspirators in a tone that brooked no disobedience, “You might want to cover your ears.”
Shocked, Gabrielle did as he said, only vaguely managing to question how he was able to compel her to do as he said like that. Her hands came up over her ears just as Giselle opened her mouth and began to sing.
Through her palms, she heard faint strains of a song so hauntingly beautiful it made Gabrielle literally weep. Tears streamed down her face as the song continued, what little she heard of it weaving its way into her soul, leaving it forever changed, charmed, and enchanted, wishing only to listen to that melody forever.
Giselle stopped singing, and Gabrielle cautiously uncovered her ears, stunned to realize that all four soldiers of the Hand lay crumpled on the floor unconscious. “What was that, daughter? It was the saddest and most beautiful thing I have ever heard.”
The thief chuckled quietly from behind Gabrielle. “Oh, well done, mademoiselle. Well done, indeed. I have heard tales of the Siren’s Song, but never did I think them true until now.”
Giselle rushed forward, and Gabrielle flung her arms around her daughter, more tears joining those from the song. Roland joined the embrace, and she hugged them both with all her strength.
At length, Giselle asked, “What’s wrong, Mama? Why did you summon us to you?”
Gabrielle lifted her face from her daughter’s shoulder to stare at both of her children. “I summoned you?”
“You activated a portal to the Blue Court directly in front of the two of us,” Roland affirmed.
“But how? I merely wished to see you both once more before I died to tell you how very much I love you—” Her voice broke on the words.
“Die?” Roland asked quickly.
The thief spoke up. “Thanks to your sister’s exquisite voice, we’ve bought ourselves a few minutes. Those soldiers were about to slay us all where we stood. We still must make our escape. More guards will come when these do not report in.”
“Let us go, and quickly,” Gabrielle said.
“One moment, Mother,” Roland murmured. He stepped back to the cataract of the portal and reached his hand through it briefly. When he pulled his arm back, the portal collapsed with the sound of a bubble popping, and in his hand Gabrielle spied the brightly bejeweled ring of fae keys off the trophy room wall.
They hurried across the large trophy room to the hallway exit. She gasped for air but did her best to keep up with the others. Sasha, bless her, stayed behind to help her along.
Korgan reached the doors first and inched them open. “Hall’s clear.”
The dwarf slipped outside with Jossa hard on his heels. Next came Bekkan and then Sasha, Gabrielle, and her children. The thief paused to scoop up something that
had dropped and rolled away from one of the unconscious soldiers of the Hand. She didn’t stop to wait for him. He could take care of himself.
As they moved into the gallery and hurried away from the trophy room, Gabrielle asked her daughter quickly, “What did you do to those men?”
“I merely sang them to sleep,” Giselle answered playfully.
Gabrielle had never heard of such a thing, but she supposed it was possible that her daughter might have learned the trick of it in a fae court.
“And,” Giselle added lightly, “I added a verse to my song to erase their memories of the past hour or so. They’ll wake up with no recollection of having seen us.”
Impressed, Gabrielle squeezed Giselle’s hand. “You must tell me how you learned to do that later. When we are safe.”
“Where are we?” Giselle asked curiously.
“The Imperial wing of the Imperial palace,” Gabrielle murmured.
“I gather we’re not supposed to be here?” Roland responded.
“Correct. It’s a long story. If we make it out of here alive, I’ll be happy to share it with you,” she told her son.
They followed the others back the way they’d come and almost reached the main corridor when a lone figure rounded the corner, stopping accusingly in front of them. High-Maker Meridine.
“What are you really doing here?” she demanded. “I just asked one of the Emperor’s secretaries if they leave their office unlocked of a night, and they do not. You could not leave a message for Maximillian on one of their desks even if that was really what you were up to. If you have fallen under the influence of someone else again, I can help you—”
The thief stepped forward, moving so unnaturally fast that Gabrielle could barely see the blur of motion, and thrust his sword into the woman’s belly.
Meridine stared at the thief in shock. “How dare you! What have you done?”
Another lightning-fast movement and the thief’s sword slashed across her neck. A thick welling of blood announced the lethality of the strike. The Kothite woman fell to her knees, making gurgling noises that might have been shouts for help had her vocal cords not have been cut.
She pitched forward face-first onto the floor. A pool of blood spread rapidly under her.
It all happened so fast that Gabrielle barely had time to register what she had just witnessed. “Are you mad?” she demanded of the thief as she fumbled in her pouch for a life spell.
Sasha reached forward, hands already glowing with spirit magic, and began to incant a life spell.
“Don’t bother,” the thief said curtly, knocking Sasha’s hands aside. “I’ve got this.”
Except, instead of pouring a life potion down Meridine’s eviscerated throat, the thief thrust a large stone vessel forward toward the corpse and yanked off its lid.
The vessel was pointed on the bottom so it could not be set down like a regular jug. It was about half the length of the thief’s arm, tall and narrow with long, narrow handles down each side of its even narrower neck.
An amphora.
Surely not.
“No!” Sasha cried.
As the lid opened, a black flame jumped up from the neck of the vessel. Gabrielle recognized it in shock to be one of those amphoras. The kind that carried a small portion of the Eternal Flame within them.
“No!” she had time to cry before the thief thrust the amphora and flame out over Meridine’s chest.
Even she, with no skill at all in spirit magics, saw the wispy essence of the Kothite’s spirit draw toward the flame like smoke to a draft, adhering to the Flame, entangling the two energies, black and white, life and death, Spirit and Void.
And then, just like that, the spirit vanished, blinking out of existence, consumed by the flame. Where Meridine’s body had lain in a pool of blood seconds before, there was nothing. Nothing. No body. No blood. Not even a dusting of ash. The Kothite High-Maker was simply gone.
The thief slapped the lid back on the amphora, and the hall’s torches guttered heavily as if a great wind had passed through.
“What. Did. You. Do?” Gabrielle demanded in a terrible voice. “You’ve killed us all.”
CHAPTER
23
Will enjoyed the barge ride up the river that natives of the Valelands called simply the Lance. It traversed a great valley sandwiched between two snowcapped mountain ranges that was lush with the coming of spring, bursting with pale green buds on trees, new grass sprouting bright green underfoot, and gentle sunshine contrasting with the as yet cool air. He reluctantly conceded that this was as beautiful a place as he’d ever seen, mayhap even more so than his beloved Wylde Wold.
A team of mules pulled their barge upriver at a steady pace, the teams switched out every six hours or so, around the clock. As a result, they made excellent time inland, and the western reaches of the Valelands where the two mountain ranges came together loomed around them when he woke on the morning of the fifth day.
The northern terminus of the Lance was a village named Rondell. It consisted entirely of sturdy wooden buildings with shingled walls and roofs. Doors, window frames, and roof peaks were adorned with intricate wood carvings of animals, trees, seashells, moons, and other fanciful shapes. The streets were tidy, the people rosy cheeked and hearty.
What would it be like to settle in a place like this with Rosana, to raise a family, maybe take up a trade? He could see it clearly in his mind’s eye. It would be a good life. Solid. Respectable. Quiet—and that sounded heavenly right about now.
Abruptly, his parents’ decision to live in Hickory Hollow made sense. He cursed under his breath. His whole life, he’d railed at them for sticking him out in the middle of nowhere, cutting him off from the rest of the world, withholding opportunities for education and advancement of his talent for magic.
But now, he understood. Too late, but he understood.
“Where to now?” Sha’Li, ever the practical one, asked as they stepped ashore.
Rynn answered, “The best place to get information and hear the local tales is at a pub. Preferably one that draws bards and storytellers.”
The barge captain was only too happy to tell them Rondell was home to two pubs. One was mostly an inn catering to travelers off the barges, and the other, the Lusty Maiden, catered to local residents. It was known for tasty ale and the occasional brawl. It was to this pub they headed.
It was afternoon yet, and the Maiden was mostly empty. They ordered food and pints of ale they sipped slowly, nursing them along until the locals started to knock off work and fill the pub. The patrons didn’t seem to mind the party of young travelers sitting quietly in the corner near the bard’s platform.
Tonight’s entertainment turned out to be a gray-bearded singer who played a stringed instrument that he laid across his lap and strummed in time with his songs. He performed harmless songs about love and springtime, and he ended his set with a raucous drinking tune that had the patrons pounding their mugs on the wooden tables and demanding refills.
As he stepped off the stage, Will shouted over the din, “Can we buy you a drink?”
“I’ll never say no to free ale,” the bard replied, sliding onto a bench beside Rosana, where she moved aside to make room for him.
Will hated it when she batted her long lashes at other men, but the singer was old enough to be her grandfather, and Will tamped down his jealousy.
Rosana chatted up the singer, drawing forth that the man was a native of Rondell, had been a bard for forty years and more, and made a hobby of composing epic lays. Apparently, the local histories were being lost at an alarming rate, and he did his best to preserve them by setting them to music.
Rynn asked, “Have you ever heard of an ancient elf called Eliassan?”
The fellow burst out laughing. “Gads, man. Everyone knows the song of Eliassan and his magic bow.”
Rosana asked sweetly, “Will you sing it for us after your break?”
“For you, my lovely, I will. But I’ll be needing anot
her ale to whet my whistle first. It’s a long and complicated piece, you know.”
Rynn dug out the coin to buy the fellow a pint of honeyed mead, a drink that was smoother and easier on the throat by far than the local ale, which was dark and strong.
The singer finished his mead with a smack of the lips, climbed back onto the tiny stage, and commenced singing the lay of Eliassan. The pub went quiet, the patrons listening with rapt attention to the tale.
Will was familiar with the general story of Gawaine’s fall, although the singer’s song did not name the ancient elven king who fell in battle against the evil troll king. In a dramatic verse, the elven king’s bow fell from his dying fingers and was scooped up by a young page, Eliassan, carried away to safety before the trolls could take it. Without a king to defend the land, trolls raged across it, and only the boy Eliassan had the courage to face the cruel invaders. The song described a magic quiver of arrows, where every arrow fired assumed the magical quality necessary to do most harm to its intended target.
Furthermore, the song described how the magic bow never missed its target. Will wondered if that was a function of Eliassan being an accomplished archer or some innate quality of the bow itself. He wouldn’t put it past Gawaine to own a bow that never missed.
The song shifted to an attempt by the fae to steal the bow, and the pub’s patrons leaned in toward the singer, holding their breath as the dastardly attempt to steal the bow was foiled at the last minute by a beautiful fae woman who’d fallen deeply in love with Eliassan and betrayed her people in the name of love. A dryad, maybe?
In a last-ditch effort to take the bow, the song told of a monster unleashed by the fae upon the Valelands to kill Eliassan. In the final verses of the song, Eliassan, by now an old man, defeated the beast, married the fae woman, and lived happily ever after in the ever-greening woods of the Vale.
Cheers, stomping feet, and pounding mugs erupted as the bard fell silent. The innkeeper must be loving this singer as shouts for refills on the ale rang throughout the pub. Rynn signaled for another mead and set it down before the singer.