“—Thaga,” said Faolein, startling the man so that his head came suddenly up, and his face went from sallow to bloodless white.
Yet he quickly recovered himself. “Yes, I am Thaga,” he agreed, with an ingratiating smile. “Sorcerer to the Lord of Saer. Not of your order on Leal, alas. I was trained…in a smaller school to the east, no longer in existence.”
Liar and braggart, thought Sindérian. He wishes us to think that he studied in Alluinn, but he is by no means old enough. Either that, or he is wonderfully well preserved—but we would know if any wizard of great age and power had survived the disaster. The Masters at the Scholia would know.
For all that, he was no mountebank; he did have a gift; she could smell it and feel it. Her own power Sindérian drew into herself, kept it secret and close.
Thaga led them out of the gatehouse and into an unpaved courtyard with an odor of hay and stables, the scent of cooking. Goats bleated inside a wattle fence; cattle lowed in the shadows. Windows glowed with yellow firelight higher up. The sorcerer led the way up a wooden staircase, through a pair of high double doors, and along a passage that took them inside the hill.
But Sindérian’s attention was all on her father. What had disturbed him outside the gate? Whatever it was, it had passed and gone. There was nothing in his face, in his movements, but what she had seen there her entire life. Climbing the steps, he had even tripped on the hem of his long cloak, but caught himself just short of a fall and continued on with unruffled serenity. Had she imagined what she saw by the gate? Or had she exaggerated what she did see?
For a wizard’s Foresight is an odd, unpredictable thing. Ordinary people, even wizards without that particular gift, rarely understand how it can come and go, in bits and flashes, now muddled and unclear, now vivid but fleeting. Sometimes not remembered after, and sometimes more a hindrance than a help. Whatever it was that had troubled Faolein earlier, Sindérian knew it might not have anything to do with the here and now; it might be a warning of things days, weeks, or even months in the future.
As if to reassure her this indeed was the case, he gave her one of his rare, sweet smiles, reached out, and patted her hand with his thin dry one. One thing at least Sindérian knew: her father would never knowingly lead her into deadly danger.
They moved through a series of wide corridors and narrow passageways. Sometimes they met people rushing about at various tasks: carrying trays of food, or tall white candles, or firewood. When they spotted Thaga, these people ducked and bowed and drew back—more in fear than respect, it seemed to Sindérian.
Following after the sorcerer, she and her companions entered an immense, cavernous chamber carved out of the living rock, the distant ceiling upheld by pillars greater in girth than the tallest trees. The torchlit corridor behind them receded to a tiny speck of light; there was no illumination ahead of them; they navigated only by a dim milky glow which seemed to emanate from Thaga himself. There was no sound but their own footsteps striking the smooth stone floor, echoing off distant walls.
It was to a smaller, more intimate chamber that Thaga brought them at last, throwing open a door and leading them into a room bright with firelight. There were sheepskin rugs on the floor and tapestries in brilliant colors on the walls.
But Sindérian experienced an unpleasant shock of surprise when the Lord rose from his seat to greet his guests. It was not the man she had expected to see, not that doughty old warrior, Goslin of Saer, who had visited the Scholia on Leal twice during her lifetime. This was a much younger man, elegantly dressed and graceful in his movements, with butter-yellow hair and pale green eyes.
And seeing that Sindérian and the others were taken aback (but not her father, not Faolein, as she would remember later), he smiled a sad and gentle smile. “No one told you of my kinsman’s death?”
“Perhaps we left Leal before the news arrived,” said Faolein, neither acknowledging or denying. “But—when and how, if one may ask?”
“This winter just past. As to how—” The young Lord Saer made a little movement with his shoulders, not quite a shrug. “He was past eighty and in very poor health. His physicians and Thaga did all they could. But age and a lifetime of trouble and grief at last defeated them.”
This is not a man we know, Sindérian thought with a sinking sensation, not the unshakable friend and ally we expected. What will Faolein do now?
But what her father did, without any sign of dismay or surprise, was to present each of his companions in turn, and briefly explain something of their predicament.
“Whatever you require; whatever comforts we can provide for the rest of your journey: horses, food, wine, pack animals, pavilions—a litter, perhaps, for the Lady. Ask and it is yours,” said the new young Lord, his clear eyes shining with sincerity. Nothing could be more bland and amiable than his expression. “In return, I ask only this: that you accept my hospitality for the evening.”
He seemed harmless enough, Sindérian decided, if somewhat affected—and more than fond of the sound of his own voice. She felt her doubts ease. As Goslin’s kinsman, he would have the same grudge against Ouriána of Phaôrax. What reason had they not to trust him?
“Noble and generous,” said Faolein, inclining his head. “We accept with thanks.”
At a signal from Saer, Thaga withdrew. Minutes later, a horde of attendants entered the room, and began to lavish their attentions on the travelers. Suddenly realizing that accepting this stranger’s hospitality also meant being separated from her friends, Sindérian experienced a sharp return of her former misgivings. The men went one way, she another, surrounded by a flock of chattering young women.
But this was the way that things were always done in a noble household; she had no grounds to refuse. She could only give a last forlorn glance over her shoulder as Faolein and the others disappeared around a corner, and the young women led her off in the opposite direction.
Much to her relief, they did not take her far. In another beautifully appointed chamber, they offered her water to wash with, soap and heated cloths, oils and perfumes. They removed her cloak and her boots and her gown. All her things had been snagged and torn by branches and brambles; they were stiff with dirt and sweat. It would be good to be clean again. Suddenly yielding to the exhaustion of five hard days and as many restless nights, Sindérian allowed the women to wait on her.
At last, blissfully clean, clad in a fresh linen shift, she sat on a stool by the fire, drying her hair, while one of the maidens combed out the tangles, exclaiming over the length and texture.
Every now and again she thought she detected an undercurrent of fear under their gaiety. There were uneasy glances, an occasional unintended clumsiness where something fragile fell and broke. The chatter of the maidens was at times a little too shrill. But that might only be her own presence among them: the stranger, the sorceress. To women who rarely if ever left their own valley, Leal and its school of wizardry must seem a world away.
When they brought her a gown of rich wine-colored velvet with sable at the hem and on the long, hanging sleeves, Sindérian shook her head. “I will wear the poorest and the plainest gown you can lend me,” she said, suddenly oppressed by their too-generous, too-effusive hospitality, “so long as it is something more suitable to a woman in mourning.”
But “no, no, no,” the maidens answered her, fluttering about in their agitation, their voices even shriller than before.
“We are just out of mourning for Lord Goslin,” said a pale blond girl. She sounded more breathless than the occasion warranted. “And our new young Lord—he has no wish to be reminded of past sorrows. Having banished all signs of bereavement, having arranged a feast in honor of your father, Lord Dreyde would not like to see you or any other guest appear at his table…all in black.”
So again Sindérian could not refuse. She allowed them to lace her into the gown, wondering all the while if the brightly colored dress was meant to set her apart from their dull greens and browns. They brought her shoes of s
oft red leather lined with fur, and they placed a girdle around her waist: a length of plaited silk hung with many rows of tiny golden medallions that chimed together softly when she moved.
Belled like a cat, she thought, disgusted with herself and her situation. But that was unworthy of the kindness they had shown her so far, and she began to feel slightly ashamed.
In that same hour, in another part of the fortress, Prince Ruan and Faolein were dressing, too. Ruan could not be sure exactly where and when, but Aell and Jago had disappeared. Someone had spirited them away when the Prince was not looking.
When he asked where the guardsmen had gone, a haughty-looking youth in Saer’s color replied very coldly: “They have gone to the barracks. Lord Dreyde thought they would prefer to dine with men of their own sort.”
Ruan opened his mouth to say something, but intercepting a glance from Faolein, he swallowed his words. There was simply no protest that he could make and still maintain the pose of a minor nobleman, so he shrugged a shoulder and went on dressing.
He had already allowed this swarm of attendants to strip off his armor and padding; that was simple hospitality, and he could not refuse. But now that he was washed and wearing clean linen, he made up his mind to accept no more, steadfastly turning aside all offers of silken tunics and fur-lined robes, declaring he would have his own light mail and leather instead.
Much to his relief, no one pressed him; they did not insist. One of the pages even brought back his blue wool cloak, which someone had brushed and cleaned. The truth was, no one seemed greatly interested what Ruan did or did not do; most of their attention revolved around Faolein.
They think me a nonentity compared to the wizard, he thought, amazed.
It was a novel sensation. All of his life, those who had not reacted in some way to the High King’s grandson had been curious or repelled or uneasy in the presence of the half-breed. But there was nothing of that here. An anomaly on Thäerie, a half-blood Faey was apparently such a commonplace in Mere that no one took notice, no one even bothered to wonder who he might be.
Across the room, he caught sight of a slight, silver-haired figure in among the other squires and pages. A pair of wide golden eyes glanced in his direction, then turned away. Here at least was recognition, hostile as it might be. No one here had seen a Ni-Féa before, they had no way of knowing the difference—only the Ni-Ferys squire, who felt it instinctively.
At length, Sindérian’s attendants swept her up and carried her along to the dining hall. It was a room nearly as vast as the hall of pillars, though brilliantly lit, with an entire pine tree blazing away in a great fire pit. Long, colorful banners hung from the high ceiling, and a row of windows along one wall looked out on the valley. Someone had thrown the heavy casements open, letting in the fragrance of meadows and night, and the banners overhead moved with every shift of the air.
Faolein sat at the High Table along with Lord Dreyde and his household, at Saer’s left hand, but Sindérian was allotted a place farther down, sharing a cup and a plate with Prince Ruan.
Dreyde had commanded an impressive feast on such short notice: gleaming platters of freshwater fish and feathered game, delicately cooked and spiced; sausage hedgehogs bristling with almonds; immense wheels of cheese like harvest moons; bowls filled with grapes and apricots and plums; a cool yellow wine with the flavor of honey. Musicians played, acrobats tumbled, while those who sat at the long oak tables ate and gossiped.
Straining to hear what passed between the Lord and her father, Sindérian paid little heed to the food and wine. Though she ate and she drank, hunger had long since died; she hardly tasted or cared what passed between her lips.
Saer was vague, but from hints and innuendoes Sindérian gathered he was not best pleased with the Duke of Mere. He seemed to belong to a faction that shared his displeasure. For a moment, the conversations to either side of her died down, and she could hear Dreyde’s voice, soft but clear:
“If Thäerie and Leal looked kindly on us, we might do much. Then the Alliance would be healed, and all as it was before.”
He must be very confident of his people to speak treason so openly, Sindérian marveled. Either that, or he was a fool. And somewhat unreasonably, she felt a great sense of relief wash over her. She ought not to feel comfortable, she knew, in the hall of a man plotting treachery against his overlord—yet now she understood the warmth of their welcome, the reason behind such pressing hospitality.
He had Saer, but he wanted more. The appetites of ambitious men are never sated, she thought. The more they have, the more they want. He or some friend of his would like to be Duke of Mere, and he thinks that Faolein can help him to achieve this. We might just as well have risked Prince Bael—
As for Faolein, he listened to Dreyde with a grave, kind, courteous attention that agreed to nothing but seemed to promise everything. Perhaps by morning Saer would realize that the wizard was not going to help him, perhaps by then he would be less generous with his offers of horses and supplies. But until then, Sindérian thought, she and her companions ought to be safe. Dreyde was too caught up in his own concerns, his own schemes, to think of meddling with them.
All this time, she had scarcely been aware of Prince Ruan, though he sat beside her, though they shared the same plate and cup. As the meal concluded, she felt a hand grip her arm, and the Prince leaned so close that his fair hair brushed against her face. His own face was pale with excitement and suspicion.
“That hedge wizard of Saer’s never made an appearance during the feast,” he hissed in her ear. “But one of the servants just came in, reeking of smoke and banewort, and signaled to his master from the foot of the dais.”
Sindérian felt a sharp pang of fear, and her stomach clenched in a hard knot. For the plant anciently known as ylls-yllatha—more commonly goblin’s-weed or banewort—has very few uses and none of them good. The wicked and the ignorant were frequently drawn to it, black magicians, country witches, and village necromancers; but no wizard would touch it or smell it, much less make use of it.
But it may not have anything to do with us. In truth, why should it? Saer was plotting against the Duke. For all that, she took a handful of salt from the table and concealed it in the palm of her hand.
Up on the dais, Dreyde rose to his feet, and everyone else followed his example. Prince Ruan offered Sindérian his arm, which she accepted, and together they edged toward Faolein.
But a mass of bodies moved between them and the wizard. Sindérian lost her hold on the Prince’s arm, and was suddenly engulfed in a tide of young women. They swept her away from the tables and toward one of the doors. “You must—you must—you must come with the other maidens, Lady,” they murmured in her ear. “It is only right.”
The people of Saer swarm like bees, she thought, exasperated. They were like a cloud of gnats, impossible to shake off. Taller than any of her companions, she stood on her toes to look over their heads. But Faolein was already gone; she did not even know which door he had left by. She could not find Prince Ruan, and now it occurred to her, for the very first time, that Aell and Jago were missing, too.
Resisting those who urged her toward the doorway, she sent out a thought in search of her father. She found him striding down a long corridor in company with Dreyde. Her mind touched his briefly, drew back at his answer, so harsh and peremptory: Not now. Her heart sank, for it was the second time that day he had rebuffed her. Something was very, very wrong.
One thing only was clear: Faolein expected her to act as though nothing were amiss. Knowing this, she had no choice but to do as the maidens bade her. She allowed them to usher her out of the room, along a narrow corridor, and up a flight of stairs.
But climbing the stairs she had a prickly sense that someone was following her and the other maidens, someone whose whole mind was bent on her. Could it be Thaga? They left the stairs and proceeded down another cavernous passageway. When the trailing hem of her wine-colored gown caught on a projecting bit of stone and sh
e stopped to free herself, Sindérian took the opportunity to glance back over her shoulder.
She caught the barest glimpse of someone—a pale-haired figure in a sky-blue cloak, as lithe as a cat—moving in the shadows along one wall. Her fingers tightened around the handful of salt. Whatever occurred, she was not without resources.
Up a long ramp, through a series of archways and gates, up flights of stairs as steep as ladders, the young women took Sindérian into a part of the fortress much older than any of the rooms she had seen before. Two of the women carried burning torches, one an oil lamp that smoked whenever they encountered a draft from one of the shafts that brought down air and moonlight from above. They hurried her around so many turns, whisked her around so many corners, Sindérian soon lost all sense of direction, had no idea where she was heading.
And she did not like this place, less and less she liked it. There was an unhealthy feel to these rooms and corridors, as though the very atmosphere was tainted. The air seemed to slide over her skin like oil, leaving an unwholesome residue behind.
Entering another shadowy passageway, she felt the panic rising again. Blood pounded in her temples, her heart leapt against her ribs; every sense screamed warning. The muscles in her legs locked, and she could not or would not move.
But someone thrust a hard hand between her shoulders, forcing her to stumble forward, one step, two steps. She felt an intense heat, a giddy faintness, many times worse than the head injury had been. Then the bottom fell out of the world, plunging her into chaos.
11
Sindérian stood in the heart of the vortex, in the eye of the storm. Colors whirled madly around her: bold crimson, tattered yellow, scintillating blue-green, a purple so vibrant it made her eyes ache. Thunder roared in her ears. Struggling against the shifting tides of magic, she used every ounce of will she possessed to fight her way free of the spell that held her. Raising her arm with an effort, she tossed her handful of salt into the maelstrom.
The Hidden Stars Page 17