by J. L. Doty
Valso turned away from her as the wizard crossed the room. Carsaris handed him something, he turned back to Rhianne and raised his hand. Between thumb and forefinger he held a medallion like that Salula had used to control her. It would take her will, turn her into nothing more than an obedient dog.
“Please, no,” she said, stepping back, bumping into the door behind her.
Valso smiled and stepped forward. “But it must be, my dear.”
He reached forward, bringing the medallion toward her face. She closed her eyes, and when the cold metal touched her forehead she wondered why she felt such fear. She had nothing to fear here. She opened her eyes, looked into Valso’s kindly face.
He said, “Now isn’t that much better?”
She lowered her eyes and said, “Yes, Your Majesty.”
Valso turned, saying, “Come, my dear.”
She followed him to the center of the room, where he turned to face her. He reached out and took her by the shoulders. “Now let’s see how well it works . . .”
. . . Spinning . . . spinning . . . spinning . . .
She sensed nothing but the need to find her Morgin. Her entire being narrowed to that one desire. She desperately wanted to find him, thought her heart might burst if she failed.
. . . Spinning . . . spinning . . . spinning . . .
Her Morgin was nowhere to be found, gone as if he’d never been. She slumped to the floor, sobbing openly, tears streaming down her face and dripping to the floor.
“No, it didn’t work.”
“I’m sorry, Your Majesty.”
“Not your fault, Carsaris. Come, child.”
She opened her eyes as a pair of strong hands lifted her gently to her feet, looked into Valso’s face and said, “You are so kind, Your Majesty.”
Valso reached out, touched her forehead, and when he withdrew his hand it held a shiny, metal object.
Rhianne staggered and backed several steps.
Valso turned away from her and crossed the room to the little snake’s perch. “Hmmm, snake. You’ve tasted his blood, and he your venom. Can you sense him?”
The snake’s head wove from side to side. “The connection isss there, Your Majesssty, but not ssstrong enough.”
Valso considered the snake for a long moment. “I may be able to do something to enhance the connection, even if only a little. I certainly have enough bits and pieces of him from his stay in my dungeons to concoct something.”
“What of his ssshadows, massster?”
Valso shook his head. “If you can’t see through his shadows now, I doubt I’ll be able to do anything about that. But strengthening a connection that already exists, yes, I should be able to do something there.”
Rhianne’s chest tightened with fear. If Valso turned the snake into a hound, what else might he do? When Morgin finally faced Valso, even though Morgin could no longer be killed by the little serpent’s venom, might it tip the balance in some way? Rhianne couldn’t take that chance, and realized now that she would have to do something about the snake, but what?
Valso turned and looked at Rhianne, but he spoke to the serpent. “I’ll do something to help you sniff him out. And when you go, take Salula with you. It’s time to be rid of the Elhiyne once and for all.”
••••
To approach the Benesh’ere camp Morgin rode around the south side of the Lake of Sorrows. Rounding the north side would have been shorter, but he’d have to pass close to the mining camp and Norlakton. Too much danger of being seen.
As night approached he stopped in the forest just south of the Benesh’ere camp, unsaddled Mortiss, ate a cold meal of jerky and hardtack, and slept wrapped in his blanket with no fire. He arose well before dawn, bundled his saddle and gear in the canvas tarps, then cut an armful of leafy branches and concealed the bundle beneath them. He continued on foot, wrapped in shadow.
He slipped past the Benesh’ere sentries as the first rays of sunlight brightened the horizon. He’d chosen his timing carefully, had arrived just before the camp roused, early enough that the shadows were still long and deep, but late enough that Harriok and Branaugh would be awake and breakfasting.
He stopped in a shadow near the entrance to their tent. “Harriok, Branaugh,” he said, speaking softly so his voice didn’t carry. “It’s me, Morgin. May I enter?”
A couple of heartbeats later Branaugh threw the tent flap aside. She looked at him for a moment, then said, “They said you were dead. Apparently, they were wrong.”
Morgin grimaced. “I’m not sure that they were.”
She shook her head sadly. “Why am I not surprised that you’d say something like that?”
She stepped aside, holding the flap open. He crouched and walked past her into the dark interior of the tent, smelled roasted meat and warm bread. Harriok sat by a small brazier, something on top of it steaming, their half-finished breakfast in front of him. “Would you like some tea, my brother of the sand?”
Morgin unbuckled his sword, put it to one side and sat down opposite him. Branaugh sat down next to Harriok as he poured tea for the three of them. She retrieved an empty plate and asked, “Hungry?”
“I’ve had nothing but trail rations for several days,” he said. “It smells wonderful.”
She prepared a small plate, handed it to him, and as they ate they spoke of little things. LillianToc had finally gotten over Felina’s murder at the hands of the Kulls, and he swam quite regularly in the lake, was teaching some of the other children to swim. Yim’s father had allowed her to discard the debt collar, and she’d soon marry her warrior. The smiths were now making better steel than ever, thanks to the lore from the past that Morgin had recalled. It gladdened Morgin’s heart to listen to the simple gossip of the tribe.
They told Morgin about JohnEngine and NickoLot’s visit. Harriok said, “You need to let them know you’re alive.”
“I think they already know,” Morgin said.
“So what do you need from us?” Branaugh asked.
Harriok gave her a disapproving look. “Need you be so blunt? Why do you think he wants something?”
She rolled her eyes, looked at her husband, then at Morgin. “If he’d come to visit, or to live with us again, he would have come openly. Instead, he’s come like a thief in the night, so when he leaves no one will know he’s been here.”
Morgin said, “She’s right. I do need your help.”
Harriok shrugged and swallowed a piece of meat. “You have but to ask.”
Morgin considered his words carefully. “I need to go out on the sands, and I don’t have the skills to survive there on my own.”
“Out on the sands?” Branaugh asked. “Why?”
“I have to go to Kathbeyanne, the city of glass.”
Harriok froze in mid chew. “That’s a fool’s errand. What makes you think we won’t end up like all the rest?”
“When you and I were out on the sands and saw the city on the horizon, I sensed its true position, and it was not where I saw it. I think I can get us there.”
“It’ll be hot this time of year. Why do you want to go?”
“I have to fulfill a prophesy.”
Harriok looked to Branaugh. She rested a hand on his arm and said, “I think you must do this thing, husband.”
Harriok nodded his agreement. “I’ll put together the provisions, and meet you in your camp at dawn two mornings hence.”
Morgin gave them careful directions to his small campsite, then wrapped himself in shadow and slipped out of the Benesh’ere camp before it came fully awake.
••••
Morgin danced sideways as the point of the obsidian blade thrust through the space where his chest had been a heartbeat earlier. He struck down with his sword, meeting the obsidian in a shower of sparks, driving its point into the dirt. Metadan recovered with inhuman speed, they disengaged and backed away from one another, Morgin breathing heavily, Metadan showing no outward signs of exertion. Apparently the archangel was not subje
ct to the same physical limitations as those of a mere mortal.
“You’re doing well,” Metadan said. “You might even be able to face me someday.”
“Will I need to?”
As they circled warily the archangel shrugged. “Who knows what fate awaits us!”
Morgin attacked, swung his sword down in a high arc that Metadan deflected easily. Morgin followed through with a thrust, catching Metadan by surprise and the angel back-stepped clumsily. Again they disengaged, and the angel nodded his approval.
They circled in a crouch, each evaluating the other, looking for an opening. Morgin was about to try another attack when Metadan frowned, stepped back, stood up straight and raised a hand to signal a halt to the match. He looked up to the sky and scanned it, turning slowly full circle. He stopped facing north, raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun, and looked that way for several heartbeats. He tensed, turned to Morgin and said, “I must be gone.”
Saying nothing further, he vanished, leaving behind a column of smoke in the shape of a man that dissipated slowly. Morgin took his cue from Metadan, stepped into the shadow of a tree, drew his shadowmagic about him like a cloak and waited. Mortiss must have sensed something, for she was nowhere to be seen.
He waited there unmoving for quite some time, sensed something nether approaching, then heard the buzz that reminded him of the wings of a hummingbird. A heartbeat later Bayellgae zipped into the clearing, darted about as if searching for something, then settled on the branch of a nearby tree.
Morgin waited as the snake sat quietly, its head constantly weaving from side to side. He forced his breathing to slow, dare not move, wondering what the little snake was up to. He heard a horse splutter and neigh somewhere nearby in the forest, found he was holding his breath without realizing it. He let the air out of his lungs slowly, careful to make no sound, heard the creak of saddle leather, and the clop of a horse’s hooves at a slow walk. Moving at an easy pace Salula rode into the clearing. It tugged at Morgin’s heart to see the face of the swordsman turned into a hard mask of expressionless stone.
“He wasss near,” the snake hissed. “But now he isss gone.”
Bayellgae zipped into the air and flew away. France—Salula, Morgin reminded himself—followed at an easy pace.
Morgin waited for quite some time, afraid to step out of his shadows. When Mortiss reappeared and walked calmly into the clearing, he took that as a sign that the demon snake and demon man did not wait in hiding nearby.
••••
Late in the afternoon Theandrin stood next to BlakeDown on the battlements. In the distance ErrinCastle led a small contingent of armsmen, escorting JohnEngine et Elhiyne, a carriage and six Elhiyne horsemen. When the Elhiyne messenger had come asking safe passage for a group led by AnnaRail esk et Elhiyne, ErrinCastle had insisted that he lead the escort, saying, “We’re promising safe passage, and I’ll not let some hothead break our word.”
The decision to send AnnaRail had been wise. Probably the second most powerful witch in the Lesser Clans, she was highly respected, and known for keeping a calm head. Theandrin had met her many times over the years, and knew the two of them could work together to defuse the border situation.
Theandrin and BlakeDown walked down to the castle yard and were waiting when the group rode through the castle gates. The men dismounted, JohnEngine walked to the carriage and opened its door, then helped AnnaRail step down. They exchanged greetings, though BlakeDown came across a bit gruff. She’d have to talk to him about that.
Theandrin had orchestrated this carefully, including the timing of their arrival. AnnaRail and JohnEngine were shown to their rooms, were given plenty of time to freshen up from their journey, then joined Theandrin, ErrinCastle and BlakeDown for a private dinner.
“How is Lord Brandon?” Theandrin asked. She and AnnaRail had traded quite a bit of information by messenger prior to this meeting, so she already knew the answer to that question.
“He’s doing well,” AnnaRail said. “Though it was close.”
“How bad were his injuries?”
“An arrow wound to his arm,” AnnaRail said, and Theandrin saw she was trying to keep any belligerence or accusation out of her voice. “A twisted ankle and two broken ribs. One of them punctured his lung. That was the most dangerous wound of all. But he’ll heal.”
BlakeDown leaned across the table and snarled, “Our two dead armsmen won’t heal.”
JohnEngine’s eyes flashed and he started to say something, but AnnaRail put a hand on his arm and said, “It was an unfortunate escalation of hostilities, and we feel that both sides must bear some blame.”
BlakeDown pressed her further. “So you accept blame for it?”
If Theandrin had been seated next to him, she would have kicked him. She said, “I think AnnaRail’s point is that they do accept some blame, but not all.”
AnnaRail smiled and didn’t comment.
Theandrin continued, “Both sides acted imprudently. We have two hotheads to blame for that.”
BlakeDown wouldn’t keep his mouth shut. “But our hothead was a minor lieutenant, who may be disciplined. Yours, I believe, was your oldest son, a member of House Elhiyne.”
AnnaRail continued to smile, though Theandrin could see she was finding it harder to do so. “My son’s punishment is that he must face Olivia—daily.”
Even BlakeDown cringed.
By the end of the evening they’d made no progress. The next day they met twice and fared no better. BlakeDown even introduced AnnaRail to Lewendis. JohnEngine bristled at the presence of the yokel, but kept his composure, though he made a visible effort to do so.
What was her husband thinking?
On the third day Theandrin orchestrated a carefully structured evening meal with just her, BlakeDown, ErrinCastle, AnnaRail and JohnEngine present. She had the servants set up a dining table in a small, comfortable room, made sure there was no brandy at hand, and instructed the cook to see to it that the wine was heavily watered. Alcohol would not be allowed to influence anyone’s thinking, especially her husband’s.
The meal started out pleasantly enough. She, AnnaRail and their two sons spoke of the coming winter. Both clans were well prepared, with plentiful grain stores and stocks of smoked and salted meat. But while they spoke her husband brooded silently, didn’t join in the conversation, though at least he didn’t glare at AnnaRail or JohnEngine. Why was he so intent on not finding common ground?
BlakeDown suddenly leaned forward and said, “Enough of this idle talk. We have an issue to discuss, and I’m tired of ignoring it.”
In the silence that followed, both JohnEngine and ErrinCastle made visible efforts to control their anger. AnnaRail took a sip of wine and said, “You’re right, Lord BlakeDown. We should deal with that issue before anything else. We should try to come to terms.”
BlakeDown demanded, “Are you offering terms?”
“We certainly would consider offering some reparation to the families of the dead armsmen.”
BlakeDown pressed her aggressively. “We’re on the verge of war, and you offer reparation for a few unlanded armsmen?”
Theandrin decided to step in. “We don’t need to be on the verge of war. We’ve had similar issues before, though I grant you it’s been quite some time. And in any case, we have a common enemy in the Greater Clans, and they’d love to see us at war.”
“Why do you say they are our enemy?” BlakeDown asked. “Certainly they are the enemy of Elhiyne, but I see no reason they need be the enemy of Penda.”
JohnEngine stood and leaned forward, his hands on the table. ErrinCastle’s mouth opened in surprise. Even Theandrin had trouble hiding her astonishment.
JohnEngine said, “You’re insane if you think you can ally with the Decouix king.”
Theandrin and AnnaRail both tried to speak, but BlakeDown shot to his feet, leaned across the table, his nose barely a finger’s breadth from JohnEngine’s. “And you’re insane if you think you can draw P
enda into your little war with Valso.”
BlakeDown spun about, crossed the small room, kicked the door open and stormed out.
The next morning the Elhiyne’s departed with nothing accomplished. And that evening Theandrin and BlakeDown had a monumental argument.
24
The One Shadow
Cort splashed water on her face, wiped it with a towel and looked in the polished brass mirror on the wall. Behind her Tulellcoe was busy unpacking their gear, laying it out on the bed in their small room. She’d dearly love a real bath, but the inn they’d chosen in Durin was of medium quality. They dare not take a room in one of the better inns. Someone might recognize Tulellcoe.
They’d arrived the night before, too exhausted from the long ride to do anything but grab a quick meal in the common room, climb under the sheets and fall asleep.
“I could use some breakfast,” she said. “And do you know of any place around here where I might buy a hot bath?”
Tulellcoe looked up from their gear, smiled, was about to say something when the knock on the door startled them both. Cort crossed the room, leaned close to Tulellcoe’s ear and whispered, “You stand to the side where you’re not visible from the hall and I’ll answer it.”
He nodded, lifted a dagger out of their gear and put his back to the wall behind the door. She stepped up to the door, opened it a crack and peered out into the hallway. A woman stood there in a long cloak with a hood thrown over her head, her face hidden by shadows beneath the hood. Behind her stood two Decouix armsmen. Her clothing spoke of money and the clan.
Cautiously, Cort asked, “What may I do for you, my lady?”
The woman hesitated, then spoke softly. “May I come in?”
Cort glanced at the two armsmen, and the woman added, “They’re simply body guards. They’ll remain out in the hall.”
She turned her head and spoke over her shoulder. “Please wait farther down the hall. This is a private conversation.”
The two armsmen strode to the end of the hall. The woman leaned toward Cort and whispered, “I wish to speak to Tulellcoe.”
If this woman already knew, they had nothing to lose, so Cort stepped back and opened the door wider to admit her. She stepped into the room, Cort closed the door, the woman threw the hood back and turned to Tulellcoe. She had raven-black hair, an angled face drawn by strain and tension, though even then she was quite beautiful.