The Name Of The Sword (Book 4)

by J. L. Doty

  In a wispy, ethereal voice she said to Tulellcoe, “Darling, it has been a long time.”

  Tulellcoe’s face softened with compassion. “Yes, Haleen, it has.”

  Cort knew that name, knew that Valso’s sister stood before them.

  Tulellcoe asked, “How did you know I was here?”

  She took a step toward him. “Oh my darling, do you think it’s possible for you to come to this city, and I not know it? Don’t worry, I’ve told no one . . .” As an afterthought she added, “. . . especially not my brother.” When she’d said that her voice had hardened with some unpleasant emotion.

  She turned and looked at Cort, examined her carefully. “I see you have a new love.” She smiled and turned back to Tulellcoe. “I’m glad. You deserve someone nice. But that means you haven’t come to see me, so why have you come?”

  “We’re just passing through,” Tulellcoe said.

  She stepped toward him, reached out and ran a finger along the line of his jaw. “It’s his wife, isn’t it? My cruel brother is holding her captive, and you’ve come to rescue her. You were ever the gallant one, something I always liked about you.”

  Tulellcoe started to say something, but she held up her hand and said, “You needn’t deny it.”

  She held her hand out, saying, “I made this for you.”

  Tulellcoe extended his hand, palm up. She dropped something into it and said, “It’s a small charm. When you need help, touch it to your forehead and I’ll know, and I’ll meet you here the next morning, or I’ll send a messenger with word on how we can meet.”

  She turned toward the door; Cort opened it and held it for her. She paused and turned back to Tulellcoe. “I’ll help you get into the castle. You see, I hate my brother even more than I loved you. He took our child from me.”

  Tulellcoe gasped and staggered back a step as Haleen turned and walked out through the door.

  ••••

  The Kingdom of Dreams had changed, had become a strange place of simple dreams without the clarity Rhianne had seen through Rhiannead’s and Erithnae’s eyes. She drifted without purpose, her dreams controlling themselves as dreams were want to do. She found Sabian deserted except for the occasional glimpse of another dreamer, translucent and only half there.

  “My lady, you must awaken . . .”

  She found no signs of the great battle that had nearly destroyed Sabian. There were no bodies lying about, neither jackal nor defender. The dirt of the castle yard seemed undisturbed, unmarked by foot or paw or hoof.

  “My lady. Please. The king demands your presence. You must awaken.”

  Rhianne opened her eyes as Geanna shook her gently, forced herself to focus on the present. She needed to contact Morgin, and knew the only way she might do so was through the Kingdom of Dreams. But how could she get a message to him to meet her there when she could no longer control her dreams? She suspected now that her earlier sense of reality and control had come about only because he had been there.

  Her handmaidens moved quickly, dressed her, combed her hair and set it elaborately atop her head, applied her makeup and had her ready for Valso in short order. Six Kulls escorted her to Valso’s workshop on the third floor of the castle, where Carsaris and Valso waited, with the demon snake curled on its perch in the far corner. Valso sat on the edge of the heavy, wooden table he used as a workbench. Carsaris stood attentively nearby, and again she saw unease and fear in the sorcerer’s demeanor.

  When she entered the room, Valso said, “My lovely Rhianne, today you’re going to see something quite instructive.”

  He turned to Carsaris and said, “Summon that recalcitrant archangel.”

  It appeared that Rhianne would not be the center of attention this day, so she slipped quietly to one side and put her back to a wall, trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible.

  Carsaris didn’t do anything obvious, but in a heartbeat a faint tendril of smoke appeared in the center of the room, accompanied by the smell of brimstone. The small coil of smoke swirled about, then thickened and grew until it took on the shape of a man. Bit by bit the smoke took on finer form and detail, and Rhianne recognized Metadan, whom she’d dreamed of through Erithnae’s eyes.

  The archangel bowed deeply to Valso, lowering his head and extending his arm with an elegant flourish. “You summoned me, Your Majesty?”

  As the archangel stood straight Valso smiled at him pleasantly. “Metadan, I’m always humbled by your grace and beauty.”

  Metadan gave a slight nod of his head. “You flatter me, sire.”

  “Show me that sword of yours.”

  The archangel hesitated, and Rhianne noticed he carried no sword. “As Your Majesty wishes,” he said. He held out his hand, and in a blink a magnificent broadsword appeared, its hilt in Metadan’s outstretched hand. The blade dripped blood from the steel, drops of it splashing on the floor between Valso and the archangel.

  Without looking over his shoulder at the snake, Valso said, “Bayellgae, is that the blade you told me about?”

  The snake uncoiled and sprang off its perch, darted across the room to hover between Valso and Metadan. “No, massster. The blade I sssaw wasss the blackessst of night, a dark blade for a dark purpossse.”

  Valso’s smile hardened and turned into a menacing grin. Then that thing Rhianne had sensed before entered the room. Valso seemed to swell, and his magic threatened to overwhelm her. When he spoke his voice came out in a rumble like thunder on the horizon. “You should not have chosen to defy me.”

  Metadan cringed, but said nothing.

  That thing continued speaking. “It appears you can find him easily, on just a whim. And the snake tells me you are teaching him to fight the obsidian.”

  Metadan dropped to his knees. “But I—”

  The thing roared, “Silence.”

  Metadan lowered his eyes.

  Valso paced slowly around Metadan, speaking in that thing’s voice, “What punishment shall you have?” As he spoke a wisp of smoke rose from one of Metadan’s ears. “I thought you had learned the price for disobedience, but apparently I must teach it to you again.”

  Metadan raised his chin, his face contorted in a grimace, and he cried out, “Ahhh!”

  Tendrils of smoke rose out of his mouth and nose, from his eyes and ears. He screamed, the sword vanished and he fell to the floor. He curled into a fetal ball, sickly yellow smoke coiling upward from his body. Rhianne thought he might burst into flames, but he simply continued to smoke and wither, screaming and begging, wasting away little by little. She closed her eyes and looked away, bile rising up into her throat as Metadan’s pleas slowly diminished.

  After silence filled the room, Rhianne waited several heartbeats, then opened her eyes. Valso stood over Metadan’s withered corpse. In that thing’s voice he said, “So, you can find him easily.”

  To Rhianne’s utter horror the corpse opened its desiccated eyes and said, “No, master. When he wants me, only then do I feel the pull of his need.”

  Valso shook his head sadly. “Such a fool.”

  He looked up from the archangel’s shriveled carcass, and again she saw madness in his eyes. He looked at her and said, “It appears I have many alternatives. I have the snake and Salula, and now I have the archangel. When next your husband needs his aid, he’ll teach the whoreson a lesson of death.”

  ••••

  Morgin sat in his small camp south of the Lake of Sorrows and pondered the magic of shadows. In the Kingdom of Dreams when the jackal captain had taken Rhiannead captive, and Morgin had faced him in the clearing in the Living Forest, the shadowwraith had helped him traverse a distance of 20 paces in an instant. Soann’Daeth’Daeye had stepped from one shadow to another, even though the shadows were separated. Morgin had assumed it was a thing only a shadowwraith could do, but the sensation he’d felt at the time had been both unusual and memorable, and that had haunted him. He decided to see if he could repeat that feat without the aid of the shadowwraith.

&nbs
p; Morgin had chosen a small clearing for his camp, nothing as large as the clearing in which he’d faced the jackal captain, but he didn’t need much room for this. He stood facing the ring of stones he’d assembled for a fire pit, closed his eyes and tried to recall every detail of the sensation he’d felt that day in the Kingdom of Dreams, a stomach twisting rush as if falling from a great height. He cast a shadow on the other side of the fire pit, cast one about himself and tried to repeat that feeling, but nothing happened. He tried several times, his frustration growing with each failed attempt. He finally gave up and decided to eat a light lunch.

  It was while rummaging through his saddle bags that he recalled Soann’Daeth’Daeye’s words that day in the Kingdom of Dreams: All shadows are but one. To walk in one is to walk in them all.

  He abandoned the thought of lunch and decided to try one last time. Again he cast a shadow on the other side of the fire pit and one about himself, but this time he didn’t try to repeat that sensation. He simply decided that the two shadows were one and the same, and that all he needed to do to cross the distance was take a single step from one to the other. He did so, his gut tightened and he staggered as he felt the sensation of falling, but he caught himself, straightened and looked about from within his shadow.

  It appeared that nothing had changed. He stood within one shadow facing another on the other side of the fire pit, his gear carefully stacked on the far side of the clearing. But then he recalled that when he’d started this experiment he’d been standing in the shadow near his gear with his back to it, not the one in which he stood now.

  He spent the afternoon experimenting, trying to determine if there was a limit to the distance he could cross in a heartbeat. He had no trouble traversing 50 paces or more, but that was about the limit of the distance he could see through the forest growth. At one point he tried to picture a shadow in Elhiyne in an attempt to cross the intervening leagues without wasting days doing so, but that effort proved fruitless. He concluded that to step from one shadow to the next, he must see the other shadow. And that limited him to a distance of about a hundred paces.

  That night, as he curled up in his blanket, he drifted off to sleep with a deep sense of satisfaction.

  Morgin awoke just before dawn, ate a quick meal and packed up his gear. He’d just finished saddling Mortiss when Harriok arrived with Jack the Lesser riding beside him. “Can’t let you find Kathbeyanne without me,” Jack said. “The two of you would probably end up walking in circles and eating sand.”

  “I thought it would be good to bring Jack,” Harriok said. “He knows the sands better than me.”

  They’d brought one of the small pack animals they called a chakarra, primarily to carry extra water skins. The two whitefaces helped Morgin pack up his gear, he saddled Mortiss, and they headed into the forest east of the Lake. With the three of them on horseback, they made much better time than the tribe had in the spring, and reached the Plains of Quam by late afternoon.

  Jack shielded his eyes from the sun and looked out at the flat, featureless landscape that stretched before them. “Might as well use the last few hours of sunlight. We can make a couple more leagues before nightfall.” He nudged his horse into a walk.

  Jack led, followed by Harriok with Morgin in the rear. But only about three hundred paces out onto the plains Jack pulled his horse to a halt, and sat in the saddle looking at something on the ground. When Morgin caught up to the whitefaces, he looked down and saw a few bones bleached white by the sun, among them a human skull. Most of the bones had been scattered by scavengers, but among them were a few rags of coarse, black cloth.

  “Kull cloak?” Harriok asked.

  Jack nodded his agreement.

  Morgin stood up in his stirrups, tried to recall that night so long ago, hoped for some sort of distinguishing landmark. But out on the flat expanse of the plains, one location looked just like any other. He nudged Mortiss into a walk, and she meandered slowly eastward. After about 20 paces he spotted an old rusted sword lying in the dry grass and he pulled her to a halt. Harriok and Jack stopped beside him.

  Morgin looked back at the bones and said, “Salula. Or rather, his host. Turns out I didn’t kill the demon, just the human body he haunted.”

  Jack said, “Guess you’ll have to kill him again.”

  Morgin thought of France and winced inwardly.

  They rode east until the sun set, then stopped, lit a small fire with what little wood they could scrounge on the plains, and bedded down for the night.

  25

  Seeking the Prophesy

  BlakeDown refused her?

  Walking casually through the market outside the walls of Penda, Chrisainne stopped and pretended some interest in a display of lace doilies.

  No, Your Majesty. He didn’t refuse AnnaRail outright, but argued against every point she tried to make. I could tell that she and Theandrin were quite frustrated by it all.

  The workmanship in the doilies was actually quite good.

  Excellent! Valso said. Now I need BlakeDown to escalate the situation further.

  The woman behind the table displaying the doilies was a plain cow of a peasant. She perked up at Chrisainne’s interest.

  I’m concerned there, Your Majesty. Theandrin and ErrinCastle are pressuring him to act expediently. And he and Theandrin had a horrendous row after the Elhiyne’s left. I’m sure it was about exactly that.

  Chrisainne didn’t really need another doily, so she smiled at the women, turned and continued on.

  Damn! I need BlakeDown to act.

  She slowed her pace. She dare not enter the castle grounds while in communication with Valso.

  I think I can influence him, Your Majesty.

  Good girl. Do whatever it takes.

  Valso withdrew from her mind.

  ••••

  Theandrin stood at the window of her sitting room looking down on the castle yard, her jaw clenched with frustration. Someone had triggered her charm-wards at the gates, someone of Vodah sympathies. She’d immediately rushed to the window and saw a few armsmen who had just passed through the gates walking into the yard. There was no one else close enough to have triggered the wards, and while she took note of the armsmen’s faces, both were of low rank. They’d be absolutely useless as spies, could provide nothing more than rumors and base, castle gossip.

  She stood there for quite some time trying to understand what had gone wrong. With her years of experience, she knew her spells and incantations, knew that her wards wouldn’t have falsely triggered, and yet apparently they had. Once activated, they were now useless. She’d have to recast them.

  She was about to turn away from the window when Chrisainne walked through the gates into the castle yard. Theandrin had noticed her before, walking out or back in, and as she thought back, she realized the girl had recently begun visiting the market outside the castle quite regularly. Chrisainne had reached the middle of the castle yard, and she was carrying no bundles. Perhaps she’d not found what she was looking for, or had just done a little casual shopping with no real intention of buying.

  Vodah! Theandrin had not paid any attention to the girl’s lineage. Could there be some Vodah in her background? When a woman took a husband and moved into his clan, as her loyalties shifted to that clan, her magic and powers naturally took on the new clan’s aura. It worked the other too, if for some political reason a man moved into his wife’s clan. True loyalty carried with it a powerful tint. But if Chrisainne’s allegiance hadn’t changed . . . Could she have triggered the wards on her way out?

  Theandrin decided she’d have to look into the girl’s background, find out her original clan, and learn a bit more about her past. And she needed to keep pressure on the girl for more and better information.

  ••••

  Standing at the window in her room, NickoLot looked down on the castle yard below, waiting with growing impatience for DaNoel to take his turn at sword practice.

  Since planting one each of her
silver and lead charms beneath DaNoel’s bed, NickoLot had had to listen to the constant background din of his activities when in his room. The companion to the silver charm rested against the skin between her breasts, suspended by a chain about her neck and hidden beneath her dress. The silver charms weren’t that strong, so the message the one in his room transmitted to its companion was most often just a weak impression of his activities.

  The signal grew stronger when strong emotions or feelings were involved. One night, just after crawling beneath the blankets of her own bed, the sending grew strong and powerful and she thought she might be on to something. But then she realized DaNoel was just masturbating, and the thoughts he transmitted were quite disgusting. That night she lifted the charm away from her skin and placed it on the stand beside her bed, which dampened the signal nicely.

  Today had been different. It had been midmorning, and she’d gotten so used to the background din of his activities it was like ignoring the drone of a fly buzzing near one ear. And then one single word had stuck out clear and sharp: Valso. Why the Decouix king, and why so emotionally charged?

  When DaNoel began his turn at sword practice NickoLot turned immediately from the window and made her way down to his room, careful not to draw attention by hurrying. She used the prepared charm to open the spell lock on his door without deactivating it, stepped into the room and closed the door. It took but a moment to drop to her hands and knees, retrieve the lead charm from beneath his bed, and replace it with another.

  She opened the door to his room just a crack and checked the hallway, stepped out, closed the door and reactivated his lock spell. She walked back up to her room, again careful not to hurry, sat down at her writing table and placed the shiny lump of metal on top of it. Lead, the silent metal, the container. She unbuttoned the stiff, high collar of her black gown, exposed the skin just above her breast and pressed the charm against it, then fed power into it.