The Name Of The Sword (Book 4)

by J. L. Doty

  “Rhianne, my dear,” he said, stepping back and admiring her. “Even prepared for bed, without the paints and makeup you ladies place such store in, even then you are lovely.”

  He reached out and ran a finger lightly across her lips. His touch sent a thrill through her, and she steeled herself to be ready. But then she realized she was being foolish, overreacting to her own natural response to the touch of a handsome man. There was nothing to fear this night, especially since she was bundled up nicely with almost no skin showing. And yet she hungered to feel that thrill again.

  She forced herself to turn away from him, took two steps and tried to still her racing heart as she said, “What may I do for Your Majesty?”

  He put his hand on her shoulder, though she hadn’t heard him cross the distance between them. She noticed then that Geanna and the girls were conspicuously absent. She turned around and felt a desire to be closer to him so she stepped forward. He had a kingly profile; she reached up and touched his jaw and that thrill ran through her again.

  Nooooooooooo!

  He leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the lips, and her vomit spell didn’t activate. With his lips only a hair’s breadth from her face, he said, “I see you’re disappointed that your little spell didn’t work this time.”

  He shook his head sadly. “I found the vomiting spell easily, and deactivated it. You should have thought of something new and original, something I wouldn’t anticipate.”

  She tried to keep the look on her face neutral, but he must have seen something there. He leaned back, cocked his head and said, “There’s something else, isn’t there? I saw it in your eyes just now.”

  He stepped back, putting a little distance between them. “What is it? Tell me?”

  She felt an overwhelming desire to keep nothing from him. “Boils,” she said. “When you touch my breasts I’ll break out in boils, disgusting pustules oozing yellowish ichor. The vomiting spell was just a feint.”

  “Oh you little vixen,” he said. “I would have found that quite disgusting, and it certainly would have dampened my ardor.”

  She felt the tendrils of his magic fluttering at the edges of her soul. “There it is. I’ve found it. And quite nicely done too, difficult to spot.”

  His magic washed through her and the spell she’d spent so much time preparing dissipated. In a heartbeat it was gone.

  Nooooooooooo!

  He took her in his arms, kissed her, and she responded passionately. “Now we’re going to truly enjoy ourselves. Or, at least, I will.”

  Nooooooooooo!

  He led her into the bed chamber, unlaced the robe Geanna had provided to cover her up. She stepped out of it willingly and he tossed it aside. She tugged at his pants, desperately driven by desire beyond anything she’d ever felt. He turned her about, undid the laces of her nightgown and dropped it to the floor. She felt not the least bit modest standing there naked in front of him.

  Nooooooooooo!

  He tugged at his own pants, finished the job she’d started, pulled off his tunic and threw it aside. He wrapped her in his arms and kissed her. She felt his penis against her belly growing erect, and for some reason she found a tiny bit of humor in that. A chuckle escaped her lips.

  He pressed her on her back on the bed, climbed on top of her, groped at her crotch and tried to stick his finger in her. That was even funnier, and she couldn’t contain a short laugh. He hesitated and looked at her oddly, then resumed his groping.

  They were both breathing heavily now, panting and groaning, and that was the funniest thing of all. A full-throated laugh burst out of her, then another, and another.

  “I’m so sorry, Your Majesty,” she said, gasping for air, gulping and giggling like a young girl. She tried desperately to find nothing funny in the look on his face, but she hiccoughed, and that sent her into another round of wild laughter.

  He pushed up off her, and she noticed his penis was growing limp, and that brought on even more laughter. She could hardly breathe she was laughing so hard, her stomach muscles straining with the effort.

  He slid off her, stepped off the bed, a look of horror on his face. He swung out and slapped her, and that too was funny, though it didn’t mask the pain of the fiery burn on her cheek.

  He slapped her again, and the pain brought her memories back in a rush. The vomiting spell had been a feint, and the boil-spell a double-feint. The laughter spell had been easy. The hard part had been the memory spell to make her forget. She had to forget both the memory and laughter spells so completely he couldn’t make her tell her own secrets.

  He hit her in the jaw with his closed fist. His face had blossomed a bright red and tears streamed down his cheeks as he screamed and hit her. It was all so funny, even when she ended up on the floor, and lay there laughing as he kicked her and beat her into unconsciousness.

  ••••

  NickoLot stood on the battlements and watched the armsmen marching toward the Penda border. Two days ago a messenger from Alcoa had arrived with news that BlakeDown had moved the border to take possession of a strategic water supply, then massacred one of Alcoa’s patrols. Both clans were now fortifying the border, though no one had yet declared open war.

  She stood there for quite some time, waiting as the marching armsmen disappeared over the horizon. She waited further, then heard a shout down in the yard, the rumble of horse’s hooves, and below her a large company of mounted Elhiynes rode out through the castle gates, DaNoel among them.

  In the wee hours of the morning her charms had alerted her to the mention of Valso’s name in DaNoel’s room. But the castle had been a beehive of activity, and she’d waited through most of the day for the men to leave. With DaNoel now out of the castle, there was no need to hurry, or even to lurk about as she walked down to his room. She retrieved the lead charm that she’d sensitized with Decouix white, and returned to her own room.

  She repeated the process of unbuttoning the stiff, high collar of her gown, placing the charm against her skin and feeding it with her power.

  . . . act now to stop him . . .

  . . . keep my name out of it . . .

  . . . fear not my friend . . .

  NickoLot’s heart almost stopped beating, and she felt a tear roll down her cheek; a two sided conversation of thoughts, one DaNoel, and the other Valso. Her brother, a traitor, not just conniving or sneaking about, but out-and-out treason. This would break AnnaRail’s heart as nothing else could.

  She sat there for quite a long time, even as her room darkened with the setting sun. She debated back and forth, a schizophrenic argument between her and herself; should she tell her mother, could she tell her mother? Finally, with a heavy heart, she buttoned her high collar, stood, and carrying the charm as proof, walked out of her room.

  At the door to AnnaRail’s apartments she hesitated, was about to knock when Olivia’s voice stopped her, “Hold, child.”

  Olivia marched down the hall toward her, didn’t stop as she reached her, but took her by the upper arm in a painful grip and dragged her down the hallway with her.

  “What are you doing?” NickoLot demanded.

  “We’re going to talk, girl, before you break your mother’s heart.”

  The old woman’s words stunned her. Did she suspect? Did she know? NickoLot was still struggling with that as Olivia shoved her into her audience chamber, followed her in and slammed the door. Only when they were alone did the old witch calm down.

  Olivia’s eyes narrowed as she demanded, “How much do you know?”

  Nicki threw the question back at her. “How much do you know?”

  Olivia leaned toward her with godfire in her eyes. “This is my castle, child. I know everything that goes on within its walls. I know about your little charms and your experiments, though I hadn’t anticipated you discovering the truth so quickly.”

  “Then you know that . . .”

  Olivia waited for her to finish, and when she didn’t the old woman said, “That DaNoel’
s a traitor? Of course I know. I suspected as much before Valso escaped our tower, and I knew for certain the day DaNoel killed that guard.”

  “You’ve known all along?”

  Olivia turned her back on her, strode to a window and looked out into the darkening night.

  Nicki demanded, “Why didn’t you say something, stop him?”

  Olivia sighed. “And break you mother’s heart? No, I’ll not do that. In any case I’ve been using DaNoel to feed little bits of false information to Valso. We can use him to our advantage, and at the same time we need not destroy your mother, whom I value more than you can imagine.”

  Compassion! Never had NickoLot thought to hear compassion from the old woman.

  “Let DaNoel’s secret remain ours,” Olivia said. “If we’re careful we can keep him from damaging the clan, and from killing your mother with grief.”

  28

  War to Come

  Theandrin’s demands and impatience had grown into outright threats, and Chrisainne knew she could no longer wait. She had done her homework, had carefully researched poisons and toxins, concoctions and contagions. And having lived now at Penda Court for some months, she knew the methods Theandrin employed to protect the Penda ruling family from any attempted poisoning. She’d experimented a bit, had found that incoming food and drink supplies were carefully checked on arrival, and each member of the family maintained certain charms to warn them of any dangers when eating. Most importantly, Theandrin was a bit careless about the wine and water decanters in her own apartments. She checked them in the morning, and once or twice during the day, but she didn’t check each individual glass served to her. Anyone who poured her a goblet of wine or a cup of water in her own apartments was a trusted retainer.

  Chrisainne had settled on an herb frequently used to relieve a woman’s cramps during her menstrual cycle. A good witch could strengthen its effects if her cramps were unusually severe. A very good witch could reverse the effects as well as strengthen them, and alter them significantly. It had taken considerable effort to concoct her potion, a deep burgundy distillation that would disappear nicely in a glass of red wine. A drop or two in Theandrin’s drink, administered repeatedly over the cycle of a single moon, would show no ill effects. But a cancer would grow slowly in her womb, and in about six moons she’d die a rather painful death. No one would suspect foul play, for a death of that nature was not uncommon in a woman Theandrin’s age. It would be a sad loss for the entire clan, and Chrisainne would be there to comfort the family during their time of grief. It might even be fun to seduce ErrinCastle before she killed him. After all, he was quite handsome.

  She’d learned quite a few new tricks in her studies, and after Theandrin, she could put some of them to use getting rid of the Penda heir, BlakeDown, Lewendis, her husband—anyone else who got in her way.

  Today Theandrin had asked Chrisainne to join her for a pleasant afternoon of stitchery, and she’d invited a few other young ladies. It was time to be rid of the older woman.

  She knocked on the door to Theandrin’s apartments, was admitted by a servant.

  “Chrisainne, my dear,” Theandrin said, standing and greeting her warmly. They kissed lightly on the cheek, and Chrisainne sat down at her stitching hoop.

  The other two girls were quite young, and obviously thrilled to be invited to join the preeminent lady of the clan. They giggled and chatted, and at one point Theandrin leaned close to Chrisainne and whispered, “Thank you for joining us. I’m glad of some mature conversation.”

  Chrisainne smiled and said, “It’s my pleasure, Your Ladyship.”

  The afternoon dwindled away rather pleasantly and Chrisainne had begun to think no opportunity would present itself, when Theandrin breathed a heavy sigh, and said, “Dinner’s approaching, and I feel like a glass of wine. Chrisainne, will you join me?”

  “Certainly,” Chrisainne said, standing. She spoke as she crossed the room. “What would you like, red or white?”

  Chrisainne reached the small table containing two decanters and some goblets, noticed happily that one decanter held water and the other red wine. Before Theandrin could answer Chrisainne turned back to her and said, “I’m sorry, but it appears there’s only red today. Would you like me to go to the kitchens and get you some white?”

  “No, no, red will be fine.”

  Chrisainne poured wine into two goblets, and with her back turned to the rest of them, she slipped the small vial out of her sleeve. In a quick motion she’d practiced a hundred times, she removed the stopper, let two drops of the liquid fall into one goblet, replaced the stopper and returned the vial to her sleeve. She was rather proud of how quickly and smoothly she’d done it.

  She turned, crossed the room carrying the two goblets, handed one to Theandrin, and sat down next to her. Theandrin lifted the goblet toward her lips but hesitated, glanced momentarily at a ring on her finger. She lowered the goblet, looked at the two young girls and said, “It occurs to me that it is getting rather late. You two should run along and return to your mothers, while we older women enjoy our wine.”

  The girls hopped to their feet, kissed Theandrin on the cheek, bobbed a quick curtsy and left.

  To the servant girl sitting in the corner, Theandrin said, “Run down to the kitchen and tell the cook I’ll be down shortly to discuss dinner.”

  With a quick curtsy the servant girl followed the two youngsters. Now that they were alone, Chrisainne thought Theandrin would renew her demands for information, but the older woman seemed to be in a pleasant mood this day.

  “Ah,” Theandrin said. “Alone, finally. I’d like to show you something.”

  She rose, stood over Chrisainne and held out her hand. Chrisainne noted three rings on her fingers. “Look at this one,” Theandrin said, pointing to the ring on her index finger, which contained a pale, white, colorless stone.

  “It’s a lovely ring,” Chrisainne lied.

  “No, it’s not. It’s normally lavender, and then it’s lovely. But I recently treated it with some special spells. It loses all color when I hold poison in my hands.”

  Chrisainne started, trying to think quickly, but before she could say anything Theandrin swung out and slapped her so hard she tumbled from her seat onto the floor, her goblet of wine splashing across the carpet. With her head spinning she managed to get to her hands and knees, but the older woman grabbed her hair from behind and pulled viciously, lifted her up to her knees. Theandrin then slapped something against the skin exposed above the top of her gown.

  Chrisainne looked down and saw a trinket of some dull metal stuck to her chest. It pulsed once with a faint, yellowish glow, but she felt nothing.

  “Lay down there and don’t move,” Theandrin said. “And say nothing.”

  Chrisainne’s muscles turned into water and she collapsed onto her side, then flopped over onto her back. She couldn’t move, and when she tried to speak the muscles of her throat contracted painfully. She realized an enormously powerful compulsion spell was forcing her to obey every word Theandrin uttered.

  Theandrin loomed over her, leaned down and looked in her eyes. “You might have gotten away with it had I not discovered you’re working for the Decouix. But once I knew, I took extra precautions. I’m afraid you’re not going to survive this, girl.”

  Chrisainne lay so strongly imprisoned in the older woman’s spell her heart didn’t even beat rapidly in response to the fear that crawled up her gut. She tried to resist the spell, opened her mouth to plead for her life, but her throat muscles constricted so badly she couldn’t breathe.

  Theandrin said, “Shut your mouth and say nothing.”

  Her teeth clamped shut so quickly she bit her tongue.

  ••••

  As Morgin rode west to Elhiyne, he made good use of Mortiss’ ability to cover great distances through the nether ways. With Bayellgae, Salula and Metadan all hunting him, he felt safer in the netherworld, though he knew the dangers of spending too much time there. His connection to rea
lity, to the Mortal Plane, would slowly erode, and he’d find it difficult to return.

  He reached the foothills below Kallun’s Gorge late in the afternoon. The trail that led up to the Gorge had been well marked, and while it was a bit treacherous in spots, he could trust Mortiss’ abilities and his own shadow vision, so he continued on. He’d taken this trail once before, riding down it to face Illalla’s army alone. Those events of only a few years ago felt as if they were part of a distant past, while his memories of Morddon’s life centuries ago seemed only yesterday.

  Near midnight the trail leveled off just short of the Gorge. Exhausted now, he recalled that there was a waystation on the east side, and he hoped to rest there. He dismounted, and holding Mortiss’ reins he walked forward, spotted the faint, orange-red glow of a flickering fire illuminating the boulders ahead. He must have made some sound or noise, for Samull, the son of the waystation’s keeper, stepped out onto the trail, groggily rubbing his eyes and peering through the darkness.

  “Good even’, sir.”

  Samull and his father Durado had been kind when Morgin had thought he had no friends. “It’s me, Samull, Morgin.”

  “Ah, Lord Morgin. We heard you was dead.” He spun about and shouted, “Da, it’s Lord Morgin. And he ain’t dead.”

  Durado stepped out of the fire’s glow, also rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Lord Morgin. Tis late. You must be tired.”

  Samull took Mortiss to feed her, while Durado led Morgin between two boulders toward the glow of the fire. They emerged into a large level space, sheltered on all sides by rock walls and boulders. Masons had cut a shelf into the rock for seating around the fire pit. The fire hadn’t been banked, and it emitted enough light to cast the faint glow on the boulders Morgin had spotted earlier.