Collins flipped his hands palms up in acceptance. In his most desperate situation atop the castle parapets, menaced by guards in one direction and facing a seven-story fall in the other, he had passed the crystal gladly to Ialin. The hummingbird/man had come through for the renegades repeatedly. Whatever his personal feelings about Collins, Ialin seemed to have the morality to keep him secure. In case of trouble, however, Collins had no doubt who the small, androgynous man would rescue last.
"Ready?" Zylas said.
Before Collins could reply, Aisa did. "Not yet. I need you to remove your leggings."
"What for?" Collins and Zylas said, almost simultaneously.
Aisa sat back on her haunches, stick in hand. "I need to do your legs."
Zylas' and Collins' gazes fell to the leggings.
"They're covered," Zylas reminded.
Aisa stirred the pigments on the slate. "Just do it. You never know."
Zylas complied, grumbling, "You just want to see me naked."
"I've seen you many times." Aisa kept her attention on the circular glide of the stick through color. "Believe me, it's nothing special."
"Thanks." Zylas removed the leggings. "Is this some sort of conspiracy, or is threatening and insulting me right before I risk my life supposed to make me more competent?"
Aisa applied pigment to Zylas' legs. "I'm only kidding. I'm just worried because your coloring alone could give you away."
Seized by a sudden nervousness, Collins headed for the opening. Excitement edged with terror thrilled through his chest. After the attacks on the Pentagon and World Trade Center, a wave of patriotism had made him consider joining one branch or another of the military. But, by the time his physical therapy ended, he had disabused himself of the notion, at least until he finished graduate school. Now, he found himself preparing to enter a war in which he had no real personal stake without the benefit boot camp or other training. It seemed crazy that he had not enlisted in the National Guard but instead joined the ragged renegade force of Barakhai.
Collins looked out over the forest one more time. Sunlight sheened from the treetops, lancing through rare holes in the upper foliage. He could see a glimmer of gold between the trees that he believed represented Falima. Seized by a sudden urge to tell her good-bye, he headed out the opening.
Zylas caught his arm. "Whoa, boy. Don't forget this." He thrust a sword belt, dragging a heavy wooden sheath and blade, into Collins' hand.
Collins stared at the weapon dangling from his fist. "What's this for?"
"We're off duty elite guards, remember?"
"Off duty," Collins repeated. "Yeah."
"They often carry swords."
"Oh," Collins examined the buckle, a crude arrangement of metal that appeared to stab through the cloth. He wrapped the length around his waist. When he tried to pull the sword free, it wouldn't budge, and his efforts sent him staggering around like a drunkard.
Collins found every eye abruptly on him. He stopped trying to draw the sword and stared back. "What?" he demanded.
Zylas stifled a laugh, turning it into a quiet snort. "Maybe it's a fashion statement where you come from, like backward hats. But, here, castle guards don't wear their sword belts inside out."
Collins fingered the buckle, freeing it from the fabric. "Where I come from, we don't have castles, guards, or swords." It was not exactly true. "Except in museums." He unwound the belt, refastened it the reverse way, then experimented with pulling the sword out. It felt heavy and awkward in his hand, worse at his side. "You know I'm not going to be able to actually use this thing."
Zylas fastened a similar belt around his own waist. "I'm betting that, if you need to, you will."
Collins had to agree. With his life at stake, he believed he could kill someone. "Sure I will. Just not very well."
Zylas reached up, as if to touch his face, then dropped his hand to his side. "It's too late to teach you."
"I know how to shoot if that's any consolation." Collins had gone on a few hunting trips in high school, though he had never had the heart to actually aim at anything living. Luckily, his friends had mostly arranged them as an excuse to get away from their parents, party, and bang away at a few targets.
Zylas took Collins' arm and led him into the forest. "None whatsoever. We're not imitating bowmen."
Collins went with his friend, lips twitching into a smile. He wondered what Zylas would think if he knew the truth: Collins had never held a bow in his life.
Chapter 5
A DISGUISED Benton Collins and Zylas approached the castle of the king of Barakhai about an hour after Zylas' change to human form. The forest opened to a grassland grazed by solid, patchy, and speckled cows in a myriad of whites and off-whites, tans and dark browns, blacks and agoutis. Goats ranged between them, their colors displaying a similar spectrum, grazing and prancing, pausing to rear, sidle, and slam their horns together at intervals. Those, too, ran the gamut, from broad and squat to long, tapering corkscrews, hoary pink to ebony. Chickens and ducks ran crazily between them, chasing insects dislodged by the larger animals' hooves.
Though unchanged, Opernes Castle captured Collins' full attention with all the intensity and violence of his first glimpse a year and a half ago. Four square corner towers thrust toward the heavens, the turreted, rectangular roof supported between them. They seemed higher than the last time, and he shuddered to think that he had once jumped from one of those towers nearly to his death. The jagged shadows of the inner courtyard wall peeked over the outer wall he and Zylas would have to face first. It consisted of defensible block work, interrupted at regular intervals by semicircular towers with the round sides facing outward. A still, crystalline moat ringed the entire structure.
On opposite sides of the wall, a peak-roofed structure supported by two of the towers formed a gatehouse. Collins and Zylas walked toward one of these, trying to look casual. Despite his attempts, Collins' heart beat a frantic, whirlwind cadence, and he fought a war against nerves that tried to drive his hands to a million ordinary tasks: finger-combing his hair, rubbing his eyes, stroking his chin. He contented himself with smoothing his unfamiliar clothing, allowing that small task to occupy hands that seemed determined to reveal him.
A figure on the left tower gestured broadly at them, and Zylas returned a crisp wave. Others shifted on towers and parapets while they drew closer. Then, apparently recognizing them, the guards lowered the drawbridge on sturdy chains. The plank came down with a squeal of rusted hinges, and the lip struck the ground beyond the water with a dull but massive thud. Zylas kept his pace stolid and even, and Collins tried to match it. The urge to run across and inside burned only a bit less brightly than the one that drove him to turn and bolt in terror. Strolling casually through enemy gates barely came in a distant third.
Strangers in the familiar uniforms of King Terrin's horse guards peered down at them. One spoke in a gravely voice, "Orna." He nodded. "Narladin." Another nod.
"What were you two up to?" His tone held a hint of teasing singsong.
"None of your business," Collins growled before he could think of something better to say.
Zylas added with a crooked smile. "It is our day off. She has a point."
"A point, indeed," added a woman peering over the right tower. "She's a regular spear."
Everyone laughed heartily, except for Collins who did not think the joke merited more than a gruff chuckle. He guessed translation weakened it and supposed it probably had a sexual connotation in Barakhain. His sophomore roommate's girlfriend had been fond of saying that men saw a penis in anything with more length than width-and they turned anything wider than it was long ninety degrees. Nevertheless, it seemed appropriate for him to sidestep the mirth, being the butt of the joke and known for having little sense of humor. Grunting, he waved the others off and headed across the drawbridge without waiting for Zylas.
The other man's footfalls scurried after him. As he drew closer, Zylas whispered. "Tread a bit more lightly. Fo
r all her crustiness, Orna's still a woman."
Collins eased his step, trying to make it appear as if he had stomped off in mild offense. As they reached the halfway point on the drawbridge, the double oak doors into the gatehouse flew open, revealing the smaller side doors that opened onto the towers and the enormous oak ones that led to the outer courtyard. They marched inside, and the bigger doors slammed closed behind them with a loud finality that made Collins stiffen, though he managed to resist the urge to whirl and face them. He glanced at Zylas, who stood in easy silence and stared at the second set of doors like a passenger on an elevator. The world plunged into a darkness that seemed nearly total, at first. Then, Collins discovered the many small cracks in the wood and stone construction that admitted small squiggles of light. A ratcheting sound echoed eerily through the confines, the sound of the drawbridge rising. Then silence entombed them.
Muffled voices wafted to them as an eternity seemed to pass in the dull prison of the otherwise empty gatehouse. Collins lowered his head and fought welling panic. He tried to convince himself that discomfort was expanding time tenfold or more, but it still seemed way too long.
"Something's wrong," Zylas whispered, deliberately using English.
A surge of terror jarred bile into Collins' throat. He swallowed hard and forced himself to think around the fear.
The right-hand tower door banged open, and a blond head appeared. "You two are having altogether too much fun alone in the dark. Would you finish up, please, so we can all go back to our jobs." The speaker wore the standard elite guard uniform: tunic white above the breastbone, patterned with stretched aqua clovers, then finishing with the blue-green fabric to just past his knees. He wore a bowl-shaped helmet, and mail showed at his collar and arms. His boots were stiffened cloth.
Now it was Zylas' turn to freeze, clearly uncertain what was expected of them. Although he had surely passed through these gates before, he could only have done so in rat form, perhaps hidden on one of the rebel spies. Collins' mind raced back to the last time he had stood in this position. Then, calming Falima in edgy horse form had taken priority. He recalled that two guards had met them here, having descended from the towers. He tried to remember their names, without success; but a light dawned. He and Zylas were guards and expected to perform whatever duties those others had in the past.
Wishing he had not fought so hard to resist the movement, Collins turned. Though closed, the doors still required securing. Feigning casualness, he stepped toward them, seized the bolt, and tried not to look burdened as he wrestled the massive piece of wood into place on its iron mountings.
Rather than assist, which might have looked cued, Zylas approached the opposite doors to wait for the bolt on the opposite side to lift. With an air of nonchalant patience, he waited for Collins to finish maneuvering, then eased open the doors on his side. The massive set of doors to the courtyard creaked open, and light once again flooded the gatehouse.
"Thanks," the blond grunted, withdrawing back into the tower with a shake of his head and a muttered, incomprehensible comment.
"That close one," Zylas whispered, again choosing English, though it turned his speech pidgin, "Very close one."
"True." Collins concentrated on using English also, less practiced at deliberately dodging the translation spells. He recognized the limitations of the rebels' intelligence work. Small details would lose out to more significant information and events, and clearly no one had posed as a castle guard before. "Let's not compound that by standing here talking about it."
Nodding, Zylas headed into the outer courtyard, Collins at his heels. A jewel-green pasture stretched ahead of them, spotted with gardens and striped with pathways. Wooden buildings jutted from the crenellated wall behind them, and others pressed against the one separating the outer courtyard from the inner. Scattered horses, a mule, and several goats grazed, the latter plucking the less delectable thorns and broad-leafed plants from amid the fuzzy expanse of tender grasses. Gardens interrupted the span at intervals, well-tended beds of vegetables, tubers, and flowers.
Collins took in the scene at a glance, trying not to stare. Last time, he had come masquerading as a city guard from one of Barakhai's territories. Studying the castle scenery in wonder had fit the part. This time, it did not.
Now aware that they should handle gates and latchings, Collins and Zylas breezed through the second gatehouse with only a few grunted greetings. The inner courtyard was as he remembered: less grass, more gardens and orchards, stables, kennels, and barracks with pathways linking all of them. Catwalks rimmed the inner walls, hidden behind the toothlike pattern of crenels and merlons. The guards pacing them gave up an occasional wave, though they seemed not to expect a response as they paced their way in proper step around the periphery.
As before, the castle caught Collins' eye, though not with the same stunning intensity. It blossomed from the center, sun rays gleaming from the construction as if to illuminate it in some glimmering heavenly glow. The four, square towers pointed, straight as spears, to the sky; and the rectangle between them seemed as staid and steady as eternity. The photographs of ancient European castles that Collins' friends had brought home from various vacations told otherwise, crumbling ruins with only a hint at their previous grandeur. That train of thought brought back images of the World Trade Center towers collapsing like giant-squashed anthills. They, too, had seemed as solid as the ages.
Collins walked with Zylas along a cobbled path to the stone-cut stairway leading into the open door of Opernes Castle. He saw the animals grazing the pasture, a random-seeming mixture of horses, sheep, and cows. He saw the goose, goat, and human gardeners weaving delicately through the crooked rows of crops. He saw dogs romping across walkways, grassways, and tended plots, playing rowdy games of tag or barking wildly at larger animals who chose not to join their play. Yet all of that registered only peripherally on his mind. Collins' gaze was riveted on the portcullis that hung open over the entrance, and memory descended upon him. He remembered his desperate dive beneath the falling cross-hatching of metal and wood, the moment of excruciating pain that had exploded through his head, followed by a nothingness that ended in a locked cell in the dungeon.
The anxiety Collins had struggled against since the mission began gripped him then, dragging him into a morass of fear and doubt. We couldn't even figure out how to get through a gatehouse without arousing suspicions. How are we going to make it in the castle? His bands trembled, and he trapped them in his cloak pockets to hide their revealing display. He took some solace from the fact that Zylas seemed not to notice; if the man right next to him did not, hopefully others would not either.
As before, the door opened on a spiral staircase that wound upward and downward. From memory, Collins climbed, passing the first landing and its two doors to stop at the second level. There, he paused in front of the right one, drawing a deep breath in preparation. He could hear voices floating freely from behind it, a steady hum punctuated by loud bursts at irregular intervals. He reached for the latch.
At that moment, the door jerked open, and a guard in elite uniform nearly ran into them. Collins back-stepped and found himself staring at familiar female features, a guard he had met on his last journey here. To his delight, he remembered her name. "Lyra," he said on the pent up breath racing from his lungs.
The guard nodded briskly. "Orna." She added, "Narladin." She headed past them, then turned suddenly.
Collins' heart skipped a beat.
"It's harling stew," she warned. "I know how much you despise that."
Uncertain which of them she addressed, Collins rolled his eyes and nodded knowingly.
"Thanks for the warning," Zylas said in his Narladin voice.
Lyra continued down the staircase, soon lost from sight.
"Harling?" Collins repeated, letting the door swing closed rather than entering.
"Don't worry," Zylas said soothingly. "It's a type of fish, not a bug."
"Good." Collins again ste
eled himself to enter. "But do I hate it? Or do you?"
"Don't know," Zylas admitted, reaching for the door ring. "We'll have to fake it."
It seemed like an important detail to Collins; but, as the door swung open, this time at Zylas' hand, he found himself preoccupied with more important things. As before, the king and his retinue occupied a dais at the farthest end of a dining hall that had changed little in the year and a half since Collins' last incursion. If, in fact, time passes at the same rate here as at home. King Terrin looked the same, his crown nestled among wheaten ringlets and a full heard. Shrewd brown eyes looked out from a middle-aged face that seemed wise and weathered. At his right hand sat a scar-faced, homely man dressed in a satin robe trimmed with golden embroidery. It took Collins a moment to recognize him, a man who had once appeared to he, and probably was, the king's brother. The scars that swirled and puckered his skin had almost certainly come from his brush with a fiery torch in Collins' own hand.
Hot pinpoints of guilt settled into Collins' chest, quickly banished by the memory of swords flying at him. If the man and his companions had not attacked, Collins would not have had to defend himself in such a reckless manner. They had tried to kill him, would have if not for a hay wagon well-placed by Zylas' friends, the renegades returning his broken body to Algary, and the miracle of modern medicine. Collins had only done what a desperate man had to do in self-defense. The king's brother was lucky to be alive at all.
To the king's left sat a slender woman whose silver-fringed blue silk dress hugged spectacular curves. Gauzy veils covered her face, stirring in the breeze of the open door. Small, white-gloved hands, clutching a spoon, disappeared beneath the fabric at intervals, carrying food to an unseen mouth. Others less familiar and unnamed sat amid the privileged, including the queen, stewards, princesses, a butler, and an adviser. Three trestle tables stretched from the doorway nearly to the perpendicular dais, packed with on and off duty guards as well as servants. A wide variety of dogs wound beneath the tables, accepting offered tidbits or foodstuffs that fell on the floor. Banners and tapestries hung from the walls, and minstrels in white-and-aqua plaid looked down on the diners from a balcony blocked by waist-high handrails and cathedral-cut windows.
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