Silverthorn

by Raymond Feist

  Jimmy pulled a parchment out of his boot. Improvising, he placed it on the table, to the far right of the man, making him reach awkwardly across himself to reach for it while he kept his right hand hidden. As the man’s hand touched the parchment, Jimmy pulled his dirk out and struck, pinning the man’s hand to the table. The man froze at the sudden attack, then his other hand came from within his cloak, holding a dagger. He slashed at Jimmy as the boy thief fell backward. Then pain struck the man and he howled in agony. Jimmy, tumbling over his chair, shouted, “Nighthawks!” as he struck the floor.

  The room exploded with activity. Lucas’s sons, both veterans of the Armies of the West, came leaping over the bar, landing on the swordsmen at the table next to Jimmy as they attempted to rise. Jimmy found himself hanging backward atop the overturned chair and awkwardly tried to pull himself upright. From his position he could see the barmen grappling with the grey-lock man. The other false mercenary had his left hand before his face, his ring to his lips. Jimmy shouted, “Poison rings! They have poison rings!”

  Other guards had the hooded man in their grip as he frantically tried to remove his ring from his pinned hand. After another moment he was held tightly by the three men around him, unable to move.

  The grey-lock man kicked out at the barmen, rolled away, leaped up, and dashed toward the door, knocking aside two men surprised by the sudden move. For a moment a clear path to the door appeared as curses filled the room from soldiers attempting to navigate the jumble of tables and chairs. The Nighthawk was nearing the door and freedom when a slender fighter interposed himself. The assassin leaped toward the door. With near-inhuman speed Arutha stepped forward and struck the grey-locked man a blow to the head with his rapier’s hilt. The stunned man teetered for a moment, then collapsed to the floor, unconscious.

  Arutha stood erect and looked about the room. The blond assassin lay with eyes staring blankly upward, obviously dead. The hooded man’s cloak was thrown back and he was white with pain as the dagger pinning his hand to the table was pulled loose. Three soldiers held him down, though he looked too weak to stand upon his own feet. When a soldier roughly stripped the black ring from the wounded hand, the Nighthawk screamed and fainted.

  Jimmy stepped gingerly around the dead man and came up to Arutha. He looked down to where Gardan was removing the other black ring from the man on the floor and then the boy grinned at Arutha. Holding up his hand, he counted two on his fingers.

  The Prince, still flushed from the struggle, smiled and nodded. None of his men appeared wounded and he had two assassins in tow. He said to Gardan, “Guard them closely and let no one who is not known to us see them when you take them into the palace. I’ll have no rumors flying around. Lucas and others may be in danger enough when these three turn up missing, should others from the Guild of Death be about. Leave enough of this company to keep up the appearance of normal business until closing, and pay Lucas double the damages, with our thanks.” Even as he spoke, Gardan’s company was restoring the inn to order, removing the broken table and moving the others about so it would not be noticed missing. “Take these two to the rooms I have chosen and be quick about it. We shall begin questioning tonight.”

  —

  Guards blocked a door leading to a remote wing of the palace. The rooms were used only occasionally by guests of minor importance. The wing was a recent construction, being accessible from the main buildings of the palace by a single short hall and a single outside doorway. The outside door was bolted from within and was posted with two guards without, who had orders that absolutely no one, no matter who, was to enter or leave by that door.

  Inside the wing all the outer rooms had been secured. In the center of the largest room of the suite Arutha studied his two prisoners. Both were tied to stout wooden beds by heavy ropes. Arutha was taking no chances on their attempting suicide. Father Nathan supervised his acolytes, who tended the two assassins’ wounds.

  Abruptly one of the acolytes moved away from the bedside of the man with the grey lock. He looked at Nathan, his face betraying confusion. “Father, come see.”

  Jimmy and Laurie followed behind the priest and Arutha. Nathan stepped up behind the acolyte and all heard his sharp intake of breath. “Sung show us the way!” The grey-locked man’s leather armor had been cut away, revealing a black tunic beneath embroidered with a silver fisher’s net. Nathan pulled away the other prisoner’s robe. Beneath that robe was another, of night’s black color, also with a silver net over his heart. The prisoner’s hand had been bandaged and he had regained consciousness. He glared defiantly at the priest of Sung, naked hatred in his eyes.

  Nathan motioned the Prince aside. “These men wear the mark of Lims-Kragma in her guise as the Drawer of Nets, she who gathers all to her in the end.”

  Arutha nodded. “It fits in. We know the Nighthawks are contacted through the temple. Even should the hierarchy of the temple be ignorant of this business, someone within the temple must be a confederate of the Nighthawks. Come, Nathan, we must question this other one.” They returned to the bed where the conscious man lay. Looking down upon him, Arutha said, “Who offers the price for my death?”

  Nathan was called to attend the unconscious man. “Who are you?” demanded the Prince of the other. “Answer now, or the pain you’ve endured will be merely a hint of what will be visited upon you.” Arutha did not enjoy the prospect of torture, but he would not stop at any means to discover who was responsible for the attack upon him. The question and the threat were answered by silence.

  After a moment Nathan returned to Arutha’s side. “The other is dead,” he said softly. “We must treat this one cautiously. That man should not have died from your blow to the head. They may have means to command the body not to fight against death, but to welcome it. It is said even a hardy man may will himself to death, given enough time.”

  Arutha noticed sweat beading upon the brow of the wounded man as Nathan examined him. With concern on his face, the priest said, “He is fevered, and it rises apace. I will have to tend him before there can be an accounting.” The priest quickly fetched his potion and forced some fluid down the man’s throat as soldiers held his jaws apart. Then the priest began to intone his clerical magic. The man on the bed began to writhe frantically, his face a contorted mask of concentration. Tendons stood out on his arms, and his neck was a mass of ropy cords as he struggled against his confinement. Suddenly he let forth a hollow-sounding laugh and fell back, eyes closed.

  Nathan examined the man. “He is unconscious, Highness.” The priest added, “I have slowed the fever’s rise, but I don’t think I can halt it. Some magic agency works here. He fails before our eyes. It will take time to counter whatever magic is at work upon him…if I have the time.” There was doubt in Nathan’s voice. “And if my arts are equal to the task.”

  Arutha turned to Gardan. “Captain, take ten of your most trusted men and make straight for the Temple of Lims-Kragma. Inform the High Priestess I command her attendance at once. Bring her by force if needs be, but bring her.”

  Gardan saluted, but there was a flicker in his eyes. Laurie and Jimmy knew he disliked the thought of bearding the priestess in her own hall. Still, the staunch captain turned and obeyed his Prince without comment.

  Arutha returned to the stricken man, who lay in fevered torment. Nathan said, “Highness, the fever rises, slowly, but it rises.”

  “How long will he live?”

  “If we can do nothing, through the balance of the night, no longer.”

  Arutha struck his left hand with his balled right fist in frustration. There was less than six hours before dawn. Less than six hours to discover the cause for the attack upon him. And should this man die, they would be back where they started, and worse, for his unknown enemy would not likely fall into another snare.

  “Is there anything else you can do?” asked Laurie softly.

  Nathan considered. “Perhaps….” He moved away from the ill man and motioned his acolytes away from th
e bedside. With a gesture he indicated that one of them should bring him a large volume of priestly spells.

  Nathan instructed the acolytes and they quickly did his bidding, knowing the ritual and their parts in it. A pentagram was chalked upon the floor, and many runic symbols laid within its boundary, with the bed at the center. When they were finished, everyone who stood within the room was encompassed by the chalk marks upon the floor. A lighted candle was placed at every point of the design, and a sixth given to Nathan, who stood studying the book. Nathan began waving the light in an intricate pattern while he read aloud in a language unknown to the nonclerics in the room. His acolytes stood quietly to one side, responding in unison at several points during the incantation. The others felt a strange stilling of the air, and as the final syllables were uttered, the dying man groaned, a low and piteous sound.

  Nathan snapped shut the book. “Nothing less powerful than an agent of the gods themselves may pass through the boundaries of the pentagram without my leave. No spirit, demon, or being sent by any dark agency can trouble us now.”

  Nathan then directed everyone to stand outside the pentagram, opened the book again, and began reading another chant. Quickly the words tumbled from the stocky priest. He finished the spell and pointed at the man upon the bed. Arutha looked at the ill man but could see nothing amiss, then, as he turned to speak to Laurie, noticed a change. Seeing the man from the corner of his eye, Arutha could discern a nimbus of faint light around him, filling the pentagram, not visible when viewed directly. It was a light, milky quartz in color. Arutha asked, “What is this?”

  Nathan faced Arutha. “I have slowed his passage through time, Highness. To him an hour is now a moment. The spell will last only until dawn, but to him less than a quarter hour will have passed. Thus we gain time. With luck, he will now linger until midday.”

  “Can we speak to him?”

  “No, for we would sound like buzzing bees to him. But if we need, I can remove the spell.”

  Arutha regarded the slowly writhing, fevered man. His hand seemed poised a scant inch above the bed, hanging in space. “Then,” said the Prince impatiently, “we must wait upon the pleasure of the High Priestess of Lims-Kragma.”

  The wait was not long, nor was there much pleasure evident in the manner of the High Priestess. There was a commotion outside, and Arutha hurried to the door. Beyond it he found Gardan waiting with a woman in black robes. Her face was hidden behind a thick, gauzy black veil, but her head turned toward the Prince.

  A finger shot out toward Arutha, and a deep, pleasant-sounding feminine voice said, “Why have I been commanded here, Prince of the Kingdom?”

  Arutha ignored the question as he took in the scene. Behind Gardan stood a quartet of guards, spears held across their chests, barring the way to a group of determined-looking temple guards wearing the black and silver tabards of Lims-Kragma. “What passes, Captain?”

  Gardan said, “The lady wishes to bring her guards within, and I have forbidden it.”

  In tones of icy fury the priestess said, “I have come as you bid, though never have the clergy acknowledged temporal authority. But I will not come as a prisoner, not even for you, Prince of Krondor.”

  Arutha said, “Two guards may enter, but they will stand away from the prisoner. Madam, you will cooperate and enter, now.” Arutha’s tone left little doubt of his mood. The High Priestess might be commander of a powerful sect, but before her stood the ruler of the Kingdom absolute, save the King, a man who would brook no interference in some matter of paramount importance. She nodded to the two foremost guards, and they entered. The door was closed behind them, and the two guards were taken off to one side by Gardan. Outside, the palace guards kept watchful eyes upon the remaining temple guards and the wicked curved swords carried at their belts.

  Father Nathan greeted the High Priestess with a stiffly formal bow, their two orders having little affection for each other. The High Priestess chose to ignore the priest’s presence.

  Her first remark upon seeing the pentagram upon the floor was “Do you fear otherworld interference?” Her tone was suddenly analytical and even.

  It was Nathan who answered. “Lady, we are not sure of many things, but we do seek to prevent complications from whatever source, physical or spiritual.”

  She did not acknowledge his words but stepped as close to the two men, one dead and the other wounded, as she could. Seeing the black tunics, she faltered a step, then turned to face Arutha. Through the veil he could almost feel her malevolent gaze upon him. “These men are of my order. How do they come to lie here?”

  Arutha’s face was a mask of controlled anger. “Madam, it is to answer that question that you have been fetched. Do you know these two?”

  She studied their faces. “I do not know this one,” she said, pointing to the dead man with the grey lock in his hair. “But the other is a priest of my temple, named Morgan, newly come to us from our temple in Yabon.” She paused for a moment as she considered something. “He wears the mark of a brother of the Order of the Silver Net.” Her head came around, facing Arutha once more. “They are the martial arm of our faith, supervised by their Grand Master in Rillanon. And he answers to none save our Mother Matriarch for his order’s practices.” She paused again. “And then only sometimes.” Before anyone could comment, she continued. “What I do not understand is how one of my temple priests came to wear their mark. Is he a member of the order, passing himself off as a priest? Is he a priest playing the part of a warrior? Or is he neither priest nor brother of the order, but an imposter on both counts? Any of those three possibilities is forbidden, at risk of Lims-Kragma’s wrath. Why is he here?”

  Arutha said, “Madam, if what you say is true”—she seemed to tense at the implication of a possible falsehood—“then what is occurring concerns your temple as much as it concerns me. Jimmy, speak what you know of the Nighthawks.”

  Jimmy, obviously uncomfortable under the scrutiny of the Death Goddess’s High Priestess, spoke quickly and forewent his usual embellishments. When he finished, the High Priestess said, “Highness, what you say is a deed foul in the nostrils of our goddess.” Her voice was cold rage. “In times past, certain of the faithful sought sacrifices, but those practices are long abandoned. Death is a patient goddess; all will come to know her in time. We need no black murders. I would speak to this man.” She indicated the prisoner.

  Arutha hesitated and noticed Father Nathan shaking his head slightly. “He is close to death, less than hours without any additional stress upon him. Should the questioning prove rigorous, he might die before we can plumb the depths of these dark waters.”

  The High Priestess said, “What cause for concern, priest? Even dead, he is still my subject. I am Lims-Kragma’s ephemeral hand. In her manor I will find truths no living man can obtain.”

  Father Nathan bowed. “In the realm of death, so you are supreme.” To Arutha he said, “May my brothers and I withdraw, Highness? My order finds these practices offensive.”

  The Prince nodded, and the High Priestess said, “Before you go, remove the prayer of slowness you have called down upon him. It will cause less difficulty than should I do it.”

  Nathan quickly complied and the man on the bed began to groan feverishly. The priest and acolytes of Sung hurriedly left the room, and when they were gone, the High Priestess said, “This pentagram will aid in keeping outside forces from interfering with this act. I would ask all to remain outside, for within its bounds each person creates ripples in the fabric of magic. This is a most holy rite, for whatever the outcome, our lady will most surely claim this man.”

  Arutha and the others waited outside the pentagram and the priestess said, “Speak only when I have given permission, and ensure the candles do not burn out, or forces may be loosed that would prove…troublesome to recall.” The High Priestess drew back her black veil, and Arutha was almost shocked at her appearance. She looked barely more than a girl, and a lovely one at that, with blue eyes and skin
the color of dawn’s blush. Her eyebrows promised her hair would be the palest gold. She raised her hands overhead and began to pray. Her voice was soft, musical, but the words were strange and fearful to hear.

  The man on the bed squirmed as she continued her incantation. Suddenly his eyes opened and he stared upward. He seemed to convulse, straining at the bonds that restrained him. He relaxed, then turned to face the High Priestess. A distant look crossed his face, as his eyes seemed to focus and unfocus in turn. After a moment a strange, sinister smile formed on his lips, an expression of mocking cruelty. His mouth opened and the voice that issued forth was deep and hollow. “What service, mistress?”

  The High Priestess’s brow furrowed slightly as if there was something askew in his manner, but she maintained her poise and said in commanding tones, “You wear the mantle of the Order of the Silver Net, yet you practice in the temple. Explain this falsehood.”

  The man laughed, a high shrieking cackle that trailed off. “I am he who serves.”

  She stopped, for the answer was not to her liking. “Answer then, who do you serve?”

  There came another laugh and the man’s body tensed once more, pulling against the restraining ropes. Beads of sweat popped out upon his brow, and the muscles of his arms corded as he drew himself against the ropes. Then he relaxed and laughed again. “I am he who is caught.”

  “Who do you serve?”

  “I am he who is a fish. I am in a net.” Again came the mad laughter and the near-convulsive straining at the ropes. As the man strained, sweat poured off his face in rivulets. Shrieking, he pulled again and again at the restraints. As it seemed he would break his own bones with exertion, the man screamed, “Murmandamus! Aid your servant!”

  Abruptly one of the candles blew out as a wind from some unknown place swept across the room. The man reacted with a single convulsive spasm, bowing his body in a high arch, with only his feet and head touching the bed, pulling against the ropes with such force that his skin tore and bled. Suddenly he collapsed upon the bed. The High Priestess fell back a step, then crossed to look down on the man. Softly she said, “He is dead. Relight the candle.”