by Matthew Cook
A few turnings later and I see Rath's burned manor ahead. Further down the street, where it crosses the main avenue of Dolphin Street, I see the glow of a thousand torches. I can barely make out a dull roar, the sound of countless voices, babbling in panic.
Rath's street is wider than the avenues I traveled down to get here; there are other people in the road with me. Some look away, guilty, when I make eye contact. Looters. Scavengers, already circling, looking for advantage in the chaos.
I stop in front of the gates. The chain that secured them has been cut and cast aside. The burned manor still steams in the damp chill. I wonder if they are still here, watching for Rath's return, or if this new emergency has drawn them away. I pray they have not left.
"I am Kirin, of the north!” I shout. “I have just come from the hiding place of Rath, of the house of Lan! I bring important news for your master the Count Savard!"
The others in the street with me stare as if I have lost my mind. Then the name I have uttered penetrates their fog, and they scatter, disappearing like roaches into dark cracks and shadowed doorways. Cowards. I stand in the middle of the street, fully exposed. My shoulder blades itch, possibly a reaction to unseen eyes, possibly my own imagination.
"You killed three good men, avuna,” I hear a soft voice say behind me. Gods, such stealth. I force myself to remain still, lest I startle him into attacking.
"I know. I'm sorry. They surprised me. But now we have bigger problems. You must listen to me—"
"The man you killed was my cousin. He was only twenty, damn you. He was just a boy."
I turn, slowly, my hands held out from my sides. I keep my eyes down, on the ground. Savard may have instructed them about the power in my gaze, and raising my eyes may be seen as an attack. Doubtless archers are even now sighting down their shafts, calculating their arrows’ drop and the amount of windage required to skewer my heart. I must not give them reason to attack.
All I can see is the hem of his black robes; the same kind of garb worn by my would-be abductors, the same as the man I killed in the street, like a dog. The memory flows across the slumbering coils of my magic, rousing it to wakefulness. The sensation sickens me, and I taste sour bile in the back of my throat.
"I'm sorry for your loss. More sorry than you can know, but you must listen to me. I know what Rath is doing. I know his plans. I must make a report to your master. We must stop him."
"Don't look at me, witch, or you'll be dead before your traitor's body can hit the ground,” the man says.
"I understand. I will do as you say. Just, please, listen to me, I beg you."
"Kneel. Slowly. Then lie on the ground, facedown. Do it now, or I'll give the command to shoot.
I sink to the chill stones, wincing as my knees strike the unyielding surface. The cobbles are slicked with ice and rain, which soaks through my pants. I lower myself to my belly.
As soon as I am down on the ground, the man moves behind me, pressing his knee into my upper back. Hands pull my bow from my unresisting fingers. “I have her!” he calls. “Hands back! Now!"
I comply. I feel him shift, then a rough cord is slipped over my hands, securing them. Booted feet scurry towards us, just before the world goes dark.
The men raise me, hauling me to my feet. The blindfold they have tied around my head is brutally tight. I could command them with a word to release me, but I did not come here to fight.
"Will you take me to Savard, now? I promise I will not resist. He must know what I know."
"What d'ye think, boss?” one of the men whispers. “If nothin’ else we should be gettin’ her off the street."
My captor hesitates. I cannot see him, but the indecision in his grip speaks volumes. His hand shakes, ever so slightly, where it clutches my biceps. He leans forward to murmur in my ear, and I feel the tip of a dagger press into my lower back.
"Give me a reason to kill you, bitch. Please."
"Later,” I reply, turning my blind face towards his. “Right now the Mor are coming and your master has need of my knowledge."
"You'd better be right about that. Otherwise...” The knife presses harder, drawing out an involuntary gasp.
The man grunts, but lowers the blade. The awful pressure in my back disappears. The men haul me, blind and stumbling, down the street.
We walk for a long time, turning often. Soon I lose all sense of direction. Every few minutes the siren atop the Arquis Vae calls out. Every time it does, it sounds closer.
The men avoid the more trafficked thoroughfares, preferring the quieter, rambling ways. Sometimes I hear the sound of multitudes of voices raised in fear, or anger, floating in the winter air like the roaring of some gargantuan beast.
My captors turn away from the disturbances, sticking to the side streets. I cannot see past the blindfold. Soon, its pressure has my head throbbing.
Inside, the blood magic writhes and twists, calling out with its terrible, silent voice for their lives. It claws and pushes, trying to slip out of me, desperate to burrow itself into warm, struggling meat. It wants nothing less than to rend and tear and pull, until their blood rushes out of them in streams of smoking scarlet.
My sister has fallen silent once more. I dare not whisper for her; the men might think I am calling forth some demonic ally. Their leader has made the penalty for such trickery, real or perceived, abundantly clear.
"Are we almost there?” I ask, desperate to distract myself from the struggle I am waging in my own body.
"Soon. Shut your mouth,” the leader barks.
We turn and I hear an iron gate open, then close. We walk up an uneven flagstone path, then climb a short set of stairs. The leader stops at a man's challenge, answering back in the same unknown language. I cannot be sure, but it sounds the same as what I heard the Gray Circle speaking at Rath's.
Then we are inside. A succession of rooms. Footfalls on wooden floors. The intense murmur of many conversations. I am led to a room and told to sit down. I obey.
My captors file out, leaving me alone. I shift my hands inside my bonds, testing them. The flesh there is already bruised, and the effort tears something. I feel the first trickle of blood, running down onto my palms.
Time passes. I rise, pacing out the small room. Six paces by twelve. Nothing in the room but two chairs, across from one another. I strive to remain calm in the face of my growing unease. I don't have the time to sit here, waiting. I walk to where I remember the door was, fumble about with my bound hands until I locate it.
"Hello?” I call out. There may be guards outside. “Please. I need to speak to Count Savard immediately."
If he will not speak with you then you will have to escape, and go after Rath on your own, I hear, softly from inside.
"Sister, thank the gods. There you are."
Here I am, aye, but almost not so. It was a near thing.
"What happened? I can barely hear you, even now"
The Mor. When you opened your mind to them, they tried to come inside. They would have merged their thoughts with yours, and forced you to fling yourself from the top of the wall. I did what I could to block them, but they were so many. They were so strong. They cast me aside, as broken as you would have been if you had fallen. Almost, the effort dispelled me; sent me back to my place beyond the vale. It took me quite a while to remember myself. When I finally did, I tried sending you some sign that I was still here, but I was so weak. You could not hear me.
"I thought I'd lost you,” I whisper, tears stinging in my eyes, more painful than the biting rope against my wrists. “Sister, I've done terrible things. Things I swore I would never do again."
Yes, I know. I was with you when you killed the Gray Circle man outside your house.
She says nothing more, but the tone in her voice speaks volumes. I hang my head.
I know your heart, sister, she finally says. I can taste your pain. I know you only did what you felt you had to. But that does not make it right. Every time you use the magic to harm, you lose anot
her piece of yourself. You make it stronger. The blood magic is like a living thing: the more work it does, for good or ill, the stronger it becomes. You must try and channel its power into making others whole. Make that aspect of its power the dominant one.
I think about the keening siren atop the Arquis Vae; the lit watch fires. Think about the Mor at the gates. They might already be inside. “What if I cannot?"
Her silence is as eloquent as a shrug.
Before I can say more, I hear footfalls outside the door, then the sound of a key in the lock. I close my mouth on my unasked questions.
The door opens, and I hear several men hurry inside. They surround me. After a moment, I hear a last set of footfalls pad into the room. I hear the whisper of supple leather as whoever it is approaches me, then sits in the chair across from mine.
"I don't think we need that, no, no,” Count Savard says. “Remove her blindfold."
"Sir, are you quite sure? They say she can kill a man with a glance. Or steal away their will—"
"If you sense I am in distress, then kill her, by all means,” the count replies. He does not sound afraid. I hear someone step close behind me. I feel a blade slide between the cloth and my skin and force myself to not flinch. The blade stops, pressed painfully against the tender flesh of my cheek.
"We understand one another, yes?” Savard says to me in his high-pitched woman's voice. It is as soft as lamb's wool wrapped around a sword blade.
"Completely. I did not come here to fight. I came to help you stop Rath Lan."
"Cut her bonds."
"But, sir—” the voice says again, and is swiftly stopped. I can imagine the count's glare, and suppress a smile. The blade turns, slicing through the cloth. As it falls away, the pounding in my head spikes, and I hiss at the surge of fresh pain. The blade severs the cord binding my wrists a moment later.
"Now then, can I get you anything? Tea? Wine?” the count says.
I blink over at him, shaking my head partially to answer his question as well as to dispel the discomfort of my aching temples.
The count looks different from our last meeting, his spare, narrow-shouldered frame swathed in the black leather and cloth of the Gray Circle. The garments make him look larger, somehow. More menacing. The mantle of his lowered hood surrounds his limp brown hair. There is a sword at his belt, one of the slender dueling blades the nobility favors, its weight offset by a long knife at his other hip.
"Count Savard, I bring you news of Rath Lan,” I begin.
"Yes, yes. We know you've been meeting with him. Interesting that he managed to convince you to help him so swiftly, given your ... rumored experiences with the Mor. But not unexpected. Not unexpected, no, no."
"You ... you knew?” I stammer. I'm not sure why this surprises me; after all, even Rath himself warned me about this formidable man.
"We suspected Rath would try and contact you, yes of course. After all, we saw his interest in you at Argus Cho's party. And Master Lan's peculiar interests are ... not entirely unknown to us."
Something in his tone prompts me to listen closer, to lean forward and gaze deeply into his dingy brown eyes. Behind me, I hear the creak of leather as the count's bodyguards shift, preparing themselves to strike me down.
"Do you know what Rath is planning? Do you know what he can do?” I whisper.
The count shifts a bit, uncomfortable for the first time. “We ... we have heard many things about him. And his relative. An aunt by marriage, I believe, yes?” He glances over my shoulder, at one of the men, then nods again. “Yes, an aunt. There are those still at court who remember her face and ... other features. As well as the stories that were told about her."
"She came from the south and had eyes like mine, you mean."
"Yes, yes, of course. And such intriguing stories. Tales of speaking to the souls of the departed. And commanding them. Perhaps you know something of this?"
"I do not have time for this, Count,” I say, cutting off his inquiry. Savard frowns as if disapproving of this breach of protocol, and some insight tells me this is what the man lives for. This matching of wits, in order to wrest the truth from an unwilling subject.
I do not care. I do not know where Lia, or Napaula, are. They could be out in the streets even now, amongst the frightened mob. I need to protect them.
I describe the house that I tracked Rath to as best I can remember. “You must send men there. Now. They are to bring Lia Cho and the old woman with her to a safe place. I may need to summon them to my side, and they must be protected. I need your word, Count."
"Tell me why I should help you,” Savard says, his foppish demeanor dropping away like a discarded cloak. What I see beneath it is hard and obdurate, as unyielding as oak roots, and as twisted. I remind myself to never, ever, trust this man. “I have enough from your own lips to arrest you on the charge of necromancy,” he continues. “The Mor are at our gates, and my men are needed for the defense of the city. That much looks to be inevitable. I should toss you in a cell beneath the Armitage right now, and deal with you later, when all of this is over."
I take a deep breath, resisting the urge to rail at him. It will not help to lose my temper, and doing so may provoke the blood magic to a course that will get me killed.
"You must help me because I know what Rath plans to do. He must be stopped."
Savard stares at me for several long moments. His level gaze once again reminds me of a scale, weighing and appraising my words and demeanor. A tiny smile turns up the corners of his narrow lips, and I realize that, despite the peril of our situation, he is enjoying this immensely.
Cold-hearted bastard, my sister whispers in my head. Damn him, and all the rest. This is no game, no idle amusement.
I push aside a bitter laugh. I do not know what is more sad: that my sister has finally managed to somehow see and understand my disdain of the court and their ways, or that it took her death and rebirth in my own flesh to make her see it.
A small eternity later, the count drops his eyes, then looks up, past me, to the men standing at my back.
"You have someone following him?” he asks softly.
"Aye,” the reply comes, from behind.
"Then we must move. Come, Lady Kirin of the North. We can talk more as we walk."
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CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
We stride out, into the chill air. It is thick with sparks and drifting ash and the reek of things burning. I look north, and see that more signal fires have been lit atop the Armitage. Even from this distance, I can hear a sound, the voices of countless men, soldiers and mages, raised in anger. Or terror.
I pause on the steps of Count Savard's safe house and gape at the spectacle. A moment later, the siren atop the Arquis Vae slices the night with a blade of ear-piercing noise.
Two dozen men, Gray Circle all, follow us out into the street: dressed completely in black, deep hoods concealing their faces. They move swiftly, silent as ghosts, fanning out across the thoroughfare. Others sprint off into the night, dispatched on unknown missions.
"Come, Lady Kirin,” Savard calls. “We must hurry. My men have report on Lan's last position, but we will need to hurry if we're to catch up with him."
I turn my back on the orange glow atop the mighty wall and hurry to follow the spymaster and his men. Even unseen, it pulls at me with phantom fingers of duty. And guilt. Men who I fought beside are even now dying, burned and smashed by the Mor's enchanted stones.
In all the time I stood with them atop the Armitage, I never heard the sirens, nor the eerie calls that float down towards us. The fury the Mor must be unleashing is almost beyond imagining, but my mind conjures up terrible images nonetheless. I should be on the wall. Should use every last shred of my magic to defend the city, and Lia.
You know that here, with Savard, is where your wisdom will do the most good. Stop being foolish.
"Where was he last seen?” I ask, fighting the urge to turn back and run for the wall.
> The count looks at one of the cloaked and hooded men surrounding us, and nods. “On the far east side of the city,” the man replies. “He could be trying to put as much distance between the Lion's Mouth and himself as possible. He must have seen the fires and heard the siren."
I try to recall the city maps that Lia showed me, to remember the things she told me about the Imperial City's geography. East? Why east? The city proper is much denser to the west, where it sprawls into uncounted miles of tightly packed houses and other buildings.
If one desired to become lost quickly, the west side would be a far better choice. There are a million places to disappear in such a place. I cannot imagine a man like Rath fleeing unprepared, so it reasons that he must have prepared a bolt hole, perhaps even several of them, in advance. There is nothing to the east but the increasingly large estates of the nobility, all protected by high walls and small armies of private guards.
"Perhaps someone assists him,” I say. “He may have an accomplice in one of the landed families, or amongst the court. He may be planning to go to ground in one of the estates."
Savard shakes his head. “If he had a confidant at court, I'd know it,” he says, firmly. “Rath Lan is considered to be a bit of an eccentric, and is far less liked at court than his brothers. As a youngest son, he has some access to the family's fortune, but almost none of its political power. Besides, he's had little interest in playing that game up until now."
"But he was at Argus Cho's party for Lia. The people there were all angling for more attention and recognition."
"Not Rath. He was there to meet you, I'd bet my reputation on it."
Of course. Didn't he just as much say he'd been gathering stories about me?
Well, forgive me for being blunt, but you share a house with the daughter of the head of the College of Elemental Air, I remember him telling me. And: ... afterwards, I tried to keep track of what happened to everyone. Especially you.