She paused to look more closely, almost touched, then yanked down her hand—her father’s scolding voice was never far from memory. She found Senrid looking at her with that peculiar question, his mouth awry, and she said, “These carving things on the walls are pretty.”
“The ancestor who put those up was actually from Colend,” he said, but dropped the subject when she wrinkled her nose. Mad King Carlael of Colend was not a great memory for her, however brief their contact.
“This way.”
They ran downstairs and out to the parade court, then climbed into the stone stands where Marlovens had been sitting for centuries. She could see the dips in the stone worn by shoes down the many years, the benches smoothed by weather.
Senrid gave Liere a quick description of the academy, which turned out to be a school where the Marlovens trained their future army officers. Senrid had mentioned so little about this part of his life during their travels together, though they had talked about everything else, that she had this odd sense that he was revealing something private.
No, that’s silly, she thought as he laughed, and gestured, and interspersed the running stream of talk with waves or calls. It wasn’t as if you could hide an entire kingdom in a trunk.
She was distracted by a tall older boy with curly dark hair whom Senrid kept glancing at, and when Senrid’s head was turned, stared at Senrid. “Who is that?”
In the mental realm, Senrid’s reaction was like a flash of lightning, instant, painfully intense, then gone. “Jarend Ndarga,” he said, and then, his reluctance obvious, “I had some trouble with him recently. Just local stuff.”
Liere nodded, suspecting that asking further would be nosy, especially as she wouldn’t know what ‘local stuff’ meant.
A lot of little boys her younger sister’s age ran out to do something or other with loose horses. After them came the excellent, sometimes frightening dash and skill of the gymkhana riders. Oh, how she would love to ride that well! Not doing those tricks, like shooting arrows at a post while galloping—she couldn’t see ever needing such a skill—but how easy they looked on the backs of horses, like horse and rider had been born together.
After a last amazing set of stunts involving boys leaping from the back of one horse to another, Senrid kept his promise and brought Liere to a teenage girl with black curly hair and dark eyes. “Here’s Fenis Senelac. She can give you your first lesson in riding,” he said, and to Fenis, in the Marloven language, “Send someone with her when it’s over, will you?”
He flicked up a hand. “We’ll eat when you’re done,” he said to Liere in Sartoran, and vanished into the crowd.
Fenis Senelac’s straight brow lifted, and she said, “What do you know about riding?”
A mage had performed for Liere the Universal Language spell. It was not perfect, she’d been told; mages were always adding to it, but some languages were more up to date than others, especially with idioms. But Liere had discovered that if she listened on the mental realm as well as with her ears, she could understand idiom as well as intent. What she had trouble with was pronunciation.
“A little,” Liere said carefully, trying to emulate Senrid’s accent. “I rode a pony once, for many days, but there were two of us, and we never galloped. Then I rode . . .” She clipped her lips.
“Rode?” Fenis asked, amazed that the king would bring this grubby scrub here, who spoke with such an odd accent. It was a first, for though she had the light coloring one saw a lot of in Marloven Hess, she was obviously no Marloven. Fenis’s interest increased sharply when the girl’s cheeks mottled red, and she mumbled to the dusty ground, “. . . something like a horse.”
Fenis stared. Though the king was closer than a stone about whatever had happened during the Siamis time, gossip from the little neighboring kingdom of Vasande Leror, where several Marlovens had relatives, had brought word of their own king’s heroism. You had to call it that, though everyone knew how much Senrid-Harvaldar hated such words.
The thing was, he hadn’t been alone when chased by Siamis and half of Norsunder. He’d been with some little girl who turned out to have amazing powers of some kind, enough to vanquish a Norsundrian sorcerer, even if a young one.
Fenis looked at that untidy head, the old clothes, and wondered if she was seeing the same ‘little girl.’ Part of the rumor put this girl on the back of a horse made out of light.
“Well, we have ordinary horses here,” she said. “So let’s put you up on a nice, well-mannered mare, and see what you know.”
She held out a hand, indicating the barn, and led the way. At first Liere wondered if Fenis was related to the mysterious Jarend Ndarga, but no, her features were completely different, her skin browner. All they really shared was the curly black hair, she decided when she saw Jarend Ndarga walk by.
The tall boy looked so threatening. Was there trouble for Senrid? Liere skimmed his thoughts, catching an angry, confused jumble of a lot of images and words she didn’t know, then the horrible jolt of memory: a bloody fist smashing into Senrid’s face.
Her stomach lurched. That’s what she got for listening. That memory would never go away.
She drew in a slow breath, and discovered Fenis gazing at her, brows raised. Liere’s face burned. “They were so good,” she said, feeling stupid and awkward. “Leaping from horse to horse like that.”
“The girls do that when they’re ten,” Fenis said with a snort. “But in the bad days, before Senrid-Harvaldar, they never got any credit.”
“Is Senrid going to change that?” Liere asked, not knowing how much was revealed in her easy use of Senrid’s name with no formal ‘harvaldar’ attached.
“He says he will, but slowly. Marlovens don’t like change. Unless they make it themselves. Jarend Ndarga, who seems to have caught your eye, hates it more than most.” Fenis stopped at a stall, and paused, one hand on a halter. “You’ll get an earful if you stay around here, how much the men and boys all hate change. How much they all want the good old days back. Only, of course, better.” She snorted a laugh. “So. If you’re going to learn to ride, you need to learn how we get the horse ready. Here, don’t be nervous. You’ll make the horse nervous.”
Liere had been staring up at the animal in fascinated terror. This was not a fat, placid old pony like her first mount, nor was it like the strange beings in horse form whom she had met up north. Once she’d been this close to a Norsundrian horse, its mind warped with terror and anger. All she’d had to do was touch that mind and urge the animal to run.
But she couldn’t do that now. So she put out a tentative hand, laying it on the horse’s bony flat head above its nose, and as Fenis said, “Good, good, they like scritchies, calm and steady . . .” Liere sorted through the strange mental landscape, her instinct to hide from danger prompting her to send the thought: Don’t see me, I am invisible.
The horse promptly began panicking. Fenis broke off her praise with a startled, “Hai, what’s wrong?” She gripped the halter of the wild-eyed, plunging horse.
Senrid’s thought came from somewhere near, straight into Liere’s head: Don’t do that!
Liere jumped.
In answer to her unspoken question, Senrid’s thought blared, too strong and uncontrolled: It smells you, and hears you, but doesn’t see you—you are a threat!
Liere jerked down her hand and scrambled behind Fenis as she calmed the horse, then sent a wary glance at Liere. “Shall we try that again?”
Liere blinked back tears of shame. “Just tell me what to do,” she said.
* * *
Narad, capital of Chwahirsland
Roughly the same time—very roughly
Jilo was so exhausted that he wondered if Wan-Edhe’s poisonous enchantment had seeped into his brain and bones again, until it occurred to him that he ought to lie down and sleep. There was no way of knowing how long had passed in this airless, windowl
ess space unless he remembered to go into the hall to see if sunlight came through or not. And he seldom remembered to do that. Time measures, whether candles, sandglasses, or mechanical clocks, never functioned well in Narad’s fortress’s inner chambers, probably because of the layers of magic.
As he walked to the old room (cell, really, except that it was above ground) where he’d stayed when he and Kwenz were forced to visit, he wondered if he would wake up to discover Siamis there. Or Detlev. Or some other even more terrifying Norsundrian, except if anyone would return from Norsunder to take control of Chwahirsland, wouldn’t it be Wan-Edhe?
Or Prince Kessler.
Maybe Jilo should lay warning tracers over the already-thick layer, just to be safe.
When he’d finished that, he fell directly into slumber. He didn’t stay asleep, waking often, usually in a sweat, though the room was chill. When he rose at last, the narrow arrow slit he had for a window showed gray light. He frowned, trying to think past the panging in his temples. Was it daylight when he’d gone to sleep?
What about breakfast? He’d had to beg meals from Wan-Edhe, and half the time he was denied on the pretense of some wrongdoing or failure or disappointment. Jilo felt under the mattress. He’d sometimes brought rolls from the Shadowland and stashed them in case; two were there, but they had hardened to rocks.
It didn’t matter. He wasn’t even hungry.
As always, he had to find out what he could, to protect himself. Being taken by surprise was never, ever, a good thing in Chwahirsland. Wan-Edhe still had not returned. No one was giving him orders.
No one was stopping him from learning. Or removing wards and traps.
He really ought to get something to eat, though the thought of cold food was unappetizing, and anyway there was so much to do before anyone showed up with orders or threats . . .
Chapter Twelve
Dyavath Yan (New Year’s Week), 4738 AF
. . . JILO finished checking for wards and traps in Wan-Edhe’s library and magic chamber. He knew that next it was time to be systematic about finding out what was on those shelves in the magic chamber. The first book he touched sparked. Blue flame singed his fingers as the book vanished . . . somewhere. He stuck his throbbing fingers into his armpit, and studied the shelf in dismay. If only the air weren’t so thick! It was as if he never could get a deep enough breath.
All right, clearly he hadn’t removed all the worst wards. Maybe he’d only found the obvious ones. That was dismaying, after all his effort.
He still wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but no one disturbed him. Everyone in the castle seemed to be sticking to the schedule as if they expected Wan-Edhe to reappear at any moment. Maybe it was time to see to something else, like removing the spell that rendered the former Shadowland army’s eyes a solid black, making sunlight acutely painful. Though he didn’t feel any better than he had before he slept, a promise was a promise.
He forced himself to breathe deeply as he picked up Wan-Edhe’s book of spells. Balancing that on one hand, he fixed in mind an image of the fleet captain who had brought the Chwahir to the Shadowland. It was dangerous to use a person as a Destination, but it was either that or nothing.
He transferred, and fell with a splat, the reaction nausea worsened by the movement of a ship.
A sentry bent over him and pulled him to his feet, his tight grip loosening when Sentry-Captain Mossler recognized Jilo. “You were sent by Wan-Edhe?” the man asked Jilo fearfully.
“No. The Shadowland Chwahir no longer need the shadow vision.” And Jilo began the spell.
It was almost worse than the transfer. From the beginning of the spell, he felt that internal burning of strong magic. Two days ago he would not have been able to hold it. Now he could—barely. But it worked.
“Augh!” Mossler clapped his hands over his eyes.
“You’ll soon get accustomed,” Jilo whispered.
“But Wan-Edhe,” the sentry-captain said, still in that fearful voice. “Is Wan-Edhe still gone? Commander Henjit went with him, and there have been no orders. We’re doubled up here with the homelanders.” He gestured down the deck, where Shadowland Chwahir rubbed their eyes, or stood with their hands covering their faces. From the looks of things, they had been sleeping on deck.
“I have orders from the throne,” Jilo said, having planned that much, and watched the easing in Mossler’s sunburned face. “You are to bring them back to the homeland.”
Jilo had just enough strength to transfer back to the Destination in Wan-Edhe’s chambers, where he fell to his hands and knees, the book thumping onto the grimy floor. He waited until the black spots had swum away from his vision, then sat back, his breath coming in shuddering gasps.
He had to do something about the Shadowland warriors before he forgot. What was it?
He went to the door, and beckoned the waiting runner. “Tell the Quartermaster Commander that the Shadowland Chwahir are to be dispersed, by twi, to reinforce any strongholds shorthanded. They will arrive . . .” When? Already he had lost grip on time. “Soon.”
The runner bowed and withdrew.
All right, back to the traps. Jilo turned too quickly. Dizzy, he stumbled down the hall, and fell headlong through the magic chamber door. He knee-crawled to the first bookcase. Before, he’d tested shelf by shelf, but now he was going to have to proceed book by book. He extended a forefinger, not quite touching the first book, waiting to see if he sensed the faint magical burr that probably meant a trap.
And traps he found, as if they’d grown overnight. The process was long and laborious, too dangerous to be boring—lethally tedious. He nearly fumbled into a couple of especially nasty traps, after which he forced himself to take a break.
Both times he slept right there on the floor.
When he remembered meals, he ate methodically, permitting his mind to range over his life so far. With that damping spell gone, he was able to remember more. Even think about it. What he came back to most was the fact that Clair of Mearsies Heili, long regarded as his chief enemy, had helped him.
Time wore on.
He was peripherally aware of the guard going about its daily routine, and surprised when no one came to ask orders. But of course they wouldn’t. Wan-Edhe had trained his guards to never interrupt him. Not that they wanted to. If he didn’t like what they said, it could be their last words.
“They probably go about their day and hope they never see me,” he said to the dead air.
He’d taken to talking out loud. The sound of his voice seemed to break the heavy stillness, as oppressive as the stone. If for only a moment.
But as time labored on, he found it more difficult to think, to rest, to get anything done. It was as if that terrible spell had seeped out of the stonework, taking over his mind again, an invisible and smothering fungus. It wasn’t until he sat down to pick up the quill that he caught sight of his own hands.
They looked like someone else’s hands. The nails were longish, the beds ridged in a curious way, grayish in color. He dropped his hands to the table, steadying himself by feeling the grain of the wood, and looked at the shelves he’d managed to complete: one and a half bookshelves. Then he looked at the enormous volume of books awaiting him in the rest of the room, and admitted defeat.
He gathered his strength, shut his eyes, and transferred to the old Destination square outside of what had been the Shadowland. Transfer reaction knocked him tumbling. He blinked stupidly. The square was covered with snow and ice. Snow and ice?
He peered upward at a low, gray sky. The air was so cold that it hurt to breathe. Wasn’t it . . . warm when he left? When did he leave, anyway? Two days ago? Three? Trying to remember made the headache worse.
So he stood up, brushing snow off with numbing fingers. The area seemed wild, as if the Shadowland had never existed. He couldn’t comprehend that, so he braced himself, and transferred
to the mountaintop.
Clair’s magic did not ward him. If anything, this transfer was far easier. It was only a relatively short distance, but still, it barely hurt, compared to the agonizing transfer from Chwahirsland.
He looked around. The city was different, now that it didn’t stretch over a cloud. It lay across the top of the mountain, cut into a gentle slope and connected by switchback streets, the buildings either whitewashed or painted with colorful shutters, now mostly closed, and roofed with patterned tile. The Destination square was still in the terrace before the palace, whose blinding, glaring white no longer tortured his eyes. He stared at towers that looked like they were made of ice.
He tipped his head back, running his gaze up the asymmetrical series of towers. He hated the idea of trying to enter. Wan-Edhe had (briefly) managed to get inside a couple times, but that after endless magic, and not for long, and never past the ground floor.
He dreaded walking into some kind of waxer trap, but if he did, well, life would probably be no odder than it was already. So. He trudged the short distance to the palace, his breathing labored. He halted near the archway, his attention caught by the intertwined carvings, age-softened, of four-petal blossoms of a sort he did not recognize. The walls appeared to be luminous, though he didn’t trust his vision when it came to this building.
A step.
Another step.
He was inside! He was actually inside, and no magic, or guards, or anything had stopped him!
He made it about ten steps before he encountered one of the Mearsiean servants, an older man.
“May I—oh, aren’t you . . .”
“Jilo.” His voice was hoarse. He stood poised to run, to fight, though he really hadn’t the strength for that.
“Come this way.”
Jilo followed, too weary to question, though a mild surprise bloomed in him when they walked not into the throne room but down a side hall. The enticing smells of warm food of some kind (he didn’t even know what it was, just that it smelled so good the sides of his mouth watered) met him before he walked into a warm, bright kitchen.
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