‘If he’d only thought to shout, we’d have been in real trouble!’ said Vansha bitterly, detaching the spearblade from his shirt.
‘You’re not hurt?’ demanded Alya, heaving the body back into the guardroom, leaving a bloody smear on the flagstones.
‘Just a scrape. My breastplate took most of the blow – see, it’s nicked. Stronger than it looks, this stiff leather. But we can’t keep on doing this! A mercy nobody’s heard!’
Footsteps sounded along the passage that crossed this one, some distance away. ‘Maybe they did!’ Alya hesitated, looking along the shadowy ceiling. ‘Would this have been dark enough for Rysha?’
Vansha shrugged. ‘Try it!’
Alya creased up his face with the effort to think of darkness. ‘Nothing’s happening!’
‘Maybe if you spread your arms as she did – imagine yourself like a tree, casting a vast …’
Blackness flooded the corridor with shocking suddenness.
‘Like that!’ agreed Vansha drily. ‘Only maybe so we can see just … ah. Better. But tread carefully!’
The footsteps were drawing nearer, and they pressed back against the wall. Two men who looked like servants came by, talking animatedly about something, the riots probably; they spared the merest glance down the shadowed turning, and did not stop. Their footsteps disappeared down the other arm of the passage, and Vansha grinned with relief.
‘Better than leaving a trail of bodies!’ Alya whispered back, equally relieved.
‘Right. Stir up the whole place! Shall we go now?’
Alya nodded, and they padded swiftly down the passage and along it, the way the servants had come. They moved swiftly now, for the way was clear in his mind, and so was the urgency. Small slotted windows gave the passages a meagre light, but they were never short of deep shadows for concealment when others came by. These were mostly servants, lowly ones by their aspect, wretches Alya was glad he need not harm. Now and again there were tense moments, as when Ekwesh warriors came striding through; and he wondered how long it would be before someone found the guard’s body. He seemed to remember that they kept long watches; but he could not entirely trust the memories he had acquired. The longer he kept them, the more they blended with his own fancy, and became indistinct. Certainly it was taking too long to reach their goal.
‘It’s got to be a roundabout route, to stay in shadow!’ he hissed to Vansha.
‘Has it? It’s still taking too long! The riots’ll be all around here soon, as it is! And you can wager the Ice will let loose some nasty backlash!’
Alya bit his lip. ‘You’re right. We’ll have to come up, try a run for it. If there’s some shadowy corridor …’
‘Even if there isn’t! What good’ll it do, if the place is roused against us? We’ve been twenty minutes where we should have been ten!’
‘Along here, then!’ said Alya. ‘That door there, and up – right up, to the uppermost storey. And be ready for trouble!’
But to their wonder, though the gallery they emerged into had great windows in its walls, they were hung about with heavy draperies, and though they sent bright shafts across the floor, they left all the rest in deeper gloom. When they tiptoed over to one, they found themselves looking out over the square. The assault had been beaten back, evidently, and the square was empty of all save guards once more; but in the town the smoke and affray were drawing nearer. ‘Now we’ve a chance!’ grated Vansha. ‘Along there, right to the end, through the smaller corridor and around – that right?’
‘Yes. A side door, to a side chamber of some kind. Then through the door opposite. If … she’s still there … and likely she will be … The room has windows.’
Vansha nodded, and visibly swallowed. Alya felt the same, no fire in him ready to cope with this. But there was nobody around, no sound at all, and no better time he could imagine. He touched Vansha’s arm, and deepened the shadow a little; and with no word they stepped forward, for their mouths were growing too dry.
Stride upon stride, the gallery seemed endless, the sound of distant footsteps crossing and recrossing a nightmare. She … the other … she would know of the riots, of course; they would have woken her, told her. She would order them suppressed by the warriors, of course; and what then? Go back to sleep? Surely not. She would be out, up somewhere, giving angry orders … It was hard to imagine that in the face he had seen, so young, so strange and fair; as if she were born of living gold, not Ice. But she would surely be distracted; and that was their best chance to find Savi. She might well be still abed, here; and if not, some servant would know where she was.
Round into the corridor, and still nobody passing. No stream of orders, no messengers … it looked better and better. Until they were at the door, at last; with no reason even to hesitate. Vansha shot Alya one glittering glance, and he drew the darkness close about them both; then Vansha seized the strange latch, and flung the door wide.
What lay within was startling, a mass of racks and stuffs, a riot of confusing colours that swung and clung about them like a jungle of cool tendrils as they plunged through, unleashing fair but heavy scents. An opulent dressing room, and in it, dozing on a settle, a tall woman who sprang up at the sudden inrush of darkness, and opened her mouth to scream. But Vansha cuffed her flat on her back and hurled a heap of rich stuffs down on top of her, while Alya reached the inner door, strangely curved, listened one instant and kicked it open.
It opened in the base of a great pillar, on to a shining marble floor that reflected the dome above, clear as the sky. His onrush carried him half skidding across it even as he saw the dais, amid its swathes of spilled drapery. Sitting up suddenly from amongst it, black hair tangled about cream-golden breast and shoulders, her eyes wide in fear and wonder, was Savi herself.
But beside her, even as in his vision, another shape arose, taller than he had imagined and far, far more fair. Something too beautiful to be alive, surely a cunning carving of ivory and gold. Her skin was paler than Savi’s, paler even than the swan-maiden’s, like ice indeed, tinged only with the hint of blood beneath. And her eyes were of that piercing, eerie blue that he had seen in his vision, only still more luminous, jewels cut from the brightest winter sky. They glittered with life, and fierce awareness; and the shadow about him withered like a wintered plant. They fastened on him; first in contemptuous wrath and then in flaring astonishment, taking in his stance, his drawn sword, his evident purpose. And they widened with what, in some other, he might have taken for fear.
Wholly inhuman was the speed with which she rose, graceless, feral, hungry as some predatory cat. In a flail of long limbs she bounded out of the great bed, spinning Savi aside, and landed on her feet before him, still as the statue she once more seemed. She was naked, she was fair beyond his dreams, yet in Alya as he looked on her there was nothing of desire.
He could not move. Terror grasped him, at a level his mind could not touch, profounder and more primal even than the ancestral chill at the predator’s gaze. This was the fear that had filled the shadows beyond the caves, stalking the night beyond the failing fire, rising from the raging ocean depths. That fair face was the merest mask over that terror’s deepest sources. It was every hostile purpose with which men filled cruel nature, every devouring spirit lurking in the shadow of every rock or drowning pool that faced him now, that mocked him in those chilly eyes, that worked bubbling slaver from those delicate lips. That extended a long arm to him, the skin shivering faintly, like a beast’s, the index finger with its tapered claw of a nail stretched out as if to touch him lightly, delicately, the playful scratch of a pet. And though the fires seemed ready to burst out through his skin, they were of no use to him. He could not move.
‘No!’ cried Savi, from the bed’s end where she had fallen. The same horror dwelt in her voice, and yet differently. ‘No! You must not! This is he, Louhi! You must not! For my sake!’
The head jerked back, tossing the ash-gold hair wildly. The face contorted as if in pain, the gasping brea
th rolled over him like the foretaste of evening snow. The hand wavered, came no further, quivering, as if gripped by conflicting fetters.
‘You said you’d learned!’ said Savi quickly, stumbling over her words; and Alya thought dazedly how sweet her voice sounded. ‘You begged me to show you love. You said I had. Will you repay me so?’
The glittering gaze left him an instant, and his body shook with sudden release. Then it swung back.
‘If you really did learn,’ insisted Savi, ‘if you really do know – then you know what I feel, also. For him; and for you. Both real; both you will destroy. Can you hurt me so, Louhi? Knowing that? Can you do that to feelings like your own? And only to hurt yourself, worse than you are hurt now?’
There was a flicker in those blue eyes, like spring waters churning beneath a frozen river.
‘Need love be so selfish? Is mine?’
The arm did not move. And in that instant Vansha pushed past Alya and ran his sword straight through the woman’s panting body.
She did not scream; she convulsed in breathless agony. He jerked the blade free and struck again, with ferocious strength, hurling her back against the bed; and it was Savi who screamed, once more.
‘No! Not that! You don’t understand! No!’
Vansha, snarling like a wolf, snatched free the blade once again. Alya grabbed his arm, but not in time to stop him ramming it down once more through Louhi’s body. Alya hurled him back then, flat on the floor, and the sword pulled free in a fountain of bright blood. In her agony the golden woman rolled on the bed, as Savi staggered to her feet, crying out wordlessly. As if in answer the woman raised her head, though blood spilled through the three great wounds across her body, and screamed. But though there was rage in that cry, and scarifying agony, they only edged its meaning.
Vansha, scrambling up, snatched up his sword and aimed a hacking blow at her neck; but it clanged hard against Alya’s sword, with a spray of sparks, and struck away harmlessly into the bed.
‘Why not?’ yelled Vansha, spraying spittle. ‘Why not?’
‘Because Savi says not to. Get your clothes, Savi!’
She was already half into them, weeping, grabbing her boots, seizing Alya by the arm. ‘Come on! Come on! We’ve got to go!’
‘We’re going!’ snapped Alya, turning towards the great doors at the end, the fastest way now.
‘No! Bar them, quickly! You heard her! She’s summoned them!’
‘Summoned who?’ demanded Vansha, tugging at her other arm.
‘The Morghannen! The Choosers of the Slain!’
‘Hella!’ breathed Alya. ‘Lock them, Vansha! Then back the way we came!’
Vansha spun the wheel that barred the doors, then ran back to them as Savi, hopping on one foot, crammed on her second boot. Alya led her to the door; but she lingered an instant, staring in horror at the form on the blood-drenched bed, only twitching feebly now. Vansha, catching them up, more or less tore her away and hurled her through the door, slamming it behind him. In the chamber beyond she snatched a hooded coat of furs from a rack, then let herself be bundled out into the corridor. Behind them, suddenly, the great doors resounded like huge gongs, as some great weight smashed against them. They slammed the smaller door and ran.
Savi tore her arm free and flailed at Vansha. ‘Why did you do it? Why?’
‘Do you know what she was?’ he snarled back, half choking. ‘Do you know what we’ve been through, you stupid – ungrateful little—’
‘What she is! You don’t understand! You didn’t wait to! That wasn’t all of her! She’s still here! She’s all around us!’
Behind them the doors rang once more. Then there came a fearful rending crash, a sound of stone splintering, and the floor seemed to leap beneath them under the impact of the falling doors.
‘Stop!’ wheezed Alya, as they reached the corner; and drawing breath, he stretched out his arms and concentrated. Shadow, deep shadow, swirled about them like a cloak, so dense they could hardly see out. Barely in time; for from somewhere within there came a high shrilling cry, full of wrath and hatred. The sound shivered through the palace as if it were thin glass, setting their teeth on edge, seething in their very bones, a summons to slaying and to war.
Ironshod feet came booming down the gallery as Alya and the others shrank, dazed and half deafened, into the shadows of the draperies. The sentinels streamed unseeing past that deeper darkness, intent only on obeying the fearful call. Others came running as the escapers sidled through the gallery, but though it took them long, agonised minutes, struggling to stifle their anguished breathing, the three of them reached the door and the stair at last.
Down it they clattered, at a speed that made shadow too dangerous, Savi weeping still and cursing, and out into the passages they had come by. But too fast; for even as they stopped to let Alya fling the shadow-mantle across them once again, there came harsh shouts, and the clatter of ironshod sandals on the flagstones. Alya swore. ‘Back to the stair! We’ll have to find a way out through the cellars!’
‘They’ll be on us before then!’ snapped Vansha, hefting his fouled sword.
‘Not if we meet them!’
The door slammed shut behind them. But the warriors bayed like packhounds sighting their quarry, flung it back and dashed heedlessly out on to the stair.
Darkness seemed to boil around them, blackness impenetrable, laden with the sighing weight of infinite trees. Within it swords flashed, and the first two guards died on the stairhead; those behind stumbled over them, and were cut down in their turn, blocking the stairwell with bodies. The others saw the darkness seethe up at them, like an eager quicksand, and stumbled back, but not all fast enough. The survivors reached the door and slammed it; and the fugitives went cantering away down into the depths. Savi held a short sword now.
At the foot Alya had to stop, clutching his head. He had held this whole place in his mind, but it was growing fainter and more confused now. ‘There’s only one way out I can think of,’ he said slowly. ‘One that wouldn’t be heavily guarded …’
And then it all came home to him, and he forgot all else. Turning, he seized her in his arms. ‘Savi!’
But she was stiff, unresponsive. ‘I don’t understand …’ she breathed. ‘Alya – is it truly … How could you …’
‘Move, girl!’ exploded Vansha. ‘Or shall we die of explanations?’
Alya stumbled heavily in the shadows. The place was almost lightless, a mass of dark low vaulting and uneven earth floors beneath, with doors and windows filled by strange long-corroded bars that were not needed to keep anything from anything, and were as often as not open from some other way. Alya realised some older building had stood here, evidently serving as the palace’s foundation; but why would the Ice have built such a place?
It was only when Vansha tripped over a piece of fallen masonry with graven markings that they understood. Beautifully graven, in a flowing, cursive style; yet still unmistakably akin to the markings on his sword, far closer even than Oshur’s inscription. ‘The elder days,’ breathed Alya. ‘The cities of old! There must have been one here, before the Ice and its minions rolled over it; and for all their pride and hatred, they’ve still built on its foundations! It’s endured, to greet free men once again!’
‘Very poetic!’ said Vansha, his fine features twisting as he rubbed his agonised shin. ‘It’ll do well in the ballads. But if the place would kindly show us the way out again, I’d be deeply obliged!’
‘Savi?’ enquired Alya. ‘Do you know anything …’
‘I’ve never been down here!’ she said, still sharply.
‘Then this is our only way! Ahead here, and down, into some kind of tunnel – if the door will open, after all this time.’
But though rusty, the door was solid iron still, much newer than the walls; and though the hinges creaked and complained, they could still force it open without too much effort. The stench that billowed up the cramped little stair made them wish they had not.
; ‘The cesspools!’ groaned Vansha, through his bunched-up cloak. ‘Or drains, those sewer things Asquan talked about! No wonder they don’t guard it!’
‘No wonder!’ agreed Alya. ‘Can we even breathe the air down there?’
‘We’d better try!’ said Savi, in cold contempt. ‘After what you’ve done—’
‘What I did!’ answered Vansha, dangerously calm. ‘What had to be done!’
‘I didn’t much like it either, Savi,’ said Alya, pulling the door to behind them. ‘But she had to be stopped, or—’
‘She could have destroyed you, yes! But she held her hand! She listened to me!’
‘Because she loved you, I guess?’ sneered Vansha.
‘Yes!’
He shoved her ahead of him, stumbling down the stairs. ‘Well, thank you for that, I suppose! But I wouldn’t have trusted her another second. Chuen was right!’ He laughed, with deliberate malice. ‘How was it he put it? If she can shaft, she can bleed?’
Savi tried to turn and hit out at him, but the stair was too narrow. Alya hissed at the pair of them to be silent; there might be guards below. Certainly things were still afoot above, for noises filtered down to them – distant but clear, the wash and roar of an angry mob, breaking like a high sea against the object of its hatred.
‘We must be out from underneath the palace now!’ he exclaimed. ‘That’s the thralls going strong, by the sound of it!’
Vansha laughed. ‘Give ’em the fist, Chuen!’
Alya could not help chuckling. ‘And Rysha! And Asquan, and Kalkan, and – all of you …’ He felt suddenly, horribly weary, as if his flesh hung from his bones, and his mind and spirit sank; as if all he had longed for had turned to ashes, a triumph that was no triumph.
A hand touched his arm. ‘Those names? Are they friends, who helped you?’
‘Who died to help me, some of them. Maybe all! To help you.’
She caught her breath, and let her hand fall. ‘I’m sorry. So sorry! I should have … I shouldn’t – But if you can only understand …’
Shadow of the Seer Page 48
