Hidden Warrior

by Lynn Flewelling

  Time passed, measured in the rise and fall of Lutha’s thin chest. Did his breathing sound better, or worse? It was hard to tell. It didn’t sound quite so wet as it had, and he wasn’t bleeding at the mouth. That must be a good thing, surely? But it was loud and harsh, and every now and then it would seem to catch in his throat, then give way. After a while Tobin noticed that he was matching breaths with Lutha’s, as if it would help him along. When Lutha’s breath caught, his own stopped as he waited for the next rattling inhalation. It was exhausting to listen to.

  By the time Nikides and Ruan came in Tobin was glad to give over the vigil. There was someone else he had to talk to.

  He didn’t need a candle to find his way back to the deserted well yard. Satisfied that he was alone, he whispered the summoning words. Brother emerged from the shadows and stood in front of him, brooding and silent.

  “You saved my life today. Thank you.”

  Brother just stared.

  “How—how could you find me, without the doll?”

  Brother touched Tobin on the chest. “The binding is strong.”

  “Like that day Orun was hurting me. I didn’t call you then, either.”

  “He was going to kill you.”

  Even after all this time, the words sent a chill through him; neither of them had spoken of it. “He wouldn’t have. He’d have been tortured to death.”

  “I saw his thoughts. They were murder. That man today was the same.”

  “But why do you care? You’ve never had any love for me. You used to hurt me every chance you got. If I died, you’d be free.”

  Brother actually grimaced at this, a stiff, unnatural play of features on that face. “If you die with the binding still in you, then we will never be free, either of us.”

  Tobin hugged himself as waves of cold rolled off Brother. “What will happen when I take the binding out?”

  “I don’t know. The witch promises I will be free.”

  Tobin couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten a plain answer from his twin. “Then—whenever I’m in battle, you’ll be there?”

  “Until I’m free.”

  Tobin pondered this, torn between wonder and dismay. How could he ever really prove himself if he always had supernatural help?

  Brother read his thoughts and let out a sound Tobin guessed was meant to be a laugh; it sounded more like rats running through dead leaves. “I am your first squire.”

  “First?” Tobin began, then, by some trick of memory, or Brother’s, he was back in his mother’s tower, her dying scream loud in his ears. “Did you push her out?”

  “I pulled you in.”

  “But why not save her, too?” It came out too loud and he clapped a hand over his mouth. “Why didn’t you?” he whispered.

  “Her mind was filled with your death, too.”

  The scuff of feet on stone froze Tobin where he stood. Ki stepped out into the moonlight and his eyes widened.

  “I see into his mind, too,” whispered Brother, and this time he leered as he faded away.

  “What’s he doing here?” asked Ki.

  Tobin explained as much as he could, and was surprised to see Ki look uneasy when he told him what Brother had said about him. “Tobin, I’d never hurt you!”

  “I know that. I don’t think that’s what he meant. Besides, if I was in any danger, he’d have killed you by now, I guess. Don’t mind him. When it comes to you, he usually lies, just to make me feel bad.”

  “If I ever turn on you, I hope he does kill me!” Ki exclaimed, more shaken than Tobin had guessed. “I wouldn’t, Tob. I swear it by the Flame!”

  “I know that,” Tobin said, taking his friend by the hand. “Let’s go in. I’m cold to the bone. Forget about him.”

  But as they settled down by the kitchen hearth again, he fingered the lump under his skin, wondering if he’d be glad to be free of Brother at last, or not.

  Chapter 36

  Tobin never learned what the king had said to Korin after their return from Rilmar. In private, Ki wondered what Melnoth and the others had actually reported. The mission had been a success, after all, and that had been the joyous announcement at court when they’d returned to Ero, with the dried blood on their faces.

  Life did change, however. They were all full warriors now, in the eyes of the world, and two days after the Sakor festival, they once again donned their finest garments for Korin’s wedding.

  Royal weddings were rare and portentous events, so there’d been considerable speculation as to why Prince Korin’s was so hastily thrown together. There had been little time for the proclamation to be carried through the land, and attendance was a bit scanty because of it. Nonetheless, when the great day came the entire city was decked and garlanded, and every temple sent clouds of rose-scented incense up into the cold winter air with prayers for the couple’s happy future.

  The ceremony was before the great shrine inside the New Palace and was witnessed by a great crowd of family and nobles. Crowned and regal, King Erius wore a red robe of state heavily embroidered with gold and bright jewels. Korin wore a long tunic of similar design, and a coronet. Tobin stood with them in his best surcoat and the rest of the Companions flanked them on the left. Tobin keenly felt the gap in their numbers. Arius was dead, Quirion banished for cowardice, and Barieus was with Lutha, who was still recovering at his father’s estate near Volchi.

  The arrow wound had been slow to heal, but a bout of pneumonia had come closer to killing him than the shaft. Fortunately, the drysian at Rilmar had been right; Lutha stubbornly clung to life and was strong enough now to write to his friends, complaining bitterly of boredom. No one spoke of it openly, but it remained to be seen whether he would recover sufficiently to rejoin them.

  In the outer courtyard of the shrine, a chorus of young girls tossed pearls and silver coins into the air and burst into song, announcing the arrival of the bridal party. The crowd parted as they entered.

  Aliya looked like a queen already. She wore a gold coronet fashioned to look like a wreath of flowers, and strands of pearls and golden beads were braided into her shining auburn hair. More pearls, citrines, and amber beads crusted her shimmering gown of bronze silk. Some clever seamstress had arranged the waistline to hide any telltale rounding of the bride’s belly.

  Standing with his father and the high priests of the Four, Korin received her from her father’s arm and they knelt before Erius.

  “Father, I present to you the Lady Aliya, daughter of Duke Cygna and his lady, the Duchess Virysia,” Korin said solemnly, but loud enough for all to hear. “Before the gods and these witnesses, I humbly ask your blessing on our union.”

  “Do you give your daughter freely to my son?” Erius asked her parents, who stood just behind the couple.

  The duke laid his sword reverently at the king’s feet. “We do, Your Majesty.”

  “May the blood of our houses be mingled forever,” Duchess Virysia said, giving the king the symbolic dower gift of a caged dove.

  Erius smiled down at Korin and Aliya. “Then my blessing is given. Rise, my son, and present my new daughter.”

  Aliya rose, blushing happily. Erius took her hands and kissed her on both cheeks, then whispered something in her ear that made her blush even more. Eyes sparkling, she kissed his hands.

  Turning them to face the assembly, Erius joined their hands and covered them with his own. “See, people of Ero, your future king and queen. Send runners through the kingdom!”

  Everyone cheered and threw millet in the air to ensure that the union would be fertile. Tobin caught Ki laughing as he did so and couldn’t help chuckling himself.

  The proclamation was repeated again before the people of the city later that morning. Following Skalan custom, the king threw a lavish public feast afterward that lasted until dawn the following morning. Bonfires burned all over the city, and long banquet tables were set up in the same square where the execution platform had stood. Some whispered that the tables had been made from the
same timbers.

  The principal guild masters and merchants were seated; others crowded along the edges of the square or watched from windows and rooftops. Food arrived by the cartload, wine flowed in rivers, and when night fell, Zengati fireworks lit the skies for hours.

  Tobin and the other Companions watched from the snowy roof gardens of the New Palace. Somewhere downstairs, Korin and his princess had taken possession of their new chambers. Zusthra and Alben were speculating gleefully on what was currently going on.

  Tobin and the others ignored them, excitedly discussing what was to come tomorrow. At midday they were to set sail with the future king and his consort on a royal progress of the coastal cities. They’d spent weeks watching the ships being prepared. In addition to the royal bark, there was a veritable flotilla of other vessels carrying Korin’s guard, entertainers, horses, a small army of servants and craftsmen, and one vessel devoted solely to feeding the whole entourage. They’d be gone for nearly a year.

  “Well, it’s not going off to war,” Ki observed, “but at least it gets us out of town.”

  The fireworks were still blazing overhead when they heard someone running up the balcony stairs toward them.

  “Prince Tobin! Where are you, Master?” a thin, panicked voice cried out.

  “Here, Baldus! What’s the matter?”

  A brilliant white burst in the sky illuminated the page’s pale face as he reached them. “Oh please, come down at once. It’s terrible!”

  Tobin caught him by the shoulders. “What is it? Is someone hurt?”

  “Aliya!” Baldus panted, out of breath and clearly upset. “She’s sick, her woman says. Prince Korin is frantic!”

  Tobin dashed for the stairs. Only when he’d reached the lighted corridor below did he realize that Caliel had followed. Neither spoke as they ran on together through the endless hallways and courtyards to Korin’s rooms. Rounding a final corner, they nearly collided with a man in the livery of Duke Cygna. Beyond him, a knot of nobles hovered around the prince’s door.

  “Talmus, what’s happened?” Caliel demanded.

  The servant was pale. “My lady—The princess, my lord. She’s ill. Bleeding.”

  Caliel clutched at Tobin’s arm. “Bleeding?”

  Tobin went cold. “It’s not plague?”

  Talmus shook his head. “No, Highness, not plague. The drysians say she’s losing the child.”

  Tobin slumped down onto one of the chairs that lined the corridor, too stunned and sorrowful to speak.

  Caliel joined him and they listened to the weeping of the women down the corridor. Now and then a muffled cry could be heard inside.

  The king soon joined them. His face was flushed with wine, but his eyes were clear. He swept past Tobin and the crowd at the door parted for him as he went inside. As the door opened, Tobin thought he could hear Korin weeping, too.

  It was dawn before it was over. Aliya survived, but the child did not. That was the Maker’s blessing, the drysians murmured afterward. The tiny child, no bigger than a newt, had neither face nor arms.

  PART III

  The origins of Skala’s so-called Third Orëska remain shrouded in mystery, though there is little doubt that it had its roots in a loose confederation formed sometime during the reign of Erius the Priest Killer, son of Agnalain the Mad.

  Wizardry was already common among the Skalans—the unforeseen and, in the minds of many, unfortunate result of the mingling of our two races. But the powers of Skalan wizards were for the most part inferior to our own, and had been further debased with the loss of so many of their more powerful mages during the Necromancers’ War.

  Some scholars postulate the hand of Aura at work among the Skalans. How else to explain the rise of a generation of hedge wizards and conjurers not only to unity but to genuine power? Yet I question why these newfound powers should have taken such an alarmingly different form over the resulting centuries. The Third Orëska vehemently denounces all forms of necromancy, and the stated precepts of their great school proscribe such studies, yet I have myself witnessed their use of blood magic, and instances of communion with the dead are not unknown. As Adin í Solun of Lhapnos observed in the third volume of his Histories, “Despite the ties of trade and history between our two lands, one must never forget that throughout her early history, Skala faced Plenimar, not Aurënen.”

  Since my sojourn in that capital, I can vouch for the famed hospitality of the Orëska House, but the veil of secrecy remains; the names of the Founders are not taught or spoken of now, and the few accounts made by earlier scholars all conflict, confounding any attempt to decipher the truth from them.

  —excerpt from Oriena ä Danus of Khatme’s

  Treatise on Foreign Magiks

  Chapter 37

  It was Tharin who sent word to Arkoniel of the princess’ miscarriage. Tobin and Ki had been closest to the events, but didn’t have the heart to write of it.

  “It was just as well,” Tharin wrote, touching on the child’s deformities.

  “It’s Illior’s will,” Nari muttered. It was a bitter midwinter night and the two of them sat by the kitchen fire bundled in cloaks with their feet on the hearth bricks. “The king never sired a healthy child after his little ones died. Now the curse has fallen on his son. Before Iya brought me to Rhius’ house, I never thought of the Lightbearer as cruel.”

  Arkoniel stared into the flames. Even after all these years, the memories had not dimmed. “Knowledge and madness.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Iya once told me that only wizards see the true face of Illior; that only we feel the full touch of the god’s power. The same power that gives knowledge can also bring madness. There’s a purpose in all that’s happened, all that will happen, but it does seem cruel at times.”

  Nari sighed and pulled her cloak closer around her. “Still, no crueler than the king and his Harriers killing all those girls, eh? I still see the duke’s face in my dreams, the look in his eyes as they stood over poor Ariani, with all those soldiers downstairs. That witch did her job well that night. What do you suppose ever happened to her?”

  Arkoniel shook his head slightly, and kept his gaze on the flames.

  “Just between you and me, I always wondered if Iya didn’t do away with her. She’s my kin and I mean no disrespect, but I wouldn’t have put anything past her that night.”

  “She didn’t kill her. Even if she’d wanted to, I doubt she could have.”

  “You don’t say? Well, I’m glad to hear it. One less death on her conscience, anyway.”

  “And mine,” Arkoniel said softly.

  “You’re a different sort than Iya.”

  “Am I?”

  “Of course. I saw it from the start. And has it ever occurred to you that the demon never touched you after that first time when he broke your wrist?”

  “He scared my horse and it threw me. He never touched me.”

  “Well, there you go. Yet he attacks Iya every time she shows her face near him.”

  “He spoke to me once. He said he tasted my tears.” Nari gave him a questioning look and he shrugged. “I wept as I buried him. My tears fell on the body. That meant something to him, apparently.”

  Nari was quiet a moment. “Except for his poor mother, I think you were the only one who did weep for him. Rhius’ tears were all for his wife. You’re the one who came back to care for Tobin, too. And now you’ve got all these others to look after. You don’t see her doing that, do you?”

  “They wouldn’t be here at all if it wasn’t for her,” he reminded her. “This vision she and the rest of them had? I never saw it. I never have.”

  More wizards found their way to the keep, arriving by ones and pairs. By the time word came of Korin’s marriage and Aliya’s miscarriage, six new refugees had arrived, together with a handful of servants. A small herd of horses and donkeys grazed in a forest clearing, hidden from the prying eyes of tradesmen.

  Cerana, an old friend of Iya’s, was the first to
come that autumn. Lyan and Vornus rode in together soon after, a grey old pair in their fourth age, accompanied only by a burly manservant named Cymeus. The wizards spoke as fondly to one another as if they were husband and wife; Arkoniel suspected they had not been bothered with celibacy in their youth, either.

  Melissandra, a southern sorceress, soon followed, arriving like a storm-battered bird one night. Dark-eyed and quiet, fear made her seem younger than her hundred-odd years. She’d been wealthy before the Harriers had come for her; her servingwoman, Dar, had charge of a money chest.

  Hain arrived with the first snowfall. A thickset, ordinary youth with a patchy beard, he’d been an apprentice when last Arkoniel had seen him. But, like the old wizards, he gave off the aura of real power, despite his poverty and inexperience.

  Lord Malkanus and his small entourage made it to the keep just before snow closed the roads. Only a few decades older than Arkoniel, his talents were middling, but he’d enjoyed the patronage and bed of a wealthy widow in Ylani, and arrived with three manservants, a chest of gold, and a very high opinion of himself. Arkoniel could have done without this one. Malkanus had always been disdainful, holding him and probably Iya, too, as little better than scruffy wanderers. Neither time nor circumstance had done much to mend his manners. Arkoniel was sorry to see Iya leave him one of her tokens, and still couldn’t fathom why the Lightbearer would speak to such a man.

  Rooms were dusted out, bedsteads found, and soon everyone was settled in, more or less comfortably. Malkanus had made a fuss over sharing rooms, so Arkoniel gave him his old bedchamber on the third floor, neglecting to mention the other occupant of that part of the house. Much to his disappointment, Ariani paid no attention to the new lodger.

  * * *

  Cook and Nari were delighted to have more people in the house, and the servants fell in willingly with the household chores. The keep began to feel like a real home again, despite the odd nature of its occupants.