by Ru Emerson
They studied each other; his eyes were unfathomable, his face expressionless. Ylia felt the first edge of anger pressing aside pain and emotional numbness alike.
“Ylia, Brandt's daughter.” His voice was coldly mocking, resinous. An unpleasant smile turned his lips. “Ylia, daughter to the fair Scythia of the Second House. You do honor to my halls, Lady of Nedao.” He paused, awaiting response; she made none. He smiled, gestured imperiously to someone behind him. A chair was brought—by Mathkkra. They retreated toward the darker side of the chamber as he collapsed into the seat, sprawled his legs.
She caught her breath; so faint a sound, but he raised his brows and laughed. It was not a nice sound. “You wonder at them, I see. They serve me.” She tore her eyes from him with an effort. High peaks, out the window barely visible against the yellow light of late afternoon. Where am I? “I am Lyiadd. You may call me that. Or cousin. We are distant kin, after all.”
“No.” Her voice threatened to give way; she coughed, winced as headache flared. This—this aided the Cavefolk, and called them servants? “No. Even if your father and mine were the same, I would not call you kin!”
He raised sand-colored brows and laughed again. “Marrita, did you hear that? And you doubt she is Scythia's?” Marrita, wherever she was, made no answer. “That was always her way with a compliment,” he added, his attention once again all for his prisoner. Ylia drew a deep breath, let it out slowly. Anger is what he wants, do not give it to him.
“Yours is the Power the filthy things have taken.”
“I would not call them filthy, were I you,” he replied, casting a fastidious eye over her torn and travel-stained clothing. “They serve me; of course I have armed them. Do you any less for those who serve you, Lady of Nedao?”
“When the High Council learns what you have done—!” she began. He overrode her.
“But who will tell them—Lady? You? Your four-footed AEldra companion, perhaps?” He snapped to his feet with a snake's grace and speed. The stench of turned Power sent her reeling back: one long hand, wrapped in her hair, prevented further retreat. “They will learn nothing,” he hissed against her ear. Fear surged through her body, her mouth went dry and her legs would no longer hold her: when he released her plaits, she fell.
Up! She forced her terrified body to obedience, rolled and struggled to her knees, then stopped abruptly. Nisana? The cat lay not two paces from her, still. Lyiadd was forgotten. She laid a hand on dark fur, but for one shaking moment could not tell whether she lived, so slight was the rise and fall of her small ribs. Alive. Still unconscious. Ylia slewed around, suddenly furious, rose to her feet.
“It may be that you are stronger than I.” She could not force her voice above a choked whisper; the sound caught in her throat. “That what Power is yours is greater, and no longer AEldra. But I vow this, who calls himself Lyiadd and cousin, and heed well what I say: If any of my friends have taken harm at your hand, or at your bidding, I will have your life in return. By the Guardians I swear it!”
But he only smiled. “You threaten? You?” Laughter grew, echoed. And he vanished.
No trick of her vision, no—he was there, a presence, a horror, an enormous red shadow against the windows, and the light from them was dimmed, as though the sun had dropped behind blood-stained cloud. Red—the air was red, as red as old death; she could not breathe. It pulsed through her inner being, pressed against her will, bringing with it a knowledge that should she give in this time, what remained would no longer be Ylia. She caught her lip between her teeth: Sudden pain and the taste of blood brought her to herself, a little. And somehow, she held.
Gone! She staggered, fell to hands and knees. Tears blurred her vision, it hurt to breathe. Gone—no. Reverted. Lyiadd's boots, dark brown, nearly as worn as her own, hove into her line of vision, and from far above, he laughed.
“You cannot fight me; only a fool would try.” There was no strength in her for speech: she spat. “Like your mother, you are impulsive. Clearly, you need time to think how best to act. That I can give you, even if I can give you neither manners nor looks.” She dragged herself across the floor to clutch Nisana to her breast as he turned and rapped out an order. Men gripped her arms, dragged her to her feet and from the chamber.
Many flights of stairs and long corridors later—she had long since lost any sense of direction—a door was opened and she was thrust into a small, windowless stone chamber. She clutched Nisana still. Dark was total as the door slammed into place. It took her several moments to remember the second level of Sight, several more to recall how to use it. A clear, if not very clean floor; there a heap of branches, straw and worn blanket against the far wall. One hand touched the wall and she moved as slowly, as cautiously as an old woman. She sighed with relief as she dropped to the odorous pile, set her furred burden on it.
Nisana stretched, blinked.
'Nisana?’ How long had she been aware?
'Shhh. Guard your thought. He is listening, do not doubt it!’
'He?’ The chamber blurred; she scrambled frantically for support.
'Close your eyes, lie back. Do it!’
She fell limply; the blanket was prickly against bare hands and neck.
'Breathe, girl! You will faint otherwise, and I cannot aid you! Lie still, breathe deep!’
She drew a deep breath, let it out slowly. Another.
'The Power will not obey if you are not calm, you know that. That is right—again—better—’
The tightness in her throat gave way suddenly; she curled into a ball and shook. Silence. A long silence.
'Nisana?’
'Shhh. Relax. Take the time to do it properly.’ Great Mothers, what did I do? ‘Shhh. You did well, do not worry what you cannot alter. Shhh. Relax.’ But it was some time before she could control the shaking. Nisana leaned against her arm, a reassuring weight. ‘You did as well as any of us could have. Do not worry it. Sit, if you want—not so rapidly!’ Ylia dropped back onto one elbow and the nausea faded, slowly.
'How—long were you aware? You frightened me, I thought you dead.’
'A while.’ Noncommittal and terse, even for Nisana. Dark-green eyes met hers, the thought in them clear: He is listening. She had said that. ‘Are you with me again—fully?’ the cat went on, in a clear change of topic. ‘Body heat, pulse, are they normal?’
'Mostly.’ She let her head fall forward, concentrated. The last of the headache flitted across her mind, was gone. Dread surged back to the fore. “Where are they?” she whispered aloud. The sound was muffled by thick stone.
'I cannot say.’
'I—’
'No. We are screened, you and I. I cannot sense them.’
'Lisabetha—Brelian—’
'They fell, Ylia. I saw that much. If badly hurt or dead—I don't know.’
She swallowed. Forced herself to go on. ‘I—I think—I am afraid that—’
'I did not see Brendan,’ Nisana answered.
'I did. He was trying to reach us when I was taken. He was fighting—’
'Against such odds? The fool!’ But her fury vanished as abruptly as it had risen; she rubbed against Ylia's fingers. ‘I am sorry. I know you are—but against so many!’
“He would not tamely give over,” she whispered. If he died, trying to come to my aid—but I still live; he must!
'We are shielded here, you and I.’ Nisana broke into her thought. ‘Are you properly aware once again?’ She nodded. She was aware, aware, suddenly, of what she had done and said in the upper halls, challenging—why did he not merely kill me and have done?
'Why? Why did he not kill us both, you and I—or all of us—when we first entered the Foessa?’ Nisana was silent a long time. Then: ‘Lyiadd.’ She was musing, sharing her thought as she rarely did. ‘You of Nedao, I have always been amused at your fatalistic attitudes. But after today, I can no longer laugh. For it is certainly fate of some kind that brings together Scythia's rejected suitor and Scythia's daughter!’
; “What?”
'Not a serious one, not by my Scythia's seeking! Only of the Fifth House, and that nominally, Lyiadd. Not kin to your mother's House, either, though he always pretended it was so.’ Her thought trailed away into an inner silence from which she roused herself with obvious effort. ‘Ambitious, Lyiadd. Lacking even then in scruple. Not notably imbued with Power, but of course those of the Lower Houses are not, particularly. Skilled with the weapons of hand.
'He sought your mother eagerly, to better his standing. And of course—Scythia was a lovely maid.’ Another silence. ‘She was also kind-hearted, unwilling to hurt, but even she finally became angry and drove him away in a fury. He would have pressed his suit even after she had chosen the young Lord Prince Brandt.’
“Self-centered.” Ylia caught at bits of Nisana's tale. “In that I doubt he has changed. But—not notably imbued with the Power?”
'He was not.’
“Was—not.” She slammed a fist into her open palm. “I do not like this, cat! Why is he here, where are we? And what does he want of us?” She caught her breath, forced herself to silence.
'Ask this of me?’ Nisana replied irritably. ‘But he brought us from that ledge with purpose, even you can guess that much.’
'Else we would all have died.’
'Exactly so. I know that more of us live than you and I.’
'You know!'
'That much. Nothing else.’
“Purpose.” Ylia rolled the word on her tongue. Caught her hands together to stop them shaking. “What purpose can we serve such as that? He cannot need us! What possible worth have we, other than to ourselves and to each other?”
'I do not know.’ Nisana's thought brushed gently across her mind. ‘I am sorry, girl; would that I did know.’ Ylia pushed fear aside, a little, stroked the cat's fur and kissed the place between her ears. She rose to pace the room—four steps by five.
'Doubtless we shall learn of it, in time, then.’
'Doubtless.’
They held silence for what seemed a very long time after that. They slept in turns, resting as well as they could in the stillness and total dark; though, after so long out of doors, Ylia felt as smothered as Nisana did. They drank from Ylia's bottle, rationing its contents carefully, shared strips of dried meat.
Nisana's mind-touch finally alerted her, dragging her back from a long blankness. Feet whispered across the stone floor beyond the door, Fear licked the chamber. A rattle of bolts. The door slammed against the wall, a torch was thrust within. Before her eyes could adjust, cold, flexible digits wrapped around her wrists and arms to pull her from the chamber.
I did not tell the girl all I remembered of Lyiadd; there was no need to upset her in such a way, and it was clear to me that she would know him all too well before we were done with him. There was much about him I chose to forget myself, in our present plight, so that I could look at him with my fur smooth. He knew me, beyond doubt, for I had always been with my sweet Scythia when he came to court her. He hated me then, for my clear Sight, my knowledge of what he truly was. More, though: Cat-hater. He was that, one of those with an uncontrollable aversion—not, I suppose, unlike the Bowmaster's for foreigners. I own I had used it against him whenever there was opportunity, and I did not look for my life to stretch overlong if we remained within the Lammior's walls. Lyiadd was not one to forget a grudge, not of any kind.
22
The return to the upper levels was longer and more tortuous than the route which had taken them down to the dungeons: A long, dark corridor, its walls seeping a foul water, its floors dangerously damp and slicked, led away from the cell to a flight of stairs, oversteep in its angle, the steps cracked and chipped. Another hall, lit with a single torch, half-gutted, flaring in the breath of cold air, gusting through a sagging doorframe. A chamber, great holes in the walls and partly fallen ceiling, a long table marching down most of its length. Moonlight fell between blackened beams, caught at the spiderwebs which hung with gossamer precision across empty windows, between a staff that still bore traces of a rotting standard and the dust-strewn table. Down a corridor whose walls were deep-piled with rubble, around a corner, through two doors into another corridor. This one was wide, well cared for, its floors polished, torches set every ten paces in shining brass brackets. Candles in protected niches were neatly trimmed. Fine hangings covered most of the walls; an occasional polished shield gave back light and movement in twisted patterns. They stopped abruptly before one of the many doors. It opened into a darkened chamber.
The Mathkkra whose appendages had held her—she could not think of them as hands—stepped back. What had been dim movement within was revealed by the second level of Sight to be her companions. Marhan? The Swordmaster stood there, blinking against the sudden light, his face dazedly blank. She ran to him; behind her, the door closed with a resounding slam.
“Marhan. Oh, Marhan.” She clung to him and shook. His grip was momentarily crushing, then, suddenly, gentle. The fear that had nibbled at her inner being returned in full. She pushed free; he would not meet her eyes.
Malaeth—she was there; Lisabetha came from the dark corner, wrapped her arms around both. Ylia gazed over her head: Golsat—there, his back to the wall. Levren—he had been sitting with Golsat, but was on his feet. Brelian knelt near the wall, not far away. No one else. She pulled her hands free from Malaeth's, pressed Lisabetha gently aside.
“Ylia—come—” Levren had an arm around her shoulders. She twisted free.
“Brendan?” The name caught in a suddenly dry throat. Brendan lay at her feet, hands folded across his dagger. She knelt, laid a trembling hand against his face. Warm, he was still warm. But he no longer breathed. “Brendan—beloved—”
“He died only a short while since,” Lisabetha whispered. “We could not save him.”
“Brendan—” Oh, Bren. No! Pain and madness tore at her. I could have saved him! I could have, but I was not here and for that he died. I could have—could have... Levren's hands caught her shoulders; she fell against him and wept.
She was weak and ill when she finally pushed away from him again; one hand clutched at his arm, lest she fall. The other hand reached, fingers slipping across Brendan's face, to his shoulder. A dreadful gash had torn through his mail there; his blood darkened the steel rings. But there were others—many of them. She went cold. It would not have been easy, no. But she could have saved him. My Brendan. He had known this, had kept her away until it was too late. ‘Lyiadd will die for this, my Brendan, by the Mothers, by the Black Well, by your body I swear it!’
Nisana pressed against her arm, hard. ‘He will hear you! Do not think such things!’
'Let him hear.’
'He has done this so you may know the kind of being he is, what kind of thing he could do to all of us. Ylia, beware!’
'I am not afraid of him.’ Nor was she—she had gone numb; there was only deadly purpose left.
“Ylia.” Marhan's voice was husky. She turned to look at him properly. His shirt was torn and bloody across the forearm. My Swordmaster is hurt. She stood, swayed, gratefully accepted Levren's grasp on her shoulders as she reached; as light as her touch was, he winced. “I dropped my guard when you and the cat vanished,” he said.
“I will heal it. No, do not protest, please Marhan. Let me do what things I yet can.” Her voice held no emotion. Like the rest of her it had gone cold. But the healing remained. Lyiadd has allowed me this, too: Brendan is dead, but I can heal scratches. Marhan stood with closed eyes, felt gingerly where the wound had been.
“Lisabetha. They hurt you, little sister, I saw that much. Come here.” She brought Brelian with her, his hand caught tightly in her own. An ugly bruise spread from her hairline and temple and clearly pained her terribly. Ylia dealt with that, cupped her hands around Brelian's face, for he was in shock, nearly as far gone as Lisabetha had been in Koderra. She swayed, subsided gratefully against the Bowmaster: Nisana had been right, the healing could drain.
The do
or slammed against the wall, one of the human guards entered, dragged at her shoulder. “You, woman. You are wanted.” Marhan stepped between, tore the man's hand away.
“This is no filthy commoner such as you!” he snapped. “This is Nedao's Queen, and that is how you will speak to her!”
The guard's hand was up to strike the old man when Ylia moved. The dagger blade in her hand gleamed red in the reflected torchlight. “I am Nedao's Queen. Keep your hands from me and mine. I will come when I am done speaking with these my friends.” She met his eyes levelly; his fell. “Do not dare touch me—or my armsmen—again.” She turned her back on him. “Lev. Marhan, all of you. We have found that which aided the Mathkkra, which sent the bat-creature and all else that has plagued our steps through the Foessa. Why we yet live, I cannot say, and I commend you each to the Mothers or to the One, as you choose. For we may,” she swallowed hard, “we may yet wish we had fallen with Brendan.”
“We knew we lived on stolen hours when we came from the Plain,” Golsat replied quietly. Black, expressionless eyes held hers, as though he was trying to tell her something beyond his words. He turned away. She gazed at them one by one—for the last time, perhaps—then turned, and without so much as a glance at Lyiadd's armed, strode from the chamber, Nisana at her side. She heard Marhan's angry words, Levren's reply. Both were cut off as the door closed.
They walked no great distance, all of it through inhabited, well-tended halls. At the end of a short, carpeted corridor the guard pushed open a double, deeply carven door. Ylia stepped into near-darkness once again. Nisana jumped briefly to her shoulder, down again as the door closed. The guard remained in the hall.
No torches, only a fire, near the door, which had burned to embers. Against the far wall, a candle wavered half-heartedly. Moon shone full upon ruins beyond the windows. Columns sagged at crazy angles, lay in broken rubble, leaned against walls that stretched away into the trees. A tower stood alone, blue-white, mounds of debris obscuring its base, a cave-pocked cliff behind it.
