by Ru Emerson
The chamber was larger than she remembered it, and she could now see that between the windows lining the north and west walls the entire corner of the room was raised. Two steps ran the length of this dais, and two chairs stood in its midst: oversized, high-backed, wide-armed, canopied. One was empty. Lyiadd sprawled in the other.
His hand cupped his chin. He stared somberly, disconcertingly, at a point well above her head, and when he spoke finally, his voice was expressionless, almost absent-minded, as though he were not only unaware of his prisoners, but unaware that he spoke at all.
“I sense it—I know it is there—no. Again, no.” A gemmed dagger, a noble's conceit strapped to the back of his hand, caught the moonlight. He shrugged, the hand dropped back to his side. “Gone. No matter, it always returns.” To whom does he speak?
“You wonder why I am here, don't you, Ylia of Nedao? Or more important to you, why you are here.” Silence. His eyes caught, held hers. “Answer me, damn you!” His hand cracked against the chair arm; she jumped, but the fear that had gripped her at their last meeting was no match for the cold that sealed her inner being. “Say or not, then, as you please.” He sank back in the chair; his expression was speculative now. Another, even longer silence.
He rose, paced down the room to face her. “Some of you is Ylsan. You will understand, then, why I inhabit these halls if I tell you they were once the Lammior's?” A wordless, shocked sense of Nisana, abruptly cut off. “For a thousand years or more, they stood empty. But they are mine now, and his the strengths I have gained, the greater strengths that were denied the AEldra. I do not have all of them, yet. Though I shall. But the secrets that hold the walls from turning to dust do not reveal themselves so easily.” He turned to gaze out the window. “And why, you wonder, do I tell you these things? Because I find it amusing—you have the stupid AEldra fear of the greater Power. For your knowledge, for though you hold obstinate silence, I sense your curiosity. And, because I would have your aid. No, spare me any words you would say, I sense your derision also. I would have your aid. Lady of Nedao.” He laughed. “What is Nedao? A handful of ragamuffin followers you have led into this peril! A miserable clutch of peasantry crouching in caves, a host of leagues from here. I can offer you better than that!”
“No.”
“No?” He laughed again. “You still speak without considering. I can offer—”
'She is not her mother, Lyiadd. But even Scythia could say no when it was necessary.’
“Small one of the AEldra.” Lyiadd turned, smiled unpleasantly as Nisana leaped once more to Ylia's shoulder. “I had not forgotten you.” She gazed down her slender nose at him as only a cat is able.
'I was certain you had not. Nor have I forgotten you!’ Lyiadd moved back a pace, his expression that of a man who despises cats, and a dislike beyond that.
“No. You can offer nothing I would have,” Ylia broke the ensuing silence, her voice flat.
“You do not know this, since you do not know what I would offer.”
“No.”
“I do not need you, of course. But I dare not let you go free, any more than I dared chance letting you go your way in the hopes you would remain unaware of me.” He began to pace; she watched him warily. Nisana yawned, disinterested, leaped down and padded away to stare out the windows. “It would be easier for both of us if you accepted my aid and gave me yours, freely. Better—not only for you.” Silence once again. “Your companions, did you find them well?” His voice was suddenly silken with malice. “My folk were to capture only, know this. It was no fault of mine any of them were injured.”
“Liar.”
The single word, so flatly uttered, infuriated him; he caught at her plaits, drew back his free hand to strike. “Let me go!” she flared. “Do you think I fear your blows? My dagger-sworn is dead, two others injured, yet another in shock! Strike and yours will not be the only blow!” Her face was as pale with anger as his. He lowered his fist; the other hand remained firmly twisted in her hair. The air in the chamber was thunderstorm thick.
He laughed suddenly, ran a light finger down her throat. “It is a violent creature, a product of its kind. Perhaps you prefer a more gentle form of persuasion?” The laughter gained volume as disgust twisted her face and she closed her eyes. “I should be offended! But I prefer Marrita, who is shaped like a woman and smells like one, who comes to me willingly and knows my needs and likings.” He traced the line of her lip. “But then, some of my guard might find you amusing. Everyone has a breaking point of some kind, Ylia of Nedao.”
“Beware then,” Ylia whispered, “lest I find yours.” Only a stubborn pride kept her from gagging.
“And then? Why do you think you would have that chance? I could tear your inner being with no effort at all, now. I could yoke you to my will, if I chose. For as long as I chose.” As I did with Lisabetha, but without waking. Or, would I be aware, aware of what I had become? Unable to stop?
'You cannot.’ Nisana's cool thought broke in on Ylia's. ‘Such things cannot hold forever, however strong. We both know that. But you cannot subdue me in such a way. My inner being is beyond your reach, human. Try, if you dare!’ Ylia glanced at her, back to him. It was true, it had to be, for the look he gave her was murderous. Nisana, tread cautiously, he will slay you out of hand in his anger. The cat eyed her briefly, then turned back to her study of the landscape, her thought once again shuttered.
“Well, it doesn't matter, does it? Because I would prefer your willing companionship, your free aid.” He let go her plaits, moved back up the stairs onto the dais, past the chairs to the windows. Moonlight formed a nimbus around his pale red-gold hair. “And so I will make you—one last offer. Think well before you speak, not only your life rests on your choice.” Silence. “A trade. You and the cat—for your company of followers.”
“Trade?”
“Even so. Pledge freely to me, and I will allow them to go on.”
She turned away. Nisana was still aloof: my choice. But—when she could not even think?
She started, her heart jumped painfully; Lyiadd had stolen up behind her, a red-clad arm pulled her back against him. His voice was soft against her ear. “But you are brave,” he whispered mockingly. “What is it to you if I give the old woman as a sacrifice to my Mathkkra? You know how sharp the black knives are; she would never feel it, would she? When they cut her throat and let it bleed into the stone bowl?
“And the girl. Under all that dirt, those common garments, she could be pretty. A present to my inner guard after I have taken her—the boy would not mind overmuch, but if he objects to watching, we could remove his eyes.”
“Stop it.” Her voice was barely a whisper; her mouth had gone dry.
“And your Swordmaster, he is old, he has lived his years. I could put the Baelfyr to him, a little at a time—or perhaps a Thullen; he feared the creature, he fears magic of all kinds. He would beg for death.”
“Stop it!”
“Yes, the Baelfyr would be more fitting to the half-blood, since the Tehlatt were cheated of him. I have wondered often how long a man could be persuaded to live, if the Fire is put to him, a little at a time—”
“Stop it, stop it, stop it!” Hysteria tore at her throat, and only his grip kept her on her feet. Evil—how could one human body hold so much evil? His hand moved lightly across her shoulder, was gone as he strode back toward the windows. A less-than-thought fluttered across her mind, the gauzy, winged half-hope of a madwoman. She thrust it away from consciousness.
“You would prefer that they live, these companions of yours.” Ylia nodded. “A trade, as I have laid it before you?” She nodded again. “If I bridge them a distance from here, to a place where they can resume their journey north?”
“I cannot trust you.”
“The three of us will join in the bridging; we can place them a distance where, alone, I cannot reach to return them. Marrita has none of the greater uses of the Power. You would have that for surety.”
; “I cannot trust you.”
“No. But it does not matter, does it?” And he laughed. “Because you have no other choice.”
'He does not lie.’ Nisana broke her long silence, padded back to Ylia's side and jumped into her arms. ‘He has no use for them, once you have sworn.’ Lyiadd cast the cat a dark look, and Ylia, with a sudden chilled certainty, knew she had spoken truth. And that, because of it, she would die.
Not soon, no. But he could not use Nisana, or frighten her; he could not turn her to his. How long will he hold her as surety for my conduct? “I have no choice: the trade is yours. But—” Her voice broke. “Ask nothing else tonight, I beg you. Not now. I am ill.” All the pain and fear flooded back; she suddenly shook with it.
“That much can be amended.” He made no call of any kind, but the doors opened and one of the guard stood there. Lyiadd moved with a swordsman's grace to speak with him, waited as the man vanished down the corridor. He returned shortly with one of Marrita's women. “Go with Losora, she will see to your needs.” The triumph was gone almost as suddenly as it had come when she capitulated; black gloom settled around him as the chamber emptied and he was again left alone.
Losora led up-hall, down a side corridor and to a small, plain room. A bar dropped into place behind them, scraped aside when she returned with food a while later, slammed down behind her with finality.
A roughly furnished chamber, this, containing only a table flanked by two backless chairs, a simple tapestry covering a windowless wall. The bed was missing its hangings, and a stuffed and tied overblanket was its only cover. Ylia dropped to one of the chairs as Nisana sniffed cautiously at the tray.
'It is safe, girl.’
'He would not poison us, Nisana; he has what he wants.’
'No. I thought of his woman! And there are poisons which do not kill, merely alter. There are none here, I would know.’ Ylia gazed at her, stricken. ‘Do not fear for me, Ylia. I can take care of myself. Eat.’ Nisana nudged her, hard, as she eyed the food without appetite. ‘Eat! Need I force you?’ Cat's eyes met human, carefully unthought understanding in them. Ylia nodded; ate. Food—strength. Eat. ‘He means us to stay here the night. Dangerous to allow us to go to them.’
'Why?’
'For what you might tell them.’
'Does he think me a fool, cat?’
'I cannot say. But he takes no chances. Now, if we bridge them far enough tomorrow—’
'Tomorrow?’
'You do not think he will wait any longer? He is anxious to be rid of them, do not doubt it!’
'No.’ Ylia pushed the tray aside. Nisana picked daintily at what was left.
'If we place them far enough, they will be well past the halfway point.’
'Half—way—’ She stared blankly across the room. Brendan had spoken of that: Yenassa. Halfway to Aresada. It was the last thing he had said to her before ... She bit her lip, blinked rapidly, but it would not be pushed aside this time. She burst into tears.
'Ylia. No. Do not! It was not your fault, listen to me! Do you think—even if we had not come to that ledge, if we had not searched and so broken the shielding, you and I, Lyiadd would have taken us, and Brendan still would have fought! Whether you had heart-sworn to him or not, he would still have fought!’ She couldn't believe it. Even if it was true, it didn't help at all. She had cried out, he had heard her, had tried to come to her aid. Lyiadd had known what would cause her the greatest pain, and Brendan had died because of it. Brendan—my Brendan. My fault, all of it!
Nisana's rough tongue rasped against her cheek, her neck, her ear, dragging her back from inner blackness. ‘Ylia! Come—come sleep, I will send you sleep! Ylia, by all the gods at once, listen to me!’ Ylia choked, drew a deep, shuddering breath. Another.
“Sleep,” she whispered. “Give me sleep cat; give me dreamless sleep!” She pushed away from the table, staggered and fell across the bed. Nisana was at her side; the candles went out as the cat willed them. Ylia dragged the covering across her shoulders, remembered nothing else.
The great hall was bathed in moonlight. Window frames and columns cast long shadows across the tiled floor. Half in shadow, Lyiadd lay back in his chair, stared moodily at the opposite wall. An enormous winged shape floated over the ruins beyond the window, its inky shadow following across the chamber.
“Have I done it rightly?” he whispered. “Yes; she has no choices, save those I offer.” A humorless smile touched his face, was gone. “Nor, any longer, have I. Catalyst—” His voice, scarce loud enough to disturb the nearest shadows, trailed into nothingness. Catalyst. That such a child could serve as a turning point for so many matters, and she not even fully born to the Power! For that, more than fear of discovery, he must keep her, though he still did not fully understand what It had meant when he delved into the Heart of the Night and was so Answered.
Catalyst: Alive, she could be the means of his destruction, that much was clear, if not the why of it. Dead—dead, the forces channeled through, or by, or because of her would fall upon him now, while he was still ill-prepared, still in search of what It still withheld from him. No, it made little sense. But It did not lie to him, never, however obscure Its Answers might be. Altered, fully his, she would still be Catalyst, but his: his to mold, to shape, to utilize against his future subjects and any foolish enough to ally with them. As for the cat—his eyes narrowed. Not long; he'd suffer the creature as he must, for the moment. But—no, not long.
He leaned forward, suddenly intent. There—almost at my fingertips—gone again. He rose, strode to the edge of the dais. No matter. It will be mine in time, and then Yls will be mine. And Nar. And thereafter—thereafter, who knows what may follow?
So many humans speak of their griefs, they share them—now and again, they take the pain and cast it into songs, such as “Edetta's Lament. “And while it is not a thing I often do, to recall their songs, my fair Scythia sang that one often. “Ask not of thy beloved, lady; for he is dead and gone; Across his head, a bramble grows; and at his feet, a stone.” True love, another common subject for song: Young, of course, thwarted by fate and cut tragically short. Perhaps, in a day long hence, there will be another like song, and they will call it “Ylia's Lament.”
Not my choice—though I cared, in my own way, for each of our company, it was Ylia who would rule them, who knew and loved them as kind to kind, Ylia's decision for both of us. I knew that the boy's death colored her least movement, her least thought that night, and I knew she planned, so far within even Lyiadd could not read her intent. But even I could not have guessed the direction her vengeance would take her.
23
Nisana woke her in the cold, grey hour; food had again been brought, the door stood ajar. ‘He intends to send them hence as soon as may be. Eat,’ she urged. Ylia ate what she could, knowing she must, but it had no taste. She was disoriented from waking in such a strange place, lightheaded from enforced sleep and not enough of it. It is not real, any of this. But the table was hard under her fingers. I will wake—or perhaps I died when the bat-creature fell upon us. She swallowed; a tear coursed unnoticed down her cheek. But Brendan is dead.
Nisana rubbed against her arm, bringing her attention back. ‘Are you well?’ Rare, true concern edged her thought. Ylia forced a bleary smile, nodded.
Movement beyond the chamber: guards stood in the hall, waiting.
The hall was crowded: Two full companies of armed lined the walls. There were no Mathkkra. A dozen or so more men stood at the foot of the dais, drawn swords in hand. The rest of the company had preceded them. Ylia moved toward them, stopped hard against the sword of the captain who had brought her to Lyiadd the night before.
Before she could so much as speak, there was a commotion; the outer doors opened and Lyiadd entered, followed by a household guard, Marrita directly behind, surrounded by ladies. With only the briefest glance at the prisoners, the AEldran woman took her chair on the dais.
Lyiadd crossed the chamber, stopped at Ylia's side. She
tapped the sword that touched against her breast. “Tell him to move. I must bid farewell to them.” Lyiadd frowned; she sighed heavily. “Do you think me a fool, that I will say anything to prevent their leaving? I know you can read what I say to them; I will act in that knowledge.” She turned back to the guard. “Tell this to move.” Lyiadd gestured; the guard returned her look of distaste in full before he stepped aside. The remaining armsmen made an opening for her.
“What d'ye think you're doing? What chances here?” Marhan demanded furiously.
“Shut up,” Levren snapped. “You waste time.” Ylia gripped his hand, Marhan's shoulder. Golsat, two paces away, met her eyes levelly but turned away before she could speak. Malaeth clung to her; she kissed the old woman's brow. Brelian knelt, back to her, oblivious to everyone and everything. Lisabetha stood behind him, hands tight on his shoulders.
Brendan lay upon a dark, inlaid pallet. His mail shone, his hair and beard were neatly combed, his eyes closed. Pale hands clasped the hilts of the sword that lay upon his breast.
Tears blurred her vision as she knelt at his side. This is not real, cannot be real. But the face under her fingers was smooth and cold as the tiles. She drew a shuddering breath, kissed his brow, turned to clasp Brelian tightly, stood and embraced Lisabetha. “Care for him well, ‘Betha,” she whispered against the girl's ear.
“You—do not go with us.” Levren caught at her arm.
“No.” The word came past a tight throat.
“What have you done, lass?” Malaeth whispered.
“What I must, Malaeth. I had no choice; none of us have choice. But you will be safe hereafter. Safer than we were, for he will no longer pursue you.”
“Ylia—”
“A trade, Marhan.” He stared at her, aghast, shocked into silence. “Reach Aresada. Do that for me, and please do not hate me. I had—there was nothing else I could do, I swear it.” Golsat turned back from his study of the distant landscape. Cold eyes met hers, the words she would have spoken to him died on her lips. She turned back to Marhan.
