The faint moonlight vanished, as what seemed to be fog filled the streets. Without his magesight, he couldn’t tell if it was magical, but it had appeared too quickly to be normal. Then he felt cold metal pressing against his throat, causing him to nearly jump out of his skin. “Release your veil and remain still, if you want to live,” warned a woman’s deep voice.
George froze, and then he felt the sharp metal begin cutting into his skin. It seemed to be everywhere, not just at his throat, but wrapping around his entire body. Fighting down panic, he released his veil, and his magesight revealed the full depth of his plight. An enchanted chain of razor-sharp links was wrapped around him, lightly touching his body in places, and hovering mere inches away in others. He could be torn apart at the merest whim of whoever was controlling it.
Tyrion was standing in the doorway of the bowyer’s house, watching him with interest. “I think she likes you. You’re only bleeding in a couple of places.”
Brigid gave her father a dirty look as she walked around her captive. Tyrion knew how she felt about most men. As she stepped in front of the hapless mage, she noted a strange furtiveness to his eyes as he saw her. His features wavered between shock, fear, and fascination. His gaze kept returning to her breasts. “You should let me kill him, Father,” she announced. “Look at his eyes. He’s defective, like Ian.”
Two thousand years prior, her brother Ian had been the worst of her siblings: violent, crude, and most despicable of all, a rapist. Tyrion laughed at her remark. “He’s probably never seen a naked woman before, Brigid. The people of this time wear clothes at all times.”
George tore his gaze away from the savage woman in front of him and fixed it on Tyrion. He had seen a woman’s breasts before, one night when a drunken barmaid decided to tease him, but he had never seen anything like Brigid’s total, feral nudity. “What do you want?” he asked, hoping his voice sounded firm, because inwardly he was a riot of fear and near-panic.
“I want your help,” said Tyrion.
“I c—can’t do that,” stammered George. “Y—you’re w—wanted by the Queen.”
Brigid moved closer, licking her lips, and George caught his first whiff of her unwashed body. He wrinkled his nose involuntarily, but when her words reached his ears, a chill raced down his spine. “I hoped you would say that.”
“You should reconsider,” suggested Tyrion.
“What do you want me t—to do, exactly?” asked George.
Tyrion smiled. “Nothing serious. I merely want your help finishing an enchantment. Do that for me and I’ll leave you in peace—in one piece, to be precise.”
***
Lynaralla knelt in the large front courtyard of Castle Cameron, staring at hands that were covered in blood, not her own. Her cheeks were wet with tears and a black despair gripped her heart as she looked across the field. In front of her was her sister, Irene, already dead, her blonde hair dyed crimson.
She was shocked from her grief by a thunderclap that shook the ground, and when she glanced up she saw Conall’s broken body flying by. It was still in one piece, but only barely; his torso had been mostly bisected by a magical blade. A blade wielded by the man she had once called her father.
Twenty feet to her left, she saw Matthew futilely struggling to contain the enchantment he had created, an enchantment that was rapidly devolving, spiraling out of control. Irene’s death had ruined it, and Lynaralla knew his effort was doomed to failure.
Not that it mattered. It had been their last hope. Even if he somehow salvaged it, they would all be dead in less than a day. The world was ending.
Boots stopped in front of her, but she was powerless to fight. She had sacrificed herself to absorb the feedback when Irene had been slain, causing the enchantment to fail. “You’ve killed us all,” she murmured bitterly.
“Even if I believed you, I wouldn’t care. All that matters is that I kill you. You’re the last,” said Tyrion.
Anger surged through her, and Lynaralla’s head jerked upward. She glared at her murderous sire. “Damn you! Damn yo—”
Her words cut off with a sickening gurgle as Tyrion’s armblade entered her midsection and came up, slicing through her belly, lungs, and shoulder. Her last vision was of Matthew, watching her with desperation on his face, impotent to stop the horror.
Lynaralla woke with a gasp, still feeling the searing pain in her chest. She struggled to breathe, her mouth gaping as she tried and failed to draw in air. Her body was convinced she had died, but after a minute of panic her muscles finally relaxed and she was finally able to draw quick, short breaths.
She was alive. This was Irene’s bedroom, and Irene was sleeping beside her, snoring loudly enough to wake the dead, which perhaps she had. Despite herself, Lynaralla reached over and touched Irene’s chest above her heart, reassuring herself that her sister’s body was whole and uninjured.
What was that? she wondered. She had never had such a vivid dream before. Was it a manifestation of her gift? Had she seen the future? Lynaralla closed her eyes and corrected herself, A possible future. But despite all her reason, she was afraid. It had been too real.
The snoring stopped, and one of Irene’s eyes eased open. “Lynn?”
“Yes,” answered Lynaralla, controlling her voice carefully. “It’s me.”
“Why are you awake?” mumbled Irene. “It’s still dark.”
“I had a dream. You should go back to sleep,” said Lynaralla.
Sensing something, Irene sat up as well, sloughing off the heavy quilt. She reached out and touched her sister’s forehead, feeling the cold sweat there. “Are you sick?”
“No,” replied Lynaralla, using one hand to pull Irene’s away.
Ever stubborn, Irene didn’t give up so easily, and she caught the She’Har woman’s hand in her own. “You’re shaking. What sort of dream was it?” Her sister was obviously upset, which troubled her more than it would have in almost anyone else. Lynaralla was always calm, so much so that many often misunderstood the She’Har woman, thinking she had no emotions at all, but Irene knew better.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“It was a premonition, wasn’t it?” asked Irene.
Lynaralla nodded.
“But you’ll tell Matthew, won’t you?”
“He needs to know, so he can adjust his plans,” replied Lynaralla.
Irene’s jaw tensed. “You’re as dumb as he is sometimes. He doesn’t need any more secrets. The weight of them is too much. If you want to help him, share this with me. Share it with all of us, so he doesn’t feel as if he has to take the blame for whatever terrible choices the future is forcing on him. Do you understand?”
“Irene, I don’t think you want to hear this one,” said the young She’Har woman.
Irene chuckled. “Why? Do I die in it?”
Her sister said nothing at all.
“So what?” said Irene. “We’re all going to die if we don’t get this right. Tell me what happens so you can sleep. Tomorrow we’ll tell the others together.” Sliding closer, she slipped one arm around her sister’s shoulder and squeezed, and after a moment, Lynaralla relaxed slightly.
Reluctantly, Lynaralla shared her vision with Irene, relaying the horror she had seen. Being nearly incapable of dissembling, the She’Har woman explained her vision with all the horrific details, stopping only at the end, when Tyrion had been standing in front of her.
Irene prodded her. “So he’s standing there looking down on you… what happened then?”
Knowing her death would affect Irene more than hearing of her own, Lynaralla improvised, “And then I lived happily ever after.”
Irene stared at her in the dark for a few seconds before asking, “Lynn, was that a joke?”
Lynaralla sighed. “Was it any good?”
Irene began to laugh darkly. “Actually, yes. I think your sense of humor is improving.” The two young women lay back down after that, but neither of them found sleep for a long time.
***
The next day, after breakfast was finished and everyone was still in the same room, Irene made the announcement. “Lynn had a premonition last night.”
Sitting at the head of the table, Rose glanced at Lynaralla, reading the young woman’s face. “It must have been fairly bad. Tell us the details.”
More composed than the previous night, the silver-haired She’Har did just that, reciting the events she had witnessed. This time she included her own death as well, without the attempt at humor. The faces of those around her registered varying degrees of shock and dismay, except for Matthew’s. He stared past her into the distance, his countenance so still and unmoving that his face almost seemed to be made of stone.
Cyhan was the first to speak. “What about the others? Did you see Alyssa or Gram in your vision?”
Lynaralla shook her head, but Rose spoke quickly to cut off a reply, “That doesn’t help much, Sir Cyhan. She’s told us what she saw, and its enough to know we’ll all die. Even if they were spared at that moment, we’ll all be dying soon after it.”
Matthew broke his silence. “Actually, this is good news.”
Karen was sitting close by, and she elbowed him. “How is that good news?”
“It means we figured out a solution, and that we had time to implement it,” he responded. “That’s a relief in itself.”
“But we failed,” protested Conall.
Matthew shook his head. “It’s one possible future, and while it might currently be the most likely, it won’t be now that we can prepare for it. Of course, we could still fail, but it probably won’t be in that exact manner.” He looked intently at Lynaralla. “Your dream started at a point after things started to go wrong, but you probably had some memory of it in your vision. Can you describe exactly what you think happened?”
“I think it was Irene’s death that ruined it. She and I, and perhaps Conall too—we were assisting you. In the vision I was stunned because I absorbed the feedback after Irene was killed. I think Conall went to defend us then. I’m not entirely certain, though. That’s just my feeling,” answered Lynaralla.
“Four of us,” muttered Matt. “That fits with one of my ideas, although it hadn’t occurred to me that it would be those four. It makes sense, though. I was already thinking we should do it in the castle courtyard, but I guess that wasn’t such a good plan. We’ll have to pick a different spot.”
“Why there?” asked Irene.
Rose smiled. “It’s the logical choice. It’s defensible and the castle shield enchantment should make it impossible for anyone to get in or out.”
“I’d had some doubts,” admitted Matt. “Even though the castle shield was strong enough to keep out the Shining Gods, I don’t think it will be enough to hold Dad anymore.”
Conall and Irene looked at each other, confused. Then Conall asked, “Why would it need to hold him in?”
Matthew froze, realizing he had said too much, but Rose saved him. “We haven’t had a way to communicate with him directly. Given his erratic behavior lately it would seem wise to find a way to keep him in place long enough to explain things.”
“Oh,” said Conall. Irene looked less certain, but she held her tongue.
Chapter 38
Old Mattley was a strong man, though his back was bent with age and his joints were swollen from long, hard use. Though he was in his seventies, he still had the vigor of a much younger man, but he was beginning to think of retiring. His eyes were no longer sharp, and the pain in his back made his work more difficult. Unfortunately, he had no heir or apprentice to leave his business to.
His oldest son had moved away, preferring the life of a farmer to that of a bowyer. Mattley’s first and only apprentice had become a journeyman and set up shop in Malvern more than twenty years prior. From what Mattley knew, Gedwin had done well and become a master some ten years after that.
Those thoughts brought a sigh to his lips as Mattley stopped his wagon behind his home. It was laden with a fresh supply of yew and ash from which he would make bowstaves, though it would be many months before the wood had dried sufficiently for such use. This load would supply him next year, just as last year’s timber would provide him with material for the current year.
Stepping down from the driver’s seat, he started to pull back the canvas that covered the wagon bed. He needed to move the wood to the drying racks in his shed before taking his rest for the evening. A stiff pain running down the left side of his neck to his waist reminded him that this would probably be the last wood he ever bought.
He didn’t need money. His trade had earned him a modest amount of wealth over the years, but since his wife’s death six years past he had no reason to look forward to retiring. His craft was all that had sustained him since then, and without it he doubted he would have cause to live too many more years.
After unloading, he went to the back door, and it was then that he realized something was wrong. The lock was broken. The old man froze, listening to see if anyone might be inside, but he heard nothing. Not that he could trust his ears anymore. Kneeling down, he was grateful that his knees hadn’t suffered as his back had. The heavy iron lock lay in the dirt, but it hadn’t been broken, picked, or forced in any ordinary manner. The metal clasp had been sheared into two pieces, cut cleanly, as though the tough iron was as soft as butter. “I’ll be damned,” muttered the old man.
Reaching down to his waist, he unsheathed the hunting knife there before gently opening the door and stepping into his house. Mattley was afraid the robber might be there, but while he still feared death, it didn’t have quite the grip on him that it had when he was younger. He didn’t bother removing his boots as he entered, something that would have angered his wife, but he figured her ghost would forgive him this one time, considering the circumstances.
The back door he came through opened directly into his kitchen, and there he saw a man seated at the table, lifting a cup to his lips. In the dim light, he couldn’t identify the figure. “Who are you, sittin’ at my table as though you owned the house?”
“It’s me, Mattley,” returned a familiar voice. “Relax. They’re gone.”
“Grayson?” queried the old man. “Who’s gone? What the hell are you doing in my kitchen?” Mattley sheathed his knife and went back to the door to remove his boots. There was no sense in giving his late-wife any more things to scold him about when he finally met her again someday. Then he returned to the kitchen and lit the oil lamp.
Chad Grayson was a terrible sight to see. The archer’s face was red and puffy, not from a fight, but from excessive drinking. The man looked ill. Then Mattley’s eyes went to the table, which bore burn marks and large dents, as though someone had used it as a bench for metalwork. Mattley’s brows wrinkled in irritation. The table was something he had made for Clara decades before, a sentimental treasure from happier days. “Did you do this to my table?” he demanded.
“No,” said Chad flatly. “That would be the bastard that came before me.”
“And you thought coming here and getting drunk in my house would make me feel better?” growled the old bowyer.
Chad shook his head. “I’m not gettin’ drunk. I’m gettin’ sober. This is just a tonic to ease me along. The asshole who broke in here came to see me first, and I’m right pissed about it. He stole my bow.”
Mattley glared at him. “If you want another, you should’ve come in the morning. Who’s the fellow that did this?”
“Tyrion Illeniel, unless I miss my guess,” Chad informed him.
“Am I supposed to recognize the name?”
The hunter gave a dark chuckle. “He’s a wizard, and until recently was a nobleman. You won’t have any luck getting justice by going to the magister.”
Mattley was tired, annoyed, and angry. “Then get out so I can clean up this mess. I’m too old to deal with you right now.”
“I still need a bow, Mattley. Haven’t I always been one of your best customers?” asked Chad.
The
old man glared at him. “Twenty years ago, before I stopped selling to you. Do you honestly have the nerve to say that in front of me?”
Chad screwed the lid on to his flask and put it away. “I need a bow and I don’t have a lot of time. I can pay whatever you ask.”
Mattley scratched his head, tired and frustrated. Many years before he had been friends with a much younger Chad Grayson, when the man had been shining with talent, but his opinion had changed since then. Once he had learned of Grayson’s work as an assassin, he had refused to sell to him, and though the archer seemed more respectable these days, he didn’t trust him. “I have several hunting bows that are nearly done,” he offered.
Chad shook his head. “I need a warbow.”
The bowyer’s face hardened. “I don’t make those anymore, and if I did, I would only sell them to someone I trust. That ain’t you. Go to Albamarl; I’m sure you can find someone there that wants your gold and doesn’t care what you do with it.”
The difference between a hunting bow and a warbow was primarily one of size and draw weight. The heaviest of hunting bows usually had a draw under eighty to ninety pounds, and sometimes as little as forty, but warbows started at a hundred pounds and could even exceed a hundred and fifty in some cases. The reason was simple: A warbow was meant to pierce armor. It used heavier arrows with bodkin points and required tremendous power to generate the force needed to penetrate chain and sometimes plate.
Chad tapped the marred table. “I’m hunting the man that did this.”
Mattley’s eyes locked onto his. “As angry as that makes me, it’s no call for killin’ someone. Go home.”
“I know you don’t approve of some of the things I did back in the day,” began Chad, “but times have changed. I’m sick of blood. That’s why I drink so much, but this is important—”
“And yet you just admitted you’re going to murder someone,” interrupted Mattley.
Transcendence and Rebellion Page 31
