“Hannah told us you were back. We rather missed you when you left, you know,” one big-eyed waitress said, giving the knight a thin smile.
“Yes,” added another. “It’s good for custom, see, serving the Reclaimer. You must come more often. Say, will you stay for the night?”
“Well, I bloody wasn’t intending to sleep in the streets,” the knight replied, taking a swallow of ale with a care not to spill. With the foam running down the stoop, it was inevitable, though, and then the woman was there with a handkerchief, wiping at his lap.
The serving maids exchanged smiles over his head, and a third joined the two, a timid-looking one with graceful hands and wonderfully rich hair. “You should eat much, sir. Will you let me?” She began cutting the ribs for him without waiting for an answer. It was a big piece he got, too, and plenty of vegetables along with it.
“You are most kind,” the knight said resignedly.
“How long will you be staying?” a green-eyed woman asked.
“A day or two. We are going through the Martyr’s Passage, to Lourne.” The emphasis was clearly meant for Alwarul, who most graciously did not reveal any insult.
“Through...the Hills, sir?” one of the girls exclaimed incredulously, clasping the knight’s wrist. “What new adventure are you on? Oh, your courage, sir!”
“It’s very dangerous in the Hills now, as we understand it,” another shared, taking a wrist as well. “You are truly brave.”
Sir Conrad grimaced. “And hungry, too.” He pried loose from them. “Will you sweethearts let me eat?”
“Oh, of course, sir,” they all assured him in comical unison.
The big-eyed one recovered the quickest. “Tell us if you need anything,” she said, and then she leaned in to whisper in his ear, making the smiles of the others grow stale.
“I shall consider it, love,” was the answer she got. The serving maids erupted in chatter when they were at some distance.
“So...you have one son?” Nathelion quipped once the tornado was past, trying to dispel some of the awkwardness he felt. The knight didn’t appear to appreciate his humor.
“Yes. One,” he said stiffly, with a gaze that was like ice, and then he turned to eat.
Of course, you idiot, his son is ill somehow! You bloody just heard it from Sir Wilfrey! Nathelion cursed himself silently, suddenly feeling guilty and stupid at once. His failed joke weighed harder on him for every second that passed. You are quite the jester, aren’t you? Seemingly due to his mental disability, they ate in silence, one so suffocating that he began to sweat and wish he’d be able to leave. He knew saying anything would just worsen it all, and only more so the longer nothing was said. He focused on eating, just looking at his dish and nothing else. It was truly good food, but he was hardly able to enjoy it now. “Good food, this... Uh, it’s really good food...” Why are you doing this? “You have a...a good taste for food, sir.” By the powers...
Sir Conrad looked at him while he chewed — a very silent stare. Piercing. Some might say disconcerting. Okay, something else. What can you say, what can you... “So, this countess, isn’t she a witch?” Even Alwarul frowned at him now, and he had to explain himself. “No, you don’t...” he began, but then the knight rose abruptly.
“I will go to the castle. Stay at The Green Gown, and I’ll know where you are.”
“Why,” Alwarul asked, forgetting about Nathelion. “Why should you go to the castle?”
Sir Conrad gave him a look. “I have a friend there who is wounded, as you heard. Now, if you’ll excuse me...” The knight left them without waiting to be excused.
“He is a prickly type,” Molgrimin said with a burp. “But I still don’t understand why ye had to insult his lady liege.”
“No,” Nathelion began again. “What I meant was... Oh, never mind.”
Alwarul was still not touching his food much. He seemed to be deep in thought, looking troubled, which meant that he was quite his normal self. But Nathelion suspected that this time, it had something to do with the knight. Why did he ask about Sir Conrad’s reasons to go to the castle? Does he fear being forced into care? Maybe that was why Conrad had left, though it seemed odd after he had pointedly expressed his disinterest in the man’s condition. It would have been a relief, though, and maybe a mercy on Alwarul if the physicians knew how to help him.
“Some say she is a witch,” Tim said suddenly, though he’d been silent through the whole meal. “In the streets, I’ve heard how they say it’s her work, all those murders. They say she flies out on a broom in the night to eat people in the dark alleys, together with her demons. Sir laughs at that and agrees that she is a witch, but he says that she still has etiquette and no more magic than her looks.” The squire looked at Alwarul. “Could it be true, though? That she’s a witch like the smallfolk say? The screams...they reach even into the castle some nights, so loud are they before they silence.”
There was a moment in which Alwarul remained quiet, and his eyes became grave and conflicted, as if he were uncertain of what to say. But then he sighed, shaking his head. “People can do vile things without the Art. Do not burden yourself with witch hunting, Tim. You will not find the kind of creatures that you seek.” Alwarul rose and picked up his staff. “I believe I will retire now. I’m feeling old. We will see each other on the morrow.”
When Alwarul had left, the conversation died again. The squire seemed to be pondering the old lunatic’s words, looking pale in a way that made Nathelion wonder if he’d even understood them. Meanwhile, Molgrimin appeared to have grown drowsy from the meal, and he sat with eyelids that were perilously close to falling shut, mumbling some incomprehensible words and going through the effort, at least, of lifting the stoop to his lips.
Nathelion was full, unable to force down any more of the ribs, delicious though they were. He reclined against the back of his chair, letting his stomach rest while he considered whether or not he should try to find a room in a cheaper place. But he was too tired to be walking about in the cold of the streets now when he didn’t even know the city. I’ll stay one night here. Then I’ll sneak away on the morrow. I won’t be going to Rurhav, and I don’t even need to meet Sir Conrad’s friend to make up my mind.
A bard was plucking his harp on a stage farther back in the common room, a fine-limbed man with a womanly face, telling some epic story. He’d been at it for some time now, though Nathelion hadn’t cared to listen. He rose and went to get a room. Tomorrow, I’ll go away by myself and leave the epics to the likes of Sir Conrad.
19
Breaking a Wizard
The room in The Green Gown was expensive, but Alwarul barely noticed the elegant furnishing and the rich, warm carpet that covered the floor. He sat down in a chair at a small table by the curtained window, feeling too restless to make use of the canopy bed but far too weary to stand. The room was dark, though that did not bother him. It let him think and see clearly the sleeping city through his window.
It looked out towards the castle, the great fortress Sacrifice, which rose like a dark mound of stone upon its hill above the city. Its towers were stout things covered in arrow slits and boasting upon their crenelated heights catapults that could sling forth a hail of stones. The catwalks were broad as well and could be manned with archers on all sides. A longbow wielded upon those posts would command a large area of the city, yet the range went farther still towards the pass. On the northern side, the fortress joined to the city walls, and the ground fell away below them, offering a wide view into the Lion’s Pass and the Hills beyond. Any barbarian force that tried to venture into the lands of the Harp would be assailed by both projectiles from the city walls and the monstrous bulk of the fortress. And if any band did manage to survive through that cramped passage between the mountains, they would not have an easy vocation here. The Lions could sally forth from their fortification and ride them down with armored steeds and pointed lances.
Small groups of barbarians had been known to cross the mountai
ns, but the cliffs were high, windy, and cold, and few could master them. Those who did were often soon dealt with by the knights and lords of the hillforts — yet the Harp had not always been safe. The savages of Rurhav had, at times, managed to penetrate far among the fields and orchards of the green lands they yearned to conquer, succeeding in confining the Lions of the Pass to Richard’s Defense, though never taking the city. With enough numbers streaming into the Harp, however, they could roam the countryside and raid the unfortified settlements almost unchallenged until a counterforce could be mustered. It seemed as if the time were approaching when such a force would be needed again, especially if the barbarians were truly as numerous as word had it.
He did not doubt that Rurhav had grown more dangerous, nor was he as unknowing of its cause as Sir Wilfrey had been. Yet it was not worry over the barbarians that occupied his mind now. No, it was Sir Conrad. Alwarul tried to puzzle out what secret the man was hiding and for what reason. He had tried to gauge the man’s intentions in the common room, yet it was Nathelion who had thrown the man off balance. Again, Nightshadow had shown himself to be more perceptive than Alwarul had expected, very elegantly playing upon strings he himself had not seen. Sir Conrad had been too comfortable when Alwarul had tried to read him, but Nightshadow’s mind was as stealthy as his name, and with only a few well-placed words in precise order and with careful timing, he had shaken the knight’s shield. The man’s eyes had revealed much even at the beginning of Nightshadow’s ruthless tactic, the subtle mention of his son, so well-disguised a suggestion and inquiry that Alwarul had almost not noticed its depth. He had kept silent then, watching as the man’s method had first made the knight wary, then confused, and then Nightshadow had uttered a comment that had surprised the whole table and made something move in Sir Conrad’s eyes that he had managed to keep well hidden. The countess and his son, a connection only Nathelion’s keen mind had made. The knight had chosen to leave, a retreat before Nightshadow’s wit that could not reclaim what had been surrendered.
Why are you here, Sir Hardae? Alwarul mused in the darkness, looking out at Castle Sacrifice, past empty streets and slanted rooftops. Who is your anger truly for?
The story that Tim had blurted out about the countess could hardly be merited, but there was something...familiar about that woman, something that Alwarul could not quite place. I have grown old and feeble, truly. Everything seems to be out of my reach, and I only fall back on memories.
Too many things were happening around him without him knowing their full nature. Nightshadow, on the other hand, that man seemed to be a veritable oracle. And how well he hid his knowledge, staying so casual and affable. It seemed the way he preferred others to perceive him, keeping the act up with the moinguir. No wonder the knight had run. To see a friend? A convenient excuse, and no doubt part of his secret. But Alwarul had his suspicions. Sir Hardae is not just an escort. He is a spy.
The thoughts lingered as he gazed out into the murky night with its stark fortress. The clouds heaved over it in distant, stormy commotion, and their omen brought fear to his heart. He had more important things to worry about than the knight or his lady liege. He rose and resolutely pulled shut the curtains. I must concern myself with—
When he turned, the form that greeted him in the deeper darkness made his thoughts flee. She stood there, before the door, and everything but her beautiful form seemed concealed in darkness, her lustrous hair cascading down to frame a face so perfect that all else seemed flawed. “Give him to me,” she said in the voice of a queen, before she disappeared from sight. An apparition. Alwarul’s thoughts raced. The Queen Beyond was not here in the flesh. This was a projection of the kind that required tremendous power. And her presence filled the room, crushing him.
He fell to his knees, then forward, grasping one of the bedposts to keep himself upright. Torment laced through his brain, as if cold talons were digging deep into his mind, before he could stave it off with a spell. Spell? his mind suddenly asked, treating the word as something foreign. I feel dizzy... I should call on Aunt Kathryn. It’s all dark. And he did call her, a name from a far-distant time uttered hoarsely and feebly for no one to hear.
What was wrong with his voice? He felt so weak. Where am I? His thoughts fumbled in a fog of confusion, certain of nothing but a sweaty horror and a sense of another tugging at his mind. What’s happening? I must be sick. Queasiness roiled through him like slithering black eels, and he felt a need to throw up. But he hated to vomit. “Kathryn!” he called, his voice so unsteady and frail that it was swallowed by the sound of blood thumping in his ears. “Kathryn!”
This was not his room; he recognized nothing in it. And it was dark, so dark. Why hadn’t Kathryn left a candle burning? He whimpered in panic, feeling the tears gather in his eyes as a fever took hold of him and all his memories became a muddled disarray. He remembered Aunt Kathryn, yet she was merely a package of ideas and scattered recollections now, and he could not say when it was that she had screamed so angrily at Mark for breaking that vase, or when it was that she had been sitting in the garden and reading to both of them while birds chirped in the apple tree. No longer was he even sure that she was real. Torn and flitting images were all he had, jumbled in a chaos that made his world shatter and become impossible, and he gripped the bedpost with all the strength in his hands. Long, gnarly hands, those were, like the hands of some old man, and the sight of them made him tremble. What’s happening? Something is wrong with me. “Kathryn...heeelp!” He shook violently, every limb of his body feeling brittle and unstable like he were made of straw. He didn’t even think that he could stand, and if he let go of the bedpost, he’d not be able to reach up to it again. Clinging desperately, he tried to steady his voice as salty tears ran down his cheeks and over his lips. “Kathryn, help!”
Only silence.
He could discern the shadowy door across the room, but it was shut and might as well have been a castle wall for all the freedom it allowed him. He couldn’t get there. All he could do was bray his helpless summons and try not to be more frightened by his own voice than by the rest of the world. “Kathryn!”
A dark, ominous presence was weighing on him, as if there were someone other in the room with him. Someone he could not see. He squeezed his eyes shut. “Kathryn, why don’t you come?” he whispered, for he realized that no aid was there for him. Kathryn was mist in his mind, and it was so hard to recall her smile and hold the image firm without it evaporating and turning into something else, as if it were from long, long ago. How?
The unseen presence was all around him. “Please,” he whimpered weakly, but there was no mercy for him here. “Please...”
The wraith reached into his mind... Alwarul suddenly gasped for air as if he had broken the surface of a cold lake, and all his senses tingled with fright. Memories came back, and the present solidified, but for how long? She was still assailing him.
“Give him to me...” Her graceful figure appeared again, so hauntingly beautiful that it could not have been anything of this world. Her form lasted only for a brief moment before vanishing. She is not strong enough yet. But he could feel her power reaching into his brain, staggering him. He fought it, refusing to give up the stability that was as fragile and treacherous as ice. He still retained his weak grip on the bed.
The Queen Beyond appeared, swirling over the floor as if at a ball, accompanied by snakes of darkness and shadow. She laughed, and the shadows laughed with her. Unspeakable shapes took form, things out of nightmares, dancing along with their dark deity.
Alwarul felt himself dwindling, losing his awareness of the present. I...must...not fail! He steeled himself with a growl, and for a moment, he stared, unblinking, at the perfect image of the Queen Beyond. I am Rizych, he thought, and he remembered spells. The words that came to his lips could level cities.
“Doum’d’barot uimoras moevia, hyimolsain’a’dembrisar, hyimolsain’ahaie...” he chanted, incantations that he had perfected over millennia, spells that
the world had forgotten and remembered and forgotten anew as kingdoms had fallen and civilizations perished. It was an art that he had mastered, and all the cold winds were turned against the Queen Beyond. She kept dancing, so beautifully that mortals would have surrendered their souls for her. Alwarul fed the spell, and the arcane filled the room. “Aùimova aiutuniya dois’ar, minosinach dyielot am’daha liches valynda...”
The Queen Beyond laughed, sensing how he challenged her, how his power wailed about her form. Her hair blew in the arcane winds, and she danced into them. But the shadows around her were not as resilient. They began to scream. For at that moment, he was their doom. Soon, the Queen Beyond’s laughter grew silent, and her perfect face became a mask of cold fury. She had underestimated him, and now he would not give her a chance to adjust. He had waited for the right moment before revealing his power. “Harinditel dach’din daloth, vymnradol’diuyn mue’las, haalaman cariohwies axar’al...!”
The goddess stopped in her tracks, a perplexed look on her face. The force of his echoing incantations fell down upon her projection like a sledgehammer that would break the mountains. “Go now, Vile One, dyim’thuin. Go to the dark recesses of Wythrax,” he growled in the common tongue, “and await there your doom!”
The Unchosen: Book One of The Queen Beyond Page 21
