by Emerson, Ru
Lialla laughed sourly. “Or anywhere else! Except then Shesseran would hang us both; I may be a noblewoman and you one of his precious caravaners, but Vuhlem—”
Sil sighed, took back the empty mug, and let the older woman refill it. “I know. He and the Emperor, boyhood friends. As if old Vuhlem was ever friends with anyone except himself!”
“As if he was ever a boy,” Lialla retorted. “I think he sprang from a spell gone wrong just as he is now: aging, set in his ways, large as a bull, and thoroughly nasty.” Sil laughed, shook her head. Ryselle mumbled something; Lialla knelt next to her, laid a hand on the village woman’s cheek; it was very cold. “Oh, Ryselle! We need to get your hair dry, you’ll catch your death sitting like that.”
“I’m fine.” Ryselle looked at her; she looked far from fine. “There’s—” She frowned, stared down at water-puckered hands. Sil swore good-naturedly, shoved a warm, nearly full cup into them, and dragged the blanket back around her villager friend. “Something’s wrong out there.”
“Something,” Sil said blackly. “A wretched winter storm and Vuhlem—”
“No.” Ryselle shook her head; the cup, forgotten, started to slip from her hands. Lialla caught it, handed it to Sil, bundled Ryselle back into the blanket. “Something in the air,” Ryselle went on, mostly to herself. “Like when a summer storm approaches and the air’s crackling and thick? Like—like that—” Her voice trailed off. “I don’t feel it in here. Outside, though—”
Sil held the cup to her lips again, waited until Ryselle roused herself enough to drink deeply. “That’s the fog and damp,” she began cheerfully, but Ryselle pulled back from the cup and shook her head.
“No—any woman who grew up in Gray Haven wouldn’t be afraid of mere fog and damp, we have it more days in a year than not. This: it’s like something—someone watching, with more than eyes, aware of you.” She caught her breath harshly; Lialla’s hands were suddenly hard on her upper arms.
“You felt something watching you?” Ryselle stared at her wide-eyed, nodded.
Sil gripped the sin-Duchess’s shoulder. “Don’t! Don’t frighten her, she’s cold and tired—”
“No, let me,” Lialla said flatly. “Ryselle. Like a thunderstorm? You—was the hair on your arms standing up?”
“It felt like—like the hair on my head was trying to,” Ryselle replied. “Prickly. Why—that’s why I thought of lightning.”
“Your—no, Sil, honestly, it’s important,” Lialla snapped as Sil tried to object again. “Your stomach—how did that feel?”
“Mmmm.” Ryselle’s eyelids sagged shut. “Like—my father was waiting just outside the goat barn for me to come out, so he could—could hit me. Scared.”
“Gods of the Warm Silences,” Lialla whispered. She was vaguely aware of Sil watching her warily, the rough blanket they’d wrapped around Ryselle catching at roughened fingers. Kepron, who’d set the hide down and came across, wrapping the red string around his left fingers. “Wait, Sil, please,” she added sharply. “Ryselle, please—trust me.” Ryselle, her eyes closed, swallowed and nodded. Lialla closed her own eyes and reached. Ryselle’s inner being shone a pale gold, as it always did, but there was something else there: dark, infinitely small—wrong. New, brilliant. And growing. “Triad,” Lialla whispered. Ryselle twitched in her grasp; startled, the sin-Duchess nearly let go of her. Her fingers clamped around the village woman’s elbows; her eyes flew open.
“Triad?” Sil had heard that much; Kepron echoed the word. “Vuhlem’s Triad, do you mean? But what does—they were outside the city, you said they were!”
“No!” Lialla shook her head, scrambled to her feet. “They aren’t now!” She spun around, listening intently. Sounds within the caravaners’ compound were suddenly muted; she could hear rising wind outside. And feel it, questing for entry. “Dear gods,” she whispered. The distant whine became a shrill sound, rising by the moment. That much audible to any with ears; underneath it: Lialla threw up a warding sign before her, clutched at Sil’s arm, pointed at Ryselle, who was beginning to glow under the prosaic caravaner blanket. Lialla dragged at the multitude of charms hung about her neck, drew the tangle of cords over her head as one and said flatly, “Get her out of here, Sil—now, fast! Vuhlem’s Triad is trying to use Ryselle, to destroy us all!” She draped the tangled strands over Ryselle’s head, turned to catch hold of the cook’s arm, and drew her to her feet. “Go, quickly, the building’s about to fall!” The woman hauled her terrified gaze from the ceiling by sheer strength, turned, and ran.
To her credit, Sil didn’t argue; she dragged Ryselle to her feet, threw an arm around her shoulders, and hauled her toward the near stairs. Lialla caught her breath; the pressure in the oversized barn of a chamber was suddenly oppressive. Kepron held out a hand; she touched the back of his fingers, swore as a spark arced between them. “Go, keep an eye on them!”
“No!” he shouted. “I do not leave you here to deal with that!”
“You will! I say so!” Lialla shouted back. The sound echoed; the vast room had gone suddenly quiet. Mothers rose to their feet, clutching small children; the tag players turned toward her. Lialla caught her breath sharply, stared across the chamber, eyes moving unwillingly up as something above her creaked, groaned, and began to separate with a shrill noise that set her teeth on edge. One of the Silver Star women shrieked, pointed up; the long beam running the length of the chamber had developed a sudden, dreadful crack. “Out!” Lialla’s voice topped the sudden, terrified babble of voices. “Everyone, out! Now!”
She spun around; Sil and Ryselle had reached the doorway leading to the east stairs and were gone. Kepron cast her one black look and followed. A dozen, two dozen caravaners pelted after him; more ran toward the wide west stairs that dropped into the stable and storage below. The beam creaked and splintered with a vicious, rending sound, then began to tear itself apart. Lialla drew a deep breath, dropped cross-legged onto the hearth, and drew inner strength. Net. Silver Thread, double woven, net filled with Light. Do it, do it now! She closed her eyes, caught hold of rough stone two-handed, aware of the weight of that beam overhead, the stone and roofing it held in place, the storm beyond that—and Vuhlem’s Triad, beyond all else. People were going to die here by the dozens unless she could hold the beam against Vuhlem’s Triad.
She was aware of people running; women and small children shrieking; the floor shook beneath her and the fire was much too warm against her back. She ignored it; ignored the people and the noise. Concentrated her whole being on raising a dome of Silver Thread net and filling the holes with Light.
A chattering, terrified corner of her mind tried to argue with her: “A Triad! Vuhlem’s Triad! A young Triad, no moral sense to it whatever! You think you can stop that?” She silenced it as best she could, continued to fill silver net with golden Light. Nothing else mattered.
A cold wind wrapped around her; she gasped, cried out as icy rain blew in from the northwest, suddenly drenching her clothes and burying the fire. The smell of spilled soup and wet ash twisted in her throat. A vast, gaping hole in the roof where the long beam had been; a faint sense of sky and fog and something pale and malevolent hovering just beyond the hole; the far end of the room nothing but cold, dark stone and rubble. Distant cries—nothing near. Directly above her, the roof trembled; broken beams jutted into the night, and fog draped down into the chamber. Just beyond her, two women were helping an old man limp toward the stairs. Half a dozen others, dark shadows, ran back the other way, where a child’s shrill, terrified wail came from somewhere near the west stairs. She could hear equally shrill and terrified horses somewhere out or down there. Down in the stables—nothing for her to deal with, not now. The beam overhead creaked once again; small stones and several roofing slates struck the floor.
Voice reverberated through her bones, more chilling than the sudden rain had been: You were warned. He warned you, and took you into his dungeons for safekeeping, and you did not heed the warning. Fool, female, and m
eddler all three at once, die here and now!
Lialla gasped, blotted a sweating and too-warm brow with a rusty black sleeve. “What—let you win without contest?” she snarled. One of the few remaining caravaners turned to stare at her; she bared her teeth, gestured urgently toward the east stairs. The woman eyed the sin-Duchess nervously, cowered under the creaking ceiling, and fled. “What?” she demanded of the sense of something beyond the broken roof. “Are you so weak and useless, even fear of Vuhlem’s wrath can’t help you break me?” Twenty—fifteen—a handful of caravaners left at this end of the building. Hold that beam where it was until they were out; maybe, who knew, she could even maintain the net long enough to find her own way from under certain destruction.
“Are you mad?” Kepron’s voice cracked, the last word soared into falsetto. Shaking hands caught hold of hers where she gripped the stones of the hearth. “They’re gone, all of them—there’s nothing else for you to do here. Get out!”
Lialla glared up at him. “I told you to go! Follow Sil and Ryselle, get them to safety!”
“I did!” Kepron shouted back. “I came back for you!”
“Get out of here!” Lialla caught her breath on a sob; the side beam that ran across the hall just above the hearth creaked ominously; the sense of presence was growing by the moment. Kepron swore and dragged her up; her knees gave and she fell, pulling him down on top of her. “Go now! I can’t hold this for much longer!”
“I know that! I can tell!” Kepron bellowed; he had to, to be heard above the sudden, shrill wind that swirled in the middle of the ruined chamber; small stones, then larger ones, began to rise from the floor, spinning up through the broken roof, falling back to the floor. Something at the far end crashed; a horse screamed horribly. “I’ll get you out!”
Her vision was blurred; she couldn’t see his face. The room faded; everything was dark, but the sense of Light grew by the moment. “No—can’t,” she said, gasping. “Can’t—move. Go. Please.”
“No. Do you—do you think I have any hope here or south of Holmaddan without you?” She sensed rather than saw the boy drop cross-legged before her; his hands caught hold of both hers. “Tell me—what to do. Anything. Tell me, I’ll do it.”
“Go. Go now! Vuhlem’s Triad—”
“To the blackest of hells with Vuhlem, and his Triad,” Kepron said flatly. “Tell me what to do, to get you from here in safety. I’ll do it. Somehow.”
“I—all right.” Her fingers tightened on his. “The net. A—above us. See it?”
Silence; she’d almost begun to fear she’d lost him somehow when his grip tightened even more. “Silver Thread—something between.”
“That’s—that’s Light. Between. Keeping the roof from flattening us. If—you can, wrap the highest part of the net—in silver.”
“I can’t!” He swore angrily. “I can’t access silver!” “You can! You have to—or you’ve killed yourself, coming back here!” Lialla forced her eyes open; two of Kepron swayed before her blurred eyes. She blinked furiously. “I can do it, and I’m a mere female!” she added nastily. “If I can do this—”
Kepron swore viciously, this time at her. “I can manage it,” he added sharply. “This, here—”
“No! Not that, that one! Over—yes! Just so!” She forced herself to sit very still, to maintain what she’d already created, to leave the boy in peace while he fought with Thread that should have been years beyond a mere novice; while he drew it forth, wrapped it around her net, braiding it where he could, simply looping it around hers otherwise. Doing what he must—what most Wielders would never think to try. The ceiling still creaked, but more distantly; the sense of presence faded, a little.
Kepron’s voice seemed to echo; her cheeks felt burned by the constant cold wind. “I—it’s holding,” he whispered. He slewed around, onto his knees, forced himself onto his feet, dragging Lialla up with him. “I think it’s holding. We—we have to go.”
“Go,” Lialla said dully; the net was holding; her Light was beginning to slip from the net, to puddle on the wet floor. “You go. Please, go!” She tried to pull from Kepron’s grasp, but he had her firmly tucked against him, one hand gripping her arm just below the elbow. Someone in the street was wailing nonstop; the sound set her teeth on edge. “Make them quit, please make them,” she mumbled. Her legs didn’t want to work; Kepron was dragging her across wet stone and someone’s blanket had wrapped around her ankles.
A loud, hideous splintering directly above them: Kepron yelled in surprise; Lialla cried out in shock and pain as a large stone glanced off her back, numbing her whole right side. She fell, and Kepron went down with her.
“Ceiling is falling!” His voice assaulted her ear, breaking through the loud ringing that filled her head. “Come on!”
“No.” She swallowed bile. She tried to move; nothing responded. “Can’t—can’t. You go.”
“Not without—” Another startled yell; this one seemed to go on forever; another stone crashed into the floor, breaking into sharp little shards. Lialla threw her right arm, the only one that still responded, across her face. Nothing else moved. Something came down hard across her back, shielding her head, something warm. “Kepron—no!” She couldn’t hear her own voice, couldn’t breathe: Dust, wood, and stone came crashing down with a roar, taking everything with it.
11
Jennifer came awake with a sharp cry, halfway to her feet before she realized. Her hair was sweaty, plastered to the back of her neck, the sleep shirt slick, soaked and chilly to the touch. She subsided bonelessly onto the bed. Dahven mumbled something, still half-asleep; in the faint blue light from her dressing chamber, she could see him blinking at her curiously, muzzily, as he sat up. But when he touched her arm, he came alert at once and bundled her back into the thick quilt. “You were dreaming,” he said quietly. “I heard you. Bad dream. Everything’s all right.”
“No.” She shuddered gratefully into the quilt and into his arms. “I—I mean, yes, a dream, but I—I don’t think—”
He pulled her against his shoulder. “You were talking—almost shouting, something about Lialla, a Triad.”
“I know. I saw it, Dahven.” She could feel him eyeing her dubiously. “I did! Vuhlem’s Triad, outlined in storm clouds and lightning, a—a ruin of some kind. I—didn’t see Lialla, just, I know she was there because something with Light and netted Thread was holding it back, no one in all Rhadaz but Lialla—” She swallowed. After a moment, she swallowed again. “Something awful’s happened, I know it has.”
“Jen, no. I’ve had dreams that vivid, I know how real they seem at the time.”
“Vivid—yes, I know. This was—it wasn’t what I saw so much as what I felt.” She pulled away from him a little. “I’m awake now, Dahven, and I still feel it. And I’ve been confronted by Light before, by a Triad. You know that.”
He nodded. “I remember.”
“It’s—I don’t know how to explain it, but there’s a nasty feeling in my gut that’s not leftover nightmare, it’s purest Triad.” She sighed, let her head fall against his shoulder. “I could sense Jadek’s Triad, you know, from halfway across the country, and that was when I was still a green outlander. Now—it’s Vuhlem’s, something it’s done. Up there. There’s no wire into Holmaddan—nothing even close, is there?”
“You know there isn’t. But—let me think.” He was quiet a moment, one hand absently stroking her cheek. “There’s almost always a good-sized segment of one caravan or another in the market, especially just now. Surely there’s a grandmother in residence up in that building Vuhlem had built for them, wouldn’t you think?”
“I think so. The last I heard, Red Hawk’s grandmother said they weren’t leaving the building unoccupied because of Lialla and Sil—they were afraid Vuhlem might send men in to take both of them; if there weren’t any other witnesses, he’d probably kill them. After all, who would know?”
“All right, then. In its own way, that’s as quick as wire; we’ll find
out what we can for you, as early as possible.” Dahven tugged the quilt higher around her throat, laid a hand against her face. “You’re absolutely soaked, and it’s awfully cold in here. I’m going to get a drying cloth for your hair. And—all right, I think my man slept in my dressing room last night; if he did, I’ll wake him, ask him to take word down for one of the guard to go out at first light, find us a caravaner. With any luck, we’ll know something by the time Siohan lets you out of bed.” He slid off the bed, gasped as his feet hit the floor, but padded quickly, barefoot into his dressing. Jennifer clutched the quilt, listened to the murmur of low voices beyond the mostly closed door. Dahven came out a moment later, a thick fold of cloth in his hands, and shortly after, Widric, clad in a long sleep shirt and thick socks, went out into the hall, pulling the door quietly closed behind him.
“There. All settled.” Dahven climbed back onto the bed, shook out the cloth, and vigorously toweled Jennifer’s hair. “Better? Would you like a dry nightshirt?”
“Please.” She managed a smile for him. Don’t let him think you’re still spooked, she decided. Her stomach felt like she’d swallowed a rock, and the sense of dread was almost worse than it had been when she first woke. Better if one of them could get back to sleep; he wouldn’t, if he was worried about her. She waited until he came back from her dressing room, peeled wet fabric away from cold skin, and rubbed her chest and arms briskly with the drying cloth before he pulled the clean shirt over her head, then let him ease her back flat once she’d turned the top pillow dry side up. Dahven tucked the quilt high around her throat before he burrowed under it with her. “Really all right?” he murmured drowsily a moment or so later. He was asleep before she could answer him. Jennifer gasped; his feet were like ice.
AFRONSAN TO THUKAR AND THUKARA: UTTER SECRECY BINDS YOU REGARDING THE FOLLOWING MESSAGE, YOUR EYES, THE WIRE RECEIVER’S, AND NO OTHER. SWEAR YOUR RECEIVER TO SILENCE. RED HAWK GRANDMOTHER REPORTS STATE HOLMADDI CARAVANERS’ BUILDING DESTROYED, LOSS OF LIFE INCLUDES MANY OF RED HAWK AND SILVER STAR, FOUR HOLMADDI WHO WERE ON STREET NEARBY, AND SIN-DUCHESS LIALLA. DESTRUCTION BLAMED UPON STORM AND HIGH WINDS BY DUKE VUHLEM; GRANDMOTHERS OF RED HAWK AND SILVER STAR REFUTE THIS, CLAIM ACTION ON PART OF TRIAD REPUTED KEPT BY VUHLEM. THUKAR ASKED TO GATHER TROOPS REQUESTED BY MYSELF AND HOLD THEM READY. REGRETS TO THUKARA, WHO I KNOW WAS CLOSE FRIEND OF SIN-DUCHESS. MORE WORD TO FOLLOW AS I HAVE IT, ALSO WILL HAVE CARAVANERS COMING SOUTH REPORT TO THUKARA AS THEY PASS THROUGH SIKKRE. AFRONSAN
