The Secret Texts

by Holly Lisle

  He moved his ladder carriers to the front of his ragged lines and, when he was sure his people were in place and fairly sure they would hold, ran north behind their lines to meet up with Andrew, where the two of them planned to give the sign to attack.

  But instead of Andrew running along the cleared space between the great white wall and the jungle, he found Crispin loping toward him, with a pretty young girl, a few of his personal guard, and a handful of Sabir troops in tow, wearing a fierce grin on his handsome face.

  Anwyn smiled beneath his mask, and held up a gauntleted hand. “Hold!”

  Crispin slowed, then stopped. His grin faltered. “Brother,” he said, “your timing is perfect. We can catch all of them in there if we hurry.”

  “Brother?” Anwyn’s voice sounded hollow beneath the metal armor. “Who are you to call me brother?” Behind him, the mob shifted. A soft whisper—the hiss of a bag full of snakes poised to strike—rose from them. Andrew and a few of his horde closed the gap between them, boxing in Crispin and his people from the other side.

  Crispin’s eyes narrowed, and he said, “Anwyn, what game are you playing?”

  “I play no game. We came to find those responsible for the death of half of Calimekka. We find . . . you. You and the brat you kept secret from your own Family. You claim you had no part in the disaster?”

  “Of course I had no part in the disaster. I’m here for the same reason you are.”

  “And yet, you did not come with us, and you did not come with Andrew. And no one traveled these roads ahead of us. We posted guards. We sent scouts. How can you claim that you were not already here, that you are not part of the evil that comes from this place?”

  “We came here to rescue my daughter—the Galweighs had her. We arrived by airible,” Crispin snarled. “You moron, you know how we got here.”

  • • •

  Andrew’s people had cut Crispin and his daughter off from Crispin’s troops; now Andrew and three of his men moved to surround them. “When he’s dead, I get the little girl,” Andrew said. He giggled.

  Anwyn was disgusted. He needed to kill Andrew soon. But not tonight. Tonight he still needed him. “You can have the girl,” he said. “When all of this is finished.”

  • • •

  Crispin, one hand on Ulwe’s shoulder, backed slowly until he could back no farther. He stood against the wall of Galweigh House with Andrew and Anwyn and their mobs between him and his people. He was trapped. He had only Ulwe at his side, and she would be useless in a fight. Worse than useless, he thought. A liability. He stared down at her, thinking that he had used girls like her any number of times as sacrifices to fuel his magic—but as a sacrifice, she would stand as far above those girls as a paraglesa stood above a commoner; she was, after all, his own daughter. His own blood. With the power he could draw from her life, he could utterly destroy those who hid behind the walls of Galweigh House—Dùghall, Ry, Kait, and the rest. He would have his vengeance on them. Further, he thought he would be able to craft a quick removal spell that would allow him to escape from his brother and his cousin and their horde of rabble. He could, if he aimed the spell carefully, destroy both Anwyn and Andrew; a sacrifice as enormous as a daughter would confer tremendous power. He might save Ilari or the others of his guard. He could certainly save himself. He could certainly hope for the immortality he so desired. He would not be beaten.

  Andrew licked his lips and grinned at Ulwe, and beneath the palm of his hand, Crispin felt her shudder. A quick death would be better for her than what Andrew would do to her. And if he did not take some action, he would certainly die, and she would just as certainly become Andrew’s toy. Eventually, she would also die. It was that “eventually” that so chilled him.

  She looked up at him, and in her face he saw himself, and a poignant image of a love lost in his distant past, when he was a better man. When he had been less hungry for power, less frightened of life, less twisted by the choices he had made.

  His options, then. Ulwe’s merciful death at his hand, or his death at the hands of a mob and her slow, terrible destruction by Andrew?

  And then a third option presented itself. It came not from him, but from memories not his own that resided within him.

  He could use Falcon magic, and with Falcon magic, he could save Ulwe.

  He had never followed the Falcon path—he had always known of it, as scholars in any field know something of the errant fools who practice bizarre offshoots of their own sensible discipline. But as he touched the old man’s memories inside his head, he could feel Falcon magic. He could draw from his own life-force, from his own will and blood and flesh and spirit, and with his sacrifice of himself, he could send his daughter to safety. He could not use Falcon magic as a weapon; any magic that caused harm required sacrifice and also rebounded on its sender. So with Falcon magic, he could not destroy his enemies. He could clearly feel the range of his power, too, and, assessed as Dùghall would have assessed it, he could see that he was weak. He had not spent a lifetime developing the strength of character and the deep reserves of integrity that the old wizard had—he had propped his magic on the lives of others, and had never paid his own price. As a result, he had no hope of saving himself and Ulwe with Falcon magic. He would be lucky to save her.

  And if he did sacrifice himself, where would Ulwe find safety? In that moment, he regretted terribly the fact that he had spent his life making enemies. He had no dear friend, no beloved companion, no sympathetic colleague with whom he could entrust his daughter’s life.

  Andrew said, “I want her now,” and tittered.

  Crispin heard Anwyn’s disgusted snort; then, however, his voice boomed from behind the metal mask. “Give the child to Andrew; if you do so quickly and without causing difficulties, perhaps we can work something out for you.”

  Crispin’s mind raced. He had so little time, so much to do. Both spells were clear in his mind, both sets of words as obvious and simple as if they were written in front of him. And his choices, too, were clear. Sacrifice Ulwe and save everything he wanted—even, perhaps, his chance of someday finding immortality. Or sacrifice his just vengeance, his pride, his future, and his life, and save his daughter.

  Or do nothing and lose this brief opportunity, and with it everything—revenge, future, and daughter.

  “Papa, give me to the bad man,” Ulwe whispered, looking up at him. “Then they will let you go.” Her face was pale, her body trembled, and he could see tears welling in her eyes.

  His hands tightened on her shoulders, and his throat tightened so that he had to fight to breathe. “Not that,” he whispered back, and kissed her lightly on the top of the head. Her hair was soft and smelled of hay and sunlight and girl; her skin was warm; and with his face so close to her, his Karnee ears easily picked up the bird-quick racing of her beating heart.

  His hand slipped to the dagger at his hip, and he drew it quickly, before he could let himself think about what he was doing or debate further the rightness of his action. He tightened his grip around Ulwe with his left forearm so that she could not run, and tilted his left palm upward; he slashed the dagger across his exposed flesh, and when his blood poured from the deep cut, he bellowed:

  “My flesh, my blood, my soul,

  Vodor Imrish!

  Yours for her life,

  For her freedom,

  For her safety.

  Take what you will,

  But first give me what I will.”

  “Papa, no,” Ulwe shrieked. “They’ll kill you!” She tried to break free from his grip, but he caught her up in both hands, lifted her feet off the ground, and flung her into the air, focusing his will like an arrow toward the parapet of the wall high above him. The only place where he could hope she would be safe was among his enemies—with Dùghall and Ry and Kait. His shame was complete . . . but his daughter would live.

  She shot toward the parapet like a doll tossed by a child, and landed lightly at the back edge. The stunned faces of the mob tur
ned from her back to him; Andrew screamed like a pig at slaughter; Anwyn swore and called his personal guards to surround him.

  Crispin caught a quick glimpse of Ulwe’s face staring down at him, and then he heard her screaming, “Kait! Kait! Come help him! They’re going to kill him.”

  He did not have time to watch what happened atop the wall, though, because in the next instant, Andrew was upon him, knife drawn, snarling like a madman. The Falcon magic had left Crispin weak and drained; he managed to block Andrew’s first thrust, but felt the second slip past his guard and tear across his ribs, leaving a line of white-hot fire in its wake. He yelled, and felt the beast within waken and snarl and demand that he give himself over to it. Crispin could control the beast—he had mastered Shift long ago—but this time he did not. He let himself Shift; he let the trappings of humanity fall away from him like symptoms of a sickness, and he set the fanged, four-legged monster free.

  He heard screaming, but only peripherally. He tore off the sleeves of his tunic with his teeth, shrugged out of his cloak, and with a quick shudder worked free of boots and breeches. He grinned, his lips pulling back over fangs long as a man’s thumb, and laid his ears flat against his head, and in a growl dragged through Shift-mangled vocal cords, he said, “Come a little closer, Andrew.”

  The guards around them backed away. Andrew said, “Kill him, you fools,” but perhaps none of the guards had cared for Andrew’s leering after a little girl. None approached, and Crispin launched himself into the air, animate fury with dagger-sharp claws, and tore eight long slashes in Andrew’s left shoulder and the left side of his face as he vaulted past.

  He landed, spun gracefully as any big cat, and coiled himself for the next spring.

  Andrew swore, and Crispin caught the thickening of Karnee scent in the air. He waited; Andrew began to Shift. Crispin attacked again when his cousin was caught in mid-Shift—a clumsy creature neither man nor beast. He gouged out one eye and left the monster’s throat a bloody mess. But the Karnee curse did not let its creatures die so quickly. Though the eye had ripped free of the socket and so was beyond repair, the gaping wound at Andrew’s throat drew together and the bleeding stopped as quickly as the wound along Crispin’s ribs had healed.

  Crispin and Andrew braced themselves and attacked again. Andrew was the stronger and heavier opponent; Crispin was faster and more agile. They lunged and feinted and left chunks of each other’s flesh and puddles of their own blood in an expanding circle on the ground. Speed, caution, and the fury of just rage gave Crispin the edge, though, and Andrew’s blood poured faster, and his accumulated wounds slowed him more, until finally Crispin toppled him, held his teeth against Andrew’s throat, and said, “Beg my mercy.”

  “Mercy,” Andrew screamed, the sound a dark and horrible travesty of human speech.

  “Louder.”

  “MERCY!”

  “LOUDER.”

  “MERCY!”

  “You never showed it, you’ll never get it.” Crispin sank his teeth deeply into Andrew’s throat and shook his head hard—and felt the satisfying snap of Andrew’s spine; his cousin went limp, and while he was paralyzed, before the Karnee curse had a chance to repair damaged flesh and damaged nerves, Crispin gnawed through both of Andrew’s jugular arteries and, with a paw badly suited for the task, jammed his dagger through Andrew’s ribs and deeply into his heart.

  His heart sang with the triumph of the moment. He lifted his head from the bleeding corpse and, with Andrew’s gore dripping from his muzzle, stared around him.

  The faces that stared back at him were hate-filled, crazed, wild.

  They were human—true human—and he had revealed himself as more than a collaborator with wizards. He had revealed himself as a wizard and as a monster.

  He looked to Anwyn, wondering if he might kill him before he was taken down, but Anwyn was hidden completely within his armor. Pity I didn’t sacrifice Andrew, he thought—I’d have done more good with his death than he did with his entire life.

  “Kill it!” the mob was screaming.

  “Kill it!”

  He tensed his muscles, crouched, and sprang for Anwyn’s head. He felt the catches that held Anwyn’s gold mask in place snap, but the mask, caught perhaps on his horns, did not fall free. It stayed in place, and Crispin didn’t get another chance. Anwyn’s guard attacked him with swords, and when he fled toward the rabble who ringed Galweigh House, they picked up their cudgels and pitchforks and spears and beat him back.

  He felt the first blows land—terrible silent explosions that tore his muscles and shattered his bones and ripped the breath from his body. And then one thunderbolt landed at the base of his neck, and after a stunning instant of pain worse than anything he had ever experienced, warmth suffused his body. He felt better.

  He felt . . . good.

  Sight faded, replaced with comforting darkness, womblike darkness. Sensation faded. He did not feel pain. Did not feel touch. Did not feel anything. He floated in comfort. Smell faded, the stinks of sweat and filth and fear and hatred erased along with the sweet scent of the night air and the distant, haunting whisper of jasmine that was the last scent he could recall. And finally sound faded. The soft throbbing of his slowing heartbeat, soothing as the lulling waves breaking on a beach, washed away the screams and the shouts, the thin, high voice of Ulwe shrieking, “Papa, no! No!,” the whisper of the wind, the rattle of palm fronds. And at last, even that soothing, pulsing wash of sound was gone.

  • • •

  “Monsters and traitors,” Anwyn shouted, his voice carrying over the cleared ground that surrounded the House. “Two are dead. The rest hide within those walls.”

  He pointed up to the parapet, to the little girl who still stared down at the crowd and at the bloody tatters that were all that remained of her father.

  Crispin’s brat. His heir. Anwyn wanted her dead.

  Then a woman appeared atop the wall beside the girl and stood staring down at the place where the child pointed. She looked painfully familiar, and after an instant, Anwyn realized why. She was the woman Anwyn had watched fall to her death from the top of the Sabir tower—the woman whose body had disappeared without a trace. She was a Galweigh—and something more. Karnee. A keeper of enormous magic. A woman who had to die.

  The Galweigh woman covered the child’s eyes and pulled her away from the parapet. She, however, glanced down at him for just an instant before disappearing, and in that instant he read cool assessment, and the promise of his own doom.

  He suppressed his shudder. She wouldn’t live to keep that promise. He would see to that.

  “The ladders,” he shouted. “Get the rest of the monsters!”

  Howling, the rabble he and Andrew had gathered charged back to their ladders and threw them up against the wall at a dozen points. The ladders weren’t tall enough to reach the top of the wall, but they were tall enough to get the rope-masters with their grappling hooks into position.

  Ropes sailed over the parapets, and some skittered back again, their hooks finding nothing to hold. But others found purchase. And half a dozen men climbed the undefended walls, and dropped to the other side, and dragged up the rope ladders that the rest of the mob would climb, and anchored them.

  But they had no more than settled the ladders into place when invisible forces picked them up and dropped them back outside the walls, carefully and gently.

  “Keep going,” Anwyn screamed, and the mob poured up the walls.

  They, too, were picked up as soon as they were inside the walls and put down outside and unharmed.

  “Faster,” Anwyn shouted.

  The mob, finding that it was not hurt by its removal, gathered courage and fueled it with rage, and surged back again, over each of the entry points.

  And finally the invisible forces faltered, and those humans who entered stayed.

  Now the bereaved vengeance-seekers poured in faster. Over the walls. Into the inner sanctum and onto the grounds of Galweigh House. Anwyn Sabir follo
wed them in and rallied them and aimed them at the House itself. But they hadn’t been fast enough. The House’s invisible guards had bought just enough time, for as the mob neared its objective, the few inhabitants of Galweigh House escaped. The mob watched as the first rays of morning light caught the envelope of the airible as it slipped silently out of reach, motors off, buffeted by the dawn breeze.

  Anwyn screamed with rage, and swore, and tossed his head as an angry bull would.

  And the mask that hid his monstrosity from the mob he led fell to the ground. The dim light of new dawn displayed his naked, horned, scaled, fanged face to the mob that had just been deprived of its prey.

  He heard the indrawn breath. He saw the shock in the eyes. He looked around for an avenue of escape, but there was no such thing.

  The mob, hungry for blood and deprived of their rightful targets, turned on him.

  He fought well, at least for a while.

  And then the House’s ghostly guardians received the night’s final gift.

  Chapter 39

  The last strands of darkness still clung to the Long Comfort when a dozen shadowed forms slipped through the alley door. The innkeeper Shrubber came upon them as he carried wood into the common room—always an early riser, he’d been preparing the hearthfire for the new day.

  One of the men slit his throat before he could cry out, and when he had finished thrashing, shoved his body into the hearth, piling the wood before it to hide it from immediate discovery. No one else stumbled upon the invaders, and they made their way quietly up the stairs to the guest rooms, and unerringly to the room occupied by Ry, Yanth, and Jaim.

  “Knives out,” one of the men said. “When they’re dead, strip the bodies and take everything of value in the room. It has to look like a robbery.”