That was a lie. Sykhana detested the woman. Not because Rachel Roland was an apostate from the true faith of Sepharivaim, though that should have been the reason. No, Lady Rachel was weak and stupid and useless. A pretty flower, kept safe by the strength of her husband and father-in-law, a flower that would wilt at the first hint of frost. The first hint of pain and suffering.
Sykhana had known little else during her life.
And Lady Rachel did not recognize the gift, the wonderful gift, she had in Aldane Roland. In the ability to bear children.
Sykhana despised Rachel Roland, but she did not care about the woman.
Rachel chattered on matters of little consequence, and Sykhana feigned interest. To judge from the flush in her cheeks and her dilated pupils, Rachel no doubt planned to lie with her husband once again before she fell asleep, and Sykhana felt a surge of jealous rage. Not over Gerald Roland - she had no use for him. But if his seed quickened in his wife's womb, she could grow great with child once more. She could give birth to another son, strong and beautiful.
Something Sykhana would never know.
At last Rachel ran out of words and vanished into the bedroom to join her husband. Sykhana stalked across the sitting room and onto the balcony. All around her she saw Knightcastle in its ancient splendor, towers and parapets and spires, and the Riversteel's valley and the bustling docks of Castle Town, busy even at night.
She did not care about that, either. Let Knightcastle burn. Let the world burn. It mattered little to her.
Very little mattered to Sykhana any longer.
She looked into the sitting room, at the crib near the bedroom door. She stared at the small sleeping form, and some of the tightness drained from her jaw, her hands unclenching.
Aldane Roland mattered to her.
Before she realized it, she stood over the crib, gazing at the baby. His breathing was slow and steady, his face slack with sleep. From time to time one of his little hands twitched, or one of his feet kicked, pushing the blanket from him. Sykhana reached down and tugged the blanket back into place.
He was perfect. Beautiful, the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. Rachel and Gerald did not deserve him. They would raise him to be yet another knight, yet another brainless fool with a sword and a horse. Sykhana could give him so much more. Aldane would know power and glory beyond anything any mortal had ever known. He would live in splendor and bliss forever. His name would resound throughout the ages, and generations yet unborn would fall to their knees and worship him as a god...
"Sykhana," said a voice.
She whirled, arms and legs moving into the unarmed fighting stances taught by the priests of Karag Tormeth. Her fangs sprouted over her lips as she moved, ready to pump poison into any foe. Her inner eyelid, which gave her eyes their human appearance, slid back, and the pale moonlight suddenly became as bright as the sun.
And she saw the...shape standing in the corner of the sitting room.
It looked like a man cloaked in hooded robes, albeit a man made of darkness and pale silver light. The moonlight shone through the window, but the hooded man cast no shadow against the wall. Which made sense, since the man wasn't really there at all. It was nothing more than an image, a projection sent by a man standing hundreds of miles away.
By the wizard standing hundreds of miles away.
"Malavost," said Sykhana.
A lip lined in silver light and shadow twitched in amusement. Most men and women regarded Malavost with fear, called him "Master", lest his wrath fall upon them. But Sykhana did not care about Malavost, or his magic, or all the dark stories that swirled around the renegade wizard.
But she did care about what Malavost had promised her. She cared about that very much.
"Sykhana," said Malavost. His voice sounded tinny, as if coming through a long metal tube. "You're looking well. The dress a servant suits you better than I expected."
"How droll," said Sykhana. "You have business with me, I assume? Projecting an image over such a distance must tax a wizard of even your power."
"Less than you might think," said Malavost. "My reserves are considerable. But I'm not making this effort merely to amuse myself. The hour has come."
Sykhana blinked. "You mean..."
"Yes." A smile flickered over his shadowed face. "It is time."
Sykhana's hands started to tremble, and she forced them to remain still. "At last?"
"Need I repeat myself?" said Malavost. "It has begun,. Everything is ready. We need only one more thing. Do what you came to Knightcastle to do, and meet us in the Grim Marches as soon as possible."
"The Grim Marches?" said Sykhana. "Why there?"
Again a smile crossed Malavost's face. "Our plans have come to fruition. Meet us at a village called Gray Pillar, a day's ride east of Castle Cravenlock. Do you know it?"
"Aye," said Sykhana. She had traveled through the Grim Marches a year past, after Mazael killed Mitor Cravenlock and became Lord of Castle Cravenlock. Mitor had been a proselyte, a loyal follower of Sepharivaim, while Mazael...
Needless to say, the San-keth archpriests wanted Mazael dead, badly, and had promised a great reward to any follower of Sepharivaim who slew him. No one had yet succeeded.
But Sykhana did not care about Mazael Cravenlock, or the wishes of the archpriests. They could not give her what she wanted.
Malavost could.
"Good," said Malavost. "Remember. The village of Gray Pillar, in the Grim Marches. Do what I have asked of you, and meet us there."
"And you'll keep your promise?" said Sykhana. "You will do what you said?"
"I shall," said Malavost. He smiled, his image rippling and flickering. " Just as I have promised."
The image flickered once more and vanished into nothingness.
Sykhana left the anteroom, her heart racing with excitement. She forced herself to calm, and it came easily. She had trained in the gloomy dungeons of Karag Tormeth, under the most brutal teachers, to kill with ease, to move silently. Tonight, of course, she hoped to kill no one.
But if anyone tried to stop her, she would leave them dead upon the floor.
She had a small room behind the kitchen of Ideliza's Tower, furnished with a narrow bed, a wardrobe, and a wooden chest. Sykhana stripped out of her dress, knelt, and opened the chest, throwing aside the clothes it contained, and pressed a hand to the bottom of the chest.
The false bottom opened, and she lifted it aside to reveal her weapons.
She dressed in the garb favored by the changeling assassins of the San-keth, the Fangs of Sepharivaim. Armor of close-fitting, overlapping black leather plates, designed to emulate a serpent's scales. A lightweight black cloak, to obscure her outline and help her hide in the shadows. A pair of gauntlets, equipped with razor-edged climbing claws. A weapons belt, sheathed daggers at the ready.
She prepared her weapons. One by one she lifted them to her lips and extended her fangs, letting the poison drip upon the steel. The poison of a half-breed, a changeling, was not so lethal as the kiss of a full San-keth. But even so, one scratch of her poison daggers would kill in a matter of moments.
She poisoned the last blade and set it in place.
At last, she was ready.
Sykhana left her room, not bothering to close the door, and made for the anteroom.
And Aldane's crib.
###
Rachel awoke in the darkness.
She looked at the ceiling of the bedroom, working moisture into her mouth. Gerald lay against her, eyes closed, breathing slow and steady. Some moonlight leaked through the window, staining the room silver. Everything was still and silent.
So why did she feel so troubled?
Aldane, that was it. She didn't hear him crying. He usually woke up hungry this time of night.
She stared at the bedroom door.
This was absurd. So Aldane hadn't woken up hungry - that was surely no cause for concern. She ought to take the opportunity to get some sleep. The gods knew she hadn't slep
t the night through since Aldane had been born.
But he always woke up hungry this time of night.
Rachel slipped naked out of bed, shivering at the cool night air against her skin, and tugged on a robe. She would check on Aldane, she decided. Just to make sure that he was all right. Then she could go back to bed.
She opened the door, taking care to keep silent, lest she wake Gerald, and stepped into the anteroom.
And stopped in her tracks.
A dark shape stood over the crib, gazing down at Aldane. The figure looked up, and Rachel caught a glimpse of a pale face, of yellow eyes gleaming beneath a hood.
Of San-keth eyes.
Rachel opened her mouth to scream.
The dark figure moved in a blur, steel gleaming. Rachel threw herself to the side, but not before a throwing knife nicked her jaw. She gasped in pain, numbness spreading from the cut.
Her legs began to tremble.
Poison, she realized. The throwing knife had been poisoned.
The cloaked figure sprang forward, arm curling around Rachel's waist. Rachel tried to scream, tried to fight, but her limbs trembled, and she could not seem to form words. Her head rocked back, muscles twitching, and she stared into the dark hood.
Sarah's face gazed down at her. Only Sarah had ivory fangs curling over her lips, and her eyes had turned yellow, with vertical black pupils. Sarah was a calibah, a changeling, the product of a San-keth father and a human mother. Rachel would have given birth to calibah herself, had Mazael and Gerald not saved her from such a fate.
But that meant Sarah had been a changeling all along. A San-keth changeling had been in her rooms for months. A San-keth changeling had been watching her, spying on her.
A San-keth changeling had touched her son.
Rachel tried to scream, but Sarah's gloved hand clamped over her mouth.
"You stupid weakling," hissed Sarah. "You don't deserve him. I will make him immortal and strong, and he will reign in splendor over the earth forever." She leaned close, and Rachel smelled the harsh tang of calibah poison on Sarah's breath. "He won't even remember you."
She shoved, and Rachel fell to the floor, still twitching. Rachel clawed at her robe, pawing at her pocket. Sarah crossed the room, reached into the crib, and picked up Aldane. The baby lay silent and motionless in the calibah's arms, and Rachel realized that he had been drugged for silence.
Rage exploded through her, and she tried to sit up, tried to scream for help, but her muscles kept jerking.
Sarah looked at her once more, lip curled with contempt, and then vanished through the doorway.
Rachel slumped against the wall, her heart hammering, her head throbbing. She knew the changeling poison wasn't nearly as deadly as the venom of a full-blooded San-keth. Yet it was still lethal enough, and she had only moments to live.
She clawed at her robe's pockets, and pulled out a handful of dried yellow leaves. She lifted her trembling hand to her lips and forced the leaves into her mouth, making herself chew and swallow. She bit her tongue, blood filling her mouth, but still forced herself to chew. Once she had been betrothed to Skhath, a San-keth cleric of Sepharivaim, and she had learned many of the secrets of the San-keth.
Including the antidotes for their poison. Ever since Mazael had killed Skhath, she had lived in terror of the retribution of the San-keth, and had carried dried succorleaf with her wherever she went.
Thank the gods for that.
But Aldane. Gods, oh, gods, she had taken Aldane...
Bit by bit the cold numbness of the succorleaf spread through her veins, easing the pain, her limbs stilling. Rachel worked moisture into her mouth, trying to ignore the taste of blood.
"Gerald," she whispered, when at last she could speak again. "Gerald. Gerald." She lashed out with her foot, kicking the door. Her bare sole did not make much noise against the heavy oak. "Gerald, gods, Gerald. Gerald. Gerald. Gerald!"
Her voice came out in a ragged, rusty shriek.
The door burst open, and Gerald sprang into the anteroom, naked but for the sword in his right hand. His eyes widened when he saw her, and he knelt by her side, sword still ready.
"Rachel!" he said. "Gods, what happened, are..."
"Aldane!" said Rachel. "Sarah's a changeling, she took Aldane. Stop her. Stop her!"
Gerald rose to his feet, hesitated, looked back at her.
"You're bleed..."
"I'm fine!" shouted Rachel, clawing at the wall as she tried to stand. "Get Aldane. Get Aldane!"
Gerald raced from the room, not even bothering to cover himself, and shouted for the guards.
Rachel levered herself to her knees, panic filling. Sarah had taken Aldane. Sarah had taken her son.
A San-keth changeling had taken her son!
A moment later she heard the horns ring over Knightcastle.
###
On the second tier of Knightcastle, Sykhana froze in place, listening to the horns ring over the towers.
"Damn," she muttered.
She had erred. In her excitement, she had left at once, trusting in her poison to finish off Rachel Roland. Sykhana should have simply cut the woman's throat. No doubt Sir Gerald had awakened to find his son missing and his wife dying upon the floor.
He would be wroth. Again the horns rang out, summoning Knightcastle's guards and knights to arms. They would seal the castle, hunt her down, and kill her.
And Aldane would lose his chance for eternal power and bliss.
Sykhana cursed and broke into a run. Around her she heard the clatter of arms and armor rising from Knightcastle's courtyards, the shouts of sergeants and knights bellowing orders, the tramp of boots against flagstones. She had spent months observing Gerald Roland firsthand, and though he was trusting and naive, he was no fool in matters of arms. He would order Knightcastle sealed, send search parties to slay her and reclaim Aldane.
But there was more than one way out of Knightcastle.
Knightcastle was ancient, expanded and rebuilt and expanded again throughout its long history. One long-dead Roland king had wished to visit his mistresses in secret, so he had constructed the Trysting Ways, a network of secret passages connecting his chamber to his mistresses' rooms. Later Roland kings and lords had expanded the Trysting Ways, until a maze of hidden passages threaded through Knightcastle like veins in living flesh. Not even the Rolands themselves knew all the hidden twists and turns of the Trysting Ways.
But the San-keth knew of them. Last year, the archpriest Straganis had used the Trysting Ways to attack Lord Malden. Mazael Cravenlock and the Dragon's Shadow had baffled the attack, driving Straganis and the calibah back into the Trysting Ways. No doubt Lord Malden and Sir Tobias had since ordered the entrances guarded.
But there were many entrances into the Ways, and if Sykhana could reach them before the guards did...
She heard men running, heard someone shout. Had they spotted her? She slid through the door at the base of a tower, and into a dusty round chamber, once used as an armory, to judge from the racks on the walls. The fireplace had a secret entrance into the Trysting Ways. Three more steps, and...
The door on the far wall swung open, and four armsmen in Roland tabards stepped into the room.
"Aye, I don't see the point," said the first man, "but orders are..."
He fell silent.
Sykhana hissed, lips drawing back from her fangs.
"Gods, that's a changeling!" said one of the men.
"Kill it!" said another man.
All four armsmen drew their swords.
Sykhana stooped, set Aldane on the floor, and straightened up. The first of the armsmen, with the silver trim of a sergeant on his helm, lunged at her, his sword glittering in the dim moonlight. Sykhana spun past the thrust, grabbed his wrist, and pulled herself close.
Then she kissed him. The sergeant's eyes widened in astonishment, and screamed as her fangs plunged into his lip and chin. Rachel Roland had received only the smallest drop of Sykhana's poison. The sergeant received
a full dose. His screams cut off as his face turned black and his windpipe closed up.
The remaining three men hesitated, and Sykhana yanked a throwing knife from her belt, drew back her arm, and flung it. The armsman on the left ducked, but the blade nicked his jaw.
He was dead. He just didn't know it yet.
Sykhana danced back and yanked a pair of daggers from her belt. The armsmen came at her, swords stabbing and slashing. She dodged their attacks and lashed out with her daggers. All three men were armored, and competent fighters, and there was no way she could land a killing blow with one of her daggers.
Demonsouled Omnibus One Page 82
