The Seventh Sentinel

by Mary Kirchoff

  She scoffed. “I wasn’t aware I had a choice.”

  Lyim rounded on her. “Everything in life is a choice,” he spat. “I believe I corrected your brother on that point once.”

  Lyim visibly struggled to lighten his tone. “Correct me if I’m wrong,” he said, “but I gathered from Rand’s reaction in the studio that he wasn’t aware you had come along. Why did you choose to come to Qindaras, Kirah?” he asked, watching her reaction closely.

  “To kill you, of course,” Kirah assured him affably.

  “Had you so little faith in Guerrand and Bram’s ability to accomplish that?”

  “No, of course not!” she sputtered. “It’s just that I—”

  “You wanted to see me again,” he finished for her.

  Her eyes blazed. “I wanted to see you dead, is all!” Despite her harsh words and her best resolve, Kirah found herself warming to their old cat-and-mouse ways. The realization angered her as much as the fact that Lyim, in his arrogance, had noticed it first.

  “What is this choice I have?” she demanded skeptically.

  “I can order any woman in Qindaras into my bed,” Lyim began.

  “Are you bragging?”

  Lyim lips cracked briefly in amusement. “Just stating a fact I’ve had little interest in pursuing. Right now, you are the only woman in Qindaras who would not come to me simply because of who I am. I find that very … intriguing.”

  “But I told you that I hate you, that I want you dead!”

  Smiling, he shrugged away the notion. “And I told you that I don’t believe you. I enjoy a challenge. Besides, I find you much more interesting as a spitfire than as the doting little sister I last knew.”

  She squinted at him in disbelief. “I thought you didn’t trust anyone but yourself.”

  “Don’t ever confuse desire with trust, Kirah,” he advised. “It can be a fatal mistake.”

  It almost had been for her, she admitted, recalling that her feelings for Lyim had caused her to blithely drink the poison he had presented to her as medicine.

  The memory renewed her anger. “You know I would agree to stay only to save Bram and Guerrand. That’s no choice, it’s extortion! Why is that any more intriguing to you than ordering a woman from Qindaras to—” her mind stumbled for the words “—to join you?”

  Lyim laughed at her. “Because, my dear, unlike them, you do have a choice. Come to me of your free will, or let Br—” Lyim stopped. And smiled. And cleverly left the threat unsaid. Almost. “We have some very talented torturers here in Qindaras.”

  Her eyes flew wide.

  Before she could move, Lyim had Kirah in an unrelenting embrace. “I’m a practical man with a lot less vanity than I used to have. However, I have enough left to be certain you aren’t as unwilling as you profess.”

  Kirah’s mind and heart raced, fought. There was no point in denying to herself that her thinking was flawed where Lyim was concerned. She had no reason to believe he spoke truthfully about letting Guerrand and Bram go free; he had lied more than not in the past. Yet, she was certain it wasn’t vanity that made her believe he had a weakness for her, too. Perhaps, in time, she could persuade Lyim to let them all go.

  “I’ll stay,” she said, her voice trembling.

  Lyim’s lips traced a warm path down her left temple. “I can be very generous, Kirah. And very vindictive. That’s something for you to remember if you accept my offer with the idea of betraying me.”

  “How long must I agree to stay?”

  Lyim shrugged. “As long as it amuses us both.”

  Lyim’s arms tightened around Kirah. She could not fool herself that she tolerated Lyim’s attention only to save Bram and Guerrand. This was something she had dreamed about in her days as the village crazy who stared out to sea, watching for her lover’s return. Kirah didn’t trust Lyim, didn’t know where this folly would lead her, but in keeping with a life marked by imprudent acts, she didn’t care.

  She was saving Guerrand and Bram’s lives. Beyond that—beyond this moment—Kirah just didn’t care to think.

  * * * * *

  Bram was in a foul mood, too angry to meditate to calm his spirit. He had no idea how to get out of this cell, let alone resume their plan to kill Lyim. And then there was the question of Kirah’s safety.…

  One thing was clear: Bram would solve none of his problems until he conquered his anger. He forced his eyes closed and slowly repeated the words of the calming mantra. The tension in his muscles gradually eased; the pounding in his temples subsided. When he opened his eyes again, his thoughts were clearer.

  The cell in which he and Guerrand had been deposited was clean, by dungeon standards, the rushes sweet smelling. There were padded stools, two small rope beds, a basin of fresh water, even bread and cheese. Bram ignored them, despite a gnawing hunger.

  The guards had taken his staff, the one Bram used as a channel for his magic. Without it, he couldn’t cast spells, couldn’t magically awaken Guerrand, or even heal the lump on Rand’s head that had rendered him unconscious. Bram’s pack had been taken as well, so he was without curative herbs or smelling salts.

  Bram almost envied Rand his oblivion. Reluctantly, he walked over to one of the rope beds and shook his uncle gently by the shoulder. “Rand,” he said, “can you hear me? You’ve got to wake up.”

  Guerrand muttered, rolled his head from side to side, but didn’t open his eyes. Bram patted his cheeks, rather vigorously. Groggy, Guerrand batted Bram’s hands away, until finally his eyes popped open. He stared up at Bram in confusion.

  “Where are we?” the mage asked, blinking.

  “Dungeon.”

  Guerrand pushed himself up on his elbows, then sank back down when his head started throbbing. Wincing, he gingerly touched a finger to the lump there. “One of them clubbed me, didn’t he?”

  Bram nodded, didn’t tell his uncle how many of Lyim’s faithful guards had kicked him while he was dragged unconscious through the halls and down several flights of stairs to the dungeon. Guerrand would realize that soon enough when he tried to move.

  “Please tell me I’m remembering some awful dream, that Kirah didn’t really spring out of the mirror,” he begged, wincing against the pain even speech brought.

  “I wish I could tell you that,” Bram said softly. “I found her in the mirror world shortly after I slipped inside at the gates. There was no way to warn you, but she promised to stay there. She said the walls in the mirror world closed in on her, and she was forced out.”

  Guerrand nodded. “I wasn’t sure what effect Lyim’s gauntlet would have on the mirror.” His eyes popped open. “Why didn’t you order her to envision a mirror in Castle DiThon and return through the mirror world straightaway?”

  Bram frowned. “I tried. Have you ever successfully forced Kirah to do anything against her will?”

  “No, I suppose I haven’t,” Rand said, sighing in resignation. “So what’s our situation?”

  “We’re in the palace’s dungeon,” Bram repeated. “They’ve taken all our belongings, including my staff.”

  “The mirror? I was trying to pick it up—”

  “Last time I saw it,” Bram said, “it was on the floor of the studio. I assume Lyim has recovered that, too.”

  “Damn!” Guerrand cursed softly. “That’s to be expected, I suppose. At least Lyim hasn’t had us summarily slaughtered. We can be thankful for that, anyway.”

  Bram drew in a breath. “He’s got Kirah someplace.”

  Guerrand sat straight up at that, ignoring the pain in his head. “You’re sure?”

  Bram pursed his lips. “Unless she’s unconscious, too, I’m fairly certain she’s not down here in another cell. I’ve been calling through the slot in the door. I’ve heard from an old prisoner named Yarlsruh, but no Kirah. I suppose she could have escaped, but—”

  “I doubt it.” Guerrand scowled. “Lyim’s probably holding her as insurance against our giving him information about the Council of Three. She shoul
d be all right for a while.”

  Bram couldn’t help but notice his uncle’s tone wasn’t as confident as his words. “What do we do now?”

  “Get your staff back, of course.”

  “No problem,” Bram said wryly. “I’ll just ask that nice guard who brained you senseless to give it back.”

  Guerrand glowered at him. “Just give me a chance to think, will you?” he said, grabbing his head again.

  “Maybe you’d feel better if you ate something,” Bram suggested. “I know I’m starving.” He considered the victuals on the table next to Guerrand’s bed, then drew his hand back. “Do you think they’re poisoned?”

  Guerrand shook his head gingerly. “You read too many of Rejik’s cloak-and-dagger novels before Cormac burned them all. If Lyim wanted us dead, he wouldn’t have to resort to poison, would he? He already has us locked up.”

  “I suppose,” Bram muttered, feeling foolish. Recalling those well-loved stories, he came up with an idea. “What if you pretend to still be unconscious, and I call the guards in to check on you, and—”

  “Then we knock them out,” Guerrand supplied. “It’s a bit hackneyed. The oldest trick in the world, in fact, but I suppose it could work.” He rubbed at his aching muscles. “We’ll have to be very convincing, because we won’t get a second chance to fool them. You’ll have to dash out their brains alone from behind, since I’ll be flat on my back. Do you think you can do it?”

  Bram’s eyes twinkled. “I think I can recall some of my brief cavalier training from nearly twenty years ago.”

  “That wasn’t exactly the vote of confidence I was hoping for,” sighed Guerrand. “But it’ll have to do. Maybe some props will help.” Guerrand took a mouthful of bread and cheese, chewed it thoroughly, then spit the mess back into his hand. “This ought to make anyone believe I’m sick,” he said as he smeared goo on his lips and chin, then plopped the remainder on the mattress near where his head would lie.

  Bram moved to the door as Guerrand arranged himself on the bed. With one last look over his shoulder, he called, “Guard! I need help! Please, I think there’s something really wrong with my uncle!”

  A heavy scuffling sound in the hall was followed by footsteps and jangling metal. Then a voice replied, “Of course there’s something wrong with your uncle. He’s down here, isn’t he? If things was all right, he wouldn’t be here. Now shut up and behave yourself, or I’ll give you a damned good thrashing.”

  Bram banged on the door. “Wait! You don’t understand. He was hit in the head, and now he’s throwing up. I think he’s really hurt.”

  The guard chortled. “Well, I tell you what. Tomorrow when we strap him to a table down the hall, we’ll make him forget all about his upset tummy.”

  Bram glanced at his uncle, who threw him a stern look and made a fist. Turning back to the door, Bram assumed his best, commanding voice, the one he used when addressing uncooperative subjects.

  “Listen to me, you great oaf. There’s a man in here who is very important to your so-called potentate. He may be dying because of your cruel treatment. If Aniirin comes down here to interrogate him, as he surely will, and finds him dead or too badly hurt to answer, where do you think the potentate’s wrath will fall? On another valuable prisoner like me, or on a no-account bully of a guard who is easily replaced? If my uncle is hurt as badly as I think he is, you don’t have much time to ponder that.”

  There was an uneasy silence in the hall. Then, as Bram had hoped, he heard the bar being lifted from the front of the door. The guard’s voice, a bit shaky now, warned, “We’re coming in. Back away from the door, d’you hear?”

  Bram quickly complied, backing up against the empty bed within easy reach of the basin and water pitcher. Guerrand tossed his nephew a wink, then closed his eyes and began moaning softly as the door creaked open. The burly guard poked his head through the doorway and checked to see that Bram was out of the way before looking at Guerrand. His gaze fell for several moments on the smear of chewed food, the bruised temple, and torn clothing.

  “Mercy, what a mess we got now,” he muttered, then swung the door open. “Keep an eye on that one,” he admonished. Bram was momentarily surprised to see that the jailer’s helper was a boy, probably in his mid-teens, who looked far more frightened than Bram felt in spite of the spear he held before him.

  As the guard knelt to examine Guerrand, Bram snatched the water-filled pitcher and swung it as hard as he could, smashing it straight down atop the guard’s head. The man crumpled without even a groan, amid the splashing water and clattering porcelain fragments. Guerrand lunged forward and grabbed the spear with both hands, wrenching it away. The boy retreated, wide-eyed and whimpering, to the far corner of the cell.

  Bram picked up the heavy basin and eyed the frightened lad, but Guerrand told him to set it down. “We can gag him and tie him up. We don’t need to bash in his head just to keep him quiet, much as I’d like to.”

  Immediately Bram went to work on the guard, using ropes that he stripped from the bed frame and stuffing the better part of a sheet into the man’s enormous mouth.

  Meanwhile, the boy submitted to having his arms, thin as straw-sticks, lashed to his sides. “There was a young woman with us,” Guerrand said as he knotted the ropes to the bed frame. “Was she brought down here?”

  The boy shook his head, then whispered, “No, we’ve got no ladies in here at all.” As Guerrand prepared a gag, the boy spoke again. “Please, sirs, if it’s not too much to ask, could you knock me about like you did Murtzy? The soldiers will thrash me something awful if I don’t have a knot on my head.”

  Guerrand picked up the basin, than passed it to Bram. “Get it right the first time,” he advised. After a dull clong sound, the boy slumped in his bonds.

  Once out of the cell, they quickly located their belongings near the guards’ table. Bram’s fingers ran the length of his meticulously carved staff, lingered over the rough gem set in the top. He hadn’t realized how mentally dependent he’d become on the staff he’d fashioned as a focus for his magic. He had felt vulnerable without it, despite the relative ease of their escape.

  “Finally, the fates would seem to be on our side,” Bram remarked. “That old trick worked beautifully.”

  “Maybe a little too beautifully,” mused Guerrand.

  Bram turned on him. “What do you mean?”

  Guerrand looked pensive. “I’ve just been thinking how odd it is that Lyim would have assigned such foolish guards to our detail.”

  “You think he arranged it so we could get out?” Bram asked. “But why?”

  “Because he enjoys playing games. Because he would find it more interesting to give us hope, then squash us like mice running through the corridors of his palace.” Guerrand gave a little shrug. “Don’t ask me to try to think as Lyim does.”

  “Maybe you’re overestimating how much he regards us as a threat,” Bram countered.

  “I don’t think so. We can’t afford to take anything at face value from here on out.”

  Bram wrapped his fingers around his staff and headed for the stairs.

  “Wait a moment,” his uncle said, stopping him.

  Bram turned around a bit anxiously. “What is it? We’ve got to move before any more guards or soldiers come down here to check the area.”

  Guerrand cleared his throat awkwardly. “Remember Lyim’s unpredictability,” he said, “and you won’t be surprised by any situation that arises, or anything I do. You have to be prepared to leave me if you must.”

  Bram looked at his uncle strangely. “We’ve been over this. Let’s just hope I don’t need to make that choice.” He headed for the torchlit staircase.

  Bram didn’t see his uncle’s grim expression as the mage followed him up the stairs.

  Guerrand felt as though every nerve was at the surface of his skin. He expected something to go very wrong at any moment. He was waiting for it around every corner he and Bram turned as they crept through Lyim’s palace, searchi
ng for Kirah. Guerrand’s sword, retrieved from the guards’ station, was thrust through his belt, but Bram carried only his staff.

  Guerrand could not shake the thought that their escape from the dungeon had been entirely too easy. There might as well have been no doors on their cell or guards outside, for all the good either had been. Lyim hadn’t risen so far in so short a time by being so careless.

  How was it, in a palace the size of Thonvil, that they had easily avoided both sentries and servants?

  Guerrand could scarcely contemplate the possibilities through the pounding in his head. He had been suffering since awaking in the cell. Through the headache, he sensed a strange, undeniable pull. Some force, undoubtedly magical, was leading him through the palace. The mage hadn’t mentioned this to Bram; it was a sensation too vague to describe, let alone credit.

  How he wished he could cast just one spell to determine if they were being led into a trap, or if this strange pull was just his imagination. The palace was, after all, powered by an immense amount of magic. Perhaps his senses were being skewed in the presence of so much arcane energy. Above all these considerations, his head just throbbed. His thoughts were twisting into a coil he couldn’t untangle.

  The mage and his nephew came to a second floor landing just above the hanging gardens. Guerrand dropped onto a step briefly. Sweat ran in rivulets down his temples, matting the dark hair around his face. They hadn’t traveled particularly far or fast, so the mage’s condition was surprising to both men.

  “Are you all right?” Bram whispered at his side.

  “I’ve got a terrific headache,” Guerrand ventured back, his voice raspy, “undoubtedly the result of the guards’ delicate handling.”

  Bram looked concerned. “I could give you a curative herb concoction, or try a spell to ease the pain.”

  Guerrand winced his refusal. “Thanks, but I have the feeling neither would help.” He cradled his head in his hands momentarily, but the longer he sat, the worse the pain became. He was comforted briefly at the thought of the vial Dagamier had prepared for him at Bastion, safely tucked into his tunic, but nothing could overcome the torment in his skull for more than a breath or two.