The High Lord bmt-3

by Trudi Canavan

  Two figures were frozen in position, one crouched awkwardly with a knife held at his throat. Cery recognized the loser as Krinn, the assassin and skilled fighter he usually hired for more important assignments. Krinn's eyes flickered toward Cery. His expression changed from surprise to embarrassment.

  "Yield?" Savara asked.

  "Yes," Krinn replied in a strained voice.

  Savara withdrew the knife and stepped away in one fluid movement. Krinn rose and looked down at her warily. He was at least a head taller than her, Cery noted with amusement.

  "Practicing on my men again, Savara?"

  She smiled slyly. "Only on invitation, Ceryni."

  He considered her carefully. What if he...? There would be some risk, but there always was. He glanced at Krinn, who was edging toward the door.

  "Go on, Krinn. Close the door behind you." The assassin hurried away. When the door had shut, Cery stepped toward Savara. "I invite you to try me out."

  He heard Gol's indrawn breath.

  Her smile broadened. "I accept."

  Cery drew a pair of daggers out of his coat. Leather loops had been attached to the handles to prevent them slipping out of his grasp, and to allow him to grab and pull. Her eyebrows rose as he slipped his palms through the loops.

  "Two are hardly ever better than one," she commented.

  "I know," Cery replied as he approached her.

  "But you do look like you know what you are doing," she mused. "I expect that would intimidate the average lout."

  "Yes, it does."

  She took a few steps to the left, drawing a little closer. "I'm not the average lout, Ceryni."

  "No. I can see that."

  He smiled. If her reason for offering to help him was to gain his trust long enough to get a chance to kill him, he was probably handing her the perfect opportunity. She would die for it, however. Gol would ensure that.

  She darted toward him. He dodged out of reach, then stepped in and aimed for her shoulder. She spun away.

  They continued like this for a few minutes, each testing the reflexes and reach of the other. Then she came closer and he blocked and returned several quick attacks. Neither quite managed to get past the other's guard. They stepped away from each other, both breathing heavily.

  "What have you done about the slave?" she asked.

  "He's dead."

  He watched her face closely. She did not look surprised, only a little annoyed. "He did it?"

  "Of course."

  "I could have done it for you."

  He frowned. She sounded so confident. Too confident.

  She darted forward, blade flashing in the lamplight. Cery slapped her arm away with his forearm. A fast and frantic struggle followed, and he grinned with triumph as he managed to lock her right arm out of the way, and slip his knife into her left armpit.

  She froze, also grinning.

  "Yield?" she asked.

  A sharp point pressed into his stomach. Looking down, he saw a different knife in her left hand. The other still held her original knife. He smiled, then pressed his knife a little harder into her armpit.

  "There's a vein here that goes straight to the heart. If cut, it would bleed so fast you wouldn't live long enough to decide how to curse me."

  He was gratified to see her eyes widen in surprise and her grin disappear. "Stalemate, then?"

  They were very close. She smelt wonderful, a mixture of fresh sweat and something spicy. Her eyes sparkled with amusement, but her mouth was a tightly held thin line.

  "Stalemate," he agreed. He stepped back and to one side so that her blade left his stomach before he removed his from her armpit. His heart was beating quickly. It was not an unpleasant sensation.

  "You know these slaves are magicians?" he asked.

  "Yes."

  "How do you plan to kill them?"

  "I have my own ways."

  Cery smiled grimly. "If I tell my customer that I don't need him to do in the murderers, he's going to ask some rough questions. Like, who's doing it instead?"

  "If he did not know you found a slave, he would not need to know who did the killing."

  "But he knows when they're about. He's got the guard telling him about the victims. If they stop finding victims, without him killing the murderer, he's got to wonder why."

  She shrugged. "That will not matter. They are not sending slaves one by one now. I can kill some of them, and he will not notice."

  This was news. Bad news. "Who are 'they'?"

  Her eyebrows rose. "He has not told you?"

  Cery smiled, while silently cursing himself for revealing his ignorance. "Perhaps he has, perhaps he hasn't," he replied. "I want to hear what you say."

  Her expression darkened. "They are the Ichani. Outcasts. The Sachakan King sends those who have earned his disfavor out into the wastes."

  "Why are they sending their slaves here?"

  "They seek to regain power and status by defeating Sachaka's old enemy, the Guild."

  This was also news. He slipped the loops of his knives from his palms. Probably nothing to worry about, he thought. We're killing off these "slaves" easily enough.

  "Will you let me kill some of these slaves?" she asked.

  "Why do you need to ask? If you can find and kill them, you don't need to work with me."

  "Ah, but if I did not, you might mistake me for one of them."

  He chuckled. "That could be unfort—"

  A knock interrupted him. He looked at Gol expectantly. The big man moved to the door. An even larger man entered, his eyes flitting nervously from Gol to Cery to Savara.

  "Morren." Cery frowned. The man had sent the usual one-word message late last night to confirm that he had disposed of the murderer's body. He was not supposed to visit Cery personally unless he had something important to report.

  "Ceryni," Morren replied. He glanced at Savara again, his expression wary.

  Cery turned to the Sachakan woman. "Thanks for the practice," he said.

  She nodded. "Thank you, Ceryni. I will let you know when I find the next one. It should not be long."

  Cery watched her walk out of the room. When the door closed behind her, he turned to Morren.

  "What is it?"

  The big man grimaced. "It may be nothing, but I thought you might want to know. He didn't kill the murderer straightaway. He tied him up, then left. When he came back, he brought someone with him."

  "Who?"

  "The girl from the slums who joined the Guild."

  Cery stared at the man. "Sonea?"

  "Yeah."

  An unexpected feeling of guilt stole over Cery. He thought of the way Savara had sent his heart racing. How could he let himself admire some strange woman, and one who probably couldn't be trusted, when he still loved Sonea? But Sonea was beyond his reach. And she had never loved him anyway. Not in the way he had loved her. Why shouldn't he consider another?

  Then the implications of what Morren was saying sank in, and he began pacing the room. Sonea had been taken to see the murderer. She had been brought into the presence of a dangerous man. Though he knew she had probably been safe enough with Akkarin, he still felt a protective anger. He did not want her involved in this.

  But had she been aware, all along, of the secret battle taking place in the darkest parts of Imardin? Was she being readied to join the fight?

  He had to know. Turning on his heel, he strode toward the door.

  "Gol. Send the High Lord a message. We need to talk."

  Lorlen stepped into the Entrance Hall of the University and stopped as he saw Akkarin pass between the enormous doors.

  "Lorlen," Akkarin said, "are you busy?"

  "I'm always busy," Lorlen replied.

  Akkarin's mouth curled into a wry smile. "This should take only a few minutes."

  "Very well."

  Akkarin gestured toward Lorlen's office. Something private, then, Lorlen mused. He moved out of the Hall back into the corridor, but was only a few steps away from his of
fice when a voice called out.

  "High Lord."

  An Alchemist stood just outside the door of a classroom farther down the corridor.

  Akkarin stopped. "Yes, Lord Halvin?"

  The teacher hurried forward. "Sonea has not appeared for class this morning. Is she unwell?"

  Lorlen saw a look of concern cross Akkarin's face, but he could not tell if it was for Sonea's wellbeing, or that she was not where she was supposed to be.

  "Her servant has not informed me of any sickness," Akkarin replied.

  "I'm sure there is a good reason. I just thought it unusual. She is normally so punctual." Halvin glanced back at the classroom he had left. "I'd best get back, before they turn into wild animals."

  "Thank you for informing me," Akkarin said. Halvin nodded again, then hurried away. Akkarin turned to regard Lorlen. "This other issue will have to wait. I had best find out what my novice is up to."

  Watching him stalk away, Lorlen struggled to hold back a growing feeling of foreboding. Surely if she was sick her servant would have informed Akkarin. Why would she deliberately neglect to attend classes? His blood turned cold. Had she and Rothen decided to move against Akkarin? Surely, if they had, they would have told him first.

  Wouldn't they?

  Returning to the Entrance Hall, he looked up the stairs. If they had planned something together, they would both be missing. He had only to check Rothen's classroom.

  Moving to the stairs, he hurried upward.

  The noon sun streaked through the forest, touching the bright green of new leaves. Its warmth still radiated from the large rock shelf Sonea was sitting on, and lingered in the boulder she had set her back against.

  In the distance a gong sounded. Novices would be hurrying out to enjoy the early autumn weather. She should go back, and pretend her absence was due to a sudden headache or other minor illness.

  But she couldn't get herself to move.

  She had climbed up to the spring in the early morning, hoping that the walk would clear her head. It hadn't, though. All that she had learned kept turning through her mind in a jumbled mess. Perhaps this was because she hadn't slept at all. She was too weary to make sense of everything - and too tired to face returning to classes and behaving as if nothing had changed.

  But everything has changed. I have to take time to think about what I have learned, she told herself. I have to sort out what it means before I face Akkarin again.

  She closed her eyes and drew on a little Healing power to chase away the weariness.

  What have I learned?

  The Guild, and all of Kyralia, were in danger of being invaded by Sachakan black magicians.

  Why hadn't Akkarin told anyone? If the Guild knew it faced a possible invasion, it could prepare for it. It couldn't defend itself if it didn't know of the threat.

  Yet, if Akkarin told them, he would have to admit to learning black magic. Was the reason for his silence as simple and selfish as that? Maybe there was another reason.

  She still didn't know how he had learned to use black magic. Tavaka had believed that only Ichani possessed that knowledge. He had only been taught it so that he could kill Akkarin.

  And Akkarin had been a slave.

  It was impossible to imagine the aloof, dignified, powerful High Lord living as, of all things, a slave.

  But he had been one, of that she was sure. He had escaped somehow and returned to Kyralia. He had become High Lord. Now he was secretly and singlehandedly keeping these Ichani at bay by killing off their spies.

  He was not the person she had thought he was.

  He might even be a good person.

  She frowned. Let's not go that far. He learned black magic somehow, and I'm still a hostage.

  Without black magic, however, how could he defeat these spies? And if there was a good reason for keeping all this a secret, he'd had no choice but to ensure she, Rothen and Lorlen remained silent.

  "Sonea."

  She jumped, then turned toward the voice. Akkarin stood in the shadow of a large tree, his arms crossed. She rose hastily and bowed.

  "High Lord."

  He stood regarding her for a moment, then he uncrossed his arms and started toward her. As he stepped up onto the rock shelf, his gaze shifted to the boulder she had been resting against. He dropped into a crouch and examined its surface carefully. She heard the scrape of stone against stone and blinked in surprise as a section slid outward, revealing an irregularly shaped hole.

  "Ah, it's still here," he said quietly. Putting down the slab of rock that he had removed, he reached inside the hole and drew out a small, battered wooden box. Several holes had been drilled into the lid in grid pattern. The lid sprang open. He tilted the box so Sonea could see the contents clearly.

  Inside lay a set of game pieces, each with a small peg to fit into the holes in the lid.

  "Lorlen and I used to come here to escape Lord Margen's lessons." He plucked out one of the pieces and examined it.

  Sonea blinked in surprise. "Lord Margen? Rothen's mentor?"

  "Yes. He was a strict teacher. We called him 'the monster.' Rothen took over his classes the year after I graduated."

  It was as hard to picture Akkarin as a young novice as it was to imagine him as a slave. She knew he was only a few years older than Dannyl, yet Dannyl seemed much younger. It was not that Akkarin looked older, she mused, it was simply his manner and position that added an impression of greater maturity.

  Replacing the game pieces, Akkarin closed the box and returned it to its hiding place. He sat down, bracing his back against the boulder. Sonea felt a strange discomfort. Gone was the dignified, threatening High Lord who had taken her guardianship from Rothen to ensure his crimes remained undiscovered. She wasn't sure how to react to this casualness. Sitting down a few steps away, she watched him looking around the spring as if checking that it was still the same as he remembered.

  "I was not much older than you when I left the Guild," he said. "I was twenty, and I'd chosen the Warrior Skills discipline out of a hunger for challenge and excitement. But there was no adventure to be found here in the Guild. I had to escape it for a while. So I decided to write a book on ancient magic as an excuse to travel and see the world."

  She stared at him in surprise. His gaze had become distant, as if he were seeing an old memory rather than the trees around the spring. It seemed he intended to tell her his story.

  "During my research I found some strange references to old magic that intrigued me. Those references led me into Sachaka." He shook his head. "If I'd kept to the main road, I might have been safe. The occasional Kyralian trader enters Sachaka in search of exotic goods. The King sends diplomats there every few years, in the company of magicians. But Sachaka is a big country, and a secretive one. The Guild knows there are magicians there, but understands little about them.

  "I entered from Elyne, however. Straight into the wastes. I was there for a month before I encountered one of the Ichani. I saw tents and animals and thought to introduce myself to this wealthy and important traveller. He welcomed me warmly enough, and introduced himself as Dakova. I sensed that he was a magician and was intrigued. He pointed at my robes and asked if I was of the Guild. I said I was."

  Akkarin paused. "I thought that, being one of the strongest magicians of the Guild, I would be able to defend myself against anything. The Sachakans I'd encountered were poor farmers, frightened by visitors. I should have taken that as a warning. When Dakova attacked me I was surprised. I asked if I had offended him, but he didn't reply. His strikes were incredibly powerful and I barely had time to realize I was going to lose before I neared the end of my strength. I told him that stronger magicians would come looking for me if I did not return to the Guild. That must have worried him. He stopped. I was so exhausted, I could barely stand and I thought that was the reason he managed to read my mind so effectively. For a few days, I thought I'd betrayed the Guild. But later, when I spoke to Dakova's slaves, I learned that the Ichani were able to ge
t past the mind's barriers at any time."

  As he paused, Sonea held her breath. Would he relate to her what it had been like to be a slave? She felt a mingled dread and anticipation.

  Akkarin looked down at the pool below them. "Dakova learned from my mind that the Guild had banned black magic, and was much weaker than the Sachakans believed. He was so amused by what he saw in my mind, he decided that other Ichani had to see it. I was too exhausted to resist. Slaves took my robes and gave me old rags to wear. At first I couldn't grasp that these people were slaves and that I was now one as well. Then, when I understood, I would not accept it. I tried to escape, but Dakova found me easily. He seemed to enjoy the hunt - and the punishment he dealt out afterward."

  Akkarin's eyes narrowed. He turned his head a little toward her and she dropped her eyes, afraid to meet them.

  "I was appalled by my situation," he continued quietly. "Dakova called me his 'pet Guild magician.' I was a trophy, kept to entertain his guests. Keeping me was a risk, though. Unlike his other slaves, I was a trained magician. So every night he read my mind and, to keep me from becoming dangerous, took from me the strength I had regained that day."

  Akkarin pulled up a sleeve. Hundreds of thin, shiny lines covered his arm. Scars. Sonea felt a chill run down her spine. This evidence of his past had been in front of her so many times, hidden by a mere layer of cloth.

  "The rest of his slaves were made up of those he had taken from Ichani he had fought and defeated, and young men and women with latent magical potential that he had found among the Sachakan farmers and miners in the region. Every day he would take magical strength from them. He was powerful, but also strangely isolated. I eventually understood that Dakova, and the other Ichani that live in the wastes, were outcasts. For one reason or another - failed involvement in plots, inability to pay bribes or taxes or committing crimes - they had fallen out of favor with the Sachakan King. He had ordered them confined to the wastes, and forbidden others to contact them.

  "You might think they would band together in this situation, but they nursed too much resentment and ambition for that. They constantly plotted against each other, hoping to increase their wealth and strength or take revenge for past insults, or simply steal supplies of food. An outcast Ichani can only feed so many slaves. The wastes yield little food, and terrorizing and killing farmers certainly doesn't help increase productivity."