06 - Rule of Thieves

by C. Greenwood

  Eisa jerked her head toward the door, encouraging me to enter, but did not go in herself.

  Cautiously, unsure what awaited, I pushed at the heavy door and slipped silently into the room. This was a fine bedchamber, twice as large as the closet-like room I slept in, with an immense curtained bed and other sturdy and ornate furnishings. I was immediately struck by the stifling atmosphere from the roaring fire and the covered windows that trapped the heat. Ignoring the sticky sweat already forming on my skin, I focused on the room’s occupants.

  The Praetor’s elderly healer, his sparse white hair standing out like tufts of dandelion, hovered over a bedside table, mixing what looked like a medicinal brew. At his elbow, the now familiar pinch-faced, stiff-spined castle steward hovered with a ledger and sheaf of papers.

  The attention of both men was fixed on the motionless, gaunt figure in the bed. For so long, the Praetor had loomed in my mind as a large man, brimming with strength and energy. It was strange to see him so frail now, a pale drawn ghost lying against the bloodred pillows. With my magic, I was aware of his life force fluttering weakly.

  “Your feelings surprise me.”

  I started at the sound of his voice. I had imagine him asleep.

  But he opened his eyes and beckoned me forward, saying, “What’s this I sense in you? Pity for an old enemy whose time has come?”

  “Never pity,” I answered, stepping nearer. “You don’t deserve that.”

  But the turmoil of my thoughts did not match my words.

  The Praetor’s mouth twitched up at the corner, offering the ghost of a smile. “Good. I should like to think as I exit this world I leave behind at least one honest enemy.”

  He coughed and struggled for a moment to regain his breath. Watching him, I wondered why he had summoned me. If he was truly on his death bed, why should he wish me at his side?

  My confusion must have been written on my face, because he said, “I have called you here in order to pass on a piece of property before I die. You and I share a certain ability unknown to many others.”

  I glanced uneasily toward the healer and castle steward lingering within earshot, but both men carefully busied themselves as though unwilling to hear what was said. Apparently they had the confidence of their lord.

  Tarius continued, “As I can no longer make use of the tools and knowledge I have amassed, one of us may as well benefit from them. My steward here knows of a certain locked tower room, the contents of which I bequeath to you.”

  I blinked. He was giving me his secret lair? Why?

  In that uncanny way of his, he seemed to read my thoughts. “You’ve never asked the source of my illness or questioned why the Skeltai shaman do not use their powers to portal spies or warriors into the city.”

  He was right. Neither question had entered my mind before, but both now seemed glaringly obvious. “You’re using magic in some way to seal the enemy out,” I realized. “And the effort is draining the life from you.”

  He agreed. “In my tower, there is a device called an althion sphere which, when magically activated, has enabled me to erect a barrier around the city. A magical wall the Skeltai cannot penetrate. Use of the sphere is a responsibility I leave to you now. You ought to have been trained for it, but…”

  Out of breath, he allowed the sentence to trail off. But he didn’t need to finish it. I knew the reason he had not told me of this sooner. Even while slowly dying, Tarius could not bear to share power. Not until the final hour.

  Even as I grappled with the fearful duty he had just handed me, he wasn’t done.

  “But I did not call you here to bestow only one responsibility,” the Praetor said. “I require you to witness the signing of a document.”

  At his command, the healer propped him up with pillows and the steward brought him writing implements and a wooden tray upon which to place them. Atop the tray rested a scroll I immediately recognized as one I had been shown before.

  A quill was dipped in ink and placed in Praetor Tarius’s weak hand. Even before the quill began its journey across the parchment, I had a sinking premonition.

  And then my name, Ilan of Dimmingwood, glistened up at me in wet ink.

  My throat went dry as Tarius signed the document.

  But I quickly found my tongue “You cannot be serious about this. That letter recommends me to the king as your successor. It could make me the next praetor.”

  “So it will,” the Praetor said, dipping his signet ring in wax and sealing the letter with it.

  My thoughts were a jumble. “But why? There is surely someone, anyone, more qualified for the position.”

  For an instant, the Praetor’s old intensity returned and his eyes flashed. “I did not devote my life to the strengthening of this province, nor did my father devote his, only to see its rule pass from our house and into the hands of ‘anybody qualified.’ When Ellesus came to us, it was the least of the provinces. But we shaped it into one of the strongest.”

  I said, “I would have thought if your aim was to keep the rule in the family, the Lady Morwena—”

  “Morwena is weak and stupid.” He cut me off. “With the war upon us, now more than ever the province requires a powerful leader. There remains only one of my blood who possesses the courage and ruthlessness to do what is necessary to hold the province together.”

  A chill rippled through me. “If you think you see anything of yourself in me, you are mistaken.”

  He did not argue, as a bout of violent pain obviously overtook him. Our conversation had sapped him of energy, and his breaths were coming short and sharp now. It was some minutes before he could speak again.

  “Take my ring,” he gasped finally, twisting it off his finger.

  I stared at it. This was the same ring I had kissed on the day I vowed obedience and service to the house of Tarius. Now as then, I found myself accepting the cold ruby-encrusted piece of metal against my will.

  Apparently satisfied, the Praetor relaxed. “Be victorious, Ilan of Dimmingwood,” he murmured. He drew a last breath, and his eyes came to rest on a fixed spot overhead.

  “I will,” I vowed. “Uncle.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  There was no time to absorb what had just happened or to sort out the strange mix of powerful emotions flooding me. No sooner was the Praetor dead than his steward drew me aside.

  “Your inheritance of power must not become known to anyone outside this room until your position has been made certain by the king,” he warned me urgently. “Too many castle servants have been darkly influenced by forces best left unnamed. If those persons see an opportunity to prevent the Praetor’s will being carried out, they will attempt to seize power themselves. I fear even allowing Praetor Tarius’s letter to pass through the usual channels will ensure it is destroyed before it reaches its destination in Lythnia.”

  I did not doubt his concern. It was significant to me that among all his ministers, servants, and even his own ward, the Praetor had chosen only his steward and personal healer to be present at his death. And me.

  Clearly, there were not many he trusted.

  “What would you suggest?” I asked.

  The steward looked uncomfortable. “If you have any contacts outside official channels, these might be your safest method of delivering the letter into the king’s hands.”

  I understood unofficial “contacts” was a veiled reference to my outlaw friends.

  I made a quick decision to trust the steward. If nothing else, he was at least loyal to the dead Praetor and to his final wishes.

  “Very well,” I said. “I will keep the letter secret until I can get it to a reliable messenger.”

  I pocketed the missive and the Praetor’s signet ring with it.

  I took a last look at my lifelong enemy, now stretched still and lifeless before me. Then the close atmosphere of the room became too stifling and I had to get away.

  Out in the coolness of the hall, I could breathe easily and think clearly again. I woul
dn’t dwell just now on the Praetor’s death or what it might mean for me. Time enough to sort that out later.

  But these new developments made me more apprehensive than ever about the coming clash with the Skeltai. I couldn’t go back to bed, even though the rest of the castle slept on, oblivious to the events that had occurred this hour. I was filled with impatience and the need to act.

  So I went up to the Praetor’s tower room. When Tarius had spoken of his magical device that sealed off the Skeltai shamans’ access to the city, his implication had been clear. The shield would soon be broken after his death unless I or another with the ability kept it alive. I had a duty to try and continue what the Praetor had begun. Already, the shamans of the Black Forest may have sensed the weakening of our magical defense.

  My thoughts buzzed with reasons not to use the althion sphere even as I climbed the lonely staircase up to the tower. Whatever magic or spell Tarius had wrought had been powerful enough to kill him, gradually siphoning away his strength. But he had been prepared to make that sacrifice, and so must I be.

  What concerned me more was what would happen if I began interfering with a device I did not understand. Magery was not an art I had ever been trained in. I knew only natural magic. Even if I could examine this sphere, unraveling the spell around it to see what made it work, who knew if I would be able to put it back together again? Or if I might make a mistake in the effort and inadvertently cause some catastrophic event?

  I had no more time to search for answers. I was at the top of the stairs, and the locked door to the mage’s lair stood before me. I swept my fingers along the ledge above the door as I had seen Lady Morwena do. Having found the key, I let myself into the room. I expected to step into darkness. But instead of inky blackness, I found the room illuminated by a soft and unearthly light. Its source was an open box atop the nearby table. Inside, a glowing crystal ball nestled in a bed of velvet.

  The light was welcome. My task was challenging enough without conducted it in the dark. I wasn’t certain what the Praetor’s device looked like and couldn’t remember seeing it the last time I was in this room. But I had to start somewhere. One by one, I searched the dusty shelves and shadowed niches in the walls, hoping to stumble across what I sought, something I would know at once was the althion sphere.

  Minutes slipped by and I found nothing remarkable. Or at least no more remarkable than all the other strange articles that filled the room. I was about to give up in frustration when my eye fell again on the softly glowing crystal ball. It occurred to me now that it hadn’t been glowing on my previous visit to this room.

  Curious, I approached the orb in its open box. Morwena had once called it a seers’ showing stone, but I had a feeling there might be more to it than that. Last time, the orb’s depths had been murky. But the glass was translucent now, and I could make out ghostly shapes inside.

  I picked it up, finding the crystal smooth and cool in my hand. Inside the protective bubble of glass, I saw a ghostly likeness of the city in miniature. The streets, shops, and bridges were made up of pale smoke that shifted and reformed itself, revealing different locations around Selbius. Every sight was familiar and perfectly detailed despite being composed of vapor and encased in glass.

  This had to be it. The Praetor’s althion sphere. The misty version of Selbius, sealed safely inside the glass bubble, was as impenetrable as the real city itself for as long as Tarius’s spell held. No Skeltai shaman could pierce the invisible shell over the city with their magic portals. They were locked out.

  But already the light of the sphere faltered now the Praetor was no longer alive to power it. Its glow seemed to have grown dimmer just in the few minutes I had been in this room. I set aside my fears about the danger of tampering with a spell I did not understand. I might know nothing of spells, but they all came from magic, so there must be some common thread I could follow.

  I reached through my dragon scale amulet to draw on my power. Using that, I explored the exterior of the sphere. I could certainly sense the magic in use. It felt strange. Foreign, but vaguely recognizable. It had been tortured and warped to the will of the mage who commanded it. Now I must figure out how to twist it to my will. I was briefly relieved Hadrian couldn’t see this, for he would not approve.

  I prodded tentatively at the threads of magic holding the spell together.

  “I thought I would find you here.”

  I started at the unexpected interruption and nearly dropped the sphere on the floor. But I recovered quickly, putting the ball carefully down on its cushion of velvet before turning my attention to the figure in the doorway.

  Lady Morwena looked as if she had been recently awakened. She was still clad in her nightdress, her hair tangled, and her face swollen from sleep.

  Her voice was accusing. “My cousin has not been dead an hour yet and already you come to dig through his possessions and see what you have inherited.”

  I didn’t point out that it was she who had first showed me the Praetor’s tower room. “So you have heard the news already,” I said.

  “Of course.” Her look was scornful. “A servant woke me with the news. Nothing can happen within these walls and I not know of it.”

  “Which is why I should’ve recognized you as my would-be killer sooner,” I said, enjoying the look of surprise that flashed across her face.

  “Yes, I know the truth now,” I continued. “It all made sense once I discovered the poison used on me came from his room. You have access to it and the authority to intimidate Eisa into slipping it into my food.”

  Her startled expression was swiftly replaced by one of boredom. She shrugged a shoulder. “Eisa, the stupid child, nearly ruined everything by refusing to cooperate further after she saw how the Praetor valued you. Most of my cousin’s servants are easily corruptible, but a few can be tiresome in their loyalty.”

  “What I’ve yet to puzzle out is why you were so desperate to remove me,” I said.

  “Why?” Her eyes flashed. “I’ll tell you why. When I came to this castle, I expected to one day inherit it. And when I fell in love with Asmund Summerdale, I dreamed of him obtaining the praetorship so we could rule together. But it didn’t take long to realize my cousin’s eye was fixed on another successor. At first I thought it was that crippled captain of the Fists. It was obvious he had an unusual position in the house and, significantly, he wore a brooch commonly possessed by members of my family. I thought him a threat to be eliminated. But when I casually questioned him about the brooch, he inadvertently let it slip the thing was not his but yours. I had first thought to dispose of the captain in an apparent accident, but I dismissed that plan and focused on this Ilan of Dimmingwood everyone seemed so interested in. While investigating your past, a connection came up with the dead outlaw, Brig. Asmund was helpful here. At my suggestion, he visited one of the impressionable sons of Brig, manufacturing a cause for him to have a grudge against you. After that, the young Martyn was so eager to destroy you he required very little bribing to act as assassin. Later, a few of the city guard and Fists were equally bribable when we needed to be rid of you.”

  As she confessed her schemes, the Praetor’s ward moved closer until she stood at the edge of the table.

  “Be careful with that,” I warned sharply, when her hand came to rest beside the crystal ball.

  “Why?” she taunted, her mouth twisting bitterly. “Because it’s yours like everything else? That’s right. I’ve heard rumor of the final arrangement made by my cousin on his deathbed. But you needn’t be smug about it. Those plans will not come to fruition.”

  She picked up the glass orb and examined its glowing depths with little curiosity. Abruptly, she dashed it to the floor.

  The orb shattered into a thousand pieces, and its light winked out, plunging us into darkness.

  “Ashes.” I breathed. There was no resurrecting the spell now. Nothing stood in the way of the Skeltai shaman and their portals.

  “You have no idea what you’ve
done,” I growled at the now shadowy form of Morwena.

  It was too dark to read her expression, but her tone was mocking.

  “What? Did I smash your little trinket? Don’t worry. You wouldn’t have enjoyed it long anyway. Just as you will not live long enough to enjoy ruling this province.”

  Impatient with her ridiculous games and petty ambitions, I snapped. “There is much more at stake here than who succeeds the Praetor.”

  I had barely got the words out of my mouth when she flew at me, a darting shadow among the deeper shadows of the room.

  I saw the glint of steel in her hand as she ran at me with a knife. But I anticipated her move and easily dodged aside, allowing her to slam headlong into the wall.

  The wall gave way.

  The tapestry hanging there had been concealing an open window through which Lady Morwena now plunged. Screaming, she fell to her death in the gardens below. Under the moonlight, I could just make out what remained of her crumpled form sprawled among the flowers.

  Chapter Nineteen

  There was nothing more to be done here. The althion sphere was destroyed beyond repair. Whatever fate and the Skeltai had in store for us next, it could not be prevented. Locking the door to the tower room, I made a silent vow never to return to the place. The knowledge and tools in that room held a strong fascination for me. One I suspected might draw me down the same path of twisted magic as it had pulled the Praetor if I did not fight the temptation. Best to lose the key and forget some secrets ever existed.

  I expected to meet others running up the stairs on my way down. Lady Morwena’s scream should have attracted attention. But this part of the castle was as secluded as the private garden below. No one appeared to have heard or witnessed Morwena’s death. I decided to say nothing of it until her body was discovered.