Honor Bound
( Tales of Sevrin Starsingers - 2 )
Elaine Cunningham
Elaine Cunningham
Honor Bound
Chapter 1: Forgotten
A withered figure moved through theadept's gallery, his steps sure and silent. A maze of dubioustreasure surrounded him, all of it shrouded in darkness. The onlylight came from the cloud-misted moon peeking through one of theupper windows.
The old man gave the moon anunsentimental glance and, out of long habit, looked for hisshadow.
For several moments, he searched thedark marble floor in vain. A wave of panic crept up his throat andtightened like icy fingers. Had he finally died and not quitenoticed?
No, there lay the shadow, thin andbent and so faint as to be almost imperceptible.
He blew out a sigh and collapsedonto a bench. Rhendish, the adept who owned this manor, had placedthe bench here for those who wished to contemplate a row ofportraits-famous alchemists ranging from ancient Palanir to lastcentury's giant, the lost prodigy Avidan Insa'Amid. Rhendish didnot include his own likeness in this august company, but a carefulobserver could not fail to note that a space had beenleft.
The old man rocked to his feet,tottered, and caught himself on the iron bars surrounding one ofthe displays. When he regained his balance, he found himselfface-to-face with three desiccated imps.
He blinked, certain that age andmoonlight conspired to mock him. But no, the vision remained.Rhendish changed the displays of curiosities frequently, and forsome reason he saw fit to exhibit the monstrous servants Sevrin'ssorcerer lord had used up many years ago.
The surge of kinship the man felt tothese withered fiends surprised him. But then, old age always comesas a surprise, and never did he feel so old as when he contemplatedthe remnants of Eldreath's reign. Fewer and fewer of Sevrin'speople truly remembered that time.
He remembered it. He remembered it all too well.
The crash and tinkle of breakingglass came from a room across the courtyard, a faint sound carriedby night winds and lingering magic. Red light flared in the adept'sworkroom.
Curious, he made his way toRhendish's workroom, moving through passages unknown to most of themanor's servants. In a few moments he emerged from the hiddenbyways into one of the workroom's curtained alcoves. He edged asidethe heavy drapes to watch and listen.
The curtain on a nearby alcove hadbeen swept aside to reveal a long, narrow skeleton, a macabre workof art rendered in pale pink crystal. Before the alcove stood afair-haired man, his attention focused on the elf woman sitting ona tall chair with an attached table. The arm propped by this tablehad been sliced open to reveal not bones but slim metal bars and anintricate mesh of clockwork gears.
"I will restore your sword arm now,”Rhendish said. “The rest you will have to earn.”
The elf stared at him withunreadable eyes. For long moments, the only sound in the room wasthe soft plink ofblood dripping through the table drain to the basinbelow.
The old man studied the elf's face,wondering what lay behind those winter-gray eyes. Once, he mighthave felt her intent as clearly as he experienced his own. He mighthave known how she would respond. He might have been able toanticipate-
The elf leaped from the chair andsnatched a knife from Rhendish's work table. She lunged at theadept.
Rhendish lifted one hand in a swift,sharp gesture. The elf slammed to a stop as if she'd run into aninvisible wall.
The weapon dropped from her hand.She fell to her knees, but her eyes never left Rhendish'sface.
Clanking footsteps grew closer,louder. Four clockwork guards marched into the workroom. Neitherelf nor adept broke their fierce stare. The guards faltered andfroze in mid-strike, adding a sense of tightly coiled menace to thegrim tableau.
The old man could neither see norsense magic, but he could not fail to perceive the silent battlethat raged between the elf and the adept.
He knew a frisson of alarm. Oh, hehad no doubt who would prevail, but the battle itself wasworrisome. It proved the elf knew Rhendish's deepest secret: Theadept was a sorcerer as well as an alchemist. Not much of asorcerer, perhaps, but then, after ten years of alchemicalexperimentation and clockwork "improvements," the elf wasn't muchof an elf, either.
Still, he had to admire astubbornness that outlived flesh and memory. The things the elf hadwithstood over the past ten years should have broken her mind andkilled her a dozen times over. Even now, with her face as bloodlessas moonlight on snow and her arm sliced down to her metallic bones,she put up a struggle that raised beads of sweat on Rhendish'sbrow.
The old man looked around for thesource of the crash. This was an alchemist's lab, and spills couldbe deadly. Shards of glass littered the floor just beyond thealcove, but thankfully no stain marred the carpet, and noalchemical stench rose from the shards.
Old bones creaked as he stooped fora closer view. His eyes narrowed as he noted a shard of glassclinging to a familiar looking hilt. He slid one hand under thecurtain and grasped the hilt.
As he lifted it, a blood-red dropfell from the shard and stained the hem of his tunic. He lifted thefabric to sniff. Blood, yes, but mixed with something else,something acrid and complex and certainly alchemical inorigin.
He brought the glass blade closer tohis face. The break was smooth and regular, as if it traced anatural weakness in the blade. It looked like the curve of a rosepetal.
Suddenly he knew where he'd seenthis hilt before.
He looked at the elf with deepeningconcern. She'd substituted a glass dagger for the Thorn, an ancientelfin dagger rumored to be the conduit for magic that lay beyondthe ambitions of wizards and the imagination of storyspinners. Thesubstitution was a clever trick, but it required more thancleverness. It required the services of both a skilled weapon smithand a talented alchemist.
Rhendish knew about the dwarf in FoxWinterborn's band of thieves. He'd held the dwarf prisoner for ashort time. The old man wondered what Rhendish would do if he knewthat one of his fellow alchemists had thrown in with the CityFox.
This was grim news indeed. The Foxmight be dead, but rebellions could be fueled by martyrs. Any mancanny enough to become an alchemist would know this.
A clatter of metal drew the oldman's attention back to the workroom. Every clockwork guard haddropped to one knee. Moving as one, they lifted mailed fists andthumped them to their chests in an unmistakable-and veryelfin-gesture of fealty.
“Release him, sister-self,” the elfsaid.
The old man followed her gaze andclapped one hand over his mouth to stifle his cry.
Rhendish's eyes bulged. His lips hadturned an unhealthy shade of blue. His hands tugged at the longcrystal fingers wrapped round his throat.
At the elf's command, the crystalarms dropped to the skeleton’s sides. The gentle chiming of boneagainst bone sounded like distant, faintly mockinglaughter.
The silence that followed was brokenonly by Rhendish’s rasping breaths. Uncertainty twisted hishandsome features, but his face did not show the fear that wouldcome with true understanding.
The old man understood all toowell.
Twenty years ago, Sevrin had risenup against their sorcerer lord. For twenty years, the Council ofAdepts had been waging a quieter war on magic. If the other adeptslearned Rhendish's secret, if they knew that one of the seven mostpowerful men on Sevrin's islands was a sorcerer, they would joinforces against him and drag him out to sea. They would find thebiggest glacier within a tenday sail, and they would use weaponsnot seen since the defeat of Eldreath to melt a hole in thatglacier twenty fathoms deep. Then they would drop the sorcerer intothis hole and stand guard until it froze over.
Unless, of course, they could thinkof a more unpleasant and decisive ending.
&
nbsp; The details didn't matter. Rhendishwas powerful, but he didn't stand a chance against the combinedmight of his fellow adepts.
There was but one solution: Removethe other adepts before they could learn what the elfknew.
It did not occur to the old man tokill the elf. She would die, of course, but not before she led himto the Thorn.
Chapter 2: Starsingers Grove
Nimbolk's gaze swept the clearing,looking for anything that might explain his unease.
All seemed to be in order. New snowblanketed the Starsingers Grove, and a jeweled night sky borewitness to the midwinter tribunal. Elves clad in nightfall bluestood about in small groups, talking softly as they awaited thequeen's call to order. Tonight they would learn who had triggeredthe Thorn's alarm and pass judgment on the traitor they'd soughtfor many years.
A slim hand rested on his sword arm.He looked down into the serene white face of the ForestQueen.
"You are as restless as caged cats,"she said. "Are you uneasy without a sword at hand, or are youcontemplating your reunion with my sister?"
"The two feelings are notunrelated," he said in a dry tone.
Asteria, Lady of Mistheim and queenof the forest folk, responded with an inelegant snort. Heramusement soon faded, and with it, her resemblance to the warriorwho was her twin-born sister.
Most elves would say Asteria andZiharah were as alike as two raindrops. Nimbolk, who from hisboyhood had worshipped the future queen and wrestled in the leavesand mud with her sister, saw no resemblance beyond a similar shapeof face and feature.
Asteria dressed all in white andwore her hair long and loose, as befitted a queen. The snow-coloredwaves fell nearly to the ground, more lustrous than the fine whitefur of her cloak. She had delicate hands and the wise, deep gaze ofone who heard the echo of ancient voices in the starsong they allshared.
Grace. Thatwas Asteria's shadow-name, the word that, in all its meanings, bestdescribed her essence. Asteria embodied elegance, beauty, charm,and divine favor.
Her twin possessed a sterner nature.A warrior to her bones, she'd been named Queen's Champion at an agewhen most elves were still learning runes and forest lore. She'dearned the honor. Nimbolk couldn't deny this, even though he'd comeout the loser in this particular competition. And he had to admitthe role suited her, as did her shadow-name:
Honor.
Parchment whispered as Asteria drewa tiny, well-worn scroll from her sleeve. She unrolled it andsmoothed her fingers over the runes with the reverence usuallyafforded ancient treasures and newborn elves.
"The first word I've had from her innearly ten years," she said. "Ten years, Nimbolk!"
"Ten years is a long time for aChampion to leave her queen."
"She traveled at my command,"Asteria reminded him. Her face turned wistful. "Though she mighthave written sooner."
"And less cryptically." He shook hishead. "Longest night, reddestrose. What sort of field report isthat?"
Asteria didn't respond, but then,his question didn't merit discussion. The message was clear enough.Midwinter night was the traditional time for elven tribunals, theappropriate time to bring a traitor to justice. Many elves hadsought this traitor, but the Queen's Champion had won again, andshe was bringing her prize to the Starsingers Grove to be judged bythe Thorn.
The queen drew the crystal daggerfrom a sheath on her belt. The rose within had folded its pedals atdusk to a tightly furled bud.
She glanced up at Nimbolk. "Do youremember when the rose appeared?"
"As if it wereyesterday."
A rose blooming in the heart of acrystal blade-just the sort of whimsical touch expected of elves.Only the old races would read the warning in it, portents of magictwisted into unnatural shapes for treacherous means.
Nimbolk had been among the first tobare his sword arm and demand that the Thorn taste his blood. Everyelf in Mistheim had followed. Not once had the crystal rose bloomedred.
If Ziharah was right-and she hadthat annoying habit-it would bloom tonight.
A murmur rippled through theclearing, and the tribunal members near the western border of thegrove fell back to reveal a new-come elf.
For a moment Nimbolk did notrecognize her, though he knew her face as well as he knew his own.Her warrior's frame had grown thin and frail, and deep shadowsgathered beneath her eyes and in the hollows of her face. Thewinter Fading was slow to come upon her; her eyes had changed fromthe hazel green of summer to winter gray, but small dark streakslingered in the white of her hair so that it resembled the bark ofa birch tree. She walked slowly, and with the aid of a rudelycarved wooden staff. Elfin runes ran the length of the staff, allbut hidden by the rough texture. Nimbolk could only make out oneword: Honor.
The queen's eyes lit up and shestarted forward with a glad cry.
Nimbolk leaped into her path andseized her shoulders. "That isn't Ziharah."
"Of course it is!"
He moved aside. "See how she moves,slow and heavy. Ziharah moved like a cat, like the wind. Look ather eyes. Ziharah doesn't live in them. They are empty.Haunted."
Guilty, headded silently.
"She has been wounded," Asteriasaid, but she sounded less certain.
"Look at her staff," he said."Look at it! She'swarning us that she is no longer what she was. Honor is whatremains when everything else has been stripped away."
"Honor," she murmured. "And more runesbelow…"
The queen's eyes narrowed as shestudied the staff, then widened in alarm. "Ambush. Flee!"
She repeated the warning in high,ringing tones.
The elves whirled toward the trees,poised for flight.
Too late.
The crash and clatter of heavyfootsteps rattled the forest in a sudden, thunderous rush. Armedhumans, far too many of them, burst into the sacredgrove.
Throughout the clearing, elfin handsreached instinctively for the weapons they usually wore.
Crimson rain spattered the snow asthe first elves fell. The humans came on in a wild rush, jostlingeach other in their frenzy to kill.
Nimbolk backed Asteria against agiant fir and placed himself between the queen and the invaders. Helooked to the trees, to the hidden places where archers keptguard.
No arrows answered the attack. Noneof the guards who kept watch in the forest around the grove ran toprotect the queen and the tribunal. The humans could not possiblyhave destroyed them all, unless…
His gaze found Honor. Elves werefalling all around her, but she did not fight. She walked steadilytoward Asteria, every step so heavy she might have been sloggingthrough knee-high mud.
A surge of power swept past him. Hefelt the edge of it, as if he'd been brushed by the fletching of agiant's arrow.
Honor stopped. Her eyes cleared andfilled with anguish.
"Together," Asteria urged. "Join me,sister! We'll fight their magic together."
A tall, bearded human ran pastHonor. Her staff made a quick, subtle arc, and suddenly the man waspitching face-first into the snow. His sword flew from hishand.
She caught it by the hilt, nevertaking her eyes from Asteria's face, and flipped the weapon towardNimbolk.
The sword felt strange in his hand,heavy and graceless, and the notched grip of the aurak-tusk hilthad been carved for a larger hand. But when he tested it against ahuman's throat, he could find no fault with its edge.
Two more of the invaders fell to hisborrowed blade before an alarm went up. One of the humans shouted acurse and pointed at Nimbolk with a bloody sword. The man sheathedhis blade and reached over his shoulder for a bow. Two other menjoined him, stringing their bows and thrusting handfuls of arrowsinto the snow. Moving as one, the men drew and released.
Honor's staff twisted and danced asshe turned the first three arrows aside. More fighters flanked themwith raised blades; those she left to Asteria's otherdefender.
Nimbolk understood. Some dark magickept Honor from attacking her captors, but the fool who held her inthrall had apparently neglected to specify that she couldnot defend.
&
nbsp; It was something, but he would havebeen glad of her sword. When they were not fighting each other,they made a formidable team. In years past, the two of them,standing back to back, could hold off a dozen of the Mistheim'sbest warriors.
At least he had Asteria's help.Starsong magic hummed through him, speeding his sword arm, slowingthe blood flowing from his wounds, dulling the pain.
One of the humans barked a command.The swordsmen scrambled out of the way as a swarm of arrows spedtoward the elfin trio.
A black-shafted arrow piercedHonor's sword arm. She hardly seemed to notice. But Nimbolk feltthe arrow that grazed his shoulder, the arrow that drove deep intohis thigh, the arrow that thrust a fiery lance of pain into hisside. And the next arrow, and the next.
He did not remember falling, but hemust have done so, for why else would he be lying in thesnow?
Honor kicked him aside and took hisplace. One of the men lunged at her, slashing at the knee she'dbeen favoring. Nimbolk heard the sword's impact, the chillingscrape of metal against bone.
She swayed but did not fall. "Go,Asteria. Go now."
Nimbolk could read the reluctance onthe queen's face despite the mist that gathered on the edges of hisvision. In a voice weighted by duty and dull with sorrow, Asteriaspoke words that molded starsong into a softly glowingportal.
A dull thud sounded behind her.Asteria slumped to the ground. In the light from the fading portal,blood bloomed against the shining snowfall of her hair.
The humans closed in, wolvessurrounding a fallen doe.
Even now, Honor did not attack them,but twin fires of rage and frustration burned in hereyes.
The man she'd tripped bent down toreclaim the sword Nimbolk had wielded. "Bring the queen and thedagger," he commanded. A cruel light slid into his pale blue eyes."Better yet, bring her corpse."
Honor's shoulders sagged in defeat,and if not for her staff she probably would have fallen into thesnow beside her sister. She pushed away from the staff and startedto reach for Asteria, stopping as she noticed the arrow impalingher forearm. She grasped it just below the barbed point and yankedit free, not even flinching as shaft and fletching slid through thewound.
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