Raven's Strike rd-2

by Patricia Briggs

  She could see how it had happened. Willon had a Lark born right under his nose, a child. He’d have been frustrated because when the Path had managed to find a Lark, they could not use the Order they stole from her. Maybe a child would be easier.

  She’d started to get sick in the spring. No matter what herbs Karadoc had given her, no matter what Seraph could do, Mehalla just kept fading away. She’d had fits in the end.

  Seraph had almost forgotten that. Mehalla was weak by then. She would just stiffen a little, her eyes rolling up into her head. It hadn’t been dramatic, like Tier’s fits, but then Mehalla had been a toddler, not a full-grown man.

  “With magic strong enough to imprison an Order, it is better to be safe,” agreed Hinnum. “I—” He jerked his head up. “Did you feel that?” he asked.

  Phoran heard footsteps approach them, and he decided whoever it was had been hidden around the corner. He couldn’t see anyone because he couldn’t move at all.

  “Breathe,” said the voice.

  Phoran realized that he hadn’t been breathing only after he took in a deep gulp of air. He was almost certain the voice belonged to Willon, but it sounded wrong. He heard Lehr, who had been standing next to him, take a harsh breath, too.

  Gura whined unhappily, and he felt the big dog brush against his leg. The dog, it seemed, had been impervious to the spell holding Phoran and the others.

  The footsteps stopped just in front of Phoran. “You can move your eyes,” the man said. “And blink. I am not a cruel man, not when I think about it. I may have to kill you, but I don’t gain anything by torture.”

  Phoran blinked—and moved his eyes. The only people he could see were Rufort, who had been just in front of him, and the wizard. For a moment he thought he’d been wrong, and the wizard who held them was a total stranger. The man’s dark hair and lithe, muscular body didn’t belong to the Willon he knew. Then the wizard turned, just a little, and Phoran saw his face. It was Willon, but a much younger Willon.

  Willon had been an illusionist when he came to Colossae, thought Phoran. Of course he would protect himself by appearing to age.

  “What’s this?” asked Willon.

  “A rubbing from the Owl’s temple. The names of the Elder gods.” Ielian’s voice came from somewhere behind Phoran.

  “Ah. I don’t think those should be left loose where anyone can read them, do you?”

  The smell of burning cotton came to Phoran’s nose.

  “Ielian, you have done well,” said Willon, reappearing in Phoran’s view. “All of them at once without Tier to see through my illusions or the Ravens who could break them. Now, you are certain Hinnum has taught Seraph how to make the Ordered gems useful?”

  “Yes,” said Ielian, who had moved just behind Phoran. “I don’t understand how it worked, Master. But I know Seraph was certain she could clean them, she said as much.”

  “Good work, my lad,” said Willon. “If she can do that, it will be worth the trouble they caused me when they brought down the Path. I gave them all the gems except for Tier’s own in the hopes that a pair of Ravens and a Lark might do what I could not.”

  “But they didn’t,” said Ielian. “Of course they couldn’t.”

  Willon smiled. “Of course not. So only Hinnum knew how, but he’d never teach me, and he has no one I could threaten. No one he cares about.”

  “So you gave them the maps and sent them here.”

  “No,” said Willon. “I merely left them where they were—where Volis put them after he stole them from me. When nothing Seraph did would heal Tier, I knew she’d come here, looking for answers—and find Hinnum. I’m just surprised that they won Hinnum over in so short a time—secretive bastard that he is. They haven’t been here two days, and Hinnum stole Tier’s gem from me.”

  “Seraph did that, Master, not Hinnum. Then Tier broke the spell entirely while he was singing The Fall of the Shadowed.”

  Willon frowned. “Tier freed himself? You must be mistaken. A Bard can break illusions, but that spell is not an illusion.”

  Ielian said, “I’m no wizard, Master. I can only tell you what they told me.”

  “Perhaps Hinnum did it and allowed them to believe it was Tier,” mused Willon. “Makes no difference.”

  He looked up into Phoran’s eyes. “You needn’t worry, Phoran. I owe you greatly for bringing my Passerine where he could spy for me. How else would I ever have found the Guardian Order? There is nothing written about them, no story told about them. None of the Path’s prisoners spoke of them. When Volis began muttering about an Eagle, I thought he was deluded. Imagine my surprise when I found that Jes is slow, not because he is defective, but because he is a Guardian. How unexpected to find an Order Bearer so ill equipped. If Hinnum were still speaking to me, I’d chide him for it.”

  He looked over at Lehr. “None of you will die if you do as I ask. Tell your mother, boy, if Seraph cleans all the rings she has.” He paused. “And if she shows me how it is done. None of her children will die. You tell her that. Tell her you and your family have nothing to fear from me, if she does as I bid her.”

  “If not…” He walked just behind Phoran and whispered something Phoran couldn’t quite hear.

  “My father will kill you after my mother boils you in oil,” said Rinnie, and Phoran’s heart twisted in fear.

  He knew that she struggled because she bumped against him.

  “I don’t think so,” Willon purred. “I think she will do exactly what I ask because otherwise you will pay the price.”

  She was a child, and Phoran could do nothing. A bead of sweat slipped into one of Phoran’s eyes, burning it, but no matter how hard he struggled, he could only move his eyes.

  “Bring her,” Willon said. “Meet me at the top of that tower. I’ll go to the Owl’s temple and see to it that no more enterprising explorers happen onto the names of the gods.” He walked back in front of Phoran, but without Rinnie. He must have given her to Ielian. He bent down so he could see Lehr’s eyes. “Lehr Tieraganson, tell your mother we’ll be up there in that tower, waiting for her answer. Her daughter and I.”

  “There’re ghosts and whatnot here in the city,” said Ielian. “It might be better to find a place outside.”

  “I assure you that I know how to keep them away,” said Willon, straightening. “I lived here for five years, once. I learned how to deal with the ghosts. Bring her up to the tower.”

  One moment Willon was standing in front of Phoran, and the next there was a golden hawk where he had stood. The hawk crouched and, in a graceful swoop of wings, took flight.

  Everyone knew wizards couldn’t change shape, thought Phoran. Apparently the Shadowed didn’t need to worry about what everyone knew.

  “Traitor, oath breaker,” said Rinnie, her anger almost hiding the fear that made her voice shake.

  Ielian laughed. “No, they’re the oath breakers: Toarsen, Kissel, and Rufort. I took my oath to the Masters of the Path, and I’ve never broken it.”

  “He’s the Shadowed,” Rinnie said. “How can you serve the Shadowed?”

  “Because,” said Ielian, his voice slick and hungry, “he gives me people to kill.”

  Gura whined again, clearly agitated at Rinnie’s fear, but Ielian was supposed to be a friend.

  “Rinnie, Rinnie,” Ielian chided. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice the gathering clouds? You’re a Cormorant, a weather witch. But I noticed something while I was riding with your family. Do you want to know what it is? Unless you’re a farmer, Cormorants are all but useless.” His voice became mockingly sympathetic. “It takes such a long time to build a storm. And all it takes to stop you is—” There was the dull sound of flesh hitting flesh—and Phoran couldn’t move.

  Gura could.

  Phoran heard the threatening growl and the sound of a scuffle. A grunt—dog or human he couldn’t tell. Phoran’s frustration rose to new heights. A body fell to the ground.

  “Gods that felt good,” said Ielian. He appeared in Pho
ran’s view, splattered with the dog’s blood, a hunting knife in his hands.

  He rolled his head, first one way than the other, like a fighter loosening up his neck muscles before a battle.

  “I’ve forgotten how good it feels.” His face was flushed with agitation, his hands vibrating with some extreme emotion. He spoke rapidly, almost unintelligibly. “I can’t kill Lehr. The Master is right. Seraph would never cooperate if we hurt her son. And the Emperor might be useful. Can’t kill the Emperor.”

  With a strike as swift as a snake, Ielian slit Rufort’s throat. Blood spurted, and Ielian jumped back with an excited laugh. Rufort stayed standing as he had been while he bled out with the beating of his heart. At last he fell face forward into the puddle of his blood that covered the cobbles.

  Ielian crouched beside the body. “What did that feel like, Rufort? Did you feel helpless? Did you feel death coming to take you? Or were you lost in disbelief?” He looked up, meeting Phoran’s eyes. “I could have killed you a thousand times, Emperor. That makes me a very powerful man indeed. More powerful than you could ever be. Do you know what it is to hold a man’s life in your hands?” He reached out and ran his fingers through Rufort’s hair. “No one will ever love him more than I did at the moment of his death. How could I not love someone who gave me such pleasure? Did you see how he stood, soldier-straight until death took him?” He shuddered with pleasure at the memory, like a man might when recalling a particularly good whore.

  He stood up and shed that strange aura of intensity and looked calm and competent. “I’d better get going. The Master is expecting me.” He walked past Phoran. “Here,” he said. “Why don’t you hold this for me? I’ll leave it in to slow the bleeding. Maybe the Master’s spell will fade before you bleed to death.”

  Kissel or Toarsen, thought Phoran. Ielian had stabbed one of the two. Phoran struggled as hard as he’d ever struggled in his entire life, but he couldn’t move so much as a fingertip.

  Ielian appeared again, blood staining his shirt. He had a limp Rinnie over one shoulder and an expression as peaceful as any Hennea had ever worn. As he left them there, he softly whistled one of the songs Tier had sung last night.

  CHAPTER 19

  “No,” said Hennea. “I don’t feel anything. What’s wrong?”

  “The Shadowed is here,” Hinnum said. “I know the magic of my apprentice.”

  Tier’s hands tightened on Seraph’s shoulders. “Here? In Colossae?”

  Hinnum nodded and looked at Hennea. “I am no match for the Destroyer’s power, not in a man who has had it for two hundred years. I can buy you time to run, my lady, but you must run far and fast. Find your six Ordered and destroy this monster I helped to make.”

  “We can’t go without Rinnie and the boys,” said Seraph.

  Hinnum looked at her and nodded toward the city where a group of low-lying clouds were forming. “He has them already,” he said gently. “There is nothing you can do. A Falcon and a Cormorant have no chance against him. No more do two Ravens, a Bard, and an Eagle. Even if one of you used to be a goddess, even if I give you all the help I can. I tell you that I have seen the power of the Shadowed before. If the Unnamed King had not been mad, Red Ernave and Kerine would never have been able to kill him. Our Shadowed is no Unnamed King. I’ll do my best to delay him, but you have to run.”

  Seraph’s hand closed on the tigereye ring. “We need a Lark,” she said. “I have one here. My daughter or whoever this Order once belonged to would have given her life to destroy the Shadowed. If you can help my children, we can destroy him now.”

  Phoran stood in helpless, hopeless anger. He had promised Seraph no harm would come to her daughter. An emperor should keep his promises—but Willon’s spell held him firmly.

  Willon was an illusionist. What had he said? Tier could see through his illusions. Did he mean that this spell would not have held Tier? Could this spell be some form of illusion?

  Phoran had grown up in a court littered with mages of one sort or another. The illusions he’d seen had been minor magic, when it wasn’t outright legerdemain and not magic at all. It was common knowledge that disbelief would break an illusion—one of the reasons that illusionists were considered second-rate mages.

  Phoran tried to convince himself the spell was just an illusion, something he could break. Of course I can move—I’ve done so all my life. How can a magician stop me with one word?

  The problem with disbelief was that Willon quite obviously had managed to stop him with one word—it was hard to disbelieve something true. This would be a story to tell his children—whose future existence was in serious doubt: The story of how the lowborn wizard overcame the Emperor with one word—because the Emperor was so weak-willed as to allow it.

  Anger began to stir, and Phoran welcomed it. He was Emperor, no wizard had the right to force his will upon him. Phoran pushed aside his recent realizations of how little difference there was between a farmer and the Emperor. He wasn’t a Bard. This wasn’t about truth, it was about a peasant-born trader-illusionist who thought he had the right to command an emperor.

  No one commanded him. Hadn’t he killed thirteen Septs who believed they had more power than the Emperor?

  Phoran closed his eyes and took the deepest belief of the drunken sot he’d once been and held it to his heart. An emperor was superior to any wizard born. He was Emperor Phoran the Twenty-Seventh of that name. No one, no one commanded him!

  He stepped forward, knowing with utter certainty, that his right foot would lift, and his weight would shift. He stumbled forward and opened his eyes. He’d done it.

  He rolled Rufort over, but his body was limp, his eyes open and covered in the blood he was lying in. Phoran closed Rufort’s eyes.

  “Sleep sweet, my friend,” he said, and went to tend Ielian’s other victims.

  Kissel had the handle of a knife sticking out of his chest, which was covered in blood.

  Phoran hurriedly drew his own knife. “Don’t worry,” he said as Kissel’s eyes widened. “I’m not putting you out of your misery. I’m just getting bandage material before I pull that knife out.”

  He stripped off his own shirt and sliced it into strips. The fashion for sleeves was full that year and he thanked the tailors for it as he folded the sleeves up into a pad. A quick glance at Kissel’s back showed him there was no blood. The knife hadn’t gone through then, so he only had one wound to worry about. He tried not to think of internal damage as he tied pieces of his silk shirt together until he had a long strip of bandaging. He cut Kissel’s shirt so he could get a good look at the wound.

  Stop the bleeding, he told himself. The others would have to see to the rest.

  “I’m going to take the knife out,” he told Kissel. “Brace yourself.”

  He did it from behind, so if he overbalanced Kissel, the captain would just fall against Phoran. He pulled it as fast as he could, and cringed at the sound of steel against bone. When it was out, he dropped Ielian’s knife to the ground and held the pad made of his sleeves as hard as he could against the wound as he wrapped Kissel’s chest with the strip of cloth.

  When he had the bandaging tied as tightly as he could, he rocked Kissel back against him. Kissel was not a light man, but though he easily outweighed Phoran, Phoran managed to lay him on the ground without banging him up much.

  As soon as he’d taken care of Kissel, he went to Gura. The big black dog was still breathing, but his eyes were closed, and there was too much blood on the cobbles.

  “I have to get Rinnie,” he told the dog, hesitated, then took his knife to Toarsen. “I need your shirt.”

  It took him too long to bandage the dog, but at last he was satisfied that he’d done what he could.

  “Don’t come after me,” he told them. “I require your obedience as your emperor. If and when this spell wears off, go get Tier and Seraph and tell them what has happened. I’ll get Rinnie if I can. If not, I doubt that Willon will kill her, not if he wants Seraph to do anything fo
r him.”

  He started to go after Rinnie, then stopped and turned back. He couldn’t leave without telling them what he’d learned.

  “The spell is an illusion,” he told them rapidly. “As soon as you believe, really believe you can move, then you can break the spell.”

  He walked backward as he spoke. When he finished he turned and ran.

  Phoran was not Lehr, but he didn’t need to be. He could see the tower Willon had pointed out; it rose from the top of the cliffs above them. Ielian had walked in Rufort’s or Gura’s blood, and though the blood trail didn’t last for more than three or four steps, it gave Phoran all the direction he needed. He headed for the alleyway that looked to be where Ielian had been heading.

  The alley was narrow—only wide enough for two men walking abreast, and it ended against the cliff edge, where a steep, zigzagging stairway had been carved into the cliff face. He shielded his eyes and saw a small figure climbing near the top.

  Phoran drew his sword and started up the cliff. There were no railings on the side of the stairway, which was narrower than that alley had been. By the time he’d passed the third flight, he was high enough to make misstep fatal. He kept his eyes on the steps before him and tried not to look over the edge.

  The past few months had melted much of the self-indulgent fat from his body, but even in his best shape, Phoran would never be a great runner. His build was more like Kissel’s, good for power but not stamina; but with Rinnie’s life at stake, he made the best speed he could. Lack of air made him dizzy and forced him to slow his pace. Legs aching, a stitch in his side, focused on climbing, he might not have noticed the Memory if it had not grabbed his arm and pulled him to a stop.

  Its hand touched his mouth when he would have said something. The cold touch caused Phoran to jerk his head back with a reflexive shudder. But when he heard the scuffle of feet above him, he knew what the Memory had been trying to tell him. Someone was coming down the stairway.

  Phoran waited, trying to catch his breath. As soon as he stopped, the Memory faded from sight.