by Barb Hendee
The medallion inside Ghassan’s shirt grew suddenly warm.
He had not expected the prince to be the one to establish their agreed contact. Caught unprepared, he looked around carefully, and then hurried into a narrow space between an eatery and a tea vendor’s shop. He went all the way to the back corners of the buildings and, with one quick look for any nearby watchers, hooked the chain around his neck with one finger. He barely drew out the medallion and gripped it before . . .
Ghassan, are you there?
At the soft voice in his thoughts, he fixed his will upon the medallion before answering.
Yes, my prince.
I do not have much time. I am dressing for dinner and found a reason to send my personal attendant on an errand.
Ghassan knew the prince’s duties sometimes made privacy difficult. As they were both pressed for time, he went straight to the point.
An unexpected change of circumstances has arisen. If we both act quickly, I might gain needed . . . unique . . . assistance to locate and destroy Khalidah.
This would stun his prince at first, and so he waited. Once the prince understood or accepted this, explanations might be easier.
Assistance? I thought all in your sect were dead.
Yes, in all likelihood. When Ghassan had returned from Bäalâle Seatt and rushed to the deep underground chambers of his sect, he had found only bodies . . . but one was missing.
Tuthâna had been the last to whom he had spoken while away, for all wore a medallion tuned specifically to each. He had not found her among the dead, and there could be only one reason for her absence.
Khalidah, amid his escape, had taken flesh again—Tuthâna’s flesh.
She was by far the most trusted and most loved among the Suman metaologers, whether part of the sect or not. Her calm and kindness to others were widely admired, for most knew her as one of the few Suman metaologers who had studied thaumaturgy instead of conjury. She was an extraordinary healer favored by the elite of the imperial court.
Khalidah would have known this. All members of the sect had long been part of extracting the lost secrets of sorcery from him, including Tuthâna. And with her body, that monster could go nearly anywhere.
Ghassan feared she had not lived more than a few days after the escape. She would have been a vessel of transport until that ancient thing shifted to someone far more prominent. And who knew what had even happened to her body.
Ghassan? Answer me!
He gathered himself, for he could not think upon her now. He needed the prince to take a great risk.
There is another—an outsider. A onetime Numan pupil of mine has sought me out. She has the absolute loyalty of the black-haired woman you locked away on the day of my arrest. That woman may be immune to Khalidah . . . immune to possession.
Ghassan paused, waiting for confusion and curiosity—and perhaps hope—to overtake his prince. The silence went on so long that he feared he had lost contact when . . .
And what does this matter? She is locked away with the others beneath the palace grounds, as I had no choice before the imperial court.
Yes, there were complications, and what Ghassan would ask next would be worse.
Find a way to free them . . . to get them out of the palace compound. I will take over from there.
The next thoughts he heard pierced him.
Free them? I have no authority over the prison!
Ghassan had known this response would come, but it needed to be provoked before he could ask for the obvious and worse option. He waited until the prince continued . . .
I can only condemn, and not even my father would undo this for fear of . . . how it would look before the court. His counselor would thereby advise against it . . . or in my father’s seclusion, claim the emperor had denied such a request.
There was the trap in which the prince was caught.
Then you must arrange for an escape . . . and in secret, at least long enough for me to reach them.
Silence was much longer this time, and Ghassan pressed further.
Khalidah could even now “be” someone within the palace or the guild. I do not know his plans, but possibly he intends to reach you or your father. Imagine that thing sitting upon the imperial throne, sustaining whatever flesh in a reign you do not want to imagine. I must destroy him quickly, and I do not even know if I can. I need the black-haired woman.
Still more silence, and still Ghassan waited.
I assume you have a plan for how I am to arrange this?
Ghassan blinked slowly in relief. Yes, my prince.
* * *
Chane awoke at dusk, first checked that the orb’s trunk was secure, and then left the hideaway’s back room. When he reached the open archway, the first person he encountered was Shade.
The dog sat staring toward that “other” window in the rear wall between the cushioned sitting area and the sleeping chamber’s outer wall.
Chane simply watched her, though she did not look over at him. Her scintillating blue eyes remained fixed on that disturbing window. Though she was silent, her ears were flattened. He quietly stepped past Shade and then spotted Wynn.
She sat in one of the high-backed chairs and, with one hand, slowly turned and turned a tinted handleless glass cup on the table. Osha stood nearby, and when he looked up at Chane’s approach, he appeared dourer than his usual brooding self.
“What is wrong?” Chane rasped. “And where is il’Sänke?”
Wynn did not even start from her silent nervousness. She related that the domin was having difficulty procuring the help he’d promised and had gone out yet again.
“We’ve been stuck in here all day,” she added with an edge in her voice. “I know we’ve endured long journeys on ships, but this feels more like being trapped. I can’t focus on anything until I know we can get to the others.”
The others, of course, were Magiere and those with her.
Chane suppressed any reaction; it would have only burdened Wynn even more. But he had questions of his own, and the domin was not here to answer them. As he blew air sharply out of his nose, a habit left over from his living days, Wynn looked up at him.
“Do you need to slip out?” she asked quietly. “You haven’t . . . I mean, I don’t think you’ve had . . . any sustenance since we boarded the ship at Oléron.”
Osha’s horselike face wrinkled in disgust. So much the better, since he stalked off toward Shade, and Chane remained fixed on Wynn.
No, he had not had “sustenance” since before Oléron. He had once promised Wynn that, so long as he remained in her company, he would never again feed on a sentient being, and only upon animals—normally livestock. Now he wondered how much he should say or keep to himself, for that too had changed.
It had started on the night they had procured the orb of Spirit.
In their search for it, they had traveled to the keep of an isolated duchy with no way of knowing what they would find. In the span of a single night, they learned not only of an orb hidden in the keep’s lower levels but that an old threat to Wynn—a wraith called Sau’ilahk—had used that orb to transmogrify a young’s duke body.
After a thousand years as an undead spirit, Sau’ilahk regained flesh through that body, but only for one night.
Chane’s only companion had been Shade when the two of them caught the wraith in the guise of a young duke. Sau’ilahk struck down Shade so hard that Chane thought she’d died in that instant, and he had lost control. Pinning the duke’s body to the ground, he bit through the man’s neck and bled him to death.
He had not told Wynn of this last part, and Shade had not been conscious to see it happen, so she did not know either.
Would Wynn even understand, considering why he had lost himself in that moment and become that monster she expected him to deny? But since that night, he had not experienced a hint of hunger.
Chane had not felt the need to feed, not even once.
This had been an advantage while on the ship, b
ut if he had been affected by feeding on . . . by draining the duke—the wraith in flesh—unto death, then what else had changed for him? Yes, he was still undead, though the feral beast inside him had grown calm, perhaps watchful in waiting for him to slip again.
Once or twice he’d nearly told Wynn to see if she had any conjecture on this.
But the way she saw him now, and her continued company, mattered more than another secret he kept from her. In time, perhaps the changes in him would fade. Even if that meant struggling again and forever with the beast inside himself, it would be better than telling her. He could not stand the thought—the chance—of her sending him away.
“Shade . . . will you get away from that window!” Wynn snapped, and then more quietly, “I’m sorry. That window is unnerving . . . This whole place is unnerving.”
Chane frowned in worry as he looked over his shoulder. Osha now crouched beside Shade, and if they had been staring at the window, they both now stared at Wynn. Shade got up and padded over beside her. Much as Chane expected Wynn to succumb to more guilt for her outburst, she simply put her hand on Shade’s back and scratched between the dog’s shoulders.
“Have you learned anything more about this hideaway?” he asked.
Wynn closed her other hand around the small glass cup. It appeared to contain water. “No . . . no. I don’t suppose you have anything new on that?”
Chane’s suspicions remained unchanged. Mere illusion could not accomplish what he had experienced in the passage. Hiding something from sight was possible by manipulating the light playing upon it; hiding it from touch was not and would require physically transforming affected objects. Then there was great effort to permanently emplace such a work of thaumaturgy to respond only to specific individuals . . . or possession of a linked pebble.
This place was beyond anything in his limited arcane experience.
“Nothing as yet,” he finally answered.
Wynn released the cup and slumped back in her chair. Chane settled in the one to her left.
“Well,” she said. “Ghassan tutored me for a while today on useful phrases in commonly spoken Sumanese. I could teach some to you?”
“Of course.”
Chane was always interested in languages, though he wanted to speak of more important matters. Then there was the other little change that he’d noted.
Wynn now often used the domin’s first name, though in the past, she had generally referred to him as Domin il’Sänke. Then again, Chane wondered whether il’Sänke was still a domin at all. Even if he was not, Wynn would probably always see him as such, regardless of what she called him.
She turned her head toward the sitting area. “Osha, we’re going to practice a bit of spoken Sumanese. Do you want to join us?”
Chane scowled. Why did she always feel the need to include that elf?
Osha appeared from out of the sleeping quarters, though Chane had not noticed him leave the main room. The gangly elf’s eyes shifted once from Wynn to Chane.
“Come sit,” Wynn added as she leaned over to dig through her pack by the chair. “The domin wrote a few phrases down to help us if we need to shop at the market.”
Osha did not move and, for the first time, Chane wondered what had been going on as he lay dormant. Then he barely heard footfalls on the stairs outside and down the passage.
“Someone is coming,” he said, though Shade’s ears had already pricked up.
Everyone looked toward the door as it opened, and Ghassan il’Sänke stepped in and shut it again.
Wynn rose too quickly, jostling the cup on the table. “How did it go? Can we get them out?”
Il’Sänke studied her for a moment. “I have gained assistance from someone inside the imperial grounds.”
“Who?” Chane demanded.
This domin, now responsible for Wynn’s safety as well as being the reason for that need, kept far too many secrets.
“Someone highly placed . . . someone I trust.” Il’Sänke’s gaze shifted briefly to Chane and then back to Wynn. “Tomorrow night, Magiere and the others will be secretly freed and taken to the front gate. After that, we are on our own. We must be in place and ready for anything . . . including pursuit.”
Shade rumbled, lifting her jowls and exposing her teeth. Wynn reached out and touched the dog’s shoulder.
“What is it?” Chane asked.
“She wants to know more,” Wynn whispered, glancing at him. “I think . . . she thinks this is happening too quickly—too easily.”
“I agree,” he whispered back.
Wynn turned to il’Sänke. “If our friends have been imprisoned for a moon, we cannot get them out quickly enough.”
“I want . . . to . . . see entrance,” Osha said from the other doorway. “Plan . . . tonight.”
Again, Chane could not help but agree. “So do I. Regardless of risk, we must study the surrounding area if we are to have any chance of success.”
His next impulse was to insist that Wynn stay there, but that would only cause a fuss. Also, on second thought, keeping her close would make it easier to protect her, no matter how well hidden this place was.
Il’Sänke inhaled through his nose as if considering options, but then he nodded. “Everyone get your cloaks, pull your hoods low, and follow me—and do exactly as I say. I will show you what we are facing, and then we return and remain here until tomorrow night.”
CHAPTER FIVE
The following night and well past dusk, Prince Ounyal’am paced alone in the entry room of his private chambers. He struggled to ignore the repercussions of all that could go wrong in the events he had set into motion. At a soft knock upon the outer door, he froze for an instant.
As he went for the door, a voice spoke from beyond it.
“My prince? Commander Har’ith has arrived.”
Ounyal’am took a slow breath upon hearing Nazhif. “Enter,” he replied and quickly assumed a cavalier and almost bored demeanor as Nazhif opened the door and stepped back.
A tall man in his late forties with narrow, hawkish features entered wearing a broad gold sash wrapped over his left shoulder and across his chest. He halted after three steps inside and bowed his head, though he appeared mildly puzzled.
Har’ith commanded the imperial guard. The prince rarely sent for him—and certainly not after dark.
“You summoned me, my prince?” the commander asked.
Ounyal’am let silence hang for two breaths, as if annoyed by such an obvious question.
“I visited my father tonight,” he said. “The emperor made a request.”
Har’ith’s eyes widened slightly, as well they should have. Counselor a’Yamin allowed few, if any, to see Kanal’am, including his own son. Then again, aside from the emperor himself, no one had open authority over an imperial prince.
For an instant, the commander’s gaze flickered, as if trying to peer into every shadow in the room. That ended in a start as Ounyal’am stepped to a small side table and picked up a rolled parchment bearing the imperial seal.
“My father expressed concern over the treatment—and security—of the foreign prisoners. You are to conduct an inspection tonight and report to me after my morning tea.”
Commander Har’ith blinked and hesitated before taking the rolled sheet. He immediately cracked its seal and unrolled it to view the order. To make matters worse, the commander was well-known as one of a’Yamin’s minions, though he would not question a direct order from the emperor, no matter how bizarre.
The order was as brief and succinct as Ounyal’am’s instructions, for he had written it himself.
Earlier that evening, after manipulating his way into his father’s quarters in the counselor’s absence, he had dismissed any servants present. They fled in panic, not daring to question his sudden appearance in the emperor’s chamber after three moons. Perhaps he had stood there too long in staring across that room to his father’s bed, hidden behind a haze of gauze curtains. Even obscured, the sleeping, decrepit
form tucked beneath vermillion sheets left him sickened.
Some palace servants had whispered rumors about his father being seen once or twice wandering the halls downward through the palace dressed only in a long dark robe and hood. Of course, none had said this openly, and none seemed to know where that figure went. Looking upon the withered corpse-to-be, Ounyal’am did not believe a word of this.
How much better all would have been—would be—if he had smothered that wrinkled face with a pillow. But such a thought had filled even him with self-loathing as he stood there in the half dark within sight of his father.
The order had been quite simple to draft. Forging his father’s signature was another skill practiced over half a lifetime at the insistence of Ghassan. After he used the imperial seal, he carefully cleaned and returned it to the cabinet, never again looking to the bed. He had waited until the scent of melted wax dissipated before leaving that place.
At some point—there was no way to guess when—the imperial bodyguards on duty outside his father’s chambers would inform the imperial counselor of a son’s sudden nighttime visit.
That could not be helped.
“Perhaps you should hasten,” Ounyal’am said shortly, affecting a yawn, either sleepy or impatient, to hide his panic. “I will expect you again in the morning.”
Har’ith’s eyes narrowed slightly. It would seem to him beyond unlikely that the emperor would give a passing thought to the treatment of foreign prisoners accused of murdering Suman citizens, but it was not the commander’s place to question—only to obey.
“Yes, my prince,” Har’ith said clearly, and with another bow of his head he pivoted on one heel and left.
Ounyal’am followed a short distance behind and took a half step through the door, though Nazhif had reached for the handle to close it. They both stood there in silence, watching the commander of the imperial guard stride off down the passage.
To either side of the door waited two more of the prince’s personal bodyguards, both wearing silver instead of gold sashes. But as Ounyal’am looked to Nazhif, his thoughts fixed on two of his guards who were not present.
