Don’t be ridiculous came into Kieri’s mind, but the Lady would not hear that, he was sure. Instead he said, “Sier Tolmaric is an honorable man and has reasons for his dislike of elves—the torment you inflicted on his father and grandfather. His family is poorer because of that, and the scathefire ran across his lands while you were away and could not help defend us.”
“I apologize for that … I have already …”
“To him? For his losses? Are you going to grant him what I asked: land to replace what was lost? You have answered nothing about that, and I have asked again and again.”
“It doesn’t mean he didn’t do it,” she said.
“He did not do it,” Kieri said. “He did not kill Orlith because he was here, in Chaya, in the palace itself, when Orlith was killed, and he had no reason to poison us and kill our child. The humans in my court, Grandmother, are not my enemies. I have enough elven magery to know that for certain. Some are stubborn, some are slow, not all agree with me … but they are not enemies.”
“And you think we are.”
“I think some of you may be. Or it might be other beings—iynisin, perhaps. I’ve met those before.”
“It cannot be. Such do not exist here.”
Kieri’s patience frayed; he struggled with himself. “Something is wrong, Grandmother, and you must know it—and I need to know it. I believe you intend me no harm, but you keep secrets … you go away and do not come back … you do not answer my simplest questions. If you were human, I would think—” He stopped short. Could he tell her what he really thought, that she was impaired in some way, unfit to rule? She was the Lady; she was so old he could not imagine what her real age might be—old enough to see mountains grow and seas rise and fall, as the dragon said he was. An Elder of Elders, and his own grandmother …
“You would think what?” she asked. She seemed to grow taller, more beautiful, more powerful; her glamour wrapped around him, heavy as water. Then, even as he struggled against it, her eyes widened, focusing past him, and her mouth opened.
War-honed reflexes acted; he had ducked aside and whirled, reaching for his sword, when a sword hummed through the space where he had been. Another presence—elven?—and his first glimpse was of an elf he had never seen, as tall as the Lady. He had his sword out then, the green jewel in the pommel glowing. The elf now aimed his sword’s point at the Lady and extended his other hand to Kieri.
“You will not move,” he said to Kieri; to the Lady he said, “Flessinathlin … dear lady, has it come at last? And is this puny mortal your champion?”
Kieri felt a weight of malice added to the Lady’s glamour … and felt that glamour fade. The elf’s face, those perfectly shaped bones, that exquisite beauty, held an expression of such viciousness that the beauty seemed even more unreal. He had never felt such before around elves—strangeness, yes, but not this.
“You should not have divided your power,” the elf said to the Lady. “Once you were stronger … but now? I think perhaps you are not. And this one is your grandson, so I hear. How delightful it will be when he is blamed for your death. All your fawning little subjects will take care of him for me, and then … even the Kingsforest cannot withstand us.”
The Lady’s larger semblance had faded, leaving her slightly shorter than the other. With a sensation much like a bubble popping on the skin, Kieri felt the elvenhome presence disappear. With that, he could feel the malice of the other elf even more strongly. Only—it was not Sinyi, but iynisin.
“We will not be interrupted by any of your subjects,” the iynisin said to the Lady. “Or yours,” it said to Kieri. “Not that they could do me any harm if they were here in a crowd.”
From the corner of his eye, Kieri saw Tolmaric move slightly, shoulders tensing, one eye opening. Don’t, Kieri thought at him. Tolmaric wasn’t armed, and if the Lady’s glamour had felled him, the iynisin’s power would surely overwhelm him, too. Whether it was his thought or Tolmaric’s or the iynisin’s power, Tolmaric relaxed again, eye closing.
“How will you defend yourself, Flessinathlin-aorlin? Or will you yield to me freely, out of your wisdom? I will allow you a blade; I am not unfair … but it is you alone I face this time, and you alone chose to limit your power, so I lose nothing by that.”
The Lady raised her right hand, and a sword appeared in it. “Do you think the Singer will lend me no aid?”
“Oh, not that sword, Fless. That one I can destroy with a touch.” The iynisin’s long dark blade thrust forward, just touching the Lady’s, and her blade shattered like thin ice, the shards vanishing in a mist even as they fell. “You must do better, indeed you must. I have waited too long to make this easy for you.” Its voice dropped to a croon. “No one will mourn the winter’s fairest flower … no one will mourn her beauty or sing her praise song, and not even one tree will keep her memory green.”
Kieri’s heart contracted; he could not draw breath for a moment. The Lady looked so helpless, so forlorn, her hands empty of any weapon, her connection to the elvenhome broken. He heard, as if far distant, someone knocking on his office door, but he knew whoever it was would not be able to come in.
“Reach for it, Fless,” the iynisin said. “You still have power enough, I deem. It will weaken you a little, but you will still be able to lift the blade and use it … for a while. Or would you rather take your grandson’s blade from his hands and leave him no protection at all when you fall at my feet?”
Kieri hoped she would not do that; he knew he could move and was only waiting for the best moment. He could feel the iynisin’s pressure still. The Lady glanced at him; he dared not wink, but let one corner of his mouth twitch—a smile, if she understood. Her expression did not change. She held her hands palms up in front of her. Slowly, across her outstretched palms, a sword grew into being, first the outline, starting with the tip, and then the substance. This one Kieri felt sure was old—a sword she had drawn to her from somewhere else, somewhere deep in memory, for it appeared the way someone gazing with concentration along its blade would see it. It was like no sword Kieri had seen: the blade dark, glinting in reds and golds, a vapor rising from it. The hilt—but her hand was closing over it before he could see its design clearly.
The iynisin laughed. Kieri thought it was to break her concentration, for the laugh sounded forced. The sword continued to solidify; Kieri felt power in it as well. The hilt of his own sword heated in his hand, as if in response.
“You chose well, Fless,” the iynisin said then. “But it will not help you as much as you think.”
The Lady lifted the blade from her other hand, brought it to position … and the iynisin attacked. She parried, parried again as the iynisin redoubled, moved a little to her heart-hand.
The iynisin laughed again. “If you think I’m going to turn my back on your grandson, Fless … no. I know his past. And he is fighting my power—he might get loose. Turn as you please and know that you cannot outwit me.” The iynisin moved down the room, opening a distance from Kieri without turning away from him.
Kieri tried to create a semblance of himself on which the iynisin’s attention and power would fix and allow him to move outside it without notice. Though the elvenhome had been severed from the Lady, his sword and dagger, he knew, put him in contact with some elven powers and with the taig … and they did still. He ignored the duel for the moment and reached for the taig and for the bones in the ossuary. He felt his father’s alarm, his sister’s anger, and then the door split, the grain opening silently to the width of a thin person. Through the opening, he saw Squires and two elves, swords gleaming. He tried, but could not coax or force it to open wider as they began to squeeze through, first an elf, then a Squire, then—
“You force me to this,” the iynisin said, and lunged at the Lady, sweeping her blade aside. Kieri moved but knew he would be too late to save her if she could not parry.
“No!” With that word, one of the elves moved so fast Kieri saw only a blur, throwing himself between the iy
nisin and the Lady … and taking the thrust meant for her, even as his sword struck the iynisin’s dagger arm.
The Lady thrust across the fallen body of the elf; for an instant her sword seemed red flame, but the iynisin backed out of range. Kieri advanced, feeling the eagerness in his own blade and the same excitement he’d always felt in a battle. He knew his Squires were in the room now; he knew the other elf was also advancing … the iynisin was outnumbered, trapped in that end of the room.
But he wasn’t. He had used the same magery Kieri had attempted; he wasn’t where he seemed to be, and Kieri barely parried the blow that came at him suddenly from the side. His blade squealed, a sound he’d never heard from any blade, and a blow hit his shoulder—only the mail he wore saved him. For an instant the blow numbed his arm. He almost dropped his sword but managed to keep his grip and stay upright.
“Finally,” the iynisin said. “A challenge.” It stood now over Tolmaric, near Kieri’s desk. “And an elf-hater to provide the blood; how very appropriate.” As the tip of its sword touched Tolmaric’s neck, Tolmaric convulsed. His eyes opened; he gave a strangled cry, and then his clothes turned black, as if rotting in water; his body sank in on itself, gray and withering.
And the iynisin grew—divided—became three, and then five, all identical, all with sword in hand, all with that arrogant, cruel smile. Were they semblances or true multiples? “It is only fair,” it said. “You surely see that—” And it charged.
No time to think; no time to do anything but meet the attack. Kieri parried the first blade that came at him with his dagger, the second with his sword. He could do nothing about the others; he heard the clash of blades all over the room. Someone bumped into his back, and “Sir king!” that person gasped. How one of his Squires had reached him, he did not know, but for the moment, fighting back to back, he had one less thing to worry about.
He parried, the iynisin blades screeching as they touched his, flashes of light he did not understand running down his blades. He tried to attack but with two opponents had no opening, and he was now close against the hearth on his dagger side. He slid a foot forward, hoping his Squire would follow the shift in his weight, and edged very slowly along that wall.
Kieri was aware of Kuakkgani nearby, but they came no closer. He took another blow that did not penetrate his mail but drove him back a step. He was tiring now. He blinked a trickle of sweat out of his eyes, reached to the taig for strength—and it came, a cool green stream. In that moment, he found an opening and lunged, thrust, redoubled, and then parried the second iynisin’s downward swing with his sword as the first screamed and backed away, staggering.
One down? No, for the iynisin came at him again, slower but still dangerous. He was past the fireplace now; he advanced another step and swung to put his back to the wall; his Squire—Tamlin—did the same, which forced their opponents to face them. Now Kieri could see past the iynisin—in fragmented glances—to see another Squire enter the room and then another figure, this one in blue.
His heart skipped a beat. Arian: yes, in mail and a helmet, but—Arian! And Dorrin. He missed his parry; the iynisin blade squealed on his mail, and it burned as if fire had heated it. Pain focused him again; he parried strongly, thrust, and for the first time his blade went home in the iynisin to his left just as Arian’s transfixed the same iynisin from behind.
And Dorrin’s blade, glowing blue, took off the head of the other in a level swipe. The head disintegrated before it hit the floor, a black spray splashing the Squire next to Kieri and then vanishing; the Squire’s clothes blackened and frayed, as if burning. He cried out.
Kieri raised his sword in salute as he looked around the room in time to see two of the remaining iynisin flow into the third … who was pulling his blade free of the Lady.
“As I said, Flessinathlin: you will die, and he will be blamed.” Then the iynisin vanished.
Kieri stared; the Lady of the Ladysforest, his grandmother, lay in a welter of silver-flashed scarlet, surrounded by the bodies of three elves. Dorrin moved first, blade still in hand, and Kieri followed, with Arian at his side. The taig was silent—shocked into stillness, he thought with the corner of his mind that could think, though horror almost overwhelmed him.
As he knelt by her side, he heard the door creak open, the hurried footsteps as those outside came in, as they gasped and exclaimed, elven and human voices mingling … but all he could see was the Lady’s face, the light fading from it, and all he could really hear was the sound, too familiar, of a mortal wound that made her struggle to say aloud what words her lips tried to frame.
She seemed so small … he started to take her hands, realized he still held his weapons, and set them down, careless of the mess on the floor. He was the king … could he heal her? But when he touched her hands, touched the wounds, he knew he could not. The king’s touch had no power over elves or the injuries dealt by iynisin.
“Grandmother,” Kieri said. Her gaze focused on him; her lips moved again. “Grandmother, he lied. All will mourn you, winter’s fairest flower. We will mourn your beauty lost, and we will sing your praise song, and a multitude of trees will keep your memory green. I swear this, Grandmother, Lady of the Ladysforest, as I live, and on the oath we swore together a year ago, and on the blades you had forged for me.”
“Grandson …” Her voice was a mere thread of sound but still as pure a music as one string of a harp, skillfully plucked. “I … fear … for you …”
“Do not,” Kieri said. “Your enemy fled rather than face me, at the end.”
“I … was wrong … too often. Not … telling … you. Iynisin … hate … life. Singer …” Her eyes dulled, the silver sparks in her blood dulling as if tarnished.
Kieri felt the taig shudder as if every tree had been shaken to its roots at once. Arian leaned into his shoulder; together they tried to calm the growing storm of grief and fear. Behind him, he heard the eerie keening of elven voices. Kieri laid his grandmother’s hands gently on her bloody dress. He looked up at Dorrin, standing with blade still drawn on the other side of the Lady.
“Dorrin?”
“It might come back.”
For Richard, best of husbands, and for Michael, best of sons: you have enriched my life and made the work possible
BY ELIZABETH MOON
THE DEED OF PAKSENARRION
Sheepfarmer’s Daughter
Divided Allegiance
Oath of Gold
PALADIN’S LEGACY
Oath of Fealty*
Kings of the North*
Echoes of Betrayal*
THE LEGACY OF GIRD
Surrender None
Liar’s Oath
VATTA’S WAR
Trading in Danger*
Marque and Reprisal*
Engaging the Enemy*
Command Decision*
Victory Conditions*
PLANET PIRATES (WITH ANNE MCCAFFREY)
Sassinak Generation Warriors
Remnant Population*
THE SERRANO LEGACY
Hunting Party
Sporting Chance
Winning Colors
Once a Hero
Rules of Engagement
Change of Command
Against the Odds
The Speed of Dark*
SHORT-FICTION COLLECTIONS
Lunar Activity
Phases
* Published by Ballantine Books
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Former Marine ELIZABETH MOON is the author of many novels, including Victory Conditions, Command Decision, Engaging the Enemy, Marque and Reprisal, Trading in Danger, the Nebula Award winner The Speed of Dark, and Remnant Population, a Hugo Award finalist. After earning a degree in history from Rice University, Moon went on to obtain a degree in biology from the University of Texas, Austin. She lives in Florence, Texas.
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