Sweat spangled Darris’s forehead, the effort of instantly conjuring images from concept matched only by the struggle not to project. His training, from childhood, forced him to wrestle the strength of voice that might pierce the crowd and draw attention to their tiny band at a time when they most needed privacy. He switched to a primitive rhyme scheme, unwilling to wrestle ideas or training any longer:
“Centuries ago, the legends claim
There lived a fair king, Valar his name.
His brother, Morhane, usurped the throne.
Killing king, heirs, and faithful—every one.
But the Eastern Wizard anticipated
So a secret escape route he had created
And told its location to only three
The king, eldest heir, and a bard like me.
Prince Sterrane was saved and then returned
Via this route we much later learned.
The tunnel, we know, was deliberately destroyed
So that by enemies it would not be employed.
Only bard, bard’s heir, and successful staff-tested
Know of the new tunnel King Sterrane requested.
In secret was crafted
In secret remains
Now just one knows where that route is nested.”
Matrinka squeezed Darris’ hand reassuringly. Listeners usually begged his talents, appreciating the practice and concentration involved in performances. At times like this, however, they found him irritating. Matrinka appreciated that the songs created instantaneously would prove far more difficult than those rehearsed, no matter how much less polished they sounded.
This time, Rantire needed no explanation. “There’s a secret way in?”
Darris nodded, resorting to speech to outline his plan. “If we sneak into the castle, we can get Griff staff-tested. Once we have a confirmed ruler of the king’s line, it’ll prove a lot simpler to convince the populace. Plus, we can get a feel for the elves’ power and intentions.”
The idea seemed perfect to Matrinka, and she gave Darris’ hand another squeeze. Her books did not reveal how heir or populace knew who passed the staff-test, but no one had ever challenged the claim. Matrinka had believed in magic even before meeting elves had proved it so. Faith in a test sanctioned and created by gods came naturally.
For several moments, the companions looked from one to another, no one voicing opposition to Darris’ suggestion. Finally, Rantire broke the silence. “Lead on,” she told the bard’s heir, hand falling to her sword. “And hope no one stands in our way.” To emphasize her point, she took a bold stride forward, wounded leg buckling suddenly beneath her.
Griff seized Rantire’s arm, managing a stunningly graceful rescue of balance and dignity. She shifted between him and the crowd, inferring she had deliberately drawn him to her side for his safekeeping.
Doubts trembled through Matrinka then, and she placed her hopes on Rantire’s literal words. Physical opposition would find them sorely lacking, their only warriors Béarn’s gentle bard and a Renshai battered beyond usefulness. A few days or a week of rest would allow Rantire to recover adequately; but the threat of discovery and execution, their own and those of Béarnian innocents branded traitors, left them no time to spare. They had little choice but to rely on stealth; and, not for the first time, Matrinka wished Tae accompanied them now. Images of the quick, sardonic Easterner who had grown from loner to beloved ally filled Matrinka’s mind. From necessity, she forced them away, along with the tears rapidly brimming in eyes marred by red lines as wide as rivers. She placed her faith in Darris.
The bard’s plan had to work.
CHAPTER 6
Destroyers of the Peace
I will gladly give my life for anything I believe in.
—Colbey Calistinsson
Despite Captain’s magical light, the catacombs near Béarn’s dungeon remained as dank and gloomy as a cave. Walls slicked with slime seemed to crush in on Matrinka, and she followed Darris as closely as she dared. Touching him might disrupt his concentration and leave them wandering aimlessly until thirst and starvation claimed them.
For centuries the maze had guarded Béarn’s prison, foiling escapes. Any criminal who managed to slip free of his cell and battle past the guards became lost in corridors that seemed endless and demonstrated no pattern Matrinka could fathom. Captain’s light scarcely grazed the darkness. She suspected torches would fare worse, not only due to their inferior illumination. A breeze, thick with mold and damp, wound through the hallways, and no flame would survive its presence long.
Trapped in self-imposed silence, Matrinka had vowed to memorize their route. The chaos of the complex befuddled her within half a dozen turns; direction lost all meaning in the murk. She focused on Darris’ footfalls, afraid to lose him and all hope of leaving. Griff’s boots clomped loudly behind her, the quieter movements of Rantire and Captain disappearing beneath the echoes. Mior sprawled across her mistress’ shoulders.
The walk continued, longer than two circles around the outskirts of the entire city. Even then, it did not end. The party snaked through corridors that zigzagged in ever-changing intervals and depraved loops. Matrinka had grown accustomed to long lapses in conversation. Darris’ bardic curse kept him quiet in intervals that socially crippled him, though the two of them had learned to say more in silence than most did in conversation. A touch, a smile, a gesture spoke more, at times, than a dozen words. Awkward among her peers, Matrinka had always appreciated Darris’ problem. Now, the hush, broken only by rare coughs, scrapes, splashes, and footsteps, grated on her sensibilities.
At last, Darris made a brisk gesture for Matrinka to stop. She obeyed, watching as he examined one of a million blind alcoves. “Light, please,” he finally said.
Captain pushed past Rantire and Griff. Matrinka moved aside, and the elf wriggled by her to Darris’ side. The darkness seemed alive, pressing in on the scant illumination so that it revealed only tiny areas before becoming eclipsed by a bend or overcome by converging shadows. Matrinka saw nothing special about this corner, but Darris continued to work vigorously, his body shielding her from his actions. At length, he made a quiet noise of triumph. A tiny square of light opened into the blackness.
Matrinka breathed a sigh of relief. “Is that it?” she whispered.
Darris nodded.
“Close it a moment, please. I just thought of something.” The idea had sparked shortly after they entered the catacombs, and a deeper portion of her mind had worried the problem while she concentrated on the nearer danger of becoming irretrievably lost.
Darris obeyed, though he kept his hand in place, apparently concerned about losing the door in the gloom. The inlet disappeared, and even Captain’s light proved incapable of revealing its now-known location to Matrinka. Though she had requested the closing, the plunge back into tomblike darkness left her longing for the meager promise of airy, open space again.
Rantire’s irregular panting broke the expectant hush that followed. Matrinka cleared her throat. “This maze leads to the dungeon too, right?”
“Right,” Darris confirmed.
“Could you get us there?”
A stricken look crossed Darris’ face, perpetuated by the gloom. “Not directly from here.” He grappled with words, obviously seeking ones that did not require him to sing. “We’d have to go all the way back and start over.”
Matrinka pieced together the problem. It made sense for the bards to memorize the routes separately. Surely a connection existed between the two; but, fraught with twists and tacks it would require a whole separate learning that seemed unnecessary. She spoke her main thought, keeping details to herself so as not to sound too foolish. The others might discover huge flaws in her logic. Like the staves, they would find her unworthy. “Ra-khir’s father, the captain of the Knights of Erythane, is there.”
Silence ensued as Matrinka’s companions pondered her words. Despite his inhuman patience, Captain broke it first. “His help could prove invaluabl
e.”
Darris frowned, brows drawn in, considering. “An excellent idea, Matrinka.”
The princess smiled, desperately needing the praise, yet certain a “but” would follow.
“But . . .” Darris fulfilled Matrinka’s expectation. “. . . remember the trial? Kedrin didn’t defend himself from Baltraine’s false charges.”
Matrinka had a ready answer. “Ra-khir said his father preferred death or imprisonment to allowing doubt to fall on the king’s chosen regent. He wanted the citizenry to continue trusting Baltraine because he feared doing otherwise would result in a chaos that might destroy Béarn.” She glanced at their other companions, realizing they knew too little of the situation to add much. “The situation has changed drastically. Surely, he’ll understand that.”
Darris was still for several moments before shaking his head. “We don’t know what those in charge have told Kedrin over the last several months. They may even have used magic. If Ra-khir were with us, or my mother, I’m sure we could convince him. But he doesn’t know any of us.”
“He knows of us,” Matrinka persisted. “Surely he’d believe a princess and the bard. And Ra-khir might have mentioned us.” She wondered about her own last assumption. At the time, they had tried to remain secretive, and discussing their association in a dungeon would surely have struck Ra-khir as dangerous.
Darris’ head did not stop moving. “Kedrin may not know my mother’s dead. That makes me the bard’s young heir and you a disowned princess. Even if he believed our sincerity, he might think we’re deluded . . . or just plain wrong. Remember, he’s never seen an elf or sorcery. It’d be like convincing him we’re actually wolves dressed as people.”
Captain turned to the practical. “Won’t a dungeon have guards?”
“I’ll handle any guards,” Rantire said, a catch in her voice betraying pain and reducing her valor to bluster.
Griff continued, calling upon his own recent experience, “And won’t this captain’s cell have a lock? We had to send Mior for our key.”
Rantire grunted. “And that only worked because I’d observed the elves for months, watching where they kept it.”
Time still pressed them, and Matrinka obsessed over Rantire’s words. Béarnian guards would prove their unwitting enemies. She could not allow Rantire to harm them, yet neither could she let them hurt her friends. The thought seemed abruptly ridiculous. As if I could stop either from happening. Yet, she realized, Darris could well find himself in the position of choosing between loyalty, friendship, and the best interests of Béarn and humankind. Once the staves found Griff worthy, and she did not dare to contemplate the possibility that they would not, they would have ample opportunity to free Kedrin. Until then, working quietly and quickly seemed their only logical choice.
“An excellent idea, Matrinka,” Darris repeated, his transparent attempts to bolster her self-esteem ineffective but appreciated.
“Guards, locks, the unlikelihood of persuasion.” Captain shrugged, his eyes like garnet beads in the scant light. “If the magic of the staff-test will convince the populace of Griff’s right to rule, as you both believe, we won’t need force. I think it best to press on.”
“Me, too,” Griff added, studying Rantire. Surely, he also worried for his mangled guardian’s need to traverse the catacombs three more times, though he would not dare speak the words aloud. Rantire would vehemently deny it, perhaps insisting they go just to demonstrate her vigor. Her stubbornness might kill her, if not her savagery.
That thought quashed the last of Matrinka’s tenacity. “And me,” she finally said, only then thinking to worry for a different lock, the one on the staff room door. When she had undergone her testing, Baltraine used a key to open it.
Before Matrinka could speak of this new concern, the square of light reappeared at Darris’ hand and Rantire darted through the opening. Mior leaped from Matrinka’s shoulders, glancing after their impetuous colleague. *It’s the big library. On the first floor. Nobody there now.* The cat trotted through.
Rantire returned a moment later, hunched at the aperture, eyes cautiously watchful. “All clear.”
Matrinka let Griff precede her, as she knew Rantire preferred. Captain scrambled after, followed by Matrinka and Darris. The bard pulled the portal closed, fiddling with it for several moments. When he stepped away, the opening had disappeared as if it never existed. Matrinka stared, seeking a line or crack to reveal the door. She found nothing.
“Let’s go.” Darris caught Matrinka’s hand, jerking her toward their companions who had already reached the exit.
Shaking her head in disbelief, Matrinka turned away from the vanished door. Though born and raised in Béarn’s castle, the skill of her people’s craftsmanship, now and in the past, still astounded her. She tried to imagine masons creating such a thing with only the crude tools available centuries ago, while quickly heading for the doorway where the others waited. Rantire crouched, watching the corridor. Griff, Captain, and Darris stood patiently; and Mior padded out into the hall, turning toward the closetlike room that held the staves.
Only then, Matrinka realized, she alone knew for certain the location and procedure of the staff-test. “Next door on the left.” She pointed after the calico. “But I’m afraid it might be locked.”
Without comment, Matrinka’s companions headed in the indicated direction. Rantire circled the others in wary but awkward circles, eyes never still. Matrinka reached for the knob, praying as she twisted. Anticipating resistance, she pushed halfheartedly.
To Matrinka’s surprise, the door yielded easily to her touch. Light from the corridor funneled inside to reveal Baltraine sprawled on the floor, his breaths emerging in crippled gasps. Scraps of seared clothing clung to his torso, and burns blistered exposed flesh. His scalp gaped in a wound still trickling blood. Gobs more matted his hair and smeared across exhausted features. His eyes were closed, deeply recessed into bruised sockets striped scarlet.
Dead. Matrinka’s mind rejected the breathing before the belief that anyone could survive in such a state. Horror stole color from her. Her face drained bloodless, then her body responded in a wave of icy terror that spurred her to tend his wounds. Yet the idea of prolonging such hopeless agony kept her in place.
“In, in.” Rantire shoved the others forward. Darris staggered into Matrinka’s back. Thrust toward Baltraine, she loosed a muffled scream, leaping aside to keep from stepping on him. She could picture his limbs and body yielding like putty beneath the pressure, and the image churned nausea through her.
The tiny room was not built to accommodate more than one, and the figure on the floor kept the others smashed into corners now noticeably devoid of staves. Rantire pulled the door nearly shut, positioning herself against the panel with an eye to the crack.
Baltraine’s lids eased open in response to Matrinka’s scream. The familiar brown eyes had lost their confident gleam, and pain glazed them like marbles. They flickered over the others and came to rest on Darris. “Please,” he said, his voice an agonized rasp. “Please . . . promise . . .”
Matrinka finally knelt at Baltraine’s side. “Don’t talk. Save your strength. You’re going to be all right.”
Baltraine’s gaze swiveled toward her, though his head did not move. “I’m going . . . only . . . to die. Let me . . .” He panted wordlessly a moment. “. . . say what I must . . . before I do.”
Matrinka instinctively reached for a hand. Then, realizing he would not feel her touch there, she used a shred of cloth to mop his forehead instead. She would not argue. She could not help him, and the realization ached through her like poison. Her hands twitched, training driving her to do something, anything. So long as her patient remained alive, she had a chance to save him. Once he crossed that line, nothing remained. Yet logic told her he had already died. His mind just did not accept it yet. Matrinka had to believe that came of a desperate need to speak the words she had just interrupted. Distressed by her rudeness, she fell silent.
&n
bsp; Baltraine returned his attention to Darris. “Free Kedrin . . . please.” He stiffened suddenly, and his eyes dulled for a moment. Though surely coincidence, the relationship of Baltraine’s plea to their discussion shuddered a chill through Matrinka. To her surprise, he managed to continue. “He is innocent.”
Matrinka nodded vigorously. Once Griff became king, Ra-khir’s father would receive his pardon. They would see to that regardless of any vow to Baltraine.
Darris bowed respectfully, a difficult feat in the crowded room. “Lord, it will happen. You have my word as the bard and the gratitude of all of us.”
Tears trickled from Baltraine’s eyes, and the grimace on his face showed his pain had intensified. “No thanks, please. I . . . don’t . . . deserve it.” A brief light flashed through his eyes, then disappeared. “Bard, not heir? You know?”
“I know my mother is dead, Lord.” Darris’ tone went from comforting to aggrieved over the course of the sentence. Matrinka rose, torn between making Baltraine’s last moments comfortable and soothing the man she loved. “I know nothing of the circumstances.”
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