There was shouting and pushing down among the Kaled'a'in, and instead of rushing to greet her beloved, Winterhart gasped and recoiled from him.
And there was something very odd, and very wrong, with the hungry expression on Amberdrake's face. No sane human wore an expression like that!
Shalaman backed up a pace himself, a cold chill falling over his heart as he looked into Amberdrake's eyes. There was no sign of sanity there, and he wondered wildly if this were the real Amberdrake after all—if the man was demon-ridden, and this demonic side of him had been the one responsible for the murders! Certainly this man looked capable of any kind of evil!
The guards were not responding. Of course they aren't! I told them myself to let him through when he arrived, and they can't see his face, so they don't know anything is wrong!
Shalaman opened his mouth to call for help—And could not get any sound to come out. Nor could he move. He was held in place as securely as if someone had bound him in chains and stood him there. He struggled against his invisible bonds to no avail; they held him fast in the position he had last taken, staff held above his head and free arm outstretched to the sun.
And the last of the sun slipped behind the moon, throwing them all into darkness.
Amberdrake laughed, a horrible, high-pitched giggling; he pulled a knife out of the breast of his tunic, and lunged up the stairs toward Shalaman while the folk of White Gryphon struggled against the guards, shouting incoherently.
Amberdrake screamed and lunged forward with the knife in a vicious series of slashes, cutting the darkness with the glitter of his blade, displaying a knife-fighter's threat show, weaving a pattern of death in the air.
The space of a single breath passed, and a slim figure in silver interposed itself between Shalaman and his assassin.
It was not Winterhart—who was dressed in gold, and who was backing away from the assailant with her face frozen in a silent scream.
It was Silver Veil.
Every kestra'chern is taught self-defense, for every kestra'chern may one day require it, she had said once, when he'd expressed worry over her safety. Every kestra'chern knows the body of man and woman, and knows where to strike if need be. He had smiled indulgently, then, and with a hint of disbelief. Those were the sort of things a warrior-trainer said to impress his Captain, and were usually of dubious worth. Now he believed!
The lovely kestra'chern whirled in a flurry of skirts, and kicked at the assassin's legs, connecting with them expertly and bringing him down on his knees.
But the man was faster than Shalaman could have believed possible; he scrambled to his feet again, and as she tried a second kick, he caught her foot in one hand, then twisted in place and whirled, sending her crashing, gasping, to the ground in a tangle of silver fabric.
And once again, the assassin lunged toward Shalaman, this time unopposed.
Shalaman closed his eyes, the only parts of him that he could still move, and commended his soul to the gods.
At least I shall perish bravely, though I shall not perish as a warrior. Silver Veil, I shall never forget you—
The gods, however, decided that they did not want his soul—at least not right then.
A battle-screech rang out from overhead, and all heads searched the dim sky for its source. Even the assassin jumped, turned, and stared.
Out of the black sun-disk, out of the midnight-at-noon, the Gryphon King plunged with a scream of defiance that shattered the confusion and pierced the spell holding Shalaman captive.
Shalaman flung himself away from the assassin—and toward Silver Veil. The assassin frantically found the right direction—just in time to fling his paltry knife up in puny defense against ten razor-talons and the unstoppable force of a stooping predator.
Skandranon, the Black Gryphon, drove the assassin into the stone with a great crunch of breaking bone, sending the blade skittering away—
Just as the sun appeared again from behind the moon, frosting the great gryphon's wings and glinting off his eyes.
The guards at last realized what was happening and started to rush up to the platform, but the Black Gryphon was not yet finished with his wonder-working. He gripped the assassin's face with one clawed hand, made a savage gesture in the air with one talon of the other hand—
And the face of Amberdrake melted away, leaving an entirely unfamiliar—and rapidly bruising—stranger beneath the claws of the gryphon.
Shalaman straightened, still keeping himself between the assassin and Silver Veil. The stranger squealed and struggled, then shrieked with pain as his many freshly broken bones announced themselves to him.
Winterhart took a single look at the man and gasped in recognition.
She started to babble something at Shalaman, but in her distress she was speaking in her own tongue and he couldn't make out a single hysterical word, so he waved at her to be silent. Skandranon mantled at the stranger, all but killing him with his glare. The crushed man soiled himself, unable to stop moving in his sobs of terror.
"Here is your murderer, King Shalaman," Skandranon rumbled angrily. "Here is the man who slew your courtiers in ways not even a mad beast would contemplate, for the sake of collecting the magic power of death and blood, and who held both myself and Amberdrake captive so that his plan to murder you could be completed. He is an exile from among our own people, and I regret that we cast him out instead of finishing him then. We left it to the forest to dispose of a mad beast that we should have dealt with ourselves. He is the one who used his skill in killing to counterfeit the effects of magic, mimicking death-spells with death-skill. That was why it looked as if a mage had done the deeds."
"If he is yours—" Shalaman began doubtfully.
Skandranon shook his head. "He is no more 'ours' than the garbage that we bury in the clean earth," the gryphon replied. "We repudiated him and cast him out before we ever met your people. He is not ours, if you are offering him up to our judgment. He is as much yours as any mankilling beast who murders the innocent. He has committed crimes against you and yours, and you may do with him what you will."
Shalaman took a long, steadying breath. "Then you turn him over to us, to be dealt with by our laws?"
Skandranon narrowed his eyes at the whimpering Hadanelith. "He should live so long."
"Lies!" shrieked the captive suddenly. "It is all lies! They cast me out because I would not use my skills for their plans! They—"
"Silence!" Skandranon boomed, tightening his claws on the man's throat until only a faint wheeze could be heard. Sweat stood out on the assassin's pale forehead, and Shalaman might have been tempted to feel sorry for him, if the accusations against him had not been so terrible, and his guilt so sure.
But just to be certain, Shalaman looked to Leyuet, who shook his head. "I need not even trance, Serenity," he said clearly, but with immense dignity. "It is this man who lies. His soul—I dare not touch it." The Truthsayer was gray, and he shivered as if with a fever. "It is vile, filthy—as fully unclean as yours is pure."
There were murmurs of fear and anger from those in the crowd who were near enough to hear, but no doubt—and those in the first ranks turned to spread the word back to the ones behind. The word passed rapidly as Shalaman waved to his guards to come forward.
The man began screaming again, but his words made no sense. "Noyoki, you bastard!" he howled. "Get me away! You promised! Get me away! Help me! Help me!"
Was there some rescue that was supposed to have taken place? If so, it appeared that this assassin had colleagues. But "Noyoki?" No one? What kind of a name was that?
"Your conspirators have deserted you, fool," Shalaman said sternly to the struggling, screaming man. "Think of this, as you wait my justice."
Where is Amberdrake? Could he be the reason that no one had rescued the assassin?
No time to think of that now. The guards dragged the assassin away, followed by two priests, hastily waved there by Palisar, who presumably would prevent any escapes by magic means. Th
e assassin was screaming at the top of his lungs, but his words were no longer coherent.
Shalaman could and would deal with him later. What was important was the completion of the Ceremony.
Silver Veil had gathered herself back up again, although evidencing a limp, and was back in her place. The Gryphon King remained beside Winterhart on the platform. Shalaman turned again to face his people, resolutely putting Amberdrake and his fate out of his mind.
"By the grace of the gods and the strength of my friends, I have been spared to serve you!" he called out in a voice that would carry to the edges of the courtyard. "Here is the omen for changes—that Skandranon, the Gryphon King, once as White as his city, has come to my aid in the shape of a Black Gryphon King, and has struck down the murderer of our nobles with his own hands! What say you, my people? Shall we ally ourselves with these honorable folk of the north? Shall we add another Black King to the ranks of the Haighlei?"
The roar of assent was more than enough to drown out any few dissenters. Shalaman bowed slightly in acknowledgment, and turned to Winterhart. He pitched his voice deeply, so as to be heard over the crowd noise.
"Would you give me back the Necklace, my dear?" he asked, looking into her strange, foreign eyes.
She smiled and pulled it off over her head, handing it to him with relief that she did not even try to conceal.
She is soul-bonded to Amberdrake. Surely if something had happened to him, she would know. Wouldn't she?
He took the Necklace, and walked to Silver Veil's side of the platform, where she stood flanked by Palisar and Leyuet. One thing at a time, and the first thing must be Silver Veil. She looked shaken, but otherwise unhurt.
Unhurt—except for the fear she had felt for his sake, the shadows of which still lingered in her eyes. That was enough; it gave him all the insight that he needed to see into his own heart.
I never wanted Winterhart. I will find a solution for the problems this will make, later. I will not let this opportunity escape.
"You would have died for me," he said, as the crowd quieted, sensing more drama to come. He felt their presence at his back, heavy, uncomprehending—but in the joy of the moment, willing to accept anything he decreed. He was the King, and this was the time of changes.
She nodded; Leyuet held his breath. But Palisar, grim, dour Palisar, was—was he smiling? And would he remain smiling when he saw what Shalaman meant to do?
"You would have died for me. Would you live for me as well?" he asked. "Would you live for me only?"
He held out the Necklace to her, keeping his eyes on her face and nothing else.
She did not feign surprise, nor did she affect a coy shyness. She was too complex for the former and too honest for the latter. But her eyes lit up with a joy that told him everything he needed to know.
His heart's desire had matched hers, and she had kept hers hidden all this time to avoid putting pressure on him. He knew that as if he had been a Truthsayer, to read her soul.
Her joy was doubled by the fact that she had never truly expected to have that heart's desire fulfilled.
"I would, my King," she said simply, "If you will have me."
He raised the Necklace high overhead, then lowered it to place it around her neck as she bent her head to receive it.
Shalaman spared a glance to his other two Advisors. Leyuet's hands were clasped in front of him and his face was alive with pleasure—but oddly enough, so was Palisar's!
"You have Year-Sons enough to choose an heir, Serenity," Palisar said, very softly. "Marry now for joy."
That had been the final real obstacle; Palisar's supposed disapproval had fallen like a card balanced upon one edge, and with as little fuss.
He took Silver Veil's hand and led her to the edge of the platform. Once again, a complete silence fell over the crowd.
"To help flush out the murderer, Lady Winterhart posed as my bride-to-be, and honorable Amberdrake feigned madness in a plan to lure the true madman. Let it be known that the honorable leaders of White Gryphon risked their lives and reputations to save Haighlei from murder. Let it be known that the gods themselves have blessed this Palace with a Soulbonded pair—Lady Winterhart and Kestra'chern Amberdrake."
The people were clearly stunned, even after mentally preparing themselves for the Eclipse Ceremony and all that it entailed. "This is the season of changes," he said into that silence. "And let it begin with the King wedding his beloved Silver Veil!"
The crowd went insane, cheering and bouncing in place, waving scarves in the air where there was room to move. Even the guards were smiling!
He had not realized that Silver Veil was so popular with the people—all the more reason to wed her! A King could not do better with his people, if his Consort proved to be a popular Advisor, popular with the people as well as the nobles.
She moved to the position that Winterhart had held during the first half of the ceremony. Winterhart had already fallen modestly back to a new place beside the weary Gryphon King.
Shalaman surveyed his cheering, joyous people, as the sun brightened with every passing moment, and his heart filled with a content he had never expected to experience.
He held up the staff, and they fell silent again, this time in pleasurable expectation.
"Hear, all ye people, the changes that are to come!" he boomed into the stillness. "We shall ally with the people of White Gryphon, who bring us new arts and new beasts, a touch of the new to every part of our land and life. We add another King to the Haighlei, Skandranon, the Black Gryphon. I take as my bride, my Consort, and my Advisor, the Silver Veil. From this day, it will be allowable that a King may choose to wed his kestra'chern."
He continued, enumerating all the changes, great and small, that he and his Advisors had determined would be reasonable and acceptable for the next years. The litany went on, but his real thoughts were elsewhere.
I have been given my life by these strangers, he thought, And—I have been given awareness of my true love. What more could they have given me? I will be in debt to them for the rest of my life, but it is a debt I will joyfully strive to repay.
Shalaman felt the supporting presence of his beloved and his friends at his back, and smiled at the crowd. He even smiled at Skandranon's grumbling.
"I hope this is over soon. I'm scheduled to fall down and twitch," the gryphon murmured. "Then I'm due to eat everything in sight and sleep for two days, and then—"
Shalaman stifled a laugh at the explicit description of what the Gryphon King would be doing with his mate Zhaneel. These people of White Gryphon would shock and delight his Court for a long time.
Only one shadow still darkened his joy.
Where was Amberdrake?
Eleven
Amberdrake worked the last of his bonds loose, and stood up, hands and feet still tingling. He wished he could ignore the sensation; the best he could do was to keep from making too much noise about it.
Now—-find those others Hadanelith mentioned. There are probably two; maybe more, but he talked as if there were only two.
If anyone had ever described Amberdrake to his face as a courageous man, he would have laughed. He had never considered bravery to be one of his chief attributes; that was for others, not for him. He was able to recognize bravery when he saw it, but it was never a quality he would have granted to himself. He was often afraid, and knew it, and did not scruple to show it. Not that brave people weren't afraid, but they were able to get beyond their fear to act. Amberdrake knew, in his heart, that fear often paralyzed him.
Thinking on it, he would not have granted himself physical bravery, the kind of bravery that made Skan and Zhaneel fly off and risk their lives, over and over, as if such risk was no worse than a cold bath on a winter morning.
And right now, he felt as if he were the biggest coward in this whole shattered world. As Skan vanished out of sight, all Amberdrake wanted to do was find somewhere to hide until the whole mess was over. He wished he could find a nice, secure room a
nd lock the door so that no one could get at him. That would be the sensible course, really—what could he expect to accomplish?
There's no way I can just hide when the most powerful and dangerous of our enemies are both here, somewhere, wherever that is. Something has to be done about them. They may be engrossed with whatever magic they're controlling, or they may be confident they've already won, or—
With no real Mindspeaking ability of his own, he would not know whether Skan arrived in time to save the King and Winterhart until long after the fact. The light grew dimmer with every passing heartbeat—and Hadanelith was due to strike at the darkest part of the Eclipse. No one knew he was here except Skandranon and Kechara. Assuming that Kechara wasn't watching Skan, she would know what was happening on his side of this little battle, but otherwise he was on his own.
And somehow I doubt she'll be able to tear her mind away from her "Papa Skan."
Was this how Skan felt when he went off on one of those famous solitary missions? Lonely—and deserted—and completely terrified?
Not terrified, not Skan. He's been scared, but always confident in himself.
Kechara might be able to call for help if things went wrong and she was watching him, but that also assumed that she had enough understanding of what she saw to tell the others if Amberdrake was in trouble. She had shown a surprising grasp of abstracts lately, but—well, she was tired, and stressed, and under a great deal of pressure, more than she ever should have had to bear. Little Kechara was more toddler than warrior.
No. I'm on my own here. His insides knotted up as he acknowledged that. I have to find those so-called "friends" of Hadanelith's, and I have to neutralize them before they can rescue him. If all that means is that I occupy their attention until he's secured against magic, then that's what I'll do.
That certainly sounded brave enough. He only wished that it was going to be as easy as it sounded.
But they were all running out of time; he'd better find Hadanelith's co-conspirators before the full Eclipse fell!
He gathered up what "weapons" he could find—the ropes he'd been bound with, and a length of metal bar. He picked them all up so quietly that there wasn't even a scrape of metal against the floor, even though he knew objectively that the noise was negligible. At least while he was concentrating on keeping quiet, he could convince his body to move, and not freeze like a frightened tree-hare. He crept toward the door, listening with all his concentration after he made each step. His hands shook so hard he nearly dropped the bar. He closed his eyes and swallowed, willing his hands to stop shaking, but they wouldn't. Finally he reached the doorway; he plastered himself flat against the wall next to the door, and listened again, this time holding his breath.
Valdemar Books Page 66
