The name settled in the room, and Roderic felt his blood run cold.
“Annandale has said that she thinks her mother might be dead.”
“Are you certain of that?” asked Vere.
“No,” Roderic shook his head, “but surely, she’d know.”
“Why do you think that?” asked Vere.
“She’s an empath.”
“That means she feels things. But she’s not telepathic—she can’t necessarily communicate with her mind. Some have that gift, but most achieve it only after long training.”
“So you think Annandale might be wrong?”
“She may indeed feel the loss of her mother and doubtless, Nydia feels Annandale’s own absence as a loss. But you don’t know she’s dead. And if she is alive—“
“If she’s alive, why hasn’t she come to help us?” interrupted Deirdre.
“Because of what she is,” answered Roderic. “The way she looks now.”
“She was beautiful,” said Alexander. “Why would she hesitate to come?”
“She’s not beautiful anymore,” said Roderic. “She’s ugly, inhuman. She goes about veiled—Annandale says she veiled herself when Annandale was very young, that her mother wanted to spare her the pain of what she had become. Believe me, you don’t want to imagine it.”
Vere’s expression was troubled, and for a moment, Roderic thought he might ask a question. But then he shook his head and said, “We should go to her tower as quickly as we can—tomorrow at the very latest.”
Roderic hesitated. The thought of returning to Nydia’s desolate tower raised the hackles at the back of his neck. But he remembered how his hesitation as far as Annandale was concerned had cost him so much wasted time, and his resolve strengthened. He would not let his fear cost her another moment in Amanander’s control. He drew a deep breath to reply to Vere, when the table and the dirt floor beneath it shuddered. Another tremor shook the poles of the tent. Roderic sprang to his feet.
“Earthshake!” cried Vere. “Guards—see to Lord Phineas.”
As the guards rushed into the tent in response to Vere’s cry, Roderic rushed outside, where he was met by a scene of complete chaos. Men broke into a run as the land buckled and split in a long crack through the whole camp. Before Roderic’s disbelieving eyes, the earth rose up, flinging men and equipment in all directions. The rough frames of the siege engines collapsed as if they had been constructed of sticks.
A wide chasm opened up, and men and horses stumbled and fell into it, screaming, and Roderic fought to keep his footing as a crack snaked its way from the chasm up the rise of the little hill he stood upon.
The ground shook once more, and Roderic grappled for purchase. The ground dissolved beneath his feet in a shower of loose gravel and he fell, sliding into the dark chasm before him. Just in time, Vere grabbed his wrist. He clung to Vere with all his strength as the earth shook once more and was still.
Roderic lay still for a moment, feeling the rough dirt beneath his cheek, afraid to rise lest the unnatural shaking begin once more. Vere disentangled his hand and slowly rose to his feet, his face black with mud.
Roderic got to his feet and looked around. Minnis rose, vast and unapproachable, looking no worse for the wear. Men and animals lay on the ground, some wounded, some deathly still, and the remains of their equipment lay in broken heaps. “It looks like the Armageddon.”
Vere nodded grimly. A tall, slim shape appeared on the walls. Mesmerized, Roderic broke away from the gathered men. He saw the longbow in the figure’s hands, and as he watched, the figure drew the bowstring. Across the long space, an arrow flew an impossible distance and thudded into the ground directly at Roderic’s feet.
He looked back at Vere and the others. Some of the men were muttering prayers, others clutched iron crosses to their lips. With steadier hands than he thought he should have bee able to muster, he reached for the arrow. Wrapped around it was a piece of parchment. He broke the seal and unrolled the scroll. With a growing frown, he read the words.
“What’s it say?” asked Vere.
Roderic glanced up at his brother, at the men clustering close. He crumpled the scroll into a ball in his fist. “He demands our surrender.”
The men looked at each other with sidelong glances and frightened eyes. Roderic didn’t give them the chance to voice their opinions. “Captains, Lieutenants, order your men. I want a complete assessment of the damage, of the losses we’ve suffered. Get a burial detail together—I want accurate numbers of the wounded, our remaining supplies. We may be here for a long time.”
Chapter Thirty
Before the dawn broke over the trees, Roderic and Vere mounted horses and, skirting the walls of the great keep, rode north into the dense woods.
In the gray first light, the forest was preternaturally quiet, even the birds curiously hushed. Only the dew dripped from the trees, falling like tears on their shoulders as they brushed beneath the branches. Less than three hours north of Minnis, Vere held up his hand and Roderic reined his horse to a halt beside his brother.
There was a heaviness in the air, a thickening as they moved beneath the trees. Roderic found something familiar about the feeling, something he recognized, and he realized with a start that the atmosphere reminded him of the day when he and Barran had made their way to the tower of the witch.
The sky darkened as clouds roiled across the sun. “That day—” Roderic began “—that day there was a storm—“
“Yes,” answered Vere, “doubtless it was her doing, calculated to bring you to the tower.”
“You think it will happen again?” Roderic stared uneasily at the sky.
“I don’t know,” said Vere. “I don’t know if she put some sort of defense in place—“
Even as he spoke the sky cleared, the clouds dissipating into pale white wisps against the harsh blue glare.
“Interesting,” Vere muttered. “Interesting.”
“Maybe she’s dead,” said Roderic.
“If she were dead, I don’t think that would have happened at all. She’s still alive, but for some reason, she’s not using the Magic as she could.”
In silence, they rode on. At last, the trees parted, and the path opened up into a clearing at the center of which stood Nydia’s tower. Roderic glanced at Vere. His brother did not hesitate. He swung out of his saddle and tied his horse to a tree limb. “Come,” said Vere.
Roderic’s heart pounded harder as he walked closer to the base of the tower. Weeds choked the clearing, the steps were mossy and overgrown. Ivy twined up the sides, and the whole structure was windowless, blind, more of a fortress than Minnis. His palms began to sweat, and he hoped Vere would not notice when he wiped them on his legs.
At Vere’s touch, the heavy doors swung open with a loud creak, and Roderic noticed for the first time how quiet it was in the clearing. Their footsteps echoed as they walked into the hall, the marble columns cracked in more places than he remembered. Dust motes hung in the long shaft of sunlight as it filtered through chinks in the wooden boards covering the windows, and Roderic wondered how many years had passed since full daylight had penetrated more than a few yards into the hall.
He walked further into the cavernous room, right into a faceful of cobwebs. Choking, he brushed them out of his mouth and eyes, and turned to see Vere peering up the listing staircase, one foot on the lowest step. It was Roderic’s turn to beckon. “I remember the way.”
Cautiously, for the winding stairs tilted at a precarious angle, the brothers crept up the steps. Was it only a little more than a year since he had come the first time? Roderic wondered. He felt years older, decades wearier. He had been Regent for less than a year and a half, and already he had been faced with two of the worst uprisings in living history. As they reached the top of the staircase and started down the long narrow corridor, he remembered Nydia’s words: “War, Prince, war in every corner of the realm …”
Abruptly, he halted before a door. “I think it’s this one
.”
He pushed gently on the door and stepped over the threshold. It was just as he remembered from before, except the air in the room was stifling and close. Something else was within the room, and the hair on the back of his neck rose in response. He looked at Vere, who put a hand on his arm. “She must be close.”
There was a low moan, less than a whisper, more than a sigh, and Roderic with the greatest difficulty suppressed the urge to draw his dagger. “Nydia?” he called. “Lady Nydia? Are you here?”
There was another moan, and this time, the air seemed to shimmer and pulse, and Vere held up his hand. “Don’t go any further. Lady Nydia? It’s me, Vere. Do you remember me?”
Something moved in the shadows beside the hearth, and Roderic realized that the woman had been there all along, watching and waiting. Some energy, some force swirled through the air and then faded. Roderic let his breath out and realized he had been holding it the whole time.
He touched Vere’s arm. “Over there.” He pointed. “She’s over there.”
Vere nodded. “May we approach and speak with you, lady? We would not disturb you, but your daughter is in utmost danger—we need your help.”
This time there was a choking rasp, and Roderic realized that the creature laughed. “Help?” she croaked. “Lift up thine eyes. Help is not mine to give. You see help, you see hope, in this place?”
The men glanced at each other, and Roderic took one single step forward. “Please, lady, we would not have troubled you, but Annandale—“
“Fairest of creation! Last and best of all God’s works!” Nydia mumbled. “Creature in whom excelled whatever can to sight or thought be formed.”
Roderic leaned toward Vere. “What is she saying? Do you understand her?”
Vere nodded. “There’s a certain sense to it, I think. She’s quoting an ancient poet—someone whose work was old when Meriga was young. May we approach, lady?”
There was a rustle and a heavy, ponderous shifting, as though the creature rearranged her bulk. Suddenly, Roderic felt cold, cold to his bones, and the fire in the hearth suddenly flared and sparked to life.
“You do Magic, lady?” asked Vere.
She made a gesture which might have been a shrug. “Necessity and chance.” She extended one disfigured arm, and in the wavering light, Roderic saw again the thickened, fused digits, the long yellow claws and blackened scales. “Stay back,” she cried. “What I will is fate.”
Vere dropped down on one knee, his eyes above his beard filling with tears. “Oh, my lady. What’s happened to you? What made you like this?”
She made another low crooning sound deep in her throat and Roderic felt fear raise his hackles. “What happened to me? Long is the way and hard that out of Hell leads up to light.” She rocked and swayed, her veils moving gently flowing around her like shadows. “You come for my help? I cannot help myself, let alone another. Long is the way and hard that out of Hell leads up to light.”
Roderic grasped Vere’s shoulder. “What in the name of the One is she saying? How can you make any sense of this?”
A tear seeped down Vere’s cheek. “How can this have happened?” he whispered, more to himself than to Roderic. “She was so beautiful—no one was more beautiful than she.” He shook his head.
Nydia seemed to have heard that, for she raised her head. “She walks in beauty like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies, and all that’s best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes.” She chuckled, low and dangerous, and parted the drapes in front of her face, revealing the misshapen monstrosity she had become. “You see? Farewell hope, farewell remorse. All good to me is lost.”
“Lady, you can’t believe that,” said Vere, his voice choking. “Come with me—perhaps the College—the elders—there must be something that can be done to set the monstrous wrong to right.”
She sighed, cocked her head to one side, and Roderic thought she smiled, if such an expression were possible on her hideous snout. “They say that might makes right. And now you say they might make right? You’re right, they might. But does right make might?” She shook her head. “No. It doesn’t.”
Roderic shook Vere’s shoulder. “Vere, she can’t help us. She’s speaking nonsense. Let’s go. Leave the poor creature in peace.”
Nydia shifted and stirred, her black bulk quivering. “Who are you that dares disturb my dying?”
“Lady Nydia?” asked Vere, his voice quivering with urgency, his mouth working as though he sought to hold back tears. “You knew me once. My name is Vere. Abelard Ridenau’s second son. We walked beneath the cellars of Ahga, you and I—you taught me much, and gave me hope. I have never forgotten you, lady. And this, you know him—this is Roderic, Prince of Meriga.”
“Prince?” she whispered. Her voice was even, without the breathy singsong of madness.
“You brought me here last year, lady,” Roderic said, as Vere nodded, “I took your daughter with me—I married her as you commanded.”
“Married?” She looked down at her lap.
“As you commanded.”
“Then you must go to her!” she shrieked. “Do you still not understand the danger? You are a child playing at being Prince!”
“Lady,” said Roderic, feeling more truth in her words than he wanted to admit, “that’s why we’re here. Amanander has Annandale. He’s holding her in Minnis—at the fortress my father built for you. We need your help—“
“The Magic,” put in Vere. He rose to his feet and advanced, his expression carefully neutral as he stared at Nydia’s black draped shape. “Amanander has the Magic.”
“We came to ask you to leave this place, lady,” said Roderic, with another glance at Vere’s stricken face. “To use your Magic to help us fight Amanander.”
She cocked her head, as if considering.
“He has Minnis,” Roderic continued when she did not speak, “and he has Annandale.”
“Fool!” she muttered. “Did I not warn you?”
“You did, lady, but I was called away to the North—there was war among the Chiefs—Alexander was besieged. I thought I had no choice but to go.”
“There is always a choice,” she hissed.
“So will you come?” Vere held out his hand. “Will you help us?”
“Why? What do you look for from me?”
“Amanander has the Magic,” said Roderic. His desperation was growing with each passing moment. “He killed my sister Jesselyn, and he tried to kill Vere. He ordered Tavia and my infant daughter slain. If Annandale refuses to help him, he might even kill her. I don’t think he’d hesitate to do such a thing if he thought it would work to his advantage.”
“What about the Mutens?”
“They refused,” said Vere, looking down.
“Refused?” Her voice was breathy with disbelief. “And do they know all?”
“Yes, lady. I told them myself. But they believe Ferad to be the greater enemy, and they will expend every resource available to stopping him.”
She shook her head. “They will fail.”
Vere sighed, and Roderic went down on one knee, hardly aware of what he did or felt, save only his frustration. “Please—“
“They will fail,” she croaked. “Ferad shall live—and you, Prince. Would you like to know what I see? 1 can give you that. One last prophecy to follow you down the years? I’m dying. I’ll tell you what I see, and then you let me go. Let me go, for I’ve earned my peace and paid for it long ago. All these years I’ve lived with the results of what the King commanded—“
Vere narrowed his eyes. “Did my father force you to do something which made you like this?”
“Your father? I curse the name of Abelard Ridenau, a thousand, thousand times. When I was young and very beautiful and time meant nothing—’Come,’ he said, ‘Come live with me and be my love …’ Didn’t I do that? I pledge allegiance …” Her voice trailed off into a whispery rasp, and Roderic stared in disbelief as the last vestiges of sanity collapsed like
paper walls and Nydia crumpled into a black, shapeless mass, muttering incoherently.
Horrified, he backed away, and Vere caught his arm when he would have gone past. “She’s mad, poor thing,” Vere whispered. “Come. Leave her in peace. There’s nothing for us here.”
Vere nodded. They were at the door when Nydia’s voice stopped them. “Wait, Prince. Three women—three women must give their lives for you. One already has—she died to give you life. But the second and the third—I cannot see their faces for the choices aren’t yet made. But three women shall die before the throne of Mcriga is yours. And the memory of each death will haunt you all the days of your life.”
Roderic opened his mouth to question, to protest, but Vere tapped his shoulder. “Come. She speaks in riddles—she’s mad, poor thing. Even her visions make no sense.”
Silently, Roderic followed his brother out of the tower, the floors creaking ominously beneath their feet. When they were riding through the trees, Roderic turned to Vere. “You think her prophecy was madness? Only that?”
Vere nodded sadly, a faraway look in his eyes, and Roderic knew he must be remembering Nydia as she was when he was young. “I pray she rests in peace, poor soul.”
Chapter Thirty-one
He could not sleep that night. As the lamps burned low, and the campfires flickered and died, Roderic rose from the low camp cot and pulled a linen shirt over his head. When a sleepy Ben would have protested, he touched the old man briefly on the shoulder, murmuring a reassurance. The servant turned over with a snore. The guards outside his tent snapped to attention as he emerged, but he looked neither right nor left. He hooked his thumbs in his sword belt and stared at the black walls of Minnis rising before him.
The moon was a pale white crescent high above the trees, and the stars shone with an unearthly light. He glanced up and shivered although the night was hot and no wind moved through the low-hanging branches above his head. We were here long before you were, the stars seemed to say, and we shall be here when you are gone.
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