by Ellyn, Court
Laral peered at his brother with fearful gray eyes. “But Mum. Where is she?”
Lander cast his oldest a sideward glance, tucked Ruthan under the quilt, and told Laral to sit with her. Then he led the way into the corridor. “They took her for ransom,” he whispered, so hopeful.
“No.” Leshan felt a grin contort his face. How could hatred and sorrow inhabit a grin? “She’s waiting for you. I didn’t have a key. You find a way to get her down.”
“What the hell are you talking about? They’ve locked her up? Of course they want a ransom. Where in the Goddess’s name is she?”
“At home, Father. Chained to a wall. Dead.” The words came out like blades cutting the air.
“Ah, Goddess!” Lander cried, pacing the narrow corridor. “Damn you…”
“Me? Fuck you!” He shoved a scrap of parchment into his father’s hands. “Tell me what this means!”
Lander surveyed the note a long while, looking bewildered, then horror dawned in his face. He backed away, making voiceless little gasping sounds, recalling memories Leshan could only guess at.
“What debt, Father?”
Lander’s slow flight stopped only when he backed into the wall at the end of the corridor. He looked like a man drained of will, of strength, of everything that allowed a man to hold his head high. “The sins of youth,” he said. “Early in the last war, we secured prisoners. Lord Machara was one of them. I was charged with bringing them to Tírandon and find out what I could. I was not merciful.”
“My mother was tortured and murdered because of what you did?”
“It was war, son!” Lander shouted.
Leshan seized him by the throat. Lander didn’t fight him. It was all Leshan could do to keep from squeezing the life out of him. “I want nothing more to do with you. And you have nothing left for me. It’s all burnt to hell. I hope you burn with it.” He let go, watched the Lord Lander sag to the floor, then he returned to the guestroom.
That night, he kept watch over Ruthan. Laral slept at the foot of the bed, a faithful squire and protector to his little sister. When they woke in the morning, Ruthan was gone. They searched the keep for half an hour before they found her asleep under her bed. For years afterward, she would only sleep in the close, sheltered darkness underneath beds and inside cupboards.
~~~~
43
Aerdria raised a hand to touch Lothiar’s face. “You don’t look well, Captain,” she said, frowning. “You’re pale.”
He avoided her touch by leaning aside and opening the door to her chamber. “I’m merely tired, Lady.”
“No.” She folded her hands primly, in a manner that made her look as immovable as a marble pillar. “I saw you sway in the Council Room this afternoon. I wanted to mention it, but there wasn’t the opportunity. You’re not hiding a wound from me, are you?”
Goddess, had she seen? She could use her scrying pool at any time to spy on him. But, no, he judged that she asked out of concern alone. Because Elarion were not susceptible to illness, Lothiar’s faint-headedness could only be caused by blood loss.
“No wound, Lady, I just need sleep.”
“What’s been keeping you awake? Is there trouble you’ve not told me about?”
“Nothing of the sort.” Did he sound too forceful? Too wooden? “Just my own curiosities. Staying up too late reading.”
“You? Read?” She smiled. “You’re clearly not willing to tell me. If it’s a lady-friend, you might do well to inform her of your need to rest.”
Lothiar glanced at the floor in silence, letting Aerdria assume what she liked. She bid him goodnight and swept past into her chambers.
He hurried to the barracks on the floor below. “I’m not to be disturbed,” he told the off-duty Dardrion. The five were scattered about the common room, three playing a game with etched tiles, one twitching in deep sleep, the last buffing her shoulder guards. They saluted cursorily, warily, and Lothiar decided that they too saw he was not well. What did they whisper when he bolted his door? To care, at this point, was to hesitate. Hesitation meant failure.
Tonight had to be the night. He couldn’t lie himself out of trouble any longer.
The summoning wasn’t proceeding well. Though he had practiced tracing the Soul Snatcher’s sigil countless times over the past few days, the design always unraveled on the air. What was he doing wrong? He began to think the tiny guiding arrow a lie and tried tracing the sigil from different starting points. Nor did he know precisely how much blood was required. He had started with miniscule amounts, pricking his finger, then collecting a small pool in his palm, but larger quantities didn’t seem to make a difference. The sigil hung for a moment, then dissolved before he could finish the sixth cycle.
This morning in a fit of temper, he had gashed too deeply with his dagger. He’d had trouble staunching the flow and feared his Dardrion would find him dead on the blood-soaked rug. More mistakes of that magnitude would see him undone. With ritualistic tediousness he removed his armor and positioned half a dozen pillows on the floor and sat cross-legged among them. Breathing to calm his mind, he considered what he might do differently. Return to the beginning. He opened the age-encrusted tome and reviewed the incantation, each wild curlicue of the sigil and the steps of tracing it out. Blood of the master … six times traced upon the still air … still air … still …
Lothiar groaned. With the onset of autumn, the furnaces had been lit, and warm air pumped through ventilation shafts. His bed-hangings swayed gently in the current. Could it be that simple? All this waste of time and blood because the Lady didn’t want her people to feel a chill?
Extinguishing the furnaces or sending away the Elarion employed at the pumps would only raise suspicion. No, Lothiar had to find a place as breathless as a corpse’s nostrils. The only place he knew of was the secret vault itself. But how to get the key? He’d not had a copy made, and Aerdria had just retired for the night. He could wait till she was asleep, then steal in, but what if she heard him and woke? How to explain that? He needed an excuse to get near the key’s jewel box, or a distraction to draw Aerdria away. Or wait till morning. He wouldn’t sleep for an instant unless he tried.
The two Dardrion flanking the Lady’s door saluted as he approached. “I forgot to give the Lady an alarming bit of news,” he told them, and they admitted him to the suite’s vestibule. He tapped on the inner door. Aerdria answered it and that worried frown built quickly across her face. “A word,” he said. She invited him to a chair, but he refused. White and silver furnishings, drapes as sheer as mist, the Lady’s rooms seemed have been fashioned from clouds and moonlight. “I should’ve mentioned it earlier but it slipped my mind.” He heard Lyrienn humming to herself in the Lady’s dressing room. The jewel box? Yes, there on the mantel. So close. “There have been rumors of late that some in the city wish to do the avedrin harm.”
Aerdria’s face registered bewilderment. Surely she was not so naïve.
“Zellel and … your nephew … have not mentioned any trouble they had?”
“No, not a word. Are you sure?”
“Perhaps the rumors are just rumors then, and it may be best not to give them credence by mentioning them to anyone.” His glance darted toward the dressing room, and Aerdria nodded.
Lyrienn emerged with a heavy robe draped over one arm. “Your bath is drawn—” She paused, casting her brother a curious glance.
“You will look into the matter?” Aerdria asked quietly.
“Of course. You’ll know the moment I learn anything.”
She gave him a pat on the arm to reassure herself, then followed Lyrienn into the dressing room.
Lothiar opened the jewel box. The key lay where he had put it.
This late at night, the library was nearly deserted. Even the diligent scribes had retired, leaving their desks cluttered with ink and quill scrapings and wads of parchment. A couple of late-night readers perused the shelves, and they seemed too enrapt in their search to notice him. He slipped
into the emptiness that swaddled the back corners. Without his armor, he moved almost as silently as Laniel and the other tree walkers. Plying the key to the hole in the floor, he spoke the command and descended into the dark. Yes, the air was stiflingly still. Cold, but still. He summoned a ball of light and proceeded to the farthest room.
Long ago, when Blackhand summoned the Soul Snatcher, he was under the direct orders of the human king, and King Mathónryk had demanded the soul of his enemy returned to him as proof of his victory. The tale went on to say that Blackhand had given the creature a vial of dark glass in which to encase the soul. But Mathónryk’s revenge failed when an army of rebels stole back the vial and freed the soul inside.
Lothiar planned to learn from the mistakes of kings.
He sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor, positioned the ball of light over his shoulder, and unsheathed his dagger. His palm was marked with half a dozen scabby red lines. He drew another and teased the cut until blood pooled in his hand. “Goddess, let this work,” he prayed and dipped a finger into the blood. By the second cycle, the blood appeared to stain the air, and the sigil held steady. Don’t so much as breathe, he warned himself and held his breath as he continued tracing. With each cycle, the sigil became redder, brighter, more tangible. The instant he completed the sixth, the sigil took on a life of its own. It doubled, tripled in size, gathering every spark of the orb’s light, like a sponge greedy for water. Then it shrank, sucking the air from the room and the breath from Lothiar’s lungs. Expelling it again, the vast power he’d unleashed flung Lothiar into the wall. He cracked his head and the little that was left of his light source went out. He tried to get his bearings in the darkness.
“Light, damn it! Light!” A second yellow orb gathered over his bloody palm. But the light failed to disperse all the darkness. The sigil was gone and a black expanse, about the dimensions of an ordinary door, hovered in the center of the room.
He’d done it! He was staring into the void of the Abyss itself.
The endless emptiness put a shiver of fear into his soul. He found he could not look into it for long; his eyes veered from it as if they had some natural aversion to the formless, lightless expanse, and he pressed himself harder against the solid wall at his back.
“The coaxing spell, fool,” he told himself, forcing his wits to return. Righting himself, he called in a commander’s voice, “Rageil azethion! Duinned báshtyamel, Ana-Forad grimedya, emilë tae anrach’da vazh th’abilë!” He paused, searching the darkness. A sound like distant, sibilant laughter writhed across the threshold. With less conviction, he continued, “Duinned báshtyamel, naethed azeth, ferdilë fann sha tha te’hilë!” The laughter slid toward him again, much nearer, and echoed among the walls and shelves. He saw a glimmer beyond the threshold and realized a pair of eyes peered back at him. They were nearly as black as the void, only visible because they caught the gleam of the orb’s light, and slowly, like one savoring the rarest and most precious of wines, the eyes drew the strands of light into their depths. There the light swirled for an instant before it was finally extinguished.
When the light was nearly swallowed up, the darkness lunged. With a weight that was not flesh, but a cold, undeniable force, it crushed Lothiar against the wall. “We—will feassst on the—light—in your eyes,” it hissed, without voice or breath.
Desperate, Lothiar cried, “I called you by the blood of the master, I command you by the blood of the master!”
“ ‘Tis not blood—we want,” the Soul Snatcher said in its strange, halting manner, “but we are—compelled.” The darkness receded, and the cold weight released him.
Panting and sick with raw terror, Lothiar staggered to his feet and tried to build a stance of authority.
The thing hunched in front of the portal, a piece of the void itself, formless, chaotic, nauseating in its continual shifting and twisting and seething. Only the eyes stayed still, and they watched Lothiar with the disarming fascination of a wolf locked on its prey.
“What am I to call you?” Lothiar asked. “Have your kind names?”
“Names?” Its voice was like cold wind passing among dry autumn leaves.
“Just Soul Snatcher then.”
“Rágazeth, yesss. We are eater—of the—living—light. Ruler—of—Abyss. Your servant—Master.”
“You hunger, rágazeth?”
The swirling darkness leapt high. “Hunger—much, Master. Long ages—we have—starved. Give us—feassst.”
“Oh, you will feast. I guarantee you that.” Boldly Lothiar asked, “Were you the one who took the azeth of old King Mathónryk’s betrayer?”
“We are—all—one. We—took it. Sweeeet—that light was. Would have—satisfied—for—long ages.” The rasping whisper darkened to a growl in an invisible throat, “But it is forbidden us. We—hunger still!”
Afraid the rágazeth would lunge again, Lothiar consoled, “Surely one of your kind understands patience.”
“Long waiting—yessss,” it answered, eyes sinking toward the floor.
“You have not long to wait,” Lothiar said. “But you will need to travel some distance before you find him. I’m sorry I can’t bring him to you. But he’s worth it. His azeth is the brightest I’ve ever seen. An azeth perhaps rivaling the greatest you’ve ever tasted.” Lothiar intended to drive the rágazeth into a frenzy, like a sea serpent tasting blood but kept just beyond reach of the injured seal ashore.
“Yesssss—YESsss,” it hissed, its cloud-body spiraling in a dance. “Where—tell us where—Master.”
Lothiar laughed. This hungry, terrifying thing didn’t ask for motives. It didn’t care. It lusted the hunt and the lifelight waiting at the end of it. To claim the light, consume it, destroy it utterly. Lothiar described the boy avedra and the golden palace beyond the mountains and against the sea. He had seen it only once, shortly after Tallon had it built in honor of his achievements in unifying two warring peoples. Aerdria had longed to see it. Lothiar had no choice but to travel the human lands, hiding inside a Veil. Always hiding.
The rágazeth said, “Thisss—will be—easy to find. This light—on the—sssea.”
“Can you begin now?” Lothiar asked, badly hiding his eagerness.
“If Master—commands.”
“You must be silent. In all eternity, you must never tell.”
“Secretssss? Yesss—like secretssss.”
“Good. You have no need to return to me once you claim this azeth. I will learn of his death sooner or later. Take his soul back to the Abyss with you, and do with it what you will. That is all.”
“Good Master,” it sighed.
“If we are in agreement, then go,”
“First we—must change—then go.” The rágazeth’s formless mass stretched out as if it were spreading a set of limbs. Spirals of energy gathered about the darkness, clinging in layers to shape a body of flesh clothed in strange garments. By nature, the thing could not create something new, which left Lothiar with the certainty that the rágazeth had stolen this body for its use long ago. It stood a hand-span taller than Lothiar himself, its skin pale and sickly, almost leprous, its arms leanly muscled, like those of a warrior. Wild hair as black as the void fell to its waist. Its garments brought to mind accounts of primitive humanity. But this body belonged to no human. A close-fitting jerkin of tanned hide was secured by a broad belt decorated with ancient silverwork. Leather leggings, scarred as if by blades, were patched together with heavy thread. Cross-gartered boots rose to the knee, the upper adorned with the fur of some animal that Lothiar couldn’t identify. A strange silver band, etched with the rágazeth’s sigil, encircled one thigh; similar bands clung to its upper arms; and leather bracers were laced from its wrists halfway to its elbows. Lastly, an iron-link chain crossed its chest like a baldric. Lothiar looked for a weapon hanging from this baldric, but saw none.
Despite the transformation, the rágazeth’s eyes remained unchanged. The holes of shadow continued to suck thirstily the orb’s wan
ing light. “This body—will pass,” it said. “Others—stay away—while we—hunt.”
“You can’t walk around our palace like that.” Lothiar hadn’t considered how he would get the demon out of the city without it being seen.
“Good Massster,” it said, in a manner that implied how foolish Lothiar was. As if it were still as insubstantial as shadow, the rágazeth leapt into the air and passed through the ceiling, taking the last of the orb’s light with it.
~~~~
Kieryn paced the library. He had worked himself into a fit. Peering out the windows, he saw not one glimmer of Saffron’s light, nor did she materialize in the light of the lamps. How many times had he called her? Not a whisper in response. “Where is she, for the Mother’s sake? I sent her to check on him days ago.”
Five days, in fact. As soon as he returned from Avidan Wood with Aerdria’s blessing upon his engagement, Rhoslyn had insisted he join her in the Duke’s Hall to hear the latest reports from Admiral Beryr. Lords Brimlad and Westport were present as well to inform their lady of the progress of their new ships. Apparently, Fieran merchants had underestimated the efficiency of Evaronna’s blockade and had attempted to slip several vessels past the ‘old girls.’ Fierce battles had since lessened Fieran audacity, and the admiral had delivered a ship full of contraband to Windy Coves.
“Aye, you’re a proper pirate,” Rhoslyn had told Beryr, and he laughed.
More, the first brigs were ready to sail. Lord Erum presented three for the duke’s service, and Rorin two. Three times as many were still in dry dock, nearing completion. Because the moons were converging again, the five new ships could sail south immediately.
Kieryn had listened to the reports with keen interest, not from the door alongside Zellel, but sitting at Rhoslyn’s right hand. While he tried to ignore Rorin’s cool glares across the council table, Kieryn’s shoulder started throbbing. The ache spread into his shoulder and chest. Glancing at his wine goblet, he feared a second assassin had slipped into the palace. But Rhoslyn had poured the wine herself and no one else seemed to be suffering.
