“Is it,” said Gerald, deciding to take a risk, “something that Ataranur did to you? A…side effect, perhaps, of the healing?”
“I don’t think so,” said Malden, his voice distant. “I feel better than I have in years, Gerald.” He snorted. “Perhaps better than I ever have.”
Gerald leaned forward. “Father. If Ataranur is playing you false…”
He expected another outburst of mad rage, but his father only laughed.
“So earnest,” said Malden. “Very well. This does not leave this room, understand?” Gerald nodded. “Ataranur is High Elderborn.”
“Rachel thought as much,” said Gerald. “But that’s impossible. The High Elderborn have been dust for millennia. That…”
But even as he spoke, he remembered the tales. Knightcastle was old, its walls heavy with centuries of history. The castle had once been a stronghold of the High Elderborn, in the days before the first Roland king settled in the ruined citadel and raised his banner. Legends told of princes and kings of the High Elderborn sleeping in hidden chambers below the castle, waiting until Knightcastle’s hour of greatest need to awaken…
“Then,” said Gerald, “Ataranur is one of these sleeping High Elderborn kings?”
“I believe so,” said Malden.
“Or he claims to be,” said Gerald. “You’ve never seen him without that mask? Father, he could be a trickster.”
“A charlatan who healed me?” said Malden. Gerald had no answer for that. “Perhaps Ataranur is a charlatan. If so, he is a charlatan with power. And if he is truly a High Elderborn prince risen from the dust of time…Knightcastle’s need has never been greater, Gerald. We need all the aid we can gather.”
Gerald gave a slow nod. “As you say, father.”
But he would keep a close eye on his father and Ataranur nonetheless.
The balcony door swung open, and a maid in Roland livery entered, a tray of food in her arms.
“Ah,” said Malden. “The rest of breakfast is here.”
The maid bowed and put the plates on the table, along with two cups of mixed wine. As she did, her sleeve caught on one of the cups, spilling the wine.
“My lord!” said the maid, her face flushing with mortification. “I am so sorry! My hand slipped, and…”
Gerald waved his hand. “It is no matter, my dear. You…”
Malden bellowed in fury, surged to his feet, and backhanded the maid.
The woman shrieked and fell to the floor, the food flying everywhere. Malden kicked her in the side, hard.
“You stupid bitch!” he roared. “I am the Lord of Knightcastle! Do you think…”
Gerald seized his father’s shoulders and slammed him against the wall.
“What the devil is wrong with you?” said Gerald. “Have you become the sort of lord that beats his servants?”
Malden glared at him, face twisted with rage. For a surreal moment Gerald wondered if his father would strike him. Then Malden shook his head and looked at the weeping maid, and again ashamed chagrin flooded over his face.
“What is wrong with you?” said Gerald. “What did Ataranur do to you?”
“You are both dismissed,” said Malden.
“Father…”
“Dismissed!” bellowed Malden, ripping free of Gerald’s grasp and walking to the railing.
Gerald helped the sobbing maid to her feet and left the balcony.
Before, he had suspected that something was wrong.
Now he was certain of it.
###
Rachel smoothed the sides of her gown.
She would not show any fear. She could not show any fear. Gerald had told her about his disturbing encounter with Lord Malden this morning, voiced his fear that Ataranur had developed some sort of dark hold over his father.
She would find out the truth of it.
No one else dared approach Ataranur. The masked wizard inspired too much fear, even though he always spoke cordially. But Rachel was merely the wife of Lord Malden’s youngest son, and she hoped the wizard would not see her as a threat.
If Gerald knew about her plan, he would stop her.
So before she could change her mind, she left the Hall of Triumph and walked to the edge of the inner curtain wall, the ramparts overlooking all of Knightcastle and Castle Town.
Ataranur stood there, robed and hooded, gloved hands clasped behind his back. His cloak stirred in the breeze, but he remained otherwise motionless.
If Rachel had not known better, she would have thought him a statue draped in a black cloak.
She stepped to his side. Ataranur gave no sign that he noticed her presence.
Rachel clasped her hands before her and put on her most tremulous smile. “Lord Ataranur?”
The steel mask within the cowl turned to face her. Through the mask’s eye holes she saw nothing but blackness.
“Lady Rachel,” came Ataranur’s hollow voice. “What do you wish of me?”
“I wanted to thank you,” said Rachel, “for saving Lord Malden’s life.”
Ataranur’s shoulders rippled in a faint shrug. “It was necessary for the greater good.”
“Perhaps,” said Rachel. “But we love Lord Malden, and we are grateful to you for saving him. Thank you.”
She touched Ataranur’s sleeve. The black cloth felt cold beneath her fingers, bitterly cold, as if Ataranur was ice, not flesh and blood. Every instinct screamed to pull her hand away, as if she had touched some poisonous thing. Yet Ataranur said nothing, the mask staring at her. After a moment Rachel withdrew her hand.
"Well," she said, "I thank you again, Lord Ataranur."
She turned to go.
"You truly love him?"
Rachel turned. Ataranur was still watching her.
"I'm sorry, my lord?"
"Lord Malden," said Ataranur. "You truly love him?"
"Of course, my lord," said Rachel. She smiled at the memory. "When I first came to Knightcastle...I was very frightened. Yet Lord Malden made me feel welcome. Like I was his daughter, come home at last. And he has accepted me into his family."
"And your own father?" said Ataranur. "Did you love him?"
"Yes," said Rachel after a moment's hesitation. She remembered Lord Adalon Cravenlock well. He had been a kindly man, gentle and generous...but weak. Her mother had dominated him utterly, and Lady Arissa had been cruel. And she had introduced Mitor to the worship of the San-keth, and Mitor had lured her into it...
"You hesitate," said Ataranur. "You did not love him?"
"He's been dead for almost twenty years," said Rachel. "He was not a perfect man, and he made many mistakes. But, yes, I did love him."
"Perhaps you were fortunate," said Ataranur, his mask turning towards the valley. "My father was a tyrant."
Rachel blinked. "The High Elderborn had tyrants? All the tales say they were wise and kindly and powerful."
"You'll recall the Dark Elderborn were once High Elderborn," said Ataranur. For the first time there was a note of humor in the cold voice. "And my father had noble intentions. He desired order, peace, prosperity. All noble goals. Yet to achieve those goals he was willing to do terrible things. He turned me into a weapon, Lady Rachel. A weapon to smash any foes who threatened his order and his peace." He looked towards the sky. "And he succeeded beyond his fondest hopes."
"So your father left you here," said Rachel. "Below Knightcastle. Waiting until we would need you."
"Yes," said Ataranur. "He did."
"I'm sorry," said Rachel.
"Do not be," said Ataranur. "I made my own choices. My father and all my kin are dust. Only I remain. I will do what I must to defend this world, regardless of the cost."
Rachel hesitated, and then decided to take a risk.
"But are you really High Elderborn?"
Again amusement entered the metallic voice. "Have I not said so?"
"But you wear that mask," said Rachel.
"Did I not heal Lord Malden? Would I do that, if I meant him ill?"
"True," said Rachel. She made sure to keep her tone nervous. It was not difficult. "Yet...oh, I do not want you to think me ungrateful, my lord. But...well, my mother and brother were beguiled by the lies of San-keth priests. My brother listened to the poisoned words of a necromancer. I fear...I fear..."
"That I am the same?" said Ataranur. "I assure you, my lady, I am High Elderborn." He reached for his face. "See for yourself. Though I warn you...three thousand years sleeping below the earth has not improved my appearance."
He lifted the steel mask, and Rachel forced herself to look.
She did her very best not to flinch.
The face within the cowl was ancient, a lined mask of skin stretched tight over a skull. If a man could live a thousand years, and age every day, he might look like Ataranur. The colorless lips pulled back from the yellowed teeth in a humorless grin.
"Does my appearance," rasped Ataranur, "so terrify you?"
Rachel forced herself not to look away. "My lord looks...my lord looks very tired."
Ataranur managed a short, dusty laugh as he lowered his mask back in place. "Indeed. Forgive me. The sunlight…pains me."
Footsteps clicked against the flagstones, and a page in Roland blue and silver hurried towards them.
"My lord Ataranur," the boy said, face frightened. "My lady Rachel. Lord Malden bids you come to the Hall of Triumph. There is news from the south."
"Thank you," said Rachel.
She strode away from Ataranur without another word.
###
Another wizard waited for her next to the Hall of Triumph, a tall young man with pale blond hair.
"Well?" murmured Rachel, looking across the High Court. Ataranur stared over the ramparts, ignoring both her and the summons.
"That wasn't his real face," said Circan. Rachel did not like wizards, but she trusted Circan as much as she trusted any wielder of magic. He had stood with her and Gerald through some very dangerous times. "I sensed the spell he cast, just before he removed his mask. The face you saw was an illusion."
Rachel had expected as much. Skhath had always hidden his true form behind a spell of illusion, masquerading as Sir Albron Eastwater. It had not been much of a stretch to imagine Ataranur doing the same.
Perhaps he wore the steel mask to avoid the bother of maintaining the spell.
"Could you see his true face?" said Rachel.
"No," said Circan.
"Very well," said Rachel.
But whoever or whatever Ataranur was, Rachel was sure he was not a slumbering High Elderborn king come to aid Knightcastle in its darkest hour.
###
Gerald stood to the right of his father's chair in the Hall of Triumph, listening to the messenger from Lord Agravain Rainier.
The news was not good.
"The runedead come in great numbers, my lord," said the messenger, his clothes dusty and stained from fast travel. "They forced their way across the River Abelinus, and we lacked the numbers to resist. We had no choice but to fall back to Tumblestone. The runedead besiege the city, and Lord Agravain bade me to ride north and summon aid."
Briefly Gerald remembered that day, years ago, when another messenger had ridden north asking for aid. The Dominiars under Amalric Galbraith had laid siege to Tumblestone, and Lord Malden had been too paralyzed with grief from Garain's murder to act. Mazael took command of the armies of Knightcastle, smashed the Dominiar Order, and slain Amalric in single combat.
But Mazael was not here. Gerald didn't even know if he was still alive.
Lord Malden stood. "This challenge will be met. Caraster threatens our lands and our people, and we will not allow this provocation to pass unpunished. Ataranur!"
The hooded and masked wizard approached the dais.
"My lord Malden?" said Ataranur.
"Will your powers be sufficient against the runedead?"
There was a hint of an amused sneer in Ataranur's voice. "More than sufficient, my lord. This braggart Caraster claims to be a wizard, but we shall see how he fares against one who studied beneath the master wizards of the High Elderborn."
"Indeed," said Lord Malden.
Gerald saw his father's stratagem plainly enough. The fighting at Tumblestone would put Ataranur to the test. Rachel's risky gambit had proved that Ataranur wished to keep his face concealed, but if the wizard was truly what he claimed to be, then his powers would be of great use against the runedead. If he was not, then...
"Sir Gerald," said Malden.
"Father," said Gerald. "I am at your command."
"Take command of the relief force," said Malden, "and destroy the runedead besieging Tumblestone."
If Ataranur was not what he claimed to be, then it would fall to Gerald to deal with him. All while saving Tumblestone from the runedead.
But life for Lord Malden's sons had never been easy.
"It will be as you wish, Father," said Gerald.
"A contingent of Justiciars will ride with you," said Malden. "Grand Master Caldarus generously offered the assistance of his Order."
"That...is indeed generous of him," said Gerald, shooting a look at the Justiciar Grand Master. Caldarus gave him a thin-lipped smile. "But Tumblestone is well outside the Justiciars' demesne of Swordor. While the Grand Master's gesture is noble, he is under no obligation to aid us." If Gerald lifted the siege, no doubt the Justiciars would claim credit, and Caldarus would demand Tumblestone for his Order.
Malden thought he could keep the Justiciars under control, but Gerald suspected his father was in for a nasty surprise.
"We cannot turn away any aid, my son," said Malden. "Sir Commander Aidan will command the Justiciar forces."
That was a relief, at least. Aidan Tormaud had a level head, and was not nearly as grasping as Caldarus himself.
"As you command, Father," said Gerald. He looked at the windows behind the dais. It was already past noon, and it would take several hours to prepare to march. "We shall depart at dawn."
###
At midnight, Lucan Mandragon walked alone in the dark maze underneath Knightcastle.
He strode unhindered through the blackness. The lack of light did not trouble his undead eyes, and he easily avoided the occasional pile of broken stone or fallen block. From time to time a rat crossed his path, but the rodents scented him and fled in terror.
Wise of them.
The Trysting Ways spread in a stone labyrinth through the walls and towers and cellars of Knightcastle. The castle had been built and rebuilt and expanded over the centuries, and the various lords and kings had added secret passages for their own use. Gradually the passageways had become the maze called the Trysting Ways, the name gleaned from the number of lords who had used them to secretly visit their mistresses. After the San-keth had used the Trysting Ways to enter the castle, Lord Malden had ordered them sealed.
Lucan found his way inside anyway.
Now he walked through the darkness, hand extended, his magical senses seeking. He felt a multitude of spells down here - the wards raised over Knightcastle's walls to keep the runedead out, residues from his magical duel with Straganis, the lingering spells cast by generations of long-dead court wizards.
And another source of power, a faint echo, so faint that it would have escaped the senses of any mortal wizard.
But not Lucan’s.
At last he stopped before a stone wall, deep beneath the castle. It looked no different than any other of the walls, the ancient stones rough and massive. Yet Lucan felt faint whispers of power, and he smiled behind his mask. The High Elderborn had been subtle. A faint ward, just enough to misdirect the attention of anyone looking at it. Yet the spell had been enough to keep this place hidden for three thousand years.
For who would seek for a Door of Souls beneath Knightcastle?
Lucan raised his hand, summoned power, and released the ward.
The stone wall vanished. Beyond Lucan saw a great vault of white stone, its ceiling rising to a pointed arch, the chamber as larg
e as the nave of a church. In its center stood a delicate arch of white stone, ten feet wide and thirty feet tall, its top coming to point. Ornate sigils and carvings covered the arch's side, as fresh and sharp as if they had been carved yesterday. Even without using a spell, Lucan felt the potent magic within with the arch, magic strong enough to rip open a passageway to the spirit world and Cythraul Urdvul itself.
The Door of Souls.
Lucan walked in a slow circle around the Door. He waved his hands, muttering spells to sense the presence of magic, probing the magic of the Door. It held great power, but that power was...latent, asleep.
Like an ocean that had been turned to ice. The ice could be melted, but it would take a tremendous amount of heat.
Lucan could reactivate the Door of Souls, but it would take vast power. More than he could conjure on his own, even with the well of stolen Demonsouled power in his mind, even with the strength he had stolen from Randur Maendrag.
But not, however, more than he could steal with the Glamdaigyr.
And he knew just where to claim that power.
Lucan left the vault, reestablishing the ancient ward behind him, and his thoughts turned to Lord Malden. Stolen life energy healed and rejuvenated the recipient. But there were side effects. The recipient's self-control and moral center began to...erode. Acts that were once unthinkable became palatable, even desirable.
And the recipient became easier to control.
As Lord Malden was about to find out.
###
It did not take Lucan long to locate a calibah.
He suspected the San-keth would maintain spies in Lord Malden's castle, should they ever need to move against him, and his suspicions were true. He found the changeling in the servants' quarters, disguised as a stable hand. The changelings were masters of disguise and infiltration, and Lucan doubted anyone had ever suspected the man.
But the calibah could not hide from Lucan.
Soul of Skulls (Book 6) Page 15
