Gil Trilogy 2: Scion's Lady

by Rebecca Bradley

  He said, "The Honoured Bequiin has disappointed me, Tigrallef—but I suppose I might let him live, for he has tried to make amends. It was he who told me what you planned for this night, and made it easy enough for me to stop you. And this," he lifted the glass vial so we could all enjoy the way the green powder sparkled in the lamplight, "is almost enough to make me forgive him. How do you feel, Scion?"

  "Stubborn," I said.

  The Frath threw back his head and laughed. "Old Ardin also was stubborn at first. But how do you feel?"

  I could not quite figure out what he was driving at. Generally speaking, I felt awful—anxious, defeated, uncertain of the future, puzzled at what the Lady was or was not doing, and at a loss for what to do next myself—but the Frath could see all that without asking. "Could you be more specific?" I said.

  The Frath Major was still laughing. "You tell him, Ardin. It will come better from you. Wait, let me first make the Scion more comfortable."

  He motioned to Zimin to cut the ropes from my wrists. Zimin looked worried about this and I became very aware as I rubbed the blood back into my aching hands that Zimin's triple-curved sword was hovering in the neighbourhood of my kidneys. The Frath seemed to find this amusing as well.

  "Zimin, Zimin, he is unarmed and no warrior anyway—and if there were aught to fear from him, your sword would be useless against it. As well you might sink the Tasiil with a kilt-pin as subdue the Harashil with such a toy. Sit you down, Tigrallef, and listen to what the future holds. Now, Ardin."

  With one eye on the sword-happy Han-Frath, who did not look all that reassured by the Frath's mockery of my fighting skills, I pulled a chair close to the Bequiin's. Ardin shied away from me, hiding his face.

  "Now, Ardin."

  The ruin of the old scholar lifted his eyes piteously. "Scion, I am . . . so sorry. He had me watched . . . he knew I came to see you . . ."

  "And then he beat the truth out of you." I put my hand on Ardin's shoulder, which made him flinch. "Ardin, believe me, I don't blame you."

  "Only a fool would be so forgiving," the Frath said smoothly. "Never mind, we shall have many years together, you and I, and there are many lessons that I shall teach you. Carry on, Ardin."

  Ardin's voice was a faint croak. "There is more, Tigrallef. In the Naarhil texts from Cansh Fathan, I found . . ."

  He paused. His chin sank on to his chest and his eyes regarded the floor pensively, wide open. I thought he had died in the middle of his sentence, until the Frath roused him with a smart cuff on the ear. Ignoring the Frath, I took Ardin's dry, burning hand in mine.

  "What did you find in the Naarhil texts, Ardin?" I asked gently. "You may as well tell me, I promise I'm not angry with you."

  He seemed to rally a little. "I found . . . mention of a way to control the power of the Harashil."

  "The Wills? But I knew that already—"

  "Not the Wills, Tigrallef. The Wills are only for the Naar. Another way."

  I digested this in silence while the Frath chuckled again.

  "A way," I asked at last, "that would enable, say, my esteemed cousin here, the Frath Major, to control the Harashil?"

  He nodded.

  "To control me?"

  He nodded again; a few tears rolled down his bloody cheeks, turning a watery red by the time they dripped off his chin.

  I patted his hand and dropped it gently into his lap, then sat back in my chair with my eyes closed. "Why didn't you tell me this yesterday, Ardin, when there was still time for me to jump off the tower?"

  "I am quite sure," the Frath put in, "that the Harashil would have landed you as softly as a feather falling. At any rate, Scion, Ardin did not tell me of this either until a few hours ago, after I persuaded him."

  "Is the green dust part of it?"

  "The green dust, as you call it, is a potion that binds the Harashil until my control over it is accomplished."

  "Is that what it is? It looked to me like crushed wortroot, with a measure of mica flakes thrown in for a bit of sparkle. Do you really think it'll work?"

  "The Bequiin will answer to me if it does not," the Frath said softly. "He prepared it for me himself according to a protocol in the Cansh Fathidiic scrolls."

  "Ah."

  "The weakness you feel," the Frath Major continued, "is from the Naarhil dust, but you must not worry. When you are one with the Harashil and my power is established over you, the dust will no longer be necessary. Anyway, Tigrallef, it is my hope that you will come to relish your part in the Great Nameless Last—I hope that, in time, you and I will become friends as well as master and servant." Smiling benignly, but with cold eyes, he patted my shoulder and turned away. "Ardin! Now is the time."

  His back was turned to Rinn, who had been huddled quietly in her chair, slowly regaining her colour, throughout these revelations. At this point, she exploded into action. She aimed a solid kick at the Frath Major with both legs, catching him on the back of his knees so that he buckled, swearing; then, in one fluid movement, she sprang out of her chair, picked it up, and swung it with a sort of vicious enthusiasm at the Frath Major's back. He toppled under it to the floor.

  This shocked the rest of us stupid with surprise, but I was the first to recover. While Rinn was still struggling to raise the chair for another blow—after that first magnificent burst of strength she appeared unable to lift it again—I grabbed a handful of crystalline powder from the heap that used to be a matchless Crosthic decanter and threw it like a sparkling cloud into the Han-Frath's face, diving for his sword at the same time. Zimin was thrown off his guard, but he had good instincts and excellent reflexes; I felt the blade slash across my right palm before I caught his wrist with the other hand and wrested the sword from him. Zimin countered with a mighty kick, which missed me since he had been half-blinded by that eyeful of crystal dust and had tears streaming down his cheeks. I brought the sword down in a great swipe that would have disembowelled him if I hadn't missed entirely—and he fell back unhurt, wiping his eyes.

  The Frath Major was still under the chair, being systematically kicked by Rinn. The Bequiin Ardin, on the other hand, had not moved; he was staring at the floor again, with that same intense thoughtfulness, looking even deader than before. Shifting the sword to my left hand because the right was slippery with blood, I put an arm around Ardin's shoulders and hoisted him out of the chair.

  "Rinn, that's enough! If you're coming, come now!" She didn't even look up. I gathered that the joy and interest of kicking her cousin outweighed the dull prospect of trying to escape. I called her name again, appeared to catch her attention this time, got a firmer grip on the Bequiin's robe and headed for the door.

  In the excitement, I hadn't even heard it open. I was now faced with an entire picket fence of shiny swords, a whole row of hostile faces under very unfriendly helmets—the Miisheli guards must have been listening through the key-hole. In my instant of hesitation, the swords flashed and gathered, with cruel wisdom, at the Bequiin Ardin's throat instead of mine. I groaned, and after a moment I tossed Zimin's sword on to the floor.

  The Frath Major was a man who learned from his mistakes. Within a few minutes, I was tied securely to one chair and Rinn to another—sporting a large swelling lump above her eye where the Frath had relieved his indignation at being kicked. There was no need to tie Ardin down. I was sure the old scholar was dying. Around the room were ranged all but two of the Miisheli troopers, swords drawn, eyes watchful; the exceptions were on guard outside the door. The Frath Major, limping slightly and fingering tender places on his face, paced back and forth across the floor. He did not look as angry as one would expect.

  He stopped in front of me for another sprinkling of the green dust. "By rights, Tigrallef," he said, "you should have been too weak to move—but perhaps Ardin did not make this in the correct strength, or perhaps I had not used enough. How do you feel now?"

  I felt normal, if tired and hopeless. "Too weak to move," I said in a faded voice.

  "Of course I
would not take your word for that," the Frath answered sweetly, checking the knots behind the chair, "but I think we have you secure now. And I have reason to believe that the green dust is effective nonetheless. Did you notice that the Harashil took no part in that little fracas?"

  I had noticed, and I was worried. There were no voices in my head at all—I pictured the Lady in a sort of drugged stasis, curled foetally in the corner of some dark room in the back of my mind, waiting for the words that would bring her under the command of this power-hungry lunatic, and me with her. Why hadn't Ardin warned me about this? It didn't quite fit with the prophecy, and for a moment I doubted—but then, with a sinking heart, I remembered how Ardin had placed great importance on me getting as far from the Frath as possible, and realized that he may have been warning me obliquely—but why, why, hadn't he told me more?

  I looked at him. He had slipped sideways in his chair so that only the armrest prevented him from toppling to the floor. His eyes flickered open and came to rest on mine; they were serene, almost dreaming. Throughout the next few minutes, while the Frath marked the historic occasion with a formal little speech to the troopers privileged to be there, I found an odd reassurance in Ardin's untroubled gaze.

  Suddenly, with a shock, I realized that the words now coming out of the Frath's mouth were words I had used myself, once and only once, and then forgotten, and hearing them again took me back—six years back. I closed my eyes: I was on the lonely sun-baked summit of the Gilgard, with a flat blue sea, silver-dotted at the horizon, stretching away to the east, and a terrible wind was rising in my ears. I turned to look for Shree, who should have been part of this picture, but all I saw was the Lady. She was not far away and her head was tilted critically, masked by lambent hair, as she listened to the measured words falling out of the sky around us.

  The Greater Will.

  I opened my eyes. Up until then, I hadn't felt the Frath's hands resting on my head, as if in blessing. He spoke the last words of the Greater Will and lifted his hands and moved back, watching me eagerly. For a moment there was complete silence.

  Then Ardin moved. He rose from his chair and took a shuffling step towards the Frath Major. And another. He was dancing. His eyes were fixed thoughtfully on the floor, but there was a dreamy half-smile on his face, and he was dancing. He reached the Frath Major, who was rooted to the spot with horror, and flung his arms around the Frath's waist and pulled him close.

  "I lied to you, Liithis," he said. He dropped his head on the Frath Major's chest and held on very tight.

  The Frath opened his mouth, but his scream was lost in the rising fury of a great wind. The troopers were open-mouthed, darting wild glances around the room; swords clattered on the floor. The room shuddered—my chair rocked, the troopers were tossed about as if we were back on the Tasiil in the greatest stormbowl that ever raged on the face of the Great Known Sea, the crystal dust whirled from the tabletop and danced in the tortured air—but I kept my eyes on the Frath Major, who was as still and solid as a rock in the eye of the storm. Then I heard Rinn shrieking, and realized that the wind was already dying; the floor seemed to ripple a few times, and then became solid. The sudden stillness was a shock.

  "Marrich frath." That was Zimin, rising from his knees, staring with wonder at the centre of the room. Rinn began to whimper. Ardin and the Frath Major were still locked in their deadly embrace, statue-like, their robes frozen in the act of whipping around them in a vanished wind. The Frath's face was barely recognizable—a mask of terror and agony, hideous, lips drawn back over gritted teeth, eyelids stretched, beads of sweat frozen in the pores. Ardin's face was at peace. I could see his eyes shining under the half-closed lids.

  This tableau did not last long. Before I could shout to stop him, Zimin lunged forwards and grasped the Frath's shoulder. The explosion that followed was silent, but it flung Zimin, gasping, back against the wall. When the flash faded, the dust of the Frath Major and the Bequiin was mingled in one grey heap in the middle of the floor.

  I gathered my wits, cleared my throat. "I would advise you, Han-Frath Zimin," I growled, "to release me now, before I do the same to you."

  * * *

  38

  YOU LIED, SCION.

  Where were you? Never mind, I don't want to know.

  But it was not you who destroyed this blasphemer, seed of the Excommunicant, it was I. He was trespassing on the preserve of the Naar—

  I know, I know. Just keep out of this.

  But the Heretrix of Vizzath—

  Keep out! Let me concentrate.

  The Lady subsided. Back in the outside world, Zimin was hovering halfway between me and the remains of Ardin and the Frath Major, perhaps trying to decide whether to free me or to gut me. I fixed my eyes on him and began to intone, in a low and dangerous voice, some complex mathematical formulae in Old Middle Zelfic. That made his mind up right away.

  The Miisheli troopers were looking to Zimin for their cue, but I could feel the fear coming off them like heat off a fired griddle. When Zimin laid his sword at my feet and knelt down before me with his neck bent in submission, they all sighed with relief and hastened to follow his intelligent example. They were accustomed to all kinds and speeds of death, these men, from fast and bloody to slow and ingenious, but the Frath Major's peculiar ending had managed to shake them.

  "The Princess Rinn too," I said, when Zimin had finished sawing through my bonds. He moved to Rinn, who was staring slack-jawed at the sad grey mound of dust on the floor. Even when her ropes fell away, she did not move.

  "You did that, Tigrallef? You did that? You slew my cousin?"

  "Sorry."

  She looked at me with shining eyes. "You must do the Fraths Minor next, all but Raalis and Honn."

  "What?"

  "All right, then—Raalis too, I do not care."

  "Rinn—"

  "And this one as well!" she broke in, glaring at Zimin. "He dared lay hands on me! He bound me to the chair!"

  "Rinn—"

  "Indeed, all these stinking fliis must die—kill them now, Tigrallef, while I watch. And when we get to Cansh Miishel, I shall have prepared a list—"

  "Rinn, listen to me. I'm not going to Cansh Miishel."

  She stared at me without comprehension. "Of course you shall go to Cansh Miishel. The viper crown—"

  "—will look very pretty on you, I'm sure," I finished for her. "Rinn, I will never forget that you tried to help me tonight." She looked confused; in fact, she had probably been trying to help herself, not me, but I was impressed and curiously touched anyway. "I'm going away," I continued, "but I will do everything I can to ensure your safety and that of the Tasiil before I go."

  "Going away?" she said slowly. "What do you mean? Where would you go?"

  "Away," I repeated.

  Her eyes narrowed to ominous slits. "It is that woman, yes? The skinny hag with the brat on her shoulder—yes?"

  "Please, Rinn, don't make this difficult."

  "Difficult! I shall make it impossible. No man leaves me! No man!" She stooped and snatched Zimin's sword from the floor, swinging it up in a clumsy but effective arc that cut a deep swathe across my belly and sliced clean through a rib or two on its way out of my chest. Rinn threw the sword down in triumph.

  "Ouch," I said.

  Her mouth fell open.

  "Han-Frath Zimin," I added, "please tie her up again."

  And so, it seemed, I was suddenly in possession of a small private army. I knew exactly what I wanted to do with it. First, retrieve Shree and Calla and Verolef from Valsoria's custody—without bloodshed, if possible. Second, command the troopers to escort us and the rest of the Frath's party back to Vass and outfit a fishing boat from the Tasiil's stores. Third, send the Tasiil in one direction while we sailed off in the other. At that point, it all seemed so simple.

  In small words, I explained Stage One of my wishes to Zimin. It was gratifying to see, for once in my life, how readily everyone jumped to do my bidding. In moments Zimin h
ad the troopers formed up and ready to move, with one of them detailed to sling Rinn over his shoulder and start at once for the Tasiil. Rinn was not happy about this, but there was little she could say through the nose-rag tied around her mouth. She kicked out at me with her bound feet as she was carried past—my miracle of shrugging off a potentially fatal stomach wound had not awed her into submission for very long. I stopped the trooper carrying her and bent to kiss her cheek.

  "Goodbye, darling Rinn," I said. "I wish you happiness, good fortune and the viper crown as well, if it's what you want." She made enraged noises and tried her best to bite me through the gag. Sighing, I watched her carried through the door; I rather liked her, if only for her spirit, and I knew I would never see her again.

  Zimin was waiting for me by the door, but there was one tribute I wanted to pay before leaving. As the last troopers filed out, I knelt and gazed sombrely at the mingled dust of my enemy and my friend. I picked up a handful and let it run through my fingers. I felt no grief for Ardin—he had died well, in the act of atoning for his mistakes, and had brilliantly avenged his own suffering and death at the same time. And he had died quickly, with no more pain; I had drawn the obvious conclusion about his macabre last dance with the Frath Major.

  "That was cleverly done, Ardin," I whispered to his ashes.

  Then I rose and followed Zimin through the door.

  Looking back, I reckon I was in command of my small private army for something under seventeen minutes. As I stepped into the dark hallway, a sweet-smelling cloth was clapped over my nose and mouth. The last thing I remember before the floor slammed into me was a gag-muffled shriek from Rinn, abruptly cut off.

  I awoke in heaven—memorians' heaven, a cosy lamplit room with scroll-racks to the ceiling on all sides, broken only by a small door at either end. And scrolls, hundreds of them, though I noticed right away that many were in sad condition, and the racks on the far wall were almost empty. I was lying on a threadbare carpet that must have been very grand and gorgeous at one time, perhaps centuries ago, judging by the state of the pile. The battered wooden table a foot away, if repaired and polished, would have done credit to a princely banqueting hall; the two tall-backed chairs were ornately carved with motifs that looked very old and teasingly familiar. As I sat up with a clear but aching head, I remembered the carvings on the doorway leading to the hidden amphitheatre of the Sacellum, and everything fell into place. I was looking at relics of the ancient empire of Vizzath, religiously, if rather ineptly, preserved.