If Sahand were in her place, would he dispel the ritual? Would he give up his one edge against his opponent?
Of course not.
Androlli had warned her not to use the White Guard in a battlefield role. Fine—there were probably numerous other uses for them. Uses she couldn’t rely on others to fulfill.
Myreon subtly adjusted her stance before the ritual. She wasn’t going to dispel it at all—no. Instead, she set about enchanting a linking stone, which would let her bring the power of the ritual with her, wherever she went.
When the White Army marched—and soon it certainly would have to—the ritual was coming along. And so, too, would come the White Guard.
Chapter 7
In the Shadow of Sahand
The Citadel of Dellor was among the most ancient fortresses in the known world. Built to defend against foes unknown in ages long forgotten by some warlock king whose name was now lost to history, it was a vast, sprawling military structure—a five-pointed star of thick stone walls and flat defensive turrets squatting at the edge of the Great Whiteflood River.
There was no earthly reason to have a fortress this big in a land as remote as Dellor—it could have easily housed an army of well over ten thousand men, fully provisioned and not even forced to share cots in the seemingly endless barracks. However, there was also no feasible way to knock it down and many reasons it could be useful to a man like Banric Sahand.
Chief among these reasons was how impressive it was—the endless corridors filled with artfully concealed murder-holes and arrow slits, the cleverly disguised booby traps, and the many secret doors and passages belied a level of engineering ingenuity lost to the modern age. With every tour of the vast castle, Sahand was able to convey a very important message to just about anyone:
I am unassailable and thus invincible—remember this.
At that moment, the person being given this impression was a fleshy-cheeked young man—no, a boy—who, as it happened, was the sitting Count of Ayventry. He was a distant cousin to the late Count Andluss and the rest of Andluss’s also-dead family. His trembling parents had presented him to Sahand two days before, and Sahand had taken an immediate liking to the puffy young dunce. He was stupid enough to have no idea he was being used and greedy enough to go along with whatever Sahand said, so long as it worked to his advantage. His name was Fawnse.
Sahand put an arm around the young count and guided him into the last stop on their tour—an underground, artificial harbor concealed within the fifth point of the Citadel’s star. This point jutted into the river and, behind a huge stone gate, was an artificial waterfront big enough to accommodate ten huge barges, currently under construction.
Fawnse’s eyes nearly popped out of his skull in surprise. “Wow! You have ships, too?”
Sahand smiled. “Those are just transport barges, Your Grace—without any good roads, the best way to explore the lands of Dellor is by river. The same goes for my troops. With these barges, I’ll be able to keep my people safe from bandits and trolls and such.”
Fawnse tipped his head upward, trying to encompass the whole of the vast vaulted ceiling in one glance and nearly falling over from the effort. “It’s amazing!”
“So you see that I am a good friend to have, yes? Aren’t you glad you came to visit?”
Fawnse nodded. “Oh, very much so! And to think my mother was so worried—she thought you were going to kill me!”
Sahand laughed. “I only kill my enemies, Fawnse—and you are no enemy of mine, are you?”
“No sir!” The boy answered, his eyes falling back to the barges and the swarm of workers hammering nails and sawing logs to aid in their construction. The vast chamber echoed with the sound of wood being bent to human use.
Sahand still had his arm around Fawnse. He gave the boy a hearty squeeze. “Fawnse, how are you liking being count?”
Fawnse smiled. “Fine, my lord. Just fine. My bed is huge!”
“So you wouldn’t mind remaining count, then? For, say, a long time?”
“No, my lord!” Fawnse grinned. “It’s been the greatest honor of my life!”
“And what are your thoughts on the so-called White Army—the upstart rebels who mean to usurp you?”
Fawnse snickered. “I have eight thousand levies and five hundred heavy cavalry that will show them what I think of them!”
Sahand nodded—the boy was overestimating his cavalry by at least a hundred fifty, but by no more than that. Add that to his own companies of light cavalry—two hundred strong—and the twelve companies of Delloran regulars and mercenaries he had in Eretheria, and that gave them an army of about four thousand men, give or take, plus those eight thousand worthless levies. Fawnse no doubt assumed he would be making his stand outside Ayventry, just as many other counts had over the years—wait until the enemy shows up, muster your armies on the broad fields surrounding the city, and have a very civilized pitched battle on some sunny summer afternoon.
This, of course, struck Sahand as a very stupid thing to do.
“Fawnse, I’m glad to hear you are a fighting man at heart. That is why I’ve made a strategic decision.” He guided the boy out of the harbor and into a great hall where a vast round table had been set up and, upon it, an enormous map of Eretheria. Little wooden soldiers (for footmen) and horses (for cavalry) were scattered about the map—Sahand’s troops were black, spread out like a net across the Eastern Basin and the Great South Plains, while Ayventry’s were red, concentrated in the county at the very northern tip of the mountains and the basin. The forces of that resilient old hag, Ousienne of Hadda, were a smattering of yellow along Lake Country, which extended from the northern tip of the Tarralles to form the northern border of the Great South Plains. There, represented by a small cluster of white, still down by the coast near Eretheria City, was the White Army—the rebels who had made Eretheria an unsackable prize and forced Sahand’s retreat north.
“My men are retreating north, as were my orders.” Sahand gestured to his forces. “As they go, they are under orders to burn, loot, and pillage.”
Fawnse frowned. “That isn’t allowed, I thought.”
“Ah, Fawnse—it is time I gave you an important lesson in statecraft: everything is allowed if no one can stop you.” Sahand didn’t wait to see if the boy understood or not. He pointed to the map, and specifically the two roads that ran north from Eretheria—the Freegate Road and the Congress Road. “When the Young Prince and his Gray Lady advance from Eretheria, they shall either travel up the Congress Road, which means they are headed for Lake Country, or the Freegate Road, which will take them directly to us. Either way they go, they will find no fodder on the land and only miserable, starving peasants in their way. This will force the Young Prince to slow down, to forage more widely, and to deal with the suffering of his own people.”
Fawnse nodded slowly, squinting at the table. “What do my men do?”
Sahand pointed at the picture of a tower perched at the northern spur of the Tarralle Mountains, astride the Freegate Road. “Unless the White Army secures an alliance from Lake Country—which they will not—the only way to pass the Tarralles is under the ramparts of the castle of Tor Erdun.”
Fawnse brightened. “The Earl of Tor Erdun is my uncle!”
Sahand nodded while the boy beamed at him. “So now you see what I want you to do with your men: take them—all of them—to Tor Erdun. Make certain your uncle is well supplied and stocked with fresh troops and take command of the garrison yourself. In a matter of weeks, a starving army of rebellious peasants and poor hedge knights will have to lay siege to it, and then my forces, which will have retreated into the mountains,” Sahand moved a few black pieces into the Tarralles with a long stick, “will cut them off from behind. The rebellion will be crushed and you, Your Grace, will be the savior of Eretheria.”
Fawnse clapped his hands and cheered. “A wonderful plan! I’ll go and tell my captains right away!”
Sahand grinned. “Yes, do. My anygate
remains open, linked to your castle. Come back and visit anytime, Fawnse!”
Fawnse bowed and left at a run. When he had gone, Sahand nodded to one of his lieutenants, who took care to bar the doors behind him and clear the hall of anyone but Sahand’s inner circle. “Inform my companies to fall back toward Ayventry. I want the city fully garrisoned by my own armies once Count Fawnse’s troops have gone.”
His men leapt into action, pulling out sending stones and seeking to make contact with Sahand’s far-flung forces. As they worked, Sahand folded his arms behind his back and strolled onto the balcony that overlooked his secret harbor. There, the large, square barges were halfway complete. They would be able to ferry over a thousand men across the Whiteflood in a single trip—an invasion force.
One of his captains was beside him at the rail. “Sire, won’t the boy tell people about these barges? Won’t he reveal your plans?”
Sahand arched an eyebrow at the man—he was young, newly promoted. Perhaps a little overbold in speaking with his prince. Still, Sahand was in a jovial mood. “I do not show my plans to fools, Captain.”
The captain puzzled this over for a moment, chewing his moustache. “A clever ruse, sire.”
Sahand seriously doubted the fellow had any idea what he was talking about. He laughed. “That includes you, too, Captain.” Sahand slapped him on the back. “Now, bring me Arkald the Strange. We need to discuss my prisoner.”
Arkald the Strange, personal necromancer to Prince Banric Sahand, could not sleep. No matter how many fur blankets he piled upon his bed, no matter how well he stoked the iron stove in his small chamber, no matter what potions he concocted to ease his way into slumber, he lay shivering and awake each and every night, his eyes wide open. Staring upward. Knowing that, on the floor just above him, a nightmare walked. And waited. And plotted.
No amount of pleading was able to dissuade the Mad Prince from using the top floor of Arkald’s tower for a prison. Never mind that it was Arkald’s preferred ritual space. Never mind that it was incoherently dangerous to keep the prisoner alive. He had thrown himself on his face before Sahand, tugging at the hem of his fur cape. “Please, Your Highness! Kill her! Just kill her, I beg of you! For all of our sakes!”
Sahand had only grinned at him. Always fearsome, Sahand’s smiles held something extra special these days—one cheek had been torn away in battle, and now one could see his teeth all the way back to his molars on one side. When he smiled, he seemed part crocodile. “No, Arkald. One does not destroy so useful a vessel of knowledge as this. Certainly not out of fear. She is to be your captive and you her jailor.”
“No!” Arkald had gasped.
Still that horrible, half-human smile. “Yes, Arkald. I trust your terror of her is sufficient to make you a very efficient and thorough guardian of our permanent guest. And of course, I don’t need to tell you what happens if she dies in your care, do I?”
What could Arkald say? He touched his forehead to the stone floor of Sahand’s throne room and swore it would be done.
The ritual space at the top of Arkald’s tower had been Astrally warded. Arkald had spent days etching the runes on the outside of the tower, using a rickety wooden scaffold that hung from the tower’s roof and suspended him hundreds of feet in the air. When they were complete, the runes rebuffed all the energies except the Astral—the fifth energy, the medium through which the other four moved. Any sorcery based in the four—Ether, Lumen, Fey, or Dweomer—would be impossible.
As for the Astral, Sahand had assured Arkald that the prisoner was sufficiently mutilated to make any significant spellcraft impossible. Arkald, of course, did not believe this for a moment, and so every day he made a point of siphoning as much of the Astral as he could into a ritual of his own—a spell to unwrite and then rewrite books by locally reversing and then advancing the flow of time. Such a spell was enormously taxing—so much so that Arkald’s own work and study had to fall by the wayside—but it was essential. His survival depended on it. If that woman were able to cast even a single spell . . .
And so, Arkald the Strange did not sleep. His appetite left him. He feared what wine or beer might do to his wits, and so he refused these, as well. Within a week, he appeared every bit as skeletal as any of his creations ever had.
Once a day, Arkald mustered all of his modest courage and made the ascent up the claustrophobic spiral staircase to what he had come to call “the cell,” carrying a light wooden tray with bread, cheese, and a pitcher of water. He took care to carry no weapon and left all his charms and rods and wards behind. They would do him no good in any case.
The cell itself was fourteen feet across. There was nothing in the room save a stool, a clay chamber pot, and a pile of dirty straw. The trap door to the roof had been nailed shut, and the only window had been fixed with inch-thick iron bars. Through this poured the morning sunshine, bathing the sparse chamber in a cheery orange glow.
There, huddled within a threadbare robe and sitting upon the stool in the full light of day, was Lyrelle Reldamar—the most terrifying woman in the world.
She had been roughly used in her journey to Dellor. Her thumbs were missing and one eye was still swollen shut. Her face was an array of yellowing bruises, and her hair—once the color of spun gold—was torn and matted and dirty. Each night up here, with no fire to warm her, must have been hellishly cold; Arkald could see it in how her shoulders shivered at the slightest breeze.
And yet, each morning she smiled at him. “Good morning, Arkald. How are you today?”
Arkald placed the wooden tray on the floor, staying well out of arm’s reach. He circled her, his back to the wall.
Lyrelle watched him, her keen eyes tracking him like a cat tracks a mouse. “I must apologize again for imposing upon you. I know how important your work must be to you.”
Arkald frowned and picked up the chamber pot, carrying it to the window. He said nothing, even though he wanted to yell at her. No, more than that—he wanted to rush downstairs, get a knife, and stab this woman through the heart. Then she would be dead and gone and out of his life forever. Gods, the League might even forgive him for the death of Renia Elons and then he could escape this tower and Sahand and go far, far away. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere no one would bother him again.
“Your silence betrays you, Arkald,” Lyrelle said as he dumped the contents of the pot out the window. Thanks to the bars it was, as ever, a messy job. A splash of cold urine dripped over the sill and trickled to the floor.
Arkald stepped back and inspected his robe and shoes, making sure nothing had spattered on him. “Be quiet!” he snapped, but his voice didn’t come out quite as the bark he’d wanted it to. It was more of a bleat, a pathetic honking sound.
“Why, Arkald, if I cannot speak with you, with whom can I?”
Arkald wrung his hands. “No one. You can remain silent. Say nothing!”
Lyrelle frowned. “That seems needlessly unpleasant for both of us.” When Arkald stiffened, she went on, “Clearly this is an ordeal for you as well as me. Surely a bit of civilized conversation would not be out of order.”
Arkald began to circle back toward the door. “Hurry up and eat or I will leave and you will go hungry.”
Lyrelle drew her head up. Her glamours were gone and she had not sipped cherille in some time, but even still—even with the wrinkles beginning to grow at the corners of her eyes and the white beginning to streak through her hair—there was something regal about her. She made Arkald feel as a donkey in the presence of a parade horse. “If you take my food, I would starve.”
“What is that to me?”
“I am an old woman, Arkald—two decades your senior, I should think—and my health in this frigid prison is not the best. Were I to take ill as a result of malnourishment, I could die.”
Arkald frowned. “I have healing poultices. Illbane powder.”
“None of which will function in this room.” Lyrelle raised an eyebrow. “Do you mean to suggest you would remove me from thi
s tower, even for an instant? Even to save my life?”
Arkald said nothing, but his scowl probably said enough.
“I thought not. So, as you are unwilling to starve me and as I am unwilling to eat without some manner of conversation, I suggest you remain and chat a while as I enjoy this feast you have brought me.”
“It’s a trick. You’re trying to trick me.”
Lyrelle smiled. “Oh, Arkald—of course it’s a trick. But I’ve played it, see? I have forced you to talk with me while I eat. Not so very sinister, is it?”
Arkald looked at the tray, the pitcher. “I could just leave and come back later!”
“And leave me with a clay pitcher with which to brain you as you come through the door? Now, now, Arkald—that seems risky, don’t you think?”
Dammit, the woman had a point. He shuffled his weight from foot to foot. “What would we talk about?”
“Assuming the doings of your master are not up for discussion, nor are suggestions for how to escape this efficient little trap you’ve set, I’m afraid I don’t have much to discuss. The rumor mill up here is rather . . . sparse.” She scooped up the bread with one four-fingered hand. “Why don’t you tell me about yourself?”
“No.”
Lyrelle took an awkward bite. “No? Very well, why don’t you tell me what it’s like to work for Banric Sahand.”
Arkald shook his head. “That’s a bad idea.”
Lyrelle chuckled. “Oh, Arkald—worried I might tattle on you to your prince? Please. That old brute would never believe a word I said. Come now. Unburden yourself. You and I could spend the day telling each other all the various things we hate about Banric Sahand, and nobody—least of all Sahand himself—would ever be the wiser. When else will you have an opportunity like that?”
Arkald opened his mouth and then . . . stopped. This was it—this was how it started. This was how she was going to get inside his head. “You are going to stay here until you die. If you want to spend the day without water, that’s up to you. I won’t be made into your tool.”
The Far Far Better Thing Page 8
