by Bill Fawcett
The spoils were great, and the highlanders made a cache in the mountains. Two of the wagons Talwe decided to take with him, and two of the uxen they roasted for food. What uxen remained would travel with the warriors.
His last act was to release the merchants and their helpers. He fed them generously with their own uxen, then gave them food and water and knives.
“Go where you will,” he ordered their leader. “You have been beaten,” he said, “by Talwe the Hunter and the mrem of the highlands. Tell them, so that we may be known.”
JREMM RACED through the streets of Ar, his heart throbbing and his lungs gasping for air. He had come from the north, where he had been keeping his unrequested vigil over Rennilan. What he had learned today the Council needed to know. Rennilan had not come to Arbunda’s Rest that night, but a sand-colored male mrem had. Hidden outside the lowhouse, Jremm had listened carefully to the cold, harsh conversation within.
They had talked of Rennilan, but mostly they spoke of the king. The two also mentioned other names—Draldren and Gerianan, and even old Oormet. Their scorn for the old doorkeeper was strong, and as they talked Jremm feared for his life.
Of Gerianan they said little, but of Draldren they revealed something important. “He will do as I command,” the sandfur said repeatedly. “He is nothing anymore, neither to himself nor to his daughter.” Over the protests of the “thief” (as Jremm liked to call the other mrem), the sandfur protested, “Draldren is not to be feared.” When asked why, he answered only, “Because he is mine.”
Suddenly Jremm felt a stabbing pain in his head. Falling to his knees, he pawed at his eyes and shook himself. It was all he could do to keep his claws sheathed.
The pain worsened.
In an act of will Jremm forced himself to lean back and stay calm. He felt as if a knife had been driven into each eye and was being twisted. Yet he could see no one else in the alley. Then came a red haze that blocked his vision, and he whimpered deep within his throat. Desperately the brickmaker thought of other things—of the colors of the Mraal at sunset and even of the baking of bricks. Finally the pain went away.
He could not say how long it had lasted. He had the urge to flee, but resisted. Instead he rose from behind bales of fodder and searched for some cause for his former misery. He saw nothing, but then light flooded into the alley and he saw the sandfur looking through the doorway. Silently he crouched down once more, barely breathing.
“There is magic here,” the sandfur said to someone behind him. “I can feel it.”
Magic? thought Jremm. Then the sandfur must know magic himself. Mithmid had taught him that. Only a magician can feel the presence of magic. No magician himself, Jremm wondered often if Mithmid’s magic was true or feigned. He had never actually seen him do anything magical.
“I have no magic,” the thief said calmly, coming to the door behind the other mrem.
“That much I know,” the sandfur replied. “You do not meet the requirements. But a moment ago I felt magic in this house, and I sent a binding to see if I could hold and destroy it.”
“Did it work?” the other asked.
After a pause, the sandfur said, “It is gone now. Whoever it was has been frightened off.” Then they closed the door and resumed a hushed conversation, as Jremm crouched low with his mind working furiously.
A binding? Was that the pain he had felt? But the sandfur said the binding was against magic. Was Mithmid near? Or Berrilund? It could not possibly have been meant for himself.
He forgot the point completely, though, when he heard the sandfur’s next words.
“Draldren is gone now,” he told the thief, “to do as I have commanded. You have set this up well, my friend.”
A soft laugh followed. “Your plans, Cwinyd, are always complete,” the thief answered. “Once a mrem has debased his own daughter for our pleasure, loyalty toward his king seems a small thing.” After a short silence, he added, “I would never have thought of using the daughter.”
“It worked well?”
“Perfectly. Each time I used her, or had others use her, Draldren’s will dropped further. He had no choice, really, but to give her to us. For months we had met in the Rest, and each time I was able to get more and more from him. But then he dried up, as you had expected. Finally he said he wanted out. I told him he was already guilty of treason, but he said Andelemarian would forgive him. That’s when I called out my mind to you.”
The sandfur muttered, “I almost missed that,” he said. “I have been far from Ar these last months, and I did not appreciate the calling.”
“You didn’t say so at the time,” came the reply.
“I had no time. You were losing Draldren.”
“There were other links to the court,” the thief suggested. “Why did you use none of those?”
“They weren’t as good,” answered the other. “Draldren has long been privileged, partly because of Rennilan. Gerianan has wanted to marry her ever since she came of age.”
“That,” said the thief, “I didn’t know.”
A soft laugh. “Then you were blind,” said the sandfur. “Gerianan’s interest is what prompted me to use her. But it was far from easy. I could allow Draldren no reason to suspect that his mind had been tampered with. I had to enchant her as well, and because of their closeness that spell came close to failing. She had to be willing to betray him, even if she herself did not understand why. When she came to you at the Rest, she was sincere in wanting you, sincere in telling you her father’s secrets. Later she hated herself for it, but that only proved the spell’s power. What we gained, of course, was Draldren’s cooperation, his mind really.”
“He came back so willingly,” the other said. “Was that, too, a spell?”
“No,” the sandfur answered immediately. “There was no need. When he learned of Rennilan’s betrayal, his will was weakened. All he needed was a suggestion. That, also, was natural. When the court learned of Rennilan’s dalliances, Draldren was ostracized, beneath the surface at least. A few well-placed observations, mostly by you, convinced him that the court was no longer where he belonged. The rest was easy.”
“Is it done yet?” the thief asked.
“Is what done yet?”
“Draldren’s deed.”
The sandfur drew a breath. “Not yet,” he said. “Not until the hour before dawn. The inner palace guard changes then, and Draldren will have little difficulty entering. At dawn, my binding will pass. He has less than an hour to act.”
“That seems a very large risk,” the thief suggested.
“A risk we must take,” the sandfur replied. “Under the binding, he is not fully himself, and he could easily give himself away. When the guard changes, he can take advantage of the darkness and the slight confusion. If he tries to enter earlier, he will be caught.”
“What if he fails?” The thief’s voice was calm but cold.
“Then he will die. As he must in any event, even if he succeeds.” A pause, then, “And if he does succeed, then we have served well.”
“Yes,” said the other. “The Lords will be pleased. With the death of its king, the death of the city begins.”
His head still reeling, Jremm ran hard. The Council had to know. Andelemarian had to be saved. Nothing else mattered, not Rennilan, not Draldren, nothing he had ever known. All he knew was that the king of Ar must not die.
•
Stirring from his sleep, Mithmid groggily opened his eyes. As always he had kicked his blankets onto the floor, but unlike most nights he was intensely cold. Even in the deep of winter, on the rare nights when snow fell in Ar, he seldom felt cold. His fur was not long but it was thick, and during the night it kept his body heat in.
But tonight his fur seemed completely gone. His back was cold, and so was his neck. With that cold neck came the inevitable headache, but even that hadn’t awakened him
tonight. What awoke him instead was the unbearable noise that sounded in his brain. Not knowing what it was, and almost afraid to find out, Mithmid sat up and looked from side to side.
In the darkness he saw nothing. No light came through the doorway, and for a long time his eyes refused to focus. Suddenly he was frightened, afraid he was blind. Again and again he shook his head, yet the noise did not stop and his sight did not come back. Moaning and clenching his teeth, he pushed himself to his feet.
He fell. Unable to see, the noise in his head overwhelming, he could not keep his balance. Onto his knees he dropped hard, then he turned onto his back and rolled around the floor. When the roaring finally stopped, he reached out his hand and touched the open doorway.
Then he heard a voice. Weak and gasping, it whispered to him almost too quietly to be heard. Concentrating past the ache in his head, Mithmid listened as closely as he could, and what he heard was a soft, desperate cry for help.
“The king,” it said. “Go to the king.” For a moment there was silence, and then the voice said, “Save his life.”
“Who...?” Mithmid cried aloud, but the voice in his head had stopped.
It was a woman, he thought. He recognized the voice. Most likely someone from the Council, but the voice was so faint he couldn’t even tell her age. It might have been Sorilia, but it could just as easily have been Lorleen or Gaelor.
Right now, though, that hardly mattered. If the voice was right, Andelemarian’s life was in danger. What he couldn’t be sure of, however, was whether or not the voice should be trusted.
Still unable to see, he crawled toward his bed. Beside it on the floor he found his clothes, and putting them on he rose to his feet. Then, feeling his way through the darkness, he made his way quickly out onto the street.
Trustworthy or not, the voice had to be listened to. The consequences were too great if he ignored it and had guessed wrong.
With the cool of the fresh night air, Mithmid’s head began to clear. The moonlight gave what he needed to find his way to the palace, even if the edges were still far from clear. He stumbled through the streets, seeing no one pass near him, and as his eyes began to focus better he deepened his breathing and ran.
In a quarter of an hour he arrived at the palace gates. Recognizing him, the guard let him through, and the apprentice wizard raced across the inner courtyard. The door to the throne room was locked, and two guards stood outside it.
“I must see the king,” Mithmid sputtered, his lungs drinking in whatever air they could get.
“The king sleeps,” the taller guard replied.
Mithmid nodded. “Of course,” he said, his voice still out of control. “It’s late in the night. But I must reach him, and it has to be now!” Surely they would let him through, he thought. Surely they recognized him; he had been here five or six times now.
But these were different guards, of course. Had this been day the guards would have known him, and even old Oormet might have been there to greet him. But in the middle of the night, nobody had audience with the king, and nobody would be allowed to pass the doors. They rightfully thought him a madman or assassin. Clenching his fists, he bared his teeth in disgust at his own stupidity.
“The guard at the gate recognized me,” he said. “He let me through. You would do no harm to let me in to see the king.” When they did not move he added, “The king knows who I am. I have done work for him.”
“Everyone in Ar works for the king,” came the smaller guard’s answer. “To them, too, we would refuse entry.”
He was entirely correct, of course. There was simply no reason for them to allow Mithmid inside. The H’satie wizard cursed himself anew. If he hadn’t been so quick to run, he might have thought of a better plan. As it was, the wisest thing to do was to leave. The best he could hope for was not to be arrested.
Suddenly he heard voices. From behind him four guards approached, their swords drawn out and their faces grim in the moonlight. Mithmid looked at them and hung his head. He was sure they had come for him, and he realized that running was pointless.
“Welcome,” said the tall guard at the door.
“We have come on time,” said the first of the newcomers.
“Good,” said the first. “This has been a long night.”
Soft laughter followed. “Has anything happened?” a newcomer asked. “Anything at all?”
“No,” snorted the shorter guard at the door. “Not until this fellow showed up a few minutes ago.”
The guards turned to look at Mithmid. “What does he want?” the first newcomer asked, his eyes trained on Mithmid but his question meant for the other guard.
“He wants to see the king.”
Louder laughter. “See the king? At this hour? I didn’t know the king liked boys.” Then all broke into laughter, as Mithmid blushed from beneath his fur.
“It’s important that I see him,” Mithmid protested. “I must get through to see him.”
One of the newcomers put a hand on Mithmid’s shoulder. “You may see him,” he said, “when he is awake and giving audiences. It is now an hour before dawn. He awakes an hour after dawn. I will give him your request, and he will see you if he wishes.”
Mithmid shook his head. “You don’t understand,” he muttered. “You don’t know the danger.”
This time two guards grabbed him. “What danger?” they said together. Then the taller looked into his eyes and said, “Is this a threat, my young friend?”
Idiot, thought Mithmid. What better way to get himself arrested than by speaking of danger in the presence of the king’s personal guards? He had no proof, he had no reason to say what he said. All he had was the muffled cry of someone whose voice he thought he knew.
This was pointless. If the king was in danger, nothing he could do would keep him from it. There was no way to get past the guards, and even if he did the king wouldn’t listen. He was one unimportant mrem, a very minor member of the H’satie, and that was all. He couldn’t even go to his H’satie superiors, for they met him only at their option. The little that he mattered came because of his contact with the Council. But even the king knew nothing about the Council.
“What danger?” the guard demanded once more.
Mithmid shook his head slowly. “Nothing,” he said. “It must have been a dream.”
The guards looked at each other. “Dreams do not always lie,” said one. “Tell us, boy. What danger sends you running for the king?”
Mithmid drew a deep breath. “I heard a voice,” he said. “It seemed real enough, but it must have been a dream.” He paused. “It said something about the king, and about his life being in danger.” When he looked up, all the guards were staring at him. “That’s all. That’s why I came.”
“Do you always listen to your dreams?” asked one, smirking.
Mithmid shook his head.
“Then why do so now?”
“Enough,” said another. “This mrem is troubled. Dreams will do that. But consider the king warned,” he told the young mrem. “If there is danger, we will take care of it.” Pointing to the gates, he said, “Now, go. If you stay, we will have to arrest you and hold you for questioning. I don’t want to do that, because I sense nothing sinister about you.”
Again Mithmid nodded. “Thank you,” he said. “I will go.” Turning on his heel, he started back toward the gates.
Suddenly his head jerked to the left. Along the wall, a tall mrem slunk, his feet moving silently and his fur darkened so it would not be seen. In fact, with his eyes Mithmid could not see him at all. But in his mind he knew he was there, and he almost shouted out for the dark-painted mrem to stop.
He couldn’t, of course. If he did, the guards would arrest him. For some reason, the mrem was invisible, so again his warnings would have no proof. The easiest thing for him to do now, the only way to make the guards believe, was to
stand against the wall beside the gate and watch the scene unfold. If something happened, maybe he could scare the dark mrem off with a shout.
In a minute the mrem stood before the doors of the throne room. Less than two strides away, the guards sat discussing their business. Just then one of them broke away, and when Mithmid saw him walking toward the door he was sure he had seen the dark mrem. But all he did was knock.
Slowly the door opened. “Who comes?” a voice asked, and the guard who knocked replied, “The doorkeeper of the dawn.”
“Show the Sign,” said the other. The guard held his hands in front of him, but Mithmid could not see. “Enter,” said the mrem behind the door, and the door swung open wide.
In that second, the dark mrem leaped inside.
“No!” shouted Mithmid, running unthinkingly back toward the guards. “Get him!” he yelled, as he felt four large arms surround him. “He’s inside,” his voice raced. “He went in when the door opened.”
“Who did?” said the new doorkeeper.
“You didn’t see him,” said Mithmid. “His fur was dark. But he slipped inside the palace. I saw him.”
“How could you see him?” said another. “If nobody else did.”
“Damn it!” Mithmid swore. “It doesn’t matter. Someone is loose in the inner palace. That’s all I know.”
The guards looked at each other. “Bring him,” said one. “Three of us will search. If the boy is wrong, we will throw him into a cage and let the king take care of him.”
