EXILED: Lord of Cragsclaw

by Bill Fawcett

  Down the hall they ran, and into the throne room. Frantically Mithmid looked around, but he saw nothing. “Not here,” he told the guards, and they shook their heads and went on.

  They stopped before the door of the king’s hallway. Mithmid stared. Through the door he sensed something crawling along the floor. Pointing, he announced, excitedly but quietly, “He went through that door. He is behind there now.”

  “You’re lying,” said the tallest guard. “The door has not been opened.”

  “It has,” Mithmid countered. “But it has been closed again.” He pointed again and said, “Open it. You have nothing to lose.”

  For a moment the tall guard stood still. Then he looked at Mithmid and the mrem realized that it was only a matter of time until these guards understood how he knew these things. Then there would be real problems. Marked as a magician, he would be of no further use to the H’satie or maybe even to the Council. Finally the guard shrugged and agreed, “This is the last chance. If we find nothing in the king’s hallway, we will search no further.” With that he reached for the handle, and with a soft pull he opened the door and went through.

  The intruder was there. Crawling down the hallway, his fur not black but rather the blue of the marble, he inched along silently, unseen to all seeing eyes. Closing his eyes, Mithmid called on his strength, and with a soft, whispered word, he felt his head wrenched with power. It was not enough, and the nearest guard stared at him suspiciously.

  Then Mithmid felt a wave of strength wash over him. Somewhere he heard a reassuring voice encourage him to try again.

  “Be seen,” he said aloud, and the crawling mrem appeared in the hall.

  “Get him,” a guard shouted.

  All three jumped, but the mrem leaped ahead. Toward the king’s bedroom he leaped, and reaching the door he beat at the handle. Drawing his knife, he thrust the blade toward the lock, but before it reached, a guard lunged at his legs. As the dark mrem collapsed, he pierced the neck of the guard holding him with his knife, and instantly two swords were lodged deep in his chest. As the wounded guard moaned, the dark mrem convulsed on the floor.

  “Who is it?” a guard asked.

  The other looked up. “Draldren,” he replied.

  “Draldren?” said the first in surprise. “Are you sure?”

  Mithmid stepped forward. “It is Draldren,” he whispered, and then he muttered, “Who will tell Rennilan?”

  The taller guard looked at him. “You know Rennilan?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Mithmid. “And I knew Draldren as well.”

  Nodding, the guard said only, “Oormet or the king will tell her. That’s not my job.” He rose and put his hand on Mithmid’s shoulder. At first he appeared ready to order the other guards to escort Mithmid to their barracks for questioning. Then there was a ripple on the wave of power and instead the guard captain said in understanding tones, “Go from here,” he said. “We must tend to our friend, and we must inform the king of Draldren’s death. You have done what you came to do.”

  “I will go,” said Mithmid, and he turned and strode away.

  He glanced back and was shocked to see a cloud appear near the body. For a moment he thought perhaps Andelemarian had been killed after all, and this was his shade. Then he realized that he had been fooled by the resemblance. It was Gerianan kneeling over Draldren’s body, not the king but his brother. Then the image stood, blurred, and disappeared. Mithmid glanced at the guards, but it was apparent they had seen nothing.

  •

  “I have to speak to you,” Mithmid said, pulling the strap of the cook’s filthy apron.

  Eronucu turned up the corner of his mouth. “Can’t it wait?” he asked. “I’m preparing breakfast for the king.” Pushing himself past the young wizard, he strode back toward the mound of eggs that awaited his attention.

  Mithmid hissed through his teeth. “No, it can’t,” he replied sharply. “After you hear what I have to say, you’ll realize the king’s lucky to be having breakfast at all.”

  The Council leader looked at him. “What do you mean?” he asked, as he cracked an egg on the side of his pan. When the shell was empty, he raised it to his mouth and licked the inside clean.

  “Draldren is dead,” the young mrem said soberly. “I saw him die last night.”

  Eronucu stopped what he was doing. “Draldren?” he muttered. “Are you sure?”

  Mithmid nodded.

  Leaning on the butcher block that took up the middle of the floor, the older mrem stared into his companion’s eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me this when it happened?”

  “It was late,” Mithmid shrugged. “And it was over. I was already in trouble with the guards. The last thing I needed was to have them find me wandering the lower levels of the palace. Besides, someone helped; I thought it was you.”

  Eronucu rubbed the back of his hand across his face. “Tell me what happened,” he said. With a sigh, Mithmid did exactly that.

  “Are you sure it was Gerianan?” the co-leader asked when the story was finished.

  “Yes,” answered the other. “Remember, I have seen him at court as well.”

  The older mrem bent his head. “The Council must meet on this,” he mused. “Tonight.” Looking up, he inquired, “Can you make it?”

  “Of course I can make it,” Mithmid replied impatiently. “But what’s the point? Why don’t we just warn the king? Now?” His voice betrayed his irritation with Eronucu’s reluctance to act. How much more, he thought, does the old mrem need?

  “Calm down,” warned the other. “It’s not as easy as that.”

  Mithmid snorted. “Why not? What’s so difficult?”

  “Magic,” Eronucu answered.

  The young mrem shook his head. “I don’t understand,” he announced.

  “Then stop making demands for a minute and think.” Now it was Eronucu’s turn to show irritation. “The only way you could know about the link between Draldren and Gerianan, and for that matter Draldren’s attempt on the king, is through magic. You have no other explanation.” He paused while Mithmid caught what he was saying. “The king has no reason to believe you, even though he himself is suspicious of his brother. And the king is no fool. If you let out to him that you are a wizard, before long he will figure out you are a member of the Council. Even if he believes the myths, you will be labeled as being one of the Three.” Again he paused. “We can’t afford that, Mithmid. Especially not now.”

  Sighing deeply, Mithmid nodded his head. Of course Eronucu was correct. Ar was not afraid of magic, but neither was it trusting. Those who used magic openly were shunned by all, even by those who once had been their friends. Certainly the dislike had nothing to do with superstition. Rather, it stemmed from a desire to rid the city of the thrall of wizardry it had known in the past. Once in Ar’s history, the identities of the Three had not been secret. Then those wizards had ruled the city, treating its kings with open disrespect. No king could forget that.

  “What will we do?” he asked at last.

  “You will watch over the king,” said the older mrem. “After your story reaches him, he will ask you to do so.”

  “I shall watch the king,” he agreed. “But who will perform the other duties the council has assigned me?”

  The other smiled briefly. “None of us has the time,” he said. “But you will find a way.”

  Mithmid said nothing. If the king asked him, he would have no choice but to comply. And he knew the call would come.

  “I must find Jremm,” Mithmid said at last.

  “He is here,” countered the other.

  Mithmid whirled. “Here?” he exclaimed. “Where?”

  Opening a small door, Eronucu pointed inside. “In here,” he answered. “In my stores-room.” When Mithmid looked in, he saw a narrow bed covered with a thick blanket. Under the blanket lay a sleeping figure
.

  “I put him to sleep,” Eronucu explained, “to still his tears.” The co-leader furrowed his brow. “He came to me an hour before you did, Mithmid, and told me of Draldren’s death.”

  “How did he know?” Mithmid asked.

  “The guards told him,” came the reply. “He arrived at the palace shortly after you’d left. The guards were carrying Draldren’s body. They told him you had been there, that you had helped them stop Draldren from killing the king.”

  He walked over and put his hand on the sleeping mrem’s forehead. “He is weak, Mithmid,” he said softly. “He hasn’t slept for days. He came to tell us that Draldren wasn’t at fault.”

  “Not at fault?” Mithmid asked. “But I saw....”

  Eronucu cut in. “What you saw you might have done well to disbelieve. You saw Draldren all right, but you took no notice of how he acted. According to Jremm, he was under another’s spell. According to Jremm....” Suddenly he stopped.

  Mithmid waited a full minute. The look on Eronucu’s face alarmed him, serious and frightened all at the same time. For a time he was afraid to speak, but finally he opened his mouth. “According to Jremm, what?” he asked, his voice barely whispering.

  “You may as well know,” Eronucu sighed. “According to Jremm, Draldren was the puppet of a magician who spoke of the Lords.” He paused a long while. “If that is true, Mithmid,” he whispered harshly, “then the Eastern Lords are the enemy we seek. We suspected that, but now it seems we know.” He wiped his brow, and covered Jremm fully. “I wish,” he muttered, closing his eyes, “I wish in these times the leadership of the Council was not mine.”

  With a last look at Jremm, he led the younger mrem from the room. His face was still troubled and his tail swished across the floor tiles.

  WHEN SHE SAW the walls of the city of her birth, Sruss the White Dancer, princess of Ar, felt the strangeness of tears come into her eyes. It had been long since she’d cried. But here, in sight of the only place she could call her own, the months of frustration and loneliness finally overcame her. Her eyes shining in the moonlight, and a half-smile on her face, she shook her head slowly and let the tears come.

  At her side, watching them drop, stood Morian of the village.

  It had been hard, convincing her to come. For two full days Sruss had talked to her, trying in desperation to draw her from the horror that defined each day of her life. Rarely did Morian speak, and when she did her voice was cold, harsh, and biting. Three times she shed her clothes in front of Sruss, stroking herself and calling the name “Cwinyd” at the top of her voice. To Sruss this seemed a test of her own sincerity, a test of the Dancer’s vow of friendship in spite of all.

  But Morian’s actions neither disgusted nor repelled her. She found them sad, and in many ways horrifying, but never once did they change her mind about Morian herself.

  Still, Sruss had given up. Two days of talking had produced nothing worthwhile, and the Dancer knew she had to reach Ar as quickly as she could. While Morian slept, Sruss, without hope, left the villager’s hut and began to walk away.

  Then she heard the moans. Frightened, she turned back and looked inside the hut. There, in a pale, blue glow, she saw the ravaged woman beating her body with her fists and writhing in her nakedness. Sruss had forced herself to sway rhythmically until she had entered the only trance the real Dancer had been able to teach her. And then she had seen a faint, ghostly figure leering down upon the villager. She then knew for sure that Cwinyd was real.

  Throwing back the bunda skin that covered the doorway, she darted into the room and took hold of Morian. Time after time the village woman cursed her, but she held her shoulders tightly and stared deep into her eyes. When she opened her mouth to scream, Sruss folded back her ears and waited for the sound.

  It never came. Just like that, it was over. Morian slumped into the Dancer’s arms, sobbing without tears, and for a long time Sruss simply stroked her back and held her to her neck.

  At last Morian spoke, and her voice was small. “Cwinyd is gone,” she said. “What will I do?”

  Sruss drew a deep breath. “You will come with me to Ar,” she said calmly. “We have great healers there, and they will cure you.”

  Morian’s head turned slowly. “I don’t want to be healed,” she protested weakly. “I want Cwinyd. But now he is gone. He will never come back.”

  Shuddering, Sruss answered, “He will, Morian. He will visit you every night, no matter where you are.” In her heart, she hoped this wasn’t true. But she knew nothing of the power of a magician’s spell.

  “Even if I leave with you?” Morian’s eyes were scarcely open.

  Sruss nodded. “Yes,” she muttered. “Even if you are with me. Even in Ar, if what I have seen is the truth.” She paused, then said aloud, “I did not break Cwinyd’s spell, Morian. I think I only blocked you from it, but only for a short while. Come with me now. We will leave immediately.”

  For how long, she did not know. Both of them were exhausted, and the wind was strong tonight. All she could hope was that she could give them both the strength to walk until the dawn. After that, they could sleep, and perhaps in the day Cwinyd would not appear.

  For twelve long, terrible nights, they crossed the grasslands that led them to Ar. Every night Cwinyd made himself known, and every night Sruss fought to keep Morian awake. So strong was Cwinyd’s spell, and so powerful Morian’s need to fulfill it, that Sruss in the end took to striking the woman unconscious and carrying her along. When the daybreak came she would fall at her feet, praising the sun as it rose above the horizon. But her dreams were filled with visions of Cwinyd, and all through the day she would awaken in fear.

  Now, they were home. The city of Ar stood before her. Once inside, she could sleep, and Morian would be healed of her spell. As she looked from the hill, she knew they would reach the city before dawn, and she could call to the guards at the gate to take her to her father....

  And then she dropped to her knees and wept. Weary and homesick, she had all this time pushed from her mind the most important point of all. For her, the road to Ar was treacherous. For her, home was not home. In her eagerness to be home, her longing for things as they were, she had forgotten the bitter truth.

  Sruss, daughter of Ar, was dead.

  Her father had sent her away.

  “Help me, Morian,” she cried.

  And the woman from the village, after a long, cold silence, put a hand on each of Sruss’s shoulders and drew the Dancer to her. On the back of her neck Sruss felt a tear fall, soft and warm and gentle, and she held onto Morian as hard as she could. They wept together, in the light of the moon near the gates of Ar, and for the first time Sruss began to feel Morian’s pain. Then Morian fell, and when Sruss touched her face she knew she had fallen asleep.

  In that moment, again far into the mountains, Cwinyd, the magician, moaned in his sleep.

  •

  They entered the city at dusk of the following day. All that day Sruss had spent disguising herself; with Morian’s help she had fashioned a hood to conceal part of her face, and Morian had used her knowledge of the earth to make a soft brown dye with which the Dancer colored her fur. Sruss thought it would be painful, watching her natural white disappear, but so strong was her desire to go into Ar that she put all objections aside.

  Their first task was to find shelter. To that end they left word at the palace that Berrilund, should he appear, would find “two mrem with trade interests” staying at Arbunda’s Rest. Even in its decline, Sruss knew, the Rest was a natural meeting place, so by itself it would raise little suspicion. Still, because of the inn’s reputation, Berrilund would be sure to get the message.

  •

  Arbunda’s Rest seemed the ideal place to wait out the long evening. Neither had ever been there, but Sruss had heard it mentioned as a place where no questions were asked. As the daughter of the king, Sruss
had rarely left the palace grounds, and as she walked through the streets of Ar she realized suddenly that she knew almost nothing about the city her son would one day rule. In the streets she saw dirt she would never have imagined, even though she had always been assured that Ar was the cleanest city in the world. She saw two staggering mrem drunk on wine, and she saw her father’s police chase and bring down a youth who ran from their knives. Thankfully, no one bothered her, but she wondered if every dusk saw the same gruesome scenes.

  What bothered her most consistently, though, were the houses. Far from the palatial glory of her own home, even the high-houses appalled her in their unvarying dreariness. She knew nothing of the art of making brick, but as she looked at these houses she saw how fragile they seemed. In the moonlight, and the occasional torchlight, their unending grayness called out to her, as she suddenly realized that the abodes of Ar were little better than the huts of the villages she had seen as a Dancer. Some of the nobles lived well, but most mrem of Ar saw hell in their everyday lives.

  Hell, at least, to the daughter of the king.

  And when she entered the inn known as Arbunda’s Rest, at once she understood the stories she had heard of that place.

  It was smoky, and it was dingy, and it smelled. All eyes turned on her and Morian when they sat at their table, partly because they were among only seven females in the Rest that night, but mostly because they were strangers. Sruss kept her face hidden as well as she could, but in reality she needn’t have bothered. Most mrem there were not from Ar, and those that were were probably drunk. With her face dyed, and in the company of a woman nobody here had ever seen, her identity was as safe as it would be anywhere.

  Although she felt unsafe, nobody approached their table. As was their plan, she and Morian talked quietly and about nothing important, trying to look and sound like merchants from another place. Female merchants were rare, but accepted. In her travels with the Dancer, Sruss had met enough merchants to know that she liked none of them, and the females especially had caught her disgust. They were brash, and she didn’t like brashness.