“Yes,” Domeric agreed, though not happily. “Yes.” He turned to Keri as Linnet slipped out. “We can do this. You can trust me to do this. I will listen to Lucas.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. He”—through gritted teeth—“he can make the decisions. Lord Osman will send some of his men to help, and I will make sure they obey Lucas, too. I think the Bear Lord will wish to go himself, though he may not be able, as he is his father’s heir. But I will not let any man of Tor Carron lead this effort.”
Keri nodded. She was almost certain he would do as he promised. So maybe this would work. Although she could think of ten thousand things that might go wrong. But she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t think ahead any further than getting this part organized.
Except she couldn’t help it. She couldn’t help feeling like they were all plunging enthusiastically forward into disaster, and that she was going to shove everyone else over a cliff and stand back herself to watch while they fell.
“I hate this,” she muttered. “I hate this.”
“Yes,” Domeric said heavily. “So do I.”
Keri found herself liking him better now than she had expected. He was all right, really. Lord Osman was just too persuasive. She patted his arm. “I know. Let’s go meet Lucas. He’ll be waiting by now. Listen, Domeric, you realize Lucas isn’t a fool. He can do more than play tricks with wineglasses, you know: he inherited more from his mother than his good looks.”
Domeric said grimly, “Players. I don’t trust players. They have too much…” He gestured wordlessly.
“Charm?” said Keri. “Yes, I know. But this time we both have to trust Lucas. At least we can be sure he has enough charm of his own to be proof against anybody else’s.”
“It’s not charm,” snapped Domeric. Then he added reluctantly, “Charisma, maybe.”
“In Lord Osman’s case, it is persuasive magic, I believe,” said the Timekeeper, who, as always, had become so still that Keri had nearly forgotten he was in the room. “I believe his family has gathered a little of the magic of Eschalion into their own line over the years.”
Keri stared at him, remembering what she had felt during that private supper. It seemed so long ago. “Yes!” she exclaimed. “Persuasive magic!” She turned to Domeric. “That makes it even more important you don’t let him take over.”
Domeric was glowering. “Persuasive magic. That explains…that dog-faced…that son of…We’ll see what he’s got when he doesn’t have that earring. I’ll drop it and him in the nearest swamp and let the snakes eat them both….”
“Not yet, though,” Keri said quickly. “No matter what kind of magic he has, or tries to use on you. Not until we get Cort back.” She found she was starting to smile. “It’s something else, after all, if Lord Osman uses that magic on other people. And I think Lucas may be immune. He’s got magic of his own, you know.”
“Lucas! Magic?” Domeric plainly did not believe it.
“He has, though,” Keri told him.
“Player magic,” murmured the Timekeeper. “From his mother. All good players have a touch of magic, though they are not true sorcerers. It comes to them not through training but as their inheritance from their mixed blood.” He regarded Keri’s puzzlement with faint surprise. “All true players are descended from the mingled blood of Eschalion and Nimmira and other lands now lost.”
Keri rubbed her face. Of course the Timekeeper would know about such details. He had probably known all about Lucas for years. He knew everything, yet never told her anything. She would have liked to say something sharp, but couldn’t think of anything that wouldn’t sound childish. She said instead, “I’m sorry to break his secret if he’s been keeping it all his life, but it’s time for him to stop hiding.”
She was almost sure none of them could hide any longer.
Lucas was indeed waiting at the player’s involution, the wrinkled slant in the air. It looked more jagged and narrow than ever, not like a real gap at all. Yet if you looked carefully, you could catch glimpses through it of that high mountain, the dark firs and sheer cliffs, the endless gray sea beyond and the cold white sky above. The citadel was visible, sharp towers carved into the stone, its shadowed windows like hollow eyes staring down at the frozen land beneath.
Lucas was leaning against the well house, his arms crossed over his chest and an expression of exaggerated patience on his handsome face. Keri did not quite recognize the pose, but it could not have been more clear that he was playing a role if he had suddenly declaimed a monologue to an invisible audience. He had an ordinary plain satchel by his feet, but the staff of gray wood that leaned against the stones beside him was obviously a prop.
Keri wasn’t remotely surprised to see him there, never mind all his talk of terrible cowardice. But she was surprised at the change in his expression when he saw Domeric: a flash of startlement was followed by genuine pleasure, as though he had wanted no one’s company on this expedition more than their half brother’s but, despite Keri’s promise, had not expected to have it. But then that reaction was gone, hidden behind a mask of casual mockery.
Straightening to pick up the staff with a sweeping, dramatic gesture—dramatic gestures were precisely what the staff was for, Keri was certain—Lucas declared, “You’re late, dear sister, which means you owe me a favor! And since you kindly brought Dom along with you, you’re in a position to grant it. I’m glad to have Domeric’s company on this little jaunt to find our errant Doorkeeper, but I do wonder if perhaps—” He slanted a wary look at Domeric.
Domeric gave a resigned jerk of his head. “She says you will be in charge. Fool that you are. Fool that I am, I have agreed.”
For an instant, Lucas stood very still, gazing at his intimidating brother. Then he let out a breath and smiled. “Indeed, we’re all fools here,” he said lightly. “Nevertheless, we can but do our poor best.”
“Here’s everyone!” Keri said hastily, before Domeric could say anything else. “Look, Lord Osman is coming after all!”
Tassel and Linnet were in the lead, and the Timekeeper strode along with them. Accompanying them, and very welcome, though Keri was still not certain just how much help he intended to offer, was Lord Osman himself, with all twenty of his men. Five of the Bear soldiers had gotten rid of their badges, and also of their rectangular shields with the Red Bear inscribed in the center. That was a good sign, though to Keri they still looked exactly like soldiers. It was in the way they moved, even in the way they stood still. Besides, not only did they still have their swords, they also had the sharp features and long hair common to Tor Carron.
And Osman Tor the Younger still looked exactly like himself, with his black eyes and garnet earring, despite having traded his red cloak for a brown one.
Keri stepped forward, conscious that she and Lord Osman were each, no less than Lucas, playing a role. But then, they all were, every one of them. Except maybe Domeric. He always seemed to be himself. He was like Cort that way, she thought, and suppressed a sharp stab of fear for them both, for everyone—for Cort, who was prisoner in Eschalion, and for all of them going through the player’s mouse hole to find him. While Keri herself stayed safely here in Nimmira.
It was absolutely ridiculous that she couldn’t go. It was so unfair of her to ask other people to go in her place. She looked warily at Lord Osman. She supposed she would have to let him know now who exactly was going, and then hope he was still willing to help. And also hope that if he agreed, he would indeed help rather than hinder Lucas and Domeric. She was so glad Domeric had agreed to his role in this. Without him, she really did not see how Lord Osman or the Bear soldiers could be persuaded to listen to Lucas.
“I can’t actually leave Nimmira,” she admitted to Lord Osman. “But it is still very important to recover my Doorkeeper. I hope you will agree to send some of your brave men to help my brothers.”
“Indeed?” The young Bear Lord gazed at her, eyebrows rising. Then his glance slid sideways toward Tassel, and he add
ed, “I don’t believe that was quite the impression that was conveyed to me.” But though he was not smiling, Keri thought he did not sound precisely annoyed. The look in his eyes when he met Tassel’s sedate gaze was amused. Or even approving. Without removing his gaze from Tassel, he said to Keri, “However, I see no need to revisit my decision to assist Nimmira. The thought of your gentle land falling before Eschalion will surely give me courage in the dark places of the Wyvern King’s citadel.”
Keri didn’t exclaim, So you will go? All she said was, “I hope it will, Lord Osman.” She even hoped she and the Bear Lord might later, after all this, find an understanding of Nimmira’s magic that could actually help Tor Carron. If he did this for Nimmira, he would deserve it.
“Indeed, I am sure of it, Lady.” The young Bear Lord was smiling again, as much a player, Keri was certain, as even Lucas. Turning, he made an extravagant gesture that took in the garden and the well house and the faint blurring in the air that was, unless you looked at it from just the right angle, all that could be seen of the player’s gap. “So—” he began.
But at that moment, the haze that delineated the edges of the player’s crack trembled, the light that slanted through it at an odd angle tilted suddenly in a different direction, and the vision of jagged, icy mountains became sharply vivid. Keri began to step toward the crack, feeling that she was moving very slowly, yet at the same time she knew that everything was happening all at once.
She was aware of Domeric turning to catch Linnet up in his arms and spin her out of the way, of Lucas whirling his staff around in both hands as though it were a perfectly reasonable weapon to use against magic. Tassel, her eyes wide, jumped forward to catch Keri’s arm, trying to pull her away as the crack widened and twisted through the air.
She was aware of the Timekeeper, his face pale and set, his colorless eyes wide, stepping back and back again. He lifted his hand, a jerky, defensive gesture, the crystal face of his gold watch flashing in the brilliant foreign light that blazed through the gap.
She was aware, more dimly, of Lord Osman leaping forward to set himself between Keri, Tassel, and the widening disaster of the crack that split the air in two.
Keri felt the gap tear itself wider, as though a knife had cut her own body; she could feel the magic of Nimmira pouring out of the player’s crack like blood from a wound. Lifting her hands, she shook free of Tassel’s grip, stepped around Lord Osman, and pushed forward into an icy wind that smelled of pine and snow and vividly of magic. And, reaching out, she caught the edges of the widening gap, which writhed like a live thing in her grip, like a serpent. It seemed to her that the gap fought her, that it tried deliberately to twist itself out of her hands, that it surged over her like a storm wind in the spring. But she had it, she held it, she pulled its edges together with an effort she felt all through her arms and her back as though she really were dragging at some great physical weight. She hauled the edges of that wound in the air together, pinched them tight, and stitched them closed from top to bottom, like stitching up the wind with a needle of air and fierce intention.
It seemed to take no time at all. It seemed to take no effort at all. But when she was done, she found herself on her hands and knees, huddled on the ground, panting, her heart racing as though she had been running for her life and was not yet sure she had run fast enough or far enough. She was terrified, and did not know why, because the gap was closed, she had closed it, everything was the way it was supposed to be….
Only then did she realize that nothing was the way it was supposed to be. Tassel, beside her, was trying to lift her to her feet, and Lord Osman steadied her from the other side, and Lucas was somewhere near at hand; Keri could hear him swearing fervently not far away. But though she blinked, and blinked again, she couldn’t make sense of anything she saw. She couldn’t tell where she was, and that was just wrong. When she tried to get up, she couldn’t find her balance. The ground beneath her was frozen hard, not muddy with spring; the air was too cold and carried the scent of pine and woodsmoke instead of turned earth; the very light came down from the wrong direction.
Birds called, sharp, harsh calls she did not recognize; she did not know the birds were there until she heard them because they were not encompassed by her heart. She had no sense of the birds or the trees or the earth, no heart-deep knowledge of the stark mountains that rose up to the north; when she looked at the ramparts of the mountains, there was nothing there. She was in the wrong land. She had stumbled through the gap, and apparently Lucas and Lord Osman and poor Tassel had been too close and had stumbled through with her. It was all wrong; it was the worst thing that could have happened, or almost the worst thing—at least the Timekeeper had been wise enough to back up rather than run forward. She saw now how stupid she’d been: she should have managed to close the gap from a distance. She turned, blindly, looking for Nimmira.
Nimmira was not there.
And then, before Keri could try to find a way to make the gap come back or think about whether she even should attempt to do that, before she could think about anything, the magic that had filled her drained away like the tide running out, and was gone.
She had never actually known she was filled with magic until it left her. Then she knew it had been there her whole life, a background hum underlying everything else, so constant she had never noticed it, any more than she noticed the breath that filled her lungs or the weight of her own body. She had thought the magic of Nimmira had entered her when she had taken up the succession and become Lady; now she knew that it had always surrounded and filled her and she had never known, until the moment it poured away and left her empty. The whole world seemed to sway. Swallowing, she looked down, clinging to the frozen earth because it was something solid that she could almost believe really existed.
Then Tassel made a low sound, fierce and protective, and Keri, suddenly realizing there might be some other danger, something she had not yet seen, blinked and shook her head and looked up.
She was aware first of the ruined town. The smithy’s walls were broken and burned; through the rubble, Keri could see that the smith’s anvil had been flung down, the very forge cracked as though in some fire too ferocious even for iron to withstand. On the other side, the building had been mostly of wood. Now only blackened bits of charcoal and unidentifiable fragments of iron and glass showed where that house had stood. She saw that the whole town was the same: burned, ruined, gone. She could see neither bodies nor survivors, and didn’t know whether that made this better or worse. A lingering smell of burning clung to the wreckage, overlying the scents of pine and snow. Whatever disaster had come down upon Yllien, it had not been that long ago.
She thought she knew what disaster it had been.
Looking first at Lucas, she flinched from his stricken expression and turned away. When Tassel gripped her shoulder, she looked up, and saw Brann.
Her brother drew her eye, though he was not moving. He stood, perhaps ten feet away, framed by the burned and ruined town as though he had posed deliberately among the charred timbers and tumbled stones. But he did not look satisfied or superior now. His arms were crossed over his chest and his chin was raised, but his attitude of cool superiority was almost entirely missing. She could not read his expression. But whatever was in his eyes frightened her. She thought he was afraid. And he was not looking at her at all.
Keri turned her head, slowly and reluctantly, to follow the direction of her brother’s attention. And so at last she found herself gazing up at Eroniel Kaskarian.
Keri got to her feet, never taking her eyes from the sorcerer’s face. Lucas stepped up beside her, standing at her left hand; Lord Osman moved up on her right. At first Keri was glad they were both here, so that she and Tassel were not facing this alone; and then she was sorry they were here and in danger. She wished she thought either of them or any of them or all of them together might possibly be a match for Magister Eroniel, but she was not that foolish. Once she was on her feet, she stood very still
.
Magister Eroniel was smiling. He was more beautiful than ever. His gray eyes seemed filled with light, as bright as molten silver; the cold northern light seemed to cling to him and trail behind the movement of his hand. At first, Keri thought he must be pulling magic out of the air and the light, as the sorcerers of Eschalion were said to do.
Then she realized that this was her own magic, the magic of Nimmira, which she had brought here to this place and delivered right into the sorcerer’s hands. She had lost her magic, she no longer served to root it to her land, so she had lost it and Magister Eroniel was taking it. She knew of no way to stop him. She had thought she was already as frightened as it was possible to be, but she learned now that there was no limit to her terror.
Eroniel Kaskarian wore white, all white: a wide-sleeved white shirt, a long silvery-white vest, a flowing white cloak trimmed with soft white fur, white slippers with silver stitching. His long silver-gilt hair was loose except for a narrow braid on the left side of his face, but the weight that swung at the end of that braid was not the black Wyvern of Eschalion, but a silver teardrop that gathered more and more light until it glowed with its own radiance. The tiny crystals in his ears glimmered with light also, but now there were more of them—five crystal-and-silver earrings along the curve of his left ear, and three in a triangle in his right—but what that meant, Keri could not guess.
She knew at once that she had made a mistake in not using the last seconds in which she still held the magic of Nimmira to…do something. Anything. She should have found either a way to escape or a way to fight Magister Eroniel. She should have tried to use her magic to find Cort, and she had not even thought of it. She had no idea how she could have done any of those things, but she knew she should at least have tried. Now it was too late. She had no magic left. Magister Eroniel had it all. No wonder the Wyvern sorcerer was smiling.
The Keeper of the Mist Page 24
