by J. V. Jones
“Yes, m’lady,” she said. After slipping the platter onto a nearby chest, Gerta pulled the tent flap to one side and stepped through to her private chamber, an offended sniff following her from the room. Hearing the sniff, Angeline very nearly gave in and called her back. She hated giving orders. Somehow she never got them right.
“Here, Snowy,” she called, standing up and crossing over to the platter. “Supper for you and me.”
The drumsticks were thin and greasy, but Angeline tore at them all the same. Her own hunger surprised her these days. She was sure the court ladies at Veizach would never stoop to gnaw at bones. Snowy dutifully ate the chicken skin, though he knew quite well there was meat. When Angeline had finished with the bones, she teased Snowy with them, making him jump high, roll over, and fetch. Snowy only went along with these games for only so long before pouting in his doggy way and skulking to a corner. Angeline wasn’t fooled. It was just another of his no-good ploys.
After a while of playing, bone munching, belly tickling, and resting, a noise sounded from the adjoining chamber. Angeline held her breath, listening for the noise to come again. Which it did. Good. It was Gerta snoring. The old maid was fast asleep.
“You stay here, Snowy,” Angeline whispered, grabbing her cloak from its place near the entrance. “I’ll be back before you know it. I’m just going to see Ederius.”
Snowy was lying, belly up, on his cushion, too well stuffed with chicken bones for any meaningful sort of protest. Angeline patted his no-good head and slipped out into the night.
The camp smelled of woodsmoke and horses. A mild wind forced Angeline to keep a hand on her hood as she walked, and the ground was muddy enough to make her watch her step. The two guards posted outside the tent stood to attention as she passed. Emboldened by the fact that she didn’t recognize either man, Angeline acknowledged them with a little wave. It was always easier to act queenly around those she didn’t know.
The coldness of the night had little effect on her. Halmac born and bred, she could endure a lot worse than a mild chill and an easterly breeze. Father always said that in all of Garizon there was no winter to match Halmac’s when it came to matters of frost and sleet. Once, when Angeline was very young, she had gone running to Father in tears because they’d been snowed in for weeks and she was tired of being cold and bored. “We should be thankful for the snow, Angeline,” he had said. “Every day it stays here it teaches us how to be strong. It’s what puts the steel in Halmac bones.”
Angeline frowned as she made her way through the camp. Her bones didn’t feel much like steel now.
The lights in the command tent were blazing. A dozen separate shadows flickered across the canvas, and although Angeline could not pick out Izgard’s form among them, she was sure he was there.
Slipping into the darkness, she avoided the command tent guards, veering off to the quiet side of the camp, where surgeons, clerics, and aides pitched their tents. Ederius’ tent was among them. Angeline spotted it straight away, as it was the only one brightly lit. Izgard had him working hard these days. Sometimes Ederius even jotted patterns in his girdle book as he rode.
“Ederius! It’s me—Angeline.” As soon as the words were hissed, Angeline stepped into Ederius’ tent. She didn’t want to risk anyone catching her loitering outside.
Ederius’ head came up from a book as she entered. “M’lady?” The scribe sounded more startled than angry. His gray hair looked as if it had been slept on, then not brushed. His tent didn’t smell nice, and books, scrolls, and paint pots were scattered on the floor.
Angeline pushed back her hood. “I’ve come to see how you are,” she said, conjuring up an image of Gerta scolding scullery maids in an attempt to sound commanding.
“You must go, m’lady.” Ederius’ eyes flicked to the tent flap. “At once. It would not be fitting for you to—”
“Ssh,” Angeline said, cutting him short. “I’ve come to see how you are, and I’m not going until you tell me.” Rather pleased with the way her words came out, she walked into the center of the tent and sat on the tallest of Ederius’ chests. Made from satinwood and thick with varnish, the chest was polished so smoothly that Angeline felt her bottom sliding as she settled herself on the lid.
“So, how are you, Ederius? You look terribly pale.”
“I am well, m’lady. Very well.”
Angeline doubted that. “Izgard works you hard, doesn’t he?”
Ederius, as if becoming resigned to the fact that Angeline wasn’t about to leave until she got some answers, pushed the book he had been reading to one side. “I am the king’s servant to command, m’lady.”
“And he commands you to read books after midnight?”
Ederius began to nod, paused, then shook his head instead. “It is by choice I work this late, m’lady. There are things I must study.”
“Like your patterns?”
“Yes, like my patterns.”
Angeline frowned. Ederius really did look ill. He sounded ill, too. Like Father had the year before he died. Reaching forward, she brushed her hand against Ederius’ cheek. The scribe flinched.
Realizing what he had done, he shook his head softly. “Forgive me, m’lady. My nerves are not what they were.”
Angeline had seen dogs flinch like that. Dogs beaten by Father’s houndsmaster for being cowardly or bad. Before she had time to think, words spilled out of her mouth. “Does Izgard hurt you, too?”
Ederius looked at her a very long time before answering. His old face looked worried and sad. “My lady,” he said gently, his hand hovering above his lap, as if he wanted to touch her but didn’t dare, “you must promise me never to make the king angry. Try to say nothing that will upset or agitate him, and if he ever does become angry, you must always run to Gerta straight away.”
“But—”
“Promise me.”
Angeline had never seen Ederius so firm. He sounded just like Father, the time he forbade her to ride past the boundaries of Halmac land. “There are brigands on the free roads,” he had said, “I will not have my best girl riding on highways that are unsafe.”
For some reason Angeline found it hard to meet Ederius’ gaze. Her eyes ached. Head bowed toward the floor, she said, “I promise.”
Even as she spoke it, she knew it would be impossible to keep. There was no telling what would make Izgard angry these days. The slightest word or look might provoke him. Yet even knowing that, Angeline was glad Ederius had made her promise. Father would have done just the same.
Ederius stood. “Good. Now you must leave, m’lady. I sent a messenger to the king but a few minutes back, asking him to join me in my tent. He could be here any moment.”
“But—”
“No, Angeline. Remember your promise: you must do nothing to anger the king.”
Angeline closed her mouth. She felt as if she’d been tricked, yet when she looked into Ederius’ eyes she knew she was wrong. “Very well, I’ll go,” she said, slipping from the chest to her feet. For a moment she considered asking Ederius to make the same promise as she had made to him, yet she didn’t quite have the nerve for it.
Instead she said, “Izgard won’t be angry with you tonight, will he?”
“No,” Ederius said. “I have just found something that should please him greatly.”
“What?”
“A pattern that lets me find people in the dark.”
Angeline shivered; she didn’t like the way Ederius said the word dark. Pulling the hood over her face, she slipped out into the night.
As she made her way across the camp Angeline passed within three paces of Izgard, yet by some miracle he failed to stop her. His gaze was turned inward, toward himself.
Izgard looked over his shoulder, watching the silhouette as it receded into the darkness of the camp. Any other time he might have turned, tracked the figure down, and demanded to know what they were doing walking through this section after dark. Small things were beginning to matter less and less, thou
gh. He had just spent the past four hours in conference with his warlords, and anything not directly concerned with war and its making had a hard time finding purchase in his mind.
Pulling back the canvas flap, Izgard stepped into Ederius’ tent. The scribe stood motionless in a halo of golden light. He was holding a quill pen, and the veins of the feather shook along with his hand. For a brief moment Izgard found himself surprised at how frail Ederius looked. Had he always been that pale? How long had those dark circles ringed his eyes? Shaking aside his unease, Izgard said, “What news do you have for me, scribe?”
Ederius moved behind his desk before he spoke. “Sire, I have been looking through Gamberon’s old books and have come across a sequence of patterns that allow me to track certain people down over great distances.”
“What kind of people?”
“Those who venture into the darkness beyond the ink.”
“Scribes, you mean?”
Ederius shook his head. He dragged one of the large pigment boxes from the corner of his desk, bringing it to rest directly in front of him. Izgard got the impression the scribe was arranging his defenses.
“Not all scribes, sire,” Ederius said. “Only those who deal in the old patterns and draw forth power through the vellum.”
“The girl?”
Ederius nodded. “I believe I can find her. Once someone has passed through to the other side, to the folds that lie beneath the ink, traces of power cling to them like pollen to an insect’s wing. I think I can paint a pattern that will illuminate the way.”
Excited, Izgard stepped forward. Ederius moved back. “You have done well, my friend,” Izgard said. “Of all those who surround me, you are the only one I love and trust.”
A small, sad smile stretched Ederius’ lips. “I know, sire.”
Hearing the catch in Ederius’ voice, seeing the way his entire body strained backward away from him, Izgard paused in midstep. How long had Ederius been afraid of him?
“Tomorrow I will discover where the girl is,” Ederius said, breaking through Izgard’s thoughts.
“And send the harras after her?”
“If she is still in or around Bay’Zell.”
“What if she is somewhere else, out of range of the harras?”
Ederius pulled upon a piece of cloth and uncovered the Barbed Coil. “Then I will use someone close to hand instead.”
Izgard’s eyes were drawn toward the Coil, all his earlier concerns about Ederius forgotten. “You can change others in the same way you change the harras?”
“I believe so.” Ederius’ voice was low. “The Coil harbors far worse demons than those loosed upon harras.”
“What else?”
“Gathelocs.”
Izgard shuddered at the word, and as he listened to Ederius’ description of the creatures he shuddered more. By the time the meeting was over and Izgard spoke the words “Kill her quickly but discreetly,” the chill he felt had passed down to his lungs, where it turned the air he exhaled into mist.
Tessa walked. She walked until her feet were sore, her leg muscles were stiff, and the darkness took on the grainy look of predawn. She didn’t know where she was headed, didn’t even know why she was walking at all. Sometimes people called to her—men, usually—yet for the most part the night folk of Kilgrim left her well alone. She supposed she looked like one of them. Her cloak was long gone, her dress was ripped, and she had a gash on her left shoulder from being pushed against a nail-encrusted door frame by someone rushing to escape from the inn.
Kilgrim was a dark, dripping maze. Water gurgled beneath drains set deep amid the cobbled road. Moisture glistened on walls and seeped from crumbling mortar; overflow ran along storm channels and bubbled from lead pipes. Archways rained water on Tessa’s back as she passed under them, and every dip in the path formed a wet and glistening pool.
It drizzled for an hour or so in the middle of the night. Tessa was glad of it at first, as it cleared her head a bit and emptied the streets of the few people who were still about. Then the rain began to soak through her dress and make her shiver. Just when she decided she really should find some shelter, the rain stopped, robbing her of all resolve. She hadn’t gotten around to making another decision since.
Somehow, when the air cleared from the rain she found herself outside the inn Violante of Arazzo had led them to. The building was quiet now, shut up for the night. Tessa approached the door, but as she raised her hand to knock, she smelled violets. Hours later, and the air still smelled of Violante of Arazzo’s perfume. Suddenly unsure of herself, Tessa turned and ran away.
She tried not to walk in circles after that, and somehow her mind had picked up on this idea and turned it into a game. She was never to walk down the same street twice or backtrack and retrace her steps. There were times when she became so caught up in the game that she walked streets out of her way just to end up on the far side of a promising wall or forced herself to march past dodgy-looking men to prevent breaking her own rule about doubling back.
As the night wore on the game grew more elaborate, involving counting steps, dodging archways, and never falling under the same shadow twice.
Tessa knew it was madness, but it didn’t stop her from playing. At least while she played, she could push all decisions to the back of her mind, and she didn’t have to think about Ravis.
Ravis. No—Tessa turned down an alleyway at random, daring it to be a dead end—she wouldn’t think about him.
Tessa’s throat felt sore for a moment, and she had to swallow once or twice to make it better, but by the time the alleyway’s shadows engulfed her she was caught once more in the game.
The gash on her shoulder stung from step to step, and Tessa used the distance between stingings to judge her pace. For some reason, now that the darkness was lifting and dawn was on its way, she found herself walking faster. She hadn’t walked down every street yet, seen what lay beyond every dripping archway and moss-lined wall. Gaze fixed firmly on the cobbles beneath her feet, Tessa rushed down the alleyway into the shadows and away from the dawn.
A dead end stopped her in her tracks. A tall wall, twice her height, blocked the way ahead. Seeing it, Tessa felt her heart sink inside her chest. The game was over now. She’d have to break all her own rules just to get back onto the street.
Tessa spun around, put her back against the wall, and slowly let her body sink to the ground. She ached all over. Muscles in her calves, ankles, feet, back, neck, and arms all throbbed in disunion. The soreness in her throat returned, and no amount of swallowing would make it go away.
The sky grew lighter by the second, revealing steaming banks of thick gray cloud whipped by invisible winds. It was going to rain again some time soon. Tessa smiled weakly. Mother Emith had been right to call Maribane a damp, drizzly island made for brooding.
Resting her head against her knees, Tessa sighed. What was she going to do now? The game was over, dawn was breaking, and she had to get out of Kilgrim. This place wasn’t safe. A shudder started in Tessa’s ankles and worked its way up her body to her shoulders. Her mouth burst open and a high, choking sound came out.
What had become of Ravis?
Tessa ground her forehead against her knee bone. Everything had happened so fast—armed men bursting into the inn, demanding to know where Ravis of Burano was, then Ravis appearing in the doorway, the first words from his lips a warning to Violante of Arazzo. Tessa swallowed hard. He had been afraid for Violante, not for her.
Lifting her head, Tessa took a long, hard breath. What did she expect? She’d only known Ravis for a few weeks. Violante acted as if she had known him for years. They had planned to meet in Mizerico. And Violante was so beautiful . . . Tessa shook her head. She couldn’t compete with a woman like that.
Suddenly uncomfortable with the turn her thoughts were taking, Tessa forced her mind back to the present and struggled to her feet. She still had to get to the Anointed Isle. Nothing had changed that.
Her body had grown h
eavier while she crouched. The sting on her shoulder felt sharper than she remembered, and she suddenly became aware she was cold. Glancing down the alleyway, back the way she’d come, Tessa forced her mind to go to work. She needed a cloak, somewhere to freshen up and eat, and someone to point her to Bellhaven. Ravis would be all right without her, she was sure of that. It would take more than six armed men to get the better of him. Besides, he had Violante now.
As Tessa thought, her hand felt for and then curled around the money purse at her waist. Now she was no longer playing games, it seemed dangerous to have it swinging in full sight, and she plucked it from her belt, took out one silver and two gold coins, then tucked it deep inside her bodice. This one small act of decisiveness calmed her, helped her remember who she was. Taking a quick breath to brace herself, she began walking down the street, breaking three of her own rules with her very first step.
T W E N T Y - T W O
S andor, Sire of Rhaize, laughed. A fraction of a second later his entourage laughed, too. When he stopped, so did they. “You mean to tell me, Camron of Thorn, that you think my armies, my knights, my strategies, and my wits are no match for the Garizon king?”
Camron felt his palms sweating. Sandor’s entourage—knights, generals, lords, and Lecturs—all looked his way for an answer. Finally, after a week of appeals, the Sire had granted him an audience. Camron had prepared every word, every gesture. Broc of Lomis waited in the back of the hall to bear witness to his story if needed, and more men waited outside.
“Yes, sire,” Camron cursed himself. “I mean no, sire.” Rushing on to cover his blunder, he said. “What I mean is that I have seen Izgard’s army—fought them. They’re not like other men. The harras are . . .” Camron bunched his fists, willed the right word to come.
“The harras are what?” Sandor’s voice was light, his gaze flicked around the court as if they were all party to some clever joke.
“Monsters.” Camron spat out the word. It silenced the court.
