It had not been pleasant to play host to such a strangely distant psyche. He had been tempted to prod it, but the very feel of the Archmagus’ thoughts—swift, avid, made somehow of symbols rather than words—had put him off.
Now he regretted it. His lady would want to know why he had failed, and he could not just point to the Archmagus and say ‘He did it’. Was it simply the fumbling of an untrained, overeager Energies mage?
“Oh,” said the Inquisitor Archmagus, one hand on the door. “And if I learn that he’s been damaged, I will be speaking with you again.”
Then he was gone, leaving the mentalist to wonder.
Chapter 20 – Poisonous Friends
Meltwater dripped from roof gutters and gave the grey stone of Thynbell a pearly sheen. Early winter had let up for the morning of the 29th, and though the sky was still clotted with clouds, the city-dwellers were out in the brisk air to get their business done before a new snowstorm rolled in. The guards stood with scarves unwound, watching the traffic. They glanced over Darilan Trevere’s civilian papers, then passed him through without question.
He paid the toll at the gate that spanned the Imperial Road, then headed in. All around him, old stone buildings loomed like teeth in the maw of a titan.
The road was the low-point of this terrain, the bottom of the cleft in the hills that harbored Thynbell. Deep gutters full of slush and debris ran alongside it, and he urged the horse across one of the many small bridges to the upper streets. The first ranks of buildings sat on terraces higher than his head while ahorse, and beyond them the rest of the city rose even higher, climbing the steep walls of the valley as if afraid to get its skirts wet.
In the northern heights, the Wyndish palace sprawled like a tiara of spires cast among evergreens, with a few smaller noble manors littering the ground below it. A tall, tower-studded wall ringed that area and meshed with the wider one that spread to encompass the north side of the city. South of the road, the wall continued but only encapsulated a third of the structures; beyond it, wood-frame houses and craft-halls and timber yards stood among the pines, growing shabbier and smaller the further they spread.
Darilan knew this city well enough. He had not visited recently but not much had changed. The lower buildings—the ‘old city’—dated back hundreds of years, a fact made evident by the animal-statues that stared out from walls and cornices and terrace gardens. Most had been defaced, as the more strident Light-worshipers considered them blasphemous, but once they had been considered the eyes of the spirits.
The old city was built in switchbacks and stairs, far more suited to foot-traffic. A Tasgard horse would have trouble but Darilan’s Sky was light and used to clambering, and so they went straight north, letting the Wynds move out of their way on the stairs. Though there were plenty of people out, no one made a fuss; it was the way of Wyndish commoners to just duck their heads and step aside from any threat.
Soon the new city loomed ahead, whiter and flatter and spaciously built. When Darilan had been here last, it had been under construction—the old palace and its outbuildings recently razed to provide space while the new palace and its wall were being finished in the heights. The ground that had once supported hundreds of close-packed noble houses now stretched away in tiers, starting with the massive open-air amphitheater in the lowest and mounting steadily through an array of government buildings and civil-servant housing. The road to the new palace ran straight up the hill, colonnaded and hung with maroon-and-gold pennants.
To either side of the amphitheater stood the two great forces that held sway over Thynbell, possibly more so than the palace itself. On the right, the Temple of Light. On the left, the Hawk’s Pride—the Gold Army bastion.
Given the options for circumventing the amphitheater, Darilan chose the Army side.
He eyed the titanic structure as he urged his horse through the wide plaza that separated it from the amphitheater. It seemed that no other traveler chose this path; the plaza was empty, the only activity visible at the gate to the Army compound itself.
The compound was walled off and strewn with smaller buildings, but its central tower was hardly hidden: a six-story monstrosity of marble and bronze wrought into something half-fortress, half mad mage’s spire. Sometimes called the Citadel at Thynbell, it was the largest Gold garrison in Wyndon and the largest concentration of Imperial mages outside of the Silent Circle headquarters, the Citadel at Valent. Six domed outbuildings lay beneath the clawed ends of the flying buttresses that supported the tower, which rose into the sky like a flanged mace stuck haft-down into the earth. From each of the six flanges rose a smaller spire, each peak gleaming with crystal. When the sun hit their facets, they shone like knives.
Cob would be there.
Darilan squelched the urge to ride to the gate, dispatch the guards and wade in blade-first. He had another way--a contact in the palace. But the thought of Cob bound in one of those domed chambers, being interrogated or tortured…
The only thing worse would be if he was not there. If he had already been sent to Daecia City.
Don’t think about it. Just keep going.
To the road and its bright pennants. To the gate that led into the royal grounds. The guards actually read his papers this time, and he was forced to pull out his army as well as civilian ones so they could see the Emperor’s personal seal on both. The tower and crown in white wax, the signature beside it in red.
“Is this official business?” a guard asked.
“Personal. I’m a friend of the Lady te’Couran.”
They gave him an escort anyway, which irritated him because the soldier was on foot. He reined in his anxiety and steeled his expression as they followed the path through the walled-in forest—the king’s playground, dotted with the estates of his favorite nobles and stocked regularly with game. With the number of Wyndish kings who had been assassinated by the Corvish while on a hunt, it made some sense, but Darilan knew it would be just as easy for an assassin to hide in these makeshift woods.
Finally, the forest cleared to reveal the Wyndish palace, sprawled like a slumbering dragon among the winter gardens. Whoever had designed the Hawk’s Pride had been here too: the construction echoed the mage-fortress, but in less-theatric scale. A wide wedge-shaped outer bailey faced its narrow end to the road, its sides flown with decorative buttresses as numerous as a centipede’s legs. Within its shelter hulked the dome of the central palace, a massive stained-glass rosette glowing at its brow. Walkways like spiderwebs stretched from the bailey walls to the guard-towers around the dome.
A low wall, hardly more than a showpiece, ringed the wide forecourt. It held yet another guard station, and Darilan showed his papers again, then advanced with his escort to the high bailey gate.
More inspection. A stablehand took his horse and disappeared into the open-air corridor that ran along the inside of the bailey, its lattice roof thick with winter-killed vines. On foot now, Darilan straightened the collar of his coat and smoothed his hair, and stared in through the archway to the central palace.
He had to admit he was impressed. This was no Daecia City but it was no backwater castle either. The walls and interior swarmed with guards, traveling like ants along the high walkways or patrolling the inner gardens two-by-two. As the soldier escorted him toward the gilded doors of the central palace, he spotted a few nobles on the balconies or strolling through the gardens in their fur-trimmed finery, enjoying the break in the weather.
She’s played her cards well, he thought, and allowed himself a smile. He and Annia had been familiar at the Imperial Court--though not as friends, more like comrades both assigned to the Crown Prince's retinue. Their coterie had been disbanded when the Crown Prince left to head the Crimson Army, its members reassigned throughout the Empire, and it seemed that Annia had landed lightly; from what he had heard, she was the Wyndish king's mistress now, in addition to being a Riddish noblewoman in her own right.
“Crimson Hunter Darilan Trevere to see Lady Anniavela
te’Couran,” he told the liveried steward at the gate. The steward looked askance at his traveling clothes but nodded and dismissed his escort, and beckoned him inside.
He followed through tapestried corridors, absently counting the number of soldiers that watched him from the alcoves. The Wyndish kings were known for their paranoia. After turning a few corners, the steward opened a door and bowed him into a small but well-appointed chamber lined with padded divans and couches.
“Tea, Hunter?”
“Please.”
And then he was left to wait.
He sat back against the cushions and tried to relax. It should have been easy; he was finally out of the saddle and into the warmth, and though he could have used a good wash, he felt the ache in his spine easing already. But he could take no comfort in the surroundings. Even had he not been on his mission, this was enemy territory.
Wheels rattled outside. A servant pushed open the door and, bowing, brought the tea-cart in. At the sight of the accompanying plate of cakes, Darilan’s stomach gave a growl of approval.
He sighed. He had forced himself to take breaks since Lark left, to let the horse rest, but he hated bothering with food when he had a mission to finish. Those bodily tyrannies just got in the way. “No, I’ll do it,” he said as the servant moved to pour the tea. “You’re dismissed.”
The man bowed and backed out. Darilan crammed a cake in his mouth once he was alone, just to shut his stomach up, then fiddled with the tea fixings.
By the time new footsteps approached the door, he was on his third cup, the cakes long gone.
The door swung open beneath the hand of a liveried guard, who stood immediately aside as another came through. Beyond them, Darilan caught the gleam of jewels and set his cup down. He rose and inclined his head as the lady stepped in past her escorts.
Though it had been nearly a decade since their last meeting, Anniavela Yspera te’Couran had not changed at all. Tall, vividly blonde and lush-bodied, she stood before the guards like a golden statue, her hands on her ample hips and a moue of distaste upon her lovely mouth. Gem-studded pins and combs sparkled in her upswept hair, and her fingers glinted with rings, her wrists with bracelets beneath the wide sleeves of her green velvet gown. A fine gold chain ran around her waist, echoing the embroidery. Beneath lowered, painted eyelids, her emerald eyes raked Darilan’s attire top to bottom and then back up, and a small smile dispelled her pout. In the slot neckline of her gown gleamed a golden pendant in the shape of a teardrop.
“I see you rolled around in the treasury first,” said Darilan.
“Oh hush, you. Come here, it’s been positively ages!”
Hiding his smile, Darilan stepped around the tea-cart and reached for her hand. Before he could bow over it, she caught him by the chin and kissed his cheek. Her breath smelled of honey and poison. “Let’s not behave like Hunter and Lady,” she said, squeezing his hand. “I still can’t quite see you as a man.”
He stepped back without returning the kiss. “Try. I am.”
“But you’re still so petite!”
Darilan narrowed his eyes, and she sighed and released him. “Very well,” she said. “You never could take teasing. What was your name now? I’ve already forgotten.”
“Darilan Trevere.”
“Darilan. Can’t I just call you Dasira? It would be so much easier.”
Hardly a moment and I already have a headache, he thought. “Use my current name, please.”
“Hmph. If you insist. But if I’d known it was you, I would have come down right away. Why bother with playing the little games anymore?”
“They’re not games, Annia. They’re business.”
“Business? And I had hoped you’d finally come for a social visit.”
Shaking his head, Darilan retook his seat. From the flat smile Annia now wore, he knew he should have put himself forth that way—as an old friend here to see her for herself, not for her position. But he no longer had the knack of it, nor the patience. He wondered if he ever had.
“Ah well, you were always a bit of a bitch,” Annia said, and sank down comfortably onto a divan, arranging her gown about her legs. “So. What business?”
Darilan forced himself to be calm. He could not afford to make her angry, no matter how much of the past she brought up. “I was on a mission recently for the Crimson General—“
“Oh, Kel? How has he been?”
“Fine, I suppose. But—“
“’Fine’? You really are a man. Come on, darling, you can report better than that. Has he been successful? We don’t hear much of the Crimson exploits over here. Didn’t he just finish conquering Illane?”
“More or less,” Darilan said reluctantly. “Still some problems with holding it, but we’re stopped at the border to Padras, laying siege to a city called Kanrodi. But what I—“
“That must be dull,” said Annia, curling a loose lock around her finger. Her green eyes stayed fixed on his face. “So you’re encamped?”
“Yes, we—“
“Could you take him a letter?”
“Annia…”
“Or does he have another little girlfriend?”
This was a bad idea, thought Darilan. “I would not speculate,” he said. “Anyway, it wouldn’t matter. I thought he made it clear to you that—“
“He was just angry,” said Annia, cutting him off with a wave of her beringed hand. “You know how he is. Being cooped up in the Palace like that made us all grate on each other’s nerves. But he’s been out in the world for nine years now. Surely he’s managed to calm down.”
Darilan thought about the siege, and their inability to catch Cob, and the tension on the Crimson General’s face. “No, I don’t think so,” he said. “Annia, I know you think you two had something--”
“Think?”
“But it’s not a good idea right now. Maybe after Kanrodi falls—if it falls. But not now.”
Annia made a sound of disgust, her lush lips curling from her teeth. “And here I thought that being the last one would be a boon to my chances, but no, he’s off traipsing around with the humans again. This makes me so angry.”
At ‘humans’, Darilan shot a sidelong glance to the soldiers at the door. Annia caught it and her smile returned, though thinly. “Oh, don’t worry, dear,” she said. “They’re only thralls, they don’t care what we say.”
Darilan frowned, but now that she had mentioned it, he saw the glaze of their eyes through the slits in their helms. He rubbed the bracer through his left sleeve. “You’ve thralled many here?”
“Naturally.”
“The king?”
She laughed, bright and bitter. “No, dear. I only wish. The queen would notice, and then I would have to thrall her, and I rather like her. Plus she would never let me into her boudoir. And then I would have to thrall the more perceptive nobles, and it would just be a mess. That’s why we only ‘advise’ the protectorate royalty, dear. No one notices if a few guards lose their will, but a king?”
Darilan shrugged stiffly. “Guess I don’t know why we bother with the ‘protectorate’ nonsense.”
“It keeps the people in line, dear. Plus it’s more entertaining. I suppose I could sit on the throne and cackle for a few days with everyone groveling at my feet, but after a while, what fun is that?”
Darilan stared at her with raised brows, and finally she waved dismissively. “It’s just that this life becomes so dull after a while, for all its glitter and shine,” she said. “And I’ve missed you. I’ve missed our sisterhood, all the others. I can’t even write to anyone anymore! You know that Cadrielle died last year?”
“I heard.”
“In childbirth, the horror. She was the last one beside me. You don’t count; you’ve gone and joined the boys’ club.”
Darilan rolled his eyes. “Look, I’m not here for the gossip—“
“Don’t you give me that. You and Kel ran off to play soldiers and left all of us to be scattered to the winds and die. You can very
well sit there and indulge a lady!”
Darilan looked away, scowling, and scratched at the bracer again. Deep in his arm, the itch had returned. He did not want to be reminded of any of this, and he certainly could not just sit still and listen to her while Cob might be on an altar right now…
A jewel-encrusted hand caught his chin and turned his face. From all too close, Annia stared at him, eyes narrowed and mouth pursed in speculation.
“You don’t look well at all,” she said. Her other hand went to his arm and when he tried to pull away, her grip tightened and he hissed at the pain that shot through the flesh under the bracer.
Her brows arched. “Let me see,” she said, and though he wanted to yank free, he allowed her to push the sleeve back from his forearm; he knew that if he protested, she would only have her thralls hold him down.
The etched black bracer peeked out from above his glove, its sides cinched around his bare forearm. She tugged the glove off and then recoiled with a sound of horror.
In bands above and below the bracer’s edges, Darilan’s skin had gone grey and dead. Ashen streaks marked the back of his hand and stretched to his elbow. She turned his arm over to see the underside, where a thin strip of dead flesh showed between the two converging sides of the bracer. Gingerly she pried at one edge, and the barbs that covered the bracer’s underside peeled up from his flesh to show a series of black-rimmed holes. The acrid, ichorous scent made both of them grimace.
“Oh, you idiot,” she said, “you’ve run this body into the ground. You need a new one. I have quite a few maidservants, you’re welcome to take—“
“No,” Darilan snarled, and yanked his arm away. The bracer latched down, and he covered it with his sleeve. “I’m not here to become your lackey again. I can still feel my fingers, I’m fine.”
Annia sat back, the affront plain on her face. “I didn’t mean you’d be my maid—“
“No. Just no. I can complete my mission as I am. If you want to help me, you’ll stop interrupting me and listen.”
The Light of Kerrindryr (The War of Memory Cycle Book 1) Page 48
