by J. L. Doty
Morgin’s eyes were drawn to the sword, for it was a thing of craftsmanship beyond that produced in any land of Morgin’s knowledge. Buried in the hilt were gems and stones of incredible value; etched along the blade were runes of vast power. It rested tip down in the dust of the floor, its upper weight balanced by no more than the casual grip of the skeleton’s hand.
The skeleton’s hand! It seemed oddly indistinct, as if the bleached white bones of the fingers were changing, fleshing out. Morgin’s eyes moved to the crowned skull, a grinning white mask of death framing eye sockets of black shadow. The skeleton moved; its head turned; the eyeless pits looked upon Morgin and there came a moment of clear, crisp thought in which he seemed to understand all, but then a sea of pain washed it away, and the darkness consumed him.
~~~
The flesh continued to form on the skeleton; the face filled out: a young face, strong, handsome. The eyes were no longer pits of shadow but pools of sorrow and mercy, and the king was once again a king of life and health, seated upon his throne dressed in a suit of golden mail and glimmering silk and rich leather. The tapestries on the walls shown with the brilliance of their colors again, and the assorted trappings of arms and armor were clean and bright once more. But there was one feature that marred the illusion of beauty, for at the king’s feet lay the skeleton of a simple warrior, and unlike the other trappings the warrior remained in decay. It was obvious the warrior had not been sealed in the chamber at the time of the king’s dying, but had entered the tomb at some later time, and, mortally wounded, had crawled some distance across the chamber’s floor before dying at the feet of his already long dead king. And still clutched in the whitened bones of the warrior’s hand was a plain and unadorned sword, the only weapon in the tomb that did not sparkle with inlaid jewels and precious stones.
The king turned to look first upon the decayed body of the warrior at his feet, and then upon Morgin, and his eyes held a sadness beyond time itself. About him there hung a scent of unreality, as if he clung to the air and the earth and the sky by a thread of magic thousands of years old. He gripped the great sword in a powerful hand, stood, and crossed the room easily, as if he had done so only the day before.
He knelt over Morgin, and as he did so his face was a mask of sorrow. He reached out slowly, placed a hand gently on the wound in Morgin’s chest, a wound from which the pulse of life had ceased. The sadness in his eyes deepened; he placed the great sword on the floor and with both hands lifted Morgin’s lifeless form, holding him tightly against his own breast. The young king looked old and sad, closed his eyes and bowed his head. He whispered softly, “Forgive me, mortal, for what I must do.”
Much later he returned Morgin gently to the dust covered floor. The wound in Morgin’s chest had disappeared, though the blood stains on his tunic remained as mute evidence of his ordeal. The king stood slowly, as if tired and old beyond imagining; the sorrow had not left his face, or the sadness his eyes. He turned, and carrying the great sword he walked back to his throne. But before reaching it he paused, hesitated, looked back as if something was left undone. He stared at Morgin’s still form for a moment, and then at the skeleton of the warrior who had died at the foot of his throne. He bent down carefully over the warrior and removed the simple, unadorned sword from his grasp, then returned to where Morgin lay. He stooped down, placed the sword’s hilt in Morgin’s hand and curled Morgin’s fingers about it. “You will need this, Lord Mortal,” he said. “May it stand you in good stead.”
He stood straight again and returned to his throne. He sat down, resting one arm casually on an armrest and the other on the hilt of the great sword. Then slowly, inevitably, the decay returned. The tapestries lost their brilliance and the weaponry lost its shine. And the king, powerful and majestic in life, was once more a skeleton of brittle bone and rotted flesh.
~~~
Morgin snapped awake and, eyes wide, sat up instantly, feeling his chest for a nonexistent death wound. His mind filled suddenly with glimpses of a strange dream: throne rooms in decay and long dead kings. He shook his head violently, trying to make some sense of fragmentary images that seemed ever to evade him, but just when the dream seemed real and whole it disappeared, shattered into a million illusions that drifted forever out of his reach.
He looked at the wall of the alcove carefully, wondering why he thought there should be another room there. There never had been before, nor was there one now. He decided that he must have hit his head awfully hard while struggling with the Kulls, though such a simple explanation felt strangely inadequate.
His hand touched something at his side: his sword. He picked it up, looked at it closely. It was his sword; he was certain of that. He knew it too well to be mistaken about that. He knew every nick and scratch on the blade: some had been there when he’d bought it; some he’d put there himself. Yes, it was his blade, but he felt certain he’d dropped it in the corridor when hit by the crossbow bolt. The crossbow bolt! Again he examined his chest, shaking his head with wonder. There was a hole in the jerkin just above the heart, but he could find no wound. He decided he must have hit his head terribly hard to have brought on such hallucinations.
Before leaving the alcove he peered into the corridor beyond. The carnage there lay untouched; the Kulls had not bothered to remove the bodies of their dead comrades and both still lay as they’d fallen. Morgin called on his shadows then stepped into the corridor, conscious that someone might come along at any moment.
Something bothered him about the two dead Kulls, and it took him some moments to realize just what: they were in the early stages of decay. It appeared they had been dead for several days. He must have taken a truly terrible blow to the head to have been unconscious for so long, but oddly he could find no bump or sore spot, and his mind suddenly filled again with glimpses of the skeleton king.
He shook his head. More hallucinations, he decided.
He turned back to the alcove and was not in the least surprised to find it no longer there, just bare stone wall. Sword in hand, he turned and walked down the corridor, thinking the best place to hide would be in the old castle. There he would wait, and plan, and when the time was right he would come again into the new castle and teach Valso and his Kulls to fear the very shadows about them.
Chapter 13: The Magic of Shadow
The torch on the wall flickered slowly, sending shadows skittering about the room. Morgin stepped into one, followed it for a few paces, a phantom of the half-light of the world of shadow. The Kull guard, leaning on his lance by the door to Olivia’s audience chamber, remained unmoving, unknowing. Morgin chose another shadow. He moved again, always striving for that fluidity of motion that would make him indistinguishable from the flickering gray-black world of shadow, and when it all came together it was as if he had become shadow. In the last few days he had learned to use his shadowmagic well.
The Kull yawned. Morgin moved again, edging his way carefully along the tapestried wall, conscious that if he should err his only escape lay back the way he’d come, for the antechamber had only two exits. The door near which the Kull stood led directly into the audience chamber, while opposite that was the doorway that led back into the hall, where another Kull stood guard. Morgin chose another shadow, and with each step moved closer to the audience chamber.
He had waited until nightfall before leaving the old castle and returning to the occupied wings. It had taken great patience to wait so, for his first impulse had been to hunt Valso down without delay, but he quickly realized that to have any chance of success, he must move carefully, methodically. He’d ventured out only to steal a dark, gray-black Kull cloak: something to keep him warm, and it helped conceal him in the shadows that he was learning to know so well.
Valso, it seemed, stayed hidden in one of the upstairs suites, ringed by Kull guards. But the Tulalane remained accessible, had virtually taken up residence in Olivia’s audience chamber, with Kulls reporting to him there. Morgin was within a sword’s length of its en
trance when he heard boot steps approaching from the castle proper. The guard lost his slouch and straightened, suddenly attentive. Morgin pressed his back tightly against the wall, wrapped the cloak about his shoulders and concentrated on his shadow spell.
Valso emerged from the hallway followed by a retinue of Kulls. He stomped past the guard without acknowledgment and stormed into the audience chamber.
“He’s alive,” Valso shouted. “I can sense him lurking about somewhere.”
“If the coward lives,” Morgin heard the Tulalane say, “then he’s crawled into some hole for the hiding.”
“Are you certain?”
Morgin could sense the Tulalane’s scorn. “Do you fear him, my prince?”
“No,” Valso shouted. “Never. I just want to be certain he doesn’t spoil my plans. Have you kept up the search?”
“Yes, my lord,” the Tulalane said. He made no effort to hide his contempt for the Decouix prince. “We haven’t been able to find him, but don’t concern yourself with the guttersnipe. His fear will keep him hidden until this is done.”
Morgin changed shadows, found one that allowed him a slanting view of Valso in the audience chamber, standing before the Tulalane.
“Of course it will,” Valso said. He eyed the inside of the room. “I like your blasphemous choice of a command post, Lord Hwatok. You and I will do well together.”
The Tulalane shrugged. “I take a certain amount of pleasure in having the old witch attend me here where I was forced to attend her for so many years. And I do not care how well you do, Your Highness. My only concern is for myself, and I intend to do well indeed by this.”
Valso smiled malevolently. “And I care not what you gain from this venture, twoname. Just remember that you will do only as well as me.”
Morgin waited for a reply from the Tulalane, but the twoname answered with silence. Valso continued speaking, “Have you learned anything from the Elhiyne lordling?”
Morgin stiffened, held his breath.
“No, Your Highness. He is stubborn. But we’ll break him.”
“What of the girl?” Valso asked.
The Tulalane shrugged. “She seems willing to cooperate.”
Valso’s eyes showed his eagerness. “Is she ready for me, do you think?”
“Perhaps.”
“Then have her sent to my rooms immediately. I want to see how far her desire to please goes.”
The Tulalane sneered. “I do not arrange for your bed chamber entertainments.”
Valso grimaced. “You will do as I say, twoname. Or I and my Kulls will turn you out to deal with the Elhiynes yourself.” Valso did not wait for a reply, but turned and left the room.
Morgin watched him storm through the antechamber. Moments later the Tulalane shouted, “Guard.”
The guard turned, rushed into the audience chamber, was ordered to “Bring the girl,” rushed back out and disappeared into the castle proper.
Morgin decided to wait. He was curious to see who “the girl” might be.
The guard returned quickly, followed by Rhianne and several of his fellows. The Kulls waited in the antechamber with Morgin while Rhianne joined the Tulalane in the audience chamber.
“You called for me?” she asked coldly.
“Play no games with me, girl,” the Tulalane said. “I know your mind. You have no reason to love the Elhiynes, every reason to hate them. You’ve told me you are more their enemy than their friend, and now it’s time to prove it. Prince Valso wishes you to attend him in his private apartments.”
“I am no plaything of Valso’s.”
The Tulalane laughed. “I care not whose plaything you are, woman. But you must choose, and you must do so now. The Decouixs, or the Elhiynes. You will attend Valso willingly, and please him however he chooses, or you will die with the rest.”
Morgin heard Rhianne sigh. “Very well. But tell His Highness I wish to freshen up first. I will attend him within the hour.”
Rhianne emerged from the audience chamber almost immediately, but the Tulalane stopped her by calling, “Girl.”
Morgin watched her turn slowly to face the Tulalane in the audience chamber. He could have easily reached her with his sword, and as rage boiled up within him it was all he could do not to cut her down then and there.
The Tulalane’s voice filled the silence. “You have made the right decision, woman.”
Rhianne gave no answer. She turned slowly to leave, but as her eyes passed Morgin she hesitated for an instant as if looking directly at him. He tensed, thinking he was discovered, determined that the traitorous bitch would be the first to die. But if she did see something she must have dismissed it as just another shadow, for she completed her turn and left the room without another word.
Alone again, the guard returned to his post at the door and leaned back onto his lance. But he did not relax. He stood there uneasily for a time as if something bothered him, then turned slowly about and looked toward Morgin’s hiding place. His brows narrowed suspiciously, as if he’d noticed Rhianne’s instant of hesitation. He grasped his lance in both hands and approached Morgin slowly, peering uncertainly into the shadows.
Morgin’s heart climbed up into his throat. He stood paralyzed with indecision and fear, then suddenly, as if it had a mind of its own, his sword leapt out, pulling his hand and arm with it as it cut a flat arc through the air. The guard’s head dropped to the floor with a dull thud. Then his headless body, still crouched low and gripping the lance, toppled slowly backward and landed with a crash.
“What’s that?” the Tulalane shouted angrily. “What do you want now? I have work to do.”
Morgin paused for a moment to look at the dead Kull, then melted into the shadowy night and was gone.
~~~
Rhianne concentrated on stilling her racing heart. She had thus far managed to control it, but she knew that if she relaxed that control for only an instant it would run away from her. It would climb up into her throat, pounding like a drum, and destroy what little composure she’d managed to achieve. Her breasts, already chilled by the low cut gown that half exposed them to the damp castle air, would chill even further as her chest muscles tightened with fear. If only she could speak with the other women. If only Valso didn’t keep them isolated, out of contact, alone.
Morgin came suddenly to mind. She had seen him hiding in the shadows near the audience chamber, though oddly she’d not seen him with her eyes, but rather with her heart, her soul, her magic, and from him she’d felt a murderous hate radiating like the heat from a white hot hearth. His hate had come upon her so intensely she almost cried out in fear, but she’d held her silence, and she wondered now if he would ever forgive her for rejecting his love so long ago.
He’d wanted to, she knew. She’d seen the forgiveness and love in his eyes time and again, but something else always appeared there too: hate, fear, pride; she could never be certain, and it stood between them now, a wall whose making she could blame on no one but herself. If only he would come to her, she would beg his forgiveness. She would prove to him that she was no longer the stupid young girl who’d let her pride mirror her mother’s ambitions.
Without warning the door to her apartments opened. The Kull Captain Verk entered, bowed deeply from the waist. “His Highness will see you now, your ladyship.”
A chill ran down Rhianne’s spine. It was said the Kulls were half man and demon, but nothing human hid behind those eyes, only cruelty and desire. She had chosen her gown for effect. It squeezed her small breasts upward, produced a slight but provocatively enticing bit of cleavage. It was meant to please Valso, but it appeared to have the undesired effect of also pleasing the Kull.
She stood quickly, walked past Verk without speaking, whispering small spells of witchcraft quietly to herself. She walked rapidly down the hall, allowing no one to lead her to Valso’s suite, forcing them instead to follow. Verk caught up with her only when she stopped at Valso’s door.
Verk knocked politely. From within
there came a grumbled “Enter.” Verk opened the door, stepped through it and closed it, while Rhianne waited in the hall. She cast quiet spells to hide her thoughts and emotions and fears.
The door opened again. Verk reappeared, and his eyes settled hungrily on her breasts as he spoke. “You may enter.”
Suddenly she could not go on. Fear threatened to overwhelm her, to sweep away the confidence she’d struggled to maintain. Her nerves were taught, her emotions raw and barely in check, but she took a deep breath, swallowed carefully, and stepped through the open door.
Valso stood politely, bowed. “Welcome, Lady Rhianne,” he said sweetly. “You must forgive the setting . . .” He spread his arms, indicating the room about them, “. . . but Elhiyne hospitality is crude at best.”
She smiled pleasantly, nodded. “There is no need to apologize, my lord. I myself have had to bear with them for many years now.”
Valso seemed pleased at her response. He looked at the Kull. “You may go, Verk.”
“Aye, my lord,” the halfman said. He bowed deeply at the waist, turned and left.
Valso stood near a small table upon which rested a crystal decanter and two crystal goblets. “Would you care for some brandy?”
“Only if you will join me, my lord.”
He poured an amber liquid into the two goblets. He handed one to Rhianne, then raised his to eye level. “To the rightful ascendancy of the Decouix rule.”
Rhianne smiled, raised her glass and took a small sip. The drink burned as it trickled down her throat.
Again Valso seemed pleased at her response. He raised his glass a second time. “To the end of House Elhiyne.”
Rhianne hesitated. Valso’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. She forced herself not to blurt out a quick excuse. Instead, she said slowly, “I cannot drink to that, my lord. I am of Elhiyne, and as such would be toasting my own destruction.”
