"Another changer," said Ardeth.
A guard approached and saluted. "Lord, the stake is ready."
"Take him to it."
Grisharki pitched forward with a howl and groveled at the Highlord's feet. Torisen regarded him dispassionately.
"I always honor my word, Grisharki, but there is some room for mercy. Kill him first," he said to the guards. They dragged the man away.
His lieutenant watched, rigid and silent. His eyes snapped to Torisen's face as the Highlord turned to him.
"Now, what am I going to do with you? Grisharki is a poor enough blood price, and yet. . . . As his successor, will you take the oath that he took, to protect my post station and never raise your hand against my people?"
The man's head jerked in a nod.
"And you really believe you can trust him?" demanded Ardeth.
"I think I can, if he swears on this."
Torisen took off the Kenthiar and held it out by the edges. The man stared at it, wild-eyed, then reached out desperately and gripped it.
"I swear . . . ah!"
His fingers fell to the floor, neatly severed, the wounds instantly cauterized.
"That was a false oath. Swear again, with your other hand. It's that or the stake, man," he added in a lower voice. "Swear."
The Grindark swore and sat down abruptly on the hearth, white-faced but with one hand intact at least. Torisen started to put the Kenthiar back on. Ardeth stopped him.
"Let the wretched thing settle down a bit first." He glanced at the fingers still lying on the floor. "The longer, the better, eh?"
Ashe had been looking through a pile of gear halfway down the hall. Now she raised her voice in a hail: "My lord!"
Just then, there was a commotion outside, and Harn stormed in. "You young idiot!" he roared, startling bats off the high rafters. "What d'you think you're playing at, charging off like that and nearly getting yourself killed? I'm the berserker, I'll have you know, not you!"
"Why isn't anyone ever pleased to see me?" said Torisen rather plaintively, and went to see what Ashe had found, leaving Harn open-mouthed.
Ashe handed him a post-rider's pouch, its seal broken. The dispatch was still inside. Torisen drew it out and read, his expression becoming grim.
"So this was how Grisharki knew we had no time for a siege. Adric?"
He turned to find the lord of Omiroth already there, reaching for the dispatch. Ardeth read. A stricken look came into his eyes.
"We must make haste. Now, Tori, now."
"Yes, now."
He took the old man's hands and held them for a moment. Then he was off down the hall, shouting for Harn.
They rode out minutes later, past the rigid figure of Grisharki mounting silent guard at his own door, down the valley, out through the defile. The stench of burning flesh met them. The souls of the priests and their escorts had been freed by fire, never again to walk in the shadow of their dread god. The main body of the column was just coming up the road. Torisen called over the randon captain in charge of the first Knorth one hundred.
"There's been a massacre," he told him. "The Southern Host has been virtually wiped out except for a handful of survivors who are withdrawing toward the Cataracts. We've got to get there as quickly as possible to cover their retreat. That means a faster pace with one night's dwar sleep out of two, and a route that lies through the White Hills. You've got all that?"
"Yes, lord," said the captain.
Lord Danior had ridden over to listen. "The White Hills, eh?" he said, rather uneasily. "Do you think that's wise?"
"Probably not, but what choice do we have?"
Behind them, the captain was repeating the Highlord's words verbatim to his command and to the next captain down the line. As the news spread from group to group, a murmur rose among the ranks, then died into grim silence. Many of these Kendar had once served in the Southern Host; nearly all had friends or kin there who might well be feeding vultures or worse now on that distant battlefield. This was their fight now, even more than their lords'.
The one-hundred captain raised his hand. When all eyes were on him, he dropped it, and his command rocked forward as one into the loping stride that eats up nearly seventy miles a day as steadily and inexorably as the sun falls. Sunlight glinted on shield and helm, on sword hilt and spear point. Torisen reined aside to watch them pass, line after line, proud, fierce, determined. Then he cantered forward to take his place in the vanguard. Behind him, the captains called the running chant, their seconds on the far wing taking every other line. Two days' march ahead lay the White Hills.
Chapter 9
The Haunted Palace
Karkinaroth: 14th of Winter
JAME DREAMED that she sat on a fur rug beside a cold hearth. A vast hall stretched out before her, paved with dark green-veined stone, lined with death banners. Someone leaned against the mantelpiece behind her. She couldn't turn to see who it was but his presence warmed her as the fireplace never could.
"Who are you?" she demanded.
The voice answered in a fading whisper: "Ah, Jamie. Someone best forgotten."
Now she could turn and did, crying, "Tirandys, Senethari!" But no one was there.
The hearth was cold, and the skin beneath her that of an Arrin-ken. The nails of its flayed paws flexed on stone.
Scee, sceee, sceeeee . . .
Jame woke with a gasp and sat up—too fast. A lightning stab of pain shot through her head, then slowly faded to a dull ache. She touched the back of her head gingerly and felt a considerable lump. Why, someone hit me, she thought dizzily, then remembered who and under what circumstances. The grogginess was largely the aftermath of dwar sleep. Sweet Trinity, how long had she been unconscious? She raised her head and looked about. No windows. No way even to tell if it was day or night.
But if the room lacked a view, it had just about everything else, including nine sides. The canopied bed in which she sat was against one of them. Across a white marble floor was a small fireplace with a gracefully carved stone mantel and embers still tinkling cheerfully in the grate. If her greeting from Karkinaroth had been rude, Jame thought, looking around her, at least someone was trying to make her stay comfortable. Best of all, on a slender-legged table by the bed was a plate neatly piled with fruit and honey cakes. Beside it stood a flagon of cool white wine.
Jame's last meal had been in the Anarchies—days ago, if her hunger was any indication. She ate and drank ravenously, getting crumbs everywhere. The wine had a curious aftertaste, but she ignored it. Who knew what spices the southern vintners might use?
Then she dusted off her hands and rose to inspect the room. The marble floor felt cool on her bare feet, but her boots were nowhere in sight. For that matter, neither were her clothes. Jame shook down her long black hair for warmth and padded over to the fireplace. She didn't see any sign of her knapsack on the floor or under the bed. Damn. The Book Bound in Pale Leather could usually take care of itself, but Ganth's ring and sword were her responsibility. She began to look behind the tapestries on the walls for any kind of alcove where her gear might have been stored. Behind five of the seven hangings and the bed, she found only blank walls. The sixth swung aside to reveal another smaller room, lined with tiles and fitted with a sunken bath as well as with other essentials. The seventh tapestry, opposite it, concealed a locked door.
Someone apparently thought that that and the lack of clothing could keep her a prisoner here. Someone was about to get a surprise.
Jame knelt by the door, extended a nail, and began to pick the lock. She had to get out. There was the knapsack to find, of course, but most of all she was worried about Marc. The Kendar had also been hurt, perhaps badly. She must find him and Jorin too, who was (she hoped) still free, even though he would be having to cope in strange territory without the use of her eyes. She called to him by the mind link, but got no answer. Damn and blast. If only her head ached less and her thoughts were clearer! But why had they been attacked in the first place? Prince
Odalian was supposed to be an ally of the Kencyrath. None of this made any sense.
There was a sharp click inside the lock. Jame opened the door a crack and peered out. No guards. She stepped cautiously into the hall and turned to shut the door after her.
Its outer surface was scored with deep, raw scratches that formed the crude outline of a dagger.
Jame stared at them, teased by some half memory but unable to grasp it. She shrugged and turned away. The hall curved off in both directions, silent and empty. Which way to go? In the absence of all information, it hardly mattered. She went left.
Other rooms opened off the corridor, all of them lit. They seemed to be guest quarters, each one more opulent than the last. Some gave the impression of having recently been occupied, but no one was in any of them now. Then came a sweeping staircase leading down into a suite of larger public rooms. She drifted on from room to room like a ghost, looking for some sign of life or even for a window that might give her a glimpse of the outside world. There was none. The palace seemed completely shut in on itself, locked in some indolent dream of sweet-scented wood and marble and tapestried princes riding forever under cloudless skies.
But at last she came upon a new current moving through the heavy perfumed air. It brought with it a different odor, one that refused quite to define itself but that seemed as disturbingly out of place here as a whiff of decay in a king's bower. Jame followed it out of the suite to the head of another staircase, again sweeping downward. She descended. A broad corridor stretched away before her at its foot. Ahead, the light spheres glowed more dimly. An almost tangible darkness hung in the air, shrouding the details of the hallway beyond. As Jame warily approached, she saw with amazement that the corridor itself seemed to fade in the distance. Some of its lines remained but were suspended ghostlike in midair. Beyond, space seemed to open out into a much larger hallway. A cold wind breathed out of that farther hall, lifting Jame's hair in black, fluttering wings about her face. With it came that odor, stronger now, like the breath of ancient sickness. Jame shivered. She knew that smell, but what was it? If only her mind were clearer! Just the same, in another moment surely she could identify it.
A hand closed on her bare shoulder.
Without thinking, she caught it and spun around. The man thumped down on one knee, his arm stretched stiffly up, immobilized by a Senethar wrist lock.
"You're hurting me," he said through his teeth, in Kens.
Jame let go, astonished. "Who are you?"
The man still cringed at her bare feet—or was he a boy? With such sharp, thin features, his age was hard to guess. He showed his teeth again. "My lady calls me Gricki."
Jame repeated the name with distaste. It was uncomfortably close to the Easternese word for excrement. "I can't call you that."
"As you wish, lady."
He wasn't about to tell her his real name, Jame realized. After all, that was hardly a safe gift to make to any stranger. "Well, I can't put a wrist lock on you every time I want to get your attention. I'll call you Graykin."
The moment the word was out, she could have bitten her tongue. Graykin was the name of a mongrel dog in one of the old songs; but he had been a faithful brute and, in his own way, something of a hero. The young man shot her a startled, not displeased look, instantly suppressed.
"Graykin, where is everybody?"
"Gone . . . lady." He gave the title with a kind of cringing sneer, as if daring her to take offense.
"Yes, but where, and why?"
He clearly didn't want to tell her, but the direct question forced a direct answer from him. "Fifteen days ago, Prince Odalian learned that the Horde was on the move, coming this way. He immediately sent out messengers to summon the Karkinoran troop levies and to request help from the Kencyr Highlord. That night, he had a visitor. Don't ask me who," he added defensively, as if this ignorance diminished his credit. "I don't know. The next day, with no explanation whatsoever, he ordered everyone out of the palace. There are only three guards here now, and the Prince and his lady (who refused to go), and the spook."
"The what?"
"Spook. I don't know where he came from, but I think the Prince and his guards stayed to hunt him. Odd-looking man. Face like a year-old corpse. D'you know him?"
"No."
"That's strange." He gave her a sly, sidelong look. "He seems to know you. At least, I caught him scratching on your door."
A man waited in the shadow of the stair, his face a death's head. He slipped a white-hilted knife into her hand. She went on climbing, climbing, toward a doorway barred with red ribbons, toward the darkness beyond . . .
Jame shivered. That was the memory that the scratched drawing of the dagger had half awakened; but the stair, the knife, and the skull-faced man had all been in Perimal Darkling years ago. Even now, she didn't remember enough to know what that fragment of a memory meant. Anyway, there were more important things to think about now.
"Graykin, you only mentioned six people, seven, counting yourself. I'm looking for my friends—a big man with graying hair and a golden ounce. They must be here somewhere, too."
"Not in the palace," he said emphatically. "I know every room here, yes, and every cell in all seven dungeons, too."
"What do you know about that?" Jame pointed down the corridor into the darkness.
This time Graykin shivered. "That isn't part of Karkinaroth. I don't know what it is or where it came from. Since the stranger's visit, it's simply been there, getting more visible all the time, taking over."
"Graykin, who is your lady?"
"Why, Lyra, my prince's consort, my lord Caineron's daughter."
"I had better meet her."
"Yes . . . yes, of course." This time he really cringed, as if a whip had been raised against him. "This way, lady."
He led her back up into the palace, away from the phantom corridor. Jame followed, glancing at him curiously. He had called her "lady." Was that just his cringing way, or had he actually sensed that she was pure Highborn? Marc never had. Perhaps some Kencyr were quicker to make the distinction than others—but was Graykin a Kencyr? Her own impression of him was curiously mixed.
They had come through quite a tangle of hallways when the young man stopped and scratched tentatively on a door. No answer. He opened it anyway and slipped furtively inside. Jame followed. She found herself in a lavish suite of rooms, all red and gold, plush and velvet. Rich carpets covered the floor; richer hangings, every inch of the walls. All showed exquisite craftsmanship except one, a stitchery portrait of a young, fair-haired, brown-eyed man, so clumsily done that it could only be the work of a Highborn. Under it, flames leaped in an ornate fireplace. The suite was hot and airless. There were, of course, no windows.
Graykin was hastily fishing bruised apples and battered cakes out of his pockets and piling them on a table. Jame wondered if he had provided the food in her room, too. Somehow, she didn't think so.
"Odalian?"
Graykin dropped an apple and bolted for the door. Too late. A girl stood silhouetted on the threshold of an inner room.
"Oh," she said, scornfully. "It's just you. Oh!"—in a different tone—"Food!"
She came quickly into the light, her long crimson skirt swirling. Above that was a broad gold belt, an embroidered bodice that looked painfully tight, full sleeves, gloves, and a mask. From her voice and the way she moved, Jame guessed that she was about fourteen. Then she saw Jame and stopped short.
"Oh! But you're dressed . . . I mean undressed . . . I mean . . . wait!"
Lyra darted back into the inner room and out again clutching a scrap of cloth that she thrust into Jame's hand. Jame stared at it, then shrugged and put it on. It was a mask.
"I would be honored if you would share bread with me," Lyra said formally.
It would have been impolite to demand her guest's name, and the Prince's consort clearly meant to be very correct indeed, despite her hunger. She cut an apple into precise pieces and offered each section to Jame first b
efore wolfing it down, bruises and all.
"Really, it's so awkward," she said. "Odalian should at least have remembered to keep a few servants and a cook on hand, but then he's so impetuous."
"Why did he order everyone to leave in the first place?"
Under her mask, Lyra seemed to frown. Direct questions apparently were impolite too, at least by Southron standards, but it wouldn't do to remind a guest of that. "I suppose he wants to lead out as large an army as possible when he goes to meet the Kencyr Host," she said rather vaguely.
Even palace maids and pastry cooks? "When does the army march?"
"Oh, I never bother with details. Gricki?"
"In six days, on the twentieth of Winter," the young man said from the shadows by the door where he had retreated, apparently in hopes of being overlooked. "Both the Host and the Horde are expected to reach Hurlen above the Cataracts around the thirtieth."
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