The Enemy Within

by Christie Golden

  “Oh, but I want you to take a message to Mayor Laars for me,” protested Malken, rising and walking toward Cueth.

  Sweat beaded the youth’s brow as he stared at the cat. It was still growling. He could tell by the way the creature’s ribs showed clearly through its coat that Malken kept it hungry. “Sure,” he said, his voice quivering. “Sure, I’ll take a message to Papa for you. What is it?”

  “Only this,” hissed Malken as he brought his dagger slashing down.

  Avarill 19th: Thrice have I ventured into the streets of Kantora in search of the killer; thrice have my efforts come to naught. The first time, Avarill 14th, strange actions by the cats of the streets, including a plains cat, thwarted our attempts to learn anything. Sigfrid and Sergeant Valdisdottir were injured, but are recovering. The second time, Avarill 17th, the evening passed without incident. Last night, too, was quiet. Sigfrid expressed hope that the murders might have stopped, but I somehow do not agree.

  Perhaps the killer knows we are laying traps for him. Could there be someone who is not altogether on our side? The Vistana warned me of a traitor, but only now do I have cause to wonder if the prophecy has come to pass. Perhaps, horrible though it is for me to think it, the killer is indeed my son. Or perhaps—and what gods there be forgive me—but perhaps the traitor is the other one who knows when the traps are being laid … the one who accompanies me on my trips.…

  That is a path down which I am loath to tread.

  Tristan stretched and yawned. He was so tired these days. He slept well enough, he supposed, for he never awoke, and his sleep even seemed to be untroubled by dreams. Yet he did not feel rested when he rose. Perhaps he ought to concoct a sleeping draft.

  A sharp knock on the door broke his reverie. “Come.” Guillaume entered, and his face was as agitated as Tristan had ever seen it. “What’s happened?”

  “Sir, I regret—that is—” With a visible effort, the valet calmed himself. “The young master is gone, sir. I found this pinned to his pillow when I went to awaken him this morning. The room—it seems he did some damage to it before he left.”

  Tristan felt cold inside. His hand trembled as he reached for the note his son had left him. He smoothed it out on the desk and read.

  Father:

  The differences between us have become too great. A light has at last shone in my life, and I must follow it. Sehkmaa calls, and I go.

  Ivaar

  Tristan was stunned. He and Ivaar had clashed on a few things, certainly, but he had never dreamed his son would flee in the night like a coward. Emotion threatened to overcome him, and he gestured to Guillaume. Discreetly, the servant left the parent alone with his pain.

  Anger warred with grief. Who was Sehkmaa? Why had Ivaar not talked to him? He stormed back and forth across the room, his hands clenching into fists even as tears filled his eyes. Luath remained under the bed, watching his master with apprehensive brown eyes. When he had calmed himself somewhat, Tristan splashed water on his face and left.

  Still, Luath did not emerge from his place of safety. The hound watched, shivering, as a candle on Tristan’s writing desk sparked to flickering life. The flame burned blue. The candle rose from its holder and hovered in the air.

  Luath began to whimper.

  Ivaar’s letter, too, slowly levitated, floating until one corner brushed the blue flame. The parchment ignited, flared, and burned. The fiery paper fluttered to the desk, curling and blackening, until all that remained were bits of charred parchment.

  The candle went out. Luath crooned in the back of his throat, a sound of fear and bafflement.

  Tristan had gone to his magical chambers in search of answers. He now sat before the enchanted mirror, staring into a placid reflection of his strained visage and puffy eyes. He had, with a certain spell, been able to clear it of the strange fog, but the mirror seemed damaged by the incident. What divinations it did reveal were accurate, but it seemed to have a will of its own in what it chose to impart.

  Though Tristan had hitherto respected his son’s privacy, he now was worried for Ivaar. “Show me Ivaar Hiregaard,” he told the mirror. Obligingly, the surface of the mirror shimmered and reformed.

  Ivaar was riding to Kantora. He looked happier than Tristan had ever seen him. The knight let out a quavering breath. At least the boy was well. He thought about watching Ivaar until he stopped, then sending men to bring him home, but there was little point in that. While Tristan would rest easier with Ivaar safely under his roof, Ivaar was certainly old enough to decide where he wished to live.

  He gave the mirror another instruction. “Show me Sehkmaa.” The mirror began to darken to gray, and to Tristan’s annoyance the fog reappeared on its reflective surface. He swore. “Clear,” he ordered. The fog dissipated like steam from an ordinary mirror. Obviously, he did not have enough knowledge about Sehkmaa—whoever he or she was—for the mirror to function. It also would not respond to questions Tristan had put to it about the killer, stubbornly refusing to do anything but reflect its surroundings.

  He sighed and rubbed his temples. His head hurt, and he decided not to risk using the mirror anymore today. He would pursue answers in a more mundane fashion—by talking to those in a position to know.

  Three hours later, he met Sigfrid at his headquarters, located in the Horse District. The room spoke of professionalism; everything here was neatly organized, if by necessity impersonal. This had once been Tristan’s office, and little had changed. Tristan recognized the heavy oak furnishings and thick, drab rug that helped cut the chill of the stone building in the cooler months. The walls were decorated with various plaques and honors awarded to the city guards. One new furnishing was the giant map that covered nearly one whole wall. Tristan walked up and studied it. It was a detailed map of the city of Kantora.

  “Good job, Sigfrid.”

  “Thank you.”

  “What’s the code?” the knight asked, referring to the colored marks on the map.

  Sigfrid stepped beside him, pointing as he spoke. “The red marks are the three unsolved murders. The green dots are the guard stations, and the yellow circles—well, that’s something else I’m working on. Could be related, could be something else entirely.”

  “Tell me.”

  Sigfrid shrugged and obliged. “We’ve been getting reports of vandalism over the last few days. Nothing serious, just a single phrase that keeps recurring: ‘Sehkmaa has come.’ Nobody knows what Sehkmaa is. I think it may be related to the murders. Perhaps the killings have gotten people so frightened that they think the end of the world is at hand.”

  Tristan turned away so that Sigfrid wouldn’t see his face. The perceptive young man knew something was wrong, though. “Do you know anything about this?”

  Still keeping his face averted, Tristan said, “Ivaar left home this morning. He left a note—something about Sehkmaa calling him. I came to ask you, but …” His voice trailed off.

  “Tris, I’m sorry. I don’t know anything more than what I’ve told you. I’ll make it a priority, and if I find out anything else, I’ll let you know at once.”

  “Thank you, Sig.” It isn’t much, thought Tristan, but it will have to do. As he turned to leave, he nearly ran into Sigfrid’s secretary. The youth, all of eighteen, saluted smartly. Tristan returned the gesture.

  “Captain, Mayor Laars wishes to see you.”

  Sigfrid and Tristan exchanged glances. “Show him in.” The young man saluted and left. A moment later, the mayor of Kantora was ushered in.

  He looked terrible. Though Kethmaar’s death had aged him, as had the trouble with the signature killer and the plains cats, Laars now looked worse than ever. His skin was an unhealthy gray hue, as if something had drained the life from him. He seemed startled to see Tristan. “I thought Captain Skolsson was alone.…”

  “I was just leaving,” replied Tristan. He hesitated, then said gently, “Are you all right? Do you feel well?”

  The mayor grew even paler, and he avoided Tristan’s e
yes. “We had some problems with … with Cueth. Misbehaving, you know. We sent him off to live with his uncle in Arbora, but it’s been hard on his mother—and on me. You understand.”

  Tristan did, more than Laars could know.

  “Stay, Tris, you’ll hear this sooner or later.” Laars hesitated, steeling himself for what he was about to say. “I want you to call off the search for the killer.”

  “What?” shouted Tristan. Sigfrid’s eyebrows shot up in astonishment as Tristan blurted, “You can’t be serious!”

  “I am.” The mayor’s voice was hard. “That’s one great lot of manpower you have on the case, and with Othmar’s birthday celebration coming up you’ll need to reassign them anyway.”

  “But, sir, the killer—” began Sigfrid.

  “Has hitherto confined himself to barmaids and prostitutes. Those damn cats are the real problem. They’ll attack anyone. Put your men on that, Captain Skolsson.” Color had returned to his face, turning it crimson. A blood vessel began to beat in his forehead. “As mayor of Kantora, I have a right to dictate how our city militia is to be used. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Sigfrid.

  Laars glanced over at Tristan. “Sorry, Tris, but it’s not as if all this effort is even doing any good. You’ve turned up nothing on this man.”

  “You’re right,” said Tristan coolly. “I understand your position.”

  The color began to ebb from Laars’s face. He even managed a faint smile. Nodding, he left.

  With a precise snap suitable for a military parade, Sigfrid turned to Tristan and brought his hand up in a stiff salute. “Commander Hiregaard, sir!”

  “Yes, captain?”

  “Request permission to ignore order of civilian mayor, sir!”

  A smile tugged at Tristan’s lips. He’d been about to suggest that same course of action. As captain of the guard, Tristan could overrule any civilian order or restriction. “Request granted—provided the order is ignored with discretion.”

  Sigfrid dropped the salute and the formal stance. He and Tristan exchanged the barest of smiles. Tristan’s faded, however, as the full impact of what had just happened settled upon him.

  Osric Laars was hiding something.

  The sign that hung outside the Unicorn’s Horn was as old and weatherworn as the inn itself. The unicorn that posed tiredly on the sign looked more like a weary nag than an eternally beautiful beast of magic. The colors, no doubt, had once been bright, but time and lack of care had faded them until they were only ghosts of their former hues.

  Ivaar regarded the sign dolefully. He eased the door open and went from bright sunlight into murky darkness. Little light filtered through the filthy windows, but he could see that a few patrons were here this late afternoon. As his eyes adjusted to the semidark, he saw who the customers were. His heart lifted, and he tried to seem casual as he walked over toward them.

  The other Lights were seated in a corner, huddled in their cloaks to avoid being recognized. Their faces radiated the relief that Ivaar knew must be on his own visage. “Where’s Cueth?” asked Ivaar.

  “Mayor Laars said he sent him to visit relatives in Arbora. I think he just didn’t have the courage to go through with it,” Raphael answered in a superior tone.

  Five days had gone by since Brother Malken and Sister Rozalia had come to the secret meeting of the Lights of Liberty. As Malken had promised, Rozalia had contacted each of them since then. She had asked those who felt they had a true calling to meet her after dark at the Unicorn’s Horn. Malken would induct those who had the courage to brave the rite of initiation into the priesthood of Sehkmaa. They were to leave notes so that their families would not worry.

  “Are you frightened?” asked Theogar of Ivaar. Theogar was a big, burly youth with blunt, open features and thick black hair.

  Ivaar licked his lips. “Of course not,” he lied.

  “Do you know what he’s going to do?” asked Raphael.

  Ivaar shook his head. “You know what Sister Rozalia told us. Sehkmaa’s rites are secret. We’ll just have to see.”

  They ordered ale to pass the afternoon and food and wine to while away the early evening. By the time Rozalia came for them, her Vistana heritage veiled by a rich velvet cloak and a concealing hood, six of the seven young men were thoroughly drunk. Even Theogar, who was built on a large scale, was tipsy.

  “Come,” was all Rozalia said. Her large dark eyes pierced them through the shadow of her hood, and suddenly each youth felt much more sober.

  They followed her out of the Unicorn’s Horn into the cool night. Ivaar clutched his cloak closely about his slim frame and tried to walk without stumbling. He had never been in this part of town at night, and he did not like it at all. Far fewer lamps chased back shadows on these streets than elsewhere in Kantora. There was a stench of refuse that was absent from the better part of the city. Ivaar felt vulnerable in the pressing darkness, but the local folk seemed not to share his sentiments. The numerous people that passed close to him smelled, and more than a few surveyed him with what seemed to Ivaar to be predatory intent. Once he felt nimble fingers searching for a pouch. He instinctively jerked backward, colliding with Raphael, and the would-be thief was swallowed up by the night. A quick glance at his companions told Ivaar that they, too, felt out of their depth here in the Trade Quarter.

  Rozalia glided smoothly ahead, untroubled by the human wreckage that lay strewn about. Once, she glanced back and observed Ivaar’s expression. “I can see you wonder how best to remedy this sad situation once you have the power of Sehkmaa in hand.”

  Ivaar was grateful that the darkness hid his flush of embarrassment. He had been thinking no such thing. His mind had been on keeping his purse out of a robber’s hand and wishing he hadn’t left Faerhaaven. “Yes, of course,” he stammered.

  The breeze shifted, and the young men began to cough. Raphael struggled to keep his supper. The new scent assaulting their noses was not waste, but blood and decay. Ivaar needed no map to know Rozalia was taking them down Butcher Street. But why?

  “Cats need meat,” said Rozalia simply. Without warning, she turned to the left and headed into a large building. The stench sharpened, and Ivaar realized with horror that the Vistana priestess was leading the seven young men into a slaughtering yard.

  Back straight as an arrow, Rozalia led them past the pens in which the cattle were killed and butchered. The smell of blood and earth was almost overpowering. She continued to a small barn and pulled open one of the large double doors. “Enter,” she ordered.

  The barn was lit with an eerie red glow that seemed to come from nowhere. The straw beneath Ivaar’s feet was moldering and dark with blood. Two trenches, nearly filled with the crimson fluid, lined the sides of the building. Above the trenches were huge, bloodstained metal hooks from which the slaughtered carcasses were usually suspended. Now, however, the metal hooks were ominously empty, and they glinted in the scarlet glow.

  Behind him, Ivaar heard Theogar gasp. “Are those for us?” the young man whimpered, fear raising his voice an octave. “Ivaar, what are we—”

  “Quiet!” snapped Ivaar, as much to hide his own growing panic as to smother Theogar’s. “We’re Sehkmaa’s priests, not his sacrifices.” As soon as the words left his lips, he regretted them. He should never have put the idea of sacrifice into Theogar’s head. Now Theogar’s eyes grew even larger, and he began to physically tremble.

  “I have brought them, my brother!” cried Rozalia, flinging her cloak away. “Let the rite begin!”

  The Lights turned their attention to the far wall. There, splendid in his raiment of glittering gold cloth and jewels, stood Malken. He perched on a huge stone slab, and when he moved to leap down to the earth, Ivaar saw that the slab was dark in places with large stains. This was where the animals, having been killed, were cut up into salable pieces. His words about sacrifices hammered in his own ears, but he fought the fear. Disbelievers had no place in Sehkmaa’s clergy.

  A
low groan of dread escaped Theogar. Rozalia’s hand closed on his shoulder.

  “Turn now from Sehkmaa, and you die,” she whispered.

  But Theogar was beyond heeding such warnings. Trying to move his bulky frame with a speed for which it had not been designed, Theogar raced for the door.

  “Stop the blasphemer!” cried Malken, clapping his hands sharply. Four plains cats emerged from the shadows where they had been camouflaged. They were on Theogar before he had gone three yards. Theogar, still crying out harshly, went down under a pile of sleek black fur. Ivaar heard himself crying out, but before he could move, even think, Rozalia had turned him around to face Malken.

  “Will you come, Children of Sehkmaa, or will you, too, face the righteous sentence of the Guardians?”

  As it had before, Malken’s voice could not be disobeyed. The six remaining youths walked forward with dazed expressions on their faces and stood beside the blood-drenched altar. Theogar wasn’t worthy, but they were.

  Malken’s voice sounded right in Ivaar’s ear, although the priest was many feet away. “Come to me, come to Sehkmaa.”

  The fear receded a little, like a winter chill before a blazing fire. That voice warmed and reassured, and the tension that had cramped Ivaar’s chest lessened. He took a step forward, then another and another, until at last he stood before Malken.

  Malken smiled and placed his hands on Ivaar’s shoulders. The young man trembled, and the green eyes he turned to Malken were huge and dilated. Rozalia walked up behind him, and she and Malken began to remove Ivaar’s clothing. Too enraptured to be embarrassed by his nakedness, Ivaar stood like a small child and let himself be disrobed.

  “Lie on the altar,” said the soothing voice. Ivaar swallowed hard. Shivering uncontrollably, he clambered onto the cold stone slab. Warm skin recoiled from the touch of cold stone and still-sticky cow’s blood, but Ivaar forced himself to continue. At last, he was lying down, the achingly cold stone against his bare flesh.