“Ailsa …” Tristan’s voice was pained. “What can I do? Why are you still here?” He was afraid he would trigger an outburst similar to the one he had witnessed the first time she had appeared to him, but he had to do what he could.
Her face crumpled into pale lines of pain. Tears welled in her eyes. “I miss my family,” she mourned. “I miss you, Tristan, and I miss my little Ivaar. Why isn’t he here anymore? Why did he leave me?” Her voice rose, and a note of hysteria crept into it. Her coloration flushed from pale blue and white to deep blue and silver. Anger replaced pain in her expression. “Why did you let him go? Why were you two always arguing?” Anguish shattered her face, and she sobbed, “What kind of wife and mother could rest through that?”
Tristan’s own features went pale with comprehension. “Ailsa …” he began, but she did not hear him. She buried her face in her translucent hands and sobbed, then slowly began to fade. Within a moment, she was gone.
Tristan sat for a long time, thinking about the nightmare his life had suddenly become. Then, determined, he went about preparing the tea Ailsa had suggested. He had a long night ahead of him, and he could do without the aching in his head. Tristan had a great deal of magical knowledge available to him. Somehow, he felt certain, there was a way to remove himself from Malken’s influence.
He would simply have to find it.
Sister Evania nearly stumbled as she fled down the stone steps that led from Sehkmaa’s temple. Her heart lurched into her throat, but she kept her balance, and her small, slippered feet continued hastening down, down toward the open streets of Kantora, and safety.
She had joined the cult of Sehkmaa almost as soon as word began to seep out about it, seeing in the new faith a chance to liberate herself from the shackles of poverty. And she had. Her feline familiar had become her best friend, and the brothers and sisters of the church had welcomed her with open arms. For the first time, plain, poor Evania belonged. Not only that, she had been granted power. She had been permitted to feed the honored Guardians of the temple, the great black plains cats who kept the temple safe from blasphemers. She had daringly stroked their sleek pelts, gazed into their green eyes, and known they were kin. Sehkmaa’s creed was kind and fair, and she had risen every day filled with gratitude that she had been chosen to serve the cat god.
But tonight, Brother Malken had held one of his “special meetings,” meetings that took place beneath the temple in the place he called Darkhaaven. Only a select few were permitted to attend, and Evania had been one of those few. There, filled first with disbelief and then with growing horror, she had learned what Sehkmaa really was.
Nothing.
The cult was a front for criminal activity so heinous Evania could only guess at the depths of its depravity. She tried to keep her breathing regular, to join with enthusiasm as the treacherous priests hailed Malken and his plans. Finally, unable to take any more, she claimed she needed to relieve herself and left. Alone, she ran up the stairs and fled into the cool night.
She had to tell someone, let Nova Vaasa know what kind of evil was being unleashed in the name of Sehkmaa. For a few wild moments, when pursuit did not immediately follow, Evania thought she had actually managed to escape.
The screaming cry of a plains cat told her otherwise. She jumped down the last few stairs, expecting at any moment to feel raking claws shredding her now-hated cloth-of-gold robe. Instead the great black cat landed in front of her and crouched, growling. Moonlight glittered on its eyes and teeth. It blocked the High Road.
Barely slacking her pace, Evania swerved to the right. Now the cat did give chase. Vision blurred by tears of sheer fright, Evania headed for the nearest shelter—the orphanage. She ran into the courtyard and threw herself on the door. The knob turned easily and Evania half-ran, half-fell inside. Whirling, she slammed the door closed and threw the bolt. The heavy wooden door shuddered as the cat slammed its body on it.
She almost whispered a prayer of thanks to Sehkmaa before she remembered. Turning around, she encountered the gaze of a dozen children who had been wakened by the confusion. She had to get them out, too, she realized. There was a secret door that led outside, out to freedom, and she would take as many as she could through.
“Come, little ones,” she gasped with strained cheer. “There’s been a mistake. You don’t belong here.”
One of them frowned. “But Sehkmaa says—”
“Honey, there is no Sehkmaa. That’s just a lie made up by Brother Malken. He’s a bad, bad man, and I’m going to take you someplace away from him.” She moved toward the girl standing in the foyer, but the child, puzzled and frightened, backed away.
From behind Evania came a loud crashing noise as the door splintered and gave way under the angry weight of the plains cat. More frightening to Evania than the beast lunging at her was the skinny form of Sister Rozalia frowning in the doorway.
The cat pinned Evania beneath it, but made no attempt to hurt her. “You have blasphemed, Sister Evania,” reprimanded Rozalia.
“You and Malken have blasphemed!” sobbed Evania, struggling against the smothering weight of the cat. “You lied! Sehkmaa is nothing!”
Rozalia shook her head sadly. “Poor Sister Evania. She has fallen, children, fallen from Sehkmaa’s grace. I’m afraid she’s quite mad.” Frightened, the children drew back farther from the writhing, weeping form of Evania. Several Claws came up the walk—large, muscular men in the robes of their order. The cat leapt smoothly off the prone body of the priestess, and the Claws wordlessly and none too gently seized Evania. She struggled, but was dragged into the cool night air. The children watched, round eyed.
“Go back to bed, children,” Rozalia told them.
“What’s going to happen to Sister Evania?” a little girl asked in a quivering voice.
“She’s going to be punished for her lack of faith,” said Rozalia simply. “As are all punished who deny the goodness of Sehkmaa.” She watched as the children, properly frightened, hastened back downstairs. When they had all gone, Rozalia hurried to Darkhaaven.
The Claws had already taken the hysterical Evania before Malken by the time Rozalia arrived. Malken’s mask was simple tonight—a plain black hood like that of an executioner. There were eyeholes and a slit for a mouth, through which Malken shoveled his food. “Take her to the cat cages,” Malken ordered, yet eating. “They’ll take care of her.”
Evania stared at him. Then she began to scream—a high, shrill, raw sound that made Rozalia wince. The woman still screamed as the Claws took her away. The sound grew fainter, but it seemed to Rozalia to take a long time before Evania’s cries finally faded.
Malken gestured. “Come, eat. You look famished.”
Rozalia wasn’t hungry at all, but she obediently came and slid into the velvet chair beside Malken. The second course was brought in—leek broth, roast duck with white wine sauce, the first delicate vegetables of summer. Malken dived in with gusto, eating with his fingers and only occasionally wiping his grease-stained mask with the fine linen napkin.
Rozalia merely picked at her food. She had once been a woman of great appetite—for food, finery, and men. Now nothing seemed able to please her palate, not even the savory meals served at Darkhaaven. She wore the ornate cloth-of-gold robes of the Claws of Sehkmaa because of her role, not because she enjoyed the beauty of the garb. This loss of delight in all things material bothered and hurt her. The only passion she could seem to feel these days was for magic and poisons and her strange, nonphysical lust for Malken and his power. She indulged these lusts to the fullest.
She could feel Malken’s sharp eye on her and forced herself to choke down a mouthful of the meltingly tender duck. He didn’t like it when she refused food, and she wished to please him. But her stomach did not want the nourishment, and she wondered how on earth she was going to make it through the entire meal. “Has Hollin Turndach kept his part of the bargain?”
He nodded, his mouth full.
“With the River Quarter
under control, the city is yours,” she commented, hoping both to please him and to divert attention from her lack of appetite.
Malken nodded again and swallowed. “The city, yes, and as it’s the capital, that’s the most important thing.”
“Are the Claws being received well in other cities?”
“I’ll have to take some time and travel, I suppose. Somehow, my personal presence makes taking sides much easier for people.” Rozalia smiled appreciatively. He turned his keen gaze on her directly. “The Vistani now are the only ones who truly stand in my way.”
Rozalia’s smile ebbed and she lowered her gaze.
“When you first joined me, you told me that you would be able to bring them in line.” His voice was cool, and he continued to eat, but there was a subtle menace in his tone.
Rozalia licked lips suddenly gone dry. “I had hoped to,” she confessed, “and I have tried. But no matter what I do, they deny my existence. Malken, it’s very hard to persuade people who don’t admit you exist!”
“Perhaps it is time I stepped in there, too. It’s obvious you won’t be able to help.” The reproach stung, and it frightened her as well. The only thing worse than being a foe of Malken’s was becoming an obsolete ally, and Rozalia knew it.
“I am—was of them,” she said hastily. “I can give you whatever background you need. Surely that will make your task easier!”
He smiled a little at the plea in her voice, but nodded agreement. “I should have done this earlier, but it is not too late now. Proceed.”
Over the next two hours, Rozalia was given a reprieve from the meal as she discussed everything she knew about her people to her new master. All of their vulnerabilities—though there were not many—their unexpected strengths, their magical skills; she poured it all into Malken’s eagerly listening ear. At last, she had finished. Her throat was tired from talking. “The one person who might be able to stop you is Terza. The old woman has great knowledge and great power, though she seldom bothers to use it.” Scorn was in the darkling’s voice at this last comment. “If she feels her people are threatened, she could be very dangerous.”
At this, Malken laughed aloud. “Silly fool,” he said, but it was said without real rancor. “An old woman is no match for me, be she ever so powerful. I’ll find a way, either around her or through her, to the Vistani.”
“But why even bother?” Rozalia’s voice was taut, excited. “Why not destroy them? That I can help you with. My poisons—”
“Are useless in getting what I’m after. My attitude toward the Vistani is like theirs toward the horses. You tame them, you don’t kill them. They help the country make money with the horses; no Vistani, no horses; no horses, no money; no money, no economy; no economy, no us. I’ve no use for a dead Vistana, Rozalia, not even you, so you needn’t worry. Nor shall you exact your vengeance on them, either. If even one little gypsy brat turns up poisoned, I’ll know where to look. And I’ll be very angry.”
Rozalia found she could not meet his gaze.
Terza sat by her fire. Although the night was pleasant, almost balmy, the warm summer evening could not penetrate the cold in her bones. She sipped at the hot tea with withered lips, not pausing to savor the flavor, but hastening to down the brew and uncover its secrets. When she had finished, she tipped the drained cup over onto a plate, turned it three times, and read the information the tea leaves gave her. When she finished, she sighed heavily and closed her single eye. Then, slowly, she rose and went into her vardo.
When she emerged a half hour later, hobbling into the main fire area of the camp, conversation stopped. She was wearing a red dress covered with gems that winked and sparkled in the light of the fires. Her hair was loose, flowing down over her back in a white wave. Terza leaned heavily on the staff with one hand and raised the other high in a commanding gesture.
“Tether the horses. Cage the animals. Then go to your vardos. Ornament yourselves with all manner of talismans to ward off evil. Light the candles; say prayers for protection this night. All of you who have the Calling, come to me now, for perhaps never in your lives will you be as tested as you shall be tonight.”
There was a murmuring of surprise and fear. The Vistani were not a people to doubt themselves, their skills, or their leader, and after a moment or two of shocked discussion, the gypsies did as Terza had instructed. Nearly a dozen women, from the tender age of ten to the late sixties, came to Terza. Their faces were carefully blank, revealing nothing of their fear as they awaited instructions.
Terza handed them each a bag containing finely ground powder. “Open it,” she told them. Obediently the Vistana women did so, and blinked back surprise. The powder inside glowed in the dark and seemed to pulse with its own energy.
“What is it?” Carmilla, aged twelve, wanted to know.
“Best not to ask, child,” came the reply. “Follow me, and do as I do.”
Over the next hour, Terza and her acolytes ringed the entire encampment with the radiant powder. When they had finished, Terza made an inspection by lamplight, checking to see if there were any breaks in the line. There were a few, and these she carefully mended with the end of her staff. In addition to the glowing powder, Terza sprinkled generous amounts of strongly scented herbs. When the women returned from their task, they found the rest of the tribe seated expectantly. Amulets of all sorts adorned their throats, wrists, and ankles. They were prepared for the event foretold by their leader.
They didn’t have long to wait.
When the moon reached its zenith, the night air was filled with the cries of plains cats on the hunt. But so many of them—and so close! Terza glanced at Orlan and some of the other men. The urge to fight was always near the surface in the men of the tribe. They had been asked to stifle that urge, and they were obeying, but she could see by their taut postures that they disliked sitting and waiting for the predators to descend upon them.
“Peace,” she said, chuckling a little even at so tense a moment. “Spears would do little against these beasts. One must fight magic with magic. There will be a time for your weapons tonight, but that time is not now.”
The ghastly sounds came closer, until Terza heard little Carmilla at her side gasp with fear. The gypsy leader’s sight was not as keen as the child’s, but in another minute the black shapes and glowing eyes of several dozen plains cats were clear even to her dimming sight. She breathed a prayer. Not even she had expected quite so many. The Cat must have called all the beasts at his disposal to this attack tonight. That meant that he was not prepared to fail. Terza gripped her staff a little more tightly and murmured, “Come out from the shadows, then.”
As if in answer, several cats charged the encampment. Their initial burst of speed slowed and then halted as the pungent aromas of the herbs reached their noses. Some sneezed. Others pawed at their muzzles. All of them appeared confused and tense, bursting into quick charges, then veering off and slowing again. A few voiced their vexation; the sound, only a few feet away, turned warm blood to ice.
Suddenly the ones closest to the invisible ring cocked their heads, as if listening. One, cowed but still coming, crept with obvious reluctance toward the circle. From the corner of her eye, Terza saw Orlan lift a spear. She knew what a tempting target the plains cat presented, but cried out, “Do not strike, Orlan! Any attack from within will dissolve the circle of protection!” Orlan lowered his weapon.
The cat extended a great black paw and tentatively patted at the glowing powder. A sudden crack exploded into the night, and a brilliant flash of blue light nearly blinded the watchers. The cat, snarling in surprise, leapt backward nearly three yards and began licking its hurt paw. Its fellows avoided the wounded animal, and backed away from the circle.
There came from the nightscape a noise. It sounded like a voice, but not quite human, uttering words that were not clear. The cats heard, and the sound pained them. Slowly, as if forced, they edged toward the gypsies in the circle again, their limbs moving with the slow, mechanical gr
acelessness of puppets.
Terza spoke. “When the cats break the circle that protects the encampment, then you may attack them—but not before.”
Carmilla and some of the other girls, who had been ordered to keep away from the glowing barrier, glanced up at the tribe’s grandmama. Terza was obviously prepared to fight, but her actual moves confused them. Instead of grasping her staff or chanting an incantation, Terza let the rod fall to the earth. One bony hand went to the collar of her dress. Then, to Carmilla’s complete bafflement, the old woman pulled off the garb in one swift motion and stood naked before her clan. Nothing in her stance or her expression seemed vulnerable.
That instant, three of the plains cats leapt through the invisible barrier. The air exploded with sounds, and three bright blue flashes illuminated the night. The gypsies screamed as the sleek black beasts converged on the naked, seemingly defenseless Terza. One died almost immediately, pierced to the heart by the sure strike of Orlan’s spear. The others, ignoring their fallen comrade and the patent danger, leapt for Terza.
Except, thought Carmilla as fear shot through her, Terza wasn’t there anymore.
Where the elderly Vistana matron had been was an enormous brown, shaggy mass. The creature rose to its full height, over ten feet tall, and roared its own challenge. The brown bear’s right eye was covered by a mass of scars. When the two plains cats landed on her simultaneously, the werebear fought back with a viciousness and intelligence the cats lacked. A single blow from a powerful forepaw snapped one cat’s neck instantly. The dead animal plummeted to the earth, legs splaying. Terza hugged the second one to her in an ironically affectionate gesture, crushing the life out of the yowling beast. Its claws could not penetrate the dense hair and hide, and Terza’s neck was far too thick for the cat to bite her jugular. There came a snapping pop, then Terza dropped this one, too, to the ground.
The Enemy Within Page 17
