Roakh leading, Menduarthis following, they entered the palace of Kunin Gatar.
Inside the palace, the cold pressed in, making the air heavy. As the light, dim as it was, of the outside world faded, the darkness took them. Menduarthis stepped beside Hweilan, took her arm, and led her onward. The stairs were shallow and widely spaced. Even in the dark Hweilan had no trouble despite their gentle curve. The only sounds were their footsteps, their breathing, and the frost of Hweilan’s breath whispering to the ground in a fine frost.
“Can we not have some light, Roakh?” said Menduarthis.
In front of her, a raven cawed, followed by the flap of wings. Instinctively, Hweilan squeezed her eyes shut. But the bird was moving away.
She opened her eyes and could see. Set along the wall at every dozen paces or so were misshapen pillars, black as onyx but gleaming as if wet. From the top, a sort of waterfall of frost and fog, its stream no wider than her hand, fell away into a basin. The frost and fog glowed with blue light, dimmer than lamplight, but the walls seemed made entirely of ice, and they caught the glow and reflected it back a thousand times.
The stairway ended a dozen steps above them. They stepped onto a landing, broader than a tourney field. It was lit in the same manner as the stairway. Hweilan could not see the ceiling. The walls went up and up until they were swallowed by darkness. Many doorways lined the walls. Some led into halls, others to stairs leading down. But to their left, a passage opened large enough for a parade, and more steps led up.
“That is our way,” said Menduarthis.
From the stairway came a raucous cry. Hweilan could not tell if it was the caw of a raven or words. “Come! Come! Come!” A bit of both, she decided.
The wide stairs straightened for a while, then wound back and forth, passing more landings lit by the little falls of glowing frost. Not even a candle burned in the entire palace, much less torches or lamps. It was entirely bereft of flame and warmth, and as near as Hweilan could tell, she, Menduarthis, and Roakh were the only living things in the palace.
They passed through an arch, and the wall to their right disappeared into nothingness. The stair clung to the wall of a huge chamber of ice. It was about as far across as the inner bailey of Highwatch, but the drop …
Fifty or sixty feet down, the light failed. It might well have been bottomless. And there was no rail. One wrong step …
Looking up, the walls of the chamber glowed cold blue, lit by more of the little falls of frost. Hweilan could see that the stairs ended at a landing some hundred feet or more above them on the opposite wall of the chamber.
“Almost there,” said Menduarthis.
They kept going, and when Hweilan heard the flutter of wings, she looked up. A raven was flying back and forth across the chamber. It dipped close a few times, then flapped up to the landing.
When they reached it, Roakh was sitting upon the top step, elbows on his knees, chin on his crossed arms. When his eyes were level with Hweilan’s, he said, “You never answered my question.”
She stopped a few steps beneath him. “Which question was that?”
“You say you are from Highwatch,” he said. “Highwatch founded by Damarans, populated by Nar, a few score of dwarves, and whatever draped-in-rags wanderers find a place to feather a nest. Yet your name, Hweilan, is neither Damaran nor Nar. So are you one of the draped-in-rags wanderers? Or was it your mother, buying a warm bed by sharing it?”
Hweilan lunged at him, one fist cocked back.
Menduarthis caught her wrist before she could pummel him.
“Oh, I like this one!” said Roakh. He hopped to his feet and backed out of Hweilan’s reach. “She’ll do well, I think. A pity? A grace? Could be either, ‘specially in this place.”
Hweilan jerked her arm out of Menduarthis’s grip and glared at him.
“Roakh asks a discourteous question,” said Menduarthis. “Don’t give him a discourteous answer. That can only harm you here.”
Hweilan held her glare a moment more, grinding her teeth, then she looked back at Roakh and said, “My father was Damaran. My mother was not. I was given a name of my mother’s people.”
Roakh smiled, showing his sharp teeth. “And those would be …?”
“Vil Adanrath.”
All glee melted from Roakh’s eyes. When his smile returned, it was pure malice. “Well,” he said. “Looks like we know which way this is going to go after all.”
“What do you mean?”
Roakh looked at Menduarthis. “You can see to things from here?”
“Yes,” said Menduarthis. He sounded subdued, like a man who had just gotten back to his feet after a strong punch to the gut. “Where are you going?”
“To work up an appetite,” said Roakh. He ran to the ledge and jumped. He fell out of sight, but a moment later a black raven rose through the air. It circled the chamber a few times, cawing raucously, then dived into the darkness.
The hall was wide enough for several wagons, but the ceiling low enough that Menduarthis probably could have reached up and trailed his fingers along it as they walked. It gave their footfalls an odd echo.
The hall was unlit, but Hweilan could see light not too far ahead. She walked beside Menduarthis rather than letting him lead.
They emerged into a domed room. The floor was black and smooth as the bottom of a deep well. The ice walls curved around, and they held inside them ancient trees, their trunks and branches black and hard. Only a slight curve of the trunks protruded from the walls, but their bare branches spread out into a low ceiling, and cold white globes of light dangled from their clawlike branches. They gave off no heat, so Hweilan assumed they were lit by magic. Their glow reflected off the flawless blackness of the floor, giving Hweilan the sense of walking on the night sky.
Across from Hweilan and Menduarthis, two of the trees framed tall double doors, which seemed to have been crafted from the same wood as the trees. To the right of the door, a pale figure hung from the branches of one of the trees.
“Lendri!”
Hweilan ran to him, and Menduarthis did nothing to stop her.
Lendri had been stripped naked. Cuts, welts, and bruises covered his face, legs, and torso. Ugly blue bruises covered his forearms like fresh tattoos where he had obviously tried to ward off blows. Dozens of black cords bound his upper arms. The other ends had been tied to the limb so that he hung like some lifeless puppet. He could have stood if he tried, but he hung limp, his knees bent beneath him, and for one moment Hweilan was sure he was dead.
She fell to her knees in front of him and lifted his face in both her hands. Through her gloves, she couldn’t feel for warmth, but she could see that his skin tone, abnormally pale to begin with, had taken on a sickly, grayish cast. Something had taken a few small bites out of his left cheek. A raven’s beak. Roakh’s beak. Her stomach turned.
Lendri’s eyes beneath the lids had sunk into his skull. She shook him and whispered his name.
His eyelids fluttered open. He licked his lips and tried to say something, but all that came out was a soft rasp.
She looked over her shoulder to Menduarthis, who stood a few paces away, arms crossed over his chest and looking down on them. Given what little he’d told her about Lendri, she expected to see disapproval on his features. But instead his face was a stone mask. Only the slight softening around his eyes told her that he was masking profound disapproval.
“Do you have anything for him to drink?” said Hweilan.
Menduarthis shook his head. “No. And even if I did, I wouldn’t give it to him. His fate is up to the queen now.”
Hweilan looked back to Lendri. Something nagged in the back of her mind. “His skin.”
Before, tattoos had covered Lendri, most old with age. Every bit of skin she’d seen had been decorated in some sort of design, with scars overlapping many of them. They were gone now, his pale skin decorated only by the rents caused by the thorns.
“Flayed off him,” said Menduarthis, “then grown
back by Kunin Qatar’s healers.”
“That’s monstrous!”
“It is,” said Menduarthis. “But unless you’d like that confirmed firsthand, we need to be out of here.” “Can we do nothing for him?”
“I don’t know about we. But my counsel to you is the same as it was before. Be strong. Don’t cower. Tell the truth. You won’t be any help to anyone if you end up there beside him.”
She turned back to Lendri and bent down so that she looked him in the eye. “I’ll do what I can for you. I promise.”
She stood and turned away. Menduarthis spared Lendri a final glance, shook his head, then led Hweilan over to the double doors. She could see no handles, and the crack between them would not have fit a razor.
“Is there no one to announce our presence?” Hweilan asked.
“She knows we’re here,” Menduarthis whispered.
The doors flew open toward them, pushed by a gust of frigid wind. The branches of the trees caught them, like the hands of eager attendants.
The wind swirled around the room in a furious vortex. Beyond the open doorway, all Hweilan could see was impenetrable white, like the heart of a blizzard.
She tried to back away, but the air seemed to solidify and push them both forward. Hweilan forced her legs to move, fearing that if she didn’t the gale would simply bowl her over and shove her along like a dry leaf across a snowfield. They staggered through the doors, and in the great rush of wind, Hweilan thought she could hear a cold, feminine laughter.
The doors slammed shut behind them, and the fierceness of the wind began to abate. The whiteness surrounding them flowed and swirled in a hundred streams, condensing more and more tightly, until they joined into a single cyclone
In an instant, it stopped. Snow and frost fell to the ground with a million tiny rattles.
Hweilan found herself in a wide room, with walls made of towering columns of ice in every shade of blue. They gave off a faint light.
Before them, no more than five paces away, Queen Kunin Gatar stood in the midst of the last of the snowfall. Hweilan gasped at the sight of her.
She’d expected a woman of her mother’s age at the least, perhaps even her grandmother’s. But the woman looking down upon her seemed scarcely past girlhood, her pale skin flawless, her hair swept back off her high forehead. Tight braids so black that the light reflecting off them shone blue were tucked behind high, pointed ears, and a hundred tiny diamonds—or perhaps they were bits of ice—sparkled in her hair. The queen’s eyes were a blue so pale that the color simply seemed to fade into the whiteness beyond—and like Menduarthis’s, they had no pupils. The fabric of her gown was gossamer fine, and the long strands of cloth dangling from her bodice and sleeves rippled and flowed in the eddying air currents of the room.
“Well met,” said Kunin Gatar. Her voice was light but had a hoarse edge, like new snow blown over hard frost.
“W-well met, my lady.”
“My lady?” the corner of the queen’s mouth curled up in a sardonic grin. “Not yet. But we shall see.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE SCOUTS HAVE RETURNED, MY LORD,” SAID Argalath. “The Gap is passable. Not easy, mind you, but passable. Our forces should depart within four days, as planned.”
“They will be ready,” said Guric.
Guric looked up at the archway in front of him. Dwarvish runes ran from the floor, over the curve of the arch, and down again. The splintered remains of the oak door still littered the floor inside the archway. Guric could count on one hand the number of times he’d been down in the parts of the fortress where the dwarves made their homes—and he had never been down this deep.
“But,” Guric continued, “we’re not leaving Highwatch before I see Valia alive again. You must complete the rite.”
“My lord,” said Argalath, “it is possible that the girl might be returned to us within four days.” A moment’s silence, then, “But she might not.”
“You heard me, counselor. I won’t leave Highwatch until this is done.”
“Forgive me, my lord, but you must. To solidify your rule here, those houses sympathetic to Vandalar must be subdued before they have the chance to rally. And you must show your strength to the king. To allow our enemies to array against us—”
“I didn’t do this to be king,” said Guric, and he had to press down the urge to shove Argalath into the stone wall, again and again until he heard bones crack. “I did this for her. Without her, none of the rest matters.”
“Valia will be restored to you. But unless we secure your rule here, you may find yourself branded an outlaw by summer. What kind of life will you be able to give her then?”
“I don’t care how much faith you place in your acolytes. Jatara has already failed us. I won’t leave Valia’s fate in the hands of those savages.”
“Of course not, my lord. You must lead your army into Damara, but I will stay here to finish the rite. Once Valia is alive—”
“That was not the plan!” Guric stopped walking and faced Argalath.
His plan had been simple in its brilliance. Secure Highwatch, then lead his forces through the Gap to Damara. Ride up to a city or fort with an army at his back, then come forward under flag of truce to discuss terms, with Argalath and his guard as escorts. When the city’s delegation came out under flag of truce, Argalath would use his spellscar to kill all but one of them. The conniving fops would simply topple dead from their horses. Guric would then smile and inform the lone survivor that if the city surrendered and swore loyalty to him, everyone would be spared. But any who resisted would be instantly killed, just like these poor fellows.
Absurd, of course. Argalath’s spellscar actually held very little power. Using it, he could move objects with his mind. But only very small objects. Anything much larger than a flagon pained him. Put wine in the flagon and it could leave him bedridden and blind for days. But he had discovered something about the human body. A blood vessel below the brain was far, far smaller than a flagon—and much more flexible. Squeeze it shut, and a man would fall senseless in moments. Keep it closed and he would soon be quite dead. A simple trick. It took very little power. But power carefully applied could prove deadly. Still, using it against even a half-dozen people at once tired him greatly. The threat of using it against an entire populace … impossible. Argalath would be hard-pressed to use it against twenty people at once, and never at a great distance. Afterward, he might well be blind for days, and scarcely able to move. But the good people of Damara did not know that. Reality and perception were two different things. As long as their ruse remained a secret—and none knew beyond Guric and Argalath’s bodyguards—it gave his counselor a dreaded reputation. One they hoped to use to subdue Guric’s enemies with very little bloodshed.
Guric wouldn’t begin with the great castles or larger cities, of course, which were likely to have several wizards among their defenders. He’d take the smaller, outlying places at first. Those forts that surrendered would be left in peace—provided that their soldiers joined Guric’s army. Those who refused … well, Argalath had other gifts besides his spellscar, and their strategy assured that the first forts they attacked could be taken with Guric’s army if necessary.
The conquered would first serve him out of fear, but soon out of love. He would rule with justice and a fair hand. He would free them from the oppressive incompetence of Yarin Frostmantle and make Damara the jewel of the north, Valia by his side.
But without Argalath, it would be bloody battle after bloody battle. Guric would not be seen as a proud liberator. He’d be loathed more than Frostmantle. And if the Damarans did manage to rally quickly—not likely, but not impossible—his plan might fail altogether. If it failed, Guric could probably still lick the proper boot heels, and if fortune favored him he might come out as the new Duke of Highwatch. But Guric was done licking boots to get what he wanted.
“Our plan is secure, my lord,” said Argalath. “Though I fear we must make one small change.”
<
br /> “What change?”
Enough of Argalath’s face showed within his hood that Guric saw his smile. “Follow me, my lord.”
They passed through an archway, decorated with dwarven runes. Beyond, the halls became rougher, their walls only minimally worked stone, save for the occasional rune etched into a wall or burned into a wood beam. But Guric and Argalath had left even those behind some time ago, passing through tunnels of round stone where Guric had to walk hunched over, holding the torch well away from him. No matter how he held it, the oily fumes seemed to gather around his head, as they walked into a natural cave, carved by time and water rather than hands. It was narrow, but high enough that Guric could walk upright again, and sometimes the roof rose out of reach of the torchlight. The air felt close and damp.
The tunnel spread into a large chamber, points of stone dripping water from a high ceiling, and warped mounds of age-old rock, wet with condensation, reflecting Guric’s torchlight into a thousand motes of light. A path snaked its away among the rocks, and when Guric looked down he saw that it was not gravel on which he trod, but the dust from precious stones—rubies, emeralds, sapphires, diamonds, and bloodstone. They were walking on the treasure of a dozen lords.
The path ended at a stone arch set amid the opposite wall. Hundreds of runes and images decorated the cut stones of the arch support, and on either side were two statues, each twice his own height. Their bodies were stout, their hands large. Guric thought they might have once been dwarves, but their features had been defaced, the stone hacked away, and newer runes painted in a dark substance covered them. Guric could read none of them, but he recognized the style of these new runes from some of Argalath’s rites in which he had taken part.
The Fall of Highwatch Page 16
