If only the dwarf next to her could hold still, too.
“Er now, Lady,” Cephas rumbled gently as he sat next to her on a long bench. Cephas’s legs swung freely, a good half foot short of the floor. “Relaxed be ye. Cephas great audience with Lord soon er is. Right again soon all be.”
Berkita looked down at herself. Her traveling dress was dirty and stained at the hem, and there was a large tear under one arm that she had not had time nor the thread to mend. She knew even without a glass that she was far from being presentable before the Lord Inquisitor of all the Pir. “Cephas, I don’t know if I can go in! We’re in the courts of Vasska himself, and I wouldn’t be presentable at a mud carnival in this dress.”
“Er! What talk be this is?” The dwarf stuck his hat firmly back on his head, a sign of assertiveness. “Pretty enough for our need er is! High Lord Inquisitor fancy be but dull metal next to Lady Arvad!”
Berkita smiled thinly as she spoke, her eyes fixed on the door before them that led to the man who could give her the answers to everything she sought. “I’m getting court fashion advice from a blind dwarf, but I thank you, Cephas, all the same . . . for this, and so much more.”
The dwarf shrugged. “Thanks wasted on Cephas. Save thanks and smiles. Looks no matter. Galen’s eyes see Berkita soon. You be beautiful to Galen then . . . no matter if ye be hair lumpy like Cephas. Cephas know.”
Berkita shook her head sadly. Getting used to dwarven compliments had taken her the better part of two weeks. Now when Cephas mentioned Galen’s affection as gently as he knew how, the thought of it lifted her heart.
The stern monk appeared once more through the double doors. “The Lord Inquisitor has granted you audience. Enter and be judged.”
Cephas hopped off the bench, adjusted the red binding across his eyes, and then reached out with his right hand. As she had done more and more often recently, Berkita took it to guide him. Cephas never bumped into a wall more than once, but Berkita’s guidance was an expedient whenever they were in a new and unfamiliar place.
“Ready er is?” the dwarf asked.
“This is why we came, Cephas,” Berkita answered. “I am ready er is.”
She felt the river of fate pulling her forward once more.
He watched them approach down the length of the Hall of Truth, both of them looking the worse for the road. The dwarf wore an oversized leather hat with a long feather in it, showing a hint of gaudy affluence without any of the quality. He wore a hooded traveling cloak but no shirt, his carpet of chest hair jutting out around the straps of his traveling pack. His hard boots echoed across the floor as he walked, leaving marks in the fine polished finish. The woman leading him wore a dress that was coming to rags. Brother Lyndth escorted them as they walked, keeping a distance that offered respect to the dwarf’s smell.
Tragget watched them approach with rising anticipation. The last few days had taken their toll on him. The demand for the early departure of the Enlund caravans had forced him into trying to save Galen and his associates, but Galen had spoiled it by escaping. He had even managed somehow to use the power of the madness to elude the Eye of Vasska itself. Now, there was a power for which Tragget had a real and immediate use. That Galen had managed to discover it and make it work in the world outside his madness was tantalizing and intoxicating just in its thought. That Galen had used that same power to escape Tragget’s control was frustrating beyond endurance.
For three days, Tragget had been in torn agony. Each night, he managed to find Galen and Maddoc in the madness of his dreams, although they endeavored to avoid him in that ever-changing landscape of the familiar and the bizarre. He begged them—Tragget, the Inquisitor, actually begging—to teach him their knowledge, show him the way of their mastery and let him taste its sweet power. But they remained distrustful and refused.
Then each day they would elude him in the waking world. It was as though they were traveling only in the realm of madness and had eluded the bonds of reality. Some part of him knew that was not true, but another part of him wished that it were—hoped for the kind of freedom it would represent and the possibilities it would offer for his own escape.
Tragget had nothing to offer them for their knowledge, and they had every reason not to give him what he craved. He had to find them, had to make them see that he only wanted to help them—force them to understand his position. Everything he had tried, however, had failed. What he needed now were not better hunters but a better understanding of his prey.
“Lord Inquisitor, I beg to present to you two supplicants who entreat your time and judgment,” Lyndth intoned with formal solemnity.
“Present them and I shall hear their petition,” Tragget said with all the restraint he could muster.
Lyndth bowed, turned toward the dwarf, and gestured with his open hand. “May it please the Inquisitor, I present—”
The dwarf decided he had had enough ceremony. He took two large steps forward and began speaking over his own introduction. “Cephas Hadras I be! Dwarf smith best er is. Who be ye?”
Brother Lyndth bellowed with outrage, “How dare you! You do not ask questions of the Pir Inquisitor!”
“Aye, then ye er the Pir Inquisitor, eh?” Cephas smiled beneath his crimson bandages, then stomped his foot in approval. “Good er is! Great wrong were done er Benyn! Right making be ye, Sire Inquisitor. Right making sure er is! Sire Inquisitor just, er?”
“Master Dwarf! You will hold your silence while—”
“It’s . . . it’s all right, Brother Lyndth.” Tragget squinted at the dwarf as he spoke, not entirely understanding what the short man was saying. “I believe I will conduct this audience with some leeway. Am I to understand that you are from Benyn, both of you?”
“Aye, sire,” Cephas intoned boldly.
Tragget glanced at the woman. Nice figure beneath her ruined dress. Her hair was a bit unkempt but she had a fine face. The most striking thing about her was her violet eyes. They looked directly at Tragget and never glanced away.
“I was in Benyn recently,” Tragget said easily. “It is a beautiful little town.”
“Aye, beauty as er is,” Cephas said, his face lifted up in pride. “Though Cephas n’er seen it. Know I each stone in Cephas’s heart.”
“May I call you Cephas?” Tragget asked gently.
“Cephas name er is!”
The dwarf then spat on the floor, much to Lyndth’s dismay. Tragget decided it was some part of dwarven introduction customs that he did not understand and simply went on.
“Very well, Cephas, thank you. And your companion? What may I call her?”
“Berkita,” Cephas asserted.
“Berkita, yes. Well, Cephas, I am most interested in your town. I am looking for a man who lived there.”
“Er?” Cephas cocked his head, trying to understand. “Sire Inquisitor, Cephas look er friend to free.”
“Yes, I understand, dwarf,” Tragget said, trying to hold his impatience in check. “But you see this man that I am looking for was an ironsmith—”
“Yes!” Cephas interrupted. “Yer Sire Inquisitor understands old Cephas! Here Lady and Cephas er looking fer ironsmith!”
Tragget stopped for a moment. “Cephas is looking for—”
“We are both looking for a man by the name of Galen,” Berkita said suddenly, her voice strong and insistent. “He was taken in the Election two weeks ago in our town of Benyn.”
In the periphery of his vision, Tragget could see Lyndth turn his shocked and surprised face sharply toward him. Tragget put his hand up to silence any comment from his brother monk but never took his eyes off the dwarf.
“His name is . . . Galen?” Tragget said slowly. “Galen . . . Arvad?”
The woman stepped forward, her quick words edged with desperation. “You know his name? I am sorry for coming before you in such a state, my lord, and for speaking out of turn, but our need is urgent and time works against us. Please, sire! I am . . . I was his wife, Lord Inquisitor, and I b
elieve there was a . . . an irregularity in his Election. Do you truly know him, my lord?”
Tragget sat back slowly on the throne, his mind spinning, trying to grasp what was standing before him and all the possibilities that it implied. The silence in the room lengthened as he considered his answer.
“Yes,” he said at last. “I know him well.”
A cry caught in Berkita’s throat. Tragget could see that she was swaying slightly where she stood. Her jaw had the barest of quivers as she carefully asked the questions she longed to know the answers to and dreaded each night. “Is he well, sire! Is he here? Please, Lord Inquisitor, might I just see him for a moment or—”
“Please, Berkita!” Tragget said gently, his voice calming. “Please be calm and assured. It was Berkita Arvad, was it not? Galen was your husband, wasn’t he?”
Brother Lyndth’s eyes shifted to the woman with great interest.
“Yes, sire. Galen and I are married . . . were married until his Election.” Berkita’s violet eyes narrowed slightly as she looked at the Inquisitor. “Have we met?”
Tragget shook his head. “No, Lady Arvad . . . it’s just that Galen has spoken of you so often and with such fondness.”
“He has?”
“Yes, I should have known you at once,” Tragget continued. “My apologies for my oversight, especially in light of the difficult situation regarding both you and your husband.”
“Difficult?” Cephas said harshly. “What is difficult?”
“Well, it is all rather complicated,” Tragget said with an inflection of perhaps too much concern. He had to be careful not to overplay this part. “Your husband was taken during the Festival of the Harvest. He gave every indication at the time that he was one of the Chosen . . . the Elect of Vasska. When that happened—as with all other such cases since the beginning—your marriage was dissolved.”
“Every Pir knows this,” Berkita said evenly, her eyes still fixed on the Inquisitor.
“Human nonsense!” Cephas rumbled.
“Brother.” Tragget gestured to his assistant. “Please explain to the dwarf.”
“Yes, my lord,” Lyndth said at once. “Since the Festivals were instituted, it has been the compassionate will of Vasska that marriages and all bonds of family are dissolved in the Election. This is done so that those not Chosen may be relieved of all burdens the Elect may impose upon them in deeds, contracts, and nonsubstantial obligations as well. It is the mercy of Vasska toward all those who lose loved ones to the Election that their losses may be assumed by Vasska and his Pir.”
“He is still mine, even if the marriage was dissolved in the eyes of the Pir.” Berkita spoke it as an unquestionable fact.
“As of the moment of his Election, that is correct,” Tragget said quickly. “But, there is glad news in all of this if you will but hear me out.”
Lyndth shot a questioning look at Tragget but said nothing.
Berkita nodded. “Go on.”
Tragget thought for a moment. It was important that he weave as much truth into the lie as possible. No lie stands up well on its own without the support of at least a little truth. “Galen was convinced that there had been some mistake made—that he was not of the Elect. No one would listen to him. He was so desperate to get back to you, Berkita.”
“How know you?” Cephas asked suspiciously.
“I am the Inquisitor,” Tragget said evenly. “We spoke many times. Indeed, he was so desperate that several days ago, he escaped while we were moving him.”
“Escaped?” Berkita snapped. “You mean he’s no longer here?”
“That’s correct,” Tragget said. “We’ve been looking for him ever since.”
“If only we’d gotten here sooner!” Berkita moaned.
“There now!” Cephas said, stepping toward her carefully and taking her hand. “’Tweren’t so! Lady Arvad been doing more than needful!”
“I should have done more! If I were here just a few days earlier—”
“It would have been a tragedy,” Tragget said quickly.
“What?”
“His escape has caused the Inquisition to reexamine his case more completely. If you had come earlier, he might not have escaped and we would not have discovered the truth.”
“What truth?” Cephas and Lyndth asked at about the same time.
“That Galen is not legitimately of the Elect,” Tragget said, setting the hook. “It is a unique circumstance—and one which I feel we can quickly clear up—but we must find him first before he does harm to himself or anyone else.”
Berkita took in a long, shuddering breath.
“Will you help me find him?” Tragget leaned forward on his throne. “Will you help me bring him home?”
Berkita looked up, hope in her eyes for the first time since Tragget had looked into them.
“Yes,” she said.
Cephas nodded. “Both shall help er is!”
Tragget stood up and stepped down from the dais. He extended his open arms toward Berkita and the dwarf. He ushered them gently toward the left archway. “Brother Lyndth will show you to your quarters. They are the best that I can offer you. From this moment on, you are under the protection and grace of the Pir Drakonis. With your help, I am sure that we will be able to find Galen and bring him back among us.”
“Then he truly is not mad?” Berkita asked hopefully.
“No.” Tragget smiled comfortingly. “No more than I am.”
34
Kyree
Dwynwyn stood protectively close by Aislynn as they gazed down over the side rail of the nightrunner. She knew there was probably nothing she could do on behalf of the princess should their enemy make a determined effort, but she stayed close all the same.
The winged Famadorians held fast to the harnesses of the airship, dragging it with their noisy, fluttering wings down toward the courtyard of Kien Werren. Only now as they drew closer could Dwynwyn get an understanding of how the great tower had fallen.
The main tower itself was intact. It rose above the rocky shoreline at the farthest apex of the hexagonally shaped outer wall. The beautiful ornamentation around the spire swirled upward in continuous grace, supported by five delicate flying buttresses arching upward from the smaller towers at the remaining points of the wall. The top of the main tower resembled the petals of a flower opening high above the crashing waves of the sea at its base. It was still beautiful there in the moonlight.
But they could see the terrible damage inflicted upon the tower. Its pure white glazed finish was marred by dark and splattered stains. As the nightrunner glided into the courtyard, Dwynwyn also saw great dark patches in the carefully kept grass.
Several of the winged creatures grabbed Aislynn and Dwynwyn by the arms, dragging them roughly out of the nightrunner. Aislynn started screaming, beating her wings as fiercely as she could, but the creatures held her fast. “Help! Guards!”
“Stop, Aislynn!” Dwynwyn tried to make her voice both urgent and calming at once. “Please, calm yourself!”
Aislynn relaxed into the biting grip of the winged men that held her. The beasts were pulling them across the ground toward the elaborate arched door of the keep. Dwynwyn noted that the beasts had already begun to stake down the nightrunner in the courtyard. The wounded captain was also being dragged from the gondola, though the creatures carrying him were headed toward one of the lesser towers. Dwynwyn knew that she was Aislynn’s only remaining protection.
“Where are they?” Aislynn whispered harshly to Dwynwyn as they walked. “Where are the guardians of the keep? There were nearly five hundred faeries stationed at this posting. How could they have failed?”
“Your Highness,” Dwynwyn said as they walked across the ground between their captors, “I don’t know, though I hope to find out. For now I must ask you to remain silent. I will speak for us. Do you understand?”
“Yes, but why—”
Aislynn’s words stopped in her delicate throat.
At the top of the wid
e curve of the beautiful stairs, the double doors to the keep of Kien Werren stood closed.
Two sets of faery wings, dismembered from their owners, were pinned with daggers to the door.
Dwynwyn could barely breathe.
The two faery women were propelled through the doors by their captors; strong-armed males by the look of them, Dwynwyn noted. They wore fitted black tunics with silver panels and trim. Their hair—the color of harvest wheat—fell long and free down their backs, with the exception of a single long braid hanging from their right temple. Their ears were pointed like the faeries and at a distance one might even mistake them for one of the Fae. Their builds, however, were larger and more muscular than any of the faerykind, and their wings were patterned after the eagles—feathered rather than membraned. That they were Famadorians—recognized by all the Fae as the lowest caste of creatures—was certain. Yet they were a new truth for Dwynwyn and, she suspected, for all other faeries as well.
The main hall of the tower was a great open space that rose thirty feet up to a domed lattice. This, in turn, supported the upper floors of the tower, each subsequent level supported by another lattice of shaped stone. The arrangement was typical for faery constructs: different levels accessible by flight and each level offering its own declaration of station one above another. It was also one of the safest designs. Famadorians were ground-bound creatures who typically did not possess the gift of the sky. Their armies could invade and even gain access to the buildings of the faeries, but in the end the faeries would be victorious from their secure heights.
Until now, Dwynwyn realized. Looking up into the chamber, she shuddered to see these winged Famadorians noisily flapping about the overhead lattice. No doubt they had gained access to the upper chambers and taken them as well. It was dawning on the Seeker just how perilous their situation truly was: all the defenses of Qestardis—and all the other faery realms, for that matter—depended upon their ability to stay out of reach of their foe.
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