by Jack Massa
His response was direct, befitting an Iruk. “I still want you.”
Amlina nearly wept, her emotion so strong. She had nearly lost him once, on the plateau outside the ruined city of Valgool. He had been wounded, near to death. She had journeyed into the spirit world to call him back. She had known then that whatever else she longed for in this world, nothing mattered more than her love. How had she let herself forget? First the taint of the blood magic and her long struggled to heal, then lately her belief in her duty to Larthang—or was it rather her inflated delusions about herself?
“Dear Draven, I have sacrificed some of our time together. Perhaps it was all for foolishness. But in a few more days it will be over. Whatever happens with the Tournament, whatever rank or position Larthang offers me, I want to be with you again. And I will do all I can to make you happy.”
A grin spread over his face. “If that’s how it is, then I will wait.”
Amlina kissed him once, avidly. “Till then, my love.” She broke away and ran up the hallway toward the palace gates.
A grand and extravagant celebration, the Witches’ Ball spread out through the halls and grounds of the Celestial Palace. Pavilions, terraces, and gardens abounded with music, dancing, puppet plays, and entertainments of every type. The performances began early in the evening and would continue past midnight.
At a late hour, the Iruks and Kizier strolled into a broad garden with chairs arranged on the lawn and lanterns strung in the hedges. A stage at one end held a podium where the poets read, accompanied by musicians playing lute and drum. Grizna, waxing, hung past zenith, while Rog the red moon had risen in the east.
Eben had stopped back at their apartment to retrieve his fur cape. He always wore it on stage, along with the musician’s cap, the costume of his poet’s identity. While his mates took their seats, Eben walked up to join the line of readers. His step was a bit rocky, and a pleasant thrumming filled his ears. Still, he considered himself far from drunk. He was certainly not the only poet who indulged in wine before and after performing.
When his turn came he bounded up the steps and scanned the audience with a confident smirk. He had thought he might see Trippany tonight, either here or earlier at the banquet, but those hopes had again met with disappointment. He had not seen her at all since that night on the canal, nearly a month ago.
Well, he thought, if she could hear him from the “spaceless place,” then let her hear this. He recited:
This land Larthang is rich and ripe,
Rivers shine, warm wind sings,
But of all the folk of the Golden Land,
Loveliest is a lady with wings.
Witches are keen, warriors bold,
But a lady with wings is hard to hold.
Women might love and lovely girls may.
O Lady with wings, will you not stay?
The Iruks erupted with a loud ovation. The rest of the audience gave moderate applause. Kizier had somewhat exaggerated the positive reputation Eben’s poetry had garnered. While some courtiers were fervent in their appreciation, citing the Iruk’s plain diction and ‘forceful barbarian simplicity’, more sophisticated critics found these same qualities ‘childish’ and ‘dull.’ Eben cared not at all. He viewed poetry as a way to polish his language skills and a pleasant outlet for his feelings.
Walking back to join his mates, he encountered the source of much of those feelings. Trippany the drell stood waiting beside the seated Iruks.
She grinned, her little hands applauding. “I like your poem.”
He bowed with a flourish. “The work is appreciated by its inspiration.”
“Ha! A nice turn of phrase, that!” Draven declared amid the Iruks’ laughter.
“Oh, please!” Karrol cried.
The party adjourned to a nearby grove where music played and cakes and wine were being served. Trippany visited with the group for a while, talking with Glyssa and Kizier about her magical studies, and discussing with all the mates the prospects of the different competitors at the Tournament.
Eventually, Eben managed to convince Trippany to take a stroll with him alone. He picked up a fresh jug of wine and they wandered through the groves and terraced gardens, moving away from the crowds and noise, toward the gleaming waters of Perfect Light Lake.
Trippany wore a sly smile. At times her wings fluttered and she hopped above the path. Eben strode with his customary stalking gait. They spoke not at all.
Finally, they paused at the base of a statue, an ancient water goddess. The pink moon hung overhead. Beyond the path, a broad lawn sloped down to the lake. Eben took a swig of wine and handed her the jug.
“It’s nice to be alone with you,” he muttered as she drank. “You must be feeling reckless again.”
Trippany showed her pointy teeth. “I confess that I am. I’ve been working very hard, and the Witches’ Ball is a night for celebrations.” She set the jug on the pedestal, as though making an offering. “Or perhaps it was your poem. I have never felt so flattered.”
She leaned in, and her lips brushed his. Eben reached and twined his fingers in her hair, holding the back of her head so the kiss went on and on. Presently, they undressed. Eben spread out his fur cape, and they lay side by side, kissing, stroking each other. Then Trippany pushed him down on his back and sat astride his loins. As they coupled, her wings would flutter suddenly. Eben held tight to her hips and was lifted part way off the ground.
After, they cuddled together, wrapped in the fur. Eben fell asleep to the soft sound of her breathing …
He woke with a shock as Trippany cried out.
Shadowy figures surrounded them, dressed in hooded capes. Two of them had grabbed Trippany. Their arms held her wings so she couldn’t move them. A third pressed a hand over her mouth. Eben scrambled halfway to his feet.
A giant figure loomed above him. A staff thrust down, the point striking below his collar bone. With the pain of the blow, a freezing cold surged into his chest. The staff punched his belly and he doubled over.
Helpless, unable to stand, Eben glimpsed the drell held by three of the attackers. Ropes were being lashed around her ankles, more around her arms and chest. Her wings were pinned to her back so she could not escape by flight. Eben looked up at the figure standing over him, a giant hulking form with long arms and massive chest like some monstrous drog.
Struggling, Trippany let out a muffled scream.
“Cover her face, but do not freeze her,” the giant growled. “I want her alive and undamaged.”
A staff jabbed Eben between the eyes. Freezing blackness filled his brain.
He who called himself Phingarr Pheng stared eagerly past the bars of the light-cage. The drell maiden, naked except for the ropes binding her, hung by her wrists. Pheng had just removed the sack from her head, and now he watched as her eyes adjusted to the dim light.
Seeing the phingarr’s face inches from hers, she gasped. Her shoulders tensed as she tried to beat her wings. Her body writhed, struggling frantically.
Pheng inhaled, savoring her terror with a satisfied smile. “Oh, no, my little insect girl. You’re not getting away. You probably don’t know me in my present shape, but I remember you well. That cursed back-country off the Polar Sea. You cleverly delayed my forces while the witch Amlina prepared her trap. Not so clever now though, are you?”
The drell shut her eyes and slowed her breathing, trying to calm herself. Pheng felt the intensity of her fear settle slightly.
A woman approached and stood at his shoulder, one of the three witches who had helped him capture the drell. They were Clorodice’s followers, ordered to serve him. They had hunted with him during the past month as he captured and devoured his victims in the city. This was the compromise he had reached with Clorodice. She had wanted her followers to kidnap the commoners and bring them to the tomb. Pheng had insisted on going himself to hunt at night, to personally select his human meals. The acolytes, two warrior witches and the o
ne called Arkasha, had been assigned to go with him, to weave concealments as they stalked streets.
Tonight was the first time they had hunted within the palace compound. With his growing ability of deepsight, Pheng had glimpsed that the drell would lie there, enjoying a tryst with her Iruk lover. He had wanted to take the Iruk too, but Arkasha had balked. Too dangerous, she insisted, too difficult for their concealments to hide them carrying two victims all the way back to the tomb.
“Is there anything else you require, Lord Pheng?” the witch beside him asked.
“No. Leave us. Stand watch in the passageway. I will summon you if I need you.”
He heard their footsteps as they shuffled out of the tomb’s main chamber, the iron groan of the portal rising behind them. The drell was staring at him now, not only with fear, but a hint of recognition.
“You heard her name me? Yes, I was Shay-Ni Pheng, the commander whose mission you thwarted.”
“And now you are changed by sorcery into a foul monster that eats human flesh.”
He spread his hands, showing off his body. “Phingarr is the proper term.” Her fear spiked deliciously. “Oh, don’t worry, pretty insect girl. I’m not going to eat you—at least, not all at once.” He drew a long pin from his robe and showed it to her. “A drell is a rare dish and should be savored.”
His hand moved between the light bars. As he slid the pinpoint over her chest, her courage failed and she gave a sob.
But he drew the pin back without piercing her. “There is also another reason I want you alive. Since my transformation, I have acquired quite an interest in the deepshaping arts. In this regard, you interest me. When you escaped my bowmen in Fleevan, you did not just fly away. You disappeared in a globe of light. I have learned that this means you are gifted with the so-called second flight. Now that is a power I could certainly use—if I can learn how to draw it from you …
He stroked his chin, glanced down at the pin between his fingers. Suddenly, viciously, he thrust the pin into her arm. The drell cried out of pain. Pheng drew the pin back, examined the bloody tip, then slid it over his tongue. He smacked his lips contemplatively.
“Different from human blood, but quite tasty. Yes, I shall enjoy keeping you alive for quite some time.”
Twenty-Nine
Eben woke in the night, unable to budge. For an indefinite time he lay on his belly, willing his muscles to move without success. His face pressed down on wet grass. Shifting his eyes, he could just see a strip of the night sky.
By the time the sky brightened, his arms and legs were answering his straining will with spasms and twitches. In agony he fought the paralysis, finally rising onto knees and elbows. With a loud groan he forced himself to stand, wobbled, and fell over.
Dragging himself around on the grass, grunting and cursing, he succeeded in pulling on his clothing. On the third attempt to stand up, he stayed on his feet. He set off in a lurching, drunken walk.
The likeness of his condition to drunkenness settled in his brain with a stab of guilt. He had let enemies creep up and take him in his sleep—his drunken sleep. And poor Trippany had paid the price. As a warrior, it shamed him beyond words. He swore on his honor it would never happen again.
He spied enough disturbance in the grass to pick up the trail. He followed it along the lake front, then lost it at the edge of a paved walkway. Cursing, he staggered back toward the palace, legs still weak.
He found his mates on the terraced lawn where they practiced with sword and spear. Karrol and Lonn hooted and laughed when they saw him, but Glyssa noticed at once something was wrong. He stammered that he had been attacked down by the lake, that Trippany had been taken.
“… Three witches or mages, and a creature like a drog,” he said. “Maybe it was that ogre that’s been eating people out by the canal.”
“Here on the palace grounds?” Lonn demanded.
The mates looked perplexed.
“You sure you didn’t dream this?” Karrol asked. “Or maybe it’s a joke?”
Infuriated, Eben took a swing at her, missed and fell sprawling on the ground. “Do I act like I’m joking?” he groaned.
Worried now, the mates bent and picked him up. Draven and Brinda brushed off his jacket.
“I lost the trail near the lake,” Eben said. “The monster said he wanted to keep her alive, so there’s a chance. But I don’t know how to find her. What can we do?”
“Alert the Tuan,” Glyssa said. “If this ogre was on the palace grounds, the Imperial Guard must be told.”
The Iruks hurried through the gardens and courtyards to the gates of the Tuan’s residence. There, a porter informed them that the imperial household had already departed for the Tournament of Witches. The Tuan was to participate in opening ceremonies at the House of the Deepmind and would then proceed to the plaza in the middle of the city where the contests would be held.
The mates spoke with the sentry on duty. They convinced the man to summon his superior. Presently, a sergeant of the guard appeared and listened to their story. He seemed puzzled as to what to do, but finally agreed to bring the matter to the attention of his lieutenant.
“This is getting us nowhere,” Karrol grumbled.
“I have another thought,” Eben said.
The residence of the Drell Ambassador was located in a separate building on the southern edge of the palace. Directed there by a steward, the mates arrived in late morning and relayed their story to a gatekeeper. Eben stressed the urgency, that the life of a drell maiden hung in the balance.
After a short time they were ushered into a tall, airy chamber that seemed to take up much of the building. Balconies, galleries, and beams sprouted at many levels from the walls below a ceiling sixty feet high. From one gallery, six drell warriors with lances and shields flew down and landed in front of the mates. They dipped the points in salute. Then another drell, a lone male fluttered down from an alcove high above. He was dressed in blue and gray silks and a jeweled headpiece. He spoke as soon as he landed.
“I believe we have met before, at state functions. I am Spegis Besu Keli, Prince of the Drell and Ambassador to the Tuan’s Court. You nobles, I know, are friends of the Tuan and of the witch Amlina.”
The Iruks offered stiff bows.
“Your highness, thank you for seeing us,” Lonn said.
“I understand you bring disturbing news about my cousin, the Lady Trippany.”
The mates turned to Eben.
“I did not know she was your cousin,” Eben stammered. “But I—I was walking with her last night, during the ball, down by the lake. We were attacked. I was frozen by some sorcery and could not help her. She was carried off. They were men or women in robes and another, a creature like a drog. It might be the ogre that has murdered innocents in the outer city. I tried to track the attackers this morning but lost the trail. We have alerted the Tuan’s household guard but … I am not sure they took us seriously. That is why we have come to you, sir.”
The drell prince touched his thin mustache. “I see. Most perplexing and troubling. Thank you for bringing this to my attention. Rest assured, if my cousin is in danger, I will do all in my power to rescue her.”
“How can we help?” Glyssa asked.
The prince glanced at the warriors lined behind him. “Perhaps … Perhaps if you go back and trace the ground again. I will send some of my guard with you. One of them, Lady Allenawey is, like Trippany, gifted with the second flight. She may be able to track her using that power. Meantime, I will make a personal appeal to the Tuan that the Imperial Guard conduct a search, and I will then inquire at the House of the Deepmind, to see if the acolytes of the Archimage might help us.”
A short time later, Eben and his mates, armed with swords and throwing spears, marched west across the palace grounds toward Perfect Light Lake. Five drell warriors flew above them, the buzz of their wings disturbing the stillness of noon.
At the center of Minhang lay
a giant plaza known as the Circle of Sublime Balance. Four wide avenues ran off from the plaza in alignment with the four directions. East Road led down to the main gates of the harbor on the river; North Road to the front door of the House of the Deepmind; and South Road to the House of Benevolent Justice, where chief magistrates codified and administered the laws of Larthang. West Road was a broad processional avenue leading to the Tuan’s palace. It formed an exact line to the Castle of the Golden Land and finally to the Dark Bright Throne.
In the exact middle of the plaza lay the Pool of Perpetual Light, a circular fountain sixty paces wide, the waters aglow with witchlight. In front of the pool, on this First Day of First Winter, a curved stage had been erected for the Tournament of Witches.
Amlina stood at the edge of the stage with the other contestants—six witches of Larthang who had honed their talents and powers to a peak for this competition. In spite of her best efforts to empty her mind and concentrate on the moment, Amlina’s thoughts flitted about in agitation. The excited mutterings of the crowd, the chilly brisk wind, trembling emotions within—all distracted her. Amlina shut her eyes and forced herself to breathe deeply. The crucial moment at last at hand, she could not allow distractions to erode her resolve.
In a row of chairs behind the seven contestants sat their sponsors, high witches all, Melevarry among them. Across the stage, five witches sat behind a curved table. Judges for the first event, they wore black robes with hoods, and veils concealing all but their eyes. One judge had an abacus for keeping score. Another held the end of a long apparatus set close to her ear. This device was a listening horn; it curled out several feet across the stage and ended in a wide-open funnel. The other three judges sat behind bound books, heavy volumes containing hundreds of pages.
A gong sounded and the plaza hushed. The Mistress of the Tournament stepped to the front of the stage. She announced ceremonial greetings: first to the Tuan, whose sedan chair loomed high at the center of the plaza; next, to the Archimage, who sat with her entourage in a curtained box adjacent to the stage; then to various other dignitaries.
