“Does he seem well to you?”
“You mean apart from dying his hair and beard?”
“It is not dye,” said Eldicar Manushan. “I have given him back some ten years or so. He is now a man in his early thirties and could remain so for several hundred years. Perhaps more.”
“By the gods, he does seem younger,” whispered Panagyn. “And you could do this for me?”
“Of course.”
“And what do you require in return? The soul of my firstborn?” Panagyn forced a laugh, but his eyes showed no humor.
“I am not a demon, Lord Panagyn. I am a man, just as you are. What I require is your friendship and your loyalty.”
“And this will make me a king?”
“In time. I have an army waiting to enter this land. I do not wish them to have to fight as soon as they arrive. Far better to enter a land that is friendly, that will be a base for expansion. You have upward of three thousand fighting men. Aric can summon close to four thousand. I do not wish for a battle so early.”
“Where is this army coming from?” asked Panagyn. “The lands of the Chiatze?”
“No. A gateway will open not thirty miles from here. One thousand of my men will pass through it. It will take time to bring the whole army through. Perhaps a year, perhaps a little more. But once our base here is established, we will conquer the lands of the Chiatze and beyond. The ancient realm will be restored. And you will be rewarded beyond any dream you can envisage.”
“And what of the others: the duke, Shastar, and Ruall?” asked Panagyn. “Are they to be included in our venture?”
“Sadly, no,” said Eldicar Manushan. “The duke is a man with no understanding of avarice and no desire for conquest. Shastar and Ruall are loyal to him and will follow where he leads. No, initially the land of Kydor will be shared between you and your cousin.”
“They are to die, then?” said Panagyn.
“Indeed. Does that trouble you, my lord?”
“Everybody dies,” Panagyn replied with a smile.
“Not everybody,” observed Aric.
In the nights that followed the attack on the palace many of the servants found difficulty in sleeping. Alone in their rooms as night fell, they would light lanterns and recite prayers. If sleep did come, it was light, the merest sound of wind against the window frames enough to wake them in a cold sweat. Not so for Keeva, who slept more deeply than she had in years. It was deep, dreamless sleep from which she awoke feeling refreshed and invigorated.
And she knew why. When the demons had come, she had not cowered in a corner but had taken up a weapon and used it. Yes, she had been afraid, but the fear had not overcome her. She remembered her uncle and pictured his face as they sat on the riverbank. “You’ll hear people say that pride is a sin. Ignore them. Pride is vital. Not excessive pride, mind you. That is merely arrogant stupidity. No, being proud of yourself is what counts. Do nothing that is mean and spiteful, petty and cruel. And never give way to evil, no matter what the cost. Be proud, girl. Stand tall.”
“Is that how you have lived your life, Uncle?”
“No. That’s why I know how important it is.”
Keeva smiled at the memory as she sat by the bed of the priestess. Ustarte was sleeping peacefully. Keeva heard the Gray Man enter the room and glanced up at him. He was dressed all in black, the clothes very fine. He beckoned to her, and she followed him into the weapons room.
“Ustarte is in danger,” he said.
“She seems to be recovering well.”
“Not from her wounds. She has enemies. Soon they will come for her.” He paused, his dark eyes locking on her gaze.
“What do you want me to do?” she asked.
“What do you want to do?” he countered.
“I don’t understand you.”
“You have a choice of two paths, Keeva. One carries you back up the steps to the palace and your room; the other will take you to places you may not want to go.” He gestured toward the far bench. Upon it were a pair of soft leather leggings and a double-shouldered hunting jerkin. Beside the clothes was a belt bearing a bone-handled knife.
“These are for me?”
“Only if you want them.”
“What are you saying, Gray Man. Speak plainly.”
“I need someone to take Ustarte from here to a place of relative safety. It must be someone with wit and courage, someone who will not panic when the chase begins. I am not asking you to do this, Keeva. I do not have that right. If you choose to return to your room, I will think none the worse of you.”
“Where is this place of safety?”
“About a day’s ride from here.” He moved in closer to her. “Give it some thought. I will be with Ustarte.”
Keeva stood alone in the weapons room. Stepping forward, she laid her hand on the hunting jerkin. The leather was soft and lightly oiled. Drawing the hunting knife from its sheath, she hefted it. It was perfectly balanced and double-edged. Conflicting thoughts assailed her. She owed her life to the Gray Man, and the debt lay heavy upon her. Equally, she loved life in the palace. Proud as she was of her part in the fight against the demons, Keeva had no wish to face any further dangers. She had been lucky in the raid on the village. Camran could have killed her straightaway. That luck had doubled with the coming of the Gray Man. But surely there was a limit to one person’s luck. Keeva felt she would cross that limit if she agreed to escort the priestess.
“What should I do, Uncle?” she whispered.
There was no answer from the dead, but Keeva remembered his oft-repeated advice.
“When in doubt, do what is right, girl.”
10
WAYLANDER MOVED TO the bedside. Ustarte’s golden eyes were open. He sat beside her.
“You were wrong to do that,” she said, her voice almost a whisper.
“I gave her a choice.”
“No, you didn’t. She owes you her life. She will feel obliged to do as you ask.”
“I know, but I don’t have too many choices,” he admitted.
“You could become a friend to Kuan Hador,” she reminded him.
He shook his head. “I would have remained neutral, but they brought death to my house and to my people. I cannot forgive that.”
“It is more than that,” she said.
He laughed with genuine good humor. “I forgot for a moment that you can read minds.”
“And speak with spirits,” she reminded him. His smile faded. On the first night he had tended her, Ustarte had woken and told him that the spirit of Orien, the battle king of the Drenai, had appeared to her. It had shaken Waylander, for the same spirit had appeared to him years before, offering him the chance to redeem himself by finding the Armor of Bronze.
“Has he come to you again?”
“No. He harbors no ill will toward you. He wanted you to know that.”
“He should. I killed his son.”
“I know,” she said sadly. “You were a different man then and almost beyond redemption. But the goodness in you fought back. He has forgiven you.”
“Strangely, that is harder to bear than hate,” he said.
“That is because you cannot forgive yourself.”
“Can you read the minds of spirits?” he asked her.
“No, but I liked him.”
“He was a king,” said Waylander, “a great king. He saved the Drenai and forged a nation. When he was old, his sight failing, he abdicated in favor of his son, Niallad.”
“I know this from your memories,” she said. “He hid the Armor of Bronze. You found it.”
“He asked me to. How could I refuse?”
“Some men would have. And now he has asked a second favor of you.”
“It makes no sense to me. Finding the Armor of Bronze helped the Drenai overcome a great enemy. But going to a feast? Why would a dead king care about a feast?”
“He did not say. But I think you will be in danger if you go. You know that?”
“I know.”
Keeva moved in from the weapons room. Waylander turned to see her standing in the doorway. She was wearing the dark shirt and leggings and a pair of fringed riding boots. The hunting knife was belted at her waist. Her long dark hair was pulled back from her face and tied in a ponytail.
Waylander rose from the bedside. “The clothes fit well,” he said. Moving past her, he walked to a cabinet on the far wall of the weapons room. Opening it, he withdrew a small double-winged crossbow. Calling out to Keeva, he carried the weapon to a bench. Under the light of a lantern he examined the crossbow, lightly oiling the bolt grooves. As Keeva came alongside, he passed the weapon to her. “I had this made for my daughter, Miriel,” he said, “but she preferred the more traditional hunting bow. It is considerably lighter than my own bow, and the killing range is no more than fifteen paces.”
Keeva hefted the bow. It was T-shaped when viewed either vertically or horizontally, the grip projecting down from the center of the weapon. The rear of the crossbow was fluted back and shaped so that it settled snugly over the wrist. There were no bronze triggers. Two black studs had been set into the grip.
Waylander handed the girl two black bolts. “Load the lower groove first,” he advised. Keeva struggled with the action. The center of the lower bowstring was hidden inside the mechanism. “Let me show you,” he said.
On the underside of the bow was a catch. Waylander flicked it open and pulled it down. That engaged the lower bowstring, drawing it back into view. Slipping his fingers into the groove, he cocked the weapon, then slipped a bolt into place. Snapping the catch into place, he handed the weapon to Keeva. Extending her arm, she loosed the center bolt into a nearby target. He watched her reload the weapon. She still struggled with the lower section.
“Do not leave it loaded for too long,” he said, “for it will weaken the wings. When you get time to practice loading and unloading, it will become easier.”
“I do not want it to become easier,” she told him. “I will take Ustarte to this place you spoke of, but then you can have this weapon back. I told you once before that I do not want to be a killer. That remains true.”
“I understand that, and I am grateful to you,” he said. “I will be with you late tomorrow. After that you will be free of any obligation to me.”
Finding a stick of charcoal and a section of parchment, he drew two diamond shapes, the first with a diagonal line across it running left to right, and the second right to left. “Skirt the ruins of Kuan Hador to the southwest and head into the mountains. Follow the main road for around a mile. You will come to a fork in the road. Take the left fork and continue until you see a lightning-blasted tree. Ride on, keeping your eyes on the trunks of the trees you pass. Each time you see these symbols, change direction according to the line through the diamond, left to right or right to left. You will come to a cliff face. If you have followed the symbols correctly, you will be close to a deep cleft in the rocks. Dismount and lead the horses into that cleft. Inside you will find a deep cave with a freshwater pool. There are supplies there and grain for the horses.”
Keeva slipped the bolts from the crossbow and loosed the strings. “I heard the priestess say you would be in danger at the feast. Why go?”
“Why indeed?” he countered.
“You had best be wary.”
“I am always wary.”
Niallad, son of the mighty Duke Elphons and blood heir to the vanished throne of Drenan, stood naked before a full-length mirror, disliking what he saw. The slender face with its large blue eyes and full mouth seemed to him to be that of a girl. There was no real sign yet of facial hair. His shoulders and arms were still skinny despite the many weeks of hard physical labor he had pushed himself to complete. His chest, also hairless, carried no flesh, and his ribs could be seen clearly. He looked nothing like the powerhouse that was his father.
And the fears he carried would not go away. When surrounded by crowds he would start to sweat, his palms becoming clammy, his heart beating wildly. His dreams were always of darkness, an unfamiliar maze of corridors, and the stealthy footfalls of an assassin who was never seen.
Turning away from the mirror, Niall went to the chest beneath the window and opened it, pulling forth a gray tunic and dark leggings. He pulled on his calf-length riding boots and strapped his dagger belt to his waist. Then came a light tapping at the door.
“Come in,” he called.
The bodyguard Gaspir stepped inside. He pointed at the dagger belt. “No weapons, young lord,” he said. “Your father’s orders.”
“Yes, of course. A hall full of enemies and we carry no weapons.”
“Only the friends of the duke are invited,” said Gaspir.
“Panagyn is no friend, and I do not trust Aric.”
The broad-shouldered bodyguard shrugged. “Even if Panagyn were an enemy, he would be a fool to attempt an assassination in a hall filled with the duke’s supporters. Put your mind at rest. Tonight is a celebration.”
“Are there many people here?” asked Niall, trying not to show his fear.
“Only about a hundred so far, but they are still arriving.”
“I shall be down presently,” said Niall. “Is the food being served?”
“Aye, it looks enticing.”
“Then go down and eat, Gaspir. I will see you in a little while.”
The guard shook his head. “You are in my charge, young lord. I will wait outside.”
“I thought you said there was no danger.”
The man stood his ground for a moment, then nodded. “It will be as you say,” he replied at last, “but I will watch for you. Do not be too long, sir.”
Alone now in the sanctuary of his rooms, Niall felt the panic building. It was not even that he expected to be attacked. His mind knew it was entirely improbable. And yet he could not suppress the fear. His uncle had been in his own garden when the assassin Waylander had shot him in the back. His own garden! With the king murdered and the country in a state of near anarchy, the Vagrian army had poured across the border, burning towns and cities and butchering thousands.
Niall sat down on the bed, closed his eyes, and took several deep, calming breaths. I will stand up, he thought, and walk slowly out onto the gallery. I will not look down at the mass of people. I will turn left and descend the stairs …
… into the heaving mass.
His heartbeat quickened once more. This time it was accompanied by anger. I will not be cowed by this fear, he promised himself. Rising, he marched across the room and pulled open the door. Immediately he heard the noise from below, the chattering, the laughter, the sounds of cutlery on dishes, all mixed together, creating a discordant and vaguely threatening hum. Niall walked to the banister rail at the edge of the gallery and looked down. At least 150 people were already present. His father and mother were seated almost exactly below him, their chairs raised on a circular dais. Lord Aric was standing close by, as was the magicker Eldicar Manushan and little Beric. The boy looked up and saw him. Beric smiled and waved. The men around the duke also glanced up. Niall nodded to them and stepped back from the edge. In the far corner he saw the portly priest Chardyn talking to a group of women. And there, by the terrace arch, was the Gray Man, standing alone. He was wearing a sleeveless jerkin of brushed gray silk over a black shirt and leggings. His long black and silver hair was held back from his face by a slender black headband. He wore no ornaments or jewelry. No rings adorned his fingers. As if sensing eyes upon him, the Gray Man glanced up, saw Niall, and raised his goblet. Niall walked down the stairs toward him. He did not know the man well, but there was space around him and the beckoning safety of the terrace beyond.
The bottom of the stairwell recently had been closed off by an archway and two doors. A guard stood inside the porch. He bowed as Niall approached the door. The porchway blocked much of the sound from the hall, and Niall toyed with the thought of engaging the guard in conversation for a while, putting off the dreaded moment when he had to step through and fa
ce the throng. But the man lifted the lock bar and pushed open the doors. Niall stepped through and walked across to where the Gray Man stood.
“Good evening to you, sir,” Niall said politely. “I trust you are enjoying my father’s celebration.”
“It was courteous of him to invite me,” said the Gray Man, extending his hand.
Niall shook it. Up close he saw that the Gray Man’s clothes were not entirely free of adornment. His belt had a beautiful and unusual buckle of polished iron shaped like an arrowhead. The same design had been used on the outer rim of his calf-length boots.
The sound of rasping metal from behind caused Niall to spin around. At a nearby table a chef was sharpening his carving knife. Niall felt panic looming.
The Gray Man spoke. “I do not like crowds,” he said softly. “They make me uneasy.”
Niall struggled for calm. Was the man mocking him? “Why is that?” he heard himself say.
“Probably because I’ve spent too long in my own company, riding the high country. I like the peace I find there. The meaningless chatter of these events grates on my nerves. Would you like to take some air with me on the terrace?”
“Yes, of course,” Niall said gratefully. They stepped out through the archway and onto the paved stone beyond. The night was cool, the sky clear. Niall could smell the sea. He felt himself becoming calmer.
“I suppose,” he said, “that such problems with crowds dissipate after a while as one becomes more accustomed to them.”
“That is mostly the way with problems of this nature,” agreed the Gray Man. “The trick is to allow oneself to become accustomed.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“If you were faced with a snarling dog, what would you do?”
“Stand very still,” said Niall. “And if it attacked?”
“If I were armed, I would try to kill it. If not, I would shout loudly and kick at it.”
“What would happen were you to run from it?”
“It would chase and bite me. That is the way with dogs.”
“That is also the way with fear,” said the Gray Man. “You can’t run from it. It will follow, snapping at your heels. Most fears recede if you face them down.”
Hero in the Shadows: A Waylander the Slayer Novel Page 25
