“Dreams,” she said quietly, remembering the prisoner who had attacked her. “He said: He comes into my dreams.”
Dalemar looked across at her, blowing smoke from his mouth. “What did you say?”
The others had stopped talking and were looking at her, waiting.
“Can Riths enter your dreams?” she asked.
Dalemar frowned. “It is a forbidden practice, but yes, the knowledge exists.”
“Why?” asked Torrin.
“I was just curious. I had a strange and frightening dream yesterday afternoon.” Rowan shook her head and frowned, it was a little silly complaining about a nightmare.
“Tell me what the dream was about, Rowan,” Dalemar said quietly. His pleasant expression had sharpened into intense scrutiny. It made the hairs on the back of her neck rise. “It is very important that you tell me exactly what happens in the dream.”
Rowan glanced around at the suddenly concerned faces of her friends. The dream and the pain in her chest were still vivid. “It is a nightmare. That in itself is not so strange, but the dream was odd, more real than a dream usually is.” She described it and the terrible dread and fear she had felt in that dark, cold place came back full force. Rowan shivered as she finished and noticed that she had wrapped her arms around herself protectively. She forced her hands down into her lap. “When I woke, the pain in my chest was real. I expected to find a terrible burn when I checked.”
“How long have you been having the dream? How many times have you had it?” Dalemar’s face was worried.
“Just yesterday, during the afternoon.”
“You think it was caused by magic?” The alarm in Torrin’s voice caused Rowan’s unease to grow. He leaned forward in his chair, intent and frowning. “What does it mean, Dalemar? Could someone somehow have access to her dreams?”
Dalemar sighed. “I am sorry, Torrin, I have no answers. I know some Riths have the ability to project their thoughts into another’s mind. It is most likely a form of this ability that lets the Summoner reach the Raken he is controlling. It’s one thing to reach another’s mind to communicate something, but quite another to compel that person to act against his will. Whether he is using this ability or something different is impossible to say. Dreams are mysterious ground. It could be that your dream is a form of warning, something that your mind has created from the various things that you have learned and done.” Glancing around, Dalemar smiled at their puzzled expressions. “Haven’t you ever wondered where your dreams come from?”
“I just thought they were based on our memories,” said Nathel, “or things we wished for. To tell you the truth, I rarely remember my dreams.”
Rowan glanced again at Torrin’s expressionless face. She knew what haunted his dreams.
“In part, yes that is true,” said Dalemar, “but there is more. Some of the Riths I studied under believed that a person had two minds, a waking one and another one that lies beneath. The first is where we think and feel while we are awake. The latter rules our sleep but is not bound to it. Although the wakeful mind cannot feel the second one, it is still there, taking in everything, and when we sleep it forms our dreams to help guide us in our lives. There are sects within Rith society that devote their lives to deciphering dreams.”
“Tynithians take dreams very seriously, for they are often our teachers” said Arynilas. “It is how we find our other selves.”
Dalemar nodded. “Rowan’s dream could be based on an anxiety about the Summoner and his plans. The mind is a powerful thing.”
“I don’t know about anyone else, but I’ve never had pain follow me from a dream into the waking world,” said Torrin darkly. “Emotional pain, perhaps, but not physical.”
“Aye, that sounds a wee bit more serious than a simple dream,” said Borlin.
“Yes,” agreed Dalemar. “Unfortunately I do not know enough to ward your sleep if someone is sending you this dream.” He sighed again. “I’m sorry that I can’t be of more help. You must tell me though, if you have another one.”
Rowan nodded, looking down at the bowl in her hands. The last of her soup was cold but she wouldn’t have been able to finish it anyway. No one had mentioned Miroth’s name, though they were all thinking it. A fifteen-hundred-year-old Rith – he had sent men to abduct her. If he could control them and reach right into her mind while she slept, she wouldn’t be safe from him anywhere.
The Note
Elana hissed in exasperation as the scroll she was reaching for rolled off the desk and onto the floor. Her fingers were stained with ink and her eyes ached from reading. Yet another petition for extra food, a dispute between two men over the theft of a horse, and the heads of Pellar’s various guilds who had not evacuated — all were requesting audience with the king, and their requests had been added to the pile of parchment spread across Elana’s desk. Standing to pick up the errant scroll, she wondered how Galen kept up with it all.
Galen – she needed to consult him on the guild requests. Cerebus had no time to meet with the guild masters, so they would have to settle for the queen’s ear, but she needed some more information from the chancellor before she met with them. Now was as good a time as any, and now that she was up out of her chair, she was loath to return to it. She left the scroll where it had fallen.
The corridors were silent this afternoon. She passed only a few servants and a pair of the castle guards, who strode towards the great hall. They stopped to bow but she waved them on. There were more important things these dark days than following etiquette to the letter.
Galen’s rooms were near the ground level so he didn’t have to contend with the staircases. If Elana didn’t find him in his study, he would likely be next door in the city’s record room, where he kept Pellaris’s civic history perfectly catalogued and filed. He rarely let anyone into the huge room stacked with shelves of scrolls and leather-bound ledger books without supervision. How did he find the time to do it all? She shook her head. Turning to enter the corridor leading to his study, she stopped.
At the far end of the corridor Galen and N’Avarin stood close together, speaking quietly. She had never seen the two men give each other more than a cool, grudging respect and here they were, heads bent together, whispering like conspiring boys.
Galen stepped away from N’Avarin suddenly and turned to open the door of his study, but N’Avarin plucked at his sleeve, bowing and offering him a scroll of parchment in a deferential manner. Galen took the scroll briskly before closing the door on the Priest. N’Avarin straightened his robes needlessly and then turned to walk down the corridor away from Elana. Neither man had seen her.
When she reached Galen’s door Elana paused; Tihir N’Avarin had already turned the corner and disappeared from sight. Odd, she mused; she had never seen the priest act so submissively.
Rapping briefly on the wooden door, she pulled it open. Galen stood near the fireplace, where he tossed N’Avarin’s scroll into the flames. He turned quickly, his face dark with anger, and a look of surprise passed over his lined features when he saw her.
“My Lady!” He glanced quickly down into the fire, and then moved discreetly to stand in front of it. “Whatever brings you here, my Queen? You should have sent someone. I would have attended you in your rooms.”
“Never mind, Galen, it is just as easy for me to come to you, besides I needed to get away from my work for a little while.” Elana watched the chancellor’s face carefully. “Tell me, when did you and Tihir N’Avarin become so close?”
Galen raised his eyebrows. “Oh, you must have seen him speaking to me outside. N’Avarin was attempting to obtain my help in gaining greater access to the King’s ear. Naturally, I listened to his requests, and then sent him on his way.” He smiled warmly at her. “Come and sit, my Lady. Tell me what has brought you all the way to my study?” He went to a small table near the fire, poured two goblets of wine and brought one to Elana before sitting down in the chair opposite hers.
Elana felt silly; after
all, this was Galen. It was ridiculous to suspect him of actually supporting the Priesthood in their quest for power. He had spent the last seventeen years working tirelessly for Cerebus and Pellar, longer before that for King Doren. She took a sip of wine to cover her embarrassment.
“I have need of your advice, Galen. The guild masters have requested an audience and before I meet with them, I would like to review their recent activities.”
“Of course. I’ll collect the documents right away for you, if you don’t mind waiting a moment.” Galen put down his cup and rose to his feet.
“Thank you, Galen. One other thing,” she said quietly as the old Chancellor pulled open the door. “What was it I saw you burning when I entered?”
The old Chancellor turned, his hand still on the door to his precious city records. His face was expressionless, but his eyes were hard, his jaw set. “Oh, that,” he said lightly. “It was a list of concessions the Priesthood of Erys hoped to gain from the king. I should not have burned it, I suppose, but with everything that is happening, it angered me.” With a shrug of his narrow shoulders, Galen turned and disappeared into the record room.
Elana rose and paced to the window, a frown on her face, unable shake the dreadful thoughts that spun through her mind. What was the Priesthood trying to gain now? What was the point of going though Galen, when she herself had already refused their latest requests?
Elana found herself pacing. Galen’s study was austere, the furniture functional and beautiful but not overly ornate, neat and organized like Galen himself. She cringed inwardly at the thought of her own office, with its mound of scrolls.
The only thing out of place here was a desk drawer partially open. Elana glanced down at its contents as she wandered past. She froze in mid-stride, and an icy cold gripped her chest. Down in the drawer, nestled among scraps of parchment and old inkwells, was the corner of a small, hinged box lying open and filled with clay. The queen’s mouth went dry as, hardly breathing, she reached down to shift aside the parchment with a trembling hand, knowing what she would find yet willing it not to be true.
The clay was dry and cracked now, but pressed into it was the detailed impression of an ornate key.
Silenced
Rowan sat on a low stone bench on the large balcony overlooking the city cleaning and oiling her sword. She glanced over to the railing - where Torrin had kissed her.
They had not spoken about it since. Rowan was certain he wanted to talk to her but was holding back. Perhaps he was afraid of what it might lead to. She worried that if she told him of her own feelings for him, it might drive him further away. There was a strain between them now and Rowan longed for a release of it – a return to the easy camaraderie of their journey to Pellar.
The wide fountain splashed soothingly behind her and she shifted her gaze to the view of the city. The late afternoon light glinted from the domes and copper rooftops of Pellaris, and the pennants snapped in the breeze. Beyond, she could see the Krang Mountains. The fortress of Lok Myrr, hidden beyond that range, sat in her mind like a stone.
The day was quiet. The Raken had not attacked the gates and Rowan had spent most of it down in the basement of the Great Library with Dalemar, pouring over dusty tomes. Arynilas and Nathel had joined them in the cramped room and even Nathel’s jokes did little to improve the frustrated atmosphere. Despite the addition of several new sets of eyes, they had turned up nothing of use.
Rowan felt caught, trapped and oddly suspended in time. The frightening dream had awoken her again last night with the same terrible pain in her chest. It had been identical to the first. Dalemar and the others looked on with concern when she told him about it this morning, but there was little they could do.
Her need to do something, to find out why she was a target for this Miroth, burned inside her. It was impossible to make plans or decisions until they knew what they were up against. Dalemar was more than halfway through his translation of the Kathornin text, but still no reference to the Slayer.
Rowan sighed. Finding some vague reference to the Slayer in old, dusty books did not necessarily mean they would find the man.
An image of Torrin, fighting through Raken, his double-edged sword glinting in the sunlight, flashed through her mind. Perhaps the Slayer had been here all along, under their very noses. She smiled, it was a nice thought but they had no way of knowing if Torrin — or even Nathel, for that matter — was the Slayer.
Her smile faded abruptly; either way, they were running out of time. If they did not act soon, it would be too late. Her hands stilled on her blade, while her gaze strayed again to the distant line of mountains. She closed her eyes to dispel the odd tugging sensation she felt toward Krang. It must be the stress and the knowledge of who the Summoner was.
She rose from the bench and re-sheathed her sword, then rubbed the excess oil from her hands with a rag before trailing her fingers in the fountain’s water. She turned at the doors into the keep to gaze back one last time at the slate-grey mountains huddled on the distant horizon.
Hathunor stirred from where he had been curled in the sun against the wall. Standing to his full height, he stretched like a giant cat. The huge Saa Raken was one of the few sure things in these last days of uncertainty and Rowan was glad of his presence.
Just as they were about to enter the cool, dark interior she heard the alarm bells rising on the wind from below. The Raken were attacking. She spun and looked out across the city to the gate where the sun reflected in glints and flashes from armor as the soldiers broke into frenzied activity atop and along the wall.
Time to fight again.
She wheeled and plunged through the door into the keep with Hathunor following on her heels.
They raced through the citadel, running down empty corridors towards the main entrance; most of the castle guard was already down at the walls. Sprinting down the corridor that led to the grand entry, Rowan slid to a halt. Someone lay in the middle of the smooth floor, unmoving. She trotted closer and recognized the intricate golden braids.
Rushing forward, Rowan fell to her knees beside the queen. Elana lay sprawled on her back, her arms flung wide, a large pool of blood forming under her head.
Rowan touched Elana’s chest and waited, barely breathing. There was a heartbeat, but it was faint.
Rowan turned to Hathunor. “Find Dalemar quickly! The library.”
The Saa Raken hesitated, looking down at Rowan with an anxious expression.
“Go! I will be fine, my friend. Dalemar might be the only one to save her.”
Hathunor blinked, then launched himself down the corridor, his long claws striking the stone flags.
Rowan bent to examine the large, profusely bleeding wound on the side of the queen’s head. She had been struck with a sharp object of some sort. There was no way she could have received a cut like this by falling and hitting her head. The blood on the floor had not yet begun to congeal. It must have happened moments before.
The pool of blood on the floor was rapidly spreading. Springing to her feet, Rowan dashed to a low table, pulling the fabric runner from its surface. A vase crashed to the floor behind her as she ran back to Elana and crouched, winding the cloth tightly around the queen’s head.
Satisfied that she had at least slowed the bleeding, she sat back on her heels and brought her hand to her lips, took a deep breath, and whistled as loudly as she could, three short blasts.
She waited only a moment before she heard the sound of running feet. Three members of the castle guard raced down the corridor towards her. They slid to a stop when they recognized their queen. One of them, a sandy-haired man, turned and barked orders to the other two guards. “Artel, find the King! Blain, fetch the royal physician—and bring back a stretcher!”
More people were trotting down the corridor now. Servants and maids, they gasped and some of them began to weep. The guard who had taken charge ordered the nearest servant to relay a message to the captain of the guard.
A stretcher arrive
d, the royal physician, a rotund and ruddy-faced man, trundling along in its wake. “Here then, give me some room, give me room!” He waved his large hands as he burst through the small crowd.
Rowan stood back and looked at the people surrounding Elana. Ironic that so many should be here now when moments ago the hall had been empty, with no one to see what had happened.
The physician knelt down with surprising alacrity. His face was cast in dismay but he went about a brief and thorough examination, peeking for a moment under the increasingly blood-soaked cloth Rowan had applied to Elana’s head. The physician looked up at Rowan. He noted the blood on her hands. His gaze was piercing. “You found her?”
“Yes,” Rowan replied.
The physician’s attention was already on Elana again before the word had completely left Rowan’s mouth. He directed the stretcher to be laid beside them. As Elana was lifted gently onto it, a deep voice called for a way through.
Cerebus.
The King moved forward, his expression fierce. People fell back to give him room. Falion, the new Captain of the castle guard was by his side. Cerebus knelt down with a horrified exclamation.
The physician spoke quietly to the king. “It is a head wound Sire. I must get her moved to her quarters where I can treat her.”
Rowan swallowed, tightness gripping her chest at the anguish on Cerebus’s face. His hand had seized one of Elana’s and he was gripping it hard.
“King Cerebus,” she said, “I have sent Hathunor to find Dalemar. He will be able to help.”
The two men looked up at her. The physician motioned for the guards to lift the stretcher, and he led them away down the corridor bearing Elana’s unconscious form.
Rising, Cerebus turned to the captain, hard anger in his voice. “I want to know what happened! Did someone attack my wife in my own keep? Did anyone see what happened?”
Messenger from Myris Dar (The Stone Guardians Book 1) Page 39
