“A . . . a burden?” said Aurel, blinking at Loren as though he could not quite see her.
“You must keep it hidden from all eyes, even yours. If all goes well, she shall return to fetch it soon. If not—if you hear that anything has happened to us, or if you hear nothing at all for a month—you must send it to the Great Bay’s very bottom.”
“Of course, my boy, of course.” And though the old man’s eyes burnt with curiosity, he ushered Loren inside. Xain waited for her on the street.
“Do you have a box I can put it in?” Loren reached for her belt.
“Yes, my dear, of course. Take your pick.” Aurel gestured around. Loren found herself in his workshop, with many tools lying about on benches and tables, as well as many crafts in progress—everything from serving platters to goblets to pitchers for cream. Against one wall was stacked a massive mountain of boxes. Loren chose one, opened it, then drew both dagger and sheath from her belt to drop them inside. Then, struck by a sudden afterthought, she reached into her cloak and pulled out the packet of magestones. They joined the dagger at the bottom of the box. She would no sooner be discovered with the magestones than with the dagger, after all, and both could spell her death within the High King’s halls.
She closed the box again, twisting the little silver latch on the front, then placed it in Aurel’s hands. He blinked at Loren again then stared down at the box, hefting the weight.
“I can keep it in my rafters easily enough. Rest assured, girl, no harm will come to it. And I shall not even look myself; that I vow.”
“Thank you,” said Loren, bowing low. That seemed to surprise him, and in his haste to return the gesture, he nearly dropped the box.
Soon, she had rejoined Xain on the street. But before they set off, the wizard drew close to Aurel and whispered in his ear. But not quiet enough, for Loren overheard much.
“I do not think I go to my end, Aurel. Yet I cannot see every finality. If things should go poorly, I would have you send a message.”
“I think I know it, my boy.”
“Still, I will tell you. Send word of my love—and my death—to Trill, whatever you must do to find her.”
“Of course, Xain. Of course. Only do not place such a burden on an old man. Return here, and send the message yourself.”
“If fate be kind.”
Then Xain pushed past her in a rush, his face again hidden under his cowl. She cautiously followed, not wishing to further upset him. Jordel had told Loren that Trill was his sister, the woman Xain had fallen in love with and the mother of his child. But she had been married off to another man after their child was born, and Xain had not seen her since.
Now he marched like a man possessed, and even the Mystics struggled to keep pace. Through the streets he passed like a returning prince, and mayhap thought of himself as such. He stepped in front of carriages and horses without heed, and more than one reared at his coming. Heads turned to watch wherever he went, though they could not see his face from behind the shadows of his hood.
Soon, the High King’s palace walls loomed before them, though its splendor was somewhat lost on Loren. They were near the end of their road now, and the fear of what they might find darkened her sight. Still, she could not help but notice the high ramparts trimmed in gold and the fine white stone sharpening the black battlements.
A guardsman stood before the gate, clad in the white-and-gold armor of the High King herself. He took one look at Xain—and Loren and Chet and Gem beside him in their plain clothes—and raised his spear to cross it over his chest. “Begone, beggars. There are kitchens aplenty for you, by the High King’s charity. ’Tis where you will find your next meal, not here.”
Xain’s bitter laugh poured out from beneath his brown hood. “Ah, Len, you old beggar. Do not tell me you forgotten the sight of an old friend so quickly.” He threw back his hood to show the guard his face.
Many things happened, and all of them quickly.
The guard nearly froze in his shock but kept just enough composure to call the alarm. Then many more guards spilled from the gates, surrounding Loren and her party with pointed spears. They were firmly grabbed, hands tied behind their backs—even the Mystics—then marched through the gates and into the palace, prisoners of the High King’s mercy.
twenty-four
With the guards clutching her arms, Loren was dragged through the High King’s palace so quickly that her feet scarcely brushed the floor. She could not see the beauty of the high, vaulted ceilings or the mural-covered walls, for her mind was occupied, dreading what lay before them. The opulence barely registered, noticed only by instinct, stowed for later examination—if she had time to ponder before being put to her death.
Xain seemed frighteningly calm beside her. Indeed, when Loren turned to look at the wizard she saw a grim smile playing across his lips beneath his gag—for they knew he was a firemage, and had taken steps to strip his power. She might be able to guess at the reason for his high mood; he had been a fugitive from the King’s justice since before they met, fleeing from city to city and kingdom to kingdom, evading punishment for his crimes. Now at last that flight had ended. One way or another, Xain’s days of running were behind him.
The throne room doors lay open before them, and the guards raised their polearms to allow their passage. They wore more splendid armor than the guards at the front gate, their plate covered with a gleaming white sheen and their trim bedecked in gold leaf. Their eyes were harder, and Loren could see the strength in their arms. They looked upon her with contempt as she passed.
The throne room was so splendid that it dragged Loren’s mind to the present, as if the place itself was impatient for her to notice its opulence. Pillars rose high to form arches along the walls, until they joined in points that ran all along the roof’s center. From each apex sprang golden spikes that splayed across the white marble, like starbursts all in a row. They shrank in size from the entrance to the room’s rear, descending down the far wall so they formed a sort of arrow, commanding the eye to look upon the throne.
And on that throne sat the High King Enalyn.
Loren had never had cause to see the High King, but she had often heard her described. There was no mistaking her now, for no one else would dare to rest upon such a seat—made of silver, with gold for the armrests and surrounding the head, cushioned in plush white cloth. The High King sat upon her throne in a leisurely pose, one arm draped over the right side, her other elbow propped up, chin to fist. She was a slight woman of no impressive height, but her gaze was piercing. A thin golden circlet rested upon her hair, which had once been as raven black as Loren’s but now showed many strands of grey. Rather than age, it gave her a mighty dignity that seemed to radiate throughout the room.
Loren could barely tear her eyes from the High King to see the others in the room. There were many guards, all bedecked in the same fine white-and-gold colors of the royal guard she had seen at the throne room door. There were the courtesans, clustered in splendid suits and gowns all along the sides of the hall. She also saw a number of Mystics, their red cloaks marking them as certainly as the badges upon their chests. The Mystics Loren had seen before all wore armor, and tended to look a bit threadbare, like breeches worn for many months of hard travel. These were as clean and well kept as the courtesans themselves. It was somewhat of a shock to see them wearing patterned breeches and tunics, draped in cloaks of the finest fabric and fur that she surely would have laughed to see upon Jordel.
They came to a stop at the foot of the dais; Loren again raised her eyes to the High King. She noticed the two men standing to her either side. One wore a red cloak over a suit of armor that looked more ceremonial than functional, and Loren took him at once for the Lord Chancellor of the Mystics. The other man wore grand, ornate robes of blue with silver-threaded trim and curious designs embroidered with purple. That, and the hateful way he glared at Xain, led her to guess he must be the Academy Dean.
A sharp kick from a plated boot coll
apsed her legs, and Loren fell to her knees before the throne. The guard who had met them outside the palace stepped forth, helm under his elbow, and sharply spoke to announce them.
“Your Grace. I bring before you Xain, of the family Forredar, criminal beyond the King’s law, sentenced to death by order of the Academy.”
“I see him, Len.” The High King’s tone was neither condescending nor sharp, but Loren thought she heard the hint of a jest buried inside it. “And who are these others you drag in his wake?”
“We do not know them, Your Grace, but they came in his company.”
Loren looked up to see the High King wave, and Len stepped back. “You may speak for yourselves then, travelers. Who are you, and why do you walk in the company of this wizard? Come, you Mystics. Speak up.”
Erik looked up doubtfully from where he knelt on the floor. When none of the guards seemed likely to strike, he lifted one foot to plant it flat on the floor then laid his arm across the knee, like a soldier reporting to his commander.
“Your Grace. I am Erik, knight of the Mystics. You do me great honor—but this girl, in the black cloak, is the one who should speak on our behalf.”
The High King turned to look at Loren with one eyebrow arched. Loren’s stomach fell. Titters and excited murmurs burst from the courtesans, trading whispers behind their hands.
“Indeed?” said the High King, her voice betraying genuine interest. “I find myself curious why a Mystic would cede the floor to one so young. Unless she is from some noble family, and I know it not?”
Loren looked sideways, panicked. Xain raised his eyebrows. She stood and raised her head—then, mortified, realized where she was and fell back to one knee. The courtesans burst into subdued laughter.
“No noble girl, then, I take it,” said High King Enalyn. Her voice was not unkind.
“No, Your Grace. I am Loren, of the family Nelda, hailing from the Birchwood.”
“A forest girl,” said Enalyn. “Tell me, Loren. Why do your words hold more weight in this room than a knight of the Mystics?”
Loren reached into her cloak, but her pocket was empty. They had been searched as they were being dragged through the castle, though she had scarcely noticed at the time. “Your Grace, I . . . I had a letter.”
Enalyn looked to Len, who drew it from his belt.
“We found it upon her, Your Grace.”
Len handed the letter to one of the royal guard, who climbed the dais to place it in the Lord Chancellor’s hand. He was a spidery man, with wispy fingers, and Loren did not like his grimace as he pried loose the wax seal that Kal had placed upon the letter. He hardly paused before reading it aloud, but Loren saw his eyes flit quickly across the paper, absorbing the message before he opened his mouth.
“She bears a letter from Chancellor Kal, of the family Endil. It declares that these travelers bear grave news of utmost importance to all the nine kingdoms, for the ears of the High King and her closest advisor only.”
“This is a gesture haughty enough to offend us all,” said the Dean from Enalyn’s other side. “Lord Chancellor, can you not keep your own men in better order than this?”
“This was done without my knowledge or consent, of course, Your Grace,” said the Lord Chancellor, who looked as though he wanted to burn the letter, and mayhap the Mystics at the foot of the dais. “Please, allow me to move this matter to my chambers, and deal with it there where it shall trouble you not.”
“The Mystics may be your concern, but Xain is not,” said High King Enalyn, her voice just sharp enough to usher the throne room to silence. “It was I who issued the order for his arrest—an arrest that your men have failed to execute all these long months. Now he comes to the throne room of his own accord, bearing a letter from one of your Chancellors. I shall pay it heed.”
She nodded to one of the royal guard, and he moved quickly to clear the throne room. In moments it was done; only Loren’s party, the Lord Chancellor, the Dean, and the royal guard remained.
“Now, Loren,” said Enalyn, and again Loren’s heart skipped a beat at the sound of her name. “Tell me this grave news that threatens my domain. And for goodness’ sake, stand as you tell me, for the top of your head is not nearly so comely as those remarkable eyes.”
Loren swallowed and found for a moment that her legs had utterly failed her. But at last they heard her command, and she forced herself to stand.
“Your Grace. I have come . . . that is to say, we have learned . . ." She faltered, for the words would not come, no matter how hard she tried to muster them.
Enalyn leaned forward, hands in her lap. Gently, she said, “You need not worry at your choice of words. Nor for how they will sound. If it helps, simply say it plainly. And worry not, for you are not the first to find your tongue tied in this room.”
Loren smiled, if weakly, and cleared her throat. “Your Grace. The Shades have returned, after many centuries, and even now they muster to make war upon the nine lands. We found them in the Greatrock Mountains, and they have pursued us ever since.”
The High King’s eyes flashed. But at her side, the Lord Chancellor scoffed. “She comes here barking words Kal has taught to her. He has said much the same thing to me, and many times over the years, as has his pet, Jordel. If he wished to trouble us with this nonsense, he could have sent a letter and saved us much trouble.”
Loren felt hot wrath rising in her breast, and not the least at the Lord Chancellor’s use of the word pet to describe Jordel, who had been one of the greatest men she had ever known. And so she spoke without thinking, or hiding her anger.
“They are real, Lord Chancellor, and they have returned. We know, my friends and I, for we have seen them. Jordel would be here to tell you himself, but he cannot, for he died fighting the Shades, alone save for us, far away in the highest peaks of the Greatrocks. You should consider yourself honored to have ever stood in the same room as such a man.”
The room fell silent, save for her echo. The Lord Chancellor fixed Loren with a deadly glare, while the Dean’s mouth sat open in a small O of disbelief. But the High King stood, one hand falling to the throne, as if for support.
The Lord Chancellor fell to his knees along with the Dean. Loren dipped her head again.
“Say again, girl. Jordel, of the family Adair, is dead?”
Loren’s rage had fled her, and she found it hard to speak around the lump in her throat. “Yes. He fell in battle, saving our lives at the cost of his own. Our road has been darker since. Your Grace.”
Enalyn bowed her head, silent. No one moved or dared a heavy breath. The moment passed, and she sat again. The Lord Chancellor rose, as did the Dean, although stiffly.
“Remove Xain’s gag,” said Enalyn.
“Your Grace,” said the Dean. “I urge you not to do this. He is a criminal, sentenced to death for his crimes. Furthermore, he is an abomination, an eater of magestone. We cannot know that his mind is sound.”
Enalyn turned to the death, her mouth curled in displeasure. “Look at his gaunt cheeks, his wasted limbs. The man is half-dead. Can you, as the Academy Dean, not protect me and my court from so weak a wizard as this? For if that is the case, I would feel comfortable with a more powerful wizard holding your position.”
The Dean glared down at Xain, with more than a hint of nerves in his stare. But he quickly shook his head. “Of course, Your Grace. It will be my honor.”
“Good,” said Enalyn. “Remove it.”
Len hastened to obey, and with the cloth removed, Xain flexed his jaw until it popped. The Dean held his fingers in a claw by his side, lips parted as if ready to mutter words of power. But Xain only rose to one knee and looked up at Enalyn—neither with anger nor shame. He looked only expectant.
“Did you speak over his grave?” Enalyn asked him.
Loren had not expected that, and by his look neither had Xain. He bowed. “No, Your Grace. None of us could speak, for the grief of loss was heavy upon us. But he fell from a bridge that spanned a great
chasm, and into the bridge I inscribed my words.”
“Tell me.”
Here fell a great man
A clarion trumpet against danger
In darkness where none could see
His name was Jordel
Xain spoke the words like a prayer, and suddenly Loren was back on the bridge by his side. She saw the Mystic’s mangled body once more, the cairn they had built him of rocks, and his red cloak, which they had buried him in. She bowed her head, and tears sprang unbidden into her eyes.
Enalyn nodded at the wizard when he finished, a quiet smile on her lips. “That was very like him.”
She clapped her hands, and it was as if a spell had broken. “If you speak the truth, and the Shades are indeed gathering power, we must stop it immediately.”
“Your Grace, it would be a mistake to act in haste upon this,” said the Lord Chancellor. “You would be taking action based on the words of a known traitor and criminal, witnessed only by street urchins and children whom we have never heard of.”
“They came escorted by four of your soldiers, Lord Chancellor.”
“Soldiers who will receive appropriate discipline,” he said, staring daggers at the Mystics studiously avoiding his gaze.
“I must confess myself still in mystery,” said the Dean, eyes narrowed as he looked from Xain to Loren and back. “Who are these people the girl speaks of?”
“Let us visit our history later,” said the Lord Chancellor. “For now, I recommend that we rid ourselves of these . . . visitors. Your Grace, with your leave, let us dismiss them and hold an emergency council to determine our best course of action.”
“But you cannot mean to simply let Xain go free,” said the Dean. “He has committed many crimes against the King’s law and must now face his punishment.”
“No. At least not yet,” Enalyn said. “If he has returned of his own free will, then I can at least entertain the possibility that he has atoned for his crimes—or begun to.” She turned to Loren and the others. “You will stay here, in the palace. Under guard, I am afraid, for I cannot let Xain roam free any more than I will consign him to a swift and brutal punishment. But you will not face justice until I know what is fair.”
Shadeborn: A Book of Underrealm Page 15
