by Robert Ryan
“Where did they go?” Lanrik asked.
“No one knows. Not for sure. But the word is that they went to Galenthern. They can live there, and the Witch-queen cannot hunt them. Or if she can, it would take her a long time.”
Lanrik had a feeling that this was true. The plains were vast, and the swamps impenetrable. It would take decades to track them down there, and it would not be worth the effort. Even an army would struggle to do the job.
He had one more question. He struggled to ask it, for he feared the answer. But Bragga Mor surprised him with one of his own.
“Any Raithlin in the city would know as much as what I just told you. Or more. So you haven’t been here.”
The bard looked at him hard. “You’re Lanrik, aren’t you?” He shifted his gaze. “And you, my dear, must be Erlissa.”
There was little point in lying. “Yes,” Lanrik said.
Bragga Mor nodded slowly. “I saw you fight in the sword tournament of the Spring Games, but that was quite a while ago, and I couldn’t be sure it was you. You and Mecklar were in the final. For what it’s worth, I think you should’ve won.”
Lanrik shrugged. “Maybe. But as you say, that was a while ago. All that really matters is that I won the next time – when it counted most.”
Bragga Mor gave him an appraising look.
“Small wonder that no one has seen Mecklar for a long time. You know, he used to drink in this very shop. I said hello to him many a time. I never drank with him, though.”
Lanrik gathered his courage and forced himself to ask one more question.
“What happened to the Lindrath?”
Bragga Mor let out a long breath and slowly shook his head. When he spoke, his words were like the voice of doom.
“Of him, I know more than the other Raithlin. He did not escape the city.”
“Is he dead?” Lanrik asked.
Bragga Mor looked away. But before he did, there was pity in his eyes.
6. A Twitch of Flame
The hair on the back of Brinhain’s neck prickled.
He would not show fear in front of his men. They were scared too, but that was of no consequence. All that mattered was that they thought he, as their leader, was unperturbed. It did not matter if it was a lie.
He stood straight and tall. The great door to Esgallien’s throne room opened. The massive oak panel, heavy enough that five men could not lift it, swung easily on its gold-plated hinges at the touch of one of the soldiers stationed there. They were Royal Guards, as he would expect in the palace. It worried him that he did not recognize them, though.
The door came to a stop. He walked past the guards slowly, eying each of them for a moment, but they showed not even the barest flicker of respect or acknowledgement of his rank. He was a captain, and they were glorified butlers with swords. It was one more thing to worry about. If he failed Ebona, there were others to take his place – a seemingly unending string of them.
He promised himself that he would not fail her.
His boots, and those of several of his most trusted men, echoed hollowly in the vast chamber as they crossed the polished timber floor. He took one look at Ebona, and wished that he had brought his whole company. Yet he wondered if even an army would protect him should she want him dead.
The queen sat on her throne. Her gaze, cold and remote, drove into him like a spear. She showed no obvious anger, though a faint flush of red colored her face. He sensed that she restrained herself, and his heart skipped a beat.
King Murhain sat on a throne next to her. He had no wife, for he and Ebona were not married. In truth, she had no right or claim to rule, and yet she invoked a sense of authority that he did not. A fool he looked, staring vacant eyed at the woman who had seduced him, waiting for her to speak in order that he might know how to proceed.
Brinhain bowed. When he looked up, he caught his breath. Ebona was standing. She wore no royal robes, or crown, nor any jewels. She was clad in a simple linen dress, white and clean, cinched by a red belt. And yet she looked regal. Her figure was slim and tall. Nobility shone from her face. Her cheekbones were high, and the gaze of her wide-set eyes was clear and bright. The long tumble of her blonde hair surpassed any crown.
Brinhain understood how the king had fallen. He felt himself yearn for her favor, but she looked at him with a hard gaze.
“We have received your messages,” Ebona said. She glanced at the king, and he smiled at her. “And they disappoint us.”
She stepped closer. He noticed for the first time that her feet were bare, and yet she seemed to tower above him.
“Strange, that when tidings are good you come yourself, but only send messengers to report bad news, unless summoned. Perhaps you’re scared of me?”
Brinhain knew that nothing but the truth would do.
“Yes, My Queen. I’m scared of you.”
Ebona pursed her lips.” Then you are not a complete fool.”
She stepped closer. Her feet made no noise on the timber floor.
“And yet, you have still failed me. Not only did you allow a Raithlin to escape your grasp, but the one above all others that I want most. Not to mention the wretched witch-girl that accompanies him.”
Brinhain did not like the tone that had crept into her voice. He knew that she hated Lanrik and Erlissa, but until that moment he had underestimated how much. Abhorrence throbbed in her every word.
“I’m sorry, My Queen.”
Ebona placed a hand on his shoulder, and he felt goose bumps rise all over his skin.
“Are you? Or do you mean that you will be?”
Brinhain’s heart thudded. “I won’t fail you again, My Queen. Even as we speak, hundreds of men search the city. I won’t stop until I bring your enemies to you.”
Ebona shook her head slowly. “You are quick to move onto other matters. But we are yet to establish what your punishment will be.”
Sweat beaded his face. His sensed his men shuffle back. He wanted to do the same, but dared not.
“What punishment could be worse than failing you, My Queen? Except not being able to redeem myself.”
“What punishment, indeed?” she said.
She stepped close and draped an arm around him. Lightly, like a wisp of air, she moved behind him. He felt her hot breath on his neck. But when she spoke, it was to Murhain.
“O King!” she said. “Ruler of men. Head of the mighty nation of Esgallien. Come! Tell me what you think. Speak to me from the wellspring of your wisdom. What punishment is fitting for the captain’s failure?”
Murhain frowned, as though deep in thought. His gaze wavered between Ebona and the floor.
“He failed you, My Queen.”
“Yes,” said Ebona. There was a hint of impatience in her voice. “But his punishment?”
Brinhain did not think the king was capable of deciding what he wanted for breakfast, let alone anything else. Was Ebona poisoning him? There were drugs that took a man’s mind before they stole his life.
Murhain focused on the floor as though he could read the secrets to life there.
“Kill him,” he said at length.
Brinhain felt Ebona behind him. One of her arms was draped over his shoulder. Her hand, with its strange toe-like thumb, rested on his chest. She must feel the beating of his heart, sense the panic rising through his body.
“Well,” she said. “Death you have earned. And a slow one, too.” She paused. Her fingers tapped his chest to the rhythm of his heartbeat. “You know, don’t you, that I could make you die, and rouse you, only to make you die again? It’s a game I could play all night.”
Brinhain tried to speak. His voice faltered in his throat.
“What was that, dear? Did you say you want to play that game?”
“No! My Queen.” He gasped the words out. He felt ashamed to be unmanned in front of his men. Worse, to show weakness to her. His glance fell on the king, and a thought occurred to him. Better to die a man, than live as a fool.
“I
failed you, Ebona. It was a mistake. Kill me if you choose, but do not think you have a more loyal servant. Or a more capable one.”
He felt her stiffen behind him. Her hand on his chest froze in place. His heart raced wildly, but he no longer cared.
She laughed. It was the light sound of a carefree young girl, though she was anything but.
“Oh! That was well done. Perhaps you have some virtues after all.”
He remained silent. The king seemed to have lost interest in proceedings. His gaze roved aimlessly over the room’s exquisite murals, tapestries and statuettes, before wandering back to Ebona. There they rested a while, as though finding peace in his adulation of her.
“We shall spare him now, shall we not, O King?”
“Yes,” Murhain answered. “Spare him. He is a true and valiant servant.”
Ebona moved once more. She uncoiled herself from him. One moment he felt her behind him, and the next she stood in front. Her eyes gazed into his, blue-green wells that sparked with thoughts and emotions that he could not fathom, but wanted to know. He understood how easy it would be to fall under her sway. He blinked, and pressed the tip of his boot into the floor. The pain from his gout-afflicted toe flared to life.
She grinned at him suddenly. “Perhaps you can serve me yet. At least, for a little while longer.”
Her bright eyes shifted to the guards that he had brought.
“Which one of your men has served you best?”
Brinhain did not hesitate. “Caracas, My Queen.”
“Come forward, Caracas,” she ordered.
Slow footsteps sounded behind him. It was the reluctant tread a man who wanted to go nowhere fast. Brinhain did not blame him, but things had taken a new turn. There would be no punishment now.
Caracas drew level.
The queen looked him over. “You know, Caracas, that I have powers?”
“Yes, My Lady.”
“And I have used them. Yes, I have tried to locate Lanrik and Erlissa, but something wards them from my sight.”
Brinhain saw her eyes change. There was suppressed anger there. She did not like to be stymied. It infuriated her, though she kept a tight control of herself.
“That means,” she continued, “that I must find them another way. The lòhren Aranloth protects them. He thinks he is smart, but I am smarter. I, who walked this world long ages before he was born. I, to whom all people will one day bow. Even the lòhren, before I kill him. And I have a plan. These fools think they can come to my city, and do as they please. Well, let them! I know what they want. First and foremost, Lanrik will seek news of his brother Raithlin. More than that, he will try to discover what happened to the Lindrath. They say he loves him like a father. Well, we shall put that to the test. The whole city knows where I left him. Lanrik will soon learn, and it is there that we shall catch him.”
“I’ll set a watch and arrest him,” Brinhain promised.
“You said that last time, when he travelled down the Carist Nien toward the Angle.” She looked at him hard, and he shivered. “I’ll not make the mistake of relying on you again. This time, I’ll give you help.”
She turned to Caracas. “Step closer.”
Caracas obeyed, yet Brinhain sensed his reluctance. So too did Ebona.
“Come, there is nothing to be afraid of. This will be to your benefit. You’ll see, and thank me in the end. After all, what man does not wish to be stronger, faster and a better fighter? What man would turn away from the chance to be near invincible? I shall give you powers to overcome Lanrik, and the witch-girl with him. Would you like that?”
“Yes, My Queen,” Caracas answered slowly.
“Good. I see that your desire to serve me burns white-hot. And so I shall permit you to do so.”
She stepped lightly toward him. Brinhain had a bad feeling, and yet whatever was going to be done would not affect him. He watched, transfixed by curiosity, part-jealous of the sorcerous gift Ebona would bestow on the man, but part-expecting that it would come at a price.
Ebona’s feet glided soundlessly over the timber flooring. Distantly, he heard the king hum to himself, but he paid Murhain no heed. King he might be, but in Esgallien’s court, the Witch-queen alone dispensed reward or punishment.
She came to a halt. Her head tilted a little as she considered Caracas. One moment she stood like that, poised and still, and the next her arm shot forth as though released from a bow. Her hand did not pierce flesh, but it gripped and squeezed. Her fingers, like iron pincers, caught and crushed his throat.
Caracas was strong, but it seemed that he was no match for the queen. He struggled, trying to break free. He dropped down, twisted to the side and reeled back. But whatever he did, he only managed to move a little. His face reddened, and desperation etched his features. He started to strike at her arms, but she shrugged the blows off. He tried to hit her face, but she shook him as a child shakes a doll, and he flailed uselessly.
His death came swiftly. One moment he was thrashing wildly, but soon after his movements were feeble. When he slumped in her grip, she let him collapse to the floor.
Caracas’s body was limp. He looked up from bulging eyes, but there was no flicker of life within them. The skin of his neck was red, but where Ebona’s iron-like grip had fixed to it, white marks outlined her fingers and thumb.
Brinhain gulped. He looked at the Witch-queen, and gulped again.
Ebona circled the corpse. Her feet moved lightly, as though she danced, and fire sprang from the floor wherever she stepped. There was no smoke.
Through the twisting flames, Brinhain saw the timber beneath. The wood remained undamaged. This was sorcery of a kind that he had not seen before, and he tried to gulp again but his mouth was dry. He made a gurgling sound. Ebona ignored him.
The flames leapt higher. She moved away from them and stood next to him. He felt the heat of the fire, or of her body; he could no longer tell which was which. She lifted her hands above her head, and the flames rose higher at her command. The light was blinding, and yet the warmth in the throne room lessened. It swiftly grew cold.
Brinhain looked around. The king sat idly, whispering to himself and oblivious to the powers that Ebona unleashed, and yet in the corners of the room there were shadows. There should not be, for the light of Ebona’s flame was bright. But shadows there were, and they danced closer.
Brinhain did not move. The witch stood still beside him, and whatever was happening in the room, he knew the safest place was next to her.
The shadows flowed. They leaped and capered to their own rhythm. They neared the bright flames, merged with them, and writhed now as one, twirling, twitching and climbing into the smokeless air.
A moment they flared with blinding light, and then they subsided. Or, he thought, they moved inward. They flickered over the corpse, touching it, caressing it, smothering it.
The right hand of Caracas began to jerk. His left followed soon after. And then his whole body shuddered. The corpse came to its knees, and then swayed to its feet. It was a thing of dead flesh, and yet it twitched with the flame of life.
Caracas raised his arms. Fire leaped to his face, and then ran all over his body. His mouth opened. He screamed, but there was no sound, only a stream of shadow-fire.
The sorcerous flame burned skin, peeled patches away to expose red flesh. Eyebrows withered and the hair on his head ignited like a torch. His clothes, half burned away, half melted onto his body, smoked and crackled.
Caracas, or that which was Caracas, writhed in agony, but slowly the fire subsided. It did not go out, rather it seeped inside him. His eyed flickered with it. Smoke curled from his wide-fared nostrils. He stood almost still now. His face was recognizable, but he stared blankly ahead.
The fire disappeared, but his charred body still twitched as though it danced inside him. His hands flicked without cessation. His shoulders shrugged and jerked with a life of their own.
Brinhain retched. He tasted bile in the back of his mouth. When th
e nausea passed, he looked up to see Ebona watching him.
“Go,” she said. “Caracas will obey you, but once he finds Lanrik and the girl, nothing will control him. He must kill them, pass the flame onto them, or he will never be rid of it, himself.”
She turned and walked toward her throne. “Go,” she said over her shoulder, “and do not return until it’s with the tidings that I most wish to hear. And if you don’t bring them, then you will suffer. Go!”
Brinhain bowed to Ebona’s back. He turned swiftly and strode away. His men did not look at him. He smelled their fear, even above his own. The corpse of Caracas twitched and lurched behind him.
He left the throne room and breathed the air beyond as though it was the sweetest thing in the world. The pain in his big toe slowed him, but not much. He was filled with determination. He would not fail Ebona again. He would not. Lanrik and Erlissa were as good as dead, and if Ebona was right, he knew just where to wait for them.
7. A Message in Blood
Bragga Mor spoke, and Lanrik listened carefully.
“They captured the Lindrath,” the bard said simply. “The details aren’t important. All that matters is that he didn’t leave the city with the Raithlin – he chose to stay and help the forces opposing the Witch-queen. What was left of them, anyway.”
“Then there’s still resistance to her?” Lanrik asked. He was trying to give himself time to brace for the worse news that would follow.
“Well, in truth, the whole city opposes her, but the people have learned not to voice their opinions. And especially not to act on them. It’s certain death. All rebellion has ceased. What I meant is that he tried to keep it alive, even after it died.”
Lanrik was not so sure about that. The people might accept their situation now, but that did not mean they had given up hope of changing it. They were like any conquered people in history: when the time came, they would rise up against their oppressor.
Bragga Mor continued. “There were rumors, of course. The city is always full of rumors. I heard from several sources, usually reliable ones, that he escaped. Unfortunately, it was wishful thinking. Or lies.”
