"We weren't going to Principality City," Vahanian said edgily.
"No?" Gabriel said with an unsettling smile that showed the tips of his long incisors. "The bounty on your head in Margolan rivals even the royal bounty for your life in Eastmark," Gabriel replied, "and you are-shall we say, 'unwelcome'-in Nargi. The border of Dhasson swarms with magicked beasts. Where would you hide, Jonmarc, except in Principality, with its mercs and its hired swords?" At Vahanian's stare, Gabriel chuckled. "Do not marvel that you are known to the Sisterhood. For now, at least, Tris's road and yours is the same."
Vahanian turned away with a curse, slipping the ring onto his left hand. Gabriel looked to the others. "I will aid you were I can. But now, rest. You need fear no more from the slavers."
"Milord," Carina interjected, addressing Gabriel. "Please let me add something. I am called Carina Jesthrata, and my brother and I were also heading to Dhasson on an urgent mission," she continued, her voice fervent. "We traveled from Isencroft, where I was... am... healer to King Donelan. The king lies under a wasting spell, and he is dying. Kiara Sharsequin, his heir, sent us to find the cure. We know that the Sisterhood has a great citadel in Dhasson, near Valiquet, where some of their best healers are said to be. We were traveling there to see if they might have a cure."
Gabriel looked thoughtful. "The Dark Lady indeed has her hand in this," he murmured. "M'lady," Gabriel said respectfully, "I am sorry, but I cannot assure your safe passage to Valiquet." He paused. "There is, however, a smaller holding of the Sisterhood in Principality City. If you traveled with the group, perhaps the Sisters could advise you."
Carina looked crestfallen.
"There is something more to consider," Gabriel went on. "The Library at Westmarch is renowned for its books. You may find some healing knowledge in the wizard's library."
Carina nodded slowly. "If the Library is controlled by the Sisters, perhaps I can find someone there who can help me, or get me to the Sisters in Dhasson."
"There is one more thing, Gabriel continued. "The beasts hunt the forest between here and Westmarch." Gabriel looked at Vahanian, and his gaze implied more than the mercenary cared to acknowledge. "They fear only fire. Take pitch and make torches and arrows that can be lit at a moment's notice. Only then can you turn the beasts."
"Easy for you to say," Vahanian murmured acidly.
"Thank you," Carina replied. But without seeming to pass among them, Gabriel vanished.
"Does it matter if I don't like this at all?" Carroway groused.
Berry bounded up beside Vahanian, and he marveled that after everything they survived, the girl was actually skipping. "Do you believe that?" she exclaimed. "A real vayash moru, and he knew Jonmarc, and he didn't eat us or anything!"
The girl's open excitement brought a tired smile even to Vahanian. "Stick with us, Berry, and you'll be amazed," he quipped. But the smile faded and as the fighter looked at Tris's still form. "What are you going to do?" Vahanian taunted not long ago. "Darken the moon? Tame the vayash moru? Raise the dead?" Tonight, Tris did just that. And come their arrival in Principality City, that knowledge would force a choice. If, as Vahanian swore so many times, he truly wished for his vengeance on Arontala, committing his loyalty to the young exiled mage might give Tris a fighting chance. Vahanian looked away, not yet ready to make his decision. It might, he thought darkly, be made for him, and for all of them, if the will of the Lady was not to be denied.
Chapter Twenty-one
Jared Drayke reined in his skittish stallion, jerking back on its bit so hard that the animal reared. Around them, the smoke from the burning village hung in a haze over the winter afternoon, and the fires that still flamed high above the remaining structures made the courtyard unnaturally warm.
"That's the last of them, Your Majesty," the captain reported with a crisp bow.
"Are you certain?" Jared asked, surveying the destruction.
"Yes, Your Majesty," the captain repeated. "There'll be no vayash moru from this village to plague the rest of us, you can be sure of that," he said with a satisfied smile.
Jared watched the thatched roof of one of the buildings give way in a shower of sparks. "Good work, Captain."
"Thank you, Your Majesty," the soldier replied, bowing once more. "Orders, Your Majesty?"
"You know what to look for," Jared replied, bored with the charade he was committed to maintain. "Burn the monsters out, and any who give them aid."
The captain nodded. "Yes, Your Majesty," he answered, then turned to round up his scattered soldiers as Jared wheeled his horse and rejoined his bodyguards.
"A good day's work, don't you think, Your Majesty?" asked his companion, a baron recently come into his title.
"Just a drop in the bucket," Jared replied ill-temperedly as they rode toward Shekerishet. "You should hear the petitions that come pleading for my help," he said, watching the credulous baron out of the corner of his eye. "Filthy monsters stealing children, slaughtering livestock, laying waste to entire villages. And all with the help of that shadowy Sisterhood," he added.
"Never trusted them," the baron added fervently. "Probably spirit the children away themselves for blood rites or some such thing."
"Would you like to see one put to the test?"
"A Sister?" the baron gasped. "You've captured one?"
"I'll be interrogating her when I return to the palace. Care to join me?" Jared enjoyed the look of utter anguish on the baron's pudgy face, torn between the request of his king and his own fear.
"If it would please my king," the baron choked out finally, his jowls atremble.
Jared turned to hide the amusement that curled his lip. "You may find it... enlightening," he said, spurring his horse on faster so that his guards rushed to follow.
The baron followed Jared hesitantly into the stables, and remained as far behind as protocol would allow as they made their way down the sharply twisting stairs into the lower regions of the palace. Carved into stone with solid rock jutting high overhead, Shekerishet was built into the cliffs, and its dungeons descended into caves deep beneath the mountain. For almost five hundred years, Shekerishet watched over Margolan, a brooding, silent fortress, unbreached by any enemy.
It was to its deepest regions that Jared led the baron. This was the realm that Arontala claimed as his own. It was here that the most useful captives were brought for interrogation-those suspected of magecraft, or the unfortunates truly likely to be genuine vayash moru.
The pudgy noble was white with fear, his hands trembling so badly that he was forced to hook his thumbs in his belt. Jared admitted to himself that he had more than an inkling of the same uneasiness. A good deal more, he thought, given that he alone knew just how powerful Arontala had become, growing stronger with every wretch he tortured and killed. Arontala was now adept at dampening the powers of his captives, preferring most often to drug them with wormroot-a potion that disassociated their powers.
So it was that their captive awaited them. She knelt, bound hand and foot, bent over at the waist so that her forehead nearly touched the ground, resting or asleep, or perhaps just drugged beyond the point where should could hold herself upright. Matted brown hair spilled from beneath her cowl, and the brown robe that marked her as one among the Sisterhood was torn and muddy, testimony that her capture had not come easily. Nor cheaply, Jared thought with a frown, as he recalled how many guards died in the attempt to breech the mages' stronghold.
Arontala waited for them, greeting them with the barest nod of his head, almost one among the shadows that danced along the cold stone walls in the torchlit chamber. Around them, the instruments of inquisition littered the benches and tables, stained dark with the blood of past victims. Another figure, the inquisitor, stood silent and formidable in his dark tunic. Jared saw the fat little baron swallow in fear and step backwards, until the solid wall blocked his way. This one, Jared thought, doesn't even require a hostage to know his place, he thought with a smile. A glance from Arontala would have him grov
eling for an easy death.
"Ready, Your Majesty?" Arontala asked, in the self-confident tone that Jared knew paid only lip-service to the rank and power of a mortal king.
"I am," Jared said, managing just the right note of ennui to impress the hapless baron, who hugged the wall so closely as to resemble a tapestry.
"Then begin," Arontala instructed the inquisitor, who stepped towards his subject and jerked her upright.
The baron fainted.
In all, the interrogation went on for more than two candlemarks, and even Jared was surprised at the victim's single-mindedness. Battered beyond reasonable hope, bearing the wounds of the inquisitor's craft, the Sister remained mute, fixing Arontala with a steady gaze that infuriated the dark mage.
"You don't seem to be getting anywhere," Jared observed dryly, as the inquisitor tried yet another instrument of his trade, inflicting its measured agony to no avail, as the Sister remained silent but for her screams.
"She is obstinate," Arontala fumed, and Jared hid a smile, enjoying the mage's frustration.
"Perhaps," Jared replied, "she is the first real mage you've questioned, instead of those hedge witches you so enjoy toying with."
"Even mages have a breaking point," Arontala replied, setting his teeth, and gesturing for the inquisitor to try yet another set of tools.
"And their failures," Jared said, relishing his first opportunity to best the dark mage in quite some time.
"As do kings," Arontala replied evenly, "Your Majesty," he added, barely bothering to veil the sarcasm in his voice.
"The fact remains that you have yet to find and destroy the remains of Bava K'aa," Jared pointed out. "And until you do, we are at risk."
"We have destroyed every citadel from here to the Principality border, and west to Isencroft," Arontala replied tightly.
"You just haven't looked hard enough," Jared replied, stepping over the prone noble and walking towards the stairs. "I've had enough amusement for tonight," he said dryly. "I'll be in my rooms."
"As you wish, My Lord," Arontala replied, his voice tight with barely restrained anger. As Jared turned the first corner of the stair, he glimpsed Arontala himself wheeling on the hapless captive, snatching away the tools from the inquisitor and advancing on the drugged mage. Her screams echoed the length of the twisted stairway.
Jared had barely reached the main hall before the captain of his guard caught up with him. "If it please Your Majesty," the man interjected, bowing.
"It does not," Jared snapped irritably. The man clearly came from a long ride, his clothes splashed with mud and bearing the dust of the road. "Well?" he growled. "What is your news?"
"From the Principality border, Your Majesty," the flustered captain replied. "There's been a report that a swordswoman on a great steed drove off two of our guardsmen single-handedly and took a group of peasants across into Principality."
Jared frowned. "A woman, with a sword?"
The captain nodded. "Aye, Your Majesty. And not a dabbler, either, from the report. A trained blade, and a good one."
Jared cursed. "What else could your men tell you after they failed to hold the road?" Jared snapped. "I'm amazed that they didn't dream up a giant ten feet tall!"
The captain fidgeted, clearly uncomfortable with his role as the bearer of bad news. "I couldn't say, milord," he replied nervously. "But they've stuck to their story, even though they took not a little ribbing from their mates about being driven off by a doxy. They've said she was a pretty lass, excepting for her travel clothes, which were more suited to a man."
"What did they say she looked like?" Jared asked, his suspicions growing.
The captain gulped. "Auburn hair, quite wavy, and tied back in a queue. A pretty face, if she weren't of a mind to chop you in two," he added.
"On a warhorse, you say," Jared asked carefully.
Once again, the nervous captain nodded. "Yes, Your Majesty. A big horse, trained to kick and rear, and she knew how to ride it well, they said. Nearly kicked their heads in with its hooves, she did, until she ran them off."
Jared's eyes narrowed. "Send your best men into Principality after her," Jared ordered. "Have them go in twos, armed with bows, and bring the horse down first. But I want the woman alive, do you understand?" he barked.
"Aye, Your Majesty," the captain assented hesitatingly. "But sending troops, into Principality, suppose they should be discovered? A war-"
"I haven't asked you to think, I've asked you to fetch the bitch and bring her to me for questioning," Jared snarled. "Do you think you can handle that, or should I send someone else?" Just then the mage's anguished screams sounded again, and the captain's face went paler than moonlight.
"No, Your Majesty," the luckless man gulped. "As you request, Your Majesty."
"And be quick about it," Jared snapped, turning, his mood even more foul than when he had left the catacombs.
"Yes, Your Majesty," the man answered, his voice trailing off as Jared began to ascend the broad main stairs to the king's quarters above.
The captain's report could mean only one thing, Jared knew. Kiara Sharsequin begged off from traveling with his emissary only to slip out of Isencroft, through Margolan. Her betrayal meant nothing to his heart; he met her once, years ago, and had no interest in a wife beyond securing his dynasty. For those practical uses, he admitted, a more pliant partner would certainly be less trouble, more likely to know her place. No, the only reason to suffer the tempers of the Isencroft princess were the lands that would come as her dowry, rich farm lands that would more than double the size of his holdings.
And if, once the wedding was past and an heir was delivered, his queen were to die in childbirth, well, such things were common. And practical. But now Kiara added an affront atop her veiled rejection, slipping through his hands and running off his soldiers like errand boys. That a few peasants found their way into Principality did not bother him in the least. More troublesome, he thought, as he reached his chambers and secured the iron-wrought door behind him, was the notion it might put in others' minds that the troops and, therefore, the king, of Margolan was easily bested. And for that, Jared sulked as he poured a large goblet of brandy, she must be punished.
The fire in the hearth had burned down to embers before Arontala joined him. Jared was used to the mage's silent approach. "Well?" he asked without looking away from the fire. He was well into the brandy, soaking up its warmth as he basked in the glow of the flames.
"The mage is dead."
"And what you have learned?"
"That mages of the Sisterhood are not made of iron and rock," the dark sorcerer replied evenly, refusing to take the bait. "That they can be killed even if they cannot be broken."
"So you failed."
In the blink of an eye, Arontala traversed the room, to lean against the large hearth, watching Jared with his expressionless gaze. "Failure depends upon the goal sought, My Lord," he replied, here in private making no attempt to veil his scorn. "Another of the Sisterhood is dead, a message that will not be overlooked by the group. Another of their citadels has been abandoned. Word comes from the king of Nargi that he would be more than happy to loan his troops should the uprisings along the river need a strong hand to settle. Dhasson is too busy with the beasts on their border to come to the traitor's aid. And I have fed... quite well," he said, his tongue darting at the corners of his lips as they drew back, just barely, to expose the elongated teeth within. "We advance our cause."
"Advance!" Jared roared, sending the table at his side to the floor with a crash as he rolled to his feet. "My brother remains at large, despite your 'best' efforts. The Sharsequin bitch has slipped the net. And the Sisterhood you are so proud of destroying has merely gone underground. Tell me those aren't failures!"
Arontala regarded him unemotionally, his chalky complexion almost glowing in the firelight. "It is still too early in the game to know," he responded, shrugging away from the hearth. "You hold the throne. Your coffers have never been more full.
And whatever the people may think of your methods, they now fear the vayash moru even more than they fear their king." He smiled. "We have given them a common enemy, and eliminated my rivals, all for the good of Margolan. Quite ingenious, don't you think?"
Jared wheeled on the slender mage and made a drunken roundhouse punch. He would have missed a mortal man by a fair distance, but the vayash moru traveled across the room before the punch was completed, and watched the king stagger. "Temper, Jared," Arontala clucked. "I shouldn't like to have to remind you about the terms of our partnership," he said smoothly, circling the enraged king just out of reach. "But if I must, I will... how shall I say it?... 'nip' the behavior in the bud?" he smiled, his teeth the grimace of a predator.
With a howl of rage, Jared lunged at the mage, only to fall flat on the chamber floor while Arontala affected a bored pose against the opposite wall. "Really, Jared. This is pointless. What do you propose if you got your hands on me, hmm? Are you going to kill me?" he taunted. "You're too late. Someone did that for you a long time ago. And you're forgetting something quite important."
"What is that?" Jared snarled, having unsteadily regained his feet to glower impotently at the smug mage.
"Before too many more months, the Hawthorn Moon will come," Arontala replied. "When it does, nothing else will matter. I've bound the spirits of the mages we've killed, along with Kait and Serae and more than a few of the palace ghosts, in the Orb as an offering," he explained in a self-congratulatory voice. "As a meal when the Obsidian King awakes from his slumber. I will hold the power of rebirth over the greatest mage that ever lived," he went on, "and you," he added with a hint of acid in his voice, "you hold power over me. We both get what we want, isn't that true, milord?"
"Get out," Jared shouted, trembling with a drunken combination of rage and fear. "Don't come back until you've something to show for it. Bring me the body of Bava K'aa, or the head of my brother, or that Isencroft trollop in chains. I will not be mocked!" he shouted, hurling a pitcher at the mage, who moved aside faster than the mortal eye could follow, and watched with a trace of disapproval as the pitcher's contents dripped down the stone wall.
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