Ice Forged (The Ascendant Kingdoms Saga) (20 page)

Geddy’s next words were lost as the tower bells clanged again. Connor could see his lips moving, but could make out
none of the words. His ears buzzed and he was sure that if he survived this night, he might be forever deafened.

Suddenly, there was silence.

For a heartbeat, no sound came. Screams, bells, and the thunder of explosions ceased. The air itself felt unnaturally still, but Connor felt a tingle rush across his skin.

Geddy wrapped his arms around himself as if to hold back the horror that unfolded beyond the window. Connor followed the direction of Geddy’s gaze.

From where the ribbon touched ground, a wave of invisible power rippled outward, felling buildings and toppling trees. From his vantage point, Connor could see what those in the courtyard below could not. A swell of power rolled toward the city and the castle, flattening everything before it. Fire surged in its wake, yet this fire glowed as green as the sky ribbon, burning without smoke.

Magic
, Connor thought.
Magic fire. Meroven’s sorcerers have managed to strike at the heart of Donderath.

Only seconds had passed, and the silence was still so complete that Connor could not hear his heartbeat, though he could feel it thudding in his chest. Tears streaked down his face, but he could not hear his own sobs.

The curtain of light had plowed through the western end of Castle Reach and bore down on the walls of Quillarth Castle. Connor did not look to see if the crowd below had fled; he could not take his eyes from the beautiful, deadly ribbon of flame.

In the silence, Donderath fell.

The outer walls of the castle crumbled at the touch of the green light, yet still no sound came. The inner walls fell, and then the outbuildings flattened as if stepped upon by an invisible giant. Geddy had fallen to his knees with his arms over his head. Connor readied himself to die.

I should have run when I had the chance. I should have warned Lord Garnoc and the king. Gods forgive me.

For a moment, Connor wondered whether it would be better to cast himself out of the open window than to die in the crush of the tower’s collapse, but there was no time to decide. The magic struck the western side of the castle, sending a shockwave through the stone that threw Connor to the floor. He lifted his head and saw the bells careening madly on their yokes, soundless. His own silent screams tore from a raw throat as he grabbed Geddy by the tunic and began to crawl toward the staircase.

The tower shook again, and Connor staggered to his feet, starting down the steps that now bucked and shimmied beneath him. Geddy followed close behind. Connor half fell, half leaped from landing to landing, certain at any moment that the tower would implode around him, and that he would be crushed beneath the huge stones of its walls and the heavy bells above. Behind him, some of the stair treads cracked in two and fell to the tower floor far below. A few small stones shook free of their mortar, and pebbles began to rain down around him.

A final tremor sent Connor tumbling down the steps to the last landing. Geddy landed next to him, bruised and scraped but alive.

In the blink of an eye, the shaking stopped, and Connor realized that the tower stood. Just as quickly, sound rushed back in a mighty roar. His own heartbeat sounded as loudly in his ears as did the clanging of the bells overhead. Yet while his heart thudded as if it meant to tear itself from his chest, Connor realized that the bells’ peals had slowed. Through the thick stone of the tower walls, Connor heard screaming and crying. In the distance trumpets sounded a woefully belated alarm for fire.

“Are we dead? Maybe we don’t know it yet,” Geddy asked, hesitantly looking around.

“Don’t know what ‘dead’ feels like,” Connor replied, shakily regaining his feet. “But since we’re both bleeding, I think we’re still alive.”

“Is that a good thing, or a bad thing?”

Connor grimaced. “Not sure yet.”

The unbearable tingle that had signaled the onslaught of magic was gone. Connor took a step, afraid he might find that he was no more than a ghost. His shoes crunched the mortar dust against the flagstones of the floor. “Let’s see if the others survived.”

Connor and Geddy headed toward the nearest door. It opened onto the ground floor of Quillarth Castle. Servants and retainers ran past them as if they were not there, prompting Connor once again to pat his hands against his body to make sure that he was corporeal. Paintings and mirrors littered the hallway. Tapestries lay in a tangle on the floor, and the walkway was littered with furniture that had been overturned or tossed from its original position. Connor caught a glimpse of himself in a shard of mirror, enough to make him accept that he was no revenant.

“What a mess,” Geddy murmured. “I’ve got to find my master.”

Connor grabbed him by the arm. “If Lynge survived, there’s no telling where he is. Let’s stick together—we’re sure to find him. I need to reach Garnoc with the things we found. Best if we do that before Lynge asks any questions about where we were.”

Geddy nodded. “Assuming both our masters lived through whatever just happened.”

A man dressed in servant’s clothes jostled Connor, pushing past in a hurry.

“Excuse me—” Connor called, but the man did not stop to answer.

“Can you tell me—” Connor started to ask the next person they came upon, who also ran past as if he could not hear.

“By the gods, get out of my way!” A wild-eyed man shoved Connor and barreled toward the door to the outside, carrying a small chest under his arm. All around Connor and Geddy, servants fled in a panicked wave, forcing him up against the wall. Through the open door, Connor caught the smell of smoke. Outside, the light shifted in a way that first made him fear that the green curtain lingered.

“That’s not magic—it’s real fire,” Geddy said, eyes wide. “The castle’s ablaze.”

Grimly, Connor began to wade against the tide of people running for the exit. Geddy followed close behind. As Connor worked his way deeper inside the castle, he saw large cracks running diagonally from ceiling to floor, as if the castle had been dropped on its foundation, or the ground beneath it wrung out like a wet towel. Single blocks of stone lay where they had torn loose from their moorings, and grit covered everything.

Connor searched the faces of the servants who streamed past him. Many were covered with dust, bloodied and bruised. All were wide-eyed with fear, and Connor guessed that he looked no better to them.

“Estavan!” Geddy spotted Lord Radenou’s valet at the top of the second landing as he made his way up the main staircase toward Lord Garnoc’s rooms. Estavan turned slowly, moving as if befuddled by shock.

“Connor? Geddy? What are you doing here? We need to get out!”

Connor shook his head. “Not without Lord Garnoc and Lord Lynge. Where’s your master?”

Estavan’s pupils were dilated. His face was streaked with dirt, and his dark hair was disheveled. He still wore his nightshirt, and he had a small satchel over his shoulder. “Dead. Missing. I don’t know.”

Connor gripped Estavan by his shoulders. “Think, man. Where is Radenou? The War Council was to meet at dawn.”

“Dawn? We won’t be alive by dawn. We need to get out of here.” Estavan tore loose from Connor’s grip and lurched down the cluttered stairway. Connor began to climb the stairs, clinging to the side of the passageway to keep himself from being swept down in the tide of people rushing for the exit.

“Connor? Bevin Connor—is that you?”

From somewhere ahead in the dimly lit stairwell, Connor heard a familiar voice. “Lynge? Where are you?”

“Keep climbing,” the voice shouted above the din.

Connor made his way up the stairs. The crowd thinned. In the half-light, Connor could see Lars Lynge, the king’s seneschal, looking as if he had thrown on whatever clothing he could find in the dark, a drastic difference from his usual impeccable grooming. Lynge was at least two decades older than Connor, the droll, unflappable manager and the silent mover behind much that transpired within the castle’s walls. Lynge looked worried, but there was no trace of panic in his haggard features.

“Geddy! Thank the gods you’re safe. I feared the worst,” Lynge said.

“Have you seen the king, or Garnoc?” Connor asked as he reached Lynge. Lynge pulled him out of the stairwell into the third-floor corridor. Geddy followed.

Lynge shook his head. “No. I’m headed there myself. Got trapped out in the dependencies when the ruddy fire started falling. You?”

Connor felt the weight of the stolen map against his chest beneath his tunic and gave a warning glance at Geddy. “I’d gone up to the bell tower for a breath of air. Couldn’t sleep. Found Geddy up there as well. By Torven’s horns! We saw it all, but when we tried to get back down, the world started to shake.”

“You saw—how bad is it, beyond the castle?”

Connor took a deep breath. “Bad. Everything looks flattened or burned.” He looked around them. As on the first floor, the palace walls were cracked and some of the stones had fallen. Dust covered everything in a gray cloud. Portraits, mirrors, and decorations lay in a broken mess on the floor. “How is it the castle is still standing?”

Lynge met his eyes. “Magic. When the green light appeared in the sky, the king burst into my chambers. He told me to rouse the mages, and to bring them to him immediately, in their nightclothes or naked if necessary. I rounded them up and brought them to the king, then fetched the things they needed for their spells. That’s why I ended up in the dependencies—one of them had sent me out to bring back a shovel of fresh horse dung,” he said, wrinkling his nose.

They had begun to make their way down the ruined hallway. Debris littered the floor, making it impossible for them to even try to run, though the delay tore at Connor, as he feared for Garnoc and the king.

“So the mages were able to save the castle—”

Lynge nodded. “Barely. As you can see.”

“What if there’s a second strike? Can we hold out?”

Lynge met his eyes. “There won’t be. The magic is gone.”

Connor came to a dead halt. “What do you mean?”

Lynge spread his hands. “Can’t you feel it?” When Connor shook his head, Lynge sighed. “Of course not. Most can’t. I have only a little. But I felt the magic vanish.”

“How can magic just vanish?”

Lynge shook his head. “I don’t know.”

The three men picked their way through the devastated hallway. Wooden doors hung askew from their hinges. Heavy furnishings blocked the corridor. In a few places, Connor saw where overturned lanterns or fallen candles had started small fires. Servants rushed to beat out the flames.

“It could have been worse, at least inside the castle,” Lynge said, following Connor’s gaze. “If more people had been up and about, there might have been more risk of fire. Bad enough as it is.”

Finally, they reached the door to the War Chamber. It was jammed shut, and it took Connor and Lynge together to heave it free. Beyond the windows, Connor could see the first light of dawn, a warm, orange glow.

“King Merrill had summoned the Council to meet at dawn,” Connor murmured.

The War Council’s chamber had been a well-appointed room. Now it was a shambles. Books, maps, and paintings lay in heaps on the floor where they had fallen from walls or tables. A marble statue lay in pieces, and the room smelled of brandy from a smashed decanter.

It took a moment for Connor to realize that bodies lay amid the wreckage. “Over there,” Connor said, pointing. He and Geddy made their way as quickly as they could, stepping over broken glass and shards of pottery and around the remains of splintered chairs and picture frames.

A figure dressed in gray robes lay facedown. Geddy reached
him first, and together he and Connor gently turned the man over. Lynge stepped closer and bent over their shoulders.

“Valshoy,” Lynge said quietly. “One of the mages.”

Connor leaned closer, feeling for a pulse, but he knew from the man’s ashen coloring that the effort was likely to be futile. Though Connor could see no trace of a fatal wound, the mage had neither breath nor heartbeat. He looked up, to see Lynge kneeling over another fallen man, who Connor guessed, by his robes, was another mage.

“Dead,” Lynge said in a toneless voice.

Connor moved to the left while Geddy and Lynge made their way to the right. Two more bodies, one on either side of the huge Council table, lay dead on the floor. Like the others, they were unmarked, but dead.

A gasp made Connor look up. With a strangled cry, Lynge ran toward the head of the table. Connor and Geddy joined him a few seconds later. In the dim light, Connor struggled to interpret what he saw. A large velvet-covered chair had overturned, and at first glance, Connor thought a tapestry lay across it. He sank to his knees beside Lynge as he realized what he was seeing.

King Merrill lay unmoving, still seated in his overturned chair. It was clear the king had dressed hurriedly, as he wore none of the trappings of the monarchy, just a tunic and trews and a doublet that he had not bothered to lace.

“Is he—” Connor asked, afraid to breathe.

Lynge bit back a sob. “Dead,” he said quietly. “All dead.”

“I’ve got to find Garnoc,” Connor said. He rose, hanging on to the bit of sanity that came with purpose. He knew that he should feel grief and shock at the death of the king, but he did not have the luxury to grieve, not until he found his master and knew whether Garnoc lived.

“We’ll help you. We should search for the rest of the War Council. With the king… dead,” Lynge said, struggling with the word, “they’re the closest thing we have to a governing body, until the Council of Nobles can be summoned.”

“If there are nobles to summon,” Connor added.

Lynge passed a hand over Merrill’s unseeing eyes, closing them. The seneschal whispered a prayer of passage, commending the souls of the dead to Torven. A shudder passed through him, and then Lynge collected himself and stood. His face bore the same unreadable expression it held during most days amid the bustle of the court, but in his eyes, Connor saw unspoken grief. “Let’s find your master.”

Together the three men made their way down the corridor. Ahead, part of the ceiling had collapsed, blocking the way with a tumble of plaster, wood, and stone. Protruding from the rubble were a man’s boots.