Lisa Shearin - Raine Benares 02 (4 page)

“Do
you have any immediate ideas?”

“Not
a one. But Mychael just dumped this on me late last night. Brilliance takes
time.”

“Time’s
something I’m running out of.”

“Mychael
said the rock’s not affecting you, and from what I’m seeing I’m inclined to
agree.”

“I
beg to differ.”

“Feeling
evil?” Justinius asked.

“No.”

“Having
an urge to overthrow governments, kill thousands?”

“No
and no.”

“Take
over the world?”

“Too
much work.”

He
laughed, a bright bark. Then the laughter was gone. “You sure you want to be
rid of it?”

I
knew the “it” he was referring to. Power. “What I was born with was working
just fine as of last week,” I told him. “I’m a
very good
seeker,” I said
with a meaningful glance at Mychael. “I’m an average sorceress. That was good
enough for me, and I’d like to have that back.”

“Some
of my mages would be foaming at the mouth to have what you have now.”

Justinius
Valerian’s eyes had never left mine, but they changed focus, and I felt the
barest hint of the power that’d earned him his title. He was seeing me inside
and out. It was the type of seeing that’d earn any other magic user the
business end of my fist. Considering who Justinius was, I thought I’d let him
finish. He was just assuring himself that I wasn’t actually on the verge of a
world-domination rampage.

“You’ll
be fine,” he concluded. “But considering who your papa was, that’s not all that
surprising.”

“Who
my papa
is
,” I corrected him.

“You’re
absolutely sure about that?”

My
father was alive. Nine hundred years’ worth of alive. The last year or so had
been inside the Saghred, the other eight hundred and something years the result
of an extended lifespan from too much contact with the Saghred. A fate I really
wanted to avoid.

“Unfortunately
certain,” I said.

“Poor
bastard.”

I
nodded in agreement. “His daughter’s not in too great of a state, either. But
at least I’m not sharing his accommodations—or his roommate.”

“Sarad
Nukpana isn’t someone I’d want to spend eternity with.”

I
didn’t have a response for that.

I’d
been in the Saghred once before. It had only been for a few moments, but it’d
been enough time for me to see that it wasn’t a vacation destination, more like
someplace you went after a lifetime of pulling wings off of flies, then working
your way up to things that screamed. A Sarad Nukpana kind of place. I had met
Sarad Nukpana up close and personal last week, and was in no hurry to repeat
the experience. It was looking more like I was my father’s only chance at
freedom—or resting in peace.

“Girl?”

“Sir?”

“Let’s
keep that bit of information to ourselves for now.”

“Nukpana
or my father?”

“Both,
but especially who’s little girl you are. That doesn’t need to leave this
room.”

“I
wasn’t about to yell it from the battlements. I’m not sure how I feel about it
myself.”

“Contrary
to how old I look, I’m not old enough to have known your papa in his early
Guardian days. But history’s told me plenty about the bastards he was up
against. I’m ashamed to say the archmagus back then was one of them; and a
couple of his top mages were a few more. History has an annoying tendency to
repeat itself. I’m going to see what I can do to keep that from happening. The
Conclave did your papa wrong. I’ll do whatever I can to make up for it.”

“Thank
you.” And I meant it.

“Though
the first help I might be giving you is of a legal nature.” He glanced at
Mychael. “I heard from your friends the Khrynsani last night.”

I
swore silently. Mychael tried not to look concerned, but I wasn’t buying it.

“Actually,
I didn’t see their representatives directly,” Justinius continued. “They filed
their formal complaint with the magistrate. He brought the papers to me. Your
ship hadn’t docked yet.”

“What
papers?” Mychael’s voice betrayed no emotion.

“The
papers charging Miss Benares here with grand larceny, attempted murder,
kidnapping, and false imprisonment.”

I
blinked. “Of who?”

“Grand
Shaman Sarad Nukpana. The Khrynsani have requested that we turn you over to
them for prosecution.”

“What?”

“We
won’t do that,” Mychael assured me.

“I
should hope not!”

“Actually,
we can’t do that,” Justinius said. “Not legally, anyway.”

“For
the Khrynsani to have any legal claim, they would have to go through the elven
embassy,” Mychael told me. “That would take time; no doubt they want to resolve
this quickly.”

Justinius
cleared his throat. “Actually, I just heard from Giles Keril this morning.”

The
name sounded vaguely familiar. “Who?”

“The
elven ambassador to Mid,” Justinius said.

Oh,
that Giles Keril.

“Keril
got an identical set of papers this morning,” Justinius continued. “The sight
of goblin lawyers on his embassy doorstep probably made the little weasel crap
his pants. The goblins are claiming that Miss Benares here has stolen the
Saghred, which is a treasured possession of the goblin people, attempted to
murder a counselor of the royal House of Mal’Salin, and has kidnapped and
falsely imprisoned said royal counselor.” He winked slyly at me. “Not a bad
week’s work, girl.”

I’m
sure if I listened closely enough, I’d be able to hear Sarad Nukpana laughing.

“By
the way, you’re listed as an accessory,” Justinius told Mychael. “They claim
your actions in Mermeia were outside of your legal jurisdiction as paladin.”

At
least I’d have company when I was hung out to dry. Last week Mychael had come
to my home city of Mermeia to enlist my services as a seeker, but mostly as
Eamaliel Anguis’s daughter, to help him and his Guardians find the Saghred
before Sarad Nukpana could get his hands on it. Both Mychael and Sarad Nukpana
suspected the Saghred was in Mermeia. They were both right. I found the
Saghred, and the Saghred promptly attached itself to me like a psychic leech.
I’d definitely gotten the raw end of that deal.

Like
father, like daughter.

“I’m
not hanging either one of you out to dry,” Justinius told me point-blank.

Further
confirmation that the old man could read my mind.

“In
terms of legal strength, you may not have any choice, sir,” Mychael told him.

“The
hell I don’t.”

“The
Seat of Twelve will have to be convened, and you only have two votes to their
twelve. Given that enough of them vote in our favor, the situation won’t
escalate any further.”

The
Seat of Twelve was the name given to the twelve mages who made up the governing
Conclave council. In terms of firepower, they ranked right up there with
Justinius Valerian.

“And
if you’re not too popular right now?” I didn’t want to ask, but I had to.

“The
goblin government could begin extradition proceedings,” Mychael said. “If they
prove just cause with the elven embassy, they could begin the same against
you.”

I
wondered just how fast Phaelan could set sail.

“They
would have to prove that you had malice of intent on all counts,” Justinius
told us both. “And I don’t think anyone who knows—or knew—Sarad Nukpana would
call any treatment he received at your hands unprovoked.”

I
couldn’t be bonded to just any old stone of cataclysmic power.

Mine
had lawyers.

“I
want to help find that girl,” I said as soon as Mychael closed
the archmagus’s office door behind us.

Mychael
sighed. He looked about as tired as I felt. I wasn’t the only one whose day had
gone down the crapper.

“I
know you want to help,” he told me. “And under normal circumstances, I would
welcome that help, but—”

“I’m
dangerous,” I finished for him. “And unpredictable, and infected with the
Saghred.”

Mychael’s
lips curled into a weary smile. “I knew you were dangerous and unpredictable
the moment I met you.”

That
had been last week. Our first meeting had been mistaken identity, followed by
misunderstanding, ending in me kicking Mychael in the balls. Not one of my
glowing moments.

“What
happened today just further proves my point,” Mychael was saying. “The
Nightshades are here; so are the Khrynsani. The safest place for you is in this
citadel. The Khrynsani want to get their hands on you. And the same people who
hired Banan Ryce to collapse that stage could have also paid him to kidnap you.”
His blue eyes were hard. “Neither is going to happen.”

I
took a breath and told myself to calm down. Mychael didn’t respond to emotional
tirades. He was the paladin; he demanded cooperation, and respected logic. I
knew a way I could give him both and still get what I wanted.

“I
don’t want Banan yanking me through a mirror, either,” I told him. “I also
don’t need to leave the citadel to help find that girl. Lock me in the highest
tower you’ve got, have Vegard sit on me, just get me something that belongs to
her, something she’s worn recently, or used, like a hairbrush. Hairbrushes are
great. I don’t need to do the footwork. Your men and the city watch know this
island better than I do. Just let me point them in the right direction.”

I
stopped, mainly because I’d run out of air. Mychael didn’t say anything, but I
could tell he was wavering.

“You
can link to a victim through objects?” he asked.

“Yes,
I can link through objects. It’ll be like I’m inside the girl’s head.”

For a
seeker, one of the best ways to find a missing person was to hold an object
that belonged to them. The closer the person was to that object, the better.
Before I’d picked up more magical mojo courtesy of the Saghred, my seeking
talents were good, better than most, but still pretty basic. I could use an
object to track the person who owned that object, but most of what I got were
just impressions, not a direct link. I could then use those impressions—and
some good old-fashioned footwork—to find the missing person. Thanks to the
Saghred, what’s normal for me now is unheard of for most seekers. I can link
directly to the person. Last week, I got a murder victim’s final moments in
full color, sound, smell, and touch. I felt like I was being murdered right
along with him. Not pleasant, but neither was being murdered. That was the
first and only time I’d done it. I assumed it would work even better with a
living subject. I wasn’t about to tell Mychael that I’d only done it once. Show
no doubt, know no refusal.

“Can
any seeker on your city watch do that?” I asked quietly.

From
his silence I knew none of them could. I waited.

“I’ll
get you her hairbrush.”

An
hour or so later someone knocked on the door to my room. I ex
pected a hairbrush. It was Riston.

“The
paladin would like to see you in his office.”

When
I got there, Mychael wasn’t alone. I took one look at his guest and I think my
mouth fell open.

The
man’s robes were a riot of silk and color. Red, orange, amber, gold—every color
that flame could be at one point or another in its capricious existence—this
man managed to wear them all at once and wear them well. It was nothing short
of a stunning fashion achievement.

“Maestro,
this is Raine Benares,” Mychael said. “Raine, this is Maestro Ronan Cayle.”

If
you were a magic user, you’d heard of Ronan Cayle. The spellsinging master. The
legend who only taught future legends. The maestro who turned out the finest
spellsingers the Isle of Mid and the Conclave had to offer. Mychael’s teacher.

Mychael
was a spellsinger and a healer. Each was a highly desirable magical talent, and
Mychael was gifted with both. With the power of his voice alone, a spellsinger
could influence thought with a quietly hummed phrase, or control actions with
simple speech or carefully crafted tune. One person or thousands—the number
didn’t matter. One spellsinger could turn the tide of battle. Gifted
spellsingers were highly prized and sought after—not to mention rare and
dangerous. Mychael could do virtually anything he wanted to with that baritone
of his, and not only would his intended victim not mind in the least, he’d
enjoy it. I know I had.

His
spellsinging teacher’s appearance didn’t match his reputation. Ronan Cayle’s
features were strong and solid, but it was the kind of face that would go
unnoticed in a crowd. He was human, but from the amber glint in his hazel eyes,
there was elf in there somewhere.

The
maestro extended his hand for mine. I gave it to him and was treated to a most
proficient hand kiss.