The Demon Lord (10 page)

Sedna occasionally wondered what lords had preceded the Geruaths here—although she knew without being told who they had supported—the wrong side! That was why they no longer ruled and why Overlord Gueruath did. The Vreijek sorceress was either not brave enough or, more practically, insufficiently foolhardy to ask what had become of them. But she could guess, and she was becoming increasingly aware that she had been terribly blind, terribly mistaken about Crisen’s harmlessness. He might not have the aura of sophisticated pleasure in cruelty that Lord-Commander Voord wore like a cloak, but Crisen Geruath could be dangerous enough. His ambition would make sure of that. And when his sense of rank and importance—greater even than his father’s— was either threatened or belittled, then the Three Gods guard those who opposed him! For no man living under Heaven could.

As she padded swiftly and in silence through the darkened corridors of the citadel, Sedna considered her own unspoken words. Some of them brought a wry smile to her face: to swear by or to call upon the triune gods was tantamount to suicide in this place, being a confession of the Tesh heresy which carried a sentence of immediate death by fire. It was, she thought, a flaw typical of the Drusalan Empire that, not content with all their other problems, its rulers should seek to influence what people believed, what gods they prayed to, what Afterlives they went to when they died. As if one life was not trouble enough! She was not overly religious; few sorcerers were—indeed, few sorcerers could be, knowing what they did about the nature of things. But unwarranted intrusion into spiritual matters angered her more than most of the Empire’s petty interferences. Rumour had it that some of the more radical Drusalan priests were demanding that all adherents of the Teshirin sect be declared anathemate; if such a demand were to be granted by the Senate, the Imperial legions would have a mandate to go with fire and sword from one end of Vreijaur to the other, killing one in every three of the population. Which had a certain macabre aptness, in the circumstances…

The Albans were much wiser, thought Sedna idly. They revered their ancestors because of what they were—a part of each clan’s history—rather than because of what they had been or what they had or had not done, and they prayed to the power of a single God manifested in the sun that they called the Light of Heaven. It was strange that such a people, bound around with oaths and honour-codes which sometimes seemed more than half in love with death, should pay so much respect to a symbol of life. Or maybe not so strange, at that.

There were few sounds within that wing of Seghar’s citadel so late at night. No sentries patrolled—they were retainers, after all, servants more than soldiers except in time of war; the only truly military force for twenty miles—Voord’s personal guard—was barracked on the other side of the sprawling antique fortress. But although the halls and corridors were quiet it was a mistake on Sedna’s part to assume she was alone, and more unwise still to allow her concentration to wander into a debate on religious intolerance. For she was wrong in her assumption. Twice over.

The Vreijek sorceress padded rapidly across the open space of one last gallery and stopped outside her library door, now—and only now—glancing warily from side to side before withdrawing its key from the cache which she had secretly constructed underneath one glazed tile of the elaborately mosaiced floor. She fitted it, turned it with only the faintest of heavy clicks from the mechanism and pushed; the well-greased door swung silently open to admit her, and in equal silence Sedna locked it from within and drew a heavy curtain across so that no escape of light along its edges could betray her presence here. Only then did she exert her powers sufficiently to conjure flame into the lamps and candles. All of them— for Sedna was growing to hate the very thought of shadows. They caught with a sequential crackling like dry reeds flung onto a fire, their scented oils and waxes filling the room with pleasant blended perfumes and a wash of golden light.

It was, as might have been expected, a room devoted to books. In the provinces a library could mean three or four handwritten volumes and a dozen or so of print-set works—maybe a score of books in all. But this library was on such a scale as to seem improbable outside one of the great Imperial cities, being not merely devoted to but full of books. They ran on rows of shelves from wall to wall and floor to ceiling: an emperor’s ransom in paper, parchment and painted silk, tooled-leather tomes and fragile scrolls in lacquer cases, books common, books rare and books priceless, all jostling for prominence. Almost all had come from the famous shop at the Sign of Four Cranes in Ternon, and did not need to be kept under lock and key except for their value to any discerning thief, should one be bold enough to rob the Overlord’s fortress.

But some few had come from other sources, and these were locked away from prying eyes in the one object which spoiled an otherwise lovely room. At first glance the place looked scholarly, somewhere philosophers could comfortably debate an obscure point of dogma over a dish of honeyed fruit and a glass or three of dark red Jouvaine wine. Two incongruities gave the lie to that gentle image; one was a casket made of dully-gleaming blued steel and the other, an enormous velvet curtain stretching half the length of the end wall. Ignoring that curtain for the present, Sedna walked to the metal case—almost as tall as herself, its surface etched with delicate, minutely detailed and gruesomely active figures—and stared at it while she gathered up the courage needed to look inside.

Its key went everywhere with her built into a massive ring which dominated the centre knuckles of her slim left hand. The key and the casket which it fitted had been brought at her own considerable expense from the foundries of Egisburg, and had been installed here quite openly. Her excuse both then and now was safety and nothing more; it was, she considered, a reasonable reason for locking any door, and Crisen at least did not question it. Also, and more importantly to Sedna’s mind, she possessed the only key. Unsnapping a jewelled catch which released its elaborate wards from the body of the ring, she inserted that only key into the lock and twisted: once, twice, and the iron door opened.

Had Sedna been a little more observant she might have noticed the miniscule scratches round the keyhole’s outer rim, and also might have discovered a thin film of grease within it, the metal-flecked residue of which glistened faintly on the key as she withdrew it. But she was not… and she did not.

For at that point she hesitated, and strangely so; all her preceding actions had been swift and sure, not considered by first or second thoughts. Yet now something prevented her from reaching into the casket. Fear, perhaps, or merely apprehension—an unwillingness to discover at last what it was that had brought her here.

Steeling herself, Sedna put both hands inside and withdrew the bulk of
Enciervanul Doamnisoar
, momentarily repelled as always by the smooth, sleek contact of its flawless leather cover, knowing as she did what that leather was supposed to be: the skin of a virgin girl, probably of the same peasant stock as Sedna was herself, her back flayed with flint while she still lived and then tanned to the softness of a lady’s glove as binding for this most terrible of grimoires.

“Probably pigskin,” Sedna muttered to herself as she laid the book down on a lectern. She said something of the sort on every occasion when she had cause to touch the awesome volume, although Father and Mother and Maiden all witness how few those occasions had been; and despite that reassuring scepticism she still had to resist a wish to wipe some unseen residue of suffering from her hands. It was several minutes before she could force herself to unsnap the three bronze hasps which held the covers shut, and longer still before she opened them.

When at last she did so, she found with a little thrill of horror that no searching through its pages would be necessary. The book was accomplishing that all by itself. Logic stated that this was because—like all such thick-spined hand-bindings—there was a tendency to fall open at some weak point in its structure. But logic had no room for argument where magic was concerned… The leaves flicked past, making a tiny sound like mice behind wainscoting, and gradually slowed as if some unseen scholar neared the place he sought. Then they stopped.

And Sedna bit back on a wail of fear.

Unseen behind her, two pairs of eyes watched curiously through spyports all but hidden behind a carefully arranged half-row of scrolls…

Aldric emerged slowly from the barrow, noting with a faint, disinterested surprise that the shadows thrown by the surrounding trees had barely encroached upon the clearing from the places where he had last observed them. This meant that he had been within the mound for less than a quarter-hour—yet it had seemed much more. Strange indeed…

A human figure, no more than a vague outline of black against the silvered grass, was watching him from beneath the lightning-blasted tree. Though he could not see the eyes, he could sense them on him and sense too something else: annoyance… ? disbelief… ? perhaps relief… ? Aldric could not tell. His hand moved almost of its own volition to the holstered
telek;
but he had already recognised the silhouette of Evthan’s lanky frame and forced himself not merely to relax, but even to wear a thin smile on a face which it did not fit. False bravado, he thought grimly, was coming to be a habit and a bad one at that. A poor, playacting affectation. The smile dissolved as if it had never been.

As he drew closer, he could make out details—and these did not accord with the image he had formed inside his head of what he might expect to see. Angered that no alarm and no aid had come from outside when he needed it, during the past few minutes he had conjured reasons enough out of his imagination. Consequently he more than half expected to find Evthan dead or injured—even to meet him emerging from wherever he had hidden from a superior number of armed men.

Even this last, a demonstration of caution to the point of cowardice, would not have irritated the Alban— Evthan was a hunter rather than a warrior—or at least, not as much as what he actually found: a man unhurt, unruffled and not even out of breath. There was no trace at all of Evthan’s involvement in a scuffle; even his bow was unstrung and his quiver laced shut. Like the bubbles in a pot of boiling water, Aldric felt fury begin to swell up inside him, rising to the surface so that he was hard put to control his features long enough to hear the Jou-vaine’s explanation. Which, from Evthan’s first words, did not exist in any recognisable form.

“One got away,” the hunter said.

Even in the pallid moonlight Aldric’s face flushed visibly red with rage, and the only sense the he could utter was: “
What
did you say…?”-.

“One of them escaped,” Evthan repeated, either un-aware of or unconcerned by the effect his words were having. “I assume the other three are dead?”

“You
assume
...” A more choleric man than Aldric would have spluttered then, or shouted, but instead he spoke in a soft, low, freezing voice which at long last told Evthan that all was not as he thought it should be. “And you did nothing.” The accusation was unmistakable. “You saw them, you clearly counted them and yet you did nothing. Why, for God’s sweet sake?”

“Because I thought I heard something.” Even as he spoke both men knew how feeble any excuse must sound aloud. And both were quite correct… “You heard it yourself,” Evthan elaborated. “You must have done. A wolf howled.”

“A wolf howled…” Aldric echoed, and his disbelieving tone was an unpleasant thing to hear. “I know a wolf howled. But I also know how long those soldiers were in the tomb before I heard it… so credit me with some intelligence at least! I ask again, one last time: you chose to give me neither help nor warning. Why not?”

“Aldric, I tell you—” Evthan tried to say, but he was cut short by a glare and by a gesture of one blood-encrusted hand. That the movement hurt did nothing to improve the Alban’s temper.

“You tell me
nothing
! All through this hunt, you have told me nothing. Since we met, you have told me nothing!” That was not quite true, and Evthan knew it—but he was not so rash as to point out the error. “Back to Valden, forest warden, Geruath’s retainer!”

So
that
was what was wrong, the hunter realised, and it sent a shiver of unease crawling down his backbone. He looked at his companion’s face, and did not like what he saw there even though he recognised it easily enough. That same sick, raging helplessness had burned behind his own eyes too many times for him to mistake it now.

“I have finished speaking, Wolfsbane.” Aldric’s cold voice cut into the Jouvaine’s thoughts. “Walk. In front of me, and slowly.” Many things that he might say came to Evthan’s mind in a single instant, but he rejected each and every one of them with just one weary shrug.

Aldric watched him walk away and fell into step not too far yet not too close behind. If the hunter had glanced back at that moment, he would have seen the Alban ease his bow out of its case and fit a carefully selected arrow to the string. The missile’s flared and wicked barbs flashed once in the broken moonlight; not steel but silver, and rather less than razor sharp—but at such a range as this an untipped shaft alone would be enough to kill… If such a need arose.

Though he could give no proof of his suspicions, Aldric was filled with an overwhelming sense of being used—that he was a dupe, a catspaw, an unwitting pawn in someone else’s game. Crisen Geruath’s, maybe—or even
mathern-an
Rynert’s. Or General Goth’s, or Prokrator Bruda’s… There were too many players, and evidently insufficient pieces to go round…

He had nothing more to say to Evthan; no questions left to ask, even had he hoped for some half-truthful answers. Because he knew already who the soldiers served—the one called Keel had told him as much—and even why they had come to the old barrow after dark, though that was heavily padded out by guesswork and his own memories. Memories… ? If only he could forget… !

Issaqua comes to find me To take my life and soul