The Name Of The Sword (Book 4) (10 page)

Rhianne guessed Xenya to be about 16 years old, a pretty girl with blond hair and hazel eyes. She wore her hair loose, cascading over her shoulders in long ringlets and curls. She’d chosen a gown with a high, tight collar and billowing sleeves, heavily embroidered in rich, Vodah blue.

Rhianne said, “Please, stand. I am no queen before whom you must debase yourself.”

Xenya stood and smiled, though the smile did not extend to her eyes. They appeared strained, and Rhianne thought she saw fear in them. Or perhaps Xenya was merely uneasy in her presence.

Geanna hovered behind her, so Rhianne said, “Thank you, Geanna. Would you be so kind as to bring us some tea?”

“Yes, milady,” Geanna said, then turned and left, though she obviously did so with some reluctance, clearly wanted to listen in on the conversation.

Rhianne asked Xenya, “What can I do for you?”

The girl dropped the smile. “I met your husband when he was a . . . guest . . . of His Majesty. I met him several times, though I didn’t get to know him at all well. I’m sorry he died.”

It was the first mention she’d heard of Morgin since returning to Durin, as if all of Valso’s courtiers wanted to pretend he’d never existed. “What did you think of him?” Rhianne asked.

“He was handsome, and nice, but not comfortable with his nobility.”

A insightful comment from such a young girl.
Young girl!
Rhianne thought.
I’m barely half-a-dozen years older than her.

“No,” Rhianne said. “He was never comfortable with titles and such.”

Xenya looked at Rhianne uncertainly and said, “But he was quite powerful, my lady, and a skilled and ruthless fighter.”

That was a curious thing to say. “Why do you say that? I can’t imagine where you would have ever seen him fight.”

Xenya turned her head slightly and her eyes flicked to one side, a momentary glance that appeared to be an involuntary reaction, as if looking to see if there might be someone present to overhear her. She considered Rhianne for a moment, then said, “Valso forced him to fight a Kull almost daily, to the death. They were brutal contests, with no rules, and he forced many of us to watch.”

“But how could Valso
force
him to fight? Morgin would have simply refused.”

“He tried to, but each day Valso selected a Kull and gave the halfman permission to kill your husband if he didn’t fight back. I’m afraid I was . . . unkind to your husband. I couldn’t see beyond the brutality. But near the end I saw how much he hated the killing, and realized he was merely trying to survive.”

Morgin had always disliked brutality, and to force him to be brutal himself—Valso had figured out the one way he could hurt Morgin the most. But Rhianne wondered why this girl had come to her. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because, my lady, now
you
are a . . . guest . . . of His Majesty. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. When Valso admires a beautiful thing, he quickly becomes obsessed with possessing it. He’ll want you to come to his bed. And if you’re not inclined to do so willingly—well, he is enormously powerful. No matter how much he may disgust you, he’ll cast a spell upon you that will make you long to please him. You’ll go to him happily. You’ll willingly commit any act he desires, no matter how disgusting or degrading you might find it. When you’re with him, pleasing him will be your only desire. And afterward, after you leave his presence, you’ll return to your normal state of mind. And recalling what you’ve done, you’ll come to hate yourself.”

There could be no doubt that Xenya spoke from first-hand experience. Rhianne tried to think of something to say to console the girl, but nothing came to mind beyond trite reassurances.

Xenya continued. “It would almost be easier if he allowed the obsession spell to possess you afterward, when not in his presence, permitting you to live in mindless oblivion. But he takes his pleasure only in the torment of your abhorrence. And at that, he is a true master.

“I just wanted to warn you, my lady. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I should go.”

Xenya didn’t wait for a reply. She curtsied, turned and quietly walked out of the room.

Rhianne hadn’t paid much attention to that voracious look in Valso’s eyes when Salula first dragged her back to Durin. Valso was not a sexual creature, and she couldn’t imagine him desiring a woman that way. Even when he’d commented,
I might have to bed you myself
, while the thought had revolted her to the point of nausea, in retrospect, she’d concluded he’d merely been taunting her, in that way he had of making everyone about him fearful and uneasy. Then this conversation with Xenya; the young girl probably didn’t realize how insightful her comments had been. Valso cared nothing for sex; to him that was merely a means of possessing a woman, making of her a piece of property that he owned, an object he could keep or discard on a whim.

Rhianne had thought Valso could no longer surprise her, but the fear and self-loathing she’d seen in Xenya’s eyes had sent a chill through her heart. That Valso would do that to one so young was beyond forgiveness. At her age she should be indulging in fantasies of dashing young men vying for her hand.

Rhianne might have been overcome with pity for the poor girl, but now that she had become Valso’s next target it was imperative she keep her sympathies in check and focus on some sort of defense of her own. She was more powerful than most witches. And yet she had glimpsed hints of Valso’s power, and knew that when she tried to resist him he would easily overcome any defense she might devise. But if she couldn’t protect herself by directly opposing him, perhaps she could do so indirectly. Could she prepare some hidden defense, something he wouldn’t anticipate, something that would drive him from her without overt resistance? She’d have to think on that carefully, plan ahead and prepare just the right defense.

She caught a glimpse of her image in a mirror. The gown her handmaidens had picked out for her pushed her small breasts upward, emphasizing her desirability. It had been trimmed in elegant brocade with splashes of Elhiyne red, and it highlighted her trim waist and shapely curves nicely. While her servants were dressing her that morning she hadn’t given it a second thought, for it was all very appropriate for a pretty, young clanswoman. To find a handsome, well-to-do husband, young girls were encouraged to display their finer attributes. And only as they approached the age at which those qualities dimmed did they start wearing high collars and showing less skin. But there was no one in this castle whom she wanted to impress with her desirability. Time to make some changes in her wardrobe.

When Geanna showed up with the tea, Rhianne had her summon the rest of her handmaidens, and she made them bring out her entire wardrobe and parade the dresses before her. She’d had no say in the selection, and since none of the gowns and dresses were inappropriate, she hadn’t thought to speak out one way or the other. She had dresses of different colors, some more formal and some less, some for evening wear, some for the afternoons, dresses for a stroll in the gardens, even a few riding dresses. But they all had that one thing in common: they showed more of her than she preferred.

She asked one of her handmaidens, “Does the palace have a seamstress on hand, or must I summon one from the city.”

The girl said, “We have three seamstresses in the palace, Your Ladyship.”

“Well how soon may I see one?”

“We should be able to have one here right away. His Majesty has ordered that you shall want for nothing.”

The speed with which the seamstress arrived surprised Rhianne. The woman brought samples of cloth, saying, “I already have your measurements, Your Ladyship. So all you need do is select fabrics and styles and tell me what you want.”

Rhianne ordered a few dresses with high collars and long sleeves. The seamstress smiled, nodded and agreed with everything she chose, though she did look at her askance once or twice.

Geanna pleaded, “Are you sure, milady. These dresses you’ve chosen are not terribly flattering.”

Rhianne insisted, and the seamstress left with orders to have the dresses ready as soon as possible.

10
Shadows Revealed

Mortiss woke Morgin with a loud snort. Dawn had come and his arms were still numb to the shoulders. But when he rolled over they flopped loosely free, with cleanly sliced remnants of rope still clinging to them. Rat! He looked down to where he’d lain through the night. Rat had left his sheathed sword lying beside him.

He sat down on a small boulder, and grimaced with pain as the feeling in his hands and arms slowly returned. Once the pain receded he stood, flexed his fingers and stretched his arms, thinking he needed to hurry back and make sure Rhiannead had not been harmed. When he could fully use his arms again, he took up his sword, looked up toward the sky and said, “Thank you, Rat.”

He had no trouble finding his way back to the site of the ambush; the forest probably wanted him to find it. He found a couple of dead horses, two dead jackal warriors, and the contents of their pack horses strewn haphazardly about. He recalled that the jackals didn’t bury their dead, just stripped them and left them for the crows. He found no dead humans, though certainly he’d seen at least three go down. And when he looked more closely he saw that someone had carefully sorted through their supplies. Some of Rafaellen’s soldiers must have survived, retrieved their dead and scrounged food and other essentials from their provisions.

He took Mortiss off the trail and paralleled it on foot. Within a hundred paces he spotted four cairns of rock, obviously the graves of members of their party. He dearly hoped Rhiannead did not lay in one.

Another two hundred paces and he smelled a fire and heard voices in the distance. “Wait here,” he said to Mortiss, wrapped a shadow about him and advanced carefully, again using all of his Benesh’ere forest skills.

Rafaellen sat on an old stump near a meager fire, Kenna bent over him applying stitches to a nasty gash in his forehead. “Blast!” he swore. “That hurts.”

Morgin counted eight of his soldiers still alive, four with obvious injuries, and four apparently unhurt, all seated around the fire. They hadn’t pitched a tent, and of Rhiannead he saw no sign.

When Kenna finished doctoring Rafaellen, the captain stood and pointed to the four uninjured soldiers. “You four and me, we’re going after those dogs to rescue the princess.”

To the four injured soldiers he said, “And you’re taking Mistress Kenna back to the Unnamed King. Tell him what happened here and ask him to send help.”

Kenna opened her mouth to protest and he silenced her with a look. He turned to one of his uninjured soldiers and said, “You’re our best tracker. Can you find their trail?”

The fellow grimaced, “I’m not really a tracker.”

Morgin dropped his shadows, stepped out onto the game trail and said, “I can track them.”

Kenna jumped and shrieked, while Rafaellen turned and several of his men jumped to their feet. A few of them drew swords, but Rafaellen snarled, “Put those blades away. He didn’t cause this.”

He asked Morgin, “Can you really track them?”

Morgin nodded. “I’ve done so before, a long time ago.”

Rafaellen nodded. “Good enough. We’ll settle our differences after we’ve rescued the princess.”

••••

NickoLot and JohnEngine spent one more day in Norlakton. They questioned Fat John and anyone who’d had any dealings with Mistress Syllith. JohnEngine took a few armsmen and rode out to the miner’s camp to question them, but at the end of the day they had nothing. One night Rhianne’s servant had been brutally murdered, and Rhianne had disappeared, and no one had seen or heard of her since.

Throughout the two-day ride back to Elhiyne, NickoLot considered all that they had learned from the Benesh’ere, which was little indeed. JohnEngine had been surprised to finally understand that the old fellow he saw was actually invisible to the rest of them. But the story of Morgin’s time among the whitefaces was a confusing mash of bits and pieces. Then there was her vision; how did Harriok, Jack and Blesset fit into Morgin’s future? And there was that cryptic statement Harriok had made to JohnEngine as they were leaving,
When next you see your brother . . .

JohnEngine had told her about it, and she’d asked him, “So they think he’s alive?”

“No,” JohnEngine said. “I asked him outright, and he said, ‘No,’ then looked at me like I was crazy for asking. Those whitefaces are all just plain bloody crazy.”

It fitted the prescient images of Morgin she’d obtained during her spell-casting. But she’d promised AnnaRail she wouldn’t tell anyone of that little experiment, so she said nothing to JohnEngine.

After they rode through the gates of Elhiyne, JohnEngine dismissed the armsmen, and he and Nicki immediately sought out AnnaRail. Unfortunately, they found her in her chambers with Olivia and Jinella, the three of them seated and discussing the coming harvest. They’d have to wait to get AnnaRail alone.

She stood and welcomed each of them with a hug. “Welcome back,” she said. “How did the trip go?”

Nicki kept her mouth shut and let JohnEngine speak. “It went . . . as expected,” he said.

Olivia rolled her eyes. “Oh come now, young man. Don’t be evasive in my presence. I know why you took the trip to Norlakton. So speak up. Did you find Rhianne?”

JohnEngine shook his head. “No. But we went to the Benesh’ere camp and learned a bit about Morgin.”

Olivia leaned forward almost threateningly. “Why did you go to the Benesh’ere camp?”

JohnEngine nodded toward NickoLot. “Nicki had a little visitation from Rat, and he told her to go there.”

NickoLot found herself the center of attention, and wished that JohnEngine had kept that bit of information to himself. She told them of the dream she’d had.

AnnaRail asked, “And he wanted his knife back, that crude little thing he had when Roland found him in Anistigh?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I had it in my hand there in the dream, and I assumed he recognized it, considered it his property and wanted it back.”

JohnEngine told them of what they’d learned from the Benesh’ere about Morgin, which, in the telling, sounded even more disjointed and cryptic than it had in the whiteface tent.

Jinella asked, “Why were you looking for Rhianne in Norlakton?”

Nicki had no choice but to tell her the truth. “The hedge witch in Norlakton was actually Rhianne in disguise.”

Jinella’s eyes widened and she said, “Oh dear. She fooled me rather nicely.”

“Yes,” Olivia said. “She’s proven to be quite powerful, perhaps one of the most powerful in the clans, so don’t blame yourself for that.”

AnnaRail asked, “But what did you learn in Norlakton?”

JohnEngine described the small hut and the blood they found there. “Apparently, her servant was murdered quite brutally. They found her still seated at the table, but there was no sign that Rhianne had been harmed, so she was probably abducted by whoever murdered the girl. And that was shortly before Morgin died. We questioned everyone we could, and no one has seen or heard of her since. She just vanished. Would any of us know if she’s dead?”

Nicki said, “She’s not dead.”

At such an adamant statement, both AnnaRail and Olivia looked at her pointedly.

JohnEngine asked, “How do you know that?”

“I just do. At least I think I do.”

“You
think
,” JohnEngine said. “How can we be certain?”

Olivia’s eyes narrowed and she leaned forward looking only at NickoLot. “Child, you’re thinking of a prescience spell, aren’t you?”

Nicki lowered her eyes, feeling like a little girl caught sneaking a sweet from the kitchen.

“Good,” Olivia said. “That’s an excellent idea. I applaud your initiative.”

Surprised, Nicki looked at her grandmother. “But I have nothing of Rhianne’s to use as a focus.”

AnnaRail and Olivia exchanged amused glances. “Oh dear girl,” Olivia said. “Your mother and I have bits and pieces of every one of you.”

Olivia shooed JohnEngine and Jinella out of the room, then turned to AnnaRail. “It’ll be best if she does this where she practices most of her spell-casting, so take her to her own room. I’ll meet you there with something of Rhianne’s to help her focus.”

On the way to her room, AnnaRail said, “I do hope you were going to ask our help in this.”

Nicki answered truthfully. “I was going to ask you, but maybe not grandmother.”

As Nicki sat down at the small writing table in her room, Olivia joined them. On the table the old woman placed a wrinkled piece of linen with a dark, brown stain on it. Olivia said, “I collected a little blood when she cut herself once.”

She and AnnaRail discussed the spell, decided Nicki should rub some of her own blood into the stain. Nicki pricked her finger with the tip of a sharp knife, and dripped seven, dark red drops onto the linen. She heard Olivia summoning wards as she rubbed it in carefully with a finger.

“Think of the near future,” AnnaRail said. “Think of Rhianne, and think of the two of you together.”

Nicki closed her eyes, fed power into the old and new blood on the piece of linen, and with her mother standing next to her, feeding her strength, she immediately felt herself slipping into a trance.

She saw a sad Rhianne from the past, then an old Rhianne, wrinkled and gray, but happy. She saw Rhianne standing in a magnificent court, in a great hall, and on the throne above her sat a king in Decouix white. But this king wore the head of a goat with blood-red eyes, and from him radiated malevolence and hate.

The goat king turned his head and looked at Nicki. It said, “This is not your future, child.”

Terror flooded into her and she screamed.

“It’s all right,” AnnaRail said.

Nicki opened her eyes, found that she had fallen out of her seat and lay on the floor, her head cradled in AnnaRail’s lap, Olivia standing over them. Her pounding heart slowly calmed, and she got control of her breathing.

AnnaRail stroked her brow softly and asked, “What did you see?”

Nicki described the throne room and the monster. AnnaRail helped her stand, then sit down again at her small table. The two older women quizzed her for some time, where most interested in the fact that the monster king wore Decouix white. At some point they appeared to come to a mutual decision. They looked at each other carefully and nodded their agreement at some unspoken conclusion.

“What?” Nicki asked.

AnnaRail said, “She’s in Durin, probably Valso’s captive.” She looked at Olivia and asked, “Tulellcoe?”

The old woman nodded. At the look on Nicki’s face, AnnaRail said, “We’ll tell Tulellcoe what we’ve learned here and ask him to go to Durin and investigate.”

Olivia said, “Once we tell him Rhianne is Valso’s captive in Durin, I think we’d have trouble stopping him.”

••••

One of Rafaellen’s wounded soldiers could neither walk nor ride, so they set about building a litter for him. Morgin said, “While you’re at that, I’m going back to the site of the ambush.”

Rafaellen made no attempt to hide his distrust and assigned one of his men to accompany Morgin. With the fellow following him closely, Morgin headed back down the trail, walking slowly and examining every broken branch and displaced leaf for any sign of the jackal warriors. When they reached the site of the ambush he circled it carefully and found the position on the trail where Mortiss had carried him away from the battle, with two mounted jackals chasing him. He continued circling the periphery of the carnage, looking for any sign of the jackal troop’s withdrawal. The guard that Rafaellen had sent to keep an eye on him turned out to be a nuisance, looking over his shoulder and questioning everything he did.

Morgin found several places where two or three horses had broken away from the trail. But on closer examination he determined that each was the result of an individual combat that had become separated from the melee. He found a spot on the south side of the trail where the brush and undergrowth had been trampled by the hooves of many horses. He followed that spoor for about 50 paces to a spot where a wide swath of undergrowth had been trampled; he’d found the place where the jackal troop had regrouped after the battle. With more than 30 riders, he had no difficulty picking up their trail, which headed southwest.

Morgin’s guard said, “I need to piss. Stay within sight.”

He walked about 20 paces away, a distance that would give him plenty of warning if Morgin tried to attack him. He turned his back and began unlacing his breeches.

Keeping an eye on the man, Morgin whispered, “Soann’Daeth’Daeye, are you here?”

The shadowwraith coalesced in front of him and dropped to one knee.
I am, my king. What do you desire?

“Can you tell me where these jackals are?”

No, sire. We are of the forest, and like it are blind to their presence.

Apparently the wraiths could sense the spoor of the jackals, but not the warriors themselves.

“Can you sense the princess?”

No, my king.

Whatever magic the jackals were using had masked the princess as well. Morgin would have to track them without the aid of the forest or the wraiths.

He and his guard returned to the trail and found Rafaellen and the three remaining soldiers waiting for them. “Come,” he said to the captain. “I’ve found their trail. You can ride with me, but have your men hold back about a hundred paces. I don’t want to stumble into any surprises.”

He considered telling them of his shadow magic, but recalling Rhiannead’s fearful reaction when she thought she faced the ShadowLord, he rejected that thought as soon as it occurred to him. The last thing he needed was superstitious soldiers constantly fearful of him when they needed to focus their fear on the jackals.

Tracking the jackal troop proved to be easy. They made no attempt to conceal their tracks, and with more than 30 riders they left a very visible trail. As Morgin followed them he grew increasingly uneasy about that. By midmorning he suspected they wanted him to track them, so he pulled up and turned to Rafaellen. “I don’t like this.”

“Why?” Rafaellen asked.

“It’s too easy. They want us to find them. They’re after something, and it’s probably not the princess if they’re willing to let us catch them.”