The Name Of The Sword (Book 4) (12 page)

A set of doors in the sitting room opened onto an outer balcony that overlooked the castle yard. It was high enough to see beyond the castle walls, and the castle had been built on a hill in the center of the city. So during rare moments when not forced to endure Valso’s company, if the weather was good Rhianne enjoyed standing there, watching the inhabitants of Durin going about their daily business. The distance was far too great for her to make out fine details, but the sun warmed her nicely, and she could fantasize about being free to go about her own errands and chores, wending her way through the crowded streets below.

Down below a bit of movement caught her attention, a noblewoman wearing a hooded cloak walking at an unhurried pace across the inner bailey. She reached the far side and walked up the steps to an entrance in one of the towers. She paused there, turned about, and though her features were hidden by the shadows beneath her hood, she seemed to be looking Rhianne’s way. Then she reached up and casually pulled the hood back. Rhianne recognized Valso’s sister, Haleen, the Mad Whore as Valso had dubbed her. She looked at Rhianne for a moment, then turned and stepped through the entrance into the tower.

A strange woman, touched by madness, Rhianne put her out of her mind. But on this day she could not put Xenya et Vodah out of her thoughts.

Her new dresses had not arrived. The seamstress made one excuse after another for a series of delays, but Rhianne soon realized the woman was operating under orders from the palace, and would delay the dresses indefinitely. Valso wanted his lovely prisoner looking her best.

Rhianne had a growing sense of her own power, and like most strong witches she could perceive, to a limited extent, the level of power in others. But one had to be careful about taking that at face value, for many of the strongest developed the ability to mask their power and appear weaker if they chose. Living among her enemies, she had decided to be prudent, and now allowed others to see only a hint of her true capabilities; she assumed that most of those about her did the same. However, even with that uncertainty she was fairly confident she could draw more power than anyone else in Durin, except for Valso, and maybe Carsaris.

Like everyone else, Valso masked his capabilities, but in tiny moments of distraction—as when he looked at her breasts hungrily—Rhianne had glimpsed a level of ability in him far beyond anything humanly possible.

Strong compulsion spells twisted the heart as well as the mind until the victim could no longer distinguish between her own thoughts and desires, and those manufactured for her. They frequently left the unwitting permanently warped beyond healing, and, as with Xenya, haunted by memories of acts willingly performed. It was not uncommon for the target of such a spell to find release only in suicide.

For that reason resistance to compulsion spells was included in the basic defenses taught to young wizards and witches. After Xenya’s visit Rhianne had concocted a charm that would alert her to any compulsion laid upon her, and another to help her resist it. But would they work against someone as powerful as Valso? Or would she seek his embrace willingly, completely oblivious to her own revulsion of the man?

“It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?”

At the sound of Valso’s voice Rhianne gasped and jumped. She spun about and found him standing on the balcony only a pace behind her. She’d already learned that the protocol of being properly announced by one of her handmaidens didn’t apply to His Majesty. But the way he moved so silently through her rooms unnerved her.

“Jumpy, aren’t we?” he said.

She thought his eyes flicked momentarily toward her breasts. But then, in her newfound paranoia, she might simply be imagining that. “You startled me,” she said.

“I should have been more careful.”

She almost said,
Oh no, Your Majesty, think nothing of it.
But she was not in the mood for polite banter. Saying nothing, she stepped around him and walked back into her sitting room. She heard him follow her, suspected that she heard him only because he wanted her to. She crossed the room, hoping to put the entire length of it between them. She stopped near the unlit hearth and turned about, relieved to find that he hadn’t dogged her heels all the way across the room.

He stood just within the room, framed by the doorway to the balcony. Oddly enough, it occurred to her that he was quite handsome. He had dark, almost delicate features, with black hair framing a strong face, and a trim, well-shaped figure, with no lack of muscle to fill his tunic. He now sported a carefully trimmed beard, not a big, bushy trail of curly whiskers like Wylow and BlakeDown, but a thin line of black stubble that traced the edge of his chin. Very much in the latest style, it emphasized the strength of his jawline.

He asked, “Are you being treated well?”

“Yes, my lord. I lack for nothing, though there is this seamstress who is rather slow in delivering some dresses I ordered.”

“I’ll look into that,” he said, walking slowly toward her. His stride had a confidence to it that most men lacked, which added to his attractiveness. He did carry himself with the bearing of a king.

He stopped in front of her at less than a pace, an intimately close distance, and for some reason that didn’t bother her. His eyes settled on her breasts, and he made no attempt to conceal the hunger in his look. That flattered her a bit.

He turned to one side and held out his arm. “I must go. Why don’t you see me out?”

She took his arm and walked beside him, out of the sitting room and through the foyer. Geanna waited for them at the door. The girl opened it and held it for the king.

Valso stopped, turned toward Rhianne, took her hand and lifted it to his lips. When he kissed it she felt a tingle run through her, and wondered what it might be like for him to truly kiss her, not on her hand, but a hot, passionate kiss on her lips . . . and maybe elsewhere.

He released her hand, smiled warmly, then stepped through the door.

The instant the maid closed the door, Rhianne staggered back and bumped into the wall. She couldn’t believe what she’d been thinking, and Xenya’s words came back to her.
It would almost be easier if he allowed the obsession spell to possess you afterward . . . permitting you to live in mindless oblivion.

Geanna looked at her, a knowing smile on her face. And Rhianne thought of the way Valso had smiled just before leaving. At the time she’d thought it a warm and friendly smile, but now she realized it had been a cold smirk of satisfaction.

The charms she’d prepared had not helped her in the least; the one had not alerted her to Valso’s spell, and the other had not helped her resist it. Stunned, she walked unsteadily back into her sitting room and dropped down onto a couch.

How could she stop him? She had to assume that Geanna had reported Xenya’s visit, and Valso could easily guess at the topic of their conversation. So in all probability he’d anticipated what she might do to defend herself, and he’d defeated her charms effortlessly.

She’d have to come up with something more creative, something no one would expect, some surprise that Valso wouldn’t anticipate. But what?

12
The Reality of Dream

While the three soldiers buried their dead companion, Morgin told Rafaellen, “We killed six of them and they killed one of us. They can afford the six and we can’t afford another. And the damn jackals have some sort of magic that makes them invisible to the forest and the shadowwraiths, so we’ll have little warning of another ambush.”

“Shadowwraiths?” Rafaellen asked.

“Allies,” he said, “though not the most ordinary of friends.”

Rafaellen’s frown deepened further, and he said, “You mean the shadow beings.”

Morgin said, “You’re not going to like this, but please don’t overreact.”

He looked away from the captain and called out, “Soann’Daeth’Daeye, please show yourself.”

Hundreds of tiny shadows detached themselves from the canopy of leaves, not one larger than the palm of Morgin’s hand. They fluttered through the air of the forest toward him like butterflies, and when they reached him they swirled about him in a giant, cyclonic maelstrom. Around and around they churned, a cloud of shadows that slowly shrank until it converged into a spot just in front of him. Then one-by-one they joined together and coalesced into the familiar form of the shadowwraith.

Rafaellen took a fearful step back, a reaction Morgin had anticipated, and the reason he allowed them to learn of his affinity with shadows in bits and pieces.

Morgin said, “Do not be alarmed, Captain. As I told you, it is an ally.”

When the wraith had formed completely, it dropped to one knee in front of Morgin and bowed its shapeless head. A whisper of thought brushed across his mind as it said,
My king.

Rafaellen put a hand on the hilt of his sword, but didn’t draw it. “But what kind of an ally?”

Morgin feared Rafaellen might spook and do something stupid. “I think they’re the defenders of this forest. I’ve run into them time and again . . . in several lives, and they’ve always aided me when they could.”

Rafaellen maintained his distance and circled the wraith. “Okay, so how might they aid us now?”

“Did you hear it speak?”

“I heard nothing.”

“It would have been merely a thought that brushed through your mind, not a sound for your ears.”

Rafaellen looked at Morgin suspiciously. “Then I guess I did hear something. Did it call you
king
?”

Morgin shrugged. “I am the ShadowLord. I guess that makes me king of shadows.”

When Rafaellen’s three soldiers saw the wraith they reacted with superstitious distrust, but calmed when Morgin told them, “The wraiths will accompany me, not you. You’ll have nothing to do with them directly.”

To Rafaellen he said, “You and your men ride about two hundred paces behind me.”

Rafaellen grimaced and said, “At that distance we could lose you.”

“Don’t worry about that. The wraiths will be watching you, and if you stray they’ll guide you back on track.”

Rafaellen looked at Soann’Daeth’Daeye unhappily. “I don’t think we want these things watching us.”

“These
things
,” Morgin said, “are as much a part of this forest as the trees and undergrowth. Like it or not, they’ve been watching every move you’ve made since you entered this kingdom.”

Morgin didn’t feel like arguing the point, so he turned away from the soldier and climbed into Mortiss’ saddle. “I’m protected by my shadows, so I’ll ride ahead, and if I discover another ambush, I’ll send a wraith back to warn you. Hold back and let me take care of them.”

One of the men asked, “You and the devil horse?”

Morgin grinned. “Devil horse and devil horseman.” He didn’t wait for a reply, just spurred Mortiss on.

••••

As Morgin rode through the forest he kept his attention split between the tracks the jackal troop had left, and the trail ahead, and anything that might hide a jackal warrior on either side. Because of that he rode directly beneath the next ambush without realizing it. He was trying to decipher the tracks on the ground when something above him moved, causing a slight rustle of leaves overhead. Again his shadowmagic had saved him.

He nudged Mortiss forward another 20 paces, amazed at how she could move with such unnatural silence, but then he would never have applied the word
natural
to Mortiss. He dismounted, summoned a shadowwraith and sent it to warn Rafaellen, to tell him to halt and not advance further. Then he backtracked on foot, and stopped beneath the tree where he now suspected a jackal hid. He waited, counting his own heartbeats, and just short of one hundred he heard a jackal overhead whisper, “Any sign of them yet?”

In the next tree over, a jackal answered, “No, nothing yet.”

And in the next, “I ain’t seen nothing either.”

Morgin waited another ten heartbeats, but no more responses came. So there were three of them, up in three trees, probably archers. The jackal captain knew what he was doing. When Rafaellen and his men came into view, from a safe distance these three would shoot one or two arrows each, then retreat. In just a few such ambushes they could whittle Morgin and his companions down to nothing.

Morgin crept back to Mortiss and retrieved his bow, strung it, stuck three arrows in the ground in front of him, then squatted down to wait and watch. One of the jackals moved a bit, another adjusted his position, and the third scratched at something. It didn’t take long to identify the location of each of his three opponents.

He stood, pulled an arrow out of the ground, nocked it, raised, pulled, aimed and released. The jackal grunted as the arrow punched into his back. Morgin shot the other two arrows as rapidly as possible, and dropped all three jackals out of their perches. He found one still alive, so he dispatched it with a sword thrust.

By early afternoon he’d uncovered two more ambushes, killing nine more jackals in the process. But mid-afternoon the hoof prints of the jackal troop converged into a single group. He dismounted to examine the tracks more closely, saw that the prints overlapped and seemed pointed in every direction, as if they had milled about for a time discussing something. The prints then led off in a tight column in a different direction. He guessed that scouts foraging ahead had returned to the troop to report something.

Morgin followed the tracks on foot, Mortiss trailing behind him. A few hundred paces further on he heard a horse splutter and neigh up ahead, though it was difficult to tell how far sound traveled in the forest. He turned back to Mortiss and whispered, “Stay here. I’m going ahead.”

Morgin reinforced his shadow magic, crouched low and moved forward, stepping carefully from shadow-to-shadow, bush-to-bush and tree-to-tree, using his forest skills to travel silently. The forest lent its shadows well to his kind of stalking, as if he and it were old friends. After a hundred paces he saw bright sunlight glinting off something shiny up ahead. Another 50 paces and he realized he was approaching a large clearing that allowed the sun’s rays to penetrate the dense forest canopy.

He heard a horse splutter and stomp its hooves, saw more movement in the clearing. He coursed left and right, making sure he didn’t leave a sentry or two at his back. He stopped behind a large boulder about 20 paces from the clearing, peered around it to one side and saw several jackals trying to calm a string of about two dozen horses. Soann’Daeth’Daeye materialized beside him.
We sense nothing, my king.

That many horses meant the entire jackal troop had probably stopped in the clearing, so Rhiannead must be there too. Morgin whispered, “Go back to Rafaellen, tell him to leave one man behind with the horses, and he and the other two should come forward on foot. And tell them to bring their bows, and move quietly.”

When Rafaellen and his men joined Morgin they all moved forward together, and while they proved to be adept at moving quietly through the forest, one of them must have made some sound or been spotted by a sentry. They were still several paces from the edge of the clearing when the jackal captain called out, “You who walks in shadows, I know you’re out there. If you want the princess back alive, come forward and show yourself.”

Morgin wasn’t foolish enough to just stand and expose himself until he knew more about the situation. With hand signals Rafaellen instructed his two men to spread out, then he and Morgin moved forward to the edge of the clearing. It proved to be quite large, creating a wide open space with no shadows at hand.

The jackal captain stood at its center, holding Rhiannead as a shield in front of him, his left paw clutching a clump of dress at the back of her neck, his right holding a knife to her throat. Behind him stood the remaining warriors of his troop holding swords, shields and pikes. He called out again in that yowling, sing-song, dog voice, “Stand forth, I said, or I’ll cut her throat now. You have something I want, and I have something you want. So we can strike a bargain and both walk away from this happy.”

Far to one side Morgin spotted Mortiss standing perfectly still at the edge of the clearing, a dark, black shadow among those of the forest. He whispered to Rafaellen, “I don’t know what I can do, but tell your men to have their bows ready and be prepared to move.”

As Rafaellen scrambled away to deliver the message, Morgin drew his sword, stood, and stepped into the clearing, though he didn’t advance. About 20 paces separated him from the jackal captain. “What do I have that you want?”

The jackal captain smiled, an oddly familiar sight that Morgin recalled from Morddon’s past. “That sword you carry; my queen wants me to bring it back to her. Give it to me and I’ll let you and your princess go unharmed.”

From that same past Morgin knew better than to trust the jackal. He knew full well that if he gave this dog his sword, it would just butcher him and Rhiannead together. He could make his own shadows and try to reach him, but he had to move from shadow-to-shadow, and with 20 paces to cover, the jackal would slit Rhiannead’s throat long before he got there.

No, my king,
a thought flittered through his mind.
All shadows are but one. To walk in one is to walk in them all. Make them where you need them and I’ll show you the way.

An enraged nether scream from Mortiss broke the silence of the moment, and she burst into the clearing at full charge, headed straight for the warriors arrayed behind their leader. Startled, the jackal captain looked her way and lowered the knife a hand’s breadth from Rhiannead’s throat. Without time to consider his actions, Morgin cast a shadow of magic to one side of the jackal captain, then another about himself. Soann’Daeth’Daeye materialized in the shadow with him, and for a moment he felt as if falling from a great height, then in a heartbeat he stood in the other shadow.

Mortiss hit the troop of jackal warriors just as Morgin stepped out of the shadow beside their captain. The jackal’s moment of inattention gave Morgin the only chance they had, though the gap between the knife and Rhiannead’s throat left no room for error. Morgin sliced down with his sword and severed the jackal’s wrist, removing paw and knife in a single stroke. The jackal howled and stepped back, gripping the stump of its arm with its remaining paw, blood spurting all over Rhiannead.

Morgin grabbed her by an arm and spun her toward the edge of the clearing just as two jackal warriors broke loose from the pandemonium around Mortiss. “Run,” he shouted. Then turned to face the jackals.

The jackal captain backed away while his two warriors advanced, both carrying swords. Morgin had no foolish fantasies about his ability to fight two of them at once, but he had to give Rhiannead time to get clear, so he stood his ground as they attacked.

They came at him with a nicely coordinated move: one lunged at him with a direct thrust, while the other swing his sword out in a wide arc. Morgin parried the thrust while trying to side-step the other’s swing, knowing he had little hope of success. But an arrow hissed past his ear and thudded into the chest of one just as Mortiss slammed into the other. She rode the jackal down, and as she galloped past him Morgin grabbed her saddle horn, pulled himself clumsily into the saddle, struggled to get hold of her reins and almost ran Rhiannead down at the edge of the clearing before he did so.

He pulled Mortiss about to shield Rhiannead from the jackals while she crossed the last few paces to the clearing’s edge. As he and Mortiss stood their ground, Rafaellen’s soldiers loosed one arrow after another at the jackals, keeping them occupied. Only when Rhiannead stepped out of the clearing did Morgin spur Mortiss after her.

Just outside the clearing Morgin and Rhiannead met Rafaellen and his two soldiers. Rhiannead had a small trickle of blood at her throat. Alarmed, Rafaellen examined the wound quickly, then declared. “The bastard’s knife just nicked her. It’s nothing to worry about.”

“Then take her,” Morgin said. “Get to the horses and run. I’ll delay the jackals.”

“No,” Rhiannead pleaded. “They’ll kill you.”

Morgin had no time to argue with her, so he simply pulled a shadow about him and Mortiss, then spurred her back into the clearing. He’d done this kind of thing before, in another time, another life.

••••

“You must awaken, Your Ladyship. Dinner will be served shortly and your presence is required.”

Rhianne had trouble shifting her thoughts from the chaos of the clearing in her dream, to the quiet of Castle Decouix in the late afternoon. Sitting on the couch where she’d napped, she opened her eyes and lifted her chin. The young girl who’d awakened her started, her eyes widened and she put a hand to her mouth. “Oh dear me,” she said.

Rhianne asked, “What’s wrong?”

Geanna stepped around the girl and her eyes widened too. “Oh, my lady, you’ve cut yourself.”

Rhianne didn’t feel any pain. “I’ve cut myself? Where?”

Geanna retrieved a small mirror and handed it to Rhianne. Looking at her reflection she saw a slight trickle of blood on her throat where the jackal captain’s knife had nicked her.
No,
she thought.
That was just a dream.

Once her handmaidens determined that it was a small, shallow cut, the excitement ended, though they speculated a bit on how she might have cut herself. She now knew she could no longer deny the reality of her dreams. She shared some sort of existence with Rhiannead, and must accept the fact that Morgin had survived Salula and was now trapped in the Kingdom of Dreams. Could she help him fight off these jackals, help him find his way back to the Mortal Plane? Could she coax Rhiannead to be more forceful? Rhianne reminded herself that the girl in her dreams couldn’t be more than 16 years old, and was just as flighty as she had been at that age. But Morgin’s life, and hers too, hung in the balance, so perhaps it was time to take the girl in hand, to guide her down the proper path, though she’d probably have to be a bit forceful in that.