The Name Of The Sword (Book 4) (16 page)

The Unnamed King knows all names but his own.
He thought how true that had turned out to be.

Rhianne stirred, sat up and stretched, naked above the blankets and wholly unconcerned about it. She turned and wrapped her arms around him and said, “You know you must return to the Mortal Plane, return to your Rhianne.”

“You’re not my Rhianne?”

She shrugged, brushed her lips across his cheek. “I am, and I am not.”

“What happened to Rhiannead? Where is she?”

She reached out and curled a lock of his hair around a finger. “She was just a dreamer.” The look on his face must have prompted her to continue. “She didn’t really live here. She was just a mortal who was simply dreaming. You’re the only mortal who really
lives
in the Kingdom of Dreams.”

He noticed she hadn’t included herself in that. “Even Rafaellen—he’s just a dreamer?”

When she nodded it saddened him. He’d come to like Rafaellen; they’d faced death together, and that formed a bond of friendship even between the most different of men. And now that bond seemed elusive and artificial.

“All of them?” he asked. “Dreamers?”

“Yes, my love.”

“And you? You said I’m the only mortal here. Are you a dreamer too?”

She laughed. “Oh, no, my dear. I am very real, but I’m not mortal. I’m the god-queen.”

She leaned forward and kissed him. “There. Now wasn’t that real enough?”

“Yes.”

Her words had been meant to comfort him, but instead they left him feeling alone, so very alone.

16
The Return of the Fallen

Standing at the window in her room, NickoLot watched the young men sparring in the castle yard below. DaNoel sat to one side, watching the contestants and waiting his turn, while NickoLot waited for the opportunity to plant her charms.

When his turn did come, she didn’t immediately rush down to his room. She forced herself to be patient, watched old Beckett turn over the hourglass, and waited a bit for DaNoel to get into the match. Satisfied she would have the time she needed, she was about to turn and go, when DaNoel slipped, and his opponent’s sword struck his arm. The sword’s steel had been dulled to prevent injury, but it still opened up a nasty gash.

What a stroke of luck!

As the young men gathered around DaNoel, NickoLot turned and rushed out of her room. She hurried down the stairs, through the castle proper and out into the yard. Beckett was attempting to bandage the wound, but NickoLot elbowed her way through the young men and said, “Here, let me see that.”

Beckett stepped aside, and she gripped DaNoel’s arm, ignoring the blood. “That’s a nasty cut,” she said.

DaNoel gave her a skeptical look. “Since when have you been so concerned with my well-being?”

She tried to give him an Olivia look. “We may have our differences, but you’re still my brother. Mother is much better at healing than me. You’d better have her look at this right away so it doesn’t fester.”

DaNoel pulled his arm out of her hands. “I’ll do exactly that.” He turned his back on her and walked away.

NickoLot looked down at the small puddle of blood cupped in the palm of her left hand. She’d deliberately let DaNoel’s blood drip there, and had been careful to keep her right hand clean. She wouldn’t plant the charms today. Now that she had his blood, she could recast them, make them much more powerful and set them another day. She closed her left hand, held it close to her side. As she headed back to her room she didn’t care if anyone saw her hurrying on her way. She didn’t have much time before the blood congealed, and certain, powerful spells required fresh blood.

She made only one detour. She stopped in the cook’s herb garden and plucked a couple of basil leaves from small plants and several bay leaves from the tree in the center.

Up in her room she sat down at her writing table and carefully arranged the herb leaves in front of her. With meticulous care she dripped a few drops of DaNoel’s blood onto each of them. She’d use them later for spells that required dried blood.

Using just her right hand, she retrieved the small chest she kept beneath her writing table, triggered the arcane lock that sealed it and opened it. From it she withdrew the handkerchief in which she’d wrapped DaNoel’s hairs, and placed it next to the herb leaves. Through the years she’d collected a number of seemingly random items on the off chance she might use them in a spell or charm. She’d stored them in the chest and she searched through it now, looking for two shiny pieces of metal. She found them: two cheap, silver trinkets.

Silver, the conductor of energies, it absorbed many things but didn’t store them, helped them flow in one direction or another. She tilted her left hand over one of the pieces, let three drops of blood drop onto it, was happy to see the blood still flowed cleanly. She’d prefer to put the customary seven drops on each charm, but there wasn’t enough left. She repeated the process with the other piece, might have gotten a fourth or fifth drop onto it, but experience told her symmetry was critical for this spell. She wiped her hand on a cloth.

She hadn’t anticipated working with blood, had to improvise as she worked. Now, how to proceed, what to do with this small boon, that was the question she must answer, and quickly.

••••

Morgin paced back and forth in the king’s privy chamber. He couldn’t forget the jackals, and he knew he couldn’t ignore them.

“My king!” Morgin had been lost in thought. He stopped his pacing and looked toward the door. Erithnae had slipped into the room quietly. “Why so thoughtful?”

“The jackals,” he said.

“Yes,” she said. “They won’t give up, will they? You said you’ve fought them before.”

“Yes, a long time ago, and when I think about it, an old acquaintance keeps coming to mind. It’s someone I’ve met in two different lives, and together we fought them.”

“And this person?”

“Not a person, really. Metadan is his name.”

She closed her eyes and lowered her head, almost as if the mention of that name gave her pain. “The foremost among the archangels, and for some centuries now, The Fallen One. You should summon him.”

“Would he answer such a summons?”

“He would have no choice.”

Morgin still didn’t understand the powers of the Unnamed King. “Then let’s get—”

The door to the room swung open and Kinardin entered. Morgin still hadn’t grown accustomed to the fact that he didn’t have to summon Kinardin; just think it and Castle Sabian would let the Lord Chamberlain know he was needed. Kinardin bowed with a flourish. “My king, what do you desire?”

Morgin had learned that if he didn’t say it, Kinardin would hold the bow forever. “Rise. Please rise.”

Erithnae said, “His Majesty needs help and he wishes you to summon Metadan.”

Kinardin raised an eyebrow and cocked his head. “He can be a valuable ally, or a dangerous foe. But having fallen so far there is little chance he’ll aid us.”

Morgin shrugged. “There may be a way of convincing him.”

“Very well,” Kinardin said. “I’ll take care of it right away.”

He started to turn but Morgin said, “There’s another thing.” He’d been thinking about this now for a couple of days. In fact, he’d been obsessed with it. “Could you get me some obsidian? Enough to make a sword and a dagger?”

Kinardin frowned. “But will such a blade be of any use? Won’t it be quite fragile?”

“It might,” Morgin said. “I think I just have to make it the right way. I faced such a blade once, and I’m certain I’ll have to face it again.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty.”

It occurred to Morgin that he needed Metadan’s help, not his obedience. “One more thing,” he said. “Don’t summon Metadan, request his presence. And make it a polite request.”

••••

As well as being a gentle lover, Lewendis proved to be quite discreet, and Chrisainne had come to appreciate him even more. When she stepped out into the castle yard, not realizing he and his border patrol were preparing to ride out, he glanced her way for a moment, but didn’t succumb to any temptation to give her a surreptitious wink or an overly warm smile. Too bad she had to end their relationship, for there was no question it would eventually become a liability, but how? She couldn’t just break it off; he might make a scene and expose her.

Her husband certainly knew about her liaison with BlakeDown, though they both pretended he did not. But he knew nothing of Lewendis, and she wasn’t certain how he’d react if he found out. If he thought she’d taken Lewendis as a lover by her own choice, he might take it badly. Nor could she tell him Theandrin had forced her into the relationship. No, it would clearly be best to keep her affair with Lewendis just between him, her, and Theandrin, while she looked for a way to dispose of them both.

Lewendis and his men mounted up and rode out through the castle gates, stirring up a cloud of dust. Chrisainne hesitated for a few moments to allow it to clear, then walked through the gates, trying to adopt the air of a young woman out for a casual stroll. As she walked through the market nestled against the outer castle wall, she lifted her hand to her mouth, and under the guise of clearing her throat, kissed Valso’s medallion.

Nothing happened for the longest time, and she’d even begun enjoying her stroll, was considering some of the wares offered in the market, when Valso entered her thoughts.

What is it? I’m quite busy, so make it quick.

Lewendis is ready to take action,
she said.
Something should happen quite soon.

Good! Very good! You’ve done well, but I must go.

As Chrisainne walked back to the castle, she returned to her thoughts of Lewendis. Once Theandrin, ErrinCastle and her husband were dead, and it was time to marry BlakeDown, Lewendis would prove to be a liability. But then she realized she might use him to accomplish some of her ends, and be rid of him at the same time. Theandrin with poison, ErrinCastle with an accident, then she could fuel Lewendis’ desire for her and turn it into jealousy. With her husband standing in the way of her
true love
for Lewendis, they could not marry. If she could get the yokel to murder her husband in a fit of jealous anger—

She’d have to move carefully, make the fool appear to be an obsessed madman, and her the grieving widow. Once they hung Lewendis for her husband’s murder, nothing could stop her.

••••

Standing at the window in her sitting room, Theandrin looked down at the castle yard below. She watched Lewendis and his men mount up and ride out to the border, watched the cloud of dust they raised slowly dissipate.

Her wards had been triggered quite regularly before she’d modified them to give her some sense of direction. Though once she’d altered them, nothing had occurred but that one, single incident that led her to Lewendis’ room. She’d been exceedingly careful to show no mistrust of him, but had he somehow gained a hint of her suspicions? Even if he didn’t know of her wards, a cautious man would understand the dangers of betraying his liege lord within the confines of his own castle, would conduct any covert activities outside its walls. But when not on border patrol Lewendis rarely left the sprawling confines of the castle grounds. No, nothing since that one incident; something just didn’t add up.

Perhaps she should place some wards outside the castle walls. But that could prove to be a monumental task. Without the encircling nature of the castle to provide a well-defined enclosure, she’d have to blanket the countryside with them. Possibly, if she was careful and subtle, she could secretly place a small charm in his clothing, though she wasn’t sure what to set as its trigger. She’d have to think on that carefully.

Just before she turned away from the window she noticed Chrisainne walking out through the castle gates. She appeared to be going for a stroll, or to do some shopping in the market. Theandrin was sorely disappointed in the information the girl had provided, but wasn’t sure how hard to press her.

What was she going to do with that foolish girl? Probably what she’d done with all the rest: be patient and let BlakeDown tire of her. Once he did, he’d get rid of her and have another to replace her.

••••

Rhianne awoke, sighed with contentment and lay in bed. She’d been having the most wonderful dreams, very unladylike dreams. They’d also been most undreamlike, which she now understood was the nature of these dreams that weren’t truly dreams. Each had ended with her and Morgin lying beneath the sheets in each other’s arms, content and happy, though their joy had been shadowed by their fear of what the jackals might do to retaliate.

For several nights now she had had the joy of those dreams, each night a little different, but always the two of them laughing and cavorting like innocent children as they played at some very adult games. It was strange that she and Morgin found happiness only in her dreams, when in life they had found so little joy together. The hard part was that each morning she had to awake to
this
reality.

“Milady,” Geanna said. “I see you’re awake, and His Majesty wants you to attend an important meeting later this morning. So we must get you bathed and dressed.”

Rhianne sat up in bed. “What meeting is that?”

“His Majesty hasn’t informed me of the details.”

Rhianne knew that to be at least partly a lie. She’d carefully tested the girl, said certain little mistruths when only Geanna was present, and most often nothing came of it. But once she spoke of how, as a child, she had loved the scent of the blossoms on the lime trees in her father’s orchards, and a few days later Valso had mentioned her father’s lime trees. But her father had no lime trees in his orchards. She had lied to Geanna, and by that simple, little, roundabout circuit of false information, had confirmed that Geanna regularly reported her words and actions to Valso. Apparently, she reported even the most trivial of things, such as lime trees in her father’s orchards.

Rhianne had tested the other girls as well, and now knew exactly which of the them were, and which were not, Valso’s spies. It was an exceedingly valuable piece of knowledge to have.

Geanna and her handmaidens dressed her carefully, wrapping her in layer after layer of clothing. It reminded her of the many layers Morgin had peeled off her that first night, and a smile touched her lips.

“You seem happy, my lady.”

“Oh, just a fond memory.”

The girls put her hair up, colored her lips and applied careful touches of makeup, then gowned her in one of those revealing dresses, reminding her once again of her failure to acquire more modest clothing. Once, she’d tried using a broach to pin a silk handkerchief to her dress to cover her cleavage. Valso had taken one look at it and ordered it removed. After that there’d been no more broaches in her suite.

“It’s time. Is she ready?” There was no mistaking the harsh voice of the Kull lieutenant.

Rhianne turned, and with her chin held high, she stepped out of her boudoir into the sitting room. The Kull looked at her breasts hungrily, reminding her of the way Valso’s eyes always settled last on her breasts. She didn’t give the halfman the satisfaction of blushing.

Six Kulls awaited her out in the hallway, and it gave her some satisfaction that Valso felt the need to guard her so carefully. They escorted her down to the main floor of the castle, then through its labyrinthine corridors to the Great Hall. The massive main doors at its entrance had been thrown open, and there the Kulls peeled off and remained outside as she stepped across the threshold. She paused there for a moment.

Valso had chosen to have quite a number of his courtiers present this day. They lined the walls to either side, leaving a wide aisle down the center of the hall. At the far end he sat on his throne at the top of the dais, Carsaris standing beside him at his right hand, Salula at the bottom of the dais to his right. Clearly, he’d wanted to impress her, or perhaps cower her, so without waiting to be properly announced, she marched purposefully down the center of the hall. The herald hurriedly rapped his staff on the floor three times, and in a rush of words announced, “Her Ladyship, Rhianne esk et Elhiyne.”