The Name Of The Sword (Book 4) (28 page)

Olivia marched down the hall toward her, didn’t stop as she reached her, but took her by the upper arm in a painful grip and dragged her down the hallway with her.

“What are you doing?” NickoLot demanded.

“We’re going to talk, girl, before you break your mother’s heart.”

The old woman’s words stunned her. Did she suspect? Did she know? NickoLot was still struggling with that as Olivia shoved her into her audience chamber, followed her in and slammed the door. Only when they were alone did the old witch calm down.

Olivia’s eyes narrowed as she demanded, “How much do you know?”

Nicki threw the question back at her. “How much do you know?”

Olivia leaned toward her with godfire in her eyes. “This is my castle, child. I know everything that goes on within its walls. I know about your little charms and your experiments, though I hadn’t anticipated you discovering the truth so quickly.”

“Then you know that . . .”

Olivia waited for her to finish, and when she didn’t the old woman said, “That DaNoel’s a traitor? Of course I know. I suspected as much before Valso escaped our tower, and I knew for certain the day DaNoel killed that guard.”

“You’ve known all along?”

Olivia turned her back on her, strode to a window and looked out into the darkening night.

Nicki demanded, “Why didn’t you say something, stop him?”

Olivia sighed. “And break you mother’s heart? No, I’ll not do that. In any case I’ve been using DaNoel to feed little bits of false information to Valso. We can use him to our advantage, and at the same time we need not destroy your mother, whom I value more than you can imagine.”

Compassion! Never had NickoLot thought to hear compassion from the old woman.

“Let DaNoel’s secret remain ours,” Olivia said. “If we’re careful we can keep him from damaging the clan, and from killing your mother with grief.”

28
War to Come

Theandrin’s demands and impatience had grown into outright threats, and Chrisainne knew she could no longer wait. She had done her homework, had carefully researched poisons and toxins, concoctions and contagions. And having lived now at Penda Court for some months, she knew the methods Theandrin employed to protect the Penda ruling family from any attempted poisoning. She’d experimented a bit, had found that incoming food and drink supplies were carefully checked on arrival, and each member of the family maintained certain charms to warn them of any dangers when eating. Most importantly, Theandrin was a bit careless about the wine and water decanters in her own apartments. She checked them in the morning, and once or twice during the day, but she didn’t check each individual glass served to her. Anyone who poured her a goblet of wine or a cup of water in her own apartments was a trusted retainer.

Chrisainne had settled on an herb frequently used to relieve a woman’s cramps during her menstrual cycle. A good witch could strengthen its effects if her cramps were unusually severe. A
very
good witch could reverse the effects as well as strengthen them, and alter them significantly. It had taken considerable effort to concoct her potion, a deep burgundy distillation that would disappear nicely in a glass of red wine. A drop or two in Theandrin’s drink, administered repeatedly over the cycle of a single moon, would show no ill effects. But a cancer would grow slowly in her womb, and in about six moons she’d die a rather painful death. No one would suspect foul play, for a death of that nature was not uncommon in a woman Theandrin’s age. It would be a sad loss for the entire clan, and Chrisainne would be there to comfort the family during their time of grief. It might even be fun to seduce ErrinCastle before she killed him. After all, he was quite handsome.

She’d learned quite a few new tricks in her studies, and after Theandrin, she could put some of them to use getting rid of the Penda heir, BlakeDown, Lewendis, her husband—anyone else who got in her way.

Today Theandrin had asked Chrisainne to join her for a pleasant afternoon of stitchery, and she’d invited a few other young ladies. It was time to be rid of the older woman.

She knocked on the door to Theandrin’s apartments, was admitted by a servant.

“Chrisainne, my dear,” Theandrin said, standing and greeting her warmly. They kissed lightly on the cheek, and Chrisainne sat down at her stitching hoop.

The other two girls were quite young, and obviously thrilled to be invited to join the preeminent lady of the clan. They giggled and chatted, and at one point Theandrin leaned close to Chrisainne and whispered, “Thank you for joining us. I’m glad of some mature conversation.”

Chrisainne smiled and said, “It’s my pleasure, Your Ladyship.”

The afternoon dwindled away rather pleasantly and Chrisainne had begun to think no opportunity would present itself, when Theandrin breathed a heavy sigh, and said, “Dinner’s approaching, and I feel like a glass of wine. Chrisainne, will you join me?”

“Certainly,” Chrisainne said, standing. She spoke as she crossed the room. “What would you like, red or white?”

Chrisainne reached the small table containing two decanters and some goblets, noticed happily that one decanter held water and the other red wine. Before Theandrin could answer Chrisainne turned back to her and said, “I’m sorry, but it appears there’s only red today. Would you like me to go to the kitchens and get you some white?”

“No, no, red will be fine.”

Chrisainne poured wine into two goblets, and with her back turned to the rest of them, she slipped the small vial out of her sleeve. In a quick motion she’d practiced a hundred times, she removed the stopper, let two drops of the liquid fall into one goblet, replaced the stopper and returned the vial to her sleeve. She was rather proud of how quickly and smoothly she’d done it.

She turned, crossed the room carrying the two goblets, handed one to Theandrin, and sat down next to her. Theandrin lifted the goblet toward her lips but hesitated, glanced momentarily at a ring on her finger. She lowered the goblet, looked at the two young girls and said, “It occurs to me that it is getting rather late. You two should run along and return to your mothers, while we older women enjoy our wine.”

The girls hopped to their feet, kissed Theandrin on the cheek, bobbed a quick curtsy and left.

To the servant girl sitting in the corner, Theandrin said, “Run down to the kitchen and tell the cook I’ll be down shortly to discuss dinner.”

With a quick curtsy the servant girl followed the two youngsters. Now that they were alone, Chrisainne thought Theandrin would renew her demands for information, but the older woman seemed to be in a pleasant mood this day.

“Ah,” Theandrin said. “Alone, finally. I’d like to show you something.”

She rose, stood over Chrisainne and held out her hand. Chrisainne noted three rings on her fingers. “Look at this one,” Theandrin said, pointing to the ring on her index finger, which contained a pale, white, colorless stone.

“It’s a lovely ring,” Chrisainne lied.

“No, it’s not. It’s normally lavender, and then it’s lovely. But I recently treated it with some special spells. It loses all color when I hold poison in my hands.”

Chrisainne started, trying to think quickly, but before she could say anything Theandrin swung out and slapped her so hard she tumbled from her seat onto the floor, her goblet of wine splashing across the carpet. With her head spinning she managed to get to her hands and knees, but the older woman grabbed her hair from behind and pulled viciously, lifted her up to her knees. Theandrin then slapped something against the skin exposed above the top of her gown.

Chrisainne looked down and saw a trinket of some dull metal stuck to her chest. It pulsed once with a faint, yellowish glow, but she felt nothing.

“Lay down there and don’t move,” Theandrin said. “And say nothing.”

Chrisainne’s muscles turned into water and she collapsed onto her side, then flopped over onto her back. She couldn’t move, and when she tried to speak the muscles of her throat contracted painfully. She realized an enormously powerful compulsion spell was forcing her to obey every word Theandrin uttered.

Theandrin loomed over her, leaned down and looked in her eyes. “You might have gotten away with it had I not discovered you’re working for the Decouix. But once I knew, I took extra precautions. I’m afraid you’re not going to survive this, girl.”

Chrisainne lay so strongly imprisoned in the older woman’s spell her heart didn’t even beat rapidly in response to the fear that crawled up her gut. She tried to resist the spell, opened her mouth to plead for her life, but her throat muscles constricted so badly she couldn’t breathe.

Theandrin said, “Shut your mouth and say nothing.”

Her teeth clamped shut so quickly she bit her tongue.

••••

As Morgin rode west to Elhiyne, he made good use of Mortiss’ ability to cover great distances through the nether ways. With Bayellgae, Salula and Metadan all hunting him, he felt safer in the netherworld, though he knew the dangers of spending too much time there. His connection to reality, to the Mortal Plane, would slowly erode, and he’d find it difficult to return.

He reached the foothills below Kallun’s Gorge late in the afternoon. The trail that led up to the Gorge had been well marked, and while it was a bit treacherous in spots, he could trust Mortiss’ abilities and his own shadow vision, so he continued on. He’d taken this trail once before, riding down it to face Illalla’s army alone. Those events of only a few years ago felt as if they were part of a distant past, while his memories of Morddon’s life centuries ago seemed only yesterday.

Near midnight the trail leveled off just short of the Gorge. Exhausted now, he recalled that there was a waystation on the east side, and he hoped to rest there. He dismounted, and holding Mortiss’ reins he walked forward, spotted the faint, orange-red glow of a flickering fire illuminating the boulders ahead. He must have made some sound or noise, for Samull, the son of the waystation’s keeper, stepped out onto the trail, groggily rubbing his eyes and peering through the darkness.

“Good even’, sir.”

Samull and his father Durado had been kind when Morgin had thought he had no friends. “It’s me, Samull, Morgin.”

“Ah, Lord Morgin. We heard you was dead.” He spun about and shouted, “Da, it’s Lord Morgin. And he ain’t dead.”

Durado stepped out of the fire’s glow, also rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Lord Morgin. Tis late. You must be tired.”

Samull took Mortiss to feed her, while Durado led Morgin between two boulders toward the glow of the fire. They emerged into a large level space, sheltered on all sides by rock walls and boulders. Masons had cut a shelf into the rock for seating around the fire pit. The fire hadn’t been banked, and it emitted enough light to cast the faint glow on the boulders Morgin had spotted earlier.

As Durado tossed a couple of logs on the fire, sending a shower of sparks upward, he said, “We keep the fire burning so late travelers like you can see their way. Wouldn’t want no one stumbling past it and stepping into the gorge.”

Durado fed him a simple meal of porridge with a little sugar to sweeten it. Seated on the rock shelf, with a full stomach and his blanket wrapped about his shoulders, the warm fire in front of him, Morgin drifted off to sleep . . .

He searched through the Kingdom of Dreams for Rhianne, asked Sabian to reveal her to him if she was dreaming. He wandered on, dreaming and not dreaming . . .

Just before dawn something woke him, something nether, something near and dangerous. The fire in the sheltered space at the top of the gorge still gave off some warmth and a dim glow, but it had dwindled. Morgin stood, stepped into the shadow of a boulder and reinforced the shadow with his magic. A moment later Bayellgae buzzed into the small space, flitted about then settled on the branch of a large bush. Salula walked out from between two boulders and approached the fire. He extended his hands to warm them. Metadan winked into existence beside him.

Salula growled, “Was he here?”

The snake hissed, “Yesss, but I can no longer sssenssse him.”

Metadan said, “Nor can I.”

“There isss life nearby,” Bayellgae hissed, “and I hunger.”

Salula shook his head. “Stay away from the old man and the boy. We don’t want to advertise our presence. He’s probably headed for Elhiyne, and we need to catch him before he gets there.”

Salula turned and marched back the way he’d come. Metadan winked out of existence, leaving behind a column of smoke. Bayellgae took to the air and followed Salula.

Morgin waited in his shadow until well after sunup before stepping forth. They were ahead of him now. He’d have to move cautiously.

••••

Morgin saw no sign of Bayellgae, Salula or Metadan on his way to Elhiyne, probably because Mortiss followed her paths through the nether ways. Each time it grew harder to return to the Mortal Plane, almost as if he had some special affinity for the netherworld. When reality finally came upon him he sat astride her east of the village near Elhiyne.

He noticed immediately that something was wrong. There were no hands in the fields and in the distance he saw no activity in the village. He didn’t want to be recognized or questioned, so he pulled the hood of his cloak up over his head, cast a shadow about his face to augment that cast by the sun, and rode through the village at a trot.

Once before he’d ridden blindly into Elhiyne without listening to his instincts, only to learn that Valso and the Tulalane were occupying it with a company of Kulls. This time he stopped at the edge of the no-man’s-land, dismounted, pulled a shadow about him and slipped into the woods there.

The castle gates were open, but armed sentries stood watch at the battlements. Dusk was approaching, and the late afternoon sun cast a long shadow behind one of the open main gates. It was over two hundred paces distant, just out of range of a bow, though not a Benesh’ere longbow. He wasn’t sure he could do it, but he must try.
To walk in one is to walk in them all.
He closed his eyes, decided that the two shadows, that in which he stood, and the one in the distance behind the castle gate, were one and the same. He staggered as he felt that falling sensation.

“Bloody Penda’s deserve what we give ’em.”

“Let’s just hope we be doing the givin’, and not them.”

Morgin opened his eyes. He stood in the shadow of the gate below the wall, two sentries on the battlements above talking about something to do with Penda. They weren’t looking his way, would never have considered that someone could just appear at the base of the wall without crossing the no-man’s-land. Keeping a shadow wrapped about him, he stepped around the edge of the gate and into the castle yard, hugging the wall and the shadows there. The castle yard, always a beehive of activity, was completely deserted.

Tightly wrapped in his shadows he made his way to the castle proper. It too was nearly deserted, though he spotted NickoLot walking down a hallway, carrying a candle to light her way. He slipped into a shadow behind her and followed.

She made her way to Roland and AnnaRail’s apartments. She stopped at the door, knocked, and a moment later Roland opened it. Behind Roland Morgin spotted a shadow in the far corner of the sitting room.
To walk in one is to walk in them all.

He stood now in the shadow in the room, watching NickoLot step through the door, and Roland close it.

“Will we be ready at dawn?” Nicki asked.

AnnaRail walked into the room and said, “We have to be.”

Roland said, “Mother won’t like us showing up.”

AnnaRail waved a hand in angry dismissal. “I care not what your mother wants.”

Roland frowned and raised a hand to silence her. They tensed as he carefully looked around the room. His gaze settled on Morgin’s shadow, he visibly relaxed and said, “There’s no need to lurk in shadows, son.”

Morgin sighed, dropped his shadowmagic and stepped forth. AnnaRail’s eyes widened, then she stepped forward and wrapped him in her arms. Nicki wrapped her arms around both of them, and Roland his around the three of them.