The Name Of The Sword (Book 4) (6 page)

••••

Throughout the day Rhiannead tried not to think of Lord Mortal, and yet a part of her cared nothing for the obligations of her birth. She sensed another being within her soul, a manifestation that had come upon her only when their hands had touched, a young woman from Lord Mortal’s past. She realized now that the flood of memories had come from that other being, and that she and Lord Mortal had been separated, and longed to find each other again. Without conscious thought she glanced over her shoulder to look at him. And when not doing that, she could think only of that almost-kiss they had shared, and she longed to make it a real kiss—or was it that other presence within her that longed to make it a real kiss? She tried to stay focused on the trail ahead of her, but time and again, without even realizing it, she glanced his way.

“Milady,” Kenna said. “You must move with caution here.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Do not allow a handsome stranger to turn your eye away from your duty.”

“Trust me, Kenna. I know my duty well.”

“You may know your duty, child, but I think you do not know your heart. Be careful, and do not allow yourself to be tempted so.”

Rhiannead knew that Kenna was all too right. And yet, that other woman who haunted her soul cared so much for Lord Mortal that she would defy all convention to be with him. Oddly, Rhiannead felt the same, though she knew she must resist any such inclination.

That evening Rafaellen and Kenna hovered over her as she ate dinner, then all but confined her to her tent.

6
Intruders in a Dream

NickoLot closed the door to her room, latched it and turned the key in the lock. Then she placed the charm she had prepared over the latch and activated it with a bit of saliva, an arcane protection far more powerful than any mundane lock and key.

She had eaten a quiet dinner with AnnaRail and Jinella, Brandon’s pretty, young wife. Jinella still had no idea that the hedge witch she’d interviewed in the inn in Norlakton had been Rhianne in disguise. And if she learned of it she’d probably blame herself for Rhianne’s absence, thinking that if she’d recognized her she could have helped her in some way. Nicki liked Jinella; she was kind and pleasant, with not a hint of arrogance about her, and unlike most clanswomen she didn’t question Nicki’s strange and rather unflattering choice of attire.

NickoLot sat down at her small writing table. Most strong witches maintained a well-stocked workroom for practicing the arcane arts. AnnaRail had even offered to make something like that available to Nicki, but Nicki had declined. A piece of her wanted to remain a little girl, didn’t want to acknowledge that she had grown into a very powerful witch.

She opened a small chest she kept under the table, and from it retrieved the items she had found when searching Morgin’s rooms. She laid them out before her: the old comb with a few missing teeth from which she’d extracted several of Morgin’s hairs, the cheap knife, the broken shard of a mirror, the small bronze pendant, the four shiny stones polished by the weather, and the two dove feathers. She’d stored his old boots in her own closet since she couldn’t think of any real use for them. Clothing rarely had any strong connection to its owner.

The collection frustrated her. There must be some significance to all the items, but only the comb, hairs and stones had any strong ties to Morgin. The cheap knife, the shard of mirror, the pendant and the feathers; what did they mean to Morgin that he valued them so? He
must
have valued them to have kept them all these years. But time and again Nicki had tried to glean their connection to him, and found it tenuous at best. She had resolved to try one last time.

She hoped to use the hair to make a stronger connection to the other items. She pulled one strand of hair from those she’d extracted from the comb, pulled one of her own hairs and carefully wound the two together, then shaped them into a witch’s knot. The hairs didn’t want to hold to such a complex pattern, so she stuck pins into the wood of the table to maintain the shape. She had chosen the witch’s knot because, unlike so many symbols used in the arcane arts, it did not represent the feminine powers, but rather an inversion of those powers, which should help make a stronger connection to Morgin.

She picked up the knife and examined it carefully. The blade was just a bit longer than her middle finger, ending in a needle-sharp point. It had been crudely formed, a straight slash of metal without the lines and shape common to a well-made blade, with an edge that dulled quickly when used. JohnEngine told her the blade was forged of soft iron, and would only hold an edge for a brief time. The handle—
hilt
, JohnEngine had called it—had been poorly repaired at some point. It had probably once been wrapped with leather, but was now padded with nothing better than dirty strips of cloth.

She cleared her mind of all stressful thoughts, recalled with pleasure the funny faces Morgin had made for her when he was a young boy of seven or eight, and she a small child still staggering around on unsteady legs. And with those happy thoughts to calm her, she looked again at the knife so she could recall from memory every facet of its nature. Then she pressed it against her breast with her left hand, and placed the tip of the ring finger of her right hand in the middle of the witch’s knot.

She took a deep breath, let it out slowly, closed her eyes and drew power. She fed power into the witch’s knot, and into the blade, and opened her mind to whatever thoughts or images might come. She sat that way for an unknown time and nothing happened, so she fed a little more power into the knife and was rewarded with a faint image. She saw a street that could be part of any large city, filled with people and horses and carts. She only caught a momentary glimpse before the image shifted, and now she confronted an angry mob. Then it shifted again to an alley, choked with refuse and debris.

She felt weak and lightheaded, and knew she had fed too much power into the knife. But when she tried to stop, it drew more from her, sucking it out of her soul hungrily. It had a desperate need for raw power, and she didn’t think she could control it, feared now that it would drain her completely and leave nothing but a lifeless husk seated at her little writing table.

No, child, we’re here to help you.

She had never before heard Olivia speak kindly, and to hear her do so now was the strangest of sensations. She felt Olivia’s power as the old woman wrapped a spell about the knife, shielding her from it. And then AnnaRail wrapped her in the warm blanket of her power.

NickoLot opened her eyes. She still held the knife clutched to her breast, with the tip of her finger still centered on the witch’s knot. AnnaRail stood on her right, Olivia on her left. It did not surprise her that either of the two could easily thwart the arcane lock she’d placed on her door. She sighed, lifted her finger out of the witch’s knot and placed the knife on the workbench.

The cold indifference had returned to Olivia’s voice when she said, “And what were you at, child?”

AnnaRail reached out and picked up the knife. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Olivia scanned the items on the workbench. “I’ve never seen these items before. What is their significance?”

NickoLot shrugged. “They were Morgin’s. He valued them in some way.”

“Ah!” Olivia said. “Summoning the dead, are we?”

Nicki and AnnaRail had agreed that they would tell no one of her prescient view of Morgin walking among them in the future, but Nicki had no easy way of explaining her actions now.

AnnaRail came to her rescue. “No, mother. Morgin played a significant role in events that will shape the future, and we’re trying to understand that. Nicki and I have discussed this.” AnnaRail’s eyes narrowed as she looked at Nicki. “We also agreed that she wouldn’t attempt such powerful spell-crafting without my knowledge.”

NickoLot looked at Olivia. “I thought you wouldn’t approve.”

Olivia frowned. “Me? Not approve of powerful spell-crafting? Why, child, I’ve encouraged you every day of your life to push yourself. You clearly have far more ability than most, and you have the control to exercise it properly. What I disapprove of is your recklessness. I won’t stop you from such spell-crafting, nor will I disapprove of it. But you should have your mother, or me, present to ward you.”

AnnaRail added, “She is right, daughter. But you’re wrong about these items. They didn’t all belong to Morgin. Not truly.”

Nicki frowned and looked at her mother, trying to understand how she could be so wrong. “Of course they were Morgin’s. They were in a chest in his room.”

AnnaRail leaned forward and carefully slid the comb, polished stones and hairs to one side. “These were Morgin’s. The rest . . .” She waved a hand, indicating the knife, pendant, shard of mirror, and feathers. “Rat was carrying the knife when Roland found him. The rest I retrieved from his lair. So in many ways they did not belong to Morgin. Rat valued them in some way, and they belonged to him.”

••••

Chrisainne hated stitchery, found it a boring drudge. But on this quiet afternoon she must sit with Theandrin, BlakeDown’s wife, and pretend she found it rewarding. She’d much rather be riding that strong, young stable boy. He’d proven to have quite a bit of stamina, and she took far greater pleasure from him than she did from that pig BlakeDown, or her own husband for that matter.

Theandrin put her stitchery hoop down and sighed. “I tire of this,” she said. She had clearly been quite beautiful when younger, was even now, in middle age, a handsome woman with pale-brown hair and attractive blue eyes. Chrisainne had gone to considerable trouble, had employed the best of her magic and powers to ensure that the older woman heard not the slightest hint of her seduction of BlakeDown.

Chrisainne put her hoop down. “Yes. It isn’t the most entertaining of pastimes.”

Theandrin stood and walked over to the room’s single window. Looking at something outside in the castle yard, she said, “I worry about this border situation with Elhiyne. It grows less stable every day, and neither of us can afford war. But each day seems to bring a new escalation of the tension, as if someone actually wants us to war. And my husband refuses to keep me informed of the latest developments. I’m forced to listen to rumors from the servants, and I do not like conjecture.”

If only Valso could hear Theandrin’s words, he’d be even more pleased with Chrisainne. “Yes, Your Ladyship, it is troubling. But surely no one would want to see war between us, at least no one in the Lesser Clans.”

Theandrin turned a bit and looked at Chrisainne. “You’re quite right; no one in the Lesser Clans. But the Decouix king would like nothing more than to see us tear each other apart.”

Chrisainne’s heart beat just a little faster. “Do you believe that Valso is interfering in some way?”

“No. I’ve carefully checked all our border lieutenants and everyone else involved. And I’ve put certain safeguards in place. None of them are working for Valso.” She extended a hand. “Come, child. Bring an old woman some comfort.”

Chrisainne stood and crossed the room, took Theandrin’s hand in both of hers. “You’re cold,” she said. She clutched the older woman’s hand close to her breast and rubbed it to warm it. The courtyard below the window bustled with the daily routine of the castle.

“Thank you, child. Thank you. It must bore you to have to keep an old woman company this way.”

“Not at all, Your Ladyship.”

“Oh come now, child. Certainly you’d rather be in the stable loft under that stable boy, letting him ride you like a brood mare.”

Chrisainne froze and her heart went cold. “What do you mean, my lady? I don’t understand.” She tried to release the older woman’s hand, but Theandrin wrapped her fingers about Chrisainne’s wrist in a painful grip.

“Don’t play games with me, girl. I know everything that goes on beneath my roof.”

Chrisainne focused on the courtyard below. She dare not meet the older woman’s eyes, and prayed she only knew about the stable boy.

“You bedded the boy, and you bedded his master to keep him quiet. Well . . . I don’t think there were any beds involved, were there? Let me see, the stable boy had you on your back in the straw. And his master . . . what did he do, just stand you up against a wall?”

Trembling, but thankful that there’d been no mention of BlakeDown, Chrisainne said, “It was a foolish dalliance. I don’t know what came over me.”

“Oh, I know what came over you,” Theandrin said. “And I want you to do me a favor. The next time you fuck my husband, I want you to learn all his thoughts on the Elhiyne border situation. It’s deteriorating rapidly, and I want to know everything. So come to me afterwards and tell me what you’ve learned.”

“I . . .” Chrisainne said as her gut clenched with fear. “I—”

“Don’t speak, girl. Just listen.”

Chrisainne clamped her mouth shut.

“That’s better. Now you have to be careful here, if you want to survive. If my husband hears you’ve been soiling him by mixing his seed with that of stable hands, he’ll have all three of you murdered in rather short order.”

Chrisainne continued to stare out the window, though in the corner of her eye she saw enough to know that Theandrin turned her head to look her way. “And be careful not to find yourself with child. You’re what . . . the tenth of his playthings to have come along. I don’t really know; I long ago lost count. And I’m not counting the whores and barmaids. There was one girl, some years back, quite a pretty thing as I recall. She lasted all of three years, but she grew careless. Or perhaps she thought she might garner favor by bearing him a child. It doesn’t matter. Neither my husband nor I will allow such a complication to muddy the waters of the Penda inheritance. The poor girl, and her unborn babe, died of a horrible accident. Such a shame!”

Theandrin slackened her grip and released Chrisainne’s wrist. “Let me be clear about this, girl. You will do as I say, or I will tell my husband of your dalliance with the stable hands, and we’ll be rid of you in rather short order.”

Theandrin turned, though Chrisainne did not turn with her and remained standing at the window looking out at the courtyard. The older woman stepped out of sight, and Chrisainne heard the patter of Theandrin’s feet as she crossed the room. But the patter stopped before she opened the door.

“Oh,” Theandrin added. “And be sure you fuck my husband again sometime before tomorrow afternoon. I do so want that information . . . and sooner rather than later.”

••••

Your Majesty, you must awaken.

Morgin opened his eyes, and in the darkness that enveloped him he considered lighting a candle. He’d get dressed, clean up his room, get a quick bite to eat, then join France for some sword practice in the castle yard.

Your Majesty.

The voice of the shadowwraith brought him back to the moment. France! Poor France, haunted and possessed by Salula. When Morgin did awake from this dream, he had to save France as well as Rhianne. But he couldn’t just kill Salula. He’d learned from experience that all he’d accomplished the first time was to slay Salula’s host. So simply killing Salula would kill only the swordsman, and not the demon.

There is danger.

Danger? Rhiannead! Rafaellen! Kenna!

He wrapped a shadow about him and sat up slowly. There was no hint of light in the eastern sky, so he guessed sunrise must be some hours away. The shadowwraith Soann’Daeth’Daeye, hovered above him, and oddly enough, he saw it clearly, even in the dark. Shaped much like a man, it had no face to speak of, only the poorly defined shapes of head, shoulders, arms, torso and legs.