Centyr Dominance (6 page)

The hunter sniffed indignantly before taking another
drink, then he answered, “I had no such intention, but I could enjoy my ale
more if ye’d stop tellin’ our business to every person five minutes after ye
meet ‘em.”

Moira saw the man rising from his table and heading
toward her, following Tamara. Standing, she moved to meet them halfway across
the room, leaving her tense companions behind. The stranger started to bow,
but she held up her hand to stay him. “Is there somewhere more private we
could talk?” she asked Tamara. She could feel Gram and Chad’s unhappy eyes on
her back.

“Let me show you one of our private alcoves,” said the
proprietress, giving her a look of approval. She led the two of them to one of
the curtained rooms on one side of the main floor. Holding the curtain back,
she motioned them within. “I’ll be back in a few minutes with your tea.”

“Thank you,” said Moira, before turning her attention
to her guest. The stranger motioned for her to take a seat before moving to
place himself across from her. She couldn’t fault his manners.

“Mistress Tamara said you might need my advice,
Miss…?” He let his sentence trail off into a question.

She gave him a gentle smile as she replied, “I don’t
think it would be wise to share my name with you yet. I hope you don’t find
that offensive.”

The Baron dipped his head, “I find it intriguing, and
coupled with your foreign accent—beguiling. My name is Gerold Ingerhold, and I
am pleased to make your ‘enigmatic’ acquaintance.”

“Thank you, Lord Ingerhold. I appreciate your
patience with my reticence,” said Moira, sitting a little straighter.

“Please, just ‘Gerold’ if you will. Using titles
makes me uncomfortable, especially since I don’t know yours,” he answered,
flashing a smile that was probably meant to put her at ease.

She couldn’t help but study his aythar, particularly
the parts that revealed his intentions. She could see interest there, but it
was more than intellectual. His mind was disciplined, but it was clear that he
found her attractive. She shifted uncomfortably at the observation. “With
your permission then, Gerold it is. I’m interested in Earl Berlagen,” she
said, hoping to put his thoughts onto a more practical track.

“The younger or the older?”

Moira paused, “Pardon?”

Gerold pulled at his ear, absently toying with a gold
earring. “We have two Earl’s, although only the younger properly holds the
title. His father, the elder, handed the title down to his son when he became
too ill to attend to courtly duties. I assume you mean the younger, but I
thought I should make certain.”

“Oh,” she responded awkwardly, “you don’t say?”

“But I just did,” said the Baron with a confused look
on his face.

“No, I meant that I understood, but I was a little
surprised,” she explained.

He frowned, “Then why didn’t you just say that?”

Now she was a little flustered, “It’s an expression we
use in Lothion.” She caught herself too late, and she saw his aythar flicker
with a sense of victory at hearing her name her homeland.

“I see,” he replied gracefully, “an idiom then, one of
acknowledgement while also connoting surprise. Is that correct?”

“Uhh, yes,” she answered. It was quickly becoming
apparent that she was outmatched when it came to crossing words with the Baron.

He patted her hand, “Thank you for telling me your
home. I know it was an accident, but I feel more comfortable knowing it
nonetheless.”

The touch seemed overly familiar, but she didn’t
withdraw her hand immediately, “I hope my nationality isn’t a problem.” She
tilted her head down slightly, so that she looked upward at him with her eyes.
What am I doing?

He withdrew his hand, studying her thoughtfully. “To
the contrary, I find foreign women exotic. Why are you interested in Lawrence
Berlagen?”

“I think he may have information regarding my father’s
disappearance,” she said forthrightly.

Gerold’s eyes widened slightly. “I would be lying if
I didn’t tell you that the Earl has been rather strange of late, but it might
be easier to help you if I knew who your father was.”

She ignored the latter part of his response,
“Strange? How so?”

With a sigh he went on, “The young earl has always
been a gregarious man, given to socializing, but over the past two years he has
secluded himself. He almost seems misanthropic these days.”

“Misanthropic?”

“It means that he seems to dislike people,” explained
the Baron.

“I know what it means,” said Moira with some
irritation. “I was curious what you meant specifically. Is he just becoming a
hermit, or has he shown some actual signs of actively disliking people?”

Gerold continued, “He fired much of his staff last year,
and just over a month ago, he sent more than half of his men at arms away. None
of them have returned.”

“They crossed the Northern Wastes,” commented Moira.
“We found some of his livery.”

The Baron stared at her, and she could actually see a
storm of activity around his brain. At last he spoke again, “Then you must be
the daughter of either the Baron of Arundel or the Count di’Cameron.” He
paused, following his thoughts to their conclusion, “Are you a wizard then? Or
is the proper term ‘witch’?”

There was a faint hint of fear in his aura, but it was
clear that he was keeping it under control. Moira chose her words carefully,
“Witch is a superstitious term, generally used for people with very little
ability, and commonly used for those disliked by their peers. I am a wizard,
but I have found that people here react badly when they discover that fact.”

“Can you see my thoughts? Are you reading my mind
now?”

Moira almost winced, but she suppressed her reaction,
“I would have to touch you to do something like that, but I can speak mind to
mind with other wizards, or with someone with whom I have a special bond.” She
didn’t bother explaining the fact that mages could sense emotions without
direct contact, or the fact that her own senses could reveal far more about
someone than even most mages realized. For the most part her answer was truth;
she
couldn’t
actually read his overt thoughts.

“Your father is the Blood-Lord isn’t he?” asked the
Baron directly.

She ground her teeth, “I
really
dislike that
term. My father is the kindest man you could ever hope to meet. He’s done
nothing but sacrifice and suffer for the people of our realm. Anything you’ve
heard to the contrary is a damn lie.”

“Did he really face the gods themselves?” Gerold’s
voice was a whisper now, as if he feared someone hearing the question might
suspect him of heresy.

“They weren’t gods, merely supernatural creations
given power by men of old, and yes, he did in fact face them,” she answered.
“None of this helps me. I need to see this Earl and find out if he knows
anything about my father’s disappearance.”

The Baron caught himself for a moment then, before
lowering his head in a gesture of contrition, “I am sorry. Realizing your
identity has made me rude. You must understand that magic is distrusted here.
We count ourselves as faithful devotees of Celior.”

“What will you do then?” challenged Moira. “Run out
and summon a mob to hunt me down? I am only here to find my father.”

“No,” he said after a moment. “I think you too
beautiful for that, though it may damn me. Besides, you don’t fear a mob do
you?”

“No.”

“What would you do?” he asked curiously. “I won’t do
it of course, but I find myself unable to help wondering. Would you fight them
off? Could you hurl fire at them?”

“I would just leave. There’s no need to hurt anyone.
I can defend myself from most attacks,” she insisted. “Why do men always think
of violence first?”

“What of your companions?”

Moira laughed a little at that. “I would restrain
them. To protect your people—of course.”

“They are wizards too?”

“No,” she said, waving her hands. “The younger one is
the son of Dorian Thornbear, and the older one is just a grumpy old man,
although he’s fought in many battles. He’s probably killed more people than
any ten men you’ve ever met—combined.”

“That those two are your only companions leads me to
believe you didn’t plan to find your father through diplomatic entreaties,”
commented Gerold. “You might find more help than you suspect, if you enlist
the King’s aid.”

Moira pursed her lips, “I don’t think your king would
take kindly to accusations that one of his vassals had kidnapped my father.
Besides, I thought your people distrusted wizards.”

“Wizards yes,” agreed the Baron, “but an ambassador
from Lothion is a different matter. Allow me to present you to the King.
Greet him openly, and then make your needs known in private. He is a wise man,
and a fair one. He will appreciate your discretion, and given the Earl of
Berlagen’s odd behavior of late, I have no doubt that he will be open to
helping you discover the truth of the matter.”

“I’m not actually an ambassador,” Moira informed him,
“I came here on my own.”

“Aren’t you related to Queen Ariadne?”

“She’s a cousin, yes,” answered Moira.
My first
cousin, twice removed,
she noted mentally,
though we aren’t actually
related by blood.

“That’s enough,” said Gerold. “Present yourself as an
informal representative. King Darogen is an intelligent man. He will
understand your reasons. Small political fictions are a matter of
convenience.”

“You seem to have a lot of faith in your king. Are
you close to him?” she asked.

The Baron straightened slightly, “I am, and I am
sincere in my desire to help you.”

She could read the earnestness in both his posture and
his aythar. “If he decides not to help, it will make my options more limited.”

“Options?” Gerold raised one brow, “Do you mean
breaking into his home, or storming the castle at his ancestral estate? I
thought it was my gender that always thought of using violence first?”

“I think I could manage something subtler than that.
My intentions are peaceful, but don’t mistake me, I will use force if it
becomes necessary to free my father,” said Moira, trying to put steel into her words.

Gerold glanced down, examining his well-trimmed nails,
“You don’t seem the type.”

“I’m not,” she admitted, “but I have seen blood. I
won’t shy from it if I can save my father.”

“So what course will you choose?”

“I would take your advice, but I brought no attire
suitable for meeting royalty,” said Moira, challenging him with her eyes.

Gerold smiled, taking her hand in his, “Then we shall
have to remedy that.”

“I don’t like this,” said Gram for perhaps the fourth
time.

Moira patted his shoulder sympathetically, “That’s too
bad.”

“I don’t trust that greasy lordling,” he added for
emphasis.

“You’re very wise,” she agreed.

“Stop patronizing me,” he complained.

“Then stop whining,” she shot back. “We’ve been over
this several times now.”

“I don’t understand why we are waiting here. You
should have an escort.”

“Baron Ingerhold will be escorting me. You don’t have
any clothes suitable for the occasion,” she explained patiently—again.

“You didn’t either,” grumbled Gram.

“Gerold didn’t have any clothes to fit you,” she
returned.

“And yet he had a dress that would fit you, doesn’t
that seem a little odd? What sort of man keeps a house full of women’s
clothing?”

“It was his sister’s dress, and it’s much easier to
take in a little fabric than it is to try and create extra where none exists.
You’re twice the size of any man we’ve seen. His tailor would have to be a
mage to make one of his shirts fit you,” chuckled Moira.

“As your knight, I could wear my armor, then my
clothing wouldn’t matter,” suggested Gram.

She frowned at him, “You can’t bear arms when meeting
a king, and you can’t wear your armor without having Thorn out. Besides, do
you realize what you look like in that armor? It’s unworldly. You’d scare the
daylights out of everyone who saw you. That’s not the sort of impression I’m
hoping to make.”

“Don’t you have anything to say?!” asked Gram, looking
at Chad in exasperation. “Surely you can’t agree with this plan?”

The older man took a slow sip of his brandy. Lowering
the glass, he held it casually in one hand before replying, “I made meself a
promise a long time ago, boy. I don’t argue with stupid.”

Moira glared at the ranger, but Gram pounced on the
remark, “See! Even he thinks this is a dumb idea.”

Chad held up a hand, “Let me clarify that. She’s
goin’ ta do what she wants. That’s clear enough. She’s not exactly
defenseless either, but if somethin’ happens an’ she don’t return, we’ll go
straighten things out with His Royal Majesty.”

“What does that mean, precisely?” asked Moira.

Chad smiled, “It means ye best be careful. Dunbar
wouldn’t do very well without a king.”

“That would start a war,” she countered.

“Assumin’ there was enough of ‘em left to make an
army,” noted the hunter. “The boy here might take a while, but he could
probably slice his way from one end of this backwater nation to the other. An
that ain’t even considerin’ the two pissed off dragons waitin’ outside of the
city. You might mention that to His ‘Majesty’ if the negotiations get rough.”

A few minutes later, a carriage pulled up in front of
the Dusty Doxy and Moira stepped out. The Baron’s footman held the door for
her as she climbed in. She didn’t have to turn her head, her magesight
confirmed Gram and Chad’s stares on her back.

Gerold offered her a choice of seats before glancing
out the window, “Your companions don’t seem too pleased with your decision.”

“They’ll be fine,” she assured him, “so long as I
return by nightfall.”

“You won’t stay at the palace?” asked the Baron. “The
King is almost certain to offer hospitality.”

She smiled, “Best not to tempt fate. My friends are
very protective. You don’t want to see what those two are like when they get
cranky. I’ll be polite in my refusal—I’m sure King Darogen will understand.”

Gerold nodded, “You’re right, of course, about the
King I mean.” He put a finger across his lips, while a thoughtful look crossed
his features. “Still, I cannot help but wonder. I have heard many stories
about Sir Dorian, but philosophers generally advise that sons of great men
rarely match their father’s renown. Is the young lad really such a great
warrior?”

“Let us pray that Dunbar never has to learn the truth
of it,” she answered mysteriously.
Ooh, that was a good line,
she
thought, pleased with herself.
Father would be proud.

The Baron let the topic pass, but after a minute he
spoke again, “Before we arrive, there is some news I need to share with you.”

Moira kept her features smooth, doing her best to seem
as poised and polished as she hoped that he perceived her to be. “Do tell.”

“The Earl of Berlagen is currently at the palace
attending the King,” began Gerold. “I had not known that the King summoned
him, but he arrived yester eve, when I met you. This may be a highly
propitious time to uncover the information you seek.”

That surprised her, “Is he staying at the palace?”

“He has a house in the city, and he left his retainers
there, but he stayed at the palace last night,” the Baron informed her.

“Do you think I’ll get a chance to talk to him?”

“It is quite likely, if you wish it, though I would
advise you to discuss your situation with King Darogen first,” said Gerold.
“You will need his foreknowledge and support if Berlagen reacts badly to your
inquiry.”

“And you think he would give it?”

The Baron of Ingerhold shrugged, “That is only for the
King to decide, but I hope so.”

She thought for a moment,
what would mother say?
No, what would Rose say?
Eventually she replied, “Then I will be guided by
your experience and wisdom.”
And if I find that the Earl is hiding something
from me I will take him apart piece by piece until he tells me where my father
is.

***

Since leaving home Moira had been fascinated by the
constant variety she discovered in the aythar of the people around her. In
Castle Cameron and even in Lancaster, almost everyone was shielded by one of
her father’s amulets. She had occasionally encountered unshielded people,
usually children or busy folk who had simply forgotten to put on their pendant,
but since coming to Dunbar she had been surrounded by them.

It was distracting.

She had told her escort the truth, she couldn’t read
their thoughts, but she hardly needed to. As they rode they passed a multitude
of vibrant worlds; a woman carrying water, her back aching and her mind
consumed with worry, probably for her children; a man angry and frustrated,
with what she couldn’t be sure, but it most likely involved his employer; a
child fascinated by a bird flying overhead, even while his stomach complained
of its hunger. A thousand different worlds shouting at her, some bright and
some dour, but all of them beautiful.

I have to focus,
she
told herself, pulling her attention inward. The carriage had come to a stop,
and Gerold was exiting, holding a hand toward her to help her down. She didn’t
need his assistance, but she thought the gesture kind. Behind his actions lay
a generous spirit, she could see that easily enough, despite his polished
demeanor. He suffered from some of the same flaws that most men did, but she
could see his mind working hard to discipline his thoughts. From what she had
seen of unshielded humans thus far, it was a rare trait.

By contrast, the guards who watched them pass through
the main entrance to the palace exhibited far less inner self-control. Their
faces were cool and their exteriors calm, but their thoughts were lewd. One
glanced away, ignoring a mild interest in the shape of her body beneath the
dress, while the other seemed to be actively creating a highly descriptive
narrative that probably featured her in demeaning poses and little to no
clothing.

She suppressed a shudder as they passed.
Why can’t
more of them be like Gerold?
she wondered. She was beginning to appreciate
the benefits of growing up in a place where everyone’s mind was shielded.

“Is everything alright? You haven’t spoken in a
while.”

Gerold’s voice jolted her from her reverie. Nodding,
she answered, “Yes, sorry. I was just trying to figure out how to explain my
problem to King Darogen.”

“Don’t worry,” said the Baron, smiling, “he’s a decent
man, as men go, and an excellent king, as kings go.”

“Where are we going first?” she asked.

“A short audience with the King,” he responded. “I
sent a letter in advance this morning. After that, I suspect he will request
you join him in the main hall for the noon meal.”

They made their way to a small waiting room and sat on
comfortable chairs while they waited for the chamberlain to call them in for
their turn before the king. Several ladies entered shortly afterward, and
their eyes kept moving to watch her. Their minds were fairly glowing with envy
and petty thoughts. Moira began to wonder what bothered her more, lewd men or
jealous women.
Will I have to get old and ugly before it gets better?

“Don’t mind them,” said the Baron, as if he too could
sense their hostility. “They’re just sizing up the competition.”

A minute later, the large double doors opened and the
chamberlain, a tidy fellow named Bernard, ushered them into the audience
chamber.

The room itself was similar in layout to the audience
chamber that Queen Ariadne used in Lothion, but the style and ornamentation
were different. Deep red and maroon tapestries dominated the walls and the
furniture was all built of a dark-hued cherry wood. Most of the fittings and
hardware in the room were gold, which made a brilliant counterpoint to the reds
and dark wood.

Rows of cushioned benches separated by a long aisle
were occupied with a smattering of people, nobles apparently. Men at arms
lined the walls and three men stood to one side of what must be King Darogen
himself. A tall man with light brown hair and a simple gold circlet sat upon a
carved wooden throne.

Moira had sensed the people within long before they
had entered, but she hadn’t given them more than a cursory appraisal with her
magesight before the doors had opened.

Now that she looked more closely, she was shocked. A
sudden gasp escaped her.

Gerold’s hand was on her shoulder as he urged her
forward, “Try to keep your composure.”

She turned her head toward the Baron, eyes wide.
“He’s dead,” she whispered.

The Baron didn’t know quite what to make of her
remark, leading her on, he responded to her quietly, “Don’t be ridiculous.
What are you talking about?”

“Your king,” she mumbled, pulling up short. She
resisted his efforts to lead her any farther. The man staring at her from the
throne was a living corpse. His heart was beating, his lungs were still
moving, but there was no mind, and his aythar was almost non-existent. King
Darogen might as well have been a lump of dead meat, for his body held no more
aythar than the chair he sat upon.

But there was
something
within his skull.
Where she would have expected to find a brain, surrounded by a vibrant and
living web of thoughts built of gossamer aythar, she found instead dead metal.
It was as if some twisted smith or surgeon had emptied his skull and filled it
with iron.
No, not iron, it’s some other metal, and it’s far too complex
for cast metal.
She could sense other energies moving within it too, but
nothing resembling aythar and certainly nothing indicating life.

Gerold had stopped beside her, his face reddening,
“You are embarrassing us. What’s wrong with you?”

“Not me…,” she said, her voice tremulous, “…it’s him.
What are you?” She pointed one hand directly at the dead king.

People were muttering on either side of the room,
uncertain what to make of her actions, but the king spoke firmly, “Is the witch
afraid to approach us?”

The words struck her as odd. It was like watching a
statue talk, at least from her perspective. Although Darogen’s face showed the
normal expressions, and his voice was properly inflected, she could plainly see
that there was no mind behind the words. Her eyes and magesight roamed a room
that suddenly seemed filled with enemies. The others there were human, with
emotions and aythar reflecting the looks of annoyance and hostility that the
king’s label of ‘witch’ had evoked.

The only others who seemed slightly different were the
three standing to the left of the king. Their aythar flickered slightly, as if
in anticipation of something pleasurable. The starburst symbol of Celior lay
proudly displayed on their chests.
Channelers,
she realized.
This
is a trap!

The King’s lip curled in disdain, “You will surrender
yourself for arrest.” Holding up a strange set of milky white manacles, he
directed the nearest guard to approach him and handed them over to the man.
“Put these on her.”

Moira’s eyes flashed in anger a sudden breeze kicked
her hair up as she took control of the previously still air around her. Her
shield grew stronger, and she turned toward the doors. “I’m leaving,” she
declared.

“You do not fear to defy a king?” asked Darogen, his
tone strangely emotionless.

“I was raised to fear neither men nor monsters,” she
replied, her voice taut with restrained power. “I saw my first battle while
still a child. My father fought the gods themselves and won. I will not fear
you—whatever you are.” Raising her fist she spoke a word and hurled the air
swirling around her against the doors, flinging them open. People gasped, and
some yelped in fear. “Stand back, I don’t want to hurt anyone,” she commanded,
striding toward the exit.