Dark Warrior Rising (21 page)

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Authors: Ed Greenwood

BOOK: Dark Warrior Rising
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A hulking human, and a one-armed yet still beautiful Nifl-she: Orivon Firefist and Taerune Evendoom.
 
 
“Klarandarr struck at Coldheart
not
out of any challenge to the faith of the Ever-Ice,” Luelldar explained patiently, “but purely because the
Revered Mother—and other senior priestesses of that abbey, too—regarded him as a threat to their personal power and influence, and took it upon themselves to craft a spell to slay him.”
The priestess facing him grew a sneer, but the Watcher threw up a hand to forestall comment, and hurried to add, “Despite the vital importance to us all of his matchless power, in our battles with the cities of Olone, they desired to eliminate him, straying from regard for all Nifl of the Ever-Ice to promoting their personal power—a sin all religious Nifl must constantly guard against. Though many will not see it this way, Klarandarr has done the Consecrated of the Ice—and all of us who dwell in cities where our true faith holds sway—a great service this day, by removing those who had begun to stray, striding onto the path of tyranny and away from that of holy service.”
“We see it differently, Watcher.” Exalted Lady of the Ice Naerbrantha's voice was even sharper and colder than her initial greeting had been.
Luelldar inclined his head. “Respectfully, Holy One, let me observe: of course you do. Let me also remind you that I
am
a Watcher, and our office was established by wiser Revered Mothers, in time long gone,
precisely
to ‘see all,' and to do so a step removed from holy office or ruling power—or unconstrained wizardry, for that matter—so as to perceive and understand unfolding events most clearly, forming opinions about them and their implications that are not bound by self-interest or creed or training.”
He drew forth the blue-white shard of the Ever-Ice that he wore against his breast, and held it up, cupping his hand around it. At the sight of its glimmering murmurs arose among the underpriestesses, who had never seen such a holy thing anywhere but on—or frozen within—an altar.
Naerbrantha was unimpressed. “Grand terms, to be sure, for what I deem ‘spying.'”
“Priestess, you blaspheme,” Luelldar snapped, precisely matching the cold precision of her tones. “Before the Ever-Ice”—he grasped the shard, and raised it higher to show everyone that it did not sear him as he spoke on, so that his words were true—“we are
not
spies. We are guardians of all Ice-revering Niflghar.”
“Yet
Klarandarr
is not. What was
he
doing, that he—as you claim—had learned the most private intent of our sisters of Coldheart to magically slay him, that he could know to strike at them first?”
“He was learning all he could before acting, as all responsible spellrobes must do, so as to avoid unwittingly drifting into the ways of
tyranny himself. Devout worshippers of the Ice seek to know the beliefs and intents of Holy Ones of the Ice, so as to act in accord with them—or to perceive corruption and straying, so that they be not led into ill deeds or thinking.”
“And I suppose he spied upon
me,
also—and that you ‘watch' over me constantly, too?”
“I dare suppose nothing about Klarandarr or any spellrobe, but I believe he often employs scrying magics to learn all he can about the Dark around us. I can speak for my own watchings, Exalted Lady, and so can say that I have not watched over you save incidentally, on seven occasions that I can recall, when you were a participant—one among many—in rituals conducted by the Revered Mother or other Holy Ones. Those were my only watchings upon you.”
“I find that difficult to believe.”
“Do you doubt the Ever-Ice?” Luelldar asked softly, holding his shard up before her as if warding something evil away. “That's a serious failing in a Holy One, Naerbrantha.”
“Dabble not in holy opinions, Watcher! Presume to judge no priestess!” Exalted Lady Naerbrantha hissed, eyes glittering in real fury. “I ask you again: How many times have you watched over me, and when, and what did you see?”
“You participating, alongside many fellow Exalted, in the Melting that Cleanses, the Ordeal, the Triumph of the Ice, the Doom of the Dead—and other holy rituals. As I have just sworn on the Ever-Ice, priestess!”
“I—” The priestess waved her hands impatiently. “You did, but I can scarcely believe that if you watch so diligently as you claim, you have seen so little of me.”
“Exalted Lady of the Ice Naerbrantha,” Luelldar said gravely, “please understand that I invite no quarrel with you, think no ill of you, and have no wish to offend or humiliate you. Yet you press me, before all, for an answer, so know that—forgive me—your station and deeds, until the loss of the Holy of Coldheart, did not place you highly enough to merit more attention. Or to put it more gently, you were not as dangerous as many Nifl whose activities
demand
diligent watching, so that we Watchers can properly anticipate change, and be ready to properly advise Ouvahlor. I fear that—”
“Watcher Luelldar!” Aloun said urgently, pointing. “The whorl!”
Everyone looked where the junior Watcher was pointing, in time to see Klarandarr, standing tall, slender and dark in the whorl's bright
depths, atop a height with his cloak billowing, throw up his hands with lightnings crackling between them—and fall on his face, exhausted, lightnings still spiraling and coursing.
Luelldar flung himself at the whorl, plunging both of his hands into it. Lightnings raced up his own arms and made the shard of Ice glow and sing, he grunted in pain and flung his head back, eyes closed and the flesh of his throat sharp-ridged and trembling … and the scene in the whorl changed.
“Watcher Luelldar has bound our scrying to the spellrobe's spell,” Aloun explained, with something approaching awe in his voice. “So we'll see the target of the magic, wherever and whatever it is, and the effects of Klarandarr's work on it.”
The whorl, spinning strangely, was showing them a haughty Nifl whose beauty was breathtaking, and who hovered upright in midair in a large but dark stone chamber, her arms arched and raised, a glowing robe playing gently about her otherwise bared body. Her eyes were closed and her face raised, wearing a serene sneer. Her toes were well above a pulsing symbol set into black stone, and that symbol was—
“Olone!” priestesses hissed, all over the chamber, raising the backs of their hands in shunning gestures.
“Behold,” Luelldar gasped, straightening up out of the whorl with his skin mottled and pale, sweat drenching his face like a cavern waterfall, “Aumaeraunda, the Holiest of Olone of the city of Talonnorn. She is working magic on someone distant—and Klarandarr's spell, likewise from afar, is directed at her.”
“He's working with a priestess of
Olone
?” Exalted Lady Naerbrantha snarled. “
This
is the craven Nifl you
dare
to defend to us? Why, firedeath is too merciful for you! And as for
him,
I—”
The hovering figure's eyes opened wide with alarm. Her beautiful mouth opened to shout something … and a bright and crawling
something
struck her from the left and swept over her like a hungry wave, a whiteness that devoured and gnawed, leaving only bones in its wake.
Bones that hovered for a moment, toes still together and pointed and arms raised—and then slumped, melting into dust and nothingness even as they tumbled. Another Nifl-she came running into the whorl-scene from the right, waving her arms in alarm, sobbing disbelief on her face—and plunged into the whiteness, becoming bones in midstride and collapsing in turn.
“Just as Klarandarr's mighty magic allowed us to humble hated
Talonnorn and leave its ruling Houses fighting among themselves to supplant shattered Evendoom,” Luelldar said in weary satisfaction, indicating the bright whiteness that now blotted out everything else in the whorl, “he has now destroyed that city's Holiest of Olone—ensuring that the priestesses of the Twisted Goddess will devote their efforts to eliminating each other for a time. Time that I am certain Exalted Lady of the Ice Naerbrantha will use well, to rebuild and lead all Holy of the Ever-Ice to clear and everlasting supremacy!”
It was Aloun who started the shouts of joy and the chant of “The Ice! The Ice!” It was the priestesses who joined in, with loud and excited enthusiasm. It was Naerbrantha who favored Luelldar with the first real and welcoming smile she'd given anyone in a very long time. And it was Luelldar who mirrored it, while thinking inwardly: Or use well to slaughter all possible rivals and establish a tyranny as futile as it is small-minded, that will drag Ouvahlor down to doom—unless Klarandarr gets to her first.
 
 
“You … sent for me, Lord?” Maharla asked softly, eyebrows raised, smiling that little smile of menace and warning.
“Maharla,”
Lord Evendoom barked, rising from his chair like a surging darkwings. “I mean, Eldest!”
Maharla inclined her head graciously, and then looked pointedly around the room, reminding him that a throne-servant and a dozen warblades were present, and would be better dismissed.
Lord Evendoom took the hint and swept his arms about curtly in impatient wavings toward the doors that left no doubt at all as to the rage riding him.
“My warblades,” he told Maharla loudly, while they were still bowing and marching out past him, “tell me my son Ravandarr is nowhere to be found in Eventowers.”
“And they took it upon themselves to tell you this why, exactly?” the priestess asked silkily, strolling past unconcernedly to seat herself gracefully in Erlingar's own chair. After all, he was going to storm and pace, so she might as well seat herself in comfort … dominant comfort …
“Took it upon themselves,
nothing
! I set them to searching, crone, after I sent for him and his servants reported him gone from his rooms! Leaving blades and clothes strewn about as if he'd been arming to go off to war!
You
can use the wards to tell you if he's here, somewhere, in
hiding—bedding a she, say! You can even tell me if he's out in the Araed, drinking or wenching or up to something!”
“I can indeed,” Maharla murmured, discovering that she really enjoyed this. Erlingar's raging was … exciting.
“Well?
Do it!
”
His shout rang back from the ceiling, and rolled around the room.
Maharla basked in it for as long as she dared. Then as Lord Evendoom loomed up over her, his face almost white and his eyes dark and terrible, she said gently, “There's no need. I know where he is, and what he's doing.”
“And you told me
not
?”
“Erlingar, how can your Secondblood ever grow to be the Evendoom we both want him to be if he does nothing without permission or reporting in beforehand—like the lowest of your Nameless servants?”
She stood up, thrusting her face and bosom almost into him, to startle the Lord of her House out of the roaring reply that was about to burst out of him, and added brightly, “Besides, this time he is doing
nothing
he can be faulted for! He's following and obeying a holy vision sent by Olone herself!”
“Olone doesn't slime-slithering know who Ravandarr Evendoom
is
!” Lord Evendoom snarled. “Have you any
better
lies to hand me, Eldest?”
“Well, perhaps the vision was sent by the Holy Ones of Olone here in Talonnorn, rather than by the busy Goddess herself,” Maharla said smoothly, “but it
was
sent. I received it myself, and took the opportunity to advise young Ravan when I saw him. He saw his duty immediately, Erlingar. You should be proud of him; he's growing into a son any Nifl lord should take true pride in. Without hesitation he rushed to obey, arming himself and setting out into the Dark.”
“WHAAAT?!”
Maharla sighed theatrically, and smoothly slid around behind his throne, to put it between them. “I warned him you'd not be pleased, that your first concern—after House Evendoom itself—was for your heirs, as it must always be. Yet the visions were clear about the vital urgency of his duty, and he—”
“He went
alone
?”
“Yes, as I—”
“And am I to know, as Lord of this House, what this vision was? And just
what
he's out there doing, or seeking to do, or thinks he'll achieve?”
“Slaying his Nameless sister; the vision showed him walking alone in the Outcaverns, drawn sword in hand, a-hunting her.”
Evendoom plucked up his heavy desk and hurled it aside as if it weighed nothing, to get at the throne—and at her, behind it.
“Jalandral's out there already!” he roared. “Stupid she, you've thrown away the future of our House! They'll
both
be lost, all so you can see the little scourge-tongue who dared to stand up to you die for it!”

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