her instruments 03 - laisrathera (28 page)

Oh, he knew. Athanesin gone meant Athanesin had taken the majority of Surela’s supporters… and they were returning from Jisiensire.

They had set fires.

And Theresa lost… no, worse. Theresa in the hands of his worst enemy!

He stood, leaving the chair swinging with the force of his departure, and folded his arms, back to the others. The world continued to hang in serene indifference in the corner of the towering display, its clouds thicker than when he’d last looked. He thought of smoke. He thought of prison cells. His blood pounded so hard in his temples he thought he would lose his sight to the headache, and did not mind that he might, if he could only reach out a hand and twist those fires to other ends—

A hand touched his arm, brought with it a shocking coolth that ran his skin as swift as a sedative through a vein.

“Control,” Bryer murmured. The Phoenix was standing next to him, and he had not sensed the other come. “The Eye is stillness, not the storm.”

But what he wanted was to destroy—

Listen to him,
something breathed in his ear.

“Like a scalpel,” Bryer said. “Not the crushing gale. In this, the healer must meet the warrior.”

Hirianthial slowly looked at him. The Phoenix’s calm continued to streak through his body, slowing his pulse, draining the headache.

“Be whole,” Bryer said. “Or fail. Your choice.”

He closed his eyes and addressed the Seersa. “If you have resources to Pad north from this vessel, alet, those would be appreciated. They have gathered at a ruin, and while there is a town at its foot it is not large enough to have food or board for so many refugees. And it is cold there, and there is no heat. Have you something you might do to ameliorate the situation?”

“Supplies we can do,” Soly said. She sounded more subdued. “What then?”

“Then the palace,” Hirianthial replied. “Where the Chatcaavan is, and no doubt the remainder of the ship’s pirates. They will not have gone with the army, and I doubt anyone would have wanted them at large in the countryside. If Malia is correct and Olthemiel and some of his men may be alive, then if we free them we have near even odds. Once we have put paid to that problem, we can attend to the army. It won’t be able to come nigh in time to stop what happens at Ontine, and is too far from any of my cousin’s allies to menace them either. We have some latitude there.”

“All right. We can do all that. I’ll coordinate with Malia about the supplies, get things moving. When do you want to attend to the palace?”

“Now,” Hirianthial said.

Malia did not hug him when he stepped through the Pad tunnel and into the cold, close shadows of the trees over the Swords’ camp, but she did throw her arms around Sascha when the Harat-Shar arrived on Bryer’s heels.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, she didn’t
listen
to me!”

“Not your fault,” Sascha said, ears low. “She doesn’t listen to anyone when she’s made up her mind. I should know.”

“She’s alive,” Hirianthial said, without thinking, and both Pelted lifted their faces to him, frozen in their embrace. The need in Sascha’s eyes made him evaluate the sensation, test it for truth, and everything in him whispered back, soft,
Yes.
“She is.”

“Where….”

Hirianthial looked toward Ontine, skin prickling. Not just Irine, but other things. Grief and blood soaking into soil. The cold of thin wet snow, clinging. A howling abnegation that he could touch only from this distance without flinching. And somewhere, in that mélange, the smallest of embers, dampened. Theresa? Why could he barely feel her when her yell for help had pierced him like a lance the day Baniel had thrown her over the balcony? Even at this distance, he should be able to sense her more clearly, and he couldn’t. Had she given up?

…or was she trying not to call him?

He inhaled suddenly.

“Reese?” Sascha guessed, moving toward him.

“And afraid of bringing us to her. A trap, naturally.”

“At least she’s alive.” The tigraine’s ears flipped back. “You could maybe tell her you are too?”

“No.” He shook his head minutely. “If it is a trap, and it must be, then technological communication won’t be the only thing they’re monitoring. Right now it’s likely Baniel does not know we have arrived. I would prefer to keep it that way if he’s expecting me.”

“So what do we do?” Malia asked.

“Whatever it is,” Narain said from behind them, “we’d better do it quickly before they figure out the ship’s not responding.” He dropped the rolled-up Pad he’d been balancing on his shoulder with a grunt. “Damned things are heavier than they look… anyway, Soly sent me. She says the re-supply is going well and they’re keeping an eye on the group coming up the road. At the speed foot-soldiers walk they’re at least two weeks away, though. I’m supposed to give you advice on infiltration of enemy terrain, at speed.”

“And your recommendation?” Hirianthial asked, curious.

“Honestly? Can you climb in your enemy’s window and slit his throat while he’s sleeping?”

“If I knew the room he’d claimed for his own, I would find that a meritorious suggestion.”

“Why are black ops never as easy as the 3deos make them look.” Narain managed a grin. “In that case, I guess we go over the strength we’ve got—”

A chime sounded from Malia’s ear, and all of them stared at her. She touched the telegem, startled. “Is that… Iley!” Flicking it on, she hurried, “Who is this? This channel’s supposed to be dead!”

“And it might have been if the servants hadn’t been double-checking their work and found it in the Queen’s empty suite.”

“Val!”

Sascha took a step toward her. “Ask him about Irine!”

“Val—”

“I don’t have much time. We’re about to break the Swords out of the audience chamber. If you’re planning any heroics—”

“We’re on our way,” Malia said. “Give us as much time as you’ve got.”

“Fifteen minutes.”

“We’re moving. Tam out.” To the rest of them, “I’ll muster Beronaeth and the Swords. You—I don’t know you but you’re in uniform. Configure the Pad!” And then she was running for the camouflaged entrance to the tunnels. Narain was already at work unrolling the Pad and waking it.

“Oh Angels.” Sascha wrapped an arm around his own middle, tail lashing. “I’m nauseated.”

“You’re worried,” Hirianthial said. “Don’t be.”

“Just like that!”

Bryer said, “Will get through this. Or all die. Worry will cloud you to right action.”

“Well that’s encouraging.”

“You’ll be united with Irine on the other side of the Pad,” Hirianthial said and made the gift. Had Urise not said? He took too much on himself, and there was no need. The weakness in the self was meant to be compensated by the strength in others. “Breathe, Sascha. I need you steady.”

Startled, Sascha turned round golden eyes to him, ears sagging.

“I mean it,” he added, quiet.

The color seeped back into Sascha’s aura, hardening, and his spine straightened. “Well, then. I’m good.”

“I knew you would be,” Hirianthial said, and then Malia was there with the Swords, what remained of them, still disciplined despite the holes in their ranks. As they filed past, Beronaeth stopped before him and bowed, hand to chest. “My Lord.”

“Second,” Hirianthial said, switching to their tongue and burnishing the words gold. “You have served your Queen well in her absence. I have had report of it.”

“Perhaps, Sire,” Beronaeth replied, though his cheeks flushed. “But we have not done, yet.”

“Not yet, no.”

“My Lord… have you a weapon? I may make a loan to you if not. We have spares.”

“I have a sword,” Hirianthial said, and was surprised to discover he did not want to part with it in favor of the sort he’d grown up wielding. “It has served me well thus far. But a dagger would be useful.”

“Then take mine, please.” Beronaeth drew it and offered it on both palms. Like all the blades issued to the Swords, it was simple, its only ornamentation the white leather grip—and that was ornamentation enough. He remembered how quickly it frayed and discolored, and how often he’d had to strip it and replace it with fresh. “I would be honored to aid in your defense.”

Careful of the other man’s hands, Hirianthial lifted it free and inclined his head. For once he was glad of his language and its nuances and shaded the answer with the white mode: for symbolism, for the purity of the transaction, for the shared understanding. “Thank you.”

The flush deepened on the man’s cheeks, but he merely bowed again and excused himself to see to the others.

“Lord Hirianthial?” Narain called. “We’ve got the Pad set for some Angels-forsaken dirt hole under a balcony, if you and yours are ready.”

Time was wasting. He strode to the Pad, over it, and into the shadow of Ontine.

“This is crazy,” Irine hissed. “How can no one know we’re here?”

“Because,” Val said, “We are in the servants’ corridors and no one uses these by choice. Even the servants.”

Irine would have argued that point when they’d first set out, since the corridors along the exterior wall of the palace seemed no different to her than the ones on the
Earthrise
; a little narrow and very plain, but otherwise unremarkable. Now that they were in the interior halls, though, she understood; to get through them she had to turn sideways and keep her back flush to the wall, and there was no room for her to stretch her arm all the way in front of herself. She didn’t think of herself as a claustrophobe, but this was taking cozy a little too far. “Still, it seems a dangerous oversight. If your enemies can be sneaking around in the walls without you knowing…”

“You are thinking like an alien, Lady Tigress,” Val said. “An alien would treat these halls as escape routes. An Eldritch would never think of it. Some things are just not done among us.”

“Like betraying your entire world to slavers?” she asked, ears flipping out.

Val paused, then shook his head. “No, that’s the sort of act that proves the truth of it. If you’re going to break the rules, you break them in the biggest way possible, in a sweeping, dramatic way. You make a statement. You can’t make statements by crawling around in the innards of a building like a menial.”

“Okay, I can see that.” She shivered. “Tell me we’re there.”

“Almost.”

Her elbows scraped against the unfinished stone of the wall. “How are we going to get Araelis through these things?”

“I think the easiest answer to that is, ‘we don’t.’” Val stopped, lifted his lantern. “We hope the Queen’s Tams and her Swords arrive in time to allow us to lead them out the normal way. Quiet, now. This is the door, I think.”

“You think,” Irine muttered.

“I’m not at my best in the dark.”

She grinned suddenly, her anxiety dampened by the retort she thought but didn’t share. Of course it didn’t matter; she saw Val’s head swing toward her, his arched brows.

“Just wondering,” she said, innocent. “A girl can wonder, right?”

He shook his head, grinning, and touched his fingers to his lips to encourage her silence before exerting a gentle pressure on the door… just enough to crack it open. He squinted through it, then slid away and gestured for her to look.

The audience chamber was smaller than she had been imagining, and it was full of Eldritch seated and bound… full of them, and no one else. Irine frowned and eased the door closed again. “I don’t understand,” she whispered. “Where are the guards?”

Val’s expression was some amalgam of amusement and wariness. “If I had to guess… they’re outside the room, guarding the only entrance. If they stood inside the room—”

“—a room full of twenty or thirty people, then it doesn’t really matter if you think they’re securely bound. If any of them got free and got someone down, she’d have a weapon.” She nodded. “I guess it makes sense if you don’t have enough people to post in the room to make sure it’s not worth the risk. And there’s always a way around bondage, unless you’re really, really good at immobilizing people.” She rolled her lower lip between her teeth. “But there are more people in there than I was expecting. And that green and goldish color. Isn’t that…”

“Asaniefa’s mark? Yes. But I imagine if Baniel imprisoned her, her personal guards would take issue.”

She frowned. “If we let them loose, they may hurt us.”

“Or they may ignore us and go rescue their mistress,” Val said. “Confusion to our enemies.” He squinted through the crack. “We remain unworthy of notice, and I will hold that cloak over us until we assess the situation. I am going to open this door, Lady Tigress. If you are ready.”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

He nodded and pushed it open.

It was a ridiculous plan, Irine thought, and it shouldn’t be working… but she was sure there was time for it to go horribly wrong. She snuck in after Val, staying close, and true to his promise no one so much as looked their way. Olthemiel and his Swords, much the worse for their imprisonment, were bound wrist and ankle in one corner, and Liolesa’s remaining supporters in another. Asaniefa’s unfortunate loyalists were near the throne… and what a throne. Irine stopped to stare at it. So much gold filigree and carving should have looked overblown and tasteless, but the lines were so delicate and the velvet so lush against it that she couldn’t help but appreciate the set-up. The Eldritch were like that, she thought. At turns glorious and ridiculous. She could appreciate the whimsy of it.

Val was bent alongside Olthemiel, whispering something as he worked on the captain’s bonds. But he stopped abruptly at something the captain said, face growing hard. Startled at the change in expression, Irine stole to his side. “What?”

“Help the Captain,” Val said, and was over the nearest body before she could ask. Frowning, she started working at the (badly planned) knots securing Olthemiel.

“It is the acolyte,” Olthemiel offered. When Irine looked up, he said, tired, “He is a priest, and defied them. They did not treat with him well.”

“Oh no,” Irine whispered, and looked for Val. She found him bent over a body. The white and pale blue of Belinor’s robes made the blood streaking them devastatingly easy to see. “Is he….”