Raven's Strike (20 page)

“You can't leave,” said Avar. “Without you to stem the gossip, they'll have you Shadowed and worse before you return, and you'll never live it down.”

“I'm closing down the palace,” said Phoran. “Kicking out the nobles and their families for six months, while a plethora of workmen redo the entry hall. Renovations.” He tipped his
head to Toarsen, who'd given him the idea. “They'll have to be gone by tomorrow noon.”

“That's ridiculous,” said Avar. “There's nothing urgently wrong with the entry hall—they'll all wonder why you didn't give them a month's notice.”

Gerant chuckled unexpectedly. “Oh, that's all he'll have to say. They'll think he intends to search their rooms for signs of their guilt—and there's enough guilty or nearly so to cause considerable distress. Not one of them will think it an unlikely thing for the Emperor, who just beheaded thirteen ruling Septs, to do. They'll be far more worried about not leaving anything incriminating than they will be in discovering the Emperor's whereabouts.”

Kissel smiled. “He's right.”

Phoran gave a quick bow. “If I can't fix this in six months, it'll be too late.”

“So you and I'll take some of your guard and my men—” began Avar, but Phoran shook his head.

“You're my heir,” he said. “We can't afford to be in the same place. I won't travel with a large group of men, because I won't be the Emperor, I'll be some rich merchant's son. The people left at the palace will know I'm gone, but we won't tell anyone else. You'll stay here and supervise the work—or you can go with Gerant.”

Avar opened his mouth to protest, but, in the end, he didn't say anything. Phoran was right.

“I have an objection,” said Toarsen.

Phoran raised an eyebrow.

“I'm not certain I know how to find my way back to where you're housing the Emperor's Own from here. Can you give me directions?”

C
HAPTER
9

Tier watched quietly as Phoran fell silent at last,
leaning against one end of the table and watching the flames in the fireplace leap and crackle. He moved less like an overweight courtier and more like a fighter than he had when Tier had last seen him. He still carried extra weight that left his face softened, but there was muscle now under the padded shoulders of his velvet tunic.

“I notice Toarsen and Kissel are with you and not at Gerant,” commented Tier.

He saw Toarsen hide a grin.

Phoran smiled. “I told them to find a few of the Emperor's Own who could be trusted, and they decided they trusted themselves the best. Gerant and Avar are keeping the rest of the Passerines . . . of the Emperor's Own busy while we're off running about.”

The smile died and he walked to the fireplace, bracing himself on the mantel. “I've come here,” he said in a low voice, “hoping that you can save me again.”

“I don't know much about Memories,” said Tier. “Seraph might be more help, and Lehr is riding to find Brewydd tomorrow morning.”

“Who is Brewydd?” asked Toarsen.

“The healer from the Traveling clan that helped us with the Path,” explained Tier.

“The old woman?”

Tier nodded. “They left us before we got quite this far. It might take Lehr a couple of days to find them.” He thought a moment. “Brewydd told us the Memory would leave when it had its vengeance. Maybe it doesn't feel its vengeance has been fulfilled yet.”

“The wizard who escaped,” said Phoran.

Tier nodded. “The Shadowed.” Tier had told the Emperor about their suspicions before he'd left Taela, but Toarsen started at the name. “We're not happy about his escaping either. If that's what's keeping the Memory around, then maybe we can help. We've been looking for him ourselves.”

“The Shadowed?” asked Toarsen harshly. “He was killed a long time ago.”

“Not the same Shadowed,” said Seraph, her voice husky with fatigue. “Not the Nameless King. This is another wizard who found a way to tap into the power of the Stalker. He doesn't seemed to have amassed the same kind of power yet—and we don't know why.”

“You're certain there is another Shadowed?” asked Phoran.

Tier nodded, but he didn't tell the Emperor their certainty was based mostly upon the word of Ellevanal. Somehow he thought Phoran would find it more believable if Tier didn't explain too much.

“What is the Stalker?” asked Toarsen.

“The guilt of the Travelers,” she said. “Though I'd ask you to keep it to yourself. A very long time ago, before there were Travelers, there was a city of wizardry, where mages collected to learn from each other and from the library there. They were an arrogant bunch, trusting to their great power to save them when they delved into things best not touched.”

“They created something,” said Lehr. “Something that all of their power and learning could not control. So the wizards sacrificed the city and everyone in it, except for themselves, and bound the Stalker. Then, knowing that the bindings were imperfect, the surviving wizards vowed to fight the damage it could still do. They became the Travelers—and the Shadowed is one of the things they fight.”

Phoran rubbed his face, and Tier could see the fatigue that bore down upon him. “So we have to kill this Shadowed in order to rid me of the Memory?”

Tier shrugged. “I don't know for certain. Have you asked the Memory?”

“It hasn't shown up since it killed my attackers.”

“It's not feeding from you?” asked Seraph, straightening. “That's dangerous, Phoran. If it's still bound to you and quits feeding, it will fade.”

“That's good, though, isn't it?” asked Toarsen.

“It'll take the Emperor with it when it goes.” Seraph's voice had a bite to it, but Toarsen didn't seem to mind.

“If it killed enough people, it wouldn't have to feed for a while. A mage might feed it for longer—and since the Masters were the ones who killed the Raven who spawned the Memory, that feeding might hold it longer than other people's death.” Hennea's voice sounded calm and alert, with none of the fatigue that dragged at his wife's.

There was a rustle of her mattress, and Hennea emerged, her hair hanging in tangled skeins over her shoulders. It made her look nearer to Rinnie's age than Seraph's.

“Phoran, you remember Hennea,” Tier said.

The Emperor nodded. “Of course. Raven.”

“Your Highness,” Hennea said, as composed as if she had been wearing court dress instead of a thin nightshirt. “Can you summon the Memory if you wish?” she asked.

“No.” Phoran had tried to call it every way he could think of.

“Well enough,” said Seraph. “It'll come eventually. Hennea, did you hear Phoran's story?”

Hennea nodded. “How much of this do your men know, Phoran?”

“Toarsen knows it all, of course, and Kissel,” Phoran said. “I've told the others I've had a spell of some sort laid upon me by the Masters and you”—he swept his hand to include everyone in the room—“might be able to help me.” His mouth tightened. “I don't dare trust them with the whole of it.”

“It always surprised me that Rufort was recruited by the Path,” said Tier. “I'd stake my life that he's as honorable as any man I've known.”

“He's calmed down a lot this past year,” said Toarsen. “He used to have a terrible temper. He'd go out and have a few at some tavern, then pick a fight with the biggest fool he could find. He quit doing that after Kissel beat the—”

Phoran cleared his throat and Toarsen ducked his head. “Beg pardon, my ladies. Kissel beat him pretty badly, and he stopped picking fights. Rufort told me once a man with a broken leg had a lot of time to lie on his back and think about what he was doing with his life.”

Toarsen paused, then said, “They'd have had him killed soon—the Raptors and the Path's Masters. I think they might have already tried. One of the other Passerines was found dead not far from Rufort's room a few weeks before Tier was brought to us. He was a nasty piece of work, and no one missed him—but Kissel, who saw the body, told me the person who killed him was a big man like Rufort. We didn't think about it much, until you showed us the Path killed more of the Passerines than it graduated to Raptor status.”

“Ielian I don't know as well,” said Tier. “I remember him being quiet—and one of the better swordsmen.”

“He's a good man,” Toarsen said. “He gave an excellent account of himself in the battle in the Eyrie. There are few men I'd rather have at my back.” He yawned.

Seraph stood up. “It's time for sleep. Phoran, you can take our room—”

But he was already shaking his head. “No, my lady. That I won't do. I'd never drive a lady from her bed. The barn is good enough for us—a bed of hay will be far softer than anything we've slept on these last weeks.”

“Fast riding,” commented Tier, “to make that trip in so short a time.”

“Toarsen knows all the shortcuts, and our horses are grain-fed,” said Phoran. He took a step toward the door, then stopped. “You didn't tell me why you were already sending Lehr out for the Healer.”

“I brought back a gift from the Masters,” said Tier. “Hopefully Brewydd will be able to take care of it. Nothing for you to worry about. Jes, can you take them out and get them settled with the others?”

“Wait,” said Jes. “Hennea, before you slept you said to
remind you about Papa, maps, and Colossae. You said it was important.”

She frowned. “I don't remember.”

“You will.” Jes said confidently.

Lehr closed his eyes and let his body absorb the rhythm of the mare's trot. He'd never ridden a horse like this one.

Akavith may have sold her for far less than she'd have fetched from a nobleman's house, but it was still more money than Lehr had ever held in his hand before.

The chestnut mare shied a little, and Lehr opened his eyes to see what startled her. He didn't see anything, but he watched her mobile ears. There was something in the woods to the left.

It might have been nothing. But they'd been moving for several hours, and she'd handled flapping pheasants and a startled rabbit with remarkable aplomb.

He asked her to walk, and she shook her head in protest before slowing to a prance.
See,
she told him with each dancing step,
I am not tired, and this is too slow.

Lehr breathed in and out slowly, as Brewydd had taught him.
Quiet your mind, boy. Let your senses talk to you.

He smelled it then, wild and frightening, the monster lurking in the shadows to eat you when you weren't cautious enough.

“Jes,” he said, drawing the mare to a halt. “What are you doing here?”

The wolf emerged from the trees as if he had just been waiting for Lehr's call. Cornsilk raised her delicate head and watched him, but she didn't tense under Lehr's hands. The wolf looked at him with Jes's dark eyes.

“I don't need protection,” Lehr said, answering his own question.

The wolf sat down and scratched his ear with a hind leg, then rose to his feet with a snort that might have been a mild sneeze. He trotted up to the mare, ignoring Lehr entirely, and exchanged a muzzle-to-muzzle greeting. Then he started on down the narrow hunting trail without a backward look.

“Curse it, Jes,” muttered Lehr. “I don't need help.”

The wolf had disappeared behind a curve in the trail.

“Company is not so bad, though,” he told the mare.

She snorted and leapt forward into a canter when he shifted his weight. Lehr grinned and squeezed a little with his calves. With a joyful toss of her head, she took off like a startled jackrabbit. When they blazed past Jes, he gave a joyful yip and joined in the chase.

It took them three days to reach Colbern.

As promised, the city was walled. It looked to be smaller than Leheigh, but Lehr supposed that was an effect of the wall itself. The space within would be limited, so the people lived closer together.

The gates of the city were not as impressive as the wall, being both lower and less sturdy. A battering ram would have them down in short order. There hadn't been a war in the area for generations, though, so Lehr supposed the gates were adequate. They were shut tight with makeshift yellow flags hanging over the top as a clear warning to passersby that the inhabitants were fighting a plague.

Jes flattened his ears and growled low.

“I smell it, too,” Lehr told his brother. The stench of death—disease and rotting bodies. He pulled his tunic up so it covered his nose and dismounted.

Cornsilk appeared undisturbed by the smell, but she had been trained as a hunter. Blood and death would not fret her as they would most horses.

“You'd better be a human, Jes, when someone opens the gate,” Lehr glanced over his shoulder when he spoke—to meet his brother's bland, human face.

“I like this mare,” Jes said as he rubbed underneath the cheek strap of Cornsilk's sweaty headstall. “She's pretty.”

Lehr pounded on the gate again, but no one answered. He backed up a few steps and leapt up to catch the top edge of the gate. He swung his legs and hooked a heel, then rolled over the top and landed on his feet on the other side.

Two- and three-story buildings looming over narrow streets gave the town a claustrophobic air, which was not helped by the utter lack of movement. Lehr looked around warily, but saw no signs of watchers.

He pulled the heavy bars off the gate and opened it.

“I haven't seen anyone,” he told his brother. “Keep alert.”

The Guardian gave him a smile full of teeth and led Cornsilk onto the cobbles of the town road. “Can you tell if the Travelers were here?”

Lehr walked back to the dirt path around the gate. He took a deep breath and sat on his heels to contemplate the ground. It took him a while, because there had been a rainstorm sometime in the past week that had blurred and thinned the traces he was looking for.

“They're here,” he said, coming back to take Cornsilk's reins. “They came in and never left.”

The Guardian looked around the silent town. “I'm not sure that is a good thing.”

Lehr had been feeling the same way, but he wasn't going to admit it. He tried to dismiss the eerie feeling of the town as a side effect of Jes's Order—but if that were so, why did he have such a strong urge to move closer to his brother?

He kept his eyes on the road, trusting that the Guardian would keep watch so that he could concentrate on following the traces the clan had left as they walked on the narrow, cobbled streets.

They came to an inn with a stable attached, and the Guardian caught his arm.

“Wait here a moment, I want to check something,” he said then disappeared inside the stables. He was out almost as quickly as he was in. “The horses are all dead,” he said briefly. “Killed, but not by disease. They've been dead at least a week judging by the maggots. No effort made to butcher them. There were a couple of people in there, too. One dead of stab wounds, the other of disease. I didn't get close enough to tell how long they've been dead.”