The Gypsy Morph (14 page)

The big man tried a quick smile. “Hello, Sim.”

“What is it, Tragen,” Maurin Ortish asked, clearly irritated by the interruption.

Tragen looked exhausted. His clothes were torn and dirtied, and his face was scratched. “I need to speak with the King at once. Things are much worse than we thought.”

“Give your report to me.”

Tragen shook his head. “If I give it in the presence of the King and the members of the High Council, maybe I can say something that will help Kirisin and Simralin. About what they are telling you. About the Loden Elfstone. Please, Captain, let me come inside with you.”

Kirisin blinked. How long had Tragen been standing there? How much of what was said had he heard? Where had he come from, for that matter? He hadn’t been there before, had he?

Ortish glanced past the big Tracker. “Where are the others?”

“Dead. We were discovered, attacked, and then chased. The enemy caught up to us all, one by one. I was lucky. I fell down a ravine, and they lost sight of me in the dark. I hid until they had wandered away and I was able to crawl out again. Captain, please.”

Kirisin suddenly realized that he was standing there holding the Loden in his hand for anyone to see who happened to walk up to him. He closed his fingers around it and dropped it back into his pocket.

“Maurin, I think we all need a chance to speak before the High Council,” Simralin repeated. “Please give it to us.”

Maurin Ortish nodded. “I won’t promise that you’ll get two words out before the King has you hauled away. But I will take you into the chambers and let you do your best. Tragen, you might as well come with them if you’ve got something to say that bears on this.”

He signaled over to four of the guards. “But you’ll have company, so please don’t do anything to make me regret this decision.”

Leaving the remainder of the Home Guard without, he led the way over to the chamber doors and pushed them open.

TEN

A
S KIRISIN ENTERED
the chambers of the High Council, following close on the heels of Maurin Ortish and flanked by Simralin and Tragen, a heated debate was taking place. Various members of the Council were trying to talk over one another, and the King was shifting his dark gaze from one to the next, looking as if he would like to see all of them dropped into a deep hole and covered over. He didn’t notice the newcomers right away, his attention on something that Basselin was saying to a tall, sharp-featured woman whose name Kirisin could not remember.

The Council chambers were layered in shadows, the light reduced to a few wall lamps and a series of glow sticks hung from the rafters. It appeared that the meeting had begun in daylight and no one had bothered to do anything about the failing light when it had gotten dark. There was an air of desperation and distraction to the proceedings, reflected on the faces of the Council members and in the intensity of their words. No one seemed to have the attention of anyone else. No one looked the least bit happy.

Ordanna Frae glanced over and saw them, and he brought up one arm in a gesture that appeared to reflect a futile effort to ward them off rather than point them out. He tried to say something, but the arguments raging around him drowned out whatever words he spoke.

“My King! Ministers! Your attention, if you please!” Maurin Ortish was shouting in a way Kirisin had not thought possible given his normally soft manner of speaking. Heads turned. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I think you need to hear what these three have to say about the threat we are facing.” He paused as the King turned to look, and then he bowed deeply. “High Lord, your pardon.”

Arissen Belloruus was on his feet. His voice, when he spoke, was just barely under control. “You had best beg for my mercy, Captain. You have disobeyed me!
Deliberately
disobeyed me, Captain! What sort of madness has taken hold of you? Do you think yourself above me and therefore able to countermand my orders?”

The arguing ceased abruptly as the remaining members of the Council turned to look at what was happening.

The King wasn’t finished. His hand shook as he pointed at Ortish. “There is no excuse for what you have done. None, Captain. I am shocked and disappointed in you. Have these traitors taken out of my sight and locked up until I can deal with them! When that is done, you are relieved of your command and confined to your rooms!”

Maurin Ortish straightened. “My lord, I understand your anger. But young Kirisin has found the Loden Elfstone, and he and his sister claim to be able to shed light on the truth about your daughter’s death—”

“Enough!” the King shouted, fists clenched, face contorted. “Don’t say another word, Captain Ortish, or by everything the Elves believe in I’ll have you—”

“My lord, we are in need of knowing more! Look at what threatens us! Tragen returns to give us his report on the size and intentions of the enemy. His entire command was killed, all five of them. If you will just listen to what young Kirisin . . .”

He kept talking, but his words were drowned out by the King’s roar of fury as he charged down off the dais. He might have reached his captain of the Home Guard and attacked him, but Ordanna Frae stepped directly into his path and took hold of his arms.

“My King, please.” He blocked the other physically, smaller and older than the King, but determined. The King tried to shove him aside, but other members of the Council had risen to their feet to block his way, as well. He slowed, and then stopped, breathing hard, glaring at Ortish.

“My King,” Ordanna Frae repeated. He waited for the other man to look at him, flinching at the rage mirrored in his eyes. “No one here blames you for your anger over Erisha’s death. But our city and our people are threatened, and we must find a way to save them. To do that, we need to hear anything—
anything
—that might bear on the subject. If young Kirisin has something to tell us, we should hear him out. It cannot hurt us at this point. It cannot hurt you.”

There was a general murmur of agreement from the rest, save for Basselin, who was looking at Maurin Ortish as if he would welcome the chance to find out exactly what form the King’s wrath might take.

For another instant Arissen Belloruus looked as if he might try to break free. Then the tension fled his body and he stepped back. “We cannot trust anything they say, Minister Frae. You should know that as well as I do. What is the point in listening?”

“We can measure truth and falsehood, my King. Even in lies there are sometimes truths revealed. Let us listen to what the boy has to say and judge the matter when he is finished.” Ordanna Frae released his grip. “If our captain of the Home Guard was convinced that he should bring them before us—knowing full well your likely reaction—then I think we must accept that he saw something of importance in what they said to him. We need to hear what that was.”

“We need to hear nothing!” Basselin interjected, moving over to insert himself between the King and Frae. “The King is right. We are wasting our time. We already know the truth of things. The boy was seen bending over Erisha Belloruus with a knife. They fled the city afterward rather than stay to explain. They allied themselves with a human, a treacherous Knight of the Word who aided them in their efforts to undermine Elven authority. We know enough to make up our minds about them without hearing more.”

“But they returned voluntarily to speak to this Council,” Maurin Ortish declared. “They were safely away from us, and they came back. Why would they do that if they were guilty of the crimes with which they have been charged? If we want to be sure of what we think is true, we need to hear their explanation.”

“Lies, all of it!” shouted Basselin.

There was renewed arguing as the ministers took sides for and against the idea of listening to anything Kirisin and Simralin wanted to tell them. The boy shrank from the heat and fury of their words. He was the youngest person in the room, but he wasn’t so young that he didn’t realize what was happening. Somebody had to do something right away or this would get too far out of hand.

“Wait!” he shouted suddenly. “Wait! Listen to me!”

Surprisingly, they did. The arguing died away, and they all turned toward him, their faces mirroring their feelings about what they believed to be true. He did his best not to read what was there, but instead reached into his pocket and brought out the Loden. “This is what the Ellcrys sent me to find. This is what will save the Elves. The army that waits in the trees waits only for me to use it. Listen to me. Listen to the truth about what happened to us.”

Without waiting for them to grant him permission, he began to speak. He described the real traitor, the demon who had posed as Culph, watching and waiting for its chance. He explained the reason for Erisha’s and Ailie’s deaths. He told of their flight afterward, of racing to reach the Loden in time to save the Elves, of the battles with the demons on Syrring Rise, of how both Angel and Simralin had very nearly died—the former so badly injured that she could not return with them to the Cintra to support their cause. He skipped through the details of how he had nearly been subverted by the power of the silver cord and rings, moving quickly to an explanation of what the demons intended once Culph brought him back.

“They know everything of what the Ellcrys means to us. They know what it means if she is destroyed. But what they really seek is to encapsulate the Elves within the Loden, choose a place and time, and then release them to be destroyed. All of them. A massacre of our people—Culph revealed it all to me before Sim and I killed him.”

“This is the worst load of nonsense I have ever listened to!” Basselin interrupted, almost screaming the words he was so outraged. “Do you expect us to believe any of this? Your lies are transparent!”

“But what is the purpose of offering them up for your consideration if they are lies?” Simralin asked him. “What is the point in our coming back if all we intended to do is tell you lies? What do you think we hope to accomplish?”

“Culph has disappeared,” Ordanna Frae offered. “No one has seen him since Kirisin and Simralin disappeared from the city. Nor have we heard any better reason for why the demonkind do not attack us than the one offered by the boy.”

“You speak like an old fool!” Basselin snapped. “You seem intent on believing these two!”

“Maybe there is reason to do so,” another minister ventured guardedly.

Basselin wheeled back toward the King. “My lord, think what this boy is asking of us! Placing our city and our people inside the Elfstone—if indeed that is even possible—is too dangerous. Entrusting the Elfstone to the boy is suicide! Even if he didn’t betray us—something of which I am not at all convinced—he is still only a boy. How can we even think of doing what he suggests?”

“We had better at least consider it, Basselin,” said the tall, sharp-featured woman the first minister had been talking to earlier. “Our only other choice is to flee this army that surrounds us. Thousands of Elves would perish in any escape attempt. There is no chance that all of us can hope to elude an army of the size and swiftness of the one that threatens.”

“Some would die, yes,” Basselin conceded. “Better some than all. We must make that sacrifice.”

“Basselin is making a hard choice, but it may be the right one,” another of the Council declared.

There were murmurs of assent from some of the others. The discussion went on, and Kirisin found himself studying the faces of the men and women speaking, trying to read what was behind their words. As they talked, the King sat stone-faced atop the dais, and although he had said little since his initial outburst, he was clearly unconvinced of what needed doing.

Simralin stepped close. “I don’t like how this sounds,” she whispered, as if reading his thoughts.

“They don’t trust me,” he whispered back. “I don’t blame them.”

“Maybe. But they have no choice. If they want to save the Elven people—all of them, not just some—they must trust you.” She paused. “Besides, not everyone has to be put inside. Elven Hunters can be kept out to help protect you.”

“Maybe no one’s thought of that yet.”

“Maybe we better say something.”

But before they could do so, Maurin Ortish moved in front of them, dragging a reluctant Tragen with him. “My King, this is the Tracker who was in the enemy camp and has returned with his report. Perhaps it would help to hear it now.”

The King glared at him, but then he gestured for Tragen to step forward. “Tracker, what have you to say?”

Tragen’s face flushed deeply at the sudden attention. “My lord.” He bowed, looking uncertain. “As the captain said, I was sent to see what I could learn of the enemy’s intentions,” he began. “With five others, who are now all dead.”

As he continued speaking, Kirisin found himself recalling how much Tragen had helped Angel, Sim, and himself when it seemed as if there was no one left to turn to. He had risked himself more than once for them, probably out of love for his sister, but surely out of a sense of doing what was right, as well. Kirisin had never thought much of Tragen before, but he was revising his thinking now.

The Tracker was explaining how he had tried to get close enough to learn something of the enemy’s plans. Elves were good at becoming invisible even when it might seem impossible. Because he knew both Kirisin and Simralin well, he had already decided that they were not responsible for the deaths of Erisha and Culph. He had hoped he might overhear something that would tell him who was.

He was careful not to say anything about his involvement with the escape of the Belloruus siblings from the city, which Kirisin thought was a wise decision. It was still uncertain how the King and the High Council would react to such a revelation. Nor did Tragen say anything of his efforts to shelter them or of how, at their behest, he had gone in search of Culph to warn him that he was in danger and then found him dead . . .

And suddenly, in that way the mind has of jumping of its own accord from one thought to another, of making connections unasked, he heard himself in the ice caves of Syrring Rise, speaking with what had seemed at the time a ghost: