The SteelMaster of Indwallin, Book 2 of The Gods Within (17 page)

Gilguard grabbed Morddon’s arm unkindly, whispered into his ear, “She’s come to see you. The queen of the House of the Thane has deigned to come to you. Why she didn’t let that griffin gut you, I don’t know. But she’s here, so curb that angry tongue of yours.”

Morddon yanked his arm out of Gilguard’s grasp, then bowed carefully to SheelThane. “I am honored.”

SheelThane said, “No. It is I who am honored.” Everyone but the griffins gasped. SheelThane smiled. “Well now, whiteface,” she said. “You managed to stay alive after all.”

“It’s a habit I picked up a long time ago, and one I find difficult to break.”

“You see, my queen?” TarnThane laughed. “He does have a sense of humor, and though somewhat barbed, a rarity among the whitefaces.”

AuelThane stepped forward, looked closely at Morddon’s face, eyed the small scar on his cheek with the same curiosity as TearThane. It clearly give him some sort of satisfaction, then he stepped back and remained silent.

SheelThane looked about carefully at each of the griffins, then she looked at Morddon. “No griffin will ever again harm you, unless in self-defense.” Then she nodded at the griffin that had attacked Morddon. “And this one will be punished.”

Morddon shook his head and growled, “Ah don’t bother. He did a poor job of killin’ me, and I hold that against him more than the tryin’.”

Chapter 9: The Hand of the Thief

Morgin drifted slowly out of his dreams, and when he opened his eyes he was resting comfortably in the soft, billowing blankets of a large bed situated in a spacious and extravagantly appointed room. Nearby a young woman sat in a chair. She was about Morgin’s age, dressed in the finery of a courtier, and had apparently been waiting by his bed for him to awaken, though she had dozed off into a light sleep and her head was bowed at an uncomfortable angle.

Morgin reached up and touched his face, found they had shaved his beard. He tried to prop himself up on one elbow, succeeded, but learned in the doing that every muscle and bone in his body ached, especially his ribs. At his efforts the young woman’s head snapped up and her eyes widened. “Where am I?” Morgin asked, found it difficult to speak since the left side of his mouth was swollen and tender. “What happened to me?”

The young woman shot out of her chair, knelt beside Morgin’s bed, took one of his hands and kissed it tenderly. “Oh my lord!” she cried. “You were so close to death, and we were all frightened for you.”

Morgin decided this was one of his dreams because she kept kissing his hand and calling him things like “Your Highness,” and “my most gracious lord.” But then his skin color was that of Morgin, not Morddon, and this didn’t have the taste of a dream.

The young woman jumped to her feet. “Oh my goodness!” she cried, put her hands fearfully to her mouth. “The queen must be told, and her physicians.” She spun about and shot out of the room in a flurry of petticoats.

“The queen?” Morgin thought. He didn’t want to have anything to do with that crazy woman. He was too fond of staying alive, and he wasn’t going to wait around passively for them to carry out her execution order.

He threw the covers back, noticed then that his ribs were wrapped in some sort of bandage, and he was badly bruised almost everywhere. He sat up desperately, threw his legs off the bed, got to his feet, found that while just about everything hurt he could still get around. One ankle had been badly sprained and he limped a bit, though that too was bearable. But exhaustion pulled at him, and he struggled just to hold his head up straight.

Someone had dressed him in a long, linen bed gown so he searched for his clothes, ripped through several drawers before he found them in a large closet. He was pleased to find that his sword lay sheathed among them. He picked up his clothes and boots and sword, carried them across to the bed, dumped them there in a pile, sorted through them and found his breeches. All of his clothing had been badly torn, as if he’d been in a nasty brawl.

“Well now,” a voice said from behind him.

He dropped his breeches, ripped his sword from its sheath and spun about. An old man stood just within the entrance to the room and Morgin put the tip of his sword at the fellow’s throat.

The old man frowned. “Now, now, young man. Be careful—”

“Shut up,” Morgin snarled. Keeping his sword at the old fellow’s throat he limped around him and kicked the door shut.

The old man wore long, elegant, expensive robes, and stood with was an air of authority about him, masked a bit by the scent of fear. Morgin used the point of his sword to nudge the old fellow toward the chair the young woman had been sitting in, then he pricked the old man in the chest and forced him to sit down with a certain loss of dignity.

The old man said, “You’re making a mistake.”

“Shut up, I said,” Morgin growled. “My mistake was getting anywhere near that queen of yours.”

The old man shrugged unhappily. “We’re all sorry about that.”

“Keep your voice down. In fact, don’t say anything.” Morgin pressed the tip of his sword beneath the old man’s chin. “I’m getting the netherhell out of here. But first I’ve got to find my friends, and you’re going to help me.” Morgin longed for his shadowmagic, then he could dump the old man and find them himself. He turned back to the bed, and keeping one eye on the old man he put the unsheathed sword down next to his clothes and reached for his breeches again.

This time a woman’s voice interrupted him. “It’s good to see you up and looking so well, Morgin.”

He dropped the breeches and again grabbed his sword, spun about, thought at first the young woman had returned. But this woman was older, though still young and quite beautiful, and she wore a gown of a different color, and spoke in a different voice, more self-assured, more mature, and somehow familiar. And then slowly, as he looked at her, his eyes penetrated the courtly manners, and the gown, and the hair elegantly prepared, and the delicate touches of makeup applied here and there.

“Cort?” Morgin asked. “Is that you?”

The Balenda threw her head back and laughed heartily. “Morgin, you should see the look on your face.”

The old man rose slowly from his chair, regained his dignity and bowed with a flourish to Cort. “Lady Cortien. It appears you’ve rescued me from being abducted by this young ruffian, then forced to help him find you and the rest of his companions so you might all escape our hospitality.”

Cort laughed again. “The day I need to rescue you, Sacress, is the day all thieves become honest men.”

Morgin lowered his sword, sat down on the edge of the enormous bed and shook his head. “You two know each other?”

“It appears,” Sacress said, “that the young man remembers nothing of his ordeal.”

Morgin looked at the old man. “Who are you?”

The old man smiled. “I’m Sacress, the queen’s physician.”

Cort crossed the room carefully, taking a wide berth around the naked blade in Morgin’s hand. She picked his sheath off the bed, held it out to him. “Put that away. You won’t need it here.”

Morgin took the sheath, slid the sword into it. Both Cort and Sacress relaxed visibly, and the old man crossed the room to stand over Morgin. He began probing at Morgin’s ribs. “You appear to be doing quite nicely, though for a time you gave us quite a fright. How are the ribs? Tell me if this hurts.”

It felt as if someone poked a dagger into Morgin’s chest. “Owe!” Morgin shouted. “You’re damn right it hurts.”

The old man nodded thoughtfully. “Still got some healing to do, but you’re doing better than expected. Now back into bed with you.” The old man and Cort forced him back into the sheets.

The door opened again and France stepped into the room. “Morgin, me boy. Just passed a young lady in the hall said you was up. Yer lookin’ fit.”

A small crowd gathered in the hall behind France and for a moment it appeared they would all enter the room. Cort intervened, stepped in the way and spoke to a large man dressed in the livery of the palace guard. “You may tell everyone His Highness has regained consciousness, and that he is doing well. But for the moment he needs his rest. So, with the exception of the queen herself, Sacress and his assistants, and of course His Highness’ traveling companions, let no one pass. And send someone down to the kitchens for food. His Highness needs sustenance.”

“Yes, Your Ladyship,” the guard said in a deep voice. He closed the door.

Morgin demanded, “Will someone tell me what in netherhell is going on here?”

France grinned. “Yer a hero, lad.”

While Sacress probed at every joint and muscle in Morgin’s body, Cort asked, “What do you remember?”

Morgin closed his eyes, recalled an image of the hatred in Aiergain’s eyes. “Only that just when I thought I had her under control she went berserk.”

Cort nodded. “Yes. She did. Don’t blame her; she wasn’t exactly sane at the time.”

France said, “She bounced you around perty bad. Picked you up without touchin’ you and slammed you against the ceiling and every wall in the room. No one could help you, not even Cort and Tulellcoe when they arrived. She bounced you around for about two days, then she dropped you to the floor like you was an old rag, and it all ended. After that she rested comfortably, though she kept murmuring something about rats and the god-queen Erithnae. She slept for more than a day and a night, and when she awoke she was her old self again, though you were in pretty bad shape.”

Morgin shrugged, touched his ribs. “I’m sore, but I don’t feel that bad.”

“Physically,” Sacress said, “the worst damage is three broken ribs and a badly sprained ankle. What almost killed you was the injury to your soul.”

Morgin heard bells tolling throughout the city, hundreds of bells. “What’s that?”

Cort smiled. “Well now four days ago when Aiergain first regained consciousness they rang all of the bells in the city to celebrate, and since then the whole city has been worried about you, the man who saved the life of their beloved queen. The bells are ringing again to let everyone know you too are well.”

France grinned evilly, leaned close to Morgin’s ear. “You know, lad, all the young ladies have been anxious to meet you, and I think you’ll be findin’ ‘em real receptive, if yer so inclined. Do yer old friend France a favor, will ya? If you find you got more than you need, throw a couple me way, eh?”

There was a knock at the door. Cort opened it and admitted a large, round woman, apparently the palace’s chief cook. She had several servants in tow, each carrying a large platter of food; among them they’d managed to bring enough to feed a platoon of soldiers. Morgin was not terribly hungry, though it had apparently been days since he’d eaten, but he ate what he could, and with his stomach full his eyelids grew heavy. When he tried to get them to take the food away Cort and Sacress insisted he eat more. He put down a few bites, was starting to doze off before he finished that. Sacress chased everyone out of the room, but Morgin was asleep before they were gone.

~~~

Morgin awoke to someone shaking him violently. “Wake up, Your Highness.”

A lone candle lit the room, casting a flickering army of shadows on the wall. Morgin could just make out two guards standing near the door, while someone stood over him shaking him. “Wake up.”

Morgin recognized the voice of the young guard captain. “I’m awake, Pandorin. Stop shaking me.”

“The queen needs you. Desperately!”

Morgin sat up and ran his hands through his hair, then rubbed his eyes. “Why does she need me in the middle of the night?”

“She’s ill again.”

Morgin shivered. He did not want to face the insanity of Aiergain’s magic again, but he doubted Pandorin and the two burly guards would let him ignore her plight. He crawled out of bed. “Get my clothes.”

They argued briefly about the need for haste, but Morgin refused to go wandering about the palace in a bed gown. Pandorin and his guards helped him crawl into his torn and battered clothing. “All right. Lead the way.”

Pandorin led, but his guards followed close behind Morgin. Still well before dawn, the palace halls were dark and unlit, but there were people moving hurriedly everywhere, and after several turns they approached an open doorway from which a shaft of light splashed out into the hall. Within Morgin found a large, well lit sitting room that was a hive of activity and excited voices. Sacress leaned over a man lying still and prone on the floor; the physician shook his head sadly. Tulellcoe sat on the floor against one wall; blood running out his nose and dripping off his chin. Cort and Val knelt beside him, trying to stem the flow of blood. They all looked up at Morgin as he entered the room, and those of Aud looked at him expectantly, as if he would fix everything now. “What happened?” he asked.

Tulellcoe groaned, shook his head to clear it, spattered Cort and Val with blood. “Ahhh! She had a nightmare, so I came to help her. I’ve been trying to help her since I arrived. I don’t understand. I just don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t,” Morgin said flatly. “You were born with magic, and as you grew up every facet of your life was steeped in magic. You’ve been trained since the cradle to use magic, and you make assumptions about it that I’ve never been able to understand. You can’t know what it’s like to suddenly have it thrust upon you.”

Morgin looked at Pandorin. “Where is she?”

With a nod Pandorin indicated another door that led from the sitting room. “That’s her bedchamber.”

Morgin nodded, crossed the room and put his hand on the latch, but he hesitated for an instant and turned to Pandorin. “Post a guard outside this door, and keep everyone—I mean everyone—out of this room until I or the queen come out. I don’t care what you hear from within.”

Pandorin nodded.

Morgin opened the door slowly, pushed it inward but didn’t follow, and except for the shaft of light spilling past him the bedchamber was dark. He took one step forward, then another, and another. When he was past the open door a hand touched it and closed it softly behind him, and the room went completely black. Aiergain spoke softly into the darkness, “I’m told you relish shadows, ShadowLord.” There was a hint of hysteria in her voice.

Morgin closed his eyes, tried to pretend the darkness in the room was a shadow, hoped he needed magic only to make shadows and not to see through them. It didn’t work, but he still felt comfortable in the dark, in shadow. “I like shadow,” he said.

“I’m also told you can see through shadows.”

“I could once, but my magic is gone now and like everyone else I’m blind in the dark.”

“I’d give you my magic if I could.” Her hysteria bubbled to the surface. “I’d give anything to be rid of this.”

“I once felt the same,” Morgin said. “Like you I was born without magic, and like you it came to me unbidden, and like you I found it a burden. But my wish came true, and my magic is gone now, and I feel like a man whose had his eyes gouged out, and his ears punctured, and his tongue cut from his throat. I feel empty.”

She answered him with a long silence, then finally asked, “Would you like a light?”

“Yes. May I call for one.”

“No,” she snapped. “Make it yourself. I don’t want them in here.”

“I don’t have a flint and striker with me,” Morgin said, thinking desperately. He had to get her out of the dark, so she could face herself. “Do you have a candle?”

“There’s one on the table by the bed.” Her hysteria was now a palpable thing. “But don’t let anyone in here.”