The Sword Of Angels (Gollancz S.F.) (90 page)

Stella looked rebuffed. ‘No, my lady, I am sorry . . .’

‘Do not be,’ said Mirage gently. ‘And thank you. I’ll be down presently.’

Mirage waited another few minutes before going downstairs. Stella’s comment had unnerved her. Throughout the long ride to Richter and all during the first day, she had felt Thorin’s love for her, burning into her like a brand. He had treated her better than his own queen, talking sweetly to her and buying her expensive gifts, and she knew that tonight was a prelude to something more than she’d expected. When at last she went down to dinner and saw the elaborate dining room decorated with candles and gleaming silverware, she realized she had stumbled into a trap. And that she had done so willingly.

Thorin looked resplendent in a velvet jacket, brushed clean of every speck of dust. A vest tucked his white shirt neatly against his solid body. He had shaved for the evening, looking young and strangely handsome. And though he still wore the armour of his left arm, the sleeve of his jacket covered it almost precisely, custom tailored for his odd appendage. The enchanted gauntlet hung at his side, looking strange and out of place. Thorin kept it out of sight as he rose to greet Mirage. Behind him, a pair of smart-looking stewards waited to serve them. The smells from the kitchen grew in Mirage’s nose. She drifted like royalty into the dining room, smiling and letting her gown twirl prettily behind her.

‘A vision,’ Thorin declared. ‘That’s what you are.’

‘A Mirage, you mean,’ said Mirage wryly.

‘No,’ said Thorin. He reached out and took her hand. ‘That is not what I mean. That is never what I think when I see you.’

He led her to her chair at one end of the table, pulling it out for her and letting her sit. Then he went to his own chair, helped into it by one of the stewards. There were only a handful of servants in Richter Estate and Mirage already knew them all. These two, like everyone else in the house, performed multiple duties. Now they stood arrow-straight, waiting for Thorin’s orders. Mirage looked around, marveling at the room. Over the table hovered an ornate iron chandelier, each one of its candles lit with a gently wavering flame. The table itself was polished to a mirror shine, covered with linens and expensive looking silver. At Thorin’s request one of the stewards poured Mirage some wine. The red liquid shimmered in the crystal. Across the table, Thorin beamed at her.

He was like a boy again, happy, trying to impress her.

‘Whatever they’ve cooked up for us smells wonderful,’ Mirage commented. ‘They fed me well just hours ago and already I am hungry again.’

‘You see? I’ll take care of you,’ said Thorin. He unfolded his napkin and placed it over his lap with his one real hand, then self-consciously tucked his other hand out of sight. ‘After we eat we can go outside and have our drinks. The night has cleared. It’s beautiful now.’

‘I was out by the lake this afternoon,’ said Mirage. ‘I looked for you.’

‘I gave you some time to be by yourself. After all the time we spent getting here I thought you’d be tired of me by now.’

‘No,’ said Mirage. Her words felt awkward, and she groped for the right thing to say. Thorin came to her rescue.

‘No,’ he told her gently. ‘Relax. We don’t have to say anything at all. We can just eat.’

Mirage needed no more prodding. Instead of forcing herself into banter, she let the servants bring her meal, indulging herself with the fine food. Course after meticulous course came out of the provincial kitchen, stunning her. Even in Raxor’s court she had not eaten like this, and for a moment she lost herself in thought, wondering how her old benefactor was faring. She missed Raxor.

No
, she scolded herself suddenly.
Do not think of him.

Kahldris was powerful, and could probably read her thoughts. She wasn’t sure of that, but she suspected it. Still, the demon had been quiet since that first day in Koth. Had Thorin really tamed him?

Mirage didn’t know, and wasn’t willing to take the gamble. Instead she let the evening unfold, plate by plate, occasionally engaging Thorin in the most unimportant subjects, like the rains that had plagued them and his day in the woods. To this Thorin brightened, telling her that the forests
and lakes around Richter were renowned throughout Liiria, a place of exceeding beauty that he insisted she see.

‘Tomorrow we will ride around the lake, just you and I. Forget the ducks, my lady – there is a spectacular brood of herons on the east side of the lake. They fly in like angels. We can boat there, if you like.’

‘Maybe,’ said Mirage cautiously. ‘That might be nice.’

The stewards moved gracefully around them as the dinner unwound, then finally came to an end. One of them, an old man named Jarel, produced a pipe for Thorin which he gratefully accepted.

‘Come,’ he said, pushing back his chair. ‘Let’s go outside. We can see the stars.’

Mirage hesitated. The night was going too quickly. Something told her to slow it down. ‘No,’ she declined. ‘I think I’d rather stay inside.’

Thorin looked surprised. ‘But you’ve been inside all day. Just a quick breath . . .’

‘No. Thank you.’ Mirage rose and put her napkin on the table. She smiled at him. ‘That was wonderful. It was, really, but I’m tired now. I think I’d like to go upstairs.’

Thorin chaffed at this. ‘So soon?’

‘It’s what I want, Thorin.’

The fingers of his gauntlet flexed. ‘I had hoped we could talk some more tonight. In private. It’s very quiet by the lake.’

She could feel him drawing closer, craving her. His eyes smouldered. Mirage carefully backed away, feeling her own resolve loosening.

‘No, Thorin, no,’ she said, more firmly this time. ‘I have to go upstairs.’

He stalked closer to her, not menacingly. ‘Let me walk you upstairs.’

She shook her head. ‘No.’

‘Yes, I want to.’

She put up her hands. ‘I’m fine.’ With a smile she added, ‘Thank you.’

Thorin came to stand before her, towering over her. Sensing the moment, the stewards disappeared. The house became still. ‘I think,’ said Thorin, ‘that you should let me see you upstairs.’

‘Why?’ asked Mirage, feeling weak.

‘I see something in your eyes.’

Whatever he saw, Mirage could not hide. She swallowed, looking away, but his gaze fell on her like a shadow, suffocating her. She glanced around, checked that they were alone and wished to heaven for someone – anyone – to stop them.

‘I can’t,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Please . . .’

Thorin’s hand came up to touch her cheek. ‘What is this that you can’t do? You can’t make your own choices? You can’t betray some misplaced loyalty? You came to me. Remember that, Mirage.’

‘I remember,’ said Mirage. Did she regret that now? ‘I—’ Her words trailed off.

‘What? You want to tell me something – speak it.’

She looked squarely into his powerful eyes. ‘I am a maiden, Thorin.’

She expected to see conquest on his face. Instead, he softened.

‘What a sweet gift that would be, if you would give it to me.’

Mirage began to shake. Seeing this, he took her. His strong embrace propped up her failing knees. And then she was up, off of her feet and in his arms, sweeping out of the dining chamber toward the stairs. She put her arms around his neck, unable to speak, wanting to cry out for help.

But not a sound escaped her throat.

At midnight precisely, Corvalos Chane and his Watchmen broke camp. They took with them everything they needed for their task – their crossbows and daggers, their chains for the doors, and the flammable oil that would turn Richter Estate into a torch. The night was clear and cool, and in the light of the full moon it took less than an hour for them to get into position, staking out the woods around the estate and leaving their horses deep in the trees. The sacks of oil that they brought with them waited nearby, also hidden from view. The seven faces of the Watchmen peered invisibly out over the grounds of the estate, each two man team taking a different door. Because he was their leader, Chane remained near the front of the house, not far from the road that led up to the estate’s circular drive. From his place in the trees he could see the Norvans patrolling the grounds. Stupidly, a foursome of them had clutched near the covered walkway leading to the kitchens. One of them puffed languidly on a pipe. Kaprile and Horatin, who crouched with Chane in the brush, noted the guards with hand signals.

Chane shook his head. Kaprile raised his crossbow, putting his hand out to lower the weapon. Kaprile was the best shot of the group, and the crossbows the Watchmen carried had all been specially made for strength and silence. Even in the darkness, it would be no problem at all for Kaprile to kill two of the guards. But not four.

There were other guards as well, and these too would be dealt with. Robb and Noan, who had taken up position near the back of the estate, had already determined from earlier excursions that there was one man posted there at all times. Probably, he was already dead. Calan and Travor had the most difficult task. They had each been posted at opposite ends of the estate. They had no crossbows, but were armed with knives. It was up to them to sneak in first.

Horatin kept one hand on the stout chain. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He did not look nervous, just determined. It seemed to Chane that things were going wonderfully well. They had taken up their
positions without being noticed and ostensibly had the house surrounded. They had everything they needed in place.

Still, there were those four guards . . .

‘There’s no time,’ whispered Chane, his voice so low he himself could barely hear it. ‘We have to move on them.’

He knew that his men were waiting, and that Robb and Noan had probably already killed the rear guard. Other soldiers inside the house might come looking for him, and if he went missing things would get difficult fast.

‘Horatin,’ he said, ‘with me.’ Then he turned to Kaprile. ‘When we get close, hit them.’

There was no need for either of them to speak. Kaprile readied himself behind his crossbow. Horatin followed Chane through the woods. They both had their daggers drawn, moving likes cats through the brush, finally emerging out of sight of the four guards. The walkway leading to the kitchens had a roof that shadowed the men, making it difficult to see which way they were looking. Chane watched the glowing pipe in the lips of the one man, turned sideways to the grass. There was no easy way to reach them.

Chane and Horatin lingered in the shadows, their backs pressed against the stone of the house. The four Norvans stood beneath the roof, talking and laughing, fifty feet away. For Chane, killing four men was easy. Unless one of them ran. Or screamed. He looked to the trees where Kaprile was waiting, hidden somewhere in the mesh of leaves. Raising his hand, he gave the signal.

The crossbow’s silent mechanism fired.

Mirage lay awake, naked, her tattered clothes draped over the mantle where Thorin had thrown them. The sheets of her enormous bed lay in a tangle around her limbs. Through the window she saw moonlight slanting through the glass, striking Thorin’s happy face. Half asleep, his arm draped over her breasts, he smiled at her and kissed her ruddy cheek. A strange pain ached between her legs. Her body felt taught, like the strings of an instrument. Against her skin she felt the hotness of Thorin and the cool touch of his metal arm, that magnificent appendage that had brought her magically to life. Wrapped in it, he had lifted her effortlessly from the bed, again and again while he thrust against her, filling her mind with visions. Mirage had never known ecstasy, and had never really understood the word.

Until tonight.

He had been gentle at first, sweetly whispering in her ear as he undid the buttons of her gown. She had feared him but did not stop him, and when the moment of his own nakedness came she had gasped, astounded
by him. Passion had taken them both like a swift river, and when it was over the current began again. As though he were a machine, Thorin took her again and again, each time more surely than the last, the magic of his armour giving him the virility of men half his age.

No, thought Mirage as she lay against him. Not a man. More like a god.

For no man could do what Thorin had done, or done it so flawlessly. She was in the arms of an avatar, and finally realized why Jazana Carr had never left him.

She rolled her head over to face him. Thorin’s heavy eyes opened a bit wider.

‘Sleep now,’ he said.

Mirage stared into his eyes. ‘I cannot. I feel strange.’

‘You are a woman now,’ he whispered. ‘You’re no longer a child. Everything will be different for you now.’

Without understanding him, Mirage simply nodded. He closed his eyes, drifting away to sleep, and a moment later Mirage did the same. Outside her window, she thought she heard a sound, something odd that she did not recognize. Too tired to pay it much heed, she ignored it.

Out of the blue came the bolt from Kaprile’s crossbow, streaking invisibly through the moonlight. A moment later, the man with the pipe fell to the ground. His head exploded so quickly that the others around him didn’t know what happened. He was talking and then he wasn’t, and the three remaining Norvans simply stood there, stunned. Chane and Horatin flew from the shadows, knives in hand, and by the time they had reached the guards another bolt came out of the darkness, this one felling the man nearest Chane. Changing tactics, Chane selected another of the doomed men, who was just turning around to face him. With his dagger in one hand, he grabbed hold of the man’s hair, snapped back his head, and ran the blade silently across his neck. Next to him, Horatin did the same, and before five seconds had ticked away both Norvans were dead.