Allegiance, page 31
part #3 of River of Souls Series
She sank against Raul’s chest and held him tight. His clothes were filthy, and he had not bathed in weeks. She did not care. She could only memorize the weight of his body against hers, the texture of his skin, all the myriad details that made up the man Raul Kosenmark. She would need all those to find him in the next life, if the gods were not kind.
“You are a master at theatrics,” he whispered into her hair. His voice was higher, lighter than she recalled. He, too, was terrified.
“I am only telling the truth,” she whispered back.
“That is what makes you so compelling.”
The argument had died to silence. With an effort, Ilse released her hold on Raul. The senior guard waited, his expression deferential. In his hands, he held a sheaf of papers.
“The king’s orders,” he said. “For you to examine.”
Ilse accepted them, hardly daring to believe she had been given this chance. And what if it means nothing?
She refused to think of that. She read through the six pages of densely written script. It was all nonsense, accusations that Raul Kosenmark had conspired to betray Veraene’s concerns to interested parties in Károví. (Not the king. That much had changed since her audience.) It was as though Armand had rejected her testimony. He would do what he wished and launch a war.
The last few paragraphs caused her head to swim. Lord Kosenmark to be executed by sword. His head removed and brought as proof to the king’s chambers. It was an act of cruelty, one she would not have ascribed to Armand. Except …
“I see no signature,” she said.
“What do you mean?” Galt said.
“No signature. There is the king’s seal but—”
“Nothing more is required,” Galt supplied smoothly. “Nothing except his own thumbprint, which is not missing.”
He was right, damn him. She had dismissed that smear of reddish brown as a wine stain. Now that she examined it, she could see the whorls of a broad fingerprint. Was it Armand’s? It had to be. Even Khandarr would not attempt to forge the king’s own imprint.
Or would he?
Galt attempted to snatch the paper from her hands.
Ilse struck his hand away. “One moment.” To the guards, she said, “I must be certain. Please. I can prove the king’s intent with magic.”
The guards held Theodr Galt back from further interference. Ilse allowed herself one hungry glance toward Raul. He seemed amused, or amazed. She could not tell which. Do you have a plan? he mouthed.
No, she replied. But I have an idea.
She laid her hands over both sides of the paper. Breathed in to capture that elusive sense of balance magic required. Her whole attention spiraled down to the paper, to the spot of blood that marked the king’s personal imprint …
Blood. That much she could tell at once. A magical signature overlaid the bloodstain, which surprised her. She had thought Armand knew no magic, which was why he required a strong mage councillor such as Markus Khandarr. The signature itself prickled at her memory. The scent of cold snow, overlaid by a sickly sweetness she did not want to examine closer. With a shock, she recognized it—Markus Khandarr’s. She probed deeper. Sensed a deadness connected to the magic. Her skin itched. Signatures were not dead things. Blood was not dead …
Not unless it comes from a dead person.
She broke her connection with the magic and staggered backward, rubbing fiercely at her fingers where the skin had touched the blood print.
“He’s dead,” she whispered. “The king is dead.”
“Liar.” Galt lunged forward, but the guards caught him.
The senior officer’s eyes narrowed. He looked unhappy and anxious.
“I don’t like this,” he said. “You came from the king himself?” he said to Galt.
“From the king,” Galt said hoarsely. “I swear it.”
“No need to swear. We will ask him ourselves.”
* * *
NADINE ARRIVED IN the vast wing where the senior councillors had their apartments. Mann had given her one name before he departed on his mad errand to lead the guards away. Lord Alberich de Ytel, he’d told her. Governor of Duenne City. Not the senior councillor, but a man of influence and power. He was the man to warn.
Muttering directions to herself, she turned down a side corridor, which supposedly connected this hall with another running at angles. Left and right, down three intersections …
… and skidded to a halt at the sight of palace guards with swords drawn.
She slithered back into the nearest doorway, her pulse thundering in her ears. Only when she was certain they had not sighted her did she peer around the doorframe.
Eight, no, ten guards were battling each other. In the bright lamplight, she could tell they all wore palace uniforms. Intruders? No, more mischief from Markus Khandarr, she was certain of that. Even as she came to that conclusion, one guard ran another through with his sword. The second guard jerked, then folded over with his hands clutched over his chest, blood spilling through his fingers.
Nadine did not wait. She darted back the same route she had come. She heard shouts behind her and swerved into the nearest servants’ passageway. Lamps spelled with magic flickered on and died away as she passed. She knew nothing of this region in the palace, but she had her instincts, borne of many years in unfamiliar and sometimes dangerous quarters.
She exited the servants’ corridor to find herself in an airy bell-shaped room, painted in vivid colors and gold leaf, with windows open to the night. And at last, a runner obviously standing duty, more proof of royalty’s spendthrift notions, to place someone here in this empty spot.
The runner started to attention. “My lady.”
“I must find Lord Alberich de Ytel,” Nadine said breathlessly. “The palace is under attack.”
Even as she spoke, the uproar from the skirmish reached them. The runner whispered, “I must get word to the palace guard.”
“Those are the palace guards,” Nadine cried. “Send word to the king himself. And tell me how I can reach Lord Alberich de Ytel. Quickly. We must find all the loyal people before it’s too late.”
That provoked the reaction she wanted. Without hesitation, the runner poured out directions to Ytel’s suite of rooms. Then she sped off to warn the king, and Nadine went in search of the royal governor.
* * *
THE SENIOR GUARD sent a runner ahead to the king’s chambers. Galt protested loudly until the guards threatened to arrest him as well. He subsided with a sour grin, but Ilse’s skin rippled with cold when his gaze flicked over to her. You kept your character a secret in Melnek, she thought. You were the respectable merchant, wealthy and influential. I had no reason to fear you except for rumors. If I had ignored my instincts, if I had obeyed my father and acted the part of the good daughter to marry you, I would have lived in torment the rest of my life.
She wondered how many other young women, told that their fears were foolish, entered into marriages such as the one she had escaped.
She kept as close as possible to Raul’s side during the long trek from the prison quarter and along a plain corridor that she guessed was used solely by the palace guards. No one objected to her presence, not even Galt, who continued to favor her with that eerie grin. But the guards did not remove the manacles from Raul’s wrists, and they insisted she keep an arm’s length away from him. They do not trust either of us, she thought.
Once on the ground floor, they exited the guards’ corridor for a short broad passageway of plain brick and stone. At either end of the passageway, the ceilings rose higher, the walls were faced with mosaics, and she saw what appeared to be more of the palace’s grand public spaces. Raul’s eyes widened slightly as he took in their surroundings. “So our king has come to see as his grandfather once did,” he murmured. “That is … interesting.”
Two armed sentries stood outside a plain wooden door. When the guard made known their errand, and gave the passwords, the older sentry shook his head. “Lord Khandarr made it clear. He wants no one to pass except Maester Galt.”
“It’s a matter of treason,” the senior guard said. He continued in a low voice, obviously explaining the difficulty. The sentries conferred with each other. Judging by their expressions, they were uneasy about disobeying the king’s order, but Ilse’s accusations obviously made them uncertain.
She glanced toward Raul. What can we do?
He shrugged, but she could sense the tension in his stance. He was about to try something desperate. So was she.
A clatter of running footsteps snagged her attention. A runner pelted around the corner, missed her footing, and crashed into the wall before she could right herself. “Treason!” she cried, scrambling to her feet. “There’s fighting on the main floor. They say the king’s in danger.”
The younger sentry immediately vanished through the plain door. The senior guard pressed forward. “If it’s a matter of treason, we must speak with the king as well.”
He tried to push past the sentry, but the man set his back against the door and drew his sword. “Not until Lord Khandarr or the king tells us so—”
A muffled shout sounded from within the king’s offices. Ilse felt the air draw tight over her skin. She had just registered that someone had used strong magic, when she heard a thumping noise, then a thin screech, which broke off suddenly. “Stand back,” the second sentry said. He opened the door a crack and glanced inside. “Oh, sweet gods.”
He flung the door wide open. “To the king!”
All the guards poured into the room. Ilse linked her arm around Raul’s and they followed.
Once, the room might have been as exquisite as all the others in the palace. Once. Ilse could see nothing but the man who lay sprawled on his back, his throat torn open and the blood soaking into the carpet. It was the first sentry, the younger one. Lord Khandarr leaned against the wall opposite, next to a door that swung on its hinges. The air was heavy and rank with the scent of magic, and Ilse had the sense of falling through the ocean and the weight of water pressing against her chest.
“Lord Khandarr,” the second sentry said. He stopped. Stared down at the dead man on the floor. “Lord Khandarr … I … I must speak with the king.”
“The king is dead,” Khandarr said heavily. “Killed by assassins.”
“Who laid his thumbprint on these orders?” Ilse demanded. “The king? The dead king? And why haven’t you raised the alarm?”
“Yes,” Raul said. “Why haven’t you, Markus?”
Khandarr gave a shout, a stuttering cry in Old Erythandran. Only a syllable behind him, Ilse cried out an answering summons. Magic burst against cold bright magic. The air rang with its explosion. Ilse fell to her knees, blinded and gasping for breath. She scrabbled against the hard tiles until she gained a purchase and crawled forward to where Raul lay. It took another precious moment before she could lift her hand to lay it over his chest. She felt the pulse of his heartbeat, the rise and fall of his chest, and she almost wept with relief. Yes, yes, he lived.
She dragged a hand over her eyes and muttered another invocation to magic. Her vision cleared, the sight horrified her. It was too much like the scene after Leos Dzavek’s death. The room in shambles, its walls scorched and burnt. And worse. Five guards lying in a bloody heap, among them the other sentry and the senior guard. Markus Khandarr had vanished. There was no sign of Theodr Galt.
A shadow wavered to her right. It was the single surviving guard, obviously terrified, but determined to do his duty to the king. “Go for help,” she told him. “The captain of the watch, anyone you know is loyal to our king.”
She did not wait to see if he obeyed. She was already searching the dead senior guard for his keys. She unlocked the manacles from Raul’s wrists and those fastening the chains to his ankles. He stirred under her touch. “Ilse. My love.” Then his eyes blinked open. “Markus.”
Ilse helped him to stand. He staggered on his feet, stared around at the destruction, and muttered a curse under his breath. “Where is Markus?”
“Through that door,” Ilse said. “We must be quick, my love.”
Raul caught up a sword from one of the dead guards and plunged through the doorway. Ilse started after him, but a hand seized her arm.
“Do not argue,” Galt said. “And you will have an easier time.”
He expected her to be the same as she was three years ago, terrified and unable to defend herself. That was his first mistake, Ilse thought. She darted toward him, and dug her thumbnail between his fingerbones. Galt let go, cursing. Before he could attempt to recapture her, Ilse loosed her sword from its sheath and had the satisfaction of seeing him flinch as it glittered in the lamplight.
“Never,” she said in a low voice. “Never again will you torment me or any other woman.”
She advanced and struck. Galt managed to fend off the first strike. He was not so lucky with the second. Ilse feinted to one side, ducked under his blade, and struck him on the temple with the flat of her blade. He dropped to the floor.
Idiot, she thought. The temptation to run him through lasted only a moment. Then she sprinted after Raul.
She crossed a second parlor and through the next door, only to skid to a halt before a curtain of fire. The tapestries and curtains were ablaze, and smoke boiled up from the carpet. She could see nothing except a few vague shadows. Ilse dropped to her knees and crawled to the nearest one. It was Armand. His skull was crushed and he lay in a pool of drying blood. Farther on, Raul knelt on one knee, covered in blood from his face to his shirt. He still gripped a sword in one hand. Markus Khandarr was splayed against the farther wall, his staff abandoned.
Raul launched himself at Khandarr. There was an explosion of magic. Ilse staggered back and caught hold of the doorframe. Her vision was smeared. Where had Raul gone? Where had Khandarr gone? She blinked, blinked again. Two shadows suspended in the air, as if painted with smoke, and she knew she saw the echo of their bodies as they leapt into the plane of magic.
She leapt after them.
* * *
RAUL CROUCHED ON a thin ribbon of brightness, emptiness all around. He would have been terrified, except his whole attention was on the man before him. Markus Khandarr’s lips curled back. His face turned gray, blood smeared his cheek, and more blood trickled from the slash across his forehead. He looked as though he were close to fainting, but he glared in defiance. “If you kill me. You cannot return.”
“I knew that before I followed you,” Raul breathed.
He leapt forward and slashed Khandarr across the chest with his sword. A deep gash opened, down to the bone. Blood spurted out. Khandarr’s face locked in surprise.
Raul grinned. “You thought I was not willing to pay that price.”
“I did. Only … so quickly. No.”
Khandarr flung his head up and called aloud in Erythandran, a long stuttering string of syllables. Magic, though they had a surfeit already in the void, swirled around them. Raul stumbled forward. Only now could he feel all his injuries. His face burned from the magic; his ribs sent spasms through his chest. He shifted his hold on his sword so that the blade pointed down. Khandarr sank to his knees, grinning at him and the blade above. “My gift to you,” he said. “Remember me always.”
He cried out again in Erythandran, just as Raul drove the point down into his throat. One last syllable bubbled out. Then the magic wrapped itself tight around Raul Kosenmark.
His skin was on fire with magic. His guts twisted with the agony. He fell to his knees next to Khandarr’s body, jarring his cracked ribs. He pressed his hand against his side, gasping for breath as the magic coursed through his veins.
Magic. Was it possible he could bend Khandarr’s magic to his own purpose? He tried to remember what little he knew about magical healing, but the current was like a live thing, squirming against his will. “Heal me,” he whispered. “Heal me, dammit.”
I will, said a voice like Markus Khandarr’s.
Raul’s throat closed. His skin shuddered and crawled. A weight pressed against his chest, squeezed the flesh between his legs. He cried out, felt a rasping in his throat, as though the magic had scoured his flesh. He cried out again, a strange deep cracking shout that wavered up and down and finally boomed out in unfamiliar tones.
He bent over double. Pressed both hands against his eyes.
I know. I know what he’s done.
* * *
ILSE ARRIVED IN the void, her sword still gripped as if to parry another attack. All was dark. Empty. She saw nothing, not even the stream of souls on their journey from life to life. A true void, without scent or sound or any movement. Once more Anderswar defied her expectations.
I have lost him. Oh Lir, please show me where he has gone. If you love your children, have pity on us. Oh Toc …
She pressed a hand over her mouth and closed her eyes, shuddering in terror and grief. Two points of light flickered against her eyelids, then faded into a darkness more profound than before. Was this how blind Toc saw the world? He had sacrificed his eyes to create the sun and moon. In her grief over his death, Lir had wept, and her tears became the stars.
A silvery mist curled around the edges of her vision. She took a faltering step forward. The mist brightened and surged upward to bury her feet. The blackness overhead grew dimmer and she saw a pale stream of what might be the river of souls as they crossed the void. Her eyes still closed, she turned around to see the fog rising up in streamers. And there, just ahead, movement stirred.
She hurried forward a few steps. Stopped and sank to her knees in shock. Markus Khandarr lay sprawled at length, blood leaking from throat and chest, coloring the mist dark crimson, his eyes blank with death. Raul Kosenmark crouched next to the body, his sword forgotten by his side. Even as her pulse beat faster in joy that he lived, Raul gave a jerk and collapsed.
Ilse flung herself to standing and ran to his side. No, no, no. The gods could not be so cruel to let him die. She touched her fingers to Raul’s throat. His pulse beat steadily, but his shirt was sticky with blood, and his skin burned with fever.
He stared at her with golden eyes dimmed and cloudy. “Ilse?”
