Bloodsongs (29 page)

“In all my days my only experience with magic has been the dull prestidigitations of court fools.” He drew one hand down Ashur's broad face and passed the waterskin to Frost. She drained the last of it. Kyr was close at hand, and there was no longer a need to conserve. “But in a matter of days I feel like I've walked to the brink of hell and looked down. Kel's hand of fire, your lightnings, things I thought only demons could do . . .” He swallowed, frowning, and Frost realized he was avoiding her gaze. He had made this speech already, almost defensively. Now it poured out with a sincerity that touched her.

“When I looked over your shoulder and saw”—he hesitated and put a hand near Ashur's face again—“these strange eyes, I thought I'd been a fool to trust you, that my reward was to be carried to damnation by a witch and her witch steed.” He ran his fingers through the unicorn's forelock, then up the long length of that ebony spike. “Later, though, I thought maybe this was just an illusion, some trick you were playing with my mind.” He drew a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. The fatigue seemed suddenly to leave him. “But he's real, isn't he? I want him to be real.”

Frost didn't answer. There was no need to tell him what he already believed. And she saw in his eyes that he did believe. She remembered when Telric first approached her at the Broken Sword. He had made two
minarin
coins appear and placed them on the table. An insignificant feat of sleight of hand, but it revealed something to her now. She watched him stroke the unicorn, and she knew.

Telric had wanted to believe for a long time.

“What did you call him?” he asked over his shoulder.

She told him again. “A unicorn.”

He repeated it. “A beast from your oldest Esgarian legends, you said. But how did you come by him?”

She let her thoughts wander back. Once, such memories would have been too painful; she would have turned away rather than call them up. But with the balm of time they had become the stuff that gave life meaning. In her day she had done great deeds and songs had been sung about her. One song that came to mind would have answered his question.

But it was not a time for songs.

“I was much younger,” she started, “and there was another book of great power. Two wizards, Almurion and Zarad-Krul, vied for it. By chance I stumbled into the midst of their battle.” She stared up at the brightening stars as if she were staring back through the years. “Just before the demons of Zarad-Krul struck him down, Almurion gave the book into my keeping, instructing me to carry it into the shadow-land of Chondos.”

Telric suddenly paled. “I first saw you at Zondu near the Chondite border.” He looked up sharply. “Gods of Rholaroth! I thought it was a diary or a journal.”

She arched an eyebrow and smiled patiently. “You couldn't have known you'd stolen the Book of the Last Battle, a grimoire that contained all the spells and words of power the forces of light will use to defeat the forces of darkness in the Last Great Battle.”

He stared at his hand. “Our priests speak in awed whispers of that book. I've touched it? No wonder you came after me.”

“And you thought that court fools were your only experience with magic.” She smirked, then added wistfully, “Magic is everywhere, Telric. It brushes all our lives. We just don't always recognize it.”

“You must have missed your powers when they were stolen from you,” he said gently.

She shook her head. “I was glad they were gone. It's one thing to glimpse the magic in the world—it's something else to hold it in your hand. There's always a price to pay, no matter how good your intentions. And the worst price is the gulf it carves between the adept and the rest of humanity.” She looked at him, and their gazes locked. “It becomes very lonely.”

He reached out for her hand. Their fingers intertwined. “You were telling me about your unicorn,” he reminded her after an uncomfortable pause.

She almost didn't hear him, but slowly the words sank in, and she let go of his hand. “Almurion was a servant of the lords of light,” she continued. “He knew that Zarad-Krul would try to follow me, so he gave me two special weapons. The first was the dagger called Demonfang, which Kel has stolen.”

“Ashur was the other?”

She chewed her lip. “I've always believed that. He came along after the wizard had died. I'd run into a problem with some outlaws, and he charged down the road like some improbable nightmare. Only it turned out to be the outlaws' nightmare.”

“He helped you against this wizard, Zarad-Krul?”

She reached out to stroke the unicorn along the withers. “Yes. We were together for years after that. Then, when Kimon and I finally settled down, Ashur just disappeared. I'd given up any hope of ever seeing him again, of ever learning what had happened to him.” She threw her arms about the creature's neck and buried her face in his mane. “But that night when Soushane burned”—she eased away from Ashur and let him lick her hand—“I just looked up and there he was.”

“Magic,” Telric said with contained awe. “As if he knew you were in trouble.”

She thought about that. “I can't explain it,” she admitted. “I can't guess where he went during those twenty years and more.” She patted Ashur's nose. “Truthfully, I don't even care as long as he's with me again.”

“You can't explain magic,” Telric said, putting his hand beside hers on the unicorn's nose. “You just have to accept it.”

Frost gazed at her companion, trying to see the young boy-man she'd met so long ago. He'd been hot-tempered and foul-mouthed then, and reckless, in every regard the spoiled son of nobility.

How time had changed him! The slender youth had grown tall and strong. The temper was gone, or at least under control. Telric had turned quiet and gentle in a way that did nothing to dilute his manliness. She wondered at the experiences that had changed him, that had lined his face and powdered his hair with gray, that had turned him from a brash fool to a man she felt she could trust.

She looked at her own hand. The flesh did not betray all her years, but there was stiffness in her joints when she made a fist. Twenty years ago there had been no stiffness.

Time bad changed them both. Time and experience. She looked again for traces of the young Telric, but it was easier to see what he had become. She could almost love the difference.

She turned away suddenly, ashamed of the thought.

The night closed in swiftly. Frost stared toward the dimming silhouette of Kyr, then climbed into the saddle. She stretched a hand down for Telric. “We've got to hurry,” she said sharply. “Since the slaughter of the garrison at Soushane, they've taken to shutting the city gates at night. If we don't ride now, we'll be locked out until morning. I lied my way inside once, but I doubt I'd get away with that a second time.”

Telric swung up behind her and settled himself with a grunt. His arms went around her waist. “What if you're recognized?” he reminded her. “You didn't part company with Riothamus on friendly terms as I recall your story.”

“He tried to hang me,” she quipped as she touched her bootheels to Ashur's flanks.

“Great,” was all he had time to answer before they were racing away.

Kyr swelled rapidly as the unicorn's strides ate up the distance. Frost's gaze swept the countryside, alert for any sign of a patrol that might intercept them. She had no cloak to hide her face or her weapons. She prayed that darkness alone would serve as her disguise. Darkness and boldness and luck. It was late, and hopefully the guards' minds would be on supper and bed.

“What if the gates are already locked?” Telric called when it appeared they would not make it in time.

“We'll open them,” she shouted in reply.

“More lightning?” There was a mocking note in his voice that somehow lightened her spirit.

“Credit me with some subtlety,” she scolded.

“Oh, subtlety.” He leaned close to her ear to be sure she heard clearly, and he took the opportunity to flick her lobe with the tip of his tongue. “Was that what flattened Kel's tower?”

She jabbed him in the ribs and heard him chuckle. His arms tightened around her playfully.

But the walls of Kyr loomed and there was no more time to play. “If the gate guards question us, answer in Rholarothan,” she instructed. “I remember enough of your language to fake it. We're travelers. If they hesitate, remind them of your nobility. Use just enough Keled—and use it poorly—to get your meaning across. If they're still difficult, then threaten and bully, make them sweat. Keleds have a tremendous respect for rank and station, and they'll finally give in.”

“You're my wife,” Telric said quickly.

She called over her shoulder, “Your what?”

“They'll ask who you are,” he said with certainty, giving her another squeeze. “You're my wife.”

“A wife with a sword?”

He made an exaggerated shrug that she felt even over the harsh rhythm of their ride. “What the hell,” he said. “We're from another land. Our customs are a little different.”

“Right,” she agreed doubtfully. “Don't try to consummate anything.”

“Sounds like a challenge to me,” he muttered under his breath.

But all their planning was for nothing. The gates of Kyr were still open. Four sentries watched with disinterest as they rode by, then went back to their dice game.

 

 

 

Chapter Thirteen

 

Blood to make your garden grow,

Blood to make it flourish;

Blood-red drops the seeds you sow

That all your magicks nourish.

Blood to color all your dreams,

Blood to make you shiver,

Blood to gurgle, froth, and steam

And flow in crimson rivers,

Blood to bathe a warrior's blade,

Blood—the coin of war;

Blood for those who, finally paid,

Lie bloodless evermore.

 

“You!”

It had taken valuable hours to find Dromen Illstar. The Rathole had been moved again to a totally new location. All the previous spots had been abandoned. It had taken some effort to find a thief she recognized and to beat the information out of him.

Illstar had hired some protection since their last meeting. On either side of his throne stood a pair of giants, naked to the waist, wearing huge daggers in their belts. They moved toward her, reaching for their weapons, but Illstar himself called them back.

“No point in wastin' good flesh,” he grumbled with a weak smile and a shrug of resignation. “What in the nine hells d'ye want this time, Captain? I thought I was rid o' ye.”

Frost strode to the middle of the room, ignoring the dozen customers standing or sitting about. She knew some of the faces, but she had no words of greeting for any of them.

“You owe me, rat-catcher,” she said to Illstar. “I saved Dakariar from burning. Your daughter's alive somewhere.”

The old man's eyes narrowed suspiciously. “She's here in the city with me. I owe ye nothin'.”

She smiled grimly. “You owe me all right. And you'll pay. You're going to show me the tunnels into the governor's palace.”

Dromen Illstar leaned forward, genuinely surprised. “What tunnels would that be, Captain?”

She moved closer, put the toe of her boot on his chest, and eased him back into his chair. The bodyguards again moved to interfere, but again the old man stopped them. “No games,” Frost said smoothly. “I haven't time. Every thief in Kyr knows the tunnels exist. I'm gambling you know what they don't, though—namely, the entrances. You're going to show us.” She gestured over her shoulder to Telric, who stood guard by the door.

Illstar pursed his lips, scratched his chin. “An' if I don't?”

Her expression turned to purest malice. “Then I'll find your daughter and serve her heart to you in a cup of wine.”

Dromen glanced down into the cup he held in his hand, then back at Frost. His eyes gleamed with fear and hatred.

But she knew she had him.

The wall that surrounded the governor's palace was not so high as the city wall, but it was a formidable barrier. It had four gates. Each was guarded and sealed against intruders.

A wide thoroughfare separated the palace from the shops and businesses that thrived in its shadow. The shops were closed now. Dromen Illstar and one of his lackeys led them from one cloistered doorway to the next, always keeping to the darkness.

On the rear side of the palace compound, a row of grain silos loomed like an immense palisade. “The fourth one,” Illstar said, pointing. They moved quietly, swiftly, through the street, with their goal in sight.

“No guards?” Telric whispered.

The lackey snorted, but Dromen Illstar thumped him in the chest to shut him up. “Why would they guard one silo? That would only draw attention to it.”

When they reached the first silo, Dromen stopped. “I've done my part. I'll leave ye here.”

Frost brushed his elbow meaningfully. “Let's go,” she said.

Dromen didn't move. “I've brought ye this far, an' I've showed ye the silo. Ye don't need me anymore.”

“Let's go,” she repeated, touching her hilt for emphasis.

There was a huge iron lock on the silo door, but Dromen's bodyguard had brought a crowbar at the old man's suggestion. He slipped it through the lock and leaned on it. Metal groaned, but the lock held. Telric lent his strength, and the two men strained together.

The lock snapped with a sound so loud they all spun around to see if anyone else had heard. But the street remained empty, and the palace gate nearest them stayed shut.

Dromen gathered up the pieces of the lock, and they moved inside and shut the door.