Heart Thief (32 page)

“Unknown.”

“Hypothesize, please, the worst case scenario if the amulet was dropped into the weakest part of the fault.”

“Difficult to determine.”

Ailim closed her eyes and grit her teeth. This was worse than dragging answers out of culprits in JudgmentGrove.

“Could—the—power—of—the—amulet—trigger—a—breakage—in—the—fault.”

“Probable.”

“Could the fault cause the earth to slip and endanger the passage to the HouseHeart?”

“Probable.”

Fear sliced coldly down her spine. Her eyes blurred as she watched the staggering red dot of Menzie.

“Also a probability that the Residence island would be undermined and compromised,” the Residence said.

“How compromised? Is there danger to the Family?”

“The Residence would be damaged but the interior structure would hold, as designed, until help could come.”

For an instant Ailim mulled over evacuating the Family, wincing as she thought of the ensuing scandal. There would be no way to stop the rumors, or the loss of face and even the estate itself if the FirstFamilies Council decided to consider this mad act of Menzie's as proof the SilverFir Family should die.

“Show the weakest point of the earth fault.”

A white starburst appeared on the black line. “She's not quite on-target. I'm going,” Ailim croaked, pulling on thin, worn, riding gloves, wishing they were gauntlets. “Discreetly notify Caltha as soon as possible. If I don't send word or return by third-bell, Caltha is in charge of the Family.” Though if the amulet caused land to slip, they'd know soon enough.

With that, she inhaled deeply to subdue her fears and quiet her mind. It had never been so difficult. A second breath, exhale; a third breath, release. She checked the status of the Menzie-dot, dangerously close to the fault now, and the gridlines in her mind. Gnawing her bottom lip, she thought of the best landmarks she could envision completely near that point—the ones she recalled were too far from Menzie for her liking, but she shook her head, sucked in one more breath, and ported.

 
Are we going to that place Ship said? asked Samba as she
trotted beside Ruis.

“Yes.” A trip he dreaded, but which the Ship had convinced Ruis to make for his mental health. Ruis was to visit the T'Elder estate, the small cottage where he was raised, and even infiltrate the Residence itself. Ship postulated that if Ruis saw the place of his tormented childhood through adult eyes, it would help free him of past anger. Ruis sincerely doubted it.

The wind whipped up and blew dark clouds over the evening sunset, drenching the world in gloom. The cottage was on the edge of T'Elder land, a few meters from a cliff facing the GreatPlatte Ocean. Though directly south of the Ship a few kilometers, in memory, age, and tradition the cottage was light-years from the great Earth artifact.

The little house wore an air of decrepitude, looking as if it had been abandoned far longer than the twenty-one years since he'd run away. Ruis blinked. It was much smaller than his earliest memories, even shabbier and tinier than the last time he'd seen it, at fourteen.

A spurt of anger blew the depression from his veins. He tugged a little at the stylish silver torque circling his neck that held the Ship's communicator.

The appearance of the cottage spurred the realization that Bucus had never put a sliver of gilt into maintaining the structure, not through all the years Ruis had been living there with a caretaker, and not since.

Thud
.
Thud
.
Thud
. His blood thumped in his temple with the cadence of memory—the roof leaking in several spots, dropping into strategically placed pots when spring rains thundered over Druida. A minor spell could have weath-ershielded the building. Ruis's Nullness hadn't been strong enough to negate the benefit. It had never been done.

Ruis knew now that Bucus must have hoped the defective Ruis-child might die of a chill, or the condition of the building would somehow harm him fatally.

He drew in a shaky breath. Dead and dried weeds surrounded the cottage, the door planking had buckled and gaped widely. He didn't want to go in, but he'd promised the Ship. Ruis strode up to the door and yanked at it. It stuck. He took a small multitool sphere from his belt and pressed the red button. The lazer sliced through rotted wood and the door fell apart in his hands.

Samba minced to the threshold and sniffed at the dim mustiness and some other awful, choking odor. She wrinkled her nose.
Nasty
. With fastidious steps, she entered. Ruis followed, flicking the blue switch on his multitool for the lightbeam. He swept the light around the rooms. The few sticks of furniture were as he remembered. The first room held a table, a stove, two chairs.

“Rrrowwww!” Samba jumped back from the partially open bedroom door to the left. She hissed and spat. Her calico hair stood on end. She rocketed from the cottage.

His own hair rising on the back of his neck, Ruis went to the door. The smell was stronger here. He gulped, then forced the door wider, screeching it across warped floor-boards.

His lightbeam pierced the suffocating darkness and pinpointed the face of a horror. Ruis gasped.

 
Ailim stumbled and fell to her knees, jarring her bones and
snapping her teeth together. The night was darker than she'd expected. Clouds covered the last of the sunset, draping over the moons and swathing star-bright sky. The wind whisked around her and she gave thanks for her heavy cloak.

She jumped up and visualized the path to Menzie. Ailim ran faster than ever before in her life to burst from the trees and half-fall, half-slide into the ravine that marked the fault-line in the earth.

Blinking, she swiped dust from her eyes and peered ahead. Menzie shambled along the rift, dressed in a thin indoor dayrobe. Ailim blinked again and swore. Menzie walked as if under a spell. The evil amulet controlled her aunt.

Ailim caught up to Menzie and grabbed her arm so fiercely the older woman spun around. Her wide eyes showed the whites, her mouth was slack. One hand clutched the baneful charm.

“Stop this madness!” cried Ailim.

Awkwardly the bespelled woman battled Ailim. She ducked the blows, slapped her aunt across the face to wake her, a futile action. Menzie hit her hard on her ear and Ailim winced, dizziness engulfing her, ringing shooting through her head. A hard blow to her chest pushed her back down on her bottom.

Ailim strove to sense the spell consuming her aunt but failed, unskilled in such Flair. As she scrambled to her feet, she searched her memory for counter-spells but gave up, knowing the spell enveloping Menzie was too devious for an easy answer.

Menzie turned and lurched toward the weakest point in the fault. Ailim's only choice was to grab the amulet. She muttered defensive spells, hoping they'd be sufficient against the evil.

Three strides and Ailim joined Menzie. One more stride put her in front of the woman. This time Ailim went for the leather thong that suspended the amulet. “Break!” she cried, sending the Wordspell with all her might and yanking hard.

The necklace broke. Menzie's head jerked back and the red, blistered line around her throat bled. Ailim grappled with the heavier woman, forcing her fingers from the little bag.

Pounding shock sizzled up Ailim's arm as she touched the charm. Menzie fell on her and the bane slipped from Ailim's grasp. They rolled a meter.

“No!” screamed Menzie. “No!” She crawled back toward the amulet. Menzie's old, white fingers reached for it. Ailim jumped and scooped it up. Even with a corner of the cloak wrapped around her gloved hand, pain shot up her arm.

Menzie stared up at Ailim, confusion masked her face for an instant before her eyes cleared. “What? Where?” Then her gaze sharpened on Ailim's clenched fist. “No, that is MINE.”

She struggled to her feet and flung herself at Ailim. “My lover's token, my—” Her words stopped as she pummeled Ailim. They fell again. Menzie was heavier, taller, her reach longer. She stripped the charm bag from Ailim's grasp.

“I must, I must, I MUST . . .” Menzie chanted, turning.

Ailim leapt to her feet and grabbed at Menzie's arm, missed, and watched Menzie throw the evil thing several meters toward the stress point of the fault.

 
 
Ruis stood, gathering courage and strength, then stepped
into the bedroom of the cottage. Skin had dried and tightened over her cheekbones, and though her nose was gone and the side of her skull shattered, he knew it was the woman who had halfheartedly minded him.

Mostly she looked like a bundle of sticks wrapped in gray, tattered commoncloth. The fleshy parts of her had been nibbled away. Wild housefluffs, mice, perhaps even celtaroons had dined on his old nursemaid.

When he'd been tiny, before he understood she could never return the emotion, he had loved her. Had sought comfort from her before he learned she would not wipe his tears away. Had sought protection, before he knew she'd find him in any hiding place and turn him over to Bucus. Then he had hated her.

Now he didn't know what he felt. He hadn't thought of her in years. Something surged through him and he took time to examine it. Pity. Pity the old, stupid, poor-relation Elder with small Flair who'd been assigned to watch the boy, to minimally care for his needs.

She'd feared for her life. Bucus had indulged in emotional torture with her as much as he'd physically tormented Ruis.

Old Hylde had been right to be terrified. A small, dark red pattern was centered in the middle of the fragile skin over the depressed hollow of her wound. The pattern showed the imprint of a ring, the T'Elder crest of a raven and the initials
B
and
E
on each side of the bird.

Ruis stared. He could imagine the scene all too vividly. He'd run away. Bucus no longer had use for Hylde so he'd struck her. One blow would have done it, if Bucus had been angry and backed the blow with killing Flair. Flair could cause a mark like that on her skin.

Bucus might not have waited to see her fall before leaving. His villainy was obvious. The nobles would punish a murder such as this with death. Killing a dependent, a relation who had sworn a Loyalty Oath to you and to whom you owed protection with that oath, was the depth of dishonor.

Wheels started rolling in Ruis's mind. Wheels of vengeance, of fortune, of fate. He wondered how he could preserve this evidence, present it to the FirstFamilies Council. How he could make this work for him.

He could force Bucus's punishment for his crimes against Hylde and against himself. He could ensure Bucus's removal as the head of the household, as T'Elder. Ruis might, possibly, even be able to convince the NobleCouncil to restore his lands and title.

That thought brought him from his daze. He snorted. The NobleCouncil would never allow a Null within its ranks. A Null could not participate in the power-building, Flaired rituals that governed Celta. A Null could eventually wear down, then destroy spells in the Guildhall, the GreatCircle Temple. A Null would be welcome in no Residence, socially or otherwise.

He didn't want to be T'Elder. He wanted to continue as Captain of
Nuada's Sword
, and he wanted Ailim D'SilverFir.

He could, perhaps, keep the Captaincy. He doubted he could ever have Ailim for more than the briefest of affairs.

Ruis found himself staring into the sockets of dead eyes and abandoned the hut to find Samba.

She'd left a sinuous path through brittle high grass and sat on a boulder, staring at the distant T'Elder Residence inland to the southeast. A sole window shone with light.

Glancing at it, then away, Ruis felt the old fury and helplessness overwhelm him. How often had he crouched here, behind the large rock, and hoped for his uncle Bucus's death? How often had he prayed that Bucus would forget the small outcast on the estate's edge?

All too often, Bucus had caught him here. In daylight old splotches of dark red would show on the stone, his own blood.

His fingers hurt; he'd curled them tight into fists. Digit by digit, he straightened them, then shook his hands out.

Ship says we should go there
, Samba said, lifting a paw in the direction of the T'Elder castle.

“Yes.” Ruis breathed deeply and evenly, counting seconds while inhaling through his nose, pausing, and exhaling through his mouth, an exercise the Ship taught him.

The Residence was beautiful. Made of white stone, built of piers arched over a river, it was fanciful with small round rooms protruding from the first floor, towers, a chapel, little peaked gables in the roof with round windows. Ship said the Residence had been modeled after an old Earth French castle called Chenonceaux.

His chest hurt as he looked at it. The Residence could never be his; he'd ruin the ancient spells that guarded it and the T'Elder Family if he ever lived there. It hurt that, beautiful as it was, he could never love it. It would never be more than an object on the horizon for him—evoking memories of the childhood when he gazed at it with many emotions.

The Ship was his Residence now. His home.

Let's go play
. Samba's voice held a gleeful note.
Never played in that place before. Looks like good hide-and-seek. What's best way in?

Ruis grimaced. “Follow me.”

As they hiked to the Residence, Samba slipped off on side trips to chase rodents, and Ruis pondered how he could bring the murder home to Bucus. No one entered a noble estate without the notice and tacit permission of the owner.

None except Ruis, the Null.

Guardsmen couldn't step foot on a noble estate without backing by the NobleCouncil. Ruis wondered how many enemies his uncle had made. If there were enough to send an inquiry team. He shook his head. He didn't know of his uncle's enemies—or allies. The only way to get the information to the Council would be to give it to Ailim D'SilverFir, but he didn't want her confronting his uncle. He was a dangerous man.