Raven's Strike (44 page)

She waited until Hennea was coaching Tier, one syllable at a time so as not to attract the god's attention prematurely, before going to Phoran. He sat, with Toarsen and Kissel, leaning against one of the buildings that fronted the small winding street. Rinnie was sitting next to him, as she usually was. They all looked half-asleep.

Lehr crouched next to Phoran on the balls of his feet, talking quietly with Phoran. He broke off as soon as he heard her approach.

“You can be used against us, too,” she told Phoran. “And you are defenseless against a Shadowed. I want you to stay where you are. Don't draw attention to yourselves if you can help it. I don't know if we can protect you—and I'd rather never have to find out.”

Phoran shook his head. “Willon doesn't know you.”

She'd expected arguments—in her experience men didn't like to be told they were helpless. Phoran's remark didn't seem to have much bearing on what she'd said.

“Of course he does,” she answered. “For twenty years we have lived in the same town.”

Phoran smiled, the sweet smile that doubtless had seen him through more trouble than any ten children. “Yes, but he doesn't know you. He knows a quiet, cold woman, commanding
and strong, who cares for nothing except for Tier and her family.”

“And?”

“The woman he thinks he knows would never put her family in danger. Not for an emperor, and certainly not for his guards.” The smile widened, and his tired eyes lit up. “And he'd be right—except that you don't see us as an emperor and his guards. I saw your face when we told you Rufort was dead—but Willon didn't. He won't know you care about us at all because he cares for no one. He won't try and use us as hostages.”

Then he did something utterly unexpected. He stood up, brushed off his pant legs, and took two steps forward, bowed low, until his mouth was level with her face, and kissed both of her cheeks. “He thinks Tier is soft, and you are hard—and he's wrong on both counts.”

She could feel the flush that rose under her skin.

“We know you,” he said. “But he doesn't.”

“Well,” she said, flustered, and was almost grateful for Jes's low, rumbling warning.

“He's coming,” said Lehr, standing up. “I feel it, too, Jes. He's not trying to hide from us.”

“Just keep low,” she told them. She held out her hand for Rinnie. “We need you with us,” she told her. “Come, Lehr.”

At Hennea's direction, they stood in a rough semicircle with Tier in the center. As Willon strolled into view, Seraph tightened her hands on Rinnie and Lehr. She saw Jes take Hennea's hand, and, finally, Hennea and Tier held hands. As soon as they did so, Seraph felt it happen. Just as Hennea had told her it would, a connection snapped between her and the other five Ordered who stood in front of the Shadowed. In so much, the Lark ring allowed her to stand in for their missing Order.

“I mean you no harm,” said Willon, stopping a dozen feet from them. He was young, Seraph saw, with dark hair tied at the nape of his neck. There was a bruise on his forehead, and he moved stiffly: Seraph took pleasure in knowing he had not come out of the battle with Hinnum unwounded.

“Tier,” he said. “You are a Bard, you know I speak the truth. I've never wanted to hurt you. I only need your wife to
fix the Ordered gems so that they will work for me—or, better still, give them to me and show me how it is done. I'll leave you in peace until the end of your children's children's days—my word on it.”

“We are Travelers,” said Lehr, in a growl that sounded as if it could have come from his brother's mouth. “We cannot let the Shadowed go free.”

Willon threw up his hands. “The Shadowed, the Shadowed. The Shadowed died five centuries ago, a fool who was trying only to stay alive, and so he drained the life from everything else. Killing all those he cared about to preserve what was worthless without them. I am not like that. Tier, you know me. I wouldn't do something like that. I enjoy a challenge, Tier, I enjoy a song in the evening. I'm not like the Shadowed King.”

“Perhaps not yet,” said Hennea. “But he wasn't always the Unnamed King either. He was a good man who worried for his people. He saw a way to ensure that his kingdom would prosper.”

“He killed them,” said Willon. “He destroyed his kingdom. I would never hurt anyone.”

“Tell that to Rufort,” said Rinnie.

Seraph squeezed her hand hard. She did not want the first attack to settle on her daughter.

“Your guardsman and the dog were killed by Ielian. I did not command their death.”

“Colbern,” said Jes, in a voice so soft and low it beat upon Seraph's ears like far-off thunder. “A whole town died to feed you.”

“They were nothing,” he said. “No one I knew. No one you knew.”

Seraph felt Lehr take a breath, and this time
he
received her warning squeeze.

“What of Mehalla?” asked Seraph. “My daughter, whom you killed.”

The affability fell off Willon's face as if wiped by a cloth. For a moment his expression was entirely blank. He started to say something—a lie, because he stopped when he glanced at Tier. “Mehalla was a mistake,” he said.

“I don't think so.” Seraph kept her voice soft and pleasant. “I think you killed my daughter, watched her die for almost a
year, then came to my home and told us how sorry you were for her death.”

“You will be sorry for her death,” said Tier. “For her death and for all the dead you have caused since you became the Shadowed. When you take the Stalker's power, Willon, you become evil.”

“No,” he said. “You become powerful. You don't understand the good I can do, Tier. If I have the gems, if I can work all the Orders in the gems, I can heal, I can build, I can raise cities or even empires.”

“You could,” said Seraph. “But would you? Death follows you like maggots follow rot.”

“So, Tier,” said Willon, “do you let your
woman
do your talking now? Women should be taught to be silent while a man conducts business.”

“I would never say that, never even dare think that,” said Tier. “It might make Seraph angry. If
I
said it. But you'll not make her mad because she doesn't care what you think. Without the Stalker you are nothing.”

Seraph felt the power Tier poured into his words and saw Willon take a step back. She also felt herself regain control of her instinctively hot reaction to Willon's words.

“You killed my daughter,” Tier said, his voice as hard and cold as Seraph had ever heard it. “I will not bargain with you.”

“I didn't mean to,” Willon said. “She wasn't meant to die.”

“No,” agreed Hennea. “She was meant to stand here with us, so that we could destroy what you will become.”

“She stands here anyway,” said Seraph softly. “To watch you
die. Sila-evra-kilin-faurath!
” She said the word that had killed the troll, heard it echo in the streets of Colossae.

Willon staggered back, but he was no troll who was used to his natural magic immunity to stand still under the word of power, and Seraph had no vast store of magic to draw upon, as she had drawn upon the wards of her home. She hurt him, but he did not die.

Willon licked the blood off his lip. “Stupid Traveler bitch,” he said, spittle flying from his mouth. “Shut up. Just shut up. If you would be quiet, it would all be arranged. Your family would be safe. Why won't you just shut up?”

“Because you aren't worth listening to?” said Phoran laconically, and much too closely. She couldn't take her eyes off Willon to look, but he'd left his safe place near the buildings—and if he'd left, surely Toarsen and Kissel were not too far behind. She should have gotten his promise rather than let Phoran distract her.

“You couldn't even keep Rinnie and me when you had us. What kind of wizard can't hold on to a child and a has-been drunkard like me?” Phoran asked.

If Seraph hadn't had her shielding ready, Phoran might not have lived to regret those words. The magic Willon threw at the Emperor was strong, and Seraph felt her hastily redirected shields begin to give beneath it. Then Hennea's magic aided hers and turned Willon's attack aside.

“Now, Tier,” Seraph heard Hennea say.

“Lynwythe,”
Tier said.

“Lynwythe,”
he said, and hoped something would happen.

It wasn't at all what he expected. As soon as the words left his lips, Rinnie's and Hennea's hands disappeared, as did Willon. The familiar weight of his lute was gone as well. Tier was alone.

He stood in a long, wide room with walls, ceiling, and floor all of dove grey and strangely featureless, as if someone merely thought about a room, rather than a real room.

Instinct made him want to return to his family—but Hennea and Hinnum had both thought his speaking of that name was the only possible way to defeat the Shadowed. He disciplined himself, looked around, and began walking.

His sturdy boots left marks on the featureless floor: not quite footprints, just a marring of the surface where the hard edge of his heels touched down. For a moment he felt ashamed, embarrassed that he, a farmer, should dare tread such hallowed halls at all, let alone mar the floors.

He stopped and took a deep breath. “I do not belong here,” he said in a more pleasant tone than he felt like using. “I know it, as do you. However I doubt a few marks on the floor are going to bother you much. I am a Bard, sir. I know how to influence people—and I know when someone tries to influence me. I'll thank you to stop.”

No one replied, but the feeling that he ought to be cringing and scuttling forward on hands and knees because of his great inadequacies left. Conscious of the danger his family was in, he walked quickly forward. Though there was nothing in the room that he could see, he felt this was the direction he must walk in.

“Why did you call My name, Bard?” The voice was deep and rich.

Tier stopped walking and turned to face the god who'd appeared next to him without a sound or any warning, just his words in a rich bass that part of Tier could not help but want to hear in song, just once.

There was not much else impressive about him. He appeared to be a man a little shorter than average and slight of build. His hair and eyes were as dark as Tier's own.

“Why do you hesitate, Bard?” He said with a small smile that sent chills down Tier's spine. This was not the Weaver. “Do you seek to form lies that might please Me?”

“No,” answered Tier truthfully. “It just occurred to me that I'm not certain what the real truth is. The simple answer is that we only had the one name.”

“So you called upon Me because you could not call upon My brother? Is there another answer?”

Tier decided to trust his instincts. “I think the barrier the Weaver created limits His ability to work in this world. I think He has interfered all that He can already. If we'd had both names, we would have called upon the Weaver.” He took a deep breath. “And we would have failed. The Weaver can do no more to help us.”

The Stalker raised his hands. “And you think that I will? Now when My servant, My slave has loosened the bonds that hold Me? He will not have to take many more Orders before I am able to do whatever pleases Me.”

“He is not Your servant, nor Your slave,” said Tier. “He is a thief who snuck into Your prison and stole Your power without so much as a by-your-leave.”

“Even as you have called My Name, Bard, so I must answer like a dog answers the call of his master.” The words were bitter and angry, but neither emotion was reflected in the Stalker's face or voice.

“While we speak my family faces the Shadowed on their own,” said Tier, then sucked in a breath.
You can do better than this,
he thought. “I can only apologize for my discourtesy. Offending You is the last thing I wish to do. We need Your help to defeat the Shadowed.”

“Indeed,” said the god. “What will you give me for this help? Who will you sacrifice? Your wife? One of your children? The Emperor, perhaps?”

“I will not,” Tier said, his blood turning to ice in his veins. “But I will give you myself.”

“Will you?” said the god, his voice hushed. He reached up to cup Tier's chin in his hands.

Pain snaked down Tier's spine, and he heard himself cry out. Nothing, not even Telleridge's hammer slamming down on his knees, hurt so badly. He fell to the ground, and the god knelt with him, keeping that gentle touch that rent and tore without a physical wound.

“Pull away, Bard,” said the Stalker. “Pull away, and the pain will stop.”

Tier closed his eyes against the voice, pull away and lose any chance for victory. He could not, would not do it.

In the end the god released His hold and stood. “If I could do something about the thieves who take My power without asking, I would have long ago. There is nothing I can do.”

“I am a Bard,” whispered Tier, curled in a sweating ball on the clean, cold floor. “I can tell when You lie.”

For the first time, Tier saw honest emotion on the face of the Stalker: anger. “You overstep yourself, Bard. I am the Lord of Death and you are in My realm.”

“Binding the Orders to the gems hasn't worked to loosen the veil that keeps you imprisoned,” said Tier a little desperately. It sounded like truth to him, and he found the reasons why. “I think that if they had loosened, You would already have destroyed Willon yourself. Hinnum told me that You are not evil. Surely what the Shadowed does with Your power offends You.”

From somewhere he found the strength to sit up, though his muscles were still twitching, waiting for more pain.

“If your wife destroys the gems without freeing the Orders, it will loosen the barrier,” said the Stalker.

“Willon wants my wife to clean the spirit from the gems so that he can use them all,” Tier told him. “He knows about the Guardian Order. If my wife does not show him, he will learn how to do it eventually. He has all the time in the world, because death has no hold on him. Eventually he will take all the gems and eat their power—the power that belongs to You and to the Weaver. Then he will destroy You both.”