Shadow Magic (6 page)

When he finished they would not let him go, but showered him with praise and begged another of him. And so he sang the greatest lays of Alkyra for them, one after another, on into the night while the candles burned low in their sockets. When at last he ended his songs and bowed and slipped away, the guests shook their heads and gathered in quiet knots to speak of older things in low voices until the close of the eve was upon them, when they went their several ways.

Shortly after noon of the following day, Maurin picked his way across the courtyard of Styr Tel toward the stables. He was still not certain how he had gotten himself into this position. A clandestine meeting with a noble’s daughter was a good way for a Trader to get into trouble. Fortunately, Har was off with Tatia on the promised fishing expedition, and had been completely unsurprised to learn that Maurin was not inclined to accompany them. Otherwise, it might have been difficult to find an excuse to slip away.

The stables of Styr Tel were built in a corner of the courtyard. On one side they extended up to the outer wall, but on the long side there was a gap of six or seven feet between the stable wall and the fortifications. This had been partially roofed over, so that it was not clearly visible from the towers of the castle. It looked as if it would be popular as a trysting place, and Maurin’s uneasiness increased.

He rounded the corner of the stable to find Alethia waiting for him. Her hair was braided again, and she had tied the plaits back to keep them out of her way. The severe style emphasized her high cheekbones and the slant of her wide eyes. She held a rack of daggers in one hand: twelve of them, with green handles.

“I am so glad you came,” Alethia said as soon as she saw Maurin. “I was afraid you weren’t going to show up after all.”

“I almost didn’t,” Maurin admitted.

“Are you worried about getting into trouble with Father?” Alethia asked. “Don’t be; he will know exactly who to blame if he finds out. But if he does, you must promise to smuggle some pastry up to me after he locks me in my room. I don’t mind missing supper, but not Ceron’s pies!”

Maurin grinned back at Alethia. “But what if he locks me in, too?”

“Oh, Father would never do that,” Alethia said with mock seriousness. “You are a guest.”

“Then you have set my fears at rest,” Maurin said, and bowed with a flourish.

“Are you ready to start, then?”

Maurin nodded, and Alethia waved toward a second rack propped up against the wall of the stable. This one held red-handled daggers, and on closer examination they proved to be exceptionally well-made and balanced for throwing. Maurin tossed one in the air, enjoying the feeling of quality.

“They are good daggers, aren’t they?” Alethia said with some satisfaction. “Har brought them from Col Sador the last time he rode guard.”

“No wonder they are so well-balanced!” Maurin said as he rose, holding the rack. “Where is your target?”

Alethia nodded toward the end of the alley. Someone, probably Har, had fixed a large board in position against the stone of the outer wall. On it the square, circle, and diamond shapes were drawn roughly but clearly. Maurin nodded. For a few moments they took turns making practice throws, and Maurin found the red-handled daggers just as good as he had expected. Then the game began.

They flipped a coin for the first throw, and Alethia lost. Maurin stepped to the throwing line and, with the ease of long practice, brought his arm down. The dagger flew in a perfect arc, turning in midair to strike point-first at one of the four intersections between the three figures. Alethia nodded in appreciation and stepped forward to take her turn.

The green dagger placed itself perfectly in the next intersection, and Maurin raised an eyebrow in surprise. Alethia was better than he had expected, unless it had been a lucky throw. The game went on, and it soon became clear that Alethia was not going to be easy to defeat. Maurin was hardly a novice player, but Alethia matched his throws with an ease that surprised him, and she was no mean strategist.

They reached the final throw, and Maurin paused to study the board. The pattern of red and green was nearly complete. Carefully, he aimed and placed his last dagger. It flew true and fair, and Maurin smiled. The pattern of red was complete. Green could best it by completing its pattern, for Alethia had chosen a more difficult design, but her final dagger would have to be placed almost on top of Maurin’s last throw. If Alethia knocked the red dagger from the board, she would lose.

Alethia stepped up to the throwing line. She frowned slightly, then in a single, fluid motion she raised her arm and threw. The green dagger came to rest a hairsbreadth from the red, quivering slightly, and Alethia smiled.

“What a throw!” Maurin exclaimed in genuine admiration. “Har should have warned me. You have won, I think.”

“Har doesn’t like to admit that he can be beaten by his younger sister,” Alethia said, smiling.

“If you always throw like that, I can’t imagine why,” Maurin said. “Where do you get your skill?”

“I suppose it runs in the family; Father and Har are both very good. Besides, I have a lot of time to practice,” Alethia said. She looked at the board critically. “I must admit, this is as close to a perfect game as I have ever managed.”

“I would like to see you in competition,” Maurin said thoughtfully. “I don’t know ten men who could have made that last dagger.”

“You flatter me, sir,” Alethia said, sweeping him a dignified curtsey.

“No, it is true,” Maurin protested; then he saw Alethia’s grin. Together they walked toward the target. “We must have a rematch,” Maurin said as they retrieved the daggers.

“Not today, I am afraid,” Alethia said with some regret. “Mother and I are going down to the healer’s houses for our weekly visit. If I stay here to play another game, I’ll be late.”

“Then I suppose we must wait,” Maurin said. “Tomorrow, perhaps?”

Alethia nodded, smiling. “Tomorrow.”

The rematch was not held. Alethia was caught up once more in the whirl of preparations for the visit of the two lords, and she was barely able to snatch enough time to let Maurin know that she could not make it to their appointment. Maurin would have been disappointed if he had not been busy with Bracor and Har, going over and over everything that was known about the Lithmern. As it was, neither of the two found time for regrets.

A
LETHIA HURRIED DOWN THE
back stairs of Styr Tel, skirts lifted high to avoid catching dust on the green silk. She rather wished she could protect her slippers as well. They were new—Har had brought them back from his caravan journey—and she did not want dust and dirt to dull the spangles before the welcoming feast. Still, she supposed that neither Maurin nor the two great lords who had come to speak with her father would pay much attention to her shoes.

As she reached the foot of the stairs and turned toward the Styr kitchens, Alethia frowned. She had hardly seen Maurin, or her brother, since the two men arrived. It really was unfair of her father to monopolize them, no matter how worried he was about the Lithmern armies. Now that First Lord Gahlon and Lord Armin were here, she probably wouldn’t see any of them at all, except at meals.

The door to the kitchen swung open, cutting Alethia’s reflections short. She found everything in a predictable and unalarming state of chaos. She waved to Ceron, the head cook. He grinned broadly in response, but he made no move to leave the large kettle he was stirring. One of the assistant cooks came hurrying up.

“Anything we can do for you, my lady?”

“Mother sent me down to see if things were going well. She would have come herself, but she has too many details to see to upstairs.” Alethia did not mention that her mother seemed more apprehensive than usual about the evening. Isme’s hunches were known and respected by the members of the household staff. To allow her nebulous fears to be known would ensure a disaster, so Isme had reluctantly allowed Alethia to take her place for the customary visit to the kitchens.

Things seemed to be well under control. Alethia settled several small quarrels, checked the wine, and informed Ceron that he could begin serving upstairs in one hour’s time. The whole tour of the kitchens took only a few minutes, and she left quite satisfied. Now, if she could only convince her mother that everything was fine…

As Alethia paused in the hallway to dust off her skirts, she heard a muffled thumping in the courtyard outside. She turned uncertainly, and the noise was repeated. Frowning, she reached for the small side door that led to the yard.

The courtyard was unusually dark, though the sun had set only a few minutes before. Alethia peered into the shadows, wishing she had thought to snatch a candle. “Who is there?” she called, and stepped forward. Something moved on her left, and she half turned. At that moment a heavy cloak dropped over her head. She felt herself being grasped and lifted. Through the folds of cloth, she heard a hoarse chuckle.

Alethia fought and tried to scream, but the cloak hampered her movements and muffled her voice. She twisted, and for a moment she thought she would win free, but despite her struggles, she was picked up and thrown across a saddle like a roll of cloth. The pommel dug into her stomach, making breathing difficult.
Where are the guards?
Surely someone must have noticed the commotion by this time!

She felt the horse begin to move, and heard other hoof beats all around her. Gathering her strength, Alethia kicked and tried to slide from the horse’s back, but the rider who held her was strong. She kicked again and lost one of her slippers, but she heard the rider’s breath hiss as she connected. A moment later, something struck her head, and she lost consciousness.

Har sat beside his mother, watching his father pace the length of the study. The candles in the wall sconces flickered as Bracor passed back and forth in front of them, making shadows leap even more erratically than usual. Har wished his father would sit down; he was making everyone nervous.
Well, almost everyone,
he thought, glancing at his youngest sister. Tatia had taken over Bracor’s usual seat and, oblivious to the tension in the air, was playing happily with a paperweight and Bracor’s official seal.

“Where
is
Alethia?” demanded Bracor, for the seventh time at least. “This banquet is important. We can’t keep the guests waiting much longer, and Gahlon made a point of mentioning his desire to see her.”

“She knows how important it is, and she promised to be as pleasant as she could to First Lord Gahlon,” Isme said soothingly. “I’m sure she wouldn’t be late without a reason.”

Bracor stopped pacing and turned. “I know, Isme, but that girl finds the most unusual reasons!”

“I sent her down to make the kitchen visit in my place.” Isme frowned. “Though that was at least an hour ago…”

“Maybe she got distracted,” Har said.

Bracor rolled his eyes. “Go see if you can find her. And make sure
you
don’t get distracted!”

Har nodded, and rose. Tatia looked up from her play and said with round-eyed seriousness, “Something bad happened to ’Lethia.”

Isme’s frown grew more worried.

“Hush, brat,” said Har, aiming a swat at his youngest sister as he passed. The last thing they needed was for Isme to get as worried as Bracor already was.

Tatia ducked under the table to escape him and stuck out her tongue. Bracor bent to retrieve his erring offspring before she tipped the table over, and Har proceeded on into the corridor. Turning right, he headed toward the back stairs and practically tripped over Maurin.

“Where away?” the Trader asked.

“Alethia is wandering around somewhere, and Father is having fits, so he sent me to find her,” Har said. “You look splendid,” he added as Maurin fell into step beside him.

“Splendidly uncomfortable, maybe,” Maurin replied with a grimace. “Give me a nice, practical uniform over these any day. I can hardly move.” He indicated his tightly fitting garb of wine-red velvet and silver. A round silver clasp held his black cape at his left shoulder. On the clasp, a stylized shield, sword, cup, and staff intricately entwined with vines formed a circle around a lighted candle. Maurin did indeed look a splendid figure, and just as uncomfortable as he claimed.

Har laughed. “I hate to mention it, but that
is
a uniform. The dress uniform of a Captain of the House Guard of Styr Tel, to be precise.”

“What!”

“It was all I could find on short notice. Did you want to go to a formal banquet in caravan leathers? Quit complaining and let’s find Alethia before Father blows the roof off. Mother said she went down to the kitchen.”

They hurried down the stairs and through the passage below. Just before they reached the kitchen, Maurin paused. “Should that door be open?”

Har turned his head, and saw the door that led to the rear courtyard standing half ajar. “No. I’ll get it; you go on and see whether Alethia’s still in the kitchen.”

Maurin nodded and went on. Har walked over to the door and shoved it wide. “Allie?” he called into the shadowy dimness.

There was no response. With a shrug, Har stepped back inside. As he pulled the door closed behind him, something jammed. Letting go of the handle, he leaned over to examine the door frame, and the gleam of silver caught his eye. He shoved the door wide once more and picked up the object. It was a silver house-clasp, badly bent by his attempt to close the door, but not damaged enough to hide the crossed leafy branches at the center.

“Found something?” Maurin’s voice came from behind him.

Har held out the clasp. “It’s the badge of Styr Cisek, at Meridel.”

“What would one of Gahlon’s guards be doing—” Maurin began, then stopped abruptly, staring through the open doorway into the courtyard outside.

“—down here?” Har said with scarcely a pause. Leaning against the door, he swung it wider. Maurin pulled his black cape over the betraying silver of his borrowed uniform and slipped like a shadow into the darkness outside as Har continued, “I don’t know, but the badge undoubtedly belongs to one of them. Perhaps he had an overwhelming desire to sample our dinner, or maybe he came courting a kitchen maid. Still, he must be found; we cannot have such—” He broke off as the sounds of a scuffle came from the courtyard. “Maurin, have you got him?”