Skull Gate

Robin Bailey

 

For Diana,
 

all the loves of all my lives.

 

 

 

 

Chapter One

 

The barest sliver of a crescent moon floated peacefully over the sleeping city of Mirashai. Soft golden was its color, but it shed no light on the broad, paved streets or gloomy alleys that laced Korkyra's ancient capital. An enigmatic smile in the dark sky, it captured the eyes and imaginations of the usually alert palace sentries. They leaned on their pikes, inhaled the gentle salt breeze that blew inland from the Calendi Sea, and composed poems for each other.

They did not see the shadow that slipped over the palace walls. It dropped soundlessly into the royal courtyard and crouched behind the queen's favorite roses. It studied the garden, noting where the guards were, where a patch of gravel might turn noisily underfoot, where a tree or bush or shadow might provide cover as it made its way to the garden's far side.

It started off, moving phantomlike among the unwary sentries. As it ran, a stray moonbeam fell upon its face, lending glitter to dark eyes. A black mask hid any other features.

A guard coughed. The intruder snuggled in the shadow of an orange tree and peered around. He had not been spotted. He moved on, swiftly, silently, and came to a door.

Its cracked wooden surface and rusted hinges betrayed the antiquity of Korkyra's palace. There was no lock; in troubled times it was barred on the inside with an oaken beam, his sources had warned. But finally, the nation was at peace. He expected no bar.

Putting his shoulder to the wood, he pushed. There came the faintest creak, inaudible to the sentries. Still, he took no chances but reached beneath his cloak, extracted a sealed pot of oil from the pouch on his belt. When the seal was broken, he carefully collected the wax fragments and returned them to the pouch, leaving no evidence of his passage.

He smeared the pot's thick contents around the edges of the door and into the rusty hinges. When he tried the door again, it eased open without complaint. He slipped inside.

There were no lighted sconces in these seldom-traveled levels. Darkness was utter, intimidating. He took a breath, felt for the wall, and hurried on, counting his steps carefully.

Somewhere ahead he'd find a passage and a way to the western tower. His hand found a niche and a basin of water, once herb-scented, now quite torpid. He allowed a faint smile. Ten steps more to the passage.

He made his way stealthily. Most of the halls he traversed were dark, a few dimly lit by weak, slow-burning lamps. Once, a squad of soldiers passed; he heard their heavy footfalls and hid in a side passage until they were gone.

A winding stairway carried him to the next level and another black corridor. He crept along toward a distant brightness, the royal passage, illuminated by a hundred lamps and torches. There, he would find another stair ascending into the western tower.

He would also find a guard, so his sources informed him.

Several strides from the royal passage, he stretched flat on his stomach. The stone tiles were cold even through his tunic. He crawled to the end of the darkness. Face close to the floor, he peered into light.

A gleaming silver plate hung behind each lamp, reflecting the firelight, turning the hall into a place of burnished brilliance. The corridor was wider than he expected, the ceiling high and vaulted. Frescoes decorated the upper reaches. The floor was a chessboard of pink-and-white marble.

He glanced right. That way led to the throne room and other parts of the palace. He glanced left. At the hall's far end was a small, arched doorway and beyond, a stair mounting into darkness.

By the door, a guard stood rigid, a veritable mountain of muscled flesh. His right hand gripped a huge iron-tipped lance; his left rested on the haft of a wicked double-bladed axe, which hung from a strap on his weapon belt. Polished metal rings sewn to his leather armor shone brightly.

The intruder crept back into darkness and stood. He unlaced his cloak, let it slip to the floor, and removed his mask. Gloved fists rubbed furiously at eyes until they burned. He opened his tunic to the waist. In a wrist-sheath, he wore a short, thin-bladed dagger; he reached up his sleeve and loosened its catch-strap.

Then, in a low and rasping voice he began to sing an old tavern song. He slurred the words, made a shambles of the proper melody. He sang softly at first, then louder.

He scuffled noisily into the brighter passage, set a weaving course for the stairway.

The guard snapped alert at first sight of him. The lance swung down. Two eyes glared suspiciously from beneath a helmet rim. “Who's there?"

The intruder flashed a big, disarming grin. He reached for the tapestried wall to steady himself and took another wobbly step. “Gon' sing for the queen,” he announced boisterously. “Sing a little song for the queen, yes sir!” He cracked out another verse, grinning, wobbling.

The sentry frowned with stern disapproval, leaned the lance against the wall, and bore down on him. “You're drunk, sir,” the guard declared. “Find another place to sing before you wake Her Majesty."

“Gon' sing for the queen.” The guard bent near. With feigned carelessness, the intruder tripped on his own heel and pretended to fall. Reacting by well-intentioned instinct, the unwary guard reached out to catch him.

The sleeved dagger lashed out, bit deep, straight into the guard's unprotected throat. The intruder twisted the blade and jerked, severing the windpipe. A gurgling rush of air was all that came of the man's attempt to scream. He crumpled, quickly dead.

Hastily, the intruder cut a strip from the dead man's cloak and stuffed it in the gaping wound to prevent more blood from spilling on the tiles. Too much of the telling crimson already stained the floor; he mopped it up with the rest of the cloak. Someone might happen by. A missing guard could be explained by a dozen things—drink, women, nature's necessities—but blood told a more chilling tale.

Seizing the body by the heels, he dragged it back into the dark passage he had emerged from. No one would come that way until morning. He recovered his own cloak and made for the stair.

Narrow stone steps wound higher and higher. He felt the wall constantly as he ascended. There were lamps on the walls, but no light in them. The only illumination came from two small windows whose wooden shutters had been left open. A faint, pale moon grinned as he passed them.

At the top of the stairs he found a short corridor and a single door. On noiseless feet he crept to it, loosening the short sword in the sheath he wore strapped to his thigh. Slowly, he drew the weapon out.

On the other side of the door the High Queen of Korkyra slept with her lone guardian. His gloved hand pushed on the smooth, polished wood. He had been paid well for this night's work.

It was time to earn his money.

 

Frost sat on the edge of the high window and stared at the moon. The stone was cool against her bare buttocks. An easy wind rustled the scant nightshirt, her only garment. She sighed, and her small breasts heaved gently under the thin material. She breathed the salt air, smelled the rich odor of flowers from the garden far below.

She closed her eyes. The night was full of ghosts and bad memories. She imagined she could hear the sea waves as they roared upon the shore and shook the vessels anchored in the harbor. The sound of breakers and thrashing foam played in her mind, and she thought of a little girl who once stood among the rocks at the ocean's edge calling in a tiny voice for the wind and tempest that came at her command.

She drew a deep breath and sighed again. It was on such nights as this that she had worked her wildest magics and bent the elements to her will. How she had rejoiced in the energies that surged within her, forces that rose, bursting free like an arcane and potent song! She recalled all the sensations: the crackling on her skin, the immense gulf that opened in her mind, from whose dark depths had sprung the power she had wielded so effortlessly.

But that was long ago. Now, her witch-powers were gone. Her sorceress-mother had closed that gulf forever, cursed her daughter with a dying breath and stripped away all vestiges of her eldritch talents.

Frost told herself it no longer mattered. She didn't miss the magic. She had been much younger in those days, a very different person, and a little girl
.
Such things easily captivated little girls, and they never saw the dark price their souls would eventually pay. Still, she remembered ....

What had become of that little girl at the ocean's edge?

The Calendi Sea was only two miles away. She seldom went there anymore. The blue, crashing waters always brought back memories of Esgaria and the place where she grew up by the shore. She couldn't bear those memories anymore or the nightmares they so often brought.

Tonight, though, it was no nightmare that kept her from sleeping.

She looked up at the pale moonlight and the dim silver stars that peppered the sky. A low, moaning wind chased a wisp of hair from her eyes. She cast her gaze over the towers and minarets of Mirashai. In a far-off window, a candle flickered and went out.

“Time to go,” she whispered to herself. It was almost a sigh. She looked across the room to the queen's silken draped bed. Aki no longer needed her. The war with Aleppo was over. Korkyra was at peace.

She had found friends, made a respectable place for herself here. Why it wasn't enough, she couldn't tell. But it wasn't.

“Time to go,” she whispered again. The increasingly sedentary life of Aki's court left her too much time to think, too much time to brood.

What would Aki say? For over a year Frost had stood by the little queen's side as champion and guardian. Aki had given her authority not only over the palace elite guard, but also over most of her personal advisors.

Frost shook her head and turned her gaze back to the night sky.

Aki was young. Too young to bear the responsibilities of a crown, Frost mused. She should have had a longer childhood, a chance to play and be a young girl. All that was lost now, thrown over for a golden circlet.

She remembered how the young queen had watched as her father's murderers, Aleppan spies, were put to death in the traditional Korkyran manner. Aki never flinched as the two men were hanged screaming by their feet and their wrists cut. Even as the dust soaked up the red blood, she set the crown on her own head, and all the armies hailed her as their rightful ruler.

Frost had been a soldier then, a common mercenary.

A cool gust fluttered her short nightshirt and startled her from her reverie. She yawned. Her own bed, less ornate than Aki's, waited in a corner near the door. The deep cushions beckoned. She was bone-tired, but not yet ready for sleep. She hugged her legs close, leaned her head on bent knees. A heavy strand of hair hid her face.

Time to go
, she told herself again. She smiled faintly and closed her eyes.

A sudden stir in the air brought her out of a light doze, a gentle draft that brushed the wrong side of her body. She looked up and caught the dim flash of metal, heard the ripping of bedclothes. A shadow moved beside her bed.

She rose silently to a crouch on the windowsill and leaped.

Then, too late, she remembered the moon. Her shadow raced before her, alerting the intruder. He whirled, dodged her outstretched arms. With a bitter curse, she landed in a heap on the bed, sprawled among the thick blankets and cushions, her back an inviting target.

From the corner of her eye she saw the blade rise. She twisted furiously. The point bit deep in the mattress, barely missing her ribs. Again the weapon flashed. She threw herself aside, half-tangled in the shredded quilts, and lashed out with her feet.

Her foe grunted and crashed to the floor. She scrambled from the bed, listening in the dark, hoping for the clatter of his blade on the uncarpeted stone tiles.

That sound never came. She peered into the blackness; was the intruder invisible? Did he have some spell or charm that prevented her from seeing or hearing him? Or was he just good at his craft? She swore after this to keep a lamp lit, no matter what the hour. The damned darkness swallowed everything.