Sun Wolf 2 - The Witches Of Wenshar (39 page)

Nanciormis glanced sharply from Sun Wolf to Starhawk and back to Tazey, and the glint in his dark eyes was an ugly one. But he turned, to summon Anshebbeth—and saw that the doorway where she had stood was empty. His brows plunged down over the hawk nose; he muttered angrily to himself, “Damned bitch . . . ”

Starhawk said quietly, “It’s a dangerous game you’re playing, Nanciormis. It’s you she’ll be hating next.”

The commander slewed around, as if at the sudden whine of a drawn sword. After a second’s shocked immobility he lunged to his feet, dragging Starhawk up by a handful of ragged shirt, his hand raised to knock her back against the plaster of the wall. And in that second, as when he had turned his head from the bleeding calf to see the demon grinning over his shoulder, Sun Wolf understood.

He thrust himself back against the wall and so to his feet, oblivious to the stabbing pain in his legs. “I wouldn’t,” he said, his hoarse voice like the faint scrape of metal on rock. Nanciormis stopped. For a moment he stood, even as his guards, half-risen around the fire at the commotion, waited immobile, fearing to tamper with a wizard even to aid their lord. The firelight glistened along the sweat on Nanciormis’ face.

Very softly, Starhawk said, “Magic isn’t the key, is it? I think that’s what I understood, what I realized and forgot during Kaletha’s summoning of the dead—that it didn’t have to be magic. And that’s what scared me—that if it didn’t have to be magic, it could be anyone. No wonder they call the time of storms the season of witches. Because the key isn’t magic. It’s hate.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He didn’t raise his voice loud enough for the guards, or for Kaletha, to hear.

“Don’t you?” Her cool gray gaze shifted to Sun Wolf, as if they sat in a tavern with all the evening ahead of them to converse. “You called Kaletha a fool when you first met her, Chief,” she said. “Why?”

Slowly, Sun Wolf said, “Because of her claim to be able to teach anyone magic—to make a mage of anyone. At the time I called her a fool because I thought she couldn’t. Now I think it’s because she could.

“Magic . . . ” He hesitated, groping for words to explain the core of fire in his soul. “Maybe magic does come, as Kaletha says, from the mind. But the mind is a deep darkness. Magic wells out of depths the nonmageborn can’t penetrate, can’t even comprehend. It’s as if there were a cover over that pit in their minds. In the mageborn, that pit is uncovered. We can control what flows out of it. That pit is where we descend, during the Great Trial.”

Nanciormis said nothing, but in his thick face, the dark eyes shifted.

While the Wolf was speaking, Kaletha had come over to them, in her blue eyes an intensity he had never seen there. In the gloom her hair seemed braided out of smoke. “Yes,” she said. “It is that cover I sought to remove.”

“But removing the cover wouldn’t give the person the ability to control what came out, would it?” the Hawk said. “Or what went in, to feed on the power there.” In the darkness of the hallways beyond the gaping doors, wind groaned like a soul in pain, and below the wind was a faint chittering that raised the hairs on Sun Wolf’s nape. Starhawk went on, “I’m not mageborn—for me, the pit of my soul is covered over. But in meditation, I’ve been able to listen to the sounds on the other side of that cover and to make guesses about what’s down there.”

Tazey said softly, “The demons . . . ”

“There are no . . . ” began Kaletha, but another moan of wind silenced her, and she did not finish. Under the cinnamon darkness of her looped braids her face turned chalky, as she faced, for the first time, the possibility that there were indeed matters with which she was not qualified to tamper.

“When we formed the Circle to call up the soul of the Bishop Galdron,” the Hawk said, casually leaning her back and her bound hands against the painted plaster of the wall behind her, “I could feel the power moving through it, from hand to hand. You, Egaldus, and Shelaina Clerk, a little, could summon power up out of that pit in your souls at will. I couldn’t—not until I sank into a trance from the incense and the chanting. Not until I lost myself in dreaming. And now I remember realizing that all the killings had happened in the deep of night, as if the mind that wielded the demons had to be asleep before they would go free. That meant that the killer might not know who he was, might not even be mageborn. The storms do that, too—make everyone less careful about controlling their rages. Later, when you said you’d never heard of the Great Trial, I knew it couldn’t have been used by the Witches. That meant they wielded power without having passed the Great Trial—that like you, they could teach anyone, mageborn or not, to wield that same power. I checked through the books myself, later. Nowhere did it say all the Witches were mageborn—but it did remark that many of the killings took place in the deep of night.”

“And just as many took place in the day,” Nanciormis snapped. His eyes went from face to face and then darted swiftly to the small knot of guards still warming themselves by the fire. He seemed to feel their curious glances and kept his voice quiet, as they had all kept their voices but for his single outburst of rage. “Everyone in Tandieras was certainly abroad and awake when I was attacked.”

“Of course,” said Sun Wolf. “You needed witnesses to the fact that you had nothing to do with the killings.”

Nanciormis’ face flushed. “I don’t have to listen to this . . . ”

“I want to listen to it,” Tazey said unexpectedly. In the tangle of lion-colored hair, her face was pale and set.

“The man’s mad—a tramp wizard who’s confessed himself in the pay of our enemies. You can’t—”

The girl’s voice was cold. “As Royal Princess of Wenshar, I can.” She turned back to Sun Wolf. “Go on.”

There was a moment’s deadly silence, during which Nanciormis stared at his niece with hate in his dark eyes—hate, and considerable surprise.

“That must have grated on you like a broken tooth, mustn’t it?” the Wolf said, his hoarse voice low. “Knowing you were born of the house that had ruled Wenshar and seeing it in the hands of a blustering drunkard whose parents were outlanders and slaves? Knowing it would pass to a scholar brat who could barely lift a sword, for all that he knew the language and customs of the shirdar as no king had for three generations? Osgard never trusted you enough to give you real power—he kept that for his friend Milkom. And if I’d been jumped coming home by a bunch of shirdar, I’d be a little careful, myself. You know, that attack on the road the night we met Osgard never did seem quite right to me, but as a Prince of an Ancient House, you’d be able to arrange with the shirdar to do it. And as the Prince of an Ancient House, you’d have known about the demons. And you’d have known there was no way it could be traced back to you.”

“Naturally it can’t,” Nanciormis said derisively, but his hand, still closed over Starhawk’s shirt, clenched nervously, a ripple of tendon and bone beneath the embroidered leather of the glove. “Because it was nothing to do with me. It’s a good try, my barbarian witch,” and the Wolf heard the shirdar inflection in the word, the meaning of one who copulates with devils to buy power. “But your attempt to discredit me will be no more successful than your attempt was upon my life. I certainly had no reason to hate half the people who died.”

“No,” Starhawk agreed calmly. “But the ones you did hate, you made damn certain Anshebbeth did as well.”

In the terrible silence that followed, Sun Wolf could hear the storm winds groaning like souls trapped forever in the haunted labyrinths of the palace. Within, eddy and counter-eddy scurried through the halls, stirring the murky curtains of dust on the air in the dark rooms where the painted frescoes stared open-eyed into the eternal night. He was aware of them now—a shrill skitter of sound, a skeleton flicker of light far down a corridor that none of the others seemed to see. Sweat crawled down his arms to the manacles and the chewed, dirty bandages on his wrists.

Starhawk went on, “We always thought it sounded like two killers, didn’t we, Chief? Not counting, of course, the attack Nanciormis faked on himself, which even at the time looked like just a means of getting you out of the way. But it was only one man wielding a weapon—a weapon that sometimes went and killed on its own.”

Kaletha’s lips moved; though she made no sound, Sun Wolf could see she whispered, “Anshebbeth . . . ”

Starhawk’s gray eyes went to her ashen face, and something softened a little in her voice. “She never was mageborn, was she? And you were never able to wake magic in her at a conscious level. That meant that she couldn’t see what was happening. But you broke that cover over the pit of her soul, nevertheless—and it was to her that the demons spoke. There was a cauldron in her of lust and hate that refused to look at itself . . . ”

“No.” The word came out strangled and dry, but Kaletha’s eyes suddenly swam with grief and utter horror. As if to convince herself, she stammered, “There are no demons. Only the mind, the powers of the mage . . . It was my destiny to teach, to help others realize . . . Dear God, what have I done?”

“Nothing.”
Nanciormis thrust Starhawk from him and turned angrily to face the Witch. “You’ve done nothing. Neither this bitch nor her demon lover can prove anything. They’re lying to save their skins.”

“How else would you explain Nexué’s death?” Starhawk asked, catching her balance easily. “You knew the signs before that time, though, didn’t you, Nanciormis? The signs the Witches used to look for, when one of their adepts was first becoming acquainted with those dark dreams of power and hate. Did she tell you of them? Was that when you went to her room on the balcony that first time, woke her out of that first dream of hate against me and the Wolf? She was the ideal weapon. You fed her lies and gossip, played on her love for Tazey, her fears for Kaletha’s safety, knowing Milkom would be riding with Galdron—Milkom who would never have countenanced your offer for Tazey’s hand. And you did offer, didn’t you, as soon as Incarsyn was out of the way?”

Nanciormis said nothing, but Tazey’s smoldering green eyes answered as clearly as words could have.

Starhawk went on, “At that point Incarsyn should have been safe. But you’d already planted the seeds of hate for him in Anshebbeth, with your gossip of what he’d said of witches, and how he’d treated Tazey. Whether any of it was true or not—the poor bastard always seemed pretty harmless to me and he had the decency to be kind to her—that hate couldn’t be erased. And besides, he still might have wanted the Kingship of Wenshar enough to have gone against his sister’s bidding.”

“Kingship?”
Tazey’s dark brows startled down over her eyes. “But I’m not the heir. Jeryn . . . ” She stopped. In the hush, Sun Wolf heard it again: the whispered chitter, a slither like a woman’s gown passing over stone. He looked quickly around the oval room, wondering if he had truly seen a shadow moving retrograde across the restless jitter of the flames.

Tazey’s face darkened with rage from which all fear of her uncle had departed. She said quietly, “You pig. No wonder he was afraid to take his sword lessons with you. No wonder he spent all his time hiding. No wonder he’d risk his life to get another teacher.”

He put a firm hand on her arm, and she wrenched away from it as if it had been smeared with dung. “You’re letting this man’s lies run away with you.”

“Am I?” Tazey said harshly. “I know my brother’s not a coward. He knew it, too, until you started telling him—and telling my father—he was one. Until Sun Wolf came, he would have done anything to prove it, like riding the horses you gave him which were too strong for him, or going out in the desert. You told him to do that, too, didn’t you?”

“As the last Prince of the Ancient House,” Starhawk said, “your marriage to her would have made you the logical heir, when the inevitable accident finally did happen. But I’m sure you know that.”

“What I know,” Nanciormis said, “is that you and this man, by his own confession, were sent as agents from Kwest Mralwe to spread confusion and dissension in Wenshar, and now you have succeeded beyond even the King-Council’s wildest hopes. You have shattered the alliance between the shirdar lords and the Lord of Wenshar; you have discredited me, the only man capable of ruling in the stead of that pathetic sot on the throne.”

Furious, Tazey lashed out at him. With a warrior’s quickness, he caught her wrist before her palm connected with his face. His grip like steel on the slender, browned flesh, he went on softly, “You have spoiled all chance for the only logical union that would save the kingdom.” He turned his head back to look at Sun Wolf. “You’ve earned your pay well. As for that slut Anshebbeth . . . ”

He looked around. The guards, who had been huddled in low-voiced conversation over their fire, looked up now, as if at some sound. Their faces, male and female, bearded and unbearded, were drawn and strained in the jittery light, their eyes darting nervously from door to black and gaping door. Neither Kaletha nor Anshebbeth was anywhere in the room.

Starhawk’s face went white under the bruises. “She’s gone after her.” She twisted past Nanciormis like a cat through a half-closed door and started for the rectangle of peaty darkness. “Kaletha!”

Furious, Nanciormis caught her arm, and flung her back against the wall with all his strength. With the nearness of the demons like acid on his nerves, Sun Wolf lunged at him, kneeing him in the groin even as Nanciormis twisted to avoid it. The commander went down, white-faced with pain, and Sun Wolf made a dash for the empty eyepit of darkness.

Galvanized into belated action, the guards were upon the Wolf like a dog pack, bringing him to the stone floor even as he writhed and kicked against their grip. A boot connected with his ribs, and he felt at least one break, stabbing like a knife in his side. He twisted in time to catch another brutal kick on the outside of his thigh and heard the sharp whine of drawn steel, and Nanciormis’ voice, thick with pain and rage, yelling “Kill him!”

Sun Wolf turned his head as much as he could in time to see Starhawk drop through the grip of the single man who held her, somehow grab his knee with her still-bound hands and rise again to dump him backward. Her roundhouse kick broke the wrist of the woman guard whose sword was sweeping down toward Sun Wolf’s neck. The weapon went ringing, the guard cursing in pain as others dragged Starhawk back and Tazey’s voice sliced through the confusion. “I forbid it! Let them up!”