The Dreaming Hunt (57 page)

“What of his men?” the voice asked sharply. “Did they survive?”

“Both soldiers resurrected, telling wild tales of Merr rising up out of the water in silence to drag them under and kill them.”

“Thank the Lady,” the voice said in unquestionable relief.

She frowned. Looked up at the tower looming over her. It was old, the stones worn at the edges with weather and time. Symbols, so faint she could barely see them, covered the entire surface of the tower. She did not recognize any of the symbology, and as quickly as she looked at what seemed to be letters and words that might make sense, understanding slipped away from her. She felt the beginnings of a headache as she squinted at the markings.

Was the tower native to this place? It clearly predated the coming of Joubert Dupree to this land to claim it for Koth. Who had built it, then? It did not look lizardman in construction—their structures tended to be low, domed, and plain. Besides, why would they build anything on land?

“Who built this place?”

“I did. Or rather I rebuilt it here after it was dismantled and smuggled here stone by stone.”

“I ask again. Who are you?”

“Apparently, I am the ghost in the tower.”

“Do you—did you—have a name?”

The voice answered scornfully, “Of course.”

“May I come in?”

“I don't know. You can try, I suppose. But be careful. The tower can be touchy.”

The tower was in some way sentient? Eyebrows raised, she moved forward cautiously. Very slowly, as nonthreateningly as she could, she stepped across the threshold into a small, round room, ringed by a stone staircase following the curve of the wall. A man sat in a carved, upholstered chair with a high back and padded arms beside a barren, dark hearth.

She moved cautiously toward the matching chair and caught her first full-on look at the man. And gasped. “Gregor? Is that you?”

“I cannot really say. Sit. I'm sorry I have no food or drink to offer you. Apparently, I have no need of either in my current state.”

“What state is that?”

“I do not actually know. I was hoping you could tell me.”

“Are you dead?”

“Don't know.” He held out a hand. “Can you touch my flesh?”

She reached out and grasped his hand. It was warm and strong and vital. She slid her fingertips up his wrist. “A pulse beats in your veins, and your flesh has mortal substance.”

“Hmm. I guess I'm not a ghost, then. That was my best guess.”

“Why have you not gone back to your home?” she demanded. “Or to Dupree to let the governess know you live?”

He made a sound akin to a laugh, but a thousand times more bitter. “There's a small problem with that. You see, every time I attempt to leave this tower, I die.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It would be easier just to show you.” Beltane rose from his chair and headed toward the open doorway she'd just entered. He spoke over his shoulder. “For what it's worth, I have tried every means I can think of to kill myself inside this tower, and nothing works.
Nothing
.”

He staggered as he got close to the door. Another step had him groaning in agony, gripping his belly. From between gritted teeth, he said, “I have not dared to actually cross the threshold as long as there was no one here to help me experiment. But if you would indulge me…”

“Anything. What do you need from me?” She rose in concern and moved over to support his elbow.

“Pull me back inside if this does not go well.”

She frowned. “If
what
does not—”

He took one more step, his foot landing outside the doorway on the soft sand.

Without warning, Gregor collapsed. His face went slack, his breathing stopped, and the color drained from his face instantly. Shocked, she grabbed at his shoulders and rolled him onto his back to administer healing to him. She fumbled frantically in her pouch for a life potion, but as she did so, he blinked awake and stared up at her.

“Am I fully within the tower once more?” he rasped.

She glanced at the threshold. His feet lay just inside the doorframe. “Yes.”

“And I live once more. Somehow, my spirit is tied to this cursed tower. As long as I remain within it, I live. But the moment I set foot outside, I die.”

“I will bring healers to this place. We will figure it out. A ritual to separate your spirit from the tower's.” It sounded strange even to her ears. But stranger things had happened before. Magic followed rules known only unto it. Particularly very old magics, which seemed to be what powered this strange edifice.

“No. No healers. Not yet.”

“Mages, then. To study the magic and how you are bound to it.”

“No. Nobody.”

“Why not?”

“Assassins were sent to murder me. I can only assume that as soon as their failure is known, they will return to finish me off. Before I let anyone know I live, I would know who sent the killers to my doorstep.”

“I believe I know who it was. All four of the sitting Dupree landsgraves were victims of assassination attempts on the same night.”

Beltane lurched. “What happened? Did they all survive?”

“Delphi survived the attack with the aid of a spirit warrior tied to her family. Talyn escaped, but does not return to Dupree. Leland…” She trailed off. Gregor and Leland had been close friends over the years, bound by the shared loss of their wives and by similar codes of honor and care for their subjects.

She continued grimly, “Leland did not survive. Nor did he resurrect. He has passed beyond the Veil.”

“Ahh, stars. Not Leland,” Gregor moaned. “He was the best of us all.”

She helped the grieving man to his feet and led him over to his chair. They sat for some time, Gregor's quiet grief the only sound intruding upon the deep silence of the tower.

Eventually, he said heavily, “And whoever ordered my assassination thinks he succeeded in permanently removing me, as well.”

“Correct.”

“We all know it was Anton who ordered these assassinations,” Gregor declared.

“That would be my assumption, as well,” she replied.

“I gather Anton has not been captured?”

“Correct. The Coil is powerful enough to protect him for as long as he cares to remain in hiding.”

“Not to mention, many nefarious souls owe him favors above and beyond the reach of the Coil,” he added bitterly.

“The spoils of a long and profitable career as a corrupt governor,” she agreed.

“Tell me something, Ceridwyn. Why did you turn over your journals to Kodo? Why not keep them to yourself and blackmail Anton? You could have squeezed him for every copper he was worth. You could have had all the wealth, all the power—stars, you could have been governess if you played your cards right.”

Her spine stiffened. “You do not know me very well if you think those things matter to me more than honor.” She didn't bother to tell him she'd actually turned down the position of governess.

He waved off her indignation. “I mean no insult to your honor. You have always been the power behind the throne. You were the voice of reason whispering in Anton's ear when he would listen to no one else. The colony owes you a tremendous debt of service. What I am asking is whether you turned over those journals because you are a great friend of the Empire or because you have no great love for it.”

She sat back hard in her chair, her shoulder blades slamming into the cushion at her back. That was blunt of him to come right out and ask where her loyalties lay. It was unlike Gregor, who was usually the soul of subtlety and discretion. But then, this man was trapped in a magical tower and thought to be dead by all. He had very little to lose at this point. And it was not as if he could leave this place, go to the authorities, and accuse her of treason.

She shrugged. “Anton has no honor.” It was not a direct answer to his question, but it was as much as she could afford to give him.

“I gather, then, that you serve honor over the Empire. By which I assume you also mean you serve your people before you serve Koth.”

He was not wrong, but she was shocked to hear him state it aloud.

“The thing about being locked up in a tower alone for several months is that it gives a man plenty of time to think. Too much time.”

When he did not continue, she asked, “And what have you been thinking about, Gregor?”

“The past. The future of Dupree and Haelos.”

“Have you reached any conclusions?”

“I have. If the people of this land are to live and prosper, they must throw off the yoke of Koth, and soon.”

She stared at him, stunned. Never in her life had she heard anyone voice open treason.

He grinned lopsidedly at her. “What does it matter if I speak treason? I'm already dead.”

True. But still.

“Will you tell the authorities where I am now? Have me dragged from this tower to my death?”

She answered slowly, “No, my old friend. I will not. Your secrets are safe with me.” In a badly needed change of subject, she asked, “What is this place?”

“Just some old tower.”

“It's obviously deeply magical. Its healing properties could be of huge value to the Heart—”

“I need you to do me a favor, Ceridwyn. In honor of our many years of friendship.”

He was invoking their entire past, was he? “What favor might that be?”

“Tell no one about me. Nor about this place. Let us first find out what kind of poison killed me. I can tell you it was no ordinary poison. I've never felt the like. It was as if my entire spirit were ripped right out of me. Apparently, only remaining inside this tower keeps my spirit intact. Whatever that poison was, it
killed
me. As in permanent death. What kind of poison can do such a thing?”

She stared at him doubtfully. “I will ask my contacts within the Merr poisoner community if they know of a poison which does that.”

“And find out if there is a cure, mayhap? Help me, Ceridwyn.”

She nodded. “We will find a way to get you out of this place. In the meantime, do you need supplies? Food? Wine?”

“Those would be spectacular. I have not eaten since I fell into this place.”

“That was months ago! How did you not die of thirst or starve?”

“Like I said. The tower sustains me. It does not keep my stomach from feeling as though it gnaws through my spine, however.”

She stared at him in disbelief. What
was
this place? “I worry for your sanity, my friend.”

He smiled a secret smile. “I am far from alone in this place. Many spirits have apparently suffered my fate over the eons and are trapped here.” He hesitated and then confessed in a rush, “The spirit of my wife is somehow tied to this place. She is here. We have been catching up after our long years apart.”

Ahh. No wonder he was in no big hurry to leave this place. Their romance had been epic, almost to the point of being annoying at times, as she recalled. Absently, she agreed to his request to say nothing of his existence or of the existence of the tower. Until the mystery was solved, this tower of immortality was best kept secret from others who might find a way to use its power to their own ends—namely, Anton Constantine.

 

CHAPTER

28

Will had endured a lot of pain and misery in his unnatural union with Bloodroot, but nothing had prepared him for the agony he suffered now. His left forearm was broken where he'd caught a mace on it, his nose was smashed, and something was wrong with his left hip. He had to lean to the right and drag his left leg forward every time he took a step. And if he fell behind his friends, who were similarly bruised and battered, one of his Dominion captors whacked him across the back or shoulders with a heavy cane of some kind. Only his thick, boiled leather jacket kept his back from being a bloodied mess. He cradled his arm protectively against his belly and stumbled along in a red haze of pain as best he could. He thought he fainted a few times, for he'd woken up staring at Dominion jackboots twice as rough hands dragged him to his feet.

Blessedly, as dark fell, they'd stopped to make camp. But of course, his captors pointed at a fire pit other slaves were building and grunted that he must help build the fire and fetch wood from a stack on one side of the clearing. At least he wasn't being ordered to split logs with his arm the way it was.

He watched in dismay as more changelings in Dominion tabards poured into their camp over the next hour. Along with the onset of darkness came a sharp fall in temperature. Stars knew where his gear had gone, along with his blanket and bedroll, and he missed them as he shivered. A huge kettle of stew smelled heavenly, and his stomach ached with deprivation. He'd been allowed to stick his face in a creek earlier and drink his fill, but that did little to assuage his hunger. Easily two dozen new fur balls crowded around, talking and laughing with the crew who'd captured them. At least the mongrels thought they were dangerous enough and valuable enough to merit a substantial escort to wherever they were going. He took small satisfaction in that.

A young male, perhaps some sort of equine changeling, untied Rosana's gag and hands before passing her a bowl of something hot and liquid. Wow. How generous of their captors. They'd had nothing but quick stops to stick their faces in streams for the past two days.

Will rubbed his face as the gag was removed from his mouth and spat out the foul, greasy taste of the rag into the pine needles beside his boots.

“Eat,” the young changeling ordered.

Will had learned early on not to resist their captors. The porcupine changeling in charge backhanded any resistance into submission, be it from one of his own men or from one of the prisoners. Will sipped at the hot liquid that tasted vaguely like boiled boots. Why the Dominion hadn't killed them outright that first night, Will hadn't a clue. Why bother kidnapping them like this?