The Lore Of The Evermen (Book 4) (18 page)

“What about me?” Fergus said.

“I need you to go to Castlemere. Find the high lord and tell him what happened here. Tell him we’ll make sure the chain is
complete
, and then we’ll find him, wherever he is.”

“And me?” Tapel said.

Bartolo knelt. “Tapel, you’ve been brave beyond any
imagining
. You saw something suspicious and acted on it. If you hadn’t, we wouldn’t have known the chain was broken. I need you to go to your mother at the palace. She’s worried sick about you and needs to know you’re not hurt.”

“I want to come with you.”

Bartolo shook his head. “We’ll be setting a grueling pace. Those at the palace need to know, just like the high lord at the free cities. Now that we know about the danger, we can make sure the chain is functioning. Can you help me, lad?”

“I will.” Tapel nodded.

“You have your tasks. See to it!”

Bartolo had to use his head. He wished he were with Miro, who would soon be facing the enemy.

But Miro’s plan depended on support from the other houses.

Bartolo had his own part to play.

21

Green lights traveled through the lands of the Empire. Each tower sparked the next, from Samson’s Bridge through Carnathion to Ralanast, then from Ralanast through thick forest to Rosarva. The reflectors in Halaran sparked the tower at the Louan border town of Mourie before traveling on into Mara Maya itself. Green flared up at Sakurai, capital of Torakon, and then the fire passed along the chain to the Imperial capital of Seranthia.

Killian was alone in his private study when he heard a knock on the door. He looked up from the report in front of him, one of many in a thick pile, and called out, “Enter.”

A melder in a purple robe—one of those who replaced lost limbs with rune-enhanced metal and transformed the direst cases into avengers—walked hesitantly in. The robed man’s face was downcast, as if he were the bearer of bad news.

Killian’s eyebrows went up. He seldom spoke to the melders, other than to ensure they had what they needed for their arts.

“What is it?”

“Emperor, we’ve been keeping a watch on the device the
Alturans
placed in the High Tower.”

Killian’s heart missed a beat as he recalled that he’d entrusted the Alturan devices to his own masters of lore. “What of it? Come on, out with it!”

“The reflector . . . it’s shining. It’s very bright.”

“What color?” Killian said, though he knew the answer before it came.

“Green.” The melder licked his lips.

Killian’s hands clenched in frustration; he was barely conscious of his sudden tight grip on the paper in his hands. “Tell Lord Osker no one is to see me. No one! I need some time to think.”

The melder closed the door behind him, and Killian put his head in his hands. He finally stood and looked down at the reports and then swung his arm, sending the papers scattering over
the floo
r.

Altura had called, and they wouldn’t have called without need. Miro had been right all along: Sentar had targeted Ella’s homeland. Now Killian had to decide what to do.

Killian left the study and strode briskly to his personal quarters, sending clerks, stewards, couriers, and soldiers scurrying out of the way. They might interrupt him at his study, but they would leave him alone in his chambers. He entered his bedchamber,
closing
the doo
r behind him and slumping heavily onto the first seat he found, a long bench with curved legs.

Even if he left immediately, the Legion would take several weeks to reach Sarostar. Could Miro hold that long? Could Killian leave Seranthia’s defenses weakened?

Killian spent long moments running through the options in his mind. Looking down at the symbols on his palms, he saw that his hands were shaking.

The door opened and Killian glanced up in surprise. “I told Lord Osker . . .”

Carla entered the room, a bottle of amber liquid and two heavy-bottomed glasses in her hand. She smiled at Killian, but her eyes were creased with concern.

“I heard the news,” she said. “You have a difficult decision
to make
.”

“That’s an understatement,” Killian said.

Carla sat close to Killian on the bench and placed the glasses on a nearby side table. She pulled the cork from the bottle and poured two glasses of brown spirit while Killian stared at the floor.

“I think you need this,” Carla said, holding out a glass.

Killian shook his head. “What I need is to think clearly.”

“Killian, take it. I know you. I can tell the pressure is kil
ling you
.”

Killian took the proffered glass and swirled the liquid in the bottom, hesitating, and then finally he took a long sip, feeling the alcohol slide down his throat.

Not a regular drinker of spirits, he coughed and frowned when he tasted a strange note—mint?—but he assumed it must be a
flavor
of the drink. The warmth of the spirit spread throughout his chest, warming him, but it didn’t help him decide.

“What is this?” he asked.

“Petryan firebrand,” said Carla, smiling. “Don’t worry. I’m not here to pressure you; I’m just here to help. We all need a shoulder to lean on sometimes.”

“Altura . . . they need help. I know Miro; he wouldn’t request it without reason,” Killian said.

“What will you do?” Carla asked.

Killian suddenly felt tired. His eyelids drooped, and he felt sluggish, unable to think. He set his glass back onto the side table and regretted drinking the spirit.

Responsibility weighed on his shoulders. If he answered Altura’s call and left with the full strength of the Legion, he would leave Seranthia defenseless. If he took only part of the Legion, it might not be enough. If Killian stayed in Seranthia, there would be no one to challenge the powers of Sentar Scythran.

If he didn’t go, not only would he be dooming Ella and everything she loved, he would be giving his enemy a chance to gain a foothold that the Empire might never push him back from.

Killian made his decision. “I’m going to go,” he said. “My responsibility isn’t just to Tingara, it’s to the Empire as a whole.
I need
to show the houses I will defend their borders as staunchly as my own. For good or ill, this is what I’m going to do.” His voice strengthened as he spoke. “I’ll leave a force here, but I’m going to take the Legion to Altura.”

“I wish you hadn’t said that,” Carla murmured.

Everything happened very quickly.

Carla had a knife in her hand, and all thoughts of tiredness vanished as Killian felt adrenalin surge through his limbs. The knife was short, but silver symbols decorated the blade, and as Carla spoke an activation sequence, Killian knew it must be enchanted.

His mind whirled as he also saw a black paste smeared along the blade. Carla was taking no chances.

Carla lunged at him and Killian tried to dodge the blow, but she was fast and the knife scraped his arm, leaving a trail of dark poison. The runes on Killian’s skin flared brightly but the knife didn’t break the skin. Killian was surprised to see the blade still dark, as if Carla’s spoken rune had no effect at all.

Carla cursed and thrust again, but now Killian was more alert, and he warded her blow easily, grabbing hold of her wrist until she grimaced. Without thinking, Killian felt power surge through his limbs as he threw the young woman across the room. Carla crumpled against the wall, sending a shudder through the timber.

Killian came to his feet, confused, but knowing he was under attack.

Carla crouched on the floor, staring down at the knife in her hand and frowning. She glared at Killian, her eyes dark with malevolence.

Killian glanced at the empty glass on the side table. “You . . . drugged me?”

“How are you still moving?” she demanded. “They told me . . .”

“Who, Carla? Who is making you do this?”

She lifted her chin. “No one. It’s my choice!”

“Why?” Killian pleaded.

The door to Killian’s bedchamber opened.

Lady Alise stood in the doorway. With an acrobat’s agility Carla shot up, and her thoughts evidently turned to escape, for she lunged with the knife at Killian’s mother.

“No!” Killian cried.

Killian’s training at Evrin’s hands came to the fore, overriding all other thoughts, and he chanted runes in quick breaths. He pointed his fingers at Carla and felt the power well within him as symbols shone with blinding brightness on his hands. Twisted threads of blue lightning bathed his former lover before she could strike his mother. Carla writhed as the energy strengthened and thickened, ripping at her body until she screamed in agony. Finally, she
collapsed
on the ground and was still. Smoke rose from her clothes, and her eyes stared without seeing.

Killian dropped his hands.

“What have I done?” he whispered. “Mother.” Killian rushed to her side, stopping in surprise when Alise held him back, instead moving over to Carla and plucking the blade from her dead fingers.

Killian’s mystified eyes went from his mother, to Carla’s body, and back again. He crouched beside the young woman with the sharp nose and raven-black hair as the silence dragged out, but Carla was dead.

Alise drew in a shuddering breath. “I came as soon as I heard the news, but it seems she beat me to it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Look at the knife,” Alise said.

Killian tried not to look at Carla’s body as his mother handed him the knife. He expected it to be hot, burning with the power of enchantment. Instead it was cool.

As he held the knife out flat in his palm, Killian saw the
symbols
weren’t actual runes, they were mockeries of lore, and would do nothing at all. He’d heard Carla name an activation sequence, but the blade didn’t respond.

Alise took the knife back from her son, holding it by the hilt. She ran her finger along the black smear.

“Stop, the poison,” Killian cried, but then he stopped in
wonder
as his mother put her finger in her mouth.

“It’s only treacle,” Alise said. “I thought this might be when she made her move.”

“You knew?”

“I knew something, but not much, and no, I wasn’t certain. When I found an enchanted knife in her possession, along with two jars of strange liquid, one green and one black, then I had my suspicions.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I am sorry, but I did what I had to do. I had to let you
discover
her treachery on your own. If I’d said anything, it would have
created
a divide between us, and I would have showed my hand, leaving her and whomever she works for to find some other way to strike. No, don’t protest—you would have resented me, dear.
I h
ave been dealing with treachery a lot longer than you have. I was raised amid plots and whispered conversation, I am familiar with such intrigues.”

“Why her?” Killian whispered. Events slowly caught up in his mind. His eyes misted as he looked at the body of the woman he’d once loved.

“I replaced her enchanted knife with a normal blade, knowing she would likely not know the difference. I exchanged her liquids for others. Did you notice an unusual taste in the spirit? Something like peppermint? I had to find something green on short notice.”

Killian remembered the strange taste in the firebrand. “Bu
t why?
”

“Many reasons. You’re going to have to get used to this now. It’s a hard lesson, and I’m so sorry it had to come at this difficult time, from one you once loved. The only friends you can count on are those you know as well as you know yourself.”

Killian thought of Ella.

He returned his gaze to Carla’s body and then looked at his mother. He needed to be strong now, more than at any other time of his life.

Killian drew in a deep breath before speaking.

“Altura’s in trouble,” he said. “I’m going to help.”

22

Amber somehow managed to drink too much at dinner with
Grigori
Orlov and Sergei Rugar. Her head started spinning, and pleading fatigue, she had to leave the meal before the dessert course was served. It was unlike her; she thought she’d only had two glasses of wine.

She barely made it back to her chambers, collapsing fully clothed in her bed. The throbbing in her head filled her consciousness with dizzying lights, though her eyes were closed, and her mouth was dry, as if she’d spent a week in the desert.

Finally sleep took her, yet that night she had terrible nightmares. Her sleeping awareness told her someone was in her bedchamber, moving around, and Amber was completely and utterly helpless. She fought to wake herself, imagining her fingernails
pressing
into her palms and legs twitching, but knowing she made no movement. What was happening?

The nightmares finally went away, and Amber once more fell into darkness and the blessed unconsciousness of normal sleep. As light filtered in through the wooden slats of the window and touched Amber’s eyelids, she began to dream again; this time there was a hand, shaking her roughly.

Amber opened her eyes. It wasn’t a dream.

Her tongue was thick and her mind foggy.

“What . . . ?”

“Get up,” a voice said.

Amber struggled to make sense of what was happening. A
palace
guard pinched her shoulder painfully as he shook her.
Looking
past the guard Amber saw Lord Marshal Sergei Rugar rummaging around in her drawers. He upended her undergarments onto the floor before moving onto the next.

Amber tried to pull herself up and fend the soldier away but could only manage a weak movement. “What are you doing?” she gasped.

Several other palace guards in orange tabards stood watching Amber. She felt a terrible violation; this was her bedchamber, a place for her alone. She was the wife of the high lord of Altura!

“Let go of me!” She managed to sit up and push the soldier’s clawing hands away.

“Aha!” Sergei said triumphantly. He held up a pendant on a silver chain.

Amber’s heart finally began to pump, filling her lethargic limbs with much needed blood. She tried to stand, to make some sense of what was happening, but the guards pushed her back down to the bed, looming over her with menace.

“High lord approaching!”

The palace guards straightened, drawing back and saluting as High Lord Grigori stormed into the room.

“Well?” the high lord demanded.

“It’s the child’s necklace.” Sergei displayed the pendant.

“Dear Lord of the Earth,” the high lord breathed. He rounded on Amber. “Where is she? What have you done with her?”

Amber once more tried to rise from the bed—she still wore last night’s clothes and had slept on top of the blankets—but the palace guards again stepped forward and held her back, pressing down on her shoulders, keeping her seated.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Amber gasped. “I don’t even know what’s happening!”

“There’s more,” said Sergei. He held up a piece of paper. “High Lord, I think you should see this.”

Grigori snatched the note from Sergei and scanned it swiftly. Red splotches came to his cheeks as he read.

“Your ploy will not succeed,” the high lord said. He crumpled the note and threw it at Amber.

Amber struggled to make sense of events. She must have been drugged. Her mind was still clouded—she could barely think.

“I don’t know what you think I did!” Amber protested.

She picked up the crumpled piece of paper off the bed,
recognizing
the paper as her own. As she reformed the note, she felt her breath quicken. She’d been writing letters to Miro, and the handwriting matched her own, but this message was faked.

It was a demand for ransom, written in Amber’s flowing
cursive
. It proposed an exchange: the life of Katerina Orlov, the high lord’s daughter, in return for military support for Altura.

Amber looked pleadingly at the high lord. “This is not mine, and it also makes no sense. Why would I do such a thing? I’m not stupid, and I have a child myself. As you know, I wasn’t asking for aid for Altura. We’re simply asking the houses to help whoever calls!”

“Your motive is clear. If you thought this would work, you are gravely mistaken. No one will help your house now. Where is my daughter?” the high lord demanded.

Amber looked from one man to the other. “Sergei,” she said, “you know I wouldn’t do this.”

“Do not presume to use my first name,” Lord Marshal Sergei said coldly.

High Lord Grigori leaned over and shook Amber’s shoulders. “You thought this would get my help? Where is my daughter?”

“I don’t know!” Amber cried. “This evidence is false.”

“We intercepted your other letters,” the high lord said. “We’ve known the entire time you’ve been here. Do not try to lie. You’ve planned this from the beginning. Fortunately, Sergei is not as trusting as I am.”

“It isn’t true.” Amber fought the urge to sob, even as another part of her raged. Whoever had made this plot knew their business; the high lord’s wits appeared to leave him where his daughter was concerned.

“Lord Marshal, take her to the deep dungeons underneath the Borlag,” the high lord commanded. “Find out all you can. She knows where my daughter is. Do whatever it takes.”

Amber’s mind tried to grasp the ploy even as the palace guards picked her up, holding her roughly by the arms. Sergei’s men began to march her through the palace while servants looked on with wide eyes. Amber fought to defend herself and communicate her
innocence
, but her mind was refusing to clear, and she pinched herself to see if she was truly awake.

She was, and this nightmare wouldn’t end.

They weren’t gentle with her, and she stumbled more than once as the guards dragged her through the great hall to a part of the palace she hadn’t seen before. A heavy door requiring two men to open led down several flights of stairs. The stone grew colder and the air danker the further down she went. The walls became rough and moldy. The only light down here was cast by an occasional nightlamp. All else was shadowed.

Amber was aware of metal doors clanging open, and then she was in a dungeon, a terrible place where hoops of rusted iron stuck out of the walls, and individual cells were placed far apart from each other. This was a place where dark deeds were done.

The palace guards threw Amber into one of the cells, and her head hit the wall. The floor was slimy with mildew, and a wooden bucket in the corner was the only item in the cell.

“Leave us,” Sergei instructed.

As Amber looked with fear at the flaxen-haired, usually genial lord marshal, the palace guards retreated, leaving the two of the
m alon
e.

“I don’t understand,” Amber said, wincing as she touched her head. She wished she had something else to say.

“It’s simple,” Sergei said, suddenly flourishing his usual,
charismatic
smile.

Sergei waited until the last footsteps were gone. Amber
wondered
how a straightforward plan to enlist support could go
so wron
g.

“I’m sorry you got involved, but your arrival was too well timed not to use. You see, I plan to be high lord when Grigori is gone—he has no male children—and then he spoiled my plans by naming Katerina his successor.”

Sergei frowned, his face twisting with disgust. “Who would
follow
a woman? A female high lord? The very idea is repulsive. My plan is to remove two annoyances at once. I can get rid of Katerina, the spoiled monster, and at the same time I’ll make sure Grigori will never send our men in support of Altura. Our soldiers and nightshades will stay here, where they belong. The high lord was quite close to promising aid, I’ll have you know. It’s taken a lot of work to keep him reluctant.”

As the last of the cobwebs fell away and Amber could finally think clearly, she looked up at the once charming lord marshal. “You’re using me to become high lord? Think carefully, Sergei. My husband is a dangerous man.”

“Think carefully? My dear, that’s exactly what I’ve done. And I think your husband has bigger concerns. I wouldn’t expect any help from him anytime soon. By the way, your device, on Juno Bridge? The reflector, or whatever you call it? It’s been shining all night.”

Dread hit Amber forcefully, like a punch in the stomach. “What color?” she whispered.

“Green,” Sergei said with relish. “It’s a lovely color, but I’ve taken it down; no one need wonder at it anymore, and it’s quite bright. We all need our night’s sleep.”

Amber hung her head. Miro had activated the distress signal. Her homeland needed help. Miro needed her.

“Why are you telling me all this?” Amber said.

“I have a proposition for you,
Lady
Amber.” He said her title sardonically. “If you admit to taking the high lord’s daughter, I will ensure you leave Rosarva alive. As you have learned,” he shrugged, “I am not without influence.”

Amber thought about the high lord’s golden-haired daughter. “And what will happen to Katerina?”

“Unfortunately, the current heir to Vezna will not be returning to the palace.”

“No.” Amber shook her head. “I won’t do it.”

“I’m sure some time in here will change your mind.”

Sergei’s clumping boots sounded, and he vanished for a time, leaving Amber alone with her predicament. Just when Amber thought he’d never come back, he returned, and she looked on in horror as Sergei held a shining green prism in his hands, glowing fiercely, nearly too bright to look at. “As for your reflector, this is a better place for it, don’t you think?”

Sergei grunted and threw the quartz pyramid, sending it
tumbling
down the corridor. “Good-bye, Lady Amber. Don’t try to escape. The Juno Bridge is hungry this time of year.”

Sergei tossed the last words over his shoulder as he departed, his footsteps echoing from the dank walls of the dungeons below the Borlag.

Even with the prism far down the corridor, Amber could still see the glow of green light. In the darkness of her cell it was the only thing Amber could focus on. Everything was washed with green: the walls, the bars, the floor, even the bucket. The color of Altura told Amber her homeland was under attack.

The light continued to shine. Though the device required a
reasonable
line of sight to activate, now that it had, it would
continue
to glow.

Amber put her head in her hands.