The Swordsman's Oath (Einarinn 2) (59 page)

Temar looked around and saw faces raised, questioning this obscure pronouncement, wondering at the new ring of defiance in the Messire’s voice, searching for hope or reassurance.

“We have all seen the dark use these invaders have made of Artifice.” Contempt sounded harsh in Den Fellaemion’s words. “What they do not know is that we have Artifice of our own to defeat their foul purposes. We may be trapped for the moment, but we have the means to summon help and it will come, never fear. While we wait, I have decided that Artifice will protect us from all that we lack. Demoiselle Guinalle and her adepts are to give us an enchanted sleep, a respite by the grace of Arimelin, where our grief and wounds will be healed, keeping us safe from all detection until the full wrath of the Empire falls upon these savages and makes them rue the day they ever set foot on our new lands!”

A murmur of startled questions began to circulate around the gathering. Den Fellaemion let it grow for a moment until raising his hand once more for silence. “As we sleep, Esquire Den Rannion will lead a hand-picked team through the caves and out to the far valley, marching thence to the new settlement in the south. He will take your reassurances to your friends and family there, then use the ocean ships to take everyone far from any chance of harm and to summon the help that will drive these worthless midden-dogs from the lands we have worked so hard to tame.”

A ragged scatter of applause greeted this announcement. Temar saw a faint spark of life relit in his friend’s eyes, new determination forcing Vahil’s head up and his shoulders back.

“These carrion crows can scavenge on the hollow bones of their victory for the present, but I swear to you they will soon be put to flight. Enjoy your meal, my friends, my apologies that it is so humble, and then we will settle ourselves to wait out this siege in peace and contentment. When we wake, I promise you a better feast, something to look forward to before we start to rebuild our colony.” The total confidence that rang through Den Fellaemion’s words was having its effect on the shocked and demoralized people, Temar saw. He heard questions on all sides, over what such sleep might be like, what they might find when they woke, but no one was disputing the proposal itself.

“Will you be with Esquire Den Rannion?” A stout woman whom Temar vaguely recognized as a former tenant caught at his arm.

“No.” He shook his head, forcing confidence into his voice. “There’s no need. I shall wait here with you all, to make sure there’s someone ready to give a full account to our rescuers. If you’ve finished your food, I suggest you make ready. Wrap up warmly if you can.”

The woman nodded, familiar obedience to authority something to cling to in the midst of the catastrophe that had befallen them all, Temar realized. He pushed his way through the crowd, those adept in Artifice surrounded on all sides by questions and demands for more information, Guinalle in particular at the center of a vociferous knot of people.

“All you need concern yourself over is choosing something precious to you, to focus your mind on while I work the enchantment.” Guinalle was soothing a young mother perilously close to tears as she clutched her three children to her.

“If we all need something, I have so little, my husband—” the girl’s lip quivered and her eyes filled, her distress visibly infecting her children and many of those closest to her.

“We can manage easily enough.” Guinalle’s voice was warm with reassurance. “You keep that ring, and why don’t we give your necklace to your eldest daughter?”

The girl brought a trembling hand to her throat. “My mother gave me this on my wedding day. I always wear it. I was going to—”

“She can have the chain, and here, let’s put the pendant on this ribbon,” Guinalle broke in briskly. She suited her actions to her words, unfastening the necklace with gentle hands and unthreading a length of braided silk from the purse at her own waist. “The little one can have that. It’s a good choice, too. If the girls are used to seeing you wearing this, it will hold their attention so much better, excellent for the workings of the Artifice.”

She raised her voice a little to address those gathered closest. “This is the kind of thing you should be looking for, a small trinket that has particular meaning for you and yours.”

Guinalle’s confident tone wavered just a little as her gaze fell on the oldest child. She looked around and Temar saw a mute appeal in her eyes. He stepped forward to kneel beside the boy, a lithe lad with coppery blond hair and wide eyes, blue as a spring sky, with a sprinkling of freckles over his snub nose.

“Would you like this, so the lady can work her enchantment over you?” Temar unbelted his tunic and wrapped the leather strap twice around the skinny waist as the boy nodded silently, eyes huge in his pale face. “Now, you concentrate on this buckle,” he commanded. “This is an heirloom of the House D’Alsennin. If you can do this, take care of it for me, when you wake up I’ll make you my page and you can keep it. Do you agree?”

The lad nodded again, a faint smile on his lips, and Temar looked up at the mother. “You see, we can easily find something if we all help each other out. After all, it’s only something to center the Artifice upon.”

“The children are so tired, I think it would only be right to let them sleep as soon as possible,” Guinalle led the feebly protesting woman toward Avila. “Let the demoiselle help you settle them.”

Temar caught Guinalle’s hand and gave it an encouraging squeeze, which won a faint smile from her to warm his heart. “The trick to success here is going to be getting it done fast,” she said with determination.

“Then let’s get started,” replied Temar, setting his face to the daunting task.

He settled the boy between his two little sisters and wrapped all three children securely together in a warm woollen cloak. “Lie back now,” he instructed them softly, tucking a coarse blanket around them with gentle hands.

“All you have to do is close your eyes and think about your special thing.” Guinalle knelt beside the children with an encouraging smile. “Do you all have something to hold on to?”

The children nodded, wide eyed, and the smallest girl wriggled one hand free to solemnly proffer an enamelled silver flower on a silken cord.

“That’s very pretty.” Guinalle stroked closed the eyes of the little lass with one hand, doing the same for her sister with the other. At her nod, Temar tousled the lad’s hair before similarly shutting that beseeching gaze.

Guinalle softly chanted the complex words of the Artifice. Her low tones were echoed from points all around the vast cavern as Temar watched the Adepts begin the lengthy process of settling the colonists to this frozen rest. He looked back to the children, now motionless, not in the relaxation of sleep but stiff in the grip of the enchantment, no hint of breath to be seen, the color fled from their cheeks to leave them waxen-faced.

Temar trembled at a sudden memory of childhood horror. It had been the morning he had finally summoned up the courage to return to the playroom, in those dreadful days when he had wandered the house, confused and alone, unable to comprehend how his father, his brothers and sisters had all been taken from him. Opening the door, the blank, painted faces of his sisters’ dolls had confronted him, silent, still, never again to be brought to life by happy hands and bright imagination.

“I can’t—” Temar choked on his words, but as he raised his head he caught Avila’s piercing stare as she carefully laid down the children’s motionless mother. The warning and contempt mingled in her eyes cut him to the quick. Temar held out his hand to help Guinalle to her feet. “Who is to be next?”

In the event it went more quickly than he might have imagined. Temar stood looking across the great cavern as the last of the daylight hung around the alcove at the entrance. He could see rows of motionless bodies lost in the shadows, neatly laid out, hands clasped at their chests like—no, they were not bodies, not like corpses—they were sleeping, taking a respite from the horror that had befallen them, sojourning in the Otherworld by Arimelin’s grace, to recover and restore themselves.

“Will I dream?” Temar turned to Guinalle as she lifted her hands from Avila’s forehead, the older woman now frozen in the grip of Artifice, her hands clasped around a richly ornamented cloak pin. She was the last of the Adepts to lay herself down, all now exhausted by their efforts.

“What?” Guinalle looked at Temar with eyes barely focusing on him.

“Never mind.” Temar caught Guinalle to him, feeling her trembling uncontrollably with fatigue. “Are you sure you can do this? Do you want a rest before you go on?” Part of him desperately wanted to delay being locked into sleep only to be buried beneath the earth.

Guinalle was breathing with some difficulty, a pulse in her throat fluttering. “I think we had better go as fast as we can.” she stammered. “There’s something interfering with the Artifice, everything’s going awry. I don’t know how much longer I can hold the enchantment together before I have to submit myself to it, otherwise it will all unravel.”

“She knows what she’s doing, Temar. Come on, you’re the last to take your rest.”

Temar looked around to see Vahil standing behind them, his face grim and drawn, dressed in old leather for the grueling trip through the caves. The small band going with him were busy packing the miscellany of possessions, safeguarding the unknowing, unconscious minds of the colonists, into a series of leather packs.

“What will you focus on?” asked Guinalle, her voice stronger now.

Temar unbuckled his sword. “This.” He looked at the blade, at the engraving, rammed it home into the scabbard and gripped the hilt to quell the trembling in his hands.

“Lie down then.” Guinalle knelt beside the pile of cloaks prepared for him and Temar forced himself to comply, gritting his teeth but unable to prevent himself starting at the touch of Guinalle’s icy hands on his forehead.

“I’ll see you soon, Temar,” Vahil’s voice seemed to come from somewhere far distant as insidious tendrils of sleep began to coil themselves around Temar’s waking mind.

“Don’t fight it, my dearest,” he heard Guinalle murmur, her words distorted as all sensation of the rocks beneath him was lost in a giddying feeling of falling, spinning, his breath coming rapidly, panic burning in his throat, numbness seizing his legs, his chest, his arms, his head, choking him, stifling him.

The hidden island city of Hadrumal,

30th of For-Summer

I was dying. I was suffocating; pressure tight as an iron hand was crushing my chest. As I struggled in a futile effort to draw a last breath, eyes blind, my hearing somehow still clinging to life, I struggled to make sense of the words echoing over my head.

“Push some air into him, Otrick, curse you. ’Sar, warm his blood before we lose him completely.”

The constriction slackened a little and the spiraling dizziness abated somewhat, just enough for me to feel a damp, shaking hand on my forehead. I tried to toss it off, but found I could not move my head. Worse, I could not move my arms or legs; any effort dissolved in confusion. I tried to speak, to swear at these people, whoever they might be, but I could not even raise a groan. At least I could hear; that had to mean I wasn’t dead yet, didn’t it?

“Planir, I think we have it now, let me—”

A jumble of nonsense words in another voice that I vaguely registered as unfamiliar rang inside my head, scattering the unremembered nightmares that were trying to shred my sanity. Just as I realized this, I managed to move my hand, although with no more control than a day-old babe. Exhaustion overwhelmed me and I let myself drift into the welcoming embrace of helpless stupor.

“No! Don’t let him go, don’t let him go!”

Some bastard stuck something sharp into my hand and I managed a feeble moan of protest, only wanting all this confusion to go away, to sleep and to sleep again, more deeply.

“Breathe, curse you, Ryshad, breathe!” Now the swine was slapping my face, and I forced my eyes open to look up at a blurred face, all angles and confusing movement. It gradually coalesced into a man of middle years, close cropped brown hair surrounding a plump face with dark eyes too close set above a sharp nose. A gleam of silver on his hand caught my feeble curiosity for a moment, but identifying it was simply too much effort, so I just closed my eyes again.

“Ryshad!” That voice was familiar, that one I recognized and that notion distracted me from the seductive lure of slumber. Who was she, I wondered drowsily? She sounded upset. That roused me a little. Whoever she was, she was upset with me. What had I done wrong?

“Wake up, Ryshad, come back to us.” The first voice was getting distinctly annoyed, so I opened my eyes again and a face slowly swam into focus, hair the color of autumn, eyes of summer leaves. This was the face of the familiar voice, I decided somehow. I coughed and found my breathing easier, my wits slowly piecing themselves back together.

“Livak?” That was her name, I remembered now; I tried to speak but my mind seemed somehow disconnected from my voice. Trying again, I managed a faint croak but was rewarded by a squeeze to my numb hand, a welcome sensation even if it felt as if I were wearing three thicknesses of winter gloves.

“Ryshad, are you with us?” That was the first voice and, after a little effort, I placed it. Planir; it was that bastard Archmage, the one who had landed me in this in the first place. The surge of hot anger that followed on the heels of that thought must have set my wits alight and, in an instant, I knew who and where I was.

I coughed again and smelled the distinctive reek of thassin. “I said no narcotics, mage.” I rolled my head to glare at him accusingly, still unable to lift it to my intense frustration.

“We found we needed them.” Planir was unapologetic, which came as no real surprise. “Tonin found your defenses against his ritual were simply too strong to break down without it.”

“I’m sorry, I know what I said, but you have to remember this is all untested ground.” This voice did sound genuinely contrite and, with its Soluran lilt, I remembered hearing it moments before. Tonin, that was his name, the scholar and mentor from the University of Vanam who was in Hadrumal, along with his students, to study the few enchantments of aetheric magic so far discovered.