The Hidden Stars Part 10

This is not a man we know, Sinderian thought with a sinking sensation, not the unshakable friend and ally we expected. What will Faolein do now?

But what her father did, without any sign of dismay or surprise, was to present each of his companions in turn, and briefly explain something of their predicament.

"Whatever you require; whatever comforts we can provide for the rest of your journey: horses, food, wine, pack animals, pavilions-a litter, perhaps, for the Lady. Ask and it is yours," said the new young Lord, his clear eyes s.h.i.+ning with sincerity. Nothing could be more bland and amiable than his expression. "In return, I ask only this: that you accept my hospitality for the evening."

He seemed harmless enough, Sinderian decided, if somewhat affected-and more than fond of the sound of his own voice. She felt her doubts ease. As Goslin's kinsman, he would have the same grudge against Ouriana of Phaorax. What reason had they not to trust him?

"n.o.ble and generous," said Faolein, inclining his head. "We accept with thanks."

At a signal from Saer, Thaga withdrew. Minutes later, a horde of attendants entered the room, and began to lavish their attentions on the travelers. Suddenly realizing that accepting this stranger's hospitality also meant being separated from her friends, Sinderian experienced a sharp return of her former misgivings. The men went one way, she another, surrounded by a flock of chattering young women.

But this was the way that things were always done in a n.o.ble household; she had no grounds to refuse. She could only give a last forlorn glance over her shoulder as Faolein and the others disappeared around a corner, and the young women led her off in the opposite direction.

Much to her relief, they did not take her far. In another beautifully appointed chamber, they offered her water to wash with, soap and heated cloths, oils and perfumes. They removed her cloak and her boots and her gown. All her things had been snagged and torn by branches and brambles; they were stiff with dirt and sweat. It would be good to be clean again. Suddenly yielding to the exhaustion of five hard days and as many restless nights, Sinderian allowed the women to wait on her.

At last, blissfully clean, clad in a fresh linen s.h.i.+ft, she sat on a stool by the fire, drying her hair, while one of the maidens combed out the tangles, exclaiming over the length and texture.

Every now and again she thought she detected an undercurrent of fear under their gaiety. There were uneasy glances, an occasional unintended clumsiness where something fragile fell and broke. The chatter of the maidens was at times a little too shrill. But that might only be her own presence among them: the stranger, the sorceress. To women who rarely if ever left their own valley, Leal and its school of wizardry must seem a world away.

When they brought her a gown of rich wine-colored velvet with sable at the hem and on the long, hanging sleeves, Sinderian shook her head. "I will wear the poorest and the plainest gown you can lend me," she said, suddenly oppressed by their too-generous, too-effusive hospitality, "so long as it is something more suitable to a woman in mourning."

But "no, no, no," the maidens answered her, fluttering about in their agitation, their voices even shriller than before.

"We are just out of mourning for Lord Goslin," said a pale blond girl. She sounded more breathless than the occasion warranted. "And our new young Lord-he has no wish to be reminded of past sorrows. Having banished all signs of bereavement, having arranged a feast in honor of your father, Lord Dreyde would not like to see you or any other guest appear at his table...all in black."

So again Sinderian could not refuse. She allowed them to lace her into the gown, wondering all the while if the brightly colored dress was meant to set her apart from their dull greens and browns. They brought her shoes of soft red leather lined with fur, and they placed a girdle around her waist: a length of plaited silk hung with many rows of tiny golden medallions that chimed together softly when she moved.

Belled like a cat, she thought, disgusted with herself and her situation. But that was unworthy of the kindness they had shown her so far, and she began to feel slightly ashamed.

In that same hour, in another part of the fortress, Prince Ruan and Faolein were dressing, too. Ruan could not be sure exactly where and when, but Aell and Jago had disappeared. Someone had spirited them away when the Prince was not looking.

When he asked where the guardsmen had gone, a haughty-looking youth in Saer's color replied very coldly: "They have gone to the barracks. Lord Dreyde thought they would prefer to dine with men of their own sort."

Ruan opened his mouth to say something, but intercepting a glance from Faolein, he swallowed his words. There was simply no protest that he could make and still maintain the pose of a minor n.o.bleman, so he shrugged a shoulder and went on dressing.

He had already allowed this swarm of attendants to strip off his armor and padding; that was simple hospitality, and he could not refuse. But now that he was washed and wearing clean linen, he made up his mind to accept no more, steadfastly turning aside all offers of silken tunics and fur-lined robes, declaring he would have his own light mail and leather instead.

Much to his relief, no one pressed him; they did not insist. One of the pages even brought back his blue wool cloak, which someone had brushed and cleaned. The truth was, no one seemed greatly interested what Ruan did or did not do; most of their attention revolved around Faolein.

They think me a nonent.i.ty compared to the wizard, he thought, amazed.

It was a novel sensation. All of his life, those who had not reacted in some way to the High King's grandson had been curious or repelled or uneasy in the presence of the half-breed. But there was nothing of that here. An anomaly on Thaerie, a half-blood Faey was apparently such a commonplace in Mere that no one took notice, no one even bothered to wonder who he might be.

Across the room, he caught sight of a slight, silver-haired figure in among the other squires and pages. A pair of wide golden eyes glanced in his direction, then turned away. Here at least was recognition, hostile as it might be. No one here had seen a Ni-Fea before, they had no way of knowing the difference-only the Ni-Ferys squire, who felt it instinctively.

At length, Sinderian's attendants swept her up and carried her along to the dining hall. It was a room nearly as vast as the hall of pillars, though brilliantly lit, with an entire pine tree blazing away in a great fire pit. Long, colorful banners hung from the high ceiling, and a row of windows along one wall looked out on the valley. Someone had thrown the heavy cas.e.m.e.nts open, letting in the fragrance of meadows and night, and the banners overhead moved with every s.h.i.+ft of the air.

Faolein sat at the High Table along with Lord Dreyde and his household, at Saer's left hand, but Sinderian was allotted a place farther down, sharing a cup and a plate with Prince Ruan.

Dreyde had commanded an impressive feast on such short notice: gleaming platters of freshwater fish and feathered game, delicately cooked and spiced; sausage hedgehogs bristling with almonds; immense wheels of cheese like harvest moons; bowls filled with grapes and apricots and plums; a cool yellow wine with the flavor of honey. Musicians played, acrobats tumbled, while those who sat at the long oak tables ate and gossiped.

Straining to hear what pa.s.sed between the Lord and her father, Sinderian paid little heed to the food and wine. Though she ate and she drank, hunger had long since died; she hardly tasted or cared what pa.s.sed between her lips.

Saer was vague, but from hints and innuendoes Sinderian gathered he was not best pleased with the Duke of Mere. He seemed to belong to a faction that shared his displeasure. For a moment, the conversations to either side of her died down, and she could hear Dreyde's voice, soft but clear: "If Thaerie and Leal looked kindly on us, we might do much. Then the Alliance would be healed, and all as it was before."

He must be very confident of his people to speak treason so openly, Sinderian marveled. Either that, or he was a fool. And somewhat unreasonably, she felt a great sense of relief wash over her. She ought not to feel comfortable, she knew, in the hall of a man plotting treachery against his overlord-yet now she understood the warmth of their welcome, the reason behind such pressing hospitality.

He had Saer, but he wanted more. The appet.i.tes of ambitious men are never sated, she thought. The more they have, the more they want. He or some friend of his would like to be Duke of Mere, and he thinks that Faolein can help him to achieve this. We might just as well have risked Prince Bael- As for Faolein, he listened to Dreyde with a grave, kind, courteous attention that agreed to nothing but seemed to promise everything. Perhaps by morning Saer would realize that the wizard was not going to help him, perhaps by then he would be less generous with his offers of horses and supplies. But until then, Sinderian thought, she and her companions ought to be safe. Dreyde was too caught up in his own concerns, his own schemes, to think of meddling with them.

All this time, she had scarcely been aware of Prince Ruan, though he sat beside her, though they shared the same plate and cup. As the meal concluded, she felt a hand grip her arm, and the Prince leaned so close that his fair hair brushed against her face. His own face was pale with excitement and suspicion.

"That hedge wizard of Saer's never made an appearance during the feast," he hissed in her ear. "But one of the servants just came in, reeking of smoke and banewort, and signaled to his master from the foot of the dais."

Sinderian felt a sharp pang of fear, and her stomach clenched in a hard knot. For the plant anciently known as ylls-yllatha-more commonly goblin's-weed or banewort-has very few uses and none of them good. The wicked and the ignorant were frequently drawn to it, black magicians, country witches, and village necromancers; but no wizard would touch it or smell it, much less make use of it.

But it may not have anything to do with us. In truth, why should it? Saer was plotting against the Duke. For all that, she took a handful of salt from the table and concealed it in the palm of her hand.

Up on the dais, Dreyde rose to his feet, and everyone else followed his example. Prince Ruan offered Sinderian his arm, which she accepted, and together they edged toward Faolein.

But a ma.s.s of bodies moved between them and the wizard. Sinderian lost her hold on the Prince's arm, and was suddenly engulfed in a tide of young women. They swept her away from the tables and toward one of the doors. "You must-you must-you must come with the other maidens, Lady," they murmured in her ear. "It is only right."

The people of Saer swarm like bees, she thought, exasperated. They were like a cloud of gnats, impossible to shake off. Taller than any of her companions, she stood on her toes to look over their heads. But Faolein was already gone; she did not even know which door he had left by. She could not find Prince Ruan, and now it occurred to her, for the very first time, that Aell and Jago were missing, too.

Resisting those who urged her toward the doorway, she sent out a thought in search of her father. She found him striding down a long corridor in company with Dreyde. Her mind touched his briefly, drew back at his answer, so harsh and peremptory: Not now. Her heart sank, for it was the second time that day he had rebuffed her. Something was very, very wrong.

One thing only was clear: Faolein expected her to act as though nothing were amiss. Knowing this, she had no choice but to do as the maidens bade her. She allowed them to usher her out of the room, along a narrow corridor, and up a flight of stairs.

But climbing the stairs she had a p.r.i.c.kly sense that someone was following her and the other maidens, someone whose whole mind was bent on her. Could it be Thaga? They left the stairs and proceeded down another cavernous pa.s.sageway. When the trailing hem of her wine-colored gown caught on a projecting bit of stone and she stopped to free herself, Sinderian took the opportunity to glance back over her shoulder.

She caught the barest glimpse of someone-a pale-haired figure in a sky-blue cloak, as lithe as a cat-moving in the shadows along one wall. Her fingers tightened around the handful of salt. Whatever occurred, she was not without resources.

Up a long ramp, through a series of archways and gates, up flights of stairs as steep as ladders, the young women took Sinderian into a part of the fortress much older than any of the rooms she had seen before. Two of the women carried burning torches, one an oil lamp that smoked whenever they encountered a draft from one of the shafts that brought down air and moonlight from above. They hurried her around so many turns, whisked her around so many corners, Sinderian soon lost all sense of direction, had no idea where she was heading.

And she did not like this place, less and less she liked it. There was an unhealthy feel to these rooms and corridors, as though the very atmosphere was tainted. The air seemed to slide over her skin like oil, leaving an unwholesome residue behind.

Entering another shadowy pa.s.sageway, she felt the panic rising again. Blood pounded in her temples, her heart leapt against her ribs; every sense screamed warning. The muscles in her legs locked, and she could not or would not move.

But someone thrust a hard hand between her shoulders, forcing her to stumble forward, one step, two steps. She felt an intense heat, a giddy faintness, many times worse than the head injury had been. Then the bottom fell out of the world, plunging her into chaos.

11.

Sinderian stood in the heart of the vortex, in the eye of the storm. Colors whirled madly around her: bold crimson, tattered yellow, scintillating blue-green, a purple so vibrant it made her eyes ache. Thunder roared in her ears. Struggling against the s.h.i.+fting tides of magic, she used every ounce of will she possessed to fight her way free of the spell that held her. Raising her arm with an effort, she tossed her handful of salt into the maelstrom.

Abruptly, the tumult ceased; the air cleared. Yet she was still a prisoner, still bound, trapped inside a circle of blue flame. The other women, the ones who had lured her into the trap, had all disappeared; she thought she could hear their retreating footsteps echoing all down the corridor back the way they had come. They had dropped one of the torches-it was just sputtering out on the floor-and farther down the pa.s.sage she saw a little pool of burning oil that the blond girl had apparently spilled in her haste to be gone.

The women were gone, but they had been replaced by two armed men who stood as if on guard just outside the fiery circle. They had bright two-handed swords, which they held unsheathed, and though they did not speak, their eyes followed Sinderian's every movement.

They do not like what they have been set here to do, she thought, but they will do it.

She took a step forward to test the spell, but the flames leapt up like a row of bright spears, and the heat was intense, forcing her back again.

The taste of despair rose bitter in her mouth, yet she could not-must not-accept defeat. She swallowed several times, dredged up all the reserves she still possessed, and squared her shoulders.

Suddenly remembering Prince Ruan, Sinderian wheeled around, searching the pa.s.sage from one end to the other, hoping to find him somewhere nearby. The shadows along the walls were so deep, she could not penetrate them, but she did hear a very light footfall, and a moment later had a strong sense of Ruan's presence.

She turned her attention then to the pattern etched into the floor at her feet: the source of the fire and the binding that held her. It was a maze, a knot, one of the old Earth Magics, remnant of an earlier time that had likely waited harmless for centuries until someone (undoubtedly Thaga) had activated the spell.

She drew in a long breath to steady herself, to focus her will, and cried out: There came a clap like thunder, a flash like lightning. The fire wavered and almost died, but then it sprang up again, even hotter than before. She felt the sweat start out on her skin, could smell the fur at the hem of her gown beginning to singe.

One of the men took a step in her direction, menacing her with his sword, but he stopped outside the circle, helpless to do more. The fire kept the men out as effectively as it kept her in, and even afforded her a kind of protection.

She tried her spell again, this time with an even greater effort of will. "Anesadach rhiod dioha Sinderian." The flames turned from blue to gold, but that was all.

Putting her hands to her aching skull, she struggled to concentrate. Think-I must think. How have they done this? A series of scenes flashed through her mind-the stairs, the ramp, the series of pa.s.sageways. And then she knew: the path she had followed to get here, crossing and recrossing her own footsteps, was a part of the spell. Like a fool, she had helped to create the charm that bound her, the great labyrinthine knot, more complex and powerful than the thing on the floor. But what she had made, she could unmake again.

Tracing the pattern with her fingernail on the palm of her hand, Sinderian watched the blood well up, the figure she had drawn begin to glow with a faint silvery light. "Anwaetha seo whath!" she commanded. "Seo lledrion oma andeinath!"

A great gust of air blasted through the corridor and extinguished the flames.

The guards stood as men stunned. Before either had time to react, she stepped outside the figure and in the same moment Prince Ruan leapt from the shadows, sword in hand.

Ruan's blade flashed, and a body fell to the ground. The other guard turned, flung up his sword to parry the next blow, but Ruan's blade beat it down and somehow kept on going. There was the dull, sickening sound of metal striking flesh, a spurt of red blood, and another body collapsed on the stony floor.

"We may need a light," said the Prince. There was blood on his hands and on his cloak, but his voice was steady. He picked up the torch, lit it again in the pool of flaming oil, and resheathed his sword. Then, without another word, he reached out and took Sinderian firmly by the wrist and started down the corridor at a brisk pace.

She allowed him to lead her tamely enough, back along the pa.s.sageway and down a steep flight of stairs, through room after room. She was spattered with blood, dazed and shaking with reaction. They went so swiftly, she hardly had time to catch her breath.

But after a time, her steps lagged, and she held back, dragging on his arm. "Where are you taking me?"

"To find Aell and Jago, then out of this place by the quickest way possible."

Sinderian braced her feet against the floor, refusing to take another step. "No, no! We must find my father, even before we look for the others." She struggled against the grasp of his strong, slender fingers. "He may-he will be in terrible danger."

"You were able to defeat their spells, and without much effort that I could see. Why shouldn't Faolein do the same?"

"Thaga and Dreyde thought that they took my measure, but they were wrong," she explained breathlessly. "What do they know of me, after all? But they won't make the same mistake with a Master Wizard. Whatever they have planned for Faolein, it will be many, many times worse."

"I wish to speak with you apart," said Dreyde of Saer. "I have things to say that are not for all ears."

Faolein walked a few steps behind him, allowing the young Lord to lead him down one echoing dark corridor after another. He thought: You have already said quite enough to put your head in a noose if any hint of your plans came to the Duke at Clowes-why turn discreet now?

Yet the wizard made certain that his face gave nothing away. What more he thought he kept to himself; he simply let Saer lead him wherever he wanted to go, knowing that no good would come of it.

Because Faolein was fey, moving, speaking, feeling as one under a compulsion. His mouth was dry with fear, his heart ached with the knowledge that was in him, yet it was too late to change course, even if he would...and he knew that he would not.

Before the gate, he had seen a vast array of possible futures play out in his mind and from them he had chosen his path. It promised him little but suffering and grief, but every other alternative that he had seen was infinitely worse.

They came to a door: solid oak planks and ornate iron hinges, no different from a hundred doors they had already pa.s.sed. Saer produced a large bra.s.s key from somewhere about his person and fitted it into the lock. The door swung open, and they walked through, began to climb a winding stone staircase, lit every fifteen or twenty feet by torches. On the first landing, Faolein thought he heard the door below slam shut, the rattle of another key in the lock.

No matter. A locked door was nothing compared to the tangled web of deadly circ.u.mstance that held him now, both like and unlike the aniffath he had tried to unravel so many years ago, which had claimed Nimenoe. Perhaps this, too, was a curse, one he could by no means escape, once he had willingly walked in. Very well, then. A wizard had always one last recourse, if he could bring himself to accept the necessity.

Saer threw open another door, and they came out on a wall-walk, behind the jagged line of battlements encircling the fortress. It was so dark that Faolein could scarcely see two yards in front of him, as though a mist or a cloud obscured the moon; but he could smell the air, feel the night around him.

"You hesitate to commit yourself or the other Masters of Leal," said Saer. They had reached a round open place, surrounded by a crenellated parapet wall and walkways radiating out in all directions, and there they paused. "I have letters, doc.u.ments to show you," said Dreyde. "If you will deign to examine them."

Doc.u.ments, here? He is not a very good liar. But Faolein was scarcely listening anymore. There was a distraction, a disruption in the flow of energy along the ley lines. He glanced around him, looking with his inner Sight.

The source of that disruption was a great unworked stone set into the tower wall. Roughly triangular in shape, it glimmered faintly in Faolein's mind; not as though it reflected light, but as though it deflected it, turned it aside. And cold, bitter cold seemed to flow from that stone.

This is the reason the fortress was built, he realized. Not to protect. Not to preserve. But to guard and contain whatever is prisoned inside that thing. Yet all this time, Dreyde seemed unaware, he continued to babble on, about plots and incriminating letters, as though he never guessed that the stone was there, as though he never thought that Faolein would sense anything amiss. Because he could not feel the power himself, he imagined that the wizard could not either.

There was a shriek like metal against metal; a flash of deep indigo light split the fog. Faolein instinctively turned away, gathering up the skirts of his robe to flee; though his course was set, some things there are that flesh and blood do not willingly endure. Yet even as he took the first step the trap was sprung.

One-two-three-four-five rainbow-hued flames rose up in swift succession. Lightning forked from tower to tower, leaving behind s.h.i.+mmering lines of pure force, forming a gigantic five-pointed star. And Faolein stood frozen in place, completely immobilized, trapped inside the pentagram. His hand lost its grip on the staff, which clattered at his feet, and Saer, with a look equally compounded of malice and fear, kicked it aside.

The fog was rapidly dissipating. From the corners of his eyes, Faolein could see most of the trap that held him. Dreyde could apparently see it, too, though he had been blind and deaf to the stone, for he gave a triumphant laugh and stepped easily outside the pentagram.

"Had I thought it such a small matter to trap a Master Wizard, I might have better enjoyed my dinner."

As the last flags of mist faded, Thaga appeared on one of the walkways, just outside the lines of the figure. In the waxy moonlight, his face was as pale as death, and his hands worked nervously. "We cannot hold him so forever," he shouted across at Saer. "Look at his eyes. Though he doesn't speak, doesn't move, already he is working a lledrion to free himself."

Dreyde took several more steps along the wall-walk. His face, which had seemed so pleasant before, was distorted with fear and something even uglier. "But can he free himself? You told me the pentagram would be effective!"

Thaga's nervous hands caught at his hanging sleeve, began to twist the silk. He seemed overwhelmed by what he had done already and terrified of what he had to do next. Almost, Faolein could find it in his heart to pity him. "It is the Great Pentacle-harmless to ordinary men, but potent against even the greatest wizard. It will hold him long enough."

Young Saer took another involuntary step, putting more distance between himself and Faolein. "But why do you delay? You promised me-"

"These things require time, they require-certain instruments. One such instrument is being prepared as we speak. To kill a Master Wizard with or without magic, is no small task, and it is dangerous, dangerous." Thaga spoke in short, panting breaths. "There are only a very few ways that the thing can be done at all, and each of them carries its own risk.

"Have patience, Lord. It will soon be over. Then we can send word of our success to our n.o.ble visitors."

It was a maze; it was an endless labyrinth of rooms and corridors, of chambers, halls, pa.s.sageways, and closets; it went on like a nightmare, forever. Sinderian had known that the fortress of Saer was old; now she had a confused vision of workmen laboring under the hill for centuries upon centuries, burrowing in the earth like moles.

She and Prince Ruan had been prowling through the castle and that part of the fortress that was under the hill for some interminable period, the Prince stalking on ahead with his lighted torch and Sinderian following, haggard and spiritless, reeling with weariness.

Thanks to Ruan's keen eyes and ears they had so far avoided any encounter with the inhabitants. There had been several close calls and moments when she was absolutely certain they would be discovered, but always they managed to pa.s.s undetected.

Nevertheless, their efforts to find Faolein and the two men-at-arms had so far proved fruitless. And sooner or later, Sinderian reflected hopelessly, we will make a mistake, blunder into a room full of people.

Prince Ruan touched her lightly on the arm, c.o.c.ked his head as though he was listening to something only he could hear. Then he extinguished the torch, and she was able to see a faint ruddy glow in the pa.s.sage ahead of them.

Moving even more cautiously, they approached the source of the light: another low-ceilinged corridor that met the one they had been following at right angles. Now Sinderian could smell smoke and just make out faint voices around the corner, a conversation that came to her in fragments: "...gives me the creeps, that wizard up there. And whatever devilry our Lord and that blasted Thaga are planning-"