Authors: Paul S. Kemp
Shadowbred (14 page)
Mirabeta stepped out from behind her table and strode to the Speaker’s dais. She put her hands on the lectern and affected a look of dignified grief.
“These proceedings are premature. The overmaster was more to me than the head of state. He was my beloved cousin.”
The chamber erupted in shouts. Terb shouted above the tumult. His face reddened and his paunch shook as he spoke. “This is most irregular, Highspeaker! She must not advocate for herself! It is unheard of!”
The highspeaker shouted for order and the chamber gradually quieted. Before he could speak, Mirabeta stared ice at Terb. “I do not wish to advocate for myself, Zarin Terb. In fact, I am withdrawing my nomination.”
She paused to let the surprised glances and gasps circle the-room. Elyril noticed Weerdon and Inmin paying close attention. Mirabeta continued. “Even if this council deems me fit to hold the office of overmistress, I could not accept it until the questions surrounding the death of my cousin are answered.”
No one dared take issue with Mirabeta’s words. Elyril smiled, understanding at last, as her aunt continued.
“I” she shook her head. “No, not just I, but none of us can look to the future until we have answered fully the questions of the past. Rumors swirl through the capital. Can a new overmaster take office
with such a cloud hanging over Ordulin, over Sembia? This matter must be put to rest fully and finally, and that should happen before the entire High Council. Let us put all rumors to rest. Only then should we proceed with an election.”
As if summoned by her words, the awaited procession of priests arrived. All heads turned. Quiet fell.
The Tyrran High Lord Abbot, Feldinor Jemb, entered first. A white sash cinched his deep blue robe, which featured a scale embroidered in gold on his chest. He wore a white linen glove on his left hand and a glove of black leather on his right. Elyril knew the latter symbolized Tyr’s missing right hand.
“Enter, High Lord Abbot Jemb,” Mirabeta said.
Jemb nodded and announced, “The Justicar’s eyes are upon this assembly. Let none speak falsely.”
Several members of the High Council raised their right hands and spoke the ritual answer: “For truth is the tool of the just.”
Mirabeta’s voice was loudest, her hand held highest. Elyril appreciated the irony.
A group of six junior Tyrrans followed the high priest into the chamber. They, too, wore the blue robes and black and white gloves of their faith, and a warhammer hung from each of their belts. They bore Kendrick’s body atop a railed wooden platform. A blue shroud covered the corpse.
“Your timing is impeccable,” Endren said to Mirabeta. “And suspicious.”
Mirabeta managed to look hurt rather than angry. “I arranged for my cousin’s body to be brought before this council, but that is a surprise to none. The highspeaker approved it. The ttuth must be known to all of us. Would you object to the questioning, Endren Corrinthal?
Endren frowned and sat down. “Of course not.”
“I presume none object?” Mirabeta asked, and accepted the silence as acquiescence. “Ascend the dais please, High Lord Abbot.”
The Tyrrans walked solemnly through the chamber. The members watched them pass. Mirabeta stepped off the Speaker’s dais and returned the baton to the highspeaker. The junior Tyrran priests
lowered the platform to the dais and stepped away.
High Lord Abbot Jemb ascended the dais and stood over the body. He offered a prayer and addressed the High Council. “Speaking with the dead is rife with uncertainty. It is not the ghost of the dead who speaks, but a ghost of the ghost, the bit of memory that remains with the body while the soul goes to its reward or punishment. At times the answers given are unclear. Sometimes no answers are given. But where they are given, they are truth.”
He eyed each member of the ruling body in turn, then said, “With that caution, I proceed.”
The members rose from their tables and crowded around the dais. Even the wallmen stepped forward, though custom forbade them from leaving their posts. Elyril saw Abelar watching the proceedings with care, his brow furrowed. He sensed her looking at him and met her eyes. She looked away.
The high lord abbot peeled back the shroud on Kendrick s body. The overmaster wore only a loincloth. The appearance of his pale body elicited an audible gasp from the council. Elyril grinned, but wiped the smile away when she noticed Abelar’s eyes still upon her.
The high lord abbot kneeled and put his hand on Kendrick’s brow. Holding his holy symbol, a shield-shaped gold medallion embossed with Tyr’s scales, he began to cast the spell. His voice boomed through the otherwise silent chamber.
Power gathered with each word uttered by the priest. The overmaster s flesh began to glow violet.
The members of the High Council, all of them worldly and accustomed to magic, nevertheless stared wide-eyed at the spectacle.
The rhythm of the abbots cadence sharpened as the spell progressed. His voice grew louder. The violet glow around the body intensified, flared. The High Lord Abbot commanded the body to answer his questions.
Everyone leaned forward, straining to see.
The overmaster’s eyelids opened to reveal orbs as black as squid ink.
ŠŚŠŚ <§>Ś
I hear the voice, but its words make no sense.
“What do you mean, ‘there is no here’? That’s nonsense.”
The voice says through the slit, “There is no time for this. He does not have much time. He has already awakened it and is losing himself even now. You feel as if you need to do something, yes?”
The hairs on my neck rise. My heart beats so hard I can scarcely breathe. “Who … who do you mean by ‘he’?”
“You feel as if you must do something, do you not? Answer the question.”
I back away from the wall but cannot take my eyes from the slit. “How can you know that? Who are you? What are you?”
“I am another piece of the same core,” the voice answers. “That does not make sense to you, I know.”
I nod but feel silly for doing so. The speaker cannot see me. Or can he?
The voice goes on. “We are personality shards. You and I are all he could spare.”
I shake my head in denial. I feel dizzy again. I cannot breathe. “Who is ‘he’?” I manage, and desperation seeps into my tone. “Who is ‘he’?”
“He is Magadon, the core, the whole. I am his courage, blended with some of his intellect. You are mostly his sense of duty.”
My legs give out under me and I sag to the floor, shaking my head over and over again. This cannot be. “That’s not possible. That is not possible.”
The voice goes on, unrelenting. “It is not only possible, it is. And it is the only thing that makes sense. You know that. Here’s your charge. Go to the wall. Find the rest of us.”
Inexplicably, the words send a thrill through me. I know with certainty that going to the wall is exactly what I am supposed to do.
“You are trying to understand,” the voice says. “It is difficult, I know. Stop and evaluate your response to my request. I charged you to go to the wall and you felt complete the moment I tasked you, did you not?”
“No. Yes.”
“Yes. Because you are his sense of duty. Fulfilling tasks is why you exist. Go to the wall and find the rest of us. That is your duty.”
My response bursts out before I can think. “Where is the wall?”
“Out there, beyond the door,” the voice says. “You must break through the wall. Part of us is behind it, untouched by the Source, untouched by the magic of our captors. Make it contact Erevis or Riven.”
The names Erevis and Riven trigger a memory. I cannot remember details but I know I have done my duty by them. I know just as certainly that they have done their duty by me. They are my friends, my comrades.
And I know something else: the voice is telling me the truth.
I stand, nervous, but resolved to fulfill my duty.
“How do I break through the wall?”
The voice is quiet for a moment, then says, “I do not know. You must find a way. And… what lies behind the wall is dangerous. But there is no choice. You must do it to save all of us.”
I say, “Come with me. If it’s dangerous, two will accomplish what one cannot.”
“I cannot.”
“Why?”
“I told you. I am courage. I must stay with him. He needs me more.”
“But why me?”
Courage says, “Because you are the strongest of us. You always have been.”
The words fortify me. I am strong. “You said there is no ‘here.’ What did you mean? Where is this place?”
“It is not a where but a what. A thought bubble. A microcosm of his mindscape. Go to the wall. Get through it. Find that part of us that is on the other side and force it to call our friends.”
I nod, but look uncertainly at my empty hands. “I have no weapon.”
“Yes, you do. You are a weapon. And you must hurry. We will all be lost in the Source if you do not hurry.” “What is the Source?”
Saying the word makes me uneasy. It echoes in my mind. The voice does not answer. “Are you there?” No response.
I listen to the silence for a moment before I listen to myself. I know what I must do.
I walk across the room and put my hand to the door handle of the cell. It turns, silentlyand I push it open.
10 Marpenoth, the Year of Lightning Storms
The members of the High Council crowded in close, craning their necks to see. The dead, black eyes of the overmaster stared up at the rotunda dome.
The high lord abbot began his questions.
“Are you Kendrick Selkirk, once Overmaster of Sembia?”
The body’s mouth opened and said in a broken tone: “Yes.”
Elyril smiled, knowing that Nightseer Rivalen had made a flesh puppet of the overmaster’s body. She did not know what shadow creature was speaking through his lips, but she knew it was not the spirit of Kendrick Selkirk.
“Were you murdered?” Jemb asked.
Silence for a moment, then, “Yes.”
The chamber erupted in conversation. The wallmen started forward but stopped when the high lord abbot
raised his hands. Silence fell anew. The tension in the room made Elyril giddy.
“Do you know who did this deed?”
“Yes.”
Another rustle ran through the chamber. Nervous eyes glanced about. Hands went to blade hilts. Elyril licked her lips with anticipation. Mirabeta eyed the corpse the way she might a trove of gold.
The high lord abbot looked out on the assembly.
“Perhaps this question would be better asked in the presence of Raithspur and the city guard?”
“Ask him,” Mirabeta said hotly, waving him on. “Do it now, High Lord Abbot. The council holds power in this city and this nation, not Raithspur.”
The priest knew better than to challenge Mirabeta. She had too many political weapons with which she could destroy his church, from increased taxation to revocation of the Tyrrans’ land charter. He swallowed and nodded.
“Who murdered you, Overmaster Kendrick?”
The corpse stiffly turned its head and fixed the council with its dark-eyed glare. The flaccid lips labored but the words were clear enough.
“Agents of Endren High Corrinthal tainted my final meal with an untraceable magical poison. Endren Corrinthal murdered me.”
Elyril almost danced while the chamber exploded into shouted accusations and counter accusations. Mirabeta could not stop smiling.
The members of the Council jostled, pushed, shouted into one another’s faces. Endren Corrinthal screamed denials, his face as red as an apple.
“A lie! That is a lie!”
Mirabeta swallowed her smile and took full advantage of her gift. “You are a murderer, Endren Corrinthal!” she shouted, standing behind the high lord abbot and pointing her finger at Endren. “Name those whom you employed to perform this dark deed.”
Elyril glanced at Abelar, who looked on with shock.
“A lie!” Endren answered. “Arranged by you.”
A melee broke out among several members and knocked Zarin Terb to the floor. Without warning, Weerdon Kost drew his blade and charged Inmin. Other members responded by drawing their own steel and the chamber erupted into a chaos of screams, shouts, and swinging swords. The underpriests swarmed the dais to protect the body and their high priest. The wallmen drew weapons and rushed into the melee. Abelar ran headlong for his father into the confused combat of swinging fists and blades.
Rising to his knees, an enraged Zarin Terb pulled a thin wand from his jacket and discharged a bolt of lightning that cut a swath through the chamber, knocking several members to the floor. A long sword severed Terb’s wrist and the wand skittered across the stones. Zarin screamed for aid, clutching the bleeding stump. Someone kicked him in the temple and he toppled to the floor.
Elyril sprinted to the nearest door and shouted down the hall. “Guards! Guards to the Council Chamber! The High Council is attacked!”
She did not wait to determine whether she had been heard. Instead she whispered a hurried imprecation to Shar, charged her hands with dark, poisonous magic, and turned back to the combat to seek a likely target. Abelar Corrinthal stood before his father with his blade at the ready and the rosy glow of protective magics surrounding him. The pair was backing out of the chamber. Elyril guessed that Abelar was either a priest or templar of the Morninglord.
Mirabeta lurked in safety beside High Lord Abbot Jemb, within a circle of the six junior Tyrrans who ringed the dais, warhammers swinging. Both her aunt and Jemb were shouting into the melee but their words were drowned out by the combat. The highspeaker futilely shouted for a return to order.
Elyril spotted Zarin Terb on the floor. He lay senseless in a pool of his blood and his wallman was not nearby.
Elyril pushed through the chamber, avoiding the blades, and knelt at Terb’s side. She made the motions of trying to stanch the blood from his severed wrist, but she actually discharged the magical poison of her spell into his veins. He died instantly, and his support for Endren Corrinthal died with him. Elyril watched his spirit exit
the body and streak through the roof. She stood and backed away from Terb.
She caught sight of Abelar pulling his protesting father toward an exit. She put her hand to her holy symbol, whispered an imprecation to Shar, and surreptitiously pointed a finger at the Corrinthals. Instantly a swirling, life-draining cloud of black mist took shape around them. Endren Corrinthal shouted and flailed against the darkness as it engulfed him and his son, drank their lifeforces.