Sorcerer's Legacy (14 page)

A loud murmur swelled the room, cut by Garend’s protest. “Unconsciousness may be caused by wine alone, your Grace.”

Darion’s clean laughter dispelled an ominous silence. “Whether I was overcome with spirits or not bears little on this case, Lordship. Don’t grasp at straws. You had Nairgen shape-changed to provide you with an alibi so that I could be left senseless without suspicion.”

“You have no proof.”

Above, on the dais, the Grand Judge leaned forward, suddenly rapt. Faisix sat motionless at his side.

Darion’s reply held the sheered edge of self-righteous anger. “You are wrong, Garend. Ielond left my Consort a mirrowstone interfaced to provide communication with my person. Lady Elienne
witnessed
a scarred hand placing a cloth with a sleep potion to my face during an attempt to rouse me through contact. Examination of Nairgen’s corpse will reveal the selfsame scar.”

Garend sank back, deflated, but Elienne was more interested in the Regent’s expression of startled calculation. The mirrowstone had been a surprise to him, she realized, and to the court as well, by the tumult of talk that burst forth.

The Grand Judge pounded for order. Yet it was Darion’s call for silence that finally calmed the uproar.

“I will reconstruct what actually occurred,” said the Prince, “but not before Taroith’s fetters are struck.”

“He has not been acquitted yet, your Grace.” Faisix spoke with the patience of a parent admonishing a child.

“Since when do we bind a Master of the League?”

The Regent inclined his head to the Grand Judge. “Kindly inform his Grace.”

The Grand Judge fingered his silver-trimmed collar uncomfortably and cleared his throat. “Master Taroith refused to give his oath of self-restraint.”

The Collective loosed a gasp of astonishment. Elienne saw Taroith nod in response to the Prince’s inquiry. Clamor arose, stilled by Darion’s raised hand. “Master Taroith, will you deliver the oath in my presence?”

“I swear to it gladly, your Grace.” Light flashed through the mirrowstone as the Sorcerer’s soulfocus sprang into existence. Darion motioned to the guardsmen.

Awakened, suddenly, to the downpour that drenched her feet, Elienne stood and banged the shutters closed with shaking hands. The closer Taroith came to acquittal, the greater her anxiety Faisix would engage a counterstroke. If her observations through the mirrowstone were viable as evidence, Taroith’s innocence could be established beyond question, revealing Nairgen’s confession to the Regent as false. Alone behind doors guarded by mutes loyal to Faisix, Elienne sat and cupped the mirrowstone in damp palms. It took all of her will not to burden Darion with her own fears as he delivered his final speech. Over the pounding of rain against shutters, Elienne heard the clink of steel as Taroith’s wrists were freed.

“It is my conviction that there was a treasonous conspiracy against my succession, but Taroith was not involved.” Darion directed himself toward the Collective, but his attention never strayed from the Tribunal. “I am prepared to produce evidence, that this case may be lawfully and justly concluded. Garend, together with a Sorcerer capable of completing a shape-change, sought to hasten a declaration of my unfitness to rule by creating the semblance of a weakness for alcohol. Nairgen the healer was given my form so that Garend could deliver drugged wine to my chambers and be observed to leave with my health apparently intact. Neither his Lordship, nor the Sorcerer involved, was aware Ielond had arranged selection of my Consort prior to his death.

“When this fact became known, Garend saw an opportunity to discredit the validity of Elienne’s Consortship. Nairgen, in my likeness, provided a tool too convenient to be wasted. When his attack failed, I recall your attention to the names of those present when his confession named Taroith as instigator.” Darion paused.

The Grand Judge shook his head. “I concede the possibility of Garend’s participation. But I see no cause for inferring the Regent’s complicity, or Taroith’s innocence.”

Darion looked up, and Elienne saw hardness in his eyes. “The facts seem to mesh neatly, I admit. Except the Lady Elienne, at considerable risk, used Ielond’s interface to summon Taroith’s assistance when the drug’s effects threatened my life. I stand before you today, alive and well,
because the Master you accuse of treason restored me to health.”

Uproar ensued, but Faisix’s unemotional calm prevailed over the noise and recaptured the Collective’s strayed attention. “Your Grace, I presume you accuse me of tampering with Nairgen’s confession solely upon the testimony of a girl unknown to this court until yesterday? I remind you that Taroith was instrumental in establishing her Consortship through highly irregular circumstances. Exercise care. She could be privy to his plot.” His voice was smooth and convincingly sincere, as always. The Prince seemed young and rash next to Faisix’s understated strength. Elienne felt panic twist her gut. Already she saw heads nod among the Collective, conceding the possibility the Prince had been deluded.

And abruptly there followed the realization that she could reverse the tide of opinion. She seized the mirrowstone. “My Prince, Jieles’s daughter, Minksa, witnessed all that occurred in your chamber last night. A truth reading will establish my innocence, and Taroith’s as well.”

Minksa? What was she doing there?
Yet Darion quickly mastered surprise. “I ask this court to truth question Jieles’s child, Minksa. She will corroborate, though it is well known she bears me no affection.”

Faisix stood, white-lipped, but not yet unnerved. “I will fetch her, your Grace.” Elegant in his rich robes of office, he started for the dais steps.

“Halberdiers!” Darion snapped. “Do not allow the Regent to leave this chamber.”

Taroith’s guardsmen leaped to obey. Steel flashed in an arc as they lowered weapons and barred the Regent’s path.

Faisix stopped. An expression of annoyance stiffened his features, and a blaze of yellow light heralded the awakening of his soulfocus. It peaked to blinding intensity immediately before the crossed shafts of the halberds. The Regent stepped smoothly forward and vanished by sorcery.

Darion’s shout cut through blossoming confusion. “He will have gone for my Consort! Taroith, get to the West Keep!”

But his arrival would be too late; Elienne already heard steps on the stair, followed by the harsh rattle of the latch. She turned in time to see the door swing open.

Chapter
8

Sphere of Influence

FAISIX
stepped
over the threshold, his robes untouched by the rain. “Good morrow, my Lady.” Aisa and Denji entered with him.

Though the greeting was formally polite, Elienne could not hide her fear.

The Regent stopped short. All semblance of courtesy left him, and Elienne saw once again the expression of ruthless purpose she recalled from the ice plains.

“She’s aware of what has happened.” Faisix motioned to the mutes. “Take her quickly.”

Aisa nodded and advanced, but Elienne had recovered her wits. Affecting a startled expression of dismay, she said, “You aren’t deaf at all.” Delay, she thought frantically. If she could stall her enemies, even for a few minutes, Taroith might reach her in time for rescue. “I should have guessed. You probably talk also.”

Aisa laughed, showing the grisly stump that remained of her tongue. Denji grinned as the Consort recoiled with a gasp and retreated against the ledge beneath the arrowslit.

Elienne noted the mute’s reaction with satisfaction. Let them believe she was afraid. Her step back placed her on the far side of the rain puddle, by now sheened with oil from the parquet. Elienne waited, the drum roll of the storm loud in her ears, watching the mail-cowled faces of her attackers. She did not draw the knife until Aisa had lunged to seize her.

Denji howled wordlessly in warning. The sound lifted the hair on Elienne’s neck, but her aim was steady as she struck at the unarmored gap between Aisa’s gauntlet and forearm. The knife nicked steel and caught flesh. Aisa checked on the slick parquet and crashed heavily to one knee. She caught herself left-handed against the shutters just as Elienne ducked beneath her guard.

But Denji swung her spear across the gap. The oak shaft struck Elienne in the ribs. She gasped and fell sprawling, dimly aware that Aisa had regained her footing behind.
Delay
, she thought desperately, and rolled beneath the stufled chair.

Faisix shouted in agitation, “Hurry!”

Denji raised the chair, cast it tumbling away. Elienne whipped the little knife at the hands that reached to snare her. Running steps and voices sounded on the stair. Beyond Denji’s armored bulk, Elienne saw Faisix whirl and slam the door. Light bloomed under his fingers as he touched the lock. “Just catch hold of her!”

Aisa kicked Elienne’s wrist. Pain numbed her fingers. The knife flipped out of her grasp and skittered across the floor. Elienne dove after. A gauntleted fist closed on her leg. She kicked with her free foot. As the hold loosened, she strained to reach the knife. But Denji plucked the weapon neatly away from her groping hand and grabbed Elienne’s arm. Mailed fingers dug into her flesh.

Taroith’s voice carried clearly through the closed door. “I cannot, your Grace. Faisix has set a blocking ward.”

“Darion!” Elienne thrashed frantically. Aisa caught her ankle, then circled her knees in a bear hug. Elienne twisted desperately. Her hair tumbled from loosened pins, obstructing her vision, and her cheek banged into a table leg.

“Hold her!” Black and white cloth brushed Elienne’s forehead. Faisix stood over her.

“No!” Elienne flung against her captor’s hold.

Light flared, sulfurously yellow. Blinded by glare, Elienne cried out. The floor seemed to upend beneath her. All sense of solidity exploded violently out of existence, and darkness enfolded Elienne’s consciousness, cold and silent as Eternity.

* * *

The ward on the lock split asunder with a coarse scream of sound. Taroith seized the latch with sweat-drenched hands and flung wide the door. At his shoulder, Darion squinted through the flurry of red sparks showered by the fading spell. The chamber beyond lay deserted.

“He’s transferred by sorcery,” Taroith’s voice was deadened by the lash of rain against the oak slats of the shutters. “Inevitably, his destination will be Torkal. How much does Elienne know of enchantment, and the laws of self-infringement?”

“I don’t know.” Darion stepped past the Sorcerer and swept the room with haunted eyes.

“You must not despair, your Grace,” Taroith said gently. “Lady Elienne is resourceful and spirited. And she has the mirrowstone.”

Darion failed to answer. Across the room, by the arrowslit, the parquet was marked with blood.
“Taroith.”

The Sorcerer left the doorway and crossed the floor with measured steps. Shadows leaped as his soulfocus sprang alight overhead. He knelt and touched one scarlet drop with a forefinger.

“Aisa’s,” Taroith pronounced at last. “Your Lady is a fighter. Ielond chose well, Darion. Trust his wisdom.”

But Darion seemed not to hear. “She was
alone
. Taroith, what happened to the maidservants I sent to attend her chambers? Were they waylaid? Did Faisix hold sway even over the ones I trusted? Just how much of a stranglehold does our Regent
have
over this court?”

Taroith rose slowly. “We have no way of knowing.”

“Ielond knew.” Darion suddenly bent and pulled something shiny from beneath the splintered strut of an oaken side table. The Consort’s betrothal ring gleamed in his fingers, rimmed with blood. “A fine example of negligence I’ve made of that legacy!” Darion’s fist closed fiercely over the ring. “I want a full-scale attack on Torkal.”

“The Council won’t deny you, your Grace,” said a new voice from the doorway.

Darion whirled, saw the Sorcerer Emrith cross the threshold. Green robes dripped bright beads of rainwater onto the floor. “There is no longer any question of the Regent’s corrupt ambitions. Taroith has received acquittal, along with apology from the Grand Justice.”

The Prince twisted the ring in his hand. “I doubt the Grand Council knows the smallest fraction of the Regent’s treasonous activities.” His tone turned bleak as winter. “If my Consort is harmed, they will learn quickly.”

Darion pushed open the shutters and gazed through the arrowslit. Below, through ragged streamers of mist, breakers crashed over rocks, jetting lacy geysers of spray. “There’s one who didn’t waste time abandoning a sinking ship.” Wind gusted, sheeting rain across the stone sill. The view dissolved behind a blurred curtain of water. Darion stirred irritably. “Faisix’s allies might grant me lip service, but who can I trust to help me against him?”

Taroith touched the royal shoulder in gruff sympathy. “You love her well, I think. Ielond knew what he was about.”

“Ma’Diere!” Darion pulled away. “How can you stay so calm? We both know what her life is worth to Faisix.”

“Faisix feared your Guardian,” said Taroith emphatically. “Remember that. And Elienne is Ielond’s last bequest. She will therefore be his finest weapon against the adversary he spent his life to defeat.”

“I beg you, help me win her back,” said Darion.

Taroith returned a look of bemused patience. “Was there ever any question, my Prince? I would not do otherwise, though it called for the ruin of Torkal.”

Startled by such a passionate threat from a Master of the League sworn to peace, Darion stared at the Sorcerer. “She has won your heart also,” he accused.

Taroith nodded and started across the room. “And why ever not, your Grace? The Lady Elienne was the choice of a kindly and perceptive mind. Where in Ma’Diere’s creation do you suppose Ielond found her?”

But the Sorcerer received only silence in reply. He wondered, as the shadow of the stairwell obscured the expression, what prompted Darion’s silence.

* * *

Elienne recovered awareness slowly. Cold, wet rocks grated against her knees. One of the guardswomen held her wrists in a grip of steel behind her back. Mist and rain blurred her vision and ran in chilly tunnels down her collar. Foam-webbed waves thundered against rock scant yards away. She licked lips bitter with the taste of blown salt. Not even her most fearful expectations had included drowning.

Faisix and Aisa stood a short distance off, deep in conference. Elienne could not hear over the seethe of the breakers, and Aisa’s sign language was unintelligible. For the second time in her life, she faced the despair of total helplessness. The worst had happened, beyond hope of change. Faisix surely intended to kill her. Elienne found no comfort in fatalism. Again, as with the Khadrach, she responded with the reckless insolence of one who has nothing left to lose.

When Faisix left his conversation with Aisa, Elienne faced him with rugged anger. “I swim quite well, Excellency. You had better make sure of me with a rock, first.”

Faisix’s brows rose, and he gave way to startled laughter. “Mistress, I am never that crude. My purpose in stopping here was a practical one. Your Prince’s urgency allowed me no time to route us a transfer to Torkal Manor with safety. Here we will not be pressured with interruptions.”

“My knees hurt.” Elienne tossed wet hair out of her eyes. “And the handling of your guardswomen is certainly crude.”

“Do you call Aisa’s slashed wrist civil?” Faisix folded his arms, amused, as though his ruined name meant nothing and the spoiled velvet that clung soddenly about his shoulders were entirely commonplace. “Denji, bind the Lady’s hands and allow her to stand.”

Elienne awarded the sarcasm the same disregard as the leather thongs that bit into her reddened skin.

“I regret the barbarity,” he said civilly, watching her first stumbling step as she regained her feet. “But really, I don’t want a visit from Taroith or the Prince just now, and Ielond seems to have forgotten to put a catch on the trinket he gave you.”

“He knew your ways,” she said, though the cold made her teeth chatter. “I find you pretentious.”

Faisix smiled with delight. “Spare me your opinions. Since your death would only arouse public sentiment in Darion’s favor, you will accept the hospitality of Torkal Manor for a time. Unless you have had the extreme misfortune to conceive, you have nothing to fear at my hands.”

With a terrible, undermining sense of dread, Elienne acknowledged sound judgment. So long as Darion’s difficulties did not make him a public martyr, the established laws of succession would condemn him soon enough. Jieles would inherit. And Cinndel’s child would die. Elienne felt her brash courage dissolve. She would rather have taken her chances with the sea than become a guest in Torkal Manor. But already Faisix had lost interest in verbal debate. A dazzling flare of yellow heralded the second stage of the transfer. Denji caught Elienne’s waist from behind as rocks, ocean, and misted skies were torn out of existence by a fiery explosion of sorcery.

* * *

She returned to her senses with agonizing slowness. Disorientation blanked her mind, persistent as fog. For long minutes she shivered, aware only of wet clothing and the staccato spatter of wind-driven rain against glass. Her limbs felt oddly weighted. She attempted to stretch and found her hands were bound. She was lashed to a chair with arms carved in the shape of demons claws. The room’s only casement showed the drenched limbs of a wind-tossed cedar, and the scrape of needles across glass set Elienne’s teeth on edge.

“You’ll be given your liberty shortly, Lady,” said Faisix.

Elienne turned her head and saw a hearth flanked by bookshelves. The Sorcerer stood by the mantel, dry and comfortable in a gray doublet and soft calf boots. His fair hair hung lank with dampness.

Elienne battled to stabilize unfocused vision and a maddening recurrence of vertigo. Nausea toyed with her stomach. “What have you done to me?” The words sounded slurred, even through the roaring in her ears.

“Nothing permanently harmful.” Faisix stepped forward, footfalls silenced by richly patterned carpet. Firelight made his shadow flicker. “Only a tiny dose of the elixir Nairgen gave to Darion. Not enough to put you out.”

Elienne swallowed, a bitter taste on her tongue. “Why?” The question seemed silly, even as she uttered it, and the carpet appeared to melt into the form of the man in the flamelight.

“I don’t wish Darion to be privy to the nuances of my hospitality.” Faisix’s reply seemed distant as a faded nightmare. Aisa has gone to fetch a file.”

With great difficulty, Elienne shepherded straying thoughts. Shortly she heard footsteps, and the steely jingle of mail. Then cold hands caught the mirrowstone, and chain snapped taut against her neck. Elienne tried to pull away.

“Hold still.” Faisix moved closer, but seemed oddly reluctant to touch her.

Why? wondered Elienne, but the drug fuddled her reasoning. Aisa hefted the file, and her sinewed wrist flexed as she brought the tool to bear against the slender gold links. Sparks flew. Static crackled over the file’s edge. Aisa bellowed in surprise and flinched back; the chain jerked in her hand, cutting Elienne’s flesh painfully. The file tumbled to the carpet. With a snarl of anger, Aisa retrieved the tool and raised it for a second attempt.

“Stop!” Faisix’s outcry was uncharacteristically curt. “Ielond has evidently warded the chain.” He paused, and the glance he directed toward Elienne chilled her blood. “I regret the barbarity, Lady, but I fear I must restrict your powers of speech and set a blocking ward about your thoughts—at least until I find means to break the defenses set about your necklace.”