The Shadow's Heir (The Risen Sun) (26 page)

“Sorry—” Laela began, but in that instant the smoke hit her nostrils. It poured into her lungs, and in a heartbeat it had spread through her entire system. She turned to Ocax, asking for help, but she couldn’t tell where he was. Her head began to spin. She turned around, wide-eyed. Her head felt as if it were growing larger and larger, floating toward the ceiling. Everything around her had turned yellow, full of tiny sparks like pollen. Oeka wasn’t there any more, but that didn’t matter; Laela had forgotten all about her. She’d forgotten about Arenadd, too, and Yorath, and home. Everything fled out of her mind in an instant, and she was flying, suspended in a delicious cloud of sweet yellow fog.

She grinned; her mouth seemed to be out of her control and wanted to do nothing else.

Humming inanely to herself, she turned to see if the altar was still there. It was, and the statue was still there, too. Only now, it was moving.

Laela squinted at it. “Here, why are you movin’?” She giggled. “Are yeh bored? Want t’come out an’ get some air an’ that?” She giggled again and couldn’t make herself stop.

Very slowly, the statue straightened up. In its hands the bowl had become a ball of pure golden flame, so bright it hurt to look at.

Laela stopped giggling. She backed away. “What . . . ? No . . . stop . . . I don’t like this . . .”

The statue came toward her, its golden feet clanging on the stone. The face had lost its distant smile. Now it was alive, moving and changing its expression.

Laela tried to back away further, but her feet suddenly refused to move. The light hit her face, burning straight through her eyes and into her skull. She threw up her hands, trying vainly to protect herself. “No! Stop! Stop it! Go away!
Help!
”

The statue halted. She could hear it breathing; deep, rumbling, metallic breaths.
Laela,
it said.

Laela turned her head away. She was trembling in fright. “Leave me alone.”

Laela,
the voice said again.
Look at me.

It was impossible to disobey. Laela raised her head and saw those blank blue eyes, staring straight at her. “No . . .”

Laela,
said the statue.
My child. Do you know me?

“No,” said Laela. “No, I don’t know . . . I don’t . . .”

The statue raised a golden hand, holding it out. It was glowing with heat.
Then perhaps you know them.

Laela turned, and saw a point of light in the fog—three points of light, growing brighter. The fog moved around them, gathering inward as if the lights were drawing it in. Forming shapes.

Laela saw the first of them emerge, and her entire body went cold. “You . . .”

The ghostly shape of Bran smiled at her. “How’s my little girl then, eh?”

Laela reached out to him. “But you’re . . .”

“. . . with Gryphus now,” he said. “Laela . . .”

She looked at the fog beside him and saw another shape. A woman’s shape. And on his other side, a man. The woman had long hair and a kind face, but there was no smile on it. Something had left a deep and terrible slash in her throat, and blood had soaked into the front of her gown.

The man who was with Bran looked more like a boy to Laela, but that was probably because of his eyes—they were round and bright blue, like a child’s. His hair was blond and tousled, and his face peppered with freckles. But he, too, had a ghastly wound on his throat, and his face was as pale as death.

Bran came closer, reaching out with a pale but still big hand. “Laela,” he said. “These two wanted t’come see yeh.”

Laela cringed at the sight of them. “Why?”

Bran put a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “This is your mother, Laela.”

The woman smiled sadly. “Laela. My little Laela. How you’ve grown.”

Laela stared at her, more frightened than anything else. “Mother . . . ?”

“Yes,” said the woman.

“I never knew yer name,” Laela mumbled.

“Flell,” said the woman. “I am Flell. Flell of Eagleholm.
Lady
Flell.”

“Lady?”
Laela blinked. “Dad, yeh never said she was a . . .”

“I was a griffiner,” said Flell. “At Eagleholm. Like my parents.”

Laela looked at Bran. “Why didn’t yeh tell me, Dad? Why . . . ?”

“It was too painful t’talk about,” said Bran. “I didn’t think . . . didn’t see how it would help yeh t’know it.”

“Laela,” said Flell. She moved away from Bran and came closer, her feet making no sound on the floor. “Laela.” Her hand reached out. It was soaked in blood. “Laela, my sweet daughter . . .”

Laela wanted to get away from her. “Why are yeh here, Mother? What d’yeh want?”

“I want to know why,” Flell whispered.

“Why what?”

“Why you’re here,” said Bran.

“Why you’re worshipping the Night God,” said Flell.

“Why you’re with
him
,” said the boy.

“Arenadd is my King,” Laela told them boldly. “An’ he’s my friend.”

“Laela,” said Bran. “He murdered your mother.”

Laela faltered. “What . . . ?”

Flell put a hand to her throat. “He killed me in Malvern,” she said softly. “As I tried to defend your cradle from him.”

“No,” said Laela. “Stop it.”

The boy shoved his way forward. “Don’t you understand?” he sneered. “The man you’re living with killed your entire family. Your mother. Your grandparents. Your uncle.” His expression twisted. “I’m your uncle, ashamed to admit it though I am.” He touched his throat and added, half to himself, “He killed me in the Sun Temple.”

Laela stared at him. “Who are yeh?”

He drew himself up. “I am Lord Erian Rannagonson.”

“Erian . . . ?” Laela laughed weakly. “This is stupid. I ain’t got no uncle, an’ certainly not Erian Rannagonson.”

“You miserable little traitor,” Erian snarled. He turned on Flell, pointing accusingly at her face. “I told you! I told you when I first saw the squealing little brat in your arms. Told you to smother it before it grew up. But you didn’t listen, and now it’s grown up into the Dark Lord’s lap-dog. A shame on our entire noble line!” He put his hands to his throat, squeezing until blood oozed over his fingers. “By Gryphus, I’m glad I died rather than see our father’s blood defiled by being mixed with that
filth
.” And he spat.

Each word felt like a stab to the heart. For a moment, all Laela could do was gape in horror, but the Northern ferocity that had come from her father rose up inside her, and she went hot with rage. “Now look here!” she yelled. “I never got no say in who my dad was, any more’n you did.” She sneered. “An’ them’s fine words comin’ from a bastard anyway, Erian.”

Bran and Flell laughed uproariously at that. Erian gaped, and then scowled and turned away with a curse.

Flell became serious. “Laela,” she said. “There’s no shame in your heritage. I loved your father with all my heart, and I believe that he loved me. But listen to me now. We were allowed to come back to speak with you so that we could warn you.”

“You’re in danger, Laela,” said Bran. “Terrible danger.”

“What d’yeh mean?” said Laela. “What danger? Oeka can protect me if anythin’ . . .”

Flell touched her shoulder, but she couldn’t feel it. “Don’t you understand? You, Laela, are the last of the line of Baragher the Blessed. The only descendant of Lord Rannagon, who the Dark Lord killed in Eagleholm. His mistress commanded him to destroy all his surviving relatives—and that included you.”

“After Rannagon, he killed his son, Erian,” said Bran. “Then his daughter. An’
her
daughter . . .”

“Me?” said Laela. “He was meant to kill me? But he didn’t . . .”

“No.” Bran looked away. “Not you. I saved yeh. Carried yeh away from Malvern before he could finish it.”

“You’ve got to get away from him, Laela,” said Flell. “Run away. Never let him find you! If he ever realises who you really are, he won’t rest until he’s killed you.”

Laela’s fists clenched. “No,” she said. “I won’t.”

They stopped at that. “Laela, he’ll do it,” said Bran. “Yeh don’t know him like we do. Yeh haven’t seen what he can do.”

“I have,” said Laela. “I’ve seen it.”

“Then get away!” said Flell. “For gods’ sakes, save yourself!”

“No,” said Laela. “I don’t believe it. He wouldn’t hurt me. Never. Not for anythin’. I know it.”

Erian returned. “You don’t know anything, half-breed. He’s a murderer.”

“He’s—”

My child. Listen.
Gryphus’ voice rose above them all, deep and powerful. Light glowed all around, and the statue appeared again, standing with the three ghosts.
You do not understand,
he said.
You see the world with Southern eyes. Your nature is of the day. You are the Risen Sun, the last survivor of the sacred blood. My grace is on you, as it is on all your family. You alone can stop him.

From somewhere far, far away, a voice came drifting. “. . . Laela . . . ?”

“I don’t want t’stop him,” said Laela. “All he wants t’do is protect his people.”

The Shadow That Walks must be punished!
said Gryphus.
He must perish for his crimes, before his mistress uses him again!

The distant voice came again, calling plaintively. “Laela . . . ?”

Erian turned to look out at the temple interior, now beginning to show through the fog. “You’re wasting your time, Master,” he said. “She’s her father’s daughter.”

“Laela . . . ?” The voice sounded louder now, calling out. A
living
voice.

Laela looked at the ghosts and realised they were beginning to fade. “What about my father?”

Your father is dead,
said Gryphus.
A cruel death, at the end of a cruel life.

“Laela . . . ?”

The vision was disappearing; the fog thinned, and Gryphus’ light dimmed.

Flell was crying. “He’ll kill you. He’ll kill you if you don’t get away.”

Laela!
Gryphus came close, urgent now.
You must not listen to the Night God’s lies. If you do not accept your destiny, your soul will be cast into darkness forever. You must believe this! The Dark Lord has no heart; he cannot love, he cannot feel. He does not care for you, and he will destroy you.

Laela opened her mouth to shout at him, to tell him to leave her alone, but in that moment, as he began to vanish at last, she looked past him and saw the dark, gaunt shape, slowly and painfully lurching toward her. Calling her name. “Laela . . .
Laela . . .
”

She looked into the eyes of Gryphus again, and said, “He came for me. He came into your Temple, just for me. Even though it hurts him. He cares.”

Gryphus looked solemnly at her, and vanished. Beside him, Flell disappeared, too, and Bran faded. Only Erian was left; a vague shape in the air, outlined in fog.

Laela saw Arenadd clearly now. He walked like an old, old man, shaking in every limb. His breath sounded like a death rattle.

She reached out to him with the beginning of a smile, and started to speak, to tell him she was safe, that she was going to take him out of this place and get him home, where he could rest, and she would look after him . . .

Erian had seen him, too. “You son of a bitch,” he breathed. “Come back to look for me, have you?” He charged, fading with every step, his war-cry a distant howl of wind. He raised the vague outline of a sword, and stabbed it into Arenadd’s chest.

Arenadd jerked suddenly, lurching backward as if a real sword had struck him. Laela saw him put his hands to his chest.

There was blood on his fingers.

Laela ran toward him. “ARENADD!”

The floor jerked under her and turned sideways to hit her in the head, and the world slid out of her grasp.

25

Half-Breed in Charge

L
aela opened her eyes, and groaned. The first thing she noticed was the heat; her entire body felt as if it was in an oven. She was in bed, and the sheets were stuck to her with sweat. The instant she moved, sickening pain slammed through her head. The pain rose with every heartbeat, as if each thud were driving a spike into her forehead. Her vision flashed red.

She rolled onto her back, and the effort of doing just that nearly paralysed her. She lay there, gritting her teeth as the pain spread through her body. Her stomach felt as if it were on fire, and her lungs burned with every breath.

Oh, gods,
she thought.
I’m dying.

A few moments later, a harassed-looking Amorani woman appeared. She said nothing and helped Laela drink some water. The water felt like a blessed gift from the gods themselves; Laela gulped it down and sighed as it cooled her down from the inside out.

When the cup was empty, she managed to rasp out a few questions, but the woman only glanced briefly at her and said nothing. Most likely she didn’t speak Cymrian, and Laela was too confused to try griffish. She accepted another cup of water and watched resignedly as the woman left.

The water had helped her to wake up, though, and she lay still and tried to think. The memory of what had happened in the Temple came back slowly, but it felt confused and unreal.

Laela put a hand to her forehead. It was slick with hot sweat. Maybe she’d been sick. A fever. She’d had fevers in the past, and they always made her have strange dreams.

But I did go to the Temple, though,
she thought. That was the last clear memory she had. She didn’t remember getting sick at all.

Something had happened in the Temple. There’d been someone else there . . . She’d talked to them . . . A priest? And he’d . . . done something . . .

The pain rose sharply in her head, and she hastily shut her eyes and stopped thinking.

When the pain had faded again, she opened her eyes and yelled.

Oeka hissed in alarm and moved away from the bed. “Laela! What is wrong?”

Laela sat up. “Openin’ my eyes an’ finding a huge beak shoved in my face didn’t do my heart no favours,” she mumbled. “What’s goin’ on?”

“You are in the . . . place where the Amoranis bring the sick and wounded,” said Oeka.

Laela lay down again, very carefully. “Did get sick, then.”

“You were very bad,” said Oeka. “They were afraid you would not recover.”

“Had the weirdest dreams,” said Laela. The pain in her head was fading now.

Oeka cocked her head. “I am not surprised. The fungus the priest burned is a very powerful drug, and you took many times the safe amount.” She paused. “Many who burn as much as you did go insane and do not recover.”

Laela shuddered. “Holy gods . . .”

“I am glad that you are well again,” said Oeka. “Laela, terrible things have happened while you have been ill.”

“What terrible things . . . ?” Laela began, and stopped, as a horrendous noise split the air. She cringed and put her hands over her ears. Even Oeka tried to hide in fright.

Someone was screaming.

Laela’s heart pounded. “What the . . . ?”

Another awful cry drifted down the corridor into her room. Laela heard shouts and running feet, and glimpsed several people dashing past her doorway. She heard another scream after that, but this one was smothered into silence. That only made it worse.

Another memory came back to her, all too quickly. She dragged herself out of bed, swearing at the ache in her limbs but ignoring all her own discomfort now.

Oeka lifted her wings. “You must not—”

Laela turned on her. “Where’s Arenadd? What happened to him? For gods’ sakes, is he all right?”

“No,” the griffin said shortly. “The King is gravely wounded.”

“What d’yeh mean, wounded?” said Laela. In her head, she saw that terrible moment in the Temple . . . but surely that had just been an hallucination.

“The Amoranis tried to assassinate him,” said Oeka. “The Emperor is denying that he had anything to do with it. Lord Duach thinks it must have been one of the priests, but they, too, are denying it . . .”

“But nobody tried t’kill him,” Laela said blankly. “I never saw . . .”

“You were so full of fungus-smoke, you would not have known your own name,” said Oeka.

“You were there,” said Laela. “What did yeh see?” She looked around for her clothes, found them, and clumsily started to put them on.

“I was not there,” said Oeka.

“What?”

“After you breathed in the smoke, you went mad,” said Oeka. “You began talking to the walls, laughing, and wandering about . . . When I tried to bring you to your senses, you acted as if I were not there.” She paused, her tail twitching rapidly. “The smoke . . . gathered itself around you. I could not go inside it. It was as if there were some force . . . keeping all others away. The priest tried as well, but he could not touch you, either.”

Laela froze at that. “What d’yeh mean? How could smoke . . . ?”

“I do not know,” said Oeka. “The priest said it was the power of his god, keeping your meeting with him from being disturbed. I did not know what to do . . . I was afraid for your life. So I left the Temple and flew as fast as I could to find help. I went to the Mighty Skandar himself, and begged him for his help.”

“Yeh went to . . . ?” Laela could hardly believe it. She tried to imagine the proud little griffin ever begging anyone to do anything, and failed.

“Skandar did not want to help,” said Oeka. “So he sent his human in his place.”

“He sent Arenadd into the Sun Temple?” said Laela. Very quickly, her disbelief turned to anger. “That son of a . . .”

Without any warning, Oeka rose up, her feathers puffed out so that she appeared to double in size. “Do not speak that way about the Mighty Skandar!” she screeched.

Laela faltered and winced. “Arenadd got hurt in there,” she said. “Somehow. But it wasn’t no living man what did it.”

“Few would believe you,” said Oeka.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Laela. “I’ve got t’see him, an’ fast.”

“You have your own illness to concern yourself about,” Oeka said stiffly. “And the King is in good hands. The Emperor has sent his finest healers.”

“An’ how d’yeh know they ain’t gonna try an’ hurt him, too?” said Laela. “He needs me.”

She ignored anything else her partner said and left the room—unsteady on her feet but too determined to let it slow her down. Out in the corridor, there were dozens of people, all talking at once and getting in each other’s way. There were Amoranis there, of course, but there were Northerners, too—Laela saw most of the griffiners who had come with them on the ship.

Lord Duach, the most senior of them, looked the most upset. He was shouting something at an Amorani man, who looked as if he were doing his best to calm the angry Northerner down, and failing.

Laela marched toward him, pushing people out of the way. “Oi!” she shouted, ignoring the flare-up of pain that caused. Duach didn’t notice her, but she solved that by grabbing him by the arm. “Oi, I’m yellin’ at you!”

Duach turned irritably. “What . . . ? Oh! Lady Laela, I didn’t know ye were awake . . .”

“Well, yeh know now,” said Laela. “What’s goin’ on? Where’s Arenadd?”

“In there,” said Duach, gesturing at the door next to the one that led into Laela’s room. “I can’t tell ye much else about what’s going on,” he added, glaring at the hapless Amorani he’d been yelling at.

Laela turned to the victim. “What’s happening?” she said, using griffish.

The man only looked back helplessly and said something in his own language.

Laela snapped. “What the . . . ? He doesn’t speak griffish, yeh thick-headed blackrobe! For gods’ sakes, someone go an’ find Lord Vander or someone else what can translate for us.”

Duach went red. “How dare ye . . . ?”

Laela reached over and grabbed him by the ear-lobe. “Listen t’me,” she hissed, “I dunno if yeh’ve noticed, but the King’s out of commission, an’ I’m the most senior official here. So I reckon if he’s not givin’ commands, then I’m the person yeh’ll be listenin’ to instead, got that? You”—she turned and pointed at Penllyn, one of the other Northerners who was there—“go an’ find Lord Vander, an’ make it snappy.”

Penllyn glanced at Duach and hurried away.

“Good,” said Laela. “Now, what’s goin’ on?”

It had gone very quiet in the hallway all of a sudden. Everyone was staring at her now. She ignored them.

Duach was clenching his teeth. “The Amoranis have betrayed us,” he said. “They tried to kill the King, and now they’re keeping him here and refusing to let any of us see him. And they tried to kill ye, too, while they were at it!” He tugged at his beard. “I told the King we shouldn’t come here, an’ now see what’s happened! These filthy sun worshippers have us at their mercy. Without the King . . .”

Laela suddenly realised how frightened he looked. “Calm down,” she said. “He’s survived worse. What’s happened with the negotiations?”

“Nothing’s happened,” said Duach. “They’re saying that unless the King marries this princess of theirs, they won’t send any of the slaves home.”

A moment later, Vander arrived. Laela wanted to hug him when she saw him coming. “There yeh are,” she said. “Now listen, we need some help here.”

Vander watched her closely as she spoke, his dark eyes gleaming. “I’m at your command, my lady,” he said when she was done.

Part of Laela was screaming at her now, telling her this was impossible, that she couldn’t possibly be doing this. “I need yeh to translate for us,” she said, quite calmly. “We want t’find out what’s happened to the King an’ whether he’s all right, but the healers here don’t seem t’speak Cymrian. Can yeh do somethin’?”

Vander nodded. “Certainly, my lady.” He turned to the healer and spoke rapidly to him in Amorani. They carried on an animated conversation while Laela and the other Northerners looked on impatiently.

Finally, Vander turned to Laela. “The King was not attacked,” he said.

“So ye say—” Duach began.

“Shut up,” said Laela. “Vander, what’s this about? Why do they think he wasn’t attacked?”

Vander gestured at the healer. “He says that the King’s wound is not new, but an old one that re-opened suddenly. They have been trying to treat it, but it will not stop bleeding.”

“I knew it,” said Laela. She didn’t even think before she said it, but the instant the words were out of her mouth, she believed they were true. “The Amoranis had nothin’ t’do with this,” she said, more loudly. “I was there. It was a ghost attacked the King, not a man.”

“My lady, ye were under the influence of a powerful drug,” said Duach. “Yer story can’t be relied on.”

“Maybe not, but I’m master of you now, an’ I say that’s what we believe,” said Laela.

“I don’t understand, though,” Penllyn interrupted. “Why would an old wound suddenly re-open like that, unless someone . . . ?”

“He went into the Sun Temple, yeh idiot!” Laela yelled. “That’s why! Don’t yeh get it? Don’t yeh understand why he’s been so sick? This is Gryphus’ land, Gryphus’ place. He’s not welcome here. But he came here anyway,” she added more quietly. “T’set our brothers an’ sisters free.”

“He is a noble man, my lady,” Vander said softly. “I have always thought so. I do not like to see him suffer this way.”

Laela shook her head. “There’s nothin’ for it,” she said. “We’ve got t’take him home. Now.”

“The King is in a very serious condition, my Lady,” said Vander. “It would do him no good to move him now.”

But Laela knew in her heart that she was right. “We’re takin’ him home,” she said. “If he stays here, he’ll never get better. In Malvern, he’ll heal.”

“I agree,” said Duach. “This journey was a mistake.”

“But the slaves,” said Penllyn. “And the Emperor. The negotiations aren’t finished yet.”

“Leave that t’me,” said Laela. She saw the doubtful looks she was getting and drew herself up with all the pride a griffiner should have. “I am the Master of Wisdom. My word is final. Now, go. I have t’see the King, an’ I’ll do that alone.”

That said, Laela turned her back on them all and strode into the room where Arenadd lay.

There wasn’t much she could do there. Her friend lay on a stone slab, with a sheet covering his lower half. He was as pale as a corpse, and his scars looked red and raw. In the middle of his chest the old wound left by Erian’s sword had indeed re-opened. It had been heavily bandaged, but Laela could see a thick line of blood soaking through them, following the length of the cut.

Arenadd was unconscious, breathing slowly. His face was lined with pain.

Laela touched his forehead and stiffened when she realised that his hair, once pure black, was now shot through with grey.

When she saw that, she knew her decision had been the right one.

“I’m sorry, Arenadd,” she whispered. “We’ve done everythin’ we could. Now it’s time t’go home. The North’ll miss those slaves, but it’ll miss you worse.”

•   •   •

L
aela hurried out of the room and found the Northerners and Vander waiting, along with Oeka. They all looked at her expectantly.

“How is he, my lady?” Vander inquired.

“Comatose,” said Laela. “Again. But this time he ain’t gettin’ up anytime soon.” She thought quickly and pointed at Duach. “Right, here’s what yer gonna do. We’re takin’ him outta here an’ back onto the ship, an’ I’m gonna need someone t’keep watch over him. Skandar’s gotta be there, too—make sure he’s somewhere Skandar can get to him, ’cause I reckon that’ll help.”

Duach nodded very readily. “At once.”

“Good,” said Laela. “Once he’s on board, keep him out of the sun. Keep him cold—cold as yeh can. Use water, fan him—whatever yeh can think of. The heat’s makin’ it worse. An’ . . .”

“Yes, milady?” said Duach, now very attentive.

“Pray,” said Laela.

The Northerners there who knew her looked a little surprised. “Of course, milady,” Duach said politely.

“Do it,” Laela growled. “Trust me, if there’s anything up there at all, it’s watchin’ over him. You’re gonna make sure she doesn’t get distracted.”