Megelin was livid. Not one of his lifeguards had looked to him for approval of the sorcerer’s orders.
That reckoning might come soon.
What had happened, anyway? Norath seemed stricken sick. He almost danced in his nervousness.
The sorcerer could not restrain himself. “You. You. Attaq. Come with me. The rest of you stay with the King. Keep the animals together.” He said something else in another language. The deathcats rumbled unhappily.
Norath moved off into the moonlight at his best speed.
The deathcats arrayed themselves defensively on Megelin’s side of the herd. The remaining lifeguards stationed themselves among the animals, to steady them up. They were one fright short of a stampede.
There were thirty-two horses and four camels. The King of Hammad al Nakir had to help control them as though he was a common soldier. Another mark against Magden Norath.
Megelin tried to talk to the men across the herd. The lifeguards had nothing to say. One unidentifiable voice told him to shut up. They had troubles enough already.
A shriek ripped the night. Megelin jumped. The cry stirred a deep, unreasoning dread.
Expectant silence followed. It lasted only seconds.
Shadows scurried past. Megelin first thought they were his lifeguards fleeing. Then one ragamuffin passed close enough to be recognized as a derelict.
The lifeguards swarmed out of the darkness seconds later. Some grabbed Megelin and hustled him forward. Others helped move the animals.
Magden Norath was not among them.
After Megelin had been herded more than a hundred yards, the nearest lifeguard panted, “The sorcerer is dead. His head was almost all the way off. We need to get you safe.”
Norath? Slain? Magden Norath? How could that be?
As the band streamed into the Sheyik’s compound Megelin heard the distant shriek of an injured deathcat.
Suddenly, Megelin was alone except for three lifeguards. Those three barely restrained their rage. They wanted to go hunt the monster who had murdered their god.
The Sheyik’s men took the animals. Others kept pushing Megelin toward safety. They took him to the Sheyik himself, an older, heavily bearded man Megelin knew and did not like. Hanba al-Medi had served both sides: the Disciple when the Faith was in full flood, then the Royalist cause after El Murid began to fade.
The old man was trembling, confused. He kept asking what the excitement was about and got no answers.
At that point there were no answers. The second in command of the lifeguards told Hanba, “There was an ambush. Someone knew we were coming. Four men are dead-including Magden Norath.”
The old chief blanched. He faced his king. “That can’t be possible. Magden Norath?”
“His head was cut almost all the way off. The men with him were killed, too.”
Despite being inside, Megelin heard the shrieks of the deathcats and the screams of men who were too close when they went mad.
Al-Medi was terrified, yet outraged. “I learned of all this two days ago. What it’s about was never explained. I could betray nothing if I wanted. What have you brought down on me?”
No doubt he spoke the truth. Norath had arranged to be here. Norath was careful. Only he had known the story. It could be argued that, logically, only he could be the traitor.
Megelin thought his head was going to burst.
Reports came in. They were not good. Two deathcats had gone mad. They had attacked one another and anything living till the bodyguards put them down. Another six men were dead. Four were badly injured. A half-dozen derelicts had been killed as well.
Megelin screamed, “Old man, what am I doing here?”
“You were brought to see me.”
Megelin turned. And was surprised. That strong young voice had come from the oldest man he had ever seen, a bent, shuffling creature thin as starvation itself. But the power round him was so potent Megelin could taste it.
A bony, crooked finger indicted Megelin. “Come with me, boy.”
Time stopped. Everyone became rigidly motionless.
Rage at the ancient’s lack of respect boiled inside Megelin-the more so when he found that he could not resist the command. In a moment he and the living antiquity were inside a small, isolated room, absent all witnesses.
Megelin could not control his flesh but his mind remained independent. He recognized a level of distress in his companion that bordered on terror. The old man was totally rattled-maybe because he understood just how amazing Norath’s fall had been.
The King finally realized who the ancient had to be: that most fabulous of fabulous beings, the Star Rider.
Megelin wished he had the strength and quickness to leave the old devil a sack of dead bones alongside Magden Norath.
The old man’s sneer revealed his confidence of knowing every treacherous thought whisking through Megelin’s brain.
…
Varthlokkur was playing with the children when the unexpected burst. Smyrena lay on his lap, wriggling and giggling, trying to catch a glowing butterfly that kept sneaking past her chubby-fingered grasp to perch for a moment on her pug button nose. Ekaterina and Scalza cheerfully blasted each other in a tag game involving harmless balls of light. And Ethrian…
Ethrian was looking outward tonight. He remained silent, did not interact, did not respond to direct address, but was connected and alert.
Varthlokkur was pleased to see even that much progress.
Nepanthe was thrilled beyond description.
She was downstairs cobbling together refreshments, no doubt including something that had been an especial favorite of Ethrian’s as a child.
The boy did not move much, and then only slowly, mainly just turning his head. He was intrigued by everything, as though seeing it all for the first time. And he was, really, for the first time with any curiosity. His cousins, his sister, the Winterstorm, it all stirred mild expressions of wonder.
The baby was just as intrigued by her brother-when she was not preoccupied with her butterfly.
Nepanthe arrived accompanied by burdened servants. “I decided to bring a whole meal since we didn’t have a proper supper.”
“Good thinking,” Varthlokkur said. “Considering the energy those two goblins are burning off.”
Nepanthe started to ask if he had found a way to communicate with Mist but he was not listening.
Ethrian had stiffened. As Varthlokkur turned his way the boy stunned everyone. He pointed at the Winterstorm, said, “Grandfather.”
“Nepanthe, take the baby. Now!”
The Winterstorm was stirring but what had triggered Ethrian was not obvious there. That was clear only in a mercury pan seldom used but eye-catchingly alive right now. It had been spelled to trigger only under a few unlikely circumstances.
One would be the sorcerer Magden Norath coming within a mile of the Star Rider’s winged horse.
A thousand hours, spanning the years since the Great Eastern Wars, had gone into the mathematics needed to build the spell suite that tripped the alarm. The task had proven intractable till Varthlokkur decided to try tracing the winged horse instead of the Star Rider himself.
After Nepanthe took Smyrena, Varthlokkur told her, “Darling, clear everyone out. The children first.”
Which meant something big and possibly dangerously bad was happening. Vaguely, Varthlokkur was aware of Nepanthe fussing over Ethrian as she drove everyone out of the chamber.
In moments the wizard was assessing the situation in al-Habor.
Oh, what an opportunity delivered by Chance! A nudge here, another there, hardly powerful enough to disturb an ant’s slumber, and the world changed forever. His part would remain forever unknown to any but he.
Once the nudges had been dealt he settled to observe.
He wished he had the Unborn close enough to do more.