The undead Kanosee soldier waited, poised to spring, but made no immediate move. Between them, Athryn crouched on the ground with his arms wrapped around the boy. The magician’s lips moved, though he made no sound.
Khirro took a step and the soldier tensed, but didn’t advance. The feel of a sword in his hand energized him more than he ever would have imagined; he stalked forward, his gaze on the undead soldier who fell back with his advance. The one-time farmer’s heart swell with guilty pride as, finally, someone was afraid of him.
No, he’s waiting for the others.
The clank of armor as the other four soldiers ran down the dirt track to their compatriot’s aid made Khirro realize the truth of it, and the realization squeezed pride from him.
I have to kill him before they get here.
He tensed to leap at his enemy, but Athryn’s voice interrupted.
“Khirro,” the magician said, quiet and breathless. “Blood.”
Khirro’s eyes darted toward his companion seated on the grass behind him, eyes closed, arms around the boy. For a second, Khirro wasn’t completely sure he’d spoken.
“Now, Khirro.”
He waited a fraction of a second before dragging his forearm across the edge of the sword’s blade and, in that hesitation, the Kanosee soldier realized what was happening. He leaped for the magician and Khirro’s legs tensed to launch him to Athryn’s defence.
The world went black.
Chapter Twelve
Her eyes flickered open, a disturbance in the energy flowing about her inexplicably drawing her out of her meditation.
Sheyndust sat upright, then stood, the surface of her bare flesh prickling, all her nerves alert. She glanced around her chambers but knew she wouldn’t find anyone within; her sharp senses would have warned her if someone had entered, and the fierce guard outside the door would keep anyone out. No, something else had disturbed her.
The Archon looked toward the window.
The shutter was open, as she’d left it, a breeze billowing the sheer curtains inward. She moved toward it noticing the softness of the bearskin rug between her toes without enjoying it, and retrieved her robe from the arm of the divan on her way. She pulled it over her bare shoulders and cringed at its feel-she despised the touch of cloth on her flesh, even the robe’s smooth purple silk, but convention demanded it. At least, until it was she who determined what convention was.
Clouds hid the sun, giving the air more chill as the days crept closer to winter. The Archon breathed a deep breath, hoping the feel of the cold air would calm the feeling that pulled her out of meditation, but it didn’t. She gazed across the courtyard at the familiar sight of Kanosee soldiers moving about the fortress. Some of them moved purposefully, with places to go and jobs to perform, but many of them appeared to be drunk, though the sun hadn’t yet reached its zenith.
I will have to deal with that.
With nothing seeming out of the ordinary, she turned back to the room, ready to dismiss the odd impression and remove the uncomfortable clothes, but a group of men on horseback caught her eye before she did. She returned to the window and leaned out, hands resting on the cold stone casement.
On the avenue below, six Kanosee soldiers rode by-a unit returning from routine patrol. Nothing unusual about them, except the extra horses they led and their two prisoners: a man and a woman. Each was bound at the wrists and tethered to a saddle of one of the riders.
Sheyndust leaned farther out the window to examine the captives: Kanosee farmers from the look of them. As she looked closer, she realized only one of the woman’s wrists was bound, the other one left free to clutch her child to her chest.
Is this what disturbed my meditation?
Her eyes narrowed, searching the woman’s face as they passed close under her window, but she recognized neither her nor the man. Clearly not the reason she was drawn from her trance.
Sheyndust opened her mouth to enquire of the patrol who these people were and where they came from when a knock at the door interrupted her. Her lips pressed together in a tight line, jaw muscles flexing beneath her cheeks in irritation at another disturbance. She took mental note of the captives’ faces, leaned away from the window and faced the door.
“Enter.”
The door swung open and Hahn Perdaro stepped across the threshold.
“Your excellence,” he said and bowed at the waist.
His eyes remained on her, trailing down her front and she looked down to see her robe had fallen open. He was eyeing her breast, her belly and below. She yanked the fabric closed.
“Why are you bothering me? Did I not leave word to be left alone?”
“Yes, of course, but I thought you’d-”
“I neither expect nor want you to think. You are employed to tell me what you know, nothing more.”
Disappointment caused the councilor’s face to sag, and the hurt evident in his visage brought some satisfaction to the Archon, though it was short lived; she knew he would not have disturbed her without reason. The feel of her flesh, the scent of her body insured he would always do what she asked.
“Yes. That’s why I’m here. I’ve heard rumors I thought…whispers you will want to know.”
She crossed the room toward him angrily, this time without noticing the fur of the bearskin rug, then her bare feet slapped the stone floor, carrying her to stand before the so-called Voice of the People. The corner of his mouth twitched, as though her proximity made him want to smile but he held himself in check. The Archon kept her expression stern and unhappy, but did not let on the true loathing she was beginning to feel for this man, for who he was and for the things she made herself do with him in service of furthering her goals.
“What is it?”
“The boy,” he said, his eyes flickering away from her gaze and back. “Graymon.”
The Archon felt her stomach lurch, though her outward appearance showed no reaction. “What about him?”
“They’ve taken him.”
“Taken him?” This time, she spoke the words between clenched teeth as she imagined Therrador going against her wishes, slipping out of the fortress with a band of mounted men intent on rescuing his son. “Who has taken him?”
“The king-bearer and the magician.”
“Impossible,” she snapped. “They should be dead by now. I have set much against them.”
“Apparently they are not so easily killed.”
She glared at him, feeling sure he meant the smile tilting the corner of his lips to mock her. The Archon clenched her fist, struggling to keep herself from slapping the expression off his face. She turned and paced back to the window, felt the rough stone hammering against her feet, the silk robe sandpapering her shoulders and back, the soft fabric tearing at her flesh and adding to her anger until she tore it off, shredding the material and throwing the remnants to the floor. She whirled around to find Perdaro staring at her with lust in his eyes, and her anger multiplied, exploding.
“Find them,” she screamed, her voice reverberating against the walls and startling the man. His dumfounded expression disappeared and his eyes filled with fear. His fear satisfied her.
“Yes, your Grace,” he said bowing shallowly and averting his eyes before hurrying out of the room.
The door creaked closed behind him and the Archon remained standing at the edge of the bearskin rug, staring at the closed door as she seethed. After a minute, she returned to the window, skirting the soft touch of the rug, and looked out across the courtyard again, uncaring who saw her nakedness. The chill air touched her, hardening her nipples and cooling her temper.