She pulled the cover away and reached down to stroke the cold cheek of the corpse lying on the divan. Her fingers traced a path to his ear where they encountered one of many feathers protruding from his skin. She plucked it and held it up for Perdaro to see. The feather was gray and patchy, the feather of a bird that had been dead for a while.
A bird that could help me win a war.
Hahn Perdaro’s eyes grew glassy and his breath hitched in his throat. The Archon smiled, closed her eyes, and began the now familiar spell to animate the dead.
***
Therrador woke with a start, the feel of cold sweat on his forehead and surprised he’d fallen asleep. After arriving back at his chambers, he’d paced, worrying about what he’d sent Sir Alton Sienhin to do, but he didn’t recall undressing and lying down on the bed.
He sat up abruptly and looked around the room, but night blanketed the world; the moon was dim and sunrise remained hours away judging by the quality of the dark and the lack of sound coming from the fortress around him. He looked left and right, his braided beard rubbing against his bare chest. At first, he thought the blur in the corner an effect of sleep clouding his eyes, but it grew larger as the indistinct figure approached and he realized what he saw.
“You again,” he said throwing off the covers and standing. The air in the room felt cold on his bare flesh despite the embers glowing on the hearth. “Do you bring news of Sir Alton?”
“I do,” the ghostly woman said.
Therrador’s hands clenched into fists as he waited for her to continue. She floated closer and her form became more distinct, though it remained translucent. He saw the red of her hair, the green of her eyes, the paleness of her cheeks, and found that, despite having seen her a few times, despite the help she’d provided, he couldn’t remember her name.
Elyea.
His head jerked at the sound of the word whispered in his ear and still found no one in the room but the ghostly woman in front of him, yet she couldn’t possibly have spoken her name into his ear. The king suppressed a shiver and returned his attention to the woman.
“Elyea,” he said. “What has happened?”
“A trap. They were waiting for him.”
“How is that possible? We knew not to trust Emon Turesti, but-”
“It isn’t these two men who are not to be trusted. Emon Turesti gave his life trying to keep his secret, but it was more than he could bear.”
Therrador’s hands loosened. “Smoke is dead? And Hu Dondon?”
The woman looked at him, her gaze penetrating. Therrador had his answer in her lack of response and dropped his gaze from hers, his eyes flickering back and forth across the floor as if he’d find the solution to saving his kingdom lying upon it. After a moment, he shook his head to collect himself, and raised his face back to hers.
“What of the general?”
“He has left the fortress and is on his way to Achtindel.”
“He survived the trap, then.”
“With some help from a friend.”
Therrador’s mouth fell open. “A friend?”
She nodded. “It doesn’t matter now. The Archon knows of your plan and she has found out that Sir Alton survived. Your life is in danger.”
“But who-?”
He heard the sound of an insistent voice from behind the ghost woman, the words muffled by the heavy wooden door. Instinctively, Therrador reached for the sword belt that would normally have hung on the corner post of the bed. When he didn't find it, he glanced toward the portion of wall hiding the secret passage he’d used before and wondered if he’d make it across the room before the Kanosee soldiers entered. It was a fanciful thought; there wouldn’t be time to get the wall opened and closed before they entered.
“It’s too late to flee,” Elyea said as a key rattled in the door’s lock. “Don’t move.”
He had no choice but to trust the woman.
She hasn’t steered me astray yet.
She moved closer, her ghostly form an inch from touching him, and the king shivered again.
But I also thought Hahn trustworthy.
Her figure became vaporous and touched his bare chest. Therrador stiffened as the ghost woman enveloped him, entered him, and he found himself unable to move. A mist passed over his vision, obscuring the room into a charcoal smear of indistinct shapes as the door swung inward and three men entered.
Therrador heard them clearly and saw their movements as they rushed into the room, but could make out no more than their outlines in his hazy perception. One dragged the blankets off the bed and a barley human grunt followed his discovery that it was empty.
“Search the room,” someone else said.
The king saw dark shapes move off in different directions, heard armor clatter and furniture thump as they overturned chairs and tables, tore tapestries off the walls. He attempted to turn his head to see if they would discover the secret passage hidden in the wall, but the ghost woman held him rigid and still, his eyes the only part of himself he controlled.
Panic drew Therrador’s guts into a tangle, not at the prospect of discovery, but at the paralysis holding him from moving, from defending himself should the need arise. He’d been a soldier too long to bear the thought of dying defenseless.
“He’s not here,” the voice said.
“That…that’s not possible,” a second man said, his voice rife with nerves.
The guard.
“Check again,” the guard said.
In his misty prison, Therrador smiled. What would the guard’s life be worth when the Archon found out he’d let the king escape? It must have been this thought adding the tremor to his voice.
Therrador felt a presence at his back and his smile disappeared. His muscles tensed, though he guessed he wouldn’t be able to move unless the woman released her hold on him, and part of him wondered if he would even be able to move.
The presence behind him came closer, then circled in front of his frozen form. In the fog clouding his vision, Therrador made out the shape of the man, but his features remained indistinct. The shape paused directly in front of him, then fell to his knees to search under the bed, the soldier’s arm brushing the side of the king’s calf. He swept his sword back and forth along the length of the bed, then grunted a sound only a no-longer-human throat was capable of making, and stood.
The king held his breath as the shape moved closer; close enough for him to see the features of the undead soldier’s face. His complexion was ashen and the white of his left eye had gone black with congealed blood, otherwise, this man looked no different from a living soldier. His other eye was watery-blue and clear, his white beard trimmed and neat but for the dried blood sprayed across it from the wound in his throat.
Therrador’s breath caught in his chest.
Sir Matte.
He opened his mouth to speak his old friend’s name, but the ghost woman’s grip constricted, tightening his chest enough to keep him from speaking, prevent him from breathing. The dead man-his old friend, a soldier who he’d fought beside and who had saved his life in battle on more occasions than he cared to count-stood inches away from him, seeming to stare into his eyes.
What did she do to you?
He ached to have a sword in his hand he could use to release a noble soldier from this horrendous fate; Sir Matte deserved better than this. Therrador struggled against the ghost woman’s grip, but she held him tight. After a few seconds, the undead Sir Matte Eliden huffed a breath through his nose as though he smelled Therrador’s presence, his eyes darted back and forth, but then he grunted and stalked away.
“He’s not here,” the first voice said again. “How could you let him out? Did you fall asleep at your post?”