“What reason could you possibly have for killing her?” she demanded, taking another step closer, pointing an accusing finger.
“You’d never understand!” Crawford snapped. He glanced up at the large curtain over the bed, but the wizard was not distracted.
“Is this where you killed her?” she asked, indicating the huge mattress. “In the very bed she shared with you?” Trembling with rage, Coryn felt a flicker of magic spark at her finger, a lethal lightning bolt that she felt tempted to release. Angrily she shook the deadly impulse away-she wouldn’t strike him down, not like that, but she wouldn’t let him go, either.
He stared at her, fidgeting on the other side of the bed, as the wizard took another step nearer, stopping on her side of the large, four-posted mattress. She leaned forward, trembling with fury.
Her mind conjured the perfect spell to capture and immobilize the man. With her left hand she found a bit of spider web in one pocket. She pulled it out, chanting the simple incantation:
“Aracnis-”
She was momentarily taken aback as Crawford lunged toward a bell-rope and pulled. She tried to continue casting her web spell, but the gauzy net above the bed fell down, covering her head. Immediately the sound of her voice ceased, swallowed by magic.
The wizard recognized a spell of silence, and-though she didn’t know how the duke had cast it-understood her own spell was wasted. She was even more startled when the duke dived across the bed, seized her by her wrist, and pulled her down onto the soft mattress.
She wrestled, but he was startlingly strong. Intense fury took over. A dangerous spell came into her mind, one that would burn him badly but leave him alive, but when she tried to bark the single necessary word of command, still she could make no sound.
Now, for the first time, she felt afraid. The filmy gauze shrouded them in silence-no doubt the same silence that had muffled any sounds of Lady Martha’s murder. Coryn struggled, kicking and flailing. She clawed at the duke’s face as he pushed her down. His fingers closed around her throat, choking her, strangling her. Her lungs strained desperately for air.
Coryn felt the world go dark.
Finally the duke released his grip. She coughed and gasped, but her violent gagging was eerily soundless under the magical silence.
Shaking her head, drawing ragged breaths, Coryn didn’t have the strength to resist anymore as he lashed her wrists together with a braided cord. He tore a pillowcase and roughly gagged her, tying it around her so tightly it cut her cheeks and forced her jaws open.
Only then did Crawford rise and once more pull the bell-rope. The silence dispelled, and he chuckled, almost a giggle.
“Yes, she died right here!” the duke cried triumphantly. “You were right-it was me. Now I will kill you too!”
CHAPTER THIRTY — FOUR
J aymes recovered consciousness. He could see again-the magical darkness had been dispelled, and he realized several torches crackled and flared in wall sconces. He was in an underground room, apparently some kind of shrine. His skull felt as though it was about to implode, and there was sticky wet blood on the back of his head.
The next thing he saw was Giantsmiter, across the room from him, upright with the tip of the great sword resting on the floor. The blade reflected the bright torchlight, and at first that was all the swordsman noticed. Only gradually did he realize a priest was here, standing with both of his hands on the hilt of the blade. Unlike the cleric Jaymes had chased down here, however, this priest was dressed in a tight-fitting cloak of red, which included a mask of the same color that concealed his identity.
The warrior’s head throbbed. Trying to focus through slitted eyes, he looked around the oval-shaped chamber, which, remembering his long run down the dark tunnel, he judged to be located under the Temple of Shinare. Besides the door he had come through, several other doors led into dark passages. He saw a set of golden merchant scales in an alcove at one end. The chain supporting one balance was broken, and that half of the scale lay on the stone floor. The other half, apparently counterbalanced by nothing, swayed in the air.
“I see that my blow did not kill you-more’s the pity,” the priest remarked. A studded mace, gleaming with inlaid gemstones, swung from his belt. No doubt this was the weapon that had knocked Jaymes out and left his head ringing like the inside of a gong.
“What kind of temple is this?” Jaymes asked, feeling as though he were talking through a mouthful of cotton. Pushing himself up to a sitting position, he leaned his back against a damp stone wall. His hand went to his scalp, rubbing a bloody bump.
“This is the temple to my true god, the Immortal One who will soon become the master of all Solamnia.”
Although the words came from behind the red mask, Jaymes was fairly certain it was the voice of the Patriarch, but this priest was not wearing the garb of Shinare. Instead, the swordsman was reminded of Hiddekel, the god of thieves and brigands.
“Hiding out in the dungeon under your regular church?” he asked.
“I serve Shinare during the day, but my true lord is the Prince of Lies,” said the cleric. “I am the Nightmaster! Let Shinare collect her tolls and her tithes-I measure my wealth in the souls of men!”
“Do you serve the duke as well?”
“Let the mirror in his game room lead him!” declared the priest, with a harsh, dry laugh. “He knows that we serve the same master. He has recruited others to our cause, as well. He knows I am the Truth to him!”
The priest started to pick up the great sword then rested it on the floor again, cocking his head, listening.
“Hmm, visitors,” he said calmly. “No doubt the arrival of a killer such as yourself caused some consternation in the castle.”
Jaymes could hear the sounds, too-footsteps of running men, mingled with clinking armor, creaking straps. Some of the knights in the keep had finally chased him into the darkness. The sounds came closer, but the priest made no move to shut the door.
Moments later, two knights charged into the secret shrine, as the cleric held up a commanding hand.
“Halt!” he cried, and both running men froze, as though their feet were stuck to the stone floor. Magic tingled in the air.
Jaymes recognized the two-one was Sir Dayr, formerly a captain in the service of the Duke of Thelgaard, and the other was Sir Rene, who had commanded the defense of Mason’s Ford. They glared at the masked cleric and struggled but could not budge.
The warrior’s head throbbed, and he leaned back against the wall, trying to marshal some strength.
“By Joli-who in the Abyss are you?” demanded Dayr, waving his sword at the masked priest.
“He wants to be called the Nightmaster,” Jaymes said wearily.
“I am the Nightmaster!” the cleric insisted.
“It seems the duke and one or two of his cronies are secretly working on behalf of the Prince of Lies,” the warrior explained. His vision had cleared. He flexed his fingers, feeling strength slowly return.
“What do you mean-hey, that’s the Assassin!” gasped Dayr, finally noticing the bleeding swordsman.
“Correct!” crowed the priest. “Now he will meet his due justice on the weapon he has used to such ill effect!”
With visible effort the Nightmaster lifted the heavy blade, taking a step toward Jaymes. He twisted his hands on the hilt, but the familiar fire did not burst forth from Giantsmiter. Shaking his head, the priest muttered in disgust. “The steel will slip into your belly cold as well as hot,” he growled, advancing another step.
Jaymes struggled to reach under his cape. The two small crossbows he had picked up on the battlefield had been jabbing him in the belly. His right hand closed around the handle of one and, grimacing, he pulled it out. The trigger was cocked, the steel tip aimed at the front of the red silk robe.