When Grus looked toward the doorway, he couldn’t see it. That left him unsurprised and also, somehow, unafraid. Plainly, he wasn’t meant to come out of this room alive. But just because he couldn’t see the door didn’t mean he didn’t know where it was. He started toward it, wondering if he would get there before the other things he couldn’t see tore him to pieces.
His hand scraped against the planks of the door. The latch was—where? He almost wept with relief when he found it and opened it. He could see no more out in the corridor than he could in his room. But his hearing, like his fingers, still worked. He’d put those small, hungry noises behind him, at least for a little while. Soon, though, they would come after him.
He blundered along the hallway, feeling for the wall like a blind man—which, at the moment, he was. “Commodore Grus!” someone exclaimed. “Is something wrong? Do you need a healer?”
“I need a wizard,” Grus answered hoarsely. “Someone’s… something’s… ensorcelled me. Quick!” He didn’t think he was hearing those noises with ears alone, but they were getting closer again.
The servant or soldier or whoever it was took off at a dead run. Grus did hear his sandals slapping against stone in the ordinary way. Grus went on down the corridor, too, still feeling his way along. Now, though, he was pursued. Whatever was after him had a good notion of where he was and in which direction he was moving. The noises still weren’t very loud, but they sounded hungrier than ever.
They’re going to catch me, Grus thought. Gods curse me if I’ll let them pull me down from behind. I’ll give them the best fight I can. He turned at bay. His right hand found the hilt of the knife he wore on his belt. Could it do any harm to these things? He didn’t know, but he intended to find out.
His left hand went to his throat. That was as much to protect a vulnerable place as for any other reason, but his fingers brushed against the amulet he wore under his shirt. Something close to hope caught fire in him. He’d worn that amulet for a long time, and it had warded him before. Turnix had said it was strong when he gave it to him. How strong was it? Grus knew he was about to learn.
He yanked out the amulet and clutched it tight. “Protect me, King Olor! Protect me, Queen Quelea! Protect me, all ye gods!” he gasped, hoping with every fiber of his being that Turnix hadn’t botched the spell. Turnix, unfortunately, had been known to do exactly that.
But not this time. The amulet didn’t completely return Grus’ sight—return Grus’ self—to what was known in the ordinary world. It gave him a glimpse of that world, though, as well as giving him a glimpse of the other world, the world into which the wizardry had cast him. It also gave him a glimpse of the creatures pursuing him in that world. The glimpse was blurry and shifting, as though through running water. He was glad it was no more distinct; most of him wished he hadn’t had it at all.
Those horrid creatures seemed to sense he could see them. They drew back in what might have been alarm. Was he as revolting to them as they were to him? He didn’t know. He didn’t much care, either. As long as they stayed away, what did why matter?
More running footsteps, these coming toward him. Some small part of him noted that the servant and the wizard—no, he realized after a moment; she was a witch—looked as fuzzy and indistinct as the creatures from the other plane of reality, and almost as appalling. But Grus had to rely on them, and especially on the witch. “Help me!” he cried. “I’m beset!”
The witch began a spell. Grus had no idea whether the woman could actually see the creatures or just sense them in some sorcerous way. That was one more thing he didn’t care about. He wished he couldn’t see them himself.
Whether the witch could see them or not, she knew which charm to use. In that curious half-vision of Grus‘, he watched the creatures turn tail—though they didn’t exactly have tails to turn—and run away. As they did, the last of the darkness lifted from his sight. With an almost audible snap, he returned completely to the real world he’d taken for granted up till a few minutes before.
“Well!” The witch sounded pleased and surprised. “I didn’t think that would work so nicely. Someone put a nasty sending on you, sir, a very nasty sending indeed. You’re lucky you lasted long enough to cry for help, let alone till it got to you.”
Grus stood there shaking. Sweat dripped from him. He’d never felt so drained in all his life. “I have—a good—amulet.” He had to force the words out one or two at a time.
“You must, sir. Truly, you must.” The witch liked to repeat herself.
“My thanks,” Grus told her, a little slower than he should have. And then, again a beat late, he asked, “What’s your name?”
“Me, sir? I’m Alca.” The woman was a few years younger than Grus, her brown hair getting its first streaks of silver. Her face wore a look of intense concentration. Grus wondered whether that meant she was wise or simply shortsighted.
Alca was wise enough to have done the job. What else counted? Nothing Grus could see. He said, “Well, my friend, I can’t pay you back for what you did—who can give back fair payment for his life? But what I can give, believe me, I will.”
“Thank you, sir, but I didn’t do it for money,” Alca replied. “As I said, a very nasty sending. It deserved to be stopped, and I’m glad I could.”
“So am I, believe me!” Grus said. “Now the next question is, who would want me out of the way enough to try to get rid of me like that?”
“I… wouldn’t know, sir,” Alca said uncomfortably.
Grus needed a moment to realize why she sounded uncomfortable. When he did, he said, “Oh,” softly to himself. Then he asked Alca, “Whoever did this—the wizard, I mean, not the person who arranged for it—is here in the palace, isn’t he?”
Picking her words with care, Alca said, “I don’t know that for a fact, sir. But it does seem reasonable, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, doesn’t it?” Grus agreed. “And whoever wanted me dead is likely to be here, too, eh?”
He had good reasons for hoping it wasn’t the king. As the upstart son of Crex the Unbearable, he felt no small respect for a ruler who was about the dozenth member of his dynasty to come to the throne. He knew the people of Avornis felt the same way, too.
“Indeed, sir. May the gods forbid it,” Alca said. “His Majesty and… all those who work to make Avornis a better, safer place should fight our foreign foes, not one another.” She’d chosen her words with great care there, too, and had managed to sound loyal to King Lanius without sounding as though she opposed Grus. That couldn’t have been easy, and Grus admired her for it.
Since Alca had, after all, saved him from the sending, Grus thought he could ask, “Will you help me find out who did it?”
Alca licked her lips. “That depends. What will you do when you know?”
“That depends, too,” Grus answered. “Whatever I have to do. I didn’t come to the city of Avornis to let myself get killed, you know. I can’t very well worry about the Thervings if I’m dead.” He didn’t mention the Banished One. If a fallen god hated him enough to try to get rid of him, it wouldn’t be with anything so trivial as a sending. He eyed Alca, waiting to hear what the witch would say. If Alca said no, they wouldn’t stay friends even though she’d saved him.
But, after a long, long pause, she nodded. “Yes, I will do that. As I say, there are means, and then there are means. No one should use a black sending like that; it would sicken a Menteshe.”
That wasn’t quite how Grus had thought of it, but maybe it wasn’t so far removed, either. He said, “I’ll talk to each of them in turn, with you behind an arras. Will you be able to tell if I’m talking to a liar?”