Embra studied Tshamarra's hands critically, put one of her own next to them, nodded, and did something that made the Lady Talasorn stiffen and sob-and then held their hands together for comparison again.
This time the smaller sorceress nodded in emphatic thanks, and Embra clapped her on the shoulder, rose to let Craer comfort her, and strode back to the embrace of her comforting man.
Hawkril was as large and reassuring as always, his strength enfolding her like a castle wall with a warm hearth in it, and Embra leaned against him and relaxed, just for a moment.
The grotesquely deformed zombies had begun to wander mindlessly around the cavern again, and after one of them lumbered slack-jawed toward them, Embra sighed, murmured, "Excuse me, love," into Hawk's chest, whirled away from him-and blasted the Melted to a smoldering heap of ashes.
Then she shrugged, the Dwaer shining in her hand like an eager full moon, and dealt the same fate to Melted after Melted. "These should have been destroyed with their maker," she muttered, "but I'll be grauled by corpse-worms before I'll let Ingryl Ambelter command them a day longer!"
Craer looked up. "Now there's an image."
Embra sighed, turned with hands on hips, and gave him a glare. "Could you leave me in peace to think just for once, Craer? If this was Ambelter's lair, there could be traps in plenty all around us-and useful magic, maps, all sorts of valuable things, too."
"Oh? What sort of valuable things?"
"No, not more baubles that'll fall to dust in your hands, Lord Delnbone. I was thinking of coins-wizards need to buy things occasionally just like other folk, you know-and gems, which can be used to store dozens of spells."
" Well, now," the procurer said eagerly, "why didn't you-?"
"Because I was busy putting Tash's hands back together, and didn't want to have to wipe spatters of pulverized Craer off my face and garments, that's why."
Hawkril took a few steps into the room, his warsword in his hand out of sheer habit. Ashes swirled and eddied around his boots with every step. "You blasted them all?" His voice held both hope and disappointment.
"I hope so," Embra replied, "but he's always liked to cage things; we may find beasts and half-crazed mages and the Three know what else. Please wait, love, until we can do this together."
"The Band of Four once more, hey?" Craer asked, helping Tshamarra to her feet. The Talasorn sorceress was still flexing her fingers in wonder, as if not quite able to believe they were hers. She looked up at her lord sharply.
"Never ridicule that term, or our fellowship," she said in a voice that was low, calm-and as firm as iron. "Never."
Maps proved to be few, written schemes nonexistent, spellbooks gone. There were a few half-finished spells whose natures were obvious to Embra and Tshamarra at a glance, a handful of old enchanted things recovered from tombs and caches (buckles and heraldic cloak-pins for the most part, loot that Craer and Hawkril examined rather dubiously, but that made Tshamarra ooh and aah), and no captives.
Embra used the Dwaer to twist the unfinished spells into traps of minor nastiness for Ingryl-or anyone else-who might come poking around the lair, and then called on it to whisk the Four back to Flowfoam.
A few breaths after their departure some of the ashes boiled up into the shape of a dark and ghostly figure-out of which stepped a slender, dark-gowned girl with a long fall of hair and a skull for a face. Gadaster grinned around at the cavern for a few moments, paused to be amused by the puling traps, and then made Maelra's body weave a soundless spell, and-vanish.
The ashes swirled, and then seemed almost relieved to settle down again.
21
Arrivals and Departures in Violence
The old lady sighed. "I can see why it is that Aglirta is truly the Kingless Land."
Flaeros cast a quick glance at the closest guard, one of an impassive pair by the doors, and hissed, "Lady, this may not be our King, but he is still a King! Insult him not so!"
Lady Natha Orele sighed again, and turned to face the other young man sitting before her-the one who was wearing a crown. "I do not insult Your Majesty," she said firmly, "I do Your Majesty the courtesy of speaking truth-something your courtiers seem to have in very short supply, I might add."
" 'Tis a disease at court, Lady," King Castlecloaks replied gravely. "Yet tell me: Why think you Aglirta is truly kingless?"
"With Snowsar and with you, 'tis always rush to fight this and strain to withstand that-and never to snatch time enough to make the little decisions that shape life in the realm, assuming you do win your ways and there is still an Aglirta on the morrow. In short, you play warcaptain, and have time for little else… and so do not rule, and so enjoy not the trust and loyalty of your people. Without that, you are nothing, no matter how many crowns, coins, and lances you command. Of course the task before you is-as it has been too often these past few seasons-to rid Aglirta of the Serpents. But have you given any thought to after that?"
"Why, uh"-the king coughed-"no."
"Ah. Thank you. Some truth handed back to me. Very good," the aged Lady of Chambers said briskly. "Now I'll pass from truth to my opinion.
Hear it, think on it, but follow it not if you think I'm wrong-and believe me, I can be very wrong. If I were King…"
"Yes?" Raulin reached up as if to take the crown from his head and hand it to her.
"Don't," she said sharply. "I would do a poor job, and Aglirtans would never accept me-some old, wrinkled, outlander woman? Really! But hearken, King Castlecloaks: Were I you, I'd do away with all barons. Keep the rank of tersept, and yourself move often and-this is crucial-unpredictably from castle to castle, up and down the Vale. Meet your subjects directly, see to their needs, and work with the clergy of the Three to keep worship of the Serpent outlawed henceforth. Make sure each and every person sees some reward, and complaints are answered, and so on. The people will see that you serve them, and you reward them-rather than regarding you as some distant, decadent figure who ignores them while their local baron struts and exploits and oppresses and occasionally rewards. In short, they'll see you as needful, and as theirs."
Raulin Castlecloaks regarded her with shining eyes. "Before the Three, I swear to do so! As soon as the realm is rid of the plague and the Serpents!"
"Mind you do," the old woman told him sharply. "Darsar is full of rulers who will do great things and keep high promises as soon as some-thing else is taken care of. But they do lots of taking care, and yet there's always a something else in their laps preventing them from rising to seize those great things they promise."
Raulin sighed, and nodded. "I can see how easy 'twould be to fall into such ways. Flaeros, you must be my reminder, and hold me to all my promises."
The bard lifted his eyebrows. "Me, Your Majesty? You really think any one man can do all that?"
There was a moment of startled silence, and then Raulin and Orele both burst out laughing. The guards turned their heads, surprised, as the king and the two Ragalan outlanders chorded and guffawed together like younglings at a revel. Then the armsmen hastily resumed their expressionless, statuelike poses as the three rose and parted, the old woman withdrawing to her inner chambers and the two young men striding toward them.
"Bed for me," Raulin was saying, as the guards flung the door wide for them.
Macros nodded. "A good idea. My bit of floor calls to me." The guards followed the two, exchanging looks that were not-quite-smiles. Since his arrival, the bard had been sleeping with the guards who stood watch and slumbered across the door to the king's chamber, to prevent any more attempted regicides.