Salia watched her guests engaged in a battle of-what? Power? Will? For all her studies into the ways of magic, she didn't really understand the dynamic, the relationship, between them. At that moment, she knew only that she regretted involving herself with either.
Nenavar unclenched his fist and Kaleb doubled over with a pained gasp, breathing heavily. When he finally straightened, his pallid face wore a subdued expression, though he couldn't quite keep the resentment from his voice. "My apologies," he offered breathlessly-whether to her, to Nenavar, or both, Salia couldn't tell.
She decided, however, to accept it, if only to keep the fragile peace. "Of course I suspected something was wrong," she said. "But why in Verelian's name would I have assumed Lady Irrial would be keeping company with Corvis Rebaine? I figured that either she'd been turned and the man with her was a Cephiran spy-"
"Lady Mavere," Kaleb protested, "you know very well the Cephirans don't need to spy on us."
"I know that General Rhykus is aware of that," she said, again choosing to take no offense at the interruption. "But most of his officers are ignorant of the true situation, just as most of ours are. Any of them could have put something like this in motion."
Kaleb nodded, conceding the point.
"Or," she continued, "it might have been some move against the Guilds by the nobility. A House spy, a hired assassin… Those are the threats I've reason to anticipate here. It wasn't until I heard the details of their escape that I realized who we were dealing with, and by the time I was able to get word to Nenavar, they were long gone."
"I thought," the old wizard said, "that I heard none of the guards survived."
"They didn't. But a few folk in the hall had the courage to stick their heads out of their offices to see what the fuss was about. Some of them saw the axe, and we all know its description by heart, don't we?"
"I could try divining for them," Kaleb offered thoughtfully.
Nenavar shook his head. "I tried that before coming to fetch you. They moved fast-unnaturally fast-and Rebaine has a great many defensive spells in place." He frowned irritably. "The man's not much of a sorcerer, but he's made a pretty thorough study of such spells."
"I can't imagine why."
"It doesn't help," Nenavar continued, "that nobody here saw him without his illusory disguise. If they had-or if I myself knew more of this Lady Irrial, whom Lady Mavere did see clearly-I might use that familiarity as the basis for more potent divinations. But as it stands, we'll have to continue with our search the hard way."
"By which you mean, I'll have to continue with it," Kaleb said. "Then may I ask," he continued, far more politely than before, "precisely what I'm doing here? Jassion and Mellorin won't be waking up anytime soon-I saw to that-but still, the longer I'm gone…"
"You're here," Mavere told him neutrally, "because our witnesses also identified several of Corvis's helpers among the aristocracy, some of whom I hadn't realized he had under his influence. So we're going to feather two bucks with one arrow by having 'the Terror of the East' do something hideous to them."
"Why, my dear Lady Mavere, I'm always happy to oblige."
She couldn't help but recoil from his crocodilian grin, and once more cursed herself, wondering if she was irrevocably damned for consorting with the likes of these warlocks.
Not for the first time since that horrible day, Mellorin awoke, screaming, in the dark of night. The sheets were twisted around her, soaked with sweat, and she'd thrown her pillow clear to the window.
Almost before the echo faded, a figure filled the open doorway. To the girl's terrified imaginings, her mother, hair and nightshift illuminated from behind, appeared an angel of the gods. From behind the folds of that thin fabric, little Lilander peered with frightened eyes.
Tyannon swept into the room, wrapping her weeping daughter in an embrace as tight as the womb. "Oh, my baby," she cooed, gently rocking the girl, one hand caressing her hair.
"Mommy…" It was barely audible, amid Mellorin's sobs. She'd not called Tyannon anything but "Mother" for several years now.
As though scaling the highest peak, Lilander hauled himself up the side of the bed and put his head on his sister's knee. "Don't be sad, Mel." He couldn't have understood, then, why she only burst into fresh tears.
Mellorin knew her mother was worried, knew she wanted her to speak of the dream. But how could she? She had to stifle a scream just thinking of it!
Again she lay sprawled in the wood, head aching from that awful blow. She felt the crunch of leaves and the skittering of insects in the dirt, the sticky patch of drying blood on her scalp. Again she heard those vile men with their harsh voices and cruel laughter, debating her fate like she was nothing, like she wasn't even there. And again she heard and understood enough, just enough, to know that those who argued for murdering her outright were offering the kinder option.
She waited, the part of her that knew she was dreaming, for what was to come next. She waited for the bushes to part, for the sound of that gods-sent voice, for her father to save her. That was, after all, how it had happened.
But in the dream, the men closed around her, filling her nose and mouth and lungs with the tang of sour sweat, and her father never came. SUMMER WAS FINALLY PACKING UP to depart, a guest who'd only belatedly gotten the hint, while autumn stood behind, arms crossed and foot tapping. Through most of Imphallion, the breeze assumed just a tiny hint of the cool scents to come. Most of Imphallion, but not here. At the periphery of the great swamp, the heat lingered, conducted and spread by the oppressive humidity, transforming the world into a simmering stew. Mosquitoes flew, or perhaps swam, through that syrupy air in such quantities that inhaling squirming mouthfuls of the damn things was as great a hazard as contracting some horrible pestilence from their bites. Kaleb had prepared an herbal paste, bolstered by a touch of magic, to repel them, and the constant buzz had taken on an angry, almost frustrated tone.
Some few dozen yards from the shallowest reaches of the marsh, Mellorin sat cross-legged within the shade of scraggly, sun-blasted trees. She studiously watched the thick grasses at her feet so she needn't look into the face of her companion.
"Mother told me, over and over," she said to the ground, "that he'd gone to make sure the 'bad men' never hurt me again. She never-neither of them ever understood. I was only a child, Kaleb. It didn't matter to me if there were bad guys out there. There were bad guys here-well, you know what I mean, at home-and that's where I needed him." Her voice shook; with pain, yes, of course, but also with a smoldering rage that threatened to set her alight from within.
He blotted the light from her vision as he knelt in the grass beside her. She said nothing, refused to look up, but a shiver ran through her skin as his hand-hot and clammy in the heat, but no less welcome-took hers. "I'm so sorry, Mellorin."
Then she did look up at him, for something in his tone rang ever so faintly false. Not that she thought his sympathy a lie, for the softness in his face looked genuine enough. Rather, he seemed not entirely to understand.
Over his shoulder, way out in the swamp, a few sporadic and leafless trees formed tiny cracks crawling up from the western horizon. The marsh might have marked the edge of the world, its filthy waters leaking out through that broken sky.
Despite herself, she smiled. "You've never really been afraid of anything, have you?"
Kaleb shifted so he was sitting, rather than kneeling, beside her. "I-not really," he admitted. "Anyone with the patience and the will can learn some magic, but some people are just born to it more than others."
She nodded.
"I was born to it. I've had more power than I've really known what to do with for my entire life. When you have that, it's hard to take fear seriously."