“We know everything,” he continued, stepping boldly into the room. “We have Hadanelith in custody, and he is being quite cooperative. You might as well save all of us time and trouble, and do the same. We know he was working for you; we also know that he was the only one who committed those murders. Since you didn’t actually commit the crimes themselves, His Serenity the Emperor might be lenient enough to grant you your lives if you show remorse and confess.”
Was that a good enough bluff? Do they believe me? They still looked shocked and a bit surprised, but the signs of both reactions were vanishing rapidly. Too rapidly.
At that moment, the last of the light faded behind him. Hadanelith was about to strike! He had to keep their attention off that bowl and on him! Or, eliminate the bowl itself—
Oh, gods. What do I do if they try something? He repeated himself, nearly word for word, taking another step forward every few seconds. And meanwhile, he kept straining his senses, hoping for some warning if either of them moved, hoping to have an instant or two in which to act.
And do what?
Skandranon felt a deep-in-the-flesh pain he hadn’t felt in a decade, and it radiated out from him badly enough to make Winterhart, Silver Veil, and anyone else sensitive wince. He had been starved and dehydrated, trapped in an unforgiving position for many hours—days!—regardless of his bodily needs, and then forced to fly and fight at a moment’s notice. His wingtips shivered with the strain of burning off his body’s last reserves.
I am useless now, physically—I’II be lucky to reach our quarters without collapsing. So all I have left is my mind and words.
So he muttered about this and that while the last of the Eclipse Ceremony went on, purposely keeping his voice omnipresent. When at last it felt right, and Palisar was speaking to the assembled sea of people, the Black Gryphon caught Shalaman’s attention.
“Amberdrake freed me to save you, before freeing himself,” he rumbled. “He may still be in great danger from Hadanelith’s accomplices.”
Shalaman’s countenance took on a new expression, one that the gryphon instinctively knew as that of the King on one of his famous Hunts. To Skandranon’s amazement, he unclasped his ceremonial robes and let them fall, leaving only his loose Court robe, then snatched a spear from one of Leyuet’s men. “You tell me where,” Shalaman said, steely-eyed and commanding, while his personal bodyguards fell in behind him.
The Black Gryphon nodded, then closed his eyes, reaching out with hope. :Kechara? Kechara, love-please hear me.:
:Papa Skan!:
The voice was there as clear as always, with only a little more than usual of the odd echo that usually accompanied fatigued Mindspeaking. :Papa! Are you having fun?:
Skandranon couldn’t resist a huge mental smile. Kechara wouldn’t understand what was going on if he spent two lifetimes trying to explain it to her. What was important to her was “fun” or “not-as-much-fun.”
:Papa? Are you hurt? You feel like you have an “ow.“:
:Yes, dear heart, I got hurt a little. I’m very tired. Kechara, love, I need you to look for Amberdrake. Find Amberdrake and help him. Can you do that for me?:
There was a pause, and then, :All right! I miss you!:
Then Kechara was gone from his mind.
King Shalaman straightened up and repeated himself. “You tell me where.”
Skandranon met the King’s eyes and understood. It was The Haighlei Way. He opened his beak to say, “Follow me,” then stopped himself. No. That was not what a King would say to another on his own ground.
Skandranon took a deep breath, refolded his wings, and summoned his last bit of endurance. “Run beside me, King Shalaman, as you run in your great lion hunts, and I will guide you. But we must make haste.”
Amberdrake knew, as he flexed his grip on the silk rope and the bar, that his words and acting had failed him. The novelty of his speech was gone. Bluff or not, his status as just one man would catch up with him. Despite what history would show, for better or worse, now was the time for him to throw himself on fate’s mercy.
He flung the coil of rope at the table, then pulled, twisting his body sideways with all the strength he could muster.
There was a splash and a scrape, and a moment later, a resounding thunk as the scrying-bowl struck the floor. Amberdrake continued his twist and brought the iron bar down on the bowl to shatter it into a dozen pieces.
That was it, Drake—your one move. He came to rest on one knee, looking up at the two. But at that moment, he heard—well, it wasn’t precisely a voice in his mind, and he didn’t quite hear it—
It was a sense of presence; not words, just feelings, and the aura of boundless cheer and playfulness overlaid with weariness, but bolstered by endless curiosity.
Kechara? he thought, hard, trying to project the image of herself back to her.
Feeling of assent. Before he could respond, she sent him a new sensation; intensified curiosity. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what she was asking, either. “What are you doing?” was as clear in feelings as in words.
He was breathless with relief—dizzy with the feeling that he was, at last, no longer alone.
But how had she figured out how to reach him? She was using his strongest Gift, that of Empathy, to speak with him without Mindspeech! Where had she gotten that idea?
Fear rose screaming inside him. He didn’t have any way to explain what he was doing—not without words!
Do what Skandranon would do, Drake—do without words—without focused intellect—let her feel it—let her in!
He had never, ever, lowered his barriers completely with anyone but Winterhart, for an Empath always has to fear being lost in another’s emotions—but how could he ever fear little Kechara? There wasn’t an unkind bone in her body! He dropped every barrier he had to her, and let her come directly into his mind, just as the light began to creep back and the Eclipse to pass off.
He felt his body slip away from him—felt his back and arms go limp—
One of the two men at the table slid noiselessly out of his chair and seized something from a bookcase against the wall. As the man turned, he came fully into the lamplight, making what was in his hand gruesomely plain.
Amberdrake’s stomach lurched, and he sensed Kechara recoiling as well, mimicking his reaction, though she couldn’t have any idea what they were both looking at.
It was a wand, crudely fashioned from bone. It could have been made of animal bone, but somehow Amberdrake knew that it wasn’t. No, this was not just any bone, but a human bone, the large bone from the thigh. From one of the earlier victims? Probably. Probably the first. We‘II never know who, I suspect. Somehow that just made it worse.