With a sickening wrench, Amberdrake realized that he himself had set the pattern for all of this. And it wasn't the King that Hadanelith wanted—it was Winterhart. He was murdering the King because that was the only way he could get at Winterhart.
"She should have been mine," Hadanelith said softly, as if he didn't realize that he was speaking aloud. Amberdrake sensed the depth of obsession there, and shuddered. How long had Hadanelith been like this? How long had he wanted Winterhart? He must have known he could never have her!
All those women back at White Gryphon— they were in Winterhart's pattern. Lean, elegant, strong-willed until he broke their will— why didn't I see that before?
"If I cannot have her for my own, then I shall make sure no one else has a chance to carve her into another image," Hadanelith whispered, confirming what Amberdrake had been thinking. Then he shook himself, and looked down at Amberdrake again with that odd, foam-flecked smile.
"A gut-stroke, I think," he said meditatively. "In at the navel, to the left, and up. She will linger quite agonizingly, but not long enough for a Healer to get to her in time to save her. Treasure that image in your mind, Amberdrake. Hold it until I come back. Then Skandranon and I will play some charming little games, until I decide whether I'm going to teach you some of my arts, or let you go."
"Let me go?" Amberdrake said, blinking stupidly, struggling against the multiple blows to his soul.
"Of course!" Hadanelith giggled again. "Why not? No one would ever believe you, and it would be such a major help to my friends if they were the ones to 'capture' you and bring you to justice! I understand that Haighlei executions are terribly entertaining."
As Amberdrake stared at him, Hadanelith raised his right hand and wiggled the fingers at him in a childish gesture of leavetaking. "Fare, but not well, dear Amberdrake."
Amberdrake expected him to walk out of the room in a normal fashion, but evidently that was not dramatic enough for him. He pirouetted in place—stepped to one side—and vanished.
"Kechara has all of this," Skan said hoarsely as soon as he disappeared. "That's why I wasn't talking much. She's relaying it to the others now."
Which was, of course, one thing that Hadanelithhadn't counted on.
"The problem is that everyone except Winterhart is too far back in the crowd to do any good," Skan continued desperately. "And Winterhart isn't a Mindspeaker, so they can't warn her. They've decked Aubri out with a ceremonial drape that's strapped down over his wings—he can't fly—"
"Never mind," Amberdrake said fiercely, as he willed his muscles to relax hereand contract down hard there,and wriggled carefully in place. Got to get the strap around my elbows down first—His muscles protested sharply as he tried to squeeze his elbows together even tighter. Got to get some slack in the ropes—"There's something else Hadanelith forgot—"
They were silk ropes, very impressive to look at and very strong, but also very slick. If you knew what you were doing, silk was the worst of all possible bindings, though the most ostentatious.
The elbow ties dropped past the joints. Now he could ease them further down.
By squirming and shaking, he managed to inch the bindings around his elbows down to his wrists.
Thank the gods he didn't tether the elbow bindings to the back of the collar. Inexperienced binders work along the spine only, without thinking diagonally. The way he bound me, it looks nice, but isn't very hard to get out of—something areal kestra'chern would know.
He curled over backward until he got his wrists passed under his buttocks, then curled over forward and passed his legs through the arch of his arms. A moment later, he had his wrists in front of him and was untying the bindings on them with his teeth.
"I'm—a kestra'chern—Skan," he said, around the mouthful of slick cord. "A real—kestra'chern. I've probably—forgotten—more about knots—and restraints—than that impostor—ever learned. There!"
The cords fell away from his wrists, and the ones that had held his elbows followed them. He unfastened the collar—which was looped through but not even locked!—and crawled over to Skandranon. He could get his legs free later. Nowit was important to get Skandranon out of here and into the air!
Skan's restraints were artistic, but not particularly clever or difficult to undo, either. "Dilettante!" he muttered, as he untied more silk cords and undid buckles. He had to mutter, to keep the fear at bay a little longer, or else it would paralyze him. "Rank amateur!"
Damn knots! Damn Hadanelith! Damn all these people to the coldest hells! I swear, if I had a knife— if Winterhart— oh, gods, if Winterhart— Knife— Winterhart—
He blinked, and shook his head as the light took on a thin quality. "Is it me, or is the light fading—"
"It's not you," Skan said, his own voice rasping and frantic. "It's the Eclipse! That idiot Hadanelith hasto be dramatic, he would never strike at any time but the height of the Eclipse! Hurry!"
"I'm hurrying," Amberdrake snarled, doubtful if the red haze he saw was due to the Eclipse. "I'm hurrying!"
Shalaman stood tall and proud beneath his heavy weight of fine ceremonial robes, and surveyed his people.
They were gathered below him in a vast sea of faces, as many as could fit into the largest open section of Palace grounds. The Palace gates had been opened today to the public, as they were only opened on the most important of ceremonial occasions, and citizens of the city had been lined up for days to enter, squeezed in together on the other side of a barrier of guards, to view the Eclipse Ceremony with the Court. They were jammed together so tightly that none of them could move. The sheer numbers were overwhelming. Colors warred with each other, and the glare of sunlight on jewelry threw rainbow-hued flashes up into his eyes at unpredictable moments.
The heat down there must have been unbearable, but no one complained or showed any sign of it. This was the Eclipse Ceremony, and time for changes, and no one here wanted to miss a single word.
They were all silent, as his people seldom were. It was entirely possible to hear birds singing evening songs above the faint murmur of breathing and whispers. The light had been thinning for some time now—triggering the birds to go into their sunset melodies—and although it could not be said that the air was getting colder, the sunlight on his skin burned less with every passing moment.
To his right stood Winterhart, and to his left his three Advisors; otherwise, he was alone on the platform of three steps raising up above the level of the crowd. In his mind, he wasalone, for he and he alone could make the decision about the people of White Gryphon. He was the King; they would listen. They loved him; they knew his loyalty to their interests.
He turned his troubled attention, though not his eyes, on the pale-skinned people from the north. They stood in a group, held away from the platform by an intervening phalanx of his personal bodyguards. He had not wanted to show them any particular favor until he had made up his mind.
He had to recalculate everything he had planned last night. All along, although he had permitted them to remain in doubt, he had planned to bring them into the "changes to come" portion of the ceremony, whether or not the actual murderers were found in time. It would have been better if they had been, of course, but that wasn't strictly necessary. Any words spoken by a Truthsayer during the latter half of the Ceremony had special import, and only today Shalaman had decided to call upon Leyuet to impart publicly all he had learned from the minds of Amberdrake and Winterhart. Having a Bound Couple in the Court would bring special blessings from the gods, and having Leyuet declare Amberdrake's innocence at that point in the Ceremony would give his words all the force of the Gods' Voices.