"Is that supposed to be an example of human reason at work? Because to a griffon, it makes no sense."
Aoth tried to frame a retort, then sat up straight in the saddle when he spotted a fleck of black in the distance. Before the blue flame infected his eyes, he wouldn't have been able to see it at all. Now he thought he could discern a brown wrapping bound to a yellow foot.
"There," he said.
"Where?" Brightwing asked.
He married his mind to hers, sharing his vision. "To the right, above the abandoned vineyard."
"Got it." She raised one wing, dipped the other, turned, and hurtled in the proper direction.
The raven saw them coming and fled. Perhaps, in its animal way, it wondered why they were troubling it, for such a small bird should have been beneath the notice of such a large predator.
A war mage would have no trouble bringing a raven down, but Aoth had to make sure he did it in a way that wouldn't destroy the message it carried. He recited a spell, brandished his spear, and a cloud of greenish vapor materialized around the bird. It convulsed, fell, and smashed against the ground.
Brightwing landed beside it. Aoth dismounted and picked up the broken carcass. For a moment, he felt like a bully, using powerful sorcery to kill such a fragile, defenseless creature.
He opened the tiny scroll case and it swelled to its full size. He shook out the document inside, unfurled it, and read it. A chill oozed up his spine.
"Is it anything?" Brightwing asked.
"Yes." He rolled up the parchment again. "We need to get back to the city."
Dmitra Flass kept a garden in the heart of the grim black fortress that was the Central Citadel, and the rosebuds blazed in voluptuous shades of crimson and gold despite the droughts, tainted rains, and plant-killing pests of the past ten years. Perhaps, Malark thought, it was illusion that kept the flowers bright and the grass thick and verdant at all times.
Whatever the truth of the matter, when his schedule allowed, as it did that evening, he liked to stroll and meditate here. He headed for a favorite bower, and then Aoth stepped onto the path ahead of him.
Aoth was carrying his spear, had his falchion strapped across his back, and wore mail, but none of that was unusual. It was the deliberate way he moved and the grim set of his square, tattooed face that betrayed his intentions.
A pity. Malark had known someone would discover his treason eventually, but he'd hoped for more time.
Had Aoth come alone? It was possible, but Malark doubted it. It seemed more likely that someone else was sneaking through the trees and bushes to strike him down from behind if he resisted arrest. He listened, trying to pinpoint the location of that hypothetical threat, meanwhile giving the war mage a smile. "Good evening. How are your eyes?"
"I know about your treason," Aoth said. "I got my hands on one of the scrolls you wrote."
"This is some sort of misunderstanding."
"Don't insult my intelligence."
"You're right. I should know better, and I apologize." Malark had never had any reason to doubt the acuity of his hearing, but he still couldn't detect anyone creeping up on him. Maybe no one was. On the other hand, if Aoth had enlisted Mirror's aid, the ghost wouldn't make any noise unless he wanted to. "Can I appeal to friendship and gratitude instead?"
"No. I hate this, but I mean to do my duty. Curse it all, why would you turn traitor now, when we actually had a chance of winning? What can Szass Tam give you that Dmitra Flass wouldn't?"
Malark sighed. "It's complicated."
"Have it your way. I'm sure it will all come out during your interrogation. Will you accompany me peacefully? It might go a little easier for you if you cooperate."
"All right. Take me to Dmitra."
"No. She's fond of you. Of course, she's also a zulkir, and I doubt mere sentiment would cloud her judgment sufficiently for you to talk your way out of trouble, but I figured, why risk it? I showed the proof of your guilt to Nevron, and he's the one who ordered your arrest. He'll question you first, and involve the rest of the council when he sees fit."
"All right." Malark took a step forward. "But indulge my curiosity. Tell me what aroused your suspicions." Sometimes people had trouble talking and focusing on an opponent at the same time, and if he could distract Aoth, maybe he could spring and attack without provoking a blaze of arcane power from the head of the spear.
Or maybe not. Malark rarely met a warrior whose prowess he truly respected, but the commander of the Griffon Legion was one of the few.
Which meant this confrontation could quite possibly end in a fitting death for one of them. But the prospect made Malark feel an unaccustomed ambivalence. He still wanted to die, but he also wanted to share in what was to come.
"Sorry," Aoth said. "I don't care to answer that question." He leveled the spear and stepped off the path, making way for his prisoner to move in front of him, and then, off to Malark's right, something brushed in the grass.
At last Malark knew the approximate position of another adversary, and this one might be less formidable than Aoth. He pivoted and charged toward the faint noise.
He felt a pang of surprise when he saw Bareris. He'd thought the bard and war mage had had a falling out, but apparently they'd patched things up. From a certain perspective, that was unfortunate, for Bareris too was a fighter to be reckoned with.
Happily though, Malark's sudden move caught both griffon riders by surprise. Aoth hurled a blast of flame from his spear, but it only roared through the space his target had just vacated. Bareris extended his sword, but his timing was off. Malark brushed the blade aside with one hand, stepped in, and struck at Bareris's chest with the heel of the other.
Bareris jerked back from the blow, which kept it from landing with full force. Instead of smashing splinters of rib into his lung and heart, it simply sent him staggering backward.
Malark sprinted to the door in the garden's east wall, then glanced back. The closest foes were Mirror, who looked like a wavering semblance of Bareris, and a huge wolf that could only be Tammith Iltazyarra. Aoth and the bard were farther back, the former circling, trying to reach a position from which he could cast another spell without a tree or his allies blocking the line to the target, and the latter still doubled over, gasping and pressing a hand to his chest.
The odds against Malark were even longer than he'd initially guessed. Still, since he'd broken out of the noose that had been closing around him, maybe he had a chance. Szass Tam had given him a charm to use when the moment came to make his escape, but had also made it clear that he must be particular as to how he employed it. Otherwise, the effect could prove as deadly to him as to his pursuers.
Now, he judged, was the moment. He opened a hidden pocket on his belt, snatched forth a black pearl, threw it, and spun around. He jerked the handle of the door and found it locked. He kicked it off its hinges and dashed onward.
Tammith understood that Bareris and Aoth hoped to take their friend into custody without hurting him or depriving him of his dignity. That was why they hadn't blasted him with spells the instant they found him, or brought a squad of legionnaires along. The part of her that still remembered fondness and compassion made her feel that she might have done the same, even as her vampire side scorned her comrades as fools.
Now she no longer felt any such ambivalence. Malark's break for freedom had suppressed what passed for her humanity and fired her predatory instincts. As she raced after him, all she wanted in the world was to rip his legs out from under him, tear him with her fangs, and guzzle his blood. Indeed, it was going to take all the self-control she could muster to stop short of killing him, but Nevron wanted him alive.