Shadeborn: A Book of Underrealm (20 page)

Annis watched them go and stood waving until she disappeared from sight. Probably, Loren guessed, she stayed on the dock long afterward, until only the thick black dot of the ship shrank upon the sea. Some time after, Annis would no doubt shuffle halfheartedly onto Kal’s ship, take passage to Dulmun, and complete their journey to Ammon.

“Do you think she behaved oddly?” said Gem. “It was as though Annis feared we would never come for her. And twice I thought she meant to say something, but both times closed her mouth.”

Loren rolled her eyes and turned from Gem.

She returned to her cabin once they were upon the water and there rested upon her pallet, trying to recapture some of the sleep she had missed in the night. But if slumber had been difficult while the ship was docked, it was much harder under sail when the waves tossed them asunder. After an hour of fruitless trying, there came a knock at her door, and Xain let himself inside.

“There is something to discuss before we reach the Seat, and I have only just thought of it.” He cleared his throat then added, “Concerning your dagger.”

She reached for its hilt. “Sky above. I did not think of it.”

“I thought not. You cannot march into the High King’s palace with it. It could spell the Mystics’ end.”

“What must I do, then? There is little between here and there save open water. Must I cast it into the sea?”

“Not quite,” the wizard smirked. “I have a friend upon the Seat, a man in whom I have the utmost trust. He will take care of your dagger, keeping it out of sight and mind until you reclaim it.”

“That is well.” Loren sighed. “But what if I never return? You cannot have forgotten that possibility.”

“Indeed I have not. In that case, he will sail into the Bay and cast the dagger into the waves. If it comes to such, I do not think you will miss it.”

Steps pounded in the hallway outside, and Chet burst into her room.

“Loren! Come quickly! ’Tis the Seat!”

She stood from the edge of her bed and went up to the deck with Chet, Xain hobbling along more slowly. Seizing her hand, which no longer felt so strange as it once had, Chet took Loren to the railing near the prow.

There sat the High King’s Seat, like the prize jewel in a great crown fashioned from sapphire. It shone in the midday sun, golden, bright, and glistening like a dewdrop. Even from so far away, at the edge of Loren’s vision, it stole her breath. Chet’s and Gem’s mouths hung open in awe. She realized with a start that hers gaped, too.
 

The closer they came, the more dazzled she felt. Soon, Loren saw golden spires thrusting up from white stone walls that bordered the island. A silver tower stuck straight like an arrow from the back of a practice target. Perfectly round, it caught the sun’s rays from every direction—so bright, they could scarcely stare upon its splendor. And from every battlement, rampart, and tower flew the High Kingdom’s many banners, blue and green and red and gold, fluttering in the wind like the feathers of some great bird.

Loren looked over to find Xain observing them, clearly enjoying their dumbfounded excitement. “Welcome to the High King’s Seat, Loren of the family Nelda. I hardly thought we would ever come here together. Yet it pleases my heart to see the look upon your face.”

“You lived here? How did you ever go about your life? If I lived upon the Seat, I could do nothing but walk around staring. I have heard tales and stories aplenty, but it is ten times better than even the best.”

“It wears on the senses soon enough,” he said, his tone slightly darker. “I am certain you will soon find yourself as weary as I was upon leaving.”

He raised his hood as they approached. The dock was a masterpiece. Loren had seen plenty before, but always of wood and never of stone. The moored ships were grander even than the
Long Claw
, their masts reaching for the sun.
 

Torik skillfully guided his ship into port, and in short order his crew had lashed it to the moorings. They followed Xain, raising their hoods, then set off down the pier and into the streets of the Seat.

The city was not paved in gold, as Loren had heard, but with a fine white stone, perfectly fitted and sealed together. Few travelers were on foot. She saw many constables atop horses, and the rest were royalty or wealthy merchants in fine carriages. Some drove wagons, but even these were of far finer make than anything she had seen in the cities of Selvan. Every building was stone, and each an exquisite display of craftsmanship. Even when they passed a butcher’s shop, she saw burning braziers hanging above the door, and their pungent, sweet aroma banished the normal charnel stink.

Erik marched before them with Weath, and the other two Mystics behind so that most passersby gave a wide berth. Their steps took them toward the High King’s palace, but Xain tugged at Erik’s sleeve for a word.

“We have one burden we must deliver first. Do you know the way to Aurel’s smithy?”

“I do not,” said Erik.

“Then follow me, and closely.”

He turned them to the left so that they began to circle the palace. The streets were well ordered, and soon they stood before a fine-looking shop with a low, red door. Above it hung a sign with the mark of a silversmith burnt into the wood. The door stood open, but Xain took them around to the back of the building, where a more modest service entrance awaited.

Xain rapped sharply on the door, then they waited a moment before it swung open to a thin little man, his grey hair sticking out in every direction, spindly hands clutching each other in curiosity. He saw the four redcloaks waiting outside and squared his shoulders.

“What’s this about? What service can I be to the Mystics this day?”

“Not to them, old friend.” Xain lowered his hood. “But to me.”

The man looked as though sheer surprise might strike him dead on the spot. He rushed forward, eyes watering, to clutch the front of Xain’s cloak.
 

“Xain! Xain, is it truly you? I never thought I would look upon you again.” He recoiled, not in fear, but to look around in sudden suspicion. “But my boy . . . you must know the island is not safe for you. Come, come inside, and quickly.”

“No time for that, Aurel. I have a burden I must ask you to bear, for a while at least. ’Tis for the girl here.”

“A . . . a burden?” said Aurel, blinking at Loren as though he could not quite see her.

“You must keep it hidden from all eyes, even yours. If all goes well, she shall return to fetch it soon. If not—if you hear that anything has happened to us, or if you hear nothing at all for a month—you must send it to the Great Bay’s very bottom.”
 

“Of course, my boy, of course.” And though the old man’s eyes burnt with curiosity, he ushered Loren inside. Xain waited for her on the street.

“Do you have a box I can put it in?” Loren reached for her belt.

“Yes, my dear, of course. Take your pick.” Aurel gestured around. Loren found herself in his workshop, with many tools lying about on benches and tables, as well as many crafts in progress—everything from serving platters to goblets to pitchers for cream. Against one wall was stacked a massive mountain of boxes. Loren chose one, opened it, then drew both dagger and sheath from her belt to drop them inside. Then, struck by a sudden afterthought, she reached into her cloak and pulled out the packet of magestones. They joined the dagger at the bottom of the box. She would no sooner be discovered with the magestones than with the dagger, after all, and both could spell her death within the High King’s halls.

She closed the box again, twisting the little silver latch on the front, then placed it in Aurel’s hands. He blinked at Loren again then stared down at the box, hefting the weight.

“I can keep it in my rafters easily enough. Rest assured, girl, no harm will come to it. And I shall not even look myself; that I vow.”

“Thank you,” said Loren, bowing low. That seemed to surprise him, and in his haste to return the gesture, he nearly dropped the box.

Soon, she had rejoined Xain on the street. But before they set off, the wizard drew close to Aurel and whispered in his ear. But not quiet enough, for Loren overheard much.

“I do not think I go to my end, Aurel. Yet I cannot see every finality. If things should go poorly, I would have you send a message.”

“I think I know it, my boy.”

“Still, I will tell you. Send word of my love—and my death—to Trill, whatever you must do to find her.”

“Of course, Xain. Of course. Only do not place such a burden on an old man. Return here, and send the message yourself.”

“If fate be kind.”

Then Xain pushed past her in a rush, his face again hidden under his cowl. She cautiously followed, not wishing to further upset him. Jordel had told Loren that Trill was his sister, the woman Xain had fallen in love with and the mother of his child. But she had been married off to another man after their child was born, and Xain had not seen her since.

Now he marched like a man possessed, and even the Mystics struggled to keep pace. Through the streets he passed like a returning prince, and mayhap thought of himself as such. He stepped in front of carriages and horses without heed, and more than one reared at his coming. Heads turned to watch wherever he went, though they could not see his face from behind the shadows of his hood.
 

Soon, the High King’s palace walls loomed before them, though its splendor was somewhat lost on Loren. They were near the end of their road now, and the fear of what they might find darkened her sight. Still, she could not help but notice the high ramparts trimmed in gold and the fine white stone sharpening the black battlements.

A guardsman stood before the gate, clad in the white-and-gold armor of the High King herself. He took one look at Xain—and Loren and Chet and Gem beside him in their plain clothes—and raised his spear to cross it over his chest. “Begone, beggars. There are kitchens aplenty for you, by the High King’s charity. ’Tis where you will find your next meal, not here.”

Xain’s bitter laugh poured out from beneath his brown hood. “Ah, Len, you old beggar. Do not tell me you forgotten the sight of an old friend so quickly.” He threw back his hood to show the guard his face.

Many things happened, and all of them quickly.
 

The guard nearly froze in his shock but kept just enough composure to call the alarm. Then many more guards spilled from the gates, surrounding Loren and her party with pointed spears. They were firmly grabbed, hands tied behind their backs—even the Mystics—then marched through the gates and into the palace, prisoners of the High King’s mercy.

twenty-four

With the guards clutching her arms, Loren was dragged through the High King’s palace so quickly that her feet scarcely brushed the floor. She could not see the beauty of the high, vaulted ceilings or the mural-covered walls, for her mind was occupied, dreading what lay before them. The opulence barely registered, noticed only by instinct, stowed for later examination—if she had time to ponder before being put to her death.
 

Xain seemed frighteningly calm beside her. Indeed, when Loren turned to look at the wizard she saw a grim smile playing across his lips beneath his gag—for they knew he was a firemage, and had taken steps to strip his power. She might be able to guess at the reason for his high mood; he had been a fugitive from the King’s justice since before they met, fleeing from city to city and kingdom to kingdom, evading punishment for his crimes. Now at last that flight had ended. One way or another, Xain’s days of running were behind him.

The throne room doors lay open before them, and the guards raised their polearms to allow their passage. They wore more splendid armor than the guards at the front gate, their plate covered with a gleaming white sheen and their trim bedecked in gold leaf. Their eyes were harder, and Loren could see the strength in their arms. They looked upon her with contempt as she passed.

The throne room was so splendid that it dragged Loren’s mind to the present, as if the place itself was impatient for her to notice its opulence. Pillars rose high to form arches along the walls, until they joined in points that ran all along the roof’s center. From each apex sprang golden spikes that splayed across the white marble, like starbursts all in a row. They shrank in size from the entrance to the room’s rear, descending down the far wall so they formed a sort of arrow, commanding the eye to look upon the throne.

And on that throne sat the High King Enalyn.
 

Loren had never had cause to see the High King, but she had often heard her described. There was no mistaking her now, for no one else would dare to rest upon such a seat—made of silver, with gold for the armrests and surrounding the head, cushioned in plush white cloth. The High King sat upon her throne in a leisurely pose, one arm draped over the right side, her other elbow propped up, chin to fist. She was a slight woman of no impressive height, but her gaze was piercing. A thin golden circlet rested upon her hair, which had once been as raven black as Loren’s but now showed many strands of grey. Rather than age, it gave her a mighty dignity that seemed to radiate throughout the room.

Loren could barely tear her eyes from the High King to see the others in the room. There were many guards, all bedecked in the same fine white-and-gold colors of the royal guard she had seen at the throne room door. There were the courtesans, clustered in splendid suits and gowns all along the sides of the hall. She also saw a number of Mystics, their red cloaks marking them as certainly as the badges upon their chests. The Mystics Loren had seen before all wore armor, and tended to look a bit threadbare, like breeches worn for many months of hard travel. These were as clean and well kept as the courtesans themselves. It was somewhat of a shock to see them wearing patterned breeches and tunics, draped in cloaks of the finest fabric and fur that she surely would have laughed to see upon Jordel.