Shadow War (13 page)

He strained to
hear her, and as he did so something snapped inside him. He slipped into
severance.
It was as though a knife sliced through the spell that had
engulfed him. He stood apart, detached and separate in the cold wind. He saw
the plan in its entirety. Fuesel and Thole were paid agents, intending to
accuse Caelan of cheating as soon as he made the winning throw. Such a charge
was serious. He could be imprisoned, and his hands cut off. He would never
fight in the arena again. The competition could then step in with new
contenders and new champions. The betting odds would once again be more even.

Caelan set the
dice on the edge of the gaming board and stepped back with a shake of his head.

“I forfeit the
game,” he said.

Fuesel’s mouth
fell open, and Thole looked furious. The spectators roared with disappointment.

Avoiding everyone’s
gaze, Caelan turned his back on the money that was spellcast and not his. He
shoved his way through the crowd. People growled and swore at him. A women even
struck his chest with her fist. Wrapped in his cloak of icy detachment, Caelan
ignored them all and pushed his way clear.

The moment he
exited the room, he felt another tug of resistance, then a final snap as though
the last tendrils of the spell had broken. He hurried away, and every step
brought a cool, refreshing sense of relief and freedom.

Finally, he let
severance
drop from him. He paused behind a column in the passageway.
Drawing in several deep breaths, he pressed his hand against his chest, feeling
the small, reassuring lump of the amulet bag beneath his silk tunic. Even now
it still felt cold to his touch, as though a chunk of ice swung inside the
leather pouch. His emeralds, gifts from the ice spirits of Trau that had
favored him long ago, had protected him many times before. No ordinary gems,
they looked like plain, ordinary pebbles whenever anyone else examined them,
and they revealed their true shape only to him. He had never understood why the
ice spirits had chosen to give him such magical stones; he had never understood
what purpose they might be intended to serve. Never had they intervened as
directly as they had tonight.

He realized he was
still sweating. He felt trembly and a little sick. The wine, of course, had
been drugged. Tipping his head back against the wall, he struggled to compose
himself, then wiped his face with his sleeve and sent a small prayer of thanks
to whatever benevolence existed within the stones.

Painful memories
of his sister flooded his heart. He choked a moment before he pushed such
thoughts away. He had loved her with all his heart, and he had failed her
utterly. He had failed other people as well, including his father, but it was
only Lea he felt the sharpest guilt for. She had been sweet, innocent,
special—a tiny, golden-haired child beloved by nature, people, and the gods.

And he must stop
thinking about her now, must drive her from his mind once more, knowing he
could not return to the past and undo his mistakes, knowing he could not go
back and save her.

Wiping his eyes,
Caelan repressed a shudder and walked on in an effort to pull himself together.
Forcing his mind back to Fuesel and Thole, he found his anger growing. It had
been a vile plot to remove him from the games. Rivalry among the owners was
fierce, and sometimes fighters were stolen and sold illegally. Sometimes they
were poisoned or hamstrung. The prince must be told without delay. He had the
authority to order these agents questioned. Tirhin could find out who hired
them, then plan his own retaliation.

Yet the prince was
not to be found. Searching discreetly, Caelan drifted from room to room, yet
did not find his master. Occasionally he made an inquiry, only to be told, “His
highness was last seen with Lady Sivee.”

Yet Lady Sivee sat
in the main reception chamber, surrounded by all her male admirers except
Prince Tirhin. The group chattered wittily and nibbled on delicacies while
dancing girls whirled seductively to erotic music. When Lady Sivee saw Caelan
lurking in the doorway, she beckoned to him.

“Tell your master
I miss him dreadfully,” she said with a pretty pout. Drink had softened her
eyes and her mouth. “Must he talk politics in the garden all night?”

Caelan barely
concealed his reaction. In that moment he had a sudden vision of Tirhin on
horseback, galloping away into the darkness, alone.

Somehow Caelan
found a smile for the lady. “He is returned to the house, my lady. He sent me
to ask you to meet him.”

“Where?” she
asked, too eagerly.

Some of her male
friends scowled. Others nudged each other.

Caelan said
nothing, and she gave him a quick nod and a sudden, dimpling smile.

“I
know”
she said and put her finger to her lips.

Caelan smiled
back, although he could be flogged for playing such a prank. But the lady would
never guess. He left the room and slipped outside into the cold air. As soon as
the shadows engulfed him, he lengthened his stride, cursing to himself with
every step.

Every action of
the prince’s made sense now. Bringing Caelan and his wealthy young friends to
the party as distractions, chatting freely and moving about from room to room
until everyone had seen him and everyone thought he must be nearby, ordering
Caelan not to stay close to his side. Yes, it had been perfectly planned for
the prince to slip away unnoticed. Even Lady Sivee would now contribute to the
deception by going to wait for a rendezvous. Her tipsy departure would be
noticed by her guests. Alone in her chambers, she would disrobe and wait. The
prince would not come to her, but to save herself humiliation she would not
rejoin her guests. They would never know he stood her up, because she would
never tell.

But the prince had
no business going out unescorted and unprotected. Not late at night, not with
strangers casting spells on his slaves for dastardly reasons, not with the land
restless and unsettled as it was.

“Fool,” Caelan
said under his breath and quickened his pace.

Twice he nearly
ran into couples entwined in the dark shrubbery. There were almost as many
people in the gardens as in the house. Torchlights blazed everywhere, but the
noise and general confusion was a blessing. Finding a dark wool cloak lying
across a bench, Caelan put it on, drawing up the hood to disguise himself.
Joining a group of guests who were leaving, he was able to get his horse and
mount up, unnoticed by the harried grooms and stableboys. He also casually drew
a sword from a saddle scabbard as he rode by. His heart was thumping hard, for
if he were caught it would mean his death.

But the gods
favored him, and he was able to conceal the weapon under his cloak.

Leaving the gates,
he wheeled his horse around uncertainly and set off at a trot. The moon was too
thin to provide much light. It was hard to see the road, and he had no idea
which direction the prince had gone.

Again he cursed
his master, then he cursed himself for caring. What had happened to his anger
and resentment? The prince could risk his foolish neck if he wanted.

But if anything
happened to the prince, Caelan knew he would be sold to a new master. Better to
stick with the master he had than risk the unknown.

He tried to calm
down, although impatience and worry made it hard.

He sought,
extending
sevaisin
farther than he had ever tried before. A flicker of
the prince came to him, but it was clouded by something else, something evil
and horrifying.

Caelan’s mouth
went dry, and he cut off the contact with a shudder. He did not know what he
had sensed, but it was of the darkness. And it was on the prince’s trail.

Praying he would
not be too late, Caelan turned his horse north and spurred it to a gallop.

The north road
climbed steadily through the hills rimming Imperia, its broad, unpaved expanse
twisting lazily through the inclines, then crossed a narrow plain and began to
ascend to the mountains. Highest of all of them stood the ancient and
forbidding
Sidraigh-hal
, its jagged peak shooting up a pale curl of smoke
against the night sky.

Ever questing with
his senses, Caelan kept his horse at a gallop until the animal foamed with
lather. The prince was not that far ahead, but he must be setting a blistering
pace, for Caelan never got within sight of him. Caelan had to ride on faith,
the amulet bag bouncing against his chest as though to urge him on.

And if he was
wrong? If the prince had remained at the party? Then eventually bounty hunters
would come after Caelan. He would be dragged back to the city in chains, and
without trial or the chance to offer explanation, he would have sentence read
over him. When the floggings and other punishments were done, his broken,
mutilated body would be thrown into an iron cage, and he would be suspended
from one of the city gates, given no food or water, and left there to die and
rot.

It was the kind of
risk to make a man sweat with fear.

But Caelan didn’t
draw rein. Danger rode on the prince’s trail, and if Caelan could save him,
then perhaps he would be made Tirhin’s protector after all.

Cresting a low
rise, Caelan spotted a glimmer of light below, far down inside a valley. He let
his winded horse slow while he glanced about and took his bearings.

This land lay
empty of dwellings. The hills were not farmed. There were no villages. The
light that winked briefly through the darkness, then vanished, had to be
connected with whomever the prince was meeting.

Caelan frowned.
More conspiracies. He wanted no part of them, no knowledge of them. The prince
could lay plots all night, for all Caelan cared. But as for the creatures on
Tirhin’s trail... that was different. Stripping off his cloak and tying it to
the saddle, Caelan drew the sword he’d stolen.

Using his knee, he
nudged his mount forward cautiously.

He was halfway
down the hill, still on the road, when a sudden flurry of wings above him gave
him a split second of warning.

His horse screamed
in fear and reared. Caelan had a confused impression of something large and
black descending on him from the sky before sharp talons ripped across his
shoulder. Crying out, he stabbed up with the sword and caught the creature deep
in its vitals. Inky blood gushed forth, running down his sword arm and
splattering across his face. The stench that accompanied it was of something
putrefied.

The creature made
no death cry, but simply plummeted past him to land in a dark heap on the
ground. Caelan’s horse shied and bucked away from it, and by the time he was
able to regain control of his mount and move closer, the creature was crumbling
rapidly into dust. A breath of wind scattered it away, and he never got a good
look at what it had been.

Breathing hard,
Caelan wiped off the stinking blood as best he could. Inside, he was shaken
more than he wanted to admit. What, in all the names of the gods, was that thing?
It had very nearly killed him, and he still could not quite believe his luck.

After a moment he
forced himself to ride on, but he kept his senses attuned to the sky as well as
to the shadows around him. Even so, he nearly missed the small trail branching
off from the road. It led down the hillside that was rough with boulders and
thickets of stunted trees.

Caelan hesitated a
moment, then turned his mount that way. His horse’s ears pricked forward
alertly. The animal seemed more nervous and reluctant than ever, and he had to
force it to take the trail. Step by step, the horse picked its way along, while
Caelan’s unease grew.

He had the same
eerie feeling of being watched as he had earlier that evening when he’d ridden
with the prince and his friends. Yet though Caelan’s eyes were never still, he
saw nothing.

The glimmer of
light he’d spied before now reappeared in a brief wink, then was gone as though
a door had been opened and closed. It was not far ahead.

But the land
itself grew increasingly desolate. The trees were either stunted and deformed,
or they stood as burned skeletons leaning over the progressively steeper trail.
The air had grown strangely warm and oppressive, smelling strongly of cinders,
ash, and smoke. Yet he saw no fire. Sweating, Caelan loosened the throat of his
tunic and slicked back a strand of hair from his eyes. His horse pranced and
minced along as though walking on eggs, snorting with every uncertain step.

Caelan realized he
had come to the forbidden mountain of
Sidraigh-hal,
once sacred ground
of the shadow gods. Across the narrow valley, it rose above him, black and
forbidding, its fiery top wreathed in yellow, sulfur-laden mists.

Drawing rein in
dismay, Caelan knew he should turn back before he found himself in worse
trouble. This was no place for him. Even the simple awareness of where he was
sent goosebumps crawling up his spine.

Breathing an old
childhood prayer, he edged forward.

Here and there,
frozen tongues of black lava scored the hillside. Lava canyons fell away
sharply, their razor precipices offering death without warning.

The trail crossed
a tiny stream, and the horse balked at first, refusing to cross it. Glancing
around warily, Caelan dismounted and knelt at the edge. He was thirsty, and he
wanted to wash off the creature’s blood that still stank loathsomely. But when
he put his hand into the water, he found it strangely warm as though it had
been heated.

Caelan cupped
water in his palm and tasted it. It was foul. He spat, shuddering, and splashed
some of the water quickly onto his arm and shoulder.

A faint rumble
passed through the earth.

Uneasily Caelan
scrambled to his feet. His horse broke away and ran off. Caelan swore silently,
but he did not go after it. The panicky animal could elude him easily, and he
dared not waste time chasing it.