Shadow War (41 page)

One leaped at her,
but she fended it off by holding the topaz aloft. The jewel’s fierce glow
spread around her like a golden nimbus, protecting her. Its heat nearly burned
her hand, but she dared not drop it.

She worked her way
back across the room, dodging the fire as best she could, until she reached her
clothes chest. Throwing open the lid with one hand, she rummaged swiftly for a
gown, shoes, and the golden cloak given her by the Mahirans.

As she pulled it
forth, the shadows shrank back, fleeing to the corners of the room.

Elandra tossed the
cloak swiftly about her shoulders, ducked her head against the stinging smoke,
and fled.

They pursued her,
silent and terrifying, moving quicker than thought. Yet the next time one
leaped at her, it bounced off the cloak and shriveled to nothing.

Heart pounding in
satisfaction, Elandra whirled around defiantly to face the remainder. “Get back
from me, things of hell!” she cried, brandishing the glowing topaz. “I am not
your prey.”

The shadows fell
back as though they understood her threat, and Elandra turned and ran again.

None of her ladies-in-waiting
were to be found anywhere in her chambers. And when she burst out into the main
passageway, she found her guards slumped on the floor. Dead or unconscious, she
had no time to find out.

She stepped over
them and looked both ways. In the distance she heard shouts. Her heart leaped
with hope, but then she realized they were not sounds of imminent rescue but
instead sounds of battle.

Smoke poured from
the doorway behind her, reminding her she must not linger.

She brandished her
topaz at the shadows following her, and they seemed reluctant to venture forth
into the lit passageway. Seizing her opportunity to escape, Elandra ran full
tilt past the throne room, where flames were licking around the edges of the
doors as though a fire had been started inside it also.

The lamps were not
lit in the passageway ahead of her, and she slowed down, renewed fear making
her cautious.

Shouting men
stormed along a cross-passageway, brandishing torches and drawn swords. They
looked foreign, barbaric.

Elandra flinched
back, pressing herself against the wall. To her relief, none of them noticed
her. But it had been a close call, and her heart would not stop pounding. She
dared not continue forward, but she feared to turn back.

Who were those
men? Hadn’t Kostimon boasted to her only hours ago that the invading Madruns
had been turned back?

“Majesty,”
whispered a voice from behind her.

She whirled around
with a muffled cry, only to sag with relief at the sight of one of her
guardsmen. He was missing his helmet, and his gold cloak was ripped and
stained, but he was an ally.

She ran to him,
grateful. “Take me to the emperor, at once.”

“Not this way,” he
replied, his eyes darting back and forth on the alert. “Come, I must get you to
the stables.”

He hurried her
back the way she’d come, then pulled her down a short flight of steps into the
servants’ corridor. They wound through a series of seemingly endless
passageway, sometimes using the main ways, sometimes the servants’.

After several
minutes, when Elandra was quite breathless from keeping up with his loping
stride, the guardsman abruptly turned and pushed her into the scant protection
of a doorway. She stood there beside him, trembling, her gown and shoes still
clutched in her arms, and listened to the sounds of approaching men.

He touched her arm
lightly. When she looked up, he put his finger to his lips.

He was very grim
as he drew his sword, taking care to make no sound. “I’m sorry,” he mouthed to
her.

She realized he
meant to confront the band approaching. He would fight them, outnumbered, to
give her a chance to run. She wanted to weep for his courage, but she could not
indulge in her emotions now. She must not waste the gift of his life. She must
be ready to run faster than she had ever run before.

His hand gripped
her arm above the elbow, tightening too hard. Both tense, they waited.

Then the men were
upon them, striding hard and purposefully.

The guardsman
shoved Elandra so hard she stumbled and nearly fell, and flung himself in the
path of the men.

“Hold!” snapped a
voice. “We’re friends, you fool.”

“My lady, wait!”

But Elandra was
already spinning around, breathless with relief to see the red cloaks of the
Imperial Guard looming out of the shadows. Their swords were bloody. Their eyes
were blazing and brutal.

Her guardsman
spoke to them rapidly, reporting to the sergeant in command. He pointed at
Elandra, who returned to his side with as much dignity as she could muster.

“I must be at the
side of the emperor,” she said, making her voice sound far more steady and assured
than she really was. “What has happened?”

“We’ve no time to
waste on this. Reinforcements must be got through to the eastern side of the
palace,” the sergeant said, his gaze sliding past her impatiently to the
guardsman. “Can you get us there?”

“Aye, but I’m
responsible for her Majesty.”

The sergeant
scowled. “Where’s the protector?”

His impatience
angered Elandra. She glared at him. “My protector is dead, killed defending my
life.”

Their eyes
flickered, and for a moment they were human beings again, chastened and
respectful.

“Damned savages,”
the sergeant muttered. “We’ll have to split up—”

Another group of
guardsmen joined them, taut and wild-looking, bringing some of their wounded
with them.

“Move on!” one
shouted. “We’re falling back. The central part of the palace is lost. They’ve
started to loot now.”

Horror spread
across every face, and Elandra shared the shame and impotent fury all of them
were feeling. To have barbarians in the palace that had stood untouched for
nearly a thousand years was a desecration, a nightmare that could not be
believed and yet was happening.

“Majesty!” said an
accented voice that made her head snap around.

She looked and saw
a man pushing his way through the soldiers, head and shoulders above the other
men, his blue eyes vivid in the silhouette of his face.

“Caelan!” she said
in relief, feeling safe for the first time tonight. “Give me your aid in
reaching my husband.”

“She cannot fall
into their hands. She must be protected,” the sergeant said, turning about to see
who Caelan was. He grunted and jerked his head in an unspoken command.

Caelan stepped
clear of the others, and they marched on.

The guardsman in
gold lingered behind only to bow to her. “Please, Majesty, give me leave to
fight.”

“Go,” she said.

He saluted her and
swung around after the departing men, giving Caelan one quick, meaningful
glance as though to pass his responsibility into Caelan’s hands.

She faced the
Traulander, who was alert, standing high, his nostrils quivering and his eyes
keen and bright. He loved this, she realized. The danger, the excitement, the
threat of combat... these all combined to bring him alive.

“Is the palace
truly lost?” she asked, unable to believe it still.

“It will be soon,”
he replied. “We were betrayed. Someone let them in, and they gained a
stranglehold before the alarm was sounded.”

Elandra drew in a
sharp breath, angry and shamed. “Tirhin?”

He nodded, looking
grim. “I saw him leading the opposing forces. The emperor fell back twice,
cursing him before gods and men, trying to hold.”

“The emperor has
not been taken?” she asked in sudden fear.

“No,” Caelan said
grimly. “He has been persuaded to save himself, in order that we can regroup
the army elsewhere.”

“But to leave the
palace—”

“It has to be
done, and you must hurry if you’re not to be left behind as part of the spoils.”

She glared at him,
outraged that he would even think it, much less say it, but she didn’t protest.
There wasn’t time for an argument.

He gripped her
elbow through her cloak, only to release her in startlement. He frowned,
started to touch the magic cloth again, then did not.

“It comes from
Mahira,” she said. “It has a protective spell on it. I am surprised you could
feel it. No one else has.”

“I can do many
things most cannot,” he said grimly. “Have you shoes?”

“Yes.”

“Put them on. We’ll
be outside in a moment, if the gods favor us. Put your gown on too, over your
nightclothes.”

She knew he was
right. Hurriedly she crammed her bare feet into her shoes. “Help me.”

“Better that I
should stand guard,” he said, and retreated a short distance from her. “Hurry.”

Mouthing a curse
to herself, she slipped off her cloak and pulled the gown over her head. It was
awkward, doing this alone, not because she was incapable of dressing herself
but because the gown’s design made it difficult to handle the lacings alone. It
did not fit well over her sleeping robes, but she shook the folds of the skirt
down impatiently and put on her cloak again.

“Ready,” she said,
trying to braid her hair so it wouldn’t fly into her face.

He turned to look
at her over his shoulder. Wreathed in shadow, his face concealed, he stood tall
and formidable in his long cloak and breastplate, the sword shifting alertly in
his strong grip. His long hair swung free about his shoulders, and she could
feel danger radiating from him, directed not at her but at any potential foe, a
savage readiness to attack and rend.

Was it fate that
continued to cross her path with his? Or something else?

This was not the
time to seek answers to those questions. She trusted him to protect her; that
was all that mattered.

“Come,” he said.

She joined his
side, feeling reassured by his size. “There is something else you should know.”

“Hurry,” he said,
striding forward.

She had to trot to
keep up. “There are forces of the darkness at work here tonight.”

That got his
attention. He stopped in mid-step and stared at her. “Explain.”

She described the
shadows and how they had killed Rander and attacked her. “If you have any
special means of protection from the gods you believe in, I beg you will call
on it. We have more enemies than just the Madruns.”

He was scowling,
his eyes deep in thought. Almost absently he touched the throat of his
breastplate in the manner of a man who wears an amulet. “Who calls forth the
shadows?” he wondered aloud. “Who commands them?”

“I know not.
Indeed, I will never see a man’s shadow again and feel safe.”

Caelan’s brows
knotted tighter, but he speculated no further. He seemed suddenly remote from
her, as though he had stepped into a place where she could not follow.

He reached out and
gripped her hand hard in his. It was a liberty that ordinarily she would not
have permitted. Right now, however, it was a reassuring link from one human
being to another. She gripped back just as tightly.

“No matter what,
you must stay close to me,” he said, his voice colder and harsher than usual. “You
must follow orders, on the instant, with no hesitation, no argument.”

She felt
breathless with fear. Fighting the cowardly urge to retreat, she forced herself
to nod. “I will,” she promised.

“Then come.” And
he strode forward again.

With the hand of
Empress Elandra clamped firmly in his, Caelan pushed himself deeper into
severance
to heighten his senses, but also to protect himself against the distraction she
presented.

He hurried her
along the passageway, questing constantly for trouble, more aware than she of
how much danger they were in. She obviously believed the palace was still held
by the guards, but Caelan knew differently. Most of the Imperial Guard on duty
inside the palace itself were now dead, killed by poison or in savage
hand-to-hand fighting.

Worst of all were
the traitors, guardsmen who had joined Tirhin at the last minute, turning
unexpectedly on their comrades to slay them before running to the ranks of the
Madruns. At this stage, it was nearly impossible to tell friend from foe. Many
of the traitors wore the empress’s gold colors, and a few minutes before when
Caelan had seen her standing trustingly next to a Gold guardsman, his heart had
stopped. He expected to see her die of a quick knife thrust then and there, but
the man had been loyal. He might well be the last loyal Gold alive.

So much
betrayal... with every stride, Caelan’s fury beat harder. Who had convinced the
emperor the Madrun invaders had been turned back? Who had told him such lies?
And why had the emperor believed them despite clear warnings?

The truth was, the
Madruns had swept across the borders exactly as Tirhin had worked out. All the
daily dispatches received by the emperor this week, including those brought by
the Thyzarene, held false reports, which meant this plot had pervaded the
government in every corner of the empire.

Kostimon’s throne
had seemed secure, but it wasn’t. How many men had plotted with Tirhin,
silently shifting over to his side while concealing their change of loyalties?
Who had counseled the emperor to be merciful toward his son and not punish him
for his betrayal?

That night in the
dungeons, the emperor had believed what Caelan told him. Caelan had seen it in
the man’s eyes. Moreover, the emperor knew his son had conspired years before,
in an earlier, abortive plot. Yet this week he did not even attempt to punish
Tirhin, much less stop him. Gault above, how many warnings did a man require
before he would listen?

It was like the
last days of E’nonhold again, when Caelan had begged his father to arm the hold
and stand prepared in case of attack. Ample warnings of Thyzarene raiding had
come, but Beva E’non wouldn’t listen. And in the end, everyone in the hold had
been either slaughtered or carried off into slavery by the Thyzarenes.