Authors: Lynn Flewelling
“These are the original paintings,” Zella said with some pride. “Dozens of artists were enlisted to study what remained of the designs and restore them. It was truly a labor of love for the governor.”
They proceeded along a series of arched, echoing corridors, past empty rooms freshly painted in wonderful, sometimes gaudy scenes and colors. Alec thought he caught movement again, but kept it to himself.
“These are the royal apartments,” Zella said, stopping outside one of the few closed doors. It was made of polished red oak, and carved with the Skalan royal crest above that of the Hierophant.
“The governor seems to have wanted to link the histories of Skala and Kouros,” Seregil remarked.
“Toneus thought to honor the queen by including both crests, to show that she is mistress of both.” Zella took out a large key and unlocked the door. “The bedchamber is at the back of the suite, overlooking a garden.”
“Sedge, you’ll take the lead from here,” Klia ordered.
Nodding grimly, the man opened the door and led them into a large receiving room partially furnished with heavily carved pieces similar to what Alec had seen at the governor’s palace. These were pushed to the center of the room, however, and draped with paint-spattered canvas. Two walls were freshly frescoed with archaic designs of lines, circles, cross-hatching, and more of the six-pointed stars they’d seen on the statue. The other two walls were in the process of being painted in a similar fashion. The painters’ tools and buckets were neatly arranged along one wall.
“This, too, is the original style of decoration?” asked Klia. “It’s different than the rest.”
“Yes, Highness.”
“They may have symbolic, perhaps even magical significance dating from the original Hierophant’s time,” Thero mused, studying the symbols on the wall beside him with interest.
“Do you feel any magic here?” asked Alec.
“No more than I have so far. In fact, it may be weaker in here.”
“Where were you when you heard the cries?” Klia asked Sedge.
“Outside the bedchamber, Highness. The governor had dismissed the servants, so it was just him, his lady, and the two guards on duty outside.”
Two smaller rooms let off this one, and a door at the back of the room led down a short corridor to a library with empty shelves and then into a lavish and quite modern bath chamber.
Zella produced a brass key and handed it to Sedge. “Please forgive me if I do not continue with you.” She was pale, and her hands shook noticeably. “It’s just … I knew them.”
Klia nodded. “I understand. Please, go back to the front room. We’ll meet you there.”
“If I may, Highness,” said Captain Brescia. “Let me and a few of my people go in with him first and make sure it’s safe.”
Klia nodded and let the captain and her riders take the lead with Sedge.
Passing through the bath chamber, they went through another short, windowless corridor with several servants’ chambers along it and came at last to a carved door.
“I was here, near the door,” Sedge told them. “And the lieutenant was there on the other side.”
He indicated a corner flanked by bare stone wall. There were no doors or windows a person might have been pulled into or out of.
Alec noted the gore on either side of the door, thick on the walls and floor. “And that’s where the night guards were.”
Sedge nodded. “Good lads, both of them.”
Thero made a close investigation of the space, running his hands over the walls and casting an orange sigil on the air that Alec recognized as one that would lead to magical items or places. This time, however, it simply dissipated into thin air. Thero gave Klia a shrug, then nodded for Sedge to proceed.
The smell of old blood hit them as soon as the door swung open, and with it the stink of guts and shit, worse than anything Alec had encountered in some time. Trying not to gag, he covered his nose and mouth with a handkerchief. The others did the same.
Sedge and the riders stepped in, then emerged a moment later looking grim.
“No sign of danger, Highness,” Sedge reported. “But it’s bad.”
Klia stepped past him into the room with Thero. Seregil, Alec, and Micum crowded into the doorway to see.
The bedchamber was a well-appointed charnel house. Most of the furnishings were overturned, the draperies shredded, the windows smashed. The silken bed hangings hung in tattered ribbons and tangled with what could only be dried bits of intestine. This horror framed an even more horrific sight: the bedclothes had been thrown aside, and the sheet and mattress were torn to pieces and black with dried blood, or worse. Alec could make out bits of scalp with hair still attached, smears of what was probably brains, and excrement. Flies crawled over everything and buzzed thickly in the room. Something else hung from the frame above the bed: a maggot-ridden dead owl.
It was too much. Alec staggered back down the corridor into the bath chamber and was noisily sick in a marble basin. When there was nothing left to throw up, he wiped his mouth and sat back on his heels, mortified. He jumped as a hand touched his shoulder, but it was only Micum.
“You should go keep Lady Zella company,” the older man murmured.
But pride would not allow it. “I’m fine.”
Forewarned this time, he and Micum went back to the death chamber.
Thero had taken out his crystal wand and held it between his palms, eyes closed, frowning. The others were making a thorough but gingerly search of the room.
“What do you think of that?” Seregil said through his handkerchief, pointing up at the dead owl.
“Just like in my dream,” Alec replied, keeping his own
handkerchief over his mouth and nose and trying hard not to think about the foulness of the air.
Thero opened his eyes and turned to Alec. “You dreamed of a hanged owl? Not Seregil?”
“That’s right.”
“Tell me the rest of it.”
Alec told him of the ghostly woman, his vision and the dream, and the sight of the dead owl hanging from the bed, just as this one was. “It’s even the same kind of owl: a bar tail.”
“So the dream had nothing to do with this place?”
“No.”
“What is the significance of a hanged owl?” asked Klia.
“My guess it’s a curse or charm against the powers of Illior.” Thero closed his eyes again. “Necromancy was used here, but there’s something else, something strong and strange that partially masks it.”
“So we are looking for a necromancer?” said Micum.
“And one who was able to get close enough to the governor to bring this down upon him,” noted Seregil.
“Yes.” Thero wove another orange sigil, and they watched it dissipate meaninglessly in the fetid air.
“No guidance there,” said Seregil.
“Not entirely true,” Thero replied, frowning. “It does show that there’s no kind of magical item or telesm in the room.”
“A locked, bolted room,” Klia reminded him. “He or she must have translocated somehow, as you do.”
“I’ve never heard of a necromancer being able to do that,” Thero replied. “He could have sent in a dra’gorgos if he had the power and skill. And yet …” He closed his eyes again. “I don’t sense any trace of one, even though the sense of destructive magic is strong.”
“Brescia, have that owl cut down and respectfully burned,” Klia ordered. “I think we’ve seen enough here for now. On to the oracle’s shrine.”
Mika took his master’s orders very seriously. As soon as Thero was gone, he located the wagon master who’d carried their baggage and talked him into bringing the wagon to the
large purple tent they’d been assigned, then enlisted the aid of two passing soldiers to help unload the heavy equipment chest.
“Be very careful with that,” he cautioned. “It has things inside that will break, and Master Thero would be very angry.”
“Not to worry, boy,” the older soldier said as he and his mate heaved the chest down and carried it into the tent. They helped him with the rest of the scant baggage, just two packs of clothing and a bag of herbs, then clapped him on the shoulder and went on about their business.
The tent was large, about the size of the tower sitting room, and carpets had been laid over the grass to form a sort of floor. Two cots were prepared, as well as a washstand and a small folding desk. Lanterns hung from the roof poles, too high for Mika to reach without standing on tiptoe on a chair.
There wasn’t much to put in order, so Mika set about his next assignment: to explore the rest of the encampment.
Klia’s blue-and-gold-striped tent was the largest, and distinguished by her banners flanking the doorway. The soldiers’ tents were plain white canvas and arranged in a circle around an open central space lined with cooks’ booths. Klia’s tent faced onto this circle.
In the center of the open area were several large fire pits where whole sheep were being turned on spits by the camp cooks. Mika’s mouth watered and his belly growled. It had been a long time since breakfast in Deep Harbor.
He wandered around the cooks’ booths and soon enough a plump young servant offered him a meat pie and some pieces of dried apple. Mika thanked him and walked through the tents toward the river, looking for somewhere to sit and enjoy his meal.
He walked back down the road to where a large rock stuck up from the riverbank not far from camp. Climbing onto it, Mika sat there taking in the view of the river and road winding away below him. The sun was tipping toward the western horizon, and he imagined Rhíminee and his parents under where it would come down. He’d never been any farther away from home than the Orëska House, and he felt a little
scared and homesick, all by himself in this strange place without even Master Thero or Alec for company. Suddenly the meat pie didn’t taste so savory.
Just then he heard the rattle of falling stone and turned to find a skinny young boy about his own age standing across the road from where he sat, staring at him. He was dirty and dressed in a rough tunic and sandals; the long black hair that hung past his shoulders looked like it hadn’t been combed in days.
“Who are you?” Mika asked, cheered at the prospect of a potential companion.
The other boy gave him a startled look, then crossed the road and stood at the base of the stone, looking up at Mika with his head cocked to one side. He had brown eyes, and his skin was tanned dark from being out in the sun.
“Hello. I’m Mika of Rhíminee. What’s your name?”
The boy just touched his throat and shook his head.
“You can’t talk? You’re a mute?” Mika put a hand over his own mouth.
The boy nodded and grinned, then waved for Mika to come down and join him.
Mika slid off the stone and offered the other boy a piece of dried apple. “You look hungry.”
The silent one shook his head and waved Mika toward the riverbank. Mika wanted to go, but felt a little guilty. Master Thero hadn’t exactly said he couldn’t leave the camp, just that he couldn’t go into Menosi. Promising himself he wouldn’t go very far, he followed.
They walked along the bank for a while, then squatted down by the water. The other boy began turning over stones until he found something and snatched it up with nimble fingers. Holding it in his cupped hands, he showed Mika what looked like a tiny brown lobster. Delighted, Mika took it gently between two fingers and watched it wave its tiny claws in the air. The other boy took it back and put it in the water, then showed Mika where to look for more of the creatures. There were snails, too, cruising slowly over the algae-covered river rocks, and little striped fish that evaded capture.
Mika and the boy worked their way down the riverbank, finding more and more of the lobsters, water beetles, a pair of otters, and glistening globules of frog eggs in a quiet eddy. Mika pulled off his boots and rolled up his trousers and joined the other boy wading in the shallows. He showed Mika how to catch the little fish in his hands and even ate one, giving Mika a challenging grin to do the same. He hesitated, then couldn’t bring himself to do it.
Grinning, the boy cut his hand into the water, splashing Mika from head to foot.
“That’s cold!” he cried, but repaid him in kind and soon they were both soaking wet and laughing.
Splashing turned to wrestling on the grass and soon Mika was wetter and muddier than he’d ever been in his life. Gasping with laughter, he struggled loose and ran back to the road. The day had grown overcast while they played, and Mika began to worry about how long he’d been gone. Looking back the way they’d come, he couldn’t see the stone he’d been sitting on. Guilt lanced through him. Master Thero would definitely be angry if he found out how far away he’d wandered, even though Mika hadn’t meant to. He’d just been having fun and got distracted. It was time to go back.
Just then a guttural shout stopped him in his tracks.
On the rise behind him stood a young man dressed much the same as Mika’s new friend, but this fellow wasn’t smiling. Mika could tell at once that he was angry by the way he shouted again and shook a gnarled cudgel in their direction. The sudden look of fear on the mute boy’s face confirmed it. He grabbed Mika by the hand and began pulling him back the way they’d come. Looking over his shoulder, Mika saw that the man was chasing them. Mika’s friend made a choking sound and tugged at his arm, urging him to run faster. Somehow they’d strayed away from the road. Nothing looked familiar and there were only grass and sharp stones under his bare feet.
They ran for all they were worth, rounding a bend in the river and regaining the road. Mika could see the stone where he’d sat far ahead, and blue sky. He was nearly to it when a heavy hand caught him by the shoulder and sent him tumbling
to the ground. How had the man caught up with them so fast? He stood over Mika and swung that terrifying cudgel. Mika threw up his left arm to ward off the blow, and it struck his forearm. There was a sickening snap as a bone broke and a sudden numbness. Mika screamed and tried to roll away as the man brought the club up again. Before he could strike Mika a second blow, his friend tackled the man and knocked him sideways. The man slapped the boy across the face hard enough to knock him down, and swung the cudgel, catching him across the ribs.