Shards of Time (28 page)

“That will do,” Rhazat said to Phania. “Back to your kitchen.”

With a last despairing look at Klia—or perhaps the food—Phania left the room.

“Is she possessed, too?”

“No, she’s just as you see her.”

“Then why keep her alive if you’re only going to starve her to death?”

“Because it amuses me,” Rhazat replied. “And I assure you, she has all she wants to eat. But time does take its toll here in my realm. Just look at poor Phania. I doubt she’ll last much longer. That’s why it’s so very important that you eat. If you don’t, you’ll waste away to nothing in no time, and your dear little girl with you.”

“How quickly you’ve found a weapon to use against me!” Klia spat.

“On the contrary, I’m trying to protect you both.”

“By killing my escort, and throwing me from my horse?”

“Who says your escort is dead? As for that handsome horse of yours, he was not meant to die, but to carry you to me. The poor creature must have had some defect. Don’t worry, though. He’ll serve me well here. Now do eat, for your daughter’s sake. And don’t worry about poison. You and she are worth
far
more to me alive than dead.”

The emphasis sent another nasty shiver up Klia’s spine. She took a tentative mouthful of pork, chewed carefully, trying to detect any off flavor, then swallowed and waited for ill effects. None came on, so she picked away at the meal before her.

“How like her you are,” Rhazat mused, toying with her empty wine cup. “So proud.”

“Like who?”

But Rhazat just gave a dismissive wave. “Oh, just someone I knew a long time ago. Wine?”

Klia shook her head but finished her portion, uncomfortably aware of the others watching her. When she was done
she sat back and nodded to her hostess. “That was delicious, Your Majesty. So, what do you have planned for me next?”

“You must sleep, my dear, after such an eventful day. Zella, would you please show our guest to her chamber?”

“Of course.” Zella rose and bowed to Rhazat, then took a candle in a holder from the table and led Klia down a dark, bare corridor and up a long stairway to a beautifully appointed bedchamber. As Zella went around the room, lighting more candles, Klia saw that the delicate furniture was reminiscent of Aurënfaie style, but the fabrics were heavier and used darker colors. The carpets were of an unfamiliar design, as were the patterns on the long drapes covering a tall window. She threw back the drapes to get her bearings. It was dark, with no moon or stars to be seen. The only light came from a few windows in the town below. The open door of the room had no visible lock on this side and would probably be securely locked as soon as Zella left. Where were her nightrunners when she needed them?

She pushed the unworthy thought away. She’d gotten herself into this and it was up to her to get herself out.

“You think of escape, of course,” Zella said in her mistress’s voice, going to the door.

Klia hated the thought of the necromancer lurking behind Zella’s eyes, wearing the woman’s skin like a gown.

“Of course you do, my dear,” Zella went on. “I expect nothing less from a woman of your gallant character, but I must advise against it. As I told you, here in my realm you will soon starve to death. Only in this house will you find food you can eat and water you can drink.”

“What kind of hell is this?” Klia hissed.

Zella laughed Rhazat’s silvery laugh. “You haven’t guessed? I wouldn’t want to spoil the game. Good night, Highness. Sleep well.”

Zella went out, closing the door after her. Klia listened for the sound of a key turning, but heard only the other woman’s fading footsteps.

Now that no enemy was there to see, Klia pressed a protective hand to her still-flat belly. As if in answer, she thought
she felt the first flutter of life, like a tiny fish swimming in her womb.

It was a girl, Rhazat had claimed. Despite her situation, Klia found herself smiling. A half-wizard daughter! What a stir she would make at court. Klia felt that tiny flutter again. “Don’t you worry, my little love. You’ll be born free in Rhíminee and know your father. I swear it on the royal blood we share.”

Klia explored the room, seeking potential weapons. A chair might be easily smashed to get a leg free to break the windows, or preferably her hostess’s pretty head. The sheets or drapes could serve as a rope, if she could find a way to cut or tear them up. The gilded wood curtain rod was too high to reach without climbing on something, perhaps the wardrobe. She tried pushing it, but it proved far too heavy. Going to the window, she tugged on one of the heavy drapes to see if the rod would pull free, but it was solidly fixed to the wall. She tried the latch on the window, and it swung out on the dead night air. Leaning out, she gauged the distance to the ground. The stonework was quite smooth, with no apparent handholds for climbing down, and the drop was at least thirty feet. Even if she managed it without breaking a leg, there was her daughter to think of. The impact might be enough to bring on a miscarriage. She’d been lucky when Moonshine went down; she wasn’t going to take any unnecessary chances now.

Closing the window, she sat on the bed and took stock of what she knew. Rhazat was a necromancer who fancied herself a queen in this strange place. What had she meant when she’d said Klia hadn’t guessed what it was?

She looked around again. No apparent metal, just like downstairs. Her sword and dagger had been taken from her, but she still had the buckles on her sword belt and uniform. The only other thing was—She raised her right hand to her throat, feeling for her golden gorget and hoping it hadn’t turned into anything unpleasant. It was still there, the smooth metal warm under her fingertips.

“Very strange,” she murmured, unhooking the chain that held it around her neck and laying the heavy crescent of precious
metal on the bed in front of her. It was a bit worn at the edges, and had a few scrapes and scratches gained in combat, but the elaborate carving and silver chasing of horses and the crest of the Queen’s Horse Guard on the outer side were still intact. She reached into her tunic and pulled out the golden coin amulet Thero had given her. Even Rhazat, for all her pretensions of royalty, wore no gold, nor any other jewelry. No metal in the house, but Klia had been allowed to keep these. Why? She dropped the amulet back inside her shirt, then looked around for a hiding spot for the gorget, in case her hostess changed her mind. Under the mattress or in the clothes chest would be the first place anyone would look. Instead, she stood on the mattress, pulled herself up by one of the bedposts, and put the gorget on top of the tapestry canopy over the bed.

Climbing down again, she reached into her belt pouch for her comb and looked around for a mirror, but there wasn’t one.

No mirrors, and no metal. Or rather, no polished metal, she amended. The various buckles on her belt and sword belt were dull.

Nothing shiny
, she thought, walking slowly around the room to make certain she hadn’t overlooked anything. Reaching the window, she ran a hand over a pane of glass, but it was slightly rough under her hand, rather than smooth. So, nothing shiny …

Nothing that reflects!

She retrieved the gorget and hid it away inside her shirt, then lay down in her clothes and stared at the flickering candle Zella had left on the stand near the bed.

“Thero, my love, don’t despair,” she whispered. “I’ll get back to you.”

S
EREGIL
checked the marks Thero had painted on the backs of his hands as he and Alec wandered around the palace together, using lightstones to guide them. Micum and a sergeant were off doing the same in a different direction. It had been a long night.

“I hope these still work,” Alec muttered, inspecting the one on his right hand more closely. “This one is starting to wear off.”

“Roll back your sleeves so they don’t rub.”

Just as they reached a T where their corridor intersected another, Alec suddenly looked sharply to the right.

“There!” he whispered, pointing down the pitch-black corridor.

“What?” Seregil whispered back, reaching for his sword. “That light! Come on.”

“What light?” But Alec was already bolting down the corridor, sword drawn. As Seregil started after him, the glow of Alec’s lightstone disappeared as suddenly as if a heavy curtain had fallen across the passageway. In fact, Seregil thought that’s what had happened until he ran to where Alec had disappeared and found nothing but more corridor stretching away into the darkness. There was no sign of Alec.

Had he gone through one of the open doorways that lined the corridor? This wing of the palace had not been refurbished. Some of the rooms didn’t even have doors, or they were broken or hanging by one hinge. One after the other
proved to be dark and empty. The corridor dead-ended in a blank stone wall.

Seregil turned and looked back the way he’d come, expecting to see a glow from a doorway farther back, but all was dark.

“Alec, where in Bilairy’s name are you?” he shouted, stomach already in a knot.

An echoed
are you, are you, are you
was the only reply.

The light seemed to recede down the corridor as Alec ran toward it. It didn’t have the color or glow of a lightstone, or one of Thero’s orbs. It was ruddy and flickered …

Suddenly the toe of his boot caught on something and he went sprawling in what he quickly realized was fresh dung and dry grass. A small campfire burning a few feet away revealed two very startled peasant boys.

“Hello,” Alec grunted in Plenimaran.

They gaped at him, then dashed away into the darkness, leaving him alone in the muck with a flock of black-tail sheep. Climbing to his feet, Alec wiped his face on his sleeve and turned around slowly, trying to make sense of what had just happened. His lightstone was nowhere to be seen. From what he could make out in the firelight, he was in the middle of a meadow on a steep hillside. In the direction the boys had run, he could hear dogs barking in the distance, and could make out a few small cottages, firelight showing through a square window here and there. As he watched, these disappeared one by one in quick succession, as if someone had closed the shutters. Down the hillside some miles away lay a small town surrounding a squat, round tower. It looked like a rough hike, but he judged he could reach it before dawn.

The barking was getting louder and he caught sight of a pair of dark shapes running toward him. They were coming on fast, barking and snarling with their heads low and their ears laid back. Rather than run and be chased, Alec stood his ground, clutching his sword. The sheep were slow to scatter, momentarily slowing the dogs’ headlong pursuit. As they neared the edge of the firelight, snarling and slavering, Alec could see that they were a pair of starved-looking mongrels
with short, mud-colored fur. He raised his left fist, first and little fingers extended, and turned it as if it were a key in a lock, performing the simple dog charm Seregil had taught him. “Peace, friend hounds.”

But the spell didn’t work. The dogs attacked, knocking him to the ground and snapping at his face and arms as he tried to fend them off. His sword useless, he drew his black-handled dagger and stabbed at them as best he could. The blade found its mark often enough to drive them back yelping, but not before he was badly bitten.

One dog lay heaving on its side by the fire. The other one stood over it, barking and growling, never taking its eyes off Alec. His fallen sword lay within reach, but he knew the moment he moved, the dog would attack again. Still he had to chance it. As his hand closed around the hilt the cur charged. He got the blade up just in time to catch it in the chest. Its own momentum drove it onto the razor-sharp blade and it staggered and fell on its side. With a final shudder, it died.

Alec pulled his blade free and staggered to the fire to check his wounds. His coat was badly torn and bloodied. He took it and his bloodstained shirt off and assessed the damage: he had deep bites on both arms and a gash across the heel of his left hand. He let them bleed for a few minutes to cleanse the wounds, then tore up his shirt and bound up the wounds as best he could. His hands were shaking and the night breeze felt colder than it had before. Grimacing, he pulled his coat over his shoulders and squatted by the fire to get warm, still trying to understand how he’d gotten here in the first place.

The flames gave off no heat.

“Illior’s Fingers,” he whispered, passing his right hand over the flames. Pain blossomed across his palm and he yanked it back. The skin tingled, like a slight burn.

Nothing made sense. He was certain he hadn’t gone through any door; one moment he was in the palace corridor with Seregil behind him, the next he was here, alone somewhere in the countryside, surrounded by sleepy sheep. He went to one of the dogs and touched its side. There was no blood.

Dogs that could bite, but not bleed.

Fire that could burn, but gave off no heat.

The sky was dark, but there were no stars or moon.

He tried to ignore the hammering of his heart as he looked around again, deciding what to do. The only direction that promised any answers was the distant town. Having his lightstone would make it a safer walk. He crawled around on his knees, finding what appeared to be it in a fresh sheep pat—shit seemed real enough here—but the magic had died; it gave off no light. Cursing under his breath, he wiped it off on the grass and stuck it in a pocket, then started toward the distant lights.