Child of the Sword, Book 1 of The Gods Within (57 page)

JohnEngine closed his eyes, sighed tiredly
and ran his hands through his hair. “Oh dear
gods
! And all
this time you thought she betrayed you?”

“Of course. I saw it with my own eyes.”

JohnEngine shook his head. “No. You heard
her agree to go to Valso’s bed, but it was a ruse to get close to
him. She took poison to his chambers and tried to kill him. But she
failed, and no one can fault her for that, you bloody idiot.”

Morgin couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“But, I heard—”

JohnEngine stood and shouted in his face,
“You heard, but you didn’t see. She saw you standing in the shadows
nearby, and she didn’t betray you. It was her witness, along with
Nicki’s, that proved you were not the coward grandmother believed.
And she paid a brutal price for her loyalty to us, her loyalty to
you. You bloody, bloody idiot. You’re not the only one who was hurt
in this. She bears scars as well, though not as visible as
yours.”

JohnEngine turned and stormed out of the
room. “You bloody, bloody idiot.”

Morgin thoughts raced frantically through
his memories of lurking in the shadows of Elhiyne. The night she’s
agreed to go to Valso’s bed she had glanced his way. He’d watched
her do so, feared at the time that she might have seen him, knew
now that she had, knew now that he was a bloody, bloody idiot.

He called out for Rhianne, called out for
help, and a servant came. He asked the servant to find Rhianne and
bring her to him. When the servant returned she said, “The Lady
Rhianne said she’s not available. And she told me to tell you that,
henceforth, someone else will see to your needs.”

Morgin stood in front of the full-length
mirror in his room and looked carefully at his own image. He looked
ridiculous. He felt ridiculous. He felt like a clown, dressed all
in red: red breeches, red blouse, red cape. He understood that red
was the ceremonial color of House Elhiyne, and he understood that
Olivia had arranged for high ceremony that day. But red from head
to foot? And the lace! White lace at cuffs and collar! He looked
like a dandy, and felt like a fool. At least the knee-high boots
and the hip length doublet were black leather. He put his hands on
his hips and scowled. “Must I wear this in public?”

Avis, kneeling beside him, making last
minute adjustments to his sleeve, spoke around a mouth full of
needles. “It is customary, my lord. And it was the outfit chosen
for you.”

Avis was being diplomatic. Olivia had chosen
the outfit, and sent it with the servant to Inetka. But Avis knew
better than to mention the old woman’s name around Morgin.

“Very well,” Morgin said. “Let’s get this
over with.”

“Another moment or two, my lord,” Avis said.
He worked feverishly at a small leather button on Morgin’s cuff. It
looked all right to Morgin, but something about it offended Avis’
sense of propriety. Finally, satisfied, he stood, stepped back a
few paces, and carefully inspected every inch of Morgin and his
attire. “That should do it, my lord. Shall I tell them you’re
ready?”

“Ya,” Morgin said unhappily. “Go ahead.”

“Very well, my lord.” Avis bowed deeply and
turned to leave.

“Oh,” Morgin said. “There’s one more
thing.”

Avis stopped just short of the door. “Yes,
my lord?”

“I haven’t forgotten that you were one of
the few who had faith in me when everyone else thought I was a
coward.”

Avis smiled, a rare breach of his own
private etiquette. “Thank you, my lord.”

“No, Avis,” Morgin said. “I thank you.”

Avis’ formality returned and the smile
disappeared. “Will there be anything else, my lord?”

“No,” Morgin said. “I guess I’m ready.”

Avis bowed and left.

Morgin, alone now, turned slowly through a
full circle and surveyed his room carefully, making sure that
everything of importance had been packed. He felt no regret at
leaving, for there were no fond memories to look back upon. But
after four months of continuous residency he had grown accustomed
to the place. He turned back to the mirror.

It was customary for a clansman to wear
something of his clan’s colors on ceremonial occasions. And the
higher the clansman’s station, the more of that color he wore. If
it weren’t for that, and the fact that he’d seen his brothers and
cousins wearing something similar on other occasions, he would have
refused to wear such outlandish clothing.

His eye caught a hint of movement in the
mirror, someone in the room with him, behind him. He spun about,
found the dark angel of his dreams, tall and black-clothed and
handsome.

Morgin backed away from him, thankful that
he’d begun exercising again with France. His muscles were greatly
improved. He had at least a faint chance of escaping whatever harm
the dark angle intended. But his sword lay on his bed on the other
side of the room, and he faced the angel unarmed.

The dark angel shook his head, as if he were
dazed or confused. Then his vision seemed to clear. He looked at
Morgin and frowned. “You need not fear me,” he said. He held out
both hands, empty. “See. I am unarmed. I have not come to harm
you.”

“Why should I believe you?” Morgin asked.
“You tried to kill me once. Why are you here, if not to try
again?”

“I have come to deliver a message.”

“A message?” Morgin demanded. “Who sends me
a message?”

The dark angel shrugged. “The source of the
message does not concern you.”

Before either of them could speak further
the door burst open and Ellowyn charged into the room, broadsword
in hand, her anger a livid and bright halo about her shoulders. “I
knew you were here,” she screamed. “I sensed it.” She shouted out
her hate, leapt at the dark angel and swung her sword.

The dark angel eluded the stroke deftly.
“Ellowyn,” he pleaded. “I am unarmed.”

“You and your evil are never unarmed,” she
screamed, “and now you must die.” She swung her sword in a long,
flat arc meant to cut him in two. He was backed against the wall,
with no room to step out of range. Her sword sliced through him
cleanly, but in the instant of contact it touched only a column of
gray smoke formed in the shape of a man. It whooshed through it
with no discernible resistance, and slowly the smoke began to
dissipate into the air of the room. Morgin and Ellowyn were
alone.

“What is that smell?” he asked.

Ellowyn stared at the spot where the dark
angel had stood, and after a long pause she spoke absently.
“Brimstone, my lord.”

“I suppose . . .” Morgin
said, “. . . that you’re going to tell me that that
was just another dream.”

“No, my lord,” she said. “This now is a
dream.”

“Are you going to tell me who he was?”

“No, my lord.”

“Do you refuse to tell me? Is that it?”

“No, my lord. It is not by my choice.”

“Is that the difference between us,
Ellowyn?” Morgin asked. “Is that the difference between mortal and
angel? We have a free will, and you do not?”

She shook her head. “No, my lord. The
difference is only that you believe you have free will.” And then
she was gone. Just like that, Morgin stood alone in the room
again.

He collected his sword, buckled it to his
waist, stepped into the hall and found it crowded with a large
number of servants and retainers all dressed in the ceremonial
yellow of Inetka. The soft murmur of idle conversation ceased
quickly, and in silence they all bowed. Again he wondered why he
must go through with this.

Roland and AnnaRail and JohnEngine and
Annaline awaited him at the bottom of the stairs. He and Roland had
had their private reunion at Roland’s arrival several days earlier.
Roland had been warm and close, without that distant reserve that
Morgin sensed in JohnEngine and AnnaRail and Tulellcoe. And
Annaline was just Annaline, more of an Inetka now than an
Elhiyne.

Wylow and his sons were there, and Edtoall
and Matill and Rhianne’s sisters and their husbands. And too there
was Val and Cort and Tulellcoe and Eglahan. And behind them all,
far to the back, stood Rhianne, alone, with an almost vacant look
of unconcern on her face. She too wore Elhiyne red, with her hair
piled high on top of her head, and as always there was an unruly
lock that had come loose to tease the edge of her cheek. Morgin
remembered the night they first met in Anistigh. She had been
beautiful then, with a twinkle in her eyes that hinted at a spark
of mischief and strong will. She was beautiful now, as beautiful as
ever, but the twinkle was gone.

She’d avoided him and he hadn’t seen her
since she fled from his room in tears. For just an instant she
looked his way and their eyes met. In hers he saw a tear, a
question, and then her look turned hard and angry. For this grand
ceremony of Olivia’s she had her role to play as well. And, if need
be, he would use that to advantage. So slowly, carefully, he walked
toward her and the crowd parted before him. When he stopped in
front of her he offered her his arm. She looked at him with cold
indifference and took hold of his arm with a proud and strong
grip.

For Morgin’s return to Elhiyne, Olivia had
sent with Roland an escort of twelve twelves of crack, mounted
troops. They were the best in the tribe, having competed for the
honor of accompanying the ShadowLord on his triumphant return. When
Morgin stepped into the Inetka castle yard they startled him by
snapping to a rigid attention, with each man standing beside his
horse. They were an impressive sight, dressed all in red, with
brass and silver hardware polished and gleaming in the sun, men and
horses lined up in the yard in twelve rows of twelve.

Their sergeant-of-men stepped forward and
dropped to one knee in front of Morgin. He bowed his head as he
said, “ShadowLord. My men and I are at your service.”

“Abileen?” Morgin asked. “Is that you? Stand
up and look me in the face.”

The soldier rose and stood proud and strong.
“I am honored that you remember me, my lord.”

“Of course I remember you,” Morgin said.
“You rode beside me at Csairne Glen, and I am honored that you ride
with me now.”

Abileen bowed deeply. Morgin noticed then
that he wore a black armband. He asked about it.

“The arm band signifies that I was in your
original troop, my lord. There are few of us left, but we are all
here today to ride in your escort. My lord, the men would be
honored if you would review them.”

This ceremony was taking a turn Morgin was
not prepared for. “Of course,” he said. Then he whispered quietly
so only Abileen could hear. “I’m not used to doing this kind of
thing so you’d better lead the way.”

Abileen smiled, turned about smartly. They
passed down each row of soldiers, and Morgin paused and looked each
man in the eyes, though only for an instant.

As Abileen had said there were few wearing
the black armband, all too few. But with each, Morgin went to the
extra trouble of stopping and extending his hand. The first tried
to bow and kiss it. “No,” Morgin said sharply. “We’re comrades, you
and I, so just shake it.”

The soldier beamed with pride at the rare
honor. He shook Morgin’s hand happily, and kept shaking it until
Abileen nudged him forcefully.

When he finished the review Morgin turned to
Abileen in front of the men and shook his hand. Then he reached out
and embraced him tightly. The soldiers let out a single great
cheer, then subsided into silence as Wylow ushered Morgin to a
reviewing stand erected for the occasion.

Wylow made a rather long-winded speech,
praising the glory of the ShadowLord’s victory over the Decouix
army. He spoke of more war, and painted a vivid picture of the
price the Greater Council would pay for their aggression.

Roland’s speech was quite different. He
spoke of truce, an end to war, and he painted a picture of the good
harvests that would come without soldiers tramping through the
fields. He received polite applause, nothing like the raucous
cheers that had accompanied Wylow.

Then it was Morgin’s turn. Olivia had
prepared and written a speech for him, and sent it with Roland with
instructions that Morgin should not deviate from it by so much as
one single word. Morgin knew her arrogance was not Roland’s fault,
and while he considered refusing to accept the old witch’s
instructions, that would have been quite unfair to his father. So
he accepted the written speech without comment, then later, with no
one to observe him, he tore it up without so much as reading it. If
it were up to him, he would give no speech at all. But as in most
things his preferences mattered little.

He stepped up to the podium, looked down
upon a sea of faces. Everyone had come to see the ShadowLord: the
lords and ladies of Inetka, peasants from the countryside, soldiers
and merchants, rich and poor, all come to bid farewell to the
ShadowLord as he took leave of their lands. And in those faces he
saw that they expected far more of him than he could ever give.

Silence descended. They waited for him to
say something wise and profound, and he forgot the few carefully
chosen words he had prepared.

A voice far back in the crowd screamed,
“Long live the ShadowLord!”

Abileen’s soldiers took up the cry and
chanted, “ShadowLord . . .
ShadowLord . . .
ShadowLord . . .”

The assembled throng joined in and it
quickly became a deafening roar. Morgin raised his hands to silence
them, and they screamed even louder, calling his name as if it was
a badge of honor, or a cry to war.

A hand touched his shoulder softly. He
turned and found Roland there. “Perhaps now is the time to go,
son.”

Morgin said, “I didn’t want this.”

“I know, son.”

Wylow used his household troops to open a
path through the crowd to Abileen, who waited at the far end of the
yard with his men and horses, and pack animals, and Morgin’s
retinue, and some spare mounts for Morgin and Roland and
JohnEngine, and a carriage for AnnaRail and Rhianne and the ladies
that would accompany them. Abileen held the reins of a large black
mare, a tall, sleek, beautiful animal. But as Morgin approached
more closely the sight of the animal sent a shiver down his spine,
and when he finally stood beside her the magic of her touched at
his soul.