Fire of the Soul (39 page)

Mallory felt his ribs, knowing that several
were broken. He tried to take a deep breath and swallowed the groan
that rose to his lips. When he attempted to gather his Power he
realized that all of it was drained. So he stayed as he was for a
few moments, curled on the ground where the two men who had carried
him away from the scene of the fight had dropped him. He did not
relish lying at the feet of an unwashed outlaw, but he needed some
time to recuperate.

“I told you,” he muttered after carefully
catching his breath, “the woman carries with her a jewel of great
value.”

“We ain’t chasin’ after any wench with Power
like hers,” the outlaw leader told him. “Nor after a man who can
use a sword the way that knight did. Clubbin’ travelers over their
heads and takin’ their valuables is good enough for us. You want
that jewel, get it for yerself.”

A few more vicious kicks from the leader
followed that declaration, after which one of the other outlaws
picked Mallory off the ground and held him upright so his friends
could punch, kick, and otherwise wreck bodily damage on him.
Without his Power, Mallory could not stop the beating.

They left him there to live or die as he
pleased after they rode away. He knew he’d never again be able to
convince them to help him, nor would any of the other bands of
outlaws join his scheme to seize the Emerald from Calia. Word
traveled fast along the Northern Border and failure in any
enterprise was a death sentence. If Mallory didn’t die of his
present injuries, someone would soon come along to murder him for
his clothing and his boots. The outlaws had stolen his sword but at
least they had left him decently covered. If torn, bloodied and
filthy clothing could be called decent, he thought, reconsidering
his situation.

His head ached, his shins felt all but
splintered and he knew his eyes were blackened, for they were
swelling. Soon he wouldn’t be able to see anything.

Mallory had just one hope left. Taking as
long a breath as he dared, he let it out in a special whistle. He
heard no response. He tried again. After a short wait he was
rewarded by the clatter of hooves on rock and Hob appeared.

Using the nearest stirrup, Mallory painfully
levered himself to his feet. Hob was so fiery in temperament, so
unapproachable to any person other than his master that no one had
dared to rob the animal of its trappings. The saddlebags were
intact, including a flask of wine hidden in one of them. Mallory
pulled the cork from the flask and drank deeply, feeling warmth and
strength spread throughout his limbs. Unfortunately, no wine could
restore his Power. Only time and rest could do that.

After several attempts he managed to drag
himself onto the horse’s back, where he slumped over, clutching at
his ribs.

“Move, curse you,” he muttered to Hob. “Take
me away from here, to the plain.”

Hob started downward at a walk and Mallory
had no desire to insist on greater speed. He didn’t think he could
stay on the horse if it began to run, or even just to trot.

The peculiar, half-twilight of a northern
summer was gathering, so Mallory didn’t think he’d be noticed, not
in his dark clothing, with a black horse. Slowly he began to feel
better physically, though he knew his Power would not return for
days.

In time he would have his rightful revenge on
those who had thwarted him. Laisren, Garit, Durand, and most of
all, Calia, his treacherous sister, would all pay. Someday
soon...

By the light of the stars he could see that
Hob was headed due north. The direction suited Mallory. He’d travel
away from Kantia and Chandelar, into the unexplored lands beyond
the volcanoes, where ice and snow persisted all year long and where
dreadful spirits were said to reign. There he’d find a hiding place
to rest until he regained his full Power. Perhaps he’d even
discover someone who was willing to assist him in return for a
large fortune.

“I will return,” he promised, shaking his
fist in the direction of Tannaris. When he tried to turn in the
saddle and shake a fist toward Kantia, the pain in his chest
prevented the motion. He doubled over, holding the broken bones in
place and rode on, through the brief northern night.

“The matter is urgent,” Durand said to the
guard at the palace entrance. “Queen Laisren of Kantia has sent us.
We must speak with the Great Mage Ultan.”

“You cannot see Ultan dressed as you are,”
the guard responded. He stared at the group before him as if he’d
never seen folk in tattered clothing stained with dirt and blood,
or horses that looked as if they were ready to drop after being
ridden too long and too hard. “You will want to bathe and put on
court robes first.”

“Ultan will understand and forgive us,” Calia
told him. “Please, just send a message that Calia has returned. He
will know what that means.”

“You may add to the message,” said Garit in
his most lordly manner, “that Lord Durand and Lord Garit have also
returned with Lady Calia.”

Calia gave him a disapproving glance for
adding a title to her name when she deserved none, but Garit did
not back down. After another long moment of staring at the three
travel-worn applicants for admission and their skinny horses, the
guard turned to relay the message to a person of lesser importance
who stood just within the doorway.

“Sit down,” Garit suggested to Calia,
gesturing to a stone bench placed a short distance from the
entrance.

Durand had already taken advantage of the
bench. He propped his good shoulder against the stone palace wall
while he massaged his injured shoulder. Calia had used Garit’s
undershirt and her own shift to clean and bandage the wound, but
she knew Durand needed a doctor to provide a healing salve and,
perhaps, a few stitches. At least it hadn’t bled since the first
night.

Calia obeyed Garit’s invitation to sit and
leaned her head against the wall. She was still tired, though she
had slept long and heavily during both nights of their ride across
the Plain of Tannaris. They had spent the first night in a barn,
lying on straw, but on the second night a kindly farmer had allowed
them to sleep in his hall, near the fire.

When she had suggested asking the farmer for
supplies to reclean and rebandage Durand’s wound, he had refused,
saying it was better not to arouse curiosity about themselves.

Calia knew she looked as disreputable as her
companions. All of them were in sore need of long, hot baths and
new clothes. She hoped both would come later, after she had turned
over the Emerald to Ultan, thus ridding herself of a burden she had
never sought and did not want.

Meanwhile, she sat on the bench, warmed by
the silvery sun of a northern late summer day. Her eyes closed and
she slipped into a dreamy state, secure in the knowledge that Garit
was sitting next to her and Durand was nearby. Their wait was long.
It seemed to Calia that half the day had drifted by before a boy
who looked familiar stood before her and touched her hand. She
stared at him, wondering where she had seen him before.

“Lady Calia,” he said, “do you remember me? I
am Finen, the page.”

“Yes, of course,” she answered, smiling at
him as the memory returned. “You conducted me to the Great Mage
when I was last here.”

“I’ll do the same now, if you will come with
me. Your friends are to come, too.”

Finen led them through the main palace
entrance, along a cool, dark hall, and then out into the gardens,
to the house Calia would never forget. When the page left them in
the beautiful black and silver chamber, with the constellations
twinkling across the curved ceiling, Calia felt as if she had come
home again.

She thought of Laisren and wondered if the
queen, who for years had lived in a land where she was unwanted by
either her husband or his people, longed for her childhood home.
How could she not want to return? Calia decided that Ultan’s
reaction to his daughter’s decision to leave Kantia would be most
interesting.

Finen had just slipped out when the Great
Mage entered the room, robed as Calia had last seen him, in
shimmering gold and silver. All three of the visitors went to their
knees before him.

“Calia.” Ultan lifted her to her feet. He
gave her a hard look, as if concerned to see her in such worn and
dirty condition, then turned the same sharp gaze upon Garit and
Durand.

“I will hear the details of your adventures
later,” Ultan said. “First, and most important, have you a package
for me?”

“I have.” Calia put her hand into the pocket
of her dress and drew forth the silk-wrapped object that she had
protected with her life and with the lives of her friends. “Queen
Laisren asked me to return this to you.”

She uncovered the silver casket and held it
on her outstretched palm.

“At last.”

To Calia’s surprise Ultan actually hesitated
for a few moments before opening the casket. Then he pressed the
latch, lifted the lid, and removed the contents, leaving the casket
resting on Calia’s palm. He held the stone up between two fingers,
letting the light shine upon it. Green fire glowed from the oblong
jewel, illuminating Ultan’s lined face and making Calia recall the
green haze that had enveloped her when she called upon the Power of
the fabled Emerald.

“After so long,” Ultan murmured, awe and
happiness filling his voice. “I have no words to describe what this
moment means to me, or what the knowledge of the Emerald’s return
will mean to the mages of Chandelar.”

“My lord,” Calia said, seeing how overcome he
was by emotion and believing this was the best possible time to
make her request of him, “now that I have fulfilled your charge to
me, I beg you to hand the stone over to Durand and Garit. Allow
them to carry it to King Henryk of Sapaudia, so he can send it to
Domini Gundiac. Only thus can a terrible war be averted.

“I need not tell you of the long enmity
between the Dominion and Sapaudia,” she continued. “I’ve been told
that Gundiac is gravely ill; if he should die, his nobles will
begin a contest for his title that will quickly become a bloody
war. That war will spill over the border into Sapaudia, with great
loss of life there. Please, my lord, send the Emerald back to
Domini Gundiac.”

“I cannot,” Ultan said. “Gundiac is already
dead and the contest of which you speak has begun.”

“Then Sapaudia is in grave danger,” Garit
said, and Calia knew he was thinking of his grandmother and his
brothers. “We must return to Saumar at once.”

“Have you forgotten the legend of the
Emerald?” Ultan asked. “The Great Emerald, stolen from us so long
ago, has been restored to its rightful place. Now peace will come
to all the known world.”

“Can you be certain of that?” Garit
demanded.

“I am perfectly certain that events will
unfold exactly as they should.” Ultan smiled at him with serene
benevolence, as if Garit ought to understand his cryptic words. “I
have ordered guest rooms prepared for you. Rest this afternoon, and
then join me and Lord Toren this evening. We will celebrate your
arrival and then I will announce that you have brought the Emerald
with you. I will also want the latest news of Laisren.”

“But, my lord,” Calia began, unwilling to let
the matter rest. She could feel the tension that Garit was
repressing. She was experiencing the same tension, for she, too,
was concerned about the safety of Lady Elgida and Garit’s
brothers.

“It’s all right, Calia,” Garit said,
surprising her. To Ultan he added, “We thank you for your
hospitality, my lord. Until this evening, then.”

Garit bowed to Ultan, then took Calia’s arm.
Durand fell into step on her other side as they left the Great
Mage’s audience chamber.

“Garit, I know you must be eager to be on
your way to Sapaudia,” Calia began as soon as they were in the
garden again.

“A day or two won’t make much difference,”
Garit said. “It’s a long voyage from here to Port Moren. First, we
have to find a ship and make arrangements.”

“Ultan owes all of us a reward,” Durand said.
“Let’s see what he offers us. Speaking for myself, I would like a
set of new clothes. I am not overly fond of being stuck with bits
of straw from my tunic, or of finding pebbles in my boots.”

Finen was waiting to conduct them to guest
chambers on the upper level of the palace.

When Calia reached her room she was delighted
to find a maidservant whom she remembered from her first visit. The
maid had a large tub filled with hot water waiting for her. Calia
spent a long time washing with soap that was delicately scented
with northern flowers. Through the tall, arched windows she could
see beyond the palace walls to fields of grain that were no longer
springtime green, but golden and ready for harvest. The leaves of
trees also were beginning to turn to gold and orange. In Chandelar
autumn came early.

After her bath and a nap Calia went down the
wide staircase to Lord Toren’s reception chamber with her hair
clean and cleverly arranged by the maidservant, and wearing a green
silk gown that fit her perfectly.

They were not to use the great banqueting
hall where they had feasted earlier in the year. Finen, who
apparently was assigned to serve as her page during this visit,
showed her to a smaller room where the walls were hung with
embroidered tapestries and a fireplace blazed with logs as big as
small trees. The windows were open, the winter shutters not yet
secured over them, and a chilly evening breeze made the fire’s
warmth welcome.

Toren was waiting for her. He was alone.

“My lord.” Calia made her curtsey. “I am
happy to see you again.”

“Before the others arrive,” Toren said,
flicking his fingers in an impatient gesture to indicate she should
stand, “tell me about Laisren. I want to hear news of her from a
woman’s tongue.”