Lord of the Rose (41 page)

“What would you do with such an army, may I ask?”

“With army like that, Ogre, I tear down walls of Solanthus itself. Open up vaults, where treasures piled to sky.”

“I wonder … is it possible? Would the draconians fight their best under your command?” The bandit lord’s eyes flashed.

“Est Sudanus oth Nikkas,”
murmured the half-giant, watching his counterpart carefully.

“Eh? What does that mean?”

“They follow me, friend, and city, any city, can be taken. My power is my Truth.”

“Do you mean to say that you had him in chains? That you brought him all the way from the southern plains? And that he escaped on the very doorstep of the High Clerist’s Tower?”

Bakkard du Chagne’s voice was strangely hushed, almost a hoarse whisper, as he spoke to the captain of his guards. Even so, Selinda, who was off to the side of her father and Captain Powell, was certain that she had never heard him so bottled up with fury.

“Yes, Excellency. That is exactly what happened. It was a monumental failure, and the fault is naught but my own. My men acted bravely and competently throughout the long journey. I
can only offer up my sword and my epaulets as penance.”

“You can offer more than that!” The Lord Regent’s voice rose, becoming shrill. “You can offer your blood, your life!”

“Father!” Selinda declared, stepping forward and raising her own voice.

“You stay out of this!” du Chagne snarled, turning to glare at her. His expression blazed, almost causing her to falter, but she raised her chin and met his fury with her own fierce determination.

“I won’t! Captain Powell’s behavior and his leadership were exemplary. The fault, such as it is, lies with me and with that wretched Assassin. The captain would have executed the prisoner at once, and I now see—too late—that this would have been in accordance with the situation. Instead, I insisted he be brought here to stand trial. I overruled the captain’s strenuous objections, invoking my own rank in imposing my will. I see that this was a mistake, and as a result of my mistake, not only has the fugitive escaped once more, but a good, brave knight has perished.”

Her father’s face turned a most disquieting shade of purple. His mouth moved wordlessly. Captain Powell broke the awkward silence.

“No, I cannot allow your daughter to accept fault in this matter, Excellency,” the knight said stiffly. “Though ’tis an expression of her noble nature that she does.” He softened slightly as he looked at Selinda, and she saw the gratitude in his eyes.

He abruptly snapped to attention, looking at some place on the windowed wall beyond the lord regent’s shoulder. “If your Excellency wishes some miserable portion of my unworthy flesh as just retribution, I offer myself willingly. Though it would not make amend for my failing, it is only justice I should suffer such fate.”

“Bah—get away from here, both of you!” snapped du Chagne. “This bastard has already cost me too many men—I cannot afford to lose even an incompetent, Captain! Go and supervise the stabling of the horses—I shall send for you at some point in the future.”

“Aye, Excellency.” Powell turned on his heel and with as much dignity as he could muster marched out of the vast chamber.

Selinda, steeling herself in the face of the lord regent’s anger, spoke softly. “Father …?”

“What is it now?” he snapped, then softened his voice. “What now?”

“The man who died … Sir Dupuy. Did he have a family? I should like to offer what comfort and recompense I could to his widow, see to the future of his children. It is only fair.”

Du Chagne’s eyes narrowed, boring into her. “I have problems of my own!” he declared. “You know nothing about my problems—about a room that looks like it’s full of nothing! Coal and fuel and the rising price of everything! And you dare to bother me with trivial questions about some fool of a
knight?”

She was taken aback—he looked positively cruel!

“Such concerns are preposterous!” he continued. “He was a knight—he knew the risks he took, as do all knights. He didn’t have a family. He leaves no one who cares for him. Now go!”

Selinda turned and departed the great room, nodding absently to the guard who held open the door. What did her father mean: “A room that looks like it’s full of nothing”? He had been in a foul state from the moment of their arrival a few hours earlier, and at first she thought he was upset about the prisoner’s escape. She had noticed, with surprise, the treasure room atop the Golden Spire was closed and shuttered—something she had never seen before—and now wondered if that had something to do with her father’s mood.

Her mind was awhirl with questions and guilty awareness and a sense that things were even more troubling than previously imagined.

The duke knelt at the altar of his immortal lord. The dread scale teetered before him, the balance hanging in peril, until once again his blood was added to the measure. Finally the crimson fluid drained from the lord’s veins equaled the weight
of a great pile of golden coins, and Hiddukel, the Prince of Lies, was pleased.

Now the Nightmaster stood over the nobleman. The priest’s mask was as black as the surrounding night, his words even darker. They were in the temple beneath the city, in the dampness and the dark.

“The young woman, the princess of all Solamnia, has returned safely to her home. She awaits the pleasure of the gods and the man who will claim her. She is the key, for the one who claims her will claim all Solamnia.”

“Aye, Master.”

“That man must make her his wife. He must take her as his bride. That man must be you, my lord duke.”

The kneeling duke looked up in confusion mingled with fear. “But Master—I already have a wife! How can I take another?”

“You cannot. Not so long as your present wife lives.” The Nightmaster leaned forward, holding out a piece of gauzy cloth to the kneeling duke. “Take this,” commanded the cleric.

The nobleman did. “What is it?” he asked nervously.

“It is a shroud of silence. You can drape it above your bed. When the curtains hang down, nothing that happens beneath it will make any sound. It is the will of Hiddukel that some things remain secret.”

“But …” The duke’s face grew pale, and he slumped, his knees buckling until his hands came to rest upon the floor. He had given so much blood to this dark god, so much trust and devotion, and now this.

“There are reports the Assassin escaped from the knights who captured him on the plains … that he is once again at large.”

“Aye, Master … I know these reports.”

“He could be anywhere … he could strike in the north … or the east. He could strike here.”

“He is a menace to all Solamnia!” the noble agreed.

“A menace … or an alibi. Think, my lord duke. Do you understand what must be done?” asked the Nightmaster. “Sometimes a lie can be seen as the Truth.”

For long moments the nobleman held his face to the floor, trembling. Only after considerable reflection did he gasp, raise his eyes in an expression of comprehension—and of horror.

“Yes. Yes, I understand … I know what you command,” he replied.

“Tell me!” insisted the dark cleric, his voice bubbling like lava.

“That my own dear wife must die at my hand—but that my people must believe the Assassin has killed her.”

F
rom the lip of the escarpment, looking down into the wide, flat river valley formed by the junction of the Upper Vingaard and Kaolyn Rivers, the Brackens presented a depressing vista. The forested swamp sprawled across the sodden lowlands in a tangle of hummocks, marshes, fetid ponds and sluggish streams, all broken by dense copses of moss-draped trees that rose from the mist like gaunt guardians. The hum of mosquitoes was omnipresent, an audible drone across the whole territory. Eerie birdcalls echoed.

The four travelers stood on the rim of the grassy bluff some fifty feet above the swamp and swatted at a few of the buzzing insects who rose to greet them, knowing that the pests would be far more numerous once they climbed down the steep hillside.

The Brackens extended as far as they could see in either direction. The shiny open water marking the main channel of the Upper Vingaard was just barely visible, three or four miles away. The escarpment extended along the entire length of the river valley, and the tangled, forbidding swamp was a constant barrier between the base of the bluff and the river. The distant trail of the plains road and the ford the gnomes—and many travelers—had used was far away, below the place where the two rivers merged.

“Do we have to go in there?” Dram asked, scowling.

“We came this far,” Jaymes drawled, scratching his chin. “Why not see things through to the main event?”

“The white lady said Salty Pete might still be alive in there?” Carbo asked dubiously. “How can she know such things? We saw him get dragged off by the big black draco!”

“The White Lady told me she’d heard of a gnome held captive in there,” the dwarf said bluntly. “She didn’t know his name—but thought it might be your brother. Said he’s been there for a couple of years. The timing is about right.”

“Yeah. We lost Pete two years ago,” Sulfie said hopefully.

“I’ve learned to trust her,” Jaymes said with a shrug. “She’s surprised me more than once.” He glanced at the sun, which had cleared the eastern horizon. “We should get moving—if we’re fast, and lucky, we might be in and out of there before sunset.”

By now, the four travelers were fit, well fed, and reasonably well-rested. After leaving the Vingaard Range, they had spent a few weeks evading the patrols of knights that rode vigilantly across the plains. Traveling by darkness and finding hiding places—a herdsman’s hut, a clump of brambles, streamside caves—before each dawn, they made their way eastward and south from the Vingaard Mountains down to the river of the same name. Then they had followed the flow south until they reached this broad convergence.

The two gnomes remembered the route they had followed when they departed Dungarden, and now they found themselves in the same fateful area. Their goal lay before them, in all its unappetizing sprawl and decay. Even the smells were daunting—the stench was more than just the miasma of rot and stagnancy. There was a metallic, smoky overlay to the odor that bespoke of something more sinister than death.