Lord of the Rose (58 page)

“Yes, she died right here!” the duke cried triumphantly. “You were right—it
was
me. Now I will kill you too!”

J
aymes recovered consciousness. He could see again—the magical darkness had been dispelled, and he realized several torches crackled and flared in wall sconces. He was in an underground room, apparently some kind of shrine. His skull felt as though it was about to implode, and there was sticky wet blood on the back of his head.

The next thing he saw was Giantsmiter, across the room from him, upright with the tip of the great sword resting on the floor. The blade reflected the bright torchlight, and at first that was all the swordsman noticed. Only gradually did he realize a priest was here, standing with both of his hands on the hilt of the blade. Unlike the cleric Jaymes had chased down here, however, this priest was dressed in a tight-fitting cloak of red, which included a mask of the same color that concealed his identity.

The warrior’s head throbbed. Trying to focus through slitted eyes, he looked around the oval-shaped chamber, which, remembering his long run down the dark tunnel, he judged to be located under the Temple of Shinare. Besides the door he had come through, several other doors led into dark passages. He saw a set of golden merchant scales in an alcove at one end. The chain supporting one balance was broken, and that half of the scale lay on the stone floor. The other half, apparently
counterbalanced by nothing, swayed in the air.

“I see that my blow did not kill you—more’s the pity,” the priest remarked. A studded mace, gleaming with inlaid gemstones, swung from his belt. No doubt this was the weapon that had knocked Jaymes out and left his head ringing like the inside of a gong.

“What kind of temple is this?” Jaymes asked, feeling as though he were talking through a mouthful of cotton. Pushing himself up to a sitting position, he leaned his back against a damp stone wall. His hand went to his scalp, rubbing a bloody bump.

“This is the temple to my true god, the Immortal One who will soon become the master of all Solamnia.”

Although the words came from behind the red mask, Jaymes was fairly certain it was the voice of the Patriarch, but this priest was not wearing the garb of Shinare. Instead, the swordsman was reminded of Hiddekel, the god of thieves and brigands.

“Hiding out in the dungeon under your regular church?” he asked.

“I serve Shinare during the day, but my true lord is the Prince of Lies,” said the cleric. “I am the Nightmaster! Let Shinare collect her tolls and her tithes—I measure my wealth in the souls of men!”

“Do you serve the duke as well?”

“Let the mirror in his game room lead him!” declared the priest, with a harsh, dry laugh. “He knows that we serve the same master. He has recruited others to our cause, as well. He knows I am the Truth to him!”

The priest started to pick up the great sword then rested it on the floor again, cocking his head, listening.

“Hmm, visitors,” he said calmly. “No doubt the arrival of a killer such as yourself caused some consternation in the castle.”

Jaymes could hear the sounds, too—footsteps of running men, mingled with clinking armor, creaking straps. Some of the knights in the keep had finally chased him into the darkness. The sounds came closer, but the priest made no move to shut the door.

Moments later, two knights charged into the secret shrine, as the cleric held up a commanding hand.

“Halt!” he cried, and both running men froze, as though their feet were stuck to the stone floor. Magic tingled in the air.

Jaymes recognized the two—one was Sir Dayr, formerly a captain in the service of the Duke of Thelgaard, and the other was Sir Rene, who had commanded the defense of Mason’s Ford. They glared at the masked cleric and struggled but could not budge.

The warrior’s head throbbed, and he leaned back against the wall, trying to marshal some strength.

“By Joli—who in the Abyss are you?” demanded Dayr, waving his sword at the masked priest.

“He wants to be called the Nightmaster,” Jaymes said wearily.

“I
am
the Nightmaster!” the cleric insisted.

“It seems the duke and one or two of his cronies are secretly working on behalf of the Prince of Lies,” the warrior explained. His vision had cleared. He flexed his fingers, feeling strength slowly return.

“What do you mean—hey, that’s the Assassin!” gasped Dayr, finally noticing the bleeding swordsman.

“Correct!” crowed the priest. “Now he will meet his due justice on the weapon he has used to such ill effect!”

With visible effort the Nightmaster lifted the heavy blade, taking a step toward Jaymes. He twisted his hands on the hilt, but the familiar fire did not burst forth from Giantsmiter. Shaking his head, the priest muttered in disgust. “The steel will slip into your belly cold as well as hot,” he growled, advancing another step.

Jaymes struggled to reach under his cape. The two small crossbows he had picked up on the battlefield had been jabbing him in the belly. His right hand closed around the handle of one and, grimacing, he pulled it out. The trigger was cocked, the steel tip aimed at the front of the red silk robe.

The Nightmaster lunged, driving the sword downward, but the bolt from the crossbow flew much faster through the air to punch through his robe, through his skin. With a strangled gasp
the man slumped to his knees, spilling the big sword at Jaymes’s feet with a resounding clang. The priest clutched frantically at the wound, but his fingers couldn’t get a grip on the tail of the deadly metal dart, and he uttered a long sigh as he toppled sideways to the floor.

With the Nightmaster’s death, the spell binding the two knights was broken, and they both stumbled forward, toward the sword that lay just beyond Jaymes’s boots.

By now the second crossbow was in the warrior’s hand, leveled at Captain Dayr. “No! Stop right there,” the warrior said.

Eyes narrowed, the Knight of the Crown halted, watching warily as Jaymes pushed himself to his feet. The warrior almost blacked out from the surge of pain he felt, but he growled, reached down, and picked up the sword. He slid the weapon into his empty scabbard, keeping the crossbow leveled at the knights.

“You won’t get away this time, you know—this whole city knows you’re here,” the captain warned him.

“I’m not trying to get away,” Jaymes replied. He limped to the door, keeping the crossbow trained on the two knights. Backing out of the shrine, he slammed the door shut and dropped the bar into place.

They pounded and shouted as he limped into the darkness, but Jaymes knew it would take them a long time to break the door down.

Coryn could hear again. The only noise, at first, was her own strained breathing through flaring nostrils—the tight cloth gag not only had prevented her from speaking, it made it almost impossible to breathe through her mouth.

“Come with me,” ordered the nobleman, jerking the wizard to her feet by her bound wrists. She tugged angrily against him and he abruptly punched her on the cheek, knocking her off the bed and onto the floor. Her head spun, and she tasted fresh blood as he lifted her by her bonds again. This time she stumblingly maintained her balance, leaning weakly against one bedpost.

Dragging her behind him, the duke started across the room. “Guard!” he called, as he approached the door.

“Yes, my lord duke?”

“Go to the kitchen—tell them I want my tea delivered to the game room! Have Captain Reynaud bring it.”

“Right away, lord.”

The young sentry clomped away. As soon as the sounds faded, the duke opened the door, and pulled Coryn out into the hall. There were no other people in sight, as he prodded her along the corridor in a different direction. She felt the tip of a knife press against the small of her back.

“This is the same blade that cut the Duchess Martha’s throat,” the duke calmly. “It was not very hard to kill her, you know, and it won’t be very hard to kill you.”

Coryn said nothing. The duke took the lead, pulling on the rope. She lurched along, the knots cutting into her wrists. She tried to bite through the gag without success. She couldn’t talk, couldn’t move her hands—couldn’t wield her magic. He was in front of her now, and she could see the knife, an ornately jeweled dagger, in his hand. Her anger mingled with a growing sense of helplessness.

Crawford stopped and opened a door, pushing her into a large, wood-paneled room. There was a table in the middle draped with green cloth, and as she stumbled against the table she saw that it was covered with hundreds of miniature soldiers, painted and poised in martial action. A battle was in progress, though she had inadvertently knocked down a good number of the tiny soldiers.

Duke Crawford didn’t seem to care. Instead, with another sudden shove, he sent her sprawling against the wall. Her head banged on the stones. As she slumped to the floor he pulled open a side door, revealing an alcove. There was nobody else in there, but she was vaguely surprised to hear him speaking.

“My lord? My lord!” said Crawford. “I have the White Witch—she is bound and gagged, but alive—at least, for the moment!”

Jaymes raced down the corridor, holding his sword in both hands. He had retraced his steps out of the hidden tunnel and the secret temple, emerging back through the shattered panel into the great hall of Caergoth keep. There he scattered a dozen servants and started onto the stairs leading up to the duke’s quarters.

Now he heard someone coming and ducked into a side door, watching as a young knight hurried past. When that man headed down a nearby stairway, the warrior ran in the direction the knight had come from. He climbed another flight of stairs, darted around a corner, and halted suddenly in front of a pair of veteran, stern-faced knights.

Jaymes froze, his sword ready, though not yet aflame. The two knight captains glared at him coldly. Eyes narrowing, the warrior recognized one of the officers, then the other.

“Captain Powell,” he said tersely. “I sincerely hoped never to see you again.”