Lyrec (26 page)

He would have tried to shake it off, but the thing seemed magnetized by Fulpig. The soldier shoved a table out of the way—the last barrier between him and the taverner. Grohd saw sparks within the swirling darkling silver, sparks like distant lightning in a steel gray cloud. He sensed an explosion coming and opened his mouth to yell.

The curved tip of the blade shot out a molten stream. It whirled around Fulpig like a fiery shroud, obscuring him from view. The whine that only Grohd could hear became a squeal. The plasma erupted into blinding brightness and vanished. Behind, a figure of ash hung for an instant upon the air and then collapsed in a dusty pile.

The weapon tugged Grohd’s arm, redirecting itself at Abo, who pressed back against the door now, too horrified to flee. He angled his head away as the weapon took aim at him.

Grohd shouted, “Don’t!” as the weapon quivered and fired again. His command produced some effect upon it: the weapon emitted a thread of blue-edged whiteness this time that strung across the room and wove a cocoon around Abo. The thread stopped abruptly; the cocoon fell away in a sprinkle.

Abo was gone. In his place stood what Grohd could only think to call a shadow—a penumbral figure in the form of Abo but without features. With arms extended, like a blind beggar coated with pitch, the shadow began to move across the room, its footfalls absolutely silent. It came at Grohd. He stumbled back. The shadow of Abo went past him and straight through the wall, vanishing without a trace. Grohd ran to the window in time to see the shade slide through a tree, disappearing into the forest.

He realized then that he still held the awful weapon and also that it had returned to its former shape, releasing his hand. He flung the thing away. It bounced off a keg and clattered on the floor. Now it was like metal again.

The scabbard lay beside him, and he bent down to pick it up, but it suddenly came to life and scuttled across the room. Grohd whisked his hand back. The scabbard slid up beside the abandoned weapon, swung around, and fitted itself into place over the polished blade.

Grohd stared at it another moment; then he headed for the serving bar.

*****

“Where are we going?” Tynec asked Cheybal.

“You don’t want me to spoil the surprise,” the commander answered as he led the boy through Atlarma castle. “All I will tell you is that you’ve requested such a surprise before.”

“Have I? What have I asked for? A sword—is it my own sword?”

“Of course not. You’ll inherit your father’s sword at the coronation. I’m appalled you’ve forgotten.”

“I didn’t forget. You could have had a special one made for me. One for carrying in battle instead of for knighting and wearing on special occasions.”

“Are you planning on going into battle soon?” Cheybal asked innocently.

“Why, no, of course not.… Still, what if I did? It’s my prerogative as king, isn’t it?”

“Your prerogative?” Cheybal came to a stop in front of the door he had led them to. He placed his hand on the bolt, but paused before opening the door. “What’s happened to all you’ve been taught? You know that war is the last choice a king makes. ‘For it obliterates his subjects and savages his lands.’ I think those are your grandfather’s exact words.”

“But grandfather wants war, too,” the boy answered haughtily.

Cheybal was overcome again by the feeling of debating with a stranger. This side of Tynec had come out of nowhere. “Your grandfather … has the same problem you would have if you wanted to make war—namely, identifying the enemy.”

“Whoever killed my father—”

“Who did kill him, boy?”

Tynec’s eyes blazed with anger for a moment. Then a sly smile bent his lips to its will, exposing that estranged inimical aspect which gnawed at Cheybal’s peace of mind. The boy
knew
who had killed Dekür—Cheybal saw the gleam of knowledge in his eyes, before it submerged beneath his false pose of innocence.

Cheybal looked away, lost for what to do. He had brought Tynec here in part because of these uncharacteristic displays. The witch-child, whose name was Pavra, also displayed extraordinary powers—he had only to count the shattered things in his room to prove it. Later, when he’d visited her again, she had surprised him by speaking openly of it. Watching him, she had said, “You mustn’t worry. Papa is still alive somewhere. But I am much better and I can wait. I’m sorry for what I did.” As simply as that, she had seemingly read his mind. What concerned him now were the contents of another mind.

“Well, Tynec,” he said, “your surprise is not a sword, and it’s not for making war. It’s in here.” He opened the door. His eyes shifted between the two faces, wanting to capture any change of expression.

Tynec leaned around the doorway. “It’s a girl,” he said as he might have identified a vermin. “That’s not the surprise, is it?”

“Yes, boy, it is,” answered Cheybal. He glanced at the girl. She sat perfectly still, her hands folded neatly in her lap, a pose that struck Cheybal as other-worldly and disturbing. “This is Pavra,” he continued, playing his part. “She’s from Ukobachia, like your mother. But she’s lost her mother and her father and has nowhere to stay, so we’ve taken her in for a time. You always did ask for a playmate. I’d have thought you would be pleased.” Tynec said nothing. “Well, I’d stay and chat, but I have too much to do, and I trust you to acquaint yourselves. Pavra was excited at the idea of meeting you. She’s never seen a castle before, either. Why don’t you show her some of it?”

“No.”

“Tynec, this isn’t a debate.” He gripped the boy’s arm and pulled him all the way around the door. Tynec struggled at first, but then became unnaturally calm, his expression percipient. He straightened and strode magisterially into the room.

“Hello, Pavra,” he said and climbed up beside her. “Cheybal, you may leave us now.” He gave the commander a bold, even rakish, look. The girl had grown unsure of herself, but was holding to her stiff silence. Cheybal could not glean anything from either of them. They were both playing roles of some kind. He muttered underneath his breath and closed the door.

Had they both read his intention? Tynec had changed tack so quickly, out-maneuvered him without giving anything away, and he didn’t understand how. The roles the two children played were for each other and not for him. He had been dismissed. Now he would agonize over having left the girl alone with this utter stranger.

*****

“Would you like to see the castle?” Tynec asked Pavra.

“Are there places to hide?”

“What? Hide from what?”

“I don’t know. Are there ghosts or
glomengues
?”

“
Glomengues
are outside only. We’d have to play in the yard,” he answered slyly.

“So?”

“Well, it’s raining,” he lied.

“I like rain.”

Tynec made a sour face. “I’ve a better idea. I’ll show you where I’m going to be crowned. There’s balconies we can hide on and watch everyone without being seen.”

“All right.” She climbed off the bed.

*****

Pavra didn’t care for the balcony once they arrived there. Tynec forgot her while he concentrated on what transpired below. She might as well have gone back to her room.

In the hall, people were milling about, dressed resplendently—important people whom Tynec must have known, she thought. But, when she asked him to point them out to her, he ignored her request and began to mumble to himself. Something about him was odd, she saw. What it was specifically, she couldn’t say. He had certain obvious peculiarities, and she did not even have to probe him then to sense them. He was like a mosaic of tiles—looking like one single thing from a distance, but something altogether different close up. The discrepancy was sufficient to make her want to go down among those other people. She asked him to take her somewhere else.

“Well, where?” he replied with obvious annoyance.

“I don’t know. Don’t you have a special place of your own, where you like to be?”

“No. Why would I?”

“You must know somewhere that’s not so
boring
.”

He dropped the edge of the curtain. The small balcony became much darker. Pavra grew nervous. Tynec said, “I know what. Have you ever seen the statue of Chagri in his temple?”

“No.”

“We’ll go there, then.”

“You said it was raining.”

“Did I? We can take a coach.” He took her hand. His fingers were hard and cold like stone. “You should meet him. He’s the most powerful of all gods.”

“Voed’s more powerful,” she protested.

“How would you know? Have you ever talked to Voed?” Pavra could not see his face, but his tone mocked her. “Maybe I have,” she answered. “Sometimes some of us would link hands and our thoughts would touch, and sometimes we could feel this other bigger sort of mind. I always thought it must be Voed.”
 

This reminiscence seemed to make Tynec uneasy. He said, “I don’t think that was Voed. It was likely Chagri. Let’s go ask him. Come on.” He drew her toward the stairwell.

For a split second she saw a hideous shape in the darkness where Tynec walked. Most people would have fled then, but Pavra kept her wits. “I don’t want to go,” she said.

Tynec glanced back at her. “You have to. You need guidance. Chagri’s guidance.”

“Girls are supposed to honor Anralys.”

He seemed to think on this for a moment, then said, “We could go there instead. She has the same gift for you. Or could be made to.”

“No.”

“You’re just afraid.”

“Maybe.”

“No, you are, I can tell. You’re a witch and all the gods hate witches.” He was smiling cruelly.

“Be quiet.”

“I could make Chagri appear here right now, just to come and get you and take you away where all witches belong.”

“No!” He let go of her hand, and she ran down the steps and out of sight. People crowded the hall where she emerged. Pavra burst through them, crying, deaf to their calls.
 

From the balcony the boy smiled secretly as he watched her go.

Chapter 17.

The talons of the krykwyre cracked his skull. Lyrec heard it and tried to pull away from the imagined agony. He pushed at its arm. The sharp fingers slipped inside his skull and tore half his head away. He saw the horrible result in its fist and cried out as his vision dimmed, the world receded. Blind, he knew himself to be near death. “Elystroya,” he called, “I’ve truly lost this time.”

He slept.

The monster attacked him twice more before his fever broke. When he awakened for the first time without it, he heard the cracking sound of the krykwyre’s talons again almost immediately. Much louder now, it was followed shortly by a shudder in the ground beneath him. Thunder. He’d heard the crack of lightning; nothing more.

With this realization his nightmare receded, and he knew he was alive.

A small circular hut enclosed him. Beneath him and above him were dark furs containing a strong musky odor. He lay naked between them. Reaching over the edge of the fur, he dug his fingers into the earth. It was hard, and cold. His shoulder twinged and itched. He almost scratched it, but saw the swollen, purulent wounds just before he did and then worried that moving his arm did not hurt more. He was acutely aware of the orbits of his eyes, which felt sunken deep beneath his brows, drained of fluid and filled with sand. Very gingerly he rubbed at the eyelids and inspected his environment further.

Not far away a fire burned within a small circle of stones. Lyrec tried to sit up and a dozen sharp pains shot through his back and chest and legs. His head thundered like the growing storm outside.

“Dead is what you should be, you know,” said a voice from behind him. Lyrec stretched back his head and looked over the fur, seeing an old woman upside down. She was very fat and her clothes bore stains and patches the way skin contains freckles. She was smiling, but from his point of view her wrinkles ran the wrong way: The lines of her brow became a grim mouth, and her matted hair was a dirty beard. Lyrec’s eyes began to ache from straining so far back. He closed them and relaxed his head. “Where am I?” he asked.

“In my hut,” she answered, the “h” coming from deep in her throat, making the word sound fiery and untamed. “My name is Hulda.” Thunder crashed outside, adding dramatic punctuation to her identity.

“How did I get here? Did you bring me?”

“A krykwyre died by your hand. Your dagger still stuck in its back. Brave one, I compel myself to tell you the truth now you’re awake to understand—its talons have infected you and no medicine known can cure you.” He touched one shoulder lightly. The swelling was hot. “I do what I can to reduce your pain, to keep it separate from you,” she said, “and to make your final hours agreeable. You only have a few. A day if you’re strong. If the agony becomes too much to bear, you have but to ask and I will kill you, too.” Behind him where she sat, something creaked as if relieved of a great burden; then Hulda shambled around the edge of the fur and paused by his feet. The smell of her—an odor like pungent mushrooms—drifted over him.

“Do you care for pleasures of the flesh?” she asked suddenly.

Lyrec imagined what she was offering. “No-o, I—must rest.” He closed his eyes tight, waited, then opened one a bit. The old woman still stood at his feet. He closed the eye again and, deciding it didn’t matter if she saw, began to shift himself into accelerated healing.

Hulda saw the change in him, the color flooding his skin, tiny muscles twitching like minute creatures beneath the skin of his face. She said, “I expected you would last longer than this, brave one. The poison of the krykwyre is fiercer than I thought.” She sighed. “Well, Yadani wouldn’t be much use in a coupling, anyhow.” She glanced across the hut. Near the door, as motionless as stone, sat a figure composed of filth: Yadani. Her long black hair hung about her smudged face in shiny, clinging strands that stretched to the ground and spread like the legs of spiders around her. Her curled-up feet were bare and her clothing consisted of rags in layers. She might have been absorbed in listening for the storm, but Hulda knew better. Nothing caught Yadani’s attention. As a matter of fact, the strongest evidence the girl even had a mind had occurred that very morning when Hulda had found her standing over the stranger and holding his sword slackly in her hand. Hulda had thought that the girl had come awake in wild fury and slain the man; but then she had seen his wounds and soon stumbled across the cause: the krykwyre, dead in the grass.