Nightlord: Shadows (24 page)

It was either Firebrand, or me, they said. We know you hid him somewhere and won’t tell anyone where. While we’re fighting a war, so be it; keep your secret and keep him safe. But we get his sword.

While Tort was not privy to the diplomatic details at the age of nine, she later learned that they negotiated pretty reasonably. Apparently, nobody wanted to discover that I was waking up next week and didn’t think the deal was fair. Can’t say that I blame them, really. Eventually, they decided that Vathula—Bob, or his hordes, renamed the city of Eastgate—would continue to hold the pass against all comers; only allies would go through, as well as traders, diplomats, ambassadors, and so on. Anyone from the western side of the Eastrange would need approval from Bob and Raeth.

Ultimately, however, the decision rested with Firebrand. After all, if it didn’t want to go, it was going to be a serious issue to make it go. Bob was lucky there, or clever; Firebrand likes to kill things. Rather than hang around a throne room, it could be hacking through hordes and setting fire to stuff. That’s a no-brainer for Firebrand.

“And that is how your sword came to be missing,” Tort finished. “T’yl acquired another for you, just in case you needed one upon waking. I believe Firebrand is still in Vathula, although it could be anywhere in the Eastrange.”

“If it’s having a good time, I won’t spoil it,” I mused. “Okay. I’ll send it a spell-based message soon and see what it wants to do. It may be having a great time hacking things in the underdark; I don’t have plans to do much slaughtering here. In the meanwhile, I’ll pop over to the local fire-temple and see how my daughter is doing.”

“As you wish, my angel,” Tort said. She bit her lip and refrained from further comment. I raised an eyebrow and she shook her head.

“That does bring up another question,” I noted. “Where are Tamara and my son?”

Tort’s face went into a very thorough neutral. Not a flicker of expression appeared. Her spirit seemed highly agitated, though.

“I would think it best that you ask Amber for those details, my angel.”

Hmm.

“Amber, huh? Good to know her name, at least. I’d hate to knock on the door and have to ask.” I smiled and Tort returned it, faintly. “But why should I ask her about Tamara and my son—what did Tamara name him?”

“Beryl.”

“Fair enough. So, why should I ask Amber?”

Tort pursed her lips in thought.

“I think it best,” she said. How could I argue? I trust her. I don’t know the situation, and she thinks it’s the best way, so I agree.

“All right, I’ll go ask.”

“Very well. I shall go hide in Karvalen.”

Whoa. How awful is this? And is someone, hopefully, overestimating my reaction?

“That’s pretty bad,” I suggested.

“Yes. I have heard how destructive your temper can be.”

“No, you haven’t,” I said, absently. “Do you think Tamara would be willing to tell me what happened?” Tort hesitated.

“My angel, Tamara is… not herself. Her wits are often scattered and confused.” Tort shrugged. “Some days she is quite lucid. Others, not so much.”

Well, she would be nearly a hundred and thirty years old now, I realized. I suppose even a fire-witch can have troubles with old age. And if it was an unpleasant memory, it would be extremely unkind to ask her to dredge it up.

Also, I’m not sure I’m ready to see Tamara, yet. Not long ago, by my time, she was young and beautiful. Now, eighty-seven years later…

Something inside me was trying to bleed. Every time I realized just how long I had been away from Tamara, it succeeded, and I shied from it.

“Okay. I’ll see go see her later. That pretty much means Amber is the person I should ask?”

“I think she is the only person,” Tort admitted, “unless you wish to discuss it directly with the Mother of Flame. Of course, that may mean speaking to Amber, anyway.”

“No, thank you. I prefer not to have discussions with solar deities after nightfall—or ever, with this one. I guess I’ll go talk to Amber.”

“As you will. By your leave, I will not accompany you.”

“Are you really that concerned about how I’ll react?” I asked. Tort started to answer, then paused to think for a moment.

“I cannot be certain, no,” she admitted, “but there exists the possibility that the wrath of angels will be visited upon the face of the world, and that I do not wish to see in person, or in close proximity.”

“Fair enough. I’ll be back in a bit.”

I walked out, thinking hard. What could be so bad? Did Sparky strike him down for heresy? If Amber was forced by Sparky to burn him for blaspheming, that would explain the reluctance to discuss it. Or, maybe, he inherited the gene for fire-witchery? Men don’t, usually; or maybe that’s just because they can’t control it. He could have self-destructed when he started adolescence. Who knows? Sparky might even have sent him to convert some “heathens” to her cause and he might not have survived their religious objections.

Time to find out.

When I checked in with Bronze, she wanted to come along, so I rode rather than walk. It was a nice night for it, as long as I didn’t breathe. Mochara needs more sanitation, and that’s just all there is to it. Then again, most dark-to-medieval-age towns do.

As she walked along, my feeling of having forgotten something grew stronger. I had her stop while I concentrated on it. It wasn’t really a sense of having forgotten something, I decided. It was a feeling of something I should be doing. Something needed doing. The sensation wasn’t just a general urge to be up and moving. This was a feeling of something specific.

I settled myself, centered myself, and, with great care, examined myself for spells, compulsions, charms, and influences. Was my mind being tampered with again? Was there anything laid on me to make me go somewhere and get ambushed? I already had one magician try to kill me this week. Was this another?

Twenty minutes of searching and I couldn’t find a thing. Okay, fair enough; I am more psychic than I like to think about. Maybe this was something I should investigate.

“Bronze?” I asked. She twitched an ear in acknowledgement and started walking. She didn’t even wait for me to explain.

Sometimes I think my horse is smarter than I am.

We went down a narrow side-street. My feet didn’t quite touch the walls on either side. The street—well, the dirt track—wound around and branched frequently. I hesitate to say we were lost; Bronze seemed to know where she was going. I just sat there and reflected that, yes, this seemed to be the right way.

We entered a section of the town that was nothing but ruins. This part had burned down quite some time ago. The ruins were scavenged for stone, but population pressure had not yet caused the area to be rebuilt. Instead, it was a place of makeshifts, lean-tos, and squatters. Shelter was whatever they could cobble together.

Great. I found the slums. And when I say “slums,” I mean a particularly low grade of Hooverville. A tattered tent would have been a long step up. The upscale dwelling was a hole in the ground with some wooden scraps lashed together to form a roof.

People looked at us from their hovels. No one came out to greet me.

Bronze picked her way carefully through the random shelters, stepping on neither shelters nor people. She came to a stop beside a… hut? It was made of sticks and grass and dirt; I doubted it did more than keep the rain off, and it wouldn’t do that well. Good thing the weather was warm.

A child, an infant, was wailing inside. I slid down and crouched to look in.

The mother lay on her back, the child resting on top of her. The mother was starving; so was the child. Judging by the rags, the bruises, and the hidden injuries visible only to the eyes of one who sees life, my guess was that she was either a prostitute or was raped repeatedly. If I had to bet, I’d go with the latter; a prostitute would have made more money than this.

She opened her eyes, squinted at me in the dark. I raised two fingers and provided a candle-worth of illumination. She clutched the crying child and scooted away from me, threatening the flimsy structure with her movement.

“What do you want?” she quavered. The child cried louder.

“That depends on what you want,” I replied. “I think I’m here for you.”

I could have phrased that better.

Her eyes widened and her mouth opened. She made a mewling sound of terror and promptly fainted. I caught the baby as she slumped over; I didn’t want her to fall on it. The infant did not appreciate the rough handling.

Sitting there in a flimsy lean-to, cradling a soiled and bawling baby, next to the unconscious and almost-as-filthy mother, I wondered what I had done wrong in my life to wind up in this situation.

And then it started to drizzle. Great.

“Bronze?”

She shook her mane and backed up a step:
Got me. I just work here.

“Thanks oodles.”

Well, fine. I could either walk away and try not to be bothered by the psychic tickle that dragged me over here—right, like that was going to happen—or I could make things more comfortable for everyone involved and see if that helped. I went for the latter.

Cleaning spells. Sleep spells. A quick ride to the seaward gate and a brief word with the guards there. Down to the beach. Tendrils raking through the ocean for driftwood and fish, followed by a fire and fillets. Much better. The drizzle even stopped. I decided it was time to release the sleep spells.

The mother opened her eyes and immediately checked for the baby. It was asleep, but she took a while to assure herself of that. Only then did she turn her attention to me.

“Hi,” I said. “Have some fish. No, don’t talk. Not a word. Just eat a little bit; you can have it all, but you should eat it in small doses. Do that first.”

She couldn’t resist; she really was starving.

“Do you know where the Lady Tort’s house is?” I asked. She nodded. “Good. You can find me there or leave a message. Do you need anything else right this second?”

She shook her head, then covered her eyes with her left hand while inclining her head toward me, as though I was too bright to look at. I took it for another form of bow, or genuflection, or salute, or something. She lifted her head and went back to eating.

“And if you’ll stop by in the morning, you can have some milk for the little one,” I told her. “Maybe afterward, I’ll have time to talk. Right now, I have things to do. Excuse me.”

I stood up, sprang up on Bronze, and we went back up into Mochara.

“Majesty?” asked a guard as we hurried through. We halted for a moment.

“What is it?” I asked, pleasantly. He was being respectful without being obsequious. I
like
that.

“Do we leave the gate open for your… um?”

“I doubt we’re going to be attacked tonight, but no; you can close it. You’re on watch, right?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“If she wants in, let her in. If someone starts to give her a hard time, stop them.”

“I’d do that last part anyway, Majesty.”

“Good man.”

We headed off to visit my daughter again. I wondered if anything else was going to get in the way.

As it turns out, yes; two carters—men with oversized wheelbarrows, essentially—had gone down a narrow street in opposite directions and were arguing about who should back up, to the apparent amusement of a mongrel dog scratching itself. Bronze and I listened to the argument for about four seconds, then she shifted into reverse until we reached a branching way. We stuck to the main streets after that.

I started actively looking around for anyone following me, or scrying portals spying on me. I didn’t know for sure that someone was putting obstacles in my way, but it was good practice to be watchful. As it turned out, I didn’t see anyone or anything, and arrived without further delays.

The fire-sun-temple-church-thing was one of the few buildings made entirely out of stone. Not brick, but stone, which I presume was laboriously cut and transported. Compared to Hagia Sophia or the Parthenon, it wasn’t really all that much of a temple, but it had a certain elegance to it.

The main area was constructed of some light-colored stone—judging by the fine grain and hardness, some igneous rock. This made up a flat, open area surrounded by pillars and topped with a dome. An oculus in the center of the dome would allow a ray of sun to shine down during the day. The pillars were buttressed with an angled brace, making them look like lopsided, inverted “V”s. Still, that was probably necessary to avoid having the dome collapse. It actually looked rather graceful, taken all at once.

In the center of this area was a statue of Tamara, carved from some white stone. At least, it looked like Tamara, as I remembered her, and looking at it made me miss her quite a lot. It was probably a representation of the Mother of Flame, using Tamara as the model. Long, flowing hair seemed to merge with the flowing gown. The face and arms were the only “skin” visible and were polished to a high gloss. It would gleam in the sunlight.