Raven's Strike (36 page)

Then, without warning, she found what she sought, a gem the color of cinnamon. Grey-green strands of Bardic Order formed a tight ball in the center of the stone, with a few stray fragments of Tier's spirit still woven in it. She had no idea how to retrieve what it had stolen.

To her magical self, the gem was enormous, but she knew physically it would be small enough to be set in a ring or necklet.

She could take it, she thought. She held it in her magic now—if she could make herself just a little more physical, she could just steal it from wherever it was and pull it back with her.

There was danger in what she intended. She might find herself wherever the gem was—and she was in no shape to face the Shadowed alone. Or she could fail to make herself real enough to take the gem and too real to go back to her own body.

As she hesitated, the cord pulsed and turned, and the ball of Tier's Order in the gem became just a little bigger.

She'd never done anything like this before, but all a Raven had to be able to do was conceive of possibilities and let magic fill the patterns she conceptualized. For a moment the stone eluded her, as if it feared her touch, but finally her fingers closed upon it, a power-warm, sharp-edged, and slick-sided garnet.

It was hers. For a moment she just held it, stunned it had worked. Then she released her hold on her magic, both the
seeing
spell and the power that had allowed her to follow the Shadowed's trail. She came back to herself with Tier's cry in her ears.

It took her precious moments to realize why the gem warmed until it was hot in her hands, moments while it pulled more of Tier's Order to it. The gem's proximity strengthened the effectiveness of the thieving magic.

“Hold him so he doesn't hurt himself.” The Scholar's voice had altered a little, deeper tones added to give weight to his commands.

Hennea's hands slid from Seraph's shoulders and wrapped around her hands instead.

“Let me ward it, Seraph,” said Hennea.

Seraph opened her cupped hands and allowed Hennea to touch the gem. A simple warding would have just severed the connection between Tier and the stone, and she was too tired to be clever. Let Hennea work the subtler magic necessary.

“There is too much of him, spirit and Order already in the gemstone,” Hennea said worriedly, showing she understood as much as Seraph herself did.

“You can see it?” asked Seraph, then thought,
Of course you could.
Seraph was still trying to absorb the implications of who and what Hennea had been; possibly Seraph's slowness had hurt Tier. If she had just let Hennea try—Hennea, who used to be the goddess of magic. Perhaps she could have really unworked the Shadowed's spell.

“I followed your magic and remembered.” Hennea released her hold and stepped back. “I couldn't have done it myself, not until I saw what you had done. What I've done to the stone should keep it from hurting Tier more for a while. But it is not a permanent situation. I don't know how to reverse the Shadowed's spell.”

“Neither do I,” admitted Seraph readily as she reached out to touch Tier's face. “Yet.”

He opened his eyes at her touch. He smiled at her, then looked at Phoran, who sat on Tier's legs, and at Jes and Kissel, who were holding his arms.

“It's all right, you can let me go,” Tier said. “I'm all right now . . . I think.”

They looked at Seraph and waited until she nodded before letting Tier go.

“Last time we thought he was done, too” said Phoran apologetically. “He was quiet for a little while, then went into convulsions again.”

“I thought you were going to break apart, this time.” Lehr's voice was taut as he helped his father to stand.

Tier moved his left shoulder a little gingerly. “Nothing so dramatic—though I might have pulled a muscle or two.” He looked up at Seraph with a smile of ironic amusement. “You
did
learn something today. I usually feel worse after one of those instead of better. What did you do?”

Seraph opened her hand, so he could see the gemstone in it. He took the unset, rust-colored garnet from her hand gingerly.

“They might have chosen a prettier stone,” he quipped, then, seeing Seraph's face, he gathered her against him, letting her use his shoulder to hide her tears.

“I almost lost you,” she said. “Almost.”

“I'm here,” he told her. “I'm right here.”

She let him comfort her, but she could see the remnants of his fragile Order sway to the tugging of the gem in her hands.

Phoran eased his way out of the chaos of the general meeting that followed Tier's almost demise. Rinnie didn't need him anymore, she was clinging to her father. And Phoran, being neither Traveler nor mage, had nothing he could add to the discussion—which was currently about how to destroy the Shadowed.

He knew they wouldn't leave him alone for long, though Toarsen and Kissel had appeared to be thoroughly fascinated at the thought of meeting a wizard who was old before the Empire had even been a twinkle in the eye of the cunning old farmer who had been the first Phoran.

Phoran welcomed the silence of the old city, outside of the library's door. A sunset, pale and subdued compared to the ones in Taela, lit the eastern sky.

He thought he'd grown accustomed to amazing things on the trip—a lonely mountain haunted with the remnants of ghosts, a legendary city frozen in time, a wizard older then the Empire—but Seraph had just proved him wrong.

It wasn't the magic. Though he was sure that she had done something to help Tier, he hadn't seen anything. He'd noticed the magic Seraph worked was usually less showy than the magic of the court mages—probably because Seraph had no patron to impress.

No, what Seraph had done was even more remarkable than her magic, at least from Phoran's view.

“Introduce me to your family,” the old wizard had said—obviously expecting Seraph just to announce who he was. Phoran had a lot of experience with court wizards and their sense of consequence. It would never have occurred to Hinnum that Seraph would take his invitation literally.

“This is my family,” she'd said.

She hadn't meant it. She couldn't have meant it. Tier would have, but then Phoran had listened to Rinnie's stories and realized Tier's behavior with the Passerines was nothing new. He adopted any stray creature that wandered past him, be they giant black dogs or fumbling, dissolute emperors.

Phoran
knew
she hadn't meant it, but it was precious to him just the same. Ever since his uncle died, Phoran had known that he was alone. Oh, there was Avar, but Avar didn't make Phoran feel safe and . . . and
loved
. “My family,” she'd said, as if Phoran were one of her own children.

He heard someone come out of the library and sighed to himself, though he'd known Toarsen and Kissel wouldn't leave him alone for long. A furry black head dropped onto Phoran's boot, then Gura sighed, too.

“Phoran,” said Lehr, quietly from behind him.

He turned to look at the dark young man—if not the last person he expected to see, he was close to it.

“Get tired of the noise?” Phoran asked.

Lehr smiled, but didn't admit it aloud. “Hinnum thinks if Mother can round up a Lark, a circle of all six Orders might
be able to call upon the Elder gods. They were supposed to work that way, to keep the power of the Elder gods from growing too great. But once the surviving wizards realized there was a hole in the veil, it didn't seem necessary, so they never developed a ceremony that worked. Hinnum thinks the Weaver's power and the six Orders might be able to destroy the Shadowed.”

Phoran looked back out at the sunset. “I heard some of that. Sounds like she, Hennea, and Hinnum are going to take a good try at fixing both Tier and those stolen Orders tomorrow. They need the real names of the Elder gods, or some way to get the rest of us out of their hair, so they're planning on sending us out to find the Owl's Temple because the names are in the temple somewhere.”

“Etched into the dais in reverse,” said Lehr. “She says we can get a rubbing with some char and someone's shirt.” Then he said diffidently. “I can do it myself. There's no need for anyone else to . . .”

His voice trailed off, and Phoran realized some of his irritation at having his private moment interrupted had made itself felt. Lehr thought it was because he resented Seraph's assigning him tasks without consulting—which was something, thought Phoran, he really ought to be a little upset about since he was the Emperor and she was a farmer's wife. But she had called him family: as far as he was concerned, Seraph could command him all she wanted to.

“Have you ever watched three wizards work together?” asked Phoran.

Lehr hesitated, and said cautiously, “No.”

“That's because they can't. I don't want to be around when that old wizard, your mother, and Hennea start arguing.” It was Jes who didn't like being touched, Phoran remembered, so he slapped Lehr on the back reassuringly.

Lehr gave him a slow smile.

“Seriously, Lehr, I don't think any of us should be running around alone in this city. It's not like the woods, where you and your brother know the kinds of things you'll face. I know we haven't run into anything threatening yet, but there's something about this city that gives me the creeps.”

“All right,” Lehr agreed. “Actually, I came out here because
I thought you might answer a question for me. I thought I'd ask Toarsen, but since I have you alone . . .”

“Ask.”

“On the way to the library today, Rufort and Ielian were talking about being a Passerine. Ielian said something that bothered Rufort, but I don't know exactly what it was or why it bothered him.”

“Tell me,” Phoran invited again.

“Rufort said that he liked being one of your guardsmen, that it was much better than being a Passerine had been. Then Ielian said he liked it, too. But being a Passerine had been better than being a clerk for his uncle. It bothered Rufort, but he didn't let Ielian see his reaction.”

Phoran knew who Ielian's uncle was, but then so should Rufort. Like Phoran, he didn't see anything wrong with what Lehr had said. “Did he say why he liked being a Passerine better?”

“He said it paid better.”

“I thought we'd found all of those,” said Phoran, dismayed.

“All of what?”

“The only Passerines who were given coins by the Path were paid for killing people—or frightening them. Most of them were the older Passerines: Kissel and Toarsen knew who they were. Ielian is younger, from this year's crop. We didn't think that any of the youngest group were doing that sort of work.”

Kissel and Toarsen had both gone out to frighten people. “Bruised a few knuckles” was what Kissel had called it. But killing—particularly the kind of killing that the Path had been behind—was a different category.

He couldn't trust Ielian anymore.

“It's all right, Lehr,” he said. “Thank you for telling me. I'll let Toarsen and Kissel know.”

“I like him,” said Lehr. “Not many people stand up to Mother.”

“I like him, too,” said Phoran. “I'll talk to him about it before I decide what to do. Thank you.”

Night had fallen while they talked. Phoran turned to go back into the library, and the Memory was there.

“Ah,” he told it. “I hadn't realized how late it was getting.”

Lehr watched the Memory, but he hadn't jumped or shrieked or anything else. Phoran remembered the first half dozen times the Memory had come to him and wished he'd been half so calm. Gura whined, but stood his ground.

Phoran rolled up the sleeve on his left arm; his right had been aching all day today, and that was his sword arm. He didn't remember the ache lingering as long when the Memory had fed before, but he might just have forgotten it.

But it felt worse again as the cold mouth closed over the wound it had made in his arm. The icy chill was more pervasive, the pain more intense than last night. Surely he would have remembered if it had been so bad last night.

Phoran found himself seated on the ground, half-leaning on Lehr.

“By the taking of your blood,” said the Memory, its voice as dry as old leaves. “I owe you one answer. Choose your question.”

“Phoran?” It was Lehr's voice, intensely quiet, like it got sometimes when they were nearing their prey on a hunt. “Look between those two houses across the square. Do you see them?”

Feeling dizzy and slow, Phoran stared at the houses Lehr was pointing at. Vaguely conscious of the dog, growling at Lehr's side.

“Yesterday, Hinnum warned us not to be here at night,” Lehr was saying. “I'd forgotten—I'd wager Mother and Papa have as well. Hinnum said the streets belonged to the dead.”

It looked almost human, thought Phoran. It was the right height and shape, but some primal instinct told him that whatever it was that watched Lehr and him from twenty yards across the cobbled avenue had not been human for a very long time.

“How do we survive this?” asked Phoran, looking at the dead man who had haunted him for better than half a year and never, ever, scared him as much as the thing—no, his eyes finally told him, Lehr was right there was more than one of them—things, then.

“Go inside,” it whispered. “They are coming, and I have no power over the dead. They will come demanding a gift or your lives.”

“What kind of gift?” Phoran asked. But the Memory had evidently given him his answer, such as it was, because it said nothing.

Still holding his arm, and staggering a little, Phoran stood up. “I hope your mother knows something about the dead,” he said.

“I know about predators,” said Lehr. “Don't turn around until we reach the door. Keep your eyes on them—and don't hurry.”

Abysmally slowly they backed the few feet to the library door. Lehr opened the door, and Phoran took a last look at the gathering things slowly blending into the shadows of the buildings as twilight faded and darkness held sway on the streets of Colossae. Then he was inside, the wooden bulk of the door between them and whatever hunted them.