Steel and Stone (19 page)

“Think of the power,” the Valdane said, smiling. He studied the mage. Then he reached to his belt and withdrew an ornate dagger. Pointedly ignoring Janusz, he tested the point by using it to stroke the thin skin over the pulse at his wrist. It was like pricking the vein of a dead man. The wound remained clean and bloodless, then, in an eyeblink, closed smoothly, leaving no scar. “Should we test the bloodlink further, mage?” Valdane teased. “Or are you loyal to me?”

“Don’t!” The cry was wrenched from the mage.

The Valdane laughed and slipped the weapon back into its sheath. He was still chortling as he reached the doorway. Once there, he commented without turning
to face Janusz, “Remember your family, mage. Your brothers and sisters would have been grown by now, wouldn’t they?”

Remember his family? As if he could ever forget. The door slammed behind the red-haired man. As if he could forget.

As a child, Janusz had had the easy good looks of many children. He’d shown magical ability early, but his family had been as poor as the rest of the farm workers in the fiefdom north of the city of Kernen. The only relief in their pressing poverty came each midwinter, when the peasants gathered at the castle of the Valdane’s father to seek their yearly boon—a special gift, determined by the Valdane himself.

Janusz’s parents, burdened with too many children and seeking to provide training for at least one of their offspring, had brought him to the Valdane’s castle in his tenth year. Bowing low, they’d asked that Valdane to take the boy into court and see to his training in magic. The boy would repay him amply in service and fealty, they were sure.

Janusz saw that midwinter festival now as clearly as though it were yesterday. He recalled the worried blue eyes of the then-Valdane and the sharper, more eager look of the boy, Janusz’s age, who sat on a small throne next to his father and mimicked his sovereign’s every move.

The Valdane drew Janusz and his parents out of earshot of the rest of the court. Yes, the Valdane told the couple, he would agree to their plan, but with one codicil—that the lad agree to a blood bond, sealed with magic, with the Valdane’s own young son.

The Valdane then took the young Janusz aside. “I know of you,” the old Valdane had said, his lined face close to Janusz’s young one. He smelled of sickness;
his hands were desiccated claws. “I have heard of your early promise in magic. My aides tell me you will have great power when you are grown.” He coughed, reached for the lad, and leaned heavily on the boy’s shoulder. “It speaks well of your parents to want the court to have the advantage of your considerable gifts.”

Janusz had looked at the marble floor, not knowing what to say. He knew why he and his parents, Sabrina and Godan, were here. They were expecting another child; the hut in the valley was already bursting with children. The man and woman needed strong offspring, children who could work from first light to the last in the fields. This slender, easily fatigued boy had brought them but little income for performing sleight-of-hand tricks at fairs.

“Lad?” the Valdane whispered. Young Janusz had looked up into the man’s eyes, marked at the edges with wrinkles of pain. Then the youngster glanced at his parents. His mother clutched her patched robe before her, her pregnancy showing.

“I will do it,” he said resolutely.

“A blood bond is not an easy life,” the older man cautioned. “You will be trained in magic, true, but you will have to use that magic as my son commands.”

The warning brought the boy up short. “What if he orders something I believe is wrong?”

The Valdane smiled. “It’s been a long time since anyone questioned a Valdane about the morality of any decision. It’s refreshing to hear someone consider it.” He looked back toward the group clustered around the large empty throne and the small one that was occupied by his son, Janusz’s age. The youngster, hair gleaming orange in the torchlight, was gesturing
imperiously, giving orders to the Valdane’s top aides, who hesitated, obviously hoping the ruler would return and countermand the dictums.

“Janusz,” the Valdane had asked urgently, “are you a good person? And do you intend to become a good man, to eschew all forms of evil?”

“I hope to wear the white robes of good, sir.”

The Valdane’s forehead furrowed. “But are you strong of will?” He gripped Janusz’s arms above the elbows and squeezed painfully. Beads of sweat appeared on the leader’s upper lip.

“My mother says I am egregiously stubborn, sir,” Janusz replied.

At that, he found himself looking deep into the ruler’s eyes. The Valdane had smiled again faintly. “Mothers are wont to say that to boys of your age, lad,” he whispered. “My own wife, also.” The ruler’s smile died. Then he pierced Janusz with a stare. His hands were hot with fever.

“I wouldn’t do this if I had any choice,” he said to the boy. “Blood bonds haven’t been chanced here for many generations. But … I will try to provide for you. You are sure about your decision? You make it freely, without pressure from your family? You must provide a steadying influence on my only son. He is prone to be selfish. I’m afraid I’ve been a poor father to him, especially these last months.”

Janusz had let his gaze wander over the sumptuous hall, stifling with the heat from three fireplaces. The remains of a great repast were still on the table. The picked-over roasts, pocked with congealed fat, made him salivate with hunger. He hadn’t had meat or milk in over a month. Then he caught his parents’ anxious gaze. His mother was sagging against his father’s arm.

“I’ll do it, sir,” Janusz said. “You can count on me.”

The Valdane, his reluctance obvious, summoned his wizard and his son for the secret, illegal ceremony.

Not long after, the Valdane and his wife died suddenly. It hadn’t taken long to discover the true tenor of the new Valdane’s young soul. Janusz gave up hope of wearing the white robes someday.

A few years after that, as mage and the new Valdane were entering manhood, Janusz had added a hefty dose of poison to the Valdane’s ale and watched carefully as his blood twin quaffed the drink. But it had been Janusz, not the Valdane, who had grabbed at his throat and collapsed to the floor, writhing on the flagstones.

The young Valdane watched from his chair at the dining table. “Someone see to my mage, please,” he announced dispassionately. “He appears to have drunk something that disagrees with him.”

Then he leaned toward Janusz, his eyes chips of flint, and whispered, “Or maybe
I
did, eh, Janusz?” At that time, Janusz had known the bloodlink had cursed him forever. The mage would suffer what the Valdane deserved. Gasping, Janusz ordered the antidote to the poison, but he came close to death. Thus had begun Janusz’s deterioration, even as the Valdane continued to boast the health of a young man.

“I cannot kill him,” the mage had whispered in agony that night, “for
I
will die instead.” And the Valdane would be left to torment, unchecked, all who opposed him.

Janusz’s family died only two weeks after his failed attempt on the Valdane’s life.

The fire that killed Janusz’s family had been an accident, according to the Kernish reeve who investigated the tragedy. Janusz’s parents hadn’t cleaned the flue in ages; the deposits from years of wood fires had
ignited, showering sparks on the tinder-dry roof. Or so the reeve, who owed his job and life to the Valdane, had informed Janusz.

Janusz hadn’t seen the point in pressing the man for further explanation. He didn’t ask the reeve how the door of the hut had come to be barricaded the night the family died. The neighbors who had rushed to his family’s aid told him they couldn’t pry the entrance open. They could only cover their ears as the trapped family screamed from within, engulfed by the inferno.

The message wasn’t lost on the mage. Over the next decades, Janusz wore himself ragged protecting his leader—and thus himself. Three times the Valdane’s enemies had attempted to kill the ruler, twice by poison and once by knife. Each time it was the mage who had cried out and collapsed. Each time the Valdane had emerged unscathed, able to slay the attacker. Stories were whispered throughout Kern that the Valdane was immortal, that the rumor of a bloodlink was true. The peasants watched the mage, and hate burned in their worn faces, but none dared attack a spell-caster of Janusz’s repute. The Valdane was remorseless in his pursuit of those who opposed him. One by one his enemies died of strange illnesses or simply disappeared in the night. Eventually no one was left in the region who would stand against him—until the Valdane turned his eyes toward the lands of the Meir.

Chapter 11
The Owl and Kitiara

T
WIGS AND BRAMBLES CAUGHT AT
K
ITIARA’S GATHERED
blouse and scratched the leather of her leggings. The air around her shivered with oaths. She was well aware that out in the darkness, shadowless forms watched and waited, but so far they had done no more than mark her every move. Her saddle pack, slung across her back, hampered her movements, but she slashed undaunted at the clinging tentacles of plants with her sword and dagger.

The darkness had eased a bit, as though Solinari were rising behind the clouds. The moon, even weakened as it was, provided enough light for Kitiara to see a few feet, at least, to each side. Trees bent like
crones before and behind her. The ominous sound of breathing came to her, sighing like the wind.

Caven Mackid would have said she was mad, attempting this alone. Tanis would have advised her to wait until morning. Wode would have grinned in glee at her present discomfiture.

But they were all dead. And Kitiara was journeying through Darken Wood—looking for the way out—at night.

Motionless, she gazed at the rocky ridge close on her left, then toward what she sensed was a valley off to her right. It was too dark to see much detail, but she pushed on, following what looked like a path, even though the trail that had brought her and the other three into Darken Wood had vanished. Branches and vines pressed around her once more. Reflexively, Kitiara brushed the tendril of a vine away from her face.

Another spasm of dizziness left her drenched with sweat. “By the gods,” she murmured, “what ailment have I picked up? Or have I been bewitched?” She waited for the moment of weakness to pass. She was covered with scratches; her back itched from sweat and dust. Thorns had pulled threads from her blouse, ripping holes into it. Blood oozed from a long scratch on her right cheek, skirting her eye.

Suddenly something stood in front of her on the path. She nudged it with her sword. It looked like a gigantic tumbleweed. Surely a good push would send it cascading into the valley below. She nudged the tangled ball with one hand, then, when it seemed unaccountably fixed in place, put one shoulder to it and pushed. Instantly she realized her error. Hundreds of tiny hooks fastened onto the front of her shirt. Tendrils twitched at her ankles, at her wrists. One tentative,
quivering tendril tickled the base of her throat. She tried to pull back from the brambles. The tendril at her neck nevertheless moved along her jugular vein.

With an oath, Kitiara slashed into the brambles—were they thicker than before?—with her sword, and the vegetation fell back. “Ah,” she murmured. “So you can be defeated.” She stepped again toward the brambles and smiled to see the tangle move away from her.

Then Kitiara took another step, and the bramble, the path, the ridge, and the valley all vanished. The night, in the same instant, became darker, as though Solinari had been a candle, suddenly snuffed out. She reached her left hand forward and moved her dagger carefully back and forth. The point clinked against something hard, something tall—too smooth for rock. Holding her sword ready, Kitiara sheathed the dagger and reached out again with a bare hand. Her fingers touched something smooth and hard, traced a curve, found a wavy ridge, and followed it—to what was unmistakably a boot.

It was the stone statue that Caven and Maleficent had become.

Kitiara was back in the clearing with her companions.