The Frostwoven Crown (Book 4) (9 page)

"I didn't know you were working here," the Valfrei cooed, "It is so good to see you again. How long has it been?"

"I couldn't say," Klavicus muttered.

"Since the Trials, I believe," she sighed, "Ah, those were good times, were they not?"

Klavicus's lips twitched again.

The Valfrei lifted the jewel-encrusted goblet to her lips and inhaled its scent. "Faun," she said, approvingly, "Thank you, Klavicus."

He stretched his fragile smile and bowed his head before setting the last goblet, a plain silver one, in front of Garrett.

Garrett started to protest, but Klavicus tapped the rim with a long fingernail, and Garrett saw that the cup was filled with fruit juice instead of blood. "Thank you," he said, and Klavicus patted him once on the shoulder before going.

"You know him?" Marla asked.

The Valfrei took a long sip from her cup and licked her lips. "We studied together in our youth," she said, "I'm happy that he has finally found work more suited to his... abilities."

Marla's face darkened. "Klavicus is a great help to us here," she said, "Mother and I have always depended on him to..."

A sudden screech of violin music cut her off. Then the sound of drums and a flute, low and mournful, joined in, and everyone's attention turned to the stage.

Two vampire women, dressed in yellow silk jerkins and hose and wearing featureless masks of white wood, burst from the red curtains at the back to dance across the stage. Each one held a dark leather bag in one hand, and with her free hand, reached in and drew out a handful of bright green powder that she cast into the fire of each brazier in turn. As soon as the powder hit the hot coals, a thick, yellowish smoke began to rise and swirl above the stage, forming a roiling cloud that seemed to pulse and shift in hue with every beat of the music.

Garrett watched in fascination, certain that some form of magic was at work in the strange pulsing of the smoke. He stared, wide-eyed, as the smoke billowed and rolled with shapes half-formed and half-seen. Faces of people and images of vast cities and soaring dragons flickered in the shimmering cloud as the weird music swelled to a feverish crescendo. The two dancing girls had left the stage, and the hall lights had dimmed now until only strange flickers of light, like lighting in a night storm, shone above the stage. Then the music stopped, and everything went black.

Garrett held his breath.

A single boom of a kettledrum brought the light back, and Garrett looked down to see a small group of men, dressed in red and black robes upon the stage. They wore dark eye makeup and sullen expressions beneath tall headdresses, not dissimilar to the one that Garrett wore. The men carried long staffs and moved their feet as though walking, and, though they did not move forward, the swirling illusion of the smoke around them gave the impression that they were traveling through a vast and wind-swept desert. The violins groaned and the flute gave voice to the desert wind.

"In the Time of Dying," a voice cried out, "men wandered the earth in search of solace and refuge from the horrors of the outer world."

Suddenly the robed actors looked up in terror and dropped to their knees on the stage as the smoke roiled in the shape of some vast, winged thing that swept down out of the yellow sky. The smoky shadow passed among them, and, suddenly, one of the men was gone in a swirl of smoke. As the vapors cleared, the remaining men got to their feet again and mimed the steps of their stony-faced trek once more.

"Those that survived the passing," the narrator said, "came at last to a place forgotten by the race of men."

The men on stage slowly turned, and the smoke swirled with them to reveal the outline of a great, ruined city of domes and spires at the edge of a foreboding mountain range. Before its gates rose a single tower, a column of jet-black smoke, featureless and narrow.

"The men approached boldly, heedless of danger, for they knew that death followed close behind."

The robed men seemed to draw nearer to the ruined city as they walked, and the black tower rose above them.

"Perhaps the great guardian slept and dreamed," the narrator said, "or perhaps it saw in them no threat to its ancient masters and ignored the men as it ignored the crawling beetles that scurried in the empty halls of forgotten song. It let them live, and let them pass."

The actors on the stage continued their pretend march, looking around in marvel as the city's walls enveloped them.

"Chief among them was one called Samhaed," the narrator said.

One of the robed men stepped forward and turned to face the others, raising his staff. "Here," he said, "we shall make our camp... Here we shall make our home."

The lights fell again, and the music stopped.

The lights rose again on a scene formed of smoke, a great balcony overlooking a gleaming city beneath a troubled, sunset sky. Samhaed stood, looking out over his city, older now, with gray in his beard. He no longer wore the dark traveling robes but was dressed as a king, roped with golden chains and ivory silk. He clasped his hands behind his back and shook his head.

"Have I not led them to peace and bounty?" Samhaed cried out, "Have I not spared them the reaver's claw and hunger's bite? How can they be so stiff-necked? Do they not understand that I only wish the best for them?" He turned to face the audience as a woman emerged from the shadowy smoke behind him.

"They are but children, my love," spoke the woman. She was dressed in gossamer robes with a golden coronet in her raven-black hair. "Children have no love of discipline, it is true, but they still love their father. The people
are
your children, and they love you still, even if they are sometimes... disobedient."

"Disobedient?" Samhaed scoffed, lifting his hands to his sides, "This is not mere disobedience. They openly defy me! This is treason!"

The woman crossed the stage to Samhaed's side and kissed him. "Let your rage be cooled," she said. She ran her hand across his brow, smoothing back his gray hair. "Listen to your advisors and proceed cautiously in this matter."

"Advisors!" Samhaed said, turning his back to her, "I need not ask their advice to know it! They would have me huddle, cringing in this palace while the people build a mound of kindling around my feet!"

The woman looked back over her shoulder, motioning to someone off-stage, and a trio of men in colorful robes and headdresses stepped from the smoke into the light.

"Lord Samhaed," one of the advisors spoke as they approached their king, "We would speak to you on the matter of the..."

Garrett's attention was suddenly drawn away from the play by the sound of the Valfrei's voice as she spoke to Marla in a hushed tone.

"I am told that you are quite fluent in the Wyrd," she said.

Marla looked up from the play, blinking. "Oh, yes," she whispered, "Mother has taught me most of the binding wyrds, and I've studied quite a bit on my own as well."

"What Songs have you read?" the Valfrei asked.

Marla looked embarrassed. "The... ah...
Tanjin Cycle
... the
Codex Namare
... part of
Blake's Triad
," she said, "and a few more... minor things."

The Valfrei's eyes narrowed. "That's all?" she asked.

Marla blushed. "I'm sorry," she said, "I... I should have studied more, I know..."

"In Thrinaar you would have learned all the Cycles by heart now," the Valfrei said

Garrett reached out and put his hand on Marla's knee beneath the table, and she clasped it gratefully in turn.

She was spared further admonishment by a trill of the flute and an ominous chord struck on the violins of the unseen orchestra. The lights went out again, and Garrett looked toward the stage to see what came next.

The lights rose upon a real bed that the vampire actors had somehow rushed to the center of the stage in complete silence in the few seconds of darkness between scenes. Samhaed lay sleeping on the bed, and beside him, his queen lay, staring down at him with a troubled look on her face. The smoke around them swirled with the half-formed image of a large chamber with moonlight falling upon the floor through high, narrow windows

The Queen turned her head, seeming to hear a sound from off-stage. She brought her hand to her lips and rose from the bed, fleeing in terror. From the shadows emerged three men in black robes, their faces concealed by strips of cloth, and bright daggers flashing in their upraised hands. They approached the bed with theatrical stealth as Samhaed lay tossing in a troubled dream.

"I have drawn up a list of books that I expect you to read," the Valfrei said, ignoring Garrett's glare, "I will expect you to have finished them all by the time we begin your training next week."

"Yes, Valfrei," Marla whispered, "of course."

The assassins had crept to the very edge of Samhaed's bed, pausing for a breath with their daggers poised to strike.

"And I have a list of supplies that you will need as well," the Valfrei said, "I trust you will procure them at your earliest convenience."

Garrett rolled his eyes and squeezed Marla's knee a bit tighter.

"Of course, Valfrei," Marla agreed.

Just as the daggers fell, Samhaed seemed to wake from his dream and looked up in horror at the men who had come to murder him in his sleep. He looked to his left, finding his wife gone, and then rolled into her empty place as the knives plunged into the bed where he had lain. He came up, struggling with one of the assassins and mocked turning the man's blade back against himself. The assassin fell across the bed, and Samhaed leapt to his feet, fleeing into the darkness with the two remaining men close behind.

The lights fell again, as the drums beat out a frantic chase.

They rose upon a scene of Samhaed, stumbling through a shadowy labyrinth, clutching at a piece of red silk, representing a bloody wound in his side.

"And so, Samhaed fled into the forgotten halls beneath the city," the narrator said, "leaving behind the world of light and love and peace. He staggered down into the depths of the earth, fleeing those that sought his life, with no other thought than to escape and live and, perhaps, seek vengeance upon those who had robbed him of his city."

The Valfrei sipped from her cup again. "This is quite good," she said of the blood, "Is it harvested locally?"

Marla smiled. "Klavicus is in charge of the pens," she said, "He has always provided for our needs, more than adequately."

The Valfrei shrugged. "Perhaps he
has
found his true calling here," she said.

"Alas," the narrator cried, "the butchers' knives had been dipped in poison, ere they sought the King's heart, and Samhaed felt it coursing now through his veins."

The actor playing Samhaed swooned and wiped his brow with his forearm. He winced in pain as he pulled his hand from his bloody side, surveying the wound. All around, the illusionary walls of the subterranean maze wavered and swayed as though Samhaed's senses were failing him. He stumbled and staggered, barely standing at all now. Then he pitched forward and seemed to fall.

The lights suddenly began to strobe rapidly on and off again, framing in stark relief the body of Samhaed as he fell, flailing his arms and legs as though he were falling into a great pit, The walls of smoke seemed to rush past all around him, completing the illusion. Then darkness swallowed him and the music stopped.

Through the darkness came the low rumble of drums, beating in the rhythm of a man's heart... slow and faltering. A dim red glow began to fill the room so slowly that, at first, Garrett wasn't certain that it was not just some afterimage in the back of his eyes. A shape lay stretched, prone in the center of the stage, and, as the drumming beats and ruddy light grew stronger, Garrett made out the bloody body of Samhaed, ringed by towering shadows of black smoke.

"He lay dying," the narrator said, "in a place of shadow, halfway between the world of men and the world that had been before. His lifeblood stained red the holy stones where no man's foot had ever trod, and the scent of it woke those that slept there. They woke and pondered what to make of this strange, rude beast that lay dying at their feet. What to do with him."

A voice spoke then that filled Garrett with cold terror, a voice that spoke with the thrumming undertones of the Draconic tongue. It seemed to vibrate the very marrow of his bones when it whispered the name, "
Samhaed
..."

Garrett swallowed hard, fighting back the shiver that ran through his body at the sound of that voice. Marla held his hand a bit tighter, sensing his discomfort. Even the Valfrei said nothing, overwhelmed by the raw power of the disembodied voice,

"
Samhaed
," the voice spoke again, "
Wake
."

Samhaed stirred, lifting his head, weakly, from the floor. "Who speaks?" he gasped, "Who calls me back from the land of the dead?"

"Samhaed," the voice said, "Would you have your life back?"

"What good is my life without my people?" he coughed, "Without my crown?"

"The people will be yours again, Samhaed," the voice said, "Yours for all eternity... Your people, and many more, will you rule, forever, Samhaed."