The Jackal of Nar (41 page)

When the last of the potion had dripped into his veins, Arkus reached over and, without opening his eyes, popped the metal needle from his wrist. The action sent the customary pinch of pain through his arm, but he didn’t flinch. The music went on, unabated, building to its soft, beautiful climax, while in his blood the potion did its unfathomable work. He could feel it, like scalding water soaking him, burning his eyes and tearing at the fabric of his skin. Tiny, invisible knives sharpened themselves on his bones, and his brain flared with the familiar agony of rebirth. When it subsided he felt alive again. He opened his eyes and watched Lady Pennelope lovingly caressing the music from her instrument.

“Beautiful,” he said to her. She did not look up, but the unmistakable trace of a smile told him she had heard him.

A sudden knock on the chamber door shattered the moment. Arkus lifted his head expectantly, but the harpist went on plucking. The door slid soundlessly open, and Count Renato Biagio stepped inside. He closed the door gently behind himself.

“Last movement,” said Arkus. “Wait, please.”

Biagio waited. It took four more minutes for the piece to end, and through it all the count was motionless, his breathing as still as a lagoon. At last Lady Pennelope took her hands from the harp, stood up, and bowed her head toward Arkus.

“Thank you, my lady,” said Arkus. He could already hear the glow coming back into his voice. He really was stronger, praise Bovadin. “That was marvelous.”

Again Lady Pennelope said nothing, but a faint, pink blush painted her cheeks. She turned from Arkus and started slowly, carefully, to the door. Biagio quickly opened the door to accommodate her, but did not go to her side. Lady Pennelope went straight for the door, ignoring Biagio completely, and left the room. Miraculously, not a single one of the room’s many articles was scuffed by her shoes or touched by the hem of her dress as she moved past them. Biagio watched her leave. When she was
out of his sight he closed the door. Even by the frail light of the fire, Arkus could see the concern on the count’s face.

“Well?” asked Biagio. “Did it work?”

Arkus flexed his fingers. They felt stronger. “The light. Turn it up for me.”

Biagio complied, going to the nearest wall sconce and turning the little key that fed the oil to the wick of the lamp. His tall, lean shadow climbed up the wall with the growing light. Then he stepped closer, inspecting Arkus.

“You do look better,” he admitted. “How do you feel?”

“Strong enough. Did you bring him?”

“It’s dreadfully cold in here,” said Biagio, wringing his hands together. For a normal man it would have been warm. The count went over to the giant hearth and gave a disappointing sigh. “Really, Arkus,” he said fretfully. “And you wonder why you’re always cold.”

There was a pile of logs beside the hearth. Biagio lifted several and threw them into the fire, sending a warming shower of sparks into the air. “There,” he pronounced proudly. “That’s much better, isn’t it?”

It was hugely better, Arkus admitted. The susceptibility to cold was just one more of the strange effects of the potions. They were all like naked little flowers in the winter, ready to shrivel in the first stiff breeze. Arkus put his own hands together and rubbed.

“Did you bring him?” he asked again, a bit sterner than before.

“He’s waiting outside, but I want to talk to you first. I should warn you, he may not be what you expect.”

“You already have warned me, a dozen times,” said Arkus, struggling to lift himself out of the chair. Biagio offered out a hand, which the emperor gratefully accepted. At first Arkus wavered, but as the enhanced blood pumped through his limbs he quickly grew stronger, and in a moment he was standing without the count’s support. Biagio hurriedly set about clearing away the clutter from the treatment, gathering up the empty vial and the tube and the ghastly silver needle, locking it all away in a giant oak wardrobe.

“Listen to me, please,” implored Biagio. “I’m not so sure your plan is sound. He’s different, more independent than I thought. I don’t think he will do it.”

“He’ll do it,” said Arkus. “He won’t have a choice.”

“But we do. You should reconsider the Gayles. They have more troops than Aramoor, and have always been more loyal.”

“And more ambitious,” said Arkus sharply. “Ambitious men are dangerous, my friend. We can’t trust them with this.”

“Respectfully, I disagree. The Gayles would never dare use the Drol weapon against us. Believe me, Arkus, I am sure of this. They speak of you in Talistan as if you were their god. They revere you, and they’re certainly more eager than Aramoor to avenge themselves on the Drol. I tell you, you are making a mistake in trusting this one.”

“What? You told me he would be manageable.”

“I was wrong. He is different than he was when I met him in Aramoor, more sure of himself. Why, I even introduced him to Nicabar as you suggested.”

“And?”

“He hardly flinched. He even had the gall to tell me that he wouldn’t meet with the bishop! I only left him for a moment and when I came back I found him arguing with Blackwood Gayle. Really, Arkus, reconsider your choice. Let the Gayles prepare the way back to Lucel-Lor. The Vantran boy won’t serve you. He has his father’s stubbornness.”

“Better that than a Gayle’s guile,” said Arkus. “We need Aramoor, Renato. It’s the only part of the Empire that borders the Triin land, remember.”

“Then we should take over Aramoor. Send the legions in, or give it back to the House of Gayle to govern.”

Arkus shook his head, exasperated. “No. I don’t want to fight a civil war while Liss is still a threat. You underestimate these Aramoorians. They’re loyal to the Vantran blood. They would never let the Gayles govern them, not without a struggle.”

“So? What are they to us? They’re just a bunch of horse breeders.”

“There isn’t time!” thundered Arkus. “Look at me, Renato. I could be dead before we find the secrets of Lucel-Lor!” Then he softened, seeing Biagio’s bruised expression, and touched the count’s shoulder. “It’s more than just this Drol weapon. I need to find out what other magics these Drol have. Maybe they have something I can use. But we don’t have the time to drive the House of Vantran from Aramoor. We must strike as soon as possible, as soon as we finish Liss.”

“You risk offending a good ally. The Baron Gayle has come a long way to meet with you. He will not take the news of Lady Sabrina well.”

“Let him be offended, then,” said Arkus. “We won’t need the House of Gayle this time. Prince Richius would never agree to another alliance with them anyway.”

“And what do you intend to tell him?” asked Biagio, a bit sarcastically. “The truth?”

Arkus looked over at his adviser, and in a voice full of resignation, said, “Yes. If he’s as smart as you say he would never believe a lie.” Then he chuckled mirthlessly and added, “Besides, he’ll only have to take one look at me to figure out the truth.”

Biagio shrugged. “As you wish. If that is your decision I will support you, of course. Shall I bring him in?”

“Yes,” said Arkus. “I am ready.”

Biagio turned and went quietly from the chamber. Alone at last, Arkus went to the only window in his chamber and drew back the heavy curtains, exposing the hazy, winter sunlight. The incinerators of the war labs glowed in the distance, their smokestacks coughing ragged plumes of fire. Across the river Kiel he could see the Cathedral of the Martyrs with its towering metal steeple, and in the far-below streets children played with filthy dogs, and beggars hunted rats for their supper.

He sighed. Somewhere over the eastern horizon, too far to glimpse from his black tower, Lucel-Lor beckoned. All that magic. If only he had taken it the first time.

T
he narrow hallway outside the emperor’s chamber was still, dimly lit by a row of oil-burning sconces. Richius stood alone in the corridor, waiting for Biagio to return. He was higher up in the palace than he had been before, and the elevation made the wind beat fiercely against the walls. There were no windows in the hall, only endless gray stone. A thin scarlet carpet blanketed the floor, and a gallery of furious
portraits hung on the walls, staring at him. They were renderings of long-dead kings and unrecognizable heroes, of men with gleaming bronze helmets and sharp, cherished swords. Good men of Nar, all of them.

Richius studied the paintings absently, his mind wandering in a thousand directions. He was grateful to be waiting for Biagio. The delay gave him time to think, to wonder why Arkus had summoned him. His brief stay in the palace had been pleasant, and Biagio had been better than a mother at seeing to his needs. He had been well fed, well housed, and well liquored, and all that meant only one thing—the emperor wanted something.

Anxiously he rubbed his hands together. The warming glow of the wine was dissipating, making him feel the chill more keenly. He shivered a little. Biagio had said the tower of the emperor was over three hundred feet high, apparently no exaggeration by the way his fingers tingled. But he was accustomed to the cold, and his fussings were more habit than irritation. He wanted to know what was happening down the hall. It had been several minutes since Biagio had left him, politely asking him to remain behind, and as the time ticked away he knew the count and the emperor were discussing
him.

Despite the wailing of the wind outside the tower, the hall was remarkably quiet. Richius could hear nothing of the merrymaking going on in the throne room far below, and none of the sweet aromas of the kitchens climbed this high. In fact the hall had no odor at all, just the clean, crisp smell of winter. He was alone, and had been almost entirely so since Biagio had left him. A woman had glided by a few moments ago, her small steps taking her slowly past him. She had seemed not to notice him, and only when he startled her with a greeting had he realized she was blind. Yet even then she had not uttered a word. Nor had she accepted his offered help. She simply moved on down the corridor and disappeared, an elegant wraith haunting the dismal hall.

More of Nar’s madness
, thought Richius, recalling the strange, silent woman. To move about such a place without guidance was lunacy. There were a hundred staircases to trip her, unseen torches to set her dress ablaze, and any number of twists to steer her straight into a wall. Yet how confidently she had pulled her hand away when he’d offered help. She must know this place as well as Arkus himself.

He was beginning to feel quite at odds when Biagio finally reappeared. The count rounded the corner quickly, his ubiquitous grin splitting his face.

“Prince Richius?” he called. “Are you ready?”

Richius drew a steadying breath. “Yes.”

“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” said the count. “I’ve known the emperor for years, and every time someone meets him they feel as you do now. But then, after they have spoken to him, they see how unnecessary their fear was. The emperor just wants to get to know you better. He never knew your father very well.”

The mention of his father made Richius’ heart stop. They weren’t going to talk about
that
?

“I hope the emperor knows I won’t speak ill of my father,” said Richius cautiously. “I would like to put the bad blood behind us, but …”

Biagio stopped, his expression suddenly serious. “Don’t believe everything you’ve heard about the emperor, Prince Richius. He is misunderstood. He would never ask you to dishonor your father by speaking against him.”

“There’s no need to hide the truth, Count. I know how the emperor felt about my father. You told me yourself how much he disliked him.”

“I said no such thing,” said Biagio stiffly. “It’s true that Arkus felt betrayed by your father, but these rumors of hate are exaggerated. If I may say so, Prince Richius, your father was unable to think as grandly as the emperor. He could never grasp the bigger plan Arkus has for Nar. That is the only reason they were at odds.”

“You know I disagree with that.”

Biagio’s smile waned a little. “The emperor hopes he can convince you otherwise. Come, he is waiting.”

Richius followed Biagio to the end of the hall, to a door made of oak with a knocker of bronze. The fitting was fashioned into the likeness of a dragon, the striker held like a bit in its chiseled teeth. Biagio gave the knocker a light rap, then pushed the door slowly open without waiting for an answer. A warm orange light sprang from the doorway, and the comforting smell of burning wood filled the hall. Biagio entered first, holding the door open for Richius and bidding him forward. Cautiously Richius stepped inside.

The chamber was wholly unlike any other in the palace. It was also enormously warm, fed by a blazing hearth. Curiously, the
room was smaller than most, certainly not as sprawling as Richius’ own, and its walls were paneled with dark wood that gave off a pleasant sheen. In the corner of the room stood a giant silver harp with an empty stool beside it, and the floor and walls were cluttered with what Richius could only think of as
things.
Meaningless, endless things. Small, valueless statues sat idly upon shelves and stacks of dusty books. Unspectacular paintings hung on the walls: dreary, uninspired landscapes and portraits of nameless people. An urn of tarnished coins stood neglected by a mirror, along with a pair of chipped crystal goblets and a bowl of red, lusterless gems. A collection of dull iron weapons leaned against a wardrobe, and over the fireplace was the biggest skull Richius had ever seen. It was the bleached remains of some fierce feline. There was only one window in the chamber, a tiny portal of clouded glass with the light of the city twinkling beyond it. A thin, grey spectre stood beside the window.

“Great One,” said Biagio. “This is Prince Richius Vantran of Aramoor.”

Slowly the figure turned, fixing them with azure eyes. A slight smile drew itself on the wrinkled face. Arkus was dressed in a modest robe of gray silk that hung limply from his body. A golden belt cinched the robe about his waist. He was neither tall nor short, and his long hair fell haphazardly about his shoulders. The hair was the color of unclean snow, as dead and as white as the skull on the wall. Two unkempt strands of the stuff fell down across his weathered face, down between those eyes that watched with unnatural vitality. His hands were large, his fingers long and slender. He seemed to stand with visible effort, his back slightly curved despite his efforts to straighten, and all at once Richius knew he was in the presence of something ancient.