Witchlanders (16 page)

“Now, Witchlander,” Falpian said softly. “Stop wasting my time. What is your name and why are you here?”

The prisoner must have been afraid all along, but for the first time Falpian saw it, saw it in the ashy tinge to his brown skin, saw it in the tight line of his mouth. Fear. Between them the air seemed to vibrate.

Suddenly something thudded against the bedroom window, and Falpian jumped in his chair. His hand knocked the water goblet, and it fell to the rug with a crash.

“Nervous, Baen?” the stranger asked.

It was Bo. He was standing on his hind legs, looking in at them through the tiny bedroom window, dog breath fogging up the square of glass.

Four: Control the setting.

Falpian had considered tacking blankets to the windows. He knew how important it was not to allow unexpected interruptions to distract the interrogation. Now he cursed himself for not doing it. The advantage he had gained by exposing the stranger's lie seemed to melt away.

Without speaking, he let Bo in. Covered in snow, the dog bounded into the bedroom.

“Bodread . . . ,” Falpian whispered in frustration as Bo shook snow in every direction and began sniffing the wet spot on the rug. Before Falpian could stop him, the dog had lifted his back leg. “Bo, don't!” The dog made a small addition to the urine on the carpet.

Laughter burst from the prisoner. “Might as well join us, Baen,” he said, nodding to the floor. “You must need to relieve yourself after all that water you drank.”

Falpian felt his cheeks go red. The young man's laughter was forced, but that was no consolation. Falpian had definitely lost control of the setting. In fact, he had lost control of the interrogation. Quickly he gathered up the rug, roughly yanking one end that was caught under a leg of the bed.

“Perhaps it's time to take a little break,” he said through clenched teeth. “You might find my dog amusing, but don't
forget he is a dreadhound. At a word from me he'll tear out your throat.” Falpian noted with satisfaction that his captive seemed to believe him: Though he tried to hide his fear, the stranger was eyeing the dog nervously.

“Bodread the Slayer,” Falpian commanded. “Stay. If he moves, kill.”

Bo, hearing his name, thumped his tail on the floor.

Falpian slammed shut the door of the bedroom and threw the soiled rug into a corner. As much as he would have liked to blame Bo, he knew the failure of his first interrogation was entirely his own fault.

Five: Be ready to harm and to kill if necessary.

The prisoner must have known that Falpian wasn't prepared, must have been able to sense it somehow. Of course, not every Baen interrogation had to involve torture and death, but Falpian had been taught that every interrogator must be prepared to take these steps. If he wasn't, the interrogation was likely to fail.

Quickly he bent through the little door of the kitchen pantry. Rows of tightly packed foodstuffs rose to the ceiling—bottles of marsh beer corked tight, preserved jellies covered in wax to keep them from spoiling. Falpian reached above the jars of pickled fruits to the high shelf where he had hidden the stranger's sword. Maybe seeing it would convince the prisoner he was serious. Maybe Falpian would only have to make a few cuts.

He swallowed and took the sword from its leather sheath. But how can a man prepare himself to do such things? Falpian's tutors hadn't said a word about that. Where did this revulsion come from? he wondered. This deep feeling that harming his prisoner would be wrong? When he was singing in the gorge, when he had held the lives of the birds in his hands, killing had seemed such an easy thing.

For the first time, Falpian thought he could understand the depths of his father's disappointment. It wasn't really about the magic. Falpian was like poor Bo, a lapdog at heart. For so long he'd felt that if he could only have the gift of magic, this feeling of being a failure would fall away from him like a shed skin. But Falpian had magic now. He could sing. And yet he was still himself. His father, if he were here, would still be wearing that look on his face as if he'd eaten something sour. There was a weakness inside of Falpian, a wretched kindness he must have gotten from his mother. He saw it now through his father's eyes, and self-loathing coursed through his veins. If he had known where in his body this weakness lay, he would have driven the sword right through.

Falpian looked down at the weapon in his hand and noticed the notches on the hilt. The Witchlander had taken lives, he realized. He would always have the upper hand until Falpian was as ready to kill as he was.

Be ready to harm and to kill if necessary. Be ready . . .

Falpian left the pantry. With the sword shaking in his hands, he kicked open the bedroom door.

The stranger was not in the bed.

The headboard where the chain was attached had been broken in one snap like a stick of kindling. But the prisoner couldn't have left the house: The glass in the bedroom window was undamaged, and the door in the kitchen was the only way out. The stranger had to be in the study.

“Useless, stupid dog!” Falpian hissed to Bo. “Can't you even bark?” Bo cocked his enormous head.

From where Falpian stood he could see both doors into the study—the one from the kitchen and the one from the bedroom. “I hope you will remember that I saved your life,” Falpian called. He cursed himself for hesitating in the pantry while the prisoner made his escape. “I only did what anyone in my place would do.”

He took a deep breath and charged through the bedroom, throwing open the study door with a bang. It, too, was empty. On the floor were some shards of glass and coils of rope. The prisoner had used the broken pieces of the water goblet to cut his bonds. Clever. Quick.

Falpian made the circle again: kitchen, bedroom, study, kitchen. Bo followed as if it were a game. Though he had been gone only moments, when Falpian re-entered the
kitchen, the door to the outside was wide open and the stranger's boots weren't in their place by the fire. How on earth?

“Curses of Kar,” said Falpian. He stood in the door frame in his stocking feet and waved the sword at empty air. The storm had started up again. A ledge of new snow came up to his knees, and the prints Bo had made earlier were already gone.

Footprints. There were no footprints! If the stranger had gone out, where were his? Falpian quickly pushed shut the door and leaned his back against it. Oh Kar above, he must be a witch, a real red-wearing, throat-cutting witch—everyone knew they could appear and disappear at will, tell the future, walk on water.

A thorough search convinced Falpian that he was truly alone and that the open door was not just a ruse. He checked and rechecked: under the bed, behind the doors, in the pantry. He looked out each window, but all around the cottage, the snow was fresh and untouched.

He sat down at the kitchen table and pulled his knees up to his chest, a feeling of cold dread chilling his blood. Falpian might not know where the stranger was, but the stranger certainly knew where he was. In front of him on the table, the notches on the sword hilt seemed to mesmerize him: one, two, three, four, five. . . . How could such a young man have killed so many?

Quickly he got up and returned the sword to its hiding place. It was too heavy for him to use effectively if it came to a fight, and besides, Falpian had a better weapon than that. His own weapon. A Baen weapon.

With the humming stone in his hand, he sat down cross-legged in front of the kitchen fire and tried to steady his mind. Outside, the fir tree groaned in the wind. Above him, a board in the roof made a creaking sound. Then again:
rieeeeek
. Falpian smiled. What a fool he had been—a disappearing witch indeed.

Falpian awakened his stone. It came alive with the first breath, as if impatient for magic. In a corner of the room, Bo lifted his head.

When Falpian was about twelve years old, he and Farien had been called into their father's study. Gently, and with great formality, their father had taken a stone out of a velvet pouch and laid it on the desk in front of them—a gift. A loaded gift.

The Witchlander was on the roof, of course. Falpian could see him now with the vision singing gave him. He was squatting by the chimney, wearing just his shirt and his woolens, the long chain still hanging from his neck. How patient he was. The snow collected on the top of his head and on his arms. Only his eyelids opening and shutting showed that he was alive. And his heart—that was moving too.

Humming stones were costly items, and yet their father must have hoped that Falpian and his brother wouldn't have it for long. A talented singer pair would be too powerful; their harmonies would crack a stone with the strength of their merged voices. But through the years, the stone remained pristine.

Falpian sang louder, and louder still. His voice felt limber and strong. How proud his father would be if he could reach out with his voice and stop the stranger's heart. Beside him Bo whimpered and cried, pulling at Falpian's clothes with his teeth, but Falpian was too focused to be distracted.
I could do it,
he thought.
I could kill this Witchlander.
The simple harmonies he could make with the stone weren't as powerful as those at the echo site, but they were powerful enough. His father would tell him that he
should
do it.

And then a curtain was drawn back. Sitting on the floor, Falpian felt his eyes grow wide, but he wasn't seeing what was in front of him; he wasn't even seeing the young man on the roof. Disconnected images flew at him like tangled dreams: a laughing girl, a woman with black lips, a horse struggling in a pool of its own blood. Falpian closed his eyes, squeezed them shut, but the pictures still came. Emotions hit him in the chest like a blow. Grief. Such raw, angry grief. And something else hit him too: the shock of recognition.
I know this anger,
he thought.
I know this grief.
I know you.

Then, in an instant, the images, the feelings, were gone. When Falpian turned his mind back to the roof, the stranger seemed small and alone, not a muscle-bound witch, but something delicate and short-lived, like a crouching spider.

Falpian stopped singing and opened his eyes. He got up and pulled at the door, ignoring as best he could the blast of cold air. Gingerly he stepped out into the snow in his stocking feet, hearing the door close behind him.

“Come down,” he called. “It's too cold.” The stranger could see him but didn't move. “I'm sorry. I used the chain because I was afraid of you. Perhaps I should be. But I'm not a killer, and I don't want to harm you.”

Without hesitation, the stranger stood up and, in one fluid motion, threw himself off the roof, straight at Falpian.

CHAPTER 12
ASSASSIN'S HEART

The Witchlander had him down in the snow and was yelling into his face, something loud and guttural, full of fury.

Falpian flailed and twisted, almost slipping out between the stranger's legs before being rammed down hard again. The stranger straddled him, pinning his arms. His face was red from exertion, and he weighed as much as a bull.

Falpian continued to struggle, kicking up sprays of snow. When one arm became free he clawed at his attacker's eyes, but the stranger quickly pinned his arms again. He was still yelling something, but somehow fear had taken away Falpian's ability to understand words.

From inside the house, Falpian heard the sound of frantic barking. Bo! Hope warmed him for a moment. But no, even a dreadhound couldn't get through that heavy door.

Falpian's breath hurt in his lungs—he could barely
move. The stranger's face hardened to a look of cold determination, and he leaned down, pressing the length of icy chain against Falpian's throat. Falpian struggled again with renewed energy. He couldn't believe that there was nothing he could do.
I'm not a killer, and I don't want to harm you.
What a stupid thing to say. Why not tell the Witchlander all his weaknesses?

Finally Falpian stopped struggling, exhausted. The world quieted. The snow fell. He began to shiver, but with cold or fear he didn't know. This person would take his life. Falpian would never see his mother again. He would never again collect rattle shells with his sisters, or weave them little boats out of the eelgrass.

“Please,” he said again, not caring about the icy tears at the corner of his eyes. “I'll give you anything you want.”

“Did you make them?” the stranger demanded hoarsely. He was panting, and Falpian could see a vein pulsing in his neck.

“What?”

“Did you make those things? Tell me, or I will kill you right now.”

Falpian didn't know what to say. “Things?” He could hardly hear his own voice.

“The gigantic things!” The Witchlander was almost shouting now. “That come from nothing . . . that come up out of the ground!”

Falpian racked his brain, desperate to say the thing that would keep him alive. “Trees?”