Part 110 (1/2)

Dorian smiled shyly and then started grabbing candelabra, tygre statuary, anything he could find made of gold.

”We can't carry all that,” Jenine said.

Dorian dropped the unwieldy pile on the table. He winked at her and put his hands on each object in turn. One by one, they melted. The gold puddled onto the table, separating and connecting into lumps like quicksilver. The lumps began congealing, thinning, hardening, until each was flat disk bearing the likeness of Garoth Ursuul.

”What... how...?” Jenine stuttered.

”The coins are only worth a fraction of what the art was, but they are a more liquid liquid a.s.set.” He smiled as she giggled in wonder. a.s.set.” He smiled as she giggled in wonder.

He allowed himself that smile, but things were not going according to plan. Dammit, everything was ready for tomorrow. The worst of it wasn't the wasted preparations, the lack of horses, the lack of warm clothing for the perilous crossing through Screaming Winds, the lack of dried food. It was that Dorian had used southern magic. Any meister who smelled him would sense it. Luxbridge might drop him into the chasm.

The chaos in the castle might not help them. More soldiers and meisters would surely be running about, and more aethelings definitely would. It meant that all Dorian's meticulous memorization of guards' watch routes and personal habits was for nothing.

Still, he was here, the armies of the G.o.dking were not, nor were any of the G.o.dking's older sons; Jenine was alive and safe, and the pa.s.ses south were still open. In his wrath, he had vented far too much magic on Rivik, but he still had some left, enough to take care of a meister or even a Vurdmeister if caught unawares.

”What are you doing?” he asked as Jenine turned Rivik's body over. He didn't want her to have to look at that.

”I can't go like this. I'm taking his clothes,” she said.

Together, they stripped Rivik. There was blood on the front of the tunic where Jenine had stabbed his chest, and six small burn holes on both front and back, but otherwise the tunic was fine. Rivik had been a slight youth, so the tunic was only a little big.

Jenine threw off her blouse and pulled on the dead youth's tunic, not asking Dorian to look away or turn his back. He stared at her slack-jawed, frozen, then looked away, embarra.s.sed, then wondered why he was embarra.s.sed and she was not, and looked again and looked away. He was twice her age! She was beautiful. She was brazen. She was being perfectly sensible; they didn't have time to be coy. Her head emerged from the tunic and she saw the look on his face. ”Hand me the trousers, would you?” she asked nonchalantly.

The color in her cheeks told him it was a bluff, so he matched brazenness for brazenness and watched her as she pulled off her skirt. She s.n.a.t.c.hed the trousers from his hands. ”If you don't watch it, Halfman, you're going to be considerably more than half a-” she said with a significant glance at his trousers, but then her eyes went past Dorian to the body behind him. Her jest died and her high color drained away. ”Let's get out of here,” she said. ”I hate this place. I hate this whole country.”

She finished dressing in silence and pulled on the floppy hat Dorian had frequently worn to cover his own face as much as possible, piling her long hair on top of her head in a bundle. In the end, it was a poor disguise, not because of the clothes, but because Jenine didn't walk like a man, and couldn't learn in the few moments Dorian was willing to spare trying to teach her. But if she didn't look like a man, she didn't look like a princess either. They'd just have to hope everyone was distracted.

15

Feir had asked for two hours to get Lantano Garuwas.h.i.+'s sword out of Ezra's Wood. He had no idea how much of that time had pa.s.sed. In fact, he couldn't remember how he'd come here. He looked up at the towering sequoys stretching to the sky.

Well, at least, he knew where here was. He was definitely in Ezra's Wood. He looked at his hands. Both of them were sc.r.a.ped and his knees hurt, as if he'd fallen. He touched his nose and could tell it had been broken and then set properly. There was still crusty, dried blood on his upper lip. Wood. He looked at his hands. Both of them were sc.r.a.ped and his knees hurt, as if he'd fallen. He touched his nose and could tell it had been broken and then set properly. There was still crusty, dried blood on his upper lip.

Dorian had told him stories about men who'd taken a blow to the head and forgot themselves, either forgetting everything before the blow, or more commonly completely losing the ability to remember anything at all after the blow. They could meet a person, the person would walk out of the room, and five minutes later return and be greeted as a stranger once more. For several moments Feir felt a panic rising inside him at the very thought, but aside from his nose, his head didn't feel as if he'd taken a blow. He could remember leaving Lantano Garuwas.h.i.+, he could remember approaching the vast bubble of magics that surrounded Ezra's Wood, and he could remember the turmoil within those magics as-miles to the east-the Lae'knaught had entered the Wood and been trapped within it. Feir had used that turmoil as a distraction for his own attempt. But from that point, he could remember nothing.

He was facing the bubble now, as if he was leaving. He took a few more steps, disoriented and came around the trunk of another giant sequoy. Before him, not fifty paces away, just outside the magic, were Lantano Garuwas.h.i.+ and, oddly, Antoninus Wervel.

Maybe I have gone mad. Antoninus Wervel was a red mage, one of the most powerful and most intelligent men to walk the halls of Sho'cendi in decades. He was a fat Modaini man, and he'd been a casual friend for years. To see him sitting awkwardly cross-legged beside Lantano Garuwas.h.i.+, who sat as gracefully as he did everything, was surreal. Antoninus Wervel was a red mage, one of the most powerful and most intelligent men to walk the halls of Sho'cendi in decades. He was a fat Modaini man, and he'd been a casual friend for years. To see him sitting awkwardly cross-legged beside Lantano Garuwas.h.i.+, who sat as gracefully as he did everything, was surreal.

Then the men saw Feir and both rose. Antoninus called something out, but though he was only forty paces away now, Feir couldn't hear him.

Feir walked straight to the wall of magic. Whatever clever magic he'd used to get into the Wood, it obviously hadn't been clever enough. He was alive only by the forbearance of whatever it was that lived here. So Feir walked straight through the magic. It slid around him, and for a moment, he could swear something in the Wood felt amused.

Then he was out.

”What are you doing here?” he asked Antoninus Wervel.

Antoninus laughed. ”You escape the Wood, something no mage has done in seven centuries, and you ask what I'm I'm doing?” doing?”

”Do you have my sword?” Garuwas.h.i.+ demanded.

Feir was carrying a pack strapped to his back that he hadn't been carrying when he entered the Wood. ”Him first,” he said.

Antoninus lifted his kohled eyebrows, but said, ”I came with a delegation from Sho'cendi to recover Curoch. After the Battle of Pavvil's Grove, the delegation turned back. They were sure that if Curoch had been present in such a desperate battle with so many magi and meisters present, that someone would have tried to use it. No one did, so they decided to backtrack and follow other leads. The truth is, I don't think Lord Lucius trusts everyone in our delegation. He and I don't care for each other, but he knows where my loyalties lie, so he released me. So now it's your turn, Feir. Did you recover Ceur'caelestos?” from Sho'cendi to recover Curoch. After the Battle of Pavvil's Grove, the delegation turned back. They were sure that if Curoch had been present in such a desperate battle with so many magi and meisters present, that someone would have tried to use it. No one did, so they decided to backtrack and follow other leads. The truth is, I don't think Lord Lucius trusts everyone in our delegation. He and I don't care for each other, but he knows where my loyalties lie, so he released me. So now it's your turn, Feir. Did you recover Ceur'caelestos?”

The Modaini was too d.a.m.n smart. Feir could tell that the man had put together Feir, who'd held one nearly mythical sword, with the appearance of another nearly mythical sword and found no coincidence.

Feir opened the pack. There was a note inside with directions and instructions, written awkwardly, as if the hand writing it had been writing in an unfamiliar language. Feir read it quickly and remembered bits and pieces of what had happened in the Wood. Setting the note aside, he pulled a hilt out of his pack-a hilt only, with no sword. It was a perfect replica of the one on Ceur'caelestos, and it would fit Lantano Garuwas.h.i.+'s sheath perfectly. As long as the sa'ceurai didn't draw his sword, no one would ever know.

”What is this?” Lantano Garuwas.h.i.+ demanded.

”It's three months,” Feir said.

”What?” Garuwas.h.i.+ asked.

”That's the time I need,” Feir said. ”I'm a Maker, Garuwas.h.i.+, and I received instructions in the Wood-a prophecy left by Ezra himself, centuries ago. If you prefer death, I will be your second, but if you want to live, take this hilt. Antoninus and I will go to Black Barrow and do things no one has done since Ezra's time. I will make Ceur'caelestos for you by spring.” Or at least a d.a.m.n good fake. ”You can be the king you've always wished to be.”

Lantano Garuwas.h.i.+ stood for a long moment, eyes hot and then cold, trapped between his desires and his honor. He swallowed. ”You swear you will bring me my ceuros?”

”I swear it.”

Lantano Garuwas.h.i.+ took the hilt.

Logan and Kylar rode at the head of Logan's five hundred horse and nine hundred foot. Logan's bodyguards rode ten paces back, giving them privacy. The sharpened-tooth simpleton Gnasher rode in his usual spot beside Logan, but he didn't care what they might say; he just liked to be close. Kylar unrolled a worn letter.

”Whatcha got?” Logan asked.

Kylar gave him an inscrutable look, shrugged, and handed it to him. In small, tight handwriting, it said, ”Hey, I thought it was my last one, too. He said I got one more for old time's sake. He might even have been telling the truth. Be careful who you love. Don't follow prophecies. Don't let them use you to bring the High King. Your secret is your most important possession. You're more important than I ever was, kid. Maybe for all those years I was just holding it for you. MAKE NO DEALS WITH THE WOLF.”

”I a.s.sume this all means something to you,” Logan said.

”Not all of it,” Kylar said.

”Who's the Wolf?” Logan asked.

”Someone I made a deal with right before I found that letter.”

”Ouch. And the High King?”

Kylar grimaced. ”That was part I was hoping you could help me with.”

Logan thought. ”There was a High King who held Cenaria and several other countries maybe four hundred years ago, but Cenaria's been held by lots of different countries in the last thousand years. Sounds like an Ursuul thing. They're the only ones in Midcyru in a position to rule over other kings. I'd guess they're dredging up a prophecy to give themselves legitimacy. Is the secret what I think it is?” Logan asked.