Part 17 (1/2)

”So, you've come after all,” a hard, cruel voice said behind him. ”I expected you to, of course. Toz lies at times, but the cards never do.”

Tyveris spun on a heel, crouching into a defensive posture. He held his big hands out before him, ready. His nostrils flared with the scent of danger on the air.

He found himself facing Patriarch Alamric.

Yet, somehow, his battle-honed senses told him that all was not as it appeared. The body might be the patriarch's, but it was not Alamric who gazed out of those gray eyes at him. No, somehow the patriarch-or at least his soul-was locked inside the glowing prison. Someone else had possessed him, and the smug, triumphant smile that curled about the patriarch's lips gave the foe's ident.i.ty away.

”Kelshara,” he whispered. The woman's body still sat, unmoving, in the high-backed chair, but somehow she was in control of Alamric's form.

The smile broadened. ”Perceptive,” the necromancer crooned through the man's lips. ”However, I think you will find yourself wis.h.i.+ng you weren't so terribly clever. Fate decreed you would stand in my way, warrior. It is my decree that you will fall.”

With a suddenness that surprised Tyveris, the false patriarch drew a long curved dagger from beneath his robes and lunged forward.

Reflexes worn into Tyveris's muscles by his years as a sell-sword sparked him into motion. He spun away from the blade as he kicked out his other foot. He felt the bones of the patriarch's arm buckle and snap beneath the blow. The dagger flew from Alamric's grip. With lightning speed Tyveris reached out and s.n.a.t.c.hed the knife before it fell and brought it downward in a smooth, precise stroke.

It was over in a second.

”No,” Tyveris whispered in horror, staring wild-eyed at what he had done. Alamric's body slumped against him, a bloodstain blossoming on his robes like a rose unfurling its petals. Tyveris tried to pull the dagger free, but the false patriarch grabbed his arm with uncanny strength, driving the dagger in deeper.

”And so victory is mine,” Kelshara hissed triumphantly through Alamric's teeth.

A flood of orange fire burst from the gla.s.s jar, searing Tyveris's vision. When his sight cleared he saw that Alamric was gazing at him in mute amazement. And this time the patriarch himself looked out through his body's dimming eyes. With a gasp and a shudder, he died. Slowly, Tyveris let the corpse slide to the growing pool of blood on the cold stone floor.

”I am grateful to you,” said a chill, mocking voice. Tyveris turned to see Kelshara rise from the chair, smoothing her silken gown. ”I was finished with Alamric, and you have so kindly dealt with him for me.” She picked up the now empty jar from the table and slipped it into a pocket of her gown. There was a scrabbling of claws, and Tyveris watched in shock as a small, misshapen creature hopped from the sill of the chamber's open window and hobbled to Kelshara's side. It was a kobold. The creature regarded him with its bulbous red eyes.

”Here they are, Toz, just as the cards foretold,” Kelshara said. ”The priest who is not a priest.” She waved a hand, and an intricately drawn card appeared in her fingers. It depicted a holy man. The card was turned upside down. ”His was a violent heart, and violently has he died.” She crumpled the card in a fist. It burst into flame as she dropped it, turning to ash before it even hit the floor.

”And the warrior who is not a warrior,” the kobold croaked.

”Yes,” Kelshara said, her violet eyes gleaming speculatively, ”but I think there is more warrior in this one's heart than he wishes to believe. He kills with practiced ease. But then, so do I.”

Too late Tyveris realized his peril. Before he could leap forward another card appeared in Kelshara's hand, this depicting an armored knight. It was also upside down. With a swift motion, she tore the card in half.

Tyveris screamed.

He had never screamed before, not in all his years of battle. He'd taken wounds that would have killed other men, borne the torture of whip and hot iron without ever giving his tormentors the satisfaction of hearing him hiss in pain. But this time he screamed, the agony ripping the sound out of him like a claw reaching down his throat to tear out his heart.

Mercifully, a numbing coldness washed over him then. He fell to the floor, his limbs frozen motionless, his heart shuddering in his chest. Kelshara bent over Alamric's body and took something from his pocket. It was a small, clear gemstone. Everard's Tear.

”I have what I came for,” Kelshara purred. ”Farewell, warrior. Do not fear, though. You won't live long enough for your brothers to mete out justice to you for this unfortunate murder.”

The dark-haired necromancer turned to the open window. She spread her arms wide and called out in a strange, guttural tongue. A huge creature swooped down from the night sky to hover before the window.

In life the thing might have been a griffin, a feral but n.o.ble beast with a lion's body and an eagle's head and wings. But Kelshara's mount was a creature of death. Rotting flesh hung in tatters from its bones, and its eyes glowed with a sick, unearthly light. It let out a shriek, but the sound was m.u.f.fled by the dirt filling the thing's beak. Kelshara climbed onto the nightmarish steed, the kobold clambering up after her. There was a rush of dank, charnel-house air as the creature spread its wings. It soared triumphantly into the sky, leaving Tyveris alone and utterly defeated.

Some time later, Loremaster Orven came upon the former sell-sword lying beside Alamric's already stiffening body, still clutching the bloodstained dagger in his frozen hand.

Then came the ringing of bells, shattering the night.

It was a chill, gray morning. The wind smelled faintly of snow. Tyveris stood before the open gates of the abbey, alone. No one had come to bid him farewell, though that was hardly surprising since everyone believed him a murderer. And he supposed they were right, though not in the way they so smugly believed.

He gathered his travel-stained cloak about his broad shoulders. He had traded in his brown homespun robe for the worn leather jerkin and breeches he had worn before coming to the abbey. His swordbelt was slung low against his hip, the flat of the blade resting comfortably against his thigh. It felt almost as if he'd never taken the weapon off. He shouldn't have even bothered trying.

The council of loremasters had not believed his tale.

”I need no magic to explain these black deeds,” Lore-master Orven had p.r.o.nounced angrily. 'Treachery is reason enough. You plotted with Kelshara to steal the Tear and brutally killed Patriarch Alamric to avoid discovery. But once Kelshara gained the relic, she needed you no longer. You are a fool as well as a murderer, Tyveris, for she left you to suffer punishment while she herself escaped to freedom.” The others had agreed. Tyveris would never be anything but a man of violence.

Only Mother Melisende's intervention saved him from a sentence of death. But the punishment finally handed down was almost as bad: he was to leave the abbey immediately.

Tyveris gazed toward the far-off horizon. The world beyond the abbey's walls seemed empty, as though it held nothing for him. But there was no use in lingering. He started through the open gateway.

The clip-clop of hooves behind him brought him up short. He turned around. What he saw made him smile, despite his dark mood.

”I thought you might prefer to ride rather than walk,” Mother Melisende said in her brusque tone. Behind her followed the delicate palfrey that Kelshara had ridden into the abbey. ”I daresay no one else will ride her, though it seems foolish. She's a good horse and hardly responsible for her mistress's ill manners.” She patted the palfrey's glossy neck affectionately.

”Thank you,” Tyveris said, taking the reins. He stood absolutely still for a time, at a loss for anything else to say.

The abbess regarded him wearily. ”I know you told the truth.” Her expression seemed tired, her bright eyes dull. ”I'm sorry I couldn't have defended you more properly, Tyveris, but the others would have simply thought I was bewitched somehow.” She sighed. ”People can be so terribly blind sometimes-even seekers after truth and knowledge.”

Tyveris shook his head in amazement. ”I really don't think there is anyone alive who sees as well as you do, Mother Melisende.”

She laughed aloud. ”Why, I suppose not.” Her round face grew serious then. ”This is for you.” She handed him a small bundle wrapped in dark cloth.

Tyveris took it gingerly. ”What is it?”

”It is a holy relic, a very old one. Once it belonged to the monk who founded the abbey. It will protect you in the dark days to come. And it will guide you.”

”Guide me?”

The abbess nodded gravely. ”To Everard's Tear.” She sighed wearily. ”I have just come from Loremaster Antira's chamber, Tyveris. There she cast an augury for me, to see what the signs portend for the future.” She paused ominously. ”The abbey is in great peril. The Tear was the abbey's heart, and without it we have no means to ward ourselves from the forces of darkness. The evil creatures you described as Kelshara's servants would never have been able to come within these walls had she not possessed the Tear. And now that it is gone, the auguries speak clearly. Within the year, the abbey will be destroyed.”

Tyveris stared at her in shock.

”Find the Tear of Everard. Prove to the others what I already know about you.”

Tyveris sighed gravely. ”But how can I defeat Kelshara? All my years as a warrior meant nothing against her magic.”

A mysterious expression touched Melisende's face. ”Yes, but you possess something else, Tyveris, something she does not.”

”Aren't you going to tell me what it is?”

She considered him carefully for a moment. ”I think that's something you must discover for yourself.” She pressed his fingers closed on the holy relic. ”Remember. This will protect you and guide the way.”

Without another word she turned and walked swiftly across the courtyard, disappearing into the abbey. Once again Tyveris was alone, though not so completely as before. The cold wind tugged at the cloth in his hand, revealing the object concealed within. It was a feathered quill pen, yellowed with time and spotted with ancient ink.

Three days later Tyveris glimpsed the tower rising like a jagged stump of bone from the dark hills. As he studied the castle, the sun slipped into a pool of bloodred clouds and the first flakes of snow began to fall, as hard and stinging as tiny shards of gla.s.s. One last time he carefully took out the ancient quill pen Melisende had given him. As he had done a dozen times in the course of his journey, he fastened a bit of leather string about the quill's middle. Holding the other end of the string, he let the relic dangle in the air. Despite the howling wind, the quill spun evenly until its tip pointed toward the tower. Tyveris nodded grimly, then put away the relic. After only a moment's pause, he nudged his dark mount into a canter.

The face of the hill was steep and treacherous with loose rock. Tyveris left the palfrey in a sheltered hollow and continued on foot. He loosened his sword in its sheath, his muscles tensing with antic.i.p.ation. Abruptly the cold wind stopped, and the air grew strangely still. It was as if Cyric, Lord of the Dead, were watching, holding his sepulchral breath, waiting to claim his due.