Bloodsongs (27 page)

She would miss her old blade. It had served her well for years and through many adventures. But there was a delicious irony in the fact that Kel had provided her with a better one.

There were more rooms on that same level: a surgery, stores for grain and kegs of beer, a tack room. She hesitated there. A saddle and bridle for Ashur would make riding more comfortable. But what of his wounds? At last, she chose the lightest equipment and carried it back to the stair. She was still uncertain about using it but could decide later.

She went down to the next level. It was the last. She allowed a thin, tight smile. The superstitious part of her had almost expected nine—like the levels of hell.

The final step disappeared under water. The corridor was narrow, dank, and flooded with seepage. The water rose over her ankles as she sloshed her way through the dark confine. The first door she found was locked with a heavy iron bolt. She noted the small, barred grill at eye height and realized at once where she was.

This lowest level was Kel's dungeon. Perhaps her analogy to hell had not been so far off the mark.

She put her face to the next door's bars and peered inside, but her head blocked the torch's light, and she could see nothing.

“Is anyone down here?” she called softly.

The lapping of the water against the walls was the only sound. Her torch sputtered dangerously, and she discovered she had lifted it too close to the low stone ceiling. Scorch marks streaked the rough-hewn blocks where the flames had touched. She bit her lip, suddenly aware of the immense weight above her head and of the age of the tower's stone and mortar. She turned to go.

A low, cautious voice crawled out of the blackness beyond her torchlight. “Hello?” it whispered. “Who's there?”

Reflexively, she went for her sword. Even though her witch-powers had somehow awakened, she found reassurance in curling her hand around its hilt. She stared uselessly ahead into the stygian tunnel. Crouching, she moved forward, trying not to splash too noisily.
That's stupid
, she told herself.
If it's an enemy, he won't listen to the sound—he'll see the torch
. Still, she proceeded as quietly as possible.

“Are you there?” the voice called again. “Hello?”

Frost stopped. There was a quality to the voice that she almost recognized. Her pace quickened. She passed a third door and a fourth, pausing at each, peering inside. They were empty.

“Where are you?” she shouted back. The echo reverberated in the dank passage, and she waited for it to fade. “Are you a prisoner?” The very stones hurled the question back.

“Down here,” the voice answered. “The last cell. Who are you?”

She didn't answer. How could she tell him his captor was her son? She hurried on, found the last door, and pressed her face to the grill. Another face appealed there suddenly, and noses bumped. She leaped back in surprise.

The prisoner recoiled from the light, then turned back and squinted through the bars. He whooped with weak delight. “Gods of Rholaroth, woman, I thought you were dead!”

Her mouth fell open, then snapped shut. The dirty, stubbled face with the wild hair and blood-reddened eyes was barely recognizable. “Telric!”

“I didn't know your voice for that damned echo,” he said through clenched teeth. “Get me out of here.”

There were pegs on the wall, but no key ring. It didn't matter. “Just push it open,” she told him.

“It's locked, damn it! Find the key. It must be around somewhere.”

She grabbed one of the bars, freeing a small part of the strange song in her soul. “It's not locked. See?” She pulled and the door swung open. “Come on out.”

He gaped in confusion that swiftly turned to consternation. “How'd you do that?”

She chewed the tip of her finger. “I'm afraid you'll find out soon enough.” She changed the subject. “You look awful. What are you doing here?”

His clothes were filthy, and he smelled. Yet he took her in his arms, hugged her and rested his head next to hers. She could feel the need in him. She wanted to yield, to soothe his fear. Instead, she stiffened at his touch.

He seemed not to notice. “I thought you were dead,” he repeated. “I saw you fall. I think I took the flat of a blade on the head myself right after that. I woke up in the mud just as your son and his mercenaries were leaving.”

“Kel took you prisoner?”

“The place was an inferno. I managed to grab a riderless horse and followed him.” He hung his head sheepishly. “I had some idea about avenging you, but he must have spotted me. A couple of his men hid in the tall grass and jumped me as I rode between them. They brought me here, and I haven't seen anyone since.” He wiped his mouth with a grimy sleeve. “They haven't even sent food or water.”

His voice was hoarse and raspy. That was why she hadn't known him when he'd called out.

“I drank some of the seepage, just enough to wet my lips. But it tasted of lime and mud. I was afraid to swallow much. I don't know why they bothered to bring me here when they could have killed me quicker.”

She eased out of his embrace. “Let's get you some food, then, and get out of here. There are plenty of supplies, and everyone's gone.”

“I'm glad you're alive,” he said, trying to embrace her again.

She put a hand on his chest to stop him. “I'm glad you're alive, too,” she said honestly. “But we've got to hurry. I know part of what Kel is up to. I've got to learn the rest.” She frowned; then an idea occurred to her. “In fact, I've got to go back up. I saw a map in Kel's study. It could be useful.”

She made her way up the stair, and Telric followed.

“What happened to him?” Telric asked, stepping over the unconscious guard who had suffered her magic.

“Bad luck,” she answered tersely. She pointed when they reached the kitchen level. “Find something for both of us. I'm going on up.”

She left him and went straight to her son's quarters. The map was where she had remembered—a small side drawer in one of his trunks. It had been drawn on a folded square of tanned leather. It appeared surprisingly complete and accurate, and she wondered briefly at the hand that had made it. She stuck it down the front of her tunic and left the room.

One level below, she paused on the steps and stared the length of the corridor toward the room that had been her cell. Without knowing why, she returned there. A puddle had formed on the floor beneath the window where the rain had blown in, but the storm's fury had abated. She went to the sill and looked out.

A sickly, gray-green pallor hung over the world. The wind had died. An unnatural silence reigned.
No
, she reminded herself.
It was a natural silence, completely natural
. The song in her soul was muted now.

“Let me help.”

She spun and almost fell backward. “Kim—!”

But it wasn't Kimon, only Telric standing in the same place, bathed in the same amber lamplight. Gods, how it hurt to look at him! So much like her husband. She bit her lip hard.

Could it be? They were both from Rholaroth. Kimon had even worked for Telric's father. A bastard son? Were Telric and Kimon brothers?

Her hands curled into fists, and she cursed herself.
No, you foolish woman, no!
Her husband was dead and, at last, put to rest. It was no good looking for him in another man. A mere trick of light and positioning had caused her to see Kimon in Telric. That, and her own grief. But it was an illusion, no more. Only an illusion.

“I said, let me help,” he repeated. “I don't know what you're planning, but you've got a peculiar look. Whatever it is, count me in.”

His offer sent another pang through her heart. Kimon once had told her about three words that meant even more than “I love you” because they were words of action instead of declaration. Those words, he had said, were “let me help.”

She smiled, tight-lipped, forcing herself to look at Telric, to see once and for all that he was not Kimon. At last, she grew somewhat calmer.

“Thanks for your offer, but this time I need more. I need an army.” She took his arm and pulled him into the hall, pausing long enough to shut the door behind her. “There's only one place to get it,” she added.

 

 

 

Chapter Twelve

 

Who are you, Gentle Stranger,

A wizard or a clown?

You caught me in your magic

When I thought I'd fallen down.

Do you know your own beauty,

Like a spark of the evening star?

In the shadow of your passion

Can it matter who you are?

 

Together they walked away from the tower. The mud squished over the toes of their boots as they passed among the storm-flattened tents where the main body of Kel's soldiers had resided. She almost smiled at the way canvasses were strewn over the landscape.

She shifted the weight of the saddle she carried and glanced at Ashur as he plodded beside her. She would have to ride him soon. It was the only way to reach Kyr in time. But there was another thing to do before she had to slap leather on his poor back.

“I can carry that for you,” Telric offered.

She shook her head. “You've got enough with that sack of supplies.” She gave him a look from the corner of her eye. He, too, had armed himself from Kel's store of weapons. With some food in him he looked stronger. If only he'd had time for a bath. She looked away again and tried not to inhale too deeply.

The land had been cleared to form a wide, circular plain around the tower. She knew they must be near the edge of the Keled steppes, though the terrain was still relatively flat, but the hills of
Shai-Zastari
could be no more than another day's ride to the north. She shuddered, recalling
Sha-Nakare
and the terrible fireflies. Had she followed the Lythe River south instead of to Kyr after that night, she might have stumbled upon her son's demesne.

When they reached the first struggling shrubs and saplings of the surrounding forest, Frost stopped and set aside her burden. “Wait for me,” she told Telric, and he set down his sack and gave her a quizzical look. She turned and stared back across the immense clearing. The tower rose like a black and menacing column that held up the bleak gray sky.

“It's clear to me now,” she said at last. “I was confused, but now I see. It's like I've awakened from a long, troubling dream.” She rubbed her hand along Ashur's sleek neck and tangled her fingers in his mane.

She filled her lungs with a deep breath and drew herself erect. “I've accomplished things. Kimon's spirit is free to find rest.” She forced a tiny smile. “And I've avenged you, Telric, though perhaps it doesn't count since you weren't dead.”

Telric interrupted with a surprised grin. “You came to avenge me?”

She shrugged. “You'd have done the same for me.”

He scratched at the stubble on his chin. “I did try,” he reminded her.

Their eyes met, and she saw the depth of his feeling for her. He had said he loved her. She didn't need her witchcraft to know it was true. Perhaps all her confusion had not ended. Kimon was dead, and Lycho, who had been kind to her, was also dead. What would become of Telric if she dared to let him get so close?

All men die
, she reasoned. Then she made her own argument.
But must I be the shear that snaps their thread?

She thrust such thoughts behind her and returned her attention to the tower. She had stopped for a purpose, and there was little time to waste.

I've seen into my son's heart
, she thought regretfully.
Though he serves this Oroladian, this sorceress, his will is his own. He is not controlled; that was a silly hope. There's no influence to free him from except his own evil, and there's nothing for me to do but stop him, to hunt him down and put an end to him before he spreads more death and destruction among innocent farms and towns. I brought him into this world—the responsibility is mine.

The power surged within her, a song of fearsome potency that filled all her being. Her very soul opened, pouring out its music. But this time she held it inside, shaping and bending it to her will.

The tower stood imposing and lifeless, a construct of cold chiseled stone. It seemed the very antithesis of Soushane, a town full of children's laughter and the smells of cooking fires, a town nestled contentedly in the heart of its fields, a community where simple folks lived and grew old in each other's arms.

Frost had hoped for such a life with Kimon. Kel had ripped that from her.

He had ripped it from the people of Soushane, too.

Her son had trampled dreams into the mud—her dreams and Soushane's dreams—and he had laughed about it.

But Kel would laugh no more, and he would trample no more dreams.

With every thought the song within her swelled, growing into a chorus of shattering intensity. She stretched out her hand toward the tower; her fingers clenched spasmodically.

The heavens erupted with arcane fury. Bolts of terrifying power split the clouds and stabbed earthward, striking Kel's fortress again and again, battering, smashing it on all sides. Stone exploded outward, showering the plain with fragments. Still her fist clenched and clenched, and still the lightning flashed until nothing remained but a scattered pile of rubble.

An acrid stench wafted through the night. Frost opened her hand, lowered her arm, and let the music subside. The tempest ceased. The last deafening thunder rumbled away into the distance, and the world was quiet again.

“It doesn't begin to repay Soushane's people,” Frost said bitterly, her mind full of the memories of the burning town. “But maybe they will rest a little easier.”

Telric gaped at her with a mixture of fear and awe. Words formed and died on his lips. He backed a step, stumbled on a root, and caught himself. He held his ground, but his knitted brows and open mouth betrayed his uncertainty.