The Temple of Heart and Bone (40 page)

“Let me go,” Vae insisted,
struggling against the men holding her.

“And if I let you go,” Cardalan
said, “what will you do?”

Vae stared at him defiantly but
remained silent.

“I won’t have you disrupting this
mission,” Cardalan said firmly. “If I have these men release you, I want your
word that you will leave Drothspar in peace.”

“Would you accept my word if I
gave it to you?” Vae asked in her thick accent. She looked at Cardalan with
disbelief plainly written on her face.

“I would, Lady. Do you give it?”

Vae looked sharply at Cardalan,
uncertainty still playing about her eyes. She looked over his shoulder at
Drothspar who had released Kelton.

“No,” she said honestly, “I do
not.”

Cardalan nodded and Chance began
to protest.

“Take her weapons,” Cardalan ordered.
“Bind her hands behind her.” He looked at his sergeant who was still as shocked
as the rest of his men. “Sergeant!” Cardalan called. “Now, Sergeant!” The
sergeant shook his men and had them disarm and bind Vae. She struggled against
the process and spit curses at Cardalan.

“You haven’t seen what they’ve
done!” she screamed. “You don’t understand what kind of monsters you’re dealing
with!”

Cardalan grabbed her chin with
his hand and held her eyes opposite his own.

“You don’t seem to understand me,
Madam,” he said in a deadly soft voice. “I
will
carry out my orders. I
do
understand what you’re saying. You
will not
disrupt this mission.” He
released her chin and dropped his voice to a near-whisper. “If you try, Madam,
I will kill you myself. Do you understand
me
?”

Vae struggled against her captors
and spit in Cardalan’s face.

Troseth
approached the skeleton, his hands shaking. He stared at the gold necklace. The
red gemstone which had once been set in the pendant was now missing. The
pendant seemed empty, like a socket missing a tooth—or an eye. Aside from that,
he was certain it was Li’s necklace. Through all the chaos, through all the
death, through all the disappointment, he had found her. He had found Li!

The skeletal figure held an
infant in one arm. The child was silent, but breathing. Troseth glanced down
from the pendant to the baby. He needed to get Li to Poson. He reached out to
take the child.

The lifeless hand that grasped
his neck was hard and unrelenting. He could feel his throat close in that
grasp. He stared at the corporal who stumbled away in shock. He released the
child to strike at the arm that held him. In that same instant, he fell to the
ground, released by the skeleton. He coughed and sputtered, wondering what the
skeleton would do next. The hollow eyes stared off into the distance.

“I see,” he said carefully.
“Don’t touch the child. I get the point.” He turned to the soldier that had
brought him to the skeleton and child. “Corporal!”

“Yes, Sir?” The soldier
approached warily, as afraid of his captain as he was of the skeleton. Troseth
ignored the man’s timidity.

“Go to Lord Poson. Tell him… tell
him I have found what I was looking for.” He glanced at his mount. “Take my
horse with you, I’ll be walking back.”

“Yes, Sir. At once, Sir.” The
corporal glanced from his captain to the skeleton, his eyes wild and his hair
standing on end. He saluted smartly and rode off to the army’s encampment with
Troseth’s horse in tow.

Troseth turned his attention back
to the strange pairing of life and death.

“I understand that you don’t want
me to take the child,” he told the skeleton. Slowly, as if he were offering his
hand for an unknown dog to sniff, he reached toward the remains before him.

“Would you mind, my Lady, if I escorted
you
somewhere?”

Troseth reached out and gingerly
touched the skeleton’s free hand. The skeleton stood stock still, its gaze far
away. Troseth closed his hand around hard, dry fingers and pulled the arm
toward him. The skeleton did not resist. He led the skeleton and child away
from the broken wall and down toward the camp.

He had done it! He had found her!
He had found the golden needle in the stack of rusted needles! Excitement
threatened to overwhelm him, an excitement sweeter, more profound than any
other he had ever experienced. He had won battles, had tasted from the chalice
of victory more times than he could remember… This emotion, this excitement was
more than he could contain! His breathing was erratic, vacillating between
breaths of relief and ratcheting inhalations of anxiety. Sweat poured down his
forehead, his eyes darted everywhere. His hand unconsciously clamped down on
the skeleton’s fingers like a vise. Had those fingers been surrounded by flesh
and blood, they would have been bruised, if not bleeding.

Troseth pulled on the skeleton’s
arm, urging it on, dragging it through the rubble toward the camp. He broke
into a quick-time march, forcing the skeleton to stumble as it tried to follow.
It was the weight of the skeleton jerking against his hand that finally
reminded him that he was not alone.

Troseth slowed his pace and
helped the skeleton to regain its balance.

“I’m sorry!” he told the
skeleton, out of breath from his anxiety. “I’m so sorry! Are you okay? Are you…
are you… can I help you?” He reached out to steady the bones. He was careful to
keep his hands away from the child. Child, he thought to himself, what would he
do with the child?

He shook his head to clear it of
an unwanted thought. The child didn’t matter, nothing else mattered. He had to
get her to Poson!

“Come, my Lady,” he urged the
skeleton, “Please! It’s not much farther!”

As Troseth approached the tents
and wagons of the camp, he spotted his goal. Poson stood next to a soldier. Probably
the corporal, Troseth thought to himself. There was no doubt, however, that he
was fast approaching Poson. Even at a distance, the man’s undulating stance
stood out. Poson presented a serpentine figure, constantly moving, writhing.
The only steady portion of the man seemed to be his eyes—
those
eyes.

Nearing the encampment, Troseth
slowed his pace and scanned the area. The last thing he needed was for someone
to take too much of an interest in the skeleton he had with him. He was so
close, so close to his desire he could taste it—touch it.

“Ah, Captain Troseth!” Poson
called out. “I hear you are bringing us something special!” Troseth wanted to
kill him. What was the man thinking?

“My Lord Poson,” Troseth greeted
the man quietly, rushing the last few steps to stand before him. “I found her,”
he said, his voice a gruff whisper.

“Excellent, Captain! Excellent!”
Poson replied, his voice booming. Black hair hung lank from his pale head to
drop below his shoulders. Groups of greasy strands had banded together, giving
the appearance that a multitude of glossy black snakes had burst from the man’s
skull. He eyed Troseth intently, sending a shudder down the captain’s spine.
Poson’s eyes were entirely devoid of white or color, reflecting the world in
utter blackness.

“My Lord Poson,” Troseth began,
trying to contain his anxiety, “what shall I do with—”

“Poson, I thought I heard you,”
the Necromancer said, stepping around a tent. He was flanked by several of his
underpriests. “When did you arrive?”

“This past night, Master,” Poson
replied, bowing.

“You should have presented
yourself on arrival,” the Necromancer said brusquely.

“I did not wish to disturb your
rest, Master.”

“I see.” The Necromancer paused,
pointedly. “Now, Captain, what shall you do with what?”

“My Lord,” Troseth stammered. For
a moment, he thought to hide the skeleton behind his own body, but he knew that
would be futile. Obscenities flashed through his thoughts like so many arrows
seeking targets.

“What have you brought us,
Captain?” the Necromancer asked again. Mutely, Troseth raised his arm and led
the skeleton and child to stand before him. He fought to keep hatred, fear, and
desperation from invading his face. He had to remain calm. He had to think. He
had come this far, he wouldn’t—he couldn’t—surrender now.

“My Lord,” Troseth said, “I bring
you these.” He kept his voice as neutral as he could.

The Necromancer studied the
skeleton and child. His eyes noted the gold pendant caught in the creature’s
vertebrae. The old man looked slowly at Troseth and reached out to examine the
pendant. Troseth stiffened where he stood. The skeleton did not respond.

“What is the meaning of this,
Captain?” The Necromancer still held the pendant in his hand.

“Corporal Nalfick informed me of
a skeleton exhibiting odd behavior, My Lord,” Troseth replied. His eyes focused
on the old man, staying well clear of the pendant. “I went to investigate and
found her—it—holding the child.” Consternation flashed in the captain’s eyes,
but he continued quickly, crisply. “My Lord, your orders were to bring you
anything out of the ordinary. I sought out Lord Poson to ask him how to
proceed.”

“I see, Captain,” the old man
replied, “I see.” The Necromancer released the necklace and stepped back from
the skeleton. “How did you know that Poson was here?”

“My Lord, I saw him arrive in the
night.” Troseth worked to keep his breathing under control.

“And what of this child?” A quick
glance at one of his underpriests sent the man to retrieve the child from the
skeleton.

“I wouldn’t—” Troseth started to
warn the man.

The underpriest had not been
gentle in his attempt to wrest the child from the skeleton’s arm. The hand that
caught his throat was swift and hard. The crunching sound of crushed cartilage
drowned out the man’s feeble whines. Blood flowed around the bone fingers
piercing his neck. It ran swiftly down the skeletal hand and arm to drip from
the elbow. The underpriest beat futilely against the cold bones. Other priests
took a step to help him, but the Necromancer stayed them with one upraised
hand. He watched as the life was squeezed from his servant. When the skeleton
released its grip, the underpriest fell to the ground, dead.

“Excellent, Troseth.” the old man
said softly. “Quite fascinating, indeed. You have done well.”

“Thank you, my Lord,” Troseth
replied hollowly.

“Poson,” the Necromancer said,
“take the skeleton and child to my pavilion. I believe I would like to study
them further.”

“Of course, Master,” Poson
replied in a quiet, rasping voice.

“And Poson…”

“Yes, Master?”

“By all means, allow the creature
to keep the child. Find it some milk. See if it will attempt to aid the
infant.”

“At once, Master!” Poson took the
skeleton’s hand and led it away. Troseth’s eyes tracked the skeleton as it
left.

“Troseth,” the Necromancer said.

“Yes, my Lord?”

“You have done well to bring this
creature to my attention.” The old man paused, scratching one finger at his
cheek. “Very interesting,” he continued. “Perhaps I’ll invest her with the
other red-cloths. Perhaps… perhaps something more.”

Troseth fought to keep his
emotions from flashing through his eyes. He wasn’t sure if he was successful.

“Captain, your orders were not to
bring me anything out of the ordinary, but to mark them with red strips of
cloth.”

“My Lord, I—”

The Necromancer cut Troseth off
with an intent stare. Troseth stopped speaking and hung his head with his eyes
closed. His nerves anticipated a lash of white hot pain.

He waited.

After a few moments, Troseth
opened his eyes to see the old man’s back walking away. He let out an explosive
breath of air.

“Corporal!” Troseth shouted,
louder than he had intended.

“Yes, Captain!”

“Scrounge up a couple of bottles
and bring them to my tent!”

“At once, Captain!”

“Damn right, at once,” Troseth
replied, cuffing the soldier on the back of the head. “Move!”

As the corporal scurried off, a
shocked stupor settled over Troseth. His mind blanked.

Numb. Troseth felt numb. He
walked. Without understanding, he watched his feet move along the ground. He
didn’t know where he was going. He was lost.

Lost. He lost her. The idea
flickered for a moment and vanished from his thoughts. He followed his feet and
listened to the sound they made scuffing through the hard-packed dirt of the
camp. He listened to that shuffling until another sound intruded upon
him—voices.

The voices were familiar, but
distant. Troseth stopped. He wanted to hear the voices and his steps had been
so loud. He stared at his feet. Did they matter? The voices, the feet, the
sounds—did any of them matter?

“…Troseth killed it.”

That word. That was his name. One
of the voices had spoken his name. Troseth looked up from his feet. He was
outside the Master’s pavilion, just across a rutted wagon path. He sat down
hard on the edge of the path where the dirt and dead grass mixed.

“Master, I—” Poson had tried to
say, but the old man cut him off harshly.

“The captain told me that you
warned him about my cat, that you told him to kill it. Why?” The old man looked
angry.

“Master,” Poson explained, “the
cats had been under an outside influence—”

“You know this?” The
Necromancer’s voice was disbelieving.

“The cats were behaving oddly,
Master.” Troseth stared at Poson. Something was strange. “The cats had been
following me, watching me when they had not been summoned.”

“Is that all?” The old man’s
anger seemed to be increasing. Even in his numbness, Troseth inched back along
the dry grass.

“Master, the behavior was new. It
was something I hadn’t seen before.” Poson’s voice—that’s what was strange. It
was soothing, calming. He wasn’t scared. Troseth stared hard at Poson. The man
was swaying as he talked.

“This was cause to kill a
creature that had been with me for centuries?” The Necromancer’s brow furrowed.
His voice lost some of its edge.

“I thought, perhaps, the creatures
were under outside influence, Master. I warned Captain Troseth in the event
your beast tried to interfere with the ritual.” Troseth blinked his eyes. It
was hard to tell if Poson was swaying or if he, himself, was.

“And where is your cat now?” the
Necromancer asked. His eyes blinked rapidly.

“Gone, Master. I assume it left
around the time of the Harvest ritual at Æostemark.” Poson answered.

Control, Troseth thought. Poson
talked like a higher servant, one accustomed to handling his master. Troseth
held his forehead in his hand. The numbness was fraying.