The White Mists of Power (2 page)

Dakin had never liked Kensington. The man was slender to the point of gauntness. The bones of his face stood out prominently against the hollows of his cheeks, and his dark eyes seemed to miss nothing.

“I am surprised you let that bard serve you,” Kensington said as he leaned back in his chair.

“Indeed?” Dakin gripped the ridged stem of his glass so hard that his fingers turned white. Kensington was a distant relation of the royal family and ranked above Dakin. Dakin didn’t dare be rude, even if Kensington had no right to discuss Dakin’s household affairs. “And what should my objections be?”

Kensington shrugged and stared off into the garden. “I can’t believe that you would knowingly harbor a murderer.”

Dakin took a sip of wine, letting the deep, rich flavor caress the back of his throat before he spoke. He hoped that the liquid would wash the sarcasm from his tongue. “And who is my bard supposed to have killed?”

“The Ladylee Diana of Kerry.”

Dakin set his wineglass down. He had heard a hundred stories about the murderer of the ladylee and had believed none of them. “That was over a decade ago. Someone would have caught him by now.”

“The bard keeps himself hidden. Your lands are about as far from Lady Kerry’s as possible.”

“The bard served Lord Lafa last. If he did indeed murder the ladylee, I’m sure someone would have recognized him there.” Dakin let the boredom seep into his voice. Shadows crept across the clipped hedges, and the garden was growing cool.

Kensington glanced at Dakin. The patch of remaining light painted Kensington’s face, darkening the hollows of his cheeks and adding a wildness to his eyes.

“I was there that night. I was with the Lady Kerry. I had planned to ask Diana to be my wife.”

Dakin suddenly understood why Kensington had mentioned the bard. Kensington meant no critique of Dakin’s household. Kensington had an old vendetta against the bard. “This is your vengeance,” Dakin said.

Kensington shook his head. “It is the Lady Kerry’s as well. If you don’t believe me, write her. She’ll be happy to know the bard has surfaced.”

After Kensington left, Dakin did write to the Lady Kerry. He had her response crumpled in his hand. She knew that the bard had murdered her daughter. She asked Dakin to kill the bard or to extradite him. Dakin would have done neither if it hadn’t been for the uprising, and those insulting, hateful songs the bard had sung the night of the great banquet.

Footsteps crunched the grass behind him. Dakin turned. The bard stood behind him, held in place by two of Dakin’s manservants. They looked short and fat next to the bard. It almost seemed as if the bard were leading them. He stood tall, the mist shrouding him like a cloak. Chains were wrapped around his waist, holding his hands behind his back. His black hair curled over his collar, and his face, though pale, was darker than the mist.

In the distance hounds bayed, an eerie, undulating sound that told Dakin they knew of the upcoming hunt. They would be down the trail soon.

Dakin slapped the bard across the mouth. The sound echoed through the glen. Dakin’s hand stung. “I don’t appreciate sarcasm from one of my servants, bard.”

Blood trickled from a corner of the bard’s mouth. He licked at the blood as if to see if it were there, then tilted his head, and rubbed his lips against his shoulder. The blood smeared on the black cloth. “It seems to me, Lord,” he said, “that as soon as I am unshackled, I am a free man.”

Dakin permitted himself a small smile. “You will be free,” he said.

He turned. The hounds emerged from the mist, straining at their leashes. The droplets of water on their dark fur made them appear even sleeker and stronger than they were. The four hound masters had three hounds each bound to leashes, wrapped in their hands. They were big men, and rough, but they all bore scars from the hounds. The hounds seemed to pull their masters along. A tangy odor filled the air, and Dakin wondered if it was the smell of the hound masters’ sweat.

They brought the hounds to the edge of the clearing. The animals stood still, waiting. They watched Dakin. Their eyes were beaded and flat. If he made one threatening movement, they would break their leashes and be on him. He had watched those long, yellow teeth tear into Rury. He didn’t want them to touch him.

Dakin grabbed the collar of the bard’s shirt and ripped off the bloody shoulder. The bard never looked at the hounds. His gaze stayed on Dakin. Dakin looked into the bard’s eyes. Dakin had never before realized how cold and blue they were.

Finally Dakin made himself look away. He handed the cloth to one of the manservants, who walked to the hound masters. The hounds, recognizing the ritual, strained toward the manservant. They snuffled at the air, their tongues lolling. A thin thread of drool trickled from one of the hounds’ mouths. The manservant’s hand shook as he reached over the hounds to hand a hound master the cloth.

The hound master let his three hounds sniff the cloth. They scratched the ground, then tilted their heads back, and howled. Goose bumps ran up Dakin’s spine and a shiver of excitement tickled his groin. He thought of the kitchen wench he had brought up to his rooms the last two nights, and wondered if the violence shimmering in the hounds would excite her too.

The hound master handed the cloth to the next master, who let his hounds sniff it. The hounds howled in turn, and the others danced around them. The air tingled with suppressed rage and anticipation. When the hounds were loose, they would shred the bard.

When the last dog howled, Dakin turned to the bard. “They know your scent now,” he said. “They know they are supposed to kill you. And they will kill you. No one has survived my hounds, although I’m sure that each who faced them thought he would be the first.”

The hounds pointed their noses at the bard. They all stood still, their gazes on him. Their mouths were open and saliva trickled from more than one. The bard still hadn’t looked at them.

Dakin waved his hand. The manservants let go of the bard. They unlocked his chains and unshackled his feet. He didn’t move but continued to stare at Dakin until they were done.

“You have one hour,” Dakin said. “Use it well.”

The bard nodded once. He rubbed his wrists and walked toward the forest. The hounds strained toward him, yipping as he passed. Some snapped their jaws on the empty air. He stared straight ahead, his stride sure. As he reached the trees, the white mist enshrouded his black-clad frame like an aura. He stepped behind some long green moss and disappeared.

The hounds howled. The hound masters’ muscles bulged as they fought to keep the hounds steady. Dakin took a step away from them, their fervor making him nervous.
Do you think that is wise?
the Enos had asked. Dakin shook the voice from his head. The hunts had worked before. They would continue to work.

He stared at the forest, wondering why the mist seemed less opaque.

ii

Seymour leaned against a tree, gathering his luck around him. All morning he had heard the baying of the hounds, the mournful wailing that meant someone was about to die. The hounds had never before come so deeply into the forest. Either someone had run far, which Seymour doubted, or Lord Dakin finally realized that Seymour was alive.

The cold ground dug into his backside. He had been shaking for hours. He had survived the hounds once, through luck and some careful preparations. Usually, though, his luck was poor. He couldn’t count on his magic saving him again.

Seymour stood. He had a set of traps scattered a few yards away. He would try a spell once he was certain the hounds were after him. When that spell failed, he would run for the traps. He could catch at least two dozen hounds in those traps; that would stall them for a time and at least give him a lead. He hoped to get enough of a lead to make it to the city safely.

A twig snapped. Seymour swallowed. Branches to his left rustled. He had heard the hounds. They hadn’t been that close, he was sure of it. Still, he grabbed his ebony walking stick and finished placing his luck web. He remembered what the hounds were like, their mouths dripping, teeth sharp and pointed. He had seen them come back from a hunt once, bloody froth on their lips. He stood, clutched the stick to his chest, prepared to shove the stick into the ground and begin a chant should he see a hound.

A man burst through the thick blackberry brambles and stumbled on the dirt. His long black hair was matted and tangled with leaves and twigs, his face bloody and dirt-covered. His clothes hung in tatters, and he had lost one shoe. He wouldn’t survive much longer.

Seymour took a deep breath. The hounds were chasing someone else, not him. He was safe.

A hound howled. The sound rang through the trees. The man glanced over his shoulder, the fear on his face clear. He was heading toward Seymour’s hiding place. Another hound howled. They had found his scent. Seymour bit his lower lip. If he helped the man, he might have Lord Dakin after him again. But if he didn’t help, the hounds would tackle the man and tear the skin off while he still lived.

Seymour’s hands shook as he lowered his staff to shin level. The man turned forward just before he reached the staff. He tried to jump, but his left foot caught on the round black surface and he tripped, sprawling on the pine needles at Seymour’s feet. The man rolled over and started to push himself up, but Seymour grabbed his arm and raised a single finger to his lips.

He moved his staff, checked to see if it was unmarked. The ebony was as smooth as it had been the day Lord Dakin had given the stick to him. Seymour ripped a piece of bloodied cloth from the man’s pants. The man was still on his knees, panting, as if he were trying to catch his breath before running again.

“Wait,” Seymour whispered. He tied the bloody cloth to the staff. He could barely breathe. He had been prepared to do this spell, but he had hoped he wouldn’t have to. He had never done it successfully. He had hoped that he would have enough luck, but as he stood at the edge of the clearing, traps on one side, hounds on the other, he knew that he would fail.

The underbrush thrashed. Seymour thought he could hear the hounds snuffling forward. The man was getting to his feet slowly, as if he were in great pain. Seymour shoved the staff into the hard dirt. He closed his eyes, picturing his luck web rising from his shoulders and wrapping itself around the staff. He shaped the web into the form of the man behind him. Then Seymour opened his eyes and snapped his fingers.

He could see nothing different. Panic rose in his stomach. The man had gotten to his feet and was swaying as if he were going to fall again. Seymour grabbed the man by the waist and propelled him forward. They had to get out of there, get behind the traps.

They stumbled forward, between the tall, moss-covered trees. Seymour stopped and reached into the undergrowth, setting the traps. They had to work. If they didn’t he would be in trouble. As it stood, he figured that he could take the man home for at least a short time. Lord Dakin didn’t know that Seymour still lived, which meant that he didn’t know about the cabin, as Seymour had feared all morning.

He led the man down the dirt-covered bank into the brook. It was a dying tributary of the river that bordered Dakin’s land–barely enough water to get their feet wet–but enough to stall the hounds after they escaped the traps. Seymour helped the man through the water and up the other bank to the small clearing where his hut stood.

A howl echoed through the forest, followed by several more. Seymour had heard that sound from a distance four times in the past three weeks. The hounds had found their quarry. The man turned, his entire body trembling. Seymour felt his own shoulders relax. The Old Ones were smiling on him. The spell had worked.

“We have a little time now,” he said. “The hounds think they have found you.”

The man glanced once at Seymour and then looked away. The man’s reaction–or lack of reaction–stifled some of Seymour’s pleasure at his success. The man should have been surprised that a magician had helped him. Instead he seemed to accept it. Seymour shrugged inwardly, wondering who the man was and why Lord Dakin wanted to kill him.

They walked across the path leading to the hut. Grass almost as tall as Seymour brushed against them, tickling his skin and making him itch. He was glad that he hadn’t cut the grass away from the path. It would be hidden to anyone who didn’t know it was there.

The hut was made of stone and smelled damp. Seymour stepped ahead of the man and pushed open the heavy wooden door. Inside, the hut was dark and chilly. The fire had gone out. Seymour had to squint to see the furniture. He helped the man into a chair beside the fireplace, then stacked fresh wood inside the hearth, and started a new fire. When he had come here the first time, he had used the last of his luck to do a simple child’s spell on the fires made in the hearth. Any smoke rising from the fire would be colorless and odorless. He was glad that spell had succeeded.

As soon as small flames licked at the logs, Seymour rose. The man hunched in the chair, his hands to his face, breathing heavily. Seymour found his water bucket, dipped a cup in it, and touched the man gently on the shoulder. The man raised his head and opened his eyes.

He took the cup from Seymour and drank. The man’s gulping noises were loud in the quiet room. When the man finished, he leaned back and closed his eyes. Within seconds his breathing was easy and steady.

Seymour stared at the man for a moment. His mother had taught him healings for burns, mostly as a protection from his own mangled spell-casting, but she had never taught him how to treat cuts and lacerations. Seymour had watched her, though, when she worked in Lord Dakin’s house. She always cleaned the wounds first.