Chapter 20

Coldhope Keep, the Imperial League

She could feel it, and that was the worst part. Down, down, far below her—for the room where the people of Coldhope had imprisoned her was at the top of one of the keep's slender towers, well above the ageless catacombs—the statue waited. No, bided—for it was biding. The mind (could it be called a soul?) within the statue was marking the time until… what? Something terrible was going to happen, Shedara knew. Something to do with the shadows. The only comfort of knowing the Hooded One was down there was that it meant its dark pursuers, the twisted shadow-kender and the cloaked killer who sought the statue, hadn't found it yet. Probably didn't yet know where it was. But they would find out. Of that she was sure. They would close in and they would take it, and the lord and lady of Coldhope and all their soldiers and servants would die hideous, bloodless deaths.

And so will I, she thought grimly. Unless I get out of this place. Unless I find a way.

Lord Forlo had done a good job of imprisoning her. It wasn't the first time men had caught Shedara. Dungeons, slave-mines, city jails… she'd spent her share of time in many such places. It went with being a moon-thief. So, however, did escaping. She knew many spells for escaping—spells to open a hole in a solid stone wall, or to make a cell door burst its hinges, or to charm a guard into leaving a door unlocked, or to freeze iron bars so that a good, solid kick could shatter them. But spells didn't do any good if you couldn't cast them, and Forlo's guards had made sure she wasn't able to do that. Her hands were bound with bowstrings and a silk gag stifled her voice. They had taken her spellbooks, too. Shedara could still sense the magic of the moons—growing tantalizingly stronger as they waxed, then easing back when they waned—but she couldn't do anything about it. Even when they fed her, they kept two loaded crossbows trained on her, ready to shoot if she spoke or moved oddly. When she was done, the gag went back on.

The days trickled by. Enough time to get to know every rock in the bare fieldstone walls and floor of her cell, a round room fifteen feet across, with two high, barred windows that let in spears of sunlight and the scent of the sea. There was a locked trapdoor near the middle of the floor, leading down a circular staircase to the storeys below. A simple cot. A chamberpot. And that was all.

Thalaniya would be wondering about her and worrying that something had gone wrong. Her brother, too. She had no way of telling them she was in trouble, for the warriors of Coldhope had taken the pearl amulet, the charm of speaking. Without it, the Voice remained silent to her ears. Perhaps her people would send a party to rescue her. Perhaps the Silvanaes were on their way to break her free.

As the days pooled into weeks, then on toward a month, however, that hope began to fade. If the elves wanted to break her out, where were they? Why were they taking so long? She could think of no answer.

One evening when she was dozing on her cot, as close to real rest as she'd gotten since her capture—the cold prickling of the Hooded One, so close to her and yet so far beyond her reach, kept her mind from absolute rest—she heard muffled voices outside and the scrape of a key in a lock. She sat up quickly and got to her feet like an uncoiling serpent. She'd had her dinner an hour before—chicken broth and unrisen bread, the same as every day. Her minders never disturbed her between then and breakfast. Her flesh tingled as the latch slid back and the door moaned open, grinding inward a little, letting in lamplight. Shedara tensed, sidling slowly toward the door…

A man came through. At first, she didn't see who it was. Nor did she care. In an instant, she decided this was it: she would escape now or not at all. Biting down on her gag, she spun herself around, lashing her foot toward the tall figure's head…

A hand caught her ankle and shoved it away. Off center, with no arms to balance her, Shedara crashed sideways into the wall. She let out a grunt of pain as her forehead scraped the stone. She felt the warmth of blood on her face, then a sharper pain as her knee hit the floor. Nausea welled up her throat.

"That was stupid," said the man in the doorway. "Did you really think I wouldn't be ready for you?"

Forlo.

Shedara glanced up, tears of pain and frustration welling in her eyes. He looked down at her, a smug smile on his face. The two guards who always watched her cell came up behind him, crossbows ready. She glared poison at all of them, then collapsed onto her back with a groan.

He bent down beside her, a rag in his hand, and pressed it on her forehead. It hurt, but helped with the bleeding. "We need to talk," he said. "If I take your gag off, you'll be good, yes? I don't want Iver or Ramal here to have to shoot you."

Shedara stared up at him, eyes narrowed. What trickery was this? Slowly, she nodded: yes. Forlo reached down and untied the gag. The knot came loose and air poured into her lungs, cool as mountain water. For a moment, the world seemed to glow around her, then it subsided. Forlo stepped back, eyeing her.

"Y—" Shedara began, then her voice caught and she spent the next several breaths coughing. Forlo produced a wineskin, and tossed it to her. Whatever the stuff inside was, it burned like gnomish fire—but it brought her voice back, too. "You have waited a long time to… question me."

"I have been occupied," Forlo replied, and he shrugged. "I could have just had you killed. Some lords would have done that and not lost a night's sleep."

"I know." With a struggle Shedara sat up, propped her back against the wall. "So it makes me wonder, why didn't you?"

Forlo shrugged. "I wanted to know more about you. Why you're here. What the statue means to you."

"Too bad."

The other men, Iver and Ramal, grumbled at this, but Forlo held up a hand to silence them, grinning. "Really? And here I thought you might be willing to make a bargain. Ah, well." He rose again, turned his back, started toward the door and held out the gag to the guards. "Give her another month, then we'll see how she feels."

"Wait!" Shedara yelped. She got to her feet, somehow. Forlo stopped, then turned.

"Yes?" he asked. A ghost of a smile quirked his lips.

She sighed, liking this man and hating him all at once. Another time, another place, and she'd gladly have shared a bottle with him. Now, though, his cleverness grated.

"Fine," Shedara said. "Let's talk."

Neither of them told the whole truth, and they both knew it. They sat at the broad table in Coldhope's great hall, Forlo with a big, battle-scarred minotaur beside him, Shedara backed by Iver and Ramal. He let her eat real food, roast boar and turnips and some kind of greens, with more awful wine to wash it down. She told him the tale of the Hooded One, or most of it. She left out the part about Maladar's spirit being bound within the statue, nor did she mention that the Voice wished to destroy the statue. She did tell him about the shadows, though, and how they had slaughtered Harlad's crew, the dwarves of Uld, and Ruskal. His mouth hardened at this.

"I'd heard Ruskal was murdered by thieves," said the minotaur.

Shedara raised her eyebrows. "You heard wrong."

The bull-man snarled, but Forlo touched his arm. "Never mind, Grath."

The minotaur sat back, looking furious.

"As for us," Forlo went on, "war is coming to these lands, and soon. A Uigan horde masses across the Run. They will cross when the moons align."

Shedara caught her breath. She could sense the moons, their places in the sky, and where they would head next. "A month from now," she breathed.

"Twenty-nine days," Forlo corrected. "I don't have enough men to stop them, and no more are coming. So I'm willing to offer you a deal."

"The statue," Shedara said. "You'll give it to me? For what in return?"

Smiling without humor, Forlo reached beneath the table and pulled out the amulet. Thalaniya's pearl of seeing. It glimmered with enchantment as he set it on the table. "I think I can figure out what this is," he said. "It lets you speak with your queen. Right?"

Shedara nodded. "You want me to contact her."

"Yes."

"And what, ask for reinforcements against this horde?" she asked, scoffing.

"Yes."

Shedara closed her mouth and regarded the man care fully, trying to read him. He seemed honest, but blood of Solis, he was deluded. "My people will be reluctant to help," she said.

Forlo spread his hands. "And I'll be reluctant to give up the Hooded One. But I think we can both manage something, given the circumstances. Do we have a deal?"

The medallion gleamed. Shedara stared at it hungrily. The statue for a few hundred elven bowmen. It seemed a fair trade to her. She hoped Thalaniya would think so, too.

"I will try," she said. "But there is a problem. The magic is weak now. The moons are waning. I can't use the amulet's power for another week."

"A week," Grath muttered. "We don't have a week to spare!"

"Is there no way you can work this spell now?" Forlo asked."

Shedara frowned, her eyes on the medallion. She stroked her chin for a long moment. Then she raised her eyebrows. "Well, there may be one way."

The standing stones rose high around them, disappearing into the evening fog, their pinnacles lost in the sky. A fine rain, slightly too heavy to be mist, left the rocks glistening and made the torches gutter. Shedara shivered in the growing dark, cold to the bone: the weather here was strange for summer, as if time followed different rules in the hulderfolk's circle.

The ring stood near Coldhope, a little less than two leagues to the southeast on a bald hilltop that rose above the woods. The Witch-fangs, the local folk called it when they had to call it anything. Mostly they bared their teeth at the tall, white plinths—seventeen in all, six of them fallen over and three leaning precariously—to ward off whatever evil they contained. Cattle that strayed too near the Witch-fangs never gave milk again, or so the stories went. Children sometimes disappeared, though none in living memory. Magic was strong there.

At least that last part's right, Shedara thought, taking a deep breath as she stood in the circle's midst. She could feel the power in them, floating all around her like the air after a lightning strike. She marveled at what the hulder had done with these rings: storing enchantment in them like water in a cistern, to draw from when the moons were weak. She shut her eyes, drinking the power in, her nostrils flared. Sensing.

"Well?" asked Lord Forlo. "Is it enough?"

Shedara ignored Forlo and ignored the surly minotaur with him when he growled and reached for his axe. They needed her. They could learn to be patient. At last she opened her eyes again, looking toward them, faded shapes in the gloom.

"It will do," she said. "Though the damage done to the circle weakens it. I may need your help."

"How, help?" snorted Grath, the bull-man. "We are not wizards."

"But you can give me strength," Shedara replied. "I may need your aid, to hold the spell. Will you give it, if the amulet's power isn't enough?"

Forlo nodded. "I will. But no tricks, if you want to keep your head."

Shedara rolled her eyes.

"I don't like this," Grath grumbled.

"You'd like our odds facing the Uigan alone even less, I think," Forlo said. The bull-man didn't answer.

"All right," Shedara declared. "Give me the amulet and cut my bonds. The sooner we start, the better. And stay near me through the spell, lord. If I have need of you, it will happen quickly."

Forlo and Grath exchanged glances. There was a lot of history in that look. Then the Lord of Coldhope strode forward into the circle, moving swiftly through the wet, knee-deep grass. When he reached Shedara he drew a dagger from his belt, reached for her wrists, and cut the bowstrings. They fell away, and a moment later a thousand tiny knives began to prick her palms. She rubbed them together, getting the blood moving again and willing the feeling away. She reached out and he drew the amulet from a pouch. It was quiet, the pearl dark and inert. He let it unspool between his fingers, dropping it down on its chain, then let it fall into Shedara's hand. It felt heavy and cold, like something dead. She shivered again, staving off a question that was growing in her mind.

Begin, she thought. Do it now, before someone loses their nerve.

The gestures were different here. Rather than drawing the magic down from the moons, she adjusted them to focus on the stones instead. Somewhere up there in the fog were orbs of red, silver, and black. These were the hulderfolk's means of collecting sorcery, substituting for Solis and Lunis and—alone of the three in being close to full—Nuvis. They opened to her mind without hesitation, giving up a measure of their power to one who could work it. Just as one did with the moons, except their potency was limitless.

The words came without much bidding, though her tongue struggled at first, after so long, to form the complicated sounds. The magic flowed strangely, sluggishly—it had been pent up in the stones for a very long time. The medallion grew warmer, but only slightly. After a few moments she knew she'd been right. She would need help, the strength of another to help knit the spell together. She looked to Forlo, still speaking the spidery words, and nodded.

To his credit, the man didn't hesitate. He stepped forward, hands outstretched. She made one last, grand gesture—gathering in as much power as she could—then thrust her own hands out, clapping them to his. Their fingers locked around each other.

She felt something then, and nearly pulled away at the shock of it. She'd used common folk to help her with difficult spells before, knew the feeling of them—the strange emptiness where the Art ought to be. But Barreth Forlo was not empty; there was something there. Not much, just a glimmering down deep, but something out of the ordinary. She frowned, studying his face as she drew on his strength and brought the incantation to its climax. The stones' magic surged through her, burning in her veins. The man had no idea he was ensorcelled.

Something to use there, she thought. Something to look into later. Then she put it from her mind.

At last, the medallion was glowing, silvery light pooling on the pearl's surface and beginning to leak out. It had gone from warm to hot in her grasp. She extended her will, forcing it to become stronger, to form images… sounds. Show me, she thought. Show me Armach-nesti. Show me the Voice.

The moment the picture began to waver into view, she knew something was wrong. It was instinct that told her, nothing more, for all she could see was Thalaniya's glade, at the rim of the seeing-pool where she had first glimpsed Maladar the Faceless, high atop his golden palace. It was dark in the elf-home, the last vestiges of twilight fading violet in the west. Stars burned above in a cloud-dotted sky. The trees rustled and murmured in the warm night wind. She felt like she was there, in Armach-nesti, rather than on the rain-soaked hilltop among the hulderstones. Gritting her teeth, she willed the image to form itself clearer, sharper, and stronger.

"Where are we?" murmured Forlo. His face was slack, like a sleepwalker's. He blinked, peering around blearily. "What is this place?"

"Armach-nesti," Shedara replied. "My people's homeland. No heerikil—no outsider—has ever come here and lived."

He nodded, taking that in. Tears sheeted his eyes, and she knew it was the beauty of the place that overwhelmed him. The perfect blend of tree, rock, and water, that simply did not exist in the wider world. Certainly not in the lands of man and minotaur. The starlight danced on the pool's surface, disturbed by ripples from the waterfall on the far end. Astarin's fingers, she missed this—all the more so after so long in Coldhope's tower!

Yet something wasn't right. It was like the smell of some pest that had died within a house's walls… had died, and was rotting. Just the faintest whiff of decay. Grimacing, she looked this way and that.

"Highness?" she asked. "Thalaniya? Where are—"

The shadow struck her from behind. She felt its blade rake across her back and only reflex kept it from cutting her open. Twisting and sucking in a breath at the hot pain the creature's knife left behind, she spun to face the threat. It was one of the little ones, the shriveled fiends that once had been kender, before they became something else. She heard Forlo cry out at the sight of it and saw him draw his sword. She wondered, briefly, what Grath might do… on the hilltop… the man would have unsheathed his weapon there as well. If the minotaur tried to defend Forlo, he would surely disrupt the spell. She prayed to all three moons that Grath would stay put.

Apparently, the moons listened.

She stared at the little shadow and heard a second one creeping up, just out of sight. "Another behind us," she said. "Kill them. Now, or we're dead."

Forlo needed no more prompting. He lunged, his sword lashing out. He was good with the blade, for the swing knocked the kender-thing's dagger away, then bit deep into the creature's side. It shrieked, and a breath later it unraveled, turning to smoky shadowstuff before her eyes. Even as that was happening, its mate leaped at Shedara. She raised her hands, wishing she still had her knives… Abyss, anything to defend herself with. A tree branch, even. She stumbled back, trying to give ground, and fell at the seeing-pool's edge. Her hand dipped into the water: cold. The kender-thing was on her in a blink, its blade darting toward her throat…

Then it, too, screamed and tore asunder into charcoal wisps that vanished on the night breeze. Forlo stood over her, bits of shadow dripping off his sword like blood. He looked down at her. She looked back. He was confused, she could tell, but he held out his free hand and helped her to rise.

"What in Hith's Cauldron were those?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I have no idea. But they seek the statue."

He turned pale and grimaced. "What of your people? Where are they?"

Shedara didn't answer. To put words to her thoughts might make them real. She looked around again, for any sign of the Silvanaes. Her brother… Nalaran… Thalaniya. Anyone. But there was no one in the grove, and there were no lights among the trees. The elves were gone. She swore under her breath.

"Shedara," Forlo pressed. "What—"

A horrendous noise from above cut him off and made them both start and look up. It was the shriek of a gnomish steamwhistle, the roar of a tylor, and the bellow of a madman, all at once. Forlo was bewildered, but Shedara knew it at once, the recognition sliding a cold spear into her stomach.

She had seen dragons before. She knew what they sounded like.

And there it was… yes, winging high above, black against the night sky, its passage blocking out the stars. The wyrm was enormous, with eyes that burned like dying coals and scales that glistened like obsidian. Its batlike wings seemed to cloak half the firmament as they spread wide and the dragon wheeled in a circle above the glade.

Softly, Forlo wept. The fear had taken him, and Shedara felt her own will begin to falter. A voice in her head told her to run, to hide, for the gods' sake to get away from that place. She fought it back and stayed rooted to the spot, trembling and pale. The effort nearly broke her.

There was something on the dragon's back. The wyrm had a rider, clad in black fluttering robes. She could barely make the figure out, but she knew it was the same one she'd seen coming aboard Harlad's ship. All at once, she knew what had happened. It had seen her and marked her as Silvanaes. It thought she had taken the statue and had gone to Armach to seek it… and to take vengeance.

She thought of the dwarves of Uld, lying broken and scattered around their village. She pictured the elves the same way, bloodless and dead. Rage exploded in her, and a bloodthirsty scream burst from her mouth, aimed up at the dragon and the one who rode it.

I will find you next, said a voice. It sounded like it came from within her own head. I will do to you what I did to her.

And with that, the cloaked form let something drop. It was small, white, round, and trailing a silver streamer. Moving slowly, Shedara reached out, stepped forward, and caught it. She looked down at the thing in her arms and groaned in horror.

It was Thalaniya's head, the eyes rolled over white and the mouth pinched with agony. The torn flesh where her neck had been was gray. Bloodless.

Shedara stared at the head, bile surging up her throat. Then sensation fled her, and she dropped to her knees, then onto her side. The world drained away.

The world came flowing back, cold, misty. She opened her eyes. She was back on the bald hill, near the feet of the Witch-fangs. Forlo and Grath stood over her. They had dragged her out of the circle. The amulet was cold in her hand once more. She opened her fingers, and wasn't at all surprised to see the pearl had broken, a long jagged crack running through its heart. Its magic was gone and would never return. She let it fall to the ground.

For a long time, no one spoke. Then Forlo shifted, turning his sword in his hand.

"That was the Voice," he said. "Wasn't it? They killed her."

Shedara nodded slowly. Thalaniya's severed head wasn't there with her, but she could still sec it in her mind. She could see the fear and agony on her face. She took a deep, shuddering breath and let it out.

"I don't think," she said, her voice seeming to come from far away, "that my people will be able to help you."