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  And he was afraid of Amanander now, he realized, afraid for some reason he could not articulate in any sane way. Perhaps he was only exhausted. He shook his head and took a deep breath. There was only one way to deal with the situation. He had to be as honest with Amanander as he tried to be with the factions in the northwest. “I see we remember events differently. But I cannot raise my hand against Roderic. The country is too unsettled—Dad’s disappearance has caused shock waves from the Settle Islands to Atland. Unless and until Roderic shows himself to be unfit to rule, I am bound by my Pledge of Allegiance to serve him. As, I might remind you, are you.”

  Amanander gave him a hard stare. “I counted on you, brother.” Alexander recoiled, as their eyes met. Whoever, or whatever, it was that glared out of Aman’s eyes wasn’t the brother he knew. Actually afraid, he glanced instinctively away, out the window. Outside, the sky was a uniform blank gray, as though the sun had been erased. “Very well, brother,” continued Amanander, his voice cold as a cutting wind. “I will not raise my voice at this Convening, and I will not forget anything you’ve said to me this morning.” Startled at the implicit threat, Alexander looked over his shoulder and saw that Amanander was no longer in the room.

  Chapter Nine

  The great hall of Ahga Castle was bright with the light of more than a thousand candles, and the voices of more than a thousand people rose and fell beneath the gentle melody of the music played on the mezzanine above. From his place at the high table, Roderic surveyed the hall, which was packed to overflowing with not only all the usual residents of Ahga Castle, but the Senadors and their retinues as well. Servants scurried between the tightly packed benches and tables, carrying trays and baskets filled with steaming food, or rolling great barrels filled with wine and ale and mead up from the cellars below the kitchens.

  Brand sat at his left hand, Obayana, Senador of Kora-lado was placed at his right. Gartred had obviously understood Roderic’s message of the previous night, for she sat three or four places away, between Amanander and Phillip. But no matter what he might think of her personally, Roderic had to admit that the woman knew her duties well. The seating of nearly fifty Senadors, who were as jealous of any privilege, and sensitive to any perceived slight, as the most petty matron, required the strategic genius of a General. If Peregrine were to replace her, her responsibilities would be formidable indeed.

  Peregrine sat at a table just below the dais, the downy head of his daughter bobbing against her shoulder, the wine-flushed faces of the women nearby soft with smiles for the infant. He leaned back in his chair. Although the day had been as long as any he could remember, he was curiously exhilarated. The men who had always addressed him by name, or as “boy” or “son,” now called him “lord,” rose when he entered the room, and did not sit until he gave permission. It was his first taste of the honor given the King. No wonder Abelard had seemed to bask like a lycat in the sun.

  The day had been full of unspoken tensions, but even Phineas was pleased that the Convening had gone as well as it had. Although Roderic had been worried that the incident in Atland would be raised, there had only been one tense moment, when Harland of Missiluse had risen to contend that Amanander should be Abelard’s rightful heir. But even in his absence, the King cast a long shadow, and most of the Senadors seemed to believe that Abelard would return alive and well. Amanander himself had stayed notably in the background, coming forward in turn to kneel and swear the Pledge of Allegiance with the rest.

  Beside Roderic, Obayana quietly sipped his wine, as he listened to young Nevin Vantigorn, the heir of the First of the Lords of Mondana. Old Niklas was dying and Nevin was sure to be confirmed as the new Senador by the time of the next Convening. Obayana’s face was the color of the southern desert sands, and his eyes were dark and slanted in the manner of many in western Meriga. But about the man was a quiet alertness and Roderic sensed the man missed nothing. His fortress high above the Kora-lado Pass was one of the most impregnable in Meriga, and one of the most strategic, for it guarded the main trade route between the West and the rest of the country. Abelard had gone there for succor during Mort-main’s Rebellion, and the bond between the two men had never been strained.

  Roderic beckoned to the boy who stood behind his chair, and obediently he refilled Roderic’s goblet. Brand paused in peeling an apple for his wife and murmured beneath the cover of conversation, “I’d like a few words, Lord Prince.”

  “Please, Brand. There’s no need—“

  “Perhaps not in private.” Brand’s dark eyes were full of meaning, but his face was carefully blank.

  Roderic glanced around. Obayana was still engaged in conversation with Nevin. Roderic shrugged. “Well?”

  “It’s about the men in Amanander’s retinue—the four who are his personal bodyguards.” Brand hesitated, and Roderic narrowed his eyes. It was unlike his brother to search for words. “I’ve had complaints from some of the men in the barracks where they are housed—nothing specific, nothing of a disciplinary nature. So I sent my son to speak with them, to try to draw them out. I told him to report back to me any impressions he had—anything at all. I even sent them some of the best of the honey mead—” here he gave an apologetic shrug “—but according to Barran, they would not drink. They almost would not talk.”

  “Not at all?”

  “Oh, they answered questions readily enough, but wouldn’t say anything otherwise.” Brand frowned. “Barran wasn’t able to tell me anything specific. Finally I went to talk to them myself. I had the strangest feeling.” He stared at Roderic, and in the candlelight, Roderic was amazed to see Brand still struggling to find the words. “It was as if—as if I did not exist for them, except when I spoke. As if they were in another place.” He broke off and shook his head. “I am sorry, Roderic, that’s the best I can do. But I must tell you this. My flesh crawled while I was in the presence of those men. If I did not know better, I’d say they weren’t men at all. I’ve never felt anything like it—even touching a Muten didn’t make me feel that way.”

  “You were afraid?”

  Brand hesitated once more, and in that long moment, Roderic felt a touch of inexplicable fear. “Not for my life,” he said finally. “For my very self.”

  Roderic stared at his brother. It was nearly inconceivable that Brand, who had led men into battle for more years than Roderic had been alive, should be afraid of anything which walked on two legs.

  “But that’s not all.” Brand drew slow circles on the linen with his goblet. “Amanander has been asking a lot of questions. Not about anything you might expect. About a woman Dad was involved with once, a long time ago, before you were born. Her name was Nydia Farhallen.”

  “Nydia Farhallen?” Obayana leaned into the conversation, startling Roderic. “Forgive the intrusion, Lord Prince, but it’s been twenty years since I heard that name.”

  “Indeed, Lord Senador,” answered Brand. “It’s been twenty years or more since that name was spoken beneath this roof. My father kept her at Minnis until…” His voice trailed off.

  “Until what?” interrupted Roderic. “Why is Amanander suddenly interested in a woman Dad knew so long ago?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know.” Brand stared out over the crowded hall, a faraway look on his face. “I remember her.”

  “Every man who’d ever seen her would remember her,” said Obayana.

  “Why?” Roderic was astonished by the wistful expressions on the faces of both men.

  “Because she was beautiful.” Obayana sipped his wine. “Oh, there are many beautiful women, especially here in Ahga, but the Lady Nydia surpassed them all as the sun outshines the stars. When she walked into the room, it was as if every other woman faded from sight. She was gentle and kind, but I don’t think her beauty brought her any happiness. She often struck me as sad and more than a little lonely.”

  “She was pledge-bound to Dad,” said Brand. “Ostensibly that was the reason he kept her at Minnis after he married your mother, R
oderic. But everyone knew the real reason.” Brand cocked an eyebrow at the question on Roderic’s face. “He couldn’t bear to be away from her. She’s the reason he built Minnis—there was some suggestion from the Bishop of Ahga that Nydia was a witch. In fact, there was a trial right after Mortmain’s Rebellion. He sent me to rescue her. I took her up to Minnis, and that very year he began the construction of the fortress you know. Minnis was just a hunting lodge before that. It couldn’t have withstood a hunting party. Now it could withstand ten thousand men.”

  “At the least,” said Obayana. “I have never been there, but I have seen the plans.”

  “All that for a—a consort?”

  “She was never his consort,” answered Brand. “Oh, it was clear she shared his bed. And while she did, he never looked at another woman. But then, right before you were born, there was some sort of quarrel, some falling out. I was gone in those years—fighting the Harleys in Arkan—and I never really knew the story. But by the time I came home, Nydia was gone from Minnis. And Dad never spoke of her again.”

  “Where did she go?”

  “You know the high tower north of Minnis, the one that rises up over the trees?”

  “The witch’s tower?” Roderic nodded.

  “It’s said that Nydia is the witch who lives there.” Brand shook his head.

  “But why—why if Dad loved this woman, if she was so beautiful—why would she go there? And you say she was pledge-bound? What—“

  “There was always something more to their relationship than either of them ever said,” Obayana mused. “But it was generally believed that Nydia had a brief affair with Phineas and bore him a child, although Phineas has never by word or action confirmed that.”

  “Phineas?” Roderic could not contain his disbelief. This was too much information, too many mysteries all at once. He shook his head as if to clear it. “But why Amanander’s interest in this woman? She’s probably dead by now. And if Phineas has never confirmed the rumor, perhaps his child died as well.”

  “I agree,” said Brand. “But after Amanander is safely on his way back to Dlas—where you had better order him immediately—I think it might be wise to send a patrol up to the tower north of Minnis and just check out whatever might be there.”

  Roderic took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Yes,” he nodded at last. “Very well. And as for Amanander’s guards—”

  “I’ll have them watched, Lord Prince.”

  Roderic looked beyond Brand at Amanander. Before him, the food on his plate looked untouched, but he reached for a large red apple from a bowl by his elbow. He glanced up at Roderic and his mouth curved into a semblance of a smile. He raised the apple to his lips, and as he opened his mouth to take a bite. Roderic thought he saw it move. Roderic gasped. The air seemed thick, as though the very nature of it had changed, as though it lacked the element to sustain life. He tried another breath; his lungs would not accept the air. He glanced around the table, and in that instant the feeling vanished, and no one else seemed to have noticed or been affected.

  Amanander sat motionless, the thing held to his mouth. From Roderic’s viewpoint, it appeared to be some small creature. He sank his teeth into it and red blood stained his lips. Roderic felt a chill of revulsion. He blinked.

  Amanander smiled as he chewed and tossed the core of the apple into the bowl.

  The babble of voices in the great hall could not reach the dank tunnels in the subterranean levels beneath Ahga Castle. The squat figure paused as it emerged from a tunnel, cocked its cloaked head, and continued to wade through waist-deep water. Light shone in a steady beacon from the heavy cylinder in its hand. Overhead, leathery wings flapped and sinuous bodies slithered as the darkness of centuries was penetrated. Little splashes sounded here and there as small creatures hurried out of its way.

  In the middle of the open cavern, the figure paused. Walls of broken, crumbling masonry rose to chest level. The intruder tucked the cold-fire lantern into the cloak’s voluminous folds, and scrambled up onto the crumbling deck. It smoothed its wet robes and withdrew the lantern. It trained the beam in all directions in a wide arc, and instantly there was a scurry and a flutter of activity. Light reflected off the shattered surfaces of glass and tile centuries old. Satisfied, the Muten slipped through the old archway, where a flight of broken steps led up to the next level. An ancient sign, hanging at a crooked angle, proclaimed “CONGRESS.” The Muten settled on the old staircase and, focusing its beam of light into the yawning abyss above, closed its eyes and began a low, crooning chant.

  Fifteen floors above, Amanander paused on his way to Gartred’s rooms. Although she had to be a bit bruised from his attentions of the night before, she had seemed quite amenable to his suggestion that they continue their relationship this evening. He hoped he had satisfied every one of her dark desires. He knew that she had his. Almost.

  It would never have been his choice to take her on the cold rough stones of the battlement. But who was he to gainsay a lady’s wishes? Certainly not when the lady was so willing as Gartred. At least she had been in the beginning. Toward the end, he had sensed a certain reluctance to experience some of her darker fantasies. But he never allowed second thoughts to interfere. And there were a few things he’d like to introduce to her tonight, a few things she hadn’t even begun to dream of. Things better done in the privacy of a bedchamber, where her cries wouldn’t be heard quite so readily, or if they were, easily dismissed. He had alerted his bodyguard to discourage any well-intentioned inquiries.

  Now the mindcall sounded louder and louder in the inner recesses of his head, and he peered over his shoulder. The corridor was deserted, only a few candles burned in the sconces set high in the walls. He listened intently for another minute more, and then with a frustrated sigh started off for the steps, moving as quietly as a predator through the darkened castle.

  He heard tired voices coming from the servants’ quarters and the kitchens, and drew back into the shadows with a curse. But the servants were too busy with the monstrous task of cleaning up after the feast to notice him.

  The mindcall burst impatiently in his brain, the summons loud and urgent. He shut his eyes and concentrated as Ferad had taught him, pulling the energy out of the dust motes which swirled in the air. He blasted a message back and was satisfied to feel the echo of the other’s pain.

  Finally, he threaded his way through the kitchens, past the weary scullions and exhausted maids, through the baskets and barrels of provisions, the shining utensils, the heavy pots and pans, and bunches of herbs hanging from huge hooks in the ceiling beams. On a bench in a low passageway, a scullion snored. Amanander glanced at him with contempt and continued on his way.

  Beneath the kitchens were the crypts, where the bones of long-dead Ridenaus moldered into dust. A steady beam of light beckoned him on. His boots made a quiet shuffle across the uneven floor, and mice skittered and rustled as he passed. At the top of the steps, he paused. “Well?”

  The Muten at the bottom jumped to attention. “Gr-Great Lord! My name is—”

  “I don’t care who you are. I know who sent you. What’s wrong?”

  “Why do you think something’s wrong, Great Lord?” The Muten’s voice was sulky, petulant.

  For answer, Amanander reached down and hauled the Muten up by the neck of the robe. Its secondary arms flailed wildly, and it gave a muffled shriek. “I know something’s wrong when your master sends a miserable runt like you into Ahga. Give me your message or I’ll pry it out of your mind myself.”

  The Muten closed its eyes and swallowed. “Please. Put me down.”

  Amanander set the creature on the top step, so that he could stare it in the face. He felt the fear skitter through its mind as though the emotion were his own.

  “My—my master bids you have a care, Great Lord. A messenger has gone to the Pr’fessors of the College—my master says the laboratory is discovered—“

  “By whom? Who sent the message?”

  “The
one called Vere.”

  Amanander turned away with a curse. “Vere? That useless, sniveling, coward? Vere has discovered Ferad’s whereabouts? Has this information reached the Elders at the College?”

  “We—we—”

  “We?”

  “I—I don’t know, Great Lord,” the Muten whispered. “He—he reached the one called Jesselyn and died there of the purple sickness. But the one called Everard took the message—“

  “Jesselyn? Jesselyn Ridenau? And Everard Ridenau? My brother and sister?”

  The Muten nodded vigorously.

  “By the One. And Vere? What of Vere?”

  “He has gone, Great Lord. Into the desert, into the mist. My master—“

  “Your master is a fool.” He pushed past the Muten, and glared at the great crest of the Ridenaus carved into the granite of the closest tomb. “It is no longer safe for him to remain in Dlas—” Abruptly, Amanander broke off and slammed his fist against the stone. “And Vere—Vere must be found. Do you understand?”

  The Muten nodded eagerly. “I will tell him, Great Lord.” He turned to go, but Amanander stopped him.

  “Wait.”

  The Muten cringed.

  “I want you to wait. Depending upon what happens in the next few days, I may need to leave Ahga and go looking for Vere myself. I will need you to take the message back to Ferad.”

  “My brothers search for the one called Everard. My master says that when he is found, he will be slain. And the one called Jesselyn—she, too—“