Raven's Shadow (Raven Duology #1) - Page 16

The next morning Tier was bone-tired, but more peace- ful than he'd been for a long time. Seraph was here. Well, not here. She'd gone off to play diplomat among the Travelers, which was pretty strange – the only person that he knew less suited to diplomacy was Alinath.

"Keep your guard centered," he told one of his Passerines. "Remember this isn't about first blood, it's about who lives and who dies. Make sure you're one of the former and not the latter."

He paced behind his troops, watching foot positions, when a servant caught hold of his sleeve.

"Telleridge requests a moment of your time."

"Toarsen," called Tier. "Kissel. Run the drills for me. If I'm not back, break when every man's shirt is wet through."

Toarsen stepped out of the line and made a quick mocking salute as he did. He didn't look nearly as tired as Tier felt, and he'd had no more sleep. It made Tier feel old.

The servant took Tier to one of the smaller rooms that served as the Raptors' meeting halls and opened the door for Tier's entrance. The room had been partially screened off with a delicately carved wooden panel. Four black-robed figures sat in gold upholstered chairs ringed in front of a cheerful fire, two empty chairs in the center. Telleridge, also in his robes, stood in front of the fire.

Telleridge looked up when Tier entered, though the others kept their eyes on the fireplace.

"Ah, thank you for attending me. Baskins, you may leave."

The servant shut the door, leaving Tier alone with the Path's wizards.

"Come have a seat, Bard," Telleridge said in an unreadable tone.

Warily, Tier sat on the edge of one of the empty chairs as the Master took the other. He had the odd impression that Telleridge's calm was just a thin film spread over turbulent waters.

"You have cost us much, my friend," Telleridge said. "Whatever possessed you to try and take the Passerines from us? Did you think that we would allow it?"

"You aren't doing anything with them," replied Tier. "There are a number of fine young men amongst the Passerines – and a few who are a waste of shoe leather."

"They are useful to us." said Telleridge, sounding distantly amused. Tier took note of the effect, planning to save it for some time when he wanted to be obnoxiously patronizing. "Just as they were. We've called a Disciplining, which will return control to us, but I fear that very few of these Passerines will make it to Raptor now. I was particularly upset when you took the Sept of Leheigh's young brother. I had great hopes for him. And it's too bad about the young musician, Collarn – we shall miss having music in these halls when you both are gone."

"I see," said Tier, deciding to let the Master direct the conversation into the gently ironic tones he seemed to prefer. "I take it that my demise will happen a little sooner than you planned?"

There was a noise from behind the screen, but it was too faint for Tier to identify.

"I'm not any happier about it than you are," the Master said. Apparently the others had all been told to sit and be silent, because none of them had done anything more exciting than breathe since Tier entered the room. "Owls are few and far between, and this haste will destroy our plans. That makes two failures in as many years. We've never had this much trouble controlling a Bard – I assume it's a Bardic talent you are using to win over the Passerines?"

Tier frowned at him. "How could it be? You've told me that you have my Order under control." He'd used the methods Gerant had taught him instead, because he'd never relied on his Order for much – unlike a Traveler-raised Bard.

"I wonder that none of our other Bards have done such a thing," said the Master.

Because a Traveler Bard was hardly likely to worry about the lives of a bunch of solsenti thugs-in-the-making, thought Tier, but he didn't say anything.

The Master waited politely, but when Tier didn't respond he shrugged. "At any rate, I, personally, am most distressed at a few other things you've cost us," he got to his feet and strolled to the screen, "Come, Bard. And maybe you will be sorry as well."

For want of a better thing to do while surrounded by five mages, Tier got slowly to his feet and followed the Master's beckoning. The others got up silently and followed.

A woman was tied naked to a chair, and someone had obviously been testing, in the time-honored fashion, how well flesh fared against knives and other things. Her face was so battered that it was unrecognizable – but Tier knew the hair.

"Myrceria," he said.

She stiffened when he spoke, and he realized that her eyes were so swollen that she must not be able to see at all.

"Myrceria has been telling us things," said Telleridge. "Haven't you, my dear?" He patted the top of her head, then took out a dagger and cut off the gag.

"I'm sorry," she said, her face turned blindly toward Tier. "I'msorrysorry."

"Shh," said Tier, putting some force behind the words. "It doesn't matter. Shh."

She kept shaking, but she quit apologizing. Either his words worked, or Seraph was right about the unraveling of the Master's spells and she'd felt the magic push he'd given them.

"I was angry about the Passerines," said Telleridge. "Angrier still when I questioned Myrceria this morning and realized that instead of keeping an eye on you as she was supposed to – you had taken her from us, too. She has been a valuable tool for years, and you've ruined her."

His movement was so quick, so unexpected that before Tier realized what the Master had done, Myrceria's blood showered him from chest to knee.

Telleridge pulled up her head and held it through the throes of death. "She's been so useful over the years. Where am I going to find another wizard who is so good at getting close to our Traveler guests? I have no more daughters." He dropped her head and wiped his hands on his robes. Black robes hid the blood much better than Tier's light-colored clothing.

It wasn't, thought Tier, that he hadn't believed they were evil. He had just forgotten how sudden death could be, and how final. He'd liked Myrceria.

Tier still had his sword from practice, but this was too well-orchestrated. If his sword would have done him any good, they'd never have let him keep it.

Had Myrceria betrayed their plans? She hadn't known it all – but she'd known enough.

"But you know the thing that bothers me the most?" asked Telleridge, intruding on Tier's grief and anger. "How did you get to the Emperor? Do you know how long it took us to come by a harmless ruler? How many people gave their lives so that I could mold the proper emperor? Then suddenly, he is making an effective grasp for power. It wasn't until I spoke with you the other day that I drew a parallel between what you've done to the Passerines and what happened to the Emperor."

Telleridge shook his head. "And what have you left us to rule in his place? Avar is next for the throne; but although he is an idiot, he is a well-meaning idiot. You've ruined Toarsen." He heaved a theatrical sigh. "Not that it will matter to you how much trouble you've caused, but I thought you might enjoy sharing the stage tonight. I'll leave you for last so you can watch your little projects die."

Tier stared silently at Myrceria's corpse.

"Ah, no words for me, Bard?" taunted the Master.

Yes, thought Tier, it was time to see just how much control they had over his Order.

"Only cowards torture women," he said, not bothering to dodge the staff that took him across the cheekbone.

Toarsen rubbed his hair dry with a towel as he walked down the secret ways that would lead him back to the rest of the palace. Alone, he allowed himself to smile with remembered satisfaction at Avar's face when Toarsen had burst into his rooms and demanded to be taken to the Emperor.

Firmly convinced that it was some stupid wager, Avar had almost refused him. But he hadn't.

Toarsen was surprised about that. His brother had seldom paid any attention to him at all, except to order him about.

When he'd sworn on his honor that he carried an urgent message to the Emperor, Avar had heaved a martyred sigh, rolled out of bed, dressed, and done as Toarsen asked. On the way back to their rooms after they'd spent the night in councils of war, Avar had patted him on the back, an affectionate, respectful gesture he'd never given Toarsen before.

The passage Toarsen had taken opened not far from his rooms in an obscure storage room. He glanced cautiously out of the room, but there was no one in the hall to see him as he slipped out of the storage room and into his own.

He'd changed into the uncomfortable clothes of court and was halfway to the door before he realized that there was a vellum envelope on the cherrywood table near his bed.

His pulse picked up as he slit it opened and read the invitation.

"Now?" he said.

Seraph curled up, enfolded in the bedding that smelled of Tier. She'd left him while the sun was only a faint hint in the sky. It had been even easier than she expected to talk Benroln and his clan into serving as the Emperor's foot soldiers. She'd left Lehr and Jes sleeping and left the sheep farm just outside of Taela where they'd been staying to come back here.

Tier hadn't been here when she'd returned to tell him of her success, but she'd known that he would have to continue his normal habits or risk alerting someone. So she'd climbed into his bed and reminded herself that he was alive. If someone came in, they'd not see her unless she wanted them to.

Someone knocked at the door.

"Tier? It's Toarsen. Are you back?"

Reluctantly, she got out of the bed and pulled the covers flat. She opened the door and motioned the young man in.

"He's not here," she said.

"I can't find him anywhere," Toarsen said, sounding a little frantic. "The Disciplining is set for early this evening, and I can't find Tier."

"It's all right," said Seraph, his anxiety lending her calm. "He'll want to know, but it's Phoran, your brother, and my people who really need to know right now. Go to your brother and tell him to get word to Phoran and to get his men and meet my people in the passages we discussed. I'll get the Travelers, and after you've told Avar, you go about your day as if nothing were wrong. Avar can get word to Phoran. Just make sure you are armed when you go to the Disciplining."

He nodded and left the room. Seraph set out at a dead run through the labyrinth of passages – there was no time to waste. She needed to get Benroln. Tier had survived a long time here without her to watch over him. She had to believe he'd be all right.

Avar and his men waited for them as he'd promised, in a long, dark corridor large enough to have held twice as many people. Relief crossed his face when he saw Seraph and the Librarian's clan.

"I don't like this," he said without waiting for introductions. "Toarsen said he couldn't find Tier anywhere. He looked for Myrceria to give her a message for him, but he couldn't find her either, and none of the other whores knew where she was. He said that he'd last seen Tier at sword practice, but that one of the Masters called him to a meeting. Then I couldn't find Phoran in any of his usual haunts, though his horse is still in the stable."

Seraph pushed her anxiety aside and forced herself to think clearly. The Path were upset with Tier for taking control of the Passerines… so they took him and… Her thoughts stuck there. Would they simply have killed him?

"I don't see anything to do except follow the plans we laid out last night," she said at last.

Beside her Benroln nodded his head. "If what Seraph told us about this group is true, this is the best chance to destroy them. It would be better for us if the Emperor is there to bear witness for us – but the Path needs to be destroyed here and now."

"Neither Tier nor Phoran are essential to the destruction of the Path now," said Seraph with painful honesty. "Without Tier, though, we might have to fight the Passerines, too. And if Phoran is not there, Benroln, your men will have to try and get out as soon as this is finished and take all of our fallen, too. Maybe Telleridge has taken them for part of the performance tonight. If the Masters have hurt Tier, they'll have a hard time controlling the Passerines."

"You don't know the Passerines," said Avar.

"I know my husband," she said.

She didn't miss the uneasy way Avar's people surveyed the exotic lot of armed Travelers or the puzzled looks aimed at Brewydd. Old women were not usually part of a battle force – but Healers could look after themselves on a battlefield.

"We need to take them tonight," Seraph said again.

Avar nodded slowly, then turned to the troops around him. In short, punctuated sentences he described what they were doing and why.

The white robes she'd taken from an unwary Raptor were woolen and itchy, but Seraph stood quietly next to Brewydd, who was carrying on a conversation with the white-robed Raptor beside her, talking, of all things, about growing tomatoes.

Hennea had laid spells on all of them: look-away spells to keep them from being noticed and minor illusions to hide things – like Seraph's lack of height and her sex – that would otherwise attract attention. When Hennea had told them all to avoid being noticed, Seraph didn't think that exchanging gardening tips with the first Raptor they happened upon was what she'd had in mind.

Seraph looked out over the room. Jes was somewhere, too, though he hadn't bothered with the white robes. No one would see him until he wanted them to. Lehr was with the rest of their little army.

The Passerines were gathered already; she'd counted them. Assuming Tier's protege was the boy they intended to produce, all of the Passerines were there. Though they didn't have hoods on their robes, Seraph found that the robes obscured enough differences that she had a hard time picking out Toarsen, the only Passerine she knew, from the rest. There were chairs in rows in front of the stage, and the Passerines were all directed to those; even as she watched, the last of them took his seat.

There were more Raptors than she'd hoped, nearly three times the number of Passerines. Well, enough, she told herself, it would be even less likely that anyone should spot the cuckoos in the mix.

"Followers of the Secret Path."

Seraph stiffened at the whiff of magic that accompanied the words so that they rang out and appeared louder than they really were.

The room quieted. Brewydd softened her voice to a murmur, but continued comparing the benefits of growing tomatoes in various soils.

It had been Raven magic that gave power to the words the black-robed man standing in front of the curtained stage had said. Why hadn't he used the Bardic Order? A Bard would have done more than just overpower the talking of the crowd: he could have caught the attention of everyone, even tomato zealots like Brewydd's conversation partner, and held it.

Perhaps they didn't know that, or maybe they just preferred to work with more familiar powers. A solsenti mage, she thought, would be used to having magic work a certain way – like Raven or even Cormorant. They wanted the Orders for power, but even Volis had had no use for subtlety.

"When you come to our Eyrie you take vows," said the wizard. "First, never reveal to anyone what we do here. Second, to attend the Eyrie at least three evenings a week. Third, to obey the Raptors and the Masters over and above all other oaths. One of you has broken the last two of these rules. We are here today to discipline him – not in hope of reformation, because he will never again be welcome to our Eyrie."

"Telleridge sure knows how to capture his audience, doesn't he," marveled the Raptor talking to Brewydd, his voice shaking with age, but he returned to his favorite subject with more ado. "I find that the tomatoes I grow in the orangery – "

"But that is not all we are here for." The Master's voice dipped into sorrow, but Seraph thought he overdid it a bit. "In recent weeks it has come to our attention that our Passerines have been led astray by the magic of our Traveler guest. The magic that keeps his at bay, here in our halls, is dependent upon your resistance. If you want to be his follower, his servant, there is nothing our magic can do to protect you. So we have to take more stringent measures with him."

They had Tier. Was he alive?

"There is a third problem that has held our attention these past few years. Our Empire, founded by heroes, built by men of vision, men of intelligence is, even now, presided over by a drunken sot. Bored with the available women and wealth, he has decided to interfere with the men who try to preserve the Empire. Who is to save us when our frivolous Emperor chooses to change the ancient boundaries of the Septs? Who? We shall save ourselves."

He raised both hands and the great curtains behind him creaked and squealed as they slowly opened to the Master's magic.

On the stage was a frightened young man, naked and chained by his wrists to a ring in the floor of the stage. In the center position was the Emperor. They hadn't stripped him – too worried about arousing the wrong emotion in the crowd, judged Seraph – but he was wearing the same robes he'd been in last night, and they looked the worse for wear. But it was the third man, Tier, her eyes found and locked on.

He was alive, she thought with a rush of relief; she could see his ribs move as he breathed. Like the Passerine he'd been so worried about, he'd been stripped naked and chained, but he lay curled up and still, his skin red and black from beating.

Rage rose up in Seraph like a red tide. She stared at the Master who orchestrated this mess and took what her magic could tell her. He was a solsenti wizard of moderate power, aided by two Raven rings – one of them very old.

"We deal first with the greatest offense. Phoran the Twenty-Sixth, we, the Followers of the Secret Path, judge you unfit to rule our Empire!" The Master turned to the audience and gave the signal for a response of some kind. A roar of approval perhaps?

But it never came, because Phoran spoke.

"Actually," he said with dignity that caught at the heart of every person in the room, "it's Phoran the Twenty-Seventh. I've always felt that since the old farmer started the Empire, he ought to get credit for it."

Even Brewydd's new friend quit speaking.

Seraph felt a relieved grin tug at her lips. Tier was doing better than he appeared if he could give Phoran's mundane words that much power.

Phoran looked a little taken aback by the response his quip had drawn. Go, Tier, thought Seraph fiercely. She glanced at Telleridge, but even with the partial immunity the Raven rings he wore gave him, he was too close to Phoran to do anything except listen.

Phoran was not at a loss for more than a breath. "Some of what Telleridge has said is correct. I have not been the best of emperors, but I didn't realize that anyone needed me to be that. Like you, I thought that the Council of Septs – ruled by people like Telleridge here – were far more capable than I ever could be. That should have been true."

He was taking too long, thought Seraph, watching Telleridge struggle against the Bardic touch. Tier couldn't possibly maintain his hold on the whole room for very long, not in the condition he was in.

She stepped away from the wall and began making her way down toward the auditorium. If she could get to him, she could help.

"They are intelligent men, and well-trained to their office. If they chose to rule justly, they could surely do so. But they rule instead for personal gain. Some of you were encouraged to work a little mischief in the street of the weavers last year. Did you know that the council leader's riches increased by half after that incident because the weavers now pay him for the right to sell their goods in their own craft stalls? Gorrish is one of the Raptors who sent you out to attack the weavers – did any of you gain from that?"

Phoran took a deep breath, and Seraph felt the crowd stir as the Bardic touch faded momentarily and then strengthened again. With the shifting of the crowd, her only path to the stage closed up.

"Those Raptors among you will know that almost half the Passerines who are here will die mysteriously shortly after they graduate to being Raptors. Some of you know that it is not so mysterious, because you aided in those men's deaths. Why kill so many? Because some of you are already outgrowing the trappings of childhood. Some of you realize that it is not necessary to prove who you are by how much destruction you can cause – you are the first ones they will kill. Like this young man beside me who was targeted only because he loves old instruments more than he loves tormenting the younger Passerines."

"I haven't been much of an emperor," Phoran said. "I've disappointed people who cared about me all of my life – just as you have. Mostly, my failures have been passive failures – things not done rather than great and terrible acts. Just as yours have been, until today. If you harm men whose only crime is to fall afoul of a power-mad politician, then you take a step that cannot be undone."

Tier crooked his neck and peered out of his one good eye to see how Phoran was holding up. Something, he thought, something had walked close to the Emperor. It leaned nearer as if it were whispering something in Phoran's ear, then faded from Tier's view.

Jes, he thought. Anxiously, Tier looked at the audience, but they didn't seem to have seen that nebulous shape.

Phoran took a breath. "You have a choice tonight. You can hold to the oaths you made to the Masters of the Path. Realize that they have not given you an oath in return – as I did when I became emperor. I owe you fair hearing in disputes, I owe you a place in our society, and I owe you an emperor worth serving in return. You must choose now." He looked up, scanning the crowd. When he saw what he sought he nodded once. Then he began speaking rapidly. "Choose who you fight carefully, because this is a battle for the soul of the Empire."

He swung one of his chained wrists to indicate the wall of the Eyrie and, as if he'd wielded the magic himself, the wall disintegrated into so much plaster dust and splintered wood. The noise and magical backwash distracted Tier, and he lost his tenuous hold on his own magic.

The failure of his control hit Tier like a blow to the head. It awakened every inch of the screaming flesh the Masters had abused. He cried out, and his vision blackened. The sounds of battle erupted around him, and half-dazed as he was, he couldn't remember where he was or what he was doing here without a sword.

The destruction of the wall caught Seraph by surprise. She had been supposed to help bring it down, but, unable to see over the crowd, she must have missed the signal – or Hennea had used an opportune moment in the Emperor's speech.

Irritably, Seraph poked the tall, bulky Raptor who stood in front of her. Since she'd used a touch of magic, he jumped aside with a yelp, pushing several other men over and briefly clearing a visual path for Seraph just as Avar's men and the Travelers began pouring into the room with a war-cry that was even more effective in a room designed as a theater than it would have been on an open battlefield.

The astonishment of such strangeness held the Followers of the Path oddly still until the first of Avar's men gutted the nearest Raptor.

A man near Seraph drew his sword, but he was looking toward the far side of the room for his enemy, so he never even noticed Seraph until her knife intersected his belly. A young blue-robed boy drew his sword and finished the job – but gave her white robes a wary look.

"I'm Tier's wife," she said, tossing back her hood.

"Pleased to meet you," he said, grunting the last as he used his sword to catch the blade of a Raptor who was a bit quicker than most to realize that the Passerines were as much a threat as the fighting men who'd come through the wall. "I'm Kissel."

She had to get to Tier. Discarding the robes both because they got in her way and because they might get her killed by one of Tier's Passerines, she aimed for the most direct path to Tier, whom she still couldn't see.

The fighting was widespread by now, and the heaviest fighting lay between her and the stage. Seraph called her magic to her.

Blindly, instinctively, Tier tried to rise to his feet, since a down man on a battlefield was a dead man, but something held his wrists and he couldn't call any strength to his muscles.

"It's all right, sir," said Toarsen's familiar voice. "I'll keep you safe."

"The Emperor," managed Tier, falling back to his damaged knees and biting back a moan. Screams were for people who weren't as weary as he was.

There was a series of clanking sounds, battle sounds that ended in a grunt and a thunk. Toarsen, panting a bit, said, "Kissel's with him, and someone cut him loose and gave him a sword. I never knew that Phoran knew how to fight. Never thought" – another thunk and gasp – "someone as fat as he is could move that fast."

"The Masters?" asked Tier. Seated and calmer, he found that his vision was coming back a bit, but not well enough to sort through the chaos of battle. He wiped his good eye with the back of his hand. His hand came away wet, but he could see again.

"I don't see 'em," Toarsen said. "I was watching Avar and his men boil into the room. When I looked back, this place was covered in fighters and I thought I might come up here and bear you company a bit. We've a nice view of the fighting up here – those two boys of yours can surely fight."

Someone in white blundered into the small area of stage that Toarsen was guarding, and he sent the Raptor on his way with a kick that impaled him on a sword held by a man with moon-pale hair.

"Gessa," said the man.

"Anytime," said Toarsen.

"Collarn?" asked Tier, his returning vision allowing him to see that the boy's place was empty.

"Naked as a newborn," said Toarsen cheerfully. "You're not able to get high enough to enjoy the sight, but I can see him from here. Remember all those times you told him that he carries his guard too high?"

"Yes?"

"You should have made him fight naked."

Tier laughed, one short bark, then held his breath and his ribs. "No joking right now," he managed.

Lehr rolled onto the stage and then bounced up and ran over. "Good to see that you're alive, Papa. But I think I speak for us all when I tell you that I'd rather not worry about you again for a while. Parents are supposed to worry about their children, not vice versa. Let me get a look at those chains."

He held the manacles in his hands and closed his eyes. After a moment, the locks clicked open. Lehr grinned at his father's expression.

"I don't know how opening locks ties in with being a Hunter either, though Brewydd explained it to me a dozen times." He sounded pleased with himself. He looked at Toarsen.

"Go ahead," said Toarsen. "I'll stay here."

"Thanks," said Lehr, and he leaped off the edge of the stage.

Having completed the task Hennea had given him, the Guardian took a quick glance around the room. Lehr was fighting at Avar's side and accounting for himself quite well. Just as his gaze found Seraph, she raised her hands and tossed a half dozen men into the air. Obviously she was in no need of immediate protection.

He turned to go to his father, but the Sept of Leheigh's brother was standing over Papa's crumpled form and seemed to be having no trouble fending off attackers. The wizards, who posed more of a threat, had other things on their minds than hurting his father. A double handful of Passerines were doing their best to get onto the stage and attack the Masters – too many of them to allow the wizards' magic to be an effective weapon. The Guardian knew – remembered from other battles fought long ago, before Jes's father's father had been born – that keeping the Passerines away would soon weaken the solsenti wizards too much for them to be a danger to Tier.

Satisfied that they were all safe for the moment, the Guardian jumped off the stage to return to Hennea's side, slipping between fighters who mostly moved out of his way without ever looking at him directly.

The noise of swords clashing and men screaming excited him almost as much as the smell of blood.

A man bumped his arm and the Guardian turned on him with a snarl and a flash of fangs. If the man hadn't retreated, falling backwards over a body on the floor, even Jes could not have held the Guardian back.

Hennea stood alone near the fallen wall. He couldn't tell if her spells to avoid being seen were working on everyone else, or if they were just smart enough to stay away. Mother had told him that spells usually didn't work right on him.

There were two men attacking a boy who was stepping back rapidly to avoid being overrun. The Guardian could see that the boy wouldn't stay away from their blades for much longer. He glanced at Hennea, but she was all right. The Guardian dropped the sword he held and reached for the form of the great cat – he wanted to taste blood, not feel flesh part against steel.

He picked the nearest Raptor and leaped onto his shoulders, driving him down to the floor. As his claws sank deep into meat, the man's pain and fear washed through Jes. The Guardian reveled in the searing sensations, which only raised his bloodlust further.

The other antagonist paused to stare, but the Passerine recovered a little faster and killed his opponent before beating a rapid retreat. Death and the boy's fear fed the battle rage and Jes turned his attention to the man who lay beneath him.

"Jes!"

The great cat halted, his mouth already opened to still the struggles of his prey.

"Jes, come back. I need you!" Hennea sounded frantic.

Her hand touched his tense back. "Jes," she said.

Trembling, fighting, Jes forced the Guardian to step away from the downed ma