The Shadow Games: The Chronicles of Arianthem VI Page 11

  Y’arren patted Idonea on the arm. “He is much the same. Weak but feisty.”

  “Your magic helps him,” Idonea said knowingly.

  “Perhaps,” Y’arren said.

  Dallan thought that was likely a very true statement, for magic surrounded and permeated the elven seer, flowing outward in an invisible mantle that covered everything for leagues. The Ha’kan were not good with magic, but even she could sense the power in the old matriarch. It was a sensation she had felt only around Talan, but where Talan’s magic flowed darkly, Y’arren was like a wellspring of light and warmth.

  They sat down on benches that surrounded a stone fire pit where a bed of embers softly glowed. Elyara brought them water and Y’arren’s attendants brought tea. Rika made a note to ask what kind of tea she was served because not only was it flavorful, it was invigorating and relaxing at the same time.

  “So I understand you are now a Baroness?” Y’arren said.

  Idonea laughed. “Are you using your second sight or do you now have spies in the imperial court?

  “We are not the Alfar,” Y’arren said, “so I have no spies. And I did not need any supernatural means. Raine was here with Feyden and Lorifal.”

  “She needed a tincture,” Elyara explained. “She was poisoned by one of her assassins.”

  “Is she all right?” Dallan exclaimed.

  “Oh yes,” Elyara said, and Y’arren chuckled. “She had little more than an upset stomach. The extract she asked for was to detect future poisonings, and I think it was more for Lorifal and Feyden’s sake than hers.”

  “Relax, Princess of the Ha’kan,” Y’arren said, “it is not Raine’s destiny to be slain by an assassin.”

  Dallan found the words curious, and to what they alluded, even more so. “You speak of that prophecy.”

  “Yes. ‘The Dragon’s Lover, felled by the closest of allies, carries into death without dying that which saves all worlds.’”

  “It seems very obscure,” Rika said doubtfully, then regretted her doubt when those brilliant green eyes slid her way. But there was no rebuke in that gaze.

  “Most prophecies are obscure. Words are inadequate to describe events that are seen but not understood.”

  “There is a fourth line, is there not?” Dallan asked.

  “Yes,” Y’arren said, nodding, “but it has thus far proven too difficult to translate.”

  “Well, Kiren is hard at work on the translation,” Idonea said. “She is a brilliant little scholar and is consumed by the task.”

  “Ah yes,” Y’arren said, “Maeva’s treasure that owns her.”

  Idonea smiled at the apt characterization. “She has ended up being a welcome surprise.”

  “Strange, the allies that fate brings you.”

  Something in Y’arren’s tone caught Idonea’s attention. Idonea suspected that Kiren, like Raine, was part Arlanian. But where Raine’s mother had been Arlanian, Kiren’s blood had to be from an ancestor centuries ago. Both were impossible because Arlanians were incapable of reproducing outside their race. But Raine had proven a unique exception, a result of a most unlikely pairing, so perhaps it was possible that the less unlikely pairing of a human and an Arlanian had produced a child in the distant past. Kiren could be a descendant of that union, for she possessed many of the hallmarks of the tragic race: beauty, sexual desirability, gentleness, artistic talent and musical ability. The seeds of Idonea’s suspicion had been planted when she observed her mother forced to restrain Raine upon first sight of the girl, whose impulse upon recognizing another Arlanian would have been to protect her at all costs.

  Now, gazing at Y’arren, Idonea felt a growing confirmation of her speculation.

  “And so the Baroness of Fireside and the Lady Storr brought a charm to negotiations that the Alfar lacked?” Y’arren asked.

  “Something like that,” Idonea replied.

  “Although that Alfar Ambassador is a wily one,” Dagna chimed in. “I would not want to be her enemy.”

  Y’arren merely smiled, then turned her attention to the Ha’kan. “And now I sense a burning question from you.”

  Dallan swallowed hard. “Have you sensed anything of Skye?”

  “Very little,” Y’arren admitted. “She is hidden well. But a short time ago I felt a stirring from the west, as did Isleif.”

  “The vial glowed,” Idonea confirmed. “It was brief, but the orientation was to the west.”

  “Then she is here in imperial lands,” Rika said.

  “Perhaps,” Idonea said, “she could be in dwarven territory or Alfar. The location was very imprecise.”

  “But she is not in the land of the Ha’kan,” Y’arren said, “nor that of the Tavinter.”

  “So we have only cut the world in half,” Dallan said grimly. “And that is only if she has not been moved.”

  “I do not think Ingrid will move her,” a gruff voice said from behind the screen. Isleif emerged and an attendant moved swiftly to his side to assist him. She helped the frail old man to the stone bench next to Idonea, who shifted over to provide him room and gave him a peck on the cheek once he was seated. He rearranged his robes as he continued speaking. “I’m not even sure how Ingrid is keeping Skye in check.”

  “What do you mean?” Dallan asked.

  “Skye is untrained, but the power in her blood runs deep. From what you’ve told me,” he said, patting Idonea’s hand, “she may be able to do things that no one else can.” Isleif grew thoughtful. “Which means that somehow Ingrid has gotten her to hide her power, and to remain passively by her side.”

  “Skye would never do such a thing!” Dallan exclaimed.

  “Ingrid can be quite persuasive,” Isleif said with fond remembrance, and Idonea swatted him lightly.

  “You old lecher.”

  “You should talk, my dear. You have had as poor as judgment as me at times.”

  “That’s true,” Idonea said without an ounce of regret, “although I do believe my mother has us both beat.”

  “Ah, yes,” Isleif said, “that will go down as the worst decision of all time.”

  Dallan did not know what they were talking about, and Rika’s words did not help.

  “That sorceress is attractive,” she mused.

  “Enough,” Dallan said, surprising even herself. “Skye would never leave us.”

  “Of course not,” Rika said, indignant. “I was just saying that Ingrid, if I remember her rightly from the Academy, was bewitching. Perhaps she has befuddled Skye’s senses, made her forget who she is or some nonsense.”

  Rika’s words trailed off and the silence was substantial as Isleif looked at the Ha’kan warrior. He turned to Y’arren thoughtfully.

  “The words of the future First General are hardly nonsense. That would explain a great deal. If Skye does not know who she is, then she would not display her power or try to escape.”

  “And that may be why we cannot sense her,” Y’arren contemplated, “there is no part of her that we would sense.”

  “Would such a thing be permanent?” Dallan asked apprehensively.

  “Most spells of forgetting are temporary,” Idonea answered, “but this would have to be something greater. Skye is resistant to illusion magic, so an attempt to influence her mind would be difficult to initiate let alone maintain.”

  “But Ingrid is very powerful,” Dallan said, “she could cast such a spell.”

  “I don’t think so,” Isleif said. “Ingrid is capable of such a spell, but I think Skye would resist.”

  “But for the gods such a thing would be play,” Y’arren said.

  The cave again grew silent at the elven seer’s quiet words.

  “Yes,” Isleif said, “the gods do complicate things.”

  An attendant offered Dallan a second cup of tea and Dallan gratefully accepted. She sipped the h
ot tea, gazing into the glowing embers. The subject at hand had exhausted itself and the group was quiet for a while. Dallan’s thoughts flitted about, batted to-and-fro by the gods, sorcerers, and wizards. “Can I ask you a question?” she said, turning to the gray-haired wizard.

  “Of course.”

  “Why didn’t you help Skye during the Tavinter war against the Ha’kan?”

  The question would have been insulting had it not been asked in such a straightforward and heartfelt manner. It was almost as if Dallan were so conflicted about battling the Tavinter, she held it against Isleif for not having helped them. But Isleif’s shrewd look said he understood all, and his response conveyed he understood more than Dallan did herself.

  “She did not need it.”

  “That’s true,” Rika muttered, and Isleif smiled.

  “As painful as those years were for Skye, they shaped her into the person she is. And perhaps you seek her so desperately now because you have already felt that loss.”

  Dallan stroked her chin, absorbed in the wizard’s words. Perhaps that was true. Perhaps that was why she had asked the question, that the current situation had rekindled all the pain of that past separation. Rika put her arm on Dallan’s shoulder.

  “We will find her.”

  “You will find her,” Isleif said with emphasis, “and when you do, I need you to pass on a word for me.”

  “A word?” Dallan said. Isleif’s certitude filled her with hope.

  “Yes,” Isleif said, “a single word. Skye will know what do with it.”

  “Very well, what is this word?”

  Isleif’s eyes seemed to glow for a moment. “Ephemeral.”

  Both Idonea and Y’arren nodded in agreement, and Dallan carefully repeated the word.

  “Ephemeral.”

  “Yes,” Isleif said. “When the time is right, Skye will know what to do with it.”

  Chapter 17

  Volva lay draped on her gilded couch, the morning sun creating little patterns of gold dust upon her skin. Drakar stood before the open window, naked, and Volva admired the hard outlines of his body. It brought her more pleasure to know that his appearance was only a minor illusion, that his human manifestation mirrored his dragon form. It did not occur to her that the artifice in her own manifestation could be considered a liability, so great was her self-absorption and narcissism. She was not introspective enough to apply the standards for others to herself, or even to consider they might apply.

  A knock on the door prompted Drakar to don the golden robe draped over the chair, the one that Volva so loved to see him in because it set off his dark good looks. He sprawled into the chair next to the bed. Volva did not rise but merely pulled the silken sheet over her body, barely high enough to cover her breasts. It was hardly a modest gesture for the minor concealment merely fueled the imagination. And the young man who entered fell right into her trap as his eyes were glued to the near exposure of the breasts.

  “Yes?” Volva said.

  The man took a knee, trying to keep his eyes downcast so he could concentrate.

  “It was as you said. Talan went to Dreki’s Ridge where many dragon’s congregate.”

  “And—?”

  The man struggled for words. Bad news was not well-accepted by his mistress.

  “She was successful in rallying many of our kind.”

  Volva snatched the pitcher from her nightstand and threw it across the room with such force it sent shards of glass throughout the room. Her breasts heaved with anger, a sight Drakar enjoyed despite its incitement as Volva fought to regain control.

  “How many?” she demanded.

  “I would guess a mere handful held back.”

  Another glass flew across the room and joined the fate of the first. A speck of blood appeared on the messenger’s cheek as one of the shards did damage. He was not so bold as to reach up to wipe away the blood.

  “Get out,” Volva said, fuming, and the messenger eagerly complied.

  “I told you she was persuasive,” Drakar said mildly, once the lesser dragon was gone.

  Volva started to turn her anger upon him but controlled herself. He was a boy, but a necessary pawn. Drakar watched in fascination as the Ancient Dragon’s fury turned into an oily, undulating scheming. At that moment, he did not really want to know what she was thinking.

  “Jörmung has completely failed in finding allies amongst our kind,” she seethed.

  “I can’t imagine why.”

  Her eyes flicked to him at his sarcastic tone and Drakar marveled at how some of his kind resembled a reptile not at all and then others epitomized the snake. Even Volva’s tongue took on a life of its own as it flicked outward to moisten her lips. Admittedly, he enjoyed that tongue when it was feathering his nether regions, but not so much in a conversation. As much as he wished for Volva’s alliance, he was not willing to grovel before her.

  “Jörmung’s campaign to rape our kind into loyalty seems to be failing,” Drakar said, his sarcastic tone hardening.

  Volva felt her anger begin to spike once more, but then deflate as the truth of his words sunk in.

  “Yes,” Volva said, prolonging the “s” so it came out a hiss. “We must change our tactics. We’re going to have to go after Talan directly.”

  “I like the sound of that,” Drakar said with approval.

  “But we’re going to have to slow down her recruitment of our kind.”

  “Perhaps you should involve yourself more in the conscription process,” Drakar said, admiring one pink nipple that had slipped out from the sheet.

  “And why would I do that?” she demanded imperiously, as if such a thing were far beneath her.

  “Because you have a weapon my mother cannot use.”

  “And what is that?”

  Drakar moved to the bed, urged by the growing stiffness between his legs. He took the nipple in his mouth as Volva arched beneath the onslaught.

  “You can seduce our kind. Talan cannot.”

  Volva writhed beneath him, more snakelike than ever, thinking the observation a compliment. But Drakar’s next words disabused her of that notion.

  “My mother is faithful to her Arlanian,” Drakar murmured through a mouthful of breast, “while you are faithful to no one.”

  Chapter 18

  Dallan and Rika entered the town of Trygg and found a familiar tavern. Idonea had stayed with the wood elves to spend a few days with Isleif and Y’arren, promising to meet up with them when finished. Dallan was anxious to renew their quest since the search had narrowed, even if it still encompassed half the known world.

  The tavern was empty when they entered. The owner looked up at the cloaked figures, then blanched when they removed their hoods.

  “Not you two again,” he groaned.

  “Did you get tired of all our gold?” Rika asked him.

  “It was Raine’s gold,” Dallan reminded her.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” the barkeep said, “I like gold. But your group was nothing but trouble.”

  “We’ll try and behave ourselves this time,” Dallan said, taking a seat where she could sit with her back to the wall and watch the entrance.

  The barkeep sighed. “Something to drink?”

  “I’ll have mead,” Rika called out, and Dallan signaled to make it two. She enjoyed how deliciously casual they were allowed to be, no royal protocol, no expectations of behavior. Rika seemed to parallel her thoughts.

  “’Tis strange how low the bar is set for us in this place. He’s just hoping we don’t wreck the building.”

  Dallan grinned, although really, she and Rika had done very little damage before. Raine had rented out this tavern to stage a quest for a series of enchanted stones she wanted “acquired.” The thief she had hired needed some help on the final stage of the task, and Raine had asked for Skye to acc
ompany her. Dallan and Rika would not let Skye go anywhere on her own, and followed along. They had spent many hours in this tavern preparing for their journey.

  The timing of their arrival was either perfect or had been monitored because within minutes, two other women entered the bar. One was a lovely noblewoman dressed in a low-cut aquamarine gown that set off a luscious pair of breasts and stunning blue-green eyes. The other was a good-looking woman, lanky in build but graceful in movement, with a roguish smile that predestined all sorts of trouble.

  “Oh no,” the barkeep said, holding his head in his hands. These two were the worst of the lot. That noblewoman had showed up at the end and nearly destroyed the place in some sort of lover’s spat. Fortunately that striking one, the one who wasn’t here, had thrown copious amounts of gold in his direction. And more fortunately, the one with the silver hair and amber eyes, the one that had terrified him, wasn’t here at all.

  The Lady Jorden dismissed the man with a flowing motion of her hand. “Go take care of him, will you my dear?”

  Syn approached the bar and placed a card on the gleaming wooden surface.

  “What is this?”

  “Turn it over,” Syn instructed, and the man did so. She had to admit, as much as she had fought joining the Guild, as much as she had dreaded chafing beneath their demands, as much as she had disparaged their methods and organization, she got a little thrill at the man’s change of demeanor, the expression of fear and respect the card always generated.

  “The Guild of Thieves,” the man said, a muscle in his cheek jumping as his jaw clenched. “And what can I do for you?”

  “Nothing. Just leave us alone. And some wine for the lady and an ale for me.”