Part 9

Gabriele Basingame's wardrobe held a distressingly low number of black clothes, and almost none of them were suitable for quick movements. Black wasn't a usual color, after all, for a princess. But then, Catheryne reflected, she was hardly a usual princess either.

For one, she was about to attack the estate of one of the most powerful nobles in Eretria, and expose the treachery there once and for all.

"I don't understand," Moya Tilmitt said. "You're going to attack Lord Esten?"

"Not Lord Esten," Catheryne said, digging into her wardrobe for something both dark enough to blend to the night and light enough that she could move faster than a crawl. Jordan had run off to his own rooms to get changed as well. "It's probably his daughter Temaile pulling the strings. She's very ambitious."

"She wants to be Princess-Heir, doesn't she," Moya Tilmitt said.

"Yes," Catheryne said. "That's probably why our murderer has been building up on us the way he did. Moving up the ladder, Jordan said--he was right. And the last two attacks have taken place right here in the Palace. He's preparing to move on me."

"So you move on him first," Moya Tilmitt said.

"Exactly." There was nothing in here. She was going to need to talk to Jordan.

"I'll come with you," Moya Tilmitt said.

"No, it'll be dangerous," Catheryne said, "I'm not going to let my subjects wander into danger."

"I was about to say the same, except with the word 'students, ' " Moya Tilmitt said. "Mages-untrained can be dangerous-very. Now you and Jordan are both good-very with magic, but you're not good enough. So I will come too."

Catheryne glanced over at him briefly. He wore dark clothes and a brownish overcoat. "Can you fight?"

He gestured to the sword at his belt. "I haven't been carrying this for nothing, Catheryne."

Jordan arrived. He was dressed entirely in black and carried a second set of clothing draped over one arm. "I thought you might need this," he said.

"Bless you," she said. She stripped herself of the dress and shift she had just put on (Moya Tilmitt made a coughing sound and looked away) and stepped into the trousers and shirt, and then secured the silte at her hip and back. Jordan also had a couple of handkerchiefs, and she used one to secure her hair in place.

Jordan carried Kellon Gounold's tesada in his other hand.

She frowned at him. "Is that a smart idea?"

"It's an unconventional weapon, they won't know how to deal with it," Jordan said. "And I've been practicing with it. I'm sure I'll be fine."

She drew the silte. "Prove it."

She moved in on him, feeling the familiar heft and weight of the steel in her hands, and trusting--for the first time ever--trusting Jordan to do what he did best. And trusting herself, as well, not to make any mistakes. She wouldn't accidentally hurt him. She knew him, every inch. She loved him.

Moya Tilmitt cleared his throat. "Uh, children, do you believe-truly is this nec--"

He parried with shaft, blade and spearbutt; she attacked using both blades, as she had been taught to do, striking with one and blocking with the other but never in a pattern, switching lead hands, varying the timing and staying unpredictable. A blink, and he shifted from defense to savage attack, and now she was moving backwards, knocking the spearblade off-course with her silte, dodging from side to side as the spearbutt came at her--it was too heavy, there was no way she could deflect it. The enemy would have that problem too.

Finally she saw an opening and took it. He thrust in and she tangled the spearblade in the hook of her sacta, but he shoved through, bringing the blade to rest at her throat--only to find her refta hooked around and edging at his own jugular.

They stared at each other, breathing heavily.

"I've trained you well, I see," he murmured. Suddenly she saw the naked lust in his eyes.

"You are the best, after all," she said. Their heads leaned closer, and her mouth opened to receive him.

"If that concludes the demonstration, maybe we should go," Moya Tilmitt said.

Jordan blinked.

"Yes," he said. "It's time."

They left the Palace by a side exit and walked under the cover of night. There was no moon to light the clouds and she could barely see ten feet in front of her. Jordan led, gesturing starts and stops with his hands as people, imagined or real, passed them by. They stayed off the main roads, keeping to the shadows of buildings.

Jordan led the intrusion into the Daravon estate. He scaled the wall easily and then signaled back with a whistle that it was safe to come over. Moya Tilmitt gave Catheryne a lift up and she came over the wall; he followed a few moments later, having had a good deal more trouble from the sound of his labored breathing.

Jordan gestured to their left. A wrought-iron gate was lit by lamps and guarded by two men. They lounged at their posts, watching the world outside with calm indifference. "That gate leads to the servants' entrance. We just bypassed it. Come on."

The servants' entrance led to a small, cramped hallway, lit again by lamps, that opened at its far end into some vague, uncharted blackness. Jordan looked up in vexation. "We might as well have worn normal clothes. If there's anyone down there, they'll see us."

"Just a moment," Moya Tilmitt said, and they felt the familiar tingle of the Flow on their skin. Then arcs of Flow leapt out, and the candles went out.

"Wait a moment for your eyes to adjust," Jordan said. "Then we go."

"Why are we waiting?" Catheryne said. "If someone's down there, they'll come and investigate."

"And we won't be able to see," Jordan said. "Which will make it very hard to deal with them if they prove hostile."

His foresight was justified: when they got to the end of the hallway, they found themselves looking out at a large anteroom, pitch black and containing three now-very-nervous soldiers.

Jordan gestured for silence.

"Did you hear that?" one of the men said.

"I didn't hear nothing," said another. "You're seein things."

"Yeah, I seen all the lights go out at once, that's what I seen!" the first retorted. "You think that isn't a problem?"

"Look, shut up," said the third. "If something's coming, yelling about it won't help. So shut up, keep your eyes open, and listen."

Jordan nodded. If that man wasn't their commander, he'd take control once the trouble started. Jordan would take him out himself.

He leaned over to Catheryne's ear. "I've got the one in the center. You take the one on the left. Tell Moya Tilmitt."

Her ear left his lips in a parting whisper of hair, and returned a few moments later. She tapped him on the chin and he turned his head so she could reach his ear: "We're ready."

In the darkness their lips met briefly.

"Three... Two... One... Go."

The men were facing his direction, so there was no hope for a silent entry; instead he knew he'd need speed and silence, and the fact that, except for his face, he blended into the darkness of the room. Nonetheless, the man was expecting trouble--his sword whipped out and he parried the first few strikes. He wasn't prepared for the tesada's blunt end, though--used well, it could power straight through a parrying sword, and Jordan knew how to use it well. The spearbutt smashed into the man's temple, stunning him; Jordan stepped back and stabbed him in the chest, and he went down.

Catheryne moved aggressively, leading with her sacta held backhand in her left. Her footing was quick and sure, her attacks confident, and the man she faced was clearly unnerved by this flowing creature in black clothes and shining golden hair. The fight was over before it even began. His clumsy parries turned her first few strikes, but she caught his first attack with the spur of the sacta, knocking it up and away; a moment later his throat was cut and blood everywhere. He gurgled and gagged and fell clutching the ruins of this throat, while Catheryne stepped away.

Jordan looked to see if Moya Tilmitt needed help, but he was doing fine. Even as Jordan looked over, Tilmitt locked blades with his foe and then spun, twisting the enemy's sword from his hands. The man had time for just one panicked look before Moya Tilmitt's sword split his head from crown to eyebrows.

"Where's our man," Jordan said.

"I..." Moya Tilmitt frowned. "Actually, he's quite near here. Those men may have been there to protect him."

"Clearly it didn't work," Catheryne said. "Lead the way. We'll find him and kill him. No questions asked."

Moya Tilmitt pointed. The doorway opposite the one they had come in through led to another hallway, this one dark as well. "That way."

The men had indeed been guarding him, as evidenced by another set of three guards in another anteroom on the far end of the hallway. Halfway down, however, was the door they were seeking. Jordan opened it soundlessly and the three of them slipped in.

Inside, all was dark, save for the slight light coming in through the window. It was enough, however, to illuminate the single form lying on the bed. Catheryne heard snoring. She gripped the refta in her left hand harder. This was it. Now was the time.

The snoring stopped with a sudden jerk. And then a man's voice, deep, rough: "Wha. Who's there?"

Catheryne froze. Uh-oh.

And then: "... You're like me."

She felt the crawling tingle of the Flow, and the room's only candle burst into flame. Sitting up in bed was a man of indeterminate age--his lined face and slightly silvered hair could've been an old twenty or a young fifty. He was muscular and broad of shoulders; his clothes, and the generally shabby state of the room, suggested that he was a servant here.

"You'd better leave," he said. "It's not smart of you to stay. If... If she finds you..."

"If who finds us," Moya Tilmitt asked.

"Temaile Daravon," Catheryne said.

The man shuddered. "She enslaved me," he said. Then he smiled. "She gave me life."

Moya Tilmitt frowned. "I don't understand."

"She taught me how to become pure, and holy," said the man, beaming. "I can... Cast off this mortal coil. I can become more than I am."

"What?" said Moya Tilmitt.

"Why?" said Catheryne.

"How," said Jordan.

"It's because of... It's because of the magic, yes?" said the man. "You have it, you know it. You know the truth about it."

"What truth," Catheryne asked.

"It's a sin," said the man. "We who use it are... Impure. Evil. Blights upon the face of the earth. Oh, what sins we must have done to be cursed with this power!"

"And Mistress Daravon has taught you a way around that," said Moya Tilmitt.

"Yes," said the man, beaming. "She said that we who use magic are flawed and imperfect--men, born on the earth with a piece of the power of the gods. So we must either become evil and destructive, as is Loduur, god of thunder and night, or become benevolent and kind, like the Great Mother Kyrei. But we must get back to the gods, bring ourselves to them."

"And how do you do this," said Jordan.

"We must ascend," said the man. "We must become as the gods are. We have their power. We give. And we take away."

"Give and take away what," Catheryne asked.

"Why..." said the man. "Life."

Catheryne and Jordan traded glances. It was a brilliant scheme, on the whole. It tapped into the man's insecurities and provided a way for Temaile to manipulate him. It made her the final authority on everything he did. And, clearly, it had worked.

"She made me kill people," said the man. Strangely, he sounded sad. "I have had to kill... And many of them were innocent. No wrong-doing in their lives, not that would have merited death. I never understood. What is so difficult about killing? Any fool can kill. It's giving life that's hard." He sighed. "I think she wants me to become Loduur, He Who Brings Chaos. But what choice do I have. She..." His face lit from within. "She gave me life. I would be nothing without her."

Catheryne was silent. Here was true devotion. It was an inspiring weapon.

"Why didn't you seek out other mages," Moya Tilmitt said.

"I... I didn't know how," said the man. "How could I find them? I didn't know how to look for them, what they would be like. You, now, I know, but I didn't then. I was so new to... My powers. And then Lord Daravon found me, and took me in, and his daughter was there, and..."

Catheryne said, "What's your name, man?"

Jordan looked at her sharply.

The man on the bed drew himself up in strange pride. "Telocuse," he said. "Besson Telocuse."

"Your Highness," said Moya Tilmitt, "this is not--"

"We've come to take you away, Master Telocuse," said Catheryne. "Moya Tilmitt will train you. You will not become a god. But you will become a man."

Besson Telocuse looked at her with steady eyes.

"Your Highness," Jordan said in an undertone. "Is this wise?"

"I must agree," Moya Tilmitt said. "Your Majesty, this man has murdered women and done awful things to them both by his body and by magic. And you intend to spare his life?

"Look at him, both of you," she said. "He's harmless. He's been twisted and deceived, yes, but we can change that. We can fix him. We can heal him. He can become something better than he is now."

Jordan looked at her.

"And that's what you do, isn't it," he said. "Heal."

"Yes," she said. "That is exactly what I do."

And it was more than that. Maybe Jordan could kill in cold blood, maybe even Moya Tilmitt could... But she could not. Something in that first brush with death, something about Lord Tor Gounold's staring eyes all those months ago--they had not left her, even with all she had seen between then and now. And she had seen, seen the essential humanity in the face and form of Besson Telocuse. And there was no way she could condemn this man to death.

"Let's take him," she said, "and let's go. Tomorrow we'll bring him to my father, and he'll reveal Temaile's treachery once and for all. And there will be justice... On all who deserve it."