Chasing the Prophecy
Page 103
Rachel nodded woodenly. Was he really so superior? Or was he trying to con her? Maybe he underestimated her. She couldn’t wait years to challenge him. Galloran had less than three days. Would she get another chance like this? One on one, with Maldor weakened from sending out torivors? Here he sat, leering crookedly and coughing like a weak old man. If she meant to take action against him, this could be her best and only chance.
Maldor wiped his lips. “You really are a stranger here in this world. You do not appreciate who I am. Perhaps that is for the best. Insulting to a degree, but also strangely refreshing. As our relationship progresses, I will share with you some of my abilities, to establish primacy. You should not have to serve as my apprentice while doubting my prowess.”
Rachel looked around the room. Her attention focused on a sheathed dagger resting on an end table. They were alone, Maldor seemed totally off his guard, and she would probably never find him in a weaker state. Speaking a command, Rachel unsheathed the blade; then, pouring all her fear and frustration into the directive, she drove it toward the form bundled on the chair.
Maldor mumbled words, and the dagger curved away from him, stopping with the point less than an inch from Rachel’s throat. How had he done that? She had pushed hard enough to send that knife through Maldor and the chair behind him, yet it had completely slipped from her mental grasp. Motionless, she stared at it, sweat beading on her brow. Speaking in silence, Rachel tried to grab the knife with her mind, but it felt more slippery than a living thing.
“It will take more than that,” Maldor said, letting the dagger fall. “However inept, that was unwise.”
Angry and embarrassed, Rachel ordered his chair ablaze, throwing everything she had into the effort. Flames would erupt all around him. Both chair and occupant would swiftly be reduced to cinders. Maldor muttered a brief phrase, canceling her command. The gathering heat dispersed, and Rachel fell to the floor, her body shuddering uncontrollably. As the seizure subsided, Rachel was left with a queasy stomach and a blinding pain behind her eyes. She knew that Maldor had not directly afflicted her with any of the symptoms. They were the consequences of her failed Edomic mandate.
“Fire is more easily quenched than summoned,” Maldor instructed. “You leave yourself extremely vulnerable if you try to call fire in the presence of another wizard. Would you care to attempt another attack? You are looking unwell, Rachel. As much as my misery would enjoy the company, perhaps you should yield.”
Rachel fought to her feet. Her head was pounding. Her good judgment warned that he was clearly her superior. To attack again would only give him another opportunity to harm her. But she could not surrender. Her friends were counting on her to be strong.
In Edomic she suggested that Maldor fall to the floor. He flinched forward and then tensed for a moment, lips trembling, bloodshot eyes furious. After an instant he relaxed and began growling suggestions of his own. Rachel found herself picking up the fallen dagger and holding the tip to her throat. He kept talking. Rachel tried to resist his suggestions, but the words were making her hazy. She found herself sitting down on the sofa and pricking both of her thighs with the dagger and then plunging it into a cushion beside her. None of the actions had been her decision. Nobody at Mianamon had ever been able to make her feel this helpless. She was little more than a puppet. Maldor stopped talking, and she sagged back against the sofa, breathing hard, dizzy. Her skull felt fragmented. Her ears ached deep inside.
“How dare you seek to control a will such as mine?” Maldor spat, real anger coloring his tone for the first time. “Attempt it again, and I will open your throat for such insolence.”
Rachel heard him as if from far away. It was almost impossible to focus on anything but the pain flashing through her skull and raking the backs of her eyes. Dimly she grasped that Maldor was so outraged because her suggestion had momentarily worked. For one tiny instant, a period no longer than the space between heartbeats, he had almost obeyed. Only with real effort had he resisted. And he had not liked that at all.
“I can see that you are in no condition for further conversation,” Maldor continued. “Allow me to briefly explain the terms of your apprenticeship. Whether to test me or to flaunt your inability, you have shown yourself capable of treason. As insurance against further treachery, I will give you the eye and the ear of trusted displacers and bind a key word to you that will enable me to destroy you at my leisure. I believe you are familiar with the concept. By coming here you have already accepted this apprenticeship and the attending safeguards.
“At present you require rest. I want you healthy in time to watch my armies crush the pitiful allies you brought into my valley. I may deem that the pain incidental to your failed assassination is punishment enough. Or I may decide otherwise. Either way I will have my servants prepare a concoction that will hasten your recovery. For now you have my permission to sleep.”
Maldor uttered a brief Edomic suggestion, and consciousness fled.
CHAPTER 29
DESTINY
Staring from the window of his room at East Keep, Tark contemplated the virtues of a singlehanded assault against Felrook. Beneath a sickle moon, pale highlights gleamed on the black stone of the fortress, making it appear only half-substantial in the darkness, a ghostly blend of light and shadow.
Tark gripped the windowsill. His hands were large and strong for his stature. He felt the edges of the masonry digging into his calloused fingers. How would he mount his solitary assault? Paddle across the lake, cloaked in darkness? Quietly scale the cliffs and then the wall? Or would it be more honest to charge up the path in broad daylight? After all, the point was to die.
He bowed his head, reliving Rachel’s abduction in his mind. Lord Jason had charged him to protect her. Io had fallen defending her. Even the displacer had risked his life. But at a word from the girl Tark had stood aside and let the lurker bear her away. She had protected him! It was supposed to be the other way around!
Shame curdled in his gut. It was a disturbingly familiar sensation. He didn’t deserve a clean death. He could have had one many times. Plenty had been offered. He might have had a good death if he had gone off the waterfall with his companions. He would have earned a noble death if he had continued to fight Maldor rather than accept an invitation to Harthenham. It would have been a worthwhile death to go back for Lord Jason at Harthenham. And it would have been a gallant death to perish defending Rachel as his lord had requested.
Tark had found reasons for running away every time. The waterfall had seemed pointless, as had his private war against Maldor. Dying alone at Harthenham had struck him as a more fitting end for a craven. But Jason had come. After Harthenham, Tark had needed to protect Jasher’s seed. And then earlier today Rachel had ordered him to stand down. He would have had no chance of stopping the lurkers. Giving his life would have made no difference. Tark supposed that every coward had his reasons.
Maldor wiped his lips. “You really are a stranger here in this world. You do not appreciate who I am. Perhaps that is for the best. Insulting to a degree, but also strangely refreshing. As our relationship progresses, I will share with you some of my abilities, to establish primacy. You should not have to serve as my apprentice while doubting my prowess.”
Rachel looked around the room. Her attention focused on a sheathed dagger resting on an end table. They were alone, Maldor seemed totally off his guard, and she would probably never find him in a weaker state. Speaking a command, Rachel unsheathed the blade; then, pouring all her fear and frustration into the directive, she drove it toward the form bundled on the chair.
Maldor mumbled words, and the dagger curved away from him, stopping with the point less than an inch from Rachel’s throat. How had he done that? She had pushed hard enough to send that knife through Maldor and the chair behind him, yet it had completely slipped from her mental grasp. Motionless, she stared at it, sweat beading on her brow. Speaking in silence, Rachel tried to grab the knife with her mind, but it felt more slippery than a living thing.
“It will take more than that,” Maldor said, letting the dagger fall. “However inept, that was unwise.”
Angry and embarrassed, Rachel ordered his chair ablaze, throwing everything she had into the effort. Flames would erupt all around him. Both chair and occupant would swiftly be reduced to cinders. Maldor muttered a brief phrase, canceling her command. The gathering heat dispersed, and Rachel fell to the floor, her body shuddering uncontrollably. As the seizure subsided, Rachel was left with a queasy stomach and a blinding pain behind her eyes. She knew that Maldor had not directly afflicted her with any of the symptoms. They were the consequences of her failed Edomic mandate.
“Fire is more easily quenched than summoned,” Maldor instructed. “You leave yourself extremely vulnerable if you try to call fire in the presence of another wizard. Would you care to attempt another attack? You are looking unwell, Rachel. As much as my misery would enjoy the company, perhaps you should yield.”
Rachel fought to her feet. Her head was pounding. Her good judgment warned that he was clearly her superior. To attack again would only give him another opportunity to harm her. But she could not surrender. Her friends were counting on her to be strong.
In Edomic she suggested that Maldor fall to the floor. He flinched forward and then tensed for a moment, lips trembling, bloodshot eyes furious. After an instant he relaxed and began growling suggestions of his own. Rachel found herself picking up the fallen dagger and holding the tip to her throat. He kept talking. Rachel tried to resist his suggestions, but the words were making her hazy. She found herself sitting down on the sofa and pricking both of her thighs with the dagger and then plunging it into a cushion beside her. None of the actions had been her decision. Nobody at Mianamon had ever been able to make her feel this helpless. She was little more than a puppet. Maldor stopped talking, and she sagged back against the sofa, breathing hard, dizzy. Her skull felt fragmented. Her ears ached deep inside.
“How dare you seek to control a will such as mine?” Maldor spat, real anger coloring his tone for the first time. “Attempt it again, and I will open your throat for such insolence.”
Rachel heard him as if from far away. It was almost impossible to focus on anything but the pain flashing through her skull and raking the backs of her eyes. Dimly she grasped that Maldor was so outraged because her suggestion had momentarily worked. For one tiny instant, a period no longer than the space between heartbeats, he had almost obeyed. Only with real effort had he resisted. And he had not liked that at all.
“I can see that you are in no condition for further conversation,” Maldor continued. “Allow me to briefly explain the terms of your apprenticeship. Whether to test me or to flaunt your inability, you have shown yourself capable of treason. As insurance against further treachery, I will give you the eye and the ear of trusted displacers and bind a key word to you that will enable me to destroy you at my leisure. I believe you are familiar with the concept. By coming here you have already accepted this apprenticeship and the attending safeguards.
“At present you require rest. I want you healthy in time to watch my armies crush the pitiful allies you brought into my valley. I may deem that the pain incidental to your failed assassination is punishment enough. Or I may decide otherwise. Either way I will have my servants prepare a concoction that will hasten your recovery. For now you have my permission to sleep.”
Maldor uttered a brief Edomic suggestion, and consciousness fled.
CHAPTER 29
DESTINY
Staring from the window of his room at East Keep, Tark contemplated the virtues of a singlehanded assault against Felrook. Beneath a sickle moon, pale highlights gleamed on the black stone of the fortress, making it appear only half-substantial in the darkness, a ghostly blend of light and shadow.
Tark gripped the windowsill. His hands were large and strong for his stature. He felt the edges of the masonry digging into his calloused fingers. How would he mount his solitary assault? Paddle across the lake, cloaked in darkness? Quietly scale the cliffs and then the wall? Or would it be more honest to charge up the path in broad daylight? After all, the point was to die.
He bowed his head, reliving Rachel’s abduction in his mind. Lord Jason had charged him to protect her. Io had fallen defending her. Even the displacer had risked his life. But at a word from the girl Tark had stood aside and let the lurker bear her away. She had protected him! It was supposed to be the other way around!
Shame curdled in his gut. It was a disturbingly familiar sensation. He didn’t deserve a clean death. He could have had one many times. Plenty had been offered. He might have had a good death if he had gone off the waterfall with his companions. He would have earned a noble death if he had continued to fight Maldor rather than accept an invitation to Harthenham. It would have been a worthwhile death to go back for Lord Jason at Harthenham. And it would have been a gallant death to perish defending Rachel as his lord had requested.
Tark had found reasons for running away every time. The waterfall had seemed pointless, as had his private war against Maldor. Dying alone at Harthenham had struck him as a more fitting end for a craven. But Jason had come. After Harthenham, Tark had needed to protect Jasher’s seed. And then earlier today Rachel had ordered him to stand down. He would have had no chance of stopping the lurkers. Giving his life would have made no difference. Tark supposed that every coward had his reasons.
