hallway, with several doors along it. He knew which one he wanted, though- It was the first one; the one that was open just a crack, enough to let light from inside shine out into the hall.
The staircase was lit by a skylight with frosted glass at the top; it grew darker and darker in the stairwell, until by the time he reached the door he wanted, it was as dark as early dusk. The voices on the other side of the door were very clear, and it was with a feeling of relief that left him light-headed that he realized neither of the two speakers was Palisar.
It didn’t sound as if there was anyone else there; he took a chance, braced himself, and kicked the door open. It crashed into the wall on the other side; hit so hard that the entire wall shook, and the two men sitting at a small, round table looked up at him with wide and startled eyes.
The room was well-lit by three lanterns; a smallish chamber without windows, it held the round table in the middle, some bookcases against the walls, and not much else. There were more things on the shelves than books, though he didn’t have the time to identify anything. The men had something between them on the tabletop—a ceramic scrying-bowl, he thought. So his guess had been right!
“Put your hands flat on the table, both of you!” he boomed, using his voice as he’d been taught, so long ago, to control a crowd. He hadn’t used command-voice much until the journey west; now it came easily, second nature. “I am a special agent for Leyuet and the Spears of the Law! You are to surrender!”
The two men obeyed, warily and not instantly. That was a bad sign. . . .
“We know everything,” he continued, stepping boldly into the room. “We have Hadanelith in custody, and he is being
At that moment, the last of the light faded behind him. Hadanelith was about to strike! He had to keep their attention off that bowl and on him! Or, eliminate the bowl itself—
Skandranon felt a deep-in-the-flesh pain he hadn’t felt in a decade, and it radiated out from him badly enough to make Winterhart, Silver Veil, and anyone else sensitive wince. He had been starved and dehydrated, trapped in an unforgiving position for many hours—days!—regardless of his bodily needs, and then forced to fly and fight at a moment’s notice. His wingtips shivered with the strain of burning off his body’s last reserves.
So he muttered about this and that while the last of the Eclipse Ceremony went on, purposely keeping his voice omnipresent. When at last it felt right, and Palisar was speaking to the assembled sea of people, the Black Gryphon caught Shalaman’s attention.
“Amberdrake freed me to save you, before freeing himself,” he rumbled. “He may still be in great danger from Hadanelith’s accomplices.”
Shalaman’s countenance took on a new expression, one that the gryphon instinctively knew as that of the King on one of his famous Hunts. To Skandranon’s amazement, he unclasped his ceremonial robes and let them fall, leaving only his loose Court robe, then snatched a spear from one of Leyuet’s men. “You tell me where,” Shalaman said, steely-eyed and commanding, while his personal bodyguards fell in behind him.
The Black Gryphon nodded, then closed his eyes, reaching out with hope.
The voice was there as clear as always, with only a little more than usual of the odd echo that usually accompanied fatigued Mindspeaking.
Skandranon couldn’t resist a huge mental smile. Kechara wouldn’t understand what was going on if he spent two lifetimes trying to explain it to her. What was important to her was “fun” or “not-as-much-fun.”
