she wasn't sure yet where he stood on the matter of her continuing as Ard Rhys. She toyed with the idea of elevating Traunt Rowan, in spite of his attitude toward her. It might serve to distance him from Shadea a'Ru and Iridia Eleri, something that could only help him. They were the women with the most talent in the order, and neither could be trusted for a moment. Sooner or later, they would have to be dealt with.
Her eyes grew heavy with the drink, and she moved to her bed, slipped off her robe, and climbed beneath the covers. Her last thoughts were of the strange happenings in the ruins of the Skull Kingdom and her determination to discover who had initiated them. A visit to the Hadeshorn and the shades of the Druids might provide insight into the matter, and she had already made the necessary arrangements for the journey. As soon as the meetings with Sen Dunsidan were completed, she would depart with Kermadec, perhaps even telling Tagwen where she was going, just to see the look of disapproval on his face.
She was too tired even to blow out the candles on her writing desk, and so drifted off to sleep with the light of both still flickering brightly in the overlay of the chamber's deep shadows.
* * *
Night settled over Paranor, silent and velvet black under a wash of light from moon and stars that spilled from a cloudless sky. Most of the Druids were asleep, only a few who liked working late at night still awake in their rooms and study chambers, keeping to themselves. The Troll watch was in place, not only at the door of the Ard Rhys but at the gates of the Keep, as well. There was no real concern for anyone's safety, no anticipation of the sort of danger that had existed in the time of the Warlock Lord, but the Trolls were careful anyway. Complacency had undone the Druids and their protectors in the past.
Shadea a'Ru stole through the walls of the high tower, following the twists and turns of the secret passageway that led to the sleeping chamber of the Ard Rhys. It was well after midnight, and she knew no better opportunity would offer itself than the one she acted on now. She had swept the musty corridor of magic once again only two days earlier, during the Ard Rhys' absence, and she was quite certain Grianne had not had an opportunity to reset her wardings in the short time since her return. The sorceress moved slowly in the gloom, generating a small finger of magic light to keep from stumbling. She must make no sound in her approach, offer nothing that would alert the sleeping Ard Rhys to her presence. She must maintain the presence of a tiny mouse.
She was sweating freely, her body heat elevated by the closeness of the passageway and her excitement. She was not afraid. She was never afraid. It wasn't that she was reckless or foolish; it was that she understood the nature of her risk. Failure in dangerous situations came about because of poor planning or bad luck. The former was something you could control, and if you kept your wits about you, sometimes the latter, as well. She had learned that for people like her, orphans and disadvantaged souls, gains were achieved mostly through risk. That was the nature of her lot in life, and she had long ago accepted it.
The night's activities would measure that acceptance in a way it hadn't been measured before. If she succeeded, she would have a chance at gaining everything she had wanted for so long. If she failed, she would likely be dead.
That was acceptable to Shadea a'Ru. For what was at stake, that was a price worth wagering.
She wondered anew at the source of the liquid night. It bothered her that it had come into the possession of someone who did not himself possess magic. Sen Dunsidan was a high–ranking official in a powerful government, but he lacked the skills and resources to obtain something so powerful on his own. He must have had help, and she didn't like it that help of a magical sort had not come from her. It meant he had another option and might choose to use it down the road, and that could prove dangerous to her. Still, he needed her. Without her, he could not hope to gain control of the Druid order, and without that, his plans for the Free–born could not succeed.
Ahead, the last stairway led upward to the tower chamber where Grianne Ohmsford slept. Shadea slowed automatically, her movements, her thinking, even her breathing, and calmed herself. Soundlessly, she climbed the stone steps to the landing beyond, then stood just outside the section of wall that opened into forbidden territory. She tested the fabric of warding she had left in place and found it undisturbed. The Ard Rhys had not bothered to see if anyone had tampered with her magic. She still thought herself safe.
A fierce rush of anticipation surged through Shadea as she reached into her robes and extracted the bottle of liquid night. Silence concealed her movements, extending from the place she stood to the chamber beyond and then to the Keep beyond that. Dreams and slumber blanketed the rooms of Paranor, where her occupants lay unmoving and unaware. She listened, satisfied, and set the bottle on the floor in front of her.
She was ready.
Carefully, she constructed a series of spells and incantations, setting them atop one another in the space before the door. One after another, she created them with movements and words. No one saw or heard. No one could. She breathed as if there was not enough air to waste on breathing, creating an intricate pattern of small, cautious inhales and exhales that fed her efforts. Her life force became a part of her efforts, aiding and supporting. She kept her concentration fixed on the task at hand, neither wavering nor hesitating even once, working steadily and diligently at her task.
It took her almost an hour to complete the conjurings. Then she knelt before the wall and opened the skin of magic she had left in place, giving herself clear access to the secret doorway and the chamber beyond. She could hear the sound of her heart beating and the pumping of her blood through her body. It seemed to her that she could hear the Ard Rhys breathing on the other side of the wall, deep in sleep but capable of waking in an instant.
She prepared to remove the stopper from the bottle of night liquid.
Her hands began to shake.
For just a second she faltered, thinking suddenly that she was daring too much; that she was overreaching herself: that her failure to accomplish what she was attempting to undertake was assured; that the moment she tried to place the liquid inside the bedchamber, the Ard Rhys would wake and discover her treachery; that she would have been smarter simply to feed the Ard Rhys poison and be done with it; that this more sophisticated execution would never work. How could it?
Furious with herself, she crushed her hesitation and doubt as if they were annoying insects buzzing in her ears.
She pulled the stopper from the bottle and poured it into the funnel she had created in the last conjuring of magic, sending both the liquid night and the spells that directed it into the chamber beyond.
There, it was done, she told herself, replacing the stopper once more.
She rocked back on her heels to wait.
* * *
Grianne Ohmsford woke just long enough to recognize that something was dreadfully wrong, that an alien magic had bypassed her wardings and entered her room. She threw up her defensive magic instantly, but it was already too late. The room was moving—or she was moving in it—consumed by a blackness that transcended anything she had ever known. She fought to get free of it, but could not make herself move. She tried to cry out, but no sound came forth. She was trapped, immobilized and helpless. The blackness was enveloping her, sweeping her away, bearing her off like a death shroud wound about a corpse on its way to interment, clinging and impenetrable and final.
She felt the shroud slowly begin to tighten.
Shades! she swore silently as she realized what was happening, and then the blackness was in her mouth and nose and ears, was inside her body and her mind. She struggled until her strength was gone and with it her hope, and then she lost consciousness.
* * *
Still hidden in the passageway behind the wall of the bed chamber, Shadea a'Ru listened to the faint, sudden sounds of movement on the other side, then to the enveloping silence that followed. She was desperate for a look inside, but didn't dare to open the passageway door for fear of what she would find. She held her breath, listening as the silence lengthened.
Then a finger of blackness wormed its way under the door, the leading edge of a clutch of ragged tendrils. They twisted and groped as if seeking to snare her, as if the Ard Rhys was not enough, and Shadea stepped back quickly, poised to flee. She did not know what it was—some residue of the liquid night, perhaps—but she wasn't about to find out. The fingers stretched a bit farther, crooking toward her, then slowly retreated and disappeared back beneath the door.
