Part II
SALTAJA HRAGSDOR
awoke with a snarl. For a moment she was confused by chinks of daylight peering around shutters, by solid masonry walls and paneled ceiling. Then she remembered she was in Tryfors, lying under clean blankets on a level sleeping platform, not some lumpy riverbank. So why the oppressive mood? Ah, yes! She had been dreaming of Benard Celebre.
Benard Celebre? Jarred, she sat up and peered at her arm. Last night she had sought guidance from the Mother, offering blood. She had felt the power flow and the cut was already healed, so what sort of reward was a useless dream of Benard Celebre ambling along a Tryforian street like some amiable half-wit bear? She had not seen him on her way through Kosord in the summer, but she had no doubt that it was he that she had just dreamt, and here in Tryfors, too.
That was ridiculous! She had given Horold leave to kill him. Her brother was a pathetic relic of the fearsome warrior he had once been, but he should be able to dispose of one penniless hostage. And even if Ingeld had somehow smuggled her boy lover out of the city, the satrap’s Witnesses should have reported where Benard was and Horold’s Werists should have run him down within hours.
Saltaja yelled to waken Guitha, who was sleeping on a mat near the door.
Benard? Was this some doing of his sister? Was this the final proof that Fabia Celebre was indeed a Chosen?
Not for nothing was holy Xaran known as the Mother of Lies. She spoke to all Her children, but not always with a clear voice, lest they betray Her secrets to lesser gods, who were young and foolish. She was usually helpful to Her Chosen, although even they could never count on Her absolutely. If two came into conflict, She might aid both, or aid one and deceive the other. Or deceive both.
As she attended to her toilet, Saltaja continued to puzzle. Her problems never grew any less. Her brothers, especially Therek, had become dangerously irrational. She would have to waste several days here in Tryfors repairing him and might not extend his useful life by more than a year or two. On the way home she would have to stop off in Kosord to mend Horold also. At times she even wondered about Stralg himself. As a natural-born warrior, he had required far less Shaping than any of his brothers, but the steadily worsening news of the war made her wonder if he were decaying also. Then there was yesterday’s news about Kwirarl, the last of her sons dead, and these “New Dawn” rebel Werists massing at Nuthervale. With winter coming on, they were the most urgent problem. Last night she had dispatched warnings to both Horold and Eide, telling them to prepare for a spring campaign before the traitors grew any stronger.
Her life’s work was unraveling in front of her eyes.
“Brainless slut!” Saltaja swung a slap that almost knocked Guitha off her feet. “A clean shift, I said! From that box!”
Wailing, Guitha ran to obey. The girl was useless, incompetent even at helping her mistress dress now. She would have to be replaced soon, before she became incapable of even dressing herself. The Dominance Saltaja had used on her was quick Control, but it soon burned out the mind. It was not to be compared with the painstaking Shaping that Saltaja and Hrag together had used on his sons from their conception through to manhood.
She pushed dismal thoughts out of her mind and concentrated on dressing, in spite of Guitha’s bumbling. Tryfors Palace was surely the most dismal, bleakest royal residence on the entire Face, and in all the years since Stralg terminated the line of local kings and installed his brother as satrap, Therek had done nothing to improve it. No matter; it was a joy to pamper herself, to be rubbed with scented oil, try on fresh clothes specially made since she arrived yesterday, and to admire herself in a reasonably-sized silver mirror while Guitha wielded a hairbrush with the subtlety of a peasant flailing grain.
Saltaja’s hair was snowy white but had always been so. Her skin was unusually pale, even for a Vigaelian, and her eyes a startling dark blue-Hrag had claimed that he arranged that distinctive touch when she was an infant. Her face was too elongated to be beautiful, but beauty was much less useful than power. She could still pass for less than forty, although she was almost twice that.
“Now my wimple.” Living up to her reputation as Queen of Shadows, she always wore black, even to the cloth that concealed her hair and neck, the long cuffs draping her hands. Nothing but her face was ever visible to anyone except the many Guithas who had served her over the years-and certain highly privileged men, in the past. She must find a replacement Guitha here in Tryfors before she left. She always named her current maid Guitha, after the one who had been her first experiment in Dominance.
A new Guitha would have to wait. The first item of business today must be to confirm that the Celebre girl was a Chosen of Xaran. To give her a fair chance, though, she should be moved to some lower dungeon where she could draw power from the Mother. Then send in the brute Werist that Therek had promised. Back in Skjar, Saltaja would have arranged to have the rape done in a cell with a spyhole, so she could watch how it went, but Tryfors had no such convenience.
No matter. If the thug came out satisfied, the girl was innocent and would just have to take her chances with her future husband. If he wandered out obviously Controlled or didn’t come out at all, then it would be time for Saltaja to sit down with the filly for the confidential chat they had been unable to share on the river. To convince Fabia of the advantages of cooperation, Saltaja would begin by conceding that her nephew, Cutrath Horoldson, was a repulsive choice of husband and then go on to instruct her in means to put him to rights as easily a skilled seamstress could reshape a gown. More easily, in fact. Grain needed thrashing, grinding, kneading, and baking before it became usable; men were much the same.
A knock on the door disturbed her reverie.
Profoundly.
Blazing with fury, she swept along the stark stone corridors. Werists trotted at her heels and hurried ahead of her, their torsos wrapped in striped palls, leaving brawny arms and legs bare. She swept through the outer room, where more Werists pressed back against the walls looking scared. As well they might.
The room beyond was a barren box without even a sleeping platform. The girl’s baggage and clothes lay scattered everywhere, as if the idiots had ransacked them looking for her. Saltaja strode over to examine the single window with its two bronze bars. Satisfied that they were still solid, corroded in place, ancient as the wall, she laid her hand on the stonework and detected only a frail trace of the Old One’s power filtering up from the heart of the world. Even she, with sixty years’ more experience, would never contrive an escape from here. Supposing she could somehow trick the jailers outside into opening the door, she could not Control eight at once. Chosen or not, the girl must have had help.
Outside, a heavy drizzle was sending sheets of water coursing over the paving, making pedestrians hurry. Take away that rain and the daylight, and this was the street in her dream. So Benard Celebre had rescued his sister, had he? That had been the Dark One’s message.
She turned to face the Werists. Her two Controlled bodyguards, Ern and Brarag, were standing close to her, keeping watch on the rest. Six of the incompetent jailers had packed in after her, another two were outside, peering through the door. She could not remember the name of their leader, but it mattered not at all and soon would matter even less.
“Guarding a slip of a girl is beyond your ability?”
The flankleader bared his teeth at her. “All of us spent the night in the outer room. There were no visitors, no coming and going-”
“Except the prisoner.”
“We can’t fight gods! No mortal let that woman out of here.”
“Since when does holy Weru accept excuses? Track her!”
