By Blood Betrayed (The Kingsblood Chronicles) Read online

  He tried not to think about the man he’d just killed.

  Even though he was confident he knew every square inch of this part of the castle, once-familiar hallways now appeared dark and foreboding. He was so tense that if one of the cats that frequented his bedchamber entered at this moment, he’d likely slay it before he could even recognize it. The terrible silence was by far the worst, as he could feel yet not hear his own heartbeat, nor the hundred other minute sounds that would normally accompany his movements.

  I still can’t hear anything, Lian relayed mentally to his weapon, concentrating on keeping a clear head. That silence spell is still hanging around.

  Gem projected acknowledgment. You wouldn’t hear his associates even without the spell. Haste, Lian. She revealed some of her worry to urge the young man on. She didn’t want to panic him, but she knew their only hope was swiftness.

  Eyes flashing right and left, Lian didn’t detect any more assassins. Following the plan he had drilled with his tutor, he crossed the hallway and found the three-stone mechanism that activated the door to the hidden passageways of the castle. With a sure touch, his fingers released the catch, and the door slid open with a slight scraping of stone.

  Guess we’re out of the silence spell, Lian thought to Gem, with relief. She radiated back assurance. He entered the passage and rotated the latch to close the door behind him, then turned it another half turn, dropping bolts into the mechanism, sealing it. No one could follow him without breaking down the wall or using some kind of spell.

  The internal passageways of the castle were legendary in their complexity. There were concealed passages that led to almost every region of the fortress, some of them large enough to accommodate a respectably sized squad of soldiers. These passageways were occupied; Lian could sense this in the very atmosphere. The sound of moving air was joined by men speaking in low, guttural tones. He was able to catch a few words, but they were nonsensical. Battle language, he thought. The short, clipped patois was usually specific to each military unit. Battle tongues were comprised of only a few dozen to a few hundred words and were definitely not a poet’s first choice, but they were very useful.

  Enemy soldiers in the passages? wondered Gem, despite her steel nature shaken to the core at the assassination attempt and the invasion of the castle.

  They’re down below you somewhere, so it’s a good thing the plan is to go up, Gem reminded Lian. He could feel her thrum in his hand, and his movements became muffled as if his entire body was wrapped in soft cotton. The shadows in the passageway did not hinder him, since one of the sword’s permanent enchantments allowed her wielder to see in the dark.

  He tried not to let his thoughts turn toward the other members of his family, but he couldn’t help it. His twin sister Radiel slept very close to his own chambers, and he could find the way easily, even without Gem’s witchsight. Her own assassin might have blundered somehow, and she could need his assistance! The thought flashed briefly that Radiel’s magical talents might have saved her, but he knew that her attackers would have been prepared to deal with that.

  With a great deal of effort Lian forced himself to continue the other way. Elowyn, his father’s Master of Assassins, had drilled him repeatedly about his responsibilities should an assassin make an attempt on his life.

  “You must assume that if there are assassins at your chamber, that there are more invading the rest of the palace,” the elf had told him. “You’re the youngest child, and have yet to hold any major post. You’ll be the attackers’ lowest priority, and you’ll likely draw the least skilled among the pool of men available.

  “Your assassin might bungle the job, but the others’ won’t, which means that if you manage to escape the knife, you must flee. You’ll have become heir to the throne, all in one moment, and you must guard yourself first. If there are other survivors, later you can return and be reunited. But you are one young man, magical blade or no, and those who would kill you won’t be playing even close to fair.” Elowyn had been forbidding in his instruction. His words, however, were simple truth.

  His eldest brother, Alec, had defined the situation differently. “If there’s an attempt on your life, there’ll be good men putting their lives on the line to make sure you have the best possible chance to get away. So obey whatever plan the Old Elf has plotted for you and don’t let those men die in vain.

  “Besides, it won’t ever happen, Lee,” he’d finished with a warming grin, “so don’t lose sleep over it.”

  He had lost sleep over it, but not because of worry. Elowyn was likely to ambush him at any hour of day or night and commence the “game” of assassin-and-hunted. The stealthy elven assassin would pursue him through his escape routes, beginning the exercise from various points around the castle.

  But he’d believed Alec, the crown prince, and hadn’t really expected that it would happen. He’d seen the magnitude of the garrison, and the consummate skill of the warriors, mages, and spies that served his father. They were in one of the most defensible castles in the entire world, and Lian had always believed deep down that he was safe.

  Tonight had been a perfect night for Elowyn to test him, what with all of the festivities earlier in the evening. It was the anniversary both of his parent’s wedding and coronation, and parties had been thrown all over the castle and Dunshor City below it. Three quarters of the garrison had gone down into the city to celebrate, and Lian knew that a portion even of the duty forces would be dead drunk by this time of night.

  With that in mind, he’d arranged for a trap for his teacher. He’d constructed a mechanical “scribing” device that he hoped would fool Elowyn into striking at the wrong place. Lian had never dreamed that his little trick would deceive a real assassin, but he was sorely glad that he’d built the gadget.

  The voices below him were growing fainter as he climbed stairways and ramps, winding inexorably toward the inner wall of the castle. They don’t appear to be ascending yet, Lian speculated to Gem.

  Or there’s a dozen of them with those silence spells right on your tail, she tossed back, a little testily. Don’t drop your guard, and keep up the pace. He recognized that she was scared, too, and that took some of the bite out of her words.

  He arrived at an area where dust and cobwebs covered the floor. Reaching into a crack in the passage wall, he withdrew a short wand. Enspelled upon it was an enchantment that would allow him to proceed through the space without disturbing the debris. He possessed just enough mage talent to activate the spell. Humming softly, he concentrated on the wand and trekked through the dust-choked corridor, choosing a passageway obstructed by several webs. Though nearly blocked by the webbing, he passed through the corridor as if it wasn’t there.

  Out of habit, he almost put the wand into the niche at the end of the dusty corridor, where he’d normally use it to return to his quarters after an exercise with Elowyn. Instead, he slipped it into his pack.

  His goal was the innermost wall of the castle, which faced Firavon’s Tower. A buttress, one of the many that connected the castle’s inner structure to the mighty Tower, lay at the end of his path. The topmost portions of the castle were the tall watchtowers that surrounded the castle at the eight major and minor compass points, only about sixty yards from the ground. The dusky red Tower of the Artificer-King stretched another five hundred and forty yards above those, the kind of building that only magic could have raised, and only magic could sustain.

  The particular buttress he was heading toward had a concealed passageway at the Tower end which led into the quarters of a mage, one of the Tower’s former occupants. The mage in question had perished during the fighting that had taken the Tower and Lian had never learned his name nor of what importance he was. He supposed those things didn’t matter, especially now.

  He had only been in the room three times previously, with Elowyn accompanying him on each occasion. “Only I know that your escape route is through the Tower,” he’d explained. “Your parents, I’m sure, wouldn�
��t approve, but if events have played to that point, you must take the risk in order to avoid capture.” Lian had been impressed with Elowyn’s confidence in his ability to escape his pursuers in addition to those horrors which dwelt in the arcane place.

  During the rebellion three decades ago that had earned his father the nickname Wizardsbane, the Tower of Firavon had been the last bastion of the Theocracy’s mages. According to the songsmiths and minstrels, only a handful of the mages escaped the assault.

  His father had confided to him once, however, that the bard songs recounted only a half-truth about that. True, only three mages managed to escape on that fateful day. On the other hand, two dozen or so of the Theocracy’s highest ranking sorcerers had abandoned the Tower and their country weeks beforehand. Those who stayed believed that the rebels could never violate Firavon’s keep. His father told him that those who left understood that Firavon built doors and that doorkeepers could be bribed.

  It appeared that someone had committed treachery on this day as well. No external enemy could find their way through the labyrinthine passageways of the castle, yet there were soldiers, by the sound of them, advancing within the walls. Lian was certain that they weren’t any of his father’s units, because he spoke each of their battle languages.

  Maybe they’re a friendly mercenary unit, he thought without any real hope that it would be true. He knew that such wishful thinking would only get him killed, but he couldn’t help thinking it.

  He reached the concealed panel that led out onto the buttress, hoping that he wouldn’t meet another assassin, waiting outside with crossbow at the ready. He couldn’t identify the substance or spell that had caused the bolt to flame so, but he knew he’d be greeting his ancestors in the afterlife had it touched him.

  He unclipped his crossbow and loaded a bolt, choosing one of his small reserve of lashthirin-edged bolts. These Truesilver bolts were heavily enchanted, and at any close range Lian was unlikely to miss. That Truesilver was the bane of demonkind wasn’t lost on him, either, just in case the attackers had violated the Tower wards that contained its denizens.

  Opening his pack, he removed the shirt of fine-scaled lashthirin-alloy mail that made up most of the weight, though not bulk, of his bundle. He removed his royal tunic and drew the cold armor on next to his skin. The shirt made him look as if his hide was covered with fine lizard scales, and he always marveled at how the unknown elven smith had accomplished the extraordinary suppleness of the armor. He’d witnessed its protectiveness firsthand, however, during the bandit trouble last year.

  The main body of brigands had turned south, rather than west, and as a result the unit he was accompanying had been attacked by thirty armed and desperate men.

  He’d assumed command after the leader of his guardsmen had been killed by a crossbow bolt, and the remaining guards had rallied about their prince. One of the bandits, however, had landed a solid blow with his broadsword square onto Lian’s shoulder. The blow would likely have severed his left arm, and would certainly have been fatal, but the Truesilver scales held, causing the attacker’s blade to turn in his hand. Lian had been forced to his knees by the sheer power of the blow, and the bruising would have lasted for a month without healing magics.

  His left arm had hung useless from the shock of the strike, but his right arm, gripping Gem tightly, had been just fine. The bandit stood clutching his right hand dumbly, for he’d dropped his own blade. Lian hadn’t given him a chance to recover, however, and had eviscerated the bandit with Gem before he regained his feet.

  You’d better stop dwelling in the past if you want to have a future, Gem admonished.

  Lian shook off the memory of the battle and finished dressing. He removed an unfamiliar tunic, one of dull grey and green coloration, from his pack. He donned this over the lashthirin shirt and tucked his original tunic into a niche in the wall, securing it with a coverstone. Elowyn’s gentle spell on the stone sealed it over the niche as if it were an original part of the castle construction. Finally, he pulled on a pair of leather gloves.

  His preparations complete, he opened the panel and revealed the side of the Tower of Firavon and the buttress which bridged the fifteen yard gap between the castle wall and the Tower wall. The ground below him was forty yards distant, but he’d been on this structure before, and his fear of falling wasn’t bad despite the narrow width of the bridge. In the courtyard below, a few of his father’s men were engaged in battle with another group of soldiers wearing the red and orange livery of his uncle, Rishak. The traitor is revealed, muttered Gem.

  Gritting his teeth to suppress his anger, and wishing he could do something to help the men below, he crawled across the buttress. There were watchtowers and guard posts on top of the castle walls, but none had a clear view of this particular span, an oversight Lian was certain had been deliberate on the part of the castle’s architects.

  He hoped that Rishak’s knowledge of the castle plans didn’t include that minor fact. After what seemed like an eternity, Lian reached the end of the buttress without incident. He caressed the always-warm stone of the Tower. His mother had once told him that the Tower absorbed the force from any attack and distributed it evenly throughout the walls as heat. The Tower was still radiating from the magical onslaught brought against the mages who dwelled there thirty years prior. According to his mother, even at the height of the battle, the Tower hadn’t been more than pleasantly warm to the touch.

  He activated the catch that opened the passage down into the Tower proper. A gust of musty air swept out, carrying with it a faint charnel odor, for the Tower had been mostly sealed for the thirty years since the overthrow of the Theocracy. He slipped down into the passage, drawing the trap door closed behind him. The small tunnel through the end of the buttress terminated at the window of the mage’s quarters. Window was a term that didn’t really apply to the opening, since from the outside it appeared to be stone. From the inside, however, it was transparent, and before the castle was built around Firavon’s Tower it presented a pleasing view of the river below Dunshor City.

  The window swung inward to allow fresh air to circulate and flying servitor creatures to enter and exit. Elowyn once told him that on the final day of the battle, those windows had been used both for escapes and for suicides. The Castellan of the Tower, a mage in the trust of the High Wizard, held the artifact known as Firavon’s Key. Possession of the Key, lost during the siege, would have allowed the Castellan to seal all of the windows, doors, and portals of the Tower, rendering them as impenetrable as the stone walls of the Tower itself.

  The Castellan at the time of the siege had been a necromancer named Avet Bey, and although his body was recovered, no trace of the Key had ever been discovered. Lian theorized that the Key had disappeared before the fighting started, since the great doors to the entry hall had been sealed with magics cast by the defending mages, rather than with the tremendously powerful native wards of the Tower.

  He removed a small lump of jasper from his pack, the red stone warm to his touch. Placing it on the floor of the tunnel he’d just traversed, he touched it with Gem’s hilt. The sword thrummed for an instant, and the jasper transformed from a dull red to the dark grey of the buttress rock.

  Taking a deep breath and steeling himself for his flight through the haunted Tower, Lian Evanson moved out of the tunnel and into the mage’s quarters, pushing the window shut. Behind him, he knew that the enchanted jasper would grow to fill the tunnel, barring pursuers from following him into the Tower. It also blocked Lian’s escape from the Tower through this avenue.

  Chapter Two

  “In ages past, nearly all creatures spoke the Tongues of Magic. These languages were composed of the very Words of Power themselves, and were consequently very musical. Some lent themselves to harsher songs than others, to be sure.

  “As time went on, and the Created moved ever farther away from the Creators, new, lesser words came into use. For the most part, only the supernatural races, such as demonkind
, still use the ancient Tongues. Of the races of mortalkind, only the elves and kossir-teh remain among those who used the Old Words in conversation.

  “The magical implications are very interesting, as I’m sure you’ll agree.”

  -- The Sage Alionur, in a lecture to the Dunshor Academy of Magic, 27 A.R.

  The blade was poisoned, Elowyn decided. The elf was making his way to the castle roof to assess the situation. He’d staunched the bleeding from the sword gash on his thigh, but he was starting to feel dizzy and cold. Elves were naturally resistant to many poisons, and the ring Elowyn wore slowed the progress of toxins through his system.

  Normally, he would find one of the castle mages or priests with plenty of time to treat the deadly venom before it killed him. Now, he suspected, all of the familiar mages and priests were probably dead or captured.

  His quarters held various magical potions and antidotes, but he was certain that someone would be waiting there for him. The invaders would have considered him one of their greatest threats, and would surely be searching for him.

  The four men sent to kill him weren’t proficient in fighting together as a unit. He’d turned that weakness against them and had managed to dispatch all four of them. The last one, however, had dealt a blow with his shortsword, which was unmistakably poisoned.

  From the symptoms, I’d say it’s filaka or some derivative, he mused as he opened the hatch leading out onto the roof. There were only three men stationed up here, more assassins apparently, but they seemed bored and inattentive. As Master of Assassins for the kingdom, Elowyn possessed the skills to either avoid them or eliminate them.

  He selected the latter, silently ending their lives. They had unwisely chosen positions without a clear view of each other, and thus he was free to slay them. Eliminating them didn’t really improve his situation, but it might make Lian’s escape easier, or perhaps allow some nobleman or mage loyal to the royal family a chance to use the roof to flee via some magical means.