“My Lady,” he said gruffly, giving her his wet hand. Iridal took it coolly. She was extremely pale, but composed. She kept the hood of her cape over her head, protecting herself from the water. Her eyes, which had once shone as brightly as the rainbows in the water, were now gray, clouded with a sorrow that would remain with her until she died. But she seemed at peace both with herself and with the tragic circumstances of her life. Stephen still felt uncomfortable around her, but now the feeling was one of sympathy, no longer guilt.
“I bring you news, Your Majesty,” said Iridal when the polite formalities and exchange of wonderments over the water were finished. “I have been with the Kenkari on Aristagon. They sent me to tell you that the Imperanon has fallen.”
“Is the emperor dead?” Stephen asked eagerly.
“No, Sire. No one is quite certain what happened, but from all indications, Agah’rahn disguised himself in the magical garments of the Unseen and, with their aid, managed to slip away in the night. When his people discovered that the emperor had fled, leaving them to die alone, they surrendered peacefully to Prince Rees’ahn.”
“That is welcome news, My Lady. I know the prince was loath to have to kill his own father. Still, it is a shame Agah’rahn escaped. He could yet cause mischief.”
“There is much in this world that will yet cause mischief,” Iridal said, sighing, “And always will. Not even this miracle of water can wash it away.”
“Yet perhaps now we are armored against it,” Stephen told her, smiling.
“There!” He stamped his foot. “Did you feel that?”
“Feel what, Sire?”
“The ground shake. This island is moving, I tell you! Just as the book promised.”
“If so, Your Majesty, I doubt you could feel it. According to the book, the movement of the isles and continents would take place very, very slowly. Many cycles will go by before all are in their proper alignment.” Stephen said nothing; the last thing he wanted to do was argue with a mysteriarch. He was convinced he had felt the ground move. He was certain of it. Book or no book.
“What will you do now, Lady Iridal?” he asked, changing the subject. “Will you return to the High Realms?”
He was immediately uncomfortable asking this question, wished he hadn’t thought of it. Her son was buried up there, as was her husband.
“No, Your Majesty.” Iridal grew paler, but answered him quite calmly. “The High Realms are dead. The shell that protected them has cracked. The sun parches the land; the air is too hot to breathe.”
“I’m sorry, Lady,” was all Stephen could think of to say.
“Do not be sorry, Your Majesty. It is better this way. As for me, I am going to serve as a liaison between the mysteriarchs and the Kenkari. We are going to pool our magical talents and learn from each other, to the benefit of all.”
“Excellent!” said Stephen heartily. Let the blasted wizards keep to themselves, leave decent people alone. He’d never really trusted any of them. Iridal smiled slightly at his enthusiasm. Undoubtedly she guessed what he was thinking, but was polite enough to say nothing. Now it was she who changed the subject. “You have just returned from Drevlin, haven’t you, Your Majesty?”
“Yes, Lady. Her Majesty and I were there with the prince, looking things over.”
“Did you, by chance, see the assassin, Hugh the Hand?” A crimson stain spread over Iridal’s cheeks when she spoke the name.
Stephen scowled. “No, thank the ancestors. Why would I? What would he be doing down there? Unless he has another contract—”
Iridal’s flush deepened. “The Kenkari...” she began, then bit her lip, fell silent.
“Who’s he supposed to kill?” Stephen asked grimly. “Me or Rees’ahn?”
“No... please... I... must have been mistaken.” She looked alarmed. “Don’t say anything...”
Making him a low curtsy, she drew her hood farther over her face, turned, and hurried back to her dragon. The creature was enjoying its bath and didn’t want to fly. She rested her hand on its neck, said soothing words to it, keeping it under her magical control. The dragon shook its head, flapped its wings, a blissful expression on its face.
Stephen hastened for his tent, planning to reach it before Iridal thought of something else to tell him and came back. Once there, he would inform the guard that he wasn’t to be disturbed. He should probably find out more about the assassin, but he wasn’t going to get the information from her. He’d put Trian on the mystery, when the wizard returned.
As it was, though, Stephen was glad he had spoken to Iridal. The news she brought was good. Now that the elven emperor was gone, Prince Rees’ahn would be able to take over and work for peace. The mysteriarchs would, Stephen hoped, become so interested in Kenkari magic that they would stay out of his hair. As for this business with Hugh the Hand, perhaps the Kenkari had wanted the assassin out of the way, sent him to his doom in the Maelstrom.
“Trust a bunch of elves to dream up something sneaky like that!” Stephen muttered into his beard. Realizing what he’d said, he glanced around hurriedly to make certain no one had heard.
Yes, prejudice was going to take a long time to die.
On his way to his tent, he took out his purse and dumped all the barls into a puddle.
16
The dog was bored. Not only bored, but hungry and bored.
The dog didn’t blame its master for this state of affairs. Haplo wasn’t well. The jagged wound across the heart-rune had healed, but it had left a scar, a white weal slashing across the sigil that was the center of Haplo’s being. Haplo had attempted to tattoo over it, to close the sigil, but for some reason unknown to both the dog and its master, the pigment wouldn’t take on the scar tissue; the magic wouldn’t work.
“Probably some sort of venom, left by the dragon-snake,” Haplo had reasoned when he’d calmed down enough to be reasonable.
The first few moments after he’d discovered that his wound wouldn’t completely heal had, in the dog’s estimation, rivaled the storm raging outside their ship. The dog had deemed it wise to retreat during the outburst to a place of safety under the bed.
The dog simply couldn’t understand all the fuss. Haplo’s magic was as strong as ever—or so it seemed to the dog, who, after all, should know, having been not only a witness to some of Haplo’s more spectacular feats, but a willing participant in them as well.
The knowledge that his magic was in good working order hadn’t pleased Haplo as the dog had hoped it would. Haplo grew silent, withdrawn, preoccupied. And if he forgot to feed his faithful dog, well, the dog couldn’t complain much because Haplo often forgot to feed himself.
But there came a time when the dog could no longer hear the glad cries of the mensch, celebrating the wondrous workings of the Kicksey-winsey, because the rumblings of its own empty stomach drowned out the noise. The animal decided enough was enough.
They were down in the tunnels. The metal thing that looked like a man and walked like a man but smelled like one of Limbeck’s tool boxes was clanking about, doing nothing interesting that the dog could see, yet receiving all sorts of lavish praise. Only Haplo wasn’t interested. He leaned against one of the walls of the tunnel, in the shadows, staring at nothing. The dog cocked an eye in Haplo’s direction and gave a bark that expressed the following thoughts: “Very well, Master. The man-thing without a smell has turned on the machine that hurts our ears. Our little and our big friends are happy. Let’s go and eat.”
“Hush, dog,” said Haplo and patted the animal absent-mindedly on the head. The dog sighed. Back on board the ship hung rows and rows of sausages—fragrant, stomach-filling sausages. The dog could see them in its mind, could smell them, could taste them. The animal was torn. Loyalty prompted it to stay with its master, who might get into serious trouble on his own.