He hoped they would reach the place soon. The cold was beginning to eat through his clothing.
He heard something behind them, and turned just in time to see a dark figure vanish into a shadow.
A chill that had nothing to do with the weather ran up his spine, and he felt for the hilt of his sword, sling- ing his harp over his back. Saying nothing to Kai, who babbled something to himself in his native language, he continued the slow trudge through the snow, keep- ing his ears open for another telltale noise. When it came, he knew for certain they were being followed.
He didn't turn to look this time, but as he listened, he heard the same footsteps trying to match theirs, using the noise they were making as cover.
Maybe it's one of Sir Jehan's men, keeping tabs on the Prince, he thought hopefully, but the prospect didn't comfort him as much as he thought it I'd better say something. He's still a good fighter, even if he's drunk.
He whispered to Kai, "I think we're being fol- lowed."
Kai glanced up, and shrugged. But in spite of the bravado, Kai acted a little more wary. Then, finally, he whispered back, "How many?"
"One, at least Maybe more." Was that a second set of footsteps, or echoes of our own? The effect of snow on sound was maddening.
Two figures jumped out in front of them, swords drawn. Kai hissed as he drew his weapon, clumsily, and staggered backwards.
Alaire's nerves were already keyed up, and he was ready. His sword out, he went after the closest of the two and closed for the attack. His opponent seemed surprised at the aggressive tactics. Figured I'd be drunk, too? Alaire thought briefly as their swords engaged.
Within moments he knew that these were no aver- age cutpurses. These are professional killers! Alaire thought in dismay, taking in their black clothing, the scarves wrapped about their faces to hide their identi- ties. Why they would be wearing black escaped him; they stood out against the snow. Unless the snow caught them by surprise too.
Swords flashed through the falling snow, and Alaire was separated from Kai and the other assassin.
Alaire heard them, somewhere behind them, clashing away, and didn't like the idea of not being able to see anything but his current opponent. And what of the men who had been behind them? Where were they?
Street-fighting meant street-tactics. He managed to distract the fighter for a moment; his blade lashed out, nicking the man's wrist. Bright ruby-red spots appeared on the snow beneath him. First blood.
The assassin snarled an evident curse in a lan- guage he'd never heard before. Alaire feinted, and parried twice, pushing the killer near a torch on a rock wall. In the flickering light he saw the man's eyes, and the dark, olive skin around them. His wrist bled brightly into the falling snow, and Alaire knew his wound must be a great liability to him; he didn't change hands, as Alaire would have done in the same situation. Evidently his teacher had not been as good as Naitachal.
Alaire stepped back, saw an opening, and lunged.
Metal pierced flesh with more difficulty than expected, reminding Alaire he hadn't sharpened his blade since the fight in The Dead Dragon. Even so, his sword found a rich target, and as he withdrew his steel, blood followed it.
The assassin groaned, dropped his blade, and pressed a hand over the wound. The stain spread beneath him as the snow captured the fresh blood.
The man stared at him, his eyes hollow in the torchlight, then staggered off into the dark and snow.
In a moment, he was lost to sight.
Alaire turned and looked for Kai; there was nothing to see but snow. Then, around a corner, he heard blades clashing. He ran to the sound, staggered as his foot slipped on the fresh snow, and found the two next to another building, their arena brightly lit by street torch. The tip of Kai's blade was broken, giving the assassin the advantage. The boy's face was a mask of pure terror; he knew he was in serious trouble.
And Alaire was a good twenty feet away.
He shouted, hoping to distract the killer, but the man ignored him.
As Alaire rushed at the assassin, the man lunged, piercing Kai in the abdomen. The boy screamed in pain and fell back into the snow.
The killer looked up, apparently satisfied with his work, then ran off.
Alaire scrambled to Kai's side; he was lying face up in the snow, still waving his sword and moaning.
Alaire gently deflected the weapon with his own and took it from his hand.
He knelt over Kai, calling his name.
But the boy just stared blankly, his skin now the color of the snow around him. A red stain spread over his tunic and shirt, but Alaire saw no wound. He pulled the slick fabric of his shirt up, revealing a neat puncture next to Kai's navel. The wound bled a thin, pulsing river. A gut wound. The worst.
He's going to die.
Kai opened his mouth to speak, but he was already too weak to say anything. He was going to die.
Unles No! his mind screamed. Without really thinking, he began looking for his harp. He ran, staggering, back to where he thought it would be. Where is it? Did some- one take it? he thought, just as his eyes fell on the instrument. He grabbed the canvas bag and rushed back to Kai.
Alaire ripped the bag open, with stiff fingers; his heart pounding frantically. Kai's eyes glazed; the thin plume of breath over his nostrils lessening with every moment. Hot tears coursed down Alaire's cheeks. He fought the urge to scream, curse, moan in helplessnes Don't think of that. Don't think of anything. Just the magic.. .just the power...
He took a deep breath, steadied himself, and started to play.
The strings were out of tune, the music sour, his fin- gers cold and numb. But he played anyway, ignoring the one broken string. He reached for the only song he knew that might work, a short tune Naitachal had composed when one of their favorite horses had suf- fered an attack from a pack of wolves. The horse had been near deat Like Ka Bardic Magic had healed it, had saved its life.
As Alaire played the tune from memory, his fingers loosened up, and the notes came easier. He ran through the song once, looked down at Kai. He remained still, even peaceful, in the. snow. Then, with one spastic motion, the boy exhaled a single breath.
Then nothing.
The Magic had failed.
"No!" Alaire screamed. Tears streamed down his face, blurring his vision. He felt an empty space form in the center of his chest, and as he stared at Kai's life- less face, the space grew larger. He choked back a sob.
Snow began to collect on Kai's face, instead of melt- ing, as it had only moments before.
Alaire wept, unable to help himself, unable to stop.
He held the harp loosely, until it was ready to slip out of his hands. Then, suddenly, his Master's words ech- oed in his The essence of Bardic Magic is the ability to make, and unmake.
To unmake Death -- and make Life?
He reached deeper, into his soul, for the power.
Willing his arms and hands to move, he began to play the song over a fourth time, automatically, but this time his mind and heart focused on something else altogether.
His mind's eye followed tendrils of life-source downwards, to the ground. Here he found vast pools of untapped power, seldom used in this land, just beneath the surface. Yearning to be released. He imagined Kai's wound, closing itself, healing the injury the assassins blade had rendered; the tiny folds of tis- sue, reassembling, knitting, binding, sealing the blood vessels, cauterizing them with light. Then the new blood, slowly filling his veins, restoring what had been lost. At some point, he stopped playing Naitachal's tune and began a new one of his own, one that seemed to fit the magic he was weaving, that complimented the interplay of power and Power....