A massive concentration of force slammed into Quaeryt’s shields, and he could barely remain standing.
Kharst’s imagers.
Quaeryt tried to move against the forces-or shields that pressed against him-then stopped as a shower of silver flared into the salon. Silver rain cascaded toward him from the iron shutter that had covered the salon window. In instants, it became clear that the rain was melting away those heavy shutters even as silver fragments floated toward him.
Myskyl stood frozen in the doorway, and three shadowy figures appeared as the rain also melted away a false wall beside the half-open salon door, then formed into chains of light that pinned the shadowy figures against the metal wall behind them. The silver rain flared in intensity. Yet, even as its pattering died into silence, the silver formed a glittering and gleaming archway where the iron shutter and window had been, with a reddish silver road beyond it leading upward into a brilliant star-filled night sky, for all that Quaeryt knew, outside the chateau, it was a bright midmorning.
Fascinated, Quaeryt could only watch as a figure strode down that reddish silver road, then walked through the archway and halted. Erion, for it could only be he, stood there for a moment, then looked at Myskyl.
In the light that poured from and around and behind the silver-haired man, Quaeryt could see Myskyl’s eyes widen and an expression of disbelief infuse his face. His mouth opened soundlessly, and an expression of fear and shock appeared. The same expression was duplicated on the face of the captain behind him.
As before, Erion held a dagger with a blade of brilliant light, and he pointed the dagger at Myskyl. Across Erion’s back was the mighty bow, and in his other hand was a small golden yet leatherbound book.
“There is blood on this dagger,” said Erion. “Were it up to you, this land would flow with blood once more. But that will not be.” In a single fluid motion he threw the long dagger, and like lightning it struck Myskyl squarely in the breastbone, buried to its hilt and pinning him to the heavy oak door.
The silver-haired figure then turned, looking to Quaeryt’s left at the three shadowy figures, held in chains of silver light, and saying, “You have seen treachery, and you have supported it. You have seen evil, and you would again replicate it. There is always treachery, especially by those like you who are powerful, but for whom no amount of wealth and position will suffice, for you know your failings and will not see them. Instead, you seek forgetfulness in the elixir of power. You will have eternal forgetfulness.” Erion gestured, and three lightnings flared, and the three figures blackened, and crumpled. Erion turned back to Quaeryt. “You, my son, will never know forgetfulness of your failings. Nor should you. Ever.”
For all that he had heard words like that once before, Quaeryt could believe them, more than ever in the cold certainty of Erion’s voice.
The silver-haired figure nodded, offered an enigmatic smile, then turned and walked back up the red-silver road through the archway in what had been a window covered by an iron shutter. But when the silver radiance faded, the archway remained, an archway of fused stone and metals combined, and the brilliant sunshine of midday in summer flowed through the opening.
The shields that had imprisoned Quaeryt were gone. Myskyl’s body hung from the long silvery dagger, and three charred and dead imagers lay facedown on the charred wood of the false bookcase behind which they had waited.
Quaeryt shook himself, then took one step, and then another.
“Sir! Are you all right?” called Khalis, wrenching the door full open, and ignoring the dead submarshal. “Get out of there now!”
Quaeryt didn’t hesitate. He ran, if still holding full shields, through the salon and into the corridor to see the three imager undercaptains, as well as an ashen young captain, immobile. Quaeryt looked to the imagers.
“The other wall, the one on the other side of the salon from where the imagers were-it’s got a small cannon filled with balls and aimed at where you were. Lhandor stopped the commander from triggering it.”
Quaeryt glanced at the open door to a concealed alcove. Inside, a body lay facedown below what did appear to be a small cannon or a huge blunderbuss.
“The imagers were trying to block me. I had to kill him,” explained Lhandor. “Khalis managed to slow down the submarshal so he couldn’t get out of the salon so quickly. Elsior’s holding the captain. Elsior also told us where the imagers were. That helped. He also said we couldn’t let the door close.”
Couldn’t let the door close? For a moment that puzzled Quaeryt. Then he nodded and said to Elsior, “You can release the captain. But you can kill him if he makes a single wrong move.”
“Yes, sir.”
The captain stood there shaking. “That … That was Erion…” Then he fainted.
“It was Erion, wasn’t it, sir?” asked Khalis.
Once again, Quaeryt had to question whether it had been Erion, or his own creation of the great hunter. Will you ever know? For certain? Most likely not. “I don’t know. I don’t suppose we’ll ever know.”
The three exchanged dubious glances.
Quaeryt squared his shoulders. “How are you all with fire?”
“Fire, sir?”
“The one that started when we were fighting the evil imagers.”
“But, sir…” Khalis broke off his protest, clearly belatedly understanding.
“Of course, the fire started when we fought them, after the submarshal escaped their control of his mind and they killed him and Commander Luchan,” Quaeryt added.
“Yes, sir.”
Besides which, this holding isn’t going to revert to heirs, not after all that it’s been used for. Quaeryt sent a fireball into the paneled wall, beside the salon doorway. “Wake up the captain there and tell him the hold house is on fire.”
“Yes, sir.”
Quaeryt imaged fireballs to various points along the corridor that stretched northward to the main section of the hold house. So did Khalis, and then Lhandor. Then he turned and began to hurry toward the courtyard entrance, calling, “Fire! Everyone out! Fire!”
When they hurried into the courtyard, Quaeryt imaged fire into the upper rooms he could see, as well as sending fireballs to the north wing.
“Fire! The entire hold house is on fire!”
Men appeared from everywhere, some running from the outbuildings, and some from the hold house. Almost in moments, or so it seemed, flames were shooting from the hold house in dozens of spots.
Quaeryt hoped most people could get out of the hold house, but with the numbers that were appearing in the courtyard, he thought there might not be many casualties. And a lot fewer than if Myskyl’s and Deucalon’s plans hadn’t been thwarted. Except … he knew that the business of thwarting them wasn’t quite finished. Not yet.
“Elsior … you go find Ghaelyn,” ordered Quaeryt. “You and he and the rankers ride back and tell Zhelan and Calkoran what happened, then have them ride here to join us. Be ready to provide shields. I don’t think you’ll have to, but it’s possible.”
“Yes, sir.”
Abruptly Quaeryt found that his legs were shaking, and flashes of light flared across his vision.
Somethingexhausted you. “I think I need to rest.”
“We’ll get you away from here, sir, and find something to eat and drink,” said Khalis.
“So you’re ready to deal with the other commanders after the fire,” added Lhandor.
That was fine with Quaeryt, even though he wasn’t looking forward to such a meeting or what would follow.