The girl could sense Janok’s surprise—almost disappointment—as she ceased to fight him. “Ah,” he muttered, pressing her body against the wall. “I knew you wanted it. Of course. They always do.”
“Yes,” she murmured, “but I would like to see your face.”
“Naturally.”
Zanna felt his hard hands upon her as he turned her around. She felt him press against her, even as her fingers clenched round the knife that was half-hidden in the torn remnants of her skirt. Then the blade was embedded hilt deep in his belly, and Janok doubled over, screaming, his blood gushing out all over her hands. At that moment, Zanna felt nothing for him but a burning, all-consuming hatred. Remembering something that Parric had told her long ago, she took a firm grip on the slippery haft and thrust the knife downward with all her strength, to slice the blade into Janok’s guts. He fell to the floor, shrieking and clutching himself, rolling and writhing across the floor in the spreading pool of his own blood.
It was taking him a long time to die. Zanna, frozen with shock, felt a stab of panic penetrate her numbed mind. What if someone heard him? She had to get out—and fast. There was no time to look for the correct crystal—she simply gathered them all as she found them, crawling on her hands and knees to scoop up the scattered gems and dropping them into a twist of cloth torn from her ruined skirt. As soon as she had them all, she fled out of the door opposite the one she’d entered.
Without any thought now for stealth, Zanna clattered down the wooden staircase and into the refectory below. There she paused, shudders running through her, her back
Pressed against the outer door like a hunted beast at bay. Her head was whirling and her knees had turned to water. She looked down at the stinking, sticky blood that coated her hands and the front of her body, and doubled over sharply, vomiting. When at last she had emptied herself, she straightened shakily, automatically wiping her mouth on her bloody arm—an act that set her retching again. Zanna took great, gulping gasps of air and forced herself to be steady. So she had killed a man: well, there was no time to think about that now. Her dad needed her, and time was running out.
All sounds from the floor above had ceased. Slowly, Zanna began to realize that, if Janok’s screams had been heard, someone would have come long before now. The remoteness of the servants’ quarters from both the kitchen and the guard post at the far side of the courtyard had saved her. Relief washed over her. She dropped to her knees in a patch of moonlight from the window, wishing that she’d had the sense to remember the candle. Well, she’d just have to wish. She wasn’t going back up there, past Janok’s body to get it—not for anything.
The crystals rattled on the wooden floorboards as she spilled them from their makeshift bag. They all twinkled enigmatically in the dim, cold light, but only two held sparks of bright fire in their hearts: the crimson and the blue-silver gems. But somewhere among them was another, that held a slumbering spark of green. One by one Zanna held them up to the moonlight, peering into their jeweled depths, until she found the one she sought. Kneeling like a statue in the beam of light, she cupped the crystal in her hands, and with a prayer to all the gods she knew, she concentrated on the image of the Lady Aurian.
12
A Cry for Help
What Aurian liked best about the Xandim Fastness was the way in which the interior was completely at odds with the outside. Though the exterior of the massive structure stood foursquare and blocky, consisting of straight lines and sharp angles, it was revealed, to any with the eyes to see, that within those walls the building was not an inanimate human artifact, after all, but a living being. The passages and chambers had floors and walls that grew into one another with no visible join, ceilings that were vaulted and ribbed with what looked like arching bone. Everything from windows to fireplaces, from lintels to torch brackets, from the benches that grew out of the walls at comfortable human sitting height to the broad stone shelves that the Xandim covered with fleeces and heather to make comfortable beds, possessed a seamless fluidity of line that could only be organic in nature.
Chiamh had housed the Magefolk and their companions in a complex of rooms toward the rear of the fastness, in a square turret that rose above the main bulk of the building and abutted the cliffs that towered behind. There were two floors in the squat tower, each consisting of an interlinking cluster of small chambers reached by a twisting staircase with a heavy door at the bottom that blocked off access to the turret. The quarters were cramped but cozy and easier to heat than the vast, echoing rooms in the main part of the building, and everyone felt a greater measure of security in staying together. Even Parric, much to the evident annoyance of the Xandim Elders, had rejected the Herdlord’s official quarters in favor of lodging with his friends.
Aurian and Anvar shared two chambers on the upper story with Shia, Khanu, and the wolves; Bohan and Yazour occupied the room adjoining, and Chiamh slept in an annex beyond. Schiannath and Iscalda, still somewhat unsure of their position among the Xandim after their exile, had elected to remain with the Magefolk, and shared the lower floor with Parric, Sangra, and Elewin—before the old steward had passed away. Following Elewin’s death, Yazour had decided to move downstairs to be near Schiannath and Iscalda, with whom he had become fast friends. This alleviated some of the overcrowding on the upper story, for the great cats took up an astonishing amount of space, and the wolves preferred to claim a small territory of their own, away from too much human disturbance. They had a den beneath the table, where they had scratched up and shredded an area of the woven rush matting to create a bed that Aurian had augmented with the remains of her tattered, threadbare cloak.
Chiamh, considering the needs of the nonhumans of the party, had chosen these quarters with great care. The gap between the window in Bohan’s room and the cliff face was little longer than two spans, and he had constructed a rough but functional bridge across the intervening space from a sturdy plank lashed securely into position. Shia and the wolves could cross this and gain access to a series of narrow ledges and trails that led onto the broader reaches of the Wyndveil, where they would be able to hunt and roam as they pleased, without having to run the gauntlet of the Xandim camped both within and without the fastness.
Though Aurian and Anvar had not been in these quarters long, the small chamber tucked away in the depths of the fastness was already cluttered with signs of their occupancy. Leaning heavily on Parric’s authority as Herdlord, they were putting together a new set of gear for their northward journey. Piles of clothing lay across the bed and benches, including britches and tunics of soft leather; shirts of linen and of wool; boots of sturdy but supple hide; and long, thick mantles of woven wool, dyed in the mingled greens and golds of the grasslands, with additional cloaks of thin oiled hide that would pack small in a saddlebag, to wear when it rained.
To Aurian, the room looked warm and homely. A soot-smeared copper pot of water steamed gently at the edge of the blaze in the great fireplace. The table was scattered with plates and cups made of horn or bone; a jug of water, a flagon of ale and a flask of mead; small leather pouches of dried berries, blossoms and leaves for making a variety of teas; and emergency supplies of bread, cheese and fruit, because it was such a long trek to the stillrooms and the pantries.
The Staff of Earth and the Harp of Winds had been propped against the wall in the farthest corner of the Mages’ bed, safely away from curious hands and careless feet. Their mingled radiance, a changeful amalgam of green and shimmering silver, conflicted with the warmer saffron glow of lamps and fire to cast a rippling light like the sun through beech leaves across the faces of those assembled in the chamber. Even from her current position, several feet away at the far end of the pallet, Aurian could feel the magic of the powerful Artifacts beating against her back; a tingling, thrilling energy so very different from the fire’s heat that she could feel on her face.