And suddenly, in that way the mind has ofjumping of its own accord from one thought to another, of making connections unasked, he heard himself in the ice caves of Syrring Rise, speaking with what had seemed at the time a ghost:
“I thought you were dead!”
“Well now, what led you to believe that, Kirisin?”
“Tragen found your body!”
“Is that what he told you?”
As if he were surprised. As if he were amused. The tone of voice had been unmistakable, but Kirisin, caught up in the moment, had paid no attention. Tragen found your body. But apparently he hadn’t. So whose body had he found?
Had he found any body at all?
Then he remembered his dream of the dark cloaked form standing in the Ashenell and asking, over and over again, Who told you that?
He found himself staring at Tragen as if seeing him for the first time, newly revealed, finding something odd about him, something strange. He could not quite bring himself to embrace fully what he was thinking because it was too terrifying.
“Sim,” he said quietly.
She glanced at him. “Shhhh.”
Tragen had finishing giving his report and was answering questions from the members of the High Council. Kirisin didn’t listen. He didn’t do anything but stare, and then he repeated everything he remembered, and then he again tried unsuccessfully to get Simralin to listen to him.
You can’t be right about this, he told himself. Don’t be stupid. You’re imagining things.
He hugged himself, ran his fingers through his tousled hair, and then jammed his hand deep into his pocket where the Elfstones nestled, seeking reassurance from their presence.
Tragen found your body!
Is that what he told you?
“Tragen!” he called out suddenly, not really meaning to do so, acting impulsively and without thought. The Tracker turned. “Whose body did you find if it wasn’t Culph’s?”
Everyone was staring. “What are you talking about?” an irritated Arissen Belloruus asked him.
Kirisin ignored him, watching Tragen. “You said you found Culph’s body. But he wasn’t dead. So whose body did you find?”
The big man shook his head. “You’re mistaken. I said I found evidence of a struggle. I said it looked like someone had been killed in Culph’s house. Just remains. No complete body.”
“No,” Simralin said quietly. “You told us you found Culph’s body. You said that he was dead.”
There was a hushed silence as the members of the High Council, not quite sure what was happening, looked at one another in confusion. The King was leaning forward, dark gaze intense. “What body do you mean? What is this all about?”
“Whose body did you find?” Kirisin pressed, his eyes locked with Tragen’s. “There wasn’t one, was there?”
Tragen sighed. His smile could not quite hide the trapped look reflected in his eyes. “You always were a bright boy, Little K.”
Then he produced a long knife as if it had been conjured by magic and drove it into Maurin Ortish. The captain of the Home Guard gasped in shock and dropped to his knees, hands reaching futilely for the killing blade. Tragen was already leaping toward Kirisin and his sister. He was much quicker than either had expected and was on top of them before they could react. He backhanded Simralin so hard she was sent sprawling, her head snapping back as she crashed into the far wall. A moment later the Tracker had Kirisin in an iron grip, his arm about the boy’s neck as he yanked him off his feet and pinned him to his chest.
The Home Guards were rushing forward by now, weapons drawn. But Tragen produced a handgun, an automatic weapon hidden within his clothing, black and short–barreled and wicked–looking, and shot all four in a span of as many seconds. Kirisin had a second or two to recognize that having a weapon of this sort confirmed his worst fears–that Tragen wasn’t what he appeared to be, wasn’t Elven, likely wasn’t even human. Then the Tracker was dragging him over to the Council chamber doors and throwing the locking bar that kept anyone else from entering. As the members of the High Council rose, yelling for help, Tragen leveled his weapon and sprayed them indiscriminately. Kirisin watched Basselin and the sharp–featured woman and several others collapse. The King was hit and knocked backward. Blood splattered on the walls and dais and chairs in a red mist. Bodies tumbled in heaps and lay unmoving.
Kirisin fought to break free, but the arm that pinned him was like a band of iron across his neck, and he couldn’t begin to loosen it.
“Stop struggling, Little K,” his captor hissed in his ear. “You have a duty to fulfill, and you’re going to fulfill it! You mustn’t disappoint all those who depend on you!”
Kirisin screamed at him, calling him something unmentionable, something he had never called anyone, furious and almost in tears. Across from him, not ten feet away, Maurin Ortish knelt with his hands locked on the knife handle where it protruded from his chest, his body limp. In front of the dais, one of the Council members moaned softly. Fists pounded on the locked chamber doors, and voices yelled in fear and frustration.
“Enough of this foolish pretense,” Tragen muttered, eyes on the door. “Time for you and me to be going, Kirisin.”
In the next instant Simralin slammed into him, all three of them sprawling across the floor. Tragen, caught off guard by the attack, lost his grip on the handgun and on Kirisin, as well. While he didn’t let go completely, he did release the boy enough that he almost twisted free. Almost. One hand clung to him by its fingertips—a hand that had shed its skin and become scaly and clawed–fighting to retain its grip as the three combatants tumbled across the stone floor of the chambers and rolled to a stop. But Simralin landed on top and began tearing at the Tracker’s face and eyes. Roaring in fury, Tragen let go of the boy and struck out at Simralin, missing her head but landing a blow to her shoulder that was more than sufficient to dislodge her.
Rolling free, he came to his feet with a second long knife in his hand and scrambled toward her.
But Kirisin was quicker. Freed of Tragen’s grip, he reached into his pocket and snatched free the blue Elfstones. Having discovered what they could do in the ice caves of Syrring Rise, he knew they were his only hope. Tragen wasn’t an Elf and he wasn’t human. He was a demon, and only magic was going to be enough to stop him.
“Tragen!” he screamed.
The Tracker half turned, slowing only marginally, but it was enough. He caught sight of the blue fire that exploded out of the boy’s hand just before it struck him full on. The impact knocked him backward, off his feet and onto the stone flooring. Then it followed him down in a blazing arc, burning into him. Tragen screamed, thrashing to break free. But the magic enfolded him, directed by Kirisin’s rage and determination, set upon its course and unalterable. It burned through skin and scales. It burned down to the bones and then through the bones themselves. Tragen became a fiery stick man, a blackened husk, and finally a pile of steaming ashes.
When it was finished, Kirisin stood looking down at the remains, the Elfstones gone dark and cool in his hand. His face reflected the mix of horror and excitement that using the magic had wrought. Feelings he could only barely recognize as his own coursed through his body, hotter than his lifeblood.
Simralin climbed back to her feet and hobbled over to stand next to him, staring at his twisted features. “Shades, Little K,” she whispered.
Arissen BELLORUUS SAT SILENTLY atop the dais as healers worked on his injuries. He had been struck twice by handgun bullets, once in the shoulder and once in the side. Neither wound was life threatening. Neither would do more than cause him pain in the days ahead. Four other members of the High Council were not nearly so fortunate. Three were dead, including First Minister Basselin, and the fourth was likely to be so before the day was out. Maurin Ortish was dead, as well.