Those dead white arms reached for Jusson, curved as if to enfold him in an embrace.
“No!” I panted again and barreled into Jusson, knocking him, Wyln and Thadro back. However, because of the crowd behind us, we didn’t go down. There was a soft laugh behind me and I felt the cold as a spear thrust in the wound in my side. My mouth opened on a silent scream even as I heard the sea pound as if it were trying to match the frantic beating of my heart.
Then there was another soft laugh that abruptly cut off, and the heat of the flames returned with a familiar whoosh. I turned my head to see Laurel with his paw raised, the rune shining. Next to him was Cais, holding what looked like a sprig from a rowan tree, and on the other side was Dyfrig, his Staff of Office held like a quarterstaff. And standing at my back was Arlis, his sword drawn and his eyes bugging out.
“Did you see?” Arlis stuttered into the stunned silence, his teeth chattering with cold and fright. “Did you see it?”
“I saw.” Jusson shifted in the press of bodies. “Get off me.”
Thadro, Wyln and I untangled ourselves, and I stepped back. Or tried to. My strength sapped, my legs gave out and I collapsed to the floor. Shivering hard, I managed to roll over and sit up, resting my face on my knees as I dragged air into my lungs—out of the way of those stepping around me. They tried to help Jusson up, but the king knocked away their hands. Standing by himself, he yanked his tabard down, straightened his crown and snatched his sword from Thadro, who’d picked it up from where it had fallen, all the while glaring at Wyln. “What the pox-rotted hell did you let in our House—?” The king’s voice faltered. “Lord Wyln?”
I lifted my head to see Wyln swaying, his hand pressed against his chest. All color had drained from the enchanter’s face and his eyes looked wrong. It took me a moment to figure out why, then I realized that the flames in their center had gone out, leaving them black and empty.
“And so when Ujan’s demon rose, it was like a razor against my heart,” Wyln said, his normally lilting voice harsh and strained. He held out his other hand and a flame appeared in his cupped palm. But instead of the normal yellow-orange, or even a sullen red, the flame burned blue. “Blocked,” he rasped. “As easily as a youngling in the talent.”
A murmur rose, increasing in anxiety as folks pressed away from the hearth. However, Arlis didn’t move, his eyes bugging out as he stared into the renewed fire. “Demon? That wasn’t a poxy demon. That was Rosea. The player Rosea. But what happened to her? What the bloody hell happened?” He started to sheathe his sword, then stopped, now staring at how the blade glistened weirdly. “Damn it, look. Look! It’s frozen!” He dropped it and the steel shattered on the kitchen’s stone floor. Everyone watched the pieces skitter, too numb to move out of the way.
Jusson had hurried to Wyln’s side as the dark elf swayed, sliding a supporting arm around him. However, at Arlis’ words, the king gaped. “Mistress Gwynedd’s Rosea? The one Rabbit tried to chat up in Theater Square? That Rosea?”
“Down to the green gown, sire,” Beollan said unexpectedly. He stood with Ranulf, the Lord of Fellmark holding his sword in one hand, the other tucked under Ranulf’s arm. Ranulf was also swaying, his eyes closed, lines scored deep in his face—and superimposed on the Marcher Lord was another shape, its muzzle raised to the sky in a roar of anguish.
My shivering increasing, I tried for the aspect but also got the sickly blue flame. Letting it extinguish, I hugged my knees. “She’s been in my dreams,” I whispered.
There was a flash of amber as Laurel glanced over his shoulder at me. He and Cais were busy warding the hearth. At least I knew Laurel was; I guessed about Cais as he was speaking a language I’d never heard before. He waved his rowan twig at the flames while Laurel, having obtained salt from Cook, poured a line on the hearth and then threw some into the flames. The fire burned green and blue, changing the cast of Cais’ features, before returning to its normal yellow-orange, but the merry crackle was gone. Finn appeared with an armful of rowan branches that he carefully arranged along Laurel’s salt line. Dyfrig, though, had moved apart, his once-again broad shoulders bowed, the air sphere bobbing by his head. The sphere was wrapped tight on itself and I couldn’t even hear a hum.
“Dreams,” Thadro repeated. He walked over to where I sat and helped me to my feet. “That is what’s been stalking you?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. I gripped Thadro’s arm tightly to keep from falling again.
“But what does an itinerant player have to do with the plague of sorcery that has descended on us?” Jusson asked, still supporting Wyln.
“She has become a vessel,” Wyln said harshly. He closed his hand on the sickly blue flame, his empty eyes wide and oddly vulnerable. “The Damned One, invited through dauthiwaesp, now resides in her.”
“That’s a long leap, elf,” Beollan began, but Arlis cut him off.
“The demon’s in her?” he gasped. “Oh, God! What have they done? What have they given place to?”
Chadde stooped down and, using her handkerchief, picked up one of the frozen sword pieces to examine it. She now looked up from where she crouched, her face intent. ” ‘They,’ Guardsman Arlis?”
Chapter Thirty-three
I heard the sound of someone hurrying and looked up to see Finn come in from the guards’ mess carrying a couple of chairs. He tried to set one down next to me, but I waved him off, pointing to Ranulf and Wyln. They both must’ve looked worse than I did as Finn didn’t argue, but quickly placed the chairs by the elf and the Marcher Lord. The diminutive servant took off again—but before he got to the mess door, his uncle said something to him in liquid tones. Finn nodded and, without breaking stride, changed direction for the door to the back stairs. Thadro watched Finn leave, the Lord Commander’s face thoughtful as if he understood what Cais had said. Then, after sending a couple of guards to fetch more chairs, Thadro turned back to Arlis.
‘The peacekeeper asked you a question, Guardsman,” he said, his voice mild.
“Yes, sir,” Arlis stammered. “I don’t know who. I just meant generally—”
I dragged in a breath and let it out again at Arlis’ waffling denial as his actions of the last two days coalesced in my mind: Arlis standing next to Thadro, listening. Arlis standing behind Thadro and Jusson, listening. Arlis riding behind Thadro and Chadde, listening. Always close to the king or the Lord Commander, always listening.
And Arlis in my bedroom, standing in the window in clear view of Helto and friends lurking in the street below.
“That crossbow quarrel was on purpose, wasn’t it?” I said, interrupting Arlis midwaffle. “You were the target.”
Arlis’ mouth hung open but nothing came out. One the guards appeared with a chair for me and I plopped down into it, not caring that I sat in the standing presence of my king and my commanding officer.
“You weren’t trying to suck up,” I said. “You were trying to find out how much everyone knew about Helto, Menck, Slevoic—and you. Because you were involved in the smuggling too. One of the Vicious’ lads at the garrison.”
“Guardsman,” Thadro said when Arlis remained silent.
Arlis hunched his shoulders in, his head going down. “It was just something to do,” he said, his voice low. “Make life tolerable in this arse-backwards town.”