—and I brought them down with all my might. They crashed through the water’s surface as if it were made of glass, shards flying up, the entire lake exploding as the sea roared out and swept over me.
I had summoned water once before. Then it had been a joyous filling to completion, as springs, wells, brooks, streams, rivers and oceans all said yes as I invited them in. There was nothing joyful about this. I was violently seized, the waves churning me about until I didn’t know where I ended and the aspect began.
Let go, a voice said, full of the roaring ocean.
Let go? I didn’t have it. It had me.
Let go, the voice repeated.
My lungs burning as I sought the surface, I wondered if I had a choice.
There is always a choice.
I took fast stock of my options. I could be defiant and drown. Or I could yield and drown. Like Dyfrig, it was a question of what I believed.
All right, I thought.
And something infinitely vaster than the sea brushed by me. Startled, I exhaled, my breath bubbling out from me.
So I drown.
Breathe.
I inhaled, the salty sea filling me. So I don’t drown. Maybe.
Open your eyes.
My eyes flew open to find myself staring into Rosea’s face. Startled, she abruptly straightened, her gaze shooting down to where water was beading on her hands.
“You’re not water.” I gently put aside Laurel’s body and, gathering up the three staves, I stood. “That is a lie.” Rosea took a step back, her gown wet at the hem. Behind me Dyfrig rang the bell, and her face rippled again, a trickle of water appearing on her forehead. I moved towards her, my own clothes soaking wet, the wild smell of the sea rising off of me. “You’re just damned.”
Rosea’s mouth hung open for a moment, then she spun around and ran up the steps, her gown now wet to her knees. Having thrown off Ednoth, Helto shifted to make room for the player, the loaded crossbow still in the taverner’s hands. Rosea pointed at me, the trickle now twin rivulets flowing down both sides of her face. “Shoot him!”
Helto quickly loosed the bolt. I just as quickly twisted to the side and the bolt ripped my tabard, skimming along my hauberk before striking the ground. And where it struck the frost melted, the thaw spreading out in rapid concentric waves over the paving stones to travel up walls, across ledges and eaves and anything else in its path. Icicles’ drip-drip joined that falling from trees and lampposts, from the ribbons, garlands and wreaths of Harvestide that festooned the square. The people still caught up in their hushed madness started slipping and splashing in the forming puddles.
“This too is a lie,” I said.
Dyfrig rang the bell a third time and the melee slowed, then stopped as the illusions dissipated with the frost. The wave of fighting that had washed over Jusson and Wyln ebbed away again, leaving the king and the elfin enchanter standing back-to-back, the blades of their swords red with blood. Sprawled around them on the ground were armsmen, aristos, townspeople, and royal guards—but that was true of the entire square. Realizing that they’d been battling friends and family, the townsfolk still standing dropped their weapons and, heedless of the wet ground, fell to their knees to gather the wounded, the dying and the dead in their arms. A keening wail rose, the sound muted, stifled.
“All illusion,” I said, moving towards the portico steps. “Mist and mirrors.”
Jusson lowered his sword, his shoulders slumping. Wyln, though, swiftly walked towards me, strain finely drawn on his face as he stepped around Laurel’s body. Jusson followed, not looking down at where Thadro lay, staring unseeing at the sky.
Fresh out of loaded crossbows, Helto reached into a belt sheath and produced a knife, throwing it with deadly accuracy. I knocked it aside with the bundle of staves I held, sending it skidding along the ground to fetch up against Jeff, lying so pale and still in front of the altar. Wyln, Jusson and I started climbing the steps, Wyln’s gaze resting on my face for a moment before dropping to the pools of saltwater forming in my footprints. The pools overflowed and spilled down the portico steps.
“Is it truly an illusion, Rabbit?” Jusson asked. “The death and destruction look very real.”
Arlis, down on one knee, raised his head to stare at the knife resting against Jeff’s body, then his red-rimmed gaze went first to the taverner, then to Ednoth, who was slowly and painfully getting to his feet.
“It’s by trickery and misdirection, sire,” I said, my voice taking on a basso rumble. “This has been nothing but an elaborate shell game.”
Folks who were whole enough set down their wounded and dead and picked up their weapons, moving behind us like a slow, rolling wave. Seeing what was coming at him, Ednoth gave a yelp and quickly limped for the town hall door. He paused briefly, revealing that his storklike frame was stronger than it looked by yanking Gawell to his feet. They both disappeared into the hall, the mayor wobbling, with blood running down his face from his encounter with the building wall.
“Stop him!” Rosea gasped, and Helto pulled and threw another knife. I knocked that one aside also, causing it to land against the body of the bear. Beollan kicked it away and, helping Arlis to his feet, they both moved up the steps to fall in at our backs, tears rolling unheeded down the Marcher Lord’s face.
“A shell game?” Wyln asked, his thoughtful gaze returning to my face. “Who then is the thimblerigger? The House Master?”
“Not him, honored Cyhn” I said, the rumble deepening. “He doesn’t have the talent. Neither does Rosea.”
Rosea’s skin had become sallow and red streaks appeared in the whites of her eyes. “Help me, Master,” she whimpered as she began to shake.
Facing us, Helto drew a long knife and a sword. Down below in the square, Dyfrig poured salt on the altar, encircling the ceremonial bowl and the unlit candle—and the smell of the sea grew stronger.
“So what are they?” Jusson asked as we reached the top step, Beollan and Arlis on our heels, the townspeople right behind them.
Shaking harder, Rosea backed up, her hair coming down in straggly clumps to plaster against her face and neck. A pearl strand fell, the string breaking and the pearls scattering along the stone porch.
“Tools, Your Majesty,” I and the sea said. “They’re both tools.”
“If so,” Wyln said, now considering Rosea, “then they’re also fools who’ve not counted the cost of serving their masters. Then again, those who’d parley with the dark aren’t usually very wise to begin with.”
Helto also backed up, but it was to give himself sword room. “You’re wrong, magical. It’s not we who’ll pay the price here today. Right, my lady?” He smirked at Rosea, only to have it disappear as he got a good look at the player. Horror flashed over his face.
“Master,” Rosea gasped. She stood with her hands straining at her sides, her eyes wide, the cords in her neck standing out. “Help me. Please—”
“The game has ended,” Jusson said, moving in a loose, swordsman’s stalk towards Helto. “The shells overturned and all shown to be empty.”
“Sodding hell,” Helto whispered. He broke and dodging bodies to flee into the town hall. But there was a clash and the clatter of falling weaponry, and Helto backed out again, his hands raised high as Peacekeeper Chadde and several of the Watch exited the doorway. Of the mayor and head merchant, though, there was no sign.
Dyfrig picked up the vessel of blessed water and poured it into the ceremonial bowl. The square fountain burst into fluid life, and through the portico step I could feel a distant rumbling.
“I beg pardon for our delay, Your Majesty,” Chadde said. Her and her watchmen’s faces were pale and some were swallowing hard, as if to keep their gorge from rising, “We’d become a little disoriented going through the side streets and then, when we found our way clear, we discovered—” Chadde stopped abruptly as she took in the carnage in the square.