She leaned listlessly against the glass, and her head throbbed as the sense of danger tightened like a steel band around her head. It wasn’t getting better; it was getting worse, and she was finally driven to seek assistance. The duchess had told her to press a small plate set into the wall of each room in the house if she needed to summon a servant. Now she slid out of the window seat and padded barefoot across the room, locating the faintly glowing bell-plate in the moonlight, rather than switching on the main lights. She didn’t think she could bear bright lights with her head throbbing like this. She wasn’t sure what Arcanans did about headaches, but she was in pain and needed assistance. At home or even in the field, she would simply have reached for a packet of herbs to calm the throbbing, but here she had nothing.
She touched the wall plate, which began to glow softly. Aside from that, however, nothing happened. She stood there for several moments, wondering if she’d misunderstood the instructions. After waiting for a minute or two-and feeling both awkward and a little silly standing there in the dark-she retreated to the window seat.
She was still sitting there, massaging her pounding temples, five minutes later, when a brisk knock rattled the door. It was sudden enough, and loud enough, to startle her, and she twitched in surprise before she stood, shook herself, and headed across the room to the door. She opened it-then hissed aloud and stumbled backward two full steps. The hatred seething in the housemaid’s eyes sent a jolt of pure terror through her and her breath froze in her lungs under the brutal force of the woman’s murderous glare.
“You wanted something?” the servant snarled.
Shaylar stood frozen in place, so stunned by the other’s fury that she literally couldn’t speak. She could only stand there, staring up at the tall servant and wondering what to do if the woman actually attacked her, and the hatred in the housemaid’s eyes was overlaid with something else: contempt. The Arcanan woman waited a moment longer and then, when Shaylar still couldn’t speak, growled something under her breath which sounded like a curse, whirled around, and stormed off, yanking the door closed behind her. It slammed shut with a bang, rattling framed pictures on the wall, and Shaylar sagged to her knees, trembling. The servant’s lethal hatred had been so strong, even her dimmed Talent had felt it without physical contact.
She crouched there in the moonlight, gasping for breath, bludgeoned by a blow far more vicious than any physical attack. That sort of concentrated hate would have constituted a savage assault on a Voice under any circumstances; coming totally unexpectedly, with no warning, no opportunity to shield or brace herself in any way, its effect had been devastating. Her mind literally refused to work, yet she felt the tears beginning, felt her heart pound with the need to flee, to find some sanctuary, some hiding place. But there was no sanctuary, not here in his hideous alien world with its monstrous creatures, its hate-filled people and grotesque magic! There would never by any sanctuary! Never any-
And then Jathmar was at her side, jolted awake by the slamming door and her terror, and his arms closed around her like a fortress against her horror.
“What just happened?” he demanded urgently, and she trembled against him, clutching him with desperate strength.
“I don’t know!” she cried. “I had a terrible headache. I woke to a feeling of danger. I couldn’t sleep, it kept getting stronger, and my head was aching, throbbing. So I did what the duchess told us, pushed the wall plate, there.” She pointed to the still-glowing rectangle in the wall. “The maid who answered the call wanted to kill me. I could feel it, like a sledgehammer. She wanted to murder me, Jathmar, and I have no idea why!”
He held her tightly while reaction tremors shook through her. None of the servants had done anything like that earlier in the day. What in Marthea’s name had brought it on now? When a second, much quieter knock, sounded at their door, she flinched and clutched Jathmar even harder.
“Who’s there?” he snarled.
“It’s Gadrial. Please unlock your door. I have to talk to you! I need to show you something important.”
Jathmar stood, glaring at the closed door for at least ten seconds, his arms still around his trembling wife. Then he growled something under his breath, released Shaylar with obvious reluctance, and opened the door.
Gadrial stood in the hall, in a house robe as elegant as the one Shaylar had donned, and her expression tightened as she saw Shaylar’s ashen, tear streaked face.
“You already know,” she whispered.
Shaylar shook her head. “I don’t know anything! I just woke up. Something felt dangerous. My head ached. So I rang for servant. The maid wanted to kill me.”
Jathmar closed and locked the door behind Gadrial, then drew Shaylar across the room and eased her down in one of the comfortable chairs. The magister crossed to a handsome sideboard, found a decanter of some kind of spirits, and splashed some of it into a glass.
“Sip this,” she said.
Shaylar took a deep sip, shuddered, and gulped down the rest. Then she looked up to find Gadrial with a crystal in one hand, biting her lip in obvious distress.
“What’s happened, Gadrial?” she demanded. “Why did that woman want to kill me?”
“Jasak is furious. Cursing and snarling.” Gadrial’s voice was tight with obvious anger of her own, and also with something that sounded almost like…shame. “Even the Duke is in a towering rage, and I’m so upset, I can’t stop shaking. It’s this,” she held up the crystal. “It’s dreadful, what they’ve said in the headlines, the articles, the picture captions, everything.”
“Show us,” Jathmar growled.
Gadrial touched a lamp, which lit with a mercifully soft light. Then she handed the crystal to Shaylar and tapped it with a stylus. It immediately began to glow and a sheet of light appeared above it, looking for all the world like a Sharonian newspaper page, although no newspaper Shaylar had ever seen printed its banner headlines in blood-red ink that flashed as a reader looked at it. That was her first thought…but then the one-word headline actually registered:
MURDERED!
Just below was a picture of the man Shaylar and Jathmar had met so briefly at the swamp portal, the man who’d made the fire rose, who’d been a second father to Gadrial. The fact that Halathyn vos Dulainah’s picture was printed in color, not the black and white of a Sharonian photograph, registered only as a mild surprise. What caught her attention was the caption:
“The death of Magister Halathyn vos Dulainah, above, beloved of millions, at Sharonian hands has been confirmed.”
Other article headlines jumped out from the page as she swept disbelieving eyes across it.
Arcanan Diplomats Murdered in Midst of Peace Talks.
Casualties Much Heavier Than Initially Reported: Mass Funerals Planned.
Garth Showma Heir Arrives in Disgrace!
Shardonai War Criminals? No Explanation from Duke
The articles were even worse than the headlines. The words were a blur, hard to read because Shaylar’s eyes kept filming over with tears of shock and horror. She had to scrub her eyes again and again just to see them.