“Up to your battlements, are you? I wish I had such a place to help me think. I’m afraid times like this will find me in the kitchen eating the sweetest thing I can find.” Semlyn-Nor’s tone was light, but her face never brightened.
“There are no times like this,” he said, getting to his feet.
“When I think that, but for an accident of birth, it might be you in there…” Semlyn shook her head.
“Rather an accident of marriage, wouldn’t you say?”
“Don’t look at me like that, Kar. There’s plenty in the House will be having these same thoughts just now.”
“Perhaps,” Karlyn acknowledged. “But you should not say them aloud, all the same.” It was a reflection of just how badly she was shaken that she said such a thing at all, he thought. Semlin had been very close to the Fallen House, and this would come harder on her than it would on him.
He patted his fellow Steward on the shoulder and left, directing his steps through the maze of hallways and stairs that would end with the room where Dhulyn Wolfshead undoubtedly lay wondering what had delayed her breakfast. This would be the perfect time to use the hacksaw blade that rested in his scabbard, alongside his formal sword.
This time Karlyn made no attempt to be quiet as he unlocked the door. He was not hiding anything from anyone. He pushed the door open slowly, and as it cleared the bed, his heart stopped.
The cell was empty, the chains with their manacles neatly coiled on the bed.
When his breathing had returned to normal Karlyn left the room, relocking the door behind him and headed to Dal-eDal’s rooms in the east wing. Dhulyn Wolfshead was gone, safe, and therefore his people were safe also-though Karlyn wouldn’t take odds on how long Lok-iKol might live. The man might as well be cursed.
And it was very unlikely he himself would ever see Dhulyn Wolfshead again.
He told himself that what he felt was relief.
He had to breathe carefully, hold this body, this shape together, when everything in him, every instinct, every thought, wanted to dissolve, to undo, to make NOT. But not yet, there were still too many of them, the Marked. They might yet rally and remember him. But it would be soon now. The old House dead. Lok-iKol would move quickly. At any moment would come the summons he expected. Then there would be a new Tarkin in Imrion, and the Marked would be his. All the Marked. Even those the new Tarkin thought were hidden away.
Twelve
“YOU HAVE NEWS that will not wait?” Alkoryn Pantherclaw’s voice was as thin as paper. He lifted his blue eyes from their scrutiny of the map fixed to the top of his table, looked from Dhulyn to Parno and back again. “Tell me.”
Dhulyn stifled the impatient movement of her right hand before it became anything more than a tremor in her nerves. The captive Mercenaries had split up upon making their escape from Tenebro House, she and Parno taking one route while their Brothers took another. Besides being good strategy, it had given her a chance to tell Parno privately of Lok-iKol and her Visions. And given them the chance to prepare a report for their Senior Brother that did not mention her Mark.
She took a deep breath to steady herself as she began to speak.
And stopped.
She had never lied to a Senior Brother, never once since Dorian the Black took her hand in the hold of the slave ship. Neglected to tell things, perhaps, but lie? She looked over to Parno, leaning against the table to her right, saw concern mingling with fatigue in his face, clouding his amber eyes. Untold secrets hovered in the air between them, as well.
This was not what she wanted. This was not what the Brotherhood meant to her. I cannot have this. She sat up straight, hands firm on the tabletop, and hoped her judgment was not as clouded as Parno’s eyes.
She cleared her throat. “My Brother,” she said. “I bear a Mark.” From the corner of her eye, she saw Parno’s head jerk up an inch before he regained control.
Alkoryn’s fingers froze in their idle tracing of the lines of river and road. He lifted his hands from the map, sat up straight against the back of his chair, and let his hands fall to his thighs. When he had stared at her without speaking for some time, she continued.
“I am a Seer.”
Alkoryn struck his thigh with his fist. “A Seer. By the Caids, a Seer.” He looked at her sharply. “Does Dorian know?”
“I believe he does. But, Alkoryn, hear me.” She did not know the Pantherclaw well, but she had to hope so Senior a Brother would listen, would not let his obvious excitement rule his judgment. “My Mark is unschooled, untrained. No Guild trains Seers, at least none that I have ever found, and so my Sight is clouded, erratic, and…”
“Not to be relied upon?” Alkoryn’s whisper was dry, a little of the animation dying from his face.
“It shows me true Visions,” she said. “But not with regularity, nor in any way that allows me to plan.”
When Alkoryn looked at Parno, her Partner nodded. “It’s as she says. I could give you dozens of examples of true Visions, and perhaps twice when it’s been useful.”
“And that is why you’ve told no one.” Alkoryn placed his hands palm down on the tabletop. “Everyone thinks as I did, of how to use you, and doubts it when you tell them it cannot be done.” Had his glance been a blade, she would have been cut to the bone. “And Lok-iKol? This is what lies behind his actions? Does he know?”
“No more now than before. His Scholar told him that the women of my tribe might be Seers. It was enough for him to lure us-” she glanced at Parno, “-to lure me in.” Dhulyn leaned forward, resting her forearm on the tabletop. “My Brother, hear me. My news is of such weight-”
“Of course, of course.” The Pantherclaw picked up his cup of cider and drained it. “You have kept your silence too long to break it for trivialities. Pray, tell me what you Saw.” The hand that lowered the cup from his lips trembled.
“I have Seen the Tarkin Tek-aKet dead by poison,” she said in what she considered a remarkably steady voice. At least the shock and immediacy of the Vision had faded, though the images remained clear. “Men in Tenebro colors killing the guards of the Carnelian Dome. I have Seen the One-eyed Tenebro with the coronet in his hands, sitting on the Carnelian Throne. And I have Seen the Jaldean who stands behind him.”
“Allied with the Jaldeans,” Alkoryn said. “That in itself makes a degree of sense.” He looked up to meet her eyes. “Is it Lok-iKol behind this persecution of the Marked?”
Dhulyn shook her head. “That is more than my Vision can tell me.”
Parno cleared his throat. “He’ll have promised them something for their support.”
RIOTS. FIRES. GUARDS IN DARK RED PULLED FROM THEIR HORSES AND KILLED.
“I said, ‘are you all right, my Brother?’ ” Alkoryn’s voice was rough and whispery. Parno’s hand on her arm. Dhulyn licked suddenly dry lips and swallowed.
“Yes, I am more tired than I had thought. Your pardon.”
“What did you See?” Parno said. Alkoryn looked from Parno’s face to Dhulyn’s.
“Carnelian Guards being pulled from their horses in the streets.”
Alkoryn shook his head, but not as though he did not believe her. “When the old Tarkin died,” he said, “and Tek-aKet his son was confirmed to follow him as Tarkin, Lok-iKol did not put his name forward in nomination, nor did he request a Ballot.”
“It would have been his mother, then, would it not?” Parno said.
“So it would, so it would,” Alkoryn nodded, rubbing the scar on his throat. “This is no time for me to be growing old.” The Pantherclaw sighed and drew himself up until he sat tall and straight in his chair.
“You may not have heard,” he said. “This morning brought news of the Fall of Tenebro House. The old woman no longer stands between Lok-iKol and the Carnelian Throne.”