I was tempted to ask what the exact arrangements were, but Leelan and Deegor were too busy looking around carefully as we moved along the corridor for me to distract them. Leelan and her four w’wendaa had their swords out and Deegor was practically on top of me to my left, but Dallan and Tammad followed along with their swords sheathed. The men were only there as a just-in-case, I remembered, and somehow they seemed to accept that; if the battle was waged by w’wendaa alone, they would not try to involve themselves.
The next few minutes were enjoyable only if you like nerve-wracking experiences; for those like me who tend to prefer more peaceful circumstances, the best thing to be said about the time is that we weren’t attacked. We moved from corridor to corridor, Leelan, for the most part, leading the way, but the fighting we could hear continued to be found elsewhere. I had the distinct impression I was the only one who appreciated that fact, though, and tried to imagine how I would feel if I could actually use the weapon I wore. Most of the minds around me were eager to get into the thick of things, eager to come face-to-face with the enemy, and that was an outlook I wasn’t used to. Avoiding difficulties was more the Centran way of doing things, and despite my former penchant for kicking up a fuss, I’d spent most of my life doing the same.
We finally reached one particular corridor that wasn’t empty, but rather than get upset my companions were elated. There were unmoving, yellow-clad bodies on the no-longer-white stone floors, more yellow-clad bodies still up and moving, and a good deal more breeches-clad figures standing around with them. Although swords were out no one was fighting, and after a moment I realized the women before us were all on our side. They were gathered in front of intricately-carved dark wood double doors, and as we came up to them, Siitil stepped out of their midst.
“Leelan, the battle has gone well,” she said at once, looking almost unrecognizable with all the agitation and frustration gone from her. “When the Hand ceased its output we attacked at once, yet have we now been halted for a time in our forward progress. The usurper is behind these doors, and we are unable to open them without a ram. As I have already sent for one, it should be here momentarily.”
“Excellent,” Leelan answered with a very cold smile, looking at the doors rather than at Siitil. “It should not be long, then.”
At first I thought Leelan was simply repeating what Siitil had said, but then it came to me that the wait she was referring to was the one necessary before she might face Farian. Her mind was a good deal colder than her smile, and I might have considered shivering if the ram hadn’t been brought up just at that moment.
Four w’wendaa carried a heavy metal table, four others having gone along to guard them, and everyone else moved out of the way to give them room to do what they had to. I wanted to spend the waiting time next to Tammad, but Deegor and Leelan were still flanking me, and a number of w’wendaa had positioned themselves around and behind us all. The women began swinging the table at the doors, immediately ruining the carvings and producing a loud, grimly insistent cadence, and the eagerness in the minds all around me began building again.
No one can tell me that the thoughts of the people in that corridor didn’t do as much as that table to force open those doors. If the building anticipation had gone on even one more minute I would have had to shield, but the doors turned out to be more fragile than my reluctance to blind myself. They crashed open with the sound of snapping wood, the women with the metal table were quickly gotten out of the way, and then we were all moving into the room they had tried so hard to keep us out of.
The room itself was rather larger than I had expected, with a big oval platform directly ahead in front of the far wall, and although there was a door in both the left- and right-hand walls, there were no windows. Rows of candles illuminated the white stone of the walls, ceiling, and uncovered floor, and made seeing the three knots of almost motionless women very easy, as though it were a picture we were looking at rather than reality. To the right stood those who were unarmed, one almost on top of the next, their minds running the gamut from excited elation to petrified fear, their faces showing the same. To the left were at least a dozen yellowclad w’wendaa, their swords in their fists and their minds grim, their faces showing nothing but determination. The w’wendaa, it appeared, were just as motionless as the first group, most likely due to the fact that we outnumbered them more than two to one, which made attacking us not the best of ideas.
The third group was the smallest of all, but that, most certainly, was the one that got the greatest amount of attention.
Standing on the raised platform amid the silks arid furs and cushions were six people, two of whom were Farian and Roodar. The other four were w’wendaa who seemed to be a bit more prepared to fight than the ones standing on the floor to the left, and a brief but intense burst of disappointment came from the back of our own group. With not a single l’lenda in sight Dallan knew he was out of luck as far as any fighting went, and he was probably cursing that luck in a silence to match the rest of the silence around us. There wasn’t a single sound in that entire room—until Leelan stopped our advance with a gesture, then moved one additional pace forward alone.
“Your time as Chama is done, Farian,” she announced in ringing tones, grim satisfaction and pleasure filling every part of her, her head held high and proud. “Surrender to us now, and you shall be permitted to live a short while longer.”
“Shall I, indeed,” the woman Farian murmured in return, cold fury in the light eyes looking down at Leelan, her whole bearing set into regal outrage. “I am unsurprised that you call for my surrender, girl, for in no manner would you find it possible to best me without it. You are, however, destined for disappointment in your demands. I have no intentions of surrendering. ”
The woman stood tall and straight in her rose-colored silk shirt and breeches, her slender body giving the impression that she was unarmed more through choice than due to lack of skill, and I finally understood why I had no memory of the strength of her mind. She was the first Rimilian I had come across who was capable of shielding, undoubtedly the “denial” which had been mentioned in relation to her. There was something odd about the shield—I could see that immediately—but defining exactly what the oddness was was something I didn’t have the time for just then.
“Honor demanded that the offer be made,” Leelan came back immediately, projecting calm regality of her own. “Those with honor shall ever display it, even to one such as you. Which of these do you choose to stand for you?”
“With a sword?” Farian asked, suddenly showing spiteful amusement. “It was my understanding that you meant to challenge me, girl; have you discovered an understandable reluctance for a doing such as that? You will attempt to beat me with the weapon which bested my Hand of Power?”
“You will be bested with precisely the same weapon, woman,” Leelan answered, stressing the word wenda just as Farian had been stressing the word, treda. She saw as we all did that Farian didn’t know what had knocked out her Hand of Power, which meant she hadn’t detected the fairly tight beam I’d used. “It was merely my intention to allow you a form of defense which will be useless to you after personal challenge has been given. Should this, however, not be in accordance with your wishes . . . . ”