[Lyra 01] - Shadow Magic Read online

  Just outside the kitchen door Alethia paused for a moment to dust off her skirts. As she did, she heard a muffled thumping coming from the courtyard. She turned uncertainly, and the noise was repeated. Frowning, she reached for the small side door that led to the yard.

  Outside it was very dark, though the sun had set only a few minutes previously. Alethia peered into the shadows. “Who is there?” she called, and stepped forward. There was a movement on her left, and she half turned. At that moment a heavy cloak dropped over her head, and she felt herself being grasped and lifted. Through the folds she heard a hoarse chuckle.

  Alethia fought and tried to scream, but the folds of the cloak hampered her movements and muffled her voice. Someone wrenched at the throat of her gown; then the cloak was wrapped more tightly.

  Despite her struggles, she was picked up and thrown unceremoniously across a saddle. She heard the noise of hoofbeats as her kidnappers started off. Alethia kicked and tried to slide from the horse’s back, but the rider who held her was strong. She kicked again and heard his breath hiss as she connected, then she was knocked senseless by a blow on her head.

  On the second floor of Styr Tel candles smoked and flared as Bracor paced the floor of his study, sending dark shadows leaping about the walls of the room. Isme and Har sat near the door, watching. Tatia, oblivious to the tension in the air, played happily with a paperweight and Bracor’s official seal.

  “Where is Alethia?” demanded Bracor, for the seventh time at least. “She knows how important this banquet is; we can’t keep the guests waiting much longer. And Gahlon made a point of mentioning his desire to see her.”

  “She knows, and she promised me she would be as pleasant as she could to First Lord Gahlon,” Isme said soothingly. “I’m sure she wouldn’t start by being late without a reason.”

  Bracor stopped pacing and turned. “I know, Isme, but that girl finds the most unusual reasons!” Isme smiled, but her husband continued, “Armin and Gahlon have come specifically to talk about an alliance between our cities against the Lithmern. You know how touchy they are, how quick to sense insult. I can’t risk anything going wrong now.”

  “I sent Alethia down to check on things in the kitchen,” Isme said calmly. “Though that was at least an hour ago…”

  “Har,” Bracor snapped, “See if you can find her. And make sure you get back here on time!”

  Har nodded, and rose. Tatia looked up from her play and said with round-eyed seriousness, “Something bad happened to Alethia.”

  “Hush, brat,” said Har, taking a swing at his youngest sister. Tatia ducked under a chair to escape him and stuck out her tongue. Bracor bent to retrieve his erring offspring before she tipped the chair over, and Har proceeded on into the corridor. Turning right, he headed toward the back stairs and practically tripped over Maurin.

  “Where away?” the young caravan guard asked.

  “Alethia is wandering around somewhere, and Father is having fits, so he sent me to find her,” Har said inelegantly. “You look splendid,” he added as Maurin fell into step beside him.

  “Splendidly uncomfortable, maybe,” Maurin said with a grimace. “Give me a nice, practical uniform over these any day. I can hardly move.” He indicated his tightly fitting garb of wine-red velvet and silver. The black cape he wore was held at the left shoulder by a round silver clasp which bore a lighted candle in its center. Around the candle a stylized shield, sword, cup and staff intricately entwined with vines formed a circle. He did indeed look a splendid figure, and just as uncomfortable as he claimed. Har laughed.

  “I hate to mention it, but that is a uniform. The dress uniform of a Captain of the House Guard of Styr Tel, to be precise.”

  “What!”

  “It was all I could find on short notice. Did you want to go to a formal banquet in caravan leather? Quit complaining and let’s find Alethia before Father blows the roof off. Mother said she was heading for the kitchen.”

  Together the two men headed down the stairs and through the passage at the back of the house. Just before they reached the kitchen doorway, Har paused with a frown.

  “That door shouldn’t be open at this time of night. Wait just a minute, Maurin; I’ll be right back.” Har stepped through an archway towards a small side door that was half ajar. As he pulled on the handle something jammed, and he bent to examine the frame. He straightened with an exclamation. “Maurin! See here.”

  The other man hurried over. Har held out his hand. In it was a bent silver clasp similar to the one which held Maurin’s cape, but with two leafy branches emblazoned in the center instead of the candle. “This is the badge of Styr Gisek, at Meridel,” Har said.

  “What would one of Gahlon’s guards be doing…” began Maurin, then stopped abruptly. Through the open door he had seen a flicker of movement in the shadow of the house. Motioning to Har to continue, Maurin pulled his black cape over the betraying silver of the dress uniform and slipped like a shadow out of the door into the darkness.

  With scarcely a pause, Har opened the door slightly wider and, raising his voice, continued, “I don’t know, but this undoubtedly belongs to one of them. Perhaps he had an overwhelming desire to sample our dinner, or maybe he came courting a kitchen maid. Still, he must be found; we cannot have such—Maurin, have you got him?” he broke off as the sounds of a scuffle came from the courtyard.

  The noise subsided, and Maurin reappeared, grinning broadly. “Here is our spy,” he said, lifting up a small, squirming boy about six years old.

  “Lemme go!” the prisoner cried. “I didn’t do nothing! It wasn’t me. Lemme go!”

  “What are you talking about?” demanded Har as Maurin set his captive on the ground once more. Without a word, the child darted away toward the courtyard, only to be scooped up once again by Maurin. “Lemme go!”

  Maurin set the boy in front of him, this time keeping a strong grip on one skinny arm. Squatting down to look directly at the child, he said, “Look, we aren’t going to hurt you. All we want to know is what happened. What is your name?”

  “Ancel,” sniffed the boy.

  “Well, Ancel, what are you so afraid of?”

  The boy trembled, but under Maurin’s steady gaze his eyes fell and he mumbled, “The guy with no face that took the lady.”

  Har and Maurin exchanged frowns. “What happened?” Maurin asked urgently. “Did you see?” The child nodded. “Tell us!” The boy gulped twice and began.

  “Cook told me to get out of the way, so I came out here. Then a whole bunch of men sneaked around the corner, and I hid. They waited for a while, and then one of them made a noise. The lady from up in the house came out to see what it was and they put a big cape over her and took her away. She looked awful pretty, all in green. Then one of the men stuck something in the door and they all rode away. I was scared so I stayed hid. Then you came.”

  “What did these men look like?”

  “Mostly dark, like the traders when they come in. And they had their hair chopped off around their ears. I didn’t like them. But the big one didn’t have no face. He made it dark. They were all scared of him. I was scared too.”

  The boy began to cry again. Maurin and Har looked at each other. “Lithmern! And they’ve kidnapped Alethia!” Har exclaimed. Maurin turned back to the boy.

  “Ancel, do you remember if they said anything?”

  “They didn’t talk much and I didn’t understand what they said. They didn’t talk right,” the boy sniffed.

  “Well, at least we know who they are,” Maurin said to Har. He turned his attention back to the boy. “Now, Ancel, you come with us. I want you to tell this to some other people. Come on.”

  Maurin led the boy back into the house, while Har lingered behind for a few moments. Har caught up with the pair at the head of the stairs, and they made their way rapidly back to the room where Bracor and Isme waited. As they entered, they saw that Bracor had been joined by his guests. The lords were not in the best of tempers.

 
“I say there is no reason for this,” Armin was saying as they entered. “The girl is making fools of us all, and I for one will not stand for it.”

  “Your pardon, Lord,” Maurin interrupted firmly. “I do not think this is by her choice.”

  “What do you mean?” Bracor said, stepping forward anxiously. “Where is she?”

  “Alethia has been kidnapped,” Har stated flatly. Isme turned as white as her hair, and the two visiting lords looked at Har in consternation.

  “We found this jammed in the door,” Har went on. “I believe it belongs to one of your men, First Lord.” He handed Gahlon the silver clasp.

  Gahlon held the clasp without looking at it for a full minute as the implications of that statement sank in. “Are you accusing me of this?” he asked quietly.

  “No, but we were meant to,” Maurin said. He pulled Ancel forward. “Fortunately, this boy saw the whole thing. Alethia was kidnapped by Lithmern, who deliberately planted First Lord Gahlon’s insigne to throw suspicion on him and cover their traces. Possibly they also intended to make us waste time arguing among ourselves.”

  Bracor, somewhat recovered from the initial shock, nodded thoughtfully. “Such an accusation would ruin all chance of an alliance between Brenn and Meridel for years. The Lithmern would seem to be well informed; I had thought your purpose here was unknown.” He gazed absently at the other two lords. Abruptly, he came back to the present. “Under the circumstances, speculation can wait. I trust you will excuse me, my lords, but I must go after these men.”

  “I have already ordered a party of guards to prepare, and our horses should be waiting now, Father,” Har put in. “We only came back to tell you.”

  “Well done. We go, then,” Bracor said. Turning to his guests, he continued, “You are welcome to stay here and enjoy the feast that has been prepared for you. I must hold myself excused; do not think me a poor host, I pray.” Bracor bowed and started for the door. He was brought to a halt by the sound of Armin clearing his throat.

  “I may not speak for First Lord Gahlon,” the Lord of Lacsmer said rather gruffly. “But for myself, I would consider it a poor return for your hospitality if we were to remain here at our ease while you ride out to danger. I would join you.”

  “I also.” Gahlon spoke quietly, but there was no doubt of his sincerity.

  The grim expression on Bracor’s face lightened a little. “I accept,” he said, and the three men left the room, followed by Maurin and Har. As Maurin turned toward the stairs he caught a glimpse of Isme’s white, strained face as she slipped away toward the tower stairway. His sympathy went out to her for a moment; then he was hurrying on toward the courtyard where the horses waited.

  Shadows danced over the stone walls of the castle and stable as men and horses moved purposefully about the courtyard. When Maurin arrived, a troop of guards was already mounted. Three horses stood waiting to the left of the door. Bracor was speaking with the gatekeeper. Maurin saw him shrug and turn to Har, who nodded a little reluctantly. The Lord of Brenn motioned to his two guests, and the three Nobles moved together to the waiting horses and mounted. Har came over to the doorway where Maurin still stood.

  “The Styr gatekeeper swears he didn’t see anyone come in or go out since the last of the guests arrived late this afternoon,” Har informed him. “I don’t quite understand it; the captain has found the tracks and they are as plain as a fire on the top of Shadrock Mountain.”

  “Never mind that. What about us?” Maurin asked, indicating the departing party of guards.

  Har’s reply was drowned for a moment by the noise as the pursuers started out the gates of Styr Tel into the city. Then he said, “They are saddling two more horses for us now. Father wanted to start at once. We can catch up without too much trouble once we get outside of Brenn, and he thought it important not to antagonize Gahlon and Armin by leaving them behind to wait for horses.”

  Maurin snorted disgustedly. “Politics at a time like this! I’d never make a noble, that’s certain. Well, come on. We’ll get started faster if we don’t wait for the horses to be brought to us.”

  The two walked across the courtyard to the stables. They were met just inside the stable door by a groom leading their mounts. With a nod of thanks, Maurin took the reins from the man and led the animals outside.

  “They’ll head for the West Gate,” Har said as they mounted. “It is closest, and the kidnappers wouldn’t want to attract attention.” Maurin nodded, and with barely a backward look he and Har galloped out into the city.

  Maurin and Har did not catch the larger party within the city. Outside the West Gate of Brenn, the trail of the pursuers turned northwest, toward Lithra. As the two turned their horses to follow, Maurin reined in suddenly. “Wait a minute,” he said. Har obligingly brought his mount to a halt and turned to look inquiringly at his friend.

  Maurin sat bolt upright in the saddle, staring at the sky. “We are going in the wrong direction,” he said slowly.

  “Why do you say that?” Har asked.

  “The Lithmern were trying to throw the blame on Gahlon. If they left the city and headed straight for Lithra, it would give the whole thing away. Suppose they went east, toward Meridel, to lay a false trail instead? They could drop something of Alethia’s, just to convince everyone, and then double back toward Lithra. If that’s what they’re doing, Bracor and the rest will never catch up with them the way they are going.”

  “Maybe,” Har said, running a hand through his hair distractedly. “But do you really think they would take such a chance? It means they will have to slip past Brenn on their way back, with the whole city looking for them.”

  “Not if they go through the Wyrwood,” Maurin said grimly, swinging his horse’s head around.

  “Impossible.”

  “There is a pass they can use if they take that route; they wouldn’t have to come back this way to get around the mountains.”

  Har’s eyes widened. “A pass? Are you sure?”

  “It was used in the days of the old Empire,” Maurin said. “The Wyrwood wasn’t as overgrown or dangerous then, and they say the caravans used the pass to trade with the Wyrds and the Shee. It has been abandoned for at least two hundred years.”

  “Wyrds and Shee!” Har said impatiently. “My sister kidnapped, and you talk about children’s tales.”

  “The past exists. Traders don’t lie about making money. Not in their own logs, anyway. And I suppose the Wyrwood gets a bad reputation by accident?” Maurin asked politely.

  “A couple of travelers get killed by robbers, somebody has a nightmare, and all of a sudden the woods are filled with Wyrds,” Har muttered. “I hope this pass of yours is not some minstrel’s tale as well.”

  The two paused briefly to leave a message with the gatekeeper, then urged their horses to a faster pace. When they reached the other side of the city, Har dismounted and studied the ground carefully, but he rose shaking his head.

  “Too much traffic,” he said. “If the Lithmern did come this way, their tracks are buried. We must head further east to learn anything.” He remounted and they moved away from the city at a slow trot. Har dismounted frequently to study the tracks in the road, but always remounted with the same negative headshake. Both men were growing frustrated, and Maurin was ready to admit he had been mistaken, when he caught sight of something lying in the middle of the road, glinting in the moonlight—a brooch, gem encrusted, bearing the arms of the house of Styr Tel.

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  When Alethia regained consciousness, it was nearly dawn. Her captors had stopped, and she was propped with her back against a tree at the edge of a clearing in a forest. The horses were tethered in a group to a clump of bushes directly across from her. She craned her neck, but there was no sign of a road; they must have left the highway hours before.

  Her hands and feet had been tied tightly in front of her, and her head ached. She was cold and stiff, for the cloak she had been wrapped in had been repossessed
by its owner. The brooch she had been wearing was missing; the lace of her dress was torn where it had been ripped away. She felt a pang of regret, but stifled it and turned her attention to her kidnappers.

  They wore heavy cloaks against the early morning chill. When they spoke, it was in low, growling voices in a language unfamiliar to Alethia. Most of them were dark men, with straight black hair chopped off raggedly just below their ears. Their eyes were brown or black; several had scars running across their faces, giving them an even more sinister appearance. Their hands were large, and looked almost out of proportion to the rest of their bodies. They moved constantly about the clearing, preparing a temporary campsite. A large fire was already blazing in the center of the clearing.

  Alethia thought she counted eleven men, but in the poor light she could not be sure. She noticed that one man, who seemed to be the leader, stood apart from the others, and she studied him carefully. He wore a hat with a low brim, and his cloak was muffled up around his face so that she could not make out any of his features. His hands were hidden deep within the folds of his cloak. Noticing her scrutiny, he strolled over to her.

  “Ah, our lovely guest is awake!” he said.

  His voice was very like a croak, and Alethia could not place the accent. She fought down her fear, and managed to reply with some energy: “No thanks to you, I’m sure! I do not like people who abduct me and then whisk me off to nowhere. Where are we, where are you taking me, and what do you intend to do with me when you get there? Oh, and by the way, who are you?”

  The cloaked leader threw back his head and laughed. It was not a pleasant sound, and Alethia was glad when he stopped abruptly. “So, you have spirit! I like that. It will make things more… interesting when we reach our destination.” He paused for a moment. “I am captain of these men, and we go to Mog Ograth in Lithra. I think the Lord of Brenn will pay well for the return of his daughter, safe and unharmed, don’t you?”