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Gabriele Basingame's wardrobe held a distressingly low number of black clothes, and almost none of them were suitable for quick movements. Black wasn't a usual color, after all, for a princess. But then, Catheryne reflected, she was hardly a usual princess either. For one, she was about to attack the estate of one of the most powerful nobles in Eretria, and expose the treachery there once and for all. "I don't understand," Moya Tilmitt said. "You're going to attack Lord Esten?" "Not Lord Esten," Catheryne said, digging into her wardrobe for something both dark enough to blend to the night and light enough that she could move faster than a crawl. Jordan had run off to his own rooms to get changed as well. "It's probably his daughter Temaile pulling the strings. She's very ambitious." "She wants to be Princess-Heir, doesn't she," Moya Tilmitt said. "Yes," Catheryne said. "That's probably why our murderer has been building up on us the way he did. Moving up the ladder, Jordan said--he was right. And the last two attacks have taken place right here in the Palace. He's preparing to move on me." "So you move on him first," Moya Tilmitt said. "Exactly." There was nothing in here. She was going to need to talk to Jordan. "I'll come with you," Moya Tilmitt said. "No, it'll be dangerous," Catheryne said, "I'm not going to let my subjects wander into danger." "I was about to say the same, except with the word 'students,' " Moya Tilmitt said. "Mages-untrained can be dangerous-very. Now you and Jordan are both good-very with magic, but you're not good enough. So I will come too." Catheryne glanced over at him briefly. He wore dark clothes and a brownish overcoat. "Can you fight?" He gestured to the sword at his belt. "I haven't been carrying this for nothing, Catheryne." Jordan arrived. He was dressed entirely in black and carried a second set of clothing draped over one arm. "I thought you might need this," he said. "Bless you," she said. She stripped herself of the dress and shift she had just put on (Moya Tilmitt made a coughing sound and looked away) and stepped into the trousers and shirt, and then secured the silte at her hip and back. Jordan also had a couple of handkerchiefs, and she used one to secure her hair in place. Jordan carried Kellon Gounold's tesada in his other hand. She frowned at him. "Is that a smart idea?" "It's an unconventional weapon, they won't know how to deal with it," Jordan said. "And I've been practicing with it. I'm sure I'll be fine." She drew the silte. "Prove it." She moved in on him, feeling the familiar heft and weight of the steel in her hands, and trusting--for the first time ever--trusting Jordan to do what he did best. And trusting herself, as well, not to make any mistakes. She wouldn't accidentally hurt him. She knew him, every inch. She loved him. Moya Tilmitt cleared his throat. "Uh, children, do you believe-truly is this nec--" He parried with shaft, blade and spearbutt; she attacked using both blades, as she had been taught to do, striking with one and blocking with the other but never in a pattern, switching lead hands, varying the timing and staying unpredictable. A blink, and he shifted from defense to savage attack, and now she was moving backwards, knocking the spearblade off-course with her silte, dodging from side to side as the spearbutt came at her--it was too heavy, there was no way she could deflect it. The enemy would have that problem too. Finally she saw an opening and took it. He thrust in and she tangled the spearblade in the hook of her sacta, but he shoved through, bringing the blade to rest at her throat--only to find her refta hooked around and edging at his own jugular. They stared at each other, breathing heavily. "I've trained you well, I see," he murmured. Suddenly she saw the naked lust in his eyes. "You are the best, after all," she said. Their heads leaned closer, and her mouth opened to receive him. "If that concludes the demonstration, maybe we should go," Moya Tilmitt said. Jordan blinked. "Yes," he said. "It's time." They left the Palace by a side exit and walked under the cover of night. There was no moon to light the clouds and she could barely see ten feet in front of her. Jordan led, gesturing starts and stops with his hands as people, imagined or real, passed them by. They stayed off the main roads, keeping to the shadows of buildings. Jordan led the intrusion into the Daravon estate. He scaled the wall easily and then signaled back with a whistle that it was safe to come over. Moya Tilmitt gave Catheryne a lift up and she came over the wall; he followed a few moments later, having had a good deal more trouble from the sound of his labored breathing. Jordan gestured to their left. A wrought-iron gate was lit by lamps and guarded by two men. They lounged at their posts, watching the world outside with calm indifference. "That gate leads to the servants' entrance. We just bypassed it. Come on." The servants' entrance led to a small, cramped hallway, lit again by lamps, that opened at its far end into some vague, uncharted blackness. Jordan looked up in vexation. "We might as well have worn normal clothes. If there's anyone down there, they'll see us." "Just a moment," Moya Tilmitt said, and they felt the familiar tingle of the Flow on their skin. Then arcs of Flow leapt out, and the candles went out. "Wait a moment for your eyes to adjust," Jordan said. "Then we go." "Why are we waiting?" Catheryne said. "If someone's down there, they'll come and investigate." "And we won't be able to see," Jordan said. "Which will make it very hard to deal with them if they prove hostile." His foresight was justified: when they got to the end of the hallway, they found themselves looking out at a large anteroom, pitch black and containing three now-very-nervous soldiers. Jordan gestured for silence. "Did you hear that?" one of the men said. "I didn't hear nothing," said another. "You're seein things." "Yeah, I seen all the lights go out at once, that's what I seen!" the first retorted. "You think that isn't a problem?" "Look, shut up," said the third. "If something's coming, yelling about it won't help. So shut up, keep your eyes open, and listen." Jordan nodded. If that man wasn't their commander, he'd take control once the trouble started. Jordan would take him out himself. He leaned over to Catheryne's ear. "I've got the one in the center. You take the one on the left. Tell Moya Tilmitt." Her ear left his lips in a parting whisper of hair, and returned a few moments later. She tapped him on the chin and he turned his head so she could reach his ear: "We're ready." In the darkness their lips met briefly. "Three... Two... One... Go." The men were facing his direction, so there was no hope for a silent entry; instead he knew he'd need speed and silence, and the fact that, except for his face, he blended into the darkness of the room. Nonetheless, the man was expecting trouble--his sword whipped out and he parried the first few strikes. He wasn't prepared for the tesada's blunt end, though--used well, it could power straight through a parrying sword, and Jordan knew how to use it well. The spearbutt smashed into the man's temple, stunning him; Jordan stepped back and stabbed him in the chest, and he went down. Catheryne moved aggressively, leading with her sacta held backhand in her left. Her footing was quick and sure, her attacks confident, and the man she faced was clearly unnerved by this flowing creature in black clothes and shining golden hair. The fight was over before it even began. His clumsy parries turned her first few strikes, but she caught his first attack with the spur of the sacta, knocking it up and away; a moment later his throat was cut and blood everywhere. He gurgled and gagged and fell clutching the ruins of this throat, while Catheryne stepped away. Jordan looked to see if Moya Tilmitt needed help, but he was doing fine. Even as Jordan looked over, Tilmitt locked blades with his foe and then spun, twisting the enemy's sword from his hands. The man had time for just one panicked look before Moya Tilmitt's sword split his head from crown to eyebrows. "Where's our man," Jordan said. "I..." Moya Tilmitt frowned. "Actually, he's quite near here. Those men may have been there to protect him." "Clearly it didn't work," Catheryne said. "Lead the way. We'll find him and kill him. No questions asked." Moya Tilmitt pointed. The doorway opposite the one they had come in through led to another hallway, this one dark as well. "That way." The men had indeed been guarding him, as evidenced by another set of three guards in another anteroom on the far end of the hallway. Halfway down, however, was the door they were seeking. Jordan opened it soundlessly and the three of them slipped in. Inside, all was dark, save for the slight light coming in through the window. It was enough, however, to illuminate the single form lying on the bed. Catheryne heard snoring. She gripped the refta in her left hand harder. This was it. Now was the time. The snoring stopped with a sudden jerk. And then a man's voice, deep, rough: "Wha. Who's there?" Catheryne froze. Uh-oh. And then: "...You're like me." She felt the crawling tingle of the Flow, and the room's only candle burst into flame. Sitting up in bed was a man of indeterminate age--his lined face and slightly silvered hair could've been an old twenty or a young fifty. He was muscular and broad of shoulders; his clothes, and the generally shabby state of the room, suggested that he was a servant here. "You'd better leave," he said. "It's not smart of you to stay. If... If she finds you..." "If who finds us," Moya Tilmitt asked. "Temaile Daravon," Catheryne said. The man shuddered. "She enslaved me," he said. Then he smiled. "She gave me life." Moya Tilmitt frowned. "I don't understand." "She taught me how to become pure, and holy," said the man, beaming. "I can... Cast off this mortal coil. I can become more than I am." "What?" said Moya Tilmitt. "Why?" said Catheryne. "How," said Jordan. "It's because of... It's because of the magic, yes?" said the man. "You have it, you know it. You know the truth about it." "What truth," Catheryne asked. "It's a sin," said the man. "We who use it are... Impure. Evil. Blights upon the face of the earth. Oh, what sins we must have done to be cursed with this power!" "And Mistress Daravon has taught you a way around that," said Moya Tilmitt. "Yes," said the man, beaming. "She said that we who use magic are flawed and imperfect--men, born on the earth with a piece of the power of the gods. So we must either become evil and destructive, as is Loduur, god of thunder and night, or become benevolent and kind, like the Great Mother Kyrei. But we must get back to the gods, bring ourselves to them." "And how do you do this," said Jordan. "We must ascend," said the man. "We must become as the gods are. We have their power. We give. And we take away." "Give and take away what," Catheryne asked. "Why..." said the man. "Life." Catheryne and Jordan traded glances. It was a brilliant scheme, on the whole. It tapped into the man's insecurities and provided a way for Temaile to manipulate him. It made her the final authority on everything he did. And, clearly, it had worked. "She made me kill people," said the man. Strangely, he sounded sad. "I have had to kill... And many of them were innocent. No wrong-doing in their lives, not that would have merited death. I never understood. What is so difficult about killing? Any fool can kill. It's giving life that's hard." He sighed. "I think she wants me to become Loduur, He Who Brings Chaos. But what choice do I have. She..." His face lit from within. "She gave me life. I would be nothing without her." Catheryne was silent. Here was true devotion. It was an inspiring weapon. "Why didn't you seek out other mages," Moya Tilmitt said. "I... I didn't know how," said the man. "How could I find them? I didn't know how to look for them, what they would be like. You, now, I know, but I didn't then. I was so new to... My powers. And then Lord Daravon found me, and took me in, and his daughter was there, and..." Catheryne said, "What's your name, man?" Jordan looked at her sharply. The man on the bed drew himself up in strange pride. "Telocuse," he said. "Besson Telocuse." "Your Highness," said Moya Tilmitt, "this is not--" "We've come to take you away, Master Telocuse," said Catheryne. "Moya Tilmitt will train you. You will not become a god. But you will become a man." Besson Telocuse looked at her with steady eyes. "Your Highness," Jordan said in an undertone. "Is this wise?" "I must agree," Moya Tilmitt said. "Your Majesty, this man has murdered women and done awful things to them both by his body and by magic. And you intend to spare his life? "Look at him, both of you," she said. "He's harmless. He's been twisted and deceived, yes, but we can change that. We can fix him. We can heal him. He can become something better than he is now." Jordan looked at her. "And that's what you do, isn't it," he said. "Heal." "Yes," she said. "That is exactly what I do." And it was more than that. Maybe Jordan could kill in cold blood, maybe even Moya Tilmitt could... But she could not. Something in that first brush with death, something about Lord Tor Gounold's staring eyes all those months ago--they had not left her, even with all she had seen between then and now. And she had seen, seen the essential humanity in the face and form of Besson Telocuse. And there was no way she could condemn this man to death. "Let's take him," she said, "and let's go. Tomorrow we'll bring him to my father, and he'll reveal Temaile's treachery once and for all. And there will be justice... On all who deserve it." "I bow to my lady's will," said Jordan formally, but when no one was looking his hand squeezed hers and she felt, suddenly, his pride in her, and smiled to herself in happiness. There was no one in the halls, but just as they had left the building, they met opposition, standing broadly and calmly in the road before them. It was Temaile Daravon, with David Alckerson at her side, and several soldiers in family livery behind her. She held before her, of all things, her father, Lord Esten Daravon, and had a knife poised at his throat. "Not one step further, my lady," she said. Catheryne looked the situation over. "Mistress Temaile, I don't think you're quite in a position to be making threats right now." She gestured with the knife. "This says I'm in a position to make threats, Your Highness." Jordan reacted to the scorn in her voice. "You are speaking to your future monarch. You owe her that respect at least." "I owe you nothing," Temaile gritted. "Release my servant." "Or what?" Catheryne said. "Or..." said Temaile. She gestured again with the knife, this time towards her father's throat. "I'll do it." "And just what will you accomplish if you do," Catheryne retorted, allowing her own voice to go cold. "We come to you to requisition one of your servants--something perfectly within my right as your future monarch. It is true that he might have insight into some treachery of yours, but I highly doubt it, since you and your father are upstanding and righteous citizens. And yet in response to this routine request, you come to us threatening to slay your own father. If there is treachery your man hides, then you are doing a very bad job of protecting it." "And what do you need Telocuse for," Temaile said. "He is slow and hard of hearing, impossible to manage. Wouldn't you rather like someone better?" Catheryne floundered over how to respond, but Jordan had an answer. "We've heard rumors that your man Besson Telocuse may have the Gift, just as we do. If he does, he has almost certainly not been trained and is liable to be dangerous. We are taking him off your hands for your own safety and for the safety of all those in the city." "You must not take him," Temaile protested. "I will not allow it!" "Allow it?" Catheryne said. "Who are you to allow anything? As your future queen, I command you to release Master Telocuse to my service. If you decline, I shall strip you and your family of your titles and estate. That may be overstepping the bounds of my power somewhat, but if it comes to that I will assuredly speak to my father, as well as Her Majesty the Queen, and I have no doubt that they will support my decree, if not more besides. I tell you now: release Master Telocuse to me, and we will leave now." "No," said Temaile. The knuckles of her knife hand were white, but she stood her ground. "No. I will not release him. And I say to you, Lady Gabriele: I demand that you step down and abdicate your inheritance of the throne, with myself as your successor." Catheryne checked exasperation. Did this woman truly have no sense of what was going on here? "And if I decline?" "Then this man dies," said Temaile, her voice hard, "and you shall have his murder, his innocent blood, on your hands. And when his body is found tomorrow, all will know who is truly responsible." "Who, you?" Jordan said scornfully. "We would no more be responsible for your father's death than would anyone else in this city." "Fine words from a Night Blade, who kills for money," Temaile retorted. "Yes," said Jordan. "I kill for money. And now, as a liegeman of the Lady Gabriele, I kill not for her payment but at her command. But if she were to order me to strike you down this moment, we would both know that I am merely the weapon, and it is her hand that guides me. "But you: no one guides you. You act of your own decision and will. No one pays you, no one has hired you. You act for yourself. If your father dies here tonight there will be no one at fault but yourself." "Maybe," said Temaile, her eyes flicking back and forth wildly. "But you still shall not leave here alive." "Who will kill us?" said Catheryne. "Guards!" Temaile cried, and the men behind her stepped forward. "Guards!" "Hold!" said Catheryne, in a voice that drew all eyes. She faced the men, stern and proud. "You are in the presence of the Princess-Heir of Eretria, and it is she who now speaks. You have fallen into the service of a woman wretched and vile, who seeks nothing but her own betterment. Of this I do not hold your responsible, for it would have been beyond your wisdom to know. But if you wish to leave her service, then step away. Go to the Silver Palace without raising hand against any you pass, and await there my return. Those who go will not be punished or imprisoned, but allowed to go their own way. If, on the other hand, you should choose to remain in her service, and follow her orders into battle... Then may Kyrei have mercy on your soul. I and mine will not." Without words, the men bowed to her and left the courtyard. "Telocuse!" cried Temaile. "Use your powers. You are as a god. You have what is needed to destroy them utterly. Slay them! In my name!" "Are you really going to listen to her," Jordan said before Besson could answer. "She is asking you to kill. You don't like doing that, as I recall. And she promises you... What? Slavery? We promise you freedom." "I promise you whatever you desire!" Temaile shouted. "I promise you..." Suddenly her voice and stance dripped with allure. "...Whatever you desire." Catheryne realized that she was promising him her body and shuddered with revulsion. "I..." said Besson Telocuse. His face was torn, and his eyes flickered wildly from Catheryne to Temaile. "I..." Then he stopped and turned to Moya Tilmitt. "Is that you doing that?" Catheryne glanced over and saw the vision-warping effects of the Flow. "What did you do?" "Is that you doing that?" Telocuse asked again. "As you can be cut off from air," said Moya Tilmitt, "and from water, and earth and fire, so you can be cut off from the Flow. That is what I have done to him." "Can you teach me that?" Besson Telocuse asked, with an eager smile. "My good man, I will teach you anything you desire," said Moya Tilmitt, "but you must promise us: go over there, to those trees, and stand and face them, and do come back unless we call for you." "Yes!" said Besson. "Yes! I will go." And he did. And then, as he walked: "You promise you'll teach me?" "Yes, I promise!" said Moya Tilmitt, grinning. "That... I... Wow!" said Besson Telocuse, and went. Temaile Daravon looked quite confused. "You stand alone, Temaile Daravon," said Jordan. "You have no one at your side but Master Alckerson, and plenty who would turn against you. Do you yield?" "I... I..." said Temaile. Then something seemed to harden within her. "I will be queen." The silver blade raked across her father's throat. Lord Daravon's eyes went wide and he clutched the ruins of his throat. David Alckerson's eyes widened and he stepped back as Daravon twitched and flopped and fell to the ground, covering them both in blood. Temaile's face was nothing human. David Alckerson wore a strangely satisfied smile. "Master Alckerson," said Temaile. "Kill them." David Alckerson sauntered forward. "Do you raise your blade against us, Master Alckerson," Jordan called out. David Alckerson smirked as he advanced, his hand resting idly on his sword hilt. "Declare yourself!" Jordan said again. "Do you move hostile? Or will you pass us by without violence?" The eerie smile was the only answer. Jordan's face hardened. The tesada spun in his hands and laid David Alckerson open from crotch to sternum. David Alckerson's expression turned from smugness to confusion. Blood and intestines spiraled to the ground. He clutched at the sickly coils, sinking to his knees; his sword, still in its scabbard, clanked and rattled. Strangely, the expression he gave Jordan was one of reproach: Oh, well, now look what you've done. Then he toppled face-forward and breathed his last. "Temaile Daravon," said Catheryne. "You stand alone. Your supporters are fled or dead. You have already brought an end to a noble house. Now stand down, and face what mercy the courts have to offer." "No," Temaile croaked, "no." "Damn it, Temaile!" Catheryne cried. "Nobody had to die here! Nobody ever had to die ever! You've wasted so many lives to get here, to get exactly where you are right now, which is nowhere. Surely you must see that! Don't throw your life away too!" She was almost in tears now. "You made a mistake and so many people paid for it, but people have made mistakes before. Call it off. Give it up. Let's let it be over, so that nobody has to waste any more lives!" Temaile Daravon, nineteen years old, drew herself up in dignity that would do honor to a queen. "My life shall never be wasted." Then she attacked. Even in tears and despair Catheryne's eye noted the flaws, the mistakes, the betrayals--Temaile was not well-trained. She drew her knife hand back as if cocking a punch; her feet were off, requiring her to run; she roared her battle cry, her knife in the lead. And yet Catheryne did nothing. It was too much. There had been too much. So many lives wasted, so many lives ruined. Davina, in tears on her bed as her future became as twisted as her face. The serving woman in the castle, eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling. Lord Esten Daravon, the last of his life's blood seeping into the shallow dust. David Alckerson, his innards around him like a wreath. It had been too much. And there was no way--no way at all--that she could add more to it. She felt the impact as Temaile Daravon's blade and body and all her momentum made contact. And then the second impact, as Temaile Daravon's eyes met hers, and saw the tears there. Jordan saw the knife pierce Catheryne's stomach and felt as if all the world had fallen out from under him. The two women faced each other, their faces now mirror images: shock, pain, confusion, sadness. As he watched, Catheryne gave a slow, sad smile--sad, and yet infinitely hopeful. "I guess you got what you wanted. I... I'm glad for you, Temaile. I just hope it was worth the cost." Temaile tottered backwards, her hands empty, stricken. Her face twitched; her lips worked. What have I done, Jordan read on her face. What have I done? "Here," said Catheryne. "This is... Yours." She pulled the knife from her torso and tossed it to the ground, where it gleamed wetly in the moonlight. Temaile recoiled. "It's not any part of me. I renounce it. It's for you." The black cloth of her pants turned slick and shiny in the moonlight, coated with her blood. Catheryne smiled at Temaile. "Don't let Jordan go to pieces over this, please." Then her knees sagged and she fell. "Moya Tilmitt!" Jordan cried. "Moya Tilmitt! We must heal her!" Moya Tilmitt snapped to focus. "Kyrei forfend... Quickly, Jordan, circle with me." "I can't! I can't do it! I've never been able to!" Jordan barely knew himself. He was aware, in some distant place, of tears on his cheeks, of the panic in his voice. Most of him, though, focused on the girl lying on the ground, her eyes closed, her face calm, her golden hair in a shower around her... The warm, salty blood slowly leaving her body. Not Catheryne. Not Catheryne. I can't have failed again. I can't have-- "I know you can't, boy, but that doesn't matter now, circle," Moya Tilmitt retorted. "If it's not you, it won't be anyone." They linked hands; the Flow cascaded through them. But the weaves did not mesh; they crunched and fizzled and smashed against each other, refusing to work in tandem. "No, it's no good," said Moya Tilmitt, "it won't work, we can't do it." "Then you must heal her yourself!" Jordan cried. "I can't, boy, very few people can!" Moya Tilmitt said. "If anyone could, it'd be her, but she's the one with the wound now, of all--" "What do we do?" Jordan said. "We rush her back to the Palace, that's what," said Moya Tilmitt, "maybe if... No, she's losing too much blood. You stay here. Wait. I'll come back with help. Wait, and hope, and pray... For a miracle." A miracle was what happened. "Jordan?" said Moya Tilmitt. "Jordan, are you listening?" Jordan's face was pale and his eyes were closed. He stared at Catheryne with strange, freakish intensity. Moya Tilmitt recognized the wavecasts that flowed from his hands--they were the very spell he'd only wished he could use, that very rare, very impossible spell that allowed one person, just one person, to heal another. Really, anyone could do it, if they took the time to learn, but it was such an enormous expenditure of energy--barely a third as efficient as the two-person link--that most did not bother, or use it except in times of extreme danger and need. And, Moya Tilmitt allowed, if this was not one of those times, nothing was. The flows were clumsy, erratic; it was clear Jordan was learning this as he went along, had never been trained in this, probably never would. Healing was not, would never be, his forte. But both he and Catheryne were remarkably adaptable, and there was nothing he would not do for her. If she needed him to be a healer, to reach out with scarred and battered hands, then reach he would. And did. They were both exhausted when Jordan released the Flow; Jordan was breathing hard, sweating, and Moya Tilmitt could see through the rent in Catheryne's shirt the tender pink tissue, and the scar slanting across her belly. But her eyes opened, and she smiled up at him, and said, "I knew you wouldn't leave me." "I never could, Your Highness," he said. "Not ever."
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