Patricia Briggs - Raven's Strike

If a lie would have won them anything, Phoran would have lied. “Dead,” he said.

Willon’s face hardened. “Pity. He was useful to me.”

“How did you hide him from Jes and Lehr?” Phoran asked. “They can feel the taint of shadow.” Keep him talking, Phoran thought, let Rinnie gather her storm. He didn’t look at Rinnie again after that first, anxious glance. He wanted to keep Willon’s attention on him.

“He wasn’t tainted,” said Willon. “I did not have to do anything to make him mine. He was one of those who is drawn to the power of the Stalker, the power of destruction. I have others, but he was a promising boy, deserving of the rewards I cannot give him now.”

Phoran snorted and walked toward the open half to look over the thigh-high stone wall that was all that stood between him and the bottom of the cliffs. “He was no proper servant for a man like me or even like you. He didn’t obey orders—he killed the dog and Rufort. If he hadn’t done that, likely I wouldn’t have been able to break your illusion.”

“Death always serves the Stalker,” said Willon, following Phoran’s movements. “He was a bit overzealous, perhaps, but he was loyal.”

Phoran allowed his lip to curl. “He liked to kill. That is all. He served you because you gave him people to kill. But if he had been given the opportunity, he’d have just as soon killed you.”

He had managed to turn Willon, so that the Shadowed was no longer between Rinnie and the stairs.

“But it is so much more interesting to work with tigers than with sheep, Phoran, don’t you think?”

“You are a peasant,” replied Phoran coolly, walking farther from the stairway as if he were not afraid of Willon at all. “We have not given you leave to address Us, familiarly. You are a peasant and a cheap illusionist—your spell couldn’t even hold Us—who have no magic at all. The Unnamed King ruled the world, Willon. It took the whole of humanity and the death of a great mage and a great warrior to defeat him. He was a king. You have had twice the amount of time that he had, and what do you rule? A crazy boy who lies dead at the bottom of these cliffs. A secret society of fools who serve themselves and fell to a Bard who was their prisoner. ” And when Phoran saw the light of rage cover the Shadowed’s face he said, in the same tone of voice he’d been using. “Run, Rinnie.” Then he continued, “Where are the terrible beasts that answered the Unnamed King? You are a failure, a small mind with a little power.”

“You are emperor of nothing, Phoran. You are nothing but a drunken sot who thinks he should be ruler. You have no power, otherwise you would not be here.” He waved his hands eloquently.

Phoran didn’t hear Rinnie’s footsteps and he couldn’t afford to take his attention off Willon to see if she had taken advantage of the little distraction he could grant her.

“I think I tire of you, Emperor,” continued the Shadowed. “Die.”

When he said the last word, Phoran found that he couldn’t breathe.

“No!” shouted Rinnie. “Stop it!”

A gust of wind came from nowhere and hit the Shadowed, knocking him to the ground—and Phoran could breathe again.

He sprinted, grabbed Rinnie and pushed her toward the stairs. “Run!” he said, and headed back toward the distracted wizard.

Maybe if he hadn’t tried to push Rinnie toward safety he’d have made it, but he was only halfway across the distance he had to travel when the wizard stood up and made a gesture at him and said something that sounded dark and ugly.

Something hit Phoran in the chest with the force of a kicking war stallion. He stumbled back, and the half wall hit the backs of his legs. If the power the wizard had thrown at him had lost any of its force he might have still been all right, but it just kept pushing him until he tipped off the edge.

“We can’t run,” Tier told Hinnum, and was surprised at how calm he sounded. Seraph was stiff and shaking under his hands. He whistled, a clear, two-note sound he used for calling the children in for meals or work. Even if he were asleep, Jes would answer it.

“You can’t win,” Hinnum said. “That ring does not a Lark make, whether it was your daughter’s Order once or not.”

“Nevertheless,” said Tier collecting his sword and lute—a Bard needed a lute upon occasion. “My children need me.”

“You are the world’s only hope,” said Hinnum. “You cannot sacrifice the world for your children.” He paused. “I had grandchildren who died with Colossae.”

Seraph slipped the tigereye ring over her finger. “Sometimes sacrifice is necessary,” she said. “Sometimes. But everyone is not always asked to make the same sacrifice, Hinnum. Colossae’s death was the only way to save the world. Without your children’s death, everyone would have died. My children’s death would serve only to buy us time.” She turned to look where the storm clouds were dissipating. “You and Hennea think the only way to defeat the Shadowed is with the names of the Elder gods—and we don’t have those.”

The strain of yesterday showed on her face. Her cheeks were hollow, as if she had not been eating well for months, dark circles ringed her eyes, and her hair was mussed in its braids. Tier thought she was beautiful.

“The temptation in fighting,” Tier told Hinnum, “is to adopt the enemy’s successful tactics.” He opened the corral gate and took Skew out and began saddling him. “Willon could have faced us the night we destroyed the Path in Taela, but he chose to run and pick a time and place that better suited him. It seems to me he has been very careful to hide all these years—perhaps that is why he left. I don’t know. If we follow his tactics, we should abandon our soldiers in the field, pick up, and run until we are more ready for him.”

“Yes,” said Hinnum.

Seraph and Hennea let him talk while they saddled their own horses.

Tier shook his head at the wizard as he tightened Skew’s cinch. “We cannot win that way, Hinnum. There is no victory in playing to your enemy’s strengths. Willon doesn’t age: he can afford to wait. You tell me that he is here now. If we leave to ready ourselves, to prepare for certain victory—we’ll never find him. He’s hidden his presence for years, another fifty will make no difference to him.” He took in a breath. “It may not be for us to destroy him. Perhaps that chance died when Willon killed Mehalla all those years ago. Perhaps it was destroyed this morning when we let Lehr, Rinnie, and the others go off to find the names. But if we abandon our own, it will not be for victory over the Shadowed. You sacrificed your children for the world. I might be willing to do the same—but not for the mere chance of saving the world.”

Jes came. “Papa?” He stiffened, looked at Seraph, and the Guardian asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Willon is here,” said Tier. “It looks as though he might have taken Lehr and the rest.”

The Guardian drew a deep breath. “I want to go after them.”

“No,” said Hinnum. “You have no chance if you meet him alone.”

“Go,” said Tier, knowing full well that he might be sending his son to his death. “We’ll follow as fast as we can. We’ll head straight to the Owl’s temple.”

The Guardian flowed into wolf form, shook himself once, as if to get a feeling for the shape of the wolf, then ran.

Hinnum threw up his hands. “You would feed your children to the Shadowed one by one.”

“No,” said Seraph. The rage she felt was so strong her voice shook with it. “Jes is almost immune to magic. He’ll buy us the time we need to get there.”

“I’m ready,” said Hennea swinging onto her horse.