JAME DREAMED that she sat on a fur rug beside a cold hearth. A vast hall stretched out before her, paved with dark green-veined stone, lined with death banners. Someone leaned against the mantelpiece behind her. She couldn't turn to see who it was but his presence warmed her as the fireplace never could.
"Who are you?" she demanded.
The voice answered in a fading whisper: "Ah, Jamie. Someone best forgotten."
Now she could turn and did, crying, "Tirandys, Senethari!" But no one was there.
The hearth was cold, and the skin beneath her that of an Arrin-ken. The nails of its flayed paws flexed on stone.
Scee, sceee, sceeeee . . .
Jame woke with a gasp and sat up—too fast. A lightning stab of pain shot through her head, then slowly faded to a dull ache. She touched the back of her head gingerly and felt a considerable lump. Why, someone hit me, she thought dizzily, then remembered who and under what circumstances. The grogginess was largely the aftermath of dwar sleep. Sweet Trinity, how long had she been unconscious? She raised her head and looked about. No windows. No way even to tell if it was day or night.
But if the room lacked a view, it had just about everything else, including nine sides. The canopied bed in which she sat was against one of them. Across a white marble floor was a small fireplace with a gracefully carved stone mantel and embers still tinkling cheerfully in the grate. If her greeting from Karkinaroth had been rude, Jame thought, looking around her, at least someone was trying to make her stay comfortable. Best of all, on a slender-legged table by the bed was a plate neatly piled with fruit and honey cakes. Beside it stood a flagon of cool white wine.
Jame's last meal had been in the Anarchies—days ago, if her hunger was any indication. She ate and drank ravenously, getting crumbs everywhere. The wine had a curious aftertaste, but she ignored it. Who knew what spices the southern vintners might use?
Then she dusted off her hands and rose to inspect the room. The marble floor felt cool on her bare feet, but her boots were nowhere in sight. For that matter, neither were her clothes. Jame shook down her long black hair for warmth and padded over to the fireplace. She didn't see any sign of her knapsack on the floor or under the bed. Damn. The Book Bound in Pale Leather could usually take care of itself, but Ganth's ring and sword were her responsibility. She began to look behind the tapestries on the walls for any kind of alcove where her gear might have been stored. Behind five of the seven hangings and the bed, she found only blank walls. The sixth swung aside to reveal another smaller room, lined with tiles and fitted with a sunken bath as well as with other essentials. The seventh tapestry, opposite it, concealed a locked door.
Someone apparently thought that that and the lack of clothing could keep her a prisoner here. Someone was about to get a surprise.
Jame knelt by the door, extended a nail, and began to pick the lock. She had to get out. There was the knapsack to find, of course, but most of all she was worried about Marc. The Kendar had also been hurt, perhaps badly. She must find him and Jorin too, who was (she hoped) still free, even though he would be having to cope in strange territory without the use of her eyes. She called to him by the mind link, but got no answer. Damn and blast. If only her head ached less and her thoughts were clearer! But why had they been attacked in the first place? Prince Odalian was supposed to be an ally of the Kencyrath. None of this made any sense.
There was a sharp click inside the lock. Jame opened the door a crack and peered out. No guards. She stepped cautiously into the hall and turned to shut the door after her.
Its outer surface was scored with deep, raw scratches that formed the crude outline of a dagger.
Jame stared at them, teased by some half memory but unable to grasp it. She shrugged and turned away. The hall curved off in both directions, silent and empty. Which way to go? In the absence of all information, it hardly mattered. She went left.
Other rooms opened off the corridor, all of them lit. They seemed to be guest quarters, each one more opulent than the last. Some gave the impression of having recently been occupied, but no one was in any of them now. Then came a sweeping staircase leading down into a suite of larger public rooms. She drifted on from room to room like a ghost, looking for some sign of life or even for a window that might give her a glimpse of the outside world. There was none. The palace seemed completely shut in on itself, locked in some indolent dream of sweet-scented wood and marble and tapestried princes riding forever under cloudless skies.
But at last she came upon a new current moving through the heavy perfumed air. It brought with it a different odor, one that refused quite to define itself but that seemed as disturbingly out of place here as a whiff of decay in a king's bower. Jame followed it out of the suite to the head of another staircase, again sweeping downward. She descended. A broad corridor stretched away before her at its foot. Ahead, the light spheres glowed more dimly. An almost tangible darkness hung in the air, shrouding the details of the hallway beyond. As Jame warily approached, she saw with amazement that the corridor itself seemed to fade in the distance. Some of its lines remained but were suspended ghostlike in midair. Beyond, space seemed to open out into a much larger hallway. A cold wind breathed out of that farther hall, lifting Jame's hair in black, fluttering wings about her face. With it came that odor, stronger now, like the breath of ancient sickness. Jame shivered. She knew that smell, but what was it? If only her mind were clearer! Just the same, in another moment surely she could identify it.
A hand closed on her bare shoulder.
Without thinking, she caught it and spun around. The man thumped down on one knee, his arm stretched stiffly up, immobilized by a Senethar wrist lock.
"You're hurting me," he said through his teeth, in Kens.
Jame let go, astonished. "Who are you?"
The man still cringed at her bare feet—or was he a boy? With such sharp, thin features, his age was hard to guess. He showed his teeth again. "My lady calls me Gricki."
Jame repeated the name with distaste. It was uncomfortably close to the Easternese word for excrement. "I can't call you that."
"As you wish, lady."
He wasn't about to tell her his real name, Jame realized. After all, that was hardly a safe gift to make to any stranger. "Well, I can't put a wrist lock on you every time I want to get your attention. I'll call you Graykin."
The moment the word was out, she could have bitten her tongue. Graykin was the name of a mongrel dog in one of the old songs; but he had been a faithful brute and, in his own way, something of a hero. The young man shot her a startled, not displeased look, instantly suppressed.
"Graykin, where is everybody?"
"Gone . . . lady." He gave the title with a kind of cringing sneer, as if daring her to take offense.
"Yes, but where, and why?"
He clearly didn't want to tell her, but the direct question forced a direct answer from him. "Fifteen days ago, Prince Odalian learned that the Horde was on the move, coming this way. He immediately sent out messengers to summon the Karkinoran troop levies and to request help from the Kencyr Highlord. That night, he had a visitor. Don't ask me who," he added defensively, as if this ignorance diminished his credit. "I don't know. The next day, with no explanation whatsoever, he ordered everyone out of the palace. There are only three guards here now, and the Prince and his lady (who refused to go), and the spook."
"The what?"
"Spook. I don't know where he came from, but I think the Prince and his guards stayed to hunt him. Odd-looking man. Face like a year-old corpse. D'you know him?"
"No."
"That's strange." He gave her a sly, sidelong look. "He seems to know you. At least, I caught him scratching on your door."
A man waited in the shadow of the stair, his face a death's head. He slipped a white-hilted knife into her hand. She went on climbing, climbing, toward a doorway barred with red ribbons, toward the darkness beyond . . .
Jame shivered. That was the memory that the scratched drawing of the dagger had half awakened; but the stair, the knife, and the skull-faced man had all been in Perimal Darkling years ago. Even now, she didn't remember enough to know what that fragment of a memory meant. Anyway, there were more important things to think about now.
"Graykin, you only mentioned six people, seven, counting yourself. I'm looking for my friends—a big man with graying hair and a golden ounce. They must be here somewhere, too."
"Not in the palace," he said emphatically. "I know every room here, yes, and every cell in all seven dungeons, too."
"What do you know about that?" Jame pointed down the corridor into the darkness.
This time Graykin shivered. "That isn't part of Karkinaroth. I don't know what it is or where it came from. Since the stranger's visit, it's simply been there, getting more visible all the time, taking over."
"Graykin, who is your lady?"
"Why, Lyra, my prince's consort, my lord Caineron's daughter."
"I had better meet her."
"Yes . . . yes, of course." This time he really cringed, as if a whip had been raised against him. "This way, lady."
He led her back up into the palace, away from the phantom corridor. Jame followed, glancing at him curiously. He had called her "lady." Was that just his cringing way, or had he actually sensed that she was pure Highborn? Marc never had. Perhaps some Kencyr were quicker to make the distinction than others—but was Graykin a Kencyr? Her own impression of him was curiously mixed.
They had come through quite a tangle of hallways when the young man stopped and scratched tentatively on a door. No answer. He opened it anyway and slipped furtively inside. Jame followed. She found herself in a lavish suite of rooms, all red and gold, plush and velvet. Rich carpets covered the floor; richer hangings, every inch of the walls. All showed exquisite craftsmanship except one, a stitchery portrait of a young, fair-haired, brown-eyed man, so clumsily done that it could only be the work of a Highborn. Under it, flames leaped in an ornate fireplace. The suite was hot and airless. There were, of course, no windows.
Graykin was hastily fishing bruised apples and battered cakes out of his pockets and piling them on a table. Jame wondered if he had provided the food in her room, too. Somehow, she didn't think so.
"Odalian?"
Graykin dropped an apple and bolted for the door. Too late. A girl stood silhouetted on the threshold of an inner room.
"Oh," she said, scornfully. "It's just you. Oh!"—in a different tone—"Food!"
She came quickly into the light, her long crimson skirt swirling. Above that was a broad gold belt, an embroidered bodice that looked painfully tight, full sleeves, gloves, and a mask. From her voice and the way she moved, Jame guessed that she was about fourteen. Then she saw Jame and stopped short.
"Oh! But you're dressed . . . I mean undressed . . . I mean . . . wait!"
Lyra darted back into the inner room and out again clutching a scrap of cloth that she thrust into Jame's hand. Jame stared at it, then shrugged and put it on. It was a mask.
"I would be honored if you would share bread with me," Lyra said formally.
It would have been impolite to demand her guest's name, and the Prince's consort clearly meant to be very correct indeed, despite her hunger. She cut an apple into precise pieces and offered each section to Jame first before wolfing it down, bruises and all.
"Really, it's so awkward," she said. "Odalian should at least have remembered to keep a few servants and a cook on hand, but then he's so impetuous."
"Why did he order everyone to leave in the first place?"
Under her mask, Lyra seemed to frown. Direct questions apparently were impolite too, at least by Southron standards, but it wouldn't do to remind a guest of that. "I suppose he wants to lead out as large an army as possible when he goes to meet the Kencyr Host," she said rather vaguely.
Even palace maids and pastry cooks? "When does the army march?"
"Oh, I never bother with details. Gricki?"
"In six days, on the twentieth of Winter," the young man said from the shadows by the door where he had retreated, apparently in hopes of being overlooked. "Both the Host and the Horde are expected to reach Hurlen above the Cataracts around the thirtieth."
"Clever Gricki." Lyra smiled, with a touch of malice. "He always knows the details—about everyone and everything. Don't you, Gricki?"
Jame hastily interrupted. "Lady, would it be possible to pay my respects to the Prince?"
Lyra glanced up at the portrait over the fireplace. "If you can find him. Oh!" She rose abruptly, flustered. "That is, he's been so busy lately. Duties here and there . . . I hardly ever see him myself. But it's all quite normal, you know." She gave Jame an anxious look. "There certainly haven't been any violations of the contract."
"Contract?"
"You know," said Lyra as if to a simpleton. "The marriage contract. It comes up for review at Midwinter. My father, Lord Caineron, won't renew it if anything is, well, not quite right. Then I would have to leave. But if the Prince helps Father win at the Cataracts, maybe he will even extend the contract to include children. Oh, I would love that!"
Jame stared at her. "Don't you have anything to say about it?"
Lyra stared back. "Of course not! Lord Caineron is the head of my family. Naturally, I have to do what he tells me."
"Naturally," Jame echoed, looking peculiar.
"But then you won't tell my lord father anything about this because you're a woman like me," said Lyra with an abrupt, sunny smile. It fell away as she turned on the young man in the shadows. "And you won't because there's nothing to tell! Do you promise?"
"Lady," said Graykin miserably, "you know I can't."
She made a little angry dart at him, small fists clenched. "You will promise, Gricki or . . . or I'll tell this lady some details I do know about you. Think, Gricki."
From the way she spat out the nickname, Jame knew that it meant the same thing in Southron as in Easternese. The young man cringed.
"Lady, please . . ."
" 'Lady, lady,' " she mimicked him, then spun around, skirt belling, to face Jame. "Do you like riddles? Here's one: What do you call a half-Kencyr-half-Southron bastard? Answer: Anything you want."
Graykin abruptly left the room, not quite slamming the door. Jame stared after him.
"I didn't know that sort of a blood-cross was possible. Who made the experiment?"
Lyra shrugged, already losing interest. "Oh, a kitchen wench and someone in my father's retinue, apparently. He visited Karkinaroth about twenty years ago when Odalian's father was prince. Will you find Odalian for me?" She caught Jame's hands and spoke in a breathless whisper. "Oh, please do! I couldn't say it in front of that . . . that sneak, but things have been so strange here, and I've been so frightened. Will you?"
"I'll try, lady," said Jame, and made her escape.
Out in the hall, she leaned against the door and took a deep breath. Those awful, airless rooms! Was that how a Highborn woman lived, bound in a stifling world of convention and obedience? Would Tori try to make her into another Lyra? To be a pawn sent here or there as politics demanded, to warm this man's bed or bear that one's children, to live in stuffy halls for the rest of her life. Jame shivered. But a great deal could happen before then. She might even manage to get herself killed. Somewhat cheered, she turned and saw Graykin sitting on the floor against the wall, sharp chin on sharp knees.
"You knew she would tell me, didn't you?"
"She tells everyone when she remembers," he said in a muffled voice. "She remembers when she sees me."
"Look, Graykin . . ."
"Don't you mean Gricki?"
"No, I do not. You're no more responsible for your bloodlines than . . . than I am for mine. Look, running around like this may be good for the circulation, but I'm starting to get cold. Can you find me some clothes?"
He gave her a sharp look. "Some of Lyra's, d'you mean?"
"Trinity, no." She took off the mask and dropped it on the floor. "Some of yours will do."
Graykin started to laugh, then saw that she was serious. "Wait here." He jumped up and disappeared down the hall. In a few minutes he was back with an armful of clothing, including one undergarment for which Jame had no use whatsoever.
"Very funny," she said, handing it back to him.
She put on the rest: soft black boots cross gartered from instep to knee; black pants; broad black belt; loose black shirt; even a pair of black gloves.
"There," said Graykin, surveying her. "The perfect outfit— for a sneak."
Jame raised an eyebrow at him. "As you say. Perfect. Graykin, will you take me to the temple?"
"As you say . . . lady."
He led her there by a tortuous route, full of unexpected twists and turns. Jame smiled. Clearly, he didn't want her to master the intricacies of the palace anymore than she would have welcomed a rival in the Maze back in Tai-tastigon. She fixed each turn in her well-trained memory.
Then Graykin cautiously opened a door, and there stood the temple in its nine-sided chamber. Jame estimated that it was at least forty-eight hours since she had last been here. In that time, the light sphere suspended from the ceiling had grown dimmer and the patches of dead grass larger. Worse, a continuous ripple of power warped the air like heat over a sun-baked rock. Graykin stopped at the door. Jame went slowly up the temple as though making her way through treacherous currents. She called, but this time no voice answered from inside. The bar was still in place. If only it had been a lock, she could have mastered it, but this required at least Marc's great strength. Dangerous, dangerous. . . . She backed to the door.
"Graykin, you'd better keep an eye on this place in case I don't get back. At some point, the temple door will start to disintegrate. Then you and Lyra had better get out of the palace fast before it comes down on top of you."
"Yes, lady." Graykin sounded impressed despite himself. "But where are you going?"
"You said my friends aren't in the palace. Could they have been taken out to where the army is gathering?"
"No. The Prince has bolted shut all the doors but one, and I've been keeping an eye on that."
"Damn. As far as I know, then, that only leaves one place they could be: in the shadows."
They had left the temple room and were walking back into the heart of the palace. Suddenly Graykin caught Jame's arm. Before them, the hallway dimmed and distorted, shadowy depth within depth.
"That wasn't here before," said Graykin in a low voice. "The darkness is spreading. And you want to go into it?"
Jame wrapped her arms about her, shivering. "No. I don't want to at all." In fact, a small, cold voice seemed to whisper in her mind, it could be a terrible mistake. "But what choice do I have?"
Graykin regarded her with astonishment. "Why, you really don't know what you're doing, do you?"
"Very seldom," Jame admitted with a sudden wry grin. "If I did, I probably wouldn't be doing it, but as far as I can see, the alternative is to spend the rest of my life standing in a corner with a sack over my head. I'm serious about Lyra, by the way. Watch out for her. She may be a cruel, stupid child, but she's one of us. See you later—I hope."
She walked into the shadows.