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CHAPTER TWELVE

"I'm going with you this time as well," Shassel said, fists balled and firmly planted on her hips. "I must."

Frost had seldom seen her so determined, or so concerned. He understood. Dara and Dorin must be rescued, and quickly. Shassel felt she needed to be part of that. "You should not chide yourself for leaving them here alone," Frost said. "It was the sensible thing to do, all things considered. They are more than old enough, even for uncertain times. They have been for years."

"Yes, of course, I know," Shassel muttered, shaking her head in frustration, then muttering something else that escaped Frost's ears. Apparently his assurances had fallen short.

"Taking too many chances will help no one," Frost pressed on. "If you were to take ill or become injured or worse in the course of things, how would Dara and Dorin feel then? And just as we told the twins, who will come after me if you come along with me?"

"I will not just sit here while you go off alone. I would worry about you as much as them."

"No, you would not," replied Frost. "I have no wish to argue the point with you. The journey is long, the danger is great, the means to our end uncertain. I will have to make something up as I go, or change my plans at an instant's notice, perhaps invent a surprise for the Greater Gods themselves. It will be difficult enough without taking you into account. You would be a great help, but I care too much about you. I cannot let you jeopardize yourself—and through my heart, myself along with you. I will get the twins back, you will remain here. If I need you, you will know, and then it will be up to you."

"I'm still going," Shassel said again as firmly as before, though perhaps not as enthusiastically. She was getting too old for this sort of thing; she knew that better than anyone, Frost believed. They had done a fair amount of traveling these past few days as it was, and that had taken a toll on her. If she went now, like this, she would be too weak to be of any real help against the likes of Gentaff or Andair's army.

Shassel shook her head. "I still think our greatest strength lies in combining our talents."

"Perhaps, but I cannot allow it, and neither can you," Frost said.

"We will protect Frost," Sharryl said, stepping into the argument. "But without a third Subartan it is at best a difficult job. Do not hold us responsible for your safety as well."

"She is right," Rosivok said. "You should not ask any of us to enter so difficult a battle with such a burden."

Shassel looked visibly wounded, though she tried to hide it under a glare she levied on both Subartans. "Who are you to call me a burden?"

"They are my Subartans," Frost said, "and they are right, as you well know."

Frost could tell her mind was not in the fight any more, only her heart; she knew what Frost and his Subartans were saying, but Frost could not imagine a day when he would be willing to admit such a thing to himself, that he was not the menace he once had been—let alone admitting it to others, and especially when the fate of family was involved.

"I know of other reasons," Frost said. "Dara and Dorin will need someone to come home to, if I fail to return. And even if I do."

"You will not fail," Shassel said, looking down for an instant, then finding him with her eyes again. "But if you do, I will not fail . . . in your place."

"Find Lurey, tell him to stay close; pay him if you must. I will give you the gold," Frost told her. "Before I go we will form a link, you and I. If I need you, Lurey can bring you to me."

Shassel seemed reluctant to accept even this, but Frost saw the look of weary capitulation in her eyes. He would talk to her some more, but nothing would change. Then, the Greater Gods willing, they would eat, and finally they might sleep a bit. Sometime just before dawn, they did.

In the morning, before he left, Frost went searching in the forest. He emerged carrying a very young oak sapling, pulled from the earth roots and all. He brought it into the cottage where he sat with a knife and peeled away one very long, thin strip of soft, green bark. He wrapped one end around his right thumb, then let Shassel wrap the other around hers, and together they spoke the chant. The young bark turned brown as the chant was repeated. When the two mages whispered their binding phrases, a curl of smoke rose from the middle of the strip between them, and it came apart. Each of them finished wrapping their piece around the thumb.

"Just so," Frost said as he looked at Shassel with satisfaction. Almost no energy was required, nothing else was needed, and the spell would not have to be renewed unless the bark was somehow removed. Yet nothing else would have been more effective: If anything untoward were to happen to either of them, the bark on the other's thumb would smolder, perhaps even catch fire, something that seldom escaped one's notice. Shassel let a small sigh escape.

She still hadn't given him her blessings. He looked to her now in hopes she would.

"There is much you will need to know," she said, putting her hand on top of his. "I have spent a good deal of time in Weldhem. I will tell you what I can before you go."

* * *

The Castle of Weldhem at Briarlea was well designed to thwart any head-on assault. Built by one king and finished by another nearly a century ago, it seemed both sovereigns had gone to lengths to indulge a healthy dose of paranoia. Frost stood on the road less than half a day's walk from the city's main gates and gazed into the distance, watching storm clouds gather and feeling the first moist breezes of a change in the weather tug at his hair and cloak.

From here he was just able to make out the city and the small mountain of stone that stood at its western edge: the castle, wedged into the top of the spacious valley's only true hill. Behind the castle the hillside fell away in a steep cliff to the river below. Elsewhere the city, now grown well beyond its original walls, spread out on all sides.

Frost remembered much of the city and the castle, but not the sorts of details he'd needed to know. Shassel had helped with this; though her knowledge was several years old, little changed in such places. Nevertheless, nothing in their conversation had emerged as good news. The only way in was through the main gates of the city, then through the central streets and squares and straight to the castle gates themselves. Once inside the outer courtyard, the odds only got worse.

What Frost needed was a good plan, yet as of this moment he had none. He would keep his favorite spells at hand of course, and the layered warding spells he and Shassel had constructed around him and his Subartans before he left. But taking on an army and a sorcerer in their own castle required . . .

Well, much more.

He felt the weight and breadth of the Demon Blade where it rested on his back, wrapped and held snugly in place by the harness, then the cloak that covered it. Such thoughts had walked with him at every step this morning, but each time he had tried refusing them, as he did now. The sensible thing would have been to leave the Blade somewhere safe, to hide it or give it to someone else to hold while he went to Weldhem, but the Blade's aura was too easily detected by creatures and folk with even the slightest magical nature, and there was no telling how many eyes watched him lately.

It could not be hidden for very long, he thought, and he would not have wished even the most temporary possession of the Blade on anyone. Especially Shassel.

No, it had to stay with him, though he had taken steps to disguise the weapon, a small bit of cleverness he hoped Gentaff was exactly smart enough to believe.

"We may be able to find support in some of the villages," Rosivok said. "A small army could be gathered."

"And if they die so that my kin might live, then what have I done? Farmers against soldiers is bad at best. I cannot ask them, not yet, the odds would be too great against them. Though there may come a time."

"We will wait for dark?" Sharryl asked, eyeing the morning skies as Frost had.

"No," Frost said. "It will do us no good. My first hope is to negotiate. Failing that, we will use whatever comes next to our advantage, as we so often must."

Both Subartans nodded. The three of them would be hidden from the eyes of most as they entered the city and crossed into the castle itself, but Gentaff would surely be aware of them, and able to use resources of his own to allow his men to see as well. After that he needed something grand and unexpected, at the very least.

Crumbling walls and towers made a fine diversion, but the energy and concentration required for such a feat were too great, and Weldhem's stone and mortar walls too sound. Illusions of fire and smoke were best, but with the weather building dark and the winds gusting and damp from the west, he thought he might not be able to rely on any of that.

Which left him to face Gentaff sorcerer against sorcerer, sword against sword in the castle's outer courtyard, if they got even that far. And on Andair and Gentaff's terms. All quite hopeless of course. Frost started out along the road again, muttering to himself.

"Something else?" Sharryl asked, prodding him.

"I'll let you know," Frost muttered.

He didn't say any more until they were nearing the outskirts of the city, where he paused to activate the spell that would help keep them from being too closely watched. True invisibility was much too difficult and taxing a thing to attempt even for the best reasons, but a certain vagueness could be easily won, a muddling of perceptions that left most passers-by completely uninterested. An old and common trick, as many of the best ones were.

When he had finished, he collected himself and they walked into Weldhem, through the outer streets, through the main gates and past narrow streets lined with foul gutters and an assortment of two- and three-story houses; past inns, bakeries, tanners, blacksmiths' shops; past guild halls and small, noisy squares filled with merchants' booths and the heavy aroma of fish and pigs and spices. The aromas were what seemed most familiar: tannic acid from the tanners, breads baking, and a blend of hot metal and horse manure as he passed a small stable. He had smelled these scents before but somehow this seemed different, this was home.

The city filled his mind, more familiar than he might have thought, though less comforting, at least just now. As they passed an inn with tables under a roof out front he paused to sit, then ordered food and ale for all three of them. A good meal and something to wash it down certainly would not hurt, and might even make a difference.

"The soldiers do not notice us," Rosivok said, apparently pleased. "Or they do not want to."

"So few soldiers," Sharryl said.

"Too few, I think," Frost agreed. "So as not to scare us off." He looked up at the castle, so close now, so massive and imposing on its hilly perch, its high walls, towers and parapets reaching skyward. . . .

The sky itself had grown even more menacing, he noticed, as he felt the wind gust even here on this narrow, sheltered street; it stole the smell of the stew as an old woman put steaming bowls before them. He worried they might not have time to eat and still reach the castle before it stormed.

"The rain will be our ally," Rosivok said, following Frost's gaze.

"Perhaps," Frost replied. Rosivok was speaking only as a warrior, one that had trained and fought in every kind of weather. Andair's troops were not likely to have that advantage, small though it would be against such numbers. But from a sorcerer's point of view the storm would be an obstacle all the way around. Which favored Frost on the face of it, but Andair was sure to have surprises in store, and bad weather would likely only mask . . .

"What is it?" Sharryl asked.

Frost realized he'd been staring at the sky, entranced, watching the black, towering anvil clouds building toward the heavens. A violent storm, surely, he thought, and close.

"Nothing," Frost finally answered. "Or . . . something. It is hard to say." He looked about but didn't see what he wanted, so he got up and went inside. Momentarily he emerged with a long, cylindrical clay bottle in hand. He paused, eyes closed, reciting a careful phrase, then he raised the bottle to his lips and gently breathed into it. A cork fitted into the opening. Frost secured the bottle to the front of his cloak with a leather thong and left it there, in very plain sight.

"But it has the feel of something," Sharryl said, coy for a Subartan.

Frost nodded. "Possibly," he said. Then, "Come."

But just after he'd started toward the castle again, he ducked into a smithy's shop. The man at the forge was young and strong, and eager for the coins Frost had to offer. In only a few minutes Frost emerged again, this time carrying a straight iron bar about a man's foot in length, with a four-sided point on one end. This he put in one of the two long pockets sewn on the front of the cloak.

Just ahead, the outer walls of the castle stood waiting for them. The entire length was protected on this side by a moat. Spring fed, Frost recalled, though the water looked dark and turgid now.

The bridge across the moat was wide enough so two wagons could safely pass on their way in or out of the main courtyard. Today, none did. In fact there was no one at all, riding or afoot, coming or going. Frost kept walking past the massive metal-faced gates and through the archway, until he emerged to face a squarish, medium-height wall designed to force traffic to the right or left. Frost chose the former. Positioned along the top of the wall he counted a dozen archers, all standing at ease. They watched Frost and his Subartans as one watches passing livestock. Frost knew his spell was a good one, but not that good. Andair and Gentaff, whatever they were up to, had no intention of stopping him yet.

Beyond the wall he found the main courtyard in much the same condition as he remembered it. A large livery area for stabling horses occupied the right side, along with the castle blacksmith's forge and a storage area for goods to be unloaded before they were inspected and moved elsewhere into the castle. On the far-facing end of the courtyard two ramps set wide apart led up to a broad marbled terrace and, at either end, two of the keep's main entrances.

The larger set of doors on the right side was designed for goods and processions, while the smaller, left-hand door led to the living areas of the king, his servants and their families. Both were guarded by four soldiers each, and there was no easy way to get to them uninvited. Each of the ramps had been built to incorporate a pair of zigzags, where intermediate landings had been located. More stairs led to a parapet that rose above the terrace. One lone, large figure stood atop it. Frost knew it was Gentaff.

"More that way," Frost whispered to his Subartans, and they all trailed further right, past the stables. Dust clouded around them, stirred up from the wide strips of dirt that lay between the flat stone that covered parts of the yard. Soldiers began appearing now along the terrace and parapet and the battlements that surrounded the courtyard.

Frost made certain he did not slow or hesitate in any way, so as not to appear too cautious—a sign, however subtle, of weakness or worry. As they passed a pile of freshly raked dung and straw, he waved his hand in front of his wrinkled nose and spoke as if commenting to his Subartans on the odor.

Once they'd cleared the buildings he wandered nearer the courtyard's center. He stopped when a horn sounded from somewhere high above in the castle's keep.

Only Rosivok turned to look as a commotion arose behind them. When he kept watching Frost turned as well. Doors set into the walls on either side of the main gates stood open now. Men poured out of them, more than a hundred, filling the yard behind Frost.

"I recall no storerooms beneath the walls in my time here," he said. "Andair must have added them."

"A useful enhancement," Rosivok said, nodding approval.

"Indeed," Frost said. Then he turned his attentions forward once more and found a growing troop of soldiers gathering in close order at the base of the wall, three dozen or more. Above, Gentaff stood precisely where he had been, unmoving, waiting on the parapet in a voluminous lavender robe, hood back, grayed hair and short graying beard showing. From here Frost could just make out some of the intricate carvings on the staff held in the sorcerer's right hand, could see the lines of age on his seasoned face, and almost, the look in his eyes—though this was felt more than seen.

Behind the keep the skies had grown even darker. A visible line that hung like a black curtain across the heavens marked the leading edge, and was nearly over the river now. Lightning flickered and arched at a furious pace across the length of the storm front, followed by growing rumblings of thunder that echoed through the heavy air in the valley and shook the ground beneath Frost's feet. Thick gray mist hid the distant hills along the valley's western horizon, and had begun to creep downward.

Frost closed his eyes briefly, gathering strength, then he opened them again, raised his own staff and spoke to the heart of the storm, completing the warding spell he had been charting. A spell similar to most wardings, but changed, adapted so that it could be projected away rather than near, as he had seen Imadis do to protect his men during their battle in the mountain pass.

As he focussed on Gentaff again, it was clear the sorcerer's interest had peaked. Frost stared up at the other, waiting for his reaction. This would tell him something about the man he faced. To his credit, Gentaff seemed to treat the incident correctly, and did nothing.

"Worried about getting wet?" Gentaff called out, his voice carrying clearly in the stillness that had suddenly grown to envelope them all, as if time had stopped. Even the soldiers kept still, or nearly so.

"Yes, I am!" Frost shouted, his voice echoing back to him from the courtyard walls.

"Perhaps I have underestimated you," Gentaff returned. "Here you are, come to me preceded by tales as tall as mountains, a legend of a man, too much to believe. Yet you do not hesitate to spend your time, your thoughts, your strengths, merely to hold off the rain. Were I you, I would not be so wasteful."

"Why would I need to conserve such things? I have come only to talk."

Gentaff let the notion stand between them for a moment. Then, "What have you to say?"

"I have much to say, but would speak with your Lord Andair as well, and I would have back the two young ones you have taken, Dorin and Dara."

"The king has decided to await word of our meeting in the privacy of his chambers. As for the others, they are right here."

"Where?"

Gentaff waved his staff about. Frost watched as two pallets were carried into view by four men each, then laid on the stone and propped at an angle, front down, back up. Dorin and Dara lay on their backs on the pallets, hands and feet tied with ropes. They did not appear to be conscious.

"Are they harmed?"

"No. They needed rest."

"I would test this myself."

"As you wish," Gentaff replied, bowing only slightly. "But do so from where you are. It should be a simple thing for one of your talents."

Frost returned the bow, then cast a gesture at the twins. He paused, as if listening to some inner voice, then made an effort to grow visibly frustrated and nervous. He tried the gesture again, then once more.

"Do you need any help?" Gentaff asked, clearly amused.

Frost shook his head and fought back a grin. He glanced at his Subartans only briefly, then he turned back to Gentaff. "They—they do appear to be alive, save whatever spell you have chosen to make them sleep."

"It will wear off."

Frost came ahead a bit further, until he stood some forty paces from the wall and the soldiers in front of it. The larger contingent of men behind him advanced along with them, though they kept a fair distance. Instructed to do so, certainly. Their purpose was to cut off any attempt at escape, and to discourage such ideas to begin with.

"You want these two back, and you may have them. They were detained for questioning after rumors of their intentions to harm the king were circulated. These rumors may have been false, as I believe. If so, they will be released . . . eventually. But the whole process, and Andair's good will, might benefit greatly from a gesture of good will on your part. I understand you have something I want, and which Andair is willing to compensate you for, quite apart from the release of your kin."

"The Demon Blade."

"Yes."

"Compensate how?"

"Something reasonable."

"It is worth far more than two children."

"Agreed, but while I do not see what that has to do with anything, Andair, for sentimental reasons so far as I can fathom, is offering you gold as well, and a generous portion of land in the far western provinces. All in return for the Blade and your promise to go, willingly, and not return."

"A reasonable offer."

"Andair is a reasonable king, and the Blade will be in good hands, Frost."

"Andair is a thief and a coward, much like those he associates with, I'd wager, but there is nothing to be done about it. Therefore I will agree to your terms. I have the Blade here, strapped to my back. I will get it for you."

Gentaff watched intently as Frost reached behind, under his cloak, and pulled the Blade's scabbard around in front of him.

"All your knowledge of the Blade will be required as well," Gentaff added. "But that will not take long, as I am a fast learner, and likely you know little more about it than I do already."

"I can tell you, with the Greater Gods as my witness, that the Blade is a fearful thing to me."

"Your honesty impresses me, Frost," Gentaff said. "But is it honesty, or deceit? I do sense something, an aura that is surely that of the Demon Blade, but such a thing can be mimicked. A false aura would allow the truth to be corrupted enough to make possible a lie. No, the blade you have is not authentic, just as Andair expected. We are not foolish enough to think you would bring it here, knowing we would be waiting for you."

"I am capable of no such thing," Frost said.

"You have fixed the weapon on your back with an aura like that of the real Demon Blade, but I can sense that it is not quite true as surely as I stand here."

Frost bit his tongue, then took a breath. "I assure you, Gentaff, it is the Blade."

Gentaff laughed, an unhealthy sound, more like coughing. "Your assurances mean little," he said. "You think yourself clever, but you have more than met your match this day. What do you think of that?"

What I think, you do not want to know, Frost thought. Thunder shook the earth as the breeze began to move again. Frost looked up at Gentaff and the frenzied lightning that framed the keep as it crossed the sky behind them, releasing pent-up energy as the binding began to fail.

"I will show you the Blade," Frost said. "You will see for yourself."

"No!" Gentaff shouted down. "Not yet. We will proceed as I say, one step at a time."

"That is what I am doing," Frost explained, and he began by removing the leather thong and bottle from his neck. "It is time," he whispered. His Subartans began to retreat slowly from their positions to either side of Frost. "And you are correct," he added. "I am wasting too many of my strengths. A little weather might do some good after all."

He gestured to the storm, releasing it fully, then he held the bottle up and pulled the cork. The skies surged forward almost as if they had sprung from a catapult. A thunderous clap sounded, and the world was suddenly ablaze with lightning and awash with wind-swept rains that burst from above. Gusts blew strong enough to stop a large man's charge or knock a smaller one down.

Between the rain and wind it was all but impossible to see anything, but Frost did not need to see with his eyes. He raised his staff in one hand and the bottle in the other, then reached up with his mind into the high anvil cloud that was the heart of the storm and felt the swirling of the winds, the clash of warm and cold. He spoke to the storm once more, bringing all his strength to bear, and he began to pull the central winds down, toward a joining with the earth and the bottle below.

When he opened his eyes he was greeted by the sight of a dark and spinning funnel dropping earthward, then touching down, where it instantly began to grow wider and stronger—and nearer. It threw a spray of stone and wood up in all directions as it hopped the castle walls and crossed over the keep, tearing up the roof, before descending to the parapets below.

Frost tossed the bottle to the ground and used all his will and concentration in a single effort to keep the storm funnel aloft just long enough to let it skip just over Gentaff and the twins. It landed straight ahead of him on the courtyard floor, making instant victims of the soldiers still gathered there. The deafening roar of the funnel hid the first screams, but as the darkness consumed the rest of the men, they raised a chorus of panic and fear heard even above the storm.

Nothing in the courtyard was staying put—with the notable exception of the stables. Frost's warding was holding there—the one he had placed while feigning annoyance with the fumes—as was the other, he noted, turning and looking up to the parapets. Gentaff himself was holding on for dear life, arms wrapped around stone, trying to survive long enough to get his bearings. But the twins rested nearly untouched. Frost had not let go of the warding he'd used to hold back the storm, but had repositioned it around the twins instead.

Good, he thought, then he reached into his pocket and withdrew the iron rod. He turned and ran, back toward the rows of soldiers blocking the way out—soldiers who were having problems of their own with the intensity of the storm, but not so great as to disable any of them. When he had run just far enough he crouched and drove the pointed end of the rod into the ground, then he bent the other end toward the soldiers, and left it. He began to retreat and the soldiers came after him, slow and low to the ground, braving the winds but making progress.

As the troops overran the metal rod, Frost released the charm he had placed within it, a simple enhancement of the metal's natural properties. The rod became an irresistible magnet for the storm's limitless fiery energy. Dozens of lightning bolts leaped down out of the clouds, then dozens more, searing air and earth and shearing the furious winds within the courtyard. Torrents of soaking rain turned instantly to steam as deafening thunderclaps followed each flash in rapid succession, like the galloping of the Gods' own horses, shaking mortar from stone and teeth from bone.

Despite the wardings, Frost raised his arm to shield his face against the blistering heat that struck in the instant that followed. He strained to shore up the wardings—on himself and his Subartans, on Dorin and Dara, on the stables nearby—but even this was not enough to keep the heel of his exposed hand from registering the pain of the burn. He felt his strength fading under the stain of so much effort. Too much for any man, but he could not let go just yet.

He turned away while the lightning rod was consumed, then looked again to find no soldier still standing. Their charred and burning remains were strewn in gruesome heaps across the courtyard between Frost and the main gates. Rain pelted the bodies and formed pools around them, mixing with blood and sizzling on those that still smoldered. Already the frantic, swirling winds were filled with the wet stench of scorched air and burnt flesh.

Frost turned once more to Gentaff and found the other thoroughly absorbed in the task of staying put long enough to use his talents to gain some level of control over the storm and its deadly funnel. What few soldiers remained had reached the farthest corners of the courtyard, where they huddled behind their shields and clung to each other as the wind flung debris and sheets of rain over them. Even the men on the walls were gone, pulled to their deaths by the winds or gone to cover.

Gentaff and the twins were alone on the parapet.

Then the storm funnel began to lift back up toward its source overhead. Gentaff had found purchase on it. Frost watched the other, gauging his grasp of things. Gentaff was visibly straining, using all his strength and abilities to contain the funnel and drive it away. But succeeding.

The moment had come.

"Now!" Frost shouted over the roar of the storm. His Subartans came to his side and clasped his arms, one each, then together they leaned forward, eyes nearly closed against the wind-driven rains, and made their way to the steps—then started upward.

"I would have a word with you, Gentaff!" Frost howled as soon as he was certain he was close enough for Gentaff to here. He had let go of the storm completely now; he barely had the energy to stay on his feet, but Gentaff didn't know that.

"I know you well, Frost!" Gentaff shouted back. "You have given me what I needed. This day will not come again!"

"Once is enough!" Frost answered, but he knew Gentaff was right, or half right: they had learned a great deal about each other, enough to make another contest between them infinitely more difficult.

"Wait where you are and we will end this here and now."

"No—but soon, and differently," Gentaff said, finally taking his eyes off the storm as the funnel vanished into the sagging black clouds. The heart of the storm seemed to be passing, moving on.

"You want no more?"

"In good time."

Frost blinked—and lost sight of Gentaff. No vanishing act, more likely a quick retreat through a door held open by guards at one end of the parapet. A door that would be barred and heavily guarded by the time Frost reached it. But Frost had no desire to go after Gentaff or to search for Andair. He had only Dorin and Dara on his mind.

He reached the parapets and the twins a moment later. Sharryl and Rosivok cut away their bonds and threw them one each over their shoulders, then all started back down.

The thunderstorm was clearly moving off now, taking the worst of the winds and rains with it. More soldiers would be arriving soon, reinforcements for those few that dared venture out from corners and from behind walls. "The stables!" Frost commanded, and headed toward them at his best speed. A handful of guards were holed up in the stalls along with the stable workers, but none of them tried to interfere as Frost and the others entered. Rosivok laid Dorin down on a bed of straw and went about collecting three horses while Sharryl, still holding Dara over her shoulder, raised her subarta and kept it well in view of the men crouched nearest to them.

"If you keep still, you will live," Frost said.

No one seemed to doubt this. Rosivok reappeared with the horses and he and Sharryl got the twins draped over two of them. They mounted one each with the twins, holding them in place, while Frost fought to hoist himself onto the third horse. His strength was nearly gone now, but he forced himself up, calling on the stout and powerful muscles he kept hidden beneath his robust form, using up his last reserves. A wave of fatigue hit him as he tried to sit upright on the gelding. His vision blackened and he felt the world spin just a bit, felt himself nearly slip off.

"Frost?" Sharryl said, nudging her mount nearer his and lending an arm for a moment.

He breathed deeply, eyes closed. "I will be all right. We must go."

He clung to the horse as they rode out, picking their way through the destruction and carnage in the courtyard. Every building other than the stables had been dismantled, leaving goods and splintered wood strewn everywhere among the ghastly wreckage of armor and bodies. One of the main gates stood nearly closed, and the men who had closed it were busy working on the other. Frost hadn't the strength left in him to deal with them in any proper fashion. Instead he did what little he could, the least taxing thing he could, using the only resources at hand. He created the vaguest of illusions all drawn on the drifting clouds of steam and smoke swirling from the courtyard and the light rains that still fell from the gray clouds overhead.

Only twenty ghosts, Frost could conjure no more than that, all supposed to be the spirits of the dead soldiers trying to leave the battlefield as far as the men at the gates could tell. Or so Frost hoped. As the men at the gates abruptly scattered he saw that his trick had provided the desired result. When they crossed the bridge over the moat, two archers appeared on the split wall behind them. Both loosed their arrows. One went wide. The other struck Sharryl's subarta as she reared her horse and swatted at it, nearly spilling Dara. She managed to snatch a handful of tunic in time, and dragged Dara back onto the horse.

Before the archers could fire again, they had reached the city's streets.

"They will come after us," Frost said. "But it will be a while I think. If we hurry, we will stay ahead of them."

Both Subartans nodded. Rosivok took the lead, and set his horse to a trot. The jolting made holding onto the twins much harder, made holding onto the horse at all much harder on Frost, but the pace got them through the city and beyond without any sign of trouble. Though trouble, Frost knew, was not far behind.

* * *

Andair stood leaning against the solid oak of the massive table behind him and stared into the darkness at the tall, hooded figure that approached him. The great hall was lit only at this end and completely empty, save these two. As Gentaff emerged fully into the light and put back his hood, Andair folded his arms and tipped his head to one side. "You are well?" he asked, before tipping his head the other way to await the answer.

"I am," Gentaff replied.

He came to rest a full ten paces away, this man who usually crowded Andair to fill his ear with fertile whispers. Not now. Not this night.

Andair thought to get right to it. "My men tell me our first encounter with Frost was a perfect catastrophe."

"For a few of them, yes."

"More than a few," Andair corrected. "Over two hundred dead, almost as many wounded, and workers will be weeks repairing the damage. Oh, yes, Frost has the twins back as well, and he still has the Demon Blade. Then there was that inspiring moment at the end when what was left of my First Guard looked up to you and saw you running away. Have I left anything out?"

Gentaff's expression was stolid. "I learned what I needed to know of Frost. I turned the storm, I ended its rage, and—"

"And piqued mine!" Andair boomed, standing erect, clenching his fists as he took a step forward. "If you were one of my commanders you would be dead already! I will remember everything about this day, sorcerer, when next we make plans together. I will remember that I listened to you instead of myself!"

"Remember too, my lord, that kings also may die," Gentaff replied, closing his eyes, though this time his teeth came together, the jaw rigid.

Andair had never seen him do that. He'd been shaken, there was no doubt, but he was not the only one.

"Do you threaten me now?" Andair asked, getting that out in the open as well.

"I have no wish to be a king," Gentaff replied, eyes open once more. "Only to own them."

Andair boiled at that, but he fought not to let it show.

"You have no idea what happened out there today," Gentaff went on, "aside from the limited view of a few dull-witted soldiers and stable hands."

"Ahh," Andair said, nodding while he began slowly to pace back and forth in front of the table, which seemed to help calm him slightly. "Yes, I see. There is much you are aware of that the rest of us are not."

"Exactly," Gentaff replied.

"Enlighten me."

"I would have preferred that Frost was destroyed today, but from the beginning I understood that possibility to be remote."

"You never said that. You said given your magic and my men you could trap him and take the Blade from him."

"Yes, but not this day." Gentaff closed his eyes. Andair stomped his foot on the floor in frustration. "Enough games! I am not in the mood."

Gentaff looked up and nodded. "Think of this, my lord: Neither of us had any true knowledge of Frost's powers, his limits, his mind, his magic, until this day. It had to be learned. One hopes the learning is quick and reveals a solution right away, but more often the learning leads to solutions later on. The twins were the perfect bait to lure him here, a trap with the means to make him perform under pressure and with maximum effort."

Andair pondered the other's words as he paused. "Why didn't you tell me all this in the first place?"

"You might not have risked what you did."

"True, but now that we have, was it worthwhile?"

"I learned a great deal. More important, he did not use the Demon Blade, which means he either did not have it with him or he is hesitant to call upon it, even when trapped and outnumbered. My guess is that his reputation with the Blade is exaggerated and that he is afraid of it, he as much said so. Perhaps it is too powerful for him . . . that is also quite possible."

Andair nodded. "All the more reason for us to have it."

"Yes. And we shall, you and I. Henceforth we will have no secrets. I will see to that."

Somehow that assurance didn't made Andair feel any better. "What is next?"

"We must have him back."

"What?" Andair sputtered. "Have him back?"

"Yes, my lord, and soon. But not too soon."

"I see."

"Good."

With that Gentaff turned and walked away. Andair felt about to burst as he followed Gentaff out of the room, but he followed in silence. For now.

 

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Framed