Jordan began to wonder what he would do if Gawaine lost. He felt disloyal even thinking about it, but he had to be realistic. Gawaine was holding his own for the moment, but he was a great deal older than his opponent, and he just didn’t have the stamina to maintain his attack for much longer. Tower Rouge was a long time ago. Sooner or later he’d start to slow down, and then Dark John Sutton would kill him. Sutton was the best. Everyone knew that.
Even as he thought that, the two men locked their weapons together and struggled face-to-face. Gawaine was already gasping for breath after his exertions, and Sutton smiled as he slowly began to force Gawaine’s arm back against him. The knight struggled to hold his ground against the increasing pressure, his arms trembling with effort, but inch by inch Sutton’s greater strength won out. And then Gawaine spat directly into Sutton’s face. Sutton jerked back, startled, and in that moment when he was off balance, Gawaine brought his knee up sharply into Sutton’s groin. The duelist’s face screwed up with pain, and shocked tears ran down his cheeks as he fought for breath. He tried to lash out at Gawaine, but his sword arm wouldn’t respond quickly enough. Gawaine ducked easily inside the blow and slammed his ax into Sutton’s side. The ax head buried itself between Sutton’s ribs, and the impact drove the duelist to one knee. Gawaine jerked the ax free, and it came loose with an ugly sucking sound. Blood flew on the air. Sutton tried to lift his sword, and couldn’t. Gawaine raised his ax. Sutton tried to say something, and then Gawaine brought the ax swinging down, again and again and again. For a few moments the Court was full of the sound of butchery, of steel cleaving meat. Gawaine finally stepped back, and looked at the still and bloody figure on the floor before them.
“You shouldn’t have threatened my Emma,” he said softly. He looked around at the herald. “Clean this mess up.”
The herald nodded quickly, and gestured to two nearby servants. The Court slowly resumed its buzz of conversation, its voice respectfully hushed, at least at first. Gawaine wiped his ax clean with a piece of rag, and then sheathed it again. He moved back to rejoin Jordan and Heather. His sleeves were covered in blood, little of it his own. Heather smiled broadly at him, and leaned forward to kiss him quickly on the cheek. Jordan nodded to him respectfully.
“That was … very impressive, Gawaine.”
“It wasn’t difficult, sire. He was a duelist, and I’m a soldier. He never stood a chance.”
The servants wrapped up Sutton’s body in his own cloak, and carried him away. Jordan looked around to see how Dominic was taking the death of his pet assassin, but for the moment he was lost in the crowd. The Court was just starting to get back to normal when the main doors suddenly slammed open, and the herald drew himself up to his full height and announced in ringing tones the arrival of His Excellency the Regent, Count William Howerd, and his wife, the Lady Gabrielle.
Everyone bowed or curtsied, including the three princes. The Regent and his wife ignored everybody, and strode majestically through the crowd toward the raised dais at the back of the hall. The crowd opened up before them, making a wide passage for them to walk through. They finally reached the dais and stopped before it to bow and curtsy to the empty throne. Then they slowly climbed the marble steps, and took up positions standing on either side of the throne. The Regent and his wife stood looking out over the packed Court, their faces calm and impassive. Jordan studied them both carefully.
Count William looked more like a king than any of the three princes. He was tall and powerfully built, with wide shoulders and a fashionably slim waist. His stance was firm and noble, and there was an unselfconscious dignity in his every movement. He wore his dark formal robes with grace and quiet style. He was traditionally handsome, with short dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He had the relaxed confident air that adorned so many aristocratic portraits in country houses, and yet there was warmth in his eyes and a slightly self-mocking smile on his lips. He’d make a great romantic lead, thought Jordan. If he didn’t look so bloody perfect, I might even like him. Unfortunately, in the game he was playing, the Regent was one of his most powerful opponents.
His wife, the Lady Gabrielle, was a famous beauty. She was tall and slender, with a graceful willowy body. She wore a long flowing gown of creamy white, with frothy lace cuffs. Her long tawny hair hung in carefully arranged curls around a heart-shaped, almost childlike face. Her eyes were gray and very large, adding to her helpless-little-girl look. Jordan wasn’t fooled for a moment. He’d seen that look on too many girls in the chorus: girls who spent all their spare time trying to get out of the chorus and into speaking roles. Usually via somebody’s bed. There was a calm, self-satisfied arrogance in Gabrielle’s face, when looked at dispassionately. She obviously gloried in being the Regent’s wife, and having all the Court bow and scrape to her. It wasn’t really surprising. She’d never known anything like it before, even though she was King Malcolm’s daughter.
Under Redhart law, only the king’s sons could inherit the throne, even though the daughters had just as much Blood and elemental magic as the sons. This had often been a sore point down the centuries, even to the point of civil war on one occasion, but still the law and tradition held. There had only ever been kings ruling Redhart; never once a queen. The ladies of the royal line were just … breeding stock. They had much standing in Court, but no political power. In theory, anyway. In practice, it tended to depend on who they were married to. As the Regent’s wife, Gabrielle wielded more power through her husband than she’d ever dreamed of as the king’s daughter. Jordan looked at her thoughtfully, and wondered what would happen when she had to give it up.
“My lords and ladies, and honored guests,” said Count William, his deep, measured voice rolling majestically on the silence, “I thank you for your patience. I have grave news that cannot be withheld from you any longer. As you know, since King Malcolm’s sudden and tragic death, there has been no trace of his will, his crown, or his seal of office. Despite extensive searches of Castle Midnight, by all the parties concerned, they still remain lost to us. And without them, Redhart can have no king.
“My friends, Redhart must have a king. The Unreal is growing stronger. Creatures that were once securely contained now stalk the corridors openly. The gargoyles on the battlements are growing restive, and the dead no longer rest in peace. Plants bleed, and statues weep. There are voices in the earth, and a wall has learned to scream. The steward is doing her best to cope, but there is a limit to what she can do on her own. Her authority over the Unreal stems from the Stone, and without a king on the throne, its power is weakened. I have summoned the steward here. Let her tell you what is happening in Castle Midnight.”
He gestured to the herald, and the servants opened the main doors. The steward hurried in, followed by her apprentice. The herald glanced at them nervously, and then bellowed across the silent Court, “Catriona Taggert, and her apprentice, Damon Cord!”
Once again the whole Court bowed and curtsied, this time including the Regent and his wife. Taggert stopped just inside the doors and nodded briefly in reply, clearly impatient to begin speaking. She was short, only an inch or so over five foot, and delicately formed. She looked almost frail at first glance, but there was a strength and determination in her raw-boned face that appealed greatly to Jordan. She was in her late twenties, good-looking in a brisk, undemanding way, and she wore her short chestnut hair in a style that was more functional than attractive. Her stance was firm and uncompromising, and she looked extremely competent. The steward was supposed to have extensive knowledge of the High Magic, and Jordan, for one, didn’t doubt it for a moment. There was something about her eyes …
There was also something about Damon Cord, the steward’s apprentice. He was a tall gangling man who looked as though he had dressed in a hurry in the dark. His clothes looked as though they might once have been best-quality tailoring, but now they were torn, ragged, and filthy almost beyond belief. He was also the biggest and most muscular man Jordan had ever seen. Old scars formed
a bizarre tracery on his bare arms, and somewhere in the past someone had made a determined effort to cut Cord’s face in half. The resulting scar stretched from forehead to chin, just missing the left eye, crossing the nose, and nicking the right corner of the mouth, giving him a permanent half smile. He looked grim, brooding, and not a little crazy. He also looked decidedly dangerous, if anyone was ever dumb enough to upset him. A low murmur ran through the courtiers as they assessed the new arrivals.
“All right, everyone shut up and listen,” said the steward. “We don’t have much time. There’s been a major outbreak of the Unreal. I don’t know what brought it on, but over the last two hours my staff and I have been run ragged all over the castle, just trying to hold things together. First, the good news. As far as we can tell, no one’s died yet. That’s it. Now the bad news. The Old Library is gone. When you open the door, there’s nothing there but cobwebs. They look like they go on forever. We sent one man in on a rope. He got a hundred yards from the door and still couldn’t find a wall in any direction. He also thought there was something in the cobwebs with him, watching. We’ve nailed the door shut for the time being. I’ll try and get the Old Library back when I’ve got the time, but I’m not promising anything. And stay away from the Musician’s Gallery over the East Ballroom. There’s a new ghost there, and it looks like a bad one. It’s got teeth you wouldn’t believe. The gargoyles are running loose on the roof, but I’ve got some of my people up there taking care of it.
“All in all, we were just about holding our own, until I did a routine scan of the castle, and discovered there was a pattern to the outbreaks. All the incidents were carefully timed to mislead me into missing one major outbreak. Sometime during the past two hours, the Unreal broke through right here, in the Great Hall.”
There was utter silence when she stopped talking. Jordan glanced unobtrusively around him. On every side there were pale, frightened faces and wide, staring eyes. The Court was terrified. Jordan badly wanted to ask Gawaine or Heather what the hell the steward was talking about, but he didn’t dare draw attention to himself with a display of ignorance.
The Regent stepped forward a pace. “You’re the steward, Catriona. Do what you have to.”
The courtiers stirred uncertainly, and looked warily about them. In ones and twos, and then in groups, they started to edge away from each other. Jordan quickly became aware that even Gawaine and Heather were doing it, in what seemed to be an unconscious reaction. He let his hand rest casually on the sword at his side. Something was about to happen: something awful. He could feel it on the air: a tense atmosphere that was thickening from anticipation into certainty. The Steward looked slowly around her, her dark eyes cold and watchful.
“Nobody is to interfere, whatever happens. I don’t need distractions.”
She glared about her, and the courtiers nodded dumbly. Catriona Taggert smiled grimly, and spoke a Word of Power.
Jordan staggered back a step as reality shuddered around him, torn and sundered by the force of the steward’s sorcery. Something roared in the hall like captive thunder, and the world changed. Jordan shook his head dazedly as for a moment two different views of the Court fought for dominance in his mind, and then the illusions were blown away like leaves on the wind, and reality became clear again.
The courtiers screamed and fell back from the dead man in their midst. He had looked like just another courtier before, hidden by an Unreal glamour, but now it stood exposed as a grinning, rotting corpse. Flies swarmed about it, their buzzing unnaturally loud. Its flesh was blackened and torn, revealing discolored bones and frayed strands of decaying muscle. Witch light burned in its empty eye sockets. As the lich realized it stood revealed for what it was, it howled with rage and struck out viciously at the nearest courtier. The man died instantly as the lich’s bony fist buried itself in the side of his skull. It ripped its fist free in a flurry of gore, and whirled around to thrust its clawed hand into another man’s face. Blood ran down the man’s neck in thick streams, and his screams mixed with the lich’s bubbling laughter.
Up above, a gleaming glass chandelier burst apart in a silent explosion. The gleaming crystals shuddered through a dozen ugly colors as they fell, and then suddenly became a hundred and more gore crows that flew off in different directions. They swept back and forth over the courtiers’ heads, their beaks and claws drawing blood from those who couldn’t dodge fast enough.
Behind the throne’s raised dais, a man was melting into the far wall. Already it was hard to tell where his flesh ended and the stone began. He was horribly emaciated, his bones pressing out against the taut skin, but his sunken eyes were alive and aware. He knew what was happening to him.
Damon Cord roared a challenge in a deep, echoing voice and headed for the lich at a run. He reached out with his left hand and pulled a huge steel mace out of thin air. The thick shaft was three feet long, and the great club head was studded with wicked metal spikes. The lich threw away its dying victim and turned to face Cord, hissing in anticipation. It lashed out with a clawed and blood-soaked hand. Cord avoided the blow with almost uncanny ease, and his huge mace rose and fell. The great spiked head slammed down onto the lich’s shoulder, and the impact drove the creature to the floor. Its bones broke and shattered under the blow, and it screamed with rage. It tried to get up again, but Cord was already stooping over it. The flies clustered thickly about him and crawled over his face, but he ignored them. He lifted up his mace and then brought it sweeping down in a vicious blow that tore the lich’s head from its body. The body convulsed, and grabbed blindly for Cord with its clawed hands. Cord hit it again and again, and finally it lay still as the last of its Unreal life went out of it. Cord growled once, satisfied, and looked around for another enemy. Everyone backed away from him, unnerved by the open savagery in his scarred face.
The steward had deliberately left Cord to fight on his own. They both preferred to work alone. Almost before Cord had started moving toward the lich, she had raised her hands and sent a wave of crackling white balefire seething through the air above the courtiers. The soaring crows screamed like children as the balefire touched them. All over the Court they burst into flames and fell out of the air like so many burning handkerchiefs. Even as the courtiers scattered to avoid the burning birds, the steward was already running down the hall toward the man trapped in the wall. She made a grasping motion with her right hand, and a long slender sword formed itself out of balefire and fitted itself into her clutching hand. At the same time, a glowing silvery shield appeared on her left arm.
Cord glared balefully about him, and his gaze settled on a portly noble to Jordan’s left. He smiled slowly, and hefted his mace. Foulness dripped from the metal tines. The noble shook his head, and began to back away.
“No! Please … it’s a mistake! I’m Real, Real as you! Do I look like one of those things? Just look at me!”
Cord moved steadily toward him. The noble backed away even faster, and the courtiers scattered to give them both plenty of room. The noble glanced behind him, and found he’d run out of room. There was nothing there but a wall. He looked at Cord, and his face suddenly went cold and dead. He grabbed a woman’s arm and pulled her to him, holding her before him as a shield. His eyes were empty and lifeless.
“Stay back or I’ll kill her.”
The voice was distant and horribly distorted. It didn’t sound human, though it came from a human throat. The Unreal man pulled a knife from its sleeve and set the edge against the woman’s throat. A drop of blood slid slowly down her neck as the sharp edge nicked the skin. She whimpered once, and looked beseechingly at Cord. He smiled at her reassuringly, and then his left arm snapped forward too quickly to follow, and the mace flew from his hand to smash the noble’s shoulder. The knife fell harmlessly to the floor, and the creature’s shattered arm hung limply at its side. Cord reached into thin air and pulled out a great two-edged broadsword. It was wide and strong as a butcher’s cleaver, and the edges had been filed into jagged ser
rations. Cord sprang forward and swung the sword at the noble’s neck. The creature dropped its hostage and tried to duck under the blow, but Cord had timed it too well. The blade sliced clean through the neck, and the head flew howling through the air. The body didn’t fall. The hostage screamed once, and fainted. A long split appeared in the noble’s suddenly bare chest, stretching lengthwise and forming into a mouth that reached from neck to groin, lined with shining teeth. A long leathery tongue shot out of the opening and wrapped itself around Cord, pinning his arms to his sides. His great muscles bulged as he tried to break free, but the tongue was too strong for him. It began to contract back into the body mouth, dragging Cord with it.
Jordan stepped forward and picked up Cord’s mace, which had fallen practically at his feet. He had to use both hands to lift it, and he grunted in surprise at the weight. He advanced cautiously on the Unreal noble, hefting the mace as best he could. He knew the steward had said not to interfere, and given any choice he would have been happy not to, but he couldn’t just stand by and watch a man die. He moved forward as quietly as he could, and sneaked up to the thing from behind. Without a head, the creature shouldn’t be able to see or hear him, but he wasn’t taking any chances he didn’t have to. A second mouth appeared suddenly in the creature’s back, lined with chomping teeth. It knew he was there. Jordan stopped dead in his tracks and switched the mace awkwardly to his left hand. He used his other hand to palm a fire pellet from his sleeve, crushed it, and threw the flaming ball into the creature’s snapping mouth. It slammed shut on the fire reflexively, and then staggered on its human feet as the flames took hold inside it. The blazing light could be seen clearly through the creature’s flesh. Jordan stepped forward and swung the mace double-handed, crushing the thing’s other shoulder. It went to its knees under the impact of the blow, and the tongue holding Cord loosened its grip just enough for him to pull himself free. He raised his broadsword and chopped at the writhing body like a woodsman hewing at a stubborn tree trunk. The creature gradually fell apart into twitching pieces that took a long time to die and lie still. Jordan looked away, and saw the severed head grinning up at him. It snarled silently. Jordan smashed the thing with the mace until he was sure it was really dead. He finally looked up, panting, and Cord nodded to him approvingly. Jordan grinned back.