Transformation Read online

  “Is there to be a return message, my lord?” I wanted to remind him I was there, lest he be even less cautious in his words.

  “There was going to be. But not now. I daren’t trust my words to messengers. Not when they have to do with poisoning the Emperor’s brother.” He threw the wadded letter at the fire, where it flared up with a hiss. “No, on second thought, I will send him a reply.”

  “One moment, Your Highness.” I lit the candle on the cherry wood writing desk, and set out paper, ink, and one of the pens I had left sharp. “Now, my lord.”

  Aleksander paced furiously as he dictated.

  Dmitri,

  On the day you return to Capharna, I will release you from all laws of fealty and invite you to make whatever attempt you desire to thrash me. It may not be so easy as when I was twelve, but we shall see. Until then I shall delight in the thought of matching fists with you. But for the moment, as you are still bound and your loyalty restrains you from disobedience, I will again prevail upon your duty to me.

  I wish for you to proceed to Avenkhar to arrange safe transport to Capharna for Lydia and her party. I am not such a fool as to ask you to escort her yourself. But as much as I would like to dissuade my father from forcing her on me, I will not have my future wife displeased by less than perfect arrangements nor endangered by less than secure ones. The vixen would never let me hear the end of it, and I’ll not have her carping at me for twelve days. The bandit season will be upon us by the time she comes, and since the passes between Avenkhar and Capharna are the worst, she must come another way.

  Unfortunate that these arrangements may require your absence some weeks past the end of the Dar Heged, but I shall try to muddle along without your wisdom. If Father is considering replacing the Pearl of Azhakstan with a new capital city, I would say he is in much more need of mentoring than I.

  The Prince’s voice drifted away after the last sentence. I waited a moment, but he seemed to be done with it.

  “How do you wish it signed, my lord?”

  He considered for a moment. “Zander.”

  I shook my head to myself and wondered if the hard-headed old Derzhi, infuriated by the insulting letter, would notice the affectionate name at the end of it. Considering Dmitri’s scathing words to the Prince, I judged Aleksander’s fondness for the old man must be considerable for him to offer even so small a concession in the reply. After Aleksander sealed the letter, he held onto it and said he would see it off. I could go. I bowed, then looked stupidly from the door to the bedchamber curtain, uncertain which way to make my exit.

  “The way you came in. And you’re to be at the Dar Heged tomorrow as before.”

  “Yes, my lord.” I started through the curtain, leaving Aleksander sprawled on his cushions, staring into the fire. “Sleep well, my lord.”

  He looked up, surprised ... as I was. “I will.”

  Chapter 8

  The portal stood open. Beyond it boiling clouds, riven by purple lightnings, obscured a landscape of twisted rock and ice. The ground shifted uneasily even as I watched. Chaos. This one would not be easy. But then none of them were. The path held steady, unmoving, solid ... ready for my foot. It was only the stepping on it that was so difficult. To leave everything behind: life and breath, love and joy. To be utterly alone in the domain of evil.

  “Never,” came the whisper in the deepest corner of my mind. “Never alone.” It was a comfort, but I knew better.

  My weapons were ready: the silver dagger, the oval mirror of silver and glass, my hands, my eyes, my soul. They were all that I could take with me through the portal. A hundred times I had done it, but each time was more difficult ... knowing what was to come.

  The comforting whisper came once more. “I will hold until you return. Never doubt.” I could not answer, for I was prepared and speech would break the weaving. Then the voice fell silent, and I had to go or not go. There could be no more delay.

  Thunder rumbled, and a whirlwind caught my hair and whipped my cloak about me as I stepped through and began my transformation. I felt the eyes of evil widen with surprise at this invasion.

  “Who dares come here?” bellowed a voice that shriveled the heart and infused the mind with despair. How would it manifest itself this time? A four-headed snake? A dragon? A warrior twice my height with sharpened spikes for fingers? Would it make me give chase or would it spring up from the bowels of the earth beside my feet? Every one was different.

  “I am the Warden, sent by the Aife, the Scourge of Demons, to challenge you for this vessel. Hyssad! Begone! It is not yours.”

  I only needed to delay a little longer, and the transformation would be complete. Already my feet left no mark on the path, and I could sense the subtle textures of the wind.

  “Insolent slave, you know not your place. I own you. Everything you are and everything you will ever be is mine to do with as I please.”

  “I am a free man.”

  “All those you call friends wear my chains—or the chains of death, my ally. You are the last. And your Aife ... have you not guessed? The Aife is also mine.”

  “Impossible,” I said, but beneath my feet the path began to crumble, and when I turned my head in the howling wind, I saw the portal fading.

  “No!” I screamed. “Love, don’t leave me!” I ran toward the dwindling portal as the rai-kirah’s laughter tore at my flesh like icy fingers. Darkness crept from every direction across the heaving landscape. My breath rasped; my side felt pierced with knives, but the portal was always farther and almost too faint to see. “Not here ... don’t leave me. ...”

  I woke, sweating and panicky, my heart racing, my body crying out its emptiness, my soul weeping in denial. I knew where I was. The darkness, the cold, the stink of too many bodies too little washed, the prickling straw under me and over me. There was no mistaking one place for the other. But this, too, was a land of evil, and I could not shake the horror of my dream until the gray light of morning showed me the faces of slaves and not of demons.

  When I arrived at the Audience Hall that morning, I reviewed the judgment ledger to get some hint as to how the days had gone while I was imprisoned—and how many of them there had been. The Prince had not gone back to the Hall after he had beaten me into oblivion, but he had come back the next day and delivered his judgment on the inheritance dispute. He had made the young woman his father’s ward and divided the management of her estates between the two barons. It would be up to the Emperor to decide how much of the property would be the girl’s marriage portion and who would be her husband. It was well-done. I didn’t think the Lord Dmitri would have any quarrel with his nephew’s decision. I wondered if the girl, by any chance, had pale gold hair and long legs. I would have wagered it so.

  No more judgments had been issued that day, nor on the next. Quite a number of ink blots and corrections marred the notes. Clearly things had not gone well. On the other hand, the third day, the one that had run into the dark hours when I was pulled from my cell to meet the Prince, seemed to have proceeded very much like the first days of the Dar Heged, with the Prince quite efficiently in command of his business.

  The encounter with the demon, even at arm’s length, had left me uneasy, waking echoes of dead voices and dead fears. As the Hall filled with the usual mix of petitioners and servants, I found my gaze flicking away from my ledger, watching for purple robes and cold blue eyes. I had warned the Prince that the demon would try again. Did I believe it? I pressed my eyes to the page. What comes, comes.

  The Dar Heged proceeded uneventfully for the next three days. Durgan was allowing me to sleep above ground again, although he had received no orders one way or another. Since my duties were what they had been before the unfortunate incident with the Prince, he assumed that my prisoner status was also back to normal. The slave master had no occasion to speak to me about anything. He unlocked my hands from the ring on the wall in the morning, locked them again at night, and he made sure that those of us who worked in the palace were
fed and not filthy.

  I permitted no more dreams and worked ruthlessly to convince myself that all was as before. The demon would get bored and leave Capharna. I would sleep and work and exist in my own odd peace until I died.

  But peace was nowhere to be found. On the fourth day after my return to the First Audience Hall, the Prince did not arrive at the appointed hour. The stewards and the Lord High Chamberlain fussed about with carpets and footstools. The supplicants and taxpayers, already disgruntled from having to extend their stay in Capharna because of the Prince’s strange illness, grumbled as they stood in line ready to proceed. The torches were lit, the trumpeters ready for the fanfare to announce the Prince. Caged birds and monkeys, brought as royal gifts, chattered and screeched. Still Aleksander did not come.

  It was unlike the Prince to be late. Much as he detested ceremony and grumbled at its burdens, he had never failed to adhere to the exactitude of its requirements. Odd. Unsettling.

  After two hours of waiting, the nobles got testy with the Chamberlain.

  “Tell us, Fendular, where is our Prince?”

  “The snows are getting so deep, we’ll not make it home this season if we don’t leave soon!”

  “Never has the Dar Heged been in such shambles.”

  “Has his illness returned?”

  “Is it true that he has destroyed his apartments?”

  I told myself it was nothing—a woman most likely, one he could not bear to turn out of his bed. Or something to do with his horse. There was never a Derzhi who would fail to put his horse above every other concern. Nevertheless my eyes kept searching the crowd. The Khelid was not there.

  “My Lord Chamberlain, should I go inquire as to the delay?” The words tumbled from my tongue before I could bid it be still.

  “We’ve sent five messengers already.” Fendular was so distracted, he forgot to insult me. “Stay in your place.”

  I started sharpening pens as if they were spearpoints to be carried into battle.

  Happily for Fendular and the palace supply of writing implements, the Prince arrived soon after, and carried on the day’s business without further incident—though without explanation of the delay. His Highness was not at all in a good mood, however, which meant that very few petitioners left the palace happier than when they came.

  A few days earlier I had been remanded to the service of the fat Chamberlain Fendular for evening work. I toiled until midnight every night, writing endless copies of the Dar Heged judgments and tax rolls. It was tedious work and cold, for the tiny window in the small dusty anteroom where I labored had been broken out in some previous century, and the Chamberlain would not waste fuel on a slave. Every few minutes I had to hold my ink pot or my fingers over my single candle flame to keep them from freezing. After a long day in the First Audience Hall, both fingers and eyes refused to behave themselves, so I was continually forced to correct my work or begin again until the numbers and names were dancing in the air in the weak candlelight. Even so, I deemed myself fortunate. I had worked at every task a slave could be given, save the short, deadly tenure in the mines. I had served seven masters, three of whom were brutal and one of whom was mad. Chilly, solitary tedium was very close to bliss. So many slaves had so vile an existence; I could complain about nothing.

  At the end of the day of the Prince’s late arrival, Fendular again sent me to the cold anteroom with my writing case. As the hours passed with page after page of tax rolls, I dredged up a fond remembrance of Durgan’s wool blanket and his brazier, and an even fonder image of the glorious heat of the Prince’s fire. Such an odd night that had been. To exchange speech with the heir to the Lion Throne of the Derzhi. For a brief moment, I had been a man again and not a slave. Not even the Baron had ever asked me a real question as if I could form a thought in my head.

  “You’re done here for tonight,” said one of the Prince’s aides from the doorway, startling me out of my thoughts so thoroughly that I almost upset my ink pot. My heart was pounding like a smith’s hammer. “His Highness requires his writing slave. You are to enter discreetly, as before.” It was the same youth who had shown me the private entrance before.

  “Shall I put these things away before leaving, Master Aldicar?”

  “Certainly not. What kind of ignorant fool are you? His Highness awaits. I am required to clean up your droppings so that you may answer your summons.” The boy was most unhappy at his orders. His naturally sour disposition was likely not helped by the fact that I was more than a head taller than he. If he didn’t grow a bit more and get his braid soon, he would be relegated to life as an underling, working for someone like Fendular. I would be wise to stay clear of him.

  I bowed and blotted my fingers on a scrap of paper, then raced through the Chamberlain’s luxurious workrooms and across a mournful courtyard of frozen fountains and leafless trees toward the Prince’s wing of the Summer Palace. I was halfway through the journey when I realized what was hurrying my steps. I was excited.

  I stopped at the colonnade that would lead me into the living quarters of the palace, letting the bitter air on my scarred body and the ice under my bare feet force me to remember who I was and what I was and where I was. Nothing had changed. Nothing. After so long I could not allow myself to destroy the peace I had made with fate. Excitement meant hope. And there was no place for hope in my existence.

  Assuming that “discreetly” meant that I was to enter through the private door, I found my way to the candle room, wondering if I was going to have to explain to the guard what I was doing at the door to the Prince’s bedchamber. But young Aldicar must have let the guard know to expect me, for the soldier jerked his head to the inner door the moment I appeared. I glimpsed an unclothed woman huddled on the floor beside the bed, weeping quietly, just before an iron hand gripped my arm and dragged me through the softly lit bedchamber to the outer apartment.

  “Where is it?” Aleksander bellowed, shoving me into the middle of his outer chamber. He was wearing only a white silk loincloth. His long red hair was loose and flying wildly around his head. “Find the damned thing.”

  I dropped to my knees. “As you command, Your Highness, but please tell me what am I to find?”

  “The foul, enchanted ... whatever. How am I to know?”

  I could have asked him the same question, but I didn’t think it wise.

  “Find it or I’ll have your eyes for breakfast, sorcerer. I’ll not be the laughingstock of the Twenty Hegeds.”

  I searched in all my experiences for the appropriate words for masters who were on the verge of violence, yet had not explained what they were upset about. Nothing I knew seemed to fit the case. Resigned to trouble, I tried again. “To know what to look for, I must know what kind of enchantment has been wrought, my lord. Or if you’ve been given something that is suspect, I—”

  I was raised to my toes by a hand about my throat. “If one word ... one hint ... one breath of this gets out, you will die such deaths as no slave has ever suffered.”

  “No word,” I squeezed out past his steel grip. “I swear it.”

  He shoved me away and turned his back. “I cannot ... since the other ... since I could sleep.... The first night I had to sleep. Didn’t try. The next we were interrupted by the messenger and I sent her away. I thought it was just taking longer than usual because I was distracted. But two nights more ... I had to pretend I found the lady unsatisfactory ... and so tonight I sent for Chione, a slave who always pleases me. I thought, to be sure ...”

  All became instantly clear. I knew better than to relax or yield to the laughter that came unbidden. The danger was very real. To the Derzhi, failure at such matters was unthinkable, no less a defeat than one on the battlefield.

  “Has the Khelid brought you more gifts, my lord?” It was highly unlikely to be an artifact, as before. It was, in fact, highly unlikely to be an enchantment. The matter in question was notoriously unpredictable, and thus rarely an effective target for spellmaking. But that was an answer Ale
ksander wasn’t going to like.

  “No. Korelyi’s gone off to Parnifour to visit his kinsman. And you’ve not convinced me he’s the one doing it anyway. Look for it, as you did before.”

  “Of course.” And so I did. As I expected, I found nothing save the wretched slave girl, quivering in terror that she had displeased the Prince.

  I had to tell him something. There were so many reasons such a thing could happen, even to a quite virile, apparently healthy young man, but if I wanted to retain all my own body parts, I needed a good answer. “There is no enchanted artifact here in your apartments, but this kind of thing is often passed by food. Have you eaten anything unusual of late?”

  “Nothing. But I’ll burn the kitchens. I’ll kill them all—”

  I raised my hands and shook my head vigorously. “That won’t be necessary. There is only one way that I know to take care of it. You must refrain from taking in any more of the poison. Perhaps ... the ephrail. Derzhi warriors cleanse themselves by the ephrail once a year, do they not, my lord?”

  “What of it?”

  “Perhaps it is time for you to do so. It would purge any poison from your body—as it is designed to do.” And it would keep women out of his bed for a week and allow him to catch up on his sleep. It seemed my best chance at hitting the mark of whatever ailed him.

  “Ephrail,” he said thoughtfully. “It has been quite a while. And it would rid me of this?”

  “I cannot say what enchantment is tormenting you this time, but if someone has tainted your food, then there is no surer way to make them give it up. Such a spell cannot affect you if you separate yourself from the source.”