Shadowbred Page 11

  The gilded doors of the circular chamber stood open. The low murmur of conversation floated from within. Ordinarily, city guards would have been posted at the doors.

  “We shall see you inside,” Endren said. Father and son stopped short of entering.

  Mirabeta and Elyril walked through the doors and entered the chamber. Five pairs of doors opened into the room, and statues of notable council members from the past flanked each doorway.

  A grouping of polished wooden tables ringed the raised speaker’s dais, which occupied the center of the chamber. The dais was furnished only by an ornate wooden lectern. Glowballs lit the chamber brightly. Blue and silver pennons hung from the walls. Members of the High Council sat at tables and milled about. The Highspeaker, Dernim Lossit, stood on the speaker’s dais, his ceremonial baton in hand.

  The members’ respective wallmen lined the outer edge of the room, away from the tables but near their patrons and patronesses.

  All eyes turned at Elyril and Mirabeta’s entrance. Half of the assembled members—those loyal to Mirabeta—stood and applauded at her appearance. Mirabeta smiled politely. She gestured for Elyril to take her place along the wall while she greeted her colleagues and found her seat at one of the tables.

  A moment later, Endren and Abelar Corrinthal entered from a doorway opposite the one Mirabeta had used. The symbolism was lost on no one.

  Again, half the assembled council stood and applauded. Endren accepted their plaudits with a raised hand and took his place at a table, smiling insincerely at Mirabeta. Abelar took his station along the wall, directly across the chamber from Elyril. Elyril felt the young Corrinthal’s eyes on her, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of eye contact.

  The highspeaker raised his ivory baton for silence and a hush fell. “A quorum being present, this emergency session of the High Council is called to order.”

  Tension hung thick in the air. Elyril saw it on the faces of the assembled council members. She noticed that almost all of the members and wallmen bore blades—unusual for a session of the High Council.

  “Word has come that Kendrick Selkirk has died in office,” Lossit said, obeying the formalities. “The realm is without a leader. It is therefore this council’s obligation to select a successor from among its members. The dais is open for nominations.”

  Several members of the High Council stood to be recognized, though not Endren or Mirabeta. Custom demanded that candidates for overmaster not speak on their own behalf.

  The highspeaker pointed his baton at Zarin Terb of Selgaunt and recognized him. Elyril knew Terb to be a supporter of Endren.

  Terb straightened his long black coat and smoothed his full moustache before stepping from behind his table. He maneuvered his corpulent frame through the circle of tables and stepped atop the dais. The highspeaker surrendered his place and his baton.

  “I will not waste time with pontification,” Terb said, bouncing the highspeaker’s baton on his palm. “The state is without a head, and without a head, the body will die. Now more than ever in our past, Sembia needs wise leadership, honorable leadership.” He looked pointedly at Mirabeta as he said the last, and several members stirred in their seats. “We all know who among us can best provide that. It is therefore my honor to formally nominate Endren Corrinthal for the office of Overmaster of Sembia.”

  The hall remained silent and Endren remained still. Terb stepped down from the dais and returned the baton to the highspeaker. As Terb took his seat, Lossit stepped atop the dais and said, “Endren Corrinthal is nominated to the office of overmaster. A voice vote to second the nomination.”

  Half the assembly shouted loudly enough to make Elyril wince. “Aye!”

  “The nomination is formally entered,” said Lossit, and he banged his baton on the lectern. “Are there any other nominees to be put forth?”

  Three council members stood, all of them loyal to Mirabeta, and the highspeaker recognized the stately, elderly Graffen Disteaf of Urmlaspyr, who stepped to the dais.

  Graffen’s slow pace and clear diction lent his words gravity. “Sembia has endured many hardships recently and there are many more to come. The Rain of Fire and continuing drought have brought poor harvests in the upcountry and wildfires in the west. The dragon rage brought ruin in the north. The people crowd into the cities, now havens for disease. The winter will prove difficult for the realm.”

  He took a deep breath and it turned to a cough. When it had passed, he continued. “And yet there is more for us to endure. We know that the elves have returned to Cormanthyr and propose to retake what they think to be theirs. With our aid they have defeated the daemonfey, but who knows now where their ambitions will end? Cormyr, meanwhile, is ruled by an unseasoned girl queen whose nobles rebel in all but name. Now more than ever,” he looked at fat Zarin Terb pointedly, “stability is needed, steadiness, political wisdom. Kendrick Selkirk provided such, and so too will the cousin who shares his name and blood. I feel it is my duty, therefore, to nominate the Countess Mirabeta Selkirk to the office of Overmistress of Sembia.”

  The highspeaker called for a voice vote to second the nomination and half the assembled members shouted, “Aye!”

  “The nomination is formally entered,” the highspeaker said, and banged his baton on the lectern. “Will there be any other nominees?”

  The chamber was silent. The battle would fall between Mirabeta and Endren.

  “In accordance with custom,” the highspeaker said, “we will proceed with the Speaking. Who will advocate for these nominees?”

  Almost everyone in the chamber except Mirabeta and Endren stood to be recognized. Lossit selected one member, then another. Elyril heard at least two bells sound from the great hall’s belfry while a procession of members rose and extolled the virtues of Mirabeta or Endren. Not all members spoke, but enough did to reinforce what they already knew—the vote would be close.

  Throughout the Speaking, Elyril kept her eyes on the doorways, waiting for the priests of Tyr to arrive with Kendrick’s body. She knew her aunt had arranged for the body to be brought forth, and Elyril knew that Kendrick would name his murderer. She grew increasingly frustrated when the priests did not arrive. Mirabeta showed no sign of expectation or uneasiness.

  During a brief recess, the wallmen left their stations and hurried to their lords or ladies to give counsel and receive instructions.

  “The vote will be close,” Mirabeta said to Elyril. “Inmin speaks not, nor Weerdon.”

  “I have marked that,” Elyril said. She cleared her throat. “Aunt, when will the priests arrive with Kendrick’s body?”

  Mirabeta smiled and whispered, “They are now just outside. I arranged for street traffic to delay them.”

  Elyril could not hide her surprise. “Why?”

  Mirabeta tapped her magical earring. “I wanted the arrival appropriately timed for dramatic effect. Watch, niece.”

  The highspeaker stepped to the dais and called the chamber back to order. Elyril and the rest of the wallmen retreated to their places.

  “We will continue with the Speaking,” Lossit said.

  Before anyone else could stand, Mirabeta broke with custom and rose to be recognized. A surprised murmur ran through the assembly. The highspeaker appeared momentarily discomfitted by Mirabeta’s unexpected action, but recovered himself.

  “Countess Selkirk. You … wish to speak?”

  Mirabeta stepped out from behind her table and strode to the Speaker’s dais. She put her hands on the lectern and affected a look of dignified grief.

  “These proceedings are premature. The overmaster was more to me than the head of state. He was my beloved cousin.”

  The chamber erupted in shouts. Terb shouted above the tumult. His face reddened and his paunch shook as he spoke. “This is most irregular, Highspeaker! She must not advocate for herself! It is unheard of!”

  The highspeaker shouted for order and the chamber gradually quieted. Before he could speak, Mirabeta stared ice at Terb.
“I do not wish to advocate for myself, Zarin Terb. In fact, I am withdrawing my nomination.”

  She paused to let the surprised glances and gasps circle the room. Elyril noticed Weerdon and Inmin paying close attention. Mirabeta continued. “Even if this council deems me fit to hold the office of overmistress, I could not accept it until the questions surrounding the death of my cousin are answered.”

  No one dared take issue with Mirabeta’s words. Elyril smiled, understanding at last, as her aunt continued.

  “I—” she shook her head. “No, not just I, but none of us can look to the future until we have answered fully the questions of the past. Rumors swirl through the capital. Can a new overmaster take office with such a cloud hanging over Ordulin, over Sembia? This matter must be put to rest fully and finally, and that should happen before the entire High Council. Let us put all rumors to rest. Only then should we proceed with an election.”

  As if summoned by her words, the awaited procession of priests arrived. All heads turned. Quiet fell.

  The Tyrran High Lord Abbot, Feldinor Jemb, entered first. A white sash cinched his deep blue robe, which featured a scale embroidered in gold on his chest. He wore a white linen glove on his left hand and a glove of black leather on his right. Elyril knew the latter symbolized Tyr’s missing right hand.

  “Enter, High Lord Abbot Jemb,” Mirabeta said.

  Jemb nodded and announced, “The Justicar’s eyes are upon this assembly. Let none speak falsely.”

  Several members of the High Council raised their right hands and spoke the ritual answer: “For truth is the tool of the just.”

  Mirabeta’s voice was loudest, her hand held highest. Elyril appreciated the irony.

  A group of six junior Tyrrans followed the high priest into the chamber. They, too, wore the blue robes and black and white gloves of their faith, and a warhammer hung from each of their belts. They bore Kendrick’s body atop a railed wooden platform. A blue shroud covered the corpse.

  “Your timing is impeccable,” Endren said to Mirabeta. “And suspicious.”

  Mirabeta managed to look hurt rather than angry. “I arranged for my cousin’s body to be brought before this council, but that is a surprise to none. The highspeaker approved it. The truth must be known to all of us. Would you object to the questioning, Endren Corrinthal?

  Endren frowned and sat down. “Of course not.”

  “I presume none object?” Mirabeta asked, and accepted the silence as acquiescence. “Ascend the dais please, High Lord Abbot.”

  The Tyrrans walked solemnly through the chamber. The members watched them pass. Mirabeta stepped off the Speaker’s dais and returned the baton to the highspeaker. The junior Tyrran priests lowered the platform to the dais and stepped away.

  High Lord Abbot Jemb ascended the dais and stood over the body. He offered a prayer and addressed the High Council. “Speaking with the dead is rife with uncertainty. It is not the ghost of the dead who speaks, but a ghost of the ghost, the bit of memory that remains with the body while the soul goes to its reward or punishment. At times the answers given are unclear. Sometimes no answers are given. But where they are given, they are truth.”

  He eyed each member of the ruling body in turn, then said, “With that caution, I proceed.”

  The members rose from their tables and crowded around the dais. Even the wallmen stepped forward, though custom forbade them from leaving their posts. Elyril saw Abelar watching the proceedings with care, his brow furrowed. He sensed her looking at him and met her eyes. She looked away.

  The high lord abbot peeled back the shroud on Kendrick’s body. The overmaster wore only a loincloth. The appearance of his pale body elicited an audible gasp from the council. Elyril grinned, but wiped the smile away when she noticed Abelar’s eyes still upon her.

  The high lord abbot kneeled and put his hand on Kendrick’s brow. Holding his holy symbol, a shield-shaped gold medallion embossed with Tyr’s scales, he began to cast the spell. His voice boomed through the otherwise silent chamber.

  Power gathered with each word uttered by the priest. The overmaster’s flesh began to glow violet.

  The members of the High Council, all of them worldly and accustomed to magic, nevertheless stared wide-eyed at the spectacle.

  The rhythm of the abbot’s cadence sharpened as the spell progressed. His voice grew louder. The violet glow around the body intensified, flared. The High Lord Abbot commanded the body to answer his questions.

  Everyone leaned forward, straining to see.

  The overmaster’s eyelids opened to reveal orbs as black as squid ink.

  I hear the voice, but its words make no sense.

  “What do you mean, ‘there is no here’? That’s nonsense.”

  The voice says through the slit, “There is no time for this. He does not have much time. He has already awakened it and is losing himself even now. You feel as if you need to do something, yes?”

  The hairs on my neck rise. My heart beats so hard I can scarcely breathe. “Who … who do you mean by ‘he’?”

  “You feel as if you must do something, do you not? Answer the question.”

  I back away from the wall but cannot take my eyes from the slit. “How can you know that? Who are you? What are you?”

  “I am another piece of the same core,” the voice answers. “That does not make sense to you, I know.”

  I nod but feel silly for doing so. The speaker cannot see me. Or can he?

  The voice goes on. “We are personality shards. You and I are all he could spare.”

  I shake my head in denial. I feel dizzy again. I cannot breathe. “Who is ‘he’?” I manage, and desperation seeps into my tone. “Who is ‘he’?”

  “He is Magadon, the core, the whole. I am his courage, blended with some of his intellect. You are mostly his sense of duty.”

  My legs give out under me and I sag to the floor, shaking my head over and over again. This cannot be. “That’s not possible. That is not possible.”

  The voice goes on, unrelenting. “It is not only possible, it is. And it is the only thing that makes sense. You know that. Here’s your charge. Go to the wall. Find the rest of us.”

  Inexplicably, the words send a thrill through me. I know with certainty that going to the wall is exactly what I am supposed to do.

  “You are trying to understand,” the voice says. “It is difficult, I know. Stop and evaluate your response to my request. I charged you to go to the wall and you felt complete the moment I tasked you, did you not?”

  “No. Yes.”

  “Yes. Because you are his sense of duty. Fulfilling tasks is why you exist. Go to the wall and find the rest of us. That is your duty.”

  My response bursts out before I can think. “Where is the wall?”

  “Out there, beyond the door,” the voice says. “You must break through the wall. Part of us is behind it, untouched by the Source, untouched by the magic of our captors. Make it contact Erevis or Riven.”

  The names Erevis and Riven trigger a memory. I cannot remember details but I know I have done my duty by them. I know just as certainly that they have done their duty by me. They are my friends, my comrades.

  And I know something else: the voice is telling me the truth.

  I stand, nervous, but resolved to fulfill my duty.

  “How do I break through the wall?”

  The voice is quiet for a moment, then says, “I do not know. You must find a way. And … what lies behind the wall is dangerous. But there is no choice. You must do it to save all of us.”

  I say, “Come with me. If it’s dangerous, two will accomplish what one cannot.”

  “I cannot.”

  “Why?”

  “I told you. I am courage. I must stay with him. He needs me more.”

  “But why me?”

  Courage says, “Because you are the strongest of us. You always have been.”

  The words fortify me. I am strong. “You said there is no ‘here.’ What did you mean?
Where is this place?”

  “It is not a where but a what. A thought bubble. A microcosm of his mindscape. Go to the wall. Get through it. Find that part of us that is on the other side and force it to call our friends.”

  I nod, but look uncertainly at my empty hands. “I have no weapon.”

  “Yes, you do. You are a weapon. And you must hurry. We will all be lost in the Source if you do not hurry.”

  “What is the Source?”

  Saying the word makes me uneasy. It echoes in my mind.

  The voice does not answer.

  “Are you there?”

  No response.

  I listen to the silence for a moment before I listen to myself. I know what I must do.

  I walk across the room and put my hand to the door handle of the cell. It turns, silently—and I push it open.

  CHAPTER SIX

  10 Marpenoth, the Year of Lightning Storms

  The members of the High Council crowded in close, craning their necks to see. The dead, black eyes of the overmaster stared up at the rotunda dome.

  The high lord abbot began his questions.

  “Are you Kendrick Selkirk, once Overmaster of Sembia?”

  The body’s mouth opened and said in a broken tone: “Yes.”

  Elyril smiled, knowing that Nightseer Rivalen had made a flesh puppet of the overmaster’s body. She did not know what shadow creature was speaking through his lips, but she knew it was not the spirit of Kendrick Selkirk.

  “Were you murdered?” Jemb asked.

  Silence for a moment, then, “Yes.”

  The chamber erupted in conversation. The wallmen started forward but stopped when the high lord abbot raised his hands. Silence fell anew. The tension in the room made Elyril giddy.

  “Do you know who did this deed?”