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  The captives exploded in balls of light, vanished in clouds of dust.

  The lightning kept coming, and the Wolves began to fall to the floor—writhing, dying. Baird, in a last moment of clear thought, realized that the Sabir Wolves had chosen to attack the Galweigh Wolves at the same moment the Galweigh Wolves had attacked them. He hoped their rewhah was as uncontrollable; he hoped their death toll was as high.

  But the last stimulus to touch his dying senses was not a sense of pain and fear in the Sabirs. It was the reek of honeysuckle, so strong it seemed a blanket suffocating him to death.

  Chapter 14

  Energy sang through the White Hall as the attack spell shattered the Galweigh Wolves, and the Sabirs braced themselves against the return blow. At the central pillar, Danya Galweigh screamed and writhed, her body absorbing almost all of the magical backlash. Her form changed from lovely to hideous as foul magic poured through her; she sprouted horns and spines, grew scales and fangs and claws, then shed them for worse and more hideous things; always she melted and twisted obscenely. But the Sabirs had guessed her strength and her resilience well, and she buffered them from the deadly rewhah energy, while the Wolves, by spreading out the slight overflow among themselves, prevented any one of their number from taking heavy Scars.

  What the Sabirs hadn’t figured into their careful calculations was a simultaneous attack from the Galweighs, and when that spell hit their sacrifice, the combined forces of it and their own rewhah broke free of the confinements of their spells and the buffer of the girl. Danya Galweigh sizzled for an instant, and black lightning coalesced around her; the air filled with smoke and the sickening scent of decay; she screamed so loudly and with such terror that her throat sounded like it was tearing itself apart. Then thunder crashed inside the White Hall, and the girl vanished utterly. And the combined magic of spell and rewhah smashed down on the Sabir Wolves, unbuffered, undirected, and raw.

  Those quickest to understand what was happening—the senior Wolves and the unholy triad of Andrew, Anwyn, and Crispin—quickly shifted the brunt of the streaming hell of power onto the younger, weaker Wolves. Thus they survived, though even they bore fresh Scars. Those who were neither so quick nor so ruthless died horribly, melting into inhuman forms, changing and changing until the mutations became too many and too lethal to survive, begging as they writhed for rescue, collapsing with their pleas unanswered.

  The walls of the White Hall began to scream—the babble of a thousand voices, of a hundred long-dead tongues. Clearly, the survivors heard the sound of a door opening, though the White Hall had no doors. Light shimmered, laughter echoed amid the thunder and the lightning, and for an instant the scent of honeysuckle became so thick it was suffocating.

  The surviving Wolves fell unconscious to the floor, overwhelmed by the force of whatever it was that had come through that otherworldly door.

  * * *

  Almost home. Kait watched the great city slide beneath the airible and wondered if she would have time to visit with her sisters and brothers before she received her next assignment. She smiled out the window, her mind already racing ahead to the visit—Drusa was pregnant and Echo had just had a baby, and Kait, who would never dare have children of her own, loved to feel the movement of new life in her older sister’s belly, and loved to feel her younger sister’s son grip her finger with his tiny hand.

  Almost home. Tippa had finally stopped her wailing; Dùghall had promised her a trip to his islands as consolation, and her choice of the best Imumbarran weaving. She napped. Dùghall stretched out on one of the velvet-upholstered benches, reading.

  Below and well to her right, she saw the first glimpse of the House. Its ivory walls surrounded emerald lawn like a ring around a jewel. She sighed. Almost home . . . to sisters and brothers and endless cousins; to laughter-spiced meals taken at the long tables; to talks with her mother as they sat by the fountains or walked through the hanging garden in the morning; to evening discussions of city policy and trade and politics with her father and uncles; to familiar books in the library and the familiar smell and feel of her bed, her sheets, her room.

  She anticipated her return, and wondered if she would be so homesick after every assignment, or if leaving would get easier with time.

  Her head began to ache again.

  She blinked, and rubbed absently at her temples. She closed her eyes.

  The pain got worse.

  Dùghall groaned. Kait sat up, frowning, and said, “Uncle? My head—”

  The blinding pain took her by surprise. She clutched at her pounding skull and cried out, as wave upon wave of fire-hot agony drove sight from her eyes and threw her, helpless, to the airible floor.

  The pressure doubled, and doubled again, and at last blackness swallowed her.

  * * *

  Aouel pulled the valve chain that shifted the ballast toward the airible’s nose. Calimekka slid by below; the starkness of the gridwork of streets and the shadow-outlined pattern of red and brown tile roofs contrasted with the rampant jungle greenery that burst from every tiny square of unwatched earth, and with the colorful rush of people and animals filling the avenues and alleys. Already he could see the front face of Galweigh House carved into the side of the cliff, and the sleek, translucent curve of the walls around it. He loved the calm of the air, the distance from the noise and bustle of the city, the feeling of being part of the world that hurried below, yet apart from it and superior to it as well.

  He let his concentration drift to thoughts of the newest airible, already under construction on the Galweigh airfield in Glasmar, and the improvements in lift and speed he’d heard boasted of it; he’d done no more than install himself as imaginary captain of it, though, before a groan, a thud, and a scream, all in quick succession, destroyed his fantasy. He grabbed his dagger and turned, expecting to find Dokteerak stowaways, perhaps—but he could see no sign of danger. Kait lay on the cabin floor, unmoving. As he hurried to her he could see that her chest still rose and fell. Sweat beaded her unnaturally pale skin, and beneath her closed eyelids, her eyes darted from side to side.

  “What happened?” he asked Dùghall. But though Dùghall remained in his seat and his eyes stayed open, the ambassador didn’t answer. Instead, he leaned against the velvet cushions, his face as pale as Kait’s, seeming to see and hear nothing that went on around him. He trembled and pressed his hands to his ears as if to block out some unpleasant sound.

  Aouel looked to Tippa, who stared back at him. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. She’d just woken up. Her eyes were red and swollen from all the crying, and she looked frightened. Still, she knelt by Kait and checked her pulse, then checked Dùghall’s. Aouel had always thought her empty-skulled, but perhaps she’d inherited a bit of the Family’s sense after all. “I was asleep, and I heard a shout.”

  Aouel glanced toward the airible’s controls. It maintained the gentle downward spiral that he’d set for it. He had a moment before he was needed back at the controls. So he tried to rouse Dùghall, who appeared to be less affected by whatever had happened. He shook his shoulder, then jerked his hand back as, for just a moment, an eerie faint green light illuminated Dùghall’s body. The light vanished so quickly Aouel could have tried to convince himself that he’d imagined it—but he didn’t think he had.

  In any case, Dùghall groaned and clutched his head, and opened his eyes. “All those voices . . .” he whispered.

  Then his eyes met Aouel’s. “Kait?”

  “She hasn’t moved,” Aouel told him.

  Dùghall massaged his forehead. “Take Tippa to the front with you. Land us as quickly as you can.” Dùghall gave Tippa a hard look. “You, as soon as we land, go inside and find your cousin Tammesin. Tell him I need help out here. Don’t say a word about what has happened. Not a word. Nothing about Kait, nothing about me fainting, only that I need Tammesin’s help out here. Do you understand?”

  Tippa nodded.

  “Go, then.” He tur
ned his attention to Aouel. “Have we much longer until we land?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Land us, then get me some help for the girl. Make sure that idiot Tippa doesn’t go shouting all over the House that something has happened to Kait. This was . . .” He frowned and lowered his voice. “It was an enemy attack. It has the feel of Sabir work, but there’s more to it than that. Something dangerous is going on, and until I’ve had the chance to speak to the paraglese, we need to keep it quiet.”

  Aouel felt sick. Sabir work—and it had affected Kait badly. He wondered how much danger she was in. He ran to the front and took up the controls again—the airible had drifted south of its destination, but it had not gone badly out of range. He’d have to circle around and come at the landing ground from the north, which would be awkward. Most of the regular landing men were in Halles with the rest of the soldiers; an unpracticed crew composed primarily of householders would be bringing him in, and they wouldn’t be looking for him to come from the north.

  On this day, he wasn’t supposed to announce his arrival—the removal of the Galweighs from Halles was supposed to have been accomplished with stealth at both ends of the journey. Under other circumstances, he would have circled overhead until the landers saw him and came out to bring the airible in. These were not normal circumstances, however. He had strict instructions to get on the ground as quickly as he could.

  So he pulled the cord that sent air screaming through the valves of the airible’s ready alarm. They would hear that alarm inside the House, on the grounds . . . and yes, probably all the way to the Sabir compound, two hills away. To Tonn’s hell with all of them, and anyone who complained of his actions.

  By the time he’d fought the airible into position, the lander crew was on the ground. He skipped protocols and brought the airible down as fast as he could, dropping the mooring ropes well before any of the men could hope to catch them. Some might tangle . . . but enough wouldn’t.

  “Be ready to jump the second we touch down,” he told Tippa. For a wonder, she didn’t quibble about muddying her skirts or skinning her knees. Partly to keep her calm enough that she wouldn’t do anything stupid, and partly to reassure himself, he said, “I’m sure Kait’ll be fine,” though he wasn’t sure of any such thing.

  “She’d better be,” Tippa said softly. “She risked her life for me, standing against some Gyru princes on Naming Day night. And Uncle told me she’s the one who discovered the Dokteeraks’ plan to kill me today. I’d be once shamed and once dead without her.”

  The landers were slow to the winches and sloppy with the ropes, but Aouel had expected nothing better. He closed down the throttle that fed fuel into the airible’s engines and let the landers do their work, never mind that they did it poorly. He got down into the gangway with Tippa, so that he could assist her to the ground—he couldn’t expect the tyros manning the ropes to know assisting the Family passengers was their job, too.

  So when the airible stopped descending and he opened the hatch, he wasn’t prepared for the sight that greeted him—a line of Sabir archers hidden from the air by the overhang of the House’s first-floor balcony, their bows drawn and their arrows aimed at the landers; two more archers, these not dressed in their Sabir livery, with their arrows trained on Tippa and him; and a handful of rough-looking swordsmen in Sabir livery who came running toward the airible gondola.

  Aouel didn’t think; he shouted, “Dùghall—Sabirs!” at the same time that Tippa screamed.

  The Sabir troops grinned, and the archers drew their bows tighter.

  “On the ground,” one man shouted. “Both of you. Now. Or we’ll kill the girl.”

  Aouel swallowed. He lowered Tippa to the ground, then jumped down himself.

  “Who else is aboard?”

  “The ambassador. Dùghall.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Yes,” Aouel lied.

  The swordsman turned to Tippa. “That the truth?”

  Tippa nodded.

  The swordsman glanced at Aouel, his eyes taking in the livery, the braided black hair, the bead-trimmed beard. “You’re the pilot of that thing, right?”

  Aouel nodded.

  “And Rophetian?”

  “Yes.”

  “Rophetians are all right, and we can use a trained pilot. You’ll find a place with us.” He gestured to two of the other swordsmen, and they moved to Aouel’s side, efficiently took his weapons away from him, and pulled him out of the way of the gangway.

  The swordsman turned back to Tippa. “And who are you? The little bride-to-be?”

  She nodded.

  “Another damned Galweigh. We have more of you people than we need . . . but I’m sure the men will find a way to make your wedding day memorable.” He laughed and grabbed her arm, intending to shove her toward more of the Sabir soldiers.

  It happened so quickly that Aouel almost missed it. The Sabir’s fingers wrapped around Tippa’s upper left arm. Her right hand whipped out of the folds of her skirt and her dagger flashed across his throat before he could raise his hand to block it. Blood gouted from the wound in a pulsing stream, spattering the girl’s face and her hands and her dress. In the same instant that the swordsman’s fingers began to lose their grip, two arrows sprouted from Tippa’s rib cage as if by magic, and she stared down at her chest, her expression shocked and disbelieving. She turned to look at him, eyes round; she looked so much like she wanted him to explain, and her mouth opened, and he would have sworn she was going to ask him a question. Then she sagged, and the life went out of her eyes, and she fell across the downed swordsman.

  Then Dùghall appeared in the gangway, and looked down at the body of his niece, and dropped heavily to the ground. “I’ll see that you pay for that,” he told the archers. They laughed, and one drew back his bow. But another of the swordsmen snarled, “Put that down. He’s the one we were to get, you ass,” and the archer relaxed the tension on the bowstring.

  Aouel thought, yes, they would want Dùghall. The Imumbarra Isles were the heart of the Galweigh caberra trade, and if the Sabirs wanted to take that over, they would have to find out what he knew, and perhaps work out a deal with him. He was, after all, one of the Imumbarran gods.

  And the Sabirs weren’t fools; they would want the spice trade. So for the time, at least, Dùghall would be safe.

  He avoided looking at the ambassador, afraid that his eyes might show too plainly the question he wanted most to ask: What did you do with Kait?

  He might find out too soon—several of the swordsmen were clambering aboard to search the gondola. He stood, forcing his face to remain impassive, hoping that Dùghall had hidden her, wishing he could sneak just a quick look at the diplomat but not daring even the most hurried glimpse.

  He prayed for the safety of his friend, and stood sweating in the hot sun, and finally the Sabir soldiers came back to the gangway and said, “All clear. Found some mail and some silk and a couple of silver bottles shaped like cats. Nobody else in there, though.”

  As the soldiers force-marched him and Dùghall toward the House, Aouel almost smiled.

  Chapter 15

  The sound of voices yammering unintelligibly inside his skull finally brought Ry around. He opened his eyes, intending to demand silence of the people making all the noise—but only one person sat beside him. That was Yanth, and Yanth dozed on a chair, a bandage covering part of his head.

  The voices shouted louder—not from another room or from far away, but from right inside his head. Three of them, two men and one woman, argued in the most heated and scathing tones, but while he could make out each syllable of each of their words clearly, he couldn’t understand anything they said. Further, he couldn’t even identify the language they spoke—which seemed to him both terrible and strange. As a Sabir, trained from birth to both diplomacy and magic, the languages of Ibera—both living and dead—kept few secrets from him. He spoke most of the living languages fluently and could at least follow basic conversations in the r
est. Of the dead languages, he had solid knowledge as well; most of the surviving works on magic were written in the five major tongues of ancient Kasree, which had been Ibera and Strithia and part of Manarkas before the so-called Thousand Years of Darkness.

  Yet he recognized nothing of the conversation that went on inside his skull save the tones of rage.

  He pressed his fists against his temples and tried to remember what had happened. He and his friends had been running up the stairs. Something had exploded inside of his head—tremendous pain and noise had blinded him and driven him to his knees. The world had filled with the scent of flowers and rot.

  And beyond that . . . nothing. Nothing.

  What time was it? Where was he? Where were the rest of his friends? How long had he lain insensate? And what had become of the Galweigh woman in the meantime?

  He sat up. The voices fell silent, but he didn’t have the feeling that they had left him. Only that they waited for something. It was madness to believe he heard voices in his head, except he didn’t believe himself the sort to go mad.

  In a chair next to the cot on which he lay, his best friend slept. Ry said, “Yanth, wake up.”

  Yanth stirred, groaned, and opened his eyes. “My head pains me,” he said, then focused on Ry. “Gods, you’re finally awake . . .” He frowned and rose from the chair in a jerky, almost panicked motion, and backed away. “Or are you?”

  Ry had no patience with nonsense. “Of course I’m awake. What a stupid question.”

  “If it were a stupid question, I wouldn’t have a gash in the side of my head, and poor Valard would not be curled in the next room with his arm broke in two. We mistook you for awake once before, and you attacked us.”