The Citadel Page 5

  Determined not to pursue the troubling question any further, the general followed Valkyn into the castle. He had taken but a few steps within when the immensity of the interior struck him. The front hall opened so wide it could have served as a grand ballroom all by itself. The same faded kingfisher pattern appeared in the center of the marble floor.

  Above it hung a great elaborate chain. Cadrio assumed the chain had once held a wide, multi-tiered chandelier, but at some point it had either fallen free or simply been removed.

  Each side of the vast hall was flanked by three ridged columns. Near them, rising inward from both sides, were twin stairways. On both the ground level and the upper floor on which the stairways met, elegant wooden doors, now faded but still hinting of gilt and heraldic decoration, led to other chambers. High above, open windows allowed for ventilation and some light to enter, but half a dozen torches in wall sconces provided the principal illumination.

  An impressive tableau … and yet at the same time not. The emptiness of the castle—so far Cadrio had not seen one stick of furniture nor even a tapestry on the walls—simply served to remind one that only memories lived here now.

  Memories and Valkyn.

  “Each of your men will have a room of his own, my general. You will find things a little austere, but better than you are used to on the battlefield.”

  “The hall here will be fine.”

  Valkyn looked disturbed by such a thought. “I wouldn’t think of it. You are my guest, my ally, General Cadrio!”

  “I’d still prefer—”

  Suddenly a howl of pure agony filled the empty corridors of Atriun. Cadrio, in the midst of removing his helm, stood still, thinking of banshees and other undead fiends.

  Lemual rushed away, heading to an insignificant wooden door far off to the left, a door so unremarkable that the wary officer hadn’t even noticed it before. From the brief glimpse he got before the cleric shut the door behind him, it led to a set of steps descending below ground.

  “What by Her Majesty was that?” the general asked.

  Valkyn had been watching Lemual’s retreating form angrily, the first time emotion had slipped onto the mage’s visage. However, as he faced the general again, the smile returned. “Just one of the adjustments I still need to make before the grand spell.…”

  “A man screaming?”

  Although he still smiled, Valkyn’s expression warned Cadrio not to pursue his questions. The mage put a hand on the commander’s arm and turned him back to the stairways. “Tomorrow, all will become clear, General. Tomorrow I will achieve the culmination of my research, and you … you will have that which will make you the next Emperor of Ansalon! Long may you reign!”

  Caught up by the grand statements, Cadrio forgot the scream. He stared at Valkyn, not actually seeing the wizard, but rather his own legions, all marching to victory under his banner.

  Emperor of Ansalon. A fitting title, the product of his years of hard service. Cadrio had been dreaming of such a title, especially prior to the debacle at Gwynned, but to hear another person voice his dream made the notion sound so very possible. He had lost the opportunity to become a Dragon Highlord, but what did such a rank mean in comparison? He would rule as no one other than Ariakas had.

  As Valkyn led him upstairs, Cadrio, still thinking of his future glory, corrected himself. He would not rule as Ariakas had, for Ariakas hadn’t even lived to see the end of the first year of his reign. Cadrio would rule for years … even if it meant crushing every bit of resistance, including the Blue Lady.

  And the wizard Valkyn would give him the means to crush even her.

  * * * * *

  The flutter of wings sent Tyros staggering against the wall of the nearest building, soaking his pristine robe with the remnants of the evening’s rain.

  “A pigeon, boy. Nothing more.”

  He glared at Captain Bakal. He had not realized the officer was nearby. “Shadowing me, Captain? Come to see if some monster tries to snatch me up into the sky?”

  The scarred veteran gave him a wry smile. “Looks to me like you’re thinking much the same thing, Tyros. Could it happen?”

  “Not if I can help it!”

  “Easy, boy! I’m not the enemy! I’m your friend, probably the only one who’d use that term with you now that Leot’s gone.”

  Tyros would not so easily accept his response. “A friend who skulks around corners, trying not to be heard by me?”

  “I didn’t have to save you from that pigeon, did I?”

  The frustrated mage felt his face flush. In the days since Bakal had shown him the gargoyle, Tyros had lived and dreamed a constant nightmare, all of them involving collapsing buildings and toothsome monsters trying to drag him from the ruins. He had been unable to do any work, to research any spells. Worse, Leot’s face haunted him whenever the gargoyles did not.

  “I understand you spoke with the admiral himself today.”

  Tyros grimaced. “I spoke to his doorman.”

  “I could’ve told you that you’d get nowhere with him, boy.”

  “Stop calling me that!”

  “Gwynned’s not interested in pursuing the matter of the surviving invaders. They figure what’s done is done. Let someone else pick up the pieces. We won, we survived, and that’s that. The war, after all, is over.”

  The chill wind of the sea did nothing to cool Tyros’s temper. “And what do you think, Captain?”

  “Me? I always figured that a wounded bear is a dangerous animal. Like you, I think whoever attacked will be back some day.”

  “Then you should be willing to help me search for them.”

  Bakal gave him a wry smile. “And how would you suggest I do that, mage? Commandeer the fleet and go sailing off after them?”

  In truth, Tyros had no suggestion. He only knew that he had to find both Leot and the flying citadel. So far, though, his attempts had met with utter failure. No one in power would aid his efforts. Not even the suggestion that the city risked further attack had garnered Tyros any support.

  Although the rescue of his friend remained his primary reason for pursuing the matter, Tyros also felt drawn to the citadel and the secrets it might yet reveal to him. He hoped that since the second one had also been damaged, it now stood more vulnerable to capture. Tyros dearly wanted to understand what the wreckage of past citadels had only hinted at … how to create one of his own.

  Defense of the city, the rescue of Leot, and the creation of flying citadels for his own side. Worthy goals, all of them. Any one reason should have been enough for the lords of Gwynned, and yet had not been. Doors had remained shut, missives unanswered. Appointments had been canceled or rejected outright. Some hints had arisen that part of his failure to gain support might be due to his own past arrogance, but Tyros couldn’t believe that. People wouldn’t reject a proper course of action simply because they found some minor offense in its sponsor’s attitude.

  “I want to find that last citadel, Captain. Not just for Leot’s sake. Gwynned should realize that it still faces a possible threat. Besides, if we could capture it, think of what it could tell us.” His eyes widened at the possibilities. “We might even be able to raise a citadel ourselves!”

  The officer looked him in the eye. “Are you doing this for Leot or for your own reputation?”

  “I’m doing this for all of us.”

  “If you say so.”

  Straightening, the spellcaster turned from his undesired companion. “I should have known not to bother.”

  “Here now!” Captain Bakal seized his arm, whirling him around. He ignored the brown-haired mage’s glare, the way Tyros’s hand came up in what might have been the beginnings of a spell. “I do have a thought—maybe one even too radical for the great Tyros!”

  “And what is that?”

  “Have you asked Sunfire?”

  “Sunfire?” He blinked, startled both by the audacity of the notion and the fact that Bakal had thought of it before he had.

  Sun
fire. The dragon would certainly understand the urgency. He would see that the flying citadel and its masters had to be hunted down. And with Sunfire’s aid, capturing the damaged castle would be considerably easier.

  “Sunfire …” Tyros murmured. “Of course!”

  “You understand how dangerous it might be to see the dragons, don’t you? They’ve been feisty of late, boy! Never saw them so excited as during that last battle. They wouldn’t brook—”

  “Yes, yes, yes! Captain Bakal, do you know how I might reach their caves?”

  Black eyes narrowed. “Are you absolutely certain?”

  “You made the suggestion, Captain! What was the point of it unless you thought I might actually do it?”

  “All right. I’ll talk to someone tomorrow. I know some dragon riders. They’ll tell me if it’s possible to see Sunfire.”

  “Excellent!” Tyros felt his spirits rise. The dragons would help him. They wouldn’t let puny human dislikes compromise their common sense. They would surely see things his way.

  The rain began coming down again, lightly, but enough to warrant moving on to cover. Feeling much more confident now, Tyros thought the least he could do for Bakal was reward him for his able assistance. “Are you off duty, Captain?”

  “Depends.”

  “Care for a drink?”

  “I’m off duty.”

  A few minutes’ hurried walk, hastened by an increase in the intensity of the rain, found them at the entrance to the Sea Maiden’s Lament, an inn the army officer frequented. The place was dank and smelled of fish, but Tyros suspected that any other inn nearby would be the same. Over the course of the next hour, the captain drank three flagons of strong ale without any visible effect, while Tyros still nursed his first. The contents stung the mage’s throat each time he tried to swallow.

  With a little ale under his belt, Bakal grew more open with the wizard. For the most part, the graying warrior spoke of his war experiences. Tyros let him talk, only half listening. His gaze drifted around the tavern area, but the mage found little of interest there. The folk were mostly fishermen, sailors, and several unsavory characters who seemed more a part of the scenery than customers. The decor of the tavern itself consisted mainly of nets, spears, fish, and other seafaring items nailed to the walls in what he supposed was the owner’s misinformed idea of taste.

  While Bakal talked about battles, Tyros contemplated what he would do once he had the dragons to aid him. From what he had gleaned from his companion, the military command believed that the invaders had fled to the southeast, possibly even to the New Sea. The spellcaster wondered at such a choice by the enemy commander. Most of the populated areas of the New Sea were either better fortified than Gwynned or had already been decimated during the war. Farther east, the land consisted of wilderness, hardly worth the effort for any army, yet, perhaps …

  The door opened. Tyros glanced at the latest newcomer. His gaze froze, for the newcomer was not another grimy dockworker, but rather a young woman who would have been more in place in the finer courts of the city. Even the rain could not suppress her beauty. While others might have looked bedraggled from the downpour, she fairly blossomed. The thick red hair that cascaded down her back seemed nearly untouched by the rain. She had a proud, determined expression, her full lips set as if she found herself on a task of utmost importance. Somewhat obscured by her bangs, bright jade eyes took in everything. She sniffed a little, as if not pleased by her surroundings.

  Belatedly he noticed the gleaming yellow robe she wore, simple in design, with only green trim. The combination struck a chord with the mage. A cleric of some kind. The robe couldn’t conceal her feminine shape, slim yet curved. Tyros’s interests in flying citadels faded as he admired her graceful movements. She nearly floated across the floor.

  “Now, what have we here?” Captain Bakal muttered, suddenly all business.

  The woman approached the innkeeper, who stood as fascinated as the rest. She leaned forward, whispering. The stout man shook his head, then, grinning, mumbled something back. Whatever he said must have offended her, for her head snapped back and she gave him a fiery glare. The cleric muttered a few sharp words. To Tyros’s surprise, the innkeeper blanched and mouthed an apology. Tyros, who had already seen the owner handle two drunks this very evening, found new admiration for the woman.

  She turned, and as she did, a small object slipped from a pouch attached to her belt. The clatter echoed through the tavern. The object rolled toward the table next to Tyros. The mage quickly stuck out his staff and steered it to him.

  Picking it up, he noticed that it was a ring, a beautifully shaped ring of platinum with tiny markings, an inscription in a tongue he did not recognize.

  “I would like my ring back.”

  Their eyes met, and in that moment, the red-robed spellcaster felt as if his entire life lay out for her to see. Jade orbs snared him, pulled him to his feet. He reached out like a boy with his first crush as he dropped the ring in her hand.

  “Your eyes are the color of earth,” she whispered, seeming disappointed. “His were the color of the sky.”

  She floated past him, departing the tavern. Tyros might have simply stood there if not for the low chuckle behind him. He glanced down and saw Captain Bakal studying him with amusement.

  “First time I’ve seen the suave Tyros smitten like a school-child! Couldn’t think of even one line? Can’t really blame you; that one’s got enough fire to singe anyone.”

  Chagrined, Tyros pulled himself together. He noted that none of the other men had dared approach her. Tyros, though, would not so readily give up. So fascinating a woman needed the proper company, and he, having been through so much, needed a diversion, something to take his mind off his failures of late. She obviously sought something; perhaps the mage could offer to help.

  Ignoring Bakal’s look, Tyros hurried to the door. He pulled his hood up, then, bracing himself, stepped out into the storm. The wind tried to rip his hood away, but he held it tight with one hand. Wiping moisture from his eyes, Tyros peered around.

  He spotted her some distance away, heading toward the business district of Gwynned. Tyros strode purposefully after her, his long steps cutting the distance quickly. The woman walked as if on some quest but did not rush, seeming content to take in everything as she went. Tyros allowed himself a slight smile; he would catch up to her soon.

  Part of him knew that he sought the diversion to escape the deep guilt he felt for Leot’s disappearance, but Tyros tried to ignore that fact. He had done what little he could for his friend, and until Bakal arranged his meeting with the dragons, the mage could do nothing more. Surely Tyros deserved a little time for his own needs.

  Fog drifted over much of the area. Tyros wished that he still had his wizard’s staff; a little more light would have been helpful. The woman seemed to see well enough without any aid, moving through the mists and shadows with ease.

  He began to formulate bits of conversation that would assure her not only that he could be trusted, but also that it would be in her interest to get to know him. Who or what did she seek? Could he direct her to some place in particular? She was clad as a cleric. Could he direct her to her local temple? Tyros couldn’t identify her god, but he knew where most of the major temples were.

  The sound of fluttering wings made him pause, but then he noticed the pigeons in his path. Tyros grimaced. Bad enough that Captain Bakal had laughed at him, but he wouldn’t embarrass himself in the eyes of this fiery-tressed beauty.

  A shadow formed in the fog ahead, a shadow descending from the air.

  Tyros swallowed, his eyes widening in utter disbelief.

  A gargoyle nearly identical to the creature in the tower landed in the street, its back to the human. Stunned, Tyros lost his grip on the staff, which fell to the ground with a clatter.

  The beast turned, glaring at him with red, soulless eyes and hissing in obvious anger at having been discovered.

  Fear stirred Tyros to action. I
n his mind, he relived the horror in the tower. Pointing at the gargoyle, the crimson wizard cast his spell even as the winged fury started toward him, talons out and beaked maw open.

  A ring of fire circled the monster, momentarily holding it at bay. The leathery attacker pulled in its singed wings and hissed. Then the gargoyle reached out with one paw, snatching at the flames and snuffing them out.

  No one had told Tyros that gargoyles possessed magic.

  The creature lunged at him. Tyros retrieved his staff, barely bringing it up in time to jam it hard into the torso of his attacker. Unfortunately, while he managed to knock some of the air from the gargoyle’s lungs, the staff cracked in two, leaving Tyros with nothing to protect himself. More furious than injured, the gargoyle reached out toward him.

  Tyros blurted out words of magic. The gargoyle recoiled as sparks of lightning burned his fingers. The mage amplified his spell, forcing his adversary to leap back.

  “Move aside, boy!”

  A massive figure darted past the startled spellcaster. It was Bakal, his sword drawn. Bakal lunged for the monster, which fluttered a few feet in the air, then dropped. Talons sought the veteran’s face, but the captain rolled under them, and as the gargoyle passed over him, Bakal thrust up with his blade.

  The savage creature hissed, then dropped to the ground, its life fluids mixing with the rain. Captain Bakal rose, and Tyros noticed that a new red scar had been added to the others, this one across the soldier’s forehead. Bakal seemed not to notice, intent on dealing with his foe. Any trace of drink had vanished from the veteran’s face.

  Tyros suddenly realized a golden opportunity was slipping through their fingers. “Wait! Don’t kill it!”

  “You’d rather he killed us?”

  The wounded gargoyle took matters out of their hands by rising up into the sky. Bakal swung but missed. Tyros tried to keep an eye on the airborne monster, a spell already in mind. If he could cast it before the gargoyle got too far away …