Savilla waved a gilded hand, indicating that Hnn should approach. The Goblin Elf crawled forward on hands and knees, kissing her foot before flinging himself facedown at her feet.
“He’s going to be difficult to talk to in that position,” Zyperis drawled, gazing down at the trembling creature.
Savilla laughed. “Talk to him! My dear boy, they’re incapable of producing civilized speech, and I have no intention of spending half an eternity barking like a coldwarg. No, a simple mind-touch will tell us all he knows. And then… kitchens? Or bedroom?”
Zyperis affected to consider the matter for a moment, and smiled. “Why not both?”
“Ah, Zyperis, you always know what will please me best,” Savilla cooed.
She studied the creature at her feet for a moment more—rather attractive, really, all the more because one could see the remains of his Elven heritage spoiled and twisted within him—then gestured to the Lesser Endarkened that had accompanied him. They came forward, their hooves clicking on the topaz floor, and lifted him to eye level with the Queen. His pale bulging eyes widened further with terror and awe.
She reached out one hand to Zyperis, so that he could share in the spell. With the other she gripped Hnn’s chin.
His fear cascaded over her like sweet perfume, kindling the spell. Delicately, she sipped at the images that lay on the surface of his mind, taking in the message he had come to bring. With him she shared the thrill of the stalk, the slaughter of the Elves, the capture of the strange hot foul-smelling captives. The joy at serving the Winged Ones.
And the terror, the fury, the sense of shame and failure, when the god-offering vanished from his grasp.
All that rushed into her mind and Prince Zyperis’s in an instant. If the two Endarkened had not already been holding Hnn upright, he would have crumpled to the floor like a doll.
When she was sure she had all the information he had to give, Savilla released him. Hnn whimpered faintly. Urine ran down his leg and spattered on the floor, its musky scent filling the chamber.
“Now take him away and bathe him—thoroughly,” Savilla said. “When you are done, bring him to my private chambers. We shall see what other entertainment our young envoy can provide.”
—«♦»—
SAVILLA was pleased to see that Zyperis contained himself until the two of them were alone, though his barbed tail lashed fretfully with the strength of his emotions. To tease him, she got to her feet and walked away from the throne— carefully avoiding the puddle—and walked about the room, admiring the designs upon the walls as if she’d never seen them before. So many races, quenched by the cunning of the Endarkened. And soon the Elves would join them.
“Mama—why?” Zyperis burst out, when he could contain himself no longer. “You had them within your grasp—all those tender morsels, and the Elven King’s brat first among them! You could have brought them here before the cursed Wildmages and the others got anywhere near them! And you ordered the Goblin Elves not to pursue the party and take them back—that wretched barbarian didn’t understand it, and neither do I! We’ve failed!”
“Have we?” Savilla turned to face him. “Why did I send the Goblin Elves after the children in the first place?”
“To take the King’s son. And you did, Mama. It was beautifully done.” But there was uncertainty in Zyperis’s voice, as if he was not certain that was the whole truth. Savilla glowed with pride—it had been a subtle plot, and it was not his fault that he did not grasp it at once. That he realized he did not see all of her plan was to his credit, and indicated what a formidable adversary he would be in the years to come.
“If that was what I meant to do, do you not think that the puling brat would be weeping in my dungeons even now?” Savilla said gently.
Zyperis frowned, hesitating. “I… yes, dearest Mama. But if that was not what you wanted, why go after the caravan at all? Now the Elves know about their cousins. They will not rest until they have hunted them down, every one.”
“Yes…” Savilla purred, and watched Zyperis’s face light with understanding and delight.
“Now come, my son,” she said, going to him and putting a hand on his arm. “There is much we can do to amuse ourselves until our guest is brought to us. And with such tender care, he will be a savory morsel at the banquet later.”
Chapter Eleven
The Road Through the Border Lands
CILARNEN WASN’T QUITE sure why the Elf was helping him. For a long time—bells—he was simply too numb to care. The creature gave him its pack mule to ride, doused its peculiar brazier and repacked its gear, and within two chimes, they were on their way. Several times the Elf tried making conversation with him, even going so far as to offer its name—Hyandur—but Cilarnen only gave one- or two-word replies, and eventually the Elf stopped talking.
Cilarnen couldn’t think of what to say, anyway. He’d been Banished. He was leaving the only home he’d ever known. His Gift had been destroyed. He was nothing at all.
Eventually it occurred to him he ought to say something. He needed to know what the Elf knew, if nothing else.
“One of my friends was Banished too. Did you—”
“I came upon the remains of a body in the woods today. It wore a Felon’s Cloak, and around it were the footprints of dogs—heavy marks, as if made by creatures of stone. Perhaps it was he. If so, I am sorry for your loss.”
The Elf’s words were barely more than noise to Cilarnen. He knew that Undermage Anigrel had said that Tiedor was to be Banished. He knew that the Outlaw Hunt was comprised of enchanted stone mastiffs, like the Stone Golems that—in other shapes—served so many functions in the City. But somehow, in his shocked and benumbed state, he could not bring any sense out of Hyandur’s words.
“I don’t understand,” Cilarnen said at last.
“The body had been savaged by the Outlaw Hunt,” Hyandur said patiently. “The Stone Hounds kill all who are declared Outlaw by the High Council, if they are still within the City’s lands at dawn.”
But no matter how hard Cilarnen thought about Hyandur’s words, they still didn’t make any sense. Why would the Outlaw Hunt kill anyone? They were just supposed to escort the Outlaw to the borders. Of course they were.
The Elf had to be lying. That’s what Elves did.
“Show me where he is,” Cilarnen demanded.
“If we return to that place, we will not reach the edge of the valley by dawn. If we do not leave Armethaliehan lands by the time your Hunt is released, we will both meet the same fate as your friend,” Hyandur said calmly.
Cilarnen wanted to pull away, to ride off in search of the body. Elves were dangerous—everyone said so—and he was only now beginning to awaken to the fact that he might be in more danger from his companion than from the cold and the wilderness. But the mule’s lead-rein was tied fast to the horse’s saddle, and there was nothing Cilarnen could do but ride on, blindly, into the dark.
He was being kidnapped.
He vowed to escape at the earliest opportunity.
AS the sky began to lighten, Hyandur urged the tired animals to a faster pace. They were moving now through a gently rising landscape wholly unfamiliar to Cilarnen—a narrow path bordered by bare earth on both sides, as if someone had re-created the flower beds of the City gardens on a gigantic scale. Each enormous tract of earth was edged by a row of trees, and they seemed to go on forever.
Cilarnen hoped for the sight of a village where he could get help, but he did not see so much as the smoke from a distant hearth-fire.
Behind them, the sun began to rise. Cilarnen imagined it striking the gilded roof of the Council House with fire, heard in memory the sweet high carillon of Dawn Bells, its soft notes ringing out over the City. He swallowed hard with homesickness and loss.
“They will be coming soon,” Hyandur said grimly. “We must hurry now.”
He leaned forward, speaking softly to his mare. Her ears flickered back and forth, as if she understood what he was saying to her. He untied one of the knots in the lead-rope affixed to his saddle, lengthening it by several feet.
And the mare went from a trot, to a canter, to a floating run.
The mule lagged behind for a moment, pulling the lead-rein bowstring tight, and for a moment Cilarnen hoped it would snap. No mule was as fast as a horse anyway.