Read Online Kings of the North by Elizabeth Moon - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Elizabeth Moon
Ads: Link
Veksin advanced with the Relics of their granges. “Wait,” Dorrin said. “Let me try another—” She spoke again, and the key turned slowly in the lock with a metallic screech.
Tamis shrugged at the noise. “We weren’t ever going to have surprise,” he said.
Dorrin tried one command word after another; finally the door ground open, scraping on the stone flags of the passage. The air inside smelled stuffy and faintly sour. “Bring a lamp,” she said, annoyed with herself for not having lamps ready. In moments Jori was back with two lamps, both lit.
By the lamps’ light they could see a large room stretching into dimness, its level stone floor lined with chests on the left, shelves above them. Cloths draped whatever was on the shelves—by the blurred shapes, bowls, pitchers, stacks of plates. Along the right wall they saw full sacks, some plumply smooth as if they held grain or meal and others lumpy as if holding fruits or roots. In the middle of the room,a worktable with a stack of folded cloths and a hanging chain over it for lamps, though no lamp hung there.
“That’s not what I expected,” the Marshal-General said. “I wonder …”
Jori pushed past with the lamps. “I’ll hang these up so you can see better,” he said, and strode into the room.
Dorrin had not even time to say “Wait!” before the floor dissolved before their eyes and Jori fell with a startled cry, flailing, into the darkness below. One lamp trailed a long stream of flame as it fell; the other went out. A moment later, a thud and a scream of agony from Jori, followed by the creak and clang of some machinery.
Dorrin called on her magelight. Though feebler than Paks’s, it was enough to show the steep flight of stairs leading down to the left alongside the near wall, not out into the space. “Get lamps!” she said to Eddes, and started down.
“Careful!” the Marshal-General called, but Dorrin heard others following her down the stairs.
“Block that door open above us,” she called.
At the bottom of the flight Dorrin turned back along the side of the stairs; ahead was a wall, a door opening on darkness. She could not see Jori, only hear his cries, feebler now. Her own magelight, none too bright, moved with her, showing the bare stone flags of the cellar floor.
She looked through the door, her light revealing Jori sprawled awkwardly on a spiked frame; another had fallen on him, piercing him from above. A pool of blood spread from beneath him.
“Jori,” Dorrin said. “Don’t move.”
But he turned his head a little. “My lord—please—”
Behind her, Oktar asked, “How bad?”
Dorrin shook her head. Blood trickled from Jori’s mouth; his eyes were wide with fear and pain. “Can you heal him?” she asked.
“Not until we get him off those spikes,” the Marshal-General said. “You?”
“The same.”
“Let us go first,” the Marshal-Judicar said. “These Marshals and I have seen a similar mechanism before in the Thieves’ Guild lairs. Is he Girdish?”
“No. Will that make a difference?”
Oktar did not answer. He, Tamis, and Veksin stepped around the frame; Veksin bent to Jori’s head and murmured something Dorrin could not hear. She closed her eyes, calling on Falk and feeling the all-too-familiar grief and guilt—how could anyone be so cruel, so determined to cause pain? And it was
her
family, her heritage … She could scarcely breathe for the misery and horror of it.
No. Their guilt is not your guilt. Your heritage is honor
.
Tears ran down her face, but she could breathe again. When she opened her eyes, Oktar and Veksin had the upper frame lifted away from Jori. Oktar looked up at her and shook his head. She could see for herself that the spikes had dealt fatal wounds. Nor was it likely he would live long enough for a healing.
“One last pain, Jori,” Oktar said, bending close to him. Dorrin could not tell if Jori heard it. “We’re easing it as much as we can. Be brave
Tamis shrugged at the noise. “We weren’t ever going to have surprise,” he said.
Dorrin tried one command word after another; finally the door ground open, scraping on the stone flags of the passage. The air inside smelled stuffy and faintly sour. “Bring a lamp,” she said, annoyed with herself for not having lamps ready. In moments Jori was back with two lamps, both lit.
By the lamps’ light they could see a large room stretching into dimness, its level stone floor lined with chests on the left, shelves above them. Cloths draped whatever was on the shelves—by the blurred shapes, bowls, pitchers, stacks of plates. Along the right wall they saw full sacks, some plumply smooth as if they held grain or meal and others lumpy as if holding fruits or roots. In the middle of the room,a worktable with a stack of folded cloths and a hanging chain over it for lamps, though no lamp hung there.
“That’s not what I expected,” the Marshal-General said. “I wonder …”
Jori pushed past with the lamps. “I’ll hang these up so you can see better,” he said, and strode into the room.
Dorrin had not even time to say “Wait!” before the floor dissolved before their eyes and Jori fell with a startled cry, flailing, into the darkness below. One lamp trailed a long stream of flame as it fell; the other went out. A moment later, a thud and a scream of agony from Jori, followed by the creak and clang of some machinery.
Dorrin called on her magelight. Though feebler than Paks’s, it was enough to show the steep flight of stairs leading down to the left alongside the near wall, not out into the space. “Get lamps!” she said to Eddes, and started down.
“Careful!” the Marshal-General called, but Dorrin heard others following her down the stairs.
“Block that door open above us,” she called.
At the bottom of the flight Dorrin turned back along the side of the stairs; ahead was a wall, a door opening on darkness. She could not see Jori, only hear his cries, feebler now. Her own magelight, none too bright, moved with her, showing the bare stone flags of the cellar floor.
She looked through the door, her light revealing Jori sprawled awkwardly on a spiked frame; another had fallen on him, piercing him from above. A pool of blood spread from beneath him.
“Jori,” Dorrin said. “Don’t move.”
But he turned his head a little. “My lord—please—”
Behind her, Oktar asked, “How bad?”
Dorrin shook her head. Blood trickled from Jori’s mouth; his eyes were wide with fear and pain. “Can you heal him?” she asked.
“Not until we get him off those spikes,” the Marshal-General said. “You?”
“The same.”
“Let us go first,” the Marshal-Judicar said. “These Marshals and I have seen a similar mechanism before in the Thieves’ Guild lairs. Is he Girdish?”
“No. Will that make a difference?”
Oktar did not answer. He, Tamis, and Veksin stepped around the frame; Veksin bent to Jori’s head and murmured something Dorrin could not hear. She closed her eyes, calling on Falk and feeling the all-too-familiar grief and guilt—how could anyone be so cruel, so determined to cause pain? And it was
her
family, her heritage … She could scarcely breathe for the misery and horror of it.
No. Their guilt is not your guilt. Your heritage is honor
.
Tears ran down her face, but she could breathe again. When she opened her eyes, Oktar and Veksin had the upper frame lifted away from Jori. Oktar looked up at her and shook his head. She could see for herself that the spikes had dealt fatal wounds. Nor was it likely he would live long enough for a healing.
“One last pain, Jori,” Oktar said, bending close to him. Dorrin could not tell if Jori heard it. “We’re easing it as much as we can. Be brave
Similar Books
