The River Wall Page 26

  “Who did this?” I wondered.

  “Are you sure he was here?” Thymas demanded.

  “Wait,” I said, catching Thymas’s arm. “If this was to be a closed Council hearing, then only Council members should have been here. Without Thanasset, that would only be eleven people, and there are—” I counted. “Twelve.” I blinked, and looked carefully at the bodies. The room was a horseshoe-shaped amphitheater, with its only opening at the door through which Thymas and I had come. Near the far end of the room, two of the bodies were close together, one half-sitting, the other sprawled face-down across a bench. As I concentrated, their outlines blurred.

  “There!” I shouted, and jumped farther into the room.

  The seated figure moved and changed, and became a thin old man, standing beside the prostrate figure. Gone was any vestige of weakness or kindness. The wrinkled face was like chiseled stone, the slim body wiry with health.

  “You are too late,” Ferrathyn said in a cold, powerful voice. “Too late for anything. The people of Raithskar have joined with the vineh; already the Sharith are beginning to falter. And as for this—this nuisance …“

  The old man reached to the body before him, lifted the face, and turned it toward us. Thymas yelled, and I went speechless with pain. The body was Tarani’s. Her throat had been cut.

  Ferrathyn saw us hurting, and he laughed—a low, hollow, infuriating sound. Together, deliberately, Thymas and I stepped together toward the evil old man.

  Something struck my shoulder, knocking me forward, and I glimpsed Thymas falling beside me. I heard a swishing sound, and then a clatter. A dagger had struck the brick wall point first, then bounced to the tiled floor. I rolled over to see one of the “dead” Supervisors leaping over benches, a sword ready in his hand. His face was a terrifying blankness.

  Purely by reflex, I drew back my right hand and threw my dagger like a javelin. It struck the man squarely in the stomach. He staggered, but his momentum carried him into the open area, where he collapsed to the floor. I looked around. Thymas was on his back, pressed there by another of the Supervisors, and all around us, the “dead” men were rising, their wounds still seeming to bleed.

  It was so eerie and unnatural that, for a moment, I merely crouched where I was, staring in shock. Then I heard a sharp, skittering sound, and the hilt of Rika appeared near my hand.

  “Pull yourself together,” said a voice from behind us. “They are illusions, and illusion is not Ferrathyn’s skill but Tarani’s. The High Lord must still live, or her skill directed under compulsion by this … abomination.“

  I put my hand on Rika’s hilt, and looked back at the doorway. Dharak/Zanek stood there, holding the other steel sword. His presence, and the familiar weight of Rika in my hand, brought me out of my half-trance.

  Thymas had rolled to the top of the struggle, and was ending it. The other Supervisors moved toward us as I stood up. There were eight of them left, and three of us. Considering that they were moving under compulsion, with less agility and force than thinking fighters, the odds were not overwhelming. But fighting them would keep us distracted, and give Ferrathyn time to summon more help.

  “Supervisors, I claim the right of a fair hearing,” I called, and the formula was so familiar and so traditional, so highly respected, that it made even the madman-dominated minds of the Council pause.

  “You know the power of the Ra’ira,” I said. “It is being used against you by one whom you trusted, one who has used and manipulated the entire city to achieve his own gains. Resist it—”

  An invisible hand seemed to close around my throat, and my brain seemed to catch fire. Thymas gasped, and I knew he must be suffering similar pain. I would have closed my eyes—I wanted to close my mind—against it, but I had virtually no control over my own body.

  Thymas and I had faced this danger before, but we had been half a world away at the time. This was more proof that it had not been Gharlas’s native power which had threatened us then. It had been Ferrathyn, using the Ra’ira to reach out to and through his satellite to strike at us. Even then, we had not been able to break free unaided—it had taken the sudden distraction of Tarani’s appearance, and the surging presence of Keeshah in my mind, to shatter that control.

  I’m not as vulnerable as Thymas, I thought, fighting against the searing pain. But half of me is Gandalaran, and I’m not totally immune. It’s always taken time to counteract his compulsions. He’s learned from those earlier encounters, and the closer we are, the stronger he seems to be. Even these illusions were fully effective for me, at first. There isn’t any time!

  The pain had been clenching my throat ever tighter and increasing in intensity in my head. Suddenly it hesitated, and I was able to gulp in a mouthful of air.

  It pained me to move my eyes, but I could do it. The Supervisors had resumed their advance when Ferrathyn had attacked us directly. They paused now, and the image of blood and death wavered around them. The fire in my mind pushed forward again, seemed to vibrate. It withdrew slightly, then advanced again in a rush. It was like nothing so much as a reverse tug-of-war, and it was no child’s game.

  I was facing the rounded end of the horseshoe-shaped room, and I had a clear view of Ferrathyn, standing beside what I hoped was only the image of Tarani’s corpse. Ferrathyn stood squarely, slightly taller than the image in my memory, and for a moment I doubted Zanek’s comment about the illusion skill being entirely Tarani’s. Then I recalled how much of Tarani’s dance illusions had been merely dance, and realized that this powerful man had wrought the image of the frail and kindly Ferrathyn with gifted acting skills, not mindpower.

  Thymas coughed beside me, and I took another breath. Ferrathyn stared at Thymas, then glanced down at Tarani’s limp form, frowning. Ferrathyn thought I was holding back his power, I realized, until he sensed the resistance in Thymas too. He must be remembering that Tarani helped Thymas break free of the compulsion in Dyskornis.

  The voice of Dharak, speaking from behind me, caught Ferrathyn’s attention.

  “Tarani was right,” the voice said. “Mindskills have grown since my last time in this world. I can oppose you, Tinis, but I cannot defeat you—not alone. And hear me clearly—your victory will mark the end of Gandalara. I ask you, in the name of the Kingdom, to set aside your ambition and aid a greater cause—the salvation of our world.”

  “In the name of the Kingdom?” Ferrathyn said, sneering. “I take it you mean the First Kingdom, for I am the new Kingdom! This begins it!“

  “What will you gain in ruling a world that is doomed?” Zanek said.

  “Do you think to frighten me with your nonsense?” Ferrathyn shouted. “And if you know the name ‘Tinis,’ then you know what I seek to gain. Those who despised and scorned me, who sought to destroy me, will see my power. Their fear created me from an innocent child, and they will be ruled by their own creation.”

  If I had not already had trouble breathing, I would have choked on that. Innocent? I wondered. In a fit of pique, that kid forced three men to kill themselves. It’s true they were cheating him, and his anger was probably justified, but not his actions. Not murder!

  Zanek spoke again, his voice vibrant with a power that came from Zanek’s mind, not Dharak’s body.

  “Tarani,” the voice called. Dharak took a step into the room. “I need your help, woman of two worlds. This man controls you only because he has learned well the use of the Ra’ira. It adds to his power, and you have no experience to counteract it. The experience is mine, Tarani, and the strength is yours. Join with me. Resist him.”

  Zanek was moving forward carefully now, edging past me into my line of sight. The wall of flame shivered in my mind and began to inch backward. Almost in echo of that movement, Ferrathyn stepped back.

  “Hear the truth of the words you admire, Tarani,” Zanek said. “They speak not of the past but of the present. They have meaning for each one of us, today. They were a prophecy toward this moment.

  “‘I greet thee
in the name of the new Kingdom,’” Zanek said. He took another step. “‘From chaos have we created order. From strife have we enabled peace. From greed have we encouraged sharing.’ What is there in Raithskar now but chaos, strife, and greed?” Zanek asked, still moving cautiously.

  The bloody corpse beside Ferrathyn stirred slightly. The old man’s gaze flickered toward it, but he returned his concentration to the man who was advancing, slowly but inexorably, toward him.

  “Listen to my words, Tarani,” Zanek said. “‘Not I alone, but the Sharith have done this.’ Is that not true? Would you and I be here, if not for the Riders who are even now struggling against the vineh? ‘Not we alone, but the Ra’ira has done this.’ This is the task before us now, Tarani. With the Ra’ira working against us, we are lost. We must control the stone. Resist Tinis. Fight him. Help me claim the Ra’ira for the future of this world, not its destruction.

  “The Ra’ira is our goal, Tarani. It is our destiny.”

  Ferrathyn gasped and staggered backward, clutching his chest. Beneath the bench where Tarani lay, the pools of blood began to fade.

  “‘I greet thee in the name of the new Kingdom,’ Tarani,” Zanek quoted. “‘And I charge thee: care for it well.’”

  The blood vanished altogether, and Tarani, beautifully clean but deathly pale from the strain of the effort she was making, struggled into a sitting position.

  Ferrathyn staggered again. His back was against the chamber wall. He reached into a concealed pouch and pulled out the Ra’ira. As if it were a defense in itself, he held the stone tightly, his hand extended toward Zanek, who was very close now.

  “Who—Who are you?” Ferrathyn whispered.

  “‘I am Zanek, King of Gandalara.’”

  A cry of shock was wrenched from Ferrathyn. The pain in my mind had receded. I was breathing easily now, but I was hypnotized by Zanek’s rich voice, immobilized by the pulsing aura of power in the room.

  Zanek was right in front of Ferrathyn. Gently, but inexorably, Zanek pried open Ferrathyn’s fingers, and lifted free the blue gem. He turned to Tarani, caught her wrist, and placed the Ra’ira in her open palm. Her fingers closed around it, and, with his own hand enclosing stone and fingers both, Zanek helped Tarani stand up.

  “It is not hers,” Ferrathyn said, in a stunned and desperate whisper. “It belongs to me.”

  Zanek, half-supporting Tarani, looked over his shoulder at Ferrathyn and answered quietly: “It belongs to Gandalara.”

  For a moment they stared at each other, the two old men, and the contrast between them was crystal clear. It was not merely that one stood straight and confident, and the other cringed back against the wall. Nor was it so subtle a thing as the fact that Zanek had been given charge of Tarani’s power, as well as his own, and he overshadowed the older man in a psychic sense. The two men were Promise and Failure, Hope and Despair. Zanek, the man from Gandalara’s past, was now its future; Ferrathyn was merely its fading present, and both men knew it.

  It was over.

  Zanek turned his back on Ferrathyn, and he and Tarani came slowly down the steps. In silence, they moved across the floor.

  The Supervisors, released from the compulsion which had held them, were looking generally confused, but one or two of them had figured out some of what was going on. “The Ra’ira?” one of them wondered aloud. “Ferrathyn had it?”

  “Ferrathyn used it,” another man said. “On us.”

  “You there,” one man called to Tarani and Zanek, “you stopped him? Why are you leaving him, untouched? Why don’t you finish it?”

  Tarani and Zanek did not answer, but walked between me and Thymas toward the door. Tarani did no more than glance at me, but I knew we had the same thought.

  “Get out,” I told the Supervisors, my voice husky from the strain of the compulsion on my throat. “Now.”

  One or two—the more aware, and more angry—hesitated, but the rest obeyed my tone of voice and headed for the door. Ferrathyn came away from the wall and pulled himself to his full height. “I have one consolation, High Lord,” he said scathingly to Tarani’s back. “If Eddarta will not be mine, it is at least no longer yours. Gharlas was mine, and through him, I brought Indomel under my control. I have worked in Eddarta as well as Raithskar to bring chaos and disorder. I had thought it would make me more welcome there, but I take pleasure from the thought that your efforts have been wasted. Both cities will lie in ruins.”

  Tarani hesitated at the open doorway, and I saw the muscles of her neck tighten as she fought the impulse to turn and question the vicious old man. After only a moment, however, she walked on through the door.

  When the room was empty except for Thymas, Ferrathyn, and me, Ferrathyn spoke again.

  “It has come to the final moment,” he said, staring proudly down from the place of the Chief Supervisor. “I had thought our positions would be reversed, Rikardon. It would be so, now, except for Zanek. I must admit your strangeness and Tarani’s power interrupted and changed my plans, but I would have prevailed in the end. If the truth be known, these fools in Raithskar were easily led, and those other fools in Eddarta, fat and complacent and unsuspecting, offered me no prospect of a challenge. You brought new interest to the game.”

  “Game?” Thymas cried, stepping forward. “Your ‘game’ has cost the lives of men and sha’um, you piece of filth!”

  I caught Thymas’s arm, and he glared at me. “You can’t mean to let him live?” the Lieutenant demanded.

  “Of course I must die,” Ferrathyn agreed. “But not at the hand of a mewling boy. No matter what other help was given him, it is essentially Rikardon who has beaten me. He will kill me himself,” Ferrathyn said grandly, “and I shall accept death more easily, knowing that the one who strikes has proved himself my better. There was a time,” he added, almost wistfully, “when I thought none existed.”

  A tremor shook Thymas, and my own rage echoed his impulse, but I checked it.

  “There was a time,” I said to Ferrathyn, “when I thought you might have some justice on your side, Tinis. I see now that I was wrong. Long ago, you lost any real interest in ruling Eddarta. You got caught up in the plotting, the intrigue, the manipulation of people who were unaware of your power—the ‘game.’

  “I would kill you myself, and gladly,” I said, and he quavered back from the hatred that rang in my voice. “Thanasset is dead, a victim of your ‘game.’ But there was another, earlier casualty, and a claim of vengeance that takes priority over mine.”

  I started backing toward the door. Thymas resisted until he saw my face, then his own went pale and he moved with me.

  Ferrathyn stared at us. “What?” he asked, his voice faltering. “What are you doing?”

  “It must be hard for you, after all this time with the Ra’ira, to try to guess what people are thinking. Don’t worry,” I said, putting my hand on the door. “You won’t have long to wait.”

  Thymas and I stepped out into the bright day, and I dragged the boy aside. Yoshah and Koshah shouldered past us, squeezing together through the double doorway. We heard a sharp intake of breath from Ferrathyn, a shout of “No!”, and then his screaming mingled with the roar and growl of the cats.

  29

  Tarani and Zanek were standing to one side, their hands joined between them. Tarani was hunched and tense, and Zanek was talking to her, very quietly. Thymas and I approached them, and Tarani looked up at me with a haggard face.

  “Rikardon, I cannot bear it. The images, the feelings—the beauty of people, and their inner torment.”

  Her face was so drawn that I was afraid for her.

  “Look away,” I said urgently. “The Ra’ira won’t work unless you ask it to. All you have to do is not use it.”

  “But that is the horror of it!” she cried. “I could turn away, but I cannot. It is so alluring, so fascinating, to look into the mind. The—the discovery is addictive. Rikardon, help me!”

  “Zanek?”

  The man holding Taran
i’s hands so fiercely shook his head.

  “I have tried, my friend. Her strength is too great; I can do nothing.”

  “And he does want to help,” Tarani said, her voice falling into a sing-song rhythm that sent chills along my spine. “I see him, you know. A good man who has accepted both triumph and defeat, who mourns for two sha’um and a love lost long ago. The Kingdom took their place. It was his lover, his friend, the object of all his caring …”

  Zanek flinched. The effort he made to keep his hands touching the girl was visible. He frowned in concentration. In pain.

  I started to put my hands on Tarani’s shoulders, but hesitated. Tarani caught the movement, and stared toward me; her eyes were unfocused, glazed.

  “How odd that you are the one I would most like to see, Rikardon, and yet you are closed to me. It is as if there are windows into all men, but your window is shuttered. Open it for me, Rikardon. Let me see who you are truly.”

  I felt a probing sensation in my mind, like an insect crawling somewhere inside my clothes. It terrified me. I closed my hands on Tarani’s shoulders, applying pressure. I may have imagined it, but I would swear I felt something from her, a mild but tingling shock.

  “Think of Antonia,” I told her. “You can’t see my mind because I’m not entirely Gandalaran—use the non-Gandalaran part of yourself to shut off the Ra’ira. You can do it, Tarani, I know you want to do it. Remember Volitar’s abhorrence of this very thing, the exercise of power over people who can’t resist it? Fight the temptation, Tarani. If you can’t control it, Ferrathyn has won, after all.”

  I was babbling, saying anything that seemed as if it might convince her. Something of what I said reached her. She twitched; her head lifted and her shoulders straightened; she took a deep breath. Then she snatched her hands out of Zanek’s grasp and threw herself against me, sobbing. I hugged her tightly. The Ra’ira had been inside Tarani’s hands, and the violence of her rejection had let the stone drop and skitter across the brick pavement of the square.