attack and defense he would surely need (so much more difficult than any everyday magic, so much more dangerous to the magician), and tried to shut out his uneasiness.
Uneasiness, ha! Hauberin thought. Downright fear is more like it.
Not fear of Serein, never that. But . . . he had never ridden to battle before. What if something went wrong? What if he misspoke a battle-spell? He had never actually used one, after all. Powers, what if he did misspeak one, and the backlash killed him? He had no heir (save Serein, of course, and no one was going to follow Serein now). There would be civil war, chaos—
Enough of this! As fiercely as any magician mastering a spell, Hauberin forced doubt from his mind.
Just in time. The high white walls of Serein’s estate stood before them. Hauberin raised a hand, bringing his company to a halt, studying the estate. Those smooth white walls were pretty, but even his less-than-battle-trained eyes could tell they would never hold off a determined attack. Yet he didn’t feel the peculiar psychic tingling that meant Serein was placing magical reinforcements on them, either.
Wary, the prince waited, alert to the slightest change in air currents that might signal magic, There was silence, such total silence that when one of the horses shook its head, the chinking of the bridle rang out startlingly loud.
“What is this?” one of the warriors muttered. “Not even a token assault from them? Not even a little spell, or an arrow? Someone’s in there, I can sense them.”
So could Hauberin. And they could hardly not have seen his troop approach. Serein had already declared himself a traitor by his acts; he could hardly have developed scruples now.
For an instant more Hauberin hesitated, nerves tight, then signaled to his herald, who rode boldly forward, her gaudy herald’s robes—deliberately bright to mark her as a noncombatant—fluttering in the wind. Standing in the stirrups, she called out in a voice like a silver trumpet:
“Open, in the name of the prince! Open for Prince Hauberin!”
There was a moment more of silence, during which Hauberin could feel unseen eyes watching him. And then, almost in anticlimax, the gates swung smoothly open. Figures lurked in the shadow of the doorway, lowly servants, most of them the unlikely mixes found in magical lands: human sprite-woods creature hybrids and the like to judge from their greenish hair and rough brownish skin. Hauberin had always known Serein liked to surround himself with ugliness (save in the women he took to bed, of course), to make his golden elegance shine the brighter by contrast, but the sudden impact of so many warped beings couldn’t be anything but startling.
Particularly when he sensed that much of that warping was relatively recent, and quite deliberately wrought.
Ach, Serein, Hauberin thought, remembering mad, cruel Ysilar.
One of the servants, a thin, wiry creature as much animal as man, moved shyly forward, peering up at Hauberin. “It is you!” the being gasped.
With that, as though a wind and stirred them, the servants all sank to their knees. “Spare us, merciful Prince,” they moaned. “We are innocent. We had nothing to do with it.”
“Never mind that,” the prince said shortly. “Where is your master?”
They looked blankly up at him.
“Serein!” Hauberin snapped. “Where is he?”
To his amazement, the creatures all, slowly, began to smile. “Why, fled,” one said in rich pleasure. “Our once and no longer master has fled for his very life.”
“He wanted us to help him in his flight,” a thin, ragged creature continued, its face hidden by a wild, tangled mane of mossy hair. With a sudden frantic motion, it tossed back that hair, and Hauberin realized with a shock that the face revealed was a young woman’s haggard traces of beauty still lingering. “He said we must help. He reminded us that we are nothing, only slaves. His to do with as it pleased him. So it was in the past,” she
Uneasiness, ha! Hauberin thought. Downright fear is more like it.
Not fear of Serein, never that. But . . . he had never ridden to battle before. What if something went wrong? What if he misspoke a battle-spell? He had never actually used one, after all. Powers, what if he did misspeak one, and the backlash killed him? He had no heir (save Serein, of course, and no one was going to follow Serein now). There would be civil war, chaos—
Enough of this! As fiercely as any magician mastering a spell, Hauberin forced doubt from his mind.
Just in time. The high white walls of Serein’s estate stood before them. Hauberin raised a hand, bringing his company to a halt, studying the estate. Those smooth white walls were pretty, but even his less-than-battle-trained eyes could tell they would never hold off a determined attack. Yet he didn’t feel the peculiar psychic tingling that meant Serein was placing magical reinforcements on them, either.
Wary, the prince waited, alert to the slightest change in air currents that might signal magic, There was silence, such total silence that when one of the horses shook its head, the chinking of the bridle rang out startlingly loud.
“What is this?” one of the warriors muttered. “Not even a token assault from them? Not even a little spell, or an arrow? Someone’s in there, I can sense them.”
So could Hauberin. And they could hardly not have seen his troop approach. Serein had already declared himself a traitor by his acts; he could hardly have developed scruples now.
For an instant more Hauberin hesitated, nerves tight, then signaled to his herald, who rode boldly forward, her gaudy herald’s robes—deliberately bright to mark her as a noncombatant—fluttering in the wind. Standing in the stirrups, she called out in a voice like a silver trumpet:
“Open, in the name of the prince! Open for Prince Hauberin!”
There was a moment more of silence, during which Hauberin could feel unseen eyes watching him. And then, almost in anticlimax, the gates swung smoothly open. Figures lurked in the shadow of the doorway, lowly servants, most of them the unlikely mixes found in magical lands: human sprite-woods creature hybrids and the like to judge from their greenish hair and rough brownish skin. Hauberin had always known Serein liked to surround himself with ugliness (save in the women he took to bed, of course), to make his golden elegance shine the brighter by contrast, but the sudden impact of so many warped beings couldn’t be anything but startling.
Particularly when he sensed that much of that warping was relatively recent, and quite deliberately wrought.
Ach, Serein, Hauberin thought, remembering mad, cruel Ysilar.
One of the servants, a thin, wiry creature as much animal as man, moved shyly forward, peering up at Hauberin. “It is you!” the being gasped.
With that, as though a wind and stirred them, the servants all sank to their knees. “Spare us, merciful Prince,” they moaned. “We are innocent. We had nothing to do with it.”
“Never mind that,” the prince said shortly. “Where is your master?”
They looked blankly up at him.
“Serein!” Hauberin snapped. “Where is he?”
To his amazement, the creatures all, slowly, began to smile. “Why, fled,” one said in rich pleasure. “Our once and no longer master has fled for his very life.”
“He wanted us to help him in his flight,” a thin, ragged creature continued, its face hidden by a wild, tangled mane of mossy hair. With a sudden frantic motion, it tossed back that hair, and Hauberin realized with a shock that the face revealed was a young woman’s haggard traces of beauty still lingering. “He said we must help. He reminded us that we are nothing, only slaves. His to do with as it pleased him. So it was in the past,” she
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