A Dragon's Ascension - Ed Greenwood [69]
The seat was cold and hard under her, and there was the strange tingling she always felt, as the familiar, waiting Living Castle enchantments stirred, recognizing her. Yet the Melted did not turn to charge at her, no crawling magic clutched or stabbed at her, and… nothing untoward happened. Yet.
Swiftly, she let her awareness flow out, and then reached down into webs of laced and intertwined magic-spells laid by Ingryl and Gadaster before him and half a hundred other mages, all mighty… and all treacherous and sly, laying traps and secret linkages of their own.
Yet this felt like home. She had always known these powers, these bindings. Here, present herself thus, endure the flood of fearsome images laid to scare away the timid, and call upon this thread of power. Follow it, deeper now, until-yes! There!
She came to a place deep within the palace and deeper within herself where she could call on the old, deep-seated enchantments of Flowfoam. In a trice she sourced them to scry the state chambers.
Nothing. No magic, strewn or fallen or even hidden, and nothing alive but a few rats scurrying in the walls. 'Twould take hours to search all of the interlinked keeps and underways across the Isle, and somehow she already knew the regent was either dead or not on Flowfoam.
She could not feel him.
Not near, not anywhere. Even with Flowfoam's magic. She had no Dwaer now, to call to his-and she had precious little time to search for anyone or anything.
Something had happened here on Flowfoam. No regent, no court-no one left alive. Who had done this?
The enchantments had not been tampered with, or damaged. If there'd been a spell-battle, it had been elsewhere-or all of the combatants had either refrained from using the ancient magics of the Isle, or been so familiar with them that they could wield them so skillfully that no trace was left, and no damage done.
Where was her father?
Her father, the man she'd been reared to hate, the hereditary enemy of all Silvertrees, the nemesis of the cruel tyrant who'd called himself her father.
Baron Blackgult, the darkly handsome, laughing Golden Griffon. Scourge of the high ladies of the Vale, striding confident in his black and gold from bedchamber to bedchamber. She still could not quite believe what she knew to be true: he had sired her-and he was far less the monster many Vale folk thought him to be than any Silvertree. Perhaps including herself.
The Lady of Jewels, folk still called her, fear and envy in their voices more often now than the pity or veiled hatred she'd heard when she was younger. All Aglirta had trembled when Faerod Silvertree had looked their way, then, and some saw her as his pawn, and others as one talon of his claws.
So much had happened since then. The tyrant was dead, his outlawed enemy had returned to Aglirta and been named regent by the king she and her swordbrothers had awakened-and now he was nowhere to be found, and the throne stood unguarded, and she needed answers.
King Kelgrael named us overdukes, we Band of Four, we lawbreaking adventurers. He bade us protect his realm. Oh, how we've failed in that…
Ezendor Blackgult-Father-where are you?
Silence. Emptiness. Far-questing thought, feeling for that dark, rich mind, that humor, that fierceness… like unto his griffon namesake, something of the gold-eyed hawk in the man…
Flash of blue mind-flame… awareness… four watchers, magic fierce in all, regarding me… not friendl-
* * *
Embra screamed.
Hawkril whirled around.
Her head was thrown back, blue-white lightnings were arcing from her eyes-and more bolts were crackling across her, from arm to arm of the throne, holding her down like chains as she writhed and arched, struggling under their fury.
Stone smoked where those bolts spat sparks, but Hawk flung away sword and dagger and snatched at his lady without hesitation. Em was hurting! He had to-
Roar out his pain, helpless in the grip of magics that howled through him, stabbing, searing spells he had