The Kingless Land - Ed Greenwood [17]
"… harms not. 'Tis but a shielding, to keep magical spying at bay. Now for the love of the Lady sit back down and listen. We haven't much time."
"Oh? How so?"
Embra Silvertree leaned forward, resting her elbows on her thighs like any gossiping warrior, and said in a voice that was low and swift with urgency, "I'm a prisoner here as surely as if all these windows and doors were made of armor, and thrice barred. My father and his three mages-who'd lose no contests in cruelty, believe me-have bound me here to become, in the end, part of this castle."
"What? Lady, I don't understand," Hawkril said, and meant it.
"In time soon to come, I will lose this body," the dark-eyed lady told him, "and breath, to become a spirit bound into the stones and timbers and all of Castle Silvertree. A 'living castle,' they call it: aware and rooted here forever, given magic enough to repair their hurts and the crumblings that even stout stone suffers with the passing ages and to open or shut gates and doors and the like to defend this place… forever."
Craer frowned. "And what of your own magic? You can't flee or withstand them?"
Dark eyes looked sadly, almost pleadingly into his. "I've been taught only magic enough to serve well, not wage war on my teachers. I was but a child when the first bindings were laid on me-and some of them have lasted from that day until your blunderings this night."
"We?" Hawkril rumbled, still suspicious.
The Lady Silvertree looked at the armaragor. "The two of you broke some of the bindings that hold me, yes, meddling with one of the guardians of the wall. I've been watching you since then. Hoping. For the first time in my life, I can hope… to be free."
"You want us to help you flee this place?" Craer asked, discovering that his fingertips had gone numb on his dagger hilt. He let go of it and wriggled them to bring them back to usefulness.
The sorceress swallowed, lifted her head a little, and replied, "I offer you a choice. Break the last few bindings as I bid you and then flee with me, with all haste, accepting me as your equal and as a companion in your adventurings… or refuse me and be turned over to my father's justice."
"Cruel deaths, after spells worm at our minds," Craer almost whispered. "Lady, that's no choice at all."
She spread her hands and said bitterly, "I'm in no position to offer you anything more, Sir Procurer, and if we tarry tongue-wagging overlong, your choice-and my chance at freedom-will be swept away together. All it takes is one wizard to notice the bindings gone or even to idly decide to spy on the charms of a sleeping maid-as they often do, not bothering to hide their floating eyes if I awaken-and…" She made a snatching gesture, let her hand fall, and stared at them both.
The challenge was back in that dark gaze. "Gentle sirs," she said flatly, "I am desperate."
Craer watched the dying motes of the golden flames her words had made drift into oblivion and then looked at Hawkril. They both had good cause to hate magic. Bitter battlefield memories rose, flashed and flared. The faces of dying comrades, blasted by spells, hung like ghosts between their grim gazes as the two comrades regarded each other.
After a little silence, the armaragor rumbled, "A sorcerer of any accomplishment is a rare and precious thing." He spread his own hands in a shrug, and added, "And who in all Darsar would not want their freedom?"
Craer frowned at Hawkril, and slowly looked back at the Lady of Jewels. Soft curves sheathed in silk were far from the cruel, hard-riding battle mages he'd known, but…
"How dare we trust you?" he murmured, shaking his head in disbelief and despair.
Embra Silvertree rose in a soft whispering of silks and walked to him slowly, keeping her hands down by her sides. Kneeling in front of the procurer, she drew the dagger he'd gripped so tightly moments ago out of its scabbard, put it into his hand, and then