Treason's Shore by Sherwood Smith Read Free Book Online Page A

captured words spoken within spell-bounded spaces, everyone knew that the most powerful dags knew deeper, more dangerous spells. They also knew that magical spiderwebs, like the real thing, required physical boundaries. No one could bind one to the eternal wind.
    “I hoped you would come forth,” Brun Durasnir said. Her lips were already turning blue. “Thank you for heeding my message and wearing black.”
    Vra Seigmad clapped her gloved hands in a quick peace mode. “I hoped you’d find a way to tell us why.”
    Vra Durasnir bent toward her; it was getting harder to hear over the rising howl of the wind along the stones. “You have a scroll-case? What did Seigmad tell you?”
    “He only wrote once. Said they lost. Never wrote again. I tried to find out more.”
    “Hold to it,” Brun shouted. Her voice was faint. “Hold to it! Demand. An. Accounting.”
    She bent her head into the wind and fought her way to the door, Vra Seigmad following close enough to be whipped by her skirts and hood. Brun Durasnir held the door by main force so they could both slip inside.
    Brun Durasnir raised a hand to halt Vra Seigmad there on the stairs, where she shivered, counting slowly nine times nine. They could not be seen together. Everyone would be whispering, trying to discover what they talked about. Everyone. And maybe even fitting words into their mouths in speculation.
    Vra Seigmad was grateful to Brun Durasnir for sparing her that. She was also grateful for the water-repellent magic on her cloak and hood, the heat-retaining magic woven into the wool, as she ran down the stairs.
    The tunnel leading to the Hall of Judgment was full of people, but as always, the moment people saw her black cloak and long hood with the Seigmad colors in the tassel, they deferred. She set a brisk pace, unhindered until she reached a group from Tharfan House spread across the tunnel and walking at a deliberately sedate pace. As the former Senior House, they still claimed precedence, and as there was no accepted king, Vra Seigmad must drop behind those long, arrogantly lengthened pointed hoods, the silken tassels of silver and white swinging to the backs of their owners’ knees.
    From long habit people’s voices dropped when they entered the Hall of Judgment, which alone of all Venn buildings was not decorated with rich color. The groins curving up to hold the vaulted ceiling were bare white marble, reminding Vra Seigmad of clean-picked ribs. In the galleries sat ten of twelve senior House Hyarls, the Council of Elders, the Senior Guild Skalts, and the senior dags in sober blue. Everyone else ended up on the general floor. In this room the kings had spoken, but now the Council of Elders had declared a Frasadeng, a gathering of the Houses, and though everyone could speak, the horror of recent condemnations seemed to grip them all.
    The only marks of bright color were the ceiling of blue stippled with ancient stars, and the banner of the golden Great Tree of Ydrasal hanging over the empty throne, nine and ninety handsbreadths tall. More subtle were the great blocks of marble building the dais in three steps.
    Whispers ran round the room, quick as fire through tinder, when behind the dais the massive doors, carved into a semblance of a tree uncounted centuries before, began to swing open. The few whispers ceased.
    Through the doors marched a row of Erama Krona dressed in neutral gray. White indicated duty to a king, black was reserved for a Blood Hunt. When they wore gray, they would answer only to the oldest king alive, who would speak for the Council of Elders.
    And the previous king was alive, just short of ninety years old. Helped by gray Erama Krona, he walked out where he had last ruled thirty years previously, but he did not sit in the throne. There was a low curule chair after the old formal mode, cushioned for fragile bones.
    The cold ring of iron-reinforced heels on stone brought everyone’s eyes to the door. As the Erama Krona took up