Raven's Shadow (Raven #1)(113)

Hennea had laid spells on all of them: look-away spells to keep them from being noticed and minor illusions to hide things - like Seraph's lack of height and her sex - that would otherwise attract attention. When Hennea had told them all to avoid being noticed, Seraph didn't think that exchanging gardening tips with the first Raptor they happened upon was what she'd had in mind.

Seraph looked out over the room. Jes was somewhere, too, though he hadn't bothered with the white robes. No one would see him until he wanted them to. Lehr was with the rest of their little army.

The Passerines were gathered already; she'd counted them. Assuming Tier's protege was the boy they intended to produce, all of the Passerines were there. Though they didn't have hoods on their robes, Seraph found that the robes obscured enough differences that she had a hard time picking out Toarsen, the only Passerine she knew, from the rest. There were chairs in rows in front of the stage, and the Passerines were all directed to those; even as she watched, the last of them took his seat.

There were more Raptors than she'd hoped, nearly three times the number of Passerines. Well, enough, she told herself, it would be even less likely that anyone should spot the cuckoos in the mix.

"Followers of the Secret Path."

Seraph stiffened at the whiff of magic that accompanied the words so that they rang out and appeared louder than they really were.

The room quieted. Brewydd softened her voice to a murmur, but continued comparing the benefits of growing tomatoes in various soils.

It had been Raven magic that gave power to the words the black-robed man standing in front of the curtained stage had said. Why hadn't he used the Bardic Order? A Bard would have done more than just overpower the talking of the crowd: he could have caught the attention of everyone, even tomato zealots like Brewydd's conversation partner, and held it.

Perhaps they didn't know that, or maybe they just preferred to work with more familiar powers. A solsenti mage, she thought, would be used to having magic work a certain way - like Raven or even Cormorant. They wanted the Orders for power, but even Volis had had no use for subtlety.

"When you come to our Eyrie you take vows," said the wizard. "First, never reveal to anyone what we do here. Second, to attend the Eyrie at least three evenings a week. Third, to obey the Raptors and the Masters over and above all other oaths. One of you has broken the last two of these rules. We are here today to discipline him - not in hope of reformation, because he will never again be welcome to our Eyrie."

"Telleridge sure knows how to capture his audience, doesn't he," marveled the Raptor talking to Brewydd, his voice shaking with age, but he returned to his favorite subject with more ado. "I find that the tomatoes I grow in the orangery - "

"But that is not all we are here for." The Master's voice dipped into sorrow, but Seraph thought he overdid it a bit. "In recent weeks it has come to our attention that our Passerines have been led astray by the magic of our Traveler guest. The magic that keeps his at bay, here in our halls, is dependent upon your resistance. If you want to be his follower, his servant, there is nothing our magic can do to protect you. So we have to take more stringent measures with him."

They had Tier. Was he alive?

"There is a third problem that has held our attention these past few years. Our Empire, founded by heroes, built by men of vision, men of intelligence is, even now, presided over by a drunken sot. Bored with the available women and wealth, he has decided to interfere with the men who try to preserve the Empire. Who is to save us when our frivolous Emperor chooses to change the ancient boundaries of the Septs? Who? We shall save ourselves."

He raised both hands and the great curtains behind him creaked and squealed as they slowly opened to the Master's magic.

On the stage was a frightened young man, naked and chained by his wrists to a ring in the floor of the stage. In the center position was the Emperor. They hadn't stripped him - too worried about arousing the wrong emotion in the crowd, judged Seraph - but he was wearing the same robes he'd been in last night, and they looked the worse for wear. But it was the third man, Tier, her eyes found and locked on.

He was alive, she thought with a rush of relief; she could see his ribs move as he breathed. Like the Passerine he'd been so worried about, he'd been stripped naked and chained, but he lay curled up and still, his skin red and black from beating.

Rage rose up in Seraph like a red tide. She stared at the Master who orchestrated this mess and took what her magic could tell her. He was a solsenti wizard of moderate power, aided by two Raven rings - one of them very old.

"We deal first with the greatest offense. Phoran the Twenty-Sixth, we, the Followers of the Secret Path, judge you unfit to rule our Empire!" The Master turned to the audience and gave the signal for a response of some kind. A roar of approval perhaps?

But it never came, because Phoran spoke.

"Actually," he said with dignity that caught at the heart of every person in the room, "it's Phoran the Twenty-Seventh. I've always felt that since the old farmer started the Empire, he ought to get credit for it."

Even Brewydd's new friend quit speaking.

Seraph felt a relieved grin tug at her lips. Tier was doing better than he appeared if he could give Phoran's mundane words that much power.

Phoran looked a little taken aback by the response his quip had drawn. Go, Tier, thought Seraph fiercely. She glanced at Telleridge, but even with the partial immunity the Raven rings he wore gave him, he was too close to Phoran to do anything except listen.