Korina awoke, stifling a scream. She shivered in horror and dread, then slowly sat up and ran her fingers through her damp hair. With single-minded purpose she forced herself to breathe more slowly, measuring each breath with care. The thudding in her chest slowed, and the feelings of dread and images of anguish slipped quietly away. She shuddered once more, then took a final gulp of air.
She could not decide which frightened her more; the nature of the dream itself, or the fact she found herself actually disturbed by it. It did not help that the dream was receding from memory—at least the images were. But the feelings ... those would be difficult to forget. There had been a sensation of spinning, mindlessly, purposelessly, and perpetually. Not just spinning. Although she hadn’t been moving, she felt like she had been accelerating, as if falling forever with the air rushing past her ever faster, but the ground never drawing nearer. Such utter lack of control had been maddening. She felt uncertain if it had been the spinning itself that had been accelerating, or if they had just been two separate nauseating feelings. Other sensations had haunted the dream as well, brought on by images that had been vivid and terrifying while she slept, but were now dissolving with the vestiges of drowsiness. Never before had she felt such hopelessness and frustration. Wave upon wave of anguish had crashed into her, dragging her down into a whirling pit of darkness. The darkness seemed to emanate from nothingness, and bring about only nothingness. It fed on anything and everything and brought them all into that horrid nothingness, never to escape. Somehow, she felt connected with that darkness. It was a part of her and it was feeding on her.
Korina shuddered with the memory, then let it fade away as much as possible. That was not something she wanted to keep in mind.
Weakness? Was she being off-balanced by a simple nightmare?
Korina scowled and kicked her feet over the side of the bed. Her hand landed in a patch of dampness, a veritable puddle of sweat. She noticed many other such puddles spotting her blankets. Her frown deepened. Carefully extricating herself from the soaking sheets, Korina tried to shake her thin nightgown off with little success. Unfortunately, the wet diaphanous material clung tenaciously to her limbs and torso; it caught and amplified even the slightest of drafts.
Irritated beyond words, Korina mumbled a brief spell and sighed in relief as a wave of warmth washed over her. She paused a moment, savoring the feel of heat in her body and wiggling her toes in delight. The dampness disappeared in a veil of steam about her, rising toward the ceiling. She cut the spell off with a sigh, then murmured another word and the oil lamp at her desk sprung alight. It cast a flickering array of shadows along the wall.
A quick perusal of the room showed all in order: her desk neat with only two books on earth magic stacked in a corner: her small bookshelf filled with other magical texts stood in a place of honor against the far wall; and the books on demonology and other black magics, the real treasures of her chamber were safely secured in the two footlockers beneath her cot.
Korina stretched, contemplating her sudden wakefulness. She knew she should return to sleep, but her drowsiness had vanished and had been replaced by considerable trepidation over what other dreams sleep might hold in store for her. She wasn’t frightened, exactly.
That was a lie. She was frightened. And it was a fear brought on by nothing more than nightmares. A true Daughter of Lubrochius, she berated herself for weakness.
Perhaps another walk through the gardens would clear her head. Odd, how strolling through myriad fanciful colors allowed her to relax and collect her thoughts.
Korina headed toward the door, then stopped.
What had Regecon, Ambrisia, and Morcallenon been discussing earlier? It must have been important, otherwise Morcallenon would not have gone through all the trouble to locate them. He had even broken through the ward against scrying her medallion provided.
She fingered the small amulet nervously with that last thought. She would have to be careful about that. If Morcallenon developed sufficient reason to think her responsible for the interference with his spell, he might start asking questions. If he grew suspicious, she suspected the old diviner might prove a little difficult to eliminate—not impossible, but difficult. And awkward. If she ever did kill anyone on the council she would have to be extremely careful about it. The best way would be to arrange an accident of some sort; something that would point suspicion in a different direction.
Her hand grasped the door handle and pulled, revealing a hall filled with darkness. Running her hands through her hair, Korina padded out into the silent hall on slippered feet; she pulled the door closed behind her, shutting off the oil lamp’s light. The sudden absence of brilliance did not faze her, though. Out here, the dim light of Silgaren’s struggling moonlight would provide sufficient illumination once her eyes adjusted. Besides, she enjoyed the dark. She found it soothing.
Korina folded her arms across her chest and padded down the hall, lost in thought.
Ambrisia had spoken of many things in the gardens. She had mentioned Morgulan, the man’s sceptre, the Children of Lubrochius—fortunately, she and Regecon believed all the Children were extinct—and the Black Circle. Unlike the council members, Korina felt no reluctance to draw the obvious conclusion concerning Arcalian and his interest in the sceptre. He was evil. The young sorceress had never suspected such a thing of the guild master for he had been quite clever at concealing it. But, the mixing dish of seemingly simple design had been covered with necromantic sigils—
Korina paused in the hall, furrowing her brow.
Could that have been what Morcallenon had been concerned with? Had he deciphered the sigils on the jar? If so, she was quite impressed. She would not have expected Morcallenon to delve into the darker types of lore in his search. Very few had the courage to do that.
Necromantic sigils? The Sceptre of Morgulan? Certainly, there had to be some connection. The legends said that Morgulan had commanded considerable legions of undead in his armies. After all, his lover Zarina had been quite skilled in the black arts. In fact, the woman had been a fellow Daughter of Lubrochius in her day.
Voices ahead of her drew Korina from her thoughts. No doubt the night watchmen were having a brief discussion before they passed each other by. It could get lonely walking the halls at night. Korina approached the corner and stopped, puzzled. Those last words had had a definite air of command behind them, and a considerable amount of malice. Intrigued, the young sorceress padded to the bend in the hall and peeked around the corner.
Up ahead, a night watchman stood stiffly at attention with hand on hilt as he addressed a tall, darkly clad man. The guard, Eredith, she knew, but the man he spoke to stood on the periphery of shadows. “ ... Ambrisia, Mistress of the Earth—”
“Skip the titles. Just the names and the elements.” The shrouded man spoke softly, yet his voice carried a commanding edge like an iron sword swathed in cotton. It sounded oddly familiar to Korina, but she could not place it.
“Jacindra, air, Toreg, water, Morcallenon, divination.” The guard’s voice, dry and toneless, sounded more like the speech of an animated golem than that of a human being.
“How can I find this High Council Chamber?” Again, the guard answered as if the words were being pulled out of him by some magical force.
“You have served your master well.”
Korina blinked, and saw that now the strange man held a bloody something in his right hand. Eredith tried to gasp, but no sounds came out. A fountain of blood erupted from the guard’s throat and his body slumped toward the floor. Quicker than Korina’s eyes could follow, the strange man grabbed Eredith by the bicep. He leaned over the dying watchman, drawing his face to within inches of the rushing blood. A tongue flicked out, and the figure straightened.
Korina pried her eyes from the gruesome scene, and pulled herself back around the corner, her heart pounding.
What had she just witnessed? Someone had just ripped Eredith’s throat out with casual ease and then bent o
ver to taste his blood like a connoisseur might taste wine. Now, this person, this stranger was in the hallway around the corner, in the hall walking toward her. She could not see the figure, but she knew. A whispering in her head grew to a dull throb and then an internal scream. Every ounce of her being shrieked a warning. She did not dare risk another look around the corner, lest she be seen. She paused, listening. Desperately, she strained to hear the sound of approaching footsteps, but she heard nothing except the beating of her own heart. Had he turned and walked the other way? Or was he a trained assassin, silent as Death? Her thudding heart could almost feel the Sickle.
Korina knew no fear of man or woman. Even as a student, she knew her skills were the match of any mage in Drisdak, save those of the council itself. Against a man without the benefit of magic her powers were nearly invincible. Yet she still felt uncomfortable facing an opponent she did not know. She preferred to know their powers, know their limits, know the enemy she would kill. It took the element of chance from the conflict, and guaranteed her success. Tonight, however, was different. Chance remained elusively beyond her control. The man in the hall ahead had looked like an ordinary human, but moved in a manner no mere man could replicate. He had ripped the guardsman’s throat out with his bare hand. Only a master of unarmed fighting could have hoped to accomplish that so quickly and so easily. Could he be a bloodseeker, an assassin trained from birth by a dark cult? No, that did not explain the power of compulsion. Whatever was in the hall ahead was not a simple assassin, no matter how well trained. A cold icicle of realization plunged into her heart. It wasn’t even human.
She crept slowly backward, cautiously at first, then more quickly with every step. Each passing moment stretched like an eternity of torture, an agony of expectant doom. Even in her slippered feet, her gentle footsteps seemed to pound the corridor stones like a forge smith’s hammer, echoing relentlessly in the dead of night. If the man was nearby, and she was sure he was, she felt certain he had heard her.
Korina rounded the last corner before her room, then broke into a run. She sensed, rather than saw, that something pursued her. Stalked rather. Or, perhaps, it simply played with her. She pictured it strolling down the corridor after her, laughing in delight as she fled in terror, knowing full well she had no place to hide where it could not find her.
Korina closed the door in near panic. It slipped and boomed loudly in the night. Why was she so frightened?
Korina’s fingers shook as she murmured several words and inscribed a hasty fire sigil on the door. Addled severely, she very nearly lost the spell. She forced herself to be calm, then stepped back. Whatever came through that door was in for a nasty surprise, one of Korina’s specialties. A small voice in the back of her head, the one that whispered an early warning, whispered again. One sigil was not enough.
Korina retreated to the far corner and grabbed a small pouch. It held a fine whitish dust—cedar ash—with which she made a perfect grey circle around herself on the floor. Quickly, four more sigils joined the ensorcelled ring.
Murmuring a prayer to Lubrochius, Korina straightened and clasped the amulet at her chest. Summoning the magic imbued therein, she raised a hand and turned to face the doorway. Whatever found her would not find her unprepared.
Drasmyr (Prequel: From the Ashes of Ruin) Page 40