Understanding now why the guards kept their eyes on the sacrifices, giving only the most perfunctory of inspection to the exterior of the camp, Laria felt more confident about her and Blind Seer’s chances when they must venture into the lit zone. Sheltered by darkness, she crouched beside the wolf, awaiting the signal to sprint out and duck beneath the tower’s base.
The signal came in the form of an otherworldly shriek off to one side. No one hearing it would have believed that it originated in the chest of a bird about the size of a large robin or jay. The cry came again, this time from closer to the ground. The third time the horrific shriek rent the tension of the night, Laria was in no position to judge from whence it came, or whether it had succeeded in distracting the guards. Blind Seer—belly closer to the trampled grass than Laria would have thought possible—had begun racing across the open space between their hiding place in the shadows and the understory of the closest guard post.
Laria ran with him, bending over as much as she could without slowing down too much. Her heart pounded so hard that it nearly drowned out other sounds. She glanced up to see that hastily lit torches were flashing back and forth, their light mostly directed within the encampment, especially where the anxious sacrifices now raised their own terrified screams. For every light there was a host of jagged shadows. Under the cover of these, Laria and Blind Seer vanished beneath the guard tower’s base.
When they had laid their plans, the one question no one had been able to answer had been how the sorceress herself would react. Would she come forth to assist, to inquire, to berate? Or would she remain within her own pavilion?
Arasan—or more probably the Meddler—had offered his assessment. “She’ll stay put. Whether she’s meditating or doing some ritual to prepare for tomorrow’s challenge, she’ll not want to interrupt it. She might even suspect that the disturbance was created precisely in order to ruin her preparations. Remember, according to what Laria learned, the sorceress is the sibling with less raw ability. Tenacity has always been her greatest advantage—and she has to know that.”
Now, as Laria waited, the lightly panting wolf at her side all but invisible in the shadows, she hoped her teacher had been correct.
Farborn had been warned not to get too carried away in creating his audible distraction. When he saw that Laria and Blind Seer had reached the tower, he should find a place from which he could assess how the encampment was reacting to the disturbance. Then, when he was sure no one would see him, he should come and brief them.
Laria was wondering if, against all odds, the merlin had been captured or injured when the bird swooped down, landed, then walked over to join them. The human wouldn’t have even known of his approach except that Blind Seer nudged her, pointing with his nose to show her where to look. When Farborn arrived, he gave Laria the softest chirp of greeting, then faced Blind Seer. Whatever conference was held between gigantic wolf and mouthful of bird, Laria couldn’t share. That there was such, she had no doubt for Blind Seer occasionally huffed or growled, or Farborn fluttered his wings and scraped the ground with his talons. Then, after stroking his head against Laria in what the young woman took as a reassuring gesture, Farborn departed, walking a few steps before launching into the night sky.
Almost immediately, Blind Seer nudged Laria. When he had her attention, he began to creep to where, hidden by shadows and heaped equipment, they could study the interior of the camp. Laria crept beside him, coming to rest so close that she could feel the wolf’s fur soft against her side. As she watched the camp’s activity, Laria felt a wash of dismay that they were beaten before they had truly begun. Numerous groups of guards now patrolled the camp’s grounds, far more, she thought, than had been active before Farborn put them on alert.
After she and Blind Seer had watched for several minutes, Laria registered several details that gave her reason for hope. Although there were numerous patrols—certainly more than Farborn had mentioned in his initial report—the majority of these were pacing along the rim of the “eye,” where the sacrifices were penned. Their interlocking routes took them into the vicinity of the “iris” ring of tents that presumably sheltered the more favored acolytes, but no further. The bonfires had been built up but, while these served their intended purpose of making it easier for the patrols to see the camp’s perimeter, the light also served to render the guards night-blind when they must look into the more shadowed areas. True, each patrol leader did carry a torch, but this only served to make the areas of darkness more impenetrable.
Laria had often seen how Firekeeper and Blind Seer would deliberately sit with their backs to a fire, where a human would have stared into the mesmerizing flicker and glow of the flames. For perhaps the first time, Laria really understood why Firekeeper spoke of the “friendly darkness.” Thus, when Blind Seer signaled that after the patrol that was now closing on them and before the next, they would make their move, Laria drew the idea of darkness around her like a cloak and made herself ready.
At Blind Seer’s nudge, they darted like twin shadows across the open ground, then dodged between two of the neatly spaced tents. Blind Seer paused long enough to assure that the area remained clear between the acolytes’ tents and sorceress’s ornate pavilion. Farborn’s earlier briefing had included the information that, although the pavilion’s main entrance faced the battlefield, there was also an insignificant rear door, doubtless meant for servants. This was their destination.
Will it be open? Will it be warded? Will Blind Seer be able to sniff the wards out as Firekeeper bragged he could when we were making our plans?
These and dozens of other half-formed questions shouted in Laria’s head but, despite them—or maybe because of them—when the blue-eyed wolf gave the signal, Laria raced forward without hesitation.
Firekeeper silently paced the confines of the sorcerer’s tent, occasionally checking on her two prisoners—while keeping an eye on the Meddler/Arasan in case the former might be up to something treacherous. It seemed she need not worry. The Meddler might have had his doubts about this venture but, now that he was deeply committed, he was an intent as a pup scrabbling after a treat. Firekeeper wondered whether vanity or fear motivated the Meddler. After consideration, she decided that in this circumstance vanity might win out, for in this game the Meddler not only competed against the sorcerer and his followers, but with Blind Seer as well. It would not do for the wolf to come away with his prize—assisted as he was only by a newly tried young woman and a small falcon—when the Meddler had Firekeeper at his side.
After all, Firekeeper thought, the Meddler has not ceased to maintain his position that he would be a more fit partner to me than is Blind Seer. Now that he is tested against his rival, he must make his boast good.
Nonetheless, Firekeeper kept watch on the Meddler lest he give into the temptation to use blood magic to ease his way—an understandable lure with so much blood, and that so fresh, near at hand. Although she hoped that Arasan would do his best to remind his other self of the terms of their challenge, Arasan might be crippled by an all too reasonable fear that they would be detected and what that would mean. Or, what if the Meddler fell into what would be for him the most familiar way to work magic purely by accident? Firekeeper thought that she would know if he did so. Therefore, although she did not forget the bound pair in the bed, and listened for any disturbance without, she also stayed alert to the actions of the two who should be her allies.
I miss Blind Seer! No matter what trials we have been through, I always knew I could trust him.
Firekeeper’s nose knew when the Meddler figured out the trick that would open the inverted pyramid, for the stench of human blood—fresh, hot, yet tainted with some alien element—filled her nostrils. She spared a swift glace and saw that the Meddler had located a nearly concealed tap, not unlike those used for kegs of ale or wine, and had toggled it open. The yet life-warm blood streamed forth, and he caught it in a wide-mouthed bottle certainly intended for the purpose.
When Fir
ekeeper tilted her head in query, the Meddler pointed under the bed, then to the bottle. He traced the outline of one of the ornate panels that made up the pyramid’s glass mosaic sides. Lastly, he held up a small gold wand with a complicated hook at the end—apparently the key needed to open the panel so the pyramid’s contents could be retrieved when the container had been emptied.
All that remained was to wait—and a horrid, tense wait it was. Repeatedly, Firekeeper paced the confines of the tent. But though she almost longed for some indication of trouble, nothing stirred. The stillness and the continued pitch of alertness that it demanded began to seem worse than any alarm.
It was during one of these restless passes, all nerves alert, that Firekeeper noticed that the sorcerer’s eyes were now open—open yet weirdly blank. When she looked more closely she saw that their color was a putrid green—a color she had never seen among the eyes of humans nor, to the best of the wolf-woman’s knowledge, among those of the Beasts. Why then was that color somehow uncomfortably familiar?
Firekeeper darted over, meaning to send the man once more to unconsciousness. She came up short when she realized where she had seen that particular shade of green before. It was the same color as the focus, only brighter, undiminished by the bloody shroud that had veiled it in its arcane bath. Beside the man, the woman remained unmoving her blood ceasing to drip. As to which side of the line between life and death her spirit lingered, Firekeeper could not tell.
Firekeeper hissed both warning and fear, for she had no idea what to do. Whether the focus called to its creator or the creator to his tool; whether they were somehow one and the same hardly mattered. Had one or both somehow slain the woman for what power they needed in this emergency? The only thing Firekeeper felt certain of was that this apparition meant no good for herself and Arasan. Their plans had rested on a certainty that neither the sorcerer or his allies would lightly spend their power on the eve of the contest. This assumption had been borne out in the minimal camp defenses but, now that the sorcerer himself—or the focus upon which he relied—was at risk, all such provisions no longer applied.
Firekeeper had hoped that they could steal the focus without anyone being killed but, at this moment, slaying the sorcerer seemed her best choice. Quick as the thought formed, her Fang was in her hand. She was crouching to spring when a single word from Arasan stopped her.
“No!”
After their carefully maintained silence, the barely voiced syllable reverberated like a shout. Firekeeper froze and listened, but no one seemed to have overheard him. Arasan motioned for Firekeeper to come closer. Reluctantly obeying, she saw that Arasan had just opened the pyramid and had been about to insert a gloved hand to remove the orb.
“Sure alarm if he dies,” he mouthed. “Also, why give this more blood?”
Using her blade, Firekeeper pointed to the sorcerer’s glowing eyes, tilting her head in query. Arasan didn’t waste breath on expressions of shock or disbelief. Instead, he mouthed one word.
“Iron?”
Firekeeper understood. Iron was unfriendly to magic, so unfriendly that she doubted there was any among the sorcerer’s belongings. If they had some, it might be used to interrupt the link between the orb and its master. She glanced at the blade of her Fang, but the process that turned iron into steel reduced the metal’s effect on magic.
Firekeeper swallowed a growl of frustration. Although the sorcerer had made no move since opening his eyes, his body was now tense, the neck muscles visibly corded. In her gut, she knew that he and his arcane tool were working some dreadful enchantment between them. Her apprehension was confirmed when, without warning, the orb rose from where it had continued to drift within the ebbing blood. It shot up, then out of the port that Arasan had just opened.
Instinctively, Arasan began to duck. Then his body jerked unnaturally as the Meddler took command of the nerves and muscles. He thrust his gloved hand forth with a speed and at an angle that promised nothing good for the muscles and tendons so used, but he managed to grab the spherical focus as a child might a wildly thrown ball.
At the same time, Firekeeper grabbed one of the pillows and pressed it over the sorcerer’s face—not hard enough to smother, but enough that he would need to struggle for breath. Hopefully, this more immediate battle would break whatever connection he had established between himself and the focus.
Perhaps because the sorcerer was still half-asleep, the wolf-woman’s desperate ploy worked. She felt the sorcerer go limp, heard a nearly sub-audible gasp from Arasan, darted a gaze and confirmed that her ally now held a cloth-wrapped bundle in his left hand. His right arm hung limp, and he winced when the gradually slowing struggles of the orb within its wrappings jerked his injured limb about.
From Doc—one of Firekeeper’s oldest human friends—Firekeeper had learned something of field medicine. Rapidly, she weighed the advantages of pausing to do something about Arasan’s dislocated shoulder against those to be gained by a quick departure. Delay won, for Arasan would move more quickly if he was in less pain. Firekeeper motioned for him to hold still, ran her hand over the arm, then without warning, she popped the abused joint back into place. Tears shouted in Arasan’s eyes, but he made no sound.
Firekeeper quickly crafted a sling to support Arasan’s injured arm, stowed the now dormant focus in one of her own belt pouches, and—after checking that all was clear without—led them through the slit in the tent’s fabric, between the tents, and out of the camp. A few horses stomped in nervous comment, but otherwise no one detected their passage. Once they were clear of the camp, Firekeeper led them cross-country to where they had arranged to meet Blind Seer, Laria, and Farborn.
The wolf-woman took some hope from the fact that Farborn had not come bearing news of disaster and requesting aid, but nonetheless she had to school her feet to care rather than speed, knowing she would not be truly reassured until she was once again at Blind Seer’s side.
With hardly a pause, Blind Seer led them from the protected space between the acolytes’ tents toward the servants’ entrance into the pavilion. As she followed, Laria hoped he had not forgotten to check for magical wards. Mentally, she rehearsed what she was supposed to do if they encountered guards or servants. To Laria’s relief—yet paradoxically adding to her sense of dread—neither guards or servants were in evidence when she lifted the canvas flap and slipped into the pavilion after Blind Seer. Farborn glided in as she was lowering the flap, then darted upward, presumably to find a perch from where he could keep watch.
Strongly perfumed smoke rose from braziers evenly spaced around the pavilion’s interior. Laria pinched her nose to hold back a sneeze, swallowing hard to stifle a tickling at the back of her throat. Blind Seer’s ears pinned flat against his skull in protest at the olfactory onslaught, then perked upright again. Laria imagined that the wolf must feel as if he had been blinded—or something worse. As she understood it, his keen sense of smell let him perceive the past and even, in some ways, the future, since he could smell approaching threats or scent changes of mood, often before the subjects were aware of the shift themselves.
But there was no changing the situation, so Laria resolved to be even more alert to compensate for the wolf’s diminished senses. Even as these thoughts were chasing through her mind, Laria was scanning the tent, trying to make sense of what was revealed by the dim glow from scattered lanterns hung high, their flames turned low. The problem was that the scene was so peculiar that she had great difficulty comprehending what she saw.
As best Laria could tell, the pavilion was untenanted except for a full-figured woman who lay on her back on a platform that struck Laria as less a bed than an altar. The woman was completely naked, but her skin was so intricately inscribed with symbols and sigils in a crashing variety of colors that she gave the impression of being clothed. By contrast, the patterns on her face were deceptively simple: two sets of eyes, one extra set placed above and one below her natural ones. Otherwise the sorceress’s face—for Laria had no d
oubt that this was her—was unadorned, adding to the impression that she actually possessed three pairs of eyes. The sorceress’s long hair was unbound and spread around her. The outermost tendrils moved slightly in a breeze stirred by something that moved in an erratic but somehow deeply disturbing pattern along the lines inscribed upon the woman’s naked flesh.
From Blind Seer’s faint rumbling growl, he detected the focus at the same moment Laria did. In Laria’s earlier vision, the spherical focus had reminded her of a gaping maw, but Laria had not registered it as having a particular color. Now she understood why. The orb possessed no single color, but instead showed the complement to whatever it touched. As it raced over lines painted in red, it shown green; when the lines were blue, it showed orange; when yellow it was violet. These colors contrasted all the more vividly because the outermost edges of the sphere remained a muddy blue-green that contrasted violently with what was visible of the woman’s natural skin tone. This was a pale, sickly peach that looked as if it never saw the sun. The void pit of the sphere’s maw was the only constant color, a hot white that burned afterimages on the eye, but was nonetheless not the least bit bright.
While the sorceress herself lay dreadfully quiescent, the void sphere was terribly alive. When she had viewed them in her vision, Laria had thought that both foci were hard crystals. Now that she was seeing one for herself, this sphere seemed malleable. Laria imagined that if she grabbed it, it would feel as soft as mud. She wondered if, like mud, it would fall apart if squeezed tightly. Somehow what seemed more likely was that the material would flow outward, engulfing the hand that grasped it.
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