Power of the Lost

by Cebelius

  Spiders scuttled away as he revealed them, and another glance around the garden gave him a sneaking suspicion he knew what sort of problem was lurking.

  Dew-laden spiderwebs were everywhere.

  "Spiders," he muttered, "This shit's gonna wind up giving me a complex."

  The path through the garden seemed aimless, but also clear of webs and arachnids, so he stayed on it, letting it take him on a tour that was, admittedly, quite spectacular in its own way. He wasn't exactly into flowers, or gardens, but he was not blind to beauty when he saw it, and it was here, everywhere he looked ... as long as he didn't look too deeply.

  The bodies were everywhere, most hidden by foliage and in varying states of consumption. The scent of decomposition was almost, but not quite, hidden by the perfume of the flowers.

  The winding gravel path finally brought him to a low stone pool with a fountain in the middle in the shape of a woman — a human woman — pouring water from an urn. The stone of the statue was weathered and moss grew in the deeper shadows and crevices, but the water flowed clear and bright. Beyond the pool was a veranda skirted by a colonnade of white marble. Elegant tile frescoes covered the wall of the building beyond, and a stone wall about four feet high separated the gallery from the rest of the garden.

  It was here that Terry found the person he presumed he was meant to see.

  "Thank God," he muttered as he circumnavigated the fountain and came to the edge of the veranda. There was a gap in the wall between two of the marble columns, and he stopped there without stepping onto the porch. Instead, he leaned against one of the pillars and folded his hands in front of himself, waiting.

  "For what do you thank him?" the woman asked. Her voice had a bit of gravel in it, and gave the impression of age despite the fact that what he could see of her face and figure had him thinking she was in her mid-thirties.

  "Lately, when I meet women for the first time, they're naked. Don't ask me why," he said, smirking. "I like your dress, by the way.”

  The dress in question was a remarkable creation of frills, lace, and extravagant touches. Though principally white, much of the edging and detail work that accentuated the woman's shapely figure were black, and contrasted equally well with the dress as a whole and the woman's porcelain white skin.

  She was facing a loom, and he only recognized it as such because there was an exceedingly fine tapestry in progress upon it. The weaving woman had six arms, and all of them worked flawlessly, neither pausing nor slowing as she turned her face to him. Her dress was slit up the sides to accommodate her limbs, but it was so cleverly crafted that it made her look somehow natural.

  From the side he'd seen narrow cheeks, a fine, straight nose, and a trim jawline, but the woman's long, lustrous black hair hid the rest. When she turned, what he saw did not surprise him, but it did confirm his suspicions.

  Unlike Ephe, this woman's eyes all looked human, with round pupils and irises, but they were of several different sizes. Two were of the proper size and placement for a human, but each of those eyes had a pair of smaller eyes set in the forehead above, and another pair of much larger eyes gazed out from just below the woman's cheekbones. The eyes blinked in pairs, and none of those pairs blinked at the same time. She was exceedingly disconcerting to look at, but after some of the other horrors he'd seen, Terry just picked the human-sized eyes and focused on them when he looked at her.

  She tilted her head a bit after a moment, then said, "Do you know who I am?"

  "Not a clue," he said. Then he waved a hand around at the marble columns and the garden as he added, "I'm guessing you're another castaway from ancient Greece though, given the decor."

  Her lips were full but compressed somewhat as she listened. She then smirked and said, "A fair guess. I have no way to know if my story is known to humans in the modern day. My name is Arachne. I was cursed into the form of a spider by the goddess Athena, many, many, many years ago. Eventually, like so many other monsters of what you call the ancient world, I was sent here, assuming in the process my current form."

  "You're very pretty," he said without a trace of sarcasm. Given some of the things he'd seen, a woman with a few extra sets of eyes was easy enough to compliment. Her silk dress wasn't exactly diaphanous, but it did do a marvelous job of hinting at the richly curved body underneath.

  Arachne's eyes blinked in rapid succession, and then she chuckled softly. "A flatterer, and with a straight face. We do not have much time together, Terrence Mack, so allow me the courtesy of your full attention, and in return I will grant you a boon."

  "I'm listening," he said.

  "One hundred eighty-seven of your children followed you out of the woods near Florence," Arachne said. "Over the course of the next several days, they will self-select, killing and eating each other until only ten remain."

  She paused, but he simply nodded and rolled his hand for her to continue. If she'd been talking about human children, he'd have been horrified. As it was, he was vaguely uneasy about what she might tell him next, but the idea that the spiders following him around were technically his kids was too strange an idea to adequately absorb. It was like listening to someone talk about quantum physics. Interesting, but so far outside his experience that the greater truths just sort of slid by.

  "Once this happens, your children will want you to preside over their final conflicts. They will array themselves before you and grow still when they are ready. Should you wish to satisfy my wish of you, I would have you fill a bowl with your blood, sit down with your strongest children. Allow the victors to drink, then give each a name."

  Terry nodded as he digested what it was she wanted him to do, then asked, "If I do this, will you bond with me?"

  Again her eyes blinked in rapid succession, then she said, "Spider women often slay their mates, template. If I should lie with you, I should like to slay you afterward, and am quite likely to do so."

  "I have a means of conveying myself to you without sex, if you're close," he said, putting the image of being devoured by this woman waaay in the back of his mind. Her mouth looked normal enough to him, but he'd seen enough horror movies to supply his imagination with plenty of possibilities. "I don't know how much else you know about what's going on around me, but I need powerful allies, and bonds, to destroy the Twilight Zone."

  "So that truly is your wish?" she asked.

  He shrugged and nodded. "Since I got here, those bastards have tried to kill me more than once, and I made a promise. I keep my promises. Even if I hadn't, what Thomas is doing is wrong. I mean to stop him any way I can. I could use your help."

  "Perhaps it could be arranged," Arachne said. "This converse was for the benefit of your children only, for they are mine as well, though a few generations removed. I want the strongest among them to prosper. Do as I have instructed and they will remain loyal to you. As they grow older you will find them ever more useful."

  She paused, then asked, "How is it that looking at me is so easy for you? Most templates I talk to run screaming at the sight of me."

  "Arachne, one of my women has snakes for hair, brass claws for hands, and turns anyone she looks at to stone. Another one is a tentacular horror from the deepest depths of the ocean. During the day my body plays host to a big blob of sarcastic, manipulative blood. From Hell."

  He grinned at her and shook his head as he folded his arms across his chest, still leaning against the pillar. "I hope you're not offended hearing this but with eight eyes and six arms, you aren't even close to that weird, all other things considered. Over the past month I've dealt with goddesses, dragons, Ephe, and all kinds of strange shit. To be perfectly honest? I think I'm getting used to it."

  She nodded once, her head tilting slightly. With so many eyes her expressions were confusing to read, but her amusement came through clearly enough as she said, "I like you, Terrence Mack. Ephe was my great-grandchild, descended directly from the last template I had congress with. See to your children, and I will at least promise that we encount
er each other again."

  Terry woke to find himself curled into the fetal position, and his eyes were gummy. He realized — to his supreme annoyance — that he'd been crying in his sleep.

  At least I'm not sleeping WITH anyone tonight. Thank God for small favors.

  "Master?"

  Prada's voice was quiet, and but for the rising tone of her question gave nothing away.

  Aw shit.

  Terry's disgust with himself peaked and he twisted to look.

  She was adhered to the underside of the wagon under which he'd fallen asleep. He knew because he'd watched her do it, and her voice came from above him.

  "Yes, Prada?" he asked, keeping his tone as even as he could manage.

  "I want to help you," she said.

  His cynical nature flooded him with derision and he opened his mouth, then hesitated. She wasn't offering him a deal. She wasn't trying to tempt him with anything. She hadn't cajoled or wheedled. She just ... said she wanted to help.

  Bit by bit, his spite and irritation bled away, leaving him more than a little ashamed of himself.

  She can't lie to me ... and I have to admit I’ve been treating her like shit lately.

  "Prada, I wish you could," he said quietly, shifting around to lay on his back, staring up into the darkness. The fire was about ten feet away, but its flickering light only served to cast the bottom of the wagon into deeper shadow. His bedroll, acquired — along with most of his other belongings — by others on his behalf, was damp with sweat.

  "I just don't know that there's any help for a weak mind. I can keep it together when I'm awake. That night back in Florence won't happen again ... but I don't control my dreams. Sometimes they're bad, that's all. Thanks for offering though, it means a lot."

  In fact, almost all his dreams over the course of the last several days had been bad. It was one of the reasons he now insisted on sleeping alone. Flailing himself and others awake every night was humiliating. Euryale had been the most difficult to convince. In the end he'd had to make a command of it.

  For a moment, the only sound he heard was the crackling of the fire, and the sound of Laina's breathing. He could hear her inside the wagon. Shy had planted herself for the evening, and he could see her tree about ten feet past the fire. Yuri and Mila had their bedrolls nearer the blaze, and Marcus was off somewhere, on watch. He didn't see Astur, so he presumed she was with Marcus, likely with Euryale still keeping a hungry eye on her. Laina had, unsurprisingly, agreed to be responsible for the dragon. He thought she was being a sap about Asturial, but he'd given her the option, so he would live with the consequences, whatever they might be.

  Hell, maybe someday I'll be thanking Laina for handing out chances I wouldn't give myself.

  "I would like to ask a favor of you, Master," Prada said at last, drawing his attention back to her.

  "If I can. What do you want?"

  A gleaming red droplet slid into sight, suspended by a crimson thread. The droplet swelled until it was the size of a softball, and hung just over Terry's face. The voice that came from it was very soft.

  "I want you to dissolve our contract. I don't want to be your familiar anymore."

  "If I do that, what's to keep you from killing me?" he asked. "Or any of the others?"

  "Is that truly your only concern?" she asked.

  "No, but it's the big one. If you want to be free of me, I don't blame you," he said. "I know I've been a shit with you lately. I have no illusions about our arrangement. If you got what you wanted from this and want to leave, I won't stop you. I just don't want you to hurt anyone on your way out."

  "Devils make contracts," she said. "It is in our nature, and our oaths are binding. So let us make a pact, you and I. I will swear never to do non-consensual harm to you and yours, in exchange for my freedom."

  Terry's brow wrinkled at the choice of terms, but as he thought about it he didn't see any immediate way it could be exploited except ...

  "So we both agree that any form of compulsion precludes consent, correct?" he asked.

  "Yes, Master."

  "Then I agree. What do I have to do to free you?"

  Prada's droplet seemed to glitter in the light of the fire and Terry felt a pang of foreboding as she said, "Simply declare our contract fulfilled in simple, unadorned language of your choosing."

  He nodded, eyes almost crossing as he looked at her and said, "Prada, I am satisfied with your service. Your contract with me is fulfilled."

  The droplet quivered slightly, then lowered yet further until it hung so close to his lips that he could have pursed them and kissed her as she asked, "You actually did it. I suspected you would after you refused Asturial's offer of a geas, but this is still quite remarkable. I can't help but wonder: were you truly satisfied with my service, or is it just that you want to be rid of me?"

  He thought about it for a moment, then said simply, "Every time I needed you, you came through for me. I never trusted you ... but I hate to see you go. Not sure how I'm going to do magic without you. To answer you, yes, I was satisfied. I only wish I'd kept a better hold on my temper with you."

  As he spoke, he noticed other droplets descending over him, and as they settled all along his body and connected, Prada took the form of a shapely woman laying on his chest. He was unused to feeling her weight. Usually when she touched him, she sank into his body and the sash she left behind was as light as the silk it imitated. Now though she simply rested atop him, and each time he shifted or moved, she rippled a bit. It was an oddly pleasant sensation.

  The flickering firelight made fine details impossible to pick out, but he got the impression of a pretty face and a sultry smile. She batted faux eyes at him and said, "Terry ... I never said I was going anywhere. I just said I didn't want to be your familiar. Now that I have your word that you were satisfied, I'd have to be completely irrational to want to leave."

  He blinked, opened his mouth to speak, and she kissed him.

  A tongue — he could consider it to be nothing else — effortlessly slipped past his lips and for the first time he tasted Prada. Her flavor was iron, tangy, and not at all unpleasant despite the fact he knew where that metallic taste came from. She cupped his face with hands that seemed only half-formed. Her first touch was cool, but her substance seemed to pick up his heat, warming rapidly as she caressed him. Her body shifted, the bulk of her weight rolling forward, then back, folding herself around the bedroll, not removing it so much as filling it with herself. It had been the only thing between them.

  He felt a soothing, indescribably smooth sensation everywhere she touched him. Her weight flowed across the length of his body as she redistributed her substance. With nothing left between them, he could actually feel his heartbeat as it sent tiny ripples through her body. She broke the kiss and touched his lips with a gentle finger as she said, "Terry, before you reject me, please listen. We both know that I am not human. I have no love in my heart, because I have no heart at all. I will never love you as your other women do, or may. I cannot. Yet ... I also cannot convey with simple words the desire I have for you. There is no one I could ever contract with who would give me what you do. You fascinate me. You stymie me. You anger me ... and then you thank me. In gifts and unexpected gratitude you pay me, though you trust me not. You puzzle and fascinate, irritate and placate me all in turn. So let me say that while I do not love you, Terry ... I want you. I want to be with you. I want to stay with you, and share your journey. You make my life ... fun. So before you cast me out let me offer you a new contract. Will you listen to my terms?"

  She lifted the finger and her hand simply oozed into shapelessness and covered his throat, bathing him in a cool, rolling sensation that could best be described as innumerable cats paws kneading his flesh everywhere she touched.

  "I'll listen," he said, doing his best to control himself and failing miserably. She was more than large enough to simulate a complete, full-sized human shape and was doing so now. Her hips were over his, but her substance
was very much disrespecting his personal space downstairs, playing over him like the finest silk sheets.

  His shaft was already rigid and she just kept teasing his flesh literally everywhere she touched as she said, "I, Prada, offer thee, Terrence Mack, myself as thy wife. To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or worse, in sickness and health, in wealth and poverty. I offer my devotion and obedience to thee and thee alone until death do us part, forsaking contracts with all others and asking nothing in return but that thou cherish me as thine own, use me as thou seest fit, and neglect me not. Terrence Mack, do thou takest me for thy wife?"

  As she spoke, Prada began to glimmer with her own, inner light. It was unmistakably magic, and by the time she asked the final question she was so bright that her carmine radiance shown out from under the wagon where they lay with all the power of a concert searchlight.

  With a start, Terry recognized — in a way he would never have been able to explain if asked — that while Prada's diction was archaic, she was speaking in plain English. His eyes widened as realization dawned and the last piece of a puzzle long unsolved clicked into place.

  "My God," he whispered. "That ritual wasn't just something that Cecaelia set up for me. English itself is the language of magic."

  "Only one of them, Terry, but yes. You need never memorize arcane words to work your will. You already have everything you need to be the most powerful mortal theurge on Celestine. Beyond the meanings of certain shapes you will need for your rituals, the rest of a wizard's mummery is of no use to you. Consider this knowledge my dowry. It is yours to take whether you accept me or not. I have known this since I first touched your mind, and it has been my most closely guarded secret. I reveal it now as an act of faith, my very first."