The cook crouching beside her lifted her grenade launcher and looked a question at her. Sukain nodded. But when the woman aimed her weapon and pushed it through the open door, Sukain raised her hand. Not sensing the witches’ creation, the cook almost shot the grenade at one of the columns supporting their overhead shields. That would have put the two of them within the blast radius. Sukain tried to sign the woman a question, but rather than argue, the woman simply gave the weapon to Sukain, and pointed to the trigger mechanism.
“Their bodies are all unmarked,” said the lead witch as the other witches engaged in maintaining the missile shield. “Not a burn anywhere in the room. This priest did something...”
Checking her range, Sukain paused as doubts assailed her. She could not verify the strength of the witches’ shield canopy without alerting them to her presence, but if it were to withstand a missile strike, it undoubtedly took a great deal of concentration to maintain. Still, that left three witches to worry about, two guarding the room’s main doors, and one delving into her psychic vision. Would her grenade get under the overhead shield canopy and detonate before the other witches could react? And would the explosion be strong enough to overcome what shielding the witches may be maintaining around themselves individually?
Aware that she had but one shot, and that further delay would gain her nothing, Sukain took a calming breath, and took aim.
“A mental blast of some kind,” the lead witch continued, moving about the bodies, her answer somewhere before her. Suddenly she stopped. “Sweet Goddess,” she whispered.
The two witches standing guard sensed it as well, but were also too late. The recoil of the launcher laying Sukain and the cook to the floor, the grenade exploded in the witches’ midst, their shield configuration instantly collapsing the moment their bodies were blown apart.
When Sukain and the cook finally roused, they saw that the secret door had been blasted to pieces. But they were still alive.
“I’ll be damned,” the woman beside Sukain exclaimed. “Guess I have a new title for that recipe book I’ve been working on.”
“Please tell me the current aroma is not bringing this to mind,” said Sukain.
“How to Roast a Witch’s Ass,” the woman said proudly.
-
Their battle open for view under a twilight sky, surrounded by the ruins of Pablen Palace, shields crackled as continuous blue electrical fire bolts raced from the outstretched hands of the two combatants, both hovering in mid-air.
Ashincor wondered where Lilth drew her energy. True, her massive psychic construct was now smaller, but her power outlay was still tremendous. Had she given herself over to some form of unconscious possession, like the Battle Trance certain warriors used to fight like demons? It would explain the augmented level of strength. But dared he resort to that form of mental surrender himself? He knew he was weakening, but how much more power would it truly give him? And how deep would he have to submerge his conscious-self to access it?
One could lose oneself in such waters.
Below them Derrick began to stir. Still encaged by Lilth’s interconnecting shields, he tried to stand, but could only get halfway. He was about to test his strength against them when the Viscountess swooped down and circled around him, her electrical fire still blazing. Lilth completed her rotation around Derrick with uninterrupted grace. As she again closed in on Ashincor to engage him, Derrick sat down with his legs crossed, and stared blankly ahead.
“What did you do to him?” Ashincor demanded.
Lilth looked at Ashincor with the dispassion of an animated corpse.
She had gone deep, Ashincor realized, deeper than he could go with any hope of coming back. Giving himself over to his unconscious-self was not a technique he regularly practiced. The real problem in following Lilth’s example however was that he could not be sure that it would be enough. He could sacrifice himself for nothing, leaving Lilth to kill Derrick at will.
Pressing her advantage, Lilth lowered herself and reconfigured her shields. Now if Ashincor’s attacks breached her shields, Derrick would share her fate. Their battle was nearing its end. Ashincor, and Derrick, only had so much time.
Lilth’s shields constricted again. So she was tiring.
Ashincor nodded to himself as an idea formulated in his mind.
Lowering himself to the floor, he released his grounding, knowing she would sense a lessening and shifting of his power to his shields. She would think he was tiring too. Lilth tilted her head haughtily.
“So, have you finally realized that you cannot defeat me?” Lilth asked. She was returning to herself. Had she still been deep in her trance, her manner would have been more mechanical, if she had spoken at all.
“Not on your terms, Viscountess,” Ashincor admitted. “I wonder though, do you know what killed your witch sisters earlier?”
“What do you know of that?”
“Even I sensed their deaths,” he continued, “their being so nearby, and of such an unusual nature. And then the last batch that just winked out.” He had not been sure of what he had sensed during their duel, but Lilth’s brief look of uncertainty confirmed his suspicion. “Are you alone here now, Lady Lilth?”
“The same question might be asked of you,” Lilth replied evenly. “I see no members of your meddling Order coming to your aid.”
“Who says that they are not on their way?” said Ashincor, sensing a flowing of power in Lilth’s direction. She was gathering it, but was also somehow shielding the extent of it from his perception. It was a neat trick, he had to admit. “Time favors me, not you.”
The instant Lilth’s shields dropped, Ashincor sensed a great ball of energy hurling toward him. Instinctively he refortified his shields, but knew it would not be enough. Like an arrow bolt shot from a ballista, Lilth’s attack pierced his psychic shield and sent him back through the wall behind him, breaking his concentration, and bringing down his outer shields.
The Viscountess flew at him, blowing out more of the wall to pass into the next room. Her awareness came toward him even faster, ramming against his mental shields. “Before you die,” she projected with her thoughts, “you will tell me what happened to my fellow sisters.”
The blow took more from him than expected, but he resisted the suggestive component of her projection as he fought to keep her out of his mind. Lilth hovered over him. With his outer shields breached, her need for information momentarily outweighed her desire to kill him. Opening his eyes, Ashincor tried lifting his hands, but Lilth’s touch to his forehead ended the effort.
“You didn’t quite guess right, Ashincor Linse,” Lilth’s voice intoned in his thoughts. “I am not alone just yet. But you will tell me what killed them.”
Ashincor continued moving his awareness up the chain of dimensions to find a place to gather his psychic energies one last time. A section of his mental shield fell back, a sacrifice so that he could have the added power he would need.
Lilth smiled at his retreat, constricting his remaining shields even further. But when he smiled back, she shivered and backed off, severing all connection to him. Whatever inner warning she received, he knew it would not save her now. But before he could release his remaining power, Derrick entered his field of vision.
Ashincor could only guess compelled Derrick to come to Lilth’s side, but it did not matter. He was there, and too close for the Patér to safely discharge his counter-attack. Ashincor’s stomach constricted as Lilth smiled anew, first in relief, then in triumph. The Patér could not kill her without killing his grandson. Recognizing that her control of Derrick brought control of the planet, a new thought emerged: What was his duty now?
Did he use the Discipline he had readied the way Dolfini had taught him? Kill Derrick, but save Legan? Most Mental Disciplines fell into established categories of related techniques, some only subtle variations of others. But he could not think of a way he could change this one to neutralize the Viscountess without harming his grandson.
; Yet there was one Discipline he could try, one he had used years before, with three other adepts acting in concert. It was also one he had vowed never to use again. He could still see the horror on the man’s face to whom it was directed: Once a member of his Order. Once a friend.
Ashincor sluggishly rose to his feet and looked at Derrick, wondering if his awareness was fighting Lilth’s control over him. If he was, he had run out of time. His grandfather would do his best to save what he could, but his hope was faint.
“You know,” Lilth projected, calm once more in the face of Ashincor’s resignation. “I had thought of letting Derrick live, and just ruling through him.”
“I suspect your brother would be less than happy with that arrangement,” Ashincor projected back, strengthening their connection.
“It would only have been temporary,” said Lilth, again closing in on her prey.
“Long enough for your son, Cary, to assume the throne?”
The Viscountess’ laughter echoed in his thoughts. “Are you ready then, to tell me what I want to know?” Again Lilth encircled his awareness. She was so close, he felt her breath upon his face. “I can offer death without suffering.”
“I can guarantee that myself.”
“For Derrick?” She began to clamp down over his shields once again.
“Even for him.” Ashincor gasped as he received an image-sensation of long, pointed nails digging into his brain with a slow closing of an over-fleshed hand.
“You disappoint me,” said Lilth, bypassing his closed eyes and projecting an image of herself directly into his thoughts. “I expected more from a patér.”
Ashincor’s shields retracted further. Hovering close, Lilth pressed harder, her awareness at the very edge of his shields. At that moment he opened his eyes, dropped his shields, and discharged all his power at once.
Their eyes locked together, time froze for both as Ashincor’s attack hit the center of Lilth’s psychic power, and burned that part of her mind away. Without other adepts help to shield his own awareness, however, Ashincor also burned himself, costing him his psychic power, and more. Whether he had inadvertently burned Derrick as well, he did not know. But that had been the risk.
From his own slowed perception of time, Ashincor watched Lilth fall to the floor with no change in her expression, her psychic power suddenly cut off. But with his strength fully drained, he fell too, as the edges of his vision went black.
Lilth Morays screamed as she hit the floor, not from the pain, but from fear. Her power was gone. She barely had the strength to push herself to her knees, let alone stand. Without her psychic abilities, the world had become a terrifying place, where things could come at her from everywhere and seemingly out of nowhere. Dark Things, ones against which she now had no defense. She was weak and vulnerable, easy prey to forces that were once beneath her, and subject to her pitiless dominion. And some of these forces, these things, had memories, and a thirst for revenge that rivaled her own.
Ashincor heard her screams only distantly. The feeble pounding of her fists was but a dulled sensation. Knowing that the Viscountess could no longer harm his grandson, his only regret, as his final thoughts drifted from his awareness, was being unable to tell him how much he loved him. Perhaps Derrick knew it now, but it would have been nice to say it to him, after so many years, one last time.
Derrick shook his head to clear the fog from his thoughts. Seeing Lilth crying as she weakly brought her fists up and down over his grandfather, he raised his shields and hit her with a psychic force that knocked her across the room.
Aside from a pained howl however, Lilth offered no response. Expecting some sort of trick, he watched as she awkwardly tried to right herself. The grossly overweight woman could hardly move. Still wary, Derrick scanned her with his thoughts. She had no outer shield defense. Switching to a mental probe, again he encountered no resistance, save for her hysterical shrieks to stay away from her and get out of her mind. Satisfied that she was not an immediate threat, he kept his shields raised as he went to his grandfather and opened his psychic awareness to him. But he sensed no heartbeat. No breathing. No spark of awareness.
Ashincor Linse was gone.
Derrick fell to his knees. And stayed there.
No longer did he hear Lilth Morays’ uncontrollable sobbing from some corner of the room. Neither did he see the emergency evacuation craft hovering above him, blocking out the night sky filled with faded stars and distant realms. Nor did he feel Steuben lifting him up to his feet and shepherding him to safety.
All he knew was that his grandfather was dead.
And that he was now more alone than he had ever been before.
- - -
Epilogue
The old wizened woman, connected to various machines under and around her bed, watched the live scenes from Linse Castle with hawk-like intensity. Pablen Palace was destroyed. Legan’s government was in political and military crisis. Yet the state funeral of Ashincor Linse, officiated by the Patér Rector of Ferramond, had all the trappings one would expect for a planetary ruler. All except for the attendance of more family members.
Not that very many were left, the waxen crone thought cruelly, her weak smile only reaching one side of her blotched and wrinkled face.
For years she had been imprisoned in what was once a remote royal palace, bound by the Afskagg Mountains above, and a deep forest below. Though the religious sisters guarding her now saw themselves more as caretakers than jailors, her one consolation was that they too were prisoners, the long winter there keeping them behind high walls as well. Still, over time, she had seen many sisters come and go. Serving their time, and then leaving her to these frozen wastes.
In a way, she saw the same comings and goings with Legan’s Noble Families. Not that she bothered to become philosophical about the rise and decline of other people’s lives, let alone sentimental. For the most part, she watched with the same disdain even when the inevitable fall came to members of her own family.
The scions of House Possór.
The family that banished her. The family that had forgotten her.
A young woman came in with a tray of food, checking the medical devices that kept the body of the ancient crone alive. It was her great-grandniece, Vela, named for her by her mother, a favored niece from her real House, House Lupa.
“How are you feeling today, Gran-An?” the young woman asked.
A glaze fell over the crone’s ice-blue eyes before she turned her head, giving the expected look of vacancy. Part of a long, tired act. Anyone her age should have died long ago. Knowing the Miran Church’s proscription against using the Disciplines to unnaturally extend one’s life, for years she had carefully kept her true condition hidden, all to avoid suspicion over her extraordinary longevity.
“Are you ready for breakfast?”
The old woman regarded her great-grandniece blankly as she was fed her morning goo. Her great-grandniece was a pretty girl. Not as beautiful as she had once been, but pretty. Originally, the crone had chosen the girl’s mother for what she intended, but the timing had never been opportune. The crone and her crimes were too well-known, and too many watchful eyes had been upon her.
Now the mother was too old, with limited possibilities. But the daughter, yes. She was the perfect age, with an empty social canvass to which many things could be added without complication. And with the daughter, it would not even take much effort to bring her to the stunning perfection the crone demanded. That would keep questions to a minimum.
“I was sorry to hear about what happened to your granddaughter, Lilth Morays, Gran-An,” the young woman went on conversationally. The family ties between the Lupas and the Possórs had broken so long ago that, to the young woman, the Possórs were little better than strangers. “Mother told me that you were close when she was a young girl.”
Yes, the crone thought. Poor Lilth. She had such promise when she was a girl. Another of the crone’s former students in the Dark Arts, Hestori, had con
firmed her granddaughter’s power. If only Lilth had been loyal to her, her grandmother would have shared with her such arcane secrets that no one would have stood against her. Another missed opportunity.
But now, also a new one.
With House Possór weakened and listless, and few around to remember the crone for who she was, the time had come to look to the future. And to make it fit her ambitions. Now was the time to return and take her rightful place, and to once more stand before the people of Legan as their Countess-Grandia.
But this time, all the power would be hers.
Bringing her awareness up the chain of dimensions beyond the perception of the young woman before her, the crone gathered her psychic power. If her many years of isolation had afforded the evil woman anything, it was the time to delve deeper into forbidden psychic practices, and perfect her technique in transference.
Transference, also called possession by those who opposed its use.
This would not be temporary however, as all her previous experiments had been. This would be permanent, or so at least until the crone was done with this body and required another.
The young woman wiped the last of the excess food from her great-grandaunt’s chin. It was the final indignity the crone would have to endure in this wretched place.
“Would you like me to read to you now?” the young woman asked.
The crone shook her head, favored her great-grandniece with a frail but inviting smile. Slowly she lifted a trembling hand.
“Ah, I know what you want,” the young woman laughed, bending over to give the old woman a hug. As she tilted her head to kiss her great-grandaunt on the cheek however, the crone clamped down on her wrists with iron-like claws, sharply turned her head so that their lips would meet, and expelled her foul breath into her great-grandniece’s mouth and lungs.
Paralyzed in the old woman’s grip, with the crone’s awareness surrounding her mental shields and ripping them down piece by piece, the young woman helplessly watched as alien thoughts drifted through her mind, and strange memories implanted themselves next to her own.
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