Lokkemand glared at Milo.
“Just when I thought I might grow to like you.” He sighed and heaved himself to his feet. “Get your affairs sorted. We leave in the morning.”
Milo had just arranged his bag for the night when there was a knock on the front door.
“Who is it?” he called, his hand straying to the cane resting against the wall.
Ambrose was out disposing of whatever elements of Imrah’s laboratory Milo couldn’t make use of.
“A friend.” It was Rihyani’s silvery voice.
Milo rose and went to the door, ignorant of the smile that hovered on his lips.
“In broad daylight?” Milo asked as he drew the door open to see Rihyani peeking out from under her heavy traveling robes. “With so many soldiers roaming around?”
“Many and strange are the visitors of the Sorcerer in Black,” the contessa said lightly as Milo moved to allow her inside. “I am only adding to the mystique.”
Milo shook his head as he closed the door, and they walked into the den beside the kitchen.
“So, you’ve heard about that then?” he asked, wishing he could offer her something to eat or somewhere to sit. The only things left in the house were their trunks, packs, and sleeping rolls, all gathered into a heap by Milo.
“Oh, where do you think they got the idea?” The fey chortled softly. “I usually prefer not to be center stage, but I am rather proud of that little improvisation. Your commanding officers didn’t think it was too on the nose, did they?”
Milo paused for a moment at Rihyani’s confession, then shook his head vigorously.
“What? Oh, no, no, they liked it,” he said quickly. “Captain Lokkemand loved it. Truth is, he pointed out how building the myth is the best way to keep things from being taken seriously.”
“Good, I’m glad.” Rihyani smiled, wine-dark eyes glittering.
“Uh, yes, well,” Milo floundered, his cheeks flushing and his stomach knotting. “I just wanted to say...um, thank you for saving us…twice…and then with the zeppelin crew, and before that... Well, just, thank you for everything.”
The words had come in such a jumbled rush. Milo was winded, and for a moment, he just stared at her.
“You are most welcome,” Rihyani said, laughing in the way that made his heart ache. “I only hope the tale of Der Zauber-Schwartz and the Lost Patrols grows with each retelling, knowing the tales will never be as fantastic as the truth of what happened that day.”
“For sure,” Milo muttered lamely and found he was having a hard time raising his eyes above the floor.
For a moment, a silence potent with potential passed between them, then Milo cleared his throat with a grunt and gestured at the piled-up luggage.
“We’re moving out in the morning,” he said. “Going north, but I’m not sure where.”
Rihyani nodded slowly, and then, straightening as though just remembering, reached inside her cloak.
“I heard, which is why I brought these,” she said, drawing out a satchel. “Bashlek Marid sends them with his regards, as well as a command to not return to Ifreedahm anytime soon.”
Milo took the satchel and found it contained several parchment codices. Combined with what he’d already been given and what they’d found in Imrah’s effects, he had months of material to read and practice.
“Why am I banished?’ he asked, a frown creasing his brow. “What did I do?”
Rihyani cocked a delicate eyebrow as her dark mouth twisted into a wry grin.
“You mean, besides save his kingdom and bear witness to his daughter being a dangerous traitor and heretic?” The contessa chuckled. “Oh, Milo, it has nothing to do with you and everything to do with ghul politics. You remember what I told you about Fazihr going to Lady Dazk?”
Milo nodded and his mouth hardened into an angry line. The prohibition against Ifreedahm notwithstanding, he would have loved to track the sniveling little rat down.
“Well, just to prove nothing is ever a sure thing,” Rihyani began as she straightened her robes, “it seems Fazihr, being Imrah’s retainer, was part of finding and liberating that thing. You called it Kimaris, yes? Well, the worm thought sharing that with Lady Dazk would win him favor and provide an opportunity to overthrow Marid. Instead, it saw him delivered rather promptly to the Bashlek’s dungeons.”
Milo’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.
“How did that happen?” he asked, genuinely intrigued.
“It seems that Lady Dazk’s primary concern is the good of ghulkind,” Rihyani said in bewilderment. “Seeing the threat was as dire as it was and knowing that, whatever their differences, Marid would never tolerate wanton destruction, she delivered the bound Fazihr with her personal guard. Since then, she has been a vital asset, working with the Bashlek’s agents to track down anyone who knew or even suspected Imrah was consorting with the Guardians.”
“Guardians?” Milo said. “Is that what Kimaris was?”
The word seemed too wholesome to describe the nauseating horror, but Milo supposed aesthetics and sanity might be in the eye of the beholder.
“No,” Rihyani said, her eyes darting left and right so quickly Milo barely had time to notice. “Kimaris was something older and fouler than we have experience with."
“’We?’” Milo asked, bemused as he watched Rihyani shift her weight to her back foot.
“Milo,” she said tentatively, unsure for the first time since he’d met her, “there are aspects of this world, the world of the Folk, that will take time and experience to learn. I’ve probably shared more with you than I should have. I’m not sure more will be helpful, and it could be dangerous.”
Milo bristled, his arms sliding across his chest even as he forced his voice into a level tone he didn’t feel.
“That seems to be a popular tune with a lot of people,” he said, his eyes locking onto hers. “But considering you’ve already let a few things slip, wouldn’t it be best if you gave me enough information to keep me from coming to the wrong conclusions?”
Rihyani’s gaze hardened. Milo wasn’t sure if he’d crossed a line, but he’d planted his flag, and he wouldn’t back down now.
“Very well.” The contessa sighed, shrugging her cowled shoulders. “You remember when I mentioned factions who want to cooperate covertly with humans and those who want to wage war with humans?”
“Yes,” Milo murmured, arms still crossed.
“As you’d expect, it is deeper and darker than that. The anti-humans call themselves the Guardians, and along with stirring up animosity toward your kind, they send what they call Questers out to find secrets and tools or weapons they can use against humanity when they eventually declare their war. Imrah, it seems, was a Quester, and she did in fact find a weapon that could have done even more damage than it had already. Do you know what caused your armies to advance so quickly?”
“The enemy retreated,” Milo replied, eyes narrowing. “Some thought it was a trap, but it turned out to be a strategic repositioning.”
“The repositioning came when Imrah first unleashed Kimaris,” Rihyani explained, the words sending a preemptive chill up Milo’s spine. “The coalition of enemies arrayed against you, both the native soldiers and those from Europe and India, retreated because they were losing entire companies in a night. The official reports are that your armies used some sort of chemical attack.”
Milo shuddered at the fate of so many men, screaming and running through tunnels and across mountainsides, only to be overtaken by the foul tide that would spend days digesting them.
“Dear God,” Milo murmured, running a hand over his face. “So Imrah didn’t just set loose the monster, but she set in motion the events that nearly saw her people at war with humanity.”
Rihyani nodded, taking a step toward the door.
“Yes, though besides the timing, I’m not sure war would have been disagreeable to her sensibilities.”
It was before the end, Milo thought, remembering the broken, despairing
look in the ghul’s eyes as she embraced death.
“Regardless,” the contessa continued, seeing Milo was slipping deeper into his thoughts, “such desperate and dangerous schemes seem intertwined with the Guardians’ efforts, so among those who seek to work with humans, a faction has emerged that concerns itself with stopping the Guardians and their Questers before they can do too much damage.”
“The we you mentioned earlier?”
“Yes,” Rihyani confirmed, then gave a little bow. “We call ourselves the Shepherds, and while we are few, we are active in ferreting out Questers and keeping the chaos at bay, at least for a day longer.”
“Is that why you really came to Ifreedahm?” Milo asked. “Tracking down rumors of Questers?”
“Perhaps,” the fey said with a smile. “For now, all you need to know is that I’m very glad you and I have had a chance to work together. I imagine we’ll have plenty of opportunities to do so again, assuming you live that long.”
Milo gave a derisive snort, followed by a grudging nod.
“Fair enough,” he said, eyeing the contessa cautiously. “I suppose it wouldn’t be terrible to work with you again.”
“You are too kind,” she replied as she stepped to the door and laid a gloved hand on the latch. “Just remember something, Milo.”
“What’s that?”
“The things always go deeper,” she said, drawing the door open and letting in a blaze of the red sunset. “There is always another mystery, another riddle, another enigma. The secret to surviving at this game is to know when to dig deeper and when to bury things. It is a secret every necromancer would do well to learn.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Milo said, stepping forward.
Their eyes locked for another moment of pregnant silence, then she was out the door and calling over her shoulder.
“Be careful tonight. Don’t raise more ghosts than you can put down.”
Epilogue: Sine Sacrificio
The moonlight glinted off the black winds swirling and coiling across the mountainside. Half a dozen spectral currents of glistening darkness slid across the worn earth and chipped boulders, their movements serpentine and exploratory. To the scavengers not immediately frightened by their arrival, the slithering tendrils seemed to be nosing over their feast like huge flying blindworms.
From his position on the opposite hillside, Milo could see the method in the Si’lats’ movements, an expanding grid as they searched amongst the scorched and shattered remains. The skeletal hulk of the zeppelin was higher up the face of the mountain, but Milo expected their best chance was to work their way upward amidst the splintered remnants of Kimaris’ tortured quarry.
“I’m still not sure this is a good idea,” Ambrose grumbled next to him as he puffed on his pipe.
“Let’s go with not,” Milo said, one corner of his mouth rising in a lopsided grin. A plume of breath rolled from his nostrils, the temperature having dropped drastically since sunset.
“Then why are we doing it?” Ambrose asked before releasing an impatient blast of smoke. “We’re headed out first thing.”
“You can sleep on the truck ride,” Milo muttered distractedly. One of the Si’lats had picked up a bunch of charred bones, but after tossing them about a bit, it went off again.
“That doesn’t answer the question,” the big man said, kicking a fist-sized rock into a downhill bounce. “And standing out here in an unsecured valley with no support and no one knowing what we are doing is exactly the kind of thing to get two fools captured or killed.”
Milo gave his bodyguard a wink.
“You could always head back,” he teased. “Leave me to my foolish ways.”
Ambrose spat downhill, the spittle staying aloft for a record-worthy amount of time.
“I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again.” The big man sniffed. “You’re not nearly as funny as you think you are.”
Milo chuckled and turned back to watch his shade-animated agents continue their search. He watched the Si’lats for another handful of heartbeats before he looked back at Ambrose, his eyes narrowed accusingly.
“Hey,” he cried sharply. “You never finished explaining your resurrection gimmick.”
Ambrose puffed his pipe three times and muttered the word “gimmick” grumpily before heaving a sigh and tapping the bowl out.
“My gimmick,” he began pointedly as he slid the pipe into his breast pocket, “is anything but. It’s a harrowing experience as I cross between the realm of the living and the ghostly realms beyond.”
Milo raised a hand to his mouth and gave a choked cry of shock.
“Oh, no,” he said with exaggerated tenderness. “Have I hurt your feelings?”
“Anyways,” Ambrose replied tartly, then cleared his throat. “Erm, now where was I? Oh, yes, Morocco. So there I was—”
“No,” Milo cut in, one hand raised wardingly. “None of that. We only have so long, and I am pretty sure I still owe you an explanation.”
He tapped the breast pocket of his surcoat, lighting an eager gleam in Ambrose’s eyes
“You’ll have plenty of time for war stories on the trip up north,” Milo said, sliding his hands into his pockets. “Just focus on the real issue. You say you really die, and then you really come back. I want to hear about that.”
Ambrose rocked on his heels, and his lips twitched beneath his mustache. His internal dialogue ended with a low grunt as he nodded.
“All right,” he breathed, expelling curls of dragon breath into the cold air. “It’s like a dream but not. Just like you know things in a dream, just know them for no reason at all, you also can know that you’re sleeping or that you’re dreaming, or whatever, that’s what it’s like. I’m dying, bleeding, drowning, or what have you, but then I find I’m standing on my own two legs, whole but different, and by different, you understand that I mean I know I’m dead.”
Milo nodded, studying the bodyguard’s face as his eyes became distant with recollection.
“It’s dark, quiet, and almost peaceful, you see. Certainty comes over you that yeah, this is it. But then one of the titans stirs in the dark next to me, and all the peace vanishes. Just like that, I’m a scared little boy hiding beneath his covers from the monster under his bed.”
Ambrose sucked his teeth, his eyes widening at the frightful memory.
“Titans?” Milo asked, trying to imagine what creature in this life or the next could have such an effect on the likes of Simon Ambrose.
“It’s just my name for them,” Ambrose explained, his words coming out faster and sharper. “I never see them since it’s dark, but I can hear them and feel them, and they're, well, enormous. It’s like standing at the foot of a mountain and sensing it moving just feet away from you. It seems slow, but that is because it’s taking your mind so long to realize something so massive is moving at all. And just like in a dream, I know these things, and I also know they’re bound somehow. Restrained, and they're angry. So angry.”
Ambrose shoved his hands in his pockets, but Milo could still see them trembling through the fabric of his coat.
“I know all of them hate me and want to hurt me, but one in particular, the only titan I can actually see, is looking for me. I get a quick glimpse of him, as immense and dominating as a mountain against a sky, and red stars in his huge head as he turns to look at me. He calls for me, calls me a name I’ve never heard in my life, but I know it’s mine even as I watch him start wading through the dark toward me.”
Ambrose blinked, his glistening eyes unnoticed as he heaved a heavy breath.
“And then,” he said thickly, “I feel a hand on my shoulder and a voice, a familiar voice I can never recognize, whispers in my ear, telling me something.”
Milo leaned forward in rapt attention, the meandering Si’lat search party forgotten.
“What does the voice say?” he breathed.
“All that seek shall find,” Ambrose recited, his voice barely more than a whisper. “But my spirit s
hall not always strive with man.”
Milo stared, bemusement, horror, and wonder, wrestling for control of his features.
“And then I wake up, hurting but alive,” Ambrose said. “I recover quickly, but each time, I get the feeling that was the very last time.”
Milo let out the breath he was holding.
“That’s...something,” he said, not able to muster embarrassment for his befuddlement. “And it’s that way every time?”
Ambrose nodded solemnly before turning back to the mountainside and wiping his eyes.
“Every time.” He sighed.
For a long time, the two of them stared into the night, the Si’lats moving beneath gazes that paid them no heed. Eventually, a chill wind rose, making Milo shiver, and he started as though waking from a dream. He looked at Ambrose, who was still staring vacantly, before chewing his lip as he fetched the tarot card from his pocket.
The grind of Milo’s boots on the rocky ground brought Ambrose back to himself, and he looked up to see Milo holding out the folded card.
“Here,” he said heavily, giving the card a shake. “You’ve earned a peek.”
Ambrose shook his head.
“No, it’s all right. Your secrets are yours, Magus.”
“Are you sure?” Milo asked, his arm still extended. “May not ever be another time I’m feeling so generous.”
Ambrose nodded and sniffed, running a hand across his mustache.
“I’m sure,” he said, squinting at a confluence of black sand. “When you’re sharing because you want to and not because of a fast-handed deal, I’ll look at the card.”
Milo hung there a second longer, card between his outstretched fingers, then drew back and replaced the card in the coat.
“And if that time never comes?” Milo asked, following Ambrose’s gaze to the veritable cyclone of Si’lats rushing toward them.
“All things in God’s good time, Magus,” the big man muttered.
The Si’lats broke upon the hillside like a crashing wave, rippling and swirling around the two men, bits of broken and charred bone held aloft on the gritty gusts. Milo focused his will and held out his hand.
Witchmarked (World's First Wizard Book 1) Page 32