by Carol Berg
Saverian agreed without hesitation. “Elene is a warrior of Evanore. She belongs where she can fight the battle given to her. I’ll see to it.” And then my friend, the physician, smiled in a most enigmatic fashion. “I think all your instincts are reliable.”
I stared after as she hurried away. My blood warmed, bringing a smile to my own lips, while the wind erased her footsteps as if she had never been.
Melkire brought Osriel the news that Bayard’s legion had camped on the slopes before Renna’s gates. The Moriangi seemed in no hurry either to engage Osriel’s garrison or to join forces with the Harrowers at Dashon Ra.
A clever solution, Max, I thought, as I perched on the rim of the grotto at the end opposite the cart track. Be ready to make a quick assault in case Sila gains the upper hand, but don’t jeopardize the alliance with Osriel by overt action.
The rising blizzard hid the battle and muffled its clamor. Below me, Osriel had returned to his spellmaking. Fires popped up here and there about the pit—garish green and yellow flames that enhanced the vile colors of the luminous vessels and gave off a nasty odor. Shadows of unseen movement danced on the rocks, and the air filled with sighs and moans that were not the skirling wind. I didn’t think such tricks would frighten Sila Diaglou or her vile grandam.
My fingers tracing spirals in the dry snow, I strained to hear the music from the other plane that existed here. A few steps and I could likely be on that hillside where the dance was reaching its climax. Sky Lord save me, how I wanted to be there. I rubbed out my idle markings and listened for Ronila. We could guess Sila’s plans. The crone was the real danger.
Footsteps crunched beyond the veils of snow, and I heard Voushanti’s gruff challenge.
“They’re coming, lord,” I called down softly. “I’ll be close. The gods hold you.”
Osriel threw off his blankets and glanced up. “Thank you for your care, Valen.” He cocked his head with a quiet amusement that reminded me very much of Gram. “Tomorrow, remember, we renegotiate the terms of your submission.”
I could not but laugh at such a bold pronouncement in the face of the world’s end. “I doubt I’ll ever be free of you, lord.”
I ran lightly up a steep rib of rock that had once supported a wooden sluice. Lying flat on the ground beside the splintered trough, I could both get a superior view of the proceedings in the grotto and be in the midst of them with only two long strides and a stomach-lurching jump. Not that there was much I could do to help. Matters had moved beyond my talents.
Voushanti, Philo, and Melkire led the small party out of the storm and down the cart track. Sila’s orange cloak floated in the wind, revealing the steel rings of a habergeon rusty with blood. Beside the priestess walked a tall, gray warrior, whose baldric of woad bore the steel house emblems of a Moriangi grav. This was Hurd, I guessed, the military mind behind Sila’s legions. He might have walked straight from his arming room. Only his boots, caked in filth that blackened the snow, gave evidence of his day’s activities. Behind Sila and Hurd stood her faithful henchmen, the scurrilous Falderrene and the needle-chinned Radulf, both carrying spears. No Perryn on this day. Most worrisome, no Ronila. Where was the poisonous spider who had woven this web? My back itched. Every nerve end quivered as I stretched my senses, but discovered no trace of her.
“Is my brother not bold enough to face me even under truce?” said Osriel, hunched and shivering. His wet hair straggled over his face, and his cloak flapped, revealing his battered state.
“Prince Perryn is destroying the remnants of your warriors, Bastard,” said Sila, all serenity. The steel helm hung from her belt had molded her fair hair to her battle-flushed cheeks. “He saw no need to gloat. Though your tongue-block halts his speech, he channels his fury into his sword. Is it not time to call a halt to this slaughter?”
“Few dare challenge me on my own ground,” said Osriel, waving a hand that trembled far too much. His scattered magefires snapped and billowed erratically.
Sila knelt and examined one of the votive vessels, passing her hand across its bilious gleam. A disturbance rippled through the earth under my knees. Her companions, even the formidable Hurd, squirmed uncomfortably and backed away. “I was warned that you dabbled in unwholesome arts,” she said. “Tell me, has your halfbreed servant visited this place?”
“Pious Valen? Pssh.” Osriel sneered. “True magic frightens him. He pretends he is an angel in a world that has no use for childish legends.”
“He was to be mine tonight…so your brothers promised me. No matter what other terms we agree to, I will hold you to that. Are you not well, Prince?”
Osriel gathered his cloak tight, shaking violently. Three of his magefires flared and winked out. The dancing shadows slowed. “I’ve had my use of Valen and much good has it bought me,” he croaked. “Have him if you will. I assumed you already had him. My spy reported his meeting with your monk yesterday.”
Sila looked up sharply. “Valen is with Gildas?” Nicely planted, lord. Make her doubt.
Osriel shrugged. “These cabalist lunatics are inseparable. As to terms: I retain Renna. You cannot care; no gold remains here. And I’d keep Magora Syne; I’ve a fondness for the high mountains. I’ll be neither your prisoner nor my brothers’. My warlords”—the prince began coughing, deep, racking coughs—“must be paroled—”
Sila watched dispassionately. “I think you are in no condition to make demands, Lord Prince.”
Falderrene and Radulf stepped out from behind her. Holy Mother…
Osriel stayed Voushanti with a gesture and held his palm straight out. Green light flared for a moment from his fingers. But another coughing spasm soon had him clutching his chest, and the light winked out—as did the rest of his magefires. As Osriel’s foolery collapsed, the livid gleams of the votive vessels paled as well, and one by one, faded into nothing. What did that mean?
I peered anxiously through the murk across the side hill, willing Saverian to stay hidden, worried about Ronila. When would the crone make her move? When I looked back to the pit, Falderrene had raised a yellow magelight to stave off the night.
“The remaining gold—we divide—” Osriel’s breaths came harsh and strained between his bouts of coughing. He sagged against the cart that hid his armor.
“Soon, lord,” I whispered. “Hold on. Stand up, or she’ll pounce.”
“I think we’ve heard enough,” said Sila, turning her back on Osriel. Weapons bristled around her. “Falderrene, prepare your silkbindings. A sick man is no more trustworthy than a healthy one. Hurd, signal—”
Voushanti moved. He embedded his ax in Hurd’s arm before the grav could bring his horn from his belt to his lips. Radulf reared back, aiming his spear for Osriel’s breast, but Voushanti’s sword sliced the devil’s neck just below his needle chin. Philo bellowed, “Avant! Avant!” and placed his bulk between Osriel and Sila, while Melkire gave chase to Falderrene, cutting him down before he could reach the cart track.
Osriel, unruffled, retreated to the verge of the sinkhole.
Sila, protected by Osriel’s bond, watched the brief skirmish calmly. “That was foolish, warrior,” she said, picking up Grav Hurd’s dropped instrument. “Do you think you can hold back what is to come?” The horn blast pierced the darkened pit.
Of Voushanti’s sentries, only three answered Philo’s summons, and ten yelling Harrowers raced hard on their heels. The pursuers cut down one of the three survivors before he reached the cart track.
In the distance, torches and magelights and screaming hordes broke through the last defenses of Dashon Ra and flooded the lower slopes. As earth and sky and past and future muddied one another like great rivers joining the sea, I burst from my hiding place, ready to snatch Osriel to safety…
The stretched string of the world snapped inside my chest. As Earth itself heaved a great sigh, I stumbled to my knees, shaken by the power of a blood surge more potent than heaven’s own wine, more passionate than the drive to love’s release. “Now, lord
!” I cried, throwing off my cloak so he could see me on the verge above him. “The change!”
Osriel raised his fists. In the space of a thought, midnight boiled from the bowels of Dashon Ra—plumes of purple and green and black that hissed in the snow. Warriors the size of Renna’s towers, steeds built to carry them, howling wolves with maws like caverns, and all with eyes of scarlet flame raced across the sky to surround the massed legions of Sila Diaglou and Perryn of Ardra, creating a barrier of terror that no man with half a mind would challenge. From the farthest reaches of Dashon Ra the shouts of battle lust and triumphant carnage transformed into wails of soul-deep terror. Yet these were but Osriel’s long-set illusions, designed to trap the Harrowers in the bowl of the mine; the truer horror yet waited.
“Smoke and puffery,” said Sila Diaglou, drawing her sword.
Standing at the verge of the black sinkhole, the prince touched the blood leaking from his torn wrists and drew circles around his eyes and sigils on his cheeks and brow. And then he touched his gold armrings and set his fingers glowing, and he knelt and touched the gold-veined earth, gleaming with the Canon’s magic. My gards turned to ice. Mother of night!
Sila’s new-arrived warriors gaped and moaned and let their arms fall slack.
“Grayfin, Harlod, Danc, Skay…” From the prince’s lips fell a litany of names—Ardran, Evanori, Moriangi—summoning those he had bound to him until the world’s end. With each name a splotch of gray slipped out of the pit intermingled with the purple and black clouds, and a shudder ran up my spine. The pall of illusion fell away from the votive vessels, unmasking their livid gleam.
The Harrower soldiers collapsed and buried their faces in their arms. While Voushanti’s sword held Sila and a bleeding Hurd at bay, the mardane harangued his own four men to ignore the roiling heavens and to maintain their protective line in front of Osriel. Sila lifted her eyes to the vague gray faces that appeared among the towering phantoms, and for the first time, appeared uneasy. “What have you done here, Prince?”
“He is a bold sorcerer. I like that.” A shapeless figure in brown hobbled away from a flash of scarlet light toward Osriel.
“Grandam!” Sila’s shock raised the hairs on my neck. She did not expect Ronila here. Which meant the old woman was making her move…
“No!” Cursing my distance, I leaped from my high perch, driving my body forward to clear the rock ledges below. I jolted to earth some fifty quercae from the prince and raced toward them across the grotto, yelling, “Take Ronila! Keep her away!”
“And our Bastard is a fine liar.” Ronila waved her walking stick. “Even now the Cartamandua abomination comes to shepherd his prince onto your throne, granddaughter. I think it is time to be quit of this nuisance.”
Osriel’s men did not understand threats from old women. Ronila nudged an astonished Philo with her stick. Melkire merely shoved her back with the flat of his sword.
The old woman tottered and growled. But then she stepped deftly to one side, raised her walking stick again and poked one of the surviving sentries so hard he staggered backward. I arrived in time to grab his arm before he toppled Osriel into the sinkhole.
“You will not touch my king,” I yelled, spreading my arms wide to keep her away from the others, keeping a wary eye on her empty hand. “You will not do murder here.”
Cackling, Ronila poked her stick at me—only this time, a blade protruded from the end of it, aimed straight at my gut. Voushanti launched himself into me, staggering me sidewise. Fire blossomed deep in my side. The witch growled and yanked the stick away. And then I was falling…
Crushed between Voushanti’s prone bulk and iron-footed Melkire, I sagged only as far as my knees. Fear and instinct and every urgency of life demanded I stand up again. The old woman’s leering face loomed in front of me as huge as the Reaper’s Moon, her wild white hair a corona, her bloody blade aimed at my heart. A din of screams and wailing seemed to fill the universe.
Yet Ronila’s blade did not strike. Her gleeful cackle twisted into such a wrenching intake of breath as comes only with pain. Shock dulled the feral hatred that glinted in her eyes. And even as I clutched my middle and stumbled to my feet, sure that my stomach and liver must fall out the hole in my side, the old woman wobbled and crumpled. Sila Diaglou stood calmly behind her, her pale hands drenched in blood.
“Child?” the old woman whimpered.
The priestess knelt and touched the blood bubbling from her grandmother’s lips as if it were a great curiosity. “Could you not see, old woman?” she said. “I value the sorcerer far more than I value you. He is the new world. You are but the dregs of the old.” Then she reached around Ronila’s back and yanked out her dagger, wiped the blade on the stained brown robes, and stuck it in the empty sheath at her waist.
All the air in my lungs might have escaped through my punctured flesh.
The priestess proffered me a smile worthy of an angel. “There, my beautiful Dané sorcerer, the hag shall not threaten you again. It is not too late to join me. Malena awaits. Are you not curious—? Ah, the witch has wounded you!” Her smile quickly faded as Hurd, a belt wrapped around his bloody arm, gave her a hand up. “Do you need help?”
“Keep away from me, priestess,” I croaked, stepping back. I could not allow thoughts of Malena and what she might or might not carry to distract me. “Your kindness is as bloodstained as your hate.”
“And I choose to keep my annoying servant.” Osriel stepped from between two of his guards. “This war is ended, priestess. The lighthouse stands. The Canon shall be healed. Command this traitorous grav of Morian, my brother, and the rest to lay down their arms.”
“Because you play with corpses?” Sila said scornfully, glancing up at the towering phantoms. “Once I speak to my troops, they will fight—no matter how frightened they are of your ghosts. You have no kingdom, Bastard of Evanore, and no subjects but the dead. My legions will follow me to the netherworld.”
“They shall wish for the netherworld, lady, when I am done,” said Osriel, in such tone as would shudder the most jaded soul. “I give you fair warning. Lay down your arms, or curse the hour you first saw daylight.”
“Your threats do not frighten me.” And yet, they should. Was that the difference? Was it only those with souls who felt the fear of losing them?
“Then our parley is ended,” said Osriel and turned his back on her.
The prince hissed a command, and scarlet streams of light flowed from the sinkhole. From the gray faces in the clouds erupted a howl that only one who had experienced the doulon hunger would recognize. Or perhaps one who had tasted blood and despair. Of all in that grotto, only Voushanti and I did not stare upward. Terror was written on the faces around us…and pity, too.
Melkire pointed to the sky. “Skay,” he said. “By the holy angels, it’s Skay. And Bergrond. Merciful Iero, what’s happening to them?”
“Hurd, form up these whiners,” snapped Sila. “I will have Renna by dawn. We shall dismantle this prince limb from limb as we dismantle his house stone from stone.”
The gray-faced commander bellowed orders to the ragged Harrowers, kicked and slapped them and got them moving up the cart track. Sila followed. A shoulder touch here, an encouraging word there, an admonishment not to heed the Bastard’s illusions, and they moved faster.
Halfway up the sloping track, she looked back and smiled down at me. She waved her hand at Osriel, hunched over the gaping hole. “How can you bear this ghoulish prince, Valen? We need not be rivals. You are the essence of magic; I have rejected and forsworn all such power. You honor all gods; I acknowledge none. You care for humankind and the long-lived; I despise them all. You yearn for decadent pleasure; I need none of it. I am death, as is this prince of yours, while you, Valen, are life itself—more than any cold Danae. Come with me, and I will give you a world cleansed and purified. You can change its face forever, giving every man and woman the chance to wear silk or work spells or dance on the solstice.” No matter her smile,
her eyes chilled even so bitter a night.
“I do not argue with your vision, lady,” I called up to her, “but that you slaughter children and destroy all that is holy and good to create it. There must be another way. I’ll have no part of you.”
“So be it.” She shrugged and ran after her troops.
“Voushanti, you’ll see to Valen?” said the prince. His voice sounded hollow, as if he walked yet another plane, or as if he had fallen into the sinkhole after his blood. He knelt beside the dark shaft, the scarlet streams of enchantment giving his pale skin a ruddy cast to match the blood marks he’d drawn. Yet Sila’s words prodded me to move. Osriel was not at all like her.
“Lord Prince, don’t do this,” I said, limping across the drifted snow to his side. “Not before you tell me what you felt here this day. Not until you tell me why I sense no more hatred from these lost souls that even a few weeks ago twisted my bowels.”
Despair and grief stared out at me from my king’s bleak face. “Because I bled with them. Because I remembered them, as I promised when I took them captive. Because I knew their names.” He dropped his eyes to the roiling pit. “And now I must command them to go forth and live and die an eternal death for me.”
“Your very nature rebels at this crime,” I said softly. “Let them go.”
“I cannot.”
I knelt beside the bottomless hole that stank of death and corruption. “Think of the day we rode down from Renna, when you walked among your people who had been burnt out by the Harrowers. They had nothing before you arrived, and no more when you left save your care and your promise of hope. With but those few words from you, they stood straight and were able to do for themselves. You have given everything for love of these people and this land, and a lover does not torment his beloved. Use the power that has been given you. Let them go.”