Kuralla scowled at him, her pretty face twisted into an ugly expression. “I cannot not tell you the truth,” she said, angrily. She was growing easier to read by the moment. “I have seen all of that happening in my visions.”
Herod nodded. “And do all of your visions come true?”
“No,” Kuralla said, flatly. There was a beaten tone in her voice now, but Herod wasn't fooled. Like all youngsters, Kuralla was probably remarkably resilient. He could intimidate her, perhaps even break her, but in doing so he would render her completely useless to him. “The content of a vision can be changed.”
“I see,” Herod said. It was good to know that the future wasn't truly inevitable. “And what have you seen of Prince Eric?”
Kuralla tensed sharply. “I do not discuss visions that involve other people,” she said. They both knew that it was a lie. “I have the honour of being an Oracle to uphold.”
“I am the rightful lord of this land,” Herod said, calmly. “You will tell me what you saw of Prince Eric.”
Kuralla looked up at him, steeled herself, and shook her head, clasping her hands so tightly together that they went white. She knew what could happen to her now, Herod knew; he could send her for a session with the court torturers, or even torment her himself until she talked. It was a shame that it was impossible to force a loyalty spell on an Oracle, or even force his way into her mind and search through her memories directly, but her magic protected her from any form of mental rape. If he succeeded in breaking through her defences, he would be left with a useless vegetable or a girl whose talent had been burned out of her. It wouldn't further his aims at all.
And, even though she'd said nothing, she’d told him something very important.
“You will talk, eventually,” Herod assured her. “For the moment, you will be put in one of my cells with another young captive. Perhaps you and her can talk it over and realise that you have nothing to gain by refusing to cooperate.”
“I will not help you,” Kuralla said, flatly. “Your rule will end in fire and death.”
“But you told me yourself that visions can be changed,” Herod pointed out. “Help me and we can avoid that future.” Kuralla said nothing, but shook her head again. “Very well, young lady,” he added. “Let me know when you are willing to cooperate.”
He called for a pair of his most trusted guards and ordered them to escort the Oracle to the room he’d prepared for his two young prisoners. Once they were gone, he summoned the General and began to issue orders. There was no longer any time to lose.
***
Princess Eleanor lay on her bed, feeling as if she would never be able to move again. Her blind fury – something the Academy had cautioned her against, warning that it would be the death of her if she allowed it to control her – had almost gotten her killed. When she’d realised that Duke Herod had killed her father, she’d lashed out at him blindly, allowing the older and more experienced magician to drain her – or trick her into draining herself – before taking her prisoner easily. Her power reserves were so low that she was completely vulnerable – even her internal wards had fallen – yet all the Duke had done was have her returned to her rooms and left there to stew. She’d thrown a massive tantrum for the benefit of any listening ears, but even doing that had added to her fatigue. It had taken everything she had left to crawl into bed and collapse on the covers.
Sleep hadn't come easy and, when she’d opened her eyes the following morning, she’d discovered that she could barely move. Her first thought – that the Duke had placed a restraining spell on her – had been easy to disprove; she was simply tired, yet unable to sleep. The tutors at the Academy had warned her that if she drained herself completely, it could take days to regenerate her powers...and, until they were back, she would be helpless. She had barely been able to use her Sight to see that her rooms were now surrounded by wards that kept intruders out and her inside. She was a prisoner in her own bedroom.
She fell in and out of awareness as she struggled to remain awake. Her body felt leaden and old, as if someone had piled old cloths on her while she slept, but somehow she managed to roll over and allow her legs to fall over the edge of the bed. The contact with the floor somehow made her feel stronger, yet it was still almost impossible to stand up. The first time she tried, she felt so dizzy that she had to fall back and sit down hard on the bed.
The door opened without a knock, much to her private dismay. One of the concessions she’d won from her father when she’d turned eleven years old was an agreement that her rooms would be private, with everyone – including the maids – banned from entering without her permission. It was yet another reminder that she was a prisoner, rather than a Princess. She opened her mouth to shout out a command, but before she could form the words with her dry mouth another girl, one barely a year or two younger than her, was pushed into the room. A moment later, one of the guards placed a tray of food on a small table, turned, and left the room. There was no sound of a bolt snapping shut, or a key being turned in the lock, but it was hardly necessary. The wards would keep them both as prisoners as long as Herod willed it so.
“You’ll need some water and bread,” the girl said. She had an odd accent, one that suggested a more urban childhood than Eleanor had somehow expected. The girl poured a glass of water, walked over to Eleanor, and held it up to her lips, allowing her to sip gratefully. The cold water was surprisingly refreshing after her long fast. “I’m Kuralla, by the way.”
The name was somehow familiar, but Eleanor couldn't place it. Kuralla took the glass away as soon as she had finished drinking and offered her a slice of bread and cheese. It was a climb-down from some of the banquets that Eleanor had enjoyed as a Princess, yet she was so hungry that it tasted like the finest cake imaginable. She ate quickly and felt herself growing stronger, so much so that by the time she finished the meal she was standing on her feet and feeling much better. Her magic was still drained, of course, but she no longer felt so tired and weak.
“You’ve had a bit of a shock,” Kuralla said, as she put the glasses and plates back on the tray. “I saw it happening and I think that you were perhaps a little more drained than you realised at the time. You’re lucky to be alive. I had several visions of your death – or worse – when the castle was stormed.”
Eleanor blinked at her, feeling – perhaps not for the first time – that she’d lost the thread of the conversation somewhere. She focused on the issue that seemed most important to her. “You had visions of my death?”
“Of course,” Kuralla said, sounding a little surprised. She caught herself and broke into a smile that turned her face from average into surprisingly pretty. “I haven’t introduced myself, have I? I have a habit of doing that because most people who come to see me know who I am and insist that I don’t waste my time with social issues even though the Sages say that...”
She broke off. For a moment, Eleanor could see the pain in her eyes. “They died,” she said, slowly. “They’re all dead. Duke Herod had them killed, but he left me alive.”
“You’re the Oracle,” Eleanor said, realising where she’d heard the name before. Eric and Hind had discussed Kuralla during one of the smaller meals they’d shared, with Eleanor as an impromptu chaperone. “What does he want you for?”
“He wants me to predict the future for him,” Kuralla said. “He wants you under his control so that he can claim a legitimate right to the Throne. And now he has both of us.”
“He doesn't have Eric,” Eleanor said. Her older brother was still alive; he had to be alive. If he was dead, Duke Herod would have come for her before now. She had long been used to the idea that her marriage would be arranged by her father, or her brother if her father had passed away before Eleanor got married, but she’d known that she would have some say in the matter. Without the rest of her family, she was just a political pawn. “Where is Eric now?”
Kuralla gave her a long considering look. “He’s out of the city,” she said, finally. “
I think that the walls might have ears here, Princess.”
“Call me Eleanor,” Eleanor said. She wasn't sure if an Oracle outranked a Princess, but in any case it hardly mattered. They were both prisoners now. Kuralla was right. The wards surrounding the room might keep out unwanted guests, or rescuers, but they could also be watching them, spying on their conversations for Duke Herod. Anything they said could be used against them. “What did the Duke say to you?”
She listened carefully as Kuralla explained what had happened when she’d faced the Duke, washing her face in the washbasin and looking for a chance of clothes. She hadn't been dressed formally when she’d been taken prisoner – she hadn't been allowed to attend the ceremony that had turned into a bloody massacre – but she had worn a pretty dress that was now completely ruined. She didn't hesitate about changing in front of Kuralla. The Oracle had probably seen what she looked like naked sixty years into the future.
The thought made her smile. “Have you seen what Duke Herod looks like naked in the future?” She asked, winking at the Oracle. “I’ve heard tell that it’s barely the size of a tiny carrot and about as hard.”
Kuralla blushed, and then winked back. “I cannot tell a lie about what I see in my visions,” she said, deadpan. “I have not seen him have any children in the future.”
They traded banter for several moments, breaking down into giggles at the thought of what anyone listening into them would be thinking. If it was Duke Herod himself, which seemed likely given that he would want to remain in firm control of his bargaining chips, he’d have the uncomfortable experience of listening to two teenage girls speculating about the size of his manhood. If it were one of his lackeys, the poor man would be forced to report to the Duke and tell him exactly what the girls were saying, which would probably result in the Duke blaming the messenger. He’d probably blast him with lightning on the spot.
Eleanor sat back finally and grinned at Kuralla. They were both sharing the same thought. Somehow, whatever it took, they had to get out of the Golden Palace before it was too late. It just wasn't going to be easy.
Chapter Seventeen
It was a task that Herod could have passed over to Master Reginald, or one of his growing army of magicians, sorcerers and other magic-users, but it wasn't something he could really trust them to do. Blood Rites were dangerous – as several sorcerers had found out over the years – yet it was dangerous to trust the wrong people to carry them out. Quite a few powerful rulers had been killed by trusting the wrong person to carry out the Blood Rites.
The courtyard was packed with two hundred men and women, on their knees with their hands bound behind their backs. He could sense the hopelessness shimmering off them in waves, sensing their thoughts; a day ago, they’d been proud citizens of the Golden City, basking in the Emperor’s love and protection. Now...now they had been deemed unfit to be anything, but slaves. They were commoners who had grown uppity and benefited from the Emperor’s protection and, as they grew wealthier, they had lost sight of their place in the social order. Some of the men were traders, men who had presumed to deal with aristocrats as equals; the women were their daughters, the women who had pressed for mass elevations to the peerage. They too had had ideas for rising above their station. And, he thought with sudden amusement, they were now nothing more than slaves.
They’d been taken during the sack of the Golden City and had been spared from the looting, raping and burning that had raged through the city once it had been occupied. Instead, they had been rounded up and marched back to the Golden Palace, encouraged to move faster with whips. A handful had fainted during the march and the guards had simply cracked their skulls with their clubs, transporting the bodies back to one of the barracks. Even death was no escape from his clutches. Soon enough, Herod knew, he would reanimate them as zombies and add the newcomers to his growing army of the dead.
He didn't bother to speak to them; there was no point. Instead, he reached into the pouch he carried and pulled out a tiny caldron. A single spell expanded it to the point where it was large enough to cook a vast amount of soup. Carefully, he took the bag of gems from one of the guards and poured it into the caldron, leaving the gems sparkling at the bottom of the container. A moment later, he pricked his thumb and allowed a tiny droplet of blood to fall into the caldron. A blue flash of smoke rocketed up into the air as the first wave of magic shimmered into existence. Herod started to chant under his breath, shaping the magical field with his will, before pushing the field down into the gems. They had all been prepared by enchanters and responded to his will. The magical power within the gems merged with his will, tested his identify and then faded back into the gems. They were glowing now, an eerie unpleasant green light, daring him to reach in and pick them up. Herod was the only man who could have picked one up safely now they were active. He could hardly enslave himself to himself!
Smiling – there was something about working the enslavement spell that appealed to the darker side of his nature – he caught the gems up in his magic and propelled them towards the waiting victims. They were screaming in panic now that they realised what he had in mind for them, but they were bound and helpless, unable to escape as the gems flew towards them, casting evil shimmers of green light over the scene. He saw a girl try to escape one gem only to have a second touch her forehead and meld into her skin. Her screams echoed out, merging with other screaming voices to produce a horrific cacophony, before she fell silent, helpless tears rolling down her cheeks. The remaining gemstones hovered in the air, finding no targets for their magic. Herod spoke a single Word of Power and they returned to the caldron, falling back down to the bottom of the container. They could wait until when they were needed.
“Silence,” he said. Silence fell at once. The powers in the gems were surprisingly subtle, but the effects were almost instantaneous. “You will hear and obey my every command. You will carry out orders given to you by myself and my subordinates, whom I will make known to you. You will not attempt to hurt yourselves or commit suicide. You will not, even though inaction, allow me to come to harm...”
He smiled inwardly as he spoke the words, setting out the terms and conditions. Even a voluntary slave spell had its limitations, allowing a crafty mind a chance to get around the rules, even if they couldn't be disobeyed directly. It wasn't always a bad thing – a crafty mind devoted to its owner’s interests could be very useful – but it was wise to be careful. The new slaves wouldn’t have a chance to somehow hurt him or interfere with his operations. No matter what they thought, in the privacy of their own head, they would be his property for the rest of their lives. They had thought they were going to be the heirs to Touched. Instead, they would spend their lives as common slaves.
“Good,” he said, once he had finished speaking. He reached out with his mind and tested the gemstones directly. By enslaving them personally, he had made it impossible for a lesser sorcerer to add hidden orders of his own, perhaps ones that would have allowed an otherwise helpless slave a chance to strike at him, or to be used as someone else’s deadly weapon. The genius – and curse – of the raw slavery spells was that their victim would obey every order given to them, without question. He had to program them to ensure that his orders always took priority. “Guards; unbind them. Slaves; remain where you are. Do not move.”
The guards moved from slave to slave, slowly removing the bonds and releasing their hands. The slaves didn't move, helplessly obeying his last order. He watched as the guards finished untying the slaves – taking the opportunity in the process to grope a few of the more attractive girls – and stepped back. Herod felt an unseemly rush of power spreading through his body. This was real power; the power to make someone’s life utterly dependent on your own, to use their bodies as nothing more than pliable flesh. How, he wondered, was it that necromancy was banned, while this was common everywhere? But then, necromancy levelled the playing field between weaker and stronger magicians. Slave spells could only really be used on commoners, who r
arely had the strength of will to resist.
“Undress,” he ordered, and watched as the new slaves stripped off their clothes. Some were crying, others were trying to fight their own bodies as they moved of their own volition, but it was useless. “You will follow my assistants” – he pointed to four servants he’d brought in from Azimuth, some of his most trusted subordinates – “who will brief you on your mission. Go.”
He turned to see Master Reginald standing there, an oddly-revealing expression on his face. Given what he’d been doing when the Academy had chosen to have nothing to do with him, he would find the slave spell entrancing. Before he'd entered Herod’s service, he’d actually been working at a bonding service that provided slaves who had been pre-spelled before they were sold to their new master. He’d enjoyed reducing people, even commoners, to automatons.
“Reginald,” he said, tightly. “This had better be important.”
The Black Knife Page 16