Myn touched down with a heavy gracelessness that underscored the depths of her fatigue. Myranda tumbled from her back, her thin summer boots crunching down into the crust of fresh snow. With no evident explanation, an assortment of carriages and wagons were abandoned near the gate of the city. As she and Myn trudged closer, a pair of familiar faces from the town guard rushed out to meet her.
“Duchess! There is—” the first began.
“Has anyone been hurt?” Myranda asked quickly.
“No, Duchess. The woman arrived two days ago, but few have even seen her. She… she hasn’t let anyone leave the city. Everyone who approaches is able to enter, but the horses refuse to leave, and even those who try to leave on foot can’t summon the will to step more than a few paces from the walls. The only damage that has been done is a farmer’s wagon that was destroyed. He was not inside at the time.”
“Have you seen the woman responsible? Is she still here?”
“No one has been able to get close, but we know that she is in the palace. There’s… something there. Duchess, she had a… a thing with her. It just left the city. It was enormous. I can’t begin to describe it. It moved through the north quarter and over the wall.”
“Thank you. I want you, everyone to get indoors, but everyone should be ready to flee the city. I’ll do my best to deal with the woman quickly and calmly, but if the worst comes, I promise you, I will find a way to free the city from her grip so that the rest of you can escape.”
“Duchess, are you certain you are strong enough to do this? Are you certain you don’t want the guard at your back?”
“She’s a sorceress. I don’t want anyone without a focused mind and the proper training to go near her. Keep your weapons ready and defend the people, but do not attack and do not worry about me and Myn.”
Before the guards had a chance to object further, Myranda and Myn marched along New Kenvard’s main street. In the old days the primary road curved around the edge of town and wove back and forth, rendering the wide and open path as indirect as possible in its route to the castle’s main gate. Myranda had decided that in rebuilding the city, as a way of showing trust and openness in the aftermath of the war, the street would lead directly from the main gate to the palace gates. Her father, mindful of the city’s defense, had not been fond of the idea, but Myranda felt strongly that the best way to defend the city and its people would be to do all that could be done to prevent another war, and this would be yet another layer of motivation to do so.
Myranda tried to gather her strength as she paced along the short stretch of street that had been completed thus far. It was a failed endeavor. She had barely any will left, and from the way Myn’s tail dragged and her head hung, without the strength Myranda had been sharing she was on the cusp of collapse.
Only a few dozen paces farther and the road gave way to churned-up, icy earth and scattered rubble. Myranda worked hard to keep her footing, stumbling once and finding Myn quick to lower her head to nudge her back to her feet. The exhaustion was swiftly becoming a distant concern in the face of the growing influence of swirling spirits. The air was thick with unseen wills and minds. For Myranda it felt as though she were trying to push her way through syrup. Even Myn, with her untrained mind, seemed increasingly uneasy. It would take the merest flex of her mind to render the torrent of spirits visible to her, but she dared not. These souls, tormented and angry, were the men and women of her childhood. But for the grace of fate and the hand of a fallen ally, she would be among them. The task ahead was great enough without seeing faces she’d last seen on the most horrific day of her life.
As she climbed the mound of stones that were once part of the palace’s outer wall, the press of spirits began to assert itself in a way that Myranda could no longer ignore. Voices whispered in her ears, half-understood cries of anger or pain. Emotions that were not her own caused her heart to race and her hands to shake.
Then, as she crested a second mound of stone that ringed a mostly cleared courtyard that had at one time been the palace entry hall, the force and emotion slipped away. It felt as though she had slipped into the eye of a storm. Ahead of her, Turiel was sitting in a chair assembled from rubble, joined by several hundred tiny black strands.
The sorceress looked as young and vibrant as she ever had. Myranda’s epic expenditure of magic and utter physical exhaustion made it appear as though the black-clad necromancer might be a year or two younger. Her thin black lips were curved into an easy smile, and she was carrying on a merry conversation with the empty space beside her chair. Her left hand stirred the air, accenting words with broad gestures, while in her right she clutched the black and white shaft of her repaired staff. The fingers of this hand seemed paler and more delicate than those of her left.
“No, no, I understand that, but you must see things my way. They were right to do what they did. It was an extreme measure, but as current circumstances indicate, Aneriana was a threat to them. You would have done the same. And I…”
She turned to Myranda and Myn, seeming to be pleasantly surprised by the sudden appearance of the wizard and the dragon. “Oh!” She turned aside again. “I am sorry. I think you’ll see when the task is done.” She turned to Myranda again, throwing her arms wide. “Myranda, Myn! It is so lovely to finally meet you!”
Myranda gripped her staff tightly and focused her mind as best she could. Myn set her feet and spread her wings, smoke and flame curling from her nostrils.
“Please, please. There is no need for that. Myn, my dear. Mott dug up a gift for you.”
She tapped the staff on the ground. A coil of black unwound from it and speared a large burlap sack sitting amid the rubble behind Turiel’s makeshift throne. She guided the bag in front of Myn and upended it, spilling some fresh potatoes onto the ground before her.
“Naturally he would have liked to give them to you personally, but I sent him on a bit of an errand. I really think the two of you would make fine playmates for one another.”
The dragon peeled her lips back in a snarl and raked the offering aside.
“Turiel, tell me—” Myranda began.
“Myranda, please, sit down. You look fit to collapse,” Turiel said.
She sent out two fresh filaments, but Myranda slashed her own staff through the air, striking them down.
“As you wish,” Turiel said with a shrug.
“You speak to us as though you know us,” Myranda said.
“I do know you. I know you precisely as well as your dear friend Ivy knows you. I thank you for your kindness to her, by the way. Many in your position could never have found it in themselves to open their heart to someone so clearly molded and colored by the enemy, but you took her in, guided her. I speak as one with an unshakable appreciation of all the things the D’Karon have crafted, but I truly believe the best of what Ivy is comes from her soul and what you have helped her to make of it.”
“I am told you intend to bring the D’Karon back to this world,” Myranda said.
“I mean to do so, yes, and it is quite likely they will return to their agenda, whatever that might be,” Turiel said. “This, I imagine, is not acceptable to you. I certainly wouldn’t blame you. Unfortunately, this puts us at odds with one another. It’s a shame. You seem such a sweet girl.”
“I can’t let you do this.”
“I don’t expect you to let me do it, and normally I would be genuinely concerned. But the rather unpleasant history of your homeland and my own particular skills have placed me in a very advantageous position. I would ask you to stand aside and let me pass, I really don’t want to hurt you, but I think we both know it would be a waste of breath.”
“We defeated the D’Karon. We will defeat you,” Myranda said.
“Myranda, you are no stranger to the ways of magic. You must have felt the presence here. The people of your home, the victims of the massacre, they are angry. They are fearful. They thirst for revenge. You and I know that the D’Karon are the real culprits, but thes
e people went to their grave truly believing that it was the Tressons. Rare is the spirit who can learn and grow after they release their grip on the mortal coil. These are the imprints of a whole city that wants nothing more than to see the blood spilled on that day paid back in kind. And that is what I am offering. You’ve no doubt noticed you’ve been spared their relentless chaos during our conversation. Do you know why? Because I’ve asked them to. And dark emotions are dense with power. It is glorious. I’ve nearly drunk my fill of it, and there is ever so much more to be had. Perhaps not enough to finish the keyhole, but we both know where I can find the rest. When we’re through with our little chat, whether you see the error in your ways or not, I’ll be on my way. This is the endgame, Myranda. I’m so sorry. But I want you to know that I don’t have any rancor or spite toward you.”
“Then don’t do this.”
“Most of it is already done, dear. The storm of souls is roiling. The mystic power is all but fully harvested. Nearly every victim of the massacre is unified in their desire to see me march across the border and harvest what remains to be collected from the spirits I’ll find there and the soldiers who shall fall trying to defend it. Only one spirit seems opposed. You’re shutting her out right now. In light of the other spirits about, that’s a wise decision, but I’ve convinced the worst of them to keep their distance. For your sake, dear, I think you should have a word with the most stubborn of the spirits.”
“You are trying to get me to lower my guard.”
“I am, but if you saw what I see, you wouldn’t be arguing. I’m doing this for you, not to you. It is a peace offering. And she seems quite interested in speaking to you… though she keeps calling you Myn, rather than your dragon, so I suppose she may be confused.”
“She… she called me Myn…” Myranda uttered, her voice distant.
Almost against her will, Myranda let her tightly focused mind shift from blocking out the circling spirits to letting them show themselves in her mind’s eye. Instantly a brilliant column of shifting, vaguely human forms flickered into being around her. She could hear them screaming and see their eyes wide and wild. It was a terrifying sight, but one that faded from Myranda’s mind almost instantly. Something infinitely more important had taken form before her.
It was the ghostly form of a woman perhaps an inch shorter than Myranda. She looked to be a few years Myranda’s senior, and the resemblance between them was pronounced. She was dressed in thick layers, some warm woolen leggings topped with a winter skirt, a jacket, and a gray cloak. Her outfit was neat and professional, the traditional garb of a Kenvardian educator. Though her insubstantial body was muted in its colors, the vivid red shade of her hair was unmistakable.
Myranda covered her mouth, and her vision blurred. “Mother…” she said, tears as present in her voice as her eyes.
“My dear, sweet Myn,” said the spirit before her in a voice straight from Myranda’s memories.
It was more than she could bear. The tears flowed freely down her face and the breath caught in her chest. Any doubt or suspicion fell away. There could be no deception in this. This was Lucia Celeste, looking precisely as she had the last time Myranda had seen her… the morning of the massacre.
Lucia stepped forward, her hand reaching out in an attempt to brush away the tears. Myranda felt the touch as a distant chill against her skin.
“Mother, I didn’t… I didn’t know… If I’d known I could have contacted you…”
“Don’t… don’t, child. Look at you. Look at the woman you’ve become. I’m so proud of you.”
“Why are you still here? Why haven’t you moved on?”
“I don’t have the answers. I wish I did. Perhaps I knew that someday you would return, that we would have this moment. Perhaps I knew that our fallen city would see life and freedom again at your hands.”
“Mother, I… Turiel…”
“I understand. She needs to be stopped,” Lucia said.
“Please! Have your moment. I am in no hurry. Mott still hasn’t returned, and I would very much like to introduce the two of you before things are forced to become unpleasant,” Turiel assured her. There was nothing mocking in her tone. She seemed genuinely pleased to have facilitated this reunion.
“I don’t know how much longer we have,” Myranda said.
“You look so tired, Myn,” Lucia said, again trying to cradle Myranda’s cheek.
Myranda smiled through the tears. “No one has called me that in years. No one since you. That’s her name now.” She glanced to her companion.
The dragon was looking down at her, vague confusion in her expression. The sharp shift in tone seemed to have thrown her. Without any mystic training, she was only weakly aware of Lucia’s presence.
“I know,” she said. “I’ve been watching. It has been a joy to see you and your father working together. Myranda… I want you to tell him that I don’t blame him for what happened. And tell him to remember that he is still your father, and you are still his daughter. Never forget that you will always need each other.”
“I’ll remember. I’ll always remember,” Myranda said.
“Oh…” Turiel cooed. “Don’t hold back! Hug her.”
Myranda and Lucia looked at the sorceress, each with distrust in their eyes.
“Please!” She clicked the tip of her staff to the ground. “It is my gift to you.”
A considerable dose of mystic power flowed into the air, swirling free. The magic was dark, almost black in color, but as it wafted through the air, it lightened, slipping entirely from Turiel’s influence and taking on the same faded cold-blue glow of Lucia’s form. It gathered around her, feeding her strength until there was the semblance of substance.
Myranda could feel that the power was no longer the necromancer’s, that she’d legitimately offered it freely to strengthen Lucia’s spirit. She did not pause to consider the riddle of this woman’s behavior. She stepped forward and threw her arms around her mother, and felt her mother’s arms in return.
She was not greeted by the warmth of a true embrace. What she found instead was something less, and yet something more. It was distant, but real, like a memory of a hug from her childhood somehow drawn into the present.
“I miss you so much…” Myranda whispered.
“I’ll never be far away,” Lucia murmured in return.
“It is a true mystery to me why so many view necromancers to be evil,” Turiel mused, sincere tears in her eyes as she watched the reunion. “Who but we could bring an opportunity such as this to life?”
The tenderness of the moment was finally brought to an end by the clatter of falling stone. A form pushed itself through the churning column of swirling spirits. It was Mott, or more accurately what Mott had become once Turiel had begun to gorge upon the strength of the spirits she had summoned. He looked much as he had before, a jackal head fading into a coiling serpent body with spidery legs and massive wings. The scale, however, was entirely different. Mott was a match for Myn’s height now, his muscular serpentine neck as thick and heavily armored as hers. The wings seemed to have been crafted, dragon-like in structure and scale, but inky black and glossy like nothing from nature. As a whole, he almost looked to have been coaxed to this new size specifically to be a match for Myn.
“Ah! Mott. As you see, we have guests,” Turiel said. “Myranda, Myn, Lucia, I present to you my dear Motley. I made him myself. Though I tried to build him into something fearsome using the knowledge and materials I was able to glean and salvage from the D’Karon, I simply lacked the depth of knowledge to remake him properly. Fortunately I still remember a bit of what I learned from my dear sister. With the proper power and a bit of knowledge, one can sculpt flesh into the shapes one needs. Mott, tell me, did you do as I asked?”
A baritone chitter rolled from his eager jaw.
“Good, good. Always good to plant a few extra seeds, just in case this season’s harvest falls flat. And… oh… I believe the pleasantries are about to end. One of you
r allies with whom I’ve had the misfortune of clashing in the past seems to be drawing near.”
The wind was indeed kicking up, and doing so in a way that was far more directed and willful than a simple gust or storm. Ether was coming, in one form or another.
“Turiel, please,” Myranda said. “You don’t need to do this. I assure you, anything you need, anything you wish to do, if it is within my power I will help you. Release the city and end this quest to bring back the D’Karon.”
“But it is not within your power. It was not within the power of the finest mystic our world has ever known, and for that reason the only recourse is to reach out to minds greater than ours, and those are the D’Karon. My sister fell to the beast of the cave, and with the knowledge and training of the D’Karon, the beast of the cave will fall to me!”
“Turiel, there is no beast of the cave.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You’ll get nowhere with lies, Myranda.”
“It is the truth. I’ve crossed through the cave twice. Those who enter are killed by the cave itself or make their way to a place called Entwell.”
“You would have me believe that you could do something my sister could not?”
“It isn’t always a matter of skill. Unless you know the dangers and can prepare, luck is even more important. Just tell me your sister’s name. She may have made it through, and if you are still alive, she may still be alive in Entwell.”
The wind was growing more powerful. Turiel had to raise her voice to be heard.
“If my sister was still alive, I would have felt her presence.”
“The mountains around Entwell prevent all but the simplest spells from passing through them. It is what has kept the place so well hidden.”
Turiel remained silent for a moment. “That is all terribly convenient, Myranda.”
“What have you got to lose by letting me help you? What have you got to lose by seeing if there is any truth to what I say?” Myranda called, the wind howling.
The D'Karon Apprentice Page 42