The Silver Sorceress (The Raveling Book 2)

by Alec Hutson

  It was a man’s voice, rough and cracked. The shape leaned forward, brushing the edge of the light, and Cho Lin glimpsed pale hair. “Have you come to kill me? That’s a very big sword for a small girl.”

  Cho Lin’s eyes darted around the room. Were the demons there, crouched in the shadows? Was this a trap? The sword in her hand was thrumming only slightly, as if satisfied that it had brought her to this room. But why was she here? Did the sword want her to kill this man? Was she endangering herself and her mission by not striking him down now?

  “Who are you?” she hissed softly, still not lowering her blade.

  A low chuckle. “Since you are the one entering my room at night brandishing a sword, I believe you should answer first.”

  She ignored this. “I will not play games.”

  The man moved again, coming further into the light. He still had not risen to his feet, and now Cho Lin could see why: manacles wrapped his wrist, chains trailing into the darkness behind him. “My name is Jan.”

  “You are a prisoner?”

  The man raised his arms. “Yes.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Something I did not intend.”

  Cho Lin’s thoughts whirled. The sword had brought her here, so this man must have some connection with the Betrayers. But she did not think the demons or the chest were here now. “I am searching for something.”

  “What?”

  “They look like children. They –”

  “I know them.”

  Cho Lin swallowed away the dryness in her throat. “How?”

  The man ignored her question. “You’re from Shan, aren’t you? I can hear it in your voice. And I’ve seen swords like that before. I remember… there were symbols carved into the wood, Shan symbols.”

  “What wood?”

  “Those things… they killed someone I knew. I tracked them for a thousand leagues, and at the end of my hunt I came to a rosewood chest. They were inside.”

  This man had found the Betrayers’ prison. That must be why the sword had brought her here—it could sense their taint on him. “I must find that chest,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “Those demons… they are dangerous.”

  “I can lead you to the chest. I know where it is.”

  Cho Lin studied him skeptically. Why was this man here, rather than some cell underground? What had he done? He said he’d tracked the Betrayers. What was he? Not a sorcerer, otherwise a prison like this would never have held him.

  “Why should I trust you?”

  The man shrugged. “I have nothing to offer you except my word. But you should know that the queen or her servants will turn their attention here soon enough, and then you’ll join me as her prisoner.”

  He was right, she knew. If the queen was a sorceress then she might already be aware that Cho Lin had entered this room. There was no time to waste.

  Pushing aside her doubts, Cho Lin stepped forward. “Hold out your arms.”

  The man did as she commanded, and with a single clean strike Cho Lin sliced through the chains as easily as if they were silk bindings. The man gave a startled gasp when the metal links clattered to the floor.

  “Your sword… ”

  “It is special. It cuts metal as easily as flesh.”

  She struck off the other chain just as smoothly, then braced herself, half expecting the man to leap at her. But he merely stood, his fingers touching the ends of the sheared metal. He was a good head and a half taller than her, with broad shoulders. Yet if he did attack her Cho Lin had no doubt that she could overpower him. There were no warriors in the barbarian lands like the disciples of Red Fang.

  “Later, a…” she searched for the word “… a blacksmith can strike that iron still on your hands. Dangerous to do with my sword.”

  The man nodded. His hand went to a metal collar about his neck.

  “And that as well.”

  He shook his head. “No blacksmith can remove this.”

  Cho Lin slipped her sword back into its keppa case. “Then you wear it. Now, quickly—as you said, we must leave.”

  Recessed in the shadows, Demian leaned against the alley’s brick wall and watched the white building. It was nondescript, several stories of mottled stucco, nearly identical to the rows of prosperous townhouses that lined the streets of this neighborhood. The avenue here lacked the raucous tumult of the poorer districts, but it was not empty: slaves in the spotless robes of rich households hurried by carrying baskets full of fruits and vegetables, and rich merchants lounged on gilded palanquins carried by the hairless men of the Whispering Isles. A pair of legionaries sauntered past, the sunbursts of Ama engraved into their cuirasses flashing in the sun.

  None of the passersby even glanced at the white building. It almost seemed like they were intentionally ignoring it… and the men who occasionally arrived at its door.

  They were mendicants, all of them, dressed in robes of purest white hemmed with gold. Each of Ama’s holy men approached and knocked twice, and the door slid open just wide enough for them to enter. After a few hours they would reappear again, returning to their sacred duties with a bit more spring in their step.

  When they donned the white robes, the mendicants of Ama swore vows of celibacy. But the leaders of the church wisely turned a blind eye to establishments like this. Better to have a place reserved for the inevitable indiscretions, rather than forcing the priests to find their needs among the flock. Demian had learned that zealots were necessary for the establishment of a faith, but afterwards, without a bit of pragmatism concerning the weaknesses of the flesh, a religion would not last long.

  Demian pushed himself from the alley’s wall as his quarry finally appeared, briskly approaching the white building’s entrance. He wore the white robes of a mendicant, but instead of gold his vestments were banded with black.

  An inquisitor.

  The door cracked open and the man slipped inside. Demian unslung the bag on his shoulder and pulled out a wad of white cloth. Quickly, he donned the robes he had brought—the weave was not as fine as that which a true mendicant wore, but he didn’t anticipate any careful inspections. The priests inside had their minds on other things.

  Demian stepped into the deeper shadows, slipping into the other place. He stood upon one of the ancient stone paths hanging in the emptiness. Not far from him the path split, then split again, branching out to reach dozens of points of radiance floating in the darkness. These were doorways formed by shadows. Demian had often wondered who had built these paths, and what agency rearranged them as the light in the other world changed. The answer to that mystery had never been revealed to him.

  Long experience of navigating these paths had given him an intuitive knowledge of which of these doorways would lead inside the white building. He moved quickly, ignoring the yawning abyss below. A scene resolved on the other side of the portal as he drew closer: mendicants relaxing on couches and comfortable chairs, some sipping on wine as they conversed, others intent on games of tzalik or chalice. Servants circulated among the clerics of Ama, refilling their cups from ornate decanters or fanning them with shimmering feathers as long as a man’s arm. Every one of these servants, male and female, were young and lithesome, draped in robes cinched to accentuate their narrow hips and long limbs.

  If he stepped through this doorway Demian would emerge near where several mendicants were deep in conversation, and though he would enjoy the looks on their faces, he would have no chance of accomplishing his task. So he moved on from this portal, searching for a more isolated spot. As luck would have it, the next doorway seemed to be behind something large enough to cast the opposite wall in shadow. A shrouded Aspect of Ama was recessed in a niche in front of him, arms outstretched as if beckoning him forward. Demian thought this Aspect was Compassion, which was an odd choice for a house such as this.

&nbs
p; Warmth and noise washed over him as he left the other place behind. When viewed from the shadow world the colors had seemed muted, washed out, and he hadn’t noticed the cut flowers scattered about the Aspect’s bare feet. He breathed out slowly, his skin prickling as the coldness faded away. Then, with the confident stride of someone who was exactly where he belonged, he came around the pillar and surveyed the room. It took him only a moment to find his quarry: the inquisitor he had seen entering the building was speaking with a fat mendicant, gesturing with a long-stemmed wine glass as he made some point. Demian plucked a cup from the tray of a passing servant and slid onto a velvet couch, watching the priest out of the corner of his eye.

  The wine was a good vintage: tart, with hints of fruit and spice. As Demian’s gaze wandered around the room, his thoughts returned to the poor pilgrims suffering under the lash as they made the long journey to the holy city. Blood mixing with dirt on that long and dusty road, while these mendicants enjoyed wine and sweetmeats delivered by beautiful youths. When Demian was younger, such hypocrisy would have made his anger burn hot; long ago, though, he had come to accept that this was not a perversion of a just society—rather, this was exactly why society had developed. The entire edifice had been built so that the powerful could extract what they wanted from the weak.

  Demian pulled back from his musings as the inquisitor clapped the fat man on the shoulder and moved towards the back of the room, where a wide set of pink-marble steps ascended to a second-story landing. Draining the last of his wine, Demian stood from the couch and followed. None of the mendicants or servants spared him a glance as he started on the stairs. Ahead of him, the inquisitor had reached the top.

  Demian’s hand slid along the twisted copper bannister, and at the touch of the cool metal a long-forgotten memory rose up…

  With one hand he steadied himself on the gilded railing, while with the other he held tight to his brother, their fingers laced together. Behind them, a tall man in yellow robes ushered them along, prodding Demian whenever he paused to catch his breath. The stairs seemed to go on and on, the cold stone seeping through his thin slippers, numbing his toes… Though the climb was uncomfortable, he wished it would continue forever, for he knew what waited for him in the dark room above…

  He shoved down the memory. This was not the time to be distracted.

  As Demian arrived on the landing he turned, glimpsing a flash of white robes as the inquisitor vanished inside a room. The hallway here was carpeted in a fine Keshian weave, and the wall sconces were decorated with elaborate carvings that shimmered with crystals and other precious stones. A servant turned the corner ahead, coming towards him carrying a pile of linens. His movements were a bit unsteady, and when their eyes met the boy flinched and ducked his head, as if afraid.

  Demian paused outside the chamber the inquisitor had entered, listening. From within he heard a man’s voice. His cadence was odd, as if he was speaking to a simpleton.

  Or a child.

  Demian cracked open the door and slipped inside, quickly closing it behind him. The room was small but richly appointed, dominated by a large gilt mirror and a wide, low bed mounded with cushions. A beautiful young boy with dark eyes lay upon the silken sheets, a horse carved from red wood clutched protectively to his chest. The inquisitor was standing beside the bed, and as the door clicked shut he turned to Demian angrily.

  “What is this, mendicant?”

  Demian put his finger to his lips.

  “How dare you –”

  “Be quiet,” Demian said calmly, and the inquisitor’s mouth snapped shut, his eyes bulging in outrage. “If you cry out, I will remove your tongue.”

  Demian’s fingers slammed into the man’s throat just as his lips started to part. The inquisitor made a strangled sound, the anger in his eyes melting to fear. His hands flew up, scrabbling at Demian’s grip, but the shadowblade batted them away.

  “I have questions for you. If you answer them truthfully, I will let you live. Nod if you understand.”

  The inquisitor jerked his head once in agreement.

  “Good. I am going to release you.” Demian let go of the man’s neck and he reeled away, gasping, steadying himself with a hand on the bed. The boy scooted farther from him, cowering among the cushions. Demian paid him no mind.

  “Now. You are an inquisitor of Ama. Do you serve in the temple, or in the catacombs below the palace?”

  The man eyed Demian warily, rubbing at his neck. “The catacombs,” he finally rasped.

  Demian nodded. Good. Most inquisitors fulfilled their duties in the catacombs, but there were a few who served at the pleasure of the High Mendicant and Seneschal directly.

  “I am looking for someone. A sorceress who might have been brought to the catacombs a few months ago. Perhaps delivered to you by servants of the black vizier.”

  It was only a flicker in the man’s face, but it was enough.

  “Does she still live?” Children could be Cleansed and reborn as the Pure, but adults never survived the ceremony.

  The inquisitor licked his lips. “Yes.”

  “Where is she?”

  The man swallowed, his hands twisting the silken sheets. “Deep. The faithful stay in the first few levels of the catacombs, but the passages spiral down much farther. She’s the personal prisoner of the vizier, and his servants are the ones who bring her food and water.”

  “Is she collared?”

  “Ama would never allow sorcery beneath his holy palace –”

  Demian cut him off with a sharp gesture.

  “She was bound hand and foot, so she could not form her magic.”

  “That would not matter. There is something else.” Demian withdrew a curved dagger from beneath his robes.

  The man paled, his eyes widening. “It is a secret of the faith… sorcery is suppressed in the catacombs. The remains of thousands of the Pure are interred there, and Ama’s gift lingers in their bones.”

  Interesting. Demian knew that the sorcery-inhibiting collars designed by the wizards of the Kalyuni Imperium had been infused with the ashes of cremated paladins, but he had not known the power of the Pure would persist for so long.

  So Alyanna was alive. Had she been tortured? Were her mind and body whole?

  The inquisitor watched him carefully. “My lord –” he began, but Demian stopped him again with a raised hand.

  “Boy,” Demian said, turning to the child, who had watched this exchange with wide, uncomprehending eyes. “Has this one ever hurt you?”

  The boy glanced from the inquisitor to the shadowblade.

  “Does he hurt you?” Demian repeated, his tone softening. The boy nodded slightly.

  “Go,” Demian told the child. “Leave this room.”

  Quick as a rabbit the boy slid from the bed, dashing for the door. Demian heard it creak open behind him.

  The inquisitor’s face was now a sickly gray. “But you said… ”

  “And you said in your vows that you would shepherd the children of men into the Light. It seems we are both liars.”

  Demian lashed out with his dagger, leaving a gash across the inquisitor’s neck. Clutching at the wound, the man thrashed in the bed, blood bubbling from between his fingers.

  Demian bent and wiped the dagger clean on the sheets, then turned away from the dying priest. The door was still slightly open, and he glimpsed the child watching solemn-faced through the crack.

  “Hold on to your hate,” Demian told the boy as the inquisitor gave a last gurgling cry. “It is the only thing they can never take away.”

  Then he stepped into the shadows, and the coldness closed about him once more.

  The undercity beneath the imperial capital was a vast and sprawling labyrinth. Demian had spent centuries below the mountain, in the narrow passages that threaded the home of the kith’ketan, but that place had been carved from
the rock by hands that did not belong to men. There had been an otherworldliness, a sense compounded by the presence that had made its lair in the mountain’s bowels. The undercity, by contrast, was an amalgamation of sewers and catacombs and tunnels that had grown together to honeycomb the space beneath Menekar. There were even entire streets and buildings that looked to have been sunk below the ground, remnants of a vanished age.

  The young shadowblade had explored the winding passages of the undercity in the months since he had been tasked with waiting for more of his dark brothers to arrive. Demian thought of him as Whisper, because of his soft voice, though the kith’ketan forsook their old names when they were gifted their swords. Whisper told Demian of some of the wonders he had seen: a great head of smooth dark stone jutting from a tiled wall, water black as pitch dripping from its empty eye sockets; a ruined temple to some nameless god or demon, its nave filled with headless skeletons; an albino lizard several times the length of a man that had swum past him as he had been mapping the sewers that flowed beneath the streets. And when Demian had told him they would need to penetrate the catacombs beneath the Selthari Palace, where the inquisitors of Ama labored to purify the souls of sorcerers and heretics, Whisper had claimed he was certain some tendril of the undercity extended that far.

  So they had spent days delving farther than the young shadowblade had gone before, sometimes in darkness and sometimes following a ball of Demian’s wizardlight. The first extended foray they made had lasted a full day, and they had been forced to finally turn back when they finished the last of their food and water. Further explorations met dead ends, impassable ruins, and in one instance a chasm that plunged down into oblivion. Demian had nearly given up hope of finding what they sought, and had begun to contemplate other means of ingress, when, quite unexpectedly, he realized they had passed beneath the palace.

  It began as a creeping sense of wrongness that swelled larger as they paced a crumbling passageway inlaid with grimy mosaics. The wizardlight he had sent farther ahead sputtered and vanished, as if it were a flame that had suddenly been placed under glass.