The Silver Sorceress (The Raveling Book 2)

by Alec Hutson

  It was black and bulbous and curved, almost like the stinger of a scorpion, though much, much larger. Mutterings rippled through the warriors around Cho Lin.

  “The end of the wyvern’s tail,” explained Verrigan. “It brings great luck.”

  The king threw it into the gathered warriors, and chaos erupted.

  The grizzled Skein warriors had become a mob of excited children, scrambling over each other as they tried to claim this prize. Cho Lin was nearly knocked over as the crowd surged around her, and when she’d recovered her balance she saw that Verrigan had abandoned her to join the melee. Steel flashed and a gout of blood arced through the air, followed by a pained scream. The thanes and their entourages were laughing at the mayhem Hroi had caused, but the Skein king and his shaman watched without expression.

  Cho Lin backed away, almost to the great bronze doors of the hall, and was just about to slip inside again when a hand grabbed her arm. She turned, reaching for the Nothing as she readied herself to fight.

  But it was Jan.

  “Come with me,” he said, and she let him lead her inside the Bhalavan. The noise of the quarreling warriors receded as they entered the now empty hall.

  She shook herself free when they had gone a dozen steps. “You left me,” she said accusingly, and he grimaced.

  “I did. I’m sorry.”

  “How could you?” she hissed, wishing now that she had struck first before seeing who had seized her. “I told you I must find the Betrayers. Everyone is in danger while they are free.”

  He held up his hands placatingly. “When last I saw them they were bound in the service of a powerful sorceress, and as wicked as she is, she has no cause to let them work whatever foul deeds they want in the world.”

  “They must be captured again! No wizard is strong enough to control them.”

  “Alyanna is,” Jan said. “She might be the greatest sorceress in the world.”

  Cho Lin clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. She wanted to strike that condescending look from Jan’s face—he had no idea what the Betrayers were capable of doing, and the danger they represented.

  “You came here… to write a song about the glorious Skein king?”

  Jan sighed. “No. Of course not.”

  “Then why? Tell me!”

  “Do you remember what I said that night before I left? You were very drunk.”

  Cho Lin made a face. “On your northern tea.”

  “Yes, well, I told you that for a long time my memories were hidden. But on the night the assassins attacked Saltstone Cein d’Kara helped me to recover them—all of them. And there was one memory I cannot ignore, and it was that which drove me here, to this dead city.”

  She eyed him warily, but her curiosity was piqued.

  “Long ago,” he began, seeing that he had her interest, “but still many years after Alyanna first took away my past, I began to remember something of my old life. I was here,” he said, gesturing with his arms to encompass the great hall, “in the glory days of Nes Vaneth, when the fire wardens burned the sky with blazing streamers and the silver trumpets pealed the arrival of the queen astride her dragon.”

  “That is not possible,” Cho Lin said. “This city has been a ruin since before the Thousand Sails entered the Sea of Solace.”

  “It is possible,” Jan insisted, and the intensity in his eyes surprised her. “You must believe me. After many years, the memories of my old life began to seep through the barriers Alyanna had constructed in my mind, and so I journeyed here. This was before the Skein had settled in this city, and it was empty save for the ghosts of my lost people. I entered the Bhalavan and, remembering the way, I followed the hidden paths to the ancient throne room. There are corridors, you see, that extend from beneath the Bhalavan and into the mountain. There I found something I cannot forget, and I must return to.”

  “What was it?”

  “In the throne room I discovered the greatest heroes of my people encased in stone, and a great wall of ice filling the dais where once my queen had sat upon the dragon bone throne.” Jan looked away from her, as if momentarily overcome by the memory. “We were lovers. Her name was Liralyn, and she was a sorceress as powerful and as glorious as Dymoria’s Crimson Queen. I walked up to that wall of ice as if in a dream, wondering if I would still be able to see her, my lost love, entombed inside forever. But instead there was something else—a babe, hanging in the ice as if it had been placed there.”

  “A Skein warrior told me he has seen the Min-Ceruthans trapped within the black ice elsewhere in Nes Vaneth.”

  “No!” Jan said, dismissing her words with sharp gesture. “It was not the black ice from Kalyuni. This ice was summoned by Min-Ceruthan sorcery, I could sense it. Which means it had been created to protect what was within.”

  “You mean…”

  “Yes. The child might still be alive.”

  “You think the child is the queen’s?”

  Jan’s face twisted. “I… believe it could be. She was with child, and I was her lover. It was why I left the north and journeyed south—the other lords were enraged that she had allowed a lesser noble into her bed. We quarreled over this, and she exiled me.”

  “So the baby could be yours as well,” Cho Lin breathed softly.

  “Yes,” Jan said, and she could hear the raw emotion in this admission.

  “Why did you not do something before?”

  “I did at the time! As I said, my memories were not complete. But I remembered hints about a great sorceress named Alyanna, and I sought her out. I begged for her to help me craft a sorcery that could free this child in the ice without killing it.”

  “And she refused you?”

  His jaw hardened. “Worse. She robbed me of the memories that had returned, so I forgot entirely about what I had found in Nes Vaneth. Until that night in Saltstone.”

  “And so you have come here to find the child again.”

  “Yes,” Jan said, his expression suddenly pleading. “But I need your help, Cho Lin.”

  Round and round

  They spiral down

  Bare feet upon the stones

  A winter chill

  That lingers still

  Did creep into their bones

  Mother wails

  And father pales

  To see their girls so cold

  While beneath the ground

  They spiral down

  Never to grow old

  It was a fragment of a song from her childhood, and Alyanna could not get it out of her head. On the darkest night of the year, when the moon had vanished from the sky, an old woman dressed as the Crone of Bones would sing about the dead to the children who clutched at the hem of her shawl. Spirits wandering lost on battlefields, new born babes drawing in shuddering breaths even as the light faded in their mothers’ eyes, cold fingers closing around a woodsman’s heart while he worked alone in the forest. But the song that had made Alyanna shiver the most as a child had told the story of two sisters who had wandered away on a winter’s night and been found by their father the next day clutching each other in the snow, pale and lifeless. As their parents mourned, the girls’ souls had descended into the depths of the world, terrified by what they would find but unable to turn away from the path that drew them below.

  She was one of those girls now. Dreading every step that brought her deeper, yet still she continued on.

  Spiraling down, into the darkness.

  They had left the passages carved by wraiths and men far above. Here, stony fangs dripped from ceilings that sometimes brushed their heads and sometimes soared beyond the reach of Demian’s wizardlight. The tunnel they followed would constrict so tightly that they had to squeeze through narrow openings, and then widen into great caverns where black water tumbled from above to splash into pools swarming with phosphorescent f
ish.

  “Are we lost?” she asked Demian when he paused at the juncture of two passages.

  “I remember the way,” he replied, sending his wizardlight skittering down the left branch.

  She watched the glow vanish far too quickly. There was something strange about the blackness down here—it clotted in the air like a physical thing, hovering just beyond where the radiance spilling from her eyes and Demian’s sorcery faded. And it felt as if from the dark something was peering back at her.

  Time lost all meaning. They might have been descending for half a watch, or half a day. When Alyanna was hungry she ate the dried mushrooms the kith’ketan had given her. A few bites and her stomach was full again, as if by sorcery. When she was thirsty she drank from her water skin. She did not feel tired, but then again, she did not feel entirely awake, either. The laws that governed the world above had been growing weaker as they descended—it was almost as if they were infringing upon an entirely different realm, one with its own set of rules.

  Demian’s drifting wizardlight suddenly sputtered and went out. In the moment before it vanished, Alyanna saw a gap illuminated in the stone ahead, an entrance to what looked to be a larger space beyond. Then they were plunged into darkness, save for the muted light shining from her eyes.

  “Why did you extinguish your wizardlight?” she asked, with some effort keeping the edge of panic from her voice.

  “I did not,” Demian replied, turning towards her. “We have arrived, Weaver.”

  “What is down here?” she asked again, as if to delay the moment when she would have to step forward and face what dwelled beneath the mountain.

  “As I said, I do not know its true nature. Only that it is very old, and very powerful. But despite its age and strength, it can be bargained with.”

  “Are you frightened?”

  “Of course.”

  “As am I,” Alyanna admitted, swallowing away her fear as she stepped forward. “Let us see what it wants from us.”

  The cavern was vast. She and Demian were a drop of light in a great dark sea, and for the first time Alyanna was grateful for what the mendicants had done to her, as it at least kept the oppressive blackness at bay. The scrape of their footsteps on the stone sounded strange, far too loud.

  Something crunched beneath her boot—a shard of glass, perhaps? She bent down to examine what it was, and then recoiled as coldness blossomed where her fingers brushed the substance.

  “Demian,” she said warily, “do you see what we are walking on?”

  “The fragments of the soul jewel. It must have been brought here and shattered.”

  “Why?”

  Before the swordsinger could answer, a sound came from deeper within the cavern. It was rasping, like scales scraping against rock. The darkness roiled—something vast moved within its depths.

  Dost thou admire thy handiwork?

  The words exploded in her mind, and Alyanna staggered backwards. Slivers of pain stabbed behind her eyes, making her head spin. The force of the looming presence was almost overwhelming, and Alyanna felt a compulsion to drop to her knees. Gritting her teeth, she fought back this urge and faced the blackness with all the strength she could muster.

  She had peered into the Void before and glimpsed the beings that drifted in the endless dark. Gods and demons, men called them.

  She knew she now stood in the presence of one such creature.

  “It seems you appreciate what we did under this mountain,” she called out, her words echoing. “Was the jewel what brought you here?”

  Silence. Something churned, a shadow shifting in the darkness. Coils unspooling, slithering closer.

  Aye. Thou hast the right of it. For an age it hath sustained me as I lingered on the border.

  “The border?”

  Between existence and nothing, sorceress. It drew me here, a beacon in the dark.

  “You were injured?” Demian asked, coming to stand beside her. She saw his hand was on the hilt of his sword, though she doubted there was anything here that could be harmed by metal—even the spell-steel of his ancient sword.

  Grievous are my wounds still. I fled a war ye could not comprehend and found solace here beneath this mountain. Long have I sucked the marrow from this gem, persisting on the tattered remnants of the souls ye filled it with. But its power fadeth, and soon only the worship of my servants shall remain. And that is not enough.

  The darkness seemed to be encroaching on them, the circle of light thrown by Alyanna’s radiance shrinking. She swallowed away her fear. “So you are dying.”

  I do not die, because I do not live. I exist or I do not. But now I am an echo of what I once was, fading into oblivion.

  This thing—this creature of the Void—it must want something. Otherwise why summon them here?

  Aye. And thou knowest what it is I desire. For a bargain was made.

  Alyanna had not spoken—it had listened to her thoughts. She would have to be careful. “The kith’ketan served me, and in return they wanted the boy Keilan. Is this what you mean?”

  A hiss came that chilled her blood, and to Alyanna it sounded like affirmation.

  “I wanted the boy as well,” she continued, “to help me craft again the spell that granted us a thousand years of life. But I have no use for him now. My own sorcery has been stolen away.”

  Thou art mistaken, sorceress. Nothing can sever thy connection to the realm beyond. The stream still runneth into you, but it hath been diverted and a different kind of power floweth now. But the stone that did this could be removed.

  Alyanna’s throat was dry. “How?” she managed hoarsely.

  Such a feat is within my power, if a vessel was brought to me.

  “A vessel?”

  One that could contain my essence and let me realize myself fully in this world.

  “And this boy Keilan could do this?”

  He is what thou calls a Talent. Bring him here, and spill his blood upon this stone, and as his life flees I shall fill what is left behind. And then I could bring back what thou desireth most, sorceress. That is the new bargain I offer thee—sacrifice a Talent to me, and I shall return thy sorcery.

  She could be whole again. The thought was dizzying, and she felt her legs weaken. Before she could fall, Demian’s hands were on her shoulders, holding her up.

  “We can do this, Weaver,” he said excitedly, staring into her eyes as she tried to focus on him. “He cannot escape us twice. We will bring Keilan here and offer him to this creature and you will be restored –”

  “No,” she heard herself say, her own voice distant to her ears. “I cannot take the risk of failure.”

  A moment of confusion passed across his face, and then she plunged her dagger into his chest.

  Demian’s eyes widened. She pushed the blade in deeper, searching for his heart.

  Please, die quickly.

  Demian shook his head slightly, as if in disbelief. “Alyanna,” he whispered, and then he coughed, blood darkening his lips.

  He crumpled, his hands fumbling with the jutting hilt. With a pained grunt, Demian pulled the dagger from his chest. Slicked with his blood, it slipped from his fingers, clattering on the stone.

  His breathing rasped, loud and wet, as he twisted to look up at her. Their eyes met. His face was pale, his jaw clenched from the pain. He struggled to say something, but when he opened his mouth there was only blood. A spasm went through him, then he gave a final rattling cough and was still.

  Tears burned Alyanna’s cheeks as she faced the darkness again. “Do what you promised!” she screamed, her bloody hands clenched.

  A cold wind arose in the cavern under the mountain, lifting Alyanna like she was a leaf and tossing her backwards. She struck the ground hard and rolled, the back of her head smashing against rock.

  As she slipped into unconsciousness she
saw a glistening tendril emerge from the darkness, wrap itself around Demian’s body, and drag him out of the light.

  Alyanna awoke to darkness. Utter, seamless darkness.

  She mewled in terror and pain, lightly touching the back of her skull with shaking fingers.

  There was no wind now. No sound. No light? She blinked—yes, her eyes were open. But there was no radiance leaking from them…

  She felt it then, coiling inside her. “Oh, thank you,” she murmured, tears that did not glow or scald wetting her face.

  She was a sorceress again.

  Raising a trembling hand, she reached down for the squirming lines of sorcery and lashed them together into the first spell she had ever been taught. Wizardlight blossomed, a silver orb emerging from the blackness.

  Alyanna screamed, scrambling backwards.

  Demian sat cross-legged not a half-dozen span from where she lay, watching her. His sword lay across his knees, its strange cracked metal shimmering iridescent in the light she had summoned. His black shirt was shredded and stained darker where she had stabbed him.

  Shadows pooled in his eyes.

  “Demian…”

  “Sorceress.”

  It was the voice of the swordsinger, but she knew it was not Demian with whom she spoke.

  “It is done, then.”

  “Aye, our bargain is complete. I have shed my dying coil, and thou art a sorceress once more.”

  “He is dead?”

  Demian’s thin lips twitched. “I entered him before the last of his life leaked away and preserved what I could.” He ripped wider the rent in his shirt, showing her the puckered flesh where the wound in his chest had closed. “Some fragment of the Undying One still resides within me. Would thou like to speak with him?”

  “No,” Alyanna said softly, climbing to her feet.

  Now the creature before her did smile, showing bloodstained lips. “Understandable.”

  She compelled her wizardlight to drift closer. The sorcery was singing in her veins; she wanted to sob in relief. She was whole again.