by Carol Berg
The description could not but recall the quartz prisms I’d seen at Ilario’s Grand Exposition of Science and Magic so long ago. Men of science had shone sunbeams through them, showing how the angled faces bent the light and split it into the colors of the rainbow, exposing mystery and glory hidden in common sunlight.
“It was Altheus himself who named them Seeing Stones,” said Denys. “Do you know their names, high and mighty mage?”
I shook my head, bridling my tongue lest my barrage of questions fright him to silence. Double images…skewed…I’d heard mention of such things when investigating lens making. Such provenance would make a fine element for spellwork.
He continued. “The history I found says: ‘The Maldivean Stones, gift of the Creator to his favored son, Altheus, are three: Rhymus the Red-Hearted, the Stone of Passion; Tychemus the White-Hearted, the Stone of Reason; and Orythmus the Black-Hearted, the Stone of Command. From the Three shall rise the Righteous Defender, who shall battle the Daemon of the Dead on the doorstep of Heaven.’ And sure enough, in the matter of a year, Altheus brought down the Arothi, who outnumbered him fifty to one, conquering everything from the borders of Syanar west to the sea. Always he carried the Stones with him.”
“History calls Altheus the Holy Imperator,” I said. “Not the Righteous Defender.” I was near drunk with excitement. My father had mentioned the Righteous Defender, the Temple’s mythic warrior who would crush the Souleater’s Chosen—the champion of the Fallen who would battle him before Heaven’s gates. Surely the enchantress in the dream possessed one of these very Stones.
“Aye. Altheus himself insisted he was not the Defender. But many believed it and named his birthplace holy ground…”
Sirpuhi meant holy. The place had likely been some burial ground for centuries before Altheus.
“…and Altheus was quite the opposite of the Arothi, who ruled by sword, whip, and chain. Opposite most conquerors, as he was generous in his victories. He gave each of his men a bit of the lands he conquered and forbade slaughter or savagery among them. He let conquered peoples worship what gods they wished and sent out teachers that all might learn to read and write. Two-and-fifty years he ruled his empire.”
“So what happened?” I asked. The history, part of the Stones’ keirna, was important, too.
“Well, he just lay down and died. He was old by then. Said his work was done. He had three sons, and he gave each of them a third of his empire and one of the Stones. He warned them that they must use the Stones together, as elsewise their magic was out of balance. Altheus had his magus bind a geas about the three, preventing the owner of one stone from harming the owners of the others. His heirs would have to cooperate to keep Maldivea intact and at peace.”
But I could see it clearly. No matter the intentions of the benevolent father, human greed would ever win out. “One of them figured out how to circumvent the geas.”
“You’re quick, mage,” said Denys, leaning close enough I could smell the onion and garlic on him. “For years the brothers scrambled for influence among their subject states. The youngest brother, Maldeon, the holder of Orythmus, began to hunt down sorcerers and force them to work for him.”
“The Stone of Command.”
“Some of the sorcerers disappeared. Some were released but were forever altered, unable to speak of their experiences. Eventually, Maldeon assassinated one of his brothers and seized Rhymus. Not long afterward, an earthshaking devastated the kingdom of the third brother. If Maldeon caused it, the attempt didn’t go to his plan, as Tychemus was lost in the rubble. By this time, barbarians were attacking from the east, weakening the hegemony, and the Arothi took advantage. It’s said the Arothi reduced Maldivea to dust and poisoned the land so that Altheus could not rise from it again. No one knows what became of the Seeing Stones after that.”
My heart rattled in my breast. “The book said that: ‘so that Altheus could not rise from it again’?”
“Aye. Evidently he was very difficult to kill. So, is that what you wanted to know?”
“Some, yes.” Not nearly enough. And it raised even more questions. Portier…Saints Reborn…I didn’t believe in daemons and angels and reborn saints and holy imperators. Where was the truth behind the gibberish of superstitions?
Sweat beneath the wool blindfold dribbled into my eyes, the salt drops causing them to burn. Orange streaks split the darkness, as in the first days, causing spikes of pain through my pounding skull. The aetherstorm boiled behind my barricades. But I had to go on.
“Did your books tell how the Stones were used? I’ve heard of speaking through dreams, of imprisoning the dead…or keeping men alive when they ought to be dead.”
“Aye, it was said that Altheus frightened his enemies through their dreams on the night before battle. Some said he enslaved his people through dreams, but other writers disputed it.”
“Go on…”
“It’s time you teach me the formula for your ward. Then I’ll tell more.”
I pressed the heels of my hands to the blindfold and gritted my teeth. My head was swimming with smoke and pain and this hunger to know. “It’s not enough yet. Men pay me a thousand kivrae for such a ward. I need to know more of this Altheus and where Maldivea was.” How ignorant I was, not to know common history.
“A thousand kivrae…to the prisoner of a low Covergan? Though you’re asking questions as if you’d come here apurpose to steal my secrets.”
“That’s ridic—”
He pounced, all knees and elbows, stinking breath, harsh panting and fumbling at the clasp of my cloak.
“What the devil?” I wrenched away and rolled to one side, fending him off with flailing elbows and my bound hands and feet. “Get your hands off me!”
But like an angry cat, he pressed me to the floor, clawing at my cloak and shirt. Only when my neck…my collar…was exposed, did he back off. “A master mage!” he said. “What master serves as third mage to any mundane noble?”
Before I could answer, his breath caught and he brayed his donkey laugh. “God’s teeth! You’re the daemon murderer!”
Wood…iron…whatever it was…the heavy object that hit my head set off such a firestorm within my skull, I could do naught but moan.
CHAPTER 11
CASTELIVRE
Adept Denys grasped the tether between my wrists and ankles and dragged me across the room and down a very, very long staircase. To my sorrow, I never fell insensible. With hands and feet unavailable to brace, my body bumped and ground against every centimetre of stone. I strained to prevent my head repeatedly whacking itself on the stone steps. Surely red-hot irons were holding skull to shoulders. As the stair ended, and we traversed a stretch of more level terrain, I attempted to summon a defense. But I couldn’t hold on to any spell long enough to bind it. When he dropped me on cold, smooth stone, I was sure my brain had leaked out my ears.
“Now, what to do with you? Tetrarch de Ferrau’s offered a hundred kivrae bounty on your head for murder and blasphemy, but he wants you alive. Too bad, as it would be easier to kill than keep you. But first we must convince the sergeant you’ve run away.”
Denys hurried off, back again before I could move without blubbering. The pressure of ceiling and walls had already begun to crush me.
“Don’t leave me down here,” I mumbled through bruised lips.
He didn’t bother to answer. With a miraculous efficiency, he cut Andero’s bonds from one limb at a time, replacing them with thick ropes that snugged ankles and wrists together behind me, bending my back into a painful arch. He ripped away my gloves and half my sleeve, cackling when he exposed my mutilated hand.
“Please…”
Footsteps moved away. Then a heavy metal door slammed, sending a shock through my head. I vomited.
Swelling bruises and airless silence pressed inward on my skull, while inside that sorry bone, the aether raged in uncontrolled chaos. Experiencing both at once near unhinged me. Groaning, I ground my temple into the floor and s
trained my limbs as if sheer will might burst the ropes. Wrists and ankles soon bled fire.
Andero would know I hadn’t run. But could he find me? Gods, I had power enough to raise the dead. Surely I could get out of a cellar.
Focus on the ropes. All it would take was a bit of flame. Fire and I were old acquaintances. Though I knew little of the ropes’ provenance, their purpose was clear. More than simple control. Pain. Punishment. Vengeance. Malice. Adept Denys detested mages. Pain and mind’s chaos tore at my reason as I bound the spell.
Nothing. Gods, was I entirely depleted? The chamber itself did not inhibit magic, else the aetherstorm would have fallen silent.
Patience, fool. Again, I wove. More of Denys…isolated here…despised by the Temple officials…sitting on remnants of the greatest library of magic the world had known, yet unwilling to let anyone know. Greedy, then. Hoping, perhaps, to learn enough to trump those who scorned his weak practice. I twisted my hands to feel his scratchy ropes. A centimetre thick. Not enchanted. I bound my reworked spell. Nothing.
“Aagh!” Again I squirmed and strained on the dusty floor, cursing
de Gautier and Jacard and the nonexistent gods and my own stupidity, accomplishing nothing but heaving up the last of the ale.
Fear seeped into my aching bones. So deep belowground…I’d go mad down here. I had known for all these months what blindness would cost me, but this was simple magic. Rope was rope. What was I missing?
Born in a cave…left alone in the dark to be devoured by daemons. Starving. Frightened. Reason denied that I could remember my infancy. Yet even now I heard them whispering, Daemon. And another voice soothing, promising to protect me. Gods, this was madness.…
Madness—perhaps that was it. Perhaps Portier was right about the corruption beyond the Veil—that the existence of Ixtador and the starving souls who abided there had corrupted the energies of true magic. And perhaps the corruption infected those like Denys who used such devices, as well as those few heretics like me who worked with true magic.
I wove the spell again. My useless writhing had dislodged the knife Andero had tucked up my sleeve. Its tip was now slowly digging its way into my elbow. Instead of amorphous fire, I incorporated the keirna of the familiar blade, nicked with abuse from using it for other tools I could not locate. The blade was out of proportion to the hilt. I’d had to file the broken tip short when I used it once too often to pry up a nail. I kept it very sharp. This time I added incipient madness to the working, as well. With will and power I bound the spell and triggered it.
The ropes snapped.
For one blessed moment, I lay gulping the musty air, begging the agony in my head and neck to ease. But as the bright residue of the spellwork faded, the suffocating darkness settled deeper. Even were I willing to waste power on triggering my copper bracelet, I dared not try it. To use it and see naught but unrelieved dark would set me wailing like an infant. Ridiculous that the absence of light should unman a blind man so.
Mustering my limbs, I crawled forward, kneeling up every few centimetres to wave my arms like an idiot. Better to discover obstacles with hands than with head.
Splinters raked my knuckles, the culprit a heavy wooden crate. Denys’s path from the door had been unobstructed.
Altering my course slightly led me into more crates and a wall of stools and broken chairs. An exposed nail pierced my palm. Growling, I shoved the offending crate aside. But it rammed into something else, and in an explosive cacophony of rattling wood, a collapsing mountain of crates, slats, and heavier objects with solid corners battered me to the floor.
I scrambled back to all fours and altered course yet again. Cursing, terrified that my clumsiness had blocked the clear path to the door, I fumbled through the debris, trying to judge what might have been there before and what I had scattered.
Books. Saints have mercy, books lay everywhere. Scattered across the floor. Stacked. Crammed into the crates, spilling from cupboards, stuffed into shelves that seemed to block my path in every direction. Large and small, bound, stitched, or rolled, they smelled of dust, old linen, and musty leather. The magic that encrypted them tickled my skin like threads of spidersilk.
Books had ever been the measure of wealth to me, the only possession I coveted, the door to knowledge and understanding and a place in the world. Now I was surrounded by more books than one could read in a decade, and they did naught but whisper and tease, taunting of magic lying just beyond my reach…forever.
A cold, glutinous liquor of rage and hate welled from toes through bone and sinew, straight into the frenzy behind my brow. Power burgeoned in its wake, a new sort of power that numbed the aches of the body and slowed the heart, cooling fear and frenzy, shadowing thought and reason. My hair crackled with the virtu elektrik; my hands steadied, capable of grasping the world and twisting it in knots.
I bellowed in triumph, mustered a mighty will, and with a thought raised a whirlwind. Books, crates, casks, rope, and whatever else occupied that cellar room went flying. Objects crashed into each other in a roaring, rattling circle around me. Heedless, I raised my arms to the ceiling, summoning the storm of fire and destruction I had created back in Jarasco.
Heavy metal scraped stone. I spun in place. From far beyond the pandemonium, bright reason cried warning—a faint, steady gleam, a beacon of light and heat centered on my heart that penetrated the eye of the hurricane. A ridiculous notion: that there existed some cause not to unleash chaos. Yet, reason insisted I would destroy something valuable…something irreplaceable.
So I hauled back on the swollen enchantment and wrestled it into submission. Only a single burst escaped me.
“What in the Souleater’s demesne—?” A man’s guttural scream choked off his words, only to be itself engulfed by the din of flame.
Rage, hate, and power emptied out of me like a torrent of filth, and I threw my arms over my head as the contents of the room crashed to the floor all around. Thundering flames were quenched in a billowing stench of burnt flesh.
Burying mouth and nose in my arm, I sagged to my knees. In all desperation, I tried to recall the voice I had just silenced, for as sure as my name, the person who had opened the metal door lay dead. Gods of all the universe…my brother…
Heedless of cuts and splinters, I scrambled through the wreckage in the direction of the heat and stink, shoving obstacles aside as if they were feathers.
“Spirits and daemons, Dante!” A whoosh of cold wind cleared the smoke and stink.
“Andero?” My strangled question fell dead in the close space. “You found me.”
“Waited outside the house, as I thought that’s what you wanted. But then I heard— It sounded like the end of the world down here. I just followed the noise.” He paused to take a breath. “This…mess…this is the sorcerer? You’ve killed him.”
I threw my arm across my face to block the stench and nodded. Relieved. Disgusted. Horrified.
“I didn’t think him the kind to fight—such a scrawny, cringing thing—else I’d never have left you. But here you’ve had to kill him…with magic.”
His childish awe sickened me so thoroughly, I could scarce speak. I reached out my hand. “Get me out of here.”
“Aye.”
He guided me past Denys’s remains, still pulsing with heat. Only when the metal door slammed behind us and we headed up the stair did the tightness in my chest ease enough to allow a full breath. My head felt as hollow as a fire-scoured bowl.
“Mercy, Dante, half your face is pulp. What did he—?”
“It’s none of your concern.”
“You know”—he hesitated, then plunged ahead—“one thing I learned in the legion. You’re never quit of a battle without you’ve talked it out.”
“Not this one.”
To talk about what had happened was to think about it. To think about it was to relive it. And I wanted never, never, never to do that. A few times I had experienced true rage, but never had I felt…transformed…into something
else altogether. Uncontrolled. Triumphant in my madness. What did that mean?
“Later, then. We oughtn’t stay. What if someone comes looking for him? What if one of these Temple folk comes to question you? There’s a stable next the southeast gate with only a boy guarding the horses. If you could distract him…”
Impossible. “We’ve got to sleep. A couple of hours each. We’ll snatch the beast before dawn and leave with the early caravans.”
He nudged me to a stop before we’d reached the top of the stair. “We’ve another problem,” he said, low and quiet, as if what was left of Denys might overhear. “I found someone lurking in the ruins. Near Da’s age, skinny, small, dressed gentlemanlike, though he looked as if he’d been living hard, and his speech weren’t so fine as his clothes. For certain not a Temple servitor. Said he followed us up the hill and needs to speak with you, as he has knowledge of a friend of yours. He knows your name, Dante, and doesn’t like you much, but he hadn’t run off and babbled, neither.”