The Daemon Prism: A Novel of the Collegia Magica

by Carol Berg

  Without even a sip, he set the wine on the table beside him.

  “Nor can I recall why this Regent Iaccar bears me such animosity. My true master, who is much more terrible than Iaccar, also believes I deceive him and applies his scourge to dissuade me. Though I don’t bleed from it.” He gazed quizzically at his outstretched arm as if it were alien to him. “I think perhaps I’m mad.”

  His true master? Scourging? Winter’s breath wafted over me. Dante had ever claimed madness was his likely end. But never had I imagined such a quiet horror.

  “Xanthe tells me I’m a sorcerer, but I can construct no spells. I don’t even know where to begin. Yet neither can I doubt that part entire.…”

  Sparks spilled from his scarred fingertips, flowing down his fingers, and pooling in the clawed cup of his hand. He smoothed his good hand over it, dousing the eerie glow. My knees jellied, the taste of death in my throat.

  “When I sleep I do not dream—unless the scourging is a dream, which I’ve never quite decided. Save me from more dreams like that! And now I sit here and talk to myself, but I’ve naught to say that I’ve not repeated a thousand times over. And beyond all is the abyss.”

  He shook his head as if to rid himself of the vision. “My master assures me I will fall. He says I am his Hand in the Living World. Sometimes I believe I’m dead. Sometimes I believe…”

  He burst from his chair and threw his wineglass. The glinting glass shattered and clinked to the floor. The bloodred wine dribbled down the wall. Dante yanked something from his shirt and gripped it tightly in his trembling fist. “…I need to fight…destroy…rend. It is my only purpose.”

  More sparks, blazing white this time and so hot they seared my cheeks, spewed from the fingers knotted at his chest. He sank to his knees. “I need to die.”

  Clanging bells jolted me awake. Eleventh hour. I had to go. Whether this true master with a flaying whip was real or a product of madness was beyond my skill to judge. But Portier was in more immediate danger.

  I wanted to comfort him, to tell him everything I knew, everything I loved about him. I wanted to say the world felt broken without his gruff, demanding, ever-tempestuous presence. I rose, bent over him, and whispered in his ear, “I am your memory, Master Dante. I know who you are and who you have been. One day I’ll come back and tell you all. Do not despair.”

  He likely didn’t hear. He had begun shaking violently and mumbling. “Master…no…no more. I cannot…I will not…”

  Blotting tears and crushing grief, I left him and set out in search of Portier. An agonized cry seared the air behind me, threatening to split my heart. But I kept walking.

  CHAPTER 34

  MANCIBAR

  I ghosted through the halls and passages of Jacard’s palace, heading ever downward. Palaces and fortifications were always built upon the ruins of what had come before. Whatever confluence of trade routes, rivers, mines, or other resources had drawn someone to settle in a place would draw others until the rivers ran dry or the mines petered out. Legends of holiness were even more persistent. Somewhere in this fine palace, aged perhaps fifty years, I would find a path to a much older dwelling, which would connect eventually to the resting place…or one of the resting places of Sante Ianne…Altheus. His fellow saints grant that it was not the burial place of Portier de Savin-Duplais, either dead or living.

  Yet it was less analysis and more instinct that guided my steps—this persistent sense of familiarity, as if my history with Portier would not allow us to be kept apart. He was easy to discover if I but set my feet in the right direction.

  At the base of the third downward stair, a gang of three sweepers pushed their brooms about a small rotunda. The chamber’s thick, straight columns and elongated, unlifelike mosaics bespoke a style at least five centuries past. Encouraged, I paused on the bottom step, waiting for the sweepers and their dust cloud to pass by. Instead they blocked the stair while arguing about whether to make another round.

  My nose itched. My chest spasmed. Swallowing the sneeze, I willed the men—ghostlike themselves—to move on. I could not retreat. This was the way. I felt certain of it.

  The second sneeze sneaked up on me. Babbling about haunts, the sweepers barged past, fighting to get up the stair. Though I pressed my back to the wall, the last man bumped my breast. He moaned and dropped his broom on my foot, hurtling up the stair without it.

  I raced onward, hunting through dark, empty rooms, backtracking three times at one point. A few steps in each direction and my spirit jarred. On my fourth try I discovered another descending stair of undressed stone. The rooms below were far, far older. Low ceilings. The air was chill and musty, the layer of damp sludge beneath my bare feet unmarred. Only the blue wash of Lianelle’s enchantment allowed me to see the way.

  A brick arch led me into the lowest, narrowest passage yet. The height forced me, a short woman, to bend over, which said it was more likely some ancient drainage passage than a place where people walked. I tried reversing course, but instinct screamed that I was wrong to go back.

  A few steps farther forward and a moan echoed in the tunnel. The sound quickly shaped itself into mumbles. “…coming…they’ll be coming. Not feared. Not feared. Is’t you down here, Gammy? Gappa? Won’t disgrace you. Won’t scream. Won’t piss. Won’t shit. Best not sleep. Not feared. Aaaaaa…” The keening rose until it was abruptly cut off, and the litany began again.

  The drainage tunnel led into the dusty corner of a half-collapsed dungeon cell. Two more cells remained intact. One was empty, save for damp and mold. A dirty young man huddled in the other. He didn’t seem to have suffered abuse, save for prisoning in that dreadful place. Nor had he been there long. His beard was scarce sprouted.

  No keys in evidence. It wasn’t just my distaste for magic working that prevented me from shearing off the cell door with raw magic. The fellow would be sure to set up screaming at explosions and invisible hands. And John Deune had warned of watchers. I couldn’t afford a fuss before I’d found Portier.

  The young man emitted a choked sob as if he saw me pass him by.

  Two more turns and faint light illumined a wide arch. Yes. This was right.

  Incense and smoke, hints of an ancient grave site, drew me forward. But it was wonder and horror that propelled me into the great cavern.

  Stars and Stones, what went on here? The hall was deserted, yet the lingering smoke was not so old as to claim that the chamber’s grim tale was centuries past. Leather bindings dangled from a splattered wall. Painted words covered walls and floor—Aljyssian words, implying spellwork. Vile spellwork, for the sticky brushes and the clotted gore in a square bowl told me what ink scribed them. Cascades of stiffened wax hung from a thousand candle niches. An altar weighted the space between four towering angels. No, not an altar, a catafalque…

  I pelted across the great chamber, descended a few steps, then scrambled up the stepped marble of the bier. “Portier!” I cried softly as I grabbed the bronze handles of the sarcophagus lid and dragged at its monstrous weight. “I’ve come to fetch you. Angels mercy, tell me you’re not in this cursed box.”

  “Not.” A quiet echo. Even my soundless passing, unmarred by boots or rustling fabric, caused whispers in the stillness.

  I yanked again at the awful weight. Again I felt the jarring wrongness.

  “Here.”

  Clinging to the heavy lid, I spun, gawking wildly at the yawning cavern.

  “Portier?” My voice bounced here and there, much too loud.

  “Spirit?” The word was scarce a breath.

  Toward the left end of the splattered wall, a barred pattern of wavering yellow light lay across the floor. A grate in the navel of the world…

  Without thought, I was there. Beyond the crosshatched strips of thick bronze lay the strangest prison cell that could be imagined. On one side were a pallet, a stool, a small writing desk, where a guttering candle sat in a pewter holder as it might in some gentleman’s library. A man wrapped in a gray blanke
t sat hunched over the desk, his head drooping, a pen fallen from his trembling hand. On the other side of the cell was a bleeding-chair, rigid, skeletal, and sturdy, equipped with thick straps to bind a prisoner while a sorcerer drained his blood. Dark stains blotched its white paint.

  Deadly could not begin to describe my fury. The grate was set into the stone, its hinges thick and unbreakable. No bolt, no latch, and no keyhole were visible. A survey of the cavern revealed nothing that might pry the solid bronze. It would have to be magic.…

  “Are you ready to get out of this place?” I said softly, gripping the bronze grid. “You might want to cover your head.”

  His head dropped a little lower and his shoulders jerked. It took me a moment to hear the soft laughter. Portier’s laughter. “Anne de Vernase…as I live.”

  Which looked to be a temporary condition. When he shifted around, the candlelight revealed his already slender face all bones and hollows. He squinted. Blinked. “Madness…”

  His crestfallen expression near broke my heart. “No, no, I’m truly here, Portier. Stay back.

  Raw, ugly power flowed from my roots like molten iron, boiling through bone and sinew.…Control, Anne. Dante’s teaching was blazoned on my spirit. Build the channel. Release only what’s needed. The bronze grid spat hot blue sparks over my grasping fingers and swung open, near breaking my fingers before I could get them loose.

  “You’ve progressed,” he said. “Excelled.”

  “Only for you, friend.”

  I ducked through the low opening and crouched in front of him, laying my hand on his cold, palsied one. “We’re going now. Any watcher in the city will have felt that. Can you walk?”

  “Won’t be fast.” He lifted my unseeable hand and grinned. “You’re not dead?”

  “No. Though handsome gentlemen keep inquiring.” I helped him to his feet.

  “A small problem,” he said, fumbling with the blanket. Beneath his sparse beard and his horrid cuts and bruises, his complexion blazed. “I’ve not a stitch.…”

  What a vile humiliation for such a private man as Portier. “Honestly, Jacard is too stingy to clothe his prisoners? At least the other fellow isn’t quite such a mess as you are.”

  “Another…” He pulled me to a stop. “Get him out, Ani.”

  “You first.”

  “He’ll die tonight. Horribly.” He tried to pull away, his trembling more pronounced. “Can’t allow it.”

  Bile stung my throat, but I held on. “I’ll do my best for him. But if I take him first, they’ll know someone’s been here, and I might never get back. They might move you. We go now.”

  “We can’t leave—”

  “I need you, Portier. Dante’s lost his mind.” I snuffed the candle and closed the grate behind us.

  “Ani, I’ve got to tell you about Dante—”

  “When we’re out.”

  Portier tried to hurry, but he was terribly weak and his game leg pained him. We were still metres from the arch when we heard footsteps from above, where a gallery stretched the length of the cavern.

  I had hoped to preserve Lianelle’s potion, as I’d only a few hours’ worth left. But we weren’t going to make it. Torchlight danced from above.

  “Take this,” I whispered. “Trust me. It will hide you.” I poked a few drops in his mouth and kept him moving while it took effect. Only it didn’t.

  “Sante Duplais!” Jacard bellowed from somewhere above my head. “Crawl into your chair! I needs must borrow another portion of your life tonight.” He couldn’t see us yet.

  “I’ll do you no good dead,” Portier called, breathless, as he ducked behind one of the angels.

  “But you’ll not die, will you? Not yet.”

  Portier’s sunken eyes inquired as he held out a hand.

  “Try more,” I whispered, pressing the dropper to his lips.

  He brushed it away. “Maybe this…” He closed his eyes, clenched his outstretched fist, and shaped a sigh into a word.

  A surprised screech blasted from above us. The torchlight wavered wildly.

  While Jacard’s cry yet slammed the vaults and walls, two men pelted into the chamber from the very direction we were headed. “Lord Regent? What’s wrong?”

  One of the men pulled up, yelling at his fellow, pointing our way. “Look there, Soder—the bleeder’s out of his hole.…”

  Jacard’s torch winked out as did the one his men carried. Absolute darkness fell. Portier laughed aloud. I would have silenced him, but sounds had no direction in the cavern, and it seemed to give him strength. I dragged him past the groping guards, my enchanted sight showing the way.

  “Been waiting…long time…to do that,” he said, when I pushed him against the wall inside the arched passage to let him rest.

  “You’ve progressed.” I counted to ten. “Now, onward.”

  The prisoner’s retching fouled the stale air in the cell passage. Portier’s hand kept me from passing him by. “Please, Ani.”

  I couldn’t let myself think about it. Another focused blast of power broke the lock. The door sagged open. The prisoner screamed.

  The rush of magic left me dizzy. “Hear me, prisoner,” I said. “By Sante Ianne’s mercy you’ve a chance to live. Be absolutely silent and go left, not right.”

  Portier and I crept through the drainage channel. We were almost through when we heard the prisoner’s harsh breath just behind. At a Y-shaped cross-passage, I pulled Portier to the side and let the young man pass. “Run for your life,” I called after him. “Up and out.” Throttling a moan, he vanished into the gloom.

  Would we could move so fast. The bellowing behind us was furious. How in the name of grace was I to get Portier out if the potion didn’t work on him?

  “Wait,” I said, halting after a single step. “Not that way.” Praying I wasn’t squandering our head start, I chose, not the way I’d come, but the stem of the Y. Surely two branches of a drainage system would merge in a channel that took the water out of the palace.

  “You can see in this tarry labyrinth?”

  “Magic is all about seeing.” Dante’s insistent lesson came out of my mouth without thought.

  “He’s in dreadful danger.” Portier’s worry swelled large enough to choke the drainage channels.

  “Don’t talk,” I said. “I can’t carry you.”

  “SSST, DERO!”

  Saints bless the man. As the tower bells struck half past the first hour of the night watch, exactly on schedule, he was waiting in the pergola where we’d left him.

  “Spirits, lady! There’s been an uproar such as I’ve never seen! They’re still searching.…Had to show papers ten times over. Had to stick my finger down my throat to convince ’em I was too sick to juggle. Even so, I spent the last hour up top of this arbor. Was it you?”

  “Yes. Come with me.” Torches blazed in the direction of the gates and shouts rose from every corner of the grounds, checking off that this or that section had been searched. I dragged Andero through the gardens around the palace to a steep slope of rock and dirt. Ten metres down the slope was a stone-lined cistern and the outflow ditch for the ancient drainage system. I’d left Portier collapsed in the outflow ditch, tucked just behind a rusted grating that had once protected the palace from infiltrators. Wrapped in his filthy blanket and my bangled scarf, he couldn’t crawl another centimetre.

  Andero and I slipped and slid down the treacherous slope of iron-hard rock slabs, loose dirt, and gravel. He caught me once when my knee gave way and I came close to tumbling down into the cistern—a nasty pit from what I could see and smell of it. I was visible again and navigating by starlight.

  “Told you I’d bring help,” I said, scrabbling across the rubble to Por­tier.

  “Sorry.” That’s all he’d said for the last hour of our journey through the bowels of the palace.

  “This is Dante’s brother, Andero.”

  That brought Portier’s head up.

  “Andero, this is—”

  “
Feel as if I know ye aforetime,” said the smith. “Traveled halfway crost the world with my little brother, and heard naught but good of ye.”

  “No self-righteous little prig?” said Portier, moonlight painting his face a ghastly landscape.

  Andero chuckled quietly. “Indeed. That, too. Come, let’s get you away from this den of villainy. Though I’m not sure how we’re to get you out the gates.”

  Ignoring Portier’s protest, Andero hefted him across his shoulders and began the ascent. “Hold tight.”