The meeting didn’t go well for her then.
“Let’s go,” she snapped.
Tarrik divested himself of the skewers and glass and followed Ren out of the chamber. The heels of her boots clicked on the tiles as she practically stomped all the way back to their room.
Inside, she spoke a cant to seal the door and activate her wards. She whirled around and almost bumped into Tarrik. She uttered a curse and quickly moved around him. “Can’t you stay out of the way?”
He leaned his spear against the wall and settled into an armchair. The seat was too small, and its sides pressed against him. Someone had lit the kindling in the fireplace and set two logs burning.
“What happened?” he asked.
“They are fools! They are going ahead with their plan, despite my reasoned arguments against it.”
“What plan?”
“To free Samal, of course—what else? I suppose I can’t blame them. They are bound to him. As am I.”
Tarrik blinked. If Ren was one of the Nine, she was compelled to follow Samal’s will. Why then would she argue against his release? And why did the others of the Nine not consider her a traitor?
“Why are you against it?” he asked.
“It’s . . . not the right time. Too much could go wrong.”
Tarrik was certain she was leaving out her real reason, but he was in no position to pry the truth from her. Perhaps her own position wasn’t assured yet, and she wanted to dispose of a few more rivals first.
Another thought wormed its way into his mind: should he try to stop the Nine, who in their insanity didn’t realize what they were doing would likely destroy their civilization? Though what the miserable humans had created wasn’t impressive. But if he made the slightest move against such an outcome and Ren found out, she would unravel his eternal essence, and he would meet a true death for one of his kind.
Ren poked among the pastries Lin had brought, making disparaging noises. Tarrik shifted to make himself more comfortable, causing her to turn and glare at him.
There was a knock at the door. Ren disarmed her wards and nodded for Tarrik to open it.
A blue-clad boy held out an envelope with a wax seal. “For the Lady Branwen.”
Tarrik took the message and closed the door. Ren almost snatched the envelope from his hands and sliced it open with her thumbnail. As she scanned the letter’s contents, her expression turned to irritation and then anger. He saw her hands tremble as she let the paper and envelope fall to the floor. She stomped to a sideboard, poured herself a glass of strong spirits, and downed it in a gulp.
Tarrik kept his eyes off the letter, hoping she would forget it was there and he could read it later.
Ren poured herself more spirits, but after a single sip, she hurled the glass into the fireplace. It shattered, shards of glass scattering across the floor. Blue flames erupted as the liquor burned. She uttered harsh-sounding curses in Skanuric, followed by a long chant. Not for the first time, Tarrik wished he could speak the ancient language.
She grasped the edge of the sideboard and hunched her shoulders, her face turned away from Tarrik. Perhaps he should find out more.
“Ren . . . ,” he began.
“Gods be damned, leave me! Go out and drink tonight—I give you leave. I need to think, and I can’t do it with you looming above me.” She slammed a plate down on the sideboard with such force it broke, sending nuts tumbling onto the floor rug. “Go, I said! And leave your spear. I don’t want any more incidents with guards. I’ll call when I need you.”
Through her binding of him, presumably.
Tarrik was reluctant to go out weaponless, but if necessary he could probably disarm an attacker and take theirs. Or, if he could do so unobserved, use his shadow-blade. And he was excited at the prospect of some time to himself, with no directives from Ren. Before she could change her mind, he rose. He would leave the palace and head into the city.
When he was halfway to the door, Ren spoke a cant to disarm her wards. Tarrik left quickly and roamed down a couple of corridors and a staircase.
A man in an emerald-green coat approached from the opposite direction. Indriol. Tarrik wondered what all the medals on his coat signified. He looked for a side corridor or open door to escape into, but there was none. As Indriol neared, the stink of his madness became stronger. Tarrik lowered his gaze and hoped the man wouldn’t bother him.
He was out of luck.
“Ah, you are Lady Branwen’s bodyguard, are you not?”
Tarrik nodded and tried to pass, but Indriol blocked his way. He didn’t think the sorcerer would kill him merely for giving offense, but Tarrik decided to put on a show of subservience. The sooner he was away from the man, the better.
Indriol reached for the copper fish talisman at his belt and uttered a cant. Tarrik froze as sorcerous chains tightened around him.
Chains designed to hold a demon.
Indriol knew what Tarrik was and had overridden Ren’s bindings.
Chapter Fourteen
Indriol unlocked a door into a suite of rooms filled with sheet-covered furniture. He turned to a wall and opened a concealed panel.
“Thought you’d go unnoticed, did you?” he said to Tarrik. “You would have if I wasn’t so adept at sensing demons.”
Indriol stepped through the opening into a dusty corridor with a creaky wooden floor and a sorcerous globe floating above for illumination. Tarrik was compelled to follow, no matter how hard he tried to resist. Tendons bulged in his neck, and sweat dripped from his brow.
Tarrik thought he’d been so clever to avoid Ren’s complete domination. He’d thought he’d tricked her into allowing him some minimal freedom, but all he had done was to leave room for another sorcerer to step in and bind him instead.
Indriol unlocked another dusty door, and they descended a steep, narrow wooden staircase that turned back on itself multiple times. Tarrik guessed they were deep underground when it stopped. They traversed another empty hallway and entered a room that stank of old blood and piss.
The metallic odor set Tarrik’s heart pumping faster. Someone, or something, had spilled a great deal of blood here. He tried to snort the stench from his nostrils but could only manage a slight movement. He was starting to regret leaving his spear behind. But what could he have done with it anyway? How could he stab Indriol and free himself when he couldn’t even walk or talk on his own?
Indriol spoke a cant, and the sorcerous globe wafted to a corner and remained there, shedding a yellow glow over the space. A broad oak table dominated the center of the room. Against the walls lay a number of workbenches and vats and a couple of chairs.
“Get on the table,” Indriol said.
Tarrik obeyed.
“Lie down. Shift up a bit. That’s better.”
Indriol spoke cants. Something wrapped itself around Tarrik’s wrists and ankles. He could move his eyes sufficiently to see lurid violet ropes binding him. Another snaked around his neck, constricting his throat, making it hard to breathe.
Indriol’s control lessened slightly, and Tarrik immediately strained against the physical and mental bonds. He jerked his arms and legs, and the sorcerous ropes cut into his flesh. He clenched his teeth against the pain and redoubled his efforts. The bonds became slick with his blood, and eventually he ceased his struggles, taking harsh breaths of the rank air.
Bloody humans. He would torture Indriol in the abyss alongside Ren when he was free.
“That’s better,” Indriol said. “You cannot escape, and after I’m done with you, you won’t want to.”
Tarrik found he could speak now, but even if he summoned his shadow-blade, he would still be bound. “What do you want with me?”
“Blood and fluids, along with some essential tasks. You are mine now, and you will serve me well. Serenity was careless, the foolish girl. Fancy allowing a higher-order demon to just stroll the palace corridors! I almost couldn’t believe it when I sensed you. A talent I have, which I keep to myself. Ser
enity’s ignorance is my gain.”
Tarrik tried to shadow-step into a dark corner. His innate ability failed him.
“I’ll kill you and eat your heart!” he raged. “After I’ve flayed you alive.”
Indriol smiled, but it faded quickly. “Oh, come now. We both know you’re helpless. I could command you to cut your own throat, and you’d do it. But that would be a waste. I have much more interesting things in mind for you. Someone I know will pay handsomely for your blood and other fluids. Then I think you’ll die a gory death that will disrupt Serenity’s plans. Everyone saw you belong to her, so it will be delightfully ironic to use you against her.”
Tarrik heard a scuff of boots in the corridor and turned his head to the doorway, the sorcerous rope abrading his neck. The woman who entered had long chestnut hair and tanned skin and was wearing a plain blue skirt with a charcoal shirt.
Indriol pointed to one of the chairs, and she sat without a word. A smell came from her, a discordant mix of herbs and cheap perfume. Tarrik sniffed again, trying to catch more of her scent amid the goat stench of Indriol’s madness. The herbs were so strong she must have rubbed them on her skin, but why?
To give herself a scent.
He examined her again, certain now she was one of the shape-changing jikin-nakar demons Sheelahn had wanted Ren to dispose of. She wasn’t dressed as a noble or wealthy merchant, though—more like a servant or handmaid.
“Ishi krimp-atal, snagur ul Indriol,” Tarrik said. Free my bonds, slave of Indriol.
The woman met his eyes and smiled, still not speaking.
“I see you recognize her,” said Indriol. “Hardly surprising. She wouldn’t have discovered you on her own, but now I can tell her and the others to keep a watch for any other demons concealed in our midst. It was very naughty of Serenity. And unexpected. She’ll know by now her bindings have been usurped and likely scurry away and hide. She always does, you know. Her place in the Nine should have been given to another. Someone worthier.”
Ren hadn’t hidden from confronting Lischen, Tarrik thought, and she’d certainly proved herself more powerful. Something told him that Indriol’s assessment of Ren was artfully guided by Ren herself.
Would she flee, as Indriol expected? Or would she come for him? Try as he might, Tarrik couldn’t think of any reason Ren would put herself in danger for a demon slave she’d summoned. His fate now lay with another insane sorcerer, here in this room.
He returned his gaze to Indriol, who busied himself with a glass cylinder to which was attached a steel needle. The sorcerer found an empty vial on a workbench and wrinkled his nose at the cork stopper. “It’ll have to do.” He turned to Tarrik. “You, demon, are in a bit of trouble. I don’t think you’ll survive.”
“I’ve seen trouble all my days,” said Tarrik. “And I’m still here.”
He couldn’t rely on Ren. He’d have to extricate himself. Somehow.
Indriol spoke a cant, and Tarrik’s vision went black.
Tarrik’s arm hurt. His wrists and ankles ached. And his mouth was as dry as the desert of Ceedur in the realm of Sharrak, where nothing living survived. His skin itched and burned as though it had been scorched by fire. He remembered wisps of dreams . . . hot blood in his mouth, frenzied couplings, Ren’s face purpling as he squeezed her neck, her nails digging into his arms.
Something soft and rasping stroked the skin of his forearm. Tarrik cracked an eyelid and blinked at the sorcerous globe hanging from a chain attached to a beam above him. It seemed as bright as a sun.
A shadowed figure knelt beside him, licking his skin. He jerked his arm away, and the jikin-nakar jumped back, then scurried to a corner to crouch in the shadows. The jikin-nakar clutched a small knife in one hand. Smears of purple blood spread across her mouth and cheeks. Tarrik’s blood.
He blinked again and looked down to see a dozen oozing cuts along his arm. His chest was also covered with finger-length incisions, and his pants were tugged down to his knees. What have they done to me? He checked, but everything seemed intact. He licked his lips, tasting his own salty sweat.
A gaunt man standing by the doorway turned and disappeared into the corridor. Tarrik tried to commit him to memory: short brown hair, alabaster skin, cream shirt with puffy sleeves, boots with blackened buckles.
The remaining jikin-nakar moved a step closer to Tarrik. Her eyes roamed across his body, and he saw hunger in them. The blood of a higher-order demon would be a rare treat for one of her kind.
“What is your name?” he croaked. “Bring me some water.”
He’d gone thirsty before, for days on end when hunting. But he felt more than parched; he’d been . . . drained of vitality.
The jikin-nakar stared at him, and Tarrik wondered if she’d heard him. Then she moved to a workbench and exchanged the knife for a waterskin.
She squirted water into his mouth, and Tarrik swallowed greedily. He frowned when the demon returned the skin to the bench. He laid his head back and took a few deep breaths. He was alive. For now. Indriol had left. For now. He hadn’t been maimed too badly. For now.
“What is your name?” he asked again.
“Aeshma.”
“And which human form have you taken?”
“I am Myrian, a servant of Lord Ehren’s. He is a senile old fool but tolerated at court, so I go where I please. Do what I want.”
“Where is the real Myrian?”
“Dead, of course.”
Of course. “What are Indriol’s plans?” The sorcerer’s arcane bonds felt as tight as when they’d first materialized.
Aeshma picked up the knife again, twisting it this way and that to catch the light, then watching the reflection scurry across the wall. Indriol had to have known the jikin-nakar would feed from Tarrik. Perhaps he’d counted on it.
“Do you know how to release me?” he asked.
“I can give you a swift release.”
Tarrik licked his parched lips again and thought of a dozen different offers he could make the demon, knowing only one would tempt her.
“How close are you to transforming?”
Aeshma grinned. “Close. A few kills only. Absorbing you would make me strong.”
“You wouldn’t be able to absorb my essence,” he warned. “You know it will be too strong for you. Do not fall into that trap. Think.”
“It is worth the risk.”
“No, it isn’t. You’ve seen others succumb and be lost. You’ve heard the stories of how even the strongest lose their minds and wander forever or take their own life. You would be killing yourself.”
“Maybe you lie.”
“You know I don’t. And I know you’re not stupid or ignorant. Don’t give in to temptation. Trust me. I made it to the Thirty-Seventh Order, and I’ve been in your situation many times before.”
“With a higher-order demon helpless before you and a knife in your hand?”
“Well, not exactly. How many jikin-nakar has Indriol summoned?”
Aeshma crept closer. “Two.” Her eyes moved to the cuts in his skin, following the trails of blood.
If she was answering truthfully, he knew she was sure he had no chance of escaping. Tarrik felt panic rise inside him. He tried to quell the emotion and was only partially successful. Aeshma would not be able to process his essence, especially combined with Ananias’s. But he understood all too well the temptation to try.
Faint footsteps reached Tarrik’s ears. Someone was descending the staircase at the end of the narrow hallway.
Aeshma hissed, then leaped forward and plunged her blade into the meat of Tarrik’s thigh. He screamed at the pain, then forced his throat closed.
Aeshma returned to her chair, knees together, hands clasped in front of her. If not for the blood smeared across her face, she would have been a study of innocence. The blade remained stuck in Tarrik’s thigh. Warm blood trickled from the wound onto the table.
The shadowed hallway was illuminated, and Indriol entered the room, another globe floatin
g above his shoulder.
He glanced at Tarrik, who did his best to grin. I’m still alive.
Indriol’s mouth twisted in distaste. “I see you had your way with him.”
“Yes, Master. Thank you, Master,” said Aeshma.
“He will be dead soon, so make good use of your opportunity.”
“Yes, Master.”
Indriol rubbed his chin and frowned at Tarrik. “There’s something strange here. Serenity’s bindings weren’t quite complete, but I don’t think it was because of a lack of skill. And why summon you at all? We all thought she didn’t care for summoning, even though demons are useful tools.”
Tarrik snarled and spat—or tried to. His mouth was too dry. He felt hope slipping away. Indriol’s madness was less overt than Puck’s or Lischen’s, which made him far more dangerous.
“Serenity is a fool,” the sorcerer continued. “It is dangerous not to fully restrain a demon. A mistake due to inexperience.”
Tarrik tried to tell Indriol he was on borrowed time. That Serenity Branwen would come for her bodyguard and kill the sorcerer for this affront. A bluff, of course, but it was all he had. But his mouth wouldn’t open. His tongue wouldn’t move. Indriol was asserting more control over him than Ren ever had.
“Serenity won’t be a problem once I’m powerful enough to gather my own sorcerers. Samal’s bonds upon me have shown me the way. Soon I’ll be able to dominate others just as my lord has the Nine. For now, I see my slave has let her base urges overwhelm her sense. Remain still.” Indriol paused and chuckled. “As if you could do any different.” He picked up a roll of cloth and a folded paper packet from a table and approached Tarrik. Without warning he yanked the dagger from Tarrik’s thigh.
Tarrik clenched his teeth, and as the searing pain traveled up his body, he moaned. Indriol poured powder from the packet onto the wound. As it hit Tarrik’s flesh, the pain and flow of purple blood lessened. Indriol used the cloth to bind the wound tightly. Some blood still flowed, staining the bandage, but soon stopped.
“You have to be of some use before I dispose of you,” said Indriol. “I’ve patched the wound as best I can under the circumstances. It’ll be enough to have you perform a task for me. Now, get up.”
Shadow of the Exile (The Infernal Guardian Book 1) Page 24