Indriol roared, his face red, his arms outstretched toward his foe. He barked more cants, and a barrage of glittering tendrils skittered across Ren’s wards, which sparked and began to fade.
She had been strong enough to put Lischen down, but Tarrik thought Indriol seemed more powerful and far more cunning. A look of fear crossed Ren’s face, and Tarrik found himself pitying her, an emotion he hadn’t felt for a long time.
Her mouth twisted in agony, and she lowered her sword until its tip touched the floor, sending white lightning skittering across the stone. Stray glints of sorcery floated in the air, writhing amid a white mist swirled by eldritch winds. Tarrik wanted Ren to die—but if she did, Indriol would be his new master, and he’d already revealed Tarrik’s eventual fate under his will.
Tarrik looked down at Aeshma, who had stopped biting and now stared at him with naked fury. He relaxed his grip slightly and wormed one arm free, grabbed her hair, and pounded her head into the floor. Her eyes rolled back, and she went limp.
Ren had regained her feet, and her cants boomed like thunder. Incandescence erupted from nowhere with the intensity of a noonday sun. Indriol cried out in pain and backed away a step. Perhaps Ren had recovered, perhaps not. But Tarrik had to do something to alter the worst outcome for himself.
A quick glance confirmed the sorcerers only had eyes for each other, focused entirely on their arcane skirmish. He looked for Aeshma’s knife, but that wouldn’t do anything against a warded sorcerer. Instead, Tarrik lunged at the thick wooden table, now charred and smoking. With a grunt of exertion, his muscles bulging, he lifted the table off the floor and hurled it at Indriol.
The projectile hammered into the violet shield. Indriol was knocked off his feet midcant, his words stuttering as he flung his arms out.
Ren shouted a cant, and silver and golden emanations gathered in her hand. She sent them whirling at Indriol. There was an earsplitting crack, and a wave of force buffeted Tarrik, knocking him to the ground. Indriol’s wards dissipated like burning mist. Ren’s discharges latched on to him, and he screamed. His clothes smoldered and caught fire. Blood dribbled from blistered spots on his face and hands, staining his coat and pants.
Ren spoke another cant, calling more power to her hand, where it roiled silver and golden.
Indriol tried to speak, but only a moan escaped his lips. Smoke poured from his eyes, which burned with an intense golden light. He made it to his knees, despite the wounds he suffered, and crawled toward Ren, head lowered.
Some sorcerous vitality must be driving him, Tarrik thought.
Ren stepped forward, and her searing-white sword blade severed Indriol’s neck. He slumped to the floor, the cut pumping his lifeblood. Blue-violet light erupted from his wounds and detached head, from his eyes and mouth, as if he burned from the inside. His skin immediately charred, then cracked and oozed crimson.
“Gith-ruthos!” shouted Ren. Tarrik remembered the words from when she had killed Lischen.
Blue-white light radiated from Ren and washed over Indriol’s corpse. His flesh crackled and spat, its fats sizzling, dissolving into pieces that tumbled to the floor. In a few heartbeats, all that remained was a skeleton blackened to obsidian.
Ren staggered and steadied herself with one hand on the wall. She sheathed her blade, and the room plunged into semigloom, lit only by the single alchemical globe hanging from the ceiling beam. Overcome with exhaustion, she slumped to the ground, back resting against the wall.
Tarrik’s thoughts skittered this way and that. Why had Ren rescued him? There could be no doubt: she had risked herself to find and free him when he’d expected her to cut her losses and run. He stood still, unsure of what to think, what to do.
Then his mind settled. He had cast his lot with Ren over Indriol. Now that she had defeated another of the Nine with his help, he hoped she’d trust him more.
He went to Ren and held his hand out. She looked up, then nodded and took his grip. As soon as she’d hauled herself to her feet, she let go.
“Another of the Nine destroyed,” said Tarrik. “Your plan is working well. Whatever it is.”
Ren rubbed her eyes. “This wasn’t my plan. But it’ll do. Come, we must flee. Bring the jikin-nakar—carry her if you must.”
They hurried along corridors, passing guards scurrying in all directions. Of the usually innumerable servants there was no sign.
She came for me. She risked her life.
Tarrik shook his head to clear it of the treacherous thoughts. There had to be another explanation. Perhaps Ren had wanted to kill Indriol anyway. But she’d said it wasn’t part of her plan.
Lies. You cannot trust a human sorcerer.
But Ren had killed another of the Nine. Her actions were inconsistent with her avowed aim to return the dreaded Adversary to the world.
Tarrik was so preoccupied that he didn’t notice how far they’d come until they passed through an iron-grilled door, then down the spiral staircase to the white marbled foyer below. Standing by the brass-and-wood entry doors were ten armed and armored guards, along with Lin, who was trying to hold Tarrik’s spear upright with her small hands.
She gave a nervous smile of relief when she saw them. She was dressed in shirt, sturdy traveling pants, and boots and wore a leather backpack and a belt holding a small knife. Their saddlebags were at her feet. Ren had obviously decided to take the girl with them. Well, she could babysit her.
Two guards approached Ren and Tarrik. “No one is to leave,” one of them snapped. “By order of—”
“There is a demon loose,” said Ren calmly, and the guards’ expressions changed from stern to horrified. “The Cabalists are taking care of it, but I have been given another urgent task. Open the doors.”
The guards frowned and looked suspiciously at the jikin-nakar Tarrik carried. “Who is the woman? Why is she unconscious?”
“She is ill,” replied Ren. “I’m taking her to be cured. Open the doors.”
“We cannot, my lady. Our orders are—”
“I know what your orders are. And I have my own. Open the doors, or I’ll scorch your flesh from your bones, and you’ll die writhing in agony.”
The two guards looked at each other, uncertain whether they should obey.
“Open the doors now!” shouted Ren.
She extended her hands. Lightning arced from splayed fingers, spreading in a web of brilliant white. Energy slicked over the guards, who recoiled and yelped. A sudden gust of air swirled dust around them, and the air stank with a burned, somehow sweet, alchemical aroma. All of the guards shielded their eyes, and two fell to their knees in terror. When the wind died, the lightning had dissipated.
The guards backed away, eyes wide and mouths open. Lin’s gaze was fixed on Ren in awe.
“Open. The. Doors,” said Ren.
Half a dozen guards lifted the heavy wooden beam securing the doors and pushed one side open. Tarrik shouldered the saddlebags on the opposite side to Aeshma, and Ren bade him and Lin follow her outside.
They hurried across the paved square toward the gates in the wall, darkness shrouding them. There were only a few torches burning atop the wall at guard posts.
“Can I do that trick?” Lin asked. “Or maybe something smaller first. Do you think I’ll—”
“Later, Lin,” said Ren firmly. “Please save your questions. Tarrik, I must lean on you. I find myself somewhat depleted.”
Without waiting for a response, she clutched Tarrik’s arm, and he felt her trembling. She leaned her weight on him and stumbled. Though it was awkward since he was carrying both Aeshma and their bags, he slipped an arm around Ren’s back to prop her up.
She slumped against him, her feet dragging as they made their way to the gate. Lin struggled to manage Tarrik’s spear before settling the shaft on her shoulder like she’d seen the guards do.
The girl giggled, and Tarrik gave her a sharp look.
“No wonder you’re so big,” she said, “if you have to carry everything and ev
eryone like a mule.”
Tarrik growled at her and heard Ren chuckle softly.
The guards at the gate knew something was amiss inside the palace but clearly hadn’t had any orders yet to lock down their post. They waved the small group through.
“A carriage,” muttered Ren. “Or a cab. It doesn’t matter.”
Tarrik waved at a cab driver across the street, and the woman nodded back, touching the brim of her hat. She drove over and leaped down to assist.
Tarrik made to help Ren into the cab, but she squeezed his arm. “No. The girl and the . . . woman.”
She touched Aeshma’s forehead and whispered a cant. The driver’s lips thinned, and she took a step back.
“Put the woman inside, Tarrik, and our gear. She’ll remain as she is for a while now. Lin, could you please give Tarrik his spear and also get in the cab?”
Tarrik rolled Aeshma off his shoulder and onto a wooden seat. She thumped onto the hard surface, and Ren, Lin, and the driver all turned to stare at him, their eyes narrowing.
“She’s hardier than she looks,” he muttered as he deposited the saddlebags and returned to the street. He took his spear from Lin and felt relief as he grasped the blackwood shaft.
As soon as Lin had hauled herself into the cab, Ren handed the driver a silver talent. “Drive them to the Ethereal Sorceress’s building, and ensure they make it inside. The doorman will help with the woman.”
“Yes, my lady,” the woman said, leaping up to her perch and driving off.
Ren clamped on to Tarrik’s arm again. She pointed to a spot by the wall surrounding the palace, and he half carried her over. It was almost pitch-black, and his boot slipped when he trod in something squishy. He cursed.
“Farther along the wall,” said Ren, gasping in pain as Tarrik moved them a hundred paces. “Enough.”
A well-lit tavern appeared across the street, and the boisterous sounds coming from inside indicated the place was busy. The lamps outside shed enough light that Tarrik could make out Ren’s twisted mouth.
“Are you injured?” he asked.
“Indriol was powerful. He was almost my undoing. How ironic that would have been, eh, Tarrik—if I’d died rescuing you?”
Tarrik couldn’t help himself. “Why did you come for me?”
“I couldn’t leave you in Indriol’s hands. You’re my responsibility.”
Was she lying? If so, what was her endgame? And if she wasn’t, what did that mean? Did it mean she wasn’t evil? But how was that possible, given her loyalty to Samal?
His mind jumped from theory to theory but always circled back to the uncomfortable idea that Ren had as many layers as an onion. Beneath her cold exterior beat a heart that could be swayed.
His skittering thoughts were interrupted by Ren’s voice. “I have another task for you.” She withdrew an object from a pocket. A silver statuette of a bull, crudely molded and engraved with Skanuric script. “You can take someone with you when you shadow-step, correct?”
Tarrik thought about lying but knew that Ren was probably testing him. “Yes.”
“I have to get to Indriol’s rooms unseen. There were too many guards rushing around before, and we needed to get out before they locked the palace down.”
Tarrik shook his head. “We need to get you to a healer.”
“This is more important.”
“More important than not dying?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know where his rooms are?”
“As a matter of fact, they’re on the third floor, directly opposite if we happened to be atop this wall.”
Tarrik had to smile. Ren rarely left anything to chance, and that, at least, he could admire.
“I presume you’re coming to get past his wards. Do I have your permission to touch you? I need to draw you in close.”
Ren’s eyes flicked away, and she folded her arms across her stomach. “You have my permission.”
Tarrik clasped his arms around her and held her to his chest, felt her trembling at his touch. He looked up into the darkness and poured himself into it. His essence, and Ren’s, dissolved into the void and re-formed atop the wall.
“Ugh, gods!” cursed Ren softly. “That was awful. I feel like I’ve been turned inside out.”
“You get used to it. Now, which window?”
She pointed. “To the left of the double windows, covered with a hood. There’s a balcony—”
“I see it.”
Again, Tarrik shadow-stepped. Ren immediately pushed him away, her eyes wild, lips drawn back into a snarl. She stared at him for a moment before composing herself.
“I’m sorry . . . I . . . never mind.”
Tarrik just nodded.
Samal had been harsh when he’d broken her, leaving her sensitive to all touch. Perhaps because he hated humans or because it was in his nature.
In a flash of insight Tarrik realized Ren was as much a product of slavery as he was. Could he really hate her for hating all demons?
Ren turned to the balcony doors and spoke a cant. A minute flash of violet light materialized, and the lock clicked open. She turned the handle, and Tarrik followed her inside.
“Stay here,” she commanded.
Three alchemical globes cast a stark yellow light over Indriol’s bedroom, judging by the four-poster bed. Ren moved gingerly to a side table upon which sat a number of artifacts on a velvet cloth. One of them was an exact replica of the silver bull. She muttered another cant, swapped the two statuettes, and returned to Tarrik.
“We’re done,” she said, and placed a hand on his arm to steady herself.
Her face was drawn and blanched, and she leaned a considerable amount of her weight on him. He smelled blood. Indriol had injured Ren more than she was letting on. Surely Tarrik wouldn’t get another chance like this?
His heart beat faster, and he almost spoke the cant to bring forth his shadow-blade and strike her down. But something stayed his hand—and then he couldn’t anyway, as Ren’s bindings stole his will and stopped him. Injured though she might be and depleted from her fight with Indriol, she still had mastery over him.
Tarrik trembled, shaken to his core. What had stayed him?
Chapter Seventeen
Tarrik picked her up and shadow-stepped to the wall, then down to the street. “You are wounded,” he said.
“I’ll be all right with some rest. Hail a carriage, not a cab. If I’m seen in this state, there might be rumors. Take us to Sheelahn.”
Tarrik did as commanded, and soon they were rumbling down a main street toward the Ethereal Sorceress’s building. Apparently in Atya no one raised an eyebrow at a man carrying a woman into a carriage. He sat back in the leather upholstered seat and felt something sticky on his thigh. His hand came away smeared with Ren’s blood.
He looked at her, wedged into the corner of her seat, eyes closed, breathing shallow, damp patches on her shirt.
Ren had risked her life to rescue him from Indriol and in the process had been severely injured. Again, why had she come for him? She could have easily swapped the statuettes herself while Indriol was busy with Tarrik and his own schemes.
Ren had enslaved him. She had forced him to kill. She deserved death, and worse.
“Tarrik.”
He looked up to find her staring at him. He was struck by how exhausted she looked, how fearful and alone. Just like when he’d first seen her in the deserted tower.
“What is it?” he said.
“You swore an oath to Contian many years ago . . .”
Not this again.
“And you should honor it now. Serve me of your own free will.”
Never.
“Why?” he asked.
“What hope does one person have against the might of the world? Is it possible to shift the course of a river?”
She wasn’t making much sense. Maybe her injuries were worse than he’d thought. Her eyes flickered yellow orbs of reflected lantern light.
“I am one person,
” she went on. “I am attempting to change the course of a river. I think Contian would be proud of me. Or perhaps not. Perhaps he would argue against what I do, bid me flee far from here. As if I wouldn’t be found and flayed, and probably worse.
“We fought, he and I. I was . . . difficult. But all children fight with their parents. I see him, parts of him, in some men. He had hardened himself against the world. I even see something of him in you. I understand why you became friends. Serve me without bindings. No, help me.”
Her words touched Tarrik, delivered as they were in a moment of vulnerability. But perhaps that was what she had planned.
“I cannot,” he said.
She turned her face away, disappointed with his response. “So be it,” she said with finality.
Ren paid their driver and leaned on Tarrik as they approached Sheelahn’s building. The immense, windowless structure, an enormous darkness against the night sky, disturbed Tarrik in a visceral way. The place felt like a prison.
“Rumor has it this building was built in one night by spirits,” Ren said as they neared the blackwood doors bound with cold iron. “As were all of Sheelahn’s buildings in the major cities.”
She grimaced and stumbled. Tarrik lifted her and threw her over his shoulder. He couldn’t see any other way to carry her while he held his spear. Her sword was close to his ear, and he could feel its power like a faint buzzing.
Ren grunted. “This isn’t the most comfortable position.”
“I do not like this place. Nor do I trust Sheelahn.”
“That is wise.”
Tarrik felt the heat of her body against his. He took a deep breath through his nose. Strange . . . there was none of the goat stench of madness the others of the Nine exuded. This close, all he could discern was a scent like clothes that had recently dried in full sun.
“Did you just smell me?” Ren asked.
“No.”
Tarrik ascended the wide stone steps, and the door opened before he could knock. The same masked doorman, or attendant, or whatever he was, stood there waiting for them.
Shadow of the Exile (The Infernal Guardian Book 1) Page 26