by Marc Turner
At the point on the strand where she’d concentrated her power, a cloud of death-magic was forming as the warring sorceries bled into the air. The cloud spread outward to envelop the Kinevar girl and the branch holding her. Parolla could sense the earth-magic in the branch waning. That gave her a problem. If the sorcery failed completely the tree would release the girl. And with the thread of death-magic still intact the Kinevar would surely attack Parolla …
She had to stop.
All at once the strand of sorcery controlling the girl started to weaken, its edges becoming frayed.
As if scenting victory, Parolla’s tainted blood rose in a torrent, pushing against the barrier she had fashioned to contain it. A shadow settled on her vision. For a heartbeat she battled to hold back the flood. Then she stopped herself. What was she doing? She had Shroud’s blood in her veins, and she couldn’t even cut one of Mayot’s strands? Why was she fighting herself when she should be fighting the old man? Embrace her power, and she could tear up any number of these Shroud-cursed threads like they were blades of grass.
She dug her nails into her palms. No! Even if she cut the strands of the undead about her, Mayot still had countless other servants to do his bidding. What was she going to do, sever all their threads? Was that why she had come to the forest—to release his undead army? She shook her head. There was no victory to be won here, so far from the dome. All she stood to achieve was to reveal to Mayot a sense of her power, as she had to the Jekdal before. She could not afford these distractions. It was time to pull back.
When she tried to do so, though, the sorcery roaring from her hands only intensified. She’d left it too late! The darkness was growing as it fed off the necromantic energies in the air. The defenses she’d raised against it stretched, then bulged …
Crying out, she dropped to her knees and thrust her fingers into the mud, directing her power into the ground. As the magic spurted from her hands, the earth groaned and bucked and heaved, and the air quavered to the sound of grinding stone, cracking roots. Smoke rose from the ground. The tree that imprisoned the Kinevar girl came crashing down, throwing up clouds of leaves and hot ash, and sending broken branches and slivers of wood flying in all directions. Echoes of power rolled between the remaining trees, the death-magic spreading like fire through the hanging undead. For a few heartbeats it flickered over their bodies, devouring them with a palpable hunger.
Enough!
Parolla’s sorcery guttered and died.
A moment to gather her breath, then she scanned the ground, looking for the Kinevar girl. All that remained of her body was a twitching mound of charred meat, pierced by splinters of wood. Sorcery clung to her like burning oil, and within an eyeblink her flesh had melted away to leave nothing but a skeleton. Then the bones crumbled to ash. As the dust blew away on the wind, the thread of death-magic controlling the girl withered. Well, well, Parolla thought. Maybe she hadn’t succeeded in severing the strand, but she’d found a way to break Mayot’s hold on his servants all the same—destroy the flesh and free the spirit to wander as Tumbal’s did.
And yet, wouldn’t Mayot be able to bring the girl back with just a speck of her remains?
A blizzard of ash and leaves fell about. Parolla tasted dust in her mouth, and she coughed and spat to clear it. Pushing herself to her feet, she brushed down her clothes. The shadows staining her sight began to fade.
Tumbal appeared beside her, one pair of hands on his hips, the other crossed in front of him. “A place of horror, my Lady,” he said. “I am sorry thou had’st to witness this.”
I have seen far worse, sirrah, and by my own hand besides. “I’ve come as far as I can. What lies ahead?”
“A final stand, methinks.”
“The Kinevar?”
“Not just the Kinevar. The forest gods themselves have come to do battle.”
Parolla stared at him. “And they are being pushed back?”
Tumbal bobbed his head. “The forces arrayed against them are formidable. I have seen demons and Fangalar, Everlords and frost giants, stormwraiths and alakels, and many others besides.”
“Centuries of blood sacrifice have made this a fertile ground for Mayot’s sorceries. Those that died here under a Kinevar knife now have the chance for revenge. There is a certain justice in that, wouldn’t you say?”
The Gorlem frowned. “The controlling hand is Mayot’s.”
“Even so.”
“And what of the Kinevar themselves? Slaughtered in their thousands, forced to fight their kinsmen, their own gods even.”
Parolla shrugged. “Why does Mayot attack here in such strength? What threat do the Kinevar pose him?”
“I suspect the mage is concerned less with the threat they pose than with the opportunity they represent. With the Kinevar gods themselves under his sway—”
“Don’t be a fool,” Parolla cut in. “The gods will flee long before they are truly threatened.”
“They have stayed this long. Mayhap they are unwilling to surrender their ancestral domain, to abandon their people.”
“The gods care nothing for the fate of mortals.”
Tumbal’s frown deepened. “Not all of the immortals are as heartless as thou would’st brand them, my Lady. And if thou wilt not intercede on behalf of the Kinevar gods, what of the Kinevar themselves?”
“This isn’t my fight.”
“Is it not?” Tumbal’s gesture took in the swinging bodies round him. “Think of the multitudes Mayot already has at his command. The forces he will control if the Kinevar gods should fall.”
“My business with the magus will be finished long before that happens.”
“And if thou art wrong?”
A root was snaking across the ground toward Parolla, and she kicked it away. “Even if I chose to intervene, you forget, this is sanctified ground. I am an intruder here as much as the undead. The earth-magic of the forest will not distinguish friend from foe.”
“Thou need’st not advance any farther into the heart of the conflict, surely. The threads holding the undead—”
“Cannot be broken.”
The Gorlem’s spectral face grew paler. “Not even by thee?”
“I have tried to do so once. I dare not risk another attempt.”
“I do not understand.”
Parolla’s voice was toneless. “Before Shroud … came to … my mother, she was an initiate of the Lord of the Hunt. When she died, the Antlered God’s priests sought to take my power for their own. I was forced to fight my way free of the temple where I lived.” She saw again the shrine’s wards sparkling as she hurled volley after volley of death-magic against them; part of the temple toppling into ruin amid black flames, smoke and screams. Always screams. The massacre had marked the start of Parolla’s bakatta with the Antlered God, and she had been dodging his servants ever since. She closed her eyes. “Once unleashed, my magic is … unpredictable. Many died before I escaped. Some of them were friends. Innocents.”
Tumbal regarded her gravely. “Thou fear’st that in trying to sever the book’s threads thou would’st surrender control?”
“It is Shroud’s taint. His blood runs through my veins. Each time I draw on it, there is a price.”
“With power, my Lady, there is invariably a price.”
Parolla opened her eyes again. The tree that had held the Kinevar girl had now disintegrated as the last echoes of death-magic played over it. Parolla’s gaze came to rest on the place where the girl had fallen. “Perhaps so, sirrah,” she said. “But with me, it is always others who must pay.”
CHAPTER 16
EBON STARED at his campsite from a fallen tree a short distance away. The whisperings were gone from his mind, and in their absence he had rediscovered a world of sound: the sigh of the wind, the grunts of the Sartorian soldiers, the metallic tread of the consel’s demons as they prowled the perimeter of the camp. In the spirits’ place, Galea had become a permanent fixture in his mind. At times he could sense her cool regard; at
others, her impatience, her scorn, as well as a host of more subtle emotions. When he tried to focus on her thoughts, though, he found she had shielded herself behind a barrier of sorcery. On several occasions he had tried speaking to her, only to receive no response. Either she was ignoring him or her attention was fixed elsewhere.
True to her word, she had healed his chest wound to leave nothing but a scar where he’d been stabbed. His return to health had not gone unnoticed by his companions. Throughout the day he had caught suspicious glances from Ellea and Bettle, and even from Vale, for Ebon hadn’t yet had a chance to tell him of his meeting with Galea. Not from Mottle, though. As ever, it seemed Ebon had no secrets from his mage …
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a twig snapping behind him, and he turned to see Garat approaching. The consel had evidently not slept yet for his hair was freshly oiled and he was still wearing his armor. He came to sit beside Ebon, a ghost of a smile on his face. “You are looking better, your Majesty,” he said. “A miraculous recovery, indeed.”
“I am full of surprises.”
“Not just to me, it seems, but to your own soldiers too. That is good.”
“How so?”
“Because a ruler should always keep his subjects guessing. A moving target invariably makes for a more difficult shot.”
“I would trust my companions with my life.”
“Then one day they will take it from you.”
Ebon ran a hand across his head. “I have heard tales of the machinations at the Sartorian court. I had thought them exaggerated.”
“Ah, but unlike you, your Majesty, the ruler of Sartor is not born to his position. He deserves to command only for so long as he does so.”
“He is fortunate then, for at least the demands of power—the duties it brings—are his by choice.”
Garat’s smile was sardonic. “The burdens you talk about are all self-imposed. A ruler answers only to himself. You don’t believe me? Perhaps you should ask your father.”
Ebon was silent for a few heartbeats, unsure what the consel was hinting at. “My father did not choose to rule.”
“You believe that?”
“I have heard it said too many times by too many people to believe otherwise. The uprising against his predecessor, the Rook, was not of my father’s making.”
“Yet he led it all the same.”
“With a friend, Domen Calin Bain. When the war was done, the two of them locked themselves in a room for a day and a night. When they came out again, my father was king.”
The consel’s sole eyebrow rose. “And not a drop of blood spilt? Did they roll dice, then, for the throne?”
“No one knows. My father never spoke of it. As part of the deal that was struck, though, he agreed to marry Domen Bain’s sister—my mother.”
“And was she not already pledged to another?”
“She was,” Ebon said, surprised at the extent of Garat’s knowledge. “It appears that while Domen Bain himself was content to abandon his claim to the throne in favor of my father, his kinsmen took more convincing. The creation of a formal bond between the families was deemed necessary to avert another war.”
Garat stretched his legs out before him. “And what became of Domen Bain, I wonder?”
“He died the following year in a hunting accident.”
“Ah. It seems our peoples are not so different after all.”
“What do you mean?”
“In Sartor rivals for the throne also have a habit of meeting unfortunate ends.”
Ebon pursed his lips. “He was my father’s friend—”
“Rulers have no friends. A friend’s smile can so easily mask an assassin’s dagger.”
“Then he is no friend, surely.”
Garat chuckled. “Unfortunately the revelation comes too late to be of any use.”
The sound of footsteps reached Ebon, followed by the clank of metal as one of the consel’s armored demons walked across his line of sight, its breath huffing through the grille of its helmet. Moonlight glittered off the blade of its ax. Perhaps Ebon should have found the presence of the creatures reassuring, but they could turn on him in a heartbeat if Garat gave the order. It wasn’t as if there’d be witnesses out here to his treachery.
The consel said, “I understand this is not the first time you’ve ventured into the Forest of Sighs.”
Ebon glanced at him from the corner of his eye. “No, it is not. Four years ago, I led a raid against some Kinevar settlements.”
“In Sartor we have soldiers for such things.”
“Your point is well made. Alas, at the time I was still of an age that my pride could be goaded.”
Garat looked at him. “A dare, your Majesty? I would never have thought you had it in you.”
“Not quite a dare. An … acquaintance … of mine had the presumption to question a young prince’s courage.” He was not about to tell the consel that the “acquaintance” had been Domen Janir, and that the accusation had followed Ebon’s refusal to take part in the attack on the Sartorian village to which Domena Irrella’s killers had fled. “The charge, of course, could not go unanswered, so I decided to prove myself by leading a raid into Kinevar territory. Forty-two Pantheon Guardsmen paid for my pride with their lives. Aside from myself, only three survived.”
“A valuable lesson. One can never have too many soldiers.”
“And yet here you are with but a handful of men, taking as great a risk as I did.”
Garat’s look became distant, and the ever-present note of mocking humor left his face. “A Sartorian fears anonymity more than he fears death. Our rulers have but a few short years in which to carve for themselves a place in our people’s history.”
“And how would you wish to be remembered, Consel?” Ebon asked.
Garat gave a half smile, then pushed himself to his feet. “Good night, your Majesty.”
The king watched him disappear into the darkness.
A new voice spoke. “An intriguing man, Mottle declares.”
Ebon sighed. “How long have you been listening in?”
The old man materialized from the gloom. “Mottle does not have to listen in, my boy, to hear what is said.”
“You find the consel intriguing?” Ebon asked, looking in the direction Garat had taken. “Why?”
“Because like you he shapes the Currents where others are only carried along by them.”
“Pebbles again.”
Mottle nodded vigorously. “Precisely.” He settled on the tree trunk in the place Garat had vacated, then lifted his bare left foot and picked at a splinter in his sole.
“Vale thinks I should kill him,” Ebon said.
“Yet you will not.”
“What would be the point? Doubtless we will both be dead soon.”
Mottle cocked his head. “Think you so? Have you so little faith in your newfound ally, then?”
Ebon stared into the darkness. “Should I regret my choice? The goddess wants the same thing that we do. To bring down the power behind the undead.”
“One does not bargain with an immortal and hope to win in the exchange.”
“You think the goddess has hidden motives?”
“Mottle would not presume to comprehend the workings of an immortal’s mind. To attempt to do so would be foolishness itself. And Mottle is anything but foolish, as you well know. Indeed, only a fool would suggest—”
“Mottle,” Ebon warned.
Unabashed, the mage continued, “If your humble servant were compelled to express a view, he would speculate—reluctantly—that the goddess considers you not so much an ally as a tool.”
Another of the consel’s demons stomped by, or perhaps it was the same one Ebon had seen previously. He could not tell them apart, for all four of the creatures wore identical armor. “What do you know of this Galea?” he asked Mottle.
Mottle looked round as if the trees were crowding in upon them. “Hush! To speak her name is to invite her regard.”
<
br /> Ebon quested inward, but sensed only the wall that the goddess had raised between them. “I would know if she were near.”
“Certain, are you? Mottle will do naught to catch her eye. He is the chameleon among the mottled leaves, the bug beneath…” The old man’s voice trailed off. “What’s this, a bug? An outrageous slight! No, that will not do.”
“Who are you talking to?”
Mottle stood up and began pacing, his bare feet rustling the fallen leaves. “Currents stir the air all about us, my boy. The deepest tides, the darkest eddies. Centuries old, yet undisturbed—uncontaminated, if you will—by the presence of man. The winds whisper dread secrets in Mottle’s ear. The air trembles with the memory of black sorcery.”
“I know. The spirits showed me what happened here.”
The old man’s hands were a whirl of excited motion. “Ah, but beneath the echoes of ancient bloodshed lie yet more arcane mysteries. A truth of such profundity that the fate of civilizations may hinge upon it.”
“Concerning the Vamilians?”
“And their enemies, yes, the Fangalar. A hint, perhaps, as to the reason for the two peoples’ enmity? It must be! Yet ever the truth lies at the edge of Mottle’s hearing, tantalizingly beyond his most probing reach.”
“Is this relevant? To the undead. To the plight of our people.”
Mottle paused in his pacing. “Relevant? Perhaps not directly, but then relevance is ever a relative concept.”
“I will be the judge of that. Now, you never answered my question. The goddess…”
The old man spread his hands. “Mottle knows only what the Currents tell him.”
“And that is?”
“Unsettling, my boy. Acutely so.”
Ebon grunted. He knows nothing, then. “What of our people? The goddess said the palace still holds.”
“Alas, the Currents speak only of death, but in this place antiquity’s tormented voice eclipses all else.”
“Then I have no choice but to accept what the goddess tells me.”
Mottle spluttered. “Accept? Furies bless me, no! Does the lederel believe the mountain lion when it says it is not hungry?”
The moon passed behind a cloud, momentarily plunging the forest into darkness. Ebon shifted on the tree trunk. It was not the discomfort of his seat that troubled him. The old man was right. It would be easy for Galea to tell him only what he wanted to hear, to twist his hopes against him. The sense of renewed optimism he had experienced following his meeting with the goddess began to fade. “I should never have left Majack.”