by T. A. Miles
He was flung faster than he was far and he managed to put a hand down onto the ground as it rose to meet him, springing himself into a more controlled flight. He somersaulted in the air and put himself onto his feet. Serawe crawled across the floor at him, holding her body up with all four limbs bent at unnatural angles. She lurched oddly and her gait angled almost drunkenly before she reached him.
He recalled Vlas in that instant, witnessing the telltale signs of Megrim and silently thanked him, but lingered no further than that. Serawe only had sight and sense for him currently and it was better that it stayed that way. He trusted that if Vlas could have assisted more than he was, he would have by now. If his fellow mage could continue to perform concise and effective attacks, however few, they might find a way through this.
Korsten drew his weapon back into his hand and took the moment Serawe was disoriented to again cast Release. She would be equally dangerous outside of her vessel, but he knew better than to hope to endure a physical confrontation longer than a demon. The spell struck her, knocking her swiftly onto her side. To Korsten’s surprise, her mouth fell open and the demon’s smoldering liquid form spilled out. To his horror, it began to take shape immediately and turned promptly back around before it had fully risen, swiftly dragging its grotesque form back to the body.
Serawe was very attached to that form. For its strength … for its stamina … for its beauty … Whatever the reason, Korsten couldn’t allow it. He closed his eyes, evicted his inhibitions for the moment, and summoned the attention of the Vadryn who had taken to devouring the coagulated blood hung from the ceiling.
Take it, he invited, directing his and their senses to the blood-dressed body lying still motionless on the floor. He regretted the decision immediately and felt a part of him numb to what lay beneath the morbid and vicious surface of all of this.
The bodies of many descended, like boulders tumbling with the raining blood. Serawe rose fully to greet the others with scarcely tangible fist and claw. Many of them were thrown to one side or the other, strewn as if they were the ones of less substance. Some of their vessels were broken and the demons within released. Serawe continued to fight them off, to keep them away from the form she’d long ago claimed as her own. Korsten had a fleeting instant of wondering who the woman had been, and then he saw her pounced upon by demons, who began shredding and devouring immediately. Serawe wailed with a voice that was now better felt than heard, and in her selfish lament for what was not hers, Korsten felt his own throat clench and had to swallow the urge to weep for whoever that woman may once have been.
He let the demons fight each other. He watched the greater beast demonstrating its ancient strength and power, gradually defeating each of them and drawing them into its own essential being. He waited until there was only Serawe and a few others, and then he pushed his presence against theirs, drawing quickly back again to ensure that their attention followed.
“I’ll bring you to me now, mage,” Serawe hissed.
“No,” Korsten said. “You’ll come to me. All of you.”
He cast his Song out to them in his voice and his emotions—the part of his soul that remained visible to them and that they could touch—and connected as he had before. He dove into their dark existence, further than he had yet, into their tumultuous emotional condition, into their chaotic consciousness … into their dreams of conquest over humans and into their nightmares … of weakness and of oblivion.
“I will take you,” Korsten said to them sedately, almost soothingly. “To the body you fear the most and that you cannot possess.”
Spellbound, the demons came, even Serawe, though there was a glimpse of suspicion in her. It was too late, though. He filled her especially with the seductive promise of his soul. And in those carefully articulated moments, Korsten gestured with both hands, and it was done.
Vlas had never seen anything the like of what he’d just witnessed in these caves. He’d never come so near to a Master, one surrounded by blood to empower it beyond exhaustion … one in the presence of a horde of others who responded not to it, but to a mage. He’d never witnessed Song, but only heard of it. Even recognizing that Korsten bore red prominently—something few of them did—he would not have suspected that talent had even lain dormant within him, let alone come to Ambience. Surely, it must have been so pronounced for him to have the sway that he’d had over not only the lesser Vadryn, but Serawe as well. That sway held Vlas after the fact. He’d never seen … never felt anything like it.
And now they were all gone, taken as they’d arrived—by Reach—but to where? Vlas couldn’t even guess where they’d arrived from to begin with.
Let him be safe, he hoped of Korsten, who he scarcely knew but could only respect in light of such a demonstration. He let himself recall Korsten’s unusual skill with Reach and trusted that his consecutive casting over whatever distances were not overly taxing. He would be back, Vlas decided, and looked around him.
The well remained, but without its mistress it would not be utilized as it had been. The red of her stolen power was strewn all over, but yet sat in standing puddles within the underground chamber’s natural basins. It would draw others in time. That wasn’t even to mention the evidence that Serawe and her ranks had been performing a function for the war. This place would have to be closed off to any who might seek to find the demoness or take over where she had left off.
There appeared no other accesses to the well save for the large mouth he had entered through with the others. Sealing that off seemed the most logical course of action to take. He had only to wait for Imris and Vaelyx, presuming they hadn’t been overpowered by any of Serawe’s followers. They would have to be dealt with as well. Leaving them to roam in their diseased state would surely spread the poison they carried. He imagined that Merran and Korsten both would take an interest in that when it became convenient. And now he wondered where Merran was again, and where Korsten had gone.
He walked through the steadily dripping blood Serawe had transferred to the ceiling, past a crusted fragment of one of the demon vessels and over to the remains of the body Serawe had possessed. The corpse was a reminder of the tragedy of this war and refreshed Vlas’ determination to help the people of Edrinor see it through by making them aware and convincing them to take action. It was the role he and Cayri had taken for many years now, and he did not envy the hunters their task.
The echo of footsteps brought his attention to the mouth of the cave. Imris came to the lip of the entry … with Vaelyx? He looked for the man when he failed to arrive at once and felt relieved to see him finish out exhausted steps to stand just behind Imris. The young constable carried a pack on her shoulder and he almost smiled at both of them. They had done well. He told them as much when he’d walked across the well to meet them.
Vaelyx shrugged with his eyebrows and had a weak look of amusement and worry on his aged features.
Imris translated. “Ghouls were following. We found another route and blocked it with fire for now.”
“Good work,” Vlas praised again, including both of them in his gaze.
Imris lowered the pack from her shoulder and crouched down to reveal its contents. There were small vessels that looked to be constructed of leather and metal within it, along with twine and sacks of powder. The components made some sense at a glance; Vlas could begin to reason how this might work, but ultimately he would need more time than they could afford.
“Do either of you know how to properly use this?”
“I can figure it out,” Imris said while Vaelyx offered an expression of ‘that will have to do’ and nodded.
Vlas took that to mean that Vaelyx knew at least a little of how the fire tactics worked and that together he and Imris could accomplish what they needed to.
“We have no route back,” Vaelyx reminded them.
“I’ll get us out,” Vlas promised.
Vaelyx accepte
d that with a nod, though the look on his face seemed not to trust entirely. Regardless, he said nothing more and he and Imris set about making use of the materials before them.
On the third floor of the governor’s mansion there was a grand office, a room which dwarfed Ilayna’s sitting room. Layered in rich tones of blue and gold with articulate details of wood and stone throughout, the hall rivaled palaces of days long past. Cayri found herself once again astounded by the wealth of this city, and of Edrinor’s coast in general. As she traversed a wide, but brief stair to the center of the room, she looked upon immense portraits of the sea and of ships that must have assisted the region in amassing its fortune. She could only wonder why they had not taken these vessels further out, though at the same time when the home was threatened, what lay beyond it became very suddenly unimportant. Men and some women made an orderly rush into the hall and past her up the stairs, where an enormous table of burnished wood sat beneath a massive chandelier. The chandelier sat high, housed within a dome which boasted still more art undoubtedly detailing the history of the city. Maps and charts were dropped onto the table as the others arrived at it. At once, hands began unfurling them.
“Where is Konlan?” Deitir asked his mother as he came up the stairs with Ilayna near.
Ilayna looked over the assembly while shaking her head. “I cannot say.”
A light breath of exasperation escaped her son while he moved to the head of the table. Cayri heard him mutter, “This affects the Islands as well.”
Also overhearing the words as the young man passed him, Fersmyn said over his shoulder, “We may have to proceed without counsel or participation from them.”
“We can send another emissary,” someone else suggested as what was not intended to be heard began a debate among them.
Deitir let them go for a while. Cayri came to the table and watched him stand at it with a look of contemplation and also of frustration on his face. She wondered if by letting their discussion escalate, he’d undermined himself that quickly. Had Vlas been present, he would have been criticizing the situation. Cayri, however, believed that Deitir was responding with equanimity that deserved patience, if not praise. He was young and his experience may have been primarily in observing his father and regarding his advice. He’d been called to apply his education suddenly and under pressure the frame of mind of most of Indhovan’s officials—including his father—may not have prepared him for. He was doing fine.
Watching him, Cayri may have emanated that more tangibly than she intended. Deitir raised his dark gaze to her just at that moment, then scanned the host of men and women at his father’s table and called for their silence and attention with a firmly stated, “The Islands will be brought current once we have assessed our own position and plotted a course of action.”
In that moment, his father’s table became the governor of Indhovan’s table and for the hour at least, he was the governor of their city.
Merran opened his eyes from a dreamless sleep of indeterminable length. Above him was a ceiling he did not recognize, simple in construction and dimly lit by candlelight. A girl’s face came into his view … foreign for a moment, but then all at once familiar.
“Master Merran,” Dacia said. She didn’t quite smile, only just enough to display what may have been some relief. “We’re at home now. You’re going to be all right. Mother is going to take care of you.”
He pieced together the information as it was given to him, turning his head to look at Ersana as she approached whatever he was lying on—it felt like a thin pallet. The woman was speaking before he could ask questions.
“I was able to use the main portal to bring us here,” she explained. “That was only a few moments ago.”
Merran managed to nod, though his neck felt stiff and a soreness radiated through it with the action. He watched Ersana kneel beside him, the action ushering her daughter to the side. She placed down a bowl and began to lift swaths of fabric from it, wringing out what was presumably water from the bowl.
“I’m not sure what I can do for your hand,” she said and it was in that moment that Merran realized he had no feeling in it at all. “With any favor from the gods, it’s not your strong hand.”
It was. Merran looked to the ceiling again and felt pressed beneath a tremendous weight that he could scarcely comprehend, let alone lift. Was his hand ruined? Whether or not it was, without a more prominent healer present he would be unable to work most spells. Ironic that he might have been the only one present in Indhovan capable of attending to such injury.
Deciphering his silence, Ersana said, “I can wrap it and cast a healing that may inspire it to help itself, but I cannot repair it. I….”
She paused and began to gently wind the cloths around Merran’s hand. The coolness of the water and the stinging properties of whatever she may have mixed with it inspired some sensation of feeling throughout his skin. He winced and decided not to look at his hand beyond the glimpse of bruising he’d already seen. It would appear worse than it was and only dampen his hope for a quicker healing, or he would see that it was far worse than he imagined and his mind might find more dismal places to linger.
Ersana’s voice was scarce distraction, but he accepted it. “I apologize for what Mother has done.” Her pride had her struggle to form the words, that and perhaps some disbelief. She’d invested perhaps a lifetime of faith in a false protector and a poor mother.
“We have to undo what we can,” Merran told her, turning his head against increasing stiffness to look at her.
She looked back at him and seemed almost at a loss for what to think, let alone how to respond.
“We have to stop that wave,” Merran pressed.
Ersana continued to wrap his hand. Before she was finished, she sent Dacia to fetch something for her. Beneath the steadiness of Merran’s gaze, she maintained her imperturbable demeanor, but there was the hint of uncertainty in her voice when she said, “The gods will protect….”
“The gods will do what they have always done,” Merran interrupted. “Which is to wait and watch. It is our calling to act.”
Ersana seemed disarmed by his statement, that he should make it so easily and with such conviction, but it was what he had come to believe. Perhaps he had seen too much of the Vadryn to be foolish enough to stay his own actions on the chance that the gods might take notice or interest beyond the fact that they’d ushered the world and its inhabitants into being. The gods had granted him Reason. He would use it either as they intended or in defiance, it didn’t matter. They’d summoned him to act, to utilize what he’d been given, not to remain idle and hope. By nature of their own awareness, he believed it was the obligation of all who used magic—who had been granted their level of access to the Essence of Nature itself—to act.
“If you do nothing, you are risking your daughter to drown with everyone in this city—enemy and not. You are risking the children of others. That’s not your place.”
Ersana silently continued to wrap. When she was finished, Merran struggled to adjust his weight in such a way that he could sit up easily. Ersana helped him with one hand on his arm and the other at his back. His entire body argued that it was too stiff and sore to respond. After a moment to breathe deeply, he said, “Do nothing if it suits you. I’m returning to the others to warn them of what comes.”
“If you can walk,” Ersana said implacably, her eyebrows lifted slightly while she set aside the bowl and dried her hands on her skirt.
“I’ll manage it,” Merran assured her.
Dacia returned while he was maneuvering to his feet. She seemed surprised to see him doing so and stared a moment before her mother chided her by prompting for what she had. The girl recalled herself and passed the item to Ersana.
Still knelt on the floor, the witch took Merran’s arm with one hand and with the other coiled a thin rope around his wrist in such a way that the crystal threade
d through it rested on his wrapped hand. She slid her own hand over it and closed her eyes, whispering a few words. When she removed her hand, the crystal glowed faintly and she looked up at him.
“Keep it on,” she instructed. “Gods allowing, it will lessen the injury enough that one of your own—or time—might repair it.”
Merran nodded and on his way out of the room, he managed to say, “Thank you.”
Korsten had never been so aware of the movement between spaces during a Reach as he was while transporting himself and the Vadryn from the well. Even getting there from the intensity of the crone’s presence and the confrontation among so many parties had been fleeting and largely unnoticed from one destination to the next. But now Korsten felt adrift, caught in the relentless grip of storm winds, transferred among the clouds with no ability to end his flight. The sensation of a vortex continued to drag him and throw him aloft for an immeasurable span. He felt breathless and helpless, and then he gradually began to sink. With surrealistic eventuality, the rise and fall of the wind’s hold became the rolling of the ocean. He recalled in an instant where he had Reached to and why, and he drew a long breath. He slipped into the water as if into bedding and it wrapped immediately around him, enfolding his limbs and weighing him down. He could have convinced himself he was dreaming, but he knew better than to breathe.