He obviously also assumed that Bethany’s testing would take a long while, perhaps months. The way he’d spoken implied that he thought so. The problem was that D’Jenn didn’t think that Victus had been the one to enter Dormael’s rooms. He knew the Deacon well, having been taught personally by him during his Warlock training. That song didn’t feel like Victus. That meant that there was still at least one unknown person here in Ishamael seeking them out - unless that unknown was actually Kendall, who had simply told them that he was going out on assignment, only to double back when they weren’t paying attention. It was definitely possible.
It was time to regroup and rethink their strategy. D’Jenn stepped out into the dreary afternoon, feeling the first patters of rain upon his skin as thunder grumbled overhead. The clouds were a roiling mass of dark gray and white. D’Jenn closed his eyes and tilted his head up toward the sky.
Mind Flight was always a strange sensation. D’Jenn could always feel his physical body, just as now he felt the rain pattering onto his face and wetting his clothes, though his awareness was soaring up over the Conclave grounds. He sent out a thought with his Kai, a sort of pulse of energy that would return a tone to him when it came into contact with Dormael’s magic. It wasn’t exactly the easiest thing to do, and it wouldn’t work on every wizard. One had to know the song of the person they were looking for very well, and luckily D’Jenn could sense Dormael’s magic anywhere. It was one thing that gave the two of them a slight edge. They had worked together so many times over the years that magical workings of this nature were almost second nature to both of them.
His Kai rang back with a harmony, touching upon Dormael’s essence and shining like a beacon. D’Jenn locked onto that, placing his cousin’s song firmly in his mind, and shot into the sky in the direction of the beacon. The ground fell away beneath him.
Ishamael was a strange looking city when viewed from above. It was the oldest city in the Sevenlands, and so many times new construction of more modern designs would be built right alongside ancient temples or strange magical architecture, creating an almost motley feel to the teeming city. D’Jenn soared into the sky and let his Kai guide him toward the East Market District.
A throng of people choked the streets of the Market, as they always did, and even in the rain many vendors still braved the streets, and many prospective customers still moved from cart to cart, covering their heads with their voluminous Sevenlander cloaks. D’Jenn could feel Dormael somewhere in that sea of people, moving along streets and back alleys.
What was he doing? He’d expected to find his coz holed up in some taproom, tossing back ale and smacking the bottoms of serving girls – not toiling through the rain. He strengthened the connection and followed it into a side street, and saw his cousin pushing his way past crates and splashing through puddles, almost running as if he were in pursuit of someone. D’Jenn zipped his awareness down into the street and started to fix the image of himself into his mind, building the illusion that he was standing in the street before Dormael, signaling him to stop.
Pain surged through his Kai in a sudden flash, bringing with it a nauseating dizziness. D’Jenn felt himself suddenly pushed from the street, as if some great force were rejecting his presence there. His mind sailed up into the sky, and he could hear a strange dissonance in his ears, an almost deafening noise that grated in his mind like rusty steel rubbing together. He felt his mind surging back toward his body at the same time that he felt his knees buckling back at the Conclave.
His mind slammed back into his body with a force that actually threw him six hands along the wet grass. His head hurt like he’d been kicked by a horse, and his stomach rebelled against the rush of sensations that accompanied such a sudden return to his body. He groaned, rolling over to vomit into the grass, and tasted blood and bile in his mouth. His head felt afire and he tried to take a deep breath to clear his mind, but his stomach decided that it was time to vomit again, and D’Jenn couldn’t help but oblige.
He did nothing but vomit and groan and try to regain his composure for the next couple of minutes as people began to gather around him, reaching down to ask if he was alright and what was wrong. D’Jenn just waved them away with a growl and a curse, wiping his mouth and spitting the thick leftovers of blood and stomach fluids onto the wet grass. He reached up to wipe his face and realized that his nose was bleeding as well. D’Jenn slowly climbed to his feet.
What in the Six Hells had that been? Someone had sensed D’Jenn’s presence and expelled him from the field, with enough prejudice behind the blow so that it could serve as a warning. Whoever it was wanted Dormael alone. This was not good.
D’Jenn leaned against the cool stone of the Conclave wall, feeling the slightly pitted rock under his hands, trying to use the sensation to ground himself and expel the pain and nausea. He took one step forward, then another, slowly regaining his balance. Trying another Mind Flight would be risky, and at least D’Jenn had a place to start looking for his cousin. Spitting one last time into the wet grass, D’Jenn set off in search of Allen. This time he wouldn’t be going back alone.
****
Dormael slipped on the wet cobblestones and slammed his right side into the corner of a wooden crate, knocking the wind from his chest and sending a fresh wave of pain and coughing through his body. For just a moment, there had been a strange resonance in the air, some sort of magical pulse that had disoriented him for a moment. It was curious, but he put it to the back of his mind as he pulled himself doggedly to his feet and continued down the alleyway.
“Inera,” Dormael hacked around the coughing fit. He’d meant to shout, but the wet cobblestones had expelled the air from his lungs, and it came out as more of a pitiful hiss. His feet barely managed to stay under him as he teetered down a side street.
The back alleys of the East Market were no place to be caught out alone, drunk, and desperate, but Dormael wasn’t going to let Inera get away from him again. The buildings around him weren’t exactly ramshackle, but they also couldn’t be described as sturdy construction, either. They rose three stories on both sides of him, dark and worn wood with vertical shutters on the windows that were held open with ropes, even in this nasty weather. Someone shouted a curse at him from one of the windows, but Dormael ignored it. The dun colored walls around him were simply background noise, a distraction from his goal. He limped around another corner after a flash of a dark cloak caught his eye, and stopped short.
She stood at the end of a dead end alley, facing him from thirty or so links away. There were a few barrels and crates behind her, all busted open or old and rotten, with detritus spilling from the sides. The rain began to come down with a vengeance, casting a hazy sheen over everything, and runnels of water falling from the rooftops of the old buildings around them splashed onto the stones of the street.
Something about her manner made Dormael stop short of relaxing. The hood of her cloak was pulled up, hiding the wealth of hair that he remembered and shadowing everything but the lower part of her face. For that matter, the cloak was wrapped mostly around her body like a shroud, and the only thing visible were her diminutive hands. She made no move toward him, only stood quietly, waiting for him to speak.
“Inera…Inera, is that you?” he ventured, taking a step toward her.
“Dormael,” she replied simply, her voice light and airy, just as he remembered. Dormael felt something rush out of him at that moment, and his eyes began to tear up of their own accord. He made a snorting noise, trying to banish the lump that had suddenly grown in his throat and only barely managing to speak around it. He took a few slow steps toward her, as if she were a wild animal that would bolt at the slightest noise.
“I searched for you,” he said, “I searched for you for so long. I thought you were dead…”
“Not dead,” Inera replied softly, almost sadly he thought, but maybe he’d imagined that, “never that.”
“Are you well?” The question seemed so empty as soon as it passed hi
s lips, but his wits had left him and he couldn’t think of much to say. “I…I worried so much for you. What happened? Can we go somewhere and talk, maybe? Somewhere out of the weather?”
“We will,” she replied softly again, “somewhere…private.” She reached slowly toward the hood that enveloped her head and the sleeves of her cloak fell back as she slowly dropped it to her shoulders. Dormael started despite himself.
The raven hair that he remembered so fondly, a flowing ebony river around her shoulders that she’d always refused to cut had gone stark white. Not gray as if with old age, but white. Those large and fey-colored eyes were haunted now, bloodshot and filled with a terrible wisdom, something alien and jaded, a twisted remnant of how he remembered her. There was a scar on her forehead, not a wound but a thin line that wove sinuously in some strange pattern from one temple to the other. Her forearms as well were covered in scars of the same fashion, lines of glyphs or text that he couldn’t recognize. Her expression was resolute and somehow sad as she gazed at him, and then suddenly her eyes moved to the side. Dormael felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise in warning.
He dove to his right as something whooshed in the air where his head had been, the pain of once again meeting the cobbles underfoot singing a note of agony through his midsection. He’d tried to roll, but the combination of his stiff, injured body and the firewine he’d been drinking foiled his effort. Instead, he went over one shoulder and ended up on his back without the momentum to come to his feet again. Someone piled atop him as he reached for the knife he kept in his right boot, trapping his arm and pushing his shoulders back onto the ground.
“Hurry you fools!” Inera hissed, and Dormael was shocked for a split second into immobility. He’d assumed this had been a robbery, but what in the Six Hells was going on? He grunted and struggled against his attacker, trying desperately to gain some sort of advantage as they wrestled on the wet cobblestones. The man abandoned his arm, going instead for a choke, and Dormael’s fingers closed on the hilt of his knife. He whipped it out and hissed against the pain of the man’s hands around his throat as he shoved the knife toward his ribs. It punched into the man once, twice, three times in quick succession, the man going limp as he made a muted cry of pain. Dormael tried to push him off, but then something cracked into his head, and his eyes went white and blurry as his head exploded with pain. The world began to fade around him, and the last thing he saw was Inera standing there with her arms crossed, watching the exchange coldly. Then there was another crack, and his vision went dark.
****
Maarkov sat astride his horse, watching the four strega drag the bodies to the edge of the cold firepit, lining them up one by one. The bodies they’d found in the camp had been dead for days now, and the rot had begun to set in, bloating the bellies of some and causing black fluid to leak from the wounds of others. There were four dead here in the destroyed camp, with more littering the sides of the road that wound through the pass in the Runemian Mountains, but those Maaz had decided to leave to the elements. Some had been obviously killed with weapons, but some had been burned badly or somehow split into tiny pieces, impaled upon high tree limbs or other strange things. One had even somehow become…Maarkov didn’t even know the word to describe it. It was like the soft flesh had somehow liquefied or exploded, leaving only the harder tissues behind. It was almost the grisliest thing that Maarkov had ever seen – almost.
As they’d ridden to the rendezvous with one of Maaz’s little sycophants, the bodies had begun to crop up here and there. They’d obviously been highwaymen of some sort, and Maaz had grown angrier and angrier as they’d gotten closer to the camp. By the time they’d climbed the tiny hidden trail up to the campsite, Maaz’s face could have sliced bread his expression was so sharp.
Rain was lashing the hillside, and thunder rumbled overhead. Maarkov had taken to wrapping a piece of cloth around his head and face, partly to shield him from the elements, and partly in mockery of his brother. He required his strega to be similarly wrapped, lest some passing traveler realize that something was very wrong with their strange, silent servants. Maaz showed no outward sign that he was affected by the jab, but Maarkov knew his brother was growing irritated with his jibes. From Maarkov’s perspective, that was hilarious. He’d have laughed if he had any laughter left.
That’s me, just an empty, dead body.
“Foiled again, eh brother mine?” Maarkov said. Maaz stood silently, looking upon the dead bandits, lost in some dark thought. The strega lined up behind them, standing with that eerie stillness.
“Where is Jureus?” Maaz hissed, “If that worthless bastard was captured and questioned, I’ll eat his organs myself.”
“Killed, more likely,” Maarkov put in, “like the rest.”
“Yes,” hissed Maaz, drawing the word out like a hissing snake, “Thank you for your enlightening observations, Maarkov. They are, of course, the reason I keep you living.”
“Living?” Maarkov spit into the mud, “I haven’t lived in years, brother, and neither have you.”
“Spare me your whining today, brother. I’m in no mood for it.” Maaz walked over to the wet firepit, kicking around some charcoal that seemed to have spilled from the side. On second thought, it looked as if another fire had occurred there, completely independent of the campfire. Jureus, perhaps? Maaz appeared not to notice, and Maarkov didn’t offer any suggestions.
“What now? We can’t head down into the city; the wizards there will roast you on the spot. That’s obviously where they were heading,” Maarkov said, impatient to get out of the rain.
“Yes, obviously, thank you again for your astute powers of observation.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Must we continue with this, brother?” For once, Maaz seemed genuinely effected by Maarkov’s jibes and hatred, “Atop everything else, it grates upon me. Can you not offer something besides derision?”
“You have my soul, Maaz. Atop everything else, this endless waking, this endless…life grates upon me, brother. Can you not just let me sleep? Let me die?”
Maaz stood silently, gazing off into the rain. It was an odd moment between them, Maaz dropping all sham and pretense, and simply showing Maarkov that somewhere under all that hissing, snapping, and killing, his little brother still lived. Over the years, these moments had come more and more infrequently. Maarkov was struck suddenly with the memory, the sin, which had started it all.
Maaz crying, cringing in the corner and cradling his broken and bleeding face. Maarkov screaming, rushing to help his brother, the heavy and unfamiliar sword awkward in his hands as he hefted it and rushed to his brother’s aid. The body, run through and draining bright red blood onto the dirty wooden floor, the eyes surprised, staring at Maarkov with that incredulous look in them, forever frozen onto that cold face. Maaz screaming and crying into Maarkov’s chest as he held his little brother protectively, shielding him from the sight of what had happened. The sword, clutched white-knuckled in his hands, dripping blood down onto his wrist and staining his sleeve.
“Would you leave me then, brother?” Maaz asked quietly, still not looking at Maarkov. Maarkov felt that cold in his chest, the unmentioned accusation that he always heard in his brother’s voice slapping him in the face. He clenched his jaw and sucked in a breath, banishing the memories again and swallowing his objections. He could not fail Maaz again.
“I will not. Come; let’s get out of the rain.”
****
Chapter Nineteen
Revelations and Betrayals
“He was here,” D’Jenn said, “I saw him come this way before I was attacked.” Allen kicked at a wooden crate that was lying forgotten against the side of the dun-colored building that rose up to their right. The rain was coming down in a cold, steady pour that soaked D’Jenn down to the skin. He stood staring around him, arms crossed and expression intensely pensive, trying to puzzle out what had happened to his cousin. This was the exact spot where D’Jenn had attempted
to contact Dormael, and had been forcibly tossed back into his body. Allen cursed beside him.
“Can’t you just wiggle your fingers, say a few words and find out where in the Six Hells he is?”
“It’s not that simple,” D’Jenn sighed, “would that it was.”
“I’ve seen Dormael do something like that before, cast some spell that led him to something he’d lost. Can’t you just duplicate that?” Allen asked, his worry and frustration coming out in his tone.
“No. I’ve tried to contact him, to find him, to scry him out, and all I get is some sort of interference. Someone is masking his presence in the magic – and that doesn’t bode well at all.”
“Couldn’t he be doing it himself? Maybe he’s lying with some wench somewhere and doesn’t want to be…scried upon…or whatever it is that you call it.” Allen sounded hopeful.
“No,” D’Jenn replied with certainty, “I know your brother’s song better than any other but my own, and if he were doing this, I’d know it. There is something strange going on here.”
Allen grumbled a curse and adjusted the big curved sword at his side. “Well then, what do we do?”
“There is nothing for it. We’ll have to make our way down these alleys until we find a clue that could point us in the right direction. Perhaps someone saw something that could help, or we’ll find something.”
With that, D’Jenn set off down an adjacent alley, and Allen had no choice but to follow. The two of them slogged through rain puddles with their shoulders hunched against the downpour, searching through the maze of back alleys in the East Market District. Thunder rumbled overhead as the storm continued on.
D’Jenn began marking off alleys that they’d already investigated. The twists and turns of the East Market were bad enough on the main roads – the back alleys and forgotten side streets were a virtual labyrinth of dead ends, stairs going up or down, narrow spaces between buildings, and even access tunnels that led down into Ishamael’s extensive sewer system. After a couple of hours of fruitless searching, D’Jenn began to grow worried.
The Sentient Fire (The Seven Signs) Page 60