The Sentient Fire (The Seven Signs)
Page 70
“The problem with Kendall,” the Mekai continued, “is that I do not believe he was working with either the Vilth, or with the Galanians. If he were, he could have tried to take the armlet at any time over the past few days and made off with it. Instead, he tried to capture little Bethany. Why do you think that is?”
Dormael and D’Jenn looked at each other, pondering the question and not understanding where the Mekai was going with it. It was Shawna that spoke up.
“To control her somehow, or hold her hostage for some reason,” Shawna said, her eyes filling with a wild look as she started down a new line of thought. “Think on it Dormael! He’s right! The first thing that he would have tried to do was attempt to steal the armlet. Why go after Bethany, who is no use to them as far as we know?”
“To use her against us,” D’Jenn said, following her thoughts, “To manipulate us into doing something.”
“Exactly,” the Mekai said.
“Another problem,” D’Jenn said, “is that someone was in Dormael’s rooms today, Wise One. It was not Kendall.”
“I suspected that there were more agents here in the Conclave, working for some unknown purpose,” the Mekai said, nodding. D’Jenn and Dormael looked at each other, surprised.
“Why haven’t you attempted to root them out?” D’Jenn asked.
“I said that I had suspicions, D’Jenn, not proof. There is always scheming in corners, you know that. I have been looking into it, and the things I’ve uncovered are quite disturbing. I think that today we’ve only seen the hint of how deep the corruption goes, and that is part of the reason that I’ve called you here today.
“I have discovered, during the course of a personal inquiry that I and the Tal-Kansil have been conducting over the last season that the services of certain wizards have been given to members on the Council of Seven unbeknownst to the Conclave.”
“What?” Dormael and D’Jenn said in unison. The Mekai simply nodded and continued.
“Not only that, but in two cases in particular the services were…violent in nature.”
Dormael and D’Jenn stared at the Mekai in shock. The Wizards of the Conclave were not mercenaries, not assassins to be auctioned off to the highest bidder. This was…reprehensible.
“What did the Kansils in question give for the services of these rogue wizards?” D’Jenn asked, but Dormael thought that he could guess. His fears were confirmed as the Mekai answered him.
“Votes, on certain issues that were put before the Council. We haven’t been able to prove anything, and at any rate the word of the law states that a Kansil cannot be voted from his seat by his peers. Only his Clan Leaders can unseat him. The process of uncovering the truth has been difficult. What’s more disconcerting is that the votes that we could uncover information about were inconsequential in nature, at least as far as we’ve been able to discover. There must be something bigger waiting, some larger issue that someone here in the Conclave is quietly bribing the Kansils into supporting.”
Dormael felt sick to his stomach. The Conclave was not meant to be a political power, and most definitely not to be used as political currency. It was a trespass of the vilest nature.
“What is even more disturbing is that during the course of our inquiries, there were at least two Kansils who refused any knowledge of secret dealings with wizards, but the look in their eyes was clear. They were afraid. I suspect that someone has been bullying them into submission. Also, our informant, who was a Warlock, died mysteriously on assignment some days ago. We are now blind.”
“Wait,” Dormael said, holding up a hand, “Did you say that your informant was a Warlock?”
“Yes. I see you’ve deduced the import of that fact, already,” the Mekai replied, nodding his head. If the informant was indeed a Warlock, and had knowledge of these cloak and dagger goings on, but was too afraid to bring the matter forward publicly, it could only mean one thing. This rogue group of wizards operating inside the Conclave could only be Warlocks.
“Victus,” D’Jenn hissed suddenly, his face filling with such disgust and anger that Dormael thought he’d get right up, right now, and go look for the Deacon.
“Surely not,” Dormael mused, but his heart was not in it. He wasn’t as quick as D’Jenn to piece things together, but something just felt right about his conclusion. Victus had been acting very strange, of late.
“I believe so,” the Mekai sighed, “He has worked to undermine me at every turn. His motivations for doing things lately seem thin, or forced, or completely faked. The issue with the Galanian deathcamps was only his latest attempt to discredit me. You see, I have my own agents in Galania, outside of the normal chain of command. Their reports are disconcerting.”
“What do they say?” Allen asked, leaning forward now and interested in the conversation.
“The deathcamps do not exist. It is some strange attempt by him either to politically make me appear to be weak, or to remove the Warlocks here in the Conclave who may be a threat to his faction, and send them all to the Empire on a wild goose chase.”
“Leaving you vulnerable,” Shawna breathed. She held one hand to her chest in a nervous gesture, and looked wide eyed at Dormael.
“Yes.”
The room was quiet for a moment as everyone took the realization in. It was Allen who finally broke the silence.
“But why? I can almost understand the reasons behind the political moves,” he said, “But why his interest in Bethany? What does he want with her?”
“I believe that he wants Dormael and D’Jenn to support him,” the Mekai said, “and he wants this armlet, for whatever reason. The best way to insure that both goals are met, is to abduct and attempt to subvert or control Bethany, and through her, the armlet and both Dormael and D’Jenn.”
“But why is he so suddenly interested in power? He’s been so loyal, for so long. I know that he cares about the Sevenlands and its people. I know how tirelessly he’s worked over these years to protect it. It just doesn’t make sense,” Dormael said.
“I agree, Dormael,” the Mekai replied, “Deacon Victus and I used to be very close. He was, for a long time, my most trusted advisor. He’s served in his position longer than any other Deacon of Warlocks, and I think that perhaps the job has taken a toll on him. It is hard, seeing so much wrong in the world, and having the power to change it, but being forbidden to do so.”
“His motive can’t simply be to take your place; Mekais serve for life, and if it is his goal only to murder you and take your position,” Allen put in, “then why go to the trouble of buying votes on the Council of Seven?”
“I believe his intentions may run deeper than simply controlling the Conclave, young Harlun,” the Mekai replied.
If the silence was ominous before, it was damn near oppressive, now.
“He means to gain control of the Council of Seven,” D’Jenn said, “To turn the Sevenlands into a magocracy.”
Dormael spat a curse and rose from his seat, stalking around the table to peer out through the glass panes of the Mekai’s window. He crossed his arms and brooded for a moment, gazing out over the low orange lights that dotted Ishamael. Taking a deep breath, he turned back to the room and spoke.
“Victus,” he said, “has to die. He’s gone rogue, turned against everything that the Conclave believes in, and betrayed the laws of our lands. He is Gatha.”
D’Jenn and Allen nodded their agreement with grim expressions tightening their faces, but the Mekai held up a forestalling hand. “I do not think that assassination is the most prudent course, here. There are things about this that we still do not know, and Victus will be difficult to kill, Dormael. We already know that he has agents of his own, a group of an unknown number of Warlocks, wizards trained in the art of violence, just as you know. You must remember that the ones who surround him went through the same training that you both did, and will be skilled in espionage. He will not be unguarded, and he will not risk leaving the Conclave. You would have to attack him in the cent
er of his power, possibly surrounded by supporters, and do not forget that Victus was also a Warlock before he was elevated, and will be a powerful wizard in his own right. It would turn the hallways of the very Conclave into a warzone. I cannot risk that, not even for this reason.”
“Then perhaps we can simply turn his own tactics against him, and attempt to discredit him and remove him from his position,” D’Jenn offered, but Allen shook his head.
“If he’s already gone this far, a little thing like being discredited will only make him angry and uncomfortable. He’d only move up his timeline, whatever that is, and attempt his coup earlier than planned.”
“You are correct, young champion,” the Mekai said to Allen, smiling, “It is too bad that you were not born Blessed, we could certainly use a brain like yours in these dark times.”
“Well, that’s the first time anyone has complimented that particular organ, Wise One. Usually it’s the ladies, screaming about how amazing something a bit further south is.”
“Allen! Have some respect!” Shawna chided him, but the Mekai only laughed in response. Dormael and D’Jenn’s shoulders were both shaking in silent laughter, and Shawna just snorted and rolled her eyes. Her mouth did perk up at one corner, even though she was red in the face.
“So, barring assassination and turning his political attacks against him, what can we do?” Dormael asked.
“At this point, there is only one thing that we can do, I believe,” the Mekai said, “You must take the girl, and the armlet, and leave Ishamael tonight.”
****
Maarkov gnawed on a piece of dried beef as he stared off into the darkness. They’d come down the mountain into Runeme, and as soon as Maaz had instructed his strega to set up camp, Maarkov had retreated off into the night to find somewhere where he could be away from the damnable things. He sat under the sheltering boughs of an evergreen, eating his solitary dinner and listening to the water drip from the leaves in the wake of the day’s storm. He stared down into the wide valley that lay before them and the city that spilled out from the banks of the river Ishamael.
Maaz would not risk going into the city, Maarkov knew that, but something in him almost wanted it to happen; to see his brother attempt something foolish and reap the reward. If any of the wizards discovered their presence here, they would be hunted down and killed. The Conclave had a strict policy about Necromancers.
Maarokov wasn’t sure what the next phase of his brother’s plan might be. After they’d discovered the camp where the bandits were supposed to have captured the girl and her armlet, but apparently met their untimely deaths instead, Maaz had been strangely reticent. Maarkov suspected that there was more to the plan, but Maaz as of yet had not filled him in. It didn’t really matter to Maarkov one way or another. He just wanted to be out of this damnable place so he could go back to enjoying himself in Shundov. It wasn’t really that he enjoyed whoring so much, but he knew that the only place that Maaz would never follow him were brothels and pleasure houses, and so Maarkov used them to get away from him.
He longed for death. Sometimes, when he was alone, that longing would fill him again, sending his emotions spiraling downward into a deep depression. He almost wished that someone from the Conclave would discover them. Then, he could die in glorious battle, having lived up to the oath he’d made to his brother while simultaneously obtaining that rest which he so desperately wanted.
He finished his dinner and packed a pipe bowl, inhaling deeply and leaning back against the tree to relax a bit. These solitary moments were few and far between, and he had to savor them while he had them. His mood darkened and a scowl crept onto his face when he saw the dark – colored bird glide silently down from the sky, landing not ten links from him.
The bird ruffled and smoothed its feathers, and then it seemed to ripple a bit as the bird resolved its form into that of a young girl with scars all over her body and a torn dress hanging from it. She was almost pretty, and had probably been gorgeous at one time, until Maaz got his hands on her and his knife into her. She brushed her dress as smooth as she could make it, and turned to Maarkov, regarding him silently.
“Where is your brother?” she asked.
“Hello to you, too Inera,” Maarkov replied, his tone was polite. Inera was the only person that Maarkov was ever polite to, anymore, “Oh, I’m doing just fine. It’s nice to see you again as well.”
Inera only rolled her eyes and sighed at him, then raised an eyebrow at him in exasperation.
“Why am I the only one that enjoys sarcasm around here?” he asked the air, and fell silent again as he sucked on his pipe. Then he asked, “How did things fare in Ishamael? I hope you didn’t fail. You know he likes to eat failures.”
“Things proved more difficult than we expected. There were…unforeseen variables.”
“Variables?” Maaz hissed from somewhere in the dark. Maarkov nearly jumped out of his skin. If Maaz wasn’t his brother, he’d kill him. Hells, he may just do it anyway.
Inera bowed her head and took a deep breath. “Dormael’s cousin proved to be more resourceful than I’d expected. He found my hiding place before the Taker could do its work. That, and something…strange happened with Dormael. Somehow, he was able to break the Circle I used to contain him.”
Maaz sighed and cursed under his breath, “Why must I be surrounded by incompetents?”
Maarkov saw Inera bristle a little at the comment, but she kept her pretty little lips shut. It was wise of her.
“You must have made the Circle incorrectly, or he would have been trapped effectively. You must have made a mistake. And the fact that his cousin found you was your own fault. Had you covered your tracks better, you would not have been discovered, and this former lover of yours would be en route to bring me the armlet.”
Inera began to say something in reply, but Maaz cut her off. “I do not embrace excuses, Inera. You are lucky that you are my most valuable apprentice, or I would eat your power and be done with you. Was there anything you were able to salvage from this grand failure?”
Inera smiled, “One thing.” She reached down the bodice of her leather girdle, and pulled out a bloodied piece of cloth. It appeared to have been ripped from a shirt. Maaz smiled, and took the cloth, smelling deeply of its odor.
Sometimes, his brother wasn’t just creepy – he was downright disturbing.
“At least someone has finally done something useful. You should take a page from Inera’s book, brother mine,” Maaz rasped, holding up the cloth as if it were made of gold and diamonds.
“I have no interest in pleasing you, Maaz. Fuck yourself.”
Maaz just snorted and turned away from him, walking a little ways off in the grass and clearing a space on the ground. Inera followed him, and Maarkov watched only because there was nothing better to look at out here. Maaz gestured to the ground once his space was cleared, and fire suddenly blossomed upon the ground, burning a circle in the wet grass. He then directed the fire, as if he were drawing a picture, and symbols slowly began to scrawl around the edge of the circle, outlined brightly by the flames and reflecting eerily in his brother’s eyes.
Maaz then turned toward the camp, and hissed something quietly into the darkness. Two of the strega strode quietly out of the darkness, moving with that strange, other-worldly gait that gave Maarkov the chills. He’d never get used to the damned things.
They each stepped over the circle of low flame, not even looking down to make sure they didn’t step on it, and laid down side by side in the center of the circle, their dead eyes staring at the sky. One of them was the boy they’d captured days ago. The one who’d watched Maarkov eat a piece of his mother. Maarkov couldn’t keep the shudder out of his body as he looked at the thing. Maaz slashed his arm, and Maarkov watched as he slung his blood around the circle, whispering in that strange language he used to call forth his infernal powers. Inera took a step backwards, but more out of awe and respect instead of fear, and watched Maaz perform his Neromancy.
Two shadows – that was the only word that Maarkov could think of to describe them – stood over the silent strega. Their bodies were translucent, and it was hard to make out much about them, but Maarkov thought that their features were distended somehow, like a strange mockery of a human body. Their arms seemed too long, fingers too thin, and legs too short to be anything human-like. They had a hunching stance, and they stood motionless, but the wavering light of the flames made it appear that their bodies wavered subtly in the night. Low red light burned in their eyes, and they seemed to smolder somehow, wafting a misty light that rose from their heads like the smoke from a campfire.
Maaz hissed something to them in that same language and the things gazed down at the two strega beneath them. One of them looked up and made a sweeping gesture with one of its ghost arms. Maaz hissed something more violently at them, and raised a fist toward the one that had replied to him. Darkness seemed to gather around it, and it cringed in what appeared to be pain, though Maarkov could hear no sound. It went on for a few seconds, and then it looked up at Maarkov’s brother and its eyes flashed brightly, and Maaz lowered his hand.
The two shadows looked once again to the strega, and one of them reached its misty arm down into the mouth of the dead thing. It seemed to crawl down into the strega, and something strange happened in the process. The bodies of the strega began to stretch and twist, as if they were swelling to accommodate the strange shadows that were slowly slipping inside of them. Maarkov imagined that if it were happening to something alive, there would be screams of pain issuing forth from the bodies, but the strega weren’t alive, and felt no pain.