Spirits of Light and Shadow (The Gods of Talmor)

by India Drummond

  After some thought, the woman declared that she had a better idea. She had left Octavia in her formal receiving room and returned a few minutes later with a length of silk ribbon. “This has little value in declani, of course, but when I wear it, my love knows he is in my thoughts.”

  “Better,” Octavia said, understanding the woman’s love and her husband were different people. Although her marriage ring had little to do with the second man, the ribbons would connect Octavia to the woman’s true heart more than an old religious symbol owned by a man she feared more than loved.

  Octavia laid out the items and gathered the required materials from her stores. All the while, she wondered about this high-born man who had been asking about her. Experience both in Kilovia and now in Talmor taught her not to trust the noble classes. A man who worked to feed his family could be relied upon. One who had wealth bestowed upon him expected the accident of high birth to provide, regardless of the character of his heart or his effort.

  She waited, not wanting to begin her ritual lest she be interrupted by this strange Talmoran who sought her by name. Just when she had decided this man would not appear so long after nightfall, a knock sounded. As she descended the stair, she breathed deeply to calm her nerves. Why did she feel suddenly troubled? She scolded herself for assuming the worst. He had most likely gotten her name from one of her Talmoran merchant customers. Though they were sworn to secrecy, they sometimes gave her name. One who was determined and persuasive could find her. If the new customer was high-born, she could charge him more than she would a shopkeeper. Maybe two months’ rent, or even three.

  She opened the door no more than a hand’s width. “Yes? Can I assist you?” She enunciated her words the way she’d learned to do when speaking with Talmorans.

  “Are you Sennestelle Octavia?” By the lamplight near the door, she saw the man wore the clothing of a merchant, but every piece was new, with not so much as a worn spot on the knee or elbow. He had a small scar that disrupted perfectly trimmed facial hair. He used the Kilovian name for her guild, so he was more educated than most of his countrymen, but he used it incorrectly. The address should have been Senne Octavia, and she was a member of the Sennestelle. Still, the effort warmed her to him despite the warning in her gut.

  “I am called Octavia,” she said, not moving aside. Although practitioners were tolerated in the city, she’d learned to be cautious. Talmorans believed their eight Spirits to be the only true gods and some didn’t take kindly to those who practiced other ways. Kilovians were, at best, regarded as ignorant savages.

  “I need to speak with you.” He glanced down the empty street.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  After a beat of hesitation, he said, “My name is Dow.” She felt the lie more than heard it. The truth mattered little. She’d discover his identity eventually. It was difficult to hide from a conduit connected to the ancient power of the One. Still, the attempted deception was interesting.

  “What is your need, Dow?” She emphasized the false name.

  “My need is urgent and private. May I come in?” He shifted his weight and the lamp’s glow caught his pale blue eyes. Grey circles ringed the iris, seeming almost to change colors with the angle of light.

  “And what do you offer?” she asked. His answer would determine whether she closed the door or opened it further. Most Talmorans flashed gold at this point. Usually, she would accept. In this foreign land, she had to buy food like everyone else.

  “Only emptiness,” he replied.

  Octavia blinked. How did a high-born Talmoran know the proper response? “Come in,” she said, momentarily at a loss for further words. She held the door open and watched him closely as he passed her in the narrow entryway. He carried a sack, holding it awkwardly, as though afraid of what it contained. She shivered for the second time that night, despite the warmth of her fire.

  Chapter 2

  Eliam ascended the narrow stair, acutely aware of the Kilovian woman who studied him. He was surprised how difficult it had been to find her. The strange, ancient religion of the One was practiced openly by the immigrants, but when inquired about practitioners, or as they called them, conduits, they grew secretive.

  He’d started by asking merchants but was told no one would reveal a Sennestelle’s identity to a Dul. Every Kilovian knew at least conduit, but they protected them fiercely. So Eliam covered his face with a hooded cloak, dressed down, and walked the streets disguised as an ordinary merchant. He didn’t trust the task to a servant or page. Oh, a servant might have blended in more easily, but he feared some word of his quest would get out. Neither he nor Duls Tarsten and Graiphen wanted that to happen.

  Gold loosened lips, but only when he reassured the Kilovians he questioned that he had no desire to cause trouble. He’d even made up a story of how the Talmoran Spirits had abandoned him and swore that he desperately needed help. Somehow, as the day stretched on, a dying wife had been invented.

  This Senne Octavia had been identified as the best practitioner in the city, worth every declani he’d pay her. If she couldn’t heal his wife, they told him, the lady was destined for the afterlife.

  “What troubles you, Dow?” she asked when he reached the top of the stairs, her tone betraying both wariness and fatigue.

  Eliam hesitated. He’d spent so much energy trying to find her, he’d not put as much thought into what he’d say afterward. Now, faced with this fierce woman who appeared to see through his careful disguise, he felt uncertain. “I’m here for a friend,” he said.

  Her expression flickered with recognition. “What is your friend’s trouble?” she asked, amusement quirking at the corner of her mouth. “Difficulty satisfying his woman? Will his staff not stay straight?” She walked to her workbench and opened a few small doors in its top structure, fetching fragrant herbs. “It’s a common problem.”

  “No,” he said, stammering with embarrassment. “Not at all.” How strange that he, an accomplished man, was reduced to babbling by someone he’d never met.

  “No? I know already you’re not here about a dying wife.”

  Eliam flushed. He should have expected those he questioned would report his words. “It’s complicated,” he said. “I’m sorry, but the lie was necessary. I must protect my friend’s identity. He’s an important man.”

  Octavia put down the herbs. With a weary sigh, she rubbed her temple. “All men think they’re important.”

  “We believe he’s been cursed.”

  Her expression darkened. “What makes you say that?”

  He held out the sack, which he’d kept with him all day. He’d not wanted to leave it lying around in case the magic might affect his home or servants. Not that he believed in such things. Still, if there was any risk, he’d prefer to take it himself, rather than anyone in his household.

  She raised a finely arched eyebrow and accepted the sack.

  “I was warned not to touch the items.”

  She opened it and peered inside, then froze before muttering a string of words he didn’t understand. Putting down the bag, she went to her workbench to retrieve a thin pair of black gloves and a piece of black cloth. She slipped on the gloves and knelt on the floor, spreading out the dark canvas. Gingerly reaching into the sack, she removed the gruesome items one by one and laid them out on the cloth.

  In the flickering light, he recognized that the wax pieces were molded to look like faces. Octavia’s expression contorted with disgust as she sorted through them, arranging them in some kind of order he couldn’t distinguish. Among the pieces were segments of wire, some bound so tightly over the small wax heads that no features could be discerned. Only filthy tufts of hair attached to the wax bits told him those shapes represented a person. Other figures had long, thin needles shoved through.

  He let her work in silence, watching each twist of her mouth and knot in her furrowed brow. A sinking feeling of despair settled over him. He’d expected her to tell him the items were nothing, a silly joke, an
attempt to frighten. This small, stern woman had not a jot of humor about her.

  She glanced up and spoke to him in the Kilovian tongue. After a moment, she shook her head, then repeated herself in her heavily accented Talmoran dialect. “These are items of darkness, created by a worthy Kilovian conduit. Your friend is in grave danger. He is still alive, yes?”

  “These things could kill him?” he asked, anxiety twisting his gut.

  She stared down at the array of strange objects in front of her. “These are designed to torture more than kill, but few men could withstand the pain.”

  “Can you break the curse?”

  “Bring your friend to me at first light. I will take what I need from him and begin work immediately. We must not delay.”

  “Impossible.” There was no way Tarsten would have Dul Graiphen brought here, if his condition would even allow the move. “I can possibly arrange for you to be brought to him.”

  “This is no trivial matter. I need to make preparations, to take samples from him with tools I have here. I won’t be certain how to proceed until I meet him. Do you intend to move my entire workshop to this man’s house? Are you so desperate to avoid him being seen in the immigrant slum you’d risk his life?” She shook her head.

  “What if I have the samples collected and brought to you?”

  She snorted and began to carefully replace the items in the sack. “So you’re a conduit for the One now? You know the strands to take? How much blood to draw and from which part of the body? You know the incantations to whisper and which star to draw upon as you work?” She held out the sack. “Bring the man here or I cannot help you.”

  “There is no other way? Please. I beg you. I’ll pay whatever you ask.” He reluctantly accepted the bag from her.

  “A thousand declani.” Her eyes flashed with defiance.

  A huge sum, but Tarsten would agree without thinking twice. “Very well,” he said. “But I still can’t bring him here.”

  She blinked and raised her eyebrows high on her smooth forehead. Perhaps he should have negotiated. Did it look suspicious that he didn’t? Eliam berated himself. A thousand declani was too much for a merchant to pay. If she hadn’t seen through his disguise before, she would now.

  “I can make an attempt with the help of a blood relative: his father or his brother would be best. I cannot guarantee success, but if the blood is strong, the link may suffice.”

  Korbin. “At first light?” Eliam asked. He wasn’t sure he’d find his friend at this hour or if he’d be able to convince him to help, but would try.

  She muttered in the Kilovian tongue again. “Put the sack in here.” She pulled back the lid on a heavy metal chest beside her workbench. “It’s not safe for you to handle those things. I will dispose of them after I’m finished.”

  Eliam did as she asked, watching as she cautiously closed and locked the lid, then placed the black cloth over it and sprinkled dried flower petals on top. Remembering what he’d been told to expect about the transaction, he removed fifty declani from a pouch at his waist. “This is all I have with me.” He placed the five large coins on the workbench. “I will send more with my friend’s son in the morning.”

  She met Eliam’s eyes, studying him. “Fifty more when the job is done and you will have paid the debt.”

  “We agreed to a thousand, Sennestelle. I honor my word.” A thousand declani was a mildly inconvenient amount to him, but it would keep this woman for years. If she healed Dul Graiphen, her help would be worth every coin. He bowed. “The power of the One forever guide you.”

  She nodded thoughtfully. “May the Talmoran Spirits of Light and Shadow protect you, Dow. And your friend.” With a glance to the iron chest she added, “He has made a powerful enemy. One whose hand I do not know. This worries me greatly.”

  Eliam bowed again, feeling more uneasy than when he’d arrived. He bid Octavia goodnight and descended into the streets. Heading toward Chelotti Strand, he prayed he’d find Korbin at home.

  An hour later, he rapped on the door of Korbin’s tiny flat, located off a narrow back alley. A scurry sounded from amongst the refuse piled nearby and made Eliam shudder. The area seemed dark, menacing even, the kind of place most would avoid even in the daylight. Chelotti Strand wasn’t as rough as some places, but it was a long way from the palaces of North Circle.

  When no answer came immediately, Eliam decided to check a few of the pubs Korbin frequented. In the first establishment, Eliam had no luck. A quick glance within told him his friend wasn’t inside. A few small coins in the owner’s palm revealed Korbin hadn’t been around for a couple of days.

  He had a similar experience in the second place, but in the third, he found Korbin tossing coins onto a gaming table, one after the other.

  “Four Spot,” his friend said grimly, tapping the tiles in front of him. His dark, untamed curls gave him a roguish look. When he’d lived with his father, his hair had always been close cropped. Dul Graiphen didn’t believe curly hair was dignified. Now Korbin wore it like a badge of honor.

  “Yer a fair liar, Korbin,” laughed a snaggle-toothed man. His accent was local and his calloused hands spoke of years of hard toil. “I declare seven.”

  A third player flipped over his tiles as he shook his head in amusement. “Beats my three square any day.”

  A younger man sat on Korbin’s right. His clothes suggested he was slumming, coming to the worker’s quarter of the city for serious gambling and hard drinking, away from the prying eyes of society. Eliam didn’t recognize him, which meant he wasn’t of Vol’s noble families, but he could very well be a resident student, a relative of a minor Dul from the provinces.

  “Six to the round,” the young man said, a touch too carefully.

  The local worker grinned, nodding to Korbin. “I think he’s full of shite.”

  “Aye,” Korbin said, having adapted his once-polished accent to suit his current lifestyle. He scratched at the several-days-old whiskers on his chin. “Tis you what troubles me, Crandell, and that’s no lie. You’re a crafty badger.”

  Korbin’s opponent grinned and glanced up at Eliam. “Best make a move then and leave the games to the men. Looks like yer boyfriend has come callin’.”

  With a sideways look, Korbin nodded at Eliam, then stood. “I’m out anyway,” he said, flipping over his tiles one at a time. “I know ya too well, Crandell.” He not only had four spot, he had five. Clever. “I do want to see if you have that seven.”

  “If our friend here pays the price, I’ll show you all,” Crandell said with a nod toward the young man. “What of it, lad?” He tossed more coins onto the table. “For five declani, you can see my stones.” He laughed at the old gamblers’ joke.

  The boy carelessly pitched a matching sum into the center of the table. “So show them, old man.”

  “Stupid kid,” Korbin muttered, shaking his head.

  Crandell cackled, flipping his stones over. He not only had seven spot, he had them in sequence. That would beat the boy’s six to the round, if he even had such a high hand.

  “Come on,” Korbin said to Eliam. “This is turning out to be an expensive night for me.”

  When Korbin turned, Eliam saw a large bruise along one side of his face. “Spirits take me. What happened to you?”

  Korbin hesitated, as though not sure what elicited the comment. “Ah, this? A misunderstanding.”

  He took in Eliam’s clothing. “Where’ve you been dressed like a merchant who’s recently won at the tables?”

  Eliam glanced down at his attire. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

  Korbin shook his head with a chuckle. “You want a drink?”

  “A favor,” Eliam said. “Can we talk?”

  With only a momentary pause, Korbin nodded. “Sure. Here or outside?”

  “The fewer ears, the better,” Eliam said.

  “My place then.” He led Eliam out, pausing to return a friendly shout of goodbye as he made his way to the door. No one gave
Eliam a second look, so his disguise couldn’t have been all bad. A Dul would attract much more attention. This was, after all, part of Eliam’s constituency. Still, he tugged his hood closer around his face, not that common workers paid any more mind to individuals of the higher classes than the nobles paid of them. That was the way of things.

  They were only two streets away from the alley that led to Korbin’s flat. Within a few minutes, they walked inside, and Korbin lit a lamp beside the window. He pulled down its canvas shade.

  Eliam had always been struck by how neatly Korbin maintained his home, but then, he didn’t spend that much time here, preferring the company in gambling rooms, pubs, and entertainment houses. His job as a Talmor Rider kept him away half the time, so when would he have the opportunity to make a mess?

  “What’s troubling you?” Korbin asked. When Eliam paused, Korbin raised an eyebrow. “That bad? Tell me.”

  “It’s your father.” Eliam took one of the lumpy, creaking chairs.

  Korbin stiffened but didn’t interrupt.

  “He’s fallen seriously ill. I’m sorry.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “That’s the reason I’m here, actually,” Eliam said. “Someone apparently cursed him.”

  A spurt of laughter burst from Korbin’s mouth. “Besides me, you mean?”

  The reaction was understandable. Talmorans were enlightened, following the precepts of the eight Spirits of Light and Shadow. But Eliam felt the pressure of time. Octavia’s response to what she saw in the sack told him the matter was more urgent than he or Tarsten had realized.

  “A Kilovian practitioner.”

  Korbin’s smile faded. “You’re serious?”

  “I’ve found someone willing to try to undo the curse. To do so, she needs help from a close relative of your father’s.”

  “You found a conduit?” Korbin asked, tiredly running his hand over the whiskers on his face.