“Then how—”
The skull snorted. “Most folk would’ve been left without anything to do, but he’s a clever one, that lad. After he and the good Captain Dumon—the other survivor—got themselves healed by some others of Zayl’s kind, the boy got a notion in his head. He went back to where he’d lost the hand and somehow managed to find what was left. Took him three days and three nights, but damned if Zayl didn’t fuse it back on with fire and spellwork. Hell, in some ways it’s better than new! Paid a heavy price for it, though, a heavy price.”
As she listened, some of Salene’s horror drained away, replaced more and more by fascination. Would she not have done the same in his place if she had wielded his power? What other choice would there have been? A hook, as Salene had seen upon many a mariner? A simple stump? Among the nobility, there were those who had lost a limb and had replaced it with metal reproductions which they clothed as the necromancer had. The Lady Nesardo had no doubt that many of them would have paid well for work such as Zayl had performed, even likely have shown it off, despite the doctrines of the Zakarum about such magic.
She leaned forward and gently removed the rest of the glove. Only now did Salene see that the inside was thickly padded so that it could mimic a hand of flesh and blood. The noblewoman recalled how Zayl had used that hand more than once with no seeming difficulty.
Her fingers poised over the skeletal appendage. Biting her lip, Salene touched the back of Zayl’s hand. To her surprise, it felt warm and smooth. She touched one of the joints, then quietly gasped when the bony fingers twitched.
Murmuring, the Rathmian shifted. Salene stepped back, not wanting to disturb his recovery.
“He’ll recover just fine, my lady,” Humbart assured her again. “You might want to get some rest yourself. I’ll keep an eyehole on him, don’t you worry.”
“I should stay, though. I can’t leave it all to you—”
The skull snorted. “And what else do I have to do, lass? I don’t sleep, least not the way the living does. Won’t bother me to stay awake all night …” A surprisingly soft tone touched the spirit’s voice. “I won’t let anything happen to him. You’ve got my promise on that.”
Despite the skull’s immobility, Salene believed him. In his own way, Humbart Wessel could be trusted to see to Zayl as much as poor Polth had always seen to her.
“Call out immediately if there’s a change,” she insisted.
“I’ll do that.”
“Thank you … Humbart.”
Salene almost could have sworn that the skull’s eyeholes shifted. “No … thank you, lass.”
The Lady Nesardo slipped out of the room, her thoughts deeply concerned with Zayl. She kept wondering what else she could do to aid his recovery—
Salene suddenly collided with a figure in the hall. She instinctively backed away, then saw that it was only her brother.
“Sardak! You frightened me! What are you doing out here? I thought you’d be in bed!”
His expression was not pleasant to behold. “I didn’t get very far, sister. Couldn’t just forget what I saw in there.”
“Really, Sardak! It’s nothing—”
He grabbed her by the shoulders so tightly that Salene grunted with pain. Sardak loosened his grip, but did not release her. “He’s got to go, Salene! You can’t keep a thing like that in this house! He’s a danger to you, to all of us! Look what happened to Polth, damn it—and he was a paid fighter!”
“Polth died trying to save both Zayl and me, if that’s what you mean, but only after Zayl nearly did the same! You weren’t there! Something monstrous happened down in the crypt, Sardak!”
He grimaced. “Yes, I know, I know. But, still, Salene—”
“He stays. I owe him that. I’m sorry if you feel this a disagreeable situation, but—”
“But you are the mistress of Nesardo and I am merely a lowly bastard …” When she made to protest his words, Sardak bowed his head. “Uncalled for, I know. You’ve given me every chance and made this as much my home as yours, Salene. Forgive my words.”
Salene touched his cheek. “I understand your concern. Let’s forget this happened.”
Her brother glanced at Zayl’s door. “I’ll follow your will on this, sister dear, but if he does anything that even remotely endangers you, he will answer to me.”
And with that, Sardak kissed her on the cheek and headed off to his room. Watching him, Salene had no doubt that he would follow through with such a promise. In that way, Sardak was much like Polth. They were both very loyal to those for whom they cared. They also made for deadly enemies to those who crossed them.
The noblewoman hoped that the latter would never be the case for Zayl.
Zayl dreamed of spiders. Many spiders. Large ones. Small ones. He was tangled in webs, spun in cocoons. The spiders surrounded him …
Through his tortured dreams, a face drifted above. A face with gray, cropped hair and certain features reminiscent of his own. The face watched his struggles with clinical interest and gave no indication of any intention to help the necromancer.
And so, Zayl continued to fight alone …
The storm raged unabated through the morning and afternoon, letting up only slightly as the night again neared. Salene spent her waking hours mainly in watching over the Rathmian’s prone form. She found it disturbing that he had not yet stirred and, although Humbart did not say it, Salene knew that the skull was concerned also.
Sweat bathed Zayl, and his brow was furrowed as if in deep thought. Curiously, the noblewoman sensed some magical fluctuation around his body, as if something was going on of which she had no understanding. Uncertain as to what else to do, she dabbed his lips with a clean, moist towel and tried to keep him as comfortable as possible.
Sardak brought her meals, the servants refusing to step beyond the doorway. The younger Nesardo said nothing as he handed her the tray, but his eyes ever watched the necromancer warily.
Salene ate her evening meal in silence, neither she nor Humbart able to summon any words of encouragement for one another. The skull still insisted that Zayl would be all right, but his words had a hollow ring to them that had nothing to do with his fleshless state.
Then, barely minutes after Salene had finished her meal, an anxious servant knocked on the door, muttering, “Mistress, there be someone to see you in the drawing room.”
“In this foul weather?” the noblewoman responded, rising. “Who?”
There was no answer from the hallway, and when Salene opened the door it was to find that the servant had fled. Grimacing, she shut the door behind her, then descended to the ground floor. As she did, another servant carrying an empty tray emerged from the drawing room. He bowed when he saw her.
“He has been given wine, my lady, and now sits by the fire.”
“Who? Who is it, Barnaby?”
The hawk-nosed servant looked startled at her lack of knowledge. “Why, the Lord Jitan, of course!”
Jitan? “Thank you, Barnaby. You may go.”
He bowed, then scurried away. Salene struggled to maintain her calm in the face of this unexpected, unwarranted, and certainly undesired visit by the man seeking to take from her the legacy of Nesardo. Only when she was confident of her demeanor did the noblewoman finally glide into the chamber.
“My Lord Jitan!” Salene called. “To what do I owe the honor of your visit on this of all nights?”
Wine goblet in one hand, Aldric Jitan rose from the chair as if he and not the woman before him was the host. The noble might have cut a dashing figure, but there was something about his mismatched eyes and his mouth that ever put Salene off. The former constantly shifted gaze, almost as if Jitan suspected enemies hiding in the shadows of the room. The latter, meanwhile, curled upward in what she thought a rather hungry turn, reminding her of a famished wolf.
“My dear, dear Salene,” he returned, raising the goblet. “I drink to your flawless beauty.”
Even under the best of circumstances, she wou
ld have found nothing to appreciate in such flowery talk from him. Still, the Lady Nesardo curtsied politely.
Despite the foul weather, Aldric’s clothes and hair were both dry and impeccable, which meant that his servants had shielded him all the way to the door. Salene surreptitiously looked for his cloak, but did not see it. It was a pity; had it been at hand, it would have given her the opportunity to further shorten what looked to be a very uncomfortable encounter.
“I came to see if I could make peace between us, dear Salene,” Lord Jitan finally answered. He took another sip, then stepped closer. Suddenly, his eyes did not dart about anymore, but focused sharply on her own. Salene felt herself drawn to those eyes despite her loathing for the man. “We have been at odds for no good reason.”
“You seek to take the roof from over my head, leave me destitute on the streets.”
“Hardly that!” Aldric leaned closer, his eyes all the noblewoman could now see. “My hand is forced! I deal with nearly every major family in Westmarch! Many of my transactions involve great sums of money or vast properties! The reason that I’ve maintained the reputation I have is because everyone knows that I mean what I say. If I promise someone profit for joining in my ventures, they understand that they will profit. Yet, at the same time, if the deals I make include assurances against the other party’s defaulting—a necessary precaution, especially against those who would seek to cheat—I must then follow through, no matter what the reason for its happening.”
Despite not wishing to, Salene discovered she had some newfound sympathy for Aldric’s position. It was too often the case that aristocrats in declining financial states made poor deals, then attempted not to pay back their creditors. If they had the influence of others to back them up, as was often the case, those who had taken their word in good faith ended up with nothing.
“But Riordan was a man of his word and careful to agree to only what he could do …”
“That he was.” The mismatched eyes gleamed. Lord Jitan stood almost close enough to kiss Salene, and uncharacteristically, she did not pull away in revulsion. “But he never got the chance to fulfill his part of the deal—which he most certainly would have if not for his untimely death—and so the collateral that was agreed upon by the two of us falls, by law, to me.” He shrugged. “If I don’t take it, my dear, I will be cheated by every other person with whom I do business and I’ll be ruined within a year. Then, I’ll be the one with no roof over my head. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”
She could not tear her eyes away from his. “No, I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t …”
“Then, you should consider my proposal, Salene. As Lady Jitan, you’ll retain the legacy of your family and also have all my own line offers. A transaction of mutual benefit.” He touched her chin as if to kiss her. “Mutual.”
Without warning, Zayl’s face suddenly materialized in her thoughts. Salene jerked away from Aldric. His smile momentarily transformed into a snarl, which was then replaced by a much less agreeable version of the former.
For some reason, Salene felt an urgent need to return to the necromancer’s quarters. Lord Jitan, noting her sudden anxiety, asked, “Are you ill? Can I be of any service?”
“No … thank you, no. I’m sorry, Aldric, but I must again decline your offer.”
His smile grew even more strained. “Think what you’re saying, Salene … I will do what I must.”
No longer did his unsettling eyes hold her. The noblewoman became defiant. “That may yet not be the case. I’ve not exhausted all courses of action. I’m still investigating my husband’s financial dealings …”
“But what—” He shut his mouth and, without warning, suddenly looked up in the general direction of Zayl’s quarters. Aldric’s face grew stony. He suddenly bowed. “Very well. If this is to go no further tonight, then I’ll bid you good evening … and pray that for your sake you see reason very soon.”
Thrusting down the goblet, Lord Jitan strode out. Salene made no attempt to see him to the door, which he could easily find from the drawing room. She listened tensely and was rewarded seconds later by the sound of the door slamming hard. The harsh clatter of hooves and the rattle of coach wheels accented the noble’s furious departure.
Finally satisfied that Aldric Jitan would not suddenly return, Salene rushed toward the stairs. A startled servant ducked out of her way as the Lady Nesardo all but leapt up the steps.
At the top, Sardak, hair unkempt, confronted her. He had a concerned look on his face which proved to have nothing to do with the necromancer. “I just heard from Barnaby that Jitan was here! What the devil did he want this time?”
“The same as always. He encouraged me to marry him to put an end to the matter.”
“So popular, my sister is! Torion’s going to be very jealous! He did ask first—”
She had no time for this. “Enough, Sardak. After Jitan, I can do without your flippant remarks!”
He seized her arm as she plunged past him. “I’m sorry! Next time, have Barnaby summon me immediately. I don’t want you alone with that bastard!”
Salene almost told him that she could handle Aldric Jitan quite easily, thank you very much—but then recalled how she had come so close to acquiescing to his demands. He had even nearly kissed her.
“I’ll remember,” she answered softly. With a smile, the noblewoman added, “Thank you for worrying.”
“It’s what I do best … besides drinking.” He noted the direction in which his sister had been turning. “Back to him?”
“Yes.” The urgency continued to push her. “I have to go.”
“Better that one than Jitan for company, anyway,” muttered Sardak reluctantly. “You will call me when you need me, right?”
“Yes, Sardak, I will. I promise.”
Only then did he release her. Salene immediately hurried on, hoping that she was not already too late.
But when she swung open the door, it was to find everything as it had been before. Zayl lay motionless on the bed, still sweating despite the cool air of the chamber.
Yet, the concern would not leave her. “What’s happened, Humbart?”
“Happened?” Despite a lack of features, the skull somehow wore a quizzical expression. “Nothing at all, occasionally punctuated by moments of absolute stillness.”
“But I was certain—” Going over to the bed, Salene touched Zayl’s forehead.
Instantly, her anxiety grew a hundredfold. She felt a threatening force, a crushing one, centered on the necromancer. Where it originated from, though, the noblewoman had no idea.
“Zayl …,” she whispered without thinking. “Zayl …”
He turned his head toward her and suddenly moaned.
“He moved!” Humbart blurted. “By Mount Arreat, he moved! Finally!”
The tips of her fingers where she touched his skin felt warm, but not uncomfortably so. His breathing seemed more regular than before and when Salene moved to wipe the sweat from his brow, it did not immediately grow damp again.
Her hopes rose. “I think he’s—”
Zayl’s eyes suddenly opened wide.
“Karybdus …,” he blurted.
No sooner had the necromancer spoken than his eyes shut again and his head tipped to the side. Salene gasped, fearing that he had died, but when she looked closely, the noblewoman saw that Zayl merely slept … and slept peacefully.
“Karybdus?” growled the skull. “Now what the bloody blazes does that mean?”
Karybdus sheathed his ivory dagger, his expression, as ever, one of indifference, despite the outcome of recent events.
“Thrice now,” he said. In the darkness, the thing to whom he spoke scuttled about in what could best be termed anger. “Thrice now. There will not be a fourth time.”
The Rathmian’s gaze turned toward the ceiling, and though there was no apparent reason for it, his expression briefly reflected satisfaction.
“Rest easy, little one. Things still go according to the needs of the Ba
lance. We know the impediment to success. We know now that his name is Zayl.” Karybdus stretched out his arm and something large, black, and many-legged leapt upon it. The necromancer scratched its body lovingly. “Zayl … of course, it would be him.”
SEVEN
General Torion was a man of action. Inaction drove him mad, and so thus was his mood this night. There were still two more days before good Cornelius would be laid to rest. That did not suit Torion at all. The king was dead and needed to be buried so that his successor could take his rightful place on the throne, thereby solidifying his claim. The longer the last took, the more the talk would increase that perhaps another should lay claim to Westmarch.
There were too many willing to do that, too. Salene Nesardo’s agreement to back Justinian would help bring some of the other Houses around, but the list of troublemakers was still far too long for the commander’s tastes. He found himself wishing for a simpler time, when those who served the throne could take more direct measures. More absolute ones.
Accompanied by a personal guard of six men, he rode toward the palace, a gray stone edifice with pointed towers, jutting buttresses, and gargoyles on every rooftop. The palace was built like a fortress, with high, stark walls lined with spikes and a deep moat with smooth, unclimbable sides. The lowest windows were three levels up and barred with iron.
If a fortress was indeed what first came to mind, that was because that was how the palace had begun. Before there had been a city, there had been the palace. It had started as the first refuge of the new land, chosen as the base from which Westmarch would grow. Torion was no student of history save where it concerned war. He knew of the Sons of Rakkis only because of their legacy of power, and admired this, their creation. They had also created the first of the outer walls of the city, which later architects had copied and embellished upon. The capital was a stronghold in itself, an extension of the palace in a sense.
Diablo: Moon of the Spider Page 9