Not to mention the fact that, as part of the aristocracy of the nation of the Goddess of Love, Zathara was trained to generate the kind of charisma that could make princes weep. And, at least during practices, she took direction from him. Being the director of a student organization had definite advantages.
"Strike it out." The Rationalist Union curse sounded like chocolate and pepper in her Love Wielder accent. "When are my candies going to arrive?" Zathara turned from her empty mail box. "I very much hope they haven't all been eaten by the customs agents again. So, what were you boys discussing?"
"Freetrick's mail," said Istain, "show it to her, Free."
Freetrick reached into his pack, extracted the envelope, and handed it to Zathara. Was that brush of the fingers intentional? Of course it was, she was a Love-Wielder. But what did it mean? Zathara knew dances far more subtle than any gara step.
"Well it can't have just come like this," she said. "It has no address on it. It doesn't even have your name."
"It must have been hand-delivered," said Freetrick.
"Maybe one of the social houses is hosting a party," suggested Istain.
Zathara was still rubbing her fingers across the pimply surface of the envelope.
"A Kingdoms-of-Evil-themed party? That's in rather bad taste."
"Only if you're a cranky old lady." Istain snorted. "A Kingdoms-of-Evil-themed party is a great idea. It'll have goth chicks in metal bikinis, spiky shoulder pads for the gentlemen," he made motions about a foot out from his own shoulders. " Ooh! And monsters… I can be an ogre. What are you two grinning about?"
"What are you grinning about?"
Freetrick turned at the deep, slow voice to see Kendrick Fairheart walk into earshot from across the Union's rotunda. In front of him, arms swinging, striding in steps too long for her legs, was Madene a'Legha.
"The squishy letter. Let's open it," Istain reached down to grab the envelope out of Zathara's hands.
She pulled it away from him, smiling at the other core members of Freetrick's gara dance club. "Hello, you two. Why so late? Were you snuggling?"
"We were not. No. Yuck"." Madene bent down, peered past her curtain of black hair into her mailbox's interior, and then straightened without bothering to open it. "Freetrick," she said, "I think Jubal should dance in the back row on Saturday."
"What?" said Freetrick.
Madene wiped her hair back and glared at him. Silver eyes glinting from under dark brows, hands on hips, Madene looked as if she was trying to look like a Warrior Maiden. Unfortunately, she was two generations removed from her martial-prophetess ancestors, and life in the Rationalist Union had given Madene a scholar's stoop and a tummy her jerkin could not entirely hide. "You know, Jubal. He's new. He shouldn't be in the front during a performance."
Oh right. Parents' weekend. The first big performance of the school year. There were people in the dance club who had less than two months of experience. And they would damn well dance in the front.
"No, Madene," said Freetrick. "That's the way it works. New dancers go in the front, because they need the encouragement. Us old hats don't need people watching us to know how good we are."
"What letter?" said Kendrick, "This smells wrong."
Madene was not to be distracted. "But Jubal dances…" she shook her hands, searching for the word, "like a stinking goof, Freetrick."
"Rooster is a goofy step," said Freetrick, shooting another glance at Istain. General policy wasn't the only reason he had put Madene and Kendrick in the back for this particular dance, but he had no desire at all to say.
"Yeah," said Madene, "not my favorite."
"I agree," said Zathara, lying, Freetrick knew, with absolute-seeming conviction "I prefer the Bull, myself." That was flattery aimed at Kendrick, whose stocky body and quick, solid movements were a perfect match for the martial dance's steps.
Kendrick nodded and Madene made a sort of compromising head-bobble. "Okay," she said.
"And the Bull is our anchor dance," said Freetrick, "here." He swung his bag around and dug into it. "I made a list of the stuff we'll need for the show."
"Of course you did," said Istain.
"And I have the dance schedule and blocking diagrams in there. Here, let me show you." Freetrick reached into his bag and pulled his palm-sized magic mirror out from among the books and scholarly detritus. "Just a sec…" He mumbled a quick prayer to the God of Words and scratched a few runes onto the mirror's smooth surface. It shivered in his hands and began to shine with the soft, blue light of its start-up screen. Freetrick scratched at the surface with a fingernail until he found the right document, then handed the mirror to Madene.
"But as I was saying," Istain said as Madene scrolled through Freetrick's notes, "I think it's a theme party. Oh for Truth's sake, Kendrick, stop glaring at me like that."
"Freetrick got a letter," Zathara said. She handed it to Kendrick, who reached out, looked down, and then jerked backward as if from a live rattle snake.
" 'The Kingdoms of Evil'?" He demanded, "Skrea? Where did you get this?"
"It's a joke, Kendrick," said Istain. "Calm down."
"A very stupid joke, if so." Kendrick scowled. "Who the hell do they think they are?" His deep-set eyes flicked up to Istain. "Some down-hill city-slicker who's never seen an ogre in his life."
"As if you have," Istain said.
Kendrick growled. Istain was a local boy like Freetrick, a Rationalist born far west of the Bulwark Mountains, but Kendrick was from Between, and he took certain things seriously.
"Maybe it's an awareness campaign," Zathara said.
"You think that's likely?" Istain prodded the skin-like paper in Kendrick's hands. "I don't think Eldritch administration gives out hand-lettered invitations written on parchment."
"What are you looking at?" It was a habit of Madene's to zone out of a conversation, then expect to be informed about what she missed. Freetrick would have been more annoyed by the tendency except that it probably helped make conversations with Istain more comprehensible.
"A letter from Freetrick's stalker," said Istain. "We're hoping to lift finger-prints off it."
"What?" Madene took the letter from Zathara. "Oh. The Kingdoms of Evil? It's a stupid joke or something."
"Judgment freaking pronounced," muttered Istain.
"It'd better not be from any campus organization," said Kendrick, glancing darkly at the student activities office on the opposite side of the union's central rotunda, "or they'll hear from me."
"Sweet God of Words, please!" Istain said, "Just open the damn thing."
"Fine," Freetrick ran his thumbnail under the seal. "Okay…Looks like there's another envelope in here. Ah, and a folded piece of paper. Or…" he pulled out the square of thin, flexible material, "…skin?"
"Vellum," said Madene. "It's called vellum."
Part of her and Istain's mutual problem was that both students were insufferable know-it-alls. "Thank you." Freetrick unfolded the square, revealing lines of text written in the same jagged, slanting hand that had addressed the envelope. The trailing tails and hooks of the uppercase letters seemed to twitch as Freetrick watched, and he had the impression that entire words would scuttle around the page when no one was watching. The words themselves, however, were in perfectly understandable Rationalist.
Freetrick read aloud.
Your Malevolence King Feerborg, under the Maelstrom Despot of Skrea, Grasper of the Bolt, Lord of Pain, Terror under all Terrors, High Master of the Blood, and Soon-to-be Ultimate Fiend of the Kingdoms of Evil,
Avert Your wrath, oh Fiend, oh great and terrible Lord of Shadows, Your Malevolence. This loyal though eternally unworthy servant has rent asunder the souls of untold multitudes in order to abase himself before Your gaze.
The peoples of the world tremble in fear and black joy rises in my own cruel bosom upon the announcement that, upon the death of our still dearly feared previous Despot Wrothborg, the now Penultimate Fiend, He from Whose Hands the Blood never
Dried (may vengeance fly on swift wings to his murderers), You, oh Scourge of the Weak and Oppressor of the Helpless, have succeeded to the Skull Throne of Skrea, and shall become ruler and Ultimate Fiend of all the Kingdoms of Evil.
As first surviving heir of our previous lamented Despot ( may his slayers' hearts beat their last between Your teeth), You will henceforth subjugate our land from Your new home at Castle Clouds-Gather, in the diseased heart of the Skrean Bleaklands, the bloody hub of the vast wheel of pain and suffering that is the Kingdoms of Evil. There, You will dispense the lash of Your cruel whim across the nations of the continent until the time of Your eventual murder, may Your future assassins writhe forever in torment.
My organs rest within Your clutches,
Duke Milielan DeMacabre, Castigator of the Lower Waters, Torturer of the Wallowers, Oppressor of the Highest Slaves, Keeper of the Clot of Torture, Lord of the Sarcophagus at Macabre, Arch Chancellor of the Villainous Council, and Minister of Heart-Squeezing for the Kingdoms of Evil.
PS: Please find your hideous necromantic power, enclosed.
"That's disgusting," said Kendrick "Who on earth would write something like that? Aside from…" His brows came down, and his mouth shut into a tight, angry line. Kendrick, normally so unexpressive he scared people, was now positively radiating anger
"Someone with a sense of humor, maybe?" said Istain.
"Istain, this is the Kingdoms of Evil," said Madene, "Not one of your stupid jokes."
"Maybe it's supposed to be viral advertising for something?" Freetrick wondered.
"It doesn't sound very much like a party invitation. Are there any Kingdoms-of-Evil-themed events happening on campus right now?" Zathara asked.
"Let's check." Istain stretched his left arm out in front of himself, palm facing his chest. A die-hard word-magic geek, he didn't need a magic mirror like Freetrick's. Instead, lines of crystal dust embedded in his skin glowed as Istain sketched runes onto the surface of his left hand: a prayer to the God of Words.
"Campus events schedule…" Istain twiddled his thumb to scroll through a menu. "No," he said, swinging toward Freetrick, "I don't see any…huh." The tattoos on his hands and arms flared and dimmed, and Istain frowned. "Having trouble finding a connection"…better over here, but there's something weird that happens when I move over—" His arm brushed the letter, and Istain yelped as rainbow sparks blew out of his skin. "Burning libraries!"
They all jumped back from Istain and the sparks vanished.
"Oh gibberish," Istain swore again, shaking specks of lights from his hands, "what the hell was that?"
"It was the letter," said Kendrick, darkly. "My worst fears are confirmed: an incursion, another god trying to interfere with the God of Words."
"Uh…" said Freetrick.
Istain was more expressive. "No, Kendrick," he said, "because we're a hundred miles from the Skrean border, and because this is real life and not a movie."
Kendrick glared at the taller boy. "Look." He reached into the collar of his jerkin and pulled out a silver chain. He held the chain out from his neck, baring the dark gray donut of a wheel-stone. The talisman of Naobel should not have been active so far from the mountains. It should not have been glowing with holy light, and it should not have been spinning and steaming, straining at the end of its chain toward Freetrick.
The glow and vibration increased as Kendrick stretched his arm outward. There was a sharp pop, and the whirring stone swung to point, magnet-like, directly at the envelope in Freetrick's hand. It made a high-pitched zzzzzzz! noise as it spun against the fine metal chain.
"This is a thing of the Kingdoms of Evil." Kendrick's eyes were hard and sharp as obsidian, his voice suddenly stronger, full of an excitement that Freetrick had never heard before from the quiet, serious boy. "A tool of the Storm Beyond the Mountains. The Death God of Skrea."
"That's not possible," Freetrick said, flinching away from the humming wheel-stone. "Even if it was from The Kingdoms of…" he turned to Zathara, "Zathara, did your love-magic stuff ever do this when you brought it into the R.U.?"
"It might have," Zathara said. "I had to leave most of my possessions in the Nation of Love for just this reason. Although," she smiled, "I did have some underwear I had to leave in the bottom drawer for a while."
Freetrick didn't comment. He had decided soon after they had first met that Zathara's suggestive asides were automatic, a sort of flirty Tourette's tic. As far as he could tell, everyone talked like that down in the Nation of Love. "Do you think this thing really came from another nation?"
"We have to destroy it." Kendrick reached for the envelope."
"Oh of course." Istain rolled his eyes. "Thank you for the lovely letter you sent us, but it offended our religious sensibilities, so we had our local zealot burn it. Hugs and Kisses, Freetrick's dance club. It's not actually from the Kingdoms of Evil, Kendrick. Now let me see it." Kendrick took a step forward.
"Wait a second." Freetrick took a step away from them, and a light set into the wall over him flickered out.
"Kendrick," said Madene, silver eyes flashing weirdly in the half-light. "that's enough."
"No Madene," Kendrick took another step toward Freetrick, hand still outstretched, wheel-stone still whirring. "I must destroy it."
Madene blinked, clearly as surprised as Freetrick. Kendrick never said no to Madene. It was just one more thing that made their relationship weird.
"If you're concerned about it, Kendrick, we can call a Proctor and give the letter to him to test for incursion." Madene placed a hand on Kendrick's shoulder.
"We don't need to test it," Kendrick insisted, holding up his still-vibrating wheel-stone." "I know it's a thing of Evil."
"Maybe calling the Proctors would be a good idea, boys and girls." For all of Zathara's calm tone, she had backed away from them.
"There's no need," Kendrick stretched out his hand, and his wheel-stone talisman glowed and spun faster, whining like an eager dentist's drill. Freetrick's back hit the wall and another light overhead popped and went dark. "I can destroy the work of the Death God. It's what I'm meant to do"
"Woah woah woah," Istain stepped in front of the Naobelite, "this isn't an uphill survivalist fantasy, Kendrick. How do you know your god isn't the one on the fritz?" He flicked a finger against the straining wheel-stone and Kendrick growled at him.
"Step aside, Istain."
"And anyway," Istain continued, "if this letter really is an artifact from the Kingdoms of Evil, then I think we should take a closer look at it."
"You don't take a closer look at Evil," Kendrick's hands flew out, shoving Istain sharply in the chest.
"What the gibber Kendrick!" Istain said, arms wind-milling as he teetered backward. "That striking hurt!"
"Good," Kendrick was advancing on Freetrick, his eyes shining with purpose and excitement, the whirring talisman around his neck straining forward on its chain. Freetrick was sure he could smell hot metal.
"Kendrick," Madene said, sharply enough to make Freetrick wince. "Stop it!"
"You don't take a closer look at Evil," Kendrick repeated, half to himself. "You destroy it. I destroy it. Like this." The dark, deep-set eyes bored into Freetrick's. "Naobel," he said.
The talisman blazed with white fire and the envelope let loose an ear-splitting shriek. It tore itself from Freetrick's fingers and shot into the air.
"Holy struck-out gibberish!" Istain swore. "It really is from the Kingdoms of Evil."
The envelope hung above them, unsupported, in a writhing nimbus of black mist.
"I'm calling a Proctor." Zathara rummaged in her purse for her magic mirror.
"No need," Kendrick snarled. He held his talisman out."Naob---"
The envelope gave another mind-bending howl and streaked through the air toward Freetrick's face.
Freetrick cried out as the malevolent letter's slippery corners slapped against his neck and cheeks. He tried to call for help, but his mouth was blocked by paper. Blackness bloomed in his
peripheral vision.
As one, the word-powered lights of the union flicked out.
Freetrick saw people running toward him from across the union. Istain was yelling, tattoos sparking. Zathara was out of sight, and Madene tugged at Kendrick, who was looking up at Freetrick with an expression of hate and elation.
Then Freetrick couldn't see his friends any more. The black cloud around him rippled.
And exploded upward.
A moment of nauseating acceleration, followed by a shattering crash, cold and dampness. Freetrick opened his eyes, caught a glimpse of a hole, a struck-out Freetrick-sized hole in the skylights of the student union roof, which was now impossibly under his feet.
Thunder crashed around Freetrick, and rain pelted against his skin. The envelope writhed over his face. It invaded his nostrils, slid across his eyes, covered his face, then his head, then his neck in paper-thin pseudopods.
And all the while he hung, suspended above the broken-through ceiling of the Eldritch College student union in the center of a whirling back hurricane. His limbs jerked with terrible forces as the storm spread outward, lightning arcing through the air, strangling power out of streetlights and dorm rooms.
Freetrick threw back his head, coated now with a new and evil skin, as inky blackness bloomed across his eyes. He screamed, and for a moment it seemed as if a thousand voices screamed with him. Centuries of agony and fear filled the space above the union, rising to a crescendo that strained the limits of the human mind.
The sky above Eldritch College exploded in blackness. The storm spun, and frenzied lightning cast a shadow upon the soil of the Rationalist Union. There was a trembling in the air and on the ground as if, even after three centuries of freedom, the nation of word-magic still recalled the touch of that darkness---the shadow of the Ultimate Fiend of the Kingdoms of Evil.
Chapter the Second
In which the Ultimate Fiend Receives an Unwelcome Visitor
Freetrick awoke in darkness.
He rolled over in his bed and tried to activate the lighting fixture in the ceiling. When nothing happened, Freetrick sat up. He tried the lights again, then gestured to open the blinds. Nothing.
The Kingdoms of Evil Page 2