A Wind in the Night

by Barb Hendee

  The very sight of it still caused Sau’ilahk to quiver with elation after a thousand fleshless years of yearning. Oh, how long had he suffered in his search for . . .

  The orb—“anchor”—of Spirit.

  His impatience growing, Sau’ilahk glanced at the door and then raised the thôrhk before the hollow of his dark hood. This object had been his salvation—once he’d finally realized it could serve a purpose beyond opening an orb . . . an anchor.

  Earlier this year, he had been led by Wynn Hygeorht on a futile chase all the way to Bäalâle Seatt, a vast, forgotten, and long-fallen mountain stronghold of the dwarves in ancient times. He had hoped to find this very orb in that place, but the one hidden in the deepest depths was not the one he had sought for a thousand years.

  Desperation had almost broken him in that moment and nearly pushed him into eternal grief and madness. That orb beneath a forgotten seatt was useless for his need to regain the flesh—his physical form—cheated from him by his god, who had promised him eternal youth.

  Immortality—eternal life—was not the same as eternal youth.

  One served the spirit while the other served the body, though the mind could cling to and go on with either. If only he had known then . . .

  His spirit, that essence of self and a shadow of life, had gone on, but his body had aged and withered and died just the same. It had been even longer until his dead flesh decayed to dust, and he rose from his mountain tomb as only a spirit, an undead.

  How he had screamed in horror and then raged that first night.

  Nearly a thousand years later, in Bäalâle, in a dead-end tunnel far beneath the dwarven seatt, all that had been left to him was spite and the need to flee his pursuers. Before they caught up and found the false orb that meant nothing to him, he took the thôrhk—the key—he had found as well and hid it within the cave’s stone wall. He fled that place in the same anguish and betrayal that he had felt upon the first night he arose in death—but also in a growing hatred for his god.

  How many days had followed in which he’d writhed in the grip of Beloved during his dormancy? How many following nights had he awoken, until one night came with a whispered hint from his god. . . .

  Back to Bäalâle . . . back to the key . . . That is your hope of salvation.

  This made no sense. It was the wrong key . . . for the wrong orb. Both were worthless, and he believed this urging to be another of a thousand lies from his god. He ignored that whisper, but in the nights that followed, Beloved teased him and beat him down in the dark.

  The key is your only salvation . . . servant.

  What other choice did he have? To find that little whelp of a sage yet again and hope she stumbled upon the true orb of his need?

  Sau’ilahk relented and returned to Bäalâle Seatt. More whispered hints followed once the key was in his possession. And through Beloved’s teachings, he learned one thing he had never realized.

  Any key could be used for any orb.

  He also learned how to use the one that he had like a compass, and it led him to the hiding place of the anchor—the orb—of Spirit.

  Since a time just past the end of what was now called the Forgotten History, that orb had been hidden away in an underground sanctuary in the mountains above the great desert. Beloved told him next to nothing of the strange sect that guarded it or of how they had even acquired the one anchor he sought.

  It did not matter then, for taking it from them had been easy, and his joy could not be measured.

  But it mattered now.

  Sau’ilahk?

  At the hissing voice inside his thoughts, he choked down hatred and obediently answered, Yes, my Beloved?

  That very title stoked ire that he quickly quelled.

  You teach the duke to use the anchor—its power—to gain your promised reward?

  Yes, Beloved. I will have flesh again soon . . . as you promised.

  A knock on the door cut him off . . . and then brought puzzlement. The man he awaited was the lord of this keep, and he never knocked.

  However, outside the door were some of the Suman retainers—mercenaries—that Sau’ilahk had acquired to help gain the orb and move it to this place. He had instructed them all to serve the duke as needed.

  The door opened.

  One of Sau’ilahk’s Suman servants stepped halfway around the door’s edge and bowed his head at the sight of his master.

  He was tall for his kind, and slender, and the other Suman guards viewed him as their leader. Also unlike the others, this one wore a close-trimmed beard along his jawline; with one center peak that ran up to his lower lip. His curved sword was still sheathed, so no immediate threat was likely.

  “Master, forgive the intrusion. . . . I have news,” Hazh’thüm said, his eyes still lowered.

  The very air around Sau’ilahk vibrated under his conjury to give him a voice. “What news?”

  “Visitors in the keep. The duchess ordered the gates be opened, and she allowed strangers inside.”

  The absurdity of this did not fully register at first.

  Sau’ilahk had made it clear to the duke that no outsider was to be allowed into this place until their work together was completed. Likewise, no one here was to leave. Sau’ilahk would not risk anyone beyond the keep learning of his presence or the changes in the duke.

  “One visitor is the son of the old counselor,” Hazh’thüm continued. “The duchess would not leave him outside, but he was not alone.”

  “What of the others?”

  “A young female sage, a tall swordsman, and a Lhoin’na archer. There was also a large black dog.”

  Sau’ilahk stalled for an instant. “A female sage with a black dog . . . or do you mean a wolf?”

  Hazh’thüm hesitated. “Perhaps, Master, but I have never seen such an animal with my own eyes.”

  “What color was the woman’s robe?”

  “At first it seemed black, like the dog . . . or wolf. Once the wagon passed under the gate’s braziers, perhaps blue but still very dark.”

  None of this made sense, from all that Sau’ilahk knew of sages. If this one was a metaologer, then she could not be Wynn Hygeorht. But another female sage with a black “dog” seemed too unlikely. Then again, to his knowledge, Wynn had never traveled with an elf of any kind.

  “What does the sage look like? And what of the swordsman?”

  Hazh’thüm faltered, as if struggling for a description. “I could not clearly see her face, but the Numan male was tall, pale, with brown hair that tinged red. Perhaps that was only the brazier’s light. He was plainly dressed, though his clothes were finely made, from what I could see.”

  The hiss from Sau’ilahk’s conjured voice began even before the servant finished a description that could fit Chane Andraso . . . an undead of flesh rather than spirit.

  A female sage with a black “dog” in the company of Chane Andraso could only be Wynn Hygeorht!

  How had she found him?

  His first wild instinct was to find and kill her, but he hesitated.

  “Does she carry a staff, perhaps with a covered upper end?”

  Even with eyes still down, Hazh’thüm nodded. “Yes, Master.”

  “You are dismissed!”

  Hazh’thüm backed out, never looking up, and closed the door.

  Sau’ilahk wallowed in fear and hate. The staff’s crystal emitted light that emulated the sun in the hand of that whelp of a sage. He had been burned out of existence once by that tool and had survived only because of Beloved’s intervention . . . and then he had suffered long for his failure.

  Of course, that failure had not been his fault.

  Wynn Hygeorht was nothing compared to him, but she was gifted with luck beyond belief. And she had a penchant for attracting or acquiring unusual allies, from an undead guardian and a majay-hì—a co
ntradictory combination—to Stonewalkers, foreign sages, and more. How did a Lhoin’na archer fit in?

  And how had Duke Beáumie reacted to this forced intrusion at the hand of his sister?

  Slowly Sau’ilahk forced a state of calm reason.

  The wisest path was to remain hidden and proceed with his current plans while he worked to learn more. Wynn could not reach him down here . . . and the young duke’s body was almost ready. A matter of a few nights at most.

  The clack of an iron lock cut him off, and he heard the chamber’s door creak in opening. Sau’ilahk waited, still and silent with the thôrhk gripped tightly in his solidified hand.

  The door swung open.

  Duke Karl Beáumie quickly stepped in. Though tall, young, and handsome, with hawkish features and high cheekbones, he was not as beautiful as Sau’ilahk had been in life.

  Dressed all in black with silver fixtures and adornments, the duke wore vambraces on both forearms above heavy leather gloves on both hands. Half turning his head, he ordered one of the Suman guards in the outer chamber to relock the door as he finally closed it.

  None of Sau’ilahk’s Suman retainers would open that door again until the duke called to them to do so—as he always did.

  That is, unless Sau’ilahk said otherwise.

  He took in the sight of his nightly visitor.

  The duke’s complexion had lost some of its luster since Sau’ilahk had first made his presence known to the young noble. His blue-black hair hung in an unkempt, unwashed tangle and his flesh was stretched tightly over his face. Dark circles of fatigue surrounded his eyes.

  These lesser effects of the work they did together could not be helped.

  Sau’ilahk bowed his cowled head in false respect.

  My lord.

  Since the first night of their secret work, a bond had formed between them, and the duke could hear Sau’ilahk in his mind as if the words were spoken aloud. But the young man did not respond to the greeting, and his haunted eyes fixed upon the orb.

  “How much longer?” he asked, with a slight tremor in his voice. “How long until I need never fear death?”

  Not long now, my lord.

  Sau’ilahk’s pretense of continued servitude had served him well. He would not have found this place, or Karl Beáumie, without Beloved’s assistance. He knew he should be grateful, but gratitude was nearly impossible among the mounting deceptions and betrayals of his god.

  And yet the young duke was nearly perfect for Sau’ilahk’s need.

  Once Sau’ilahk had stolen the orb, Beloved had whispered that he must take it far from the southern territories. As he had fled north, he realized that what he sought next would be difficult to find. That obstacle had not occurred to him before in his obsession to merely find the orb of Spirit.

  Sau’ilahk’s own flesh had long ago become dust. He needed a living body.

  First and foremost, he needed someone young and beautiful. That went without question, for he had been so in his own time. Others had stared at him in awe, and he would have that again.

  Second, he needed someone with enough power and position to hide, safeguard, and protect the orb until he found a way to make his new flesh immortal. He would not be cheated by Beloved again in asking for only “eternal life” . . . and then watch his new flesh wither as his own body had.

  Third, he needed someone who feared death over all else, for whatever reason—someone willing to believe anything for the prospect of eternal life. Such a man was not as easy to find.

  Beloved had whispered again to Sau’ilahk: Go to the coast of Witeny, to Beáumie Keep.

  How his god had known of this place had made Sau’ilahk wary. Was this another manipulation, trick, or task to be followed by another and then another? In the end he could not take the chance of ignoring his god, not since he had finally gained the correct orb.

  With newly acquired servants, plied with promises and threats and one death as an example, he had sought out this unknown place and the young duke. The rest had been a surprisingly easy seduction, and Sau’ilahk had always been gifted in that.

  “There has been a development,” Karl said, the tremor in his voice increasing. “The keep has been breached. We have strangers among us.”

  I have been informed. Can you not send them away?

  The duke stared at him. “Not easily. One of them is . . . an old friend, not just of mine but of my sister.”

  And he brought others?

  Mild surprise, followed by a twist of frustration, rose on the duke’s pallid face. “Yes, an emissary from the guild . . . with bodyguards. She is delivering books to my counselor, but I cannot turn her out into the night.”

  Sau’ilahk pondered this and wondered about these texts. Perhaps Wynn Hygeorht’s arrival was pure coincidence.

  The duke’s expression shifted again to desperation, and he whispered sharply, “We must finish! We cannot let this interrupt the work—our work. I want no more haunts in my dreams . . . no more fear of retribution for what I did.”

  Sau’ilahk would have smiled if he had a face that anyone could see. Karl Beáumie was as determined as Sau’ilahk to make the same body immortal and a vessel that could not be killed. He would never again fear death or what vengeful spirits lay in waiting on its other side.

  “I cannot fail,” the duke whispered.

  Sau’ilahk did not know the whole story, but he had gleaned bits and pieces over many passing nights. The elder duke had died by the hand of his son. Whether by accident, intent, or perhaps both in a moment of opportunity did not matter, for Karl Beáumie was desperate never to follow his father.

  Shall we begin?

  Duke Beáumie took a labored breath. With his left hand, he pulled off his right glove, exposing a grotesque transformation.

  That right hand was deformed, slightly twisted in shape. The nails of his thumb and first finger had distended and yellowed, as if slowly changing to pale talons night by night. Patches of skin here and there up to his wrist were brittle, flaking, and sallow. In places there were hints of scales like a reptile’s. And in one spot tiny follicles of fur appeared to sprout, while two other places were almost downy in a sickly brown, like a fledgling that had not yet gained true feathers.

  Sau’ilahk was unconcerned by such temporary imperfections. These were only side effects of their work together, and all such could be corrected in time.

  Beáumie’s attention remained fixed on the orb. His features were flooded with both longing and loathing.

  Sau’ilahk held out the thôrhk to the duke. Take the key . . . my lord.

  “We must accelerate our efforts,” the duke said. “Can we finish tonight?”

  Nothing would have pleased Sau’ilahk more now that Wynn Hygeorht had come again. But he had no intention of failing for a lack of patience. The process of emptying the duke’s body of his spirit was a delicate matter. The essence of Spirit was an animating force that gave life to physical organisms. If the spirit was ripped out too quickly, rather than thinned and severed at only the final instant, the body might be uninhabitable.

  It is best to give your flesh time for each increment of the transformation. Each small step toward immortality must stabilize before proceeding to the next.

  With an expression of anger, the duke blindly extended his deformed hand, and Sau’ilahk placed the thôrhk—the key—into the man’s grip. Without even looking at his tutor, Duke Beáumie slid in toward the iron stand and the orb.

  Proceed as I have taught you so far.

  Beáumie reached out with his misshapen hand holding the key. Knobs at its open ends fit perfectly into two grooves in the protruding spike’s head. With a now-practiced ease, the duke lowered the key’s open ends around the spike’s head and slid its knobs along the grooves, and they settled fully into place. The key fit perfectly like a handle made for this.
r />   Sau’ilahk merely waited, for the young duke had repeated this act many times. He knew the precise fraction to pull the spike enough to let a whisp of the orb’s power reach out for him, supposedly to strengthen the bond between spirit and flesh.

  At least so he believed.

  Even Sau’ilahk was uncertain how much of the orb’s power a human body could withstand all at once. This endeavor was only slightly less trial and error for him than it was for the duke. In fear of having to start over, Sau’ilahk would take no chances.

  Karl Beáumie twisted the key handle one quarter turn to the right and then back, as Sau’ilahk had taught him—as Beloved had taught Sau’ilahk. He then rotated the handle downward until it was level with the floor, all without letting the key’s knobs slip out of place.

  Sau’ilahk began to whisper a spell, a conjury, only in his thoughts. It was one that had taken him many nights like this to contemplate and construct, in order to control the specific effect the orb would now release upon the duke. But Sau’ilahk lost his focus as something changed in the young duke’s expression.

  My lord?

  Beáumie’s eyes twitched repeatedly as he stared not at the key under his grip but at the orb—at the place where the spike would separate from the whole. Some terrible longing filled his face, like . . .

  Sau’ilahk remembered being trapped for years—decades—in the cave of his burial.

  In that first night of his death, some thousand years ago, he had not known that desiccation and small insects, which came to feed on his rotting corpse, would eventually free his eternal spirit. He had known only the torment of not being truly dead but trapped forever, unable to turn his head to see where stones had been piled in the cave’s mouth to inter his remains.