Mortal Rites

by Melissa McShane

  “Some poison,” Kalanath said, then shook his head. “They will try to cure the poison and there is none.”

  “Basilisk,” Alaric said. “There haven’t been any in the area for fifteen years, I’m told, but they roam freely, so it’s plausible.”

  “Very well. A basilisk encounter. The temple of Kitane is some distance from here. I suggest we hurry.”

  Sienne was able to flex her wrists and ankles by the time Alaric carried her beneath the portico of the temple of Kitane. She’d never been inside before, but there was one in her home dukedom of Beneddo, and her mother, a devout worshipper of the avatar, had taken her children there every year on Kitane’s name-day. They all looked the same: a single round, domed building circled by a shady portico, faced with white marble, at the center of which was a bronze statue of Kitane as warrior, naked except for her helmet, shield, and sword. Four altars flanked the statue at the cardinal directions, used at different times of the year for different purposes. It would be the east altar now, she remembered, east for first summer, south for true summer, north for winter, and west for all the things that happened out of season.

  “Excuse me,” she heard Alaric say. “Excuse me. Our companion is in need of healing.”

  “Are you scrappers?” a woman asked.

  Sienne felt Alaric tense. “We are.”

  “And what seems to be the trouble?”

  “Basilisk. We killed it, but it bit her and she’s semi-paralyzed.”

  “A basilisk? There haven’t been any of those near Fioretti for years. You can thank Kitane she didn’t catch its eye. There’s not much anyone can do for a full paralysis, even an avatar.”

  “We’d appreciate your help. We’re prepared to make offering, of course.”

  “Hmmm.” Quick footsteps receded into the distance, then returned, bringing friends. “A basilisk paralysis. Have you seen anything like this, Octavian?”

  “No, Reva, I have not. But I believe Kitane is willing to help. Young man, set her down here—no, not on the altar! Just below it.”

  Alaric laid Sienne on the floor. She blinked, and was so happy to be able to do so she flapped her hands like a trained seal and felt embarrassed immediately. The divines said nothing about it.

  “Lady of Power, by your good right hand, lend me your strength,” the man, Octavian, said. Golden light flared. The tingling that had been gradually moving up her arms and legs flooded through her, making her cry out in agony. She heard Alaric shout her name, but she couldn’t see him—couldn’t see anything with the rich golden light blinding her. The sharp pain faded back into tingling, and then it was gone. Sienne took a wonderfully deep breath and felt like crying again, it felt so good. She gingerly stretched her legs and arms, rotated her neck, and blinked. Everything was fuzzy, but she blinked again, and the world swam into focus.

  Alaric crouched beside her to help her stand, and kept his arms protectively around her when she wobbled. “Thank you,” he said. “How can we repay Kitane for her gift?”

  Octavian turned out to be an old man with sharp blue eyes as pale as Alaric’s, unusual in a Rafellish. Reva was much younger, almost too young to be a divine, Sienne thought, and her nose turned up at the end, giving her the look of a friendly pig. “One hundred lari,” Octavian said, “and the answer to a question.”

  “All right,” Alaric said, sounding wary. “What question?”

  Octavian turned his sharp gaze on Perrin. “You are a priest of Averran, yes?”

  “Is it marked somewhere on my person?” Perrin said in astonishment. “Yes. Is that the question?”

  “No. I would like to know why a priest of any avatar should participate in lying to a divine.”

  Perrin blinked. “I—that is—”

  “There was no basilisk. What unsavory deed did you want to conceal from us?”

  Reva’s mouth fell open. Dianthe shifted uncomfortably. “Not unsavory,” Perrin said. “Simply…unbelievable.”

  “We’re trying to destroy a lich,” Alaric said flatly. “Believe that, or not. Our companion came in the way of his touch.”

  “A lich.” Octavian’s eyes narrowed.

  Reva said, “What’s a lich?”

  “An evil story for another time, young one.” Octavian pursed his lips. “I wish I were twenty years younger, to give you real aid. But I think…wait here.” He nodded at Reva as if to say “stay put” and walked away to a door cleverly concealed in the round wall of the temple.

  “Turn out your pockets, everyone,” Alaric said. “We’ve got to have a hundred lari between us.”

  Sienne shook out the contents of her belt pouch. Twenty-two lari in assorted coin. She handed it to Alaric, who gave her back a couple of coins. He gave the handful of money to Reva, who took it in both hands, then looked around somewhat helplessly for somewhere to put it. Finally, she deposited it on the altar. Sienne figured that was the safest place she could have chosen.

  Octavian returned holding something concealed in his hand from which dangled a long silver chain. “An artifact, from my youth,” he said, extending it to Perrin. It turned out to be a round silver pendant set with a translucent yellow citrine of an irregular shape. To Sienne’s eyes, it glowed with magical energy. “This grants the wearer vision beyond his own. Specifically, it will alert you to the presence of undead creatures. A small thing, but perhaps you will find it useful.”

  “This is a princely gift,” Perrin said. “We should not accept.”

  “The alternative is that it continues collecting dust here in the temple,” Octavian said, closing Perrin’s fingers over it. “Better it be used to defeat evil.”

  “Then—our thanks,” Perrin said. He looped the chain around his neck. “For everything.”

  “Good luck to you, scrappers,” Octavian said with a wave.

  When they were on the street again, Sienne said, “I’ve never been so grateful to be able to walk.”

  “Be grateful you’re able to ride,” Alaric said. “We need to get to Onofreo as fast as the horses will carry us.”

  “And pray Master Murtaviti has not had the same idea,” Perrin said.

  16

  They rode out of Fioretti at nearly eleven o’clock, after a short delay to get the horses ready. Sienne felt the passing minutes as a nearly physical pull, drawing her westward. Spark’s gait was as rapid and eager as ever, but to Sienne it felt plodding, like slogging through the snowy winter landscape of her youth. It was a strange comparison to make on such a warm day. The sun beat down on her head and shoulders and warmed Spark’s dark mane so it smelled of her rich musk. Under any other circumstances, it would have been a pleasant ride. At the moment, it felt more like a race. Which, she reflected, it was.

  She took in another deep breath and held it for a few moments. It hadn’t yet gotten old, breathing easily. That paralysis could have suffocated her. Paralysis, and tremendous strength, and magic…how was that even possible? No one who wasn’t born a wizard could do anything the least bit magical, and yet Murtaviti had definitely used magic against them.

  “It’s nine hours to Onofreo at this pace,” Alaric said to Dianthe, riding beside him. “Including rest stops. That puts us there just before sunset.”

  “How are we supposed to find this Ivar Scholten?” she replied. “Onofreo’s not big, but it’s big enough we can’t expect to walk into the first tavern we see and encounter him.”

  “It’s an Ansorjan name,” Alaric said. “Let’s hope there aren’t so many Ansorjans that he doesn’t stand out. Sienne, are you all right?”

  “I feel perfectly normal,” Sienne called out.

  “Say something if you feel strange. We don’t know what kind of aftereffects contact with a lich might have.”

  It hadn’t occurred to Sienne that there might be aftereffects. Perrin’s assertions aside, she immediately pictured herself turning into an undead, her eyes glowing like lamps. She tried to think about Murtaviti and his impossible magic. It kept her from dwelling on Murtaviti’s
touch or obsessing about how slowly they were riding. His magic had been powerful versions of simple things, and that suggested something to her, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. It was almost as if Murtaviti had been transformed into a wizard by his ritual, and had developed magic just like an infant wizard did, but that didn’t explain why his magic was so powerful. Not even the oldest and most experienced wizards could set a man on fire with spark.

  “Perrin,” she said, “are you sure not all liches are wizards?”

  Perrin, riding beside her, drew closer so he didn’t have to shout. “Very sure,” he said. “But you know better than I—are not most necromancers ordinary men and women?”

  “It’s more that most necromantic rituals don’t require magic,” Sienne replied. “So even wizards who turn to necromancy don’t have to use wizardry to do it. But Master Murtaviti definitely used magic, and we know he wasn’t a wizard.”

  “You think something happened to him?” Alaric said over his shoulder. “Something that turned him into a wizard?”

  “I don’t know. That’s supposed to be impossible. That’s why I wondered if there really is a difference between a lich and a wizard who becomes a lich.”

  “Evander spoke very little of his encounter with the wizard lich, possibly because he counted it a defeat,” Perrin said. “But he was very clear that the woman wielded a spellbook.”

  “How was she defeated in the end?” Kalanath asked.

  “I do not know. Presumably, if Mistress Tallavena was correct, they destroyed her reliquary. But Evander was not a part of that action.”

  “So Murtaviti can do magic, but not wizardry,” Alaric said. “That’s the distinction, right?”

  “Yes,” Sienne said. “Magic is what we can do without a spellbook, and wizardry is casting spells. And he can do magic far more powerful than what I’m capable of.”

  “I noticed that,” Alaric said. “What does it mean?”

  “I have no idea. It feels like…I don’t know.”

  “But you think it is something,” Kalanath said.

  “It’s just that what he’s doing is just like what an infant wizard does, how she develops. But I can’t explain how powerful he is.” Sienne leaned forward and took another deep breath of musk-scented air. Really, nobody appreciated breathing enough.

  “So if that’s happening—if he’s progressing in magic the way a wizard would—what else might he learn to do?” Alaric said.

  “I don’t know. The rest of the simple magics, you have to be taught. Like simple illusions, or creating water. They’re not…obvious, I suppose is the best word. So Master Murtaviti might not be able to use them, since it’s unlikely he’ll find anyone to teach him. But since he shouldn’t have been able to develop any magic, I don’t know if we can count on that.”

  “But he definitely can’t do wizardry,” Dianthe said.

  “No. I’m certain of that. He’d need to be able to read the four spell languages, and he’d need a spellbook he wrote in his own blood. It’s just impossible.”

  “Thank all the avatars for that,” Alaric said.

  They rode faster after that, not speaking because there was nothing to say that would propel them along the road faster. They stopped occasionally to rest the horses, ate in the saddle, and rode again. Sienne tried not to watch the sun dropping lower in the sky before them, but it was hard not to feel they were racing it, too. She watched the landscape pass, wide grasslands spotty with trees here and there that turned into forest after around five o’clock. The speed of their passage scared birds out of the trees, sending them winging away in great masses that sounded like wind rushing through the leaves.

  They passed other travelers, most of them afoot, flashing past them with no time to register what they thought of the scrapper team speeding along westward. Once or twice they had to slow to pass a four-horse carriage, trundling along toward Fioretti like a lumbering bear. The drivers paid them no attention. What the passengers thought, Sienne didn’t know, because in every case the curtains were drawn against the sunlight. That would make the carriage interior more stuffy, but their comfort wasn’t her responsibility.

  Near sunset, they left the forest behind and followed the winding road into low hills covered by vineyards and neatly laid out squares of tilled earth, beginning to show green with the first crops’ growth. The sun was low in the west, slanting directly into Sienne’s eyes, when a dark blotch on the horizon resolved into gray slate roofs and white plaster walls. She shaded her eyes with one hand and blinked into the light. Onofreo. The city proper was surrounded by a high stone wall that looked like it was about to fall down, an afterthought of a wall that would make no difference if an army decided to conquer the dukedom. At this distance, it was impossible to make out a gate, but Sienne figured the road had to lead right to it, if only because anything else was stupid.

  “Faster,” Alaric called over his shoulder. “They close the gates an hour after sunset.”

  Sienne urged Spark on. The little mare didn’t seem at all tired from her day’s journey, but Sienne knew from experience that Spark was capable of pushing herself beyond her limit and then simply giving up. It was Sienne’s job to make sure she didn’t do that.

  Gradually, the wall loomed closer. It didn’t look any more stable up close than it had at a distance. Stones the size of Spark’s head seemed to fit only loosely together, with the once-sharp edges rounded off with time until the surface of the wall looked like a pebbly riverbed rather than a mighty bulwark. The gates, when they were close enough to see them, looked more secure than the wall did. Age-darkened slabs of six-inch-thick oak banded with iron stood open, welcoming travelers while reminding them the city was not defenseless. Sienne thought of Beneddo, with its six gates warding the dukedom from intruders, and wondered if she would ever see it again—or if she wanted to.

  Even at this hour, men and women passed through the gates, mostly entering the city, though a few riders looked as if they intended to travel through the night, aided by the nearly full moon. Guards posted at the gate observed the travelers, but didn’t stop any of them. Sienne was grateful not to have to tell anyone their business, though she was sure Alaric would come up with something more plausible-sounding than “looking for an evil necromancer.”

  Onofreo was a younger city than Fioretti, which was nearly as old as the wars that had torn civilization apart. It lay atop and between two hills, giving it a lopsided look. Its streets were wide and well-paved with cobblestones, and its construction was mostly half-timbered houses with stucco filling the gaps between beams, unlike Fioretti, where one could see the history of Rafellish architecture just by strolling down the right streets. Upper stories jutting out over the street to take advantage of the space gave the street they now rode down the feel of a tunnel, one lit by warm glowing lanterns that felt cozy and welcoming rather than claustrophobic.

  “There seem to be a lot of taverns here,” Sienne said.

  “They cluster around the gates, hoping to attract road-weary customers,” Dianthe said. “We should start asking about Master Scholten.”

  “Master Murtaviti will not need to ask. He will go there straight,” Kalanath said.

  “Nothing we can do about that,” Alaric said. “We just have to hope our luck holds.”

  “Is our luck good, then?” Perrin drew closer to Sienne to avoid a huddle of amiable drunks moving from one tavern to another. “Mistress Tallavena is dead, we barely escaped with our lives, Sienne was almost killed…I cannot see anything but bad luck there.”

  “We’re all alive despite Murtaviti’s best efforts,” Alaric said. “I choose to call that good luck.” He swung down from his horse and handed its reins to Dianthe. “Perrin, come with me. The rest of you wait here. No sense us overwhelming the tavern keeper.”

  Sienne sat, not very patiently, and observed the passersby. Almost everyone was on foot, and most of those who walked past eyed the five horses speculatively. Scrapper teams couldn’t be that unusual,
surely? She smiled at a couple of young men who stared at her spellbook, then hastened away. Some people were afraid of wizards the way some people feared Alaric, because of the potential they represented for harm. It didn’t matter that neither she nor Alaric would never attack anyone except in self-defense. Though it was funny to think of herself as a threat to anyone, with her average build and complete lack of obvious weapons. The spellbook was weapon enough.

  Alaric and Perrin emerged from the tavern. “Never heard of him,” Alaric said. “Let’s move on.”

  “I think we should split up,” Dianthe said. “We need to move faster.”

  “All right, so long as one of us stays with the horses,” Alaric said. “There’s nowhere to leave them on this street that won’t get them hurt or stolen. Kalanath?”

  “I do not think anyone will approach me, because I am foreign, and may be dangerous,” Kalanath agreed.

  Sienne hopped down and handed her reins to Kalanath. “I’ll take the far side of the street.”

  “Me too,” Dianthe said.

  The tavern Sienne entered had a low ceiling and a taproom that smelled of warm ale, not very pleasantly. Men and women crowded the place, most of them standing because every table was occupied. She forced her way through to the bar and ordered half a pint. “I’m looking for an Ansorjan named Ivar Scholten,” she said to the barkeep. “Ivar Scholten,” she repeated more loudly when the man cupped a beefy hand to his ear. “Ever heard of him?”

  The barkeep shook his head and turned away. “Ivar Scholten?” the man next to Sienne said. “Why are you looking for him?”

  “A personal matter,” Sienne said. “Do you know him?”

  “Sweetheart, I’d be him if it made you happy,” the man said with a lazy smile. “Why don’t you talk to me instead?”