The Guild

by Jean Johnson

  “Oh? And what’s that?” Alonnen asked her.

  She gave him a level look. “A Goddess might be the only being strong enough to deal with any demon conjured by the former priesthood of Mekhana. But a Patron’s strength depends heavily upon prayer and worship . . . when They’re not siphoning magic like a bullying thief.”

  “Good point. You’ll need those apprentices fast, then. Tomorrow morning, you can use the Consulate talker-box to network with the other Precincts. They’re bound to know Gearmen who’d be willing to volunteer,” he said. Joining her at the table, he helped by taking up one of the graphite sticks she had brought, her previous notes, and a few sheets of paper. His stomach rumbled, but he ignored it; their food wouldn’t be brought up for a little while more. “First, though, let’s see what you’ve got so far . . . and let’s see if we can word a message to the other towns about just what sort of apprentices you’ll need. Three guilds, three months each . . .”

  “We’ll need wording that won’t scare everyone away from the thought of serving a Goddess,” Rexei agreed, thinking of poor Gabria. She wasn’t afraid, but then she knew . . . obviously . . . exactly what Guildra stood for, and stood against. “Even if it’s for a completely different sort of deity, finding others who are willing to serve is the biggest obstacle I face.”

  • • •

  If it weren’t for the band wrapped around his brow, sweat would have long since stung Torven’s eyes. He was peripherally aware of the agitated man pacing angrily in the corridor outside this outer cell room, too, but building permanent wards to contain a minor demon took time, patience, and attention to the tiniest detail, including being aware before beginning that his face would sweat from the sheer effort and concentration involved. Crouched over the smooth stone of the cell floor, he placed another painstakingly neat line of binding runes along the curve of the ward-within-a-ward circle that would protect him from what he was summoning.

  Crowded into the doorway, three priest apprentices, novices, scribbled notes on everything he was doing. Behind them, the clucking of a chicken could be heard. Demons required food, same as any other being, but their nutritional needs were not the same as mortals. They were more akin to what Mekha had done in a way, save that where Mekha sucked up magic from mages like a man in a desert sucked up water, demons sucked up agony, fear, and other ephemeral energies. And blood, of course.

  More blood would be needed for a permanent binding, but Torven wasn’t going to tell these ex-Mekhanans that. For one, he wasn’t going to draw these runes on the floor in spell-bound, metal-dusted blood when simple chalk would do for a temporary, demonstration-based summons. For another, he wasn’t going to tell them just yet that to bind a truly powerful demon required the prolonged sacrifice of something intelligent, a fellow human. That was blood magic.

  Torven knew of a couple loopholes, however. Self-sacrifice—preferably one of the novices or priests, not himself—was perfectly acceptable by all. Sacrificing a known murderer was borderline but acceptable as well if the energies were used to recompense for whatever had been destroyed by their actions. Someone who had tortured others could be used, though that might backfire upon this priesthood. And there was at least one case in ancient recorded history of a Goddess—in actuality a demon princess in disguise—“permitting” the ritual sacrifice of Her enemies to feed Her.

  Her existence and Her ambitions had been thwarted at the next Convocation of Gods and Man, but only at the cost of another God’s life. If the Convocations had indeed been renewed yesterday, as he suspected they had, and he and these priests could summon and bind a demon-God here and now, then that would give them four years to build up a power base of worship and sacrifices. Based on what he had read in the crumbling records of the Tower’s oldest archives, the previous attempt had failed because the priesthood in question had only been active for a year or so and because the demoness had sought to destroy all the other Gods and Goddesses, rather than focus exclusively upon making herself a true deity.

  “Isn’t he done yet?” Torven heard Archbishop Elcarei snap impatiently. The chicken clucked and ruffled its feathers in its cage. Marking the last three runes with slow, exacting patience, Torven finally stood up.

  “I am done with the rune-wardings, milord. Such things cannot be rushed and must be done with great care, unless you wish for the demon to break free and claw its way through the bodies of your fellow priests,” he warned the somewhat older, irritated man. “Demons are not easily killed, and their capacity for wielding magic is unusually strong, so do not think your normal shields will spare you from their rage.”

  “If it’s that dangerous, I should wish to set it loose on that damned Consulate meeting! And what was that boy doing at the head table?” Elcarei added, his brow furrowed in a scowl when Torven turned to eye him. “He’s no master of any guild, let alone anything higher! Not when the boy can’t even grow his own beard yet. That was a meeting of Guild Masters. It doesn’t make sense!”

  Torven had no idea what the man was ranting about, and didn’t particularly care. He was tired from imbuing his considerable reserves into the spells embodied by those chalked runes, he still had the actual summoning and subsequent banishing to get through, and he was hungry.

  “Pass me the chicken,” he ordered one of the novices. Careful not to touch the chalk marks, he accepted the cage and placed it at his feet, well within the blank circle enclosing him. It wouldn’t do to have a demon possess the body of a beast intended to be its sacrifice, and it definitely wouldn’t do to give the demon anything before a bargain had been struck.

  Like mages, demons could be oathbound by their very own magics. One had to be very, very careful in the wording of binding a demon—the ultimate in law-sayers, in many ways—but once bound, the demon stayed bound until a condition occurred which either set it free or sent it home. Usually the correct phrasing included a way to force the demon back into its own proper Netherhell realm.

  Most of the day had been spent in lecturing all the priests and novices who cared to listen in on what demons could be expected to be like and exactly how to word the oaths to bind them into service. In a few more minutes, he would be able to . . .

  The archbishop snapped his fingers and pointed at the cage. “That chicken!”

  Torven eyed the somewhat older man warily. “What about it?”

  “I’ve heard that demons like receiving a sacrifice in exchange for their services,” Elcarei stated. “Does the size or the intelligence of the sacrifice matter?”

  “Yes,” the Aian mage allowed, still wary. “The true demon-princes, the greatest of their kind, would demand daily living sacrifices of our fellow humans. They would also be nearly impossible to bind because the strength they would derive from daily blood sacrifice could allow them to weaken and snap their bonds. Not to mention it would turn every hand in this world against us.”

  That made the archbishop scowl. He flicked his fingers, dismissing that idea. “No, not that! Not daily sacrifices. What size demon could we bind for draining with a single sacrifice? Because I have a target I would love to see drained and crushed into lifelessness. And if not by Mekha, who is gone, then by something equally sadistic, that I could then drain in turn, cushioning me from directly benefitting by the bastard boy’s death.”

  If this man is that easily swayed by a bit of fooling from a lad half his age, then he’ll not last long as the leader of these men. Not without his Patriarch or his ex-God to back him up, Torven thought, eyeing the archbishop. The possibilities were many, but he settled on the long-term plan. I’d easily let him hang himself with his impetuousness . . . but not the rest of us, I think.

  “We would be far better served in our ambitions to sacrifice that life to bind a demon as a proto-God than waste it just to eke out a little more magic for our own use,” he stated blandly.

  Elcarei frowned in confusion. “Proto-God? You mean for us to worship
a demon? I’m not about to go that far.”

  “Nor would I, and not quite that far,” Torven soothed. Between his feet, the chicken in the cage clucked a little and tried pecking at the wicker bars. It didn’t get anything, neither freedom nor a bug, so it gave up trying. Torven, on the other hand, was not going to give up that easily. “A proto-God demon is one who makes a pact with humans to actually become a God, according to the rules of the inviting universe.

  “Rather than focusing on a manifestation of group consciousness, we put our faith in a powerful being and elevate that being to Godhood. It takes far less energy—a great deal, but far less—to elevate a demon than it does to elevate a mortal,” the mage added dryly.

  Elcarei quirked a brow. “Aren’t there laws against that? Laws of God and Man?”

  “No outworlder may trick or otherwise falsely convince the mortals of this realm to worship and elevate them to Godhood,” Torven said. He smiled slightly, ignoring the softly clucking chicken. “But there is nothing against the rules if we, as fully informed mortals, agree to worship and elevate an outworlder—which technically includes demons—to a state of Godhood. The trick is to do it slowly, taking our time, and not rushing the process.”

  A stern look covered the novices who were listening to his every word. Youth invariably equaled impetuousness, with rare exception, in his experience. A glance up from their crouched, note-scribbling forms showed the archbishop listening as well. “What’s to stop this elevated demon from reneging on its oaths once it’s a God?”

  “A proto-God is bound by its oaths, even after attaining Godhood. The true control lies in the hands of the priesthood . . . because we would be draining the proto-God’s energy, same as in the previous plan. The proto-God would not have full access to all that incoming power.”

  Elcarei narrowed his dark eyes. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then lifted it at Torven. “First, you have to prove you can bind, control, and siphon energy from a demon. Prove you know of what you speak, and I’ll see about having locator amulets made from any stray hairs on that impertinent boy’s coat and cap.”

  Giving the older man a slight bow, Torven complied. “Of course. Students,” he asserted, recapturing their attention, “we now embark on the application of all the theory I gave you. At this point, I will carefully reassess all the runes I have marked onto the cell, double-check my own personal wards, and prepare the ‘offering’ to our incoming visitor.

  “This will not be the weakest of demons, however,” he warned them. “No mere, dull-witted hellhound or poorly powered imp, but rather, one of higher intelligence. Preferably high enough to be able to tell me what I want to know.”

  “And that is?” Elcarei asked, interrupting Torven’s speech.

  Frowning briefly at the archbishop, Torven resumed his visual inspection of the runes. “One intelligent and connected enough to know what sort of greater beings are available in the particular Netherhell I will be breaching. Remember, it isn’t just any Netherhell we’re looking for. There are roughly a thousand of them within range of this universe; we want one where the residents will be amenable to our bargain, lawful and magical enough to be bound by oaths, and several more codicils,” he stated, pulling a rolled-up sheet of paper from his pouch. “All of which I outlined during our earlier lessons.

  “Just like randomly catching the arm of a person in a city and asking them if they know of so-and-so, this will be a random summoning of a demon to find out if it knows of the kind of creature we seek to bind. If this first portal attempt will not suffice, then perhaps the next on the list will. And remember, do not use mirror-Gates to reach into any Netherhell,” Torven lectured sternly. “Demonic mages—and there are many—will detect and seize any such mirror. Once they do, they will use it to widen the frame and create a hole in the Veil between worlds that will be large enough for them to invade, which is something none of us want them to do.”

  “That would be bad, yes,” Elcarei agreed dryly. “But doesn’t a frameless Portal use most of a mage’s strength?”

  “A personally crafted Portal, built upon nothing but the aether itself, takes more than twelve times as much energy, yes, but it has the distinct advantage of collapsing like a popped soap bubble if anyone outside the crafting mage tries to seize control of it, never mind force it wider,” the Aian mage pointed out. “Weak mages cannot summon demons—or disappointed peasants who are of little use beyond crafting ice in the summer months would have long since torn this world to shreds in petty attempts at vengeance for the poor lot they drew in life.

  “However, by working together, weak mages, moderate, and strong ones can summon and bind very powerful beings. But we need to know which one we want to make a bargain with. To do that will take time. This project will not be ruined by acting rashly or hastily. Now, keeping in mind everything I have imparted to you, watch carefully while I summon the first demon to be interrogated . . .”

  TEN

  This time, when she surfaced from the depths of sleep, Rexei knew where she was, who she was with, and what position she had taken. Well, maybe not the latter. She remembered going to sleep next to Alonnen, each in their own half of the bed, and not snuggled with him in the middle of it, but she knew who he was and that they were in a bed in a room in the best brothel in Heiastowne.

  They hadn’t started out in bed together, but after listening to the head of the Mages Guild squirm and shift for roughly two hours on the not-quite-long-enough couch, Rexei had given up and ordered him to share the bed. She had pointed out that they were both in undershorts and shirts, that they were quite capable of sleeping chastely, and that she trusted him . . . and that he could trust her in return, “ . . . honest!” That had provoked a chuckle from him and convinced him to join her on the feather-stuffed mattress.

  It had not been meant as a ploy to get him snuggled up along her side, with that long nose of his pressed into the side of her neck . . . except . . . Wait . . . did I pull him over to me? I think I did . . . Yeah, I did! He was snoring something awful, Rexei recalled, staring up at the whitewashed ceiling over the bed. The air was cold on her face and head, but she wasn’t quite ready to get up and tend the coals in the iron stove off to the side. I remember I poked him, and he rolled toward me, and he almost shut up. So I poked him, he rolled back, it got worse . . . so I pulled him back over to me by his shirt. Yeah.

  So this is all my fault.

  Staring up at the ceiling, she was very aware of how much of Alonnen’s body touched hers. By luck and the grace of his position, her arm hadn’t gone numb under the weight of his shoulder and cheek. One of his arms had wrapped around her ribs, with his fingers tucked under her back, no doubt enjoying the warmth of being draped between her flesh and the feather-stuffed mattress. His chest and stomach warmed her from ribs to hip. And his right thigh lay atop hers, almost wrapped around it.

  That meant his groin was snugged against her hip, replete with the distinct lump of his masculinity. Rexei waited for the fear to rise and grip her with panic at that awareness . . . but . . . it didn’t. Not more than the briefest of surprised twinges rose before fading within moments. I’m not scared he’ll . . . do things to me like those men did to Mum. I guess this means I trust him. My face is hot. Am I blushing? Why am I blushing? Maybe we’re sharing too much body heat? I . . . he’s waking up?

  Holding herself still, she waited for him to process where he was and who he was with, too. It didn’t quite work out that way. He breathed deep, sighed, mumbled something, and snuggled closer. The lump against her hip hardened. Another breath, and his hand shifted. Feeling her blush deepen, Rexei cleared her throat. Loudly. Before those fingers could completely cover her breast.

  He stilled, drew in a third breath, and cautiously lifted his head, pushing up a bit on his other elbow. “Uhh . . . sorry? I . . . Gods, that’s cold!”

  She had to agree; when Alonnen lifted himself up, that allowed a rush of c
old air to fill in the gaping tunnel created by the change in position. Shivering, she reached up with her free arm and pulled the covers close. “I’d hope the fire hasn’t gone out, but I fear it did.”

  Grateful she wasn’t screaming at him, Alonnen cleared his throat. “I’ll take care of that, then. Sorry about hugging you for warmth and . . . so forth. Should’ve stuck to the couch . . .”

  “I still trust you.” The words blurted out of her even as Rexei hugged the quilts to her chest. Not because she feared what might be exposed—she was wearing her linen undershirt, after all—but because the room was cold, and he was moving to get out of the bed, which meant cold air was moving to get in and take his place.

  Alonnen stilled, pondered her words, then nodded slowly. “Good. I’ll, ah, try to remain trustworthy . . . if I don’t freeze to death. It’s rather bright in here, isn’t it?”

  Craning her neck, Rexei peered at the windows beyond the bed frame. The curtains had been closed when they had entered and were still closed, but a great deal of light was seeping around their edges. A glance at the clock mounted on the wall showed it was only mid-morning.

  “Well, it’s daylight, but that is a lot of light. I’d say the storm broke,” she offered, twisting to follow his movements as he padded to one of the windows. The maneuver had the added benefit of wrapping her up firmly in the bedding, cutting off further drafts.

  Pushing the curtain aside, Alonnen squinted and shielded himself from the bright sunlight with a hand, then closed the curtain, found his tinted viewing lenses, and tried again. Squinting through the blue-hued glass, he peered at the world outside.

  “We’re not going anywhere for a while,” he stated. Drawing the curtains shut again, he shook his head. “There’s a full foot of snow outside, and no one’s cleared the streets yet. No wonder it’s bloody cold—keep my spot warm for me, will you?”