by Joseph Lallo
“So it would seem,” Myranda said, still distracted by the truly astonishing performance that Ivy was putting on. “When did you place that violin in your bag?”
“That is the other thing . . . I didn't. I am certain that I never placed that instrument in this bag. There is no point that one might have been placed there without my knowledge. Certainly not the very one she claims to have left behind,” he said, nervously.
“But . . . what would that mean?” Myranda asked, puzzled.
“I don't know,” he said solemnly. “And that concerns me greatly.”
Any reply she might have had was interrupted as the rousing tune reached its epic finale. It was an almost dizzying sequence of notes and chords. When she was through she opened her eyes, a triumphant smile on her face. Myranda applauded her and lavished praise.
“Where did you learn to play like that?” she asked, hugging Ivy.
“I just know!” she said. “Deacon, did you bring the case for the violin?”
“I sincerely hope not,” he thought as he reached once more into the bag, adding with relief. “I'm afraid not.”
“No matter. I really don't want to put it down anyway,” she said, plucking a light melody to busy herself.
With the graceful notes of the instrument softly lilting in the background, the hours passed quickly. As the short day came and went, there was nothing in the way of motion from the ruined valley below. Deacon cast a spell or two to be absolutely certain that there was no longer any danger, and as the moon rose dimly behind the clouds, the group marched on. The infectious joy Ivy had felt had done more for them than a night of sleep ever could, so there was no need for further delay. The mood was considerably brighter now. Forgoing the bow as she walked, Ivy plucked the strings merrily, a smile on her face.
The path they followed twisted into the mountains, nestled deep in a narrow pass. The going was slow, with ice and snow tumbling into cascades with nearly every step. It left the path unsteady, and constantly shifting, but they made their way as best they could. Ether, for reasons she kept to herself, chose to remain in her human form, slipping and stumbling with the others rather than becoming something more surefooted. When the pass widened a bit and leveled out, Deacon took advantage of the more forgiving terrain to spend a few moments scratching at a sore spot on his arm.
“What is it?” Myranda asked.
“Nothing to worry about. What direction are we heading?” he asked, adjusting his sleeve once more.
“North, roughly,” she said.
“Have we decided upon our next goal?” he asked.
“The capital,” Lain answered, a few steps ahead of the rest.
“The capital. Do you really feel that is wise?” Ether asked. “We are incomplete. The fifth Chosen must be located before we attempt the final confrontation lest we risk failure.”
“I do not care what fate has intended to happen. My intention is not to fulfill my role in history, it is to find and kill the beings responsible for continuing this war. When they are dead, the structure of the northern army will collapse. The war will end. I will be able to find a place for Ivy, and I will be able to turn back to my earlier cause,” he said.
“And if the war does not end with these few assassinations?” Ether asked.
“Then I will continue to cut the threads that bind the war until it unravels,” he said.
His words carried an air of finality, making it clear that further questions would be unanswered. The group continued with as much speed as they could manage until the constant wind that whipped at them rose to painful levels. The ice and snow it hurled at them was mixed with fresh flakes from above. A long overdue blizzard surged up with little warning, driving them into the shelter of a cramped cave with an uneven floor, high up a rather steep slope. The driving wind continued to howl harder and harder outside the mouth. Ivy had carefully protected the violin against the worsening weather until they reached shelter, but before long the whistling outside was enough to drown out even her loudest notes.
The temperature inside the cave, numbingly cold to begin with, dropped steadily. Myranda shivered, casting one spell after another in an attempt to keep feeling in her extremities. Deacon managed to repeat the enchantment he'd placed on his own cloak on hers, but it only managed to take the bite from the cold. As time passed, the storm only grew stronger. The opening began to fill with snow, so much so that Lain and Ether had to clear it every few minutes, lest they be trapped within.
Hours passed. The wind and snow did not relent. Soon the cold was joined by an equally serious concern. Hunger. The meal they had eaten the previous day was a meager one, and easily a day had passed since then. Before long, Myranda's mind began to drift back to that horrible day all those months ago, starving and lost, freezing in the middle of a field. The day she found the sword. The day this all began for her. Ivy plucked at her violin, the sound lost in the wail of the wind, but as she did so, she seemed increasingly flustered.
“I can't . . . I can't quite . . . “ she called out, attempting something that she seemingly couldn't complete.
“What's wrong?” Myranda replied, maneuvering closer to Ivy to avoid yelling quite so loud to be heard.
“I keep making mistakes. I don't know why,” she said.
“It is the cold, Ivy, it is getting into your hands,” Myranda said, clasping them between hers. “You are cold as death, Ivy!”
“No. No I'm not. I don't feel cold,” Ivy said, lowering the violin to clasp Myranda's hands back. “And . . . you don't feel cold either. And you don't feel warm. I can hardly feel you at all.”
“Your hands are numb. You've got to warm up!” Myranda said, pulling her staff free and conjuring up a flame. “I don't know how long I can keep it going, so everyone, gather around.”
Ivy did as she was told, with Deacon joining her. He lent a bit of his own mind to the flame, to ease the burden on Myranda. It didn't help much. The heat was a godsend, though. For the first time since the wind began to pick up, Myranda stopped shaking.
“I really don't feel the warmth. Or the cold,” Ivy said, holding her hands to the fire so closely they threatened to singe. “What I feel mostly is hungry.”
“I know the hunger seems bad, but right now we have to worry most about the cold. Give the fire time to warm you,” Myranda said. Her unfortunate life had made her something of an expert at prioritizing such things.
More time passed, and Ivy's condition began to worsen. The breath of all others within the cave left as great foggy clouds, but her breath was weak and wispy. She seemed distant, her head drifting and jerking suddenly, as though she would collapse at any moment.
“Ivy. Stay focused. Why don't you play the violin some more?” Myranda offered as she edged in for a closer inspection.
Ivy picked up the violin, but nearly dropped it into the fire, her fingers refusing to close around the neck. Myranda gathered to mind what she'd been taught about healing. What she sensed was worse than she could have imagined. Ivy was failing. Her heart was weak. Her breathing was weak. Even her soul was a flickering ember of what it should have been.
“What is wrong?” Lain demanded, an intensity in his eyes, and for the first time, fear in his voice.
“I don't know. She is beyond weak. I can't explain it,” she said. “We need to do something to get her strength up.”
“Will food help?” he asked, almost begging.
“It may, but I'm not sure it will be enough,” she said.
Deacon rubbed his eyes and held his crystal out, the glow within it flickering to life as he tried to lend a hand in the diagnosis. Lain rushed out of the mouth of the cave and into the deadly weather outside. Ether watched him go, glancing back to the others briefly before rushing after him.
“Keep her talking,” Deacon said, shaking his head before returning to the task of finding the source of the weakness.
“Ivy. Ivy, listen to me. I want you to think back,” Myranda said.
“No . . . no
thinking back,” she almost moaned, her voice barely audible against the whipping wind.
“Not to the bad times. To the good times. The times after we found you. Please, just say anything. Anything you remember,” Myranda urged.
“Uh . . . I remember when everything fell,” she said.
“Good, good, what else?” Myranda prodded.
“Things. Things are always falling. The valley. The town. The fort. All of the forts. Everywhere I go, things are falling down,” Ivy said.
“Yes, what else?” Myranda said.
“Uh. The horses never last . . . the supplies too . . . we always end up on our feet, the sky over our heads, hunting for food,” Ivy muttered. “Myranda . . . am I . . . dying?”
“No! No Ivy, you are not dying!” Myranda urged.
“It is alright . . . As long as you are here . . . I don't mind . . . thank you . . . I'm sorry I couldn't . . . “ Ivy slurred before slipping into unconsciousness.
“Ivy?! Ivy!” Myranda called out, shaking her.
“Leave her rest. I know what it is,” Deacon said, slumping back.
“What? How do we help her?” Myranda cried desperately.
“She was hurt by the undead. You closed the wounds, remember?” he replied rummaging in his bag.
“Are you saying she is infected? Cursed?” Myranda gasped.
Deacon withdrew Ivy's crystal. The wisp of black was now a thick, inky cloudiness, and it was slowly but surely growing.
“It is the curse. It has wrapped itself around her soul. She's got time, but not much,” he said.
“Why didn't I detect it?” Myranda asked.
“It is a disease of the soul, not of the body,” he said.
“What do we do?” she asked.
Deacon dug into his bag and pulled out a slim, leather-bound book, different from the one he constantly took notes in. As he flipped through the pages, vastly different script and illustration swept by, as though he was riffling past whole volumes without getting any closer to the end of the book. When he found what he was looking for he pulled his other book out and scribbled some hasty notes on a clean page. As he did, he muttered to himself, closing his eyes and tilting his head back from time to time before launching on a new search.
“There is no single spell like it. Soul Blight . . . similar. And Reanimate,” he mumbled.
“What are you saying?” Myranda asked, anxiously glancing at Ivy's barely breathing form.
“The black magic and necromancy practitioners in Entwell do not speak of a spell exactly like this one. It seems like a combination of two of them, with something else added. Soul Blight is a spell that feeds off of the target's soul until it is too weak to recover. Reanimate restores motion to a soulless husk, but it requires an outside will to support it. This spell is a masterful union of the two. It feeds off of the victims soul, then uses the strength it sapped away to sustain a spell of reanimation. Something I've never seen before allows it to spread itself by breaking the skin of a new host. It is a work of dark genius,” he said.
“Is there a cure?” Myranda urged.
“The only way to cure reanimation is to dispel the controlling will, the source of power. But her own soul is the source of power, so we must act before she is fully reanimated. But that would require that we cure the Soul Blight aspect of the spell and . . . well, it is black magic. It is intended to be irreversible, a way to kill a wizard that might otherwise be able to raise himself from the dead,” he said.
“You're saying that there is no saving her?” Myranda said solemnly.
“ . . . The spell has to be changed,” he said, the sound of realization in his voice.
“How can we change a spell that has already been cast?” Myranda asked.
“You can't, but I may be able to. There is no time to lose, if this has a chance to work, it must be done now,” he declared, throwing aside his books.
He crawled to her, raising her to a sitting position and propping her against the freezing wall. Her head lolled limply. He held her forehead with one hand and steadied himself with his other on her shoulder. His eyes locked on hers as they fluttered ever so slightly to reveal the milky pupils brought by the affliction. The unmistakable look of concentration that came with the most strenuous of spells mixed with a tinge of almost manic desperation as he went to work.
“She . . . “ he struggled to say. “She may . . . she will . . . worsen. And quickly. As will I.”
“Why? And why will you?” Myranda asked, suddenly fearful for them both.
As she asked, part of the answer became clear. The sleeve had slid back on his raised arm, revealing a day old scrape, suffered during the battle with the undead. It was minor, but it did not remain so. His skin, already a sickly pale she'd attributed to the cold and hunger, grew paler still around the wound. As the pallor spread, a blackness crept first into the wound and then in feathering outward slowly along the veins of his arm.
“When did those creatures touch you?” she gasped.
“Never mind . . . me,” he said, the focus taking virtually all of his mind. “When I am through . . . keep her safe. And warm. Keep the fire going . . . as long as you can. She will be weak . . . but . . . if she can last just a few hours . . . the curse will be gone.”
The blackness that, even as he spoke, brought the look of death over Deacon now began to show itself on Ivy. The snow-white fur began to darken in patches where it was thinnest; around her eyes, the pads of her fingers, her ears. Her claws split, leaving jagged, yellowed shards. The sight was stomach turning, like seeing the rigors of death pour over her friend and her beloved in a matter of minutes. Slowly Deacon removed a shaking hand. His fingers were bone white, his face was gaunt. Weakly he reached for the crystal, Ivy's crystal. He held it up to the fire that Myranda faithfully kept alight and stared. The shifting black stain within was halted. A long minute passed as he and Myranda poured over the waving of the cloud. Finally it seemed to slow and pull inward ever so slightly.
“The deed is done,” he said, his voice harsh and raspy.
“What did you do?” she asked with urgency. “We need to cure you.”
“Not the same way. Too dangerous for you,” he said. “There are other possibilities. She was further along than I was. We still have time.”
“I don't care how dangerous it is, I will not let you die while we try to find something else when we know that there is a method that works,” she assured him.
“We don't know that it works. She has a long night ahead of her. She will need every bit of her strength to fight off the last of the curse,” he replied.
“Just tell me. I'll deal with the consequences,” she demanded.
“Absolutely not. Now, the traditional treatment for necromancy is to counter its darkness with . . . “ he began.
“This is madness! Why are you risking you life?!” Myranda protested, tears clouding her eyes.
“ . . . holiness,” he continued, raising his voice to compete with her cries. “Holy water in fact. Anointing the wound has proven effective in some cases.”
“You yourself said that there isn't a cure for soul blight,” she tried to reason.
“But this isn't soul blight. It may have a weakness that the true spell lacks,” he countered.
Myranda threw her hands up. “Where are we going to get holy water?!”
“That is . . . a valid point,” he said, as though the thought hadn't occurred to his increasingly addled mind.
He reached for the slim book again, leafing through the pages.
“Necromancy . . . yes . . . the ah . . . the blessing of a priest is a powerful tool . . . but we haven't got a priest. Ah . . . there some herbs that can slow the process,” he offered.
Myranda looked about helplessly. She pulled the canteen from the provisions she carried with her and scooped some snow from the mouth of the cave.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“I'm Chosen, right? That means that I am a product of divine will,�
� she said, filling the canteen with snow and willing some of the fire around it.
As the snow melted, she thought. In time, the words came.
“Oh powers above. The mark on my hand is your sign that I am your tool in this battle. I represent our world. I defend it. I did not ask for this role, but I have done my best to fill it, and I have expected nothing. But now the very forces that I am tasked with turning back are threatening to take the one soul that has touched mine. A being whose life may as well be my own. All I ask is that you give me the power to wash away the blight of the dark ones. All I ask is that you imbue this humble water with some trace of your purity, that it might restore this victim of the darkness,” she solemnly spoke.
Myranda waited and watched, her senses aflame, hoping for some sign, any sign, that her prayer had been answered. The flame she maintained flickered, the wind outside wailed, but there was no indication that anything had changed. She drew in a deep breath and motioned for him to uncover the wound. She sprinkled just a few drops upon the blighted flesh.
“It . . . it feels warmer . . . no . . . hot,” he said, pain creeping up in his arm.
He cringed as the blackness pulled back, giving way to the red blood and pink flesh that it had replaced. Deacon stifled a cry of pain as the feeling that had been stolen from him returned all at once. In a few moments, his arm seemed almost healthy, and the complexion of his face had improved. Myranda let out a sigh of relief that turned into a laugh of joy.
“I suppose I was a bit premature in my desperate act a moment ago. And we've discovered a new talent of the Chosen!” he said with a smile, recovering from the pain.
Slowly, the smile faded from his face. He pulled back the sleeve to reveal that the pale, stained flesh was creeping back down. Myranda applied the holy water again, and again, but there was now no effect, as though the spell had somehow tempered itself against it. Before long any evidence that they had tried anything at all was gone, and no further attempt worked.