by J. L. Doty
“Your protections were nothing,” Magwa growled. “Twelve thousand jackal warriors—annihilated by that forest. Barely twelve twelves escaped.”
Rhianne felt something nether enter the room—no, not the room, it entered Valso, a malevolent power so vast no mortal should have been able to contain it. She recognized it as the same nether power she had sensed before in this room, and it had taken up residence in Valso’s soul. She struggled to breathe, the demon snake hissed, and Magwa cowered.
When Valso spoke, it was not his voice they heard. It sounded more like the grumble of an earthquake as he said, “You failed. Tell me what happened.”
Magwa made a visible effort to put aside her anger. “When he claimed his name, the forest came alive. My warriors were no longer hidden or protected, and it butchered them.”
Rhianne had sensed Morgin’s return to the Mortal Plane, so he had somehow escaped. But Erithnae had thrust her out of her soul before the finish, and she didn’t know how the battle had ended. She wanted to listen raptly to Magwa’s story, but she cringed at sharing the room with the thing in Valso’s soul, wanted only to escape and flee.
The thing that stood in the room looking like Valso spoke again in that inhuman voice. “He claimed his name? What name would that be?”
Magwa hesitated, as if afraid to speak the name, and when she finally did her voice came out in a frightened whisper. “AethonSword. He claimed the name AethonSword.”
The snake darted over Valso’s head and hovered above the jackal queen. It hissed at her as she swatted at it. “Get away from me.”
Rhianne would have enjoyed seeing the bitch queen cower, would have reveled in her discomfort were it not for that other presence that shared the room with them. If she had the ability to control shadows the way Morgin did, she’d hide in one now.
The thing that had entered Valso’s soul left in a heartbeat. Valso threw his head back and laughed. “AethonSword,” he cried, once again speaking with his own voice. “I should have known.”
Emboldened, Magwa said, “Yes, you should have.”
Valso continued to laugh. “All along that old witch Olivia had it wrong. AethonLaw, AethonSword—yes, it all makes sense now. The foolish old woman failed to recognize the potential she had in her grasp, failed to use it as she should have. Well it’s too late now.”
Magwa spun and pointed a paw at Rhianne. “I demand payment now—her.”
Rhianne’s chest tightened and her pulse pounded in her throat.
Valso leaned back casually against the table and looked her way. His eyes tracked down to her toes, then slowly up to her face, and finally, as always, settled on her breasts. “We had a deal, Magwa: the lovely Rhianne in payment for a sword. Where’s the sword?”
“I didn’t get it. But only because you failed to protect my warriors as you promised. So I demand her as payment for the loss of twelve thousand.”
Rhianne couldn’t breathe as she watched Valso consider Magwa’s demand.
“No,” he said. “No sword, no pretty girl.”
Magwa stepped toward him, stuck her muzzle in his face. “Then I’ll put my claim before our master.”
Bayellgae hovered over them both as Valso smiled, and a hint of that other presence brushed through his soul. “You already have. And you have His answer.”
Magwa stepped back, lowered her eyes and cringed. Her generals whined like mistreated dogs.
Valso turned his back on Magwa in a show of arrogance. He crossed the room to the table, lifted a sheathed dagger off it. He stood with his back to them as he pulled the dagger from the sheath. Rhianne caught a glimpse of it and recognized an obsidian blade like that Salula carried. Valso looked at the blade as he said, “AethonSword.”
He turned back to them and his eyes focused on Rhianne. “Come here, child.”
The snake streaked across the room and hovered so close to her ear she felt the air moving from the fluttering of its wings. She resolved then that somehow she would find a way to defeat its venom.
Rhianne had no intention of obeying Valso, but that powerful, evil magic took hold of her, and her legs moved as if she were a puppet dancing on the end of Valso’s strings. She struggled, tried to resist, but step by painful step she crossed the room, the snake drifting with her, the buzz of its wings in her ear. Valso didn’t release her until she stood about half a pace from him, an intimately close distance. The snake settled on her shoulder as Valso lifted the dagger and touched the point lightly to her throat. He didn’t cut or scratch her, but she learned the point of the blade was needle sharp.
He leaned down and placed a feather-light kiss on her cheek. “So Magwa failed, and the whoreson is back, but without the sword.”
“He’s back?” Magwa howled. “On the Mortal Plane?”
Valso pressed the flat of the blade to Rhianne’s throat, and without cutting her traced the tip of the dagger from ear to ear.
“Massster, let me be the one to take her life.”
Valso ignored the snake. “Don’t worry, my dear. I still want you alive . . . for the time being.”
“I’ll find him,” Magwa said. “Then kill him.”
Valso looked her way. “No. You’ve failed twice now. I think you’re just not up to the task.”
Magwa said, “We still need that blade. Our master cannot manifest fully on the Mortal Plane until we control it.”
Valso looked into Rhianne’s eyes and she couldn’t look away. “That name won’t keep the whoreson alive for long. Smart of him to leave that sword in the Kingdom of Dreams where I can’t get at it. But that’s only temporary, because I have something he desperately wants. I have you.”
He traced the flat of the dagger along her cheek, then down her throat to her chest. “You’ll betray him, you know. Oh, not willingly, but nevertheless you will betray him. You’ll point my dogs in his direction, and we’ll hunt him down.”
With a flick of his wrist he sliced through the cloth at the top of her dress, exposing more skin. “Then I’ll send Salula and Bayellgae after him, not to kill him, more like hunting dogs sent to flush game.”
Rhianne couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, could do nothing but stand there and tremble. She had thought that nothing could be more horrifying than Bayellgae, but that thing that inhabited Valso’s soul made her want to run from the room screaming like a terrified child. Even after it had gone, now that she knew what to look for, she sensed a remnant of it always present within him, a black scar on his soul hungering to devour anyone who came near it. In his eyes she thought she saw a hint of madness, though she also saw that he reveled in her terror.
“He’ll come for you, won’t he?” he said. “And when he does I’ll give him a choice: you, or that blade. And when I own that blade, I’ll put this dagger in his heart. And then I’ll have you all to myself.”
••••
Rhianne couldn’t stop trembling as the Kulls escorted her back to her rooms. As she stepped through the door to her sitting room, Geanna said, “Oh my lady, you’re so pale. Are you ill again?”
Rhianne let Geanna help her to the couch.
“I’ll get some brandy, my lady.”
“No, just water.”
Geanna left, and returned immediately with a goblet of cold water. Rhianne took a sip, then said, “Thank you. I wish to be alone.”
Geanna curtsied and left.
When Valso had held that obsidian blade to her throat, she’d almost wanted him to plunge it into her, to end her life so she wouldn’t have to face that thing he’d welcomed into his soul. For the first time she realized the magnitude of the battle Morgin would have to fight. No, she thought, the battle Morgin and I must fight together. To die now, even at the hands of another, would be cowardly.
Valso considered her bait in a trap for Morgin, knew he would come for her. Somehow she must get word to Morgin. Perhaps she could do that through the Kingdom of Dreams, but he’d now left that realm.
As her heart calmed, something Magwa
said bothered her. She recalled the bitch-queen’s words and carefully tried to remember everything she’d said. He claimed the name AethonSword. Magwa had said it, and Valso had accepted that. Both Erithnae and Metadan had believed Morgin’s true name was AethonSword. Morgin had told Erithnae he’d tried to acknowledge that name, but the Kingdom of Dreams wouldn’t let him. And now Valso and Magwa had made the same mistake. So if not AethonSword, she wondered, what is Morgin’s true name?
••••
NickoLot sat at her writing table and examined her small store of materials. The bay and basil leaves had dried and withered, were now stiff and crinkly, the blood on them a dark, brown stain. Blood was an enormously powerful addition to any charm or spell-casting, and obtaining DaNoel’s had been a stroke of pure luck. But human blood could be quite dangerous, and since she’d never worked with it before she’d forced herself to move with caution. Ordinarily she’d consult with Olivia or AnnaRail, but the moment she asked either of them about such a black spell, they’d question her relentlessly, and that she could not allow. She’d done her research carefully, pouring through the scrolls in the library by candlelight in the wee hours of the morning.
She now knew that had she been able to use the customary seven drops of blood on each of the two silver charms, they’d be much more powerful. But still, once she triggered them, placed one in DaNoel’s room and one in hers, they would conduct to her a sense of his activities there, perhaps even some of his words, if he concentrated on them hard enough.
She retrieved the small chest from beneath her writing table, opened it and searched through its contents for three pieces of dull, gray metal. Down in the bottom of the chest she found the crude lumps of lead, and placed them on the table, flat blossoms of melted metal she’d retrieved from the smithy.
Lead, the silent metal, it created a space empty of all sound and energies, could be used as a barrier to keep things in, as well as out. She wanted the lead charms to contain information, to store it and hold it for her.
Basil was frequently used to drive off hostile spirits. She and her spells could be considered hostile in this case, so the blood that had dried on the basil leaves would countermand that. She carefully manipulated a basil leaf over a lump of lead, bent it here and there, causing flecks of dried blood to flake off and drop onto the metal. She repeated that with the other two lumps, making sure that each held exactly seven flakes of dried blood.
Bay was often used as a protection against black magic. This spell was definitely on the black side of the arts, and again the dried blood would reverse that. She placed each lump of metal, with its flakes of blood from the basil leaves, onto a dry and crinkly bay leaf, then on top of the metal she added one of DaNoel’s hairs. She fed power into one of the metal and bay leaf concoctions, thinking of her brother as she did so. The bay leaf began to smoke, then burst into flames. It burned until the leaf, blood and hair were consumed, leaving behind the lump of metal, but now strangely transformed so it appeared bright and shiny like polished silver. She repeated the process with the other two lumps of lead, then sat back to examine her work.
She’d find an opportunity to plant the charms properly.
••••
From the window in her private work room, Theandrin watched the moon slowly cross the night sky. She still had a bit of waiting to do, for it was imperative she use the power of midnight for this spell. And the trap she intended to set could be easily thwarted by a witch or wizard with even modest capabilities. Better to lessen any chance of being observed by waiting until all but a few sentries had retired to their beds.
She’d now looked more closely at Lewendis, paid more attention to his nature. He was just too forthright to be a spy for Valso, didn’t have a clandestine bone in his body. She reminded herself not to forget that he was also just plain stupid, didn’t have the brains to avoid making some mistake that would reveal hidden loyalty to another clan.
When she judged the time right, she turned from the window, crossed the room to her workbench and retrieved a carefully folded linen handkerchief and the two charms she’d prepared. She recalled the last time she’d walked out into the castle yard late at night, and the guard on the parapets who’d called down to her to ask if she needed anything. It wouldn’t do to have him wake half the castle with a loud shout, so she activated one of the charms with a bit of saliva. Anyone who looked her way would find their attention deflected elsewhere, not as difficult as a detailed veil of illusion, but in the shadows of night, just as effective.
She activated the second charm, and a small flame blossomed in her hands, illuminating the room with light that only she could see. She’d also not be advertising her whereabouts with a candle or lantern.
She stepped out into the hall, walked down the stairs to the main floor and out into the castle yard. She’d given herself plenty of time, and didn’t want to tempt fate, so she stayed in the shadows and worked her way around the edge of the yard to the main gates. It was a time of peace, so they were open. She slipped through them and paused just outside the castle’s walls. She waited a bit for true midnight, but when it came, she knew with her witch’s senses the time was right.
She opened the folded linen handkerchief and looked upon the six blue threads she’d wrapped within it: six threads for Penda, the sixth tribe, and blue, for the blue of Vodah. The stone of the walls had been laid hundreds of years ago, and while still strong and quite formidable, it wasn’t difficult to find small gaps here and there in the mortar. She carefully wedged three threads in three separate places on the left side of the gates, then the three remaining on the right.
She stepped back to examine her handiwork. She’d spent days preparing those six charm-wards. They’d alert her the moment anyone of Vodah loyalty passed between them and through the castle gates.
23
The Fallen Revealed
Low-lying clouds drifted in as dusk settled over the western shore of the Lake of Sorrows. Morgin guessed he was in for a bit of rain that night, so he set up camp early. He had two oiled, canvas tarps, the same material the Benesh’ere used for their tents. He draped one over the branches of a tree to give Mortiss some shelter, though he wondered if the nether horse felt discomfort as mortals did.
Don’t be stupid, she neighed.
He wasn’t sure what she meant by that, and really didn’t want her to enlighten him, so he ignored the comment. He managed to erect a small lean-to, collect some dry wood and start a fire before the clouds released a slow drizzle. When he crawled into his blanket he was warm, out of the rain, and reasonably comfortable, but his thoughts went to the many tasks before him and sleep eluded him for a time.
When he awoke in the morning the rain had stopped and a clear, blue sky greeted him as he crawled out of his blanket. He picked up his water skin, walked down to the lake and splashed a little water on his face. While he refilled the skin, the familiar, sad sounds of a pipist’s tune drifted through the forest, and when he returned to his camp he was not surprised to find Metadan standing in front of the fire waiting for him. The archangel had a broadsword buckled at his side. He placed a hand on the hilt of the sword and said, “Time for a lesson.” He drew the sword and the blade dripped blood onto the ground, the blood of first legion, the angels he’d betrayed.
Metadan raised the sword and looked at it. “No, this is not the blade you must face.” He flicked his wrist, and now he held the obsidian blade.
Morgin walked over to his gear and retrieved his sword. He and the archangel sparred for a good portion of the morning. When they finished Morgin walked down to the lake to wash away the sweat, and returned to find Metadan seated on a log in front of the fire, the pipes pressed to his lips, again playing that sad tune. The archangel had added fresh wood to the fire and stoked it nicely. Morgin was pleased to see that it burned with almost no smoke; it wouldn’t do to advertise his presence.
He sat down on a rock on the opposite side of the fire and said, “Nice tune. But alwa
ys so sad.”
“You taught it to me,” the archangel said. “Several centuries ago. Teach me a happy tune, and I’ll play it.”
Morgin recalled that as Morddon, the ancient Benesh’ere warrior, he’d known the pipes, and now he had a vague memory of teaching Metadan how to play them. “I don’t know any happy tunes.”
“Well then you should compose one.”
“First, I have to find happiness.”
Metadan nodded. “And how will you do that?”
Morgin knew what he had to do. “I have to kill Salula without killing my friend. I have rescue Rhianne, and beg her forgiveness for the way I treated her. I have to stop Valso.”
Metadan looked at the pipes in his hand and they vanished in a heartbeat. “And let’s not forget you have a prophesy to fulfill, and then you must right the last two wrongs.”
Morgin recalled the sixth wrong, and that he must free the soul of the Fallen One. Metadan, the betrayer. After Metadan and Ellowyn had fought in the clearing near Csairne Glen, he’d told Morgin, I am the Fallen Angel. I serve the Dark God who sits upon the throne of power in the ninth hell of the netherworld . . . Morgin had no idea how he could free the archangel’s soul?
••••
Rhianne’s Kullish guards escorted her to the room on the third floor, which she now understood was Valso’s workshop. When a Kull opened the door she saw Valso, Salula and Carsaris standing with their backs to her, their attention focused on something on the heavy work table. The little snake sat coiled on its perch.
As she stepped into the room, the skeletal Carsaris said, “I don’t know if it’ll work.”
Salula glanced over his shoulder at her, and she cringed inwardly at seeing the demon look through France’s eyes.
Valso said, “We have alternatives if it doesn’t.”
As the Kulls closed the door behind her, the three of them turned to face her. Valso strode toward her, saying, “My Rhianne, always so lovely.” He took her hand and kissed it.
Without turning to the wizard he said, “Carsaris, bring it here.”