The naked terror in her mother's face had stopped any more questions. Seven year old Tionne found herself shoved in an empty water barrel and wedged under a bed.
She had heard the monsters when they came into the house. Their claws made little scratching sounds on the floor. It sounds like the stylus on the slates at school, she thought. How strange that it could sound almost the same. Then the screaming started and she couldn't think of anything else. Tionne bit down on her lower lip, tasting copper and forcing any sound that might escape deep down into her belly which already ached from the panic that gripped her.
Mother's screams, for she knew it was mother who had been screaming, ended in the same wet, rending sound that had ended the toddler's life only a few moments ago. It was dark in the barrel, but it wouldn't have mattered. Tionne's eyes were shut so tightly that her head pounded with the effort to not see anything at all.
Tionne would never be sure how long she had stayed that way, crammed into her tiny cylindrical prison. All she knew was that when the barrel was yanked from under the bed, she couldn't bear to be quiet any more. She started screaming before the monsters pulled off the lid and didn't stop for a long time.
Even when her eyes adjusted to the light flooding into the room from the broken window, she continued to scream. When she saw it was a woman, not a monster, who tried to take her from the barrel, Tionne screamed. When the woman called for help, Tionne screamed. When other men and women came rushing in, Tionne screamed. When they pulled her cramped body from what could have been a tiny coffin, Tionne screamed.
In fact, she went on screaming until one of the women summoned a healer, who had the good sense to dose her with an elixir of valerian root and chamomile. Her tiny stomach empty of anything substantial, Tionne almost vomited back up the vile tasting liquid, but managed to keep it down. After a while, she stopped screaming and stared with vacant eyes at those who were gathered around her. Somewhere, deep in her head, Tionne knew they were speaking the same language she had been raised on, but it was impossible for her to put the words together. It all sounded like gibberish, so she stood, and stared.
She wanted to ask for her mother, for her father, for her baby brother Raynold who was a very precocious two and liked to sit in the dirt by the water pump and make mud pies for hours on end. She saw Raynold with his mud pies. Then she saw the toddler from the market square. They were different, but the same.
No matter how she tried, Tionne couldn't make words come. Even if she had been able to speak, these people were strangers. Mother always told her not to talk to strangers unless she was nearby. But mother wasn't nearby, and Tionne knew with dreadful certainty that mother would never be nearby again.
The enormity of that knowledge seemed to fall on her like a mountain and Tionne dropped to her knees, oblivious to the fact that the congealed crimson liquid that stained the rough wooden planks of their common room had poured freely from her mother and father only hours before. Tionne curled herself into a tight little ball, drawing her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around her legs. Mother used to hug her, but now she knew, she would have to hug herself. Tionne began to shake and the strangers clustered around her looked down on her with pity. One of them reached out, as if the gesture could offer some sort of comfort or ease the pain, but snatched their hand back when Tionne hissed at her like a feral cat.
Time seemed to have lost all meaning. The shadows moved ever so slowly across the floor as Tionne listened to the nonsense coming out of the strangers who had huddled by the door to speak in hushed tones. Tionne knew they were talking about her, but the full meaning and import of their words was still lost in the haze of indescribable longing that flooded every darkened corner of her soul. She wanted to smell the lilac of mother's perfume as she leaned over to tuck Tionne in for the night. She wanted to feel the rough skin of father's fingers catching on her raven dark hair as he smoothed it away from her face. She wanted to hear the squalling of baby Raynold, a pitiful wail that usually annoyed her to no end, as he called attention to his wet swaddling, or his hunger, or his fear. All these things she wanted, but would never again have.
Even as she sat there, rocking back and forth on the bloody floor of her family's home, the longing began to fade. Even more terrifying than the things she knew to be true, or the things she heard, was the fact that the longing left nothing but emptiness in its wake. She felt as if someone had pulled a stopper and drained out everything she was or wanted to be, leaving only a gaping, empty hole that would never be filled.
Tionne woke, screaming. She sat bolt upright in her bed, her thin nightshirt soaked through with sweat and plastered to her thin frame. Cutting off the sound as a gardener would prune off an errant twig, she forced herself to breathe, letting her eyes adjust to the dim light of her rented bedchamber. The shutters were ajar, letting a narrow sliver of moonlight pierce her room and adding an almost ethereal quality to the glow that permeated her room. She slipped out of bed, crossing to the deep window. She opened the shutters and looked down on the city laid out below her.
Dragonfell slept. Only a few windows flickered with light across the dark expanse of the city. Tionne cast an eye upward, judging the length of the hour by the position of the moon as it dangled in the sky. Midway between midnight and morning, if she had to guess.
Idle fingers scratched at a half healed scar below her elbow. The fine white lines, the ghosts of long healed incisions, ran down her forearm from her elbow, as neat and tidy as farmers' furrows. Tionne no longer remembered when she had started cutting, only that she needed it. It had started as a way to feel something when nothing else seemed to fill the void inside her. The pain had helped, for a time. She felt something. Not alive, not happy, but something. Then she had become accustomed to the pain, and the emptiness returned. Now she needed something more. That was how she had discovered Aluka.
By the light of the waxing moon, Tionne crossed to the chest at the foot of the bed. She opened it, slow and steady, to ensure that an errant squeak of the hinges wouldn't call the attention of anyone else at the inn. She lifted out her clothes. Robes and underthings, the finery Faxon had bought her on her fifteenth name day, not yet six months ago. Her fingers lingered on the black velvet tunic and pants. At least Faxon knew her well enough to not have given her a dress. The black, he had said, would bring out the subtle highlights in her hair. Tionne wasn't sure. She hadn't had occasion to wear it. Nor did she want to. She didn't trust it. She didn't trust him.
Setting the clothing aside, she slid her hands down the inside walls of the chest and, with deft fingers, lifted the almost invisible catches that held the false bottom in place. It had taken her nearly a year to cobble together the materials she needed to create an adequate space for her secrets. Patience had paid off, however, and been rewarded with craftsmanship that would meet with envy, even among some gnomish circles.
The thin waxed boards out of the way, Tionne could gaze with unfettered longing at her clandestine treasures. An obsidian dagger, the edge formed and enhanced by spells of her own creation, lay to one side. An intricate motif of skulls and thorns adorned the hilt, etched with a meticulous hand. On the other side of the shallow drawer were vials of thick red fluid; the blood that she had harvested from each of the rows she had carved into her own flesh. In the center, between the dagger and the vials, lay the bloodstone, her newest treasure.
She frowned, the downturned corners of her mouth drawing her brow into a scowl. The blood called out to her. It wanted to be used. It wanted to be put to its purpose. Lifting one of the vials from the darkness, she cradled it in reverent hands. Soon, she promised. Soon you will fulfill your purpose and help me fulfill mine.
The night she had acquired the bloodstone, she had followed it all over the city, hoping that it would lead her to Nerillia. The endeavor had been fruitless. All she had ended up with at the end of the night was a pair of bloodshot eyes and dark circles under them. She'd fallen into bed in the morning, only to be woken
by Faxon's incessant demands a short while later.
His constant intrusion on everything she did almost made her think that he knew she was trying to get out from under his thumb. Faxon always seemed to be watching her, asking her about her day, offering to help her with her studies. It was enough to drive her crazy.
In truth, she had all but abandoned her studies. All she needed to know, she was certain Nerillia could teach her, if Tionne could only find her. Perhaps tonight was the night. She lifted the bloodstone and a vial of blood from the bottom of the chest. Pulling the stopper with her teeth, she upended the vial over the stone, watching with curious fascination as it drank in every drop.
She clutched the stone in her palm, feeling its gentle pull.
CHAPTER THREE
Though the sun had inched its way into the sky, the morning fog hadn't yet burned off. Low hanging clouds and thick fog wrapped Dragonfell in a shroud that gave the capital city a soft, ethereal glow and deadened even the loudest sounds.
Loud sounds weren't a problem for Tiadaria, Wynn, and Faxon. They stood in a loose knot, at the edge of the cobblestone path, looking at the tomb where the Captain had been laid to rest. A rest that had been disturbed in the worst way imaginable. The three of them stood and stared in silence, the daily sounds of city life muted and far off, as if the city itself were honoring their vigil.
Tiadaria was cold, though the morning was mild. The chill went deep into her bones and had nothing to do with the weather. It was a cold dread that seemed to permeate every fiber of her being. An ache of loss so profound that she didn't know if she'd ever recover. Not completely.
She felt Wynn's hand brush hers and she grabbed it, clinging to him like a drowning man would clutch a lifeline. From the corner of her eye, she saw him wince and forced herself to relax her grip. The animosity between them had faded, or at the very least had been suspended, since Wynn had seen her after her meeting with the King.
Tia glanced at Faxon. The change in him made her heart ache. His lips were pressed together in a firm white line, and there were deep, dark hollows under his eyes. His hair, which had been chestnut brown when she'd met him, was turning a distinct grey over the temples. He looked tired. Almost as tired as she felt.
“This isn't accomplishing anything,” Faxon said, scrubbing his face with both hands. “I don't know what else we can do.”
“You did your best. No one could sort through this mess.” Tia waved her free hand, indicating not only the shattered marble, but the tumultuous eddies of the Quintessential Sphere that surrounded them.
Whoever had stolen the Captain's body had bombarded the area with so much obscuring magic that the space around the tomb was warped beyond recognition in the ethereal realm. Faxon had spent almost an hour trying to unravel the mysteries inherent in the disturbance and had found nothing. Tia couldn't even bear to look at it. The twisted essence of the ethereal realm made her head hurt. She'd made a halfhearted attempt to see what she could glean from the Quintessential Sphere, but knew in her heart that if Faxon couldn't find anything worthwhile, she'd have no hope of doing so.
“I don't understand,” Wynn said slowly. “Who would do this? And why? What could they hope to gain?”
Faxon shrugged and they lapsed again into uneasy silence. None of them had any answers to the myriad of questions the crime had spawned. Still, they couldn't seem to leave the place empty handed. So they stood and stared, one or the other of them occasionally offering a guess that was easily dismissed. Tia knew they were lost and they had little hope of being found.
Releasing Wynn's hand, she stepped closer to the tomb than she had dared to the previous day. It smelled of damp earth with a hint of decay. She crouched near the edge of the broken marble, picking up the smooth pieces of white stone and fitting them back into the side of the sarcophagus as if fitting pieces into a puzzle.
Tia wasn't surprised when Wynn knelt beside her to help, but she was grateful. Perhaps some good would come of this desecration. At least they weren't at each other's throats, and that was something. It was a start and she'd take it. They were still trying to sort out the largest of the marble shards when Tiadaria caught a shadow out of the corner of her eye. It was just a darker smudge against the fog, moving toward them.
Faxon spread his hands, as if gazing into an invisible crystal ball. Magical lightning sprang up between his fingers, arcing from one hand to the other with a faint crackle. Tia felt for her swords and came up empty, remembering that she had left them in the inn. There was really no need for her to be armed in Dragonfell. Or so she thought.
“Rest easy, Master Indra,” a familiar voice came from the fog. “I come as a friend, not a foe.”
A few more steps and the figure was close enough for them to see plainly. It was Adamon, the Grand Inquisitor of the Order of the Ivory Flame. The hood of his robe was pushed back, exposing a shock of medium length, dishwater brown hair. His grey eyes glittered in the subdued light. He nodded to Tiadaria and Wynn in greeting, then to Faxon, who had dropped the spell with a grunt after seeing Adamon's face.
“What brings you to Dragonfell, Adamon?” Faxon cast a curious glance at the Inquisitor, then turned his eyes back to Tia and Wynn.
“The three of you aren't the only ones who are interested in the events that have taken place here over the last week. The desecration of the Captain's tomb, though the most heinous, isn't the only crime this cemetery has been home to this week.”
That caught Faxon's attention, Tia thought. His eyebrows jerked upright, but he was quick to school his expression. Though they had been together the first night she had met them, Tia had always had the impression that there was little love lost between the stolid, humorless Adamon and her more carefree friend. She'd never asked him about the relationship and she doubted she ever would. Best to leave sleeping dogs lie.
Adamon was the epitome of a sleeping dog, she thought. An inquisitor's job was to seek out and bring to justice rogue mages. If he ever found out about her unique abilities, the Order would send him to bring her to trial, or censure her outright, cutting off her connection to the Quintessential Sphere and leaving her to go mad from the pain of the loss.
She shook her head, trying to clear the worrisome thought from her mind. Adamon gave her an appraising look, then continued.
“There was an artifact stolen from one of the other graves,” he said, directing his gaze at Faxon. “An ancient artifact that was rumored to have lain with one of the oldest members of the King's court.”
“What was the artifact?” Tia asked, her curiosity getting the better of her. She tried not to speak much when Adamon was around, just in case.
“The Chalice of Souls.”
Wynn jerked up as if drawn by a string. He turned to Adamon, his eye wide. He glanced to Faxon, then to Tia, then back to Adamon. Whatever he knew of this artifact, Tia thought, it wasn't good.
“The Chalice of Souls was here?”
Adamon reached into his robe and withdrew a roll of yellowed parchment. The edges were so brittle that some flakes broke off as Wynn unrolled it, even though his touch was gentle, almost reverent. He scanned the parchment, looked skyward as if expecting an answer, then rerolled the document and returned it to the Inquisitor.
“Do you,” Wynn began, swallowing loudly. “Do you think that the theft of the Chalice of Souls and the sacking of the Captain's tomb are related?”
“Yes,” Adamon replied. “Don't you?”
“I'd happily weigh in with an opinion if someone would fill me in,” Faxon snapped. Tia hadn't planned on saying it, but she was glad that Faxon had.
Adamon motioned to Wynn and folded his arms into the sleeves of his robes. Tia could feel the weight of his eyes. It wasn't the first time she had thought he knew more about her than he was letting on, but so far, he hadn't said, or done, anything about it, so she was inclined to leave it alone.
“The Chalice of Souls is an ancient Xarundi artifact. The legend is that after the Cleansing, the One True
King took the Chalice as spoils of war and returned it to the capital.
It was said that the Chalice was the cornerstone of the Xarundi's necromancy...that by combining the Chalice and the Dyr, they were able to reanimate the dead and bind the tattered remnants of the soul that were scattered around the ethereal realm to the reanimated body.”
Tiadaria's blood ran cold. Though she still didn't know who had stolen the body, she had a horrible certainty that she knew what they were going to do with it.
“They're going to bring him back,” she said quietly, looking at the ground between her knees. “They're going to bring him back and turn him against the land he loved.”
“They can't,” Wynn said flatly. “What we know of the ritual is long and complicated and requires several blood sacrifices. Plus, they'd need the Captain's blood. He--”
The young quintessentialist broke off, looking pained. Tia had already skipped ahead and had a good idea what he was about to say.
“He's been dead too long for them to take his blood,” she finished for him, climbing to her feet. “Maybe it's not him they plan to reanimate, then. Maybe it is something else entirely.”
Adamon shrugged.
“It's pointless to guess, Lady Tiadaria. We need more information before we can form an adequate hypothesis. I trust that you are willing to offer your, ah, unique skills, to the cause?”
Again Tia had the unnerving feeling that Adamon knew more than he was saying. She ignored it and nodded.
“Of course, Master Vendur. Whatever you require.”
“Very well,” Adamon replied, flipping the hood of us robe up. With the light of day as faint as it was, the motion plunged his features into shadow. “Good day.”
The Swordmage Trilogy: Volume 03 - The Pegasus's Lament Page 6