by Matthew Cook
The magic pauses in the lungs, as if awaiting instruction. I look around at the flesh all around me, expanding and contracting. Some instinct tells me that the organs are healthy, performing their function faithfully. But I can tell they are not filling properly; they only draw in a small fraction of their capacity. Wherever the poison is, it is not here.
The magic presses lower, until it encounters a thick shelf of muscle. As the muscle contracts, it pulls against the lungs resting atop it. As it constricts, I draw a shuddering breath, then push it out.
I see the blood magic split, again and again, into countless hair-fine tendrils. They pierce the tough muscle, questing for the invader. Far away, as if it is happening to someone else, I feel my body twisting, as it blindly reacts to the sensation of drowning. I ignore it. I must not be distracted.
My sight follows the blood magic, watching the tendrils shrink and stretch, still dividing, until each is much finer than a hair. I see the individual components of my body: oblong muscle cells, standing side-by-side in endless, interlocking rows; rivers of deep red blood cells traveling down the round highways of my veins, bumping and jostling together like cattle crammed into too small a pen.
The cells are like the illustrations in my mistress's ancient healing atlas, but vastly more complex than I could ever have imagined. The magic approaches an intricate structure, like a mighty tree, dark and branched. Its trunk stretches away, out of sight.
As I watch, a surge of energy, perfectly clear to my inner vision, travels down the trunk, spreading with eyeblink quickness through its many branches. As it does, myriad cells around it contract, pulling together. I look aside and see untold thousands of similar trunks, similar branches, all pulsing with life energy, all pulling together.
No. Not all. Some of the trees are dark, cut off from the pulses of light. Something covers them, black in my inner sight. I peer closer and see the darkness is spreading, moving from one structure to another with alarming speed. Wherever it touches, the life glow is blocked. Where this happens, the surrounding tissues do not contract, but sit, motionless and unresponsive.
That is the poison, I whisper silently to the blood magic. It must be removed, and carefully. Do it now.
The tendrils obey, reaching towards a blackened tree. They penetrate the darkness, drawing it into itself. The blood magic turns dusky, then completely black, as the poison is absorbed. The tree grows lighter, then responds to the pulses of life energy still surging towards it, feebly at first, then with growing strength.
The blackness is pulled into the tendril, then is ferried beyond the limit of my sight to some unknown destination. The tendril is once more rose-tinted, completely unaffected by the toxin it has consumed. I see it turn, questing for fresh prey. All around, to the limits of my inner sight, I see more and more of the glassy tentacles, spearing the blackness and sucking it into themselves.
I send a portion of my attention outwards, and dimly feel the tightness in my chest easing. My breath comes easier now, the deadly pressure receding with every inhalation.
Looking back within, I see more and more of the branching structures emerging from the blackness covering them, the cells surrounding them once more pulsing rhythmically in a mighty, intricate dance, choreographed by surges of lifelight.
The poison travels away from my lungs in streams of dead black. I do not know where the blood magic is taking it, nor do I care—all I know is that I can breathe once again. But even as my breathing eases, I sense a lingering pressure, like a great weight pressing into my chest. The poison is still inside of me.
I gather the blood magic's multitude of strands, braiding them together and sending them up the mighty vessel leading to my heart. They push against the pulsing tide, a river of countless purple-blue blood cells. As the blood enters the lungs, some alchemy causes the cells to change, turning them bright red before being drawn away, pushed to the farthest recesses of my flesh.
Into the dark flood the blood magic swims, until it reaches the threshold of my heart. My inner eye sees the mighty gates, watches the opening and closing of the three-lobed valve. The magic extrudes a tendril, almost impossibly thin, and slips through the pulsing opening. I follow it inside.
There, I see more of the blackness, covering more of the tree-like structures. As in the lungs, they block the pulses of lifelight wherever they touch, interrupting the crucial constriction of cells. I command the blood magic to destroy the invader, and it responds eagerly, flowing over the blackness and drawing it into itself and away. I feel the pressure in my chest ease.
When I can see no more poison, I command the magic to withdraw, watching as it delicately gathers itself. Like a receding tide it flows back, regrouping itself in my belly, absorbing the numberless tentacles. I allow my inner eye to slip closed, returning my attention to the world outside.
It is much like emerging from a deep sleep, although I can remember everything with burning clarity. I open my mortal eyes and see the familiar, darkened parlor. My breath comes easy and unlabored. My heart beats, even and strong.
My stomach cramps as the blood magic twists, savagely pushing something up from my belly. I have time to lean over the side of the dusty couch before I retch something up, a tight ball of indescribable filth. I spit it out, and it splatters against the dirty floorboards; a capsule of blackness, no larger than the end of my thumb. Its stench, heavy and organic, fills the air.
It is so tiny for something so lethal, a mass of dead cells contaminated by Rath's vicious poison. I lie on my side and stare at it for a moment, my senses disoriented by the sudden switch away from my secret vision. Sweat bathes my body, as if I have run for miles. A noise reaches me from the rear of the house, refocusing my attention.
Rath. He said he would return in an hour. I do not know how long I was inside of myself; there time had no meaning. I heave myself to my feet, staggering a bit as blood rushes to my head. My legs tremble. I am so tired.
No time for that. I hear his footsteps in the hall, coming closer. I do not know what he will do to me, now that I have survived his attempted murder, but I do not mean to wait to find out.
I slip behind a shrouded chair near the entrance to the parlor, crouching in the dusty darkness. Rath's footsteps draw near. He passes me, striding towards the couch.
"Milady? Are you still with us? I—” He stops, staring down at the empty space I so recently occupied.
Even before he stops speaking, I am rising, moving behind him. My knife is in my hands, the precious Ulean steel blade that I hid in my boot.
A board creaks beneath my foot, and Rath spins, his hand dropping to the sheathed Mor knife still resting at his hip. I step forward, inside the reach of his own blade, and my knife point digs into the hollow beneath his chin. His hiss of indrawn breath cuts the stillness of the parlor.
"Still with you, my Lord, aye. You'll live to regret that,” I grate, pushing on the blade until it slices into his flesh. Blood wells up in the dimpled recess, trickling down the steel.
"Milady, please, a moment if you will. I can explain,” he replies. I can sense that he is striving to remain calm, but the fear in his voice is clear. Good. Let him be afraid.
"I think not,” I whisper, smiling. “You tried to poison me, and if not for my power, you would have succeeded. Since you're so curious about it, it's only fair I share it with you. Look at me."
The words carry the power of command, unfettered and irresistible. I feel Rath jerk, then he lowers his face, even though the motion drives the knife point deeper into his neck. His motions are wooden and stiff, a puppet on tangled strings.
I lower the blade and step back. The moment my eyes meet his, I feel the blood magic shifting, unfolding inside of me like some enormous, dark flower. It keens for his blood, surging against the bounds of my will. Waves of hunger roll out from it, washing across my body.
"Please ... don't...” he gasps. His face grows pale, the blood draining away as he realizes the extent of his peril.
The manor door crashes open as his minions slam into it. Rath's sweetlings tumble into the hall, then turn towards the parlor. They are a mass of nightmare forms and churning, barbed limbs, hoofed feet clattering on the dusty floor boards as they scramble for purchase. Red murder is in their opaline eyes, shining even brighter than the madness that always resides there.
I allow the blood magic to slide deep inside Rath's body, shivering in ecstasy and revulsion as I feel it extrude myriad barbed hooks. The magic threads itself through his soft, yielding tissues. I give them a sharp tug, and blood seeps from a dozen ruptured vessels, the phantom taste communicated back into me through the connection we now share. He moans, his face suddenly pale.
"Tell them to stop or I'll pull your life out by the roots,” I say with relish.
He knows it is no bluff. The creatures instantly halt, just outside the room. They strain against his control like eager hounds, senses inflamed by the presence of such nearby prey.
"Please...” Rath tries again, forcing the words past the grip of my magic. “I ... have a ... reason ... for what I did. There is ... someone you must ... meet."
"No. The time for social pleasantries is long past."
"If you kill me...” he gasps, as the blood magic pulls again, “then you will ... never know ... why the Mor hate you so."
I pause, palm outstretched. All I need do is close my hand and he will die. The moment he does, the sweetlings will depart, their souls flying free when the fetters of his will are removed. If I kill him, I will be safe.
But I must know.
"You lie,” I say, my mind racing. “You know nothing. All you care about is living for another few moments.” I twitch my fingers, a move that my power echoes in his flesh.
He grimaces in pain but still manages a smile. “I do not ... lie. I know ... the reason. But I had to be sure ... you had the power. I ... need you!"
He sags, struggling for breath. The sweetlings shift and strain, yearning to attack. He shakes his head, unable to continue. I voice a frustrated sigh.
"Send them away and I will release you. But make one move to threaten me...” I give the magic a fresh tug and Rath moans. Blood oozes from his nose, twin freshets of crimson. His face is as pale as a corpse's. All he can do is nod. A moment later, the creatures withdraw, shambling back towards the door. I wait until the clatter of their feet recedes.
I command the blood magic to withdraw, and after a moment it responds, releasing its barbs and slipping free of his flesh. I feel a bone-deep loathing at the sensation, mixed with a wild elation. I swore, to myself, and to others, that I would never use that knowledge again. But what choice did I have? As soon as it is free, Rath sags, sprawling on a dusty chair.
I sit across from him, far enough that he cannot lunge at me but close enough that the power of command in my voice can easily reach his ears. The steel knife rests in my fist, a much more obvious but far less deadly threat. It comforts me, nevertheless.
"Talk."
Rath spits blood onto the floor, struggling to compose himself. For an instant, I see murder in his eyes, ugly and savage. Then it is gone, pushed behind his courtier's facade.
"I'll be happy to, milady, but it's easier ... if I show you.” He holds up a trembling hand, forestalling my protest. “I give you my word I will do nothing else to harm you."
"Your word?” I scoff. “What is that worth?"
He shakes his head. “I meant what I said: I have no personal desire to harm you, but I had to know that you were the one. I need you, Kirin. Please."
He sounds sincere, but I have seen the snarling beast that lives behind his eyes. He and I share the secret of communion with the dead, but this does not mean we are similar in any other way; my mistake was to think perhaps we were. I will not make it again.
"Come, we should go. You'll want to see this,” he says, taking my silence as acceptance. He seems weary and sore. I come to my feet beside him, the steel in my fist glittering in the dim light. I gesture for him to lead the way, and together we step out into the chill afternoon light.
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CHAPTER FIFTEEN
We are still on the steps when I hear the sound of running feet. I look aside, and see Rath's man, Eddard, appear from the darkness, into the square of light cast through the open door. He raises his studded club, grinning. I do not fear the likes of him. The crimson magic uncoils in my belly, singing for his blood and sending a hot bolt of savage pleasure through me.
"No!” Rath screams. “Eddard, get back! I order you!"
The man halts, a look of confusion eclipsing the savage humor of a moment before. The club sags down. “Sir, I don't understand. Your face—"
"You will leave her be! I command you."
Eddard hesitates, torn between his instinct to obey and his desire to hurt me. I wait, calmly, the blood magic sweet in my throat. If he so much as takes one step towards me, I will strike, promises be damned.
His shoulders sag as he relents. The blood magic wails, wordlessly, as I pull it deeper inside of me. Its disappointment ripples over me, colder than the wind. Rath walks towards the closed front gates. I follow behind, and a moment later we slip through the barred portal.
"Command your creatures to stay here,” I demand.
Rath nods and keeps walking. I look behind, and see no signs that anyone or anything is following.
"Where are you taking me?"
"I promised you I'd show you the reason for poisoning you."
"You also said you know why the Mor hate me,” I add.
Rath looks back at me over his shoulder. His eyes light with wry amusement. “So, it's true. They really do hate you,” he breathes.
"You didn't know?” I bark, a fresh surge of anger flowing over me.
"I ... deduced that it might be the case, yes,” he replies.
"How? Why would you think that?” I say, wondering what else he knows about me.
"I have my reasons. Ones I will share with you at the proper time.” A satisfied smile turns up the corners of his lips. Red magic wells up, pushing into my throat, hungry for violence.
"So you were lying when you said you know their reasons? Did you say that just to spare your skin?” I ask, striving to stay in control.
"No, it's not a lie. At least, I don't think so,” he replies, seeming oblivious to his peril. I take a deep breath and force the magic down once more. Like it or not, we have a bargain, and I will not be the one to dishonor myself by breaking it. Is a trivial bit of honor, but I cling to it. I have so little left.
"Can you tell me what happened?” Rath asks. “What made you realize the way the Mor feel about you?"
I weigh the merits of replying, resisting the urge to remain silent simply to spite him. I cannot know the extent of his wisdom. If he can give me the answers I seek, then I must risk telling him more.
"When I was on the wall,” I begin, “I sensed the Mor were looking for something. I opened my secret eye, and it seemed, in that moment, they could see me as well. When they did, their spirits all reacted very violently. They—"
"You saw them? You actually saw their ghosts?” Rath asks, stopping in the middle of the road. I pause as well, maintaining the distance between us.
"What I wouldn't give to see them,” he babbles. “To command them! Can you imagine? With such material at my disposal, the things I could do..."
I wait for him to finish, saying nothing. His eyes are a thousand miles distant, no doubt distracted by visions of summoning sweetlings from the Mor's monstrous flesh.
"If you desire to see dead Mor so badly then all you need to do is man the wall. I can recommend a good spot,” I say, not bothering to hide my sarcasm.
"Of course. I meant no harm,” he says, seemingly chastised. “This way."
Together, we wind our way through the labyrinthine streets of Low Town. The buildings crowd close, leaning towards one another. Every window is shuttered tight against, I imagine, unwelcome eyes as well as the biting
chill.
Rath walks down the narrow street, stepping carefully across the channel of slushy brown filth running down the center of the cobbles. The street smells terrible despite the cold, a thick stew of human waste, cooking vegetables and hopelessness. Low drifts of snow lie piled against the buildings’ walls, glazed with frozen rain. After a time, he turns and walks to a building, one like a hundred others we have passed.
Once, many years ago, someone tried painting the closed shutters blue. Now they are faded and chipped, the grimy cerulean hanging from the battered wood in strips. It is the place's only attempt at decoration. The rest is all decaying wood and crumbling brick, like every other house on the row. Rath opens the unlocked front door and peers into the darkness beyond before stepping inside.
"'Ware the floor: it's a bit rotted next to the stairs,” he warns me. The boards creak beneath his booted feet.
I follow, careful to step only in his muddy footprints. The only light comes from the City's pale, reflected cloud glow, radiating through the dim skylight three floors above. It is barely enough to make out the dim shape of the stairs, and the piles of trash heaped against the walls.
We ascend the stairs to the second floor. The smells of boiling cabbage and too many people crammed into too small a space intensify, until I must breathe through my mouth to endure it. Rath walks to an unmarked door at the end of the hall and slips a key into the keyhole. He fumbles with it for a moment, then throws a breathless laugh back over his shoulder.
"I'm sorry, but I'm very excited,” he says. “I've been waiting months—years—for someone who can appreciate this. And, to help, of course."
I breathe across the coils of the blood magic, rousing them to wakefulness with a thought. His words could be a warning to whoever is inside. I pity them, and him, if that is the case. The lock finally yields, and Rath pushes open the warped door with a shove. Dim candlelight stretches a golden finger into the squalid hallway,