by Cas Peace
She was alone with Rykan’s Staff.
Chapter Seventeen
Closing her eyes, Sullyan tried to ignore her friends’ thoughts and prayers. She needed a blank mind, no distractions to deflect her purpose. Concentrating on her psyche, she surrounded herself with power, seeing and feeling the twists, loops, and helixes of her shimmering, unfathomable, pattern. Reaching down through the vast layers of her strength, she probed through her soul, finally finding the black, insidious mass that was the last residue of Rykan’s poison.
As she touched it, nausea swamped her and she nearly pulled back. She had done this before with Deshan, but now, alone and with the terrible task stretching before her, she was dismayed by the poison’s hold. It had spread through the fabric of her soul like roots through soil, and she realized she would have to sever each filament separately and oh so carefully. This was going to take some time. She would have to isolate each strand, turning it back on itself before she could use the power of the Staff to finally burn it out.
Lowering her head, she breathed deeply and slowly, all memories and feelings falling away. She could sense nothing. Neither hot nor cold, neither Earth nor Air. There were no sounds but the beating of her heart, the slow pulse of blood through her veins. Blood that was part Albian, part Andaryan. Hybrid blood that might enable her to succeed.
Exhaling strongly, she stretched out her damaged left hand, spreading the fingers wide. On the next inhalation she picked up the Staff.
The silver and ceramic of the Staff began to glow blue-green. Little coruscations ran along its length and it grew warm to the touch. She extended her mind gingerly, merging her own power with the remnant of Rykan’s. The Andaryan link in her blood proved true, but the shock she received almost made her drop the device. She exhaled sharply in pain and clasped the Staff in both hands, holding it tightly against her breast. As she channeled more and more of her own strength through it, the glow increased, spreading a nimbus of power about her. It filled the neutral construct with an eerie, phosphorescent light. Oblivious to it, she began to painstakingly isolate each minute thread of contamination in her soul.
It took over an hour, during which time she was forced frequently to rest. Each thread she severed caused her pain, and the last few, the strongest few, caused so much that she could not bite back her cries. Hot tears ran down her cheeks, and she could sense the strain Robin and Blaine were feeling from the effort of maintaining the construct. Even Pharikian was suffering. But it was almost over.
Laying the Staff down, she bowed her head, rocking gently, hugging herself to ease the pain. Her breathing was ragged, and she knew that unless she could regain some measure of control this last and most strenuous effort would fail. If only, she thought, if only one of her friends could lend her some strength. But they couldn’t reach her in this neutral place, and she couldn’t reach out to them. She felt so alone, so afraid. They were all relying on her, all willing her to succeed. She could feel the pressure of their expectations. More tears came as she thought about them, and she tried to take strength and comfort from their love and support.
Gradually, her breathing slowed as the pain within her eased. She felt as if someone had thrown a blanket of balm over her, offering her a soothing and restful place to be. Soon she was able to raise her head and prepare herself for the final effort. As she did so, she caught a brief glimpse of a pale-faced Rienne, watching with love and concern from Taran’s side.
Sullyan straightened her back and reached out, taking up the Staff once more. She clasped it firmly, gathering her will, her metaforce, and her strength. She needed more power from the Staff, much more, and she took a few steadying breaths. Swiftly then, giving herself no time to think, she flung her energies through the Staff, building the power, stoking it, imbuing the device with all the strength she could muster. The artifact glowed brighter and brighter, surrounding her in a blinding halo of light.
She dimly heard Pharikian’s warning to Robin and Blaine, urging them to focus. They knew they could not allow the construct to fail. No matter what happened, they must maintain it at any cost. Even when they were sure the power had dissipated, they were to wait until Deshan made sure all was safe before dissolving their meld. If they lost control of the structure with her still inside it, she might become irretrievably lost.
The power was rushing to a crescendo and Sullyan knew the Staff could contain little more. This was the point of balance between too much power and not enough. She knew this was her final chance. She could never force herself to bear this much pain again. Reaching down through her psyche, she touched the terrible blackness deep within her soul. It felt alive, she could swear it moved. Sickness crawled within her at the memory of how it had come to be there. Could it feel the closeness of Rykan’s metaforce, contained within the Staff? Was it reacting to the presence of its maker, as it had on the palace Tower before that final battle?
Shaking herself free of the memory, she focused on forging a channel through her soul. The logical part of her mind screamed against opening herself this way, making herself so vulnerable. Yet it was the only way she could get the Staff’s energies to where she needed them. Already she could feel the power burning her, and pain began to rise. Her breathing quickened, her lungs unable to draw enough air. Her strength was depleted after the work she had already done, yet this was precisely when she needed to be strongest. The needle of force she was creating out of the energies contained in the Staff could as easily destroy instead of heal if her touch wasn’t sure. Yet how could she hold it while her body was wracked by such pain?
Shudders of agony bled through her, each one causing her to gasp. There was rhythm to the pain, a sort of cadence, and her unconscious mind latched on to it, allowing her to breathe within each lull. Accepting the agony was the step she needed to take in order for her body to resume its natural function.
At once, her mind cleared. The pain was still there, but its power to distract her was gone. She was alone with the open channel to her soul, at the end of which was a living darkness such as she had never seen. Poised to oppose this darkness was a tight, flaring needle of metaforce, aimed at the heart of the mass.
It had to be now.
At the end of her endurance, Sullyan envisioned the Staff like a bow and the power an arrow. Drawing it back like an archer, she released her hold. The needle of power shot straight and true toward the poison in her soul, and her perception followed. She braced for the impact, watching with strange detachment as the poison boiled and swirled as if trying to avoid the approaching force. Heat and pain increased immeasurably and she opened her mouth in a silent shriek. The flaring arrow plunged headlong into the poison, vaporizing it on contact, sending waves of unendurable nausea flooding through her body.
She doubled over, gripping her belly, her lungs burning with the need for air. The pain rose higher, searing through her nerves, and she began to panic. The force she had unleashed continued on, raging through her soul. It would kill her if she left it unchecked.
Panting, whimpering with pain, she collapsed to the ground. She had to relinquish all her senses but one if she was to save herself from death. Sight, touch, hearing, smell, and taste vanished like they had never been. All that remained was her metasense, that sense of psyche she had nurtured all her life, the sense that allowed her to connect with the primal forces of her existence.
Free now from physical pain, she was able to fix her awareness on the glowing aura that marked the needle’s trail. She should never have loosed it entirely, but it was too late to berate herself now. Now she needed to extinguish it before it extinguished her. The channel through her soul was still open and she plunged her metasenses deeper and deeper, hurtling deeper into her psyche than she had ever dared to go. Twisting, turning, looping, the force had burned its way along every nuance of her personal pattern, altering and remaking some of its structure. She suddenly realized it must stop at the center. Stop, or push through into the Void, taking her awareness with it.
Unfamiliar as her pattern now was, she had to reach and seal the center against this alien force. With luck, she could use her knowledge of Rykan’s pattern—the origin of this force—to help her, but first she must reach her goal. She must not allow this final, spiteful remnant of Rykan to be her undoing.
The anger that rose at Rykan’s memory provided the energy she needed to reach back to the Staff. It still contained some energy. She could use this to throw her mind ahead of the needle and strengthen the center of her soul against its attack.
This last extravagant use of metaforce took all her remaining awareness. She barely had time to flood the center of her soul with an impenetrable barrier before the needle of force struck, the impact flaring brighter than any light she had ever known. The backlash assaulted her awareness, and she was lost to black oblivion.
+ + + + +
The intense light that had blossomed inside the structure faded, revealing Sullyan’s body immobile on the ground. Horrified, Rienne cried out and started forward. Taran grabbed her arm, preventing her from rushing toward the substrate structure.
“Gently, Rienne. Let Deshan check her over. It could still be dangerous, and we don’t know if the purge was successful yet.”
Rienne relaxed into his hold, reluctant but realizing the wisdom of his words. Her eyes were on the Andaryan Master Healer as he entered the structure where Sullyan lay. Deshan kneeled beside her and laid his hand on her brow. There was an agonizing wait while he probed her, and more tension still when he beckoned Pharikian to join him. Robin and Blaine stood firm, holding their end of the tunnel steady, while the Hierarch anchored his end and joined Deshan.
The two of them laid hands on Sullyan and stayed there in silence. The longer they stayed the harder Rienne shook. She longed to run to them, to lend her aid, but Taran’s grip on her arm was sure. All she could do was wait.
Then she saw it. The slightest movement of Sullyan’s hand on the ground. She tensed, praying for her friend to wake up. The Hierarch placed his arm under Sullyan’s shoulders, gently lifting her into a sitting position. Her head lolled against his chest, her eyes still closed, and Rienne held her breath. But then those golden eyes opened and life returned to her features.
Rienne heard a deep sigh from Robin and saw his body sag. He straightened quickly, mindful of his duty. Her eye was then caught by a strange expression on General Blaine’s face—an intense look of relief that seemed excessive, even under these extreme circumstances—but she had no time to ponder it. The Hierarch lifted his eyes to the two Albian men and nodded. Joy flooded Rienne’s heart. Surely this could only mean it was safe to release the structure because the purging had been successful? She let out her own pent-up breath in a thankful rush.
Once the three men had dismantled the structure, Robin and the General approached the Hierarch. He stood, cradling Sullyan in his arms. Taran released his hold on Rienne and she ran to Sullyan’s side just as the Hierarch set her down. With Rienne’s shoulder for support on one side and the Hierarch’s arm around her waist on the other, Sullyan managed to stand. She looked as weak as a newborn foal. She smiled and nodded at the concerned faces around her, too exhausted to speak. Needing more information, Rienne raised questioning eyes to the Andaryan Master Healer.
He obliged her. “I am pleased to report that the purging has been successful. I can detect no signs of the poison within Brynne’s soul. The process, however, has completely drained her energies, and there is also some damage that will need time to heal.” Noticing Rienne’s stricken look and Robin’s fearful frown, he hastily continued. “The damage is not too severe and certainly could have been worse. The poison corroded some areas of Brynne’s soul, and these will need time to mend and refill with her personal essence. With sufficient rest, this process will happen naturally. The energy contained within the Staff, however, left some scarring as it seared through the poison, and Brynne will need help if she is to recover the full use of her psyche.”
Robin stiffened. “Are you saying Sullyan’s powers could be affected for life?”
Deshan gave him a mock stern glance. “Young man, you didn’t listen. I said she would need help to recover, not that she wouldn’t recover.”
Rienne laid a soothing hand on Robin’s arm. “She will have all the help she needs, Deshan. I can assure you of that.”
“I have no doubt, my dear. Right now, what she needs is rest. Someone should help her to her chamber and then leave her to sleep.”
Robin immediately came to Sullyan’s side. He swept her up into his arms and kissed her tenderly before walking away. She laid her head on his shoulder and fell instantly asleep.
General Blaine shook hands with both Pharikian and Deshan, thanking them for their help and cooperation. Pharikian agreed to take the artifact back to Andaryon until the time came to destroy it. Taran and Bull also shook hands with the two Andaryans, but handshaking was too formal for Rienne. She gave each man a heartfelt hug, tears of love and gratitude standing in her eyes. Sullyan’s safety when the Staff was destroyed might still be a concern, but she pushed that to the back of her mind as she watched the two Andaryans cross into their own realm.
+ + + + +
It was late evening in Port Loxton, Albia’s capitol city. In the north quarter of the city, Loxton Castle was quiet behind its protective wall, most of its inhabitants abed. Apart from the sentries and servants, the corridors were deserted. Lamplight showed under only a few of the chamber doors on the second floor, where most of the private suites could be found.
One such chamber was situated within the east wing of the castle. The entire wing had been taken over two years ago by Queen Sofira, after her wedding to Elias. Accustomed to the freedom of her father’s palace in Bordenn, Sofira had refused to share Loxton Castle’s central portion with people such as Elias’s Chamberlain, Lord Kinsey, or his First Minister, Rendan Levant. Privacy was of supreme importance to Sofira. As High Queen of Albia, she felt it was her due.
A fire burned in the generous hearth opposite the chamber window. The heavy drapes were partially open, showing a faint twilight over the castle grounds. Lamps shimmered brightly in wall niches, yet somehow shadows lingered. In a chair close to the fire, the Queen, heavily pregnant with her second child, sipped from a crystal goblet of fine dark wine. Her back was stiff and straight, her honey-blonde hair drawn tightly away from her face. Her hard grey eyes were unfocused and the sipping of the wine was mechanical.
Facing her sat a dapper figure dressed in dark clothes. His face was swarthy, typical of the men from Albia’s southern provinces. His eyes, a darker grey than the Queen’s, rested on the angular countenance before him, assessing and reflecting on her mood. Between his fingers he twirled a goblet, only now and then pausing to taste its contents. The atmosphere was pensive, broken only by the crackling fire.
Eventually, Sofira raised her eyes. “I fail to see what we can do now, Hezra. Surely our cause is lost?”
He placed his goblet on the table and laced his fingers. This was a discussion they had held before. “I pray not, Madam, as I have told you, although it is severely compromised.”
“But how are we to proceed without our outland ally? His aid was crucial to the master plan.”
Baron Hezra Reen sighed. Clearly, she still doubted him. “His death is indeed regrettable, although I still feel he would have caused us trouble once he had taken the throne. However, he was not the only one—”
“I thought you said the other one was useless? He didn’t have the same standing, you said, so how could he ever provide us with the commodity you say we need?”
The Baron took a healthy swallow of wine. It was a rich southern vintage, far superior to the eastern wines Elias favored. Sofira had a good supply of Beraxian reds, her private cellar kept stocked by her father’s vintners. Being the Queen’s countryman and confidante had many advantages, the Baron reflected.
“I doubt he could, yet I am loath to lose touch entirely. He might still have valu
e as a spy, despite not being part of the demon ruler’s court. I intend to let him stew for a while before renewing the contact, let him reflect upon the income he has lost. I have often found that gold, or more likely the lack of it, has great power to stimulate creativity.”
He smiled at her and her lips twitched in response. She was not given to smiling, so this indication of her approval was welcome.
“We may have lost a central player, but remember—we still have the artifact.”
Her lips thinned instantly. “We don’t, though, do we? We don’t know where it is or what might happen to it. And without the outlander lord, we can’t get more ore to make another.”
The Baron shook his head. “The manufacture of another device does not feature in my plans, Madam. I doubt even Albia’s Treasury could bear another such drain. I am hopeful that the fear of the existence of another device will keep them all guessing. Although the youth fears us well enough, I doubt that even Commander Izack could ‘persuade’ him to go through that again. The experience did nearly kill him, and I want him alive awhile yet. No. I have another scheme for obtaining what we need.”
She frowned. “Then it is even more essential to recover the original. What if someone finds out how it was made? What if they discover your involvement? What if they turn it against you?”
Reen froze. There it was again—that subtle reminder that should things go awry, he was alone. “Your involvement,” she had said, not “our involvement.” His anger rose, but he forced it down. This was a risk he had accepted when he first presented the plan to her, the risk that should he fail, he alone would take the blame.
Quelling his prickling irritation, he held her gaze. He had no intention of failing.