by J D Bowens
Zamari nodded at her explanation. “Then he is indeed gifted. Perhaps even Blessed. If we can reverse his decision and convert him, he will make a great addition. He will be a strong tool for Nemoth. A fine replacement. We will begin the summoning spell soon. Sister Lorna and brother Feldren are already here and are preparing the spell under the keep. I believe we should be able to retrieve the Crimson Throne in a couple of nights.”
“Won’t we need an anchor to pull the throne through the summoning spell?”
“An anchor is already in place in Anidrack. All that remains is for the spell to be prepared and for the wards to be removed.” Zamari stopped just outside the door to Synara’s chambers. She still clutched the Pilgrim Stone to her breast. With her free hand, she reached out and caressed Synara’s cheek. “Be sure that you are ready for the ceremony. You and Malin will play an important role. For now,” she turned to a young servant girl passing, “Draw up Sister Synara a warm bath.”
“Yes, Mistress,” the young woman said.
Synara almost melted when she heard the word ‘bath.’ She followed the maid, eager to leap into a warm tub. The hot water was a soothing balm against the ache of travel. She scrubbed away the dirt and let herself soak in the water. Her handmaid threw in dried flower petals and lit lavender incense. The fragrance seemed to carry away the sores and her worries. She looked out the window to see the stars faint shimmer through the twilight of the evening. Every passing moment, they shone a little brighter.
One more month until the Red Moon. And then order will be restored to the world. The pantheon of false gods would be obliterated, and those scornful nobles would be brought to their knees.
She thought of all the children like her who had been mistreated by the Servants of the Quintetta; all the innocent people sacrificed in the name of false gods. At last, the world could be restored to order under the authority of a true deity.
Only those who did not surrender would be punished. Zamari said the Stone would transform the world and after a hundred years she would open the doors to Obsidian Temple. Then the Father of Blood and Shadows, Nemoth himself, would come to reign over the mortal realm.
The overwhelming sense of accomplishment inspired her to sing her favorite hymn for Nemoth:
Though the sun burns bright,
it flees from the night.
Brilliant rays and warm sunbeams glow
match not the solace of the shadow
There’s no offering like blood,
There’s no peace like the night.
Let shadows then flood
and blot out the light
As Synara dried herself with a towel, she debated whether she should wear her ceremonial n’moc. The bold black and red threads of the robe made her feel powerful and beautiful. No, I shall wait until the summoning ceremony. It will be even more special.
The halls were quiet as she strolled and she encountered only a few servants. She left the temple and turned into the keep where more servants hurried about. They carried linens in their hands, and the smell of dinner wafted out from the kitchen and into the first floor of the Keep.
Are we expecting visitors? She darted up the stairs to the top of the keep and watched the horizon as the stars took the night. Torches and lamps lit the keep and temple. Shadows crept over the distant village, the mountains to the east, and the long empty dirt road that led to the entrance of the castle.
The early autumn breeze grew colder as a coach came into view along the road. Another coach trailed behind it with several horsemen. They carried no banners to identify themselves, but Synara recognized the dark-skinned riders.
They must be from the Southern Empire. General Moredei and Lord Gairun must be here. She had never met them personally but knew to regard them with great respect. Their soldiers and bannermen accounted for nearly half of Zamari’s army.
Dromedus and Zamari emerged from the keep’s entryway beneath her and walked into the courtyard to greet them. Synara left her place at the tower and joined them just as the coaches pulled through the gate.
“The generals are here?” she asked.
“Yes, I called upon them before you left,” Zamari answered. “I need them to bring their armies here before the Red Moon arrives. I shall introduce you to them: the girl who brought us the Pilgrim Stone.”
Synara could not help but blush with pride as even Dromedus smiled at her.
From the first coach stepped a tall man, his colorful clothing - red, orange, and gold - appeared more brilliant on his black skin. An odd sword swayed at his hip - a scimitar Dromedus had described to her once. His beard was a long braid, black with thin gray wisps intertwined. The turban covered most of his head, but Synara could tell it was shaved. The wrinkles lining his gaunt face told her that he was much older than Dromedus, perhaps as old as Grimhold. Two younger men, armed with swords and knives, also arose from the carriage to stand on either side of him.
“General Atticus Moredei,” Zamari greeted, “Father bless you with his shadow.”
General Atticus smiled and greeted Zamari. “And you as well, Lady Grimhold. It has been a long time. Are you ready to become Queen?” His accent and attire made it clear that he was from the Southern Empires.
“I am more than ready,” she said. “Are you prepared to lead an invincible army through the north?"
“Anything for the Queen of Amarant,” he said with a bow.
A gentleman rolled out of the second carriage. His rotund figure hobbled through the courtyard over to Zamari and bowed with little grace, his droopy mustache touching his shoes. “M’lady Grimhold, it is good to be here with you, the true Queen of Amarant.” His labored breaths sounded like an old hound.
“Lord Gairun, I am glad you could come join us. I hope this journey was not too hard on your health.”
“Not at all, nothing is too difficult for my Queen.” General Moredei rolled his eyes at Gairun as the fat lord shooed away servants brushing the dust off of his clothes.
Synara herself could not help but sneer at the obsequious behavior. The toady nobleman would sell his trust in an instant to the highest bidder. How often she had witnessed men feign piety while eyeing passing maids or stepping over the poor. He had spent years bargaining his army and wealth with Zamari to secure himself a kingdom in Nemoth’s rule. He was not a true believer like Moredei or Dromedus. Those men pledged their lives to make a better world, not to the pursuit of self-interest.
Moredei and Gairun greeted Dromedus with whom they were already familiar. “And this is Synara,” Zamari said, “a faithful servant responsible for the retrieval of the Pilgrim Stone. Thanks to her hard work and Sister Lorna’s efforts the continent will soon be ours.”
“May his shadow be over you,” Moredei said with a gracious bow.
“Indeed, we are indebted to your loyalty and good works,” Gairun said, his nostrils flaring.
Synara caught Gairun’s gaze that focused on her lips a little too long. Zamari beckoned the general and their men in for dinner. As they walked up the steps to the keep, she turned to Synara.
“See to our prisoner,” Zamari said. “I will want to question that boy tonight.”
“Yes, mistress.”
“We will try to save him. So be kind to him Synara,” she said. “It is not his fault that he chose Arden. The elf probably spun him a deep web of lies. We shall see if we can still save his soul and give him the blessings of our Father.”
“Do you really think he can be saved?” Synara asked.
“Of course, he can. He merely needs to be taught the power of the shadow. Once the Elhein’ Kul has cut away the lies, he will see the truth.”
Synara shivered at the thought of the whip. “Do you really think the Elhein’ Kul will be necessary?” Zamari raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t mean to question, mistress. I only thought that he was weak enough to be turned.”
“It will most certainly be necessary,” Zamari said. “The pain changes people. I will use it to mold him to my will
.”
Chapter 37
Consus was awoken by a sharp stinging pain on his cheek.
“Wake up,” someone barked.
SLAP
A hand cut across his face. The dim light revealed three blurry figures before him. His vision focused and he saw a stocky gentleman kneeling in front of him. Behind him, a tall blonde woman, her face and features ageless; the gaze in her eyes cold. The red-haired girl stood next to her; he could not recall her name.
Consus sat on the ground in a room of cold stone. He leaned against a wall; his hands held up above his head. Chains clanked around his wrists and ankles. The cold chill of the stone wall pressed into his back and made him shiver.
“He’s awake now,” the stocky man said. He stood and stepped back.
“Thank you, jailkeeper,” the blonde woman said.
“Where am I?” Consus asked. His jaw hurt when he spoke. He tried to appear brave by not wincing in pain.
The blonde woman approached and kneeled in front of him. She reached out with one hand and traced her fingertips along his wounded cheek. Her touch was like ice and Consus could not help but gasp. She took his chin and stared into his eyes.
“You are still new,” she said. “You have only begun to use your divina magic.” She rose and looked down at him like a governess over a petulant child. “Do you know who I am?”
“A Child of Nemoth.” Answering her was all Consus could do though he quivered inside as he realized the danger he was in. His brothers were nowhere to be found and Leiwyn - was she even alive? He was trapped alone in the jaws of a lion.
“I am his favorite Child, Zamari,” she said, “the high priestess of his glorious shadow. I have waited a long time to find the Pilgrim Stone. I suppose I should thank you and your brothers for finding it for me.”
Consus spat at her feet in defiance. Blaze the consequences.
The jailkeeper lunged forward and punched Consus in the face. Consus’ head bounced back and collided with the wall behind him. Stars appeared in his eyes as he tried to regain focus. Zamari waved the jailkeeper away.
“You should thank me,” Zamari said. “I may have saved you from making a terrible mistake.”
“And what mistake is that?” Consus asked.
“You chose the gryphon instead of the dragon. Or at least you thought you chose it. The elf probably tricked you into the decision.”
“She didn’t trick me,” he said. “It was my decision. I’d never serve someone as putrid as Nemoth.”
Zamari gave a pitying tsk. “‘Putrid?’ Is that what you really think? What do you know about the gods? Who told you Arden was good or that Nemoth was evil?”
Consus did not answer. I won’t play her mind games.
“You don’t need to answer,” Zamari said. “You merely need a change in perspective. Arden and Nemoth, neither are good or evil. That doesn’t exist. There is only power. That is what this war is over; control of the universe.”
“I’d rather die than serve Nemoth,” Consus said. He rattled his chains in a feeble gesture of defiance.
“How can you be so sure?” she asked. “How do you know it isn’t Arden’s wish to destroy this world? You know as much about Nemoth as you do Arden: nothing. I think, in time, you will find him to be a good master. He is benevolent and allows his followers to flourish to their full potential.”
He said nothing; it was better not to entertain her. There’s nothing she can say that will turn me. How can she believe she is in the right?
The jailkeeper walked over and whispered in her ear. Zamari nodded and waved him away. “Your brothers are still alive, Consus,” she said rocking on her knees. “And as long as you are obedient I will permit them to remain so.”
“Don’t you dare touch them,” he barked.
The jailkeeper stepped forward, but Zamari raised a hand to halt him. From the spark in her eyes, it was as if Consus had told her some deep secret.
Zamari sat back on her heels, and the pain returned to his face. She licked her lips when he grimaced as if his pain fed some deep void in her soul. Leaning forward, she whispered in his ear, “If you are an obedient boy I will let them live out their full lives, suffering in fear and dread.”
Consus sneered at her. If I could get one hand free, I might be able to--
Pain flared through his body from his arm. Like an immense fire, it roared through his veins and his nerves. His muscles convulsed and his body contorted as though it were trying to flee the torture.
He looked to his arms, the source of the pain. He saw the tattoos of red and black snakes, one coiled around each wrist of his arms. The pain continued, and the snakes slithered forward around and up his forearm before they abruptly stopped.
He collapsed in his chains and gasped for air. The tattooed snakes had settled themselves halfway down his forearms. What is happening to me? What has she done? Fear swallowed his resistance and kindled the flames of panic. I don’t want to die here.
Zamari howled with laughter as if she had just played a great joke on him. “You must have been thinking terrible things of me. Let me explain how this curse works.” She pointed to the snakes on his arm. “If you try to harm me or anyone, including yourself, you will feel immense pain. If you try to escape you will feel immense pain. If you use your magic, you will feel--”
She kicked him, waiting for an answer.
“Pain,” he somehow managed to say. It wounded his pride to answer, but he’d rather live than be proud.
Zamari smiled with gleeful content. “Immense pain.” She paced back and forth in front of him, the clicking of her heels sounding like a taunt. “As the snakes creep closer, they will stop at your heart, and you will die. Do you understand?”
Consus nodded. He tried not to cry, but the tears were inevitable.
Zamari directed the jailkeeper to remove the manacles and chains. They clattered to the floor as he undid each one. He knelt down and unlocked the chains around Consus’ feet. Before he could step back, Consus thrust his knee into the jailkeeper’s face. The man fell back with rivulets of blood that trickled down his chin from his nose.
Consus was not able to sit up before the spell tore through him. His muscles turned to jelly as he wailed and fell to the ground. He barely noticed the angry jailkeeper as he kicked him in his ribs.
“Stupid filthy moron,” the jailkeeper barked. “You little bastard.”
“That’s enough,” Zamari said. “Leave him as he is. He is of little harm that way.”
Consus passed out as he watched Zamari exit the cell.
Chapter 38
The twilight dwindled in Anidrack, and the orange sky became purple and dark. Archmage Valderma reclined in his chair and tugged at his beard, considering the evidence Altin had presented him.
Altin himself was caught in a restless pace. The past few days had been among the most trying in his life. He had spoken to several other faculty members and students to ascertain what Dandrea was studying. There were no answers that deviated from Dandrea’s: she was studying enchanting magical animals. However, one person stated that he had seen her at the Repository and another commented on how distant she had been since Margaret’s death.
Altin finally ceased pacing. Save for the Tracer Spell, Dandrea’s covered her tracks well.
"Are you certain?” Valderma asked. “Dandrea Gannon has always been drawn to dark things, but she never struck me as a sinister character."
"I feel the evidence is very strong," Altin said. "Margaret left a tracer spell underneath the wards. Anyone who directly touched the ward would have triggered it. The traces of the spell appeared most brilliantly on Dandrea. No other persons, student, teacher or dean, has appeared with this spell, save for Dean Psarikt."
"But how would she have gotten passed the Keeper?" Valderma asked. “He would have recognized her immediately.”
"I suspect she used a rodent to burrow its way into the Deep Vault. She has the knowledge to cast spells on animals. She could have att
ached a ward eating spell to several rats and trained them to release the spell once they made it inside the vault.”
Valderma cursed. “Blasted arcane loopholes. The wards only protect the vault against human life forms, not damned rats. It must have been there for several days before Margaret discovered it.”
“It is likely,” Altin said. “No one would have known to look for it.”
“Have you discovered who she is working with? And what she’s after? I can’t imagine Psarikt being involved.”
“No, I haven’t the slightest indication as to her intentions or who her co-conspirators are.” Altin began to pace the floors of the archmage quarters. “I’m reluctant to rule out Psarikt, but I also can’t imagine him a murderer.”
Valderma shook his head. “I have known Psarikt for some time. He is a kind man; his greatest crime is absent-mindedness.”
“Still his hands were laced with the tracer spell.”
“Bah,” Valderma said. “For all, we know he got that from touching Dandrea’s hands. But then, I find it hard to believe that she would kill Margaret either.”
Altin stopped pacing and hesitated to speak. “Dandrea may have had more motive than most.” He shied away from Valderma's quizzical stare. “Dandrea was diagnosed as a necromancer when we were children. I brought it to Margaret’s attention when I found out, and she was the one who--”
“By arcana, she was the one to block her powers,” Valderma said. He looked at Altin eyes wide and mouth agape. “Why was I not informed of this?”
“It was before your time as the Archmage. I pleaded with her to block Dandrea’s powers and remove her memories. She couldn’t be a necromancer if she couldn’t remember. And there’d be no reason to report her to the Council.”
“And she allowed this?” Valderma asked. His voice was filled with rage and indignation. “She ignored crucial safety protocols? There is a reason we report those cursed with necromancy. They are obsessed with the Dead Arts. They cannot fight the voices that call to them from beyond the Veil. Their obsessions are a danger to us all!”