by K. J. Coble
This was myth and magic business, with Strayden and that lout Hegruum—even more than thievery and swindling. You needed an expert in those matters. And Asyra wanted to go, too, she admitted to herself. She wanted an excuse to see Lyssa, make certain she was all right after the day’s ordeal.
Maybe, just wanted to see her...
She was moving, even before the thought finished.
Abandoning the cloak, Asyra strode straight up the lane, didn’t care now if Hegruum looked back. Seeing her in her normal appearance, a few catcalls chased her. A hand slid out for her hip as she neared the heavily-guarded perimeter of the Emperor and followed the lane as it branched left, away from it. She struck it away with a chop of her own, smiled at the hiss of pain and the laughter as others mocked the injured groper.
Her smile faltered as she reached the edge of the space around the White Guard tents, where parked wagons and weapon stacks almost made a barrier around the little compound. She didn’t know what held her up. Something like fear suddenly gripped her, some odd resistance in her chest. The oddness had built within her since her descent from Zadam and the escarpment, a shadow across her thoughts.
The vision, the voice returned to her.
She hadn’t spoken of it to Clover, felt inexplicable talons of dread claw her guts when she even considering doing so. That same raking resumed as she perched here, pondering entrance to Lyssa’s sanctum. The weirdness of it—that strange, impossible figure she thought she’d seen in the sand—sent alarm tingling along every sinew in her body. In a flash of clarity, she knew she should tell Lyssa of it, every bit as much as she should warn her of Strayden’s bumbling. But the dread intensified, slashed along nerves till they were ribbons.
You don’t need to do that, the voice seemed to say. You don’t need them.
She shook her head, as though doing so would clear it. It didn’t. But it strengthened her resolve. She started forward.
And stopped. The ring on her left hand, the bauble that made her one of the Eyes, pulsed, tensed like something alive. That could only mean one thing; it’d sensed one of its one kind in close proximity.
Asyra sighed and pulled back into the shadows. “You’ve taken to following me?”
“Only since I saw you sneaking this way,” Clover said, emerging from the night behind her. “Of course, I figured I’d find you here eventually. It was inevitable.”
Asyra turned to glare at her. “How so?”
The other spy grinned. “Some people are predictable. Although, I’ve got to say, I didn’t realize that you preferred girls.”
Asyra started into a retort, hotly, but cut off the impulse, seeing the little trap Clover had left. Instead, she smiled back. Besides, it wasn’t that she preferred either gender; she just...preferred Lyssa. “How does that matter to anything?” she replied.
Clover’s smile twisted a little. “Shade said it might matter.”
“Well, Shade isn’t here, is he?” Asyra answered, now with a little temper. In truth, she wasn’t really certain their spymaster wasn’t here. He was as elusive as his name.
“He said you’d come here,” Clover said. “To her.”
“We’re friends.”
“He said you’d say that, too.”
“Do you have anything to say that’s your own? Or are you just Shade’s mouthpiece?”
Clover chuckled and held up her hands in surrender. “Look, we’re partners in this. I don’t like it. You don’t like it. But it’s so. I’m just making certain you maintain perspective.”
“My perspective’s fine.”
“If you say so.”
“I suppose you’ll be passing this on to Shade?” Asyra hissed.
“No need to tell him what he already knows.” The other spy’s expression smoothed into something more serious. “But, listen, seriously. If you have to go in there, have to see her, or whatever, just be careful. She’s White Guard. Nothing you two have gone through together has changed that.”
“She’s not like the rest of them.”
“They’re wizards,” Clover insisted, “you can’t trust any of them. You of all people know the truth of that.”
“She’s different.”
Clover shook her head pityingly. “Fine, believe what you want. But remember we have real work here. The Emperor is our work. And this damned camp is lousy with plots and counter-plots.” She grimaced. “The air practically reeks of them. So, we need to stay sharp.”
You don’t need them, the voice whispered again from the back of Asyra’s mind. She shook it away. “I am sharp. I seem to recall saving your ass a few times.”
Clover nodded once in acknowledgment, almost seemed pained to have to admit it. “Then stay sharp.” She nodded towards the White Guard tents. “And don’t stay in there too long.”
“You can wait and watch, if like,” Asyra sneered and started across the perimeter towards the little compound. She felt Clover’s stare on her back.
The flaps of the nearest tent flung open and a man in battered, but still resplendent armor stepped out. His helmet visor was drawn back, looked to have been crumpled and stuck upright. A bruised, whiskered face looked out, but not at her. Eyes scanned the dark behind her. Asyra turned, wondered if Clover was still there, wasn’t surprised to find the other spy already vanished.
“Lady Asyra,” the Church Militant rumbled, gaze lowering to regard her now. “You are expected.”
Hairs stood up along her flesh. She’d never encountered the man. How did he—oh, right. A nervous chuckle escaped. “I’ll bet.”
The huge man in metal stood back, holding the tent flap open for her. “You may proceed inside.”
“Thanks.”
The interior of the tent was clearly some sort of workspace, not quarters. A lantern fluttered from a peg on the middle post. Implements of the wizardly trade, a chest, a small stack of books occupied one side; weapons and armor, another. Some of the armor was rent and stained. A pair of long boxes made hurriedly from crudely-cut lumber crowded the interior to Asyra’s left. A closer look brought a chill to her veins.
They were coffins.
Lyssa kneeled with her back to Asyra over one of these, murmuring something. Gingerly, she lowered tatters of robes so stained in gore Asyra almost didn’t realize they’d once been white. White, she thought. Oh damn. That was one of her Order. Asyra couldn’t help but notice the coffin contained little more than the rags and shivered. Hardly enough to send home. Damn.
“I can come back,” she said lamely.
“No,” Lyssa replied in a partially-distracted voice. “No, just wait.”
She settled the last of the remnants into the coffin and began to murmur again, waving her hand in a circle slowly over it. Purplish glimmer worked along the planks and Asyra’s flesh crawled again. The lid of the coffin twitched once, trembled, and drew itself scraping up over the rest. The purple flared brightly and nails suddenly clacked home, sealing the thing shut. A final glow sheathed the whole thing momentarily, then was gone.
Lyssa rose, just a little unsteadily from her work, and turned to Asyra.
The sight of her brought dueling currents of yearning and concern. She looked terrible, normally rich ebony skin gone ashy, bones sharp behind the skin of her face, eyes rheumy from lack of sleep. But the beauty still held, shimmering behind the weariness, in the green of her eyes. Asyra would’ve reached for her then, but noticed the Militant entering the tent behind her.
Lyssa noticed, too. “Modyn, can you finish here, without me?”
The Militant just barely paused, may even have flicked his gaze Asyra’s way once, before offering her a bow. “Of course, Adeptus.”
“Thank you.” Lyssa turned and moved for a part in the canvas on the tent’s opposite side, what looked like a passage to one of the adjacent shelters. She didn’t look back. Apparently, Asyra was to follow.
Which she did, stepping after the Adept, ducking through a droop of tent flaps, momentarily passing outside, and then through into another. “Yo
u know,” she called after the other woman, “we could probably just—”
Lyssa crashed into her, arms flung around and crushing her close. The fervor of her grip was nearly painful, squeezing the air from her lungs. And the move had been clumsy, the taller woman cracking her chin into Asyra’s forehead with a grunt, but pulling her in, nonetheless, burying her face against her chest.
“Ulp...you know...” Asyra squirmed a little. “I just...”
“Shhhh.”
Lyssa’s words and warmth calmed the reflex to retreat, to make distance between, let no one see, no one know she was human. She surrendered to it, sagged into the other woman, put her own arms around her, just lived in that moment. Trust was a commodity in short supply in her world, and Asyra rarely doled it out. The Pasha’s harem, the mean streets of Maunathyrr, of Daresia, of Scintallard, a dozen brutish, barbarian kinglets, a hundred squalid villages—all had taught her not to. But here, in Lyssa’s embrace, she let it pour out. Just for a moment.
You never let yourself love with your heart...
Asyra stiffened. The words were there, in the gentle hiss of sand stirred by an even gentler breeze purling against the outside of the tent canvas. The vision was there, too, the memory of the thing she could not have seen. The warmth of the moment broke and she pulled a little away from the other woman.
“I needed to know you were all right,” Asyra said, looking up into Lyssa’s face.
She looked down at her, let a hand rise for a moment to touch Asyra’s cheek. The wear Asyra had seen melted from her face like a morning mist wilted by the rise of the sun. A smile creased her face, revealed pearly teeth and a twinkle to her eyes, gold speckle on green. “Same,” she replied.
Ayra could feel her heartbeat shaking the both of them, so close were they. For a moment, she wanted it to be more, just as sneering Clover had suggested. In another moment, she remembered herself, remembered the reasons it couldn’t be. She started to pull back. “We couldn’t tell anything for certain, from our vantage.”
Lyssa’s smile hardened a little, some of the glitter of her gaze fading—whether it was the same realization of boundaries or hurt, Asyra couldn’t say. But the sorceress let her go without resistance or comment. “It was...” she started, winced, and seemed to consider how to go on. “It went rather less according to our plan on the field.”
Asyra swallowed, thought of the coffins. “You were in danger?”
“Of course,” she replied. “But probably no more than you.”
“I can handle myself.”
“I noticed. Have you been to see Strayden yet?”
“Just, as a matter of fact. The big fool is fine.” Asyra thought about telling her then, of his scheme. But something held it back. The voice. “It looked like the Vothans got beat up pretty bad, though.”
Lyssa nodded and sat down at the solitary cot in the tent. “It was a closer thing than I think anyone realized. We all got beat up.”
“I...am sorry about...” Asyra nodded back towards the other tent, meant the dead.
Lyssa grimaced. “Thank you,” she replied softly. “The Xyxians are no longer particularly original in their magic, but they are skilled. I should have been more ready.” She took a deep breath. “Olvan was not.”
“The kid?” Asyra asked. She’d only see her companion a few times.
“I’m a kid,” Lyssa replied bitterly.
“C’mon.” Asyra stepped over to the cot and set a hand on Lyssa’s shoulder. “You’re more than that. After all you’ve been through—all we’ve been through.”
She looked up at her and offered a little smile, put a hand on Asyra’s. “Right.” She cleared her throat, stood abruptly and broke the contact as she paced to the middle of the tent. “What I am is on my own, now. The Guard sent nothing else. Just me to deal with” she waved vaguely, seemed to indicate the wastes beyond the camp “whatever else is out there.”
“I know the feeling.”
Lyssa turned to her and her expression enigmatic as her gaze went to Asyra’s hand. She could almost feel the ring squirm under her scrutiny. “So, it’s truly official now? You are one of the Eyes of the Emperor?”
Asyra clenched her left hand to hide the ring. “It’s a job.”
“Someone with your skills could find plenty of jobs.”
“Not ones that give me an excuse to check up on you. You may not get this, wizard, but you’re a bit of a bookworm and a flight.”
Lyssa chortled. “I don’t think I’ve ever had it put quite that way.”
“Hey, if I need unholy artifacts destroyed or wizard’s spells broken, there’s no one better. But someone’s got to watch your back when you’re all focused like you get.”
“Funny, I thought that’s why I have the Militants”
“And they always do such a great job,” Asyra drawled before she thought better of it. She clamped her mouth shut, suddenly remembered the dead, again. “Ah, hells...sorry. Didn’t mean that the way it came out.”
“It’s all right,” Lyssa said softly. For a moment, her eyes grew glassy and Asyra could see the day’s horrors etched in them. The wizard gave herself a shake. “You’re not wrong. I do need someone—you...to keep watch over me.”
The way she said it, the way her eyes wandered over her, Asyra sensed more to the words. Or maybe I just want them to be more. She swallowed once, tried to resume her casual tone, though her words came out just a little hoarse. “Well, I’m here.”
“And I’m glad.” Her expression hardened a little. “What do the Eyes think happens now? Now that the Emperor has won his battle?”
“They think there’ll be another one. Of course, when I say ‘they’ I mean me.”
Lyssa nodded. “I had hoped before today that if we defeated the Xyxian army decisively enough, they’d be chastened, would sue for peace. And the Emperor could take that as victory enough, claim the lands he’s already overrun, install this puppet of his, and withdraw back across the sea.” She shook her head. “I can see now that was naïve. The Xyxians will never deal. And Bazul will settle only for total victory.” Bitterness pinched her features. “He is obsessed with this, his Crusade to bring Scintallos to all the world.”
“You’ve been to see the Emperor?”
“I was in his council just before now, representing the White Guard.”
Asyra whistled. “You’ve come far in a short time,” she said with just a bit of a teasing note, “my lady.”
Lyssa rolled her eyes at her. “Like I said, there aren’t exactly any alternatives to stand in my place.” She sighed and had a distant look for a moment. “Elder Cyrok and his games...he claims he doesn’t want to risk too much of our remaining strength on this. But part of me fears he wants it to fail. He wants me to fail.”
“Wizards,” Asyra said with a headshake, “nice crowd to be running with.”
Lyssa nodded and strolled across the tent, to its far corner. Asyra took note of more books, packs crumpled to one side, and a small, fold-up desk with a single candle on it providing the only illumination. A book sat on the desk, left open. On it sat the scorched, corroded coin she’d seen Lyssa use in some of her spell craft. When Asyra let her gaze linger too long on the pages, the cross-hatched script scraped hatefully onto the vellum almost seemed to squirm. She had to look away.
But the wizard fingered the pages of the tome casually. “You’re right,” she murmured. “We are a nasty bunch.”
“I didn’t mean you, of course.”
“Am I so different?” she mused and, before Asyra could tell her of course not, went on. “It’s the Outer Dark, you see. Working in it changes you. Even the very wise struggle with what they find when they delve into it, stare into those Endless Depths. It hardens you. And I don’t mean that in some euphemistic way. I mean you are no longer yourself after it’s touched you.”
“You have changed,” Asyra agreed. “But not like you’re saying. You’re stronger, smarter, more in control than when I first met you.” She ste
pped closer to her, touched her arm. “You’re better.”
“Thanks,” she replied, very quietly. “I only wish I believed that.”
“Believe it. I’m a spy, right?” She held out her arms theatrically. “That means I’m an expert on people.”
Lyssa chuckled. “You are.” Her fingers continued to fidget with the weird little tome on the table. It was smaller than the other ones, of cruder construction, wood slabs as covers, binding of something that almost looked like sinew, and all of it very old.
“Some light reading?” Asyra asked.
Lyssa seemed to remember herself and shut the tome abruptly, with the coin still inside. The motion caused the candle to flutter and shadows to squirm throughout the tent. “It’s an account of the Fall of Zadam.”
“Sounds uplifting.”
“It’s lies, is what it is,” Lyssa said with a snort. “Or, at least, that’s what a lot of the Guard scholars think. It’s a copy, or at least a paraphrasing, by a clerk the in the court of Mag-Kalak, about a thousand years after the Fall. This enterprising fool apparently discovered the Ekrus Necro-Mallika—or, as it’s known by its longer name, the ‘Undeath of Thyss-Mallik and His Empire’—in the Library of Thyssus, right after Kalak’s armies sacked the city. This overly clever dolt thought to transcribe it and perhaps find glory for himself.”
“I’m going to guess it didn’t work out that way?” Asyra asked.
“It’s like you’ve listened to a lot of my stories.”
Asyra grinned. “Well, I know what kind of trouble comes from opening books that shouldn’t have been written.”
A little of the mirth fluttered away from Lyssa’s expression. She, more than anyone, had suffered when their little group brought the Book of Urog-Moloth—the Tome of Flesh—back from its ancient hiding place.
Nice, Asyra, the spy thought, you’re racking up quite a score on sensitivity, tonight.
But Lyssa had already moved on. “So, this fool scribe began copying the account. But, as near as the Guard’s scholarship can tell, the original had magical properties. It kept changing its story, subtly, every time the scribe returned to it to transcribe. So, he had to change his account, every time. Slowly, over years, this degrading process of endless revisions began to rot his mind. And more—just as the account rewrote itself, so, too, did his mind rewrite itself. He didn’t just go mad; he became deranged. He butchered his servants, set fire to his house, and let himself burn to death with it.”