The thought made Laria shiver. She only realized that she had begun to back away when Blind Seer nudged her, stopping her in her tracks. Then he gave her a slight shove—their agreed upon signal to advance.
“Advance and do what?” Laria wanted to ask but, even if her companion had been able to manage conventional speech, she would not have risked speaking aloud. The sorceress might have sent her attendants away so she could perform this weird rite in privacy, but Laria was certain that they would come running if there was any obvious disturbance.
As if understanding Laria’s unspoken question, Blind Seer turned his head so that his sharp nose pointed directly at the void orb, following it as it rolled along its chaotic route up and over the rises and falls of its creator’s body. In case Laria didn’t understand, Blind Seer adopted a pose clearly adapted from a bird dog’s point. Then he nosed her, nodded, then shook his head, snapping the air in the direction of the orb.
“We’re here to get that,” Laria mentally translated. “Are you going to pick it up? If not I’ll snap it up with my mouth.”
“And deal with the consequences,” Laria added to herself, although there was nothing of that subtle psychological blackmail in the wolf’s attitude. Simply put, they had come here for a purpose. He was going through with it, whether she cooperated or not.
Laria had no idea what would happen if the wolf held the sphere in his mouth, but she didn’t think it would be anything good. She was pointing to herself, stepping forward, her gloved hand extended, when the orb took action on its own.
Rolling through one of the numerous curves of the inscribed design, the orb rounded a corner, then launched into the air, aiming directly for Blind Seer. The mouth-like slit gaped wide, a rush of air pulling at them both, yet the void sphere did not strike Blind Seer, as Laria had expected. Instead, it skimmed over the great grey wolf, beginning its course near Blind Seer’s head, then slicing a long line along his spine that ended above his tail tip. Reaching this point, it looped around, cutting through the air above the underside of the wolf’s tail, moving along his belly, then up to stir the white fur of Blind Seer’s ruff before coursing under the wolf’s jaw, then coming around to begin the circuit again.
Blind Seer staggered and lifted his head as if to cry in pain. The howl that came forth was soundless, somehow all the more terrible for the agony it revealed.
V
DESPITE THE OVERLAYING stench of incense, the odor even from outside of the pavilion’s exterior had given Blind Seer some warning of what they would find within—or perhaps it had not been his nose that captured the elusive scent, but that other sense he was only just learning to use. Whatever the case, despite this warning, Blind Seer nearly planted his paws and refused to enter when Laria lifted the flap that would give them access to the interior. It wasn’t just that the space reeked of blood—although it did—it was the nature of that blood, hyper-saturated with what the wolf had learned to define as the odor of magical power.
But Laria was waiting for him to move ahead and the wolf knew that, at any sign of panic from him, she would flee—and doubtless be slain. Whether or not that death would be the real death, Blind Seer did not know. There was so much about the nature of Rhinadei and its challenge that was based on speculation, including the reality of what they were experiencing. What was certain was that to fail would mean the end of their search. As long as Rhinadei might hold the knowledge he had been seeking ever since he accepted his magical talent, well then, failure was not an option he could choose.
Besides, he liked this human child, and knew far better perhaps than any in their company how closely she flirted with suicide.
Since his journey with Firekeeper had begun, Blind Seer had taught himself to see much as humans saw. Even so, the peculiar arrangements in the pavilion took him a long moment to interpret, especially since the magic surrounding the woman who lay on the platform distorted all his senses, much as a fog muffled both sight and sound, while saturating scent with heavy damp. The wolf was still sorting through the multi-layered image when the sphere launched itself through the intervening space and began to devour him alive.
The pain was like nothing Blind Seer had ever known. Given that, in Firekeeper’s company, he had been grievously wounded more than once, even to nearly losing an eye, and had felt the soul-searing fires of querinalo, this was saying a great deal. Immediately, he knew what the sphere was doing. Created to harvest ambient magical energy, the void sphere had sensed the source of power that was the wolf-mage and had eagerly leapt to devour it.
On a wolfishly practical level, Blind Seer could hardly blame it. Why hunt mice when there was a moose nearby, sucked chest-deep in a bog? But on an equally reasonable, life-preserving side, Blind Seer wasn’t about to submit to the voracious orb’s attack without a fight. He was a wolf. In his own odd way, he was the One Male of his pack, and he’d never lost a fight for dominance.
Blind Seer tried to move out of the sphere’s orbit, but found that his limbs were not so much frozen into place—for numbness would have been a pleasant relief from the pain—but that they were paralyzed by an agony that soaked every muscle so thoroughly it left no room for motion. He considered howling for help, but Laria would not understand his words, and he wasn’t certain what Farborn could do. The little falcon was brave—none braver—but he was nearly as suicidal as Laria and must not be encouraged to do anything foolhardy.
There was an option, an option Blind Seer knew would enable him to shatter the sphere as easily as he might crush a ball of ice between his jaws. However, should he take it, the wolf knew that their welcome in Rhinadei would be ended, for that option involved the use of blood magic. There would be a lovely technical quibble of the sort that humans loved, for Blind Seer himself would not shed any blood, only claim what another had already taken. Still, the wolf was no human and would not lie to himself. He knew what he would be doing, and that knowledge alone would be enough to condemn him.
Nonetheless, as the pain wracked him, not with a single slash, but with myriad deep cuts that were worse than the bites of a multitude of red ants or the stings of a hive of hornets, the temptation grew to grab hold of the enemy’s power and make it his own. What matter if his choice was taken from him? This was his life, and if he lost that, he would lose so much more.
Nonetheless, Blind Seer delayed the choice breath by tormented breath, standing with his jaws agape in a soundless howl, a wolf carved from suffering, unable to even cry for help as wolves did without shame. Silence was the only weapon he possessed, silence and the hope that he could reach his end without making his Firekeeper feel disdain for the coward he had become.
When the sphere set itself to cycle around Blind Seer, Laria darted forward, uncertain what she could do, but determined to do it anyhow. Then motion from the heretofore motionless figure on the altar caught her attention. Laria glanced over, but the sorceress had not moved. Laria felt sure of that, for the woman’s long hair remained fanned out in an even curve, as it would not be if the supine woman had moved even the slightest amount. Laria thought she must have been mistaken, and was again moving to assist Blind Seer when the same flicker of motion caught her attention. This time she detected the source and shivered in horror.
The eyes painted on the sorceress’s face were moving, their gaze darting here and there without apparent direction, although the sorceress’s own gaze remained blank and unseeing. Nor were these the only eyes hidden among the elaborate lines that covered the woman’s body. Now that they were looking about, two more were revealed tipping the sorceress’s breasts, the nipples serving as pupils. Another eye framed her navel. Other lines revealed within their twists and curves the semblance of mouths. As the void sphere completed its second pass over the wolf, these sucked and seemed to swallow.
Laria stopped in mid-motion, suddenly comprehending what the sorceress—or rather her spell—was doing. The sorceress had sensed in the intruders a source of magical energy that she craved for her own
. Blind Seer was the more powerful of the pair, his undifferentiated spellcaster’s power the greater prize, but Laria had no doubt that she and her much less flexible talent would be consumed as well if they remained long enough.
No wonder the sorceress’s acolytes and servants had been sent away—and had remained eager to keep their distance. The sorceress must have been gathering what ambient energy she could draw from this land without alerting her brother, thereby tilting the balance of the contest in her favor while robbing him of what otherwise would be a shared resource.
Casting around, Laria saw a heap of clothing—doubtless the sorceress’s own, stacked aside for after this ritual. Grabbing a long robe, Laria shaped it into a loose net, intending to capture the orb or, at the very least, knock it off course. Laria knew she was being foolhardy, that the orb might dodge or might transfer its horrid attentions to her own magical energies, but she wasn’t going to just stand there and let Blind Seer be swallowed alive.
As Laria was lowering her makeshift net into place, help came from an ally she’d forgotten until this moment. Farborn launched himself from the upper reaches of the pavilion. Over the course of their association, Laria had learned that the merlin rarely dove, but instead relied upon the speed of his knife-edged wings to let him outpace his prey, often picking flying birds directly out of the air. That he intended to attack the orb in a similar fashion became obvious when, beak open in a soundless shriek, he flew over the void sphere as it coursed along the wolf’s spine. With talons extended, Farborn hit the sphere hard, knocking it off course.
A scream of raw pain rent the silence, then the falcon tumbled to the floor.
When Farborn struck the void sphere, the painted eyes that adorned the sorceress’s body blinked once, then froze open. The horrid mouths had ceased their sucking and swallowing. One advantage of having grown to adulthood as a slave to the Once Dead was that Laria understood how fragile an enchantment could be.
Farborn had bought them time. It was up to her to make certain that time wasn’t wasted.
Laria touched her knife, then rejected it in favor of her canteen. This was no time for bloodshed. She wrapped a portion of the sorceress’s tunic over her free hand. Behind her, she could hear Blind Seer snarl, a soft sound, weaker than it should be, but hopeful nonetheless. Overlaying the wolf’s growl, she heard the erratic beating of Farborn’s wings, stuttering before falling silent.
Laria longed to turn and see what had happened to her companions, but she knew she did not dare let anything distract her. She could see that the sorceress’s breathing was changing, the almost mechanical breaths becoming irregular. Quite possibly she was emerging from her trance. As she closed on the altar, Laria loosened the cap of her canteen. Now she squeezed out a jet of water that splashed onto that painted face, then trickled down over the sorceress’s neck and breasts.
Laria had chosen the woman’s face as her target since, in her vision, she hadn’t seen any indication of the triple set of eyes. These then were likely crafted from ink or paint, while the other markings that covered the woman’s body could possibly be tattoos. As Laria ripped her fabric-wrapped hand across the eyes painted on the sorceress’s forehead, her belly churned with revulsion, for they felt just like natural eyes. Only the memory of Blind Seer—transfixed and silently howling while the void sphere shaved away the magical energy that, as with all spellcasters who had survived querinalo, was inextricably intertwined with his life force—gave Laria courage.
Ruthlessly, Laria swept her now soaked and paint-smeared hand through the lowest set of eyes. As she did so, the sorceress quivered, then shook, her entire body quaking and bucking. Laria had once seen a man struck by lightning, and there was a certain similarity to this motion. That man had jolted as the force moved through him, then he had collapsed. As the sorceress continued to shake, her skin began to swell, plumping out as her body sought—so Laria instinctively understood—to retain the stolen power without the mediating elements provided by the void sphere and the associated spell.
Revolted, Laria shrank back, uncertain if she had inadvertently killed the woman. A solid bump against her side broke her fixation and tore a soft scream from her dry mouth. Laria glanced over to see Blind Seer standing beside her, Farborn’s limp body held gently in his jaws. Fused to the falcon’s talons was the void sphere, coruscated with an infinitude of minute cracks.
Laria gasped, her vision blurring with tears. Blind Seer shoved her with his nose toward the door through which they had entered. His message was plain.
“We have not yet escaped.”
Laria swallowed a sob, fear of discovery helping her pull herself together. Shoving the paint-smeared robe off of her hand, she grabbed a silk scarf from the heap of the sorceress’s clothing, then held it so Blind Seer could drop Farborn and his eldritch prey into the folds. Carrying the bundle close to her chest, Laria followed the wolf from the pavilion and into the now friendly darkness.
Farborn was dead. Blind Seer’s nose told him as much. Wolf-like, he would have left the corpse, but he knew that precious moments would be spent fighting a useless battle with Laria. Let her carry the bit of feather and flesh. In any case, he had no desire to leave the void sphere, even cracked and battered as it was, behind where the sorceress or her followers might yet make use of it.
There was little chance that he and Laria could leave unseen as they had arrived. Even he—untrained as he was—could feel the change in the field of magical energy now that the sorceress’s spell had been broken. How long before one of her followers went to check on the woman? Not long, he suspected. If they did not check on their leader out of loyalty, they would slink close to see if they might feed on the leavings of her hunt for power. Alarm might be given any moment. As the proverb said: Better to make the herd run than be trampled in the stampede.
Yet what could he do? Blind Seer’s muscles still screamed, stretched nearly to tearing by the force that had drawn his mana from him. He did not dare risk a fight, would not even if sweet Firekeeper rather than this brave but helpless human child had been his companion. What then?
Fire will drive even the bravest hunter, quoted a voice in his head.
But Blind Seer had no means to start a fire, even if he so wished, and he did not. Fire drove prey and predator alike because it devoured all it could touch. Would knocking over a lantern and spreading indiscriminate death be counted against them as much as if they had used blood magic? Perhaps not, but relying on destruction did not run with the challenge that his pack had set themselves when they had decided to stop this battle before it could begin. What then?
A shifting breeze brought to him the scent of human waste, human sweat, human fear, and with it an idea.
This encampment was surrounded by pens holding the humans who were to be sacrificed come the next noon. What if he broke some of the fences and set the captives free? There might be slaughter. There might simply be chaos. There would certainly be uproar, especially if he bore through the midst of the mob. There was a risk, certainly, but there was always risk in a hunt.
This risk was acceptable, for the choice to kill or not to kill would be upon the heads of the newly freed. If he broke through on one side of a pen, out the other, he would be offering them a choice. What they did would be up to them.
Blind Seer had not held still while he reviewed his options, but had taken advantage of patches of deepest shadow and the absence of most of the humans to lead Laria to where the encampment’s edge bordered the great plain that, come the next day, was destined to become a killing ground. The girl had bound the scarf holding Farborn’s corpse around her waist so that the pathetically tiny bulge hung just below her belly. When Blind Seer paused, she rested her hand lightly on his back. The great wolf let her feel him tensing, shifting his weight to run, then, with a howl that held within it all the pain and fear he had been keeping within, Blind Seer leapt forward: one bound, then two, lastly he brought the full weight of his body into the slats that made up th
e fence.
The slats bent, then broke, for they had never been intended to actually hold against concerted force, serving instead as a reminder of the line over which the captives could not cross without risking reprisal from the archers in the guard towers. These were as yet holding their fire, for their instructions were to shoot any breaking out. What to do when one lean grey form followed by a quickly moving human girl merged into the suddenly panicking throng?
The human sacrifices parted as Blind Seer surged through their midst, their drug and panic-numbed minds slow to recognize more than that something had erupted into their despairing vigil. He hit the second fence with greater accuracy. This time the boards splintered outward, not only from the impact of his body, but from the combined force of those who suddenly realized that another was breaking trail for them.
This time arrows did hiss from the guards’ bows, but Blind Seer did not let the cries of pain slow him. He did not hear Laria’s voice among them, and the sound of her breathing, regular if shrill with excitement verging on panic, was close. As for the wounded whose blood he now caught hot on the night air? These had been dead men and women until a few breaths before. Now he was giving them a chance for life—or at least a kinder, cleaner death than being sucked in to feed a spell that would waste all around it for the imagined glory of one insanely powerful human.
Or so Blind Seer told himself as he ran, but he had not lived among humans for over half his life without soaking in some of their tendency toward irrational guilt. If his eyes had been equipped for weeping, he might have wept as he pushed his tortured muscles to carry him (with Laria as his tail) out of the range of arrowshot, into the enfolding darkness.
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