Lord of Secrets

by Breanna Teintze

  My hand clenched into a fist. ‘Don’t call her that,’ I said. The half-painful, hissing tug behind my breastbone confirmed that I had made it an order.

  He glanced up. ‘Willing to let me have another glimpse, just to protect her memory? Let’s not be naïve, Cricket. People like her will always turn on you, sooner or later. You can’t even blame them. It’s in their nature to deceive and take advantage of their betters. You call me a liar?’ He rubbed out half of my name. ‘I’m honest about what I want. We’re too much alike, you and I. You can tell when I’m trying to lie to you, which makes it somewhat unproductive. And I, of course, know everything about you.’

  The magic around me flexed. There’s no other way to describe what happened – it was like pushing on a rotting wooden door. The circle was almost broken.

  ‘Then maybe you can explain to me why you’re talking, instead of getting me where I can do some good,’ I said.

  ‘Because as soon as I erase the other half of your name, you’ll go tearing after the – girl, and you won’t listen to me.’ Jaern wiped his hands across the letters, leaving one long blue smear. ‘And I’m trying to convince you not to divine for her.’

  ‘What? Why not?’

  ‘Divine for the doll.’ He straightened. ‘What are the odds, after all, that she stole the thing for herself? Did she look like a necromancer to you?’

  I pushed past him. I had only been in the circle for an hour or so. If I was quick enough, maybe I wouldn’t need to divine. Maybe I wouldn’t need to decide whether I was chasing Brix or the doll.

  I halted on the cabin’s porch. Even the dim firelight in the house was dazzling compared to the utter blackness of the night outside. There was no moon, and the cloud cover must have been heavy enough to blot out the stars. I could only see inches in front of me.

  ‘Lorican,’ I said. A startled snort from the darkness to my left. The idiot had slept through everything? I grabbed for a pencil to scribe an illumination spell.

  Dammit.

  Brix had taken my satchel. I would have to get a lamp, like a sapskulled farmer. And it served me right.

  ‘Wake up,’ I said, in what I assumed was Lorican’s direction. ‘Brix is gone. We’ll need the horses.’

  I went back into the house to look for a thrice-damned lantern.

  *

  As it happened, I had to wait for daylight. Acarius had possessed exactly one lantern, a sorry, cheap affair that only half-worked. It had always hung on a peg by the fire, which was probably where Brix saw it and took it from. I fished a half-burned stick out of the fire and tried to use it to scribe, but that produced runes that were so soft-edged and smudged that the incantation was unstable. Even Acarius’ inkwell, tucked into the corner of the bookshelf where he kept his journals, was dry.

  There should have been enough reagents to make some alchemical paint in the upper floor of the tower, but with no lamp I wouldn’t be able to see what I was doing well enough to keep from blowing myself up as I mixed the recipe. Jaern could have cast an illumination spell, but I knew he wouldn’t do it unless I commanded him to, and I had no desire for him to have another look at my mind.

  I sat on the hearth in front of the dying fire and answered Lorican’s questions until the urge to stab someone became overwhelming, and then put my head down on my knees and pretended to sleep.

  As soon as dawn broke, I went to the tower. This time I climbed the twisting staircase that lined the outer wall until I got to Acarius’ laboratory.

  Against one wall was a shelf full of clay jars and dusty, stained glass vials. There wasn’t much left inside the jars. My grandfather never believed in over-stocking. Still, there were enough reagents to make a couple of vials of red and green paint. I mixed as quickly as I could, pocketed the vials, scrounged an old brush from the stained workbench and followed the stairs up to the roof.

  The roof of the tower had once been the inside of the fifth storey. Now it was just a flat, round stretch of stone floor, scoured clean by centuries of wind and rain. I wrote a series of runes on either forearm, knelt, and began scribing a divination spiral.

  It was foolish, if you like. Divination is toxic and can cause lingering hallucinations. I should have found a way to get Jaern or Lorican up there with me, so they could pull me out of the spiral if I started having a seizure. But I wasn’t certain that Jaern would help me if I didn’t force him, and I also didn’t want him observing the divining. All he’d have to do is touch me during the spell, and he could pull the magic towards his own query.

  And I couldn’t face Lorican, not in the light of day, not until I knew exactly how much my mistakes had cost me.

  When it came time to put a focus at the centre of the spiral, I took a deep breath and drew the piece of sigil-carved obsidian from my pocket.

  Jaern was right. I couldn’t divine for Brix, or even for Acarius’ location. I didn’t have any way to focus on Acarius – lacking a tracker, I’d have needed a lock of hair, a tooth, a fingernail – but I did have a significant piece of the doll. There was no way to save Acarius without the Empty One, so I had to find it. It was that simple, and that difficult.

  I put the gem at the centre of the spiral, placed my hands carefully on the runes and pronounced the spell.

  North-west.

  My surroundings began to blur. I lost them less suddenly than I had when Acarius had contacted me – lost the beevine-scented wind, the trees whispering in the distance, the slick paint under my hands, one by one – leaving me with just the shifting pulse of the divinatory vision.

  I smelled oxen, and the warmth of wood under the sun and . . . incense. That was unexpected enough that I leaned harder into the spell. Brix was taking the doll north-west, and the oxen argued for a caravan of some kind, but incense? What did that mean, a temple?

  The magic surged through my veins, swirling with sensory impressions. Slick glass. Metal. Cold. Fear.

  Cor Daddan.

  It was the name of an ancient fort, a Daine ruin that had been the site of a bloody battle. I had only heard of it because it was on a trade route and sometimes caravans still used its wells. Why would Brix be taking the doll there? Why—

  I brought it, like you said. Brix’s voice echoed in my head, stark with horror. I brought it, now you give me her flask. Let her out. You promised.

  Flask? That couldn’t be right. Everything people had whispered about Tirnaal, the legends about djinn-blood and magic and people whose bodies could compress and expand . . .

  The muscles in my forearms bunched. I struggled to control the spell. The doll. I needed to keep my concentration on it.

  The flask is at the citadel. I’m not a fool.

  Not Brix. She wasn’t the one at Cor Daddan. I knew the voice, though, contemptuous, smug. I could almost see the look on Keir’s face. He was communicating with someone over distance, maybe with some version of the incorporeal projection Acarius had used to speak to me. Nausea tickled the pit of my stomach and jets of bitter spit welled in my mouth. The toxicity from the divination spell was building up quickly. For a brief, infuriating moment I could catch the scent of what Keir was thinking, the purr of his greed.

  Now it doesn’t matter anymore whether the old man talks, or whether he dies.

  A spike of agony drove itself into the base of my skull. The magic bubbled and changed around me, thick as honey, choking. I had to break the connection now, before it got any worse. I pulled my hands off the runes in careful sequence.

  And then I was alone again, on my knees in the dawn light, alchemical paint still stinging against my clammy skin. I hitched myself away from the spiral and sat there shivering, waiting for the poison in my veins to fade.

  The doll was going to Cor Daddan. Keir was already at Cor Daddan.

  That meant in order to rescue Acarius, I’d have to get past wards, traps and a dozen wizards specifically trained to maim and kill with their magic. And that was without taking into consideration the plain swords and daggers that were likely
there, the sheer distance between me and the ruined citadel, the price on my head, the improbability that I would catch up with Brix and the doll before they tortured Acarius to death. Any man of sense would have concluded the whole thing was suicide.

  ‘Grandfather,’ I whispered. ‘What do I do? What am I supposed to do?’

  I knew what he would say: Wizards move on. Get up. Keep fighting. Don’t let them see you weak, because they won’t pity you.

  I swallowed again, several times, but it didn’t help the nausea. It wasn’t as though I didn’t already know what I was going to do. It wasn’t as though I could stop imagining Brix’s face.

  Get. Up.

  I got up.

  *

  The tiny lake was the only thing nearby to wash in. I made my way there in the rose-pale light of the morning, scuffing through the tall grass, and squatted by the edge of the water to rub the paint off my arms. Then I dunked my head and face for good measure. I’d vomited into the bushes at the foot of the tower and I wanted the taste out of my mouth. I wanted the taste of the whole damn business gone.

  I stood up, dripping and freezing. The cold was all right, actually. Staring into the green water, too numb to think about how much everything was going to hurt in a minute – that felt all right.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Lorican’s voice, from behind me.

  Gods, no. I couldn’t talk to him, not when I had no idea what to do next. ‘I’m either dancing a jig or washing, I’ll leave it to your observational skills to determine which.’ I swiped my sleeve across my face. ‘Where’s Jaern?’

  Lorican grimaced. ‘Sitting in the middle of the floor staring at the ceiling like a snake watching a mouse. I’ll ask another way, then. What were you doing?’

  ‘I was divining.’ Why wouldn’t he go away?

  ‘And you know where to go?’ he said. ‘You know where Acarius is?’

  ‘I’m a fool,’ I said. The toxicity of the spell, the lack of sleep, the sick weight of my blunders – all of it crowded into my chest, and I couldn’t get enough air. ‘I knew someone was bringing the Guild down on my head. I knew Keir wanted the doll, and someone near me was trying to get it for him. I thought it was you, but it was Brix. All along, it was Brix. She’s gone, with the doll, and I can’t help Acarius without it, and it’s my fault.’ I breathed slow, through my nose. ‘I was wrong. Stupid. There’s no excuse, and I apologise.’

  Silence crawled by, thick, uncomfortable. I licked a drop of water off my upper lip and forced myself to look at him.

  ‘I’m sorry, lad,’ Lorican said. ‘I know she mattered to you.’

  ‘Gods, don’t.’ The cold air bit at my wet hair. ‘Don’t do that. I know I’m a prick. I know I shouldn’t have treated you the way I did. You should be angry with me. I can’t – I don’t—’ I choked on the words, couldn’t look at him. ‘What in the hells did Acarius do for you that keeps you here?’

  He didn’t say anything for a long time. Eventually he bent and picked up a stone, and skipped it across the surface of the pond with one effortless flick of his wrist. ‘Saved my life, as I told you.’

  I started walking back towards the cabin, and Lorican fell into step beside me. ‘Assume he hasn’t told me anything. Saved your life how?’

  ‘When I was sixteen I joined a work crew that was rolling out to Genereth,’ he said. ‘Orphan kid. There were a lot of us, all looking for work in the dye vats and fabric mills. I thought I might as well seek my fortune there as anywhere. Acarius was on the same caravan. In the wastes south of the city we got hit by bandits. Everybody died, except your granddad.’

  ‘And you,’ I said.

  ‘No.’ Lorican halted. ‘I died when I was sixteen, Gray.’

  I froze, one foot on the porch step. ‘What?’

  ‘I took an arrow to the gut.’ Lorican spoke with slow exactitude, like a man reciting a litany. He never took his eyes off me. ‘Watched myself bleed out. Acarius had been over the hill when the bandits hit, taking a piss or something. By the time he got back, everyone else was dead and I was almost there. I must have been crying. He found me leaning against a wagon wheel, and kept saying it was going to be all right. And he had this . . . bottle, with red stuff in it.’

  My throat went dry. ‘You’re aware, I suppose, how this sounds.’

  Lorican gave a little shrug, his face taut. ‘Goddess knows I don’t remember much of it, lad. But when you close your eyes on that kind of hurt and then wake up in a different body, you believe. Somehow your granddad moved me – the part of me that thinks and feels – from my dying body into one that wasn’t dying. I wasn’t Erranter before. I’m not complaining, mind. They’re my people now, and more kin than I had before.’ He smiled. ‘Besides, Erranter worship Linna. Makes sense for a man in my condition to pray to the Lady of Change, wouldn’t you say?’

  I swallowed, and tried to think of a logical question. ‘And where did he get your current body?’

  ‘Acarius found a dead Erranter kid among the orphans, somehow fixed the broken neck and put me into that . . . this body.’ Lorican eyed me, like a wary dog. ‘I know, it sounds—’ He grimaced.

  Plausible. It sounded plausible. I had never believed that Acarius was ignorant about necromancy; it wasn’t like my grandfather to avoid an entire branch of study just because it was unsavoury. He had, at least, known enough to always teach me to keep away from it. Necromancy was vile, on a level with compounding poisons or selling back-alley curses. But what if it had been the only way to save a life?

  And so – what? He had repaired a fractured spine? Built a ‘handmade body’ like Jaern’s, in the time between capturing Lorican’s soul and implanting it? Had all this knowledge, but never seen fit to tell me about it? Was this why the Guild hunted him? Was this why Brix had stolen the damn doll for them?

  Of course it is.

  Because if Acarius could implant a soul and Keir Esras could force him to share that ability, overthrowing the Charter and revolting against the king would barely be a risk. The Guildlord could get himself a new body whenever he wanted. He could raise an army of marulaches whenever he felt like it, order any king in Varre around like a servant-boy. Hells, eternal life itself wouldn’t be a problem.

  Lorican could have been lying, of course, but what a strange and pointless thing to lie about. All at once, it wasn’t so difficult to believe he cared about Acarius. Apparently there were whole chambers in my grandfather’s life that I knew nothing about.

  ‘I can understand why you’d feel obligated, after that,’ I said.

  ‘Obligated?’ Lorican said, sounding incredulous.

  I forced myself to move again, up on to the porch. There was no time. Every minute that passed, the doll was getting closer to Cor Daddan, and my chances of rescuing Acarius were getting slimmer. I had to get the horses saddled and collect Jaern before I left. Gods knew where I was going to get food; maybe I could wheedle some out of the villagers once I got out of the canyon. I chewed my lip, trying to think of how to put this in a way that wouldn’t insult him. ‘Look, I have to do something, and there’s no reason to think it’s going to turn out well for me. I don’t want to get you killed.’

  Lorican snorted. ‘This crack-witted idea you’re stuck on of doing everything by yourself – I don’t understand it. Risk is everywhere. I might as well take this one. Why not let me?’

  A dull throb of resentment welled up inside me. Risk. He wasn’t the only one gambling. I’d lived my whole life on the theory that normal folk didn’t help people like me, and I had been right, dammit. The last person I’d trusted was Brix, and now here I was, duped, humiliated. What had Jaern said? Sooner or later, they’ll all turn on you. ‘You don’t owe me your life,’ I said.

  ‘It’s the necromancer, isn’t it?’ Lorican looked upset, which I found vaguely reassuring. Upset people were more predictable. ‘He’s got some kind of hold over you, promised you something. That damn snake would cut your throat in a second, and you know it. He wouldn’t even bothe
r to clean his knife afterwards. You need to be rid of him.’

  ‘I can’t be rid of him, not without the doll.’ Saying it was a relief. This would do it. This would make him go. ‘Jaern’s soul is bound to me, has been since we left Deeptown.’ I watched him, waiting for the disgust to cross his features, waiting for him to realise that I wasn’t worth helping.

  ‘Obligated,’ Lorican repeated. ‘Why do you think Acarius sent you to me? Why do you think I went with him down to that deathtrap temple in the first place?’ He paused. ‘Gray, Acarius gave me my life back. He’s the only one who even knows who I was before. He’s the closest thing I have to a father or a brother, and I have to save him. How could I live with myself if I didn’t try?’

  I couldn’t move for a second, couldn’t put words and sentences together. What do you do when someone lays their loyalty in your hand?

  ‘I’m going to Cor Daddan,’ I said, finally. ‘Acarius is there, and Keir Esras, and I think Brix is taking the doll to him. I’m going to try to catch up with her and get it back.’ I took a breath; it was difficult to get the words past my teeth. ‘If you want to, I could use help.’

  Lorican nodded. ‘Then I’ll come with you, of course.’

  Eighteen

  The road to Cor Daddan was a hard-packed ribbon of alkali-stained clay, not used by much of anyone besides military convoys or floating slaver camps. It ran north-west and climbed into high, cold prairie lands that seemed to stretch forever under a great, steely bowl of sky. Three days out from the cabin, we left the rock-paved caravan route. After that we didn’t see any other travellers for a solid week. Eventually the land began to swell into low hills, and a purple smear of distant mountains appeared on the horizon to the west. The wind almost never stopped blowing, even when the rain crashed through and soaked the air with the glorious, spicy scent of sagebrush.

  I’d managed to beg some food from the villagers, but all too soon it began to run thin. Jaern, who didn’t need to eat, found the situation funny, I think. He rode perfectly, the way he did everything, and only deigned to notice me when he was bored. Lorican kept an even temper, but I caught him sneaking off a couple of times to do sunrise devotions to the Lady of Change, begging her and three travel saints I’d never heard of for luck. He mostly ignored Jaern, but he also never turned his back on the necromancer.