She wouldn’t dare! she thought, but immediately believed otherwise. Calmarel lived her whole life as if it were a dare, always convinced that she was right and everyone else was wrong. Calmarel could justify anything to her own mind.
Not this, Lysethra thought grimly. This is blasphemy!
She backed away uneasily. The slave stepped in front of the crib and stared defiantly, as if daring her to confront him. But now was not the time. Right now, she needed to pray.
Irielnea looked curiously around the cavern into which they had descended. Its rough walls, stalactites and stalagmites were the antitheses of the magnificent polished stone walls and columns of the keep above, but the natural formations had their own raw beauty. The air reeked of brimstone, but was also sweltering hot, a sure refuge from the plummeting temperatures of the upper caverns. Off to one side, away from the vents, the air was clearer, and it was here that the remaining population of Zellohar Keep huddled, along with their guests from Refuge.
DoHurley apologized repeatedly for the rustic accommodations, and ordered the cooks to prepare a hearty meal. He brought a steaming bowl of meaty stew and a chunk of hearty bread to where Irielnea sat on a pile of thick blankets, watching the dwarven children run around playing hide-and-seek.
“I’m sorry that—“
“Stop being sorry,” she interrupted with a laugh. “I’m quite fine. In fact, I should be thanking you for putting up with us. The way that storm descended so quickly, I never could have gotten all of our guests to Beriknor. I just hope Tinarre and his companions made it safely to the city.”
She sighed, and saw that DoHurley was about to apologize again. She raised a finger to shush him, and patted the blanket beside her.
“Please sit with me,” she said. “If we’re going to be neighbors, we should also be friends. Sometimes,” she added in a whisper as she leaned close to his ear after looking about furtively, “the Refuge guests drive me crazy. It would be nice to have someone to visit when I need to get away.”
DoHurley’s grin warmed her as much as any fire would have. The king of Zellohar sat down beside her, and together they whiled the day away in conversation.
CHAPTER 28
This isn't what I expected!" Avari shouted over the rushing wind. Riding on Phlegothax was as exciting as she imagined, although the scales pinched when she shifted. Since they were the last to mount, she sat near the rear with Yen tucked up behind her. She tried to ignore his warm proximity, but once they reached Pytt, her attention was fully taken with flying through the fantastic landscape. It’s really more of an airscape, she thought, for the entire realm seemed to be open air, with myriad landscapes floating through it.
“What did you expect?” asked Brok from immediately in front of her. She scooted forward a bit to yell in his ear.
"It just doesn't seem so...hellish, I guess. I mean, look at that! She pointed at a floating mountain, peaked both above and below, and blanketed with lush green forests. As they flew closer, sinuous shapes resolved in the foliage, and emerald eyes peered out as they flew past.
"And that!" Some distance away floated a blue ball of water, its surface whipped to a chop on all sides by the unending winds. The water was so clear, she could see sea drakes cavorting within.
"One creature's hell is another's heaven," Brok shouted back. "Dragonkind are diverse. It stands to reason that their god's realm is equally diverse."
Suddenly a mountain of barren black stone hove into view. Bright lava fountained from vents, splattering back down in lazy arcs of incandescent molten rock.
"That's more like what I expected."
"We've got company!" Yen called from behind her, and she turned to look where he pointed. A huge shape wheeled on the air. It was a dragon of shining silver, its immense wings furling and expanding as it swooped and banked. Avari couldn’t take her eyes off of it, it was so beautiful. Then she noted smaller winged beings, looking like bugs, flying around it.
"What are the little ones?" she called out to no one in particular.
Voncellia answered. “I’ve been reading up on dragonkind in Braelen’s journals. Although there are dozens of different types of dragons and dragon-like beasts, Pytt is populated mostly by the servants of Draco—drakoll and other saurians. And they’re not so small, at least as large as humans.”
“Shay!” Avari called out. “Drakoll! You better hope we don’t meet the one you summoned to be your servant!” She leaned around Brok to see if her jibe hit home, but Shay was hunkered down over Phlegothax’s withers. He looked worried.
The beautiful silver-hued dragon flew lazily toward them, and Avari was startled to realize that it was twice the size of Phlegothax. Phlegothax roared; Avari felt the vibrations through her legs and seat, and her ears rang. The larger dragon seemed unimpressed, cocking its head to look at them.
Several drakoll split off from the silver-hued dragon and flew toward them. Now Avari could see that they wore jeweled baldrics and belts, and carried lances and swords, though their clawed hands and feet and prominent teeth seemed weaponry enough. She heard Hufferrrerrr growl, and Lynthalsea speak calmingly to him. One flew by Phlegothax’s head and seemed to be conversing with him. Their mount suddenly banked, following the drakoll that flocked behind the silver-hued dragon.
"I guess we’re going to meet with Draco," Yen said, his breath warm in her ear. “Do you think Pytt will turn out to be our heaven or our hell?”
Calmarel found herself in front of the portal, with no memory of her trip back from the catacombs. A ripple flowed across the portal's surface. For a moment she considered stepping right in to see what it would do to her, but her instinct for self-preservation was too strong. She waited until the portal surface was smooth and clear, clenched the ruby, and stepped through. She strode past the rock trolls and into the citadel, quickening her pace. This was the most dangerous time, she knew; she had to conduct the sacrifices before her resolve failed.
She was nearly running by the time she reached her quarters. Bursting through the door, she ran across the room and snatched up the baby from its crib. She tucked it under her arm, not daring to look at it. She apparently had startled the child, because she started to cry.
Don’t listen, don’t listen, Calmarel repeated as a mantra. One-handed, she fumbled in her strongbox for the enchanted silver knife that she reserved for sacrifices. Finally, she found it and raised it high. I can do this. I can do this. And the Dark Gods will reward me.
A large, strong hand clamped onto her wrist. Jundag.
“You will not harm this child,” he said quietly.
"I will not become like him!" she insisted as she fought to free herself from his grip. The baby’s wailing rang in her head, blocking all coherent thought. "I have to do as the Dark Gods command!" She tried to stab him, but his grip on her wrist was like iron. His words finally stopped her struggle.
“Lysethra was here. She knows the child is mine.”
“Oh, gods, no!”
Calmarel dropped the knife and stumbled back. Her mind whirled; she couldn’t think straight. Lysethra wouldn’t understand; she was so close-minded, so damned pious! She wouldn’t see what Calmarel had been trying to do: inject strength into the Darkmist bloodline. All she would see is that her sister had mated with a slave. Just like Xakra, just like Pergamon. Blind to the benefits of such a merger, loath to overlook the happenstance of birth and see beyond to the potential, the promise for the future.
Calmarel looked into her own future and despaired. As if from a great distance, she heard the wailing of a frightened child. She thrust the crying babe into Jundag’s arms and collapsed on her bed, but the wailing did not stop. She pressed her hands to her ears, but still the wailing continued...louder and louder and louder.
It never occurred to her that it was her own.
Jundag laid the baby in the crib, making soothing sounds and rubbing her back. Eventually, she quieted and fell asleep. Looking toward the bed, he saw that Calmarel had also fallen into an
exhausted slumber. Her hair was strewn across the pillow, contrasting with her pallid complexion. Under her eyes were dark semi-circles like bruises, and her lips were pale.
Why did she not command me to release her? he wondered as he fingered the golden collar around his neck. He was confused. He didn’t know what to expect from this Calmarel, so different was she from the one he knew; the powerful, selfish, domineering Calmarel. Though it seemed that her intent had been to kill the baby, he could not help but think that she would not have, could not have, even if his attempt to stop her had failed.
He thought then of Lysethra, her look of comprehension and disgust as she gazed into his eyes...and at the baby. Lysethra was now the one to watch out for. Once they were back in Xerro Kensho, he would find a way to escape into the caverns with his daughter. But for now, he would need to work with Calmarel, not fight against her, to keep their child alive.
Something glinted beside Calmarel on the bed; a large ruby had fallen from her robes when she collapsed. He immediately recognized it as the cornerstone he and his friends had stolen from the dragon. He had never seen Calmarel use it, so perhaps she would not miss it. Gingerly, he picked up and tucked it into his pocket. Though he mistrusted magic, right now he would take any advantage he could get.
“Where in the Nine Hells did they all come from?” Prael wondered aloud as he glanced about the blood-splattered cavern. The dwarven troops were dragging corpses—the wizard counted at least sixteen—into an alcove, piling them one atop the other. This was the third time the dwarven scouts had discovered and destroyed a band of creatures. This last encounter, however, had been a close call. The scouts had overlooked a cleft secreted in a tumble of rocks. Not until KelFarla went down with a knife in his side did they realize they had been ambushed. Fortunately, the dwarven troops well outnumbered their attackers, and the priests had stabilized KelFarla.
Prael looked closer at the dead foes. Unlike the first group they encountered, which had been goblins, these looked like humans, but with skin and eyes so pale, they seemed to glow in the dim light. UrMae used her mass to gently nudge him aside.
“There’s all kinds o’ critters and crudders down here,” the priestess explained as she positioned herself by the wall. Chanting softly, she manipulated the stone as if it was clay, entombing the dead within, then continued. “Jist like above. If ye went walkin’ in lonely places, ye’d expect ta see some unsavory types. Underground’s no different. An’ we ain’t been down here much in the last hundred years or so ta clean it up.”
DoHeney’s harsh whisper reached their ears.
"VerNolen! DoHernan! Send fresh scouts out in front! I want a quarter league warnin' o' anythin' biggern’ a toadstool in our path. And tell BoReenal ta bring in the rear guard. We're movin' too fast fer anythin' ta run up on us by accident." He motioned one of the scouts over and waved toward the now-sealed alcove. "Whaddaya think, MurFannell; war party or huntin' party?"
"More like guard detail, methinkth," the dwarf lisped through the scar that bisected his mouth. "No heavy weaponth or armor. They wath prepared ta move fatht."
"'That’s what I was afraid of. We’re in their territory, and they know it better'n we do. If one o’ their scouts gits away before we can stop ‘im, they’ll be waitin’ fer us ‘fore we ever git ta their city." DoHeney rubbed his face in exasperation, then looked up at Prael expectantly. "Prael, can ye and yer wizard friends prepare spells that'll let us move real fast? We can't let them scummy dark worshipers outrun us if we're spotted."
Prael heard disgruntled mumbling from the dwarf scouts; their distrust of magic seemed to exceed their fear of detection. "How many will you need to be affected by this spell?" he asked.
"Oh, at least thirty, I'd think, jist ta be on the safe side."
Prael shook his head. "Enchanting that many would be difficult, and the effect wouldn't last long enough for a lengthy chase," he admitted. He rubbed his chin, his gloved hand rasping against his stubble of beard as he thought. "I, however, have spells to get ahead of a fleeing enemy and detain them long enough for your scouts to catch up and attack from behind."
DoHeney squinted and looked him over. "That's fine, Prael, but it's a bit dangerous fer ye, don'cha think? I’d hate ta lose one o’ me most powerful wizards on such a ploy."
"That’s unlikely," Prael said with a smile. "I’m less vulnerable than even your chain-mailed scouts. I see you’re skeptical, so let me show you. May I borrow your dagger?"
"Sure, but I—"
Prael held the shiny weapon for a moment—it had been a long while since he had performed this trick—then slashed the blade across his throat. DoHeney gasped, and UrMae immediately began chanting and extended her hands toward him. Both looked quizzically at him when no blood fountained from the wound. For there was no wound, as Prael had expected.
"This is why I wear only red, DoHeney. A curse was cast upon me long ago by a jealous wizard who was much more powerful than I, and who believed that I had scorned her.” He shook his head sadly at the memory; she had been beautiful, she herself had only worn red, and she had been mistaken. “Only red items can touch me. All else simply passes through."
"Er, nice trick ye got there, boyo," DoHeney said, though his scrunched face clearly demonstrated his disgust. "But I don't suppose it'd stop ye from bein' roasted by magical fire."
"No, you're right. I'm affected by magic, and I can surely be bludgeoned by a blood-soaked club. But I won't try to fight, just slow them, perhaps by putting a barrier in the passage or some such thing. Would that be sufficient?"
"I suppose so," DoHeney agreed, accepting his dagger back and wiping it on his sleeve, despite its apparent cleanliness. "Jist so long as ye know the risks yer takin'. We'd best move out, VerNolen. Take Prael with ye, an’ let’s make sure we don’t have ta use his skills."
Prael followed VerNolen, ignoring the appalled looks cast his way by the dwarves. Not many knew his secret, but he didn’t mind revealing it now. For once, he thought, being cursed might be an advantage.
Lysethra’s palm throbbed in time with the weakening beat of the sacrificed warrior’s heart. After one last, faint pulse, it stopped, and she felt Xakra’s acceptance envelop her like a shroud. The air became heavy and she struggled to draw a full breath, but instead of panicking, she welcomed this demonstration of her goddess’ power. Xakra would hear her supplication.
She reverently placed this heart atop the others in a golden bowl, then rinsed her hands in a bowl containing unholy water. Chanting her thanks, she completed the sacrificial rites.
Finally, she stepped around the sacrificial altar and placed the golden bowl of hearts onto the offering altar. She gazed up at the onyx statue of Xakra that towered before her, then knelt and lit the brazier of incense. Bowing low to inhale the thick, sweet smoke, she began the intricate chant. Reserved for high priestesses and priests, this rite would allow her to speak directly with her Goddess. She would not actually meet Xakra, as Calmarel had in the Rite of Ascension, but it was an intimate privilege that few ever experienced. She swayed with the intoxicating rhythm of the chant, and each successive word pulled her deeper into the thrall of the invocation.
On and on Lysethra chanted as her head grew lighter and lighter. Opening her eyes, she looked up and watched the tendrils of smoke from the brazier weave and sway like charmed serpents with the rhythm of her chant. The tortured figures on the tapestries draping the walls writhed and twisted, acting out their horrific roles. High above her, Xakra's lips glistened red with the offering the priestess had presented to her. Lysethra finished her invocation and bowed low, knowing that the dark goddess attended her.
"SPEAK, MATRIARCH OF CLAN DARKMIST."
Lysethra reeled, the words reverberating painfully in her mind.
"Almighty Xakra, Mistress of Webs, I seek guidance," Lysethra declared. “I have discovered that my sister, Calmarel, has mated with a slave and birthed an atrocity. This corruption of consecrated blood is strictly forbidden by the text
s of the Dark Books. She professes that you have blessed this birth. I desire to understand the truth so I may best serve you. I beg you, Great One; enlighten me.”
“THE CHILD IS A PROFANITY, BIRTHED OUT OF PRIDE AND ARROGANCE, AND TAINTED WITH HER FATHER’S EYES.”
“Yet Calmarel was allowed to perform the Rite of Ascension,” Lysethra said hesitantly, unsure how deeply Xakra would allow her to probe this matter. The rite was a private interaction between supplicant and deity; no one could be forced to reveal what had transpired.
“CALMAREL HAS BEEN TASKED WITH THE SACRIFICE OF CHILD AND FATHER. ONLY THEN CAN SHE HOPE TO BECOME A MEDIATOR.”
By all the Dark Gods and their minions, Calmarel! Lysethra bowed so low her forehead touched the chapel floor. You’ll bring all of Clan Darkmist down with your folly!
“Oh Great Xakra!” she said aloud. “My sister’s actions shame our house and clan. Please forgive her transgressions, and understand that neither I nor the rest of my kin would ever defy your decrees. I will ensure that your will is carried out; the child and slave will be sacrificed. But I beg of you, please consider her ascension to mediator.”
“YOU ARE QUITE ADAMENT FOR HER TO ACHIEVE A GOAL THAT WILL LEAD TO YOUR OWN DETRIMENT,” Xakra sneered.
“My detriment?” Lysethra asked in confusion. “Calmarel’s ascension to mediator will reflect on the glory of Clan Darkmist.”
Xakra’s laughter rang in Lysethra’s ears, and she half expected to be struck dead.
“AS MEDIATOR, CALMAREL WILL NO LONGER BE A DARKMIST. SHE WILL EARN YOU NO FAVOR. THE OTHER HOUSES HAVE LONG RESENTED CLAN DARKMIST’S CO-MATRIARCHS. YOU WILL BE LEFT ALONE TO DEAL WITH THEIR REPRISALS.”
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