I come upon a group of whores plying their trade on a street corner, and asked after Alicia.
Everyone fell silent. As they looked back and forth at one another, nervous and reluctant to speak, I felt my high, fine mood slipping away, replaced by a sick, glacial feeling in the pit of my stomach. My intuition sang like a bowstring. There was more here than simple, streetwise reticence.
“What?” No answer. I singled one out and confronted her. “Tell me.”
“She’s—” The woman licked her lips, and continued, “She’s dead. She came home short last night and Hammer—” She looked down at the street, unable to meet my eyes. “He beat her to death. They found the body this morning. Everybody knows what happened, but nobody saw it, so nothing’s gonna get done.” She lowered here eyes and stared at the ground. “You know how things work down here.”
I stood long moments in silence, my jaw locked as if welded in place. When at last I found my voice, the words fell from my lips like sleet from a gray sky. “Where is he?”
I stood in silence over the mound of freshly turned earth, the wind whipping my long hair about my head and into my eyes. Thull, Murmandimus, and Sal were just behind me, respectful and quiet. The sack I held in one hand, now soaked through and dripping with blood, seemed doubly heavy. The cold part of my mind, the calculating part, chuckled that ‘doubly’ was, give or take some minor weight variations, literally true.
It was a good grave, as far as graves go. I had paid for the best. But in the end, it was still a just a hole with a dead girl inside. She had no family. We four were the only ones to mark her passing.
I thought of offering some words, but what was there to say? I loosed the drawstring on the sack and dumped my grisly trophies on the ground in front of the tombstone. Soothsayer’s cold, lifeless eyes stared up at us, his face contorted in agony that he no doubt still suffered, wherever his soul had gone. Hammer, it seemed, hadn’t the nerve to face us. His head was face down in the dirt. It seemed fitting.
And yet, there was something undone, something important that I was loath to do. I looked over my shoulder at the mage. He nodded his approval, his quicksilver eyes reflecting blue, but otherwise giving no sign of emotion. It galled me that he had so easily guessed what I was contemplating. No doubt, he would poke and prod at me about it later, damn him.
I wondered what dark work the Soothsayer’s tiny machines were up to as they coursed through my body. Murmandimus had assured me there was nothing to fear, that I should count them as spoils of war, a fortunate accident of unimaginable value. I had no such illusions. He claimed they would make me immortal, and I believed him. But it seemed to me that this was no blessing. Rather, it was the Soothsayer’s final curse, my sentence to witness forever the pointless suffering and death of innocents. Was it any wonder that creatures like Hammer and Soothsayer prospered in such a garden of apathy?
I envied Alicia her peace, even as I resolved to ensure it. She had given me a pouch of coins. I took it from my belt and tossed it to the ground in front of the tombstone.
“Rest well, child. This blood is on my hands alone.”
Stonebound
By Damien Wilder
A sharp whistle pierced Desdemona’s ears, and she winced. If she had to say anything for Matron Alys, it was that the woman could whistle like a tea kettle. She turned to face the other woman, fixing her pale blue eyes on the brunette behind the desk.
The older woman stared, brown eyes narrowed and one brow cocked. Desdemona licked her lips and shifted side to side, fingers tightening around the book in her hands. “Yes, Matron?”
“Bring. Me. The. Regional. Maps.” She enunciated each word as though she’d said them more than once. Probably she had.
Desdemona shoved the book she was holding back onto the shelf and scurried to the corner where the maps were stored. After a frantic search, she rushed to the desk, a roll of vellum in her hands. She spread it on the desk and stepped back, dutifully folding her hands at her waist and keeping her eyes averted. A little averted anyway. No way she’d completely turn away from her mistress.
As Alys slid her finger over the trade ways and roads, Desdemona twisted her white robe in her hands. It had been two years since her powers kindled, six months since she’d used them to sneak up to the sixth floor and spy on Matron Alys conducting a diplomatic meeting with King Majendra of Ashet. As far as punishments went, reverting back to a servant, and only for Matron Alys, wasn’t so bad. Better than the flogging Lady Bellis took for allowing a then fourteen-year-old to steal her power. Desdemona got off light with what amounted to an apprenticeship with the matron. Evidently, she felt it was ambition that led Desdemona to her actions and wished to reward it.
Biting her lip, Desdemona inched closer and leaned to better see the symbols. After a moment, Alys shifted and glanced over her shoulder, one dark brow raised. Heat flooded Desdemona’s face, and she quickly looked to the ceiling. With a chuckle, Alys gestured for her to come closer.
“You’re too inquisitive for your own good.” She touched a shaded triangle over Loreth. “I’m working on setting up an alliance with the people here. They will send us skilled laborers to help expand our village, and we will send the lanterns we create to make their lives a little easier. What do you think of that deal?”
Desdemona was quiet for a long while, lips pursed to the side. Finally, she sighed and said, “I wonder why we’re sending anything to them. They should give us what we ask for because they fear us, and men are good for nothing better anyway.”
Alys frowned, her brows coming together. She scooted her chair back and folded her hands in her lap. “Desdemona, we aren’t wanting to use our allies like slaves. Men are certainly good for many things.”
Desdemona snorted. “Bedroom things. That and going Vuli. They’re good at that.”
Alys and Desdemona locked eyes for a brief second, long enough to see the smolder in the brown-eyed woman’s gaze before the palm of Alys’ hand struck Desdemona across the face. The younger woman staggered sideways into the desk, lips parted in a gasp. Warm blood oozed from one side of her nose, and she lifted her hand to press against it.
“You are a child, barely past your first bleeding, and I will not have you speak in that manner.” The matron stood, towering over Desdemona.
Alys was taller than most of the other Embers; she even stood a good half foot taller than King Majendra. Staring up at the giant of a woman, blood slicking her top lip, Desdemona certainly felt like a child and not like a woman of fifteen. The matron arched a brow, and the younger woman lowered her gaze, slowly straightening until she stood respectfully in front of her mistress.
“Men are good for many things—labor, love, ruling even—and some have trained their Flame enough to use it for good as well. Most of the farmers of Vendith are chloromancers and use their power to grow better crops.”
“I understand, Matron,” Desdemona said past her bloody hand and then promptly ground her teeth together to stop from saying anything else. Tears burned at her eyes, but she was determined not to let them fall.
“Good.” Alys sat again and pulled her map closer. “Go to your room now.”
Desdemona offered a bow of her head before striding from the study and down the hall to the little room she called her own. She closed the door and leaned against it, eyes closed. She counted to ten. To twenty. To fifty. With a growl, she pushed away from the door and stormed to the tiny desk, gripping the back of her chair until her knuckles were white.
“What does she know? Born in the citadel, raised among nothing but women. Nothing!” She flung the chair to the side, and it skittered its back into the wall. “If she spent more than a few hours with a man…” If she’d been alone with Majendra rather than with her guards…
Desdemona sank into a crouch, hand sliding over her face and nails biting into her hairline. She squeezed her teary eyes closed, but in the darkness of her mind, his blue eyes pierced into her soul. Dark hair tumbled around his face to br
ush her shoulders, his strong hands knotted in her dress…
She shook her head and jerked to her feet. She spun, eyes scanning the tiny room, the windowless walls, before slapping her hands to the cold stone. “Stone. Be cold and unfeeling. Don’t let it out.” She pushed out a shuddering breath and moved to sit on the cot in the corner. “Made of stone.”
After a moment, Desdemona folded her arms around her soft belly, pushing at the fat that had plagued her since…She tore her hands away from herself and slapped them against her thighs. It was two years since her old life, two years since her Flame kindled, two years since she’d joined the Order of Obsidian Embers as the youngest with active magic. There was no use for tears anymore.
Alys could say anything she liked, but Desdemona knew better. And if she had anything to say about it, there would be no alliance with any man.
All feeling was gone in Desdemona’s fingertips. Everything but prickling pain, anyway. Like she’d been holding her hand under a frozen puddle, but, with a hiss, she just ground the heel of her palm into the other woman’s chest, eliciting a yelp of pain.
The woman’s balefire—blue and cracked—slowly dimmed until nothing was left but a faint haze around her body. Desdemona jerked her shaking hand away and cupped it close against her body as the other Ember stumbled back, her own hand pressed to her chest.
“See?” Desdemona breathed, shoulders trembling. “That wasn’t so bad.”
“Wasn’t so bad?” The woman shot Desdemona a scathing look. “It felt like you ripped my soul out through my chest.”
Pain burned along her fingers, and she shook her hand, teeth clenched. “Stop being so dramatic. All I did was make a copy of your Flame. It hurts, but you certainly still have a soul.”
With that, Desdemona turned away and strode down the garden path. She stretched her hands to either side and trailed pale fingers along the soft leaves on either side of her, eyes turned up to watch the gentle drift of orange blossoms overhead.
The tips of her fingers cooled, and with a grin, she dropped her gaze and watched as frost crackled over the leaves. When she mimicked a new Flame, the exploration of it was always her favorite part. And today, she would explore in a most delicious way.
Desdemona hesitated at the head of the stairs, squinting into the red-lit passage below. Enchanted lights drifted lazily along the ceiling, fireflies of magic. She watched them, breathing deeply to gather her courage. Though she’d been a full-fledged Ember for a while now, she’d never ventured lower than the dungeons. She’d listened to other women talk, of course, knew what to expect, but that didn’t stop her heart from pounding.
She closed her eyes and focused on her breathing, on the pain, until the staccato against her ribs lessened, if only a bit. These men were not him. She was stronger now, different.
A shriek split the silence, and Desdemona gasped, taking the first step down and shooting a wide-eyed stare over her shoulder. One of the men in one of the cells was not having a good evening, and if she lingered here too long, she wouldn’t be either. Desdemona skittered down the stairs, the fireflies sparking and twisting over her head.
When she hit the bottom of the stairs, she stopped again. More of the enchanted lights drifted along the ceiling, their shadows playing with those from the flickering torches. Rows of doors just like those in the dungeon above marched off into the darkness until the end of the passage where the hall split. Each door was etched with one or more symbols, something to tell what region of the world the men inside were from.
Desdemona was almost to the end of the hall when she found the symbol she was looking for: a sun with a stylized eye inside. The symbol of the nomadic desert tribes’ god, Sabha Memakon, The All-Consuming. Why they would name the sun something like that was beyond her. Why they would worship something called that too.
She wrenched the door open. A bevy of multicolored fireflies bathed the room in a soft rainbow of light. Large, blue pillows, big enough to be beds in their own right, lay in each corner, and on them lounged four men, each attached to the wall by a sturdy chain around their necks.
As one, they turned to look at her, straightening as they took in her white robe. Desdemona paused to examine them in turn, eyes sliding over their bare, tawny chests. Her gaze couldn’t rest without fear speeding her heart, so she took in the oddest details: the black dusting of hair over their legs and chests, the uneven cut of this one’s hair, all four of their upside-down Flame brands, the glint of light off the man in the corner’s nose ring.
Her eyes flicked up from his nose ring to follow the chain attached to it over to his ear and then back to his honey eyes. In the center of his forehead, a raised scar stood out stark against his dusky skin: the same eye that adorned their sun imagery. A smile curled Desdemona’s lips, and she strode toward him, chin high as though the proximity to the other men didn’t unnerve her.
The man straightened and shifted onto his knees, hands resting on his thighs in the well-practiced show of subservience. “How may I serve you?” he asked in accented Atheran.
Desdemona waved her hand and knelt. “Drop it. You’re new here; your loyalty isn’t that good yet. You’re Kiran, right?”
Kiran relaxed just slightly but remained in his same position, giving her a silent nod.
Desdemona gave a tight smile. “I’ve done some research. That symbol on your head, the eye of your god, your people believe it lets you communicate directly to him. So you were a shaman before being brought here. Correct?”
Again, Kiran nodded, a slight raising of his brow the only indication he cared about what she had to say.
Desdemona shifted and tilted her head a bit to the side. “I’ve read that your people tend to possess fairly violent magics, or if not violent, then often rare. I want to know, if you weren’t locked in this magic negating room, what would your Flame be?”
Kiran snorted. “If you let me out, I would be gone like that.” He snapped his fingers, not quite in her face, but close enough to be annoying. The man grinned at her scowl. “Sand. I can turn myself into sand.”
Desdemona’s brows shot up, and she leaned forward. “Truly? You have a weak baelfire, but it must still take a huge amount of energy to use a power like that. That will definitely be useful.” She leaned back and tapped her hands against her knees. “What can you do with it exactly?”
“What can’t I?” Kiran shifted off his knees and sat cross-legged. “I can dissolve my body into sand. What I do after is limited only by my imagination.” He kissed his fingertips and lifted his hand, palm up, to the sky. “It is a wondrous gift from Sabha Memakon that I should become what his kingdom is made of.”
Desdemona rolled her eyes and slapped his arm down out of the air. “Yeah, okay, but specifically, what could you do to, say, kill or incapacitate someone?”
The man lifted his gaze to her, eyes wide, before sitting back on the cushion. He idly toyed with the delicate chain connecting his nose ring to the one in his ear, watching her with intense eyes. “Many ways. Who are you wanting to kill?”
With a shrug, Desdemona grinned and said, “For starters, the matron.”
Kiran guffawed and slapped his thigh, bending and practically burying his face in his own knees. His shoulders shook with suppressed laughter. Desdemona narrowed her eyes, grinding her teeth as she watched him. After a moment, he sat straight again and wiped imaginary tears from his eyes.
“Funny. Look at you!” He waved his hand in her direction, a smirk curling his lips. “You’re a child! I will not hinge my escape on someone who likely hasn’t even bled yet.”
Desdemona shot forward and wrapped her fingers around the chain where it touched his check, and with her other hand, she slapped her palm on the collar around his neck. Ice crackled along the metal, fanning out in intricate patterns until it spread to his skin.
It was beautiful, but his pained groan was more so. Kiran tried to twist his head away, whining as he did. The chain pulled away from his cheek just slightly and a r
agged piece of stiff skin came with it, blood bubbling at the edges to slide in fat, slow drops down his jaw.
“Maybe you’re a little blind and can’t see the robe.” Desdemona nodded down to her own body. “Notice it’s white. That means I’m an Ember, not a servant, and not a child. So watch your tongue or I’ll freeze it and break the pieces down your throat.”
With that, she released him. Kiran scrambled forward, pressing his forehead to the cushion in front of him and stretching his fingertips toward her. “A thousand apologies. I’m a stupid man. Command me as you will,” he said, half muffled.
Desdemona swatted his hands to the side. “Get up.” She grinned as he shifted back onto his knees, one hand pressed to his ripped cheek. “Lilia said you were obedient. I’m so glad to see she was right.”
She settled back and gestured for him to relax again, though he declined her offer. “Now, let’s talk about what I want from you. First, I’m going to release you. It will hurt. Then we will walk together through the servant’s passage. Once we reach the fifth floor, you will use your Flame so that you can accompany me to Alys’ personal floor. You will incapacitate her ability to speak as that’s how her Flame works, and I will kill her.”
Kiran opened his mouth to speak, but Desdemona flipped her hand up, narrowing her eyes until he shut his mouth again. “I don’t trust the task of killing her to you. You’re a man, after all, and men are weak and treacherous. If you try to betray me, I will destroy you.” She lowered her hand, brow raised. “Do you understand?”
Kiran’s tongue darted over his lips, honey eyes shifting in turn to look at the other dark-skinned men around the room. Desdemona could see the thoughts as they turned in his head, and logically, she knew she couldn’t stop him if he dissolved and flew away on the wind. She sighed and offered a little shrug when his gaze settled back on her.
“I’m not an ungracious woman. If you assist me willingly, then when I become matron, I will offer you protection.” She swept her hand to encompass the room, and the other men shrunk away from her gaze. “Your people have always held many places in our rooms. With your dark skin and exotic features, not to mention your heathen beliefs, many of our women find you appealing. When I’m matron, your people will never fear being taken again. I will ensure that all those who follow The All-Consuming will be free of our cells as long as my rule lasts.”
Blackest Spells Page 14
