While it was within my power to be kind to Radovan, I was powerless to help him in his efforts to prevent the summoning of the beast. I would have to slip away before I’d be expected to play my part in the counter-ritual. Yet I was loath to leave him: other than Eben, Radovan was the only sorcerer I knew. If anyone knew how to save Beata, it was he. I considered confessing and asking for Radovan’s help, but this seemed unwise; I didn’t know him well enough to know how he would react. He evidently meant well, but if he was willing to ally himself with Eben, he might very well be willing to sacrifice me or Beata to ensure the salvation of Nagyvaros.
Seeming to sense my unease, Radovan said, “You have been kind enough not to ask, but as you must suspect, I will tell you now: I was not successful in the other task I set out to accomplish as arcanist.”
I gave Radovan what I hoped was a grim, knowing nod. It seemed to be what was expected.
“I searched everywhere for answers, but I’m afraid it availed nothing. A brand like yours… it is the key to even more power than I imagined.”
I shrugged. “I’m sure you did your best,” I said. It was the wrong thing to say, but I’d lost my bearings in the conversation. Had Radovan been trying to find a way to remove Eben’s brand?
“There may be other ways to channel that much power,” Radovan went on, “but they are beyond my paltry abilities. And as you’ve said, we are nearly out of time. If we are to stop the acolytes, we must use the brand.”
Use the brand? What the devil did that mean? And why was it bad news for Eben? “Well, if there is no other way…” I said.
“It must be your choice, of course,” he went on. “The power is yours. If you wish to keep it, I would be a fool to try to stop you. But you had previously indicated that if I were unable to find another way, you would be willing to be stripped of the brand to save Nagyvaros. You will not be completely relieved of your power, of course, although it will be significantly diminished.”
Stripped of the brand. I had to bite my cheek to keep from laughing at the irony. Radovan hadn’t been laboring to find a way to get rid of Eben’s brand; he’d been trying to find a way to let him keep it. Evidently, though, the brand was the key to the counter-ritual; Radovan had been unable to find a way to place the preventive ward without stripping Eben of the brand. Another thought occurred to me: if the power was in the brand, then perhaps it didn’t matter that I wasn’t a sorcerer. Maybe my part in the counter-ritual was simply to show up. Again I considered confessing, and again I rejected the idea. I still didn’t know enough. The safe move was to go along with Radovan’s plan for now. I might still find a way to save Beata.
I let out a resigned sigh. “I have made my peace with it. I suspected that we may be forced to use the brand, and as loath as I am to be stripped of it, I know you would not ask this of me if there were any other way. I might once have put up more resistance, but my incarceration changed me in some ways.”
“So I’ve noticed,” Radovan said cautiously. “Though it was a grave injustice what happened to you, I must confess that I prefer this Eben over the old one.”
I smiled. “One thing remains unchanged,” I said. “My conviction that we must do whatever is necessary to save Nagyvaros.”
“In that, we are agreed,” Radovan replied. “Finish your breakfast and we shall set out. If we don’t tarry overlong here, we will have time to stop for a proper meal before the night’s work.”
Chapter Seventeen
I had left Ember in Nagyvaros, but Radovan had a couple of mares in a barn behind the cottage. We hitched them to a small carriage, loaded it with what few supplies we could muster from the place, and set out toward the ruins.
As far as I could tell, the cottage was about five leagues south of the city. I assumed I’d been transported there in the carriage, but I couldn’t figure out how Radovan had managed to carry me from the hedge maze to the carriage. When I asked him about this, he told he’d had the assistance of a brawny servant whom he called Ljubo. Ljubo, he said, had left before I’d awoken to produce some materials for the counter-ritual, and would meet us at the ruins. I expressed a hope that the man was reliable, considering that our entire enterprise rested on his shoulders—and broad shoulders they must be, if he had carried me through the maze to a carriage waiting in the street. Radovan assured me that Ljubo was the most trustworthy of servants.
About two hours before sunset, we stopped at a tavern in a small village. By this time I was thoroughly famished, as I’d had nothing to eat since the previous afternoon but a little toast and tea. Knowing that I must remain on guard, I forced myself to eat only enough to stave off hunger, asking the proprietor to save the rest of the meat and bread in some waxed paper so that I could eat it later. Radovan, seeing the wisdom of my precaution, did the same. He purchased a skin of wine with which we might toast our success.
We set out again and reached the edge of the ravine just before dusk. Radovan’s horses didn’t seem as unsettled by their proximity to the ruins as Ember had been, but it would be impossible to take the carriage down to the valley floor without going several miles out of our way. We had another small meal, took what supplies from the carriage we could carry, and made our way down the ravine. Being the stronger of us, I carried most of the supplies, which didn’t amount to much: we had food and water, a few torches, some blankets, and a few other mundane items. I wore my rapier as well, of course. To my surprise, Radovan still had not commented on the weapon; either Eben was in the habit of carrying a sword or Radovan assumed this was a manifestation of the change in his personality brought about by Nincs Varazslat. Whatever was required by the counter-ritual, presumably Ljubo was bringing it. I proceeded a few paces ahead of Radovan, thinking that I could break his fall if he stumbled, but he was more sure-footed than I’d have guessed. We made it to the floor of the valley without incident.
The valley was shrouded in shadow, but we had enough light to make our way to the ruins. Radovan picked his way from one slab to another, nodding and muttering to himself as if recalling the way to a particular location. I followed close behind, my hand on the hilt of the rapier—not that it would do any good against the wraiths. I was uneasy in that place, even though I knew that the wraiths would not come out until the moon rose, and Radovan had assured me that they would be in such a weakened state at this time that they could do little more than howl at us in consternation.
Hampered by the necessity of appearing to be well-versed on the subject of preventive wards, I’d been unable to glean much information from Radovan on the specifics of the counter-ritual we were to conduct. I’d had a little more success in getting him to expound on the subject of transferring one’s spirit from one body to another. It was clear that he found the practice distasteful, although he hastened to add that he understood the necessity in my case. Radovan was not capable of the feat, as it required a warlock’s familiarity with the shadow world, Veszedelem; Radovan apparently pulled his power from a different place altogether. I gathered that the host did not die in the process, but his or her spirit was exiled to Veszedelem, where it remained imprisoned while the warlock resided in the host’s body. It was possible for the host’s spirit to return if the warlock sought another host—or was driven from the host’s body—but the longer a spirit remained in Veszedelem, the more difficult it was for it to return. If what Radovan said was true, Beata had been imprisoned in the shadow world since the night I’d been taken to Nincs Varazslat—six years and counting. I remembered, with a sensation of sickening dread, how much slower time passed in that place. It must have seemed like a thousand years to her. Once again, I pledged that Eben the Warlock would die for what he had done.
We came to a place where one slab lay propped at an angle on the edge of another, forming a triangular opening about three feet high. Radovan bade me to light a torch, which I did. I lit another from it and handed the first one to him. Taking it, Radovan inspected the edge of the stone forming the base, where the faintest outlines o
f some arcane symbols were visible. He gave a nod. “This is it,” he said. Apparently he intended that we crawl into the opening.
“Should we not wait for Ljubo?” I asked.
“He knows the way,” Radovan said. “We may as well get started while we wait.”
I didn’t see how we were going to start if Ljubo carried the supplies, but I didn’t dare raise the question and demonstrate my ignorance. Perhaps sensing my reluctance, Radovan said, “I will go first.”
“As you wish,” I said, and watched him get on his knees and disappear into the opening, holding the torch before him. I was glad he volunteered to go first but was not keen on following him into the void. There was nothing for it but to play out the ruse; staying with Radovan was my only hope to learn how to save Beata. I got on my knees and crawled after him.
The ground was hard under my knees; I realized I was crawling not on earth but on top of another granite slab. A few feet ahead of me, a flickering light illuminated a hole in the granite: Radovan was descending a ladder that led down a vertical shaft. I crept forward in the cramped tunnel and waited a moment at the lip of the shaft so that I wouldn’t be singed by his torch.
“Are you coming, Eben?” Radovan whispered up to me, his voice as loud as a shout in the close confines.
Glancing over, I saw that his torch was some twenty feet down. I grunted a reply and lowered my legs into the shaft, my feet finding purchase in notches in the stone that served as rungs. With the pack containing our supplies on my back, I was barely able to fit into the tight space. The light from Radovan’s torch had disappeared, and I climbed after him, unable to see anything below me. The torch, which I was forced to hold over my head in the narrow shaft, was useless for anything but dripping scalding pitch on my hair.
Eventually I reached the bottom and found myself in a chamber with a rough-hewn stone ceiling that was so low I hunched over for fear I would strike my head. I was unable to discern the edges of the cavern, as I was forced to hold the torch so low its glare interfered with my vision. Somewhere ahead of me was another light: Radovan’s torch. It was moving away from me, and I hurried after it. After a few seconds it disappeared again, and I discerned the edge of a wall: he had gone around a corner. I followed and found myself at the top of a very steep and very narrow stone staircase. The ceiling was a bit higher here; Radovan’s torch bobbed up and down over his head. I followed him down the stairs.
After descending perhaps forty feet, the stairs ended abruptly, and suddenly I could see nothing but blackness. I had emerged into a chamber so vast that the light of the torch couldn’t reach its edges. The floor was of black granite that had been polished just short of a mirror shine, so that no crack or irregularity was visible. Standing on it was disconcertingly like floating above an endless abyss. Radovan’s torch had vanished; he had either doused it or ventured around a corner that was beyond the reach of my torch. I wanted to call out but didn’t. As with Eben’s labyrinth in the secret enclave of the Hidden Quarter, I was aware of being led into a trap, but I felt that I had no choice but to continue. If I fled, I would never know how to save Beata, how to kill Eben, how to rid myself of the warlock’s brand. I was aware, too, that these things were being dangled in front of me like bait, but it made no difference. Fate had drawn me to this place, and it would not be denied. I drew my rapier and proceeded into the darkness.
I do not know how far I walked. My boots made no sound on that strange surface, and the noise of my breathing and movements seemed to dissipate in the vastness of the space. I listened intently, hoping for some hint of what lay waiting for me in that darkness; the torch flickered impotently in my hand. Thinking I must be nearing the end of the chamber, I stopped, holding the torch in front of me, peering into the black for some slight variation. Too late, I heard something move behind me. I tried to turn, but something had clamped onto my right wrist. My grip went slack and the rapier fell from my hand, making a dull clatter on the stone. Then my arm was free, and I spun around, waving the torch in front of me. I found myself looking up at what at first seemed to be a huge alabaster statue. I then realized with horror that it was a man—chalk white, hairless and naked except for a loin cloth, some eight feet tall, with arms and legs like tree trunks. His eyes were open but I saw no pupils; the eyes were as white as his skin. His face was serene and stupid, like that of a ruminant eyeing some fresh greenery. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of the glimmer of the rapier’s blade. I made a movement toward it, hoping to draw the giant in, and then swung at his face with the torch. The giant was not deceived. The torch brushed his face, scattering sparks and burning pitch, which sizzled momentarily on his cheek, but he seemed to take no notice. He drew back his hand as if intending to swat a fly. I tried to dodge but was off-balance from my swing. The massive hand came at me with incredible speed, the giant’s palm striking the left side of my head, wrenching my neck and throwing me to the ground. I lost my grip on the torch and rolled several times before coming to a halt.
Dazed and disoriented, I opened my eyes and blinked, but could see nothing. Searching desperately in the darkness, I saw a gigantic silhouette moving toward me, framed by the glow of the sputtering torch on the floor behind him. I had just enough time to land one blow, and I made it count; this was not an occasion for gentlemanly combat. It made no difference: the giant was either a eunuch or some other species entirely. The blow nearly broke my hand. I tried to back away, but the giant was too fast. He reached down and grabbed my neck, forcing me to my feet. I nearly blacked out from the pressure of his thumb; I had no doubt he could snap my neck like kindling.
A light came toward me out of the darkness, and I recognized the figure of Radovan behind it. He stopped a few paces from me, smiling in the garish light, and said, “I see you’ve made the acquaintance of Ljubo.”
Chapter Eighteen
I was bound and carried to an even deeper chamber of the dungeon. Ljubo deposited me on a cold stone slab, and I knew even before Radovan had lit the rest of our torches and placed them in iron sconces on the walls that it was some sort of altar. I’d been right in my assessment of the sorcerer: he was willing to sacrifice me to achieve his ends. I might have taken some solace in the fact that I was to be killed to save an entire city, but men who are willing to sacrifice some innocents to save others are generally not to be trusted with the power to do so. And of course, if Radovan had misled me about my role in the counter-ritual, he might have lied about other things.
I lay on my side on the stone slab with my ankles bound together and my wrists tied behind my back. The altar was just big enough for me to lie in that position; around the edge of the surface was a narrow stone border that helped confine me. I was not tied to the altar, but Ljubo stood at my feet, ready to remind me of my place. I could not tell whether he could see anything with those pure white eyes, or if he used his other senses to compensate. He seemed unnaturally accustomed to that dark place; I had marveled at the way he carried me through the narrow passages without so much as brushing my head against the edge of a column. Indeed, despite his size, the pale giant was so suited to the dungeon that it was difficult to imagine him above ground.
I strained my bruised neck to survey my surroundings. The room was about ten paces wide and fifteen paces long. The altar on which I rested was at the top of a semicircular dais against one of the shorter sides; the doorway through which we’d entered was in the opposite wall. At equal intervals along each of the longer walls were three sconces, in which Radovan had placed torches. Having finished with this task, he was busying himself with the supplies Ljubo had brought—bronze braziers, sticks of incense, vials of oil and the like. The pack I’d carried sat on the floor next to him, along with my rapier. In the center of the room was another dais, this one circular and about four feet in diameter. At the base of it was a recessed impression like a shallow moat. The moat was connected to a channel in the stone floor, perhaps two inches deep and three inches wide, that extended toward the alta
r on which I lay. I realized with horror that there was a break in the border of the altar on that side; it was designed to allow blood to pool in the basin and then flow down the channel and into the moat. It would take a lot of blood to fill that moat.
I’d been silent as Ljubo had carried me through the dungeon, partly because I feared distracting him and causing him to accidentally bash my head against a wall, but partly because I knew protests would do me no good, and I could use the time to think. Having come up with nothing, I decided to throw my cards on the table.
“You understand you’ve made a mistake?” I said.
Radovan chuckled, still intent on his alchemy. “Enlighten me, Konrad. Where did I go wrong?”
I found that I was unsurprised at his response. “Then you’ve known all along.”
“Since your trial in Nincs Varazslat. I came to see you the night the acolyte brought you, when you were still unconscious. I had expected to find my old enemy, Eben the Warlock.”
“Then… you and Eben are not allied?”
Radovan laughed out loud. “That old fool has been a thorn in my side for nearly a century. I rejoiced when I heard he’d been arrested, but I had to see for myself. When I saw you, I was nearly convinced; I assumed Eben had taken on a new vessel since I’d seen him last. But lingering doubt prompted me to attend your trial, where it became clear that you were not he. Yes, I was at your trial; you may remember a hooded man who sat in the back. I considered testifying in your defense in order to put the acolytes back on Eben’s trail. At the time, I’d barely begun my infiltration of the arcanist’s office. I was but a lowly clerk. Still, I could easily have produced exculpatory evidence, altering the balance of the proceedings in your favor. As I observed the trial, though, an idea occurred to me.
“You see, for some years I had been attempting to conduct a ritual to summon a certain beast from Veszedelem, called Voros Korom. I’m sure that to a man like you, all the denizens of that place would seem more-or-less the same. You’re as awed by the summoning of a stupid brute like the one you faced in Eben’s garden as you’d be by the appearance of Arnyek himself. Without delving too deeply into matters you could not possibly understand, I will simply say that Voros Korom has a unique pedigree that allows him to act as a living conduit to Veszedelem. Beings like the wraiths who haunt this place, who exist on the border between this world and shadow, subsist on energy that leaks from places like the ruins of this temple. But if one such as Voros Korom can be brought here, the wraiths will draw energy from his presence. Voros Korom can travel to Nagyvaros and bring the wraiths with him. They will lay waste to the city, and as the summoner, I will hold Voros Korom’s reins.
The Brand of the Warlock Page 16
