by Paul S. Kemp
“Yes.”
Another rustle ran through the chamber. Nervous eyes glanced about. Hands went to blade hilts. Elyril licked her lips with anticipation. Mirabeta eyed the corpse the way she might a trove of gold.
The high lord abbot looked out on the assembly.
“Perhaps this question would be better asked in the presence of Raithspur and the city guard?”
“Ask him,” Mirabeta said hotly, waving him on. “Do it now, High Lord Abbot. The council holds power in this city and this nation, not Raithspur.”
The priest knew better than to challenge Mirabeta. She had too many political weapons with which she could destroy his church, from increased taxation to revocation of the Tyrrans’ land charter. He swallowed and nodded.
“Who murdered you, Overmaster Kendrick?”
The corpse stiffly turned its head and fixed the council with its dark-eyed glare. The flaccid lips labored but the words were clear enough.
“Agents of Endren High Corrinthal tainted my final meal with an untraceable magical poison. Endren Corrinthal murdered me.” Elyril almost danced while the chamber exploded into shouted accusations and counter accusations. Mirabeta could not stop smiling.
The members of the Council jostled, pushed, shouted into one another’s faces. Endren Corrinthal screamed denials, his face as red as an apple.
“A lie! That is a lie!”
Mirabeta swallowed her smile and took full advantage of her gift. “You are a murderer, Endren Corrinthal!” she shouted, standing behind the high lord abbot and pointing her finger at Endren. “Name those whom you employed to perform this dark deed.”
Elyril glanced at Abelar, who looked on with shock.
“A lie!” Endren answered. “Arranged by you.”
A melee broke out among several members and knocked Zarin Terb to the floor. Without warning, Weerdon Kost drew his blade and charged Inmin. Other members responded by drawing their own steel and the chamber erupted into a chaos of screams, shouts, and swinging swords. The underpriests swarmed the dais to protect the body and their high priest. The wallmen drew weapons and rushed into the melee. Abelar ran headlong for his father into the confused combat of swinging fists and blades.
Rising to his knees, an enraged Zarin Terb pulled a thin wand from his jacket and discharged a bolt of lightning that cut a swath through the chamber, knocking several members to the floor. A long sword severed Terb’s wrist and the wand skittered across the stones. Zarin screamed for aid, clutching the bleeding stump. Someone kicked him in the temple and he toppled to the floor.
Elyril sprinted to the nearest door and shouted down the hall. “Guards! Guards to the Council Chamber! The High Council is attacked!”
She did not wait to determine whether she had been heard. Instead she whispered a hurried imprecation to Shar, charged her hands with dark, poisonous magic, and turned back to the combat to seek a likely target. Abelar Corrinthal stood before his father with his blade at the ready and the rosy glow of protective magics surrounding him. The pair was backing out of the chamber. Elyril guessed that Abelar was either a priest or templar of the Morninglord.
Mirabeta lurked in safety beside High Lord Abbot Jemb, within a circle of the six junior Tyrrans who ringed the dais, warhammers swinging. Both her aunt and Jemb were shouting into the melee but their words were drowned out by the combat. The highspeaker futilely shouted for a return to order.
Elyril spotted Zarin Terb on the floor. He lay senseless in a pool of his blood and his wallman was not nearby.
Elyril pushed through the chamber, avoiding the blades, and knelt at Terb’s side. She made the motions of trying to stanch the blood from his severed wrist, but she actually discharged the magical poison of her spell into his veins. He died instantly, and his support for Endren Corrinthal died with him. Elyril watched his spirit exit the body and streak through the roof. She stood and backed away from Terb.
She caught sight of Abelar pulling his protesting father toward an exit. She put her hand to her holy symbol, whispered an imprecation to Shar, and surreptitiously pointed a finger at the Corrinthals. Instantly a swirling, life-draining cloud of black mist took shape around them. Endren Corrinthal shouted and flailed against the darkness as it engulfed him and his son, drank their lifeforces.
The rest of the High Council had little time to pay heed to the fate of the Corrinthals. Steel was flying in the rotunda.
Elyril smiled as she thought of the husks her spell would leave behind, but the mirth vanished when a rose-colored light flared and annihilated her cloud of darkness. The light emanated from a holy symbol in the hand of Abelar Corrinthal. He held his weakened father with one arm and his holy symbol high with the other hand. His gaze fell on Elyril and his eyes narrowed.
Elyril saw in his face that he knew she had cast the spell. She smiled and paid him his overdue curtsy. He said something to his father, lowered him to the floor, and started across the rotunda for her, smashing with his sword hilt any who got in his way. A rosy glow surrounded him.
Elyril put her hand to her invisible holy symbol and snarled. She welcomed the chance to—
The sound of a horn interrupted Abelar’s advance and a score of city guards burst in from two of the entrances. They shouted for order and bashed indiscriminately with their shields. Abelar shot Elyril a final glare and retreated to his father’s side.
In moments the guards had quieted the melee.
The members and their wallmen stared at one another, gasping for breath. Weapons hung loosely in numb hands. Zarin Terb lay dead. Graffen Disteaf sat on the floor, clutching his chest but still alive. Inmin Dossir’s dead body lay blackened and smoking from Zarin’s lightning bolt. Four wallmen lay dead.
“What have we done?” asked Vens Derstill of Daerlun. Blood stained his sword.
“Inmin drew first!” exclaimed Weerdon Kost.
“That is not true,” said Abelar Corrinthal from near the door, his voice preternaturally calm. “You drew steel first, Weerdon Kost.”
While Kost sputtered, Highspeaker Lossit stepped atop the dais. Stopping beside Mirabeta, he dabbed at his bleeding nose.
“That is enough,” he shouted, his voice muffled by a handkerchief bunched around his nose. “This will be sorted in due time.” He eyed the rotunda, the fallen council members. “Gods, look at this! What will the people say?”
“The people should never hear of it,” Mirabeta said, pointing her finger at Endren. “You are responsible for this, Endren Corrinthal.”
Endren shook his head, apparently too drained from Elyril’s spell to speak for himself. A cut above his right eye would not stop bleeding. Abelar spoke a word and touched his fingertips to his father’s face. Endren’s wound closed immediately and the color returned to his face. Abelar looked across the chamber at Mirabeta.
“You are responsible for this, Countess. You and your foul niece.”
Elyril feigned a gasp.
Abelar continued. “Your niece summoned that dark cloud to try to kill my father. And you inflamed the High Council’s passions with theatrics. The two of you arranged for this lie to be spoken.”
Mirabeta scowled. “You mind is addled, Abelar Corrinthal. My niece is incapable of casting spells. And it was not I, but the overmaster’s corpse that named your father a murderer. You defame two members of my family in a single stroke while you cradle the head of a murderer.”
“My father is not a murderer,” Abelar insisted, anger in his eyes. “It is a lie. Your lie.”
Some of those allied with Endren murmured agreement. Hands tightened around hilts.
“The high lord abbot cast the spell himself,” Mirabeta said. “Will you gainsay the priests of the Justicar?”
Abelar stood and pointed his sword at Mirabeta. “I would gainsay you, Countess. Who has more to gain from my father’s fall than you?” He looked to the other members of the High Council. “There is dark magic afoot here.”
“Yes,” Mirabeta said. “There is dark magic afoot. And w
ith it, your father murdered my cousin.”
“Do not believe her,” Abelar said to the members. “You know my father. He is an honorable man. He murdered no one.”
Mirabeta’s face flushed when several of the members nodded. She turned to the priest. “High Lord Abbot, can you use your spells to detect a lie?”
Jemb nodded.
“Please do so,” Mirabeta ordered. “And ask whether I had anything to do with the overmaster’s death, and whether I had anything to do with his naming of Endren as his murderer.”
Jemb looked at Endren and Abelar, at Mirabeta, at the council members. The highspeaker nodded. Jemb grasped his holy symbol and intoned a prayer to Tyr. When he finished, a nimbus of pale light extended outward from him. Mirabeta stood within its glow.
“None may lie within this light,” Jemb said. He looked Mirabeta in the face.
“Mirabeta Selkirk, did you murder Overmaster Kendrick Selkirk, either directly or through an agent?”
Mirabeta let the question hang for a moment before answering. “No. I had nothing to do with it. Nor with perpetrating a fraud in this chamber, as Abelar Corrinthal contends.”
Jemb nodded. “She speaks truth.”
A susurous rustle moved through the council and the assembled guards.
“What of her niece?” Abelar said. “Put the question to her.”
Eyes turned to look at Elyril.
“My niece is not involved in this,” Mirabeta said.
Elyril stood up straight and stepped forward. “It is all right, aunt. I have nothing to hide.”
She picked her way through the crowd and stepped within the Tyrran’s light of truth.
Jemb said, “Elyril Hraven, did you murder Overmaster Kendrick Selkirk, either directly or through an agent?”
Elyril shook her head. “No. I was not involved.”
Jemb nodded again. “She, too, speaks truth.”
A rush of conversation filled the chamber. Elyril smiled at Abelar.
“Spells can be fooled,” Abelar stated.
“And so can sons,” Mirabeta said
Abelar stared cold rage at Mirabeta. “I know what you are, Countess. You and your niece. You will not succeed with this.”
Mirabeta smiled politely. “What we are, Abelar Corrinthal, are servants of Sembia, both of us. But you, you are the son of a murderer and traitor.” She gestured at the city guards. “Take Lord Corrinthal into custody.”
The assembly erupted into protests and calls of support. The guardsmen looked at one another nervously.
Still weakened from Elyril’s spell, Endren pulled himself up with aid from his son and spoke on his own behalf. “You do not speak for the High Council, or the city, Mirabeta Selkirk.”
Mirabeta’s smile never wavered, though her eyes hardened. Without taking her gaze from Endren, she said to Lossit, “Highspeaker, I demand a voice vote on the election of an Overmaster of Sembia.”
The chamber erupted. Blades came up anew. Guards rushed forward and disarmed the council members and their wallmen—all but Abelar, who refused to give up his blade, and none dared insist.
“Countess, I am not certain that—” Lossit began.
“I second the demand,” Graffen Disteaf said.
Mirabeta raised her hands to calm the brewing tumult and said, “The vote will be to appoint an overmaster for a limited term, until representatives for the vacant seats,” she glanced at the bodies of Zarin and Inmin, “can be filled. The appointment shall be valid for nine tendays. Then a new election will be held.”
The majority of the members murmured acceptance. Even Lossit said, “A reasonable course, Countess.”
The highspeaker called for a new nominee while the priests of Tyr healed the wounded. No one was nominated—Endren refused to allow anyone to stand as his proxy, contending the vote was illegitimate. Mirabeta was left as the only candidate. Lossit called for a voice vote and Mirabeta was elected temporary overmistress by a slim majority. Endren and his two closest allies abstained.
“So noted,” said the Highspeaker. “By action of the High Council, Mirabeta Selkirk is hereby temporarily appointed to the office of Overmistress of Sembia for the next nine tendays. The proclamation will go out this evening.”
Mirabeta eyed Endren. The elder Corrinthal must have known what was coming. He struck a dignified pose as Mirabeta spoke. “Endren Corrinthal, you are hereby placed under arrest as a suspect in the murder of Kendrick Selkirk.”
“No,” Abelar said, brandishing his blade. Rosy light emanated from its edge.
“If Abelar Corrinthal interferes, arrest him, too,” Mirabeta said.
Five guardsmen hefted their maces and moved toward the Corrinthals. Endren put his hand on his son’s shoulder and guided his weapon downward.
“No, Abelar. Not this way.”
“You are not a murderer,” Abelar said, his eyes fixed on the advancing guardsmen.
Endren eyed Mirabeta. “No. And I will be exonerated.”
Mirabeta only smirked.
Abelar looked into his father’s face. Endren nodded, smiled, and Abelar sheathed his blade.
Elyril clucked her tongue with disappointment. She had hoped to see Abelar bleed.
Another supporter of Endren, Herlin Sambruar of Urmlaspyr, said, “There are over two hundred citizens on the street outside who will not countenance this, Mirabeta. This is a transparent grab for power.”
Before Mirabeta could answer, Endren shook his head. “No, Herlin. We will not turn Ordulin into a battlefield. Unlike the countess, I value our nation too highly as to so casually risk its good order. Highspeaker, I demand that the High Council call a moot for the purpose of electing the next overmaster at the end of Mirabeta’s term.”
Elyril scowled. So did Mirabeta. A moot would turn the council of twenty into an assembly of seventy or more. Such a gathering would frustrate all of Mirabeta’s plans.
“You are in a position to demand nothing, Endren Corrinthal,” Mirabeta said. “The High Council has not called a moot of the nobility in over three hundred years. The point of the representative body is to avoid the need for moots.”
Endren stared at Mirabeta. “And it has failed. Ordulin has become an insular hive of political backbiting, of grasping politicians who look to their own interests before those of the state. New blood and new perspectives are what the nation needs. I will accede to this arrest—to house arrest, at my tallhouse in Ordulin—if and only if my son is left free and the High Council issues a summons for a moot. The next permanent overmaster must be elected by the nobility-at-large, not by this council.”
“Seconded!” shouted Herlin. “A voice vote on the question of a moot, Highspeaker.”
Lossit, a compromising man by nature, called for the voice vote over Mirabeta’s protest. Apparently ready to push the responsibility of electing the next overmaster upon all of Sembia’s nobility, every member of the High Council voted for the moot. When Mirabeta saw this, she withdrew her protest and voted in favor of it.
But Mirabeta still had the final word.
“By order of the overmistress,” Mirabeta said to the guard and pointed at Endren, “take the murderer into custody.”
Endren whispered urgent instructions to Abelar, who nodded while staring daggers at Mirabeta and Elyril.
Cale dreamed of spirits writhing in pits of liquid fire. Horned devils covered in dark scales prowled the pits, flaying the damned at random with sharp knives, grinning as they did their bloody work. Fire rained out of a glowing red sky. Laughter, deep and ominous, boomed over the screaming. Cale found the laughter familiar but he could not place it.
Help me, a voice said.
Cale could not tell if the request was a plea for rescue or an invitation to assist with punishing the damned.
Help me, Erevis, said the voice.
Cale recognized it then.
Magadon?
Before Magadon could answer, something dark and large and terrible entered the dreamscape. The glowing sky di
mmed. Damned and devil alike cowered as a shadow fell over the land.
Father, Magadon’s mental voice said, and Cale felt the presence of an entity as ancient as the multiverse. The power of it stripped him to his core. He wanted to run, to hide, but there was nowhere for him to go. He knew the entity’s name. It was none other than Mephistopheles, Magadon’s father.
He is mine, the arch devil said, and his voice made Cale’s ears bleed.
Cale awoke to Varra shaking him. He opened his eyes to find shadows pouring from his flesh, swarming the bed. Varra was shrouded in darkness, screaming his name.
“Erevis! Erevis!”
Cale’s heart pulsed in his ears. Sweat soaked him. His head was pounding, far behind his eyes. He seized Varra by her wrists and willed the shadows to subside.
“I’m all right, Varra. It was a dream. A bad dream.”
But he was not sure that was all it was.
Varra stared down at him, tears in her eyes, concern on her face. “Gods,” she said.
“I am all right,” he assured her.
She blew out a breath, stared at him a moment, and lowered her head onto his chest. He put his arms around her, hoping she would not hear the hammering of his heart, and he inhaled the smell of her hair. It calmed him.
The cottage was dark. It was still night, perhaps a few hours after midnight.
“You were calling in your sleep, tossing about,” she said. “The room went black with shadows. I was frightened. I shook you and shook you, but you wouldn’t awaken.”
Cale stroked her hair absently, his mind still on the dream. His sleep had been troubled for over a tenday. Again and again he dreamed of suffering souls, but none of the previous dreams had approached the intensity of the last.
“Varra, I think one of my friends may be in trouble.”
Varra did not hear him, or did not acknowledge hearing him. She said, “You kept saying the same things over and over again, shouting them.”
Cale tried not to ask, but could not help himself. “What did I say?”
“You shouted about a storm coming, about the Hells, and you kept repeating ‘two and two are four, two and two are four.’ Does that mean something to you?”
