by K. C. Julius
But it was the holy shrine of Velicus for which Altipa was known. Whit had read about the petitioners who traveled from all over Albrenia to circle the seven wells of the god in the Sacred Palazzo, to appeal for his healing grace. Devotees of Velicus believed that if they drank from each of the wells, their prayers would be heard, and many miraculous cures were said to have been effected in this way.
Whit and Cortenus wore the garb of pilgrims, and so before arriving at the hospice, they had to at least make a show of devotion. They made a brief visit to the temple before presenting their letter of introduction, then retired to their rooms, where they were kept kicking their heels waiting for an audience with Encertesa. As the High Priestess of Velicus, she was said to be in direct communion with the gods, but that meant nothing to Whit; he had no faith in his father’s own deities, and even less liking for those on this side of the Erolin Sea. He fervently hoped that the help Seor Luiz had promised him was not expected to come from the heavens.
But after several days passed with no contact from the High Priestess, and no help from her acolytes—other than repeated admonitions to “have patience”—Whit began to wonder whether he was to receive aid of any kind here in Altipa, divine or otherwise. He was impatient to continue his search for Halla—his mind rarely ceased to imagine what she must be going through—and the idle days seemed a terrible waste of time. He tried, with increasing insistence, to convince Cortenus to return with him to Segavia, but his tutor, concerned about the risks this would pose, proved intractable, and Whit was not so foolish as to believe he could navigate this foreign land without Cortenus’s help.
And so they waited.
On the sixth long day of their stay, Whit answered a rap on his door to find a wrinkled old crone standing outside it.
“Come back in an hour,” Whit snapped, thinking she’d come to clean his room.
She scowled, then turned away. It was then he saw she was dressed in the robes of a priestess.
“Wait!” he called after her. “Forgive me, dona.” He stepped out into the corridor and circled in front of her. “My friend and I have only recently arrived in Altipa, and we are still finding our way. Do I have the pleasure of addressing Her Holiness Encertesa?”
“No,” the priestess snapped, her black eyes flashing, “you do not.”
Whit supposed the woman to be one of Encertesa’s acolytes. “Please, dona, I must see the High Priestess at once. A young kinswoman of mine has been sold into slavery, and I must find her before… before it’s too late. Could you not persuade your mistress of my urgency? I would be forever in your debt.” He jingled the coins in his pocket.
“Your name?”
Whit had prepared for this. “Seor Wren, dona.”
“Show me your hands,” she demanded.
Whit found it an odd request, but he held them out.
The crone studied his palms, then turned his hands over. She gave a small, fierce hiss, and Whit remembered, too late, what Seor Luiz had said about the ring Master Morgan had given him.
“I’m no rebel,” he said quickly.
With a grunt, she released him. “Come to the High Priestess tomorrow when the sun is at its zenith. She may see you, and she may not.” She cast a glance at Cortenus, framed behind Whit in the doorway. “And come alone.”
* * *
At the agreed-upon time, Whit stood outside the High Priestess’s door, listening as several bolts were drawn. When the door swung wide, the same old woman from the day before stepped aside to admit him. The house’s interior smelled of dust and incense, as though it had long been sealed against the golden light.
The old woman led him to a staircase, down which faint music drifted. “You’re to go up,” she said, and she shuffled away, her dark skirts swaying.
Whit tightened his grip on his staff and followed her instruction.
On the upper landing, a door stood ajar. Someone was playing a lute within, and the plucked strings rang like bright sparks in the gloom.
Whit gave a gentle rap, and the music ceased abruptly.
“Enter!” commanded an autocratic voice.
Whit pushed the door open and met the dark eyes of a woman who could only be the High Priestess Encertesa, even though she was dressed not in a priestess’s black robes, but in a court style from a century past. The costly brocade of her burgundy gown was stained with the rust of time, and the hunched figure, ensconced in a throne-like chair, looked older still. Her face was long and planed, and it was clear she had never been a handsome woman. Her hair, unnaturally black, hung in tangled coils, and was draped by a lace mantilla that fell over her shoulders. Heavy rings adorned her surprisingly large hands, which cradled a glass ball. The discarded lute lay at her feet, although the pillow on which she’d cushioned it still rested on her lap.
Whit sensed at once the danger emanating from her. A trickle of sweat ran down his back. “Sir Wren of Drinnkastel,” he said, bowing low.
Glass shattered against the wall behind him. The ball, thrown with deadly intent, had narrowly missed his head.
“You dare,” shrilled the High Priestess, “come into my presence under a false name and bearing that foul staff?” Her bony fingers were already groping for another missile to hurl.
Whit hastily knelt and laid his staff on the threadbare carpet before her. “Dona,” he pleaded, raising his hands in surrender, “I owe you an apology. I had no choice but to hide my true identity. I beg of you, allow me to properly introduce myself, then tell you of my need. After this, if you still deem me false, I will submit to whatever punishment you choose for attempting to mislead you.”
The priestess’s black eyes remained narrowed, but she returned her bejeweled hands to her lap. “I shall hold you to your word,” she said, keeping him kneeling before her. “As for introductions, there is no need. Do you think I don’t know who you are and whom you seek?”
“Then you can help me, dona, to find my cousin, Halla of Lorendale?”
“Perhaps,” replied the priestess coolly. “But that doesn’t mean I will. It depends on what you have to offer in return.”
“You have but to ask, dona.” Whit wondered if this was the time to offer her the pouch of gold he had brought as an enticement for her assistance.
The woman glared, her bloodless lips pressed in a grim line. “You must give me the date of your cousin’s birth, to the hour if known.”
Whit frowned. “I—I’ve no idea. I—”
“Might just as well leave now, in that case,” the dona snapped.
Sensing she was about to go into another rage, Whit bowed humbly again. “It could be… I believe I know the year and month of Halla’s birth. I just need a moment to recall them.”
The High Priestess shook her head while holding him in her cruel hawk-like gaze. “That will not be enough. However… there may be another way.” There was no mistaking the cunning that had crept into her voice. “She is of your blood, is she not? It’s possible to trace her through you.”
Whit didn’t care for the hungry speculation in the woman’s eyes. “What do you require of me?”
The priestess’s mouth twisted into a crude semblance of a smile. “Perhaps more than you are willing to give.”
“I have already told you,” Whit replied, although his heart was sinking, “you have only to ask.”
“Yes, but you have not yet heard what it is you must surrender to me. To begin with, I will have your staff.”
Whit was sure he had misheard her. What could a High Priestess want with his staff? Unless she’d guessed what it was and wished to destroy it. He cursed himself for not heeding Cortenus’s advice to leave it behind.
Before he could object, Encertesa raised her hand and flicked her fingers.
Whit saw the staff vibrate on the floor. The woman was trying to call the staff to her. And suddenly he understood—the priestess
was a sorceress! A sorceress with a perfect cover. What more perfect guise to assume to hide from those who would destroy you than the mantle of their most revered god?
The Albrenian book Elvinor had given him told of a few wizards and sorceresses who had escaped the Purge, but they had fled the continent. Had Encertesa alone stayed? And if so, why would she reveal this secret to him, and risk discovery?
Because she knows I, too, am a practitioner of magic.
“My staff will do you no good,” Whit said, trying to keep his voice even. He couldn’t surrender the rod—and yet he had twice promised the woman whatever she wanted. “It has accepted me.”
The sorceress’s laugh was chilling. “Every dog can learn to obey a new master. I will have your staff. And I will have more.” From under the cushion on her lap, she drew a slender blade. “Come here.”
Whit was doubly regretting the promise he’d so rashly made. First his staff, and now… He stared wide-eyed at the knife.
Encertesa shook her head with a tsk of disappointment. “Ah. I see you do not truly care about your cousin, who does indeed still live… although for how much longer, who can tell?”
“How do you know this?” Whit demanded, trying to project some semblance of authority. “I thought you needed the date and time of her birth?”
Encertesa lifted her thin shoulders in an indifferent shrug. “I lied.”
“Then am I to waste my time and possessions on deception?”
Whit snatched up his staff and rose, his eyes still on her blade. He wondered if he tried to call it to him, how she would respond.
To distract her, he said, “How am I to know if anything you say is true?”
The old woman crossed her glittering hands over the knife on her lap. “Therein lies the risk—you don’t. But what choice do you have? At a word from me, the city watch will take you into custody and deliver you to the grand commander. He won’t hesitate to reward me for a prize such as you—a spying wizard allied with our enemies.”
Whit edged to the window and peered cautiously down to the street below. It was empty, but for how much longer? “I’m allied with no one,” he said, turning back to her, “and I’m no prize. Besides, I could denounce you as well.”
“You could try, but who would believe you? I am the High Priestess of Velicus and His holy vessel here on earth. You are a wizard. For this reason alone, you are highly suspect.” Encertesa leaned back and looked down her long nose at him. “I’m curious about the ring you wear.”
Whit saw the avarice on her face, and decided to make use of it. “You can have the ring,” he said slowly, “if you’ll let me keep my staff.”
Encertesa kept her eyes hooded, but her fingers whitened on the handle of the blade. “Let me examine the ring more closely. But first, lay down your staff once more.”
Whit saw no harm in her request; he felt confident Kuval’s rod was his, and only his, to command. He set it back on the floor, then approached the sorceress’s chair. She followed his movements with pouched black eyes raggedly lined with kohl.
“Your hand,” she demanded.
Whit held out it out, and with lightning speed, Encertesa seized it and held him fast. He saw the bright glint of iron, but before he could react, the blade bit into his wrist, and bright blood welled up. He tried to raise his other hand against her, but it was pinned by her will to his side.
He watched in horror as Encertesa made an identical incision on her own wrist. With a hair-raising cackle of triumph, she pressed her bleeding wound against his and secured their union with a thin ribbon of silk. It reminded Whit grotesquely of a rite used in Midland weddings, but this was no marriage of hearts—it was a dark ritual, one that would bind him, perhaps forever, to the sorceress’s will.
Too late, he realized the enormity of what he had allowed to happen.
As if reading his thoughts, Encertesa smiled, revealing long, yellow teeth. “It will soon be done. Since it amuses me, I shall tell you, while we wait, what you want to know—although it will do you little good. Your Halla lives. But you knew this already. What you had yet to learn is that she is free, and does not wish to return with you to the Isle. Her fate lies elsewhere, as yours now lies with me.”
Whit searched for words of power to use against her, but it was as though his voice had drained away with his blood. He still had control of his mind though, which was racing, seeking some way to interrupt this unholy union.
In desperation, he sent a silent call to his staff.
Gwyilynn lynt fyt amddiffyn! Rod, defend me!
The air was charged with magic as the staff whipped across the room. With a crack, it struck the sorceress on the side of her head and sent her pitching out of her chair. The silk ribbon binding them tore away as she fell. Whit didn’t waste a second; he snatched up the rod, raced for the door, and barreled down the stairs, dodging the startled old crone at their foot.
As he stumbled out the door and into blinding light, a heavy hand fell on his shoulder. Whit spun and raised his staff to beat off this new threat.
But it was only Cortenus. “Quickly!” the tutor cried, tossing him his fusty pilgrim’s cloak. “Put it on!”
Whit struggled into the cloak as his tutor propelled him through the corridors of the hospice. His racing heart had still not slowed by the time they passed out of it and into a narrow lane overhung with grilled balconies.
“How did you know to come for me?” Whit said, drawing his hood close around his face.
“I don’t need to be a wizard to smell trouble. The invitation was issued with venom. I thought to stand by, just in case something went amiss. And when I saw the way you shot out of there…” Cortenus looked down at Whit’s arm. “You’re bleeding.”
“The wound will heal,” replied Whit bitterly. “but what may come of it, I’ve yet to learn.”
He gave a terse account of what had occurred in the High Priestess’s drawing room. From the grave look on his tutor’s face, he guessed his fears about this bizarre binding were entirely warranted.
“What did she do to me?”
Cortenus frowned, clearly concerned. “I’m not sure—you know more about the darker side of magic than I do. But since you interrupted the binding before it was completed, it may come to naught. And on the brighter side, we got what we came here for: we learned that Halla is free and has no wish to return to Drinnglennin.”
“Unless Encertesa was lying to me,” Whit retorted. “I put no trust in anything the woman says.”
“If she told you about Halla while your wrists were bound, then she spoke the truth. If she’d lied during a blood-bonding, both of you would have experienced excruciating pain. My uncle once told me of a similar occurrence—it was a tale from the days of Before, but he believed it to be true, and he was a great wizard in his own right.”
“What if… what if I killed her, Cortenus?”
“We must hope you did not. But if you did… what she attempted to do to you is grounds for self-defense, in my book.”
Cortenus stole a quick glance over his shoulder, then swore under his breath. “We’ve a more pressing problem at the moment. There’s a company of armed men behind us. Keep moving. The Sacred Palazzo is just ahead, and from there we might be able to avoid them.”
A babble of prayer echoed around them as they entered the palazzo. They quickly slipped into the throng of pilgrims milling around the miraculous wells.
Under the cover of their invocations, Cortenus whispered, “At the fourth well, there’s a stairway leading down to the beach. I’ve arranged to have a fishing boat await us there.”
“You have been busy, master,” Whit murmured.
“I’ve been uneasy since we arrived here. The boat has been moored there in readiness for a swift departure for the past three days.”
They reached the first well, and Cortenus abruptly dropped to his
knees, bowed his head, and began droning an unfamiliar prayer in Albrenian. Whit followed his tutor’s example, muttering random Albrenian phrases under his breath.
Braving a glance over his shoulder, he spotted the soldiers, who wore the scarlet livery of the Albrenian royal guard. It was clear they were searching for someone in particular, for as they pushed through the crowd, they pulled back the hoods of startled worshipers in order to examine their faces.
When Cortenus inched forward on his knees to the second well, Whit followed him. But here the crush of people made it impossible to stay together, and Whit lost sight of his tutor. There was no helping it and he forced his way on to the third well, hoping to be reunited with Cortenus there.
The clomping boots of the soldiers grew closer.
A bucket was thrust into Whit’s hands at the precise moment a member of the guard loomed up before him. Whit raised the pail to his lips and drank deeply, at the same time shielding his face as he willed the man to move on. When grasping hands tugged at his, he lowered the bucket and surrendered it to the next pilgrim.
The guard’s back was mercifully turned.
Whit scrambled around the well and crouched behind its jutting rim. He waited there until he was confident the soldiers had moved past, then slowly rose to scan the crowd for Cortenus. Seeing no sign of him, he shouldered his way toward the fourth well, where he soon found himself wedged in the midst of a gaggle of priests garbed in rough grey robes reminiscent of his late father’s under-vestments. To his dismay, Whit realized that the soldiers were caught up in the same press, and that if he wasn’t able to extract himself at once, he would soon come face to face with them.
A familiar bird call lilted over the drone of prayer, and at last he spied Cortenus, wading toward the edge of the crowd. Whit began to sidle incrementally in the same direction, apologizing softly to those he pushed against, hoping their protests would remain muted. He assumed a prayerful manner as he intoned the litany to the Elementa he’d been forced to recite as a child. He was making fair progress toward his tutor when he heard a sharp intake of breath in his ear.
