“Is that possible?” Dechamps whispered, mouth agape. “A cure for the black blood? Will it bring the dead back?”
The archmage set her jaw, “How frightening, Dechamps. Do you believe me to be a black mage? Dabbling in necromancy, calling myself a god?”
Dechamps bristled. Taking a step back, the woman lowered her head. “Of course not, madam. Never would I...”
“Ah?” the archmage laughed, crossing her arms. “All of the Sybil's Vanguard believes me to be some sort of magebane, reviving the lifeless and ignoring the crux of the Power as I drain it from the land. In order for this to work, mistress Caroline...” the archmage watched Dechamps bristle once more, the larger woman's arms stiffening as the archmage let the name roll off her tongue, “...you must trust me. You must believe in my abilities, and follow my instructions precisely. Do you understand?”
Dechamps spat. “You aren't going to steal my soul, are you?”
It was the archmage's turn to bristle, and as her shoulders stiffened Kat felt a notable change in the air. As if it had suddenly gotten harder to breathe.
“I'll have you know—,”
A bellowing screech cut the air in two. The sound like metal screeching against metal, but strangely animalistic in its screech. The drawn out call bestial and savage as it blazed across the horizon, shaking the chateau. Making the stones of the fortress shiver and shake with the ear piercing shriek as it clawed open the heavens with its cry.
Kat felt the magic lift from her limbs as the women anxiously peered towards the single window at the back of the room, cut into a wall absent paintings and a gilded gold finish. The archmage and Dechamps dropped everything. Their eyes white with terror as they sprinted across the room and fought to peer out the single, square, window.
Kat found herself moving as well, approaching the window as fast as her groggy limbs allowed her. Falling to the floor, she heard the women gasp as the cry soared across the sky once more. The floor shivered, the fortress shaking as Kat regained her balance and limped over.
The archmage and Dechamps were shoulder to shoulder, staring up at a silver toned sky as a monstrous shadow lengthened, casting its colossal shade across the yellow field below with a thrumming clap of wing-beats booming across the horizon. Kat forced her body forward, pushing herself between the two dazed women as she brought her gaze to the sky as well. Heard a triumphant cry like a horn being blown to tarnished bits as the screech careened across a sky as silver as the icy stream below.
A dragon.
Stretching it's long scaled neck as it opened its bearded mouth and screeched again, the wyrm surfed the wind with wide wings colossal in span as it soared high towards the bubbling wisps of silver clouds above.
A dragon.
Kat opened her mouth, let her jaw hang as she watched the magnificent beast command the very air itself, pulling its gargantuan frame higher and higher as it parted the clouds with a breath. With a flaming red screech that painted the sky a blazing crimson that danced. That breathed and lingered with a belch of black smoke and curling silver air.
A dragon.
If only Bertrand were here—they're real. They're real!
If only Bertrand were...
The archmage snapped her gaze to Kat, her single eye wide. Crazed.
“Table, child.” the archmage pointed, her finger trembling. Her whole body shaking. “We have no time for trifles. None at all. Go! Get back on that damned table!”
TWENTY
The bent arm of the claven glared down at her, the silver point of its needle fixed to fall upon the center of Kat's chest as she lay there, prone. Palms flat to the desk's sleek surface. Nails digging into the smooth wood of the desk face beneath her.
“Ah, gentle acceptance.” the archmage breathed, hovering over Kat's prostrate body with a single blue eye focused upon the needle-arm of the claven. “Dechamps,” the archmage turned her gaze over her shoulder, “are you ready?”
The soft clink of armor made Kat bite her lip as Dechamps shifted her weight to one leg before sliding it along to the other as she clasped her hands behind her back. Dechamps' posture became ramrod straight as she stood like a woman petrified in iron. “Yes, mademoiselle,” she replied, voice a shivering whisper. “I am ready to proceed.”
The archmage nodded, the movement of her head slow and fluid as a coil of black tendrils slid over the golden shoulder of her creamy blouse. Bringing her blue eye back to the claven, the archmage brought a hand from the desk and hovered it over the claven's opposite arm. Kat locked eyes with her then, her breath quickening in her lungs as her chest rose and fell. Rose and fell. The movement quick and curt—as thunderous as a heartbeat.
“You will be saving a vast multitude of lives, shieldmaiden Maeva. The Fates have certainly smiled upon us by delivering you right to us. The black blood is a terrible curse that curiously only affects humans...”
A dragon's screech silenced the archmage. Forced throbbing tension into the room as the earth itself seemed to tremble.
“We must work quickly.” the archmage hissed as the sound died away. “If the presence blocking your memories speaks the truth, then we can use its knowledge to cure the chateau's men of this curse.”
“You're simply going to speak to it?” Kat squeaked, not knowing what was inside of her. But having a clue. “Ask it questions? What if it doesn't willingly answer? What if it lies?”
With a flick of her wrist, the archmage silenced the girl again. “I am an adept sorceress, child. You must think me naive.”
“And the cure will bring them back?” Dechamps whispered, coming forward. “All of them? It will bring them back?”
The archmage grinned. Bringing a hand to the opposite arm of the claven, she began applying pressure with her palm. The needle-arm began moving, edging closer and closer to Kat's chest. “This cure will bring us an army to fight that scaled monstrosity flapping around outside.”
“Where did it come from?”
The archmage closed her eyes. “The Scyllah.” she breathed. “The elves have called it.”
All at once, the archmage slammed the opposite arm of the claven with her wiry muscles clenched. The needle-arm surged forward, clawing through the air at a hammering speed that pierced Kat's chest with a harrowing exhale and a breath.
Kat sucked in air, eyes open wide, as the needle drove into her. Blunt spasms erupted from her body as pain shot like a thunderbolt from her chest. Clawing its way up her neck and arms. Eyes budging from her skull, she opened her mouth and hungrily slurped in air. It wove its way down her throat, curving to expand her lungs as she continued sucking. As her eyes continued budging and her hands clenched into sweat drenched fists.
Air escaped her chest with a harsh hiss that spiraled out of the thrumming hole between her breasts. Kat found she couldn't breathe as she choked, her throat constricting suddenly as air wheezed free from the tiny hole in her chest. With the needle driving its point through her torso, slithering past bone and cutting through muscle, she found she couldn't breathe.
“Temporary.” the archmage moaned, bringing both hands to the opposite arm of the claven. “It is temporary. Worry not.”
Kat's eyes flinched, gaze locked with the high dome of the ceiling as the intertwining arms of the chandelier above shook. The decoration shivering upon a tail of interlocking chains that fixed themselves to the ceiling. Kat felt her chest rise as the woman attached to the other end of the claven cried out, whipping back her head as the hairs upon her arms rose. Standing firm. Standing straight.
“Heed my call creature...” she moaned, hands slack around the blunt arm of the claven. “...heed me...do not...cast me out.”
A stygian blackness wove its way around Kat's vision, then. Flowing tentacles of wreathing black opening like a carnation of nightfall. The moon flower blooming beneath her, before the petals danced to unfurl, swimming towards the corners of her vision as they engulfed the desk she lay prostrate upon. The curling blackness stretching towards the cei
ling. The petals swallowing all, acting as an inverted waterfall made of a starless midnight.
“Do not cast me out!”
That scream transformed things, made Kat's world pause as her breathing slowed to a mere rumble in her pierced chest.
And everything faded. The room, its lavish paintings. The archmage and her vanguard. The tension thickening the air, sweeping over Kat's pallid face. Everything. Everything faded.
As stygian petals unfurled before her, revealing a mouth. A face.
Kat felt as if she were floating.
“Don't move.” whispered ruby-red lips. “The witch's implement is still wedged inside of you. I can only pause time for a moment...”
Kat looked into eyes that mimicked her own, shaped like almonds. Yet, these had deep creases at the corners. “Who...are you?” she felt stupid asking it—a question she already knew the answer to before it even exited her mouth.
But she needed the Lady to say it. She needed her to confess with her own lips.
The Lady parted lips of ruby-red, sharp incisors brushing over the skin as she paused. Hesitated.
Kat looked the woman in the eye, scanning her. Searching for her mother's stark resemblance. In life, her mother's skin had had an earthy olive-tint to it. It reminded her of new trees, new life. In death, her skin had become pallid. The color of ice brightened by the chilled rays of a winter sun. In death, her mother's warm gaze had become cold. Carnal. Bestial like the hetaera Kat had encountered so long ago. Hungry.
“Command me, and I will take their lives with a breath.” the Lady told Kat, pale arms freeing themselves of shadow as she opened them. “Do you understand what this witch seeks to do, Katell? Do you understand what this instrument—the implement piercing your chest—was created to do?”
Kat opened her mouth, air freezing in her throat as she coughed up a breath. “It's obvious to me...” she coughed, croaking. “...that it was either this...” she shrugged, gaze sliding towards her chest as she caught her breath, “...or the noose.”
The woman hovering above her narrowed icy eyes,“Have you lost faith in me, child? When have I ever left you to face the world alone?”
“When I faced the hetaera.” Kat grunted, her lips twisting. “When my best friend died. When a monster crippled me.” she felt her throat constricting as her voice grew thick. “You left me alone in Montbereau to a woman who didn't even want me. You killed all of my friends—you massacred Remicourt simply because they spirited me away! You could have held your ground! You could have spoke to the townspeople—,”
“You are a fool if you believe they would have reacted rationally. You are a fool and a naive little girl.” the Lady spat, teeth bared. “You have witnessed how humans treat the strange. The unusual and the exotic. They burn their own for 'possessing' magical power, while slaughtering anything that is not bipedal or doesn't aptly adhere to their customs.”
The Lady sighed a heavy breath, closing her eyes as her coiling body of wispy shadows edged closer, trailing through the black. “Tell me, child.” she murmured, opening her eyes. “Tell me you've considered why other races of humanoids do not frequent the south. Tell me why creatures marked as fiends and beasts detain themselves to Baate Noir, and only prowl the black forest? Tell me why they are openly volatile to anything on two legs—to anything describing itself as human?” she moved closer, glaring into Kat's glassy eyes. “Tell me why they hate your kind? Tell me how humanity has managed to conquer every strip of land, every bit of space within our world...” red. Crimson. Scarlet. The furious mix of colors occupied her eyes in a maddening swirl of scintillating anger. “Tell me why the land is doused in the blood of non-humans, child. Tell me why.”
Kat pressed her lips into a hard line, her eyes locked in a volatile embrace with the Lady's.
Silence followed as Kat wrestled with her thoughts. She had learned a mountain of knowledge since starting out on the Path. Losing track of her comrades, fighting a hetaera—a lesser vampire, had taught her much. Losing her friend, being kidnapped by Elisedd's people and learning of an entirely new language; the language of those Elisedd swore walked Myrine centuries before humanity surged over it, taking all and everything under its all-consuming rule.
She met a man with the eyes of a snake. She remembered glaring into the eyes of a woman with eyes as bright as sapphires.
Were they...an elder race? Elder people?
Kat didn't know what to call them...but she remembered the archmage mentioning elves.
Did they truly exist?
Hell, she saw a dragon, came face to face with a hetaera and was now eye to eye with the Night Lady. Anything—anything was possible.
“What are they doing to me?” she murmured, breaking the shared silence. “What is a claven meant to do?”
The Lady closed her eyes, her torso arching backwards as the shadowy tendrils moved her towards the great stygian sky above.
She opened her arms, “It is meant to stave off impurities,” the Lady whispered, “impurities of the heart.”
TWENTY-ONE
It is meant to exorcise.
To restrain and chase out demons.
~~~
Archmage Ledora felt the edge of the thick desk bite into the muscle near the thin bone of her pelvis as her body slumped towards the desk top, both palms firmly attached to the shivering end of the claven.
The archmage hissed at a gentle clink of armor as Dechamps bucked forward behind her, “Madam—,”
Ledora eased out a controlled hiss, the air escaping through the slender gaps between her clenched teeth. “Allow us time, Dechamps.” she commanded, closing her good eye as she bent her head. Straightening her trembling body, she edged her forehead towards the blunt edge of the claven as Katell whimpered upon the desk beneath her. “This may take hours...” she hissed, eyes shut tight. “...days. Dechamps,” the archmage suddenly barked, her heart thrashing itself against the cage of her ribs. “the Power flows through me like a river...” a river of ice, she thought, her jaw clenching tightly, “...I have siphoned enough of the Crux from you. Leave, now. Ready your auxiliary for the arrival of the Chaperon and the Rose's envoys...”
Dechamps stiffened behind Ledora, arms by her sides. Fists clenched. “And this will bring back my brother?” she breathed, her voice a cutting whisper. “This will bring back the dead?”
Slapping her hands to the stout lip of the desk beneath her, Archmage Ledora dug her nails into the wood as the bones of her jaw tightened. “Leave me.”
“A dragon stakes its turf outside—a dragon. A creature indigenous to the far north—thought to be extinct—stakes its turf as we speak! As you tell me that this—this could take an entire day! A week even.”
“Leave.” Ledora growled, shoulders rising. “Prepare them.”
“And you intend to speak with a spirit about these matters—the dragon, the black blood, the Scyllah. You intend to bow to a creature—a sinister presence, as you called it. You intend to bow to this presence planted within this traitor by the damned Scyllah!” Dechamps threw her hands to the sky. “Do you not see how this could work to their advantage, Archmage? Do you not see how we could be playing to Elisedd's tune? Taking his bait—believing this urchin—wasting valuable time...”
Ledora did not open her eyes, she merely breathed. Straightening her spine, she clasped her hands behind her back as she fought to control her breathing. As she fought to appear calm. “Dechamps?” she began, opening her good eye as she brought her gaze over her shoulder. “Reiterate...why is your title, 'Vanguard'? Why is your position within the Sybil's auxiliary, and not within said organization itself?” Ledora paused, waited. Knew Dechamp's face would be steadily growing red, the muscular woman's porcelain skin deepening to a poached crimson.
“I-,”
Ledora wouldn't let her finish. “Ah, is it possible that you, dear Vanguard, could be awarded the title of Archmage?” she cocked her head, “Non? Ah, well then, is it possible that you could join the Sybil as a sim
ple initiate and grow your way to such a feat? Hm?” Ledora's hand began to choke her wrist as she brought her gaze back to the table, her eyes closing. “With dirt running like blood through your lowborn veins—could you amount to anything without a sword in hand?” Again, she paused. Waited. Heard Dechamps hiss her anger away, the sound like steam screaming through the bigger woman's nostrils. “You—who cannot call upon the Power's crux. You, who cannot utter a spell—or even read a tome brimming with magical obscenities. You—,” snapping her good eye open, Ledora cast a sidelong glance over her shoulder, the single blue eye cutting like a sapphire tipped spear through Dechamp's glaciated gaze. “who lives a life dictated by the point of her blade. You...” Ledora closed her eyes. Ducking her head, she let her words slip away as her heart hammered hard in her chest. Her palms had gone icy as Dechamps silently listened, allowing the archmage to chastise her with a double-edged tongue.
Ledora bristled, the hands clasped behind her back slipping towards her tailbone as her shoulders fell.
Upon the table, the girl wheezed.
“Your ignorance,” Ledora began, shaking her head. “annoys me greatly.”
“I only worry for my people.” Dechamps replied, her voice low. “The auxiliary cannot fend off a dragon, Archmage. Not alone.”
“Non.” she snapped, bowing her head once more. “And it will not have to. Offer me time, Vanguard. Trust me.”
Ledora heard Dechamps shift, her heavy boots thumping upon the wood-rotten boards of the study as a distant cry surged through the air. The call of a myth—a creature that should not exist.
A dragon.
“Councilor Vidonia appointed you as archmage and commander in this venture.” Dechamps murmured, lowering her head as she crossed her armor lined arms. “I will place my trust in her. As for you, I trust in your abilities, Archmage. Your skill and talent. But even the auxiliary knows of your past, Jacinthe Ledora. Even we know to be wary of sorceresses who have dabbled in death.”
Winterskin: A Dark Fantasy (Kindred Souls Book 1) Page 10
