The father was screaming into his own gag, the same word over and over. It was lost in the folds of the rag shoved between his teeth, but Maarkov thought that it might have been her name. Mara, Meera, or Myra, perhaps—at least, it sounded like that.
Maarkov’s eyes shot to the woman’s face as Maaz opened her torso. The father wailed, Maaz’s arms worked, and the woman just lay silent, tears streaming from her eyes. She made retching noises every once in a while, but her eyes started to roll back from the pain. Maaz, one hand inside the woman’s belly, began chanting in his guttural language.
The boy saw everything.
Screams and banging issued up from the barn, where the rest of the homesteaders had been barricaded. Maarkov turned to look—mostly to avert his eyes from the ritual—and saw the double doors shaking back and forth in their sockets. Maaz had twisted a piece of steel around the doors to hold them closed, using his magic to see the job done. Maarkov wouldn’t move to stop them if they won free, but he doubted the country villagers could get out. Maaz was too thorough when it came to killing.
“Brother,” Maaz hissed. Maarkov turned. “You must eat.”
“Must I?” Maarkov asked. He knew the answer to the question, of course. He knew that without taking part in the ritual, his flesh would begin to rot away. Whatever eldritch energies that kept the ravages of time at bay would flee his body, and it would ripen like a melon left in the sun.
He would, of course, experience every agonizing second.
“You know the answer to that question,” Maaz said in an all-suffering tone. “Eat.”
He held out something pink, wriggly, and wet.
Maarkov took it, cupping his hands in order to keep the thing—whatever it was—from slipping into the dirt. He would chew on the rubbery meat, he would let the blood dribble down his chin, even suck the fibers from between his teeth afterward—but a little dirt would ruin everything. The thought almost made him laugh.
Then, he saw the boy’s eyes on him.
He paused, mouth poised to bite into the bloody piece of the boy’s mother. Maaz gave him an insistent look, indicating the woman’s labored breathing. The meal had to be finished before the woman died, otherwise the magic wouldn’t work—at least, that’s the way Maaz explained it to him. He grimaced at the boy and shoved the warm, soft flesh into his mouth.
He’d told the boy to look away, gods damn him—or at least, he’d prayed for it. For that matter, where were the fucking gods when the boy had needed them? If ever there was a day that the gods should intervene in a young boy’s life, it was when a pair of travelers such as Maarkov and his brother came calling. Maarkov had watched the strega run the boy down, chasing him through the fields lying bare in the winter twilight. Where were the gods when the boy had been yanked from the dirt by his hair and hauled before this makeshift altar? Had the gods cared when Maaz had rounded up all the homesteaders—men, women, and children from infants to lanky adolescents—and barricaded them in the barn? Were they watching this mother being carved up and nibbled at like a festival roast, even as she struggled to heave out her last breaths?
Maarkov swallowed, his stomach giving the familiar, reflexive heave. He fought it down. The woman’s struggles ceased, and her life fled the altar.
“Now,” Maaz sighed, turning toward the family and wiping blood away from his chin. “Let’s see to the rest of you.”
He gestured, and the barn suddenly went up in a roaring conflagration. Screams warbled out of the blaze as the flames cracked the wood and split the darkness of the night, but the family only stared in horror at the woman on the table. Except for the boy—the boy was staring right at Maarkov, his eyes empty.
Maarkov scowled at the kid. He wanted to yell at him, to scream that there was no reason for that look on his face, that the gods didn’t give two golden shits about what happened to him, or his family. He wanted to rail about how the world was cruel, and it would crush the weak under the heels of the strong. Before the anger made him open his mouth, though, he stopped.
By the look in the boy’s eyes, he already knew.
***
The Conclave was packed, just as the Administrator had warned.
Political tension brought wizards back to Ishamael like flies to old meat, though the proper analogy might have been one involving a beehive—that’s the way it felt to D’Jenn. All the hallways in the Conclave Proper were full of bustling wizards, conversing with old friends they hadn’t seen since their days as Initiates. Out on the Green, beside the white stone colonnade that led to the front entrance, a group of Hedge Wizards were having a meeting entirely for the purposes of discussing the best methods for brewing ale.
The Conclave had two sprawling campuses, each located to either side of the river Ishamael. The main compound, located on the eastern side of the river, was full of marble, white stone, and manicured parks. There were various buildings on the grounds, each with their own purpose, and each displaying a simple, severe sort of beauty. There was the Conclave Proper, which was the main tower where wizards lived and worked, and where the majority of classes were held for those in their First Four. There were two large greenhouses, which had been given the affectionate monikers Plantings One and Two, plus a paved section of yard where students were instructed in the basic use of chosen weapons. It was called the Bruising Stretch—this term more often used in a not-so-affectionate tone of voice.
Most of the wizards were strolling through the Conclave’s wide expanse of lawns and parks, which was referred to on the whole as the Green. Most of it was open to the public, and there was a minority of people who came to enjoy the Conclave’s quiet beauty. There were always troops of children in the parks, as Hedge Wizards were wont to give out free classes on subjects ranging from reading to history for any child willing to listen—it was good practice for their future profession. Parents were known to send their children down to the Conclave for the day, to see what sort of knowledge they could soak up. It was also one of the safest places for children in the entire city. Criminals didn’t dare risk the ire of Conclave wizards, and stayed away out of their own self-interest.
D’Jenn allowed his senses to flit about the Conclave grounds, taking in the various pockets of conversation, argument, or laughter. Despite the tense atmosphere, wizards were using this excuse to spend time socializing. Dormael would have smiled to see it.
Dormael, though, had been unconscious for days.
They had taken a mule-cart from the bandits’ campsite, and used it to haul his inert body down the mountain. Shawna, though she pretended disinterest, had spent every free moment hovering over him. She tried to say that it was because Dormael had done the same for her, and maybe there was some truth to that, but D’Jenn could see the fear in the woman’s eyes when she looked at him. Bethany had been silent since the night of the attack.
The Death Sleep was a real danger for wizards who drew too much of their power. The depth of any wizard’s strength was tied to their Kai, and the Kai was somehow tied to the body. Spend too much power, draw in too much magic, and it could be harmful. Take it further—the way his idiot cousin sometimes did—and it could be fatal.
Sometimes D’Jenn wanted to punch Dormael for his carelessness.
It had been days since he’d gone under, and not a peep had come from him since. Every day he didn’t wake was a day that he risked falling into the darkness. D’Jenn had always known how strong his cousin could be—how damned stubborn—but it was no comfort. Everyone was just waiting for Dormael to wake.
D’Jenn had finally taken the afternoon to spend some time to himself. Shawna hadn’t left Dormael’s side, and Bethany had disappeared into the halls somewhere. Dormael’s rooms at the Conclave were pleasant, but the presence of an inert body made any room feel oppressive. D’Jenn had needed to get out of there.
His own rooms were tidy, with artistic choices that lent themselves to his subdued tastes. There was no reason to decorate everything in sight with garish tapestries fu
ll of people stabbing each other, or a painting that held a depiction of the gods. Form and function were much more favorable.
D’Jenn sat with his eyes closed, his magic reaching out to a stand sitting a few links away from him. The two pieces of armor he had taken from the Aeglar Cultists—a greave and bracer—sat next to each other, humming their discordant notes through the ether. They were steel, decorated with swirling patterns in brass. D’Jenn’s eyes traced the knotted patterns, which turned in on themselves and seemed to twist away into nothingness—though observation revealed that to be a trick of the eye. There was a mathematical function to the pattern, a solution that he just wasn’t seeing. D’Jenn could feel it, knew it by examining the thing, but he wasn’t sure how yet to go about deconstructing the formula.
There were a few tests that one could do on pieces such as this to determine their basic nature. The first was simply to toss magic at them—which Dormael had tried, earning himself the effect of being Splintered. The second was to delve them with the senses, and with the barest stream of formless magical energy. In very small amounts, magic did almost nothing—it did, however, highlight the armor’s reactions.
The brass pattern in the steel was definitely a spell. No armor that D’Jenn had ever seen was joined so perfectly together, the brass laid into the steel in intricate, recessed patterns with no apparent seam between them. The most startling thing, though, was the effect.
The armor created a dissonance, which would scatter magical energies. Splintering was the use of one’s magic to pierce the power of another. It worked like a needle piercing a bubble, if the bubble was the spell, and inside the bubble was contained magical energy. Burst the bubble, and one released the magic.
The armor, though, looked to create a surface that was, as far as D’Jenn could tell, carpeted with magical needles. Any direct use of power against the armor would result in a Splintering, but only if the armor’s dissonance was at a sufficient level to scramble the magic. The two pieces before him uttered a low, irritating tone when placed side-by-side. However, when D’Jenn removed one of them to the other side of the room, the dissonance from either became less bothersome.
The things must work as greater parts of a whole.
If D’Jenn were to wear one of them, then it may not afford any protection against magic at all. Both of them might fend off benign magic, but in order to achieve the Splintering effect, it appeared that an entire suit was required. Where, though, would an anti-magic brotherhood like the Cult of Aeglar get magical armor—and high quality magical armor, at that? How did such a thing fit into their religious framework? D’Jenn had always assumed that the Cult hated all wizards, and wanted the eradication of all magic. No one had ever spoken of the Cult possessing infused armor, and such a thing would have been told from the hills to the valleys if it was known. Whoever had made this armor knew what they were doing—it was expert craftsmanship.
This was a recent development. Someone had provided these things to the Cult, but who would have done such a thing? D’Jenn shook his head, and stopped trying to follow the mind-bending patterns.
The problem of the armor could wait until later. His eyes were crossing, and it was time to get out of his rooms. All the other wizards in the Conclave were visiting with old friends. Perhaps it was time that D’Jenn called on some of his old classmates. Warlocks worked either in pairs, or alone, and were always on the move. Such a lifestyle didn’t lend itself to friendly visits, and it had been too long since he had seen some of his friends.
The political turmoil offered the opportunity for a reunion. D’Jenn wished Dormael was awake, but there was no use wishing. With any luck, the bastard would wake up in time to have reunions of his own.
He hid the Cultist armor beneath his bed, and left his rooms in search of old friends.
***
Darkness, cool and quiet, wrapped him in a thick, syrupy embrace. At times it felt like water, holding him upon its surface with soft hands and carrying him on its current. Other times, it felt like the opposite of water—a space, wanting and hollow, pulling against the very fabric of his consciousness, threatening to drag him into a silent oblivion.
He would have fought it if he knew how.
“Dormael,” said the red-head.
Gods, she’s gorgeous.
“You have to drink, you fool,” she grumbled. The sky above her was a bright gray hole of roiling clouds—or was that someone else’s dream? The answers fled from him like a squad of babbling children, taunting him as he chased them down one by one. The questions, though, remained like scowling hags.
“Drink what?” he said. “There’s nothing here to drink.”
The woman came with the headaches. Deep, pounding drums in his head made of bright copper, each beat threatening to pop his eyes from their sockets. He would groan and cover them when the world intruded, trying to hold them in against that terrible beat. Sometimes it felt like trying to hold his head together while his bastard skull was trying to break apart. Soothing hands held to him, struggling against his efforts. The hands couldn’t understand the pain.
The darkness would come again when the drums shattered his head. It came on like a promise, a soothing companion too long kept from his embrace. With her arms around his chest, things were easier, warmer, silent. The trick was not to go too deep—he’d heard that somewhere—so he resisted when she whispered her promises to him, and tried to pull him deeper.
“Oh no, I know your tricks,” he said. “It’s cold down there. We’re not supposed to go.”
“Go where?” the red-head asked. “Where are we going?”
“You tell me,” he grumbled, angry as the sky intruded on his sight. “You fucking tell me!”
Drums, choking water over his chin, and agony against the inside of his skull.
Sometimes things moved in the darkness—skittering, slimy things that he could hear in the distance. The blackness made it impossible to tell if the things could sense him, so he huddled, floating along this disembodied river of shadow, and hoped that nothing could swim by and take a bite. Sometimes he could hear wailing cries from somewhere in the dark, calling and answering each other in a mournful conversation.
“You’ve taken me too deep,” he said. “There are things in here with me.”
Only silence answered him.
Once, he awoke to the beating of the drums and no one was there. His head was a series of bright explosions, each one building upon the one before. Above him the stars stretched as far as he could see, like a thousand thousand candles in the black river that carried him on the other side. No one came, but the stars comforted him until the darkness pulled him back into its embrace.
More and more, between the warm periods of darkness and the cutting light, something would keep him company in the shadow. He could feel it beside him, feel its silent regard as it slid its attention over him, along him, and through him. It crouched beside him in the darkness like a mountain, like something so massive that its breadth was beyond comprehension. It didn’t breathe so much as wax and wane with an ancient, terrible rhythm.
“Who are you?” he asked. “I can feel you there.”
“You know who I am,” she sighed. “You’ve been unconscious, you fool. Are you alright? You make a lot of noise in your sleep.” Her hair was like fire, the gray sky igniting it from behind.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” he grumbled.
“Well, just let me know when you’ve got something to say.”
She patted his chest, kissed his forehead, and filled his mouth with cold water.
He knew the thing would be there when he went under again. It waited in the darkness like an old lizard, watching from a hole for its prey to wander by. He could feel its attention. If he had eyes in this place, he might be gazing at the thing from behind some thin, tenuous barrier—man and thing, wondering what to say to each other through the veil.
The thought made him laugh, but the feeling flew from him like a bird from his hand.
He reached toward it. He knew it was there, could feel it looking at him. He was tired of waiting for the thing to eat him, to pull him beyond the veil, or whatever the thing planned on doing to him. Some mad urge pushed him to act, so he pushed at the veil, poked at it, and reached toward that alien presence just beyond it.
The thing reached back.
In a blink, the pressure that had kept them apart popped like a bubble, and the thing was touching him, grasping his mind like a branch in a flood. He held to it, grasping the thing just as hard in return, as if it was a game between the two of them. The darkness seemed to spiral around them, though such a thought was senseless.
Then, the thing entered his mind like a creature burrowing into the ground. He thrashed, fought, screamed into the darkness, but nothing he did could keep it out. It felt alien, vast, and ancient. It rooted around in his thoughts, sifting through them as if they were documents stacked on a desk. He balked at such an intrusion, but there was nothing he could do.
“You can’t just root around in my thoughts like that!” he grumbled. “They’re mine!”
“I think you’re actually getting crazier as the swelling goes down,” she said. “Nothing in your thoughts I want to see—believe me.” She sighed, her eyes welling with pity. “You’re scaring the girl, you know. You need to get better.”
More drums, always the drums. He didn’t know what the woman was talking about, but guilt gnawed at him like a starving dog. He held his eyes against the beating of those gods-damned drums.
“Tell her I’m sorry.”
Tell whom you are…sorry?
The thing shifted in the darkness, turning its vast, terrible eye upon him.
For what are you sorry?
“I…I don’t know.”
Odd. The ancient thing spoke the word to him as if it was unsure of the meaning.
“What are you?” he whispered, the darkness around them pressing him into quietude.
I am…I am one, the thing replied, tasting the words as if they were an old coat that didn’t fit. I am one where once there was two. I am one.
The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection Page 59
