Redeeming the Lost

by Elizabeth Kerner

  By now, whenever now was, Berys surely knew that I was with child. I drew my knees in again, gently, and wrapped my arms around my middle. It was the nearest I could come to embracing my poor childer.

  I pray now only that we will all go down to death together, my sweetings, and I will protect you with all the fire of my soul until the Lady comes to gather Her innocents to Her breast.

  I had no doubt that their lives would end in as much pain as possible once Berys learned of them.

  I bowed my head as black despair washed over my soul, for I could see no escape even in death for us all three.

  I realised as it crashed over me that I had never faced true despair before that moment. Sorrow, weariness, anger, fear—all of these are the common lot of humanity, but always before there had been hope somewhere behind all. Hope, for me, had always lain behind my days. Always there was a prospect of a brighter future, of a time when this ill would be past or that obstacle would be overcome: but now I could see the future, clear and sharp before me, and it held only pain and fear and horrific ending, and all too soon.

  The wise say that it is only when hope deserts you that you find the underlying truth of your soul. Some find only a vast weariness that pulls them swiftly down to their ending: some admirable few discover true courage in some hidden corner of the self. At that moment, in that desert of the soul, in despair more profound than I had ever imagined, I was brought face-to-face with my own imminent death. In that cold dark place of stone my heart was as a lump of lead in my chest. I could barely force myself to breathe, as if my body wished to make an end to life on its own terms. I closed my eyes and longed for even the release of tears, but I tell you now, true despair is dry as the dust of ages.

  And then, with my eyes tight closed, I saw in my mind a vision of a tiny flame far off, years distant from me but present. The faintest hint of fire, as when a single spark lands on dry tinder and sits for a brief instant, glowing red in the darkness.

  Even as I sat there I drew in a breath, carefully, and breathed out slowly and gently, as though I blew in truth on a tiny physical spark to encourage it.

  In my mind it glowed a little before it subsided.

  I drew another breath in the silent darkness, and in that stillness felt something within me flutter. My starving belly, poor thing, I thought, and physically blew again on that tiny mental spark. It glowed a little more this time, and when I next drew breath it did not fade. Again, and it grew as large as my little fingernail, and it seemed to have the shape of a woman.

  My belly moved again and this time my eyes flew open. That was not hunger. I moved my hands to sit over the small roundness of my belly.

  Butterfly movements from within. Barely noticeable, save that I had sat so still.

  Sweet Goddess, it must be.

  My babes were moving.

  For one breathless moment I thought nothing, felt nothing, apart from a mad, delirious joy that they lived and thrived even now.

  And the next moment I laughed harshly into the silence. In that instant, to my astonishment, the tiny flame within had grown from distant star to brilliant sun, and it raged now within me, all-consuming. I did not recognise it but I surely welcomed it, for that fire was strength and home and love and all, it warmed my body and set my soul ablaze. I did not need hope. I had nowhere else to turn, and turning inward I found—myself afire. All those I loved were there, within me—my beloved Varien, our babes so tiny but alive and growing despite all, my heart’s father Jamie, were the nearest, but there were others: soulfriend Shikrar, his son Kédra, Mirazhe, their tiny son Sher6k gazing newborn into my eyes, Idai in despite of her pain a strength and a companion.

  The only way to be certain that you will lose is to surrender.

  Determination without hope. It is a dry and strange place in the soul, and I do not recommend it, but it is full of power.

  I stood then, breathing deep into my gut where my littlings lay. It was a strange fire indeed that I had found. I was ready to fight or flee, ready for battle in a bare cell, but there was nothing to do but watch the slow departure of the moon’s gleam as the Ancient Mother’s stately dance took even the reflection of her light from me.

  I needed to act, to do something that would force an action, that would get me out of this Hells-be-damned cell.

  I had never spent much time in the service of the Lady, not in the way of those dedicated to Her. They beseech Her on their knees for all sorts and kinds of things—but somehow it always seemed to me that kneeling was unnecessary. It might be that, having no mother around me, I took the Mother of us All into my heart more completely than most. Greatest need brings greatest faith, they say. I stood, braced, and spoke my invocation, though not even I could hear it.

  “Ancient Lady of the moon, rising in the east, who hast brought light to this dark place; Mother of the earth beneath my feet, in the very stones that surround me, whose fire rageth in my heart; Laughing Girl”—faltered for a moment there, for laughter and water seemed both too distant from me—ah—“Laughing Girl of the Waters, who surrounds my babes within me—a boon I beg of thee, blessed Goddess! Do not leave me in this cold place of death.” I began to shiver, whether from the deepening cold or from anger I could not tell. “Come fire, come battle, come rage to warm me! Shia, Goddess, in the name of all that is precious to you, do not leave me here/”

  If there were poetry in life, my words would have echoed from the stone walls and given me heart—and perhaps been heard by a passing soul who might have been of some use to me. As it was, my throat was raw from shouting and neither I nor any other creature in the world had heard a thing.

  I stood motionless, waiting, fire in my heart yet trapped in cold silence, for death to come and claim me and mine, when a light spilled into the room. But it was not the moon.

  The light came from under the door.

  Jamie

  I found the stair swiftly, and the four identical oaken doors. I was delighted, in a strange way, to also find a huge guard pacing the corridor in the pitch-black dark.

  He was sharp and well armed and he came for me the instant he saw me. Good eyes, I thought as I avoided his first blow. With some difficulty, it must be said. It’s bloody dark down here. Well, well, well, and I just happened to have a lighted dark lantern in my hands.

  I threw open the panel of the dark lantern and shone the light straight in his eyes. He swore and backed off. And dropped his guard.

  I had no wish to murder him, the poor sod, but I had no choice. I could not rely on a deep wound, not here in the midst of the enemy. I despatched him as painlessly as I could, and when he stopped twitching I dragged him along the corridor out of my way. I searched the body for keys. No such luck.

  I took a closer look at the doors. They were not particularly close-fitting, for they had been made chiefly to keep drunken louts out of the way for a night. Still, if you’ve nothing but your fingernails and you can’t be heard, a door of thick oak will do as well as one of iron. No light shone under any of them.

  She can’t hear you. You can’t hear her.

  There was no one anywhere near; obviously Berys had trusted in that poor bastard I’d had to kill. I lifted the catch again and opened the dark lantern. Light blazed in that dark corridor. I stood before the first door, keeping the lantern on the ground that as much light as possible might shine underneath. I knelt there only a few moments, hoping with all my soul that she was awake, or that the unaccustomed light would waken her, but I didn’t dare wait too long at any one door. Every nerve in my body jangled like shaken harp strings, out of tune, wrong. I desperately wanted to call out to her, if only for the relief of some kind of sound, but Rikard had warned me. The corridor would not appear unusual, sounds would behave as normal—they would just stop at the door. She could be no more than the thickness of oaken planks from me and I’d never know it.

  I called to her in the silence of my heart, as you do to loved ones in peril—do you live, my daughter? Are you here, so n
ear I might touch you? Was the guard a distraction, and are you a thousand leagues hence in some dread prison? Does your body lie rotting already in a shallow grave, my soul’s child, my bright Lanen?

  I held back a sob and mentally shook myself. Cold, cold as revenge, cold as the depths of evil, lest your fears unman you.

  There was no response. Time was rushing past like a gale, bearing all my hopes into bleak darkness.

  The next door. I was acutely aware that every moment made discovery more likely. I waited, my light gleaming unnoticed into silent darkness, where only dust was illumined, where she slept unheeding or crouched wounded, where she was held chained to the far wall being driven mad with needing to get to the door.

  Then the next door. The one Hygel had said led to the cell ruined long since. The door was like all the others. Blessed Lady, I prayed in the depths of my cold heart, Ancient One, riding serene above us all in your pale chariot, I beg you, if she sleeps waken her.

  I had never prayed half so fervently, for I had never before been so unable to do anything of use myself.

  Let her see the light, let her notice, let it be that she can move so far—let him not have blinded her. Lady, Goddess, Mother of us All, I am helpless and I hate it and I cannot change it. Don’t let her die in silent darkness, Shia. Have mercy on your daughter. On my daughter. On the only child I will ever have.

  Somehow I managed to spill a little of the oil onto my foot, which made me look down. At the fresh bloodstains on the stone outside this particular door.

  My heart was a deep drum, pounding out the seconds. I lifted the lantern and shone the light onto the keyhole. My hands were shaking as I drew out the lockpicks I’d borrowed from HygeL My short sword was loose in its sheath, for I fully expected to have to deal with as many demons as Berys could spare. I knew fine that Berys was too bright to leave her protected only by a single guard, a paltry spell, and an oaken door, and I was prepared for Everything I could think of.

  I was certainly not ready for nothing.

  Berys

  Behold the advantages of long-term planning. Marik and I have been preparing for years, building up a legion of our own particular Healers. In exchange for a doubling of their inherent abilities, they have allowed us to link them to a spell. Oh, of course it would only be used in event of an emergency, of course. And most of them have been told that the purpose of the link would be to summon vast power from every corner of Kolmar to protect us all from some great evil.

  Ha! If I could find a way to do that, I would not need the Demonlord to rid myself of the dragons!

  The beauty of it is that all the work of activation, apart from the final ritual, has been done long since. Though I really must arrange to replace Durstan, it is awkward getting dressed with one hand. It has been easy enough to draw the double circle on the floor in my hidden chamber, and scribing the symbols is simple—but preparing the cauldron takes twice as long as it did. I have only just finished crushing the leaves and pouring in the oil. Now to light the candles around the altar, so; tie my rope wards about my waist, damn, it’s tricky, I really must replace Durstan. Now let me ensure—yes, I did remember to put the globe inside the circle. Check the wards one last time—ah, yes, renew that smudged one, my robes must have trailed over it—all is done.

  “Come, ye servants,” I said, lighting the oil-soaked fire under the cauldron where it sits to one side of the central altar. It bursts into flame even as three of the Rikti appear.

  “Tremble, mortal!” the largest hisses.

  “Foolish imp,” I said, twisting the binding and making it writhe. “Do not waste my time. You are bound to me already, if you refuse I’ll have your soul for a year and a day, and I am a Master of the Sixth Circle. I can inflict the True Death on you if I choose.”

  They all hissed, but were silent.

  “Good,” I said, and pointed at the largest. “You, go find the Demonlord who ensouls the Black Dragon. It flies over the Great Sea towards Kolmar. Bring me back word of when it will arrive here.”

  The first vanished.

  “You, where are the Kantri and what are they doing?”

  “Masster, need more help,” it said, not moving. “Too many places, too many dragons for this one. You want old ones, found ones, little ones, what? All scattered.”

  “Find the largest group of them and watch for an hour, then come and tell me what they are doing and where they are. Go now,” I commanded. It too disappeared.

  “You,” I said to the smallest. “A simple task. Lift that globe,” I said, pointing, “and hold it above the cauldron.”

  The globe was made of glass, a large round vessel twice the size of my head, with a small opening in the top stopped with a cork. It was nearly full now of little locks of human hair, black to brown to red to gold to grey, all jumbled together. A few nail clippings from the bald ones.

  The Rikti held the globe high above the cauldron. I raised my hand and my left arm, moving the stump in a pattern to match my whole hand, reciting the words. I have had so much practice with the major demons, these minor deeds hardly challenge me at all anymore. The demons involved yelled and tried to distract me, as ever, but I can ignore them easily now. When the last word was spoken, the oil in the cauldron burst into flame.

  “Drop it!” I shouted, and the Rikti let go of the glass globe, hissed and disappeared. The glass shattered in the cauldron, while the hair and nails crisped in the flaming oil. The air was rank with the stench of burning hair and I felt slivers of glass in my hand. No matter.

  I spoke the final word of the spell. As befits the final word of a great making, it had many syllables and grew harder to pronounce. The familiar sensation of a thick tongue—I ignored it, knowing it for distraction, pronouncing each syllable carefully—now, here, the last—

  The spectre of the Demonlord appeared in the smoke, grinning hugely. “Boo.”

  I am not a Master of the Sixth Hell by accident. If I could not ignore such things I would have died long since. I spoke the final syllable, loud and strong, and the flaming oil was quenched as I spoke. The stench of burnt hair filled the room now but I barely noticed it. I started to shake, then to laugh, as the power of hundreds of Healers flowed through my veins. I fairly crackled with it, Healer blue shot with purest black.

  I turned to the apparition, which to my surprise had persisted. “What do you want?” I asked, grinning back at it.

  “You wanted a report. I will pass over the western shore of the South Kingdom in less than a day. I cannot tell more exactly than that.”

  “It is near enough. And I have a gift all prepared for you when you arrive, my servant.”

  “You keep thinking I’m a demon. I’m not,” it said. “You are bound to me as surely as I to you. But no matter. What is my gift? If I like it I may try to fly faster.”

  “The Kantri,” I replied, smug. “You recall those whom you turned into beasts? You will be pleased to learn that they have suffered ever since, but this very day before sunset they were restored.”

  The thing spat an obscenity. “And you give me the gift of having to do the work over again, do you? It cost me my life last time!” It blinked. “Well, nearly.”

  “Ah,” I said, “behold the beauty of the pattern. The body you wear is made of molten rock, ash, and sulphur. You are living stone and the best weapon they possess is fire. How should they kill you now?”

  And the Demonlord smiled and saw that it was good, and departed.

  How strange. I am shaking as I don my robes for the assembly. Not the insipid blue robes of the Archimage: that time is past. My name as a demon-master I must keep secret from others, as would any who did not desire death from any number of curses, but at the least I will appear before my erstwhile companions as a Master of the Sixth Hell. The black and silver robes of my achievement fit well on my young-again shoulders. It is good.

  Fear? No, I feel no fear at all. Anticipation, yes, and excitement from the power pulsing through me. And desire. Oh, yes, de
sire. To see so many faces pass through shock and disbelief, to despair before they die—ah, I shall savour this evening. If all goes as I plan, I should have enough bodies dead by my hand, the souls shocked and betrayed at the end, to feed even the Lord of the Fifth Hell to bursting point. Just as well, for I shall summon it to assist me—it will, I doubt not, make short work of my fellow Magistri, and give them something to think about apart from me when I decide to leave. It will be a mutual work, I think: food and exercise for one of the most powerful Lords of the Hells, the end of this weary College for me.

  Underlying all, of course, there is the undeniable pleasure in knowing I have Marik of Gundar’s blood and bone in my grasp. With the power now at my disposal, I do not need her to fulfill some foolish prophecy. I will still grant her soul to the Rakshasa, if only to shut Marik up, but her body I shall keep for another purpose. I need her blood, after all.

  I do not yet understand what forces cluster around her, this strange creature. I have had any number of incredible reports, chief among which is that the Kantri have taken to her. They flew her out to the Merchant ship after it had left the Dragon Isle. They talk with her constantly if Marik is to be believed. The very first of them to arrive in Kolmar, weary and wounded, nevertheless came immediately to her assistance. It will be useful to have her in my power when I leave this place, lest the dragons are too cowardly to deal with my Black Dragon without encouragement.