The Witches of Ne'arth (The Star Wizards Trilogy Book 2)

by Joseph Schembrie

  Valarion counted to the fifth pier and strode upon the planks. He scrutinized the gallery of decrepit ships. The boat with a wooden figure of an apple painted gold on its bow was a small fishing vessel. He approached the lone figure aboard, a stocky man whose rough face was haloed in unkempt hair that tossed in the wind with the puffs of an opium pipe.

  “Hasod?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “Say neither my name nor who I am. I received your message.”

  Hasod leaned in the dim light and stared with his jaw slack. “You're the – you came yourself?”

  “Confidentiality is of the essence, as is speed. Let's see the merchandise.”

  Hasod admitted him aboard and gestured to a bundle lashed upon the tiny deck.

  “Open it,” Valarion said.

  “My Lord, I warn, the smell is horrible!”

  “Open it!”

  Hasod drew a breath, and yanked apart the sheets. In the dimness, Valarion saw only the outline of head and shoulders. Then the stench hit. He gagged and reeled.

  “That's enough!” He waited until Hasod resealed the bundle. “You're certain it's a woman?”

  “Not much else, My Lord, because of the putrefaction. Still, it's remarkable that anything should survive in the water for so long. Odd the sharks did not devour it. So . . . we have a deal?”

  Valarion made to reach into his tunic. However, he had not brought any money. It was his superstition that money attracted thieves even when well-concealed. And there wasn't enough gold, silver, or jewels in the palace to pay the agreed amount anyway.

  And – he had never intended payment. If things went as planned, the Sisters would seal loose mouths as they always did. Surely, Valarion thought, the captain was as good as dead once the Sisters knew of his part.

  “I'll double your payment, if you'll take me as passenger on a short trip.”

  Hasod scowled. “You're altering the deal?”

  “You'll have double the money and the gratitude of an emperor.” His glare conveyed the subtext that a grateful emperor was less likely to chop one's head.

  The fisherman said submissively, “Where is it you wish to go?”

  “The Island of the Sisters.”

  “The Island of the – !”

  In the end the promise of wealth won out and the man assented and cast off. Though the waters were choppy, Hasod's sailsmanship was expert. They rounded the mouth of the Bay of Rome without challenge, filled the sails stiff with breeze, and set across open sea to the Island of the Sisters. Well short of it, they were intercepted by a galley bristling with torches and spearmen in the uniform of the temple guard of the Sisters of Wisdom.

  “You will come no further!” the captain of the galley shouted across the pitching waves.

  “I am the Emperor Valarion!” Valarion shouted back. “I wish to see the Mother!”

  The captain paused. “If you are Valarion, then where is your yacht?”

  “It has been stolen.”

  “Where is your flag?”

  “It was on the yacht.”

  “Then what proof do you have?”

  “Tell the Mother that I have a gift for her, and you will find that she will admit me.”

  “What do you mean by 'Mother?'”

  Even he does not know of the Mother. The Sisters, Valarion realized, held their secrets tightly.

  “You can relay the message to the High Priestess, but inform her that it is for the Mother.”

  Hasod, likely stricken with the same sense of superstition as most Romans toward the Sisters of Wisdom, was reduced to whimpering as he brought the boat under escort. Together the ships maneuvered through the shoals that guarded the Island of the Sisters as much as did the sheer hexagonal walls.

  On this stormy night, a ring of bonfires around the base cast fingers of flickering light across the face of the walls, and Valarion contemplated how the unassailable redoubt could appear both ominous yet cheerful in comparison to the murky labyrinth that Rome had become. Perhaps in a way it was gloating that even as secular powers collapsed, its dark religion endured.

  As brightly lit as the walls were, the apertures spaced along the top were holes of blackness. Valarion could imagine the eyes of temple guards peering from within, waiting with crossbow and catapult for the command to kill. Would the Mother see him, or would all his years of striving for a purple robe end tonight with one stained in red?

  Raindrops started to pelt. Great, he cursed.

  The boat bumped dockside and temple guards took the lines from Hasod and made fast. An officer arrived and gave approval for Valarion to disembark. Hasod remained at the boat while guardsmen loaded the bundle onto a cart. They rolled it off the dock with Valarion alongside and well guarded.

  They entered the fortress through gates so massive they appeared as impregnable as the walls, crossed the well-lit but empty courtyard, and arrived at a domed building.

  Inside, the High Priestess was waiting in the center of a candle-lit room. She was wearing her robe, her hood pulled back. A circle of high benches surrounded her, but she was alone.

  “We have our strength restored,” she said. “Do not try tricks.”

  Valarion bowed. “I come with only the deepest respect, to bear a gift for the Mother.”

  “And why would the Mother care for your gift?”

  “If you look, you will see why.”

  Valarion knew she didn't need to see. Her eyes widened at a whiff.

  “It is so,” she said hoarsely. “The Mother has said she would like to meet you. You may come. I warn you, Baseline, she is not what you expect.”

  You don't get to be Emperor without expecting the unexpected, Valarion thought.

  Hooded figures – more duplicates of Inoldia, yet significantly older – entered. The guards bowed out and the Sisters, bearing lanterns, pushed the cart after the High Priestess and Valarion. The troop descended steps and followed a long underground passage of solid yet ordinary brick. Valarion, accustomed to the scale and pomp of Roman architecture, was unimpressed. Except for the cleanliness, they might have returned to the sewers.

  In his field days, Valarion had served as emissary to a kingdom whose throne room was preceded by a chamber filled with jeweled murals and mechanical creatures that came to life upon the entry of visitors. Here before the sanctuary of a goddess, the procession halted at a threadbare curtain.

  The curtain was drawn aside, revealing a small chamber of the same bare brick as the tunnel. Upon a simple pedestal, unadorned by jewel or precious metal, rested a box.

  A meter long by half a meter high and wide – Valarion suppressed a gasp. Just as the Wizard said! The all but forgotten childhood myth was true! No showmanship was necessary when the mere dimensions of the chest spoke of its import.

  Like rows of fireflies, lights started to blink upon the side and top of the box. Tiny lights brighter than a lantern, in pure colors that no jewel could match – Valarion averted his eyes, wondering if the patterns were meant for enchantment.

  The High Priestess raised her hand to Valarion's back as if the force him down, but the Box spoke: “It is not necessary for him to kneel.”

  It talks, Valarion thought with a thrill. Just like the fortune-telling cube!

  The feminine voice had seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. It was perfectly pitched, every syllable perfectly pronounced. She seemed unflappably cheerful as she continued:

  “Greetings, Mardu Valarion. I have wanted to meet you for a long time.”

  Valarion, steeled for the moment, smoothly bowed and said, “And I have wanted to meet you, Mother.”

  “I have followed your situation in Rome. It does not appear you are in a position to bargain.”

  “I seek only to re-establish our previous relationship, if that is at all possible.”

  “Some things are possible. Some are not. A long time has passed since we ourselves gave up the search for what you have brought. I am surprised that you were able to obtain it.
”

  “I understand . . . Mother.“ Valarion had paused, having little experience in addressing a talking object. “I learned through my agents that you were in search for it, and I thought I might be able to assist through benefit of the resources available to me as Emperor.”

  “Tell of how you came upon the body.”

  “I myself had thought that it was a lost cause, until my spies received word several days ago of rumors on the waterfront of a fisherman who claimed to have seen an intact corpse floating upon the sea east of Italia. I had the fisherman contacted through an intermediary, offering a reward if he were to relocate the body and bring it to me. Tonight, I came with it as soon as I received word of his success.”

  “You have done well, Mardu Valarion.”

  Valarion offered a glazed smile. Inwardly he rankled. The Box was addressing him as if he were a commoner, and she were empress!

  “Prime!” the Box said. “Let's have a look.”

  Bowing deep, the High Priestess motioned to the hooded figures at the side of the cart. They pulled away the sheets. Valarion was not prepared.

  Weeks of floating in the Yuro Sea had bloated and bleached the body. The skin was in tatters, a hand and half a leg were missing. The face was eyeless. Blood and puss oozed from crevices. Water dripped from the shroud. The carcass was no longer recognizable as Inoldia. It was barely recognizable as human. Valarion gaped at the mess and felt his state of consciousness ready to slip away along with his grasp of empire.

  “There is not much to work with here,” the Box said.

  “I am so sorry!” Valarion choked. “I had assumed that it was under a spell of preservation. I did not fully see the extent of the decay in the poor light of the waterfront, otherwise I would not have troubled you. I am so sorry, I beg your forgiveness for this intrusion, I should have – “

  “Mardu, please stop talking.”

  Valarion swallowed.

  The unseen woman continued cheerfully: “Prime, have the body moved alongside me.”

  The priestesses wheeled the cart next to the Box. Atop the Box, a tiny panel slid open. Something like a metallic snake emerged. It rose vertically, then curled toward the corpse. The tip touched the skull and glowed. Valarion felt faint. Upon battlefields, he had watched surgeons hack at dead men's jaws to loot their teeth, yet this was a violation of the sanctity of the dead that was beyond understanding.

  The tip of the snake-appendage probed across the forehead. The Box said, “Yes. The neural pattern is preserved. It is doable. I will need a host for transfer, however. Prime, is her former servant still present on the island?”

  “Yes, Mother,” the High Priestess replied.

  “Summon her at once.”

  The High Priestess nodded and an attendant stole away.

  The Box continued: “Emperor Valarion, I do not think you would care to observe the procedure. You may wait in the council chamber. It was a pleasure to meet you.”

  A pair of Sisters escorted him through the tunnel. At the steps, another pair of Sisters descended. A slight, elderly woman struggled in their grips.

  “Where are you taking me?” she asked. She sounded frightened.

  Not as frightened as you should be, Valarion intuited.

  The Sisters were silent. The woman glanced at Valarion without recognition. He, however, vaguely remembered her as having attended Inoldia upon occasion At the time, she had seemed a bastion of detachment. This night he recognized, as emperors do, the look of the condemned.

  Valarion was returned to the council chamber. Alone, he paced and wondered whether the palace had been stormed in his absence. Or, perhaps Maldus had recognized the futility of loyalty and declared himself Emperor. Not the first time a Commander of the Imperial Guard would have contemplated an upward career move.

  Far away, a woman screamed. Valarion froze. The patter of raindrops on the roof faded and all he heard then was his heartbeat.

  It was a mistake to come here. From now on, that Thing would always claim part of his soul. Was even an Empire worth that price?

  Minutes or hours later, he heard footsteps from the tunnel stairs. Without guards or priestesses, a young woman entered the room. She was dressed as the old woman had been. Her face bore the features of Inoldia.

  “Hello, Mardu,” she said, smiling. “Yes, to answer your look, I have returned from the dead. More or less. Or perhaps, both at the same time.”

  For a moment, all Valarion could do was gape. Finally he stammered: “That elderly woman I saw coming down the steps . . . is she all right?”

  “Matlid? She's quite fine. The Mother has given her a great honor as reward for her service. Well, I suppose you have work for me. Shall we go back to Rome and get started?”

  As they crossed the courtyard, Valarion stole glances. Yes, she looked like Inoldia, but wasn't Inoldia slightly taller?

  At the boat, Hasod fumbled away his pipe. “Who's this?”

  “Never mind!” Valarion snapped. “Get us out of here!”

  “With pleasure!”

  While Hasod cast off, Valarion heard a rumbling noise on the dock. The guards pushed the cart past the boat. Lightning flashed, revealing that the bundle's shroud was resealed. At the end of the dock, the guards tilted the cart. The load slipped and plunged into the churning sea, where it bobbed among the other trash.

  Hasod raised sail and caught the breeze. For a long time, Valarion stared stern-ward.

  Inoldia sat by the bow with hands in her lap and gazed toward Rome. Illuminated by moonlight, her face was calm. Valarion did not like the gentle smile. It was the expression that Inoldia often wore just before she smashed something or killed someone.

  Inoldia nodded at his approach. “It's a beautiful night, is it not?”

  “Water's a bit rough,” Valarion murmured.

  “Oh, I hadn't noticed. Everything seems softer now. I must get used to that.”

  With no further conversation, they entered the Bay. Hasod brought them to the berth on the pier as they'd departed. With his vessel secured, Hasod joined them ashore and huffed, “When do I get paid, My Lord?”

  The captain had been most useful and Valarion regretted the next step.

  “Lady Inoldia, would you mind paying the man?”

  “Why yes, My Lord.”

  Valarion retreated from the anticipated range of splattering blood, turned and waited. Instead of shrieks, he heard the clink of coins.

  Inoldia came alongside. “I gave him five hundred grams in gold. Is that enough?”

  Valarion nodded unsurely.

  “Well, then, My Lord, shall we return to the palace?”

  Valarion traced the same route through the city, back to the undistinguished door in the alley. Inoldia, however, halted at the steps and frowned.

  “My Lord, that descends into the sewer.”

  “Yes. It's a secret passage.”

  “I don't understand, My Lord. Can we not enter the palace by the main gate?”

  “There's a mob on the street that wants my blood.”

  “That will not be a problem.”

  There are two ways to take that, he thought.

  “Look,” he blurted. “If we're going to encounter trouble, I need to know for certain. Are you really Inoldia?”

  “I am all that Inoldia was, and more. Shall we proceed to the palace, My Lord? I say that we go by the true entrance befitting the Emperor of the World.”

  The steady resolve in her eyes won him over. He meekly escorted her to Golden Street and they entered into the mob. So inconceivable was the thought that the Emperor would mingle among them without fanfare, no one noticed it was him until the pair were through the press of bodies and at the gate itself.

  Then a dozen eyes at once glared at the tall man draped in purple and there came the shout, “Valarion!”

  Hands clutched clubs and swords, and Valarion saw no retreat. Inoldia shepherded him to the bars of the gate. The mechanism was locked, and Valarion cursed as he saw that the guar
d house was empty. The mob, emboldened, closed in.

  “Stay here,” Inoldia said calmly. “I will see if they will listen to reason.”

  She scanned faces and approached the apparent ringleader. She spoke too soft for Valarion to hear. The man shouted angrily. Five of his compatriots encircled around her. Whomever of his senatorial enemies had financed and recruited the mob had casted well, Valarion recognized, for each of the five confronting Inoldia was burly enough to make her seem petite.

  The men raised their weapons. The ringleader shouted, “Now!”

  From behind, a club swung down on Inoldia's head. Without a look, Inoldia's arm blocked and she yanked the weapon from the man's hands. She whirled about and impaled the sharpened end of the club into his belly.

  It took a fraction of a second.

  The others closed. Inoldia grabbed the mortally wounded man, hefting his body like a sack of fluff. She swung his legs and knocked over the assailants.

  That took about two seconds.

  The ringleader shouted to the mob. They started to charge, but Inoldia leaped at the ringleader and snapped his neck. She released his limp body and snarled like a cat – a very big cat.

  As one the mob took a step back. Then another – and as Inoldia glared, another . . . .

  A stone flew overhead. Inoldia caught it and flung it in the exact reverse trajectory. Valarion heard a thud and a man's shriek.

  The rest of the mob scattered, leaving Valarion and Inoldia alone among the groaning and the dead.

  “Shall we proceed, My Lord?”

  “We would, but the guard has abandoned his post. The gate cannot be opened.”

  Effortlessly, Inoldia climbed over the wall and unlocked the gate. Drizzle fell as they proceeded past the fountain, up the steps, into the foyer. Water soaked the thin fabric of his robe, and Valarion wasn't sure whether he shivered from the chill or the fright of seeing Inoldia in full combat mode.

  Truly, a demon in service to a goddess.

  Maldus, flanked by guards, greeted Valarion with a scowl. “Where the blazes have you – ” He stared at Inoldia. “Lords of Aereoth!”

  “Not quite,” Inoldia replied.

  “Lady Inoldia, I had heard that you were dead!”