by Barb Hendee
Ghassan dropped his amused tone. “I never said otherwise.”
“What?”
Ghassan did not look back at Leesil’s one growled word. “We have not discussed all details involved. For that, I needed more information . . . which none of you could acquire.”
He waited silently as Brot’an studied him, blade still in hand. The tall assassin half turned, sidestepping out of the stairwell.
“Then we should return upstairs,” Brot’an said. “The others will wish to hear anything new as well.”
Ghassan disliked being herded like a goat at blade’s point, but he turned the corner under those large, unblinking amber eyes.
Once they entered the sanctuary, it appeared the pair of sudden “greeters” were not the only impatient ones. Everyone but Chane was waiting for Ghassan.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Three more days and nights passed, and in that time Magiere began to feel both better and worse. Though physically stronger and relieved to have Leesil again at her side, the spark of hate grew inside her.
She’d always lived in a smoldering state, but this time was different. She’d been made helpless, tortured within her own mind, but didn’t remember how. What she remembered was pain, rage, and suffering under those voices in her head, until she could do nothing but cower amid the whispers scratching inside her skull.
Khalidah had taken everything from her.
Leesil thought she’d agreed to hunt the specter so they would be free to search for the orb of Air. He didn’t—wouldn’t—understand the truth. Rage that burned was a tool, a weapon to be wielded, but the burning inside her had turned everything to ash.
Ashes turned cold.
There was no more heat of rage. There was only cold hate. She wanted to smother Khalidah’s life with her hands, no matter what host he used. Perhaps then, hunger and heat would return. She had to believe this. She knew she needed to heal first, but the waiting felt endless.
Only one unexpected effect of their confinement gave her a shadow of peace.
In the early evenings, not long before dusk, Wynn would bring a blanket to cover them both. She would sit with Magiere, as they did now, against the one bare wall of the main room so they could talk. It had been a long time since they’d done anything other than run, hide, fight, and hunt for or hide orbs. And when they’d last met in Calm Seatt, they’d been at odds with each other—over Chane.
Magiere eyed Shade, who lay in the far front corner, and couldn’t help wondering why the young majay-hì took such efforts to avoid Chap.
“You’d think she’d miss her own kind,” Magiere said quietly, “or at least her father. And what about her mother?”
Wynn sighed. “I don’t know everything. Chap took Lily, the white majay-hì, as his mate before we all left the an’Cróan lands. Somehow he gave instructions to send one of their children to watch over me. Shade blames him for having to leave her home, mother, and siblings . . . everything. I understand though I’d be lost without her now.”
The discussion shifted in another direction as Wynn began telling Magiere some of how the orb of Spirit had been acquired on a scholarly investigation to a dark keep on the sea cliffs of Witeny, of how the wraith Sau’ilahk used the orb to transmogrify a young duke’s body to take for his own. Afterward, Sau’ilahk had fled with the orb—as the duke and Wynn’s group chased after him.
“Chane had to kill him, though I don’t know how,” she finished. “We were separated by too many opponents. Sau’ilahk nearly killed Shade, and Chane had no choice.”
The wraith, like Khalidah, had been a high servant in its real life to the Ancient Enemy. In hearing how Chane had dealt with Sau’ilahk, anger inside Magiere turned to envy that ate at her.
“So you found your orb,” Magiere whispered. “Mine isn’t even close.”
“Find it? No—I practically fell over it. If it hadn’t been for Shade and Osha and . . . and Chane, I wouldn’t have it at all.”
Chane’s involvement made Magiere’s jaw clench. Much as it seemed he’d been useful, the thought sickened her. Perhaps he’d be useful in putting the specter within her reach, but after that, after Khalidah died in her hands . . .
Wynn was still naive in believing Chane fed only on animals. Magiere knew his nature: a killer, a predator, and a monster.
But was she much different now?
Yes, because she wanted the dead to stay dead.
“You hinted there was more going on when you found the orb.”
Wynn’s expression became thoughtful. “That’s more difficult to explain. It’s so . . . tangled in how the orb ended up in that old keep, someone else hunting it besides us, and . . . the method she used.”
“What about it?”
Before Wynn could answer, something moved in the shadows of the room’s back corner, where a cold-lamp crystal’s dim light didn’t reach.
Dusk had fallen, and Chane stepped out past the table and chairs into the light. After waking, he usually left on some excuse. Magiere suspected he simply couldn’t stand the company—and the feeling was mutual.
As he stepped into sight, his gaze fell on Wynn sitting shoulder to shoulder with Magiere, both of them covered by the same blanket. His eyes shifted to Magiere, and all color vanished from his irises. One of his hands dropped reflexively to his hip but didn’t grasp the hilt of his longsword. Hate was so intense in his crystalline irises that Magiere’s entire body responded without effort.
The room grew searingly bright in her sight, and she knew her own irises were flooding black. If she let go of herself, a fierce hunger would wash through her. Her eyeteeth would elongate and strength would flow to her limbs. With a single glance, she gauged the distance to her falchion, which was leaning in the room’s front corner.
A flash of surprise crossed Chane’s features, and he took a step closer, studying her.
Barely a blink had passed, and Wynn just then noticed him, but she must not have paid attention to his eyes. “Oh, Chane, are you going out? Do you want company? Should Shade and I come with you?”
The offer grated on Magiere, but a much more important realization swept through her, and Chane had seen it too.
If she’d wanted to, she could have grabbed for her falchion and attacked him. Her body had responded, and her strength was there.
“Magiere?” Ghassan asked.
When she looked his way, where he sat at the table, he was watching her. Always watching, he couldn’t have missed that tense, silent exchange. And he didn’t have to ask.
Magiere nodded to him. “It’s time.”
* * *
Near the mid of that same night, Wynn followed Ghassan through the dark streets and farther into the capital’s south side. Chane followed behind her, all three of them heavily cloaked, and Shade walked at her side. The dog’s black fur made her difficult to spot at night.
Wynn still felt this was all starting too soon.
Magiere needed more time to recover, but she had insisted otherwise, and of course Ghassan was eager to begin. At least for tonight nothing critical or dangerous would happen. Ghassan wished to put only a few pieces into place, and tomorrow he would contact the prince. It would then be too late to turn back.
“How much farther is this other hideaway?” Chane asked.
“Not far,” Ghassan answered. “Remember what I said and note the route.”
The area around them appeared to be a semiwealthy residential area, though nothing like what Wynn knew in even the most affluent merchant districts of Calm Seatt. The homes here were sandstone mansions with elaborate terraces and balconies. Some were merely large, but others could be described only as . . . huge.
Wynn grew hesitant. The poor, run-down district they had come from seemed a much better place to hide. But they had seen few guards on the move along the way, and none up close—fewer still as they neared this district. Who would think to look for fugitives in a neighborhood like this?
Most of the manors were dark, but stre
et lanterns were more regularly placed here than elsewhere. In going slow, they managed to stay out of direct light as they skirted close to the dwellings or along boundary walls.
Finally they emerged into a large, open area filled with a collection of market stalls more finely draped than the small market Wynn had visited. All awnings and tent flaps had been tied down for the night.
Ghassan slipped behind one wooden stall, and all of them dropped low as he did. Shade pressed up against Wynn’s shoulder, and Wynn buried her fingers in Shade’s neck fur.
She knew better than to expect Shade to catch and pass memories from the domin. That didn’t work on him any more than Brot’an.
“Why pause here?” Chane whispered.
Ghassan pointed through the market to the next street of homes. Most were constructed of tan clay bricks. Near the end of the nearest block stood a slightly smaller and older-looking domicile. It was kept up well enough to fit in with the others. Ghassan stretched out his hand toward that place and turned to Chane.
“Down the front hallway of the main floor, you will find a door on your left and a stairwell leading up on your right. Straight ahead, you will see a back door out of the house, but hopefully you will never need that.” He paused. “Take the door to the left, which opens onto a stairwell leading down to a lower passage. Ignore all doors along the way and go to the end wall . . . which will appear as nothing more than a wall.”
He pulled his other closed hand out from beneath his cloak and opened it. “Use this pebble to locate and open another hidden door in that end wall, with a cellar sanctuary beyond it.”
“How many of these places do you have?” Chane asked.
“Enough,” Ghassan answered. “Or so I thought before I returned here. I chose this location because of the cellar. As I explained, we will trap the host down there before dawn, and with the absence of natural light, Khalidah will not realize the time until too late.”
Wynn peered at the house. “So the back room in the cellar is . . . hidden by . . .”
She didn’t even want to say that word—sorcery—though she did wonder and worry again how much skill and power the domin’s sect had wielded in secret.
Ghassan ignored her and remained focused on Chane. “Do not forget a single turn or shadow on the way here. You must get the others to this place as quickly as possible.”
Chane nodded. “It would have been better if they had seen it for themselves.”
“I cannot risk them being spotted in the open until necessary,” Ghassan returned. “And they will follow you as agreed.”
That didn’t reassure Wynn. Having Chane guide Leesil, Magiere, and Chap was almost the most dangerous—no, insane—part of this plan. It brought other concerns to mind as she eyed Ghassan.
“Aside from explaining how Magiere can destroy Khalidah,” she began, “you didn’t provide much about the specter itself.” And Magiere hadn’t asked much beyond the how. “Chane and I followed you so far, but I expect more. He can’t lead Magiere, Leesil, and Chap without being fully informed.”
“Here and now?” Ghassan whispered, and, after a sharp exhale, “What do you wish to know?”
“Does the specter need to feed like other undead?”
“Touching a victim in his spectral form does not allow him to draw life. Unlike the wraith we faced in Calm Seatt, Khalidah is more pure mind than spirit. He cannot feed—spirit to spirit—upon the living. He requires seized flesh, with its own spirit as a conduit, to feed upon life by touch.”
The mention of “we” stuck in Wynn’s head. She, Shade, and Chane—and Ghassan—had faced Sau’ilahk together the first time. This situation didn’t feel much like that one.
“So his touch is as dangerous as Sau’ilahk’s while he inhabits a host?” she asked.
“More dangerous,” Ghassan corrected. “Even without touch, he can affect a victim’s mind.”
“We need to tell Magiere.”
“I’m certain she has reasoned this for herself.”
Wynn wasn’t certain. Ghassan kept too many things to himself until pressed to share.
“If Khalidah needs to feed like other undead,” she countered, “how did you and yours keep him imprisoned for so many years?”
“He was trapped in a specially constructed and prepared sarcophagus of brass.”
“And what of his needs for survival?” Chane asked.
The question startled Wynn. She hadn’t considered this before.
“If you knew how to kill him and did not,” Chane continued, “then how did he remain functional and aware for so long?”
Wynn wanted the answer for what horror lay behind it. She’d reasoned out one other detail, for there was only one way that the sect’s predecessors had resurrected sorcery.
They had extracted its secrets from Khalidah.
If the specter had been trapped for so long, how had it survived? Undead did not die for lack of feeding, or at least not those Wynn had encountered. They withered and fell dormant unless utterly destroyed, and she couldn’t see how the latter was possible for a purely mental undead. And without sustenance, Khalidah would’ve been useless to Ghassan and his kind.
Ghassan eyed Chane in silence. “You have what information is necessary, and there is more to do. Daylight will kill him, like any other undead, unless he inhabits a host. To get Khalidah out of a host is what you—we—must focus on now.”
Wynn swallowed hard. The lack of an answer to Chane’s question left much to her imagination. Earlier tonight, their task had felt daunting; now it was ambiguous as well. She had viewed Chane and Magiere as the true hunters in their plan, and everyone else would play a support or defense role. But she realized that she, herself, could be pivotal if things went wrong.
What if they couldn’t trap and hold Khalidah until daylight?
What if he fled his host before dawn?
There was only one answer: sunlight in the dark.
And there was only one way to create that: the sun crystal that Ghassan had made for her. It was the last line of defense to keep Khalidah from taking a new host, and when Wynn looked up . . .
Ghassan’s dark eyes were fixed on her. Had any of what was now happening been part of why he so willingly made that crystal for her? Or did it have something to do with how Khalidah had been kept imprisoned?
“You understand?” he asked flatly.
Unfortunately, she did and didn’t.
“Let us return,” he added, not waiting for her answer. “Tomorrow, we begin and end this.”
As Ghassan rose to lead the way, Chane and Shade followed, but Wynn paused.
The fallen domin had made the sun crystal. It stood to reason his sect would have made the same to deal with the specter, as needed. Yet all had perished because he had been away when Khalidah broke free and slaughtered the rest.
How had that happened?
* * *
Late the following afternoon, Prince Ounyal’am sat at the front of the dais in the great domed chamber atop the imperial castle. Living his whole life in the immense palace of wonders, he now barely noticed the intricate mosaic floor.
Its polished shapes of colored marble were arranged in a looping, coiling pattern centering upon the one-step dais three yards in diameter. The entire chamber was awash with tinted sunlight filtering through the similar mosaic of glass panes in the dome above. Four imperial guards stood at attention, one in each corner of the vast room, and two of his private guards, Fareed and Isa, stood directly behind him.
This was the last place Ounyal’am wished to be.
Once a moon, the imperial court allowed public audiences so that common citizens could bring petitions or disputes to be resolved. With his father now “indisposed,” Ounyal’am was required to take the emperor’s place in these proceedings. Normally, he did not mind.
It was a relief to be useful in serving those of his people he so rarely saw face-to-face. Though he’d never dare say so aloud, he believed—knew—he was a fairer judge
than his father, and certainly more so than a’Yamin.
But today he was deeply preoccupied.
The prisoners he’d helped to free had not been recaptured. If a’Yamin had uncovered any hint of the imperial prince’s involvement in their escape, the counselor had said nothing. Commander Har’ith had recovered from his assault in the prison and then promptly locked down the city.
Ounyal’am had done his best to assist Ghassan by suggesting to the commander that the imperial and city guards focus their search on the city’s outer areas and exits. This was based on the reasoning that escaped prisoners would be desperate to leave. And with the commander’s agreement, he then made certain additional other duties were given to the imperial guard based on improved security for the palace.
In truth, he needed to scatter the resources of both the imperial and city guards to give Ghassan room to act before it was too late. And he had not yet heard another word from the domin.
Twice, he had considered initiating contact himself, but he feared interrupting critical actions beyond his awareness. It was better to wait and, when Ghassan contacted him, find some excuse for a few moments of privacy.
Ounyal’am looked slowly around the chamber.
His gaze passed over a number of noble and affluent visitors come to observe the day’s proceedings. For as long as he could remember, it had been customary for such families to bring their children to these events so that they could benefit from a firsthand education in the needs of citizens and the reasons behind a final imperial ruling. These families humbly knelt on mats placed to each side of the walkway from the main entrance to the dais.
Ounyal’am had always supported this custom. Young royals and nobles needed to see something of the importance . . . something other than fine food and drink, affluence and influence, and the garish clothing so prevalent at court. Hopefully, they would see that those placed in power over the common people held an even greater responsibility.
Typically, only two or three families per moon brought their children to observe and learn. Of late, since the emperor’s “retirement,” that had changed, though not for the right reason.
