“In Barellion or one of the free cities, it might not,” said Romaria. “But the Grim Marches are a rougher place. Especially since the Malrags came.”
“That is...more than I expected,” said Molly. “This offer, I mean. Especially since I tried to kill you.”
Mazael nodded.
“But...I have no reason to go on. No reason to live. Nicholas is dead,” said Molly, “and avenged. What other purpose is there?”
“You've haven't avenged Nicholas,” said Romaria. “Not completely.”
“What do you mean?” said Molly, scowling. “You saw Mazael kill Corvad.”
“I killed Corvad,” said Mazael, “but I did not kill the Old Demon.”
Molly said nothing. She knew that he spoke the truth. The Old Demon bore as much responsibility for Nicholas's death as had Corvad.
But her grandfather was power made flesh. She could not possibly kill him.
“He is the author of all your pain, in the end,” said Mazael. “Corvad was only his tool. And I know he hasn't forgotten me. I dared to defy him. He will come for me again, one day. And I intend to be ready for him.”
“Corvad paid for what he did,” said Romaria, “but the Old Demon has not. And he'll do it again and again to others, make them suffer the way you suffered. You can kill yourself now, if you want...but if you do, you'll never have the chance to bring him to account.”
Molly stared at her father and his lover for a long time. She wanted to make the Old Demon pay, wanted that very badly. Perhaps with the aid of others, she might have a chance.
But something else tugged at her. She had grown up with her mother, with the Skulls, with Corvad. None of them had felt like a home. The time with Nicholas, that had felt like a home.
Could she have that again?
Mazael was her father. She felt nothing for him. But...she did not hate him. He had never known of her existence, and she could not hate him for that. And she respected Romaria, respected her a great deal. Could Castle Cravenlock become a home for her?
Molly had no idea.
But she wanted to find out.
She needed to find out.
Molly stared at Romaria for a moment longer, and then nodded.
###
Mazael walked into the throne chamber.
Time to get this over with.
It was deserted, save for the corpses of the slain Malrags and the crumbling bones of the ebony dead. The bodies of Mazael's men had been removed to a pyre in Red Valley. Corvad's corpse still lay where it had fallen, clad in the armor of Old Dracaryl. It could lie there until Arylkrad crumbled into dust, for all Mazael cared.
Lucan stood over the corpse, staring at it.
Mazael joined him.
Lucan had cast aside his rags for the wool and leather of an armsman. All traces of his deformities had vanished, and now he looked little different than Mazael remembered. Save for his black eyes. They looked wearier, older, than Mazael recalled.
And, perhaps, much colder.
“What,” said Lucan after a moment, “are you going to do with the Glamdaigyr?”
“I can't destroy it,” said Mazael. He had hoped that Lion could shatter the black sword the way it had Ultorin's bloodsword, but the Glamdaigyr was too powerful. “I even tried dipping it in the lava, but it remained untouched. I cannot leave it here. Arylkrad's wards are gone, and the sword is too powerful to lie about unprotected. I'll have to take it with me to Castle Cravenlock, and guard the thing as best I can.”
“It is a weapon of immense power,” said Lucan. “Corvad barely used a tenth of its potential. Keeping the sword under guard will draw...unwelcome attention from those who wish to claim it.”
“From you, perhaps?” said Mazael.
Lucan ignored that. “You should take Corvad's diadem as well.” He nudged Corvad's corpse with the toe of his boot.
“You recognize it?”
“Aye. It's another relic of Old Dracaryl, one called the Banurdem. It bestows upon its bearer the power to command both the undead and the dragons. Not the sort of thing you want to fall into the wrong hands.”
“Much like the Glamdaigyr,” said Mazael, “or the blood of a child of the Old Demon?”
Lucan did not answer.
“When did it begin?” said Mazael.
“Before we left for Knightcastle to wed your sister to Sir Gerald,” said Lucan. “I suspected you were Demonsouled, even then. I took some of your blood and tested it, and had my proof. The blood held great power...power which I needed. You remember when Morebeth Galbraith wounded me?”
Mazael nodded.
“The wound was mortal, but I kept a vial of your blood. It gave me the power to heal the wound, and to strike back against her. We face terrible enemies. The San-keth, the Demonsouled, others. I needed power to defeat them. But I could hardly store a vial of your blood for every emergency. So I created the bloodstaff. That preserved and enhanced the power of your blood, and gave me the strength I needed.”
“And it almost destroyed you,” said Mazael.
Lucan sighed. “It did.”
“You mad fool,” said Mazael. “Romaria and Rachel both told me not to trust you.”
“Perhaps it was not the best decision,” said Lucan. “But I did what I had to do.”
“What you had to do!” Mazael said. “It almost killed you. It was turning you into a monster like Ultorin! I didn't see it at the time, but it became clear in hindsight. You had trouble controlling the rage, didn’t you?”
Lucan did not meet his eye, but he nodded.
“Did you kill anyone?” said Mazael.
“One,” said Lucan, voice quiet. “An Elderborn druid, during that skirmish north of Deepforest Keep. I...got carried away.”
“Fool,” said Mazael. “You know how hard I've fought to keep my blood under control. How I've struggled to keep it from turning me into a monster. And you...you took that power into yourself of your own will?”
“I thought I could control it,” said Lucan. “It seemed safe enough.”
“Plainly it was not!” said Mazael.
Lucan scowled. “I did what was necessary! If I had not taken your blood, Morebeth Galbraith would have killed us both. If I had not forged the bloodstaff, Ultorin and his Malrag shamans would have defeated us, the Grim Marches would have been laid waste, and Malavost would have become a living god. Yes, I used the evil power of the Demonsouled, just as you do. But I used it to a good end. Just as you do.”
“It is not the same!” said Mazael. “I was born this way. Do you think I want the kind of power I have? The responsibility? The fight to keep it from devouring me? I've had to live with it as best I can. But you...you stole the power. And it turned you into a monster.”
“Power belongs to those strong enough to claim it,” said Lucan. He closed his eyes. “But...perhaps you are right. Good ends may have come of it. But using your blood was a terrible risk. And I...I have paid for it. Dearly.” This time he met Mazael's eyes. “I will not do it again.”
Mazael hesitated. Some part of his mind, the darker part, the Demonsouled part, wanted to kill Lucan then and there. Maybe Rachel and Romaria were right. But Lucan’s aid had saved Mazael's life a dozen times during the war against Ultorin.
And if not for Lucan’s help, Corvad would have killed Mazael.
“Very well,” said Mazael.
“And I will not use the Glamdaigyr or the Banurdem either,” said Lucan. “I know you suspect I wish to claim them. And you suspect justly, I might add. But...I have seen the dangers of using power beyond my capacity. I will not make the same mistake twice.”
“Good,” said Mazael. “It would be a better world, if we Demonsouled did not exist. But we do. And we must make the best of it.”
“I know,” said Lucan.
###
Lucan watched Mazael walk away.
He had not told the entire truth. Lucan had no intention of stealing any more Demonsouled blood, or of using the Glamdaigyr or the Banu
rdem. All were too dangerous.
But the well of power from the bloodstaff remained within him. Somehow it had fused with his soul, granting him its power permanently. He suspected it had healed him, had awakened him from his coma. Nor did the power seem to inflict any negative side effects. When he tapped into it, the power inspired neither murderous rage nor corrupted his flesh.
Lucan intended to put it to good use.
He let out a deep breath. Mazael was right about one thing. Using the bloodstaff had been terrible folly, an insane risk. Yet it had worked out in the end. Lucan was still alive. Malavost and Ultorin were dead, and Corvad's plan to create a Malrag Queen stopped.
Everything had worked out.
Hadn’t it?
For a brief instant the hazy recollection of a black city swam before Lucan's eyes. A memory of a dream from his coma, he suspected. No doubt he had glimpsed Arylkrad as Corvad and Molly carried him inside, and his mind had constructed a dream from the half-seen images.
Just a dream. He was still alive, and his enemies had been defeated.
Yet why did he feel as if he had made some terrible mistake?
Chapter 35 – Beginnings
Nine days later, Mazael and his men returned to Castle Highgate.
Lord Robert hosted them in a great feast, celebrating the defeat of both Corvad and the dragon. Osric told the tale, and the grizzled knight had quite a talent for storytelling. Soon the entire hall laughed and cheered to the tale.
Tymaen sat at Robert's side, quiet and still.
Lucan did not attend the feast.
The next day, Mazael retrieved his horses and departed Castle Highgate.
“Good journeys to you, my lord,” said Osric. “Or should I call you Dragonslayer?”
“Don't,” said Mazael with a laugh. “Lord Richard will be wroth.”
“Aye,” said Osric, grinning. “If you ever want to go through the mountains, find me. I'll follow you again.”
###
They rode south through the Grim Marches.
Autumn had fallen during their mountain journey, and everywhere Mazael rode, he saw peasants harvesting fields, rebuilding villages damaged during Ultorin's invasion. He spoke with the peasants as they passed, and heard the news. There were a few reports of Malrag attacks, but not many. Most of the surviving Malrag warbands had escaped to the caverns of the Great Mountains, or retreated into the Great Southern Forest. With both Corvad and Ultorin dead, the Malrags had turned to fighting each other once more.
The war was finally over.
###
At last, Mazael returned victorious to Castle Cravenlock. Ultorin and Corvad were slain, the harvest had been brought in, and Mazael's knights, vassals, and peasants wanted to celebrate.
A great feast was held, both in Castle Cravenlock and the town's square. Commoners and knights alike celebrated the victory and praised the gods for delivering them from the wrath of the Malrags. Perhaps Mazael could rebuild the Grim Marches now. Perhaps he could bring peace, could let his people grow fat and rich and happy.
Though the Old Demon would come for him one day, he knew.
And when that day came, he intended to be ready.
###
The day after the feast, Mazael saw his guests off.
Gerald and his surviving men mounted their horses in the courtyard. Rachel's belly had swollen with pregnancy, and Gerald attended her with devoted solicitousness. Aldane was bigger than Mazael remembered, but Rachel still carried him constantly.
“We're bound for Knightcastle,” said Gerald. “Winter's coming, and I want Rachel safe at home before the snows close the roads.”
“Thank you, Mazael,” said Rachel. “You promised to get Aldane back, and you did.”
Mazael laughed. “You slew Malavost, sister, not I.”
She grinned, but then her smile faded. “That bastard daughter of yours, Mazael. I spoke with her.”
“And?” said Mazael.
“I...like her. More than I thought,” said Rachel. “We have nothing in common, of course...but she has suffered so much.” As Rachel had. “Be kind to her, Mazael.”
“I shall,” said Mazael.
He gripped Gerald's hand, and the party rode through the gates, the Roland banner with its silver greathelm sigil flapping overhead. Mazael crossed the courtyard, to where the red-cloaked Arminiars prepared their horses.
“I must return to Northreach and Castle Arminus,” said Kjalmir. “Your hospitality has been grand, my lord Mazael, but I must return to my duties, and my order needs me.”
“I understand,” said Mazael. “Your aid was invaluable.”
Kjalmir grinned. “And you brought down that dog Corvad. If you ever come to Northreach, my lord, we shall give you a grand welcome.” He craned his neck. “Where is Lady Romaria? I would give her my farewells, too.”
Mazael smiled. “She's attending to something important.”
###
Molly blinked. “Where are we going?”
She sat atop a horse, following Romaria around the base of Castle Cravenlock's craggy hill.
“You're good with a sword, and better with a dagger,” said Romaria. “But you've no skill with a bow.”
Molly shook her head. “The Skulls never taught it.”
“Then you'll need to learn to hunt,” said Romaria. “Winter is coming, and there's little else to do when the snows come. You'll have to learn to shoot.”
Molly stared at the other woman for a long moment, and then felt herself smile. “Yes. Yes. I would like that.”
Romaria nodded, and steered her horse for the plains, Molly following.
Perhaps the future would not be as dark as Molly feared.
Epilogue
Lucan opened the door to his tower room.
He regretted the loss of his workshop below Castle Cravenlock, but he knew better than to challenge Mazael over it. Losing the books looted from the San-keth temple was inconvenient, but Lucan could live without them. He would have to find a new space to work. Master Othar's old tower, perhaps.
He shut the door, turned, and froze in place.
A scream threatened to rise in his throat.
The Old Demon stood in the corner, watching him.
All at once Lucan remembered everything. The dead forest. The reapers and the hooded shadows. The manifestation wearing his father's guise. The black city and the fight with the manifestation's dragon form.
And the bargain he had made with the Old Demon.
“Lucan,” said the Old Demon, grinning. “You owe me a favor.”
THE END
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SOUL OF SORCERY Bonus Chapter
Mazael Cravenlock awoke from a dream of blood and death.
He sat up, sweat trickling down his face. For a moment it seemed as if the bedchamber had been drenched in blood, that the corpses of the slain lay piled against the walls in ragged heaps. Mazael’s fists clenched in horror. He had killed them, he had enjoyed it…
Then the last shards of the dream faded, and his bedchamber was dark and quiet once more. Some moonlight leaked through the balcony door, throwing pale light over his bed. Romaria Greenshield lay on her side next to him, her dark hair a tangle around her head, her breathing slow and steady.
Good. He hadn’t awakened her.
Or done worse things.
The recollection of another dream flashed before his eyes, and he saw himself striding through Castle Cravenlock, sword in hand, killing and killing until the halls ran red with blood…
Mazael stood, walked barefoot across the room, and picked up a carafe of wine from the sideboard. A swallow of the wine felt bitter and hot against his tongue, helping to shock him back to lucidity.
They were just dreams.
Only dreams.
Bu
t they came more and more often.
Mazael walked to the balcony, the autumn night cold against his bare skin,. His bedchamber occupied the highest level of the King’s Tower, and from here he had a fine view of Castle Cravenlock. He saw the sentries patrolling the curtain wall, crossbows in hand. Beyond the wall he saw the distant glow of torchlight in Cravenlock Town, throwing shadows over the new construction within the town’s walls.
Everything was peaceful. With Ultorin and Corvad dead, the remaining Malrag warbands had fled into the caverns of the Great Mountains. No neighboring lords had taken advantage of the chaos to seize lands from the Grim Marches. One did not cross Lord Richard Mandragon the Dragonslayer, after all.
So many people had perished in the Malrag attack, but now Mazael’s lands and people could rebuild, could grow fat and happy and prosperous over the years. It was everything he had wanted for his lands.
Peace and prosperity.
How it grated on him.
Mazael closed his eyes, hands gripping the balcony’s worn stone railing. His dreams had begun again after returning from Arylkrad. At first only a few fevered images, here and there. Then the nightmares.
And now dreams of death and blood every night for the last five nights.
His Demonsouled blood yearned to fight, to slay, and to kill. The dreams had not troubled him during the war against Ultorin’s Malrags, and Mazael had come to realize that the constant fighting had kept his Demonsouled nature sated, like a drunkard slaked by a constant flow of wine.
But now peace had come, and his Demonsouled blood was hungry.
Mazael gripped the railing, his knuckles white. He would not turn into a raving monster like Amalric Galbraith or Corvad. But it was so hard. It took so much effort to keep himself in check.
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