Acolyte's Underworld

by Levi Jacobs

  Then something tore from her spine and Marea spun, barely getting a ghostly arm up in time to block a revenant coming for her.

  She stumbled under the force of the attack, mind spinning. The shaman could not have thrown that attack in his state. Which meant only one thing: there was another shaman here. An ally.

  And now they had the element of surprise.

  31

  Ella watched with trepidation as Arten Sablos approached. He looked much as she remembered him, of noble bearing and impressive health for a man of his age, eyes bright and intelligent. They flicked from her to Praet and back before widening.

  “Miss Aygla,” he said. “You are one of the last people I expected to see here.”

  “Arten,” Ella said. “A lot has changed in the last few months, as I’m sure you know. I owe you an apology for the circumstances in which we parted.”

  For trussing him in the back of an elk cart and trying to intimidate him into revealing ninespears secrets, that was.

  He took her hand, brushing lips against it as more shouts sounded from the upper terrace. “On the contrary. It’s I who owe you the apology, for striking out as I did. I’m sure you’ll understand it was necessary at the time. And, according to rumor, things still worked out well for you and Mr. Kulga.”

  “Well for him, at least,” Ella said. She gestured at her spotted skin and bent back. “You see the state I am in.”

  Praet Sablos cleared his throat. “You can verify Miss Merewil’s story then, Arten? You knew her in Ayugen?”

  “I can,” Arten said, raising his voice over the noise. The third terrace looked to be descending into chaos, though Downs security kept the crowd from descending. “Though I knew her as Miss Aygla then.” The former High Arbiter’s eyes widened. “So you are—”

  “A woman with a varied past,” Ella said. “Most recently, accomplice to the death of Aeyenor and the taking of Semeca’s spear in Aran.”

  “Stones,” Arten breathed, glancing at his brother. The archrevenant pretending to be his brother, Ella corrected herself. Did Arten have any idea? He couldn’t. “I knew from the first that boy was rebel scum.”

  Ella sighed. “Well, he is archrevenant rebel scum now.”

  “And the woman comes to us seeking help in taking his power,” Praet said, watching Arten’s reaction.

  Arten stroked his carefully trimmed white beard, apparently oblivious to the battle happening above them. “Interesting. Your position does offer some advantages over our own. And you are willing to share the power according to our code?”

  “I had thought to let his power return to the spear, for the time being,” Ella called, glancing behind them. “I do not need all the power. Just enough to survive the year would be a good start.”

  Arten’s eyes softened some with sympathy. Praet’s still looked hard, but her offer had to be attractive to the archrevenant. Their compact prevented him from attacking Tai directly, but her doing the attacking got around that. It would prevent him from attacking her too, once she took the power—but leaving the power in the spear meant he could safely seize it.

  “I think we have reason to talk more, at least,” Praet said. “Come to 7-35-5 West Cove tomorrow eve.” A man fell screaming over the edge of upper terrace, landing with a crash on a tray of fluted glasses. “Now I suppose we ought to at least watch this duel, lest we appear too uninterested in vulgar history.”

  Ella turned with the men. The upper terrace was a maelstrom of elites battling in their finery, the lines between Erewhin and Fenril blurring as supporters entered the fray and those just trying to escape were forced to fight their way free. Heala and Kerrol traded furious blows in the thick of it, the Erewhin’s greater reach and size balanced by her training and brawler-enhanced speed. Two tiers above them a wave of white-coated lawkeepers was trying to push down, slowed by the press of lower House hopefuls in front of them.

  In contrast the fourth terrace remained tranquil, other than people pulling back from the place where the man had fallen. The people here were of Houses too major to be affected by such squabbles. Unmoved by the violence and potential death unfolding above. Because money allowed them to be unmoved.

  It was disgusting.

  “Shamans,” Praet said tersely. “Beldon and Les.”

  The man’s eyes were unfocused—looking in shamanic sight. Of course. She forced her own eyes into the extended sight, not having used it much since the journey to Aran. And spotted a shamanic arm near the edge, clutching a revenant.

  “Yes,” Arten said. “But who is the third?”

  The arm slashed down, just as three more reared above the crowd. Ella strained, trying to see through the shifting crowd, mind whirling with the implications. A revenant attack could drastically sway the results of a House duel—and the Sablos men appeared to be in on it. Were the shamans part of their cell?

  Just then the crowd parted, and Ella caught a glimpse of a lighthaired girl running with a knife in her hand. From further back a revenant swam toward her and she spun, summoning a shamanic arm to block it moments before it hit her spine.

  Ella gasped. “Marea?” What was the girl doing here? And why was she in the middle of a House duel?

  It didn’t matter—she was clearly in danger. Ella needed to get up there. She had just about struck resonance when she caught Praet’s face. “You know this girl?” the man asked.

  The implications hit her like a slap—Praet and Arten knew the shamans up there. If they were all of the same cell, that made Marea their enemy.

  If Ella helped her, she would be abandoning the fragile alliance she’d made with these men. With disastrous consequences for Tai.

  But if she didn’t, she’d be leaving the girl to defend against two experienced shamans in the midst of a free-for-all. There was no way she’d survive.

  32

  Marea spun, adding a second arm to aid the first in pushing the new attack back. A pair of women slashing and pulling hair stumbled into her and she fought to keep her feet. The first shaman would shake off her attack soon enough. She needed to deal with this new threat before he did.

  Stepping behind a thick man who stood bellowing in the midst of the battle, Marea traced the attacking arm back to its source in shamanic sight. She couldn’t even see the person through the crowd, but she didn’t need to. She summoned an arm and strung a revenant into it, returning the attack while keeping theirs from hitting her.

  They blocked, and for a moment her arms strained against theirs, like two fighters with blades locked. Then Marea remembered her training and summoned two more arms, slamming them at her opponent from either side.

  One of them hit, and she risked a moment to look for the first shaman. Past a Fenril man fending off two attackers with a longsword she saw the shaman pushing to hands and knees.

  “No you don’t,” she growled, slamming a new attack into him. He blocked, throwing his own attack back at her. Marea blocked and sent two more attacks at him from either side. Someone stumbled into her and she lost sight of her foe but kept pressure up on her arms.

  No—not stumbled. Face wet with blood, Marea saw they had fallen, clutching a deep rent in one arm.

  “Fenril or foe?” the man behind them demanded of her.

  “Neither,” she growled, and slammed a revenant into him.

  He fell screaming. She turned back for the first shaman, who was blocking everything she threw at him. Time for more old-fashioned tactics.

  Marea ran across the clearing floor, dagger out, dodging between the remaining knots of fighters. Most of the battle concentrated near the stairs now, where the fight had spread up the stairs to House loyalists on either side.

  Kerrol and Heala loomed up and Marea ran into the Erewhin man before she could turn, knocking him from his feet. Marea kept running—she needed this shaman dead before the other one woke up. There was no way she could hold both of them off. She’d be lucky to stay alive in this without two shamans after her.

  Luck—that
was it! And it wouldn’t take much in this chaos. Drawing on the last of her mental reserves, Marea imagined someone stabbing the first shaman. It wasn’t much of a fatewalking vision, as visions went—visual and little more, but it was the best she could do. Marea struck resonance.

  It worked—a burly man in Mattoy colors struck the shaman with the flat of his blade, sending him spinning. Better yet, his shamanic arms vanished, revenants flying into the ether. Marea’s slammed home and the man’s back arched, not even halfway to the ground.

  Marea reached him and raised her dagger.

  The world exploded in pain and she barely managed not to stab herself as she fell. The second shaman. Marea ripped the attack off.

  Another struck in its place, pain searing through her again. Fear spread through the small corner of sanity she’d learned to hold even in such attacks, defending against Uhallen. She ripped the attack off. Another hit.

  Stains stains stains. All the shamans had to do was keep pushing another one on as soon as she ripped the last one off and she’d be stuck here. Until one of them cut her throat, or she got trampled in the melee.

  No. Pushing back on the animal bulk of her mind that screamed at the pain, Marea ripped the revenant off as she summoned a second arm to block the coming attack.

  It worked! The pain stopped and she caught the coming attack even. And in the blissful moment of nonpain and clarity that followed, she saw three more arms coming for her, two from ahead and one from behind.

  The shamans were both on her now.

  She was dead.

  33

  Ella watched in horror as Marea spun in the midst of the battle, throwing and blocking revenants from two sides.

  Arten cleared his throat. “Your friend has some talent. Is she of a local cell?”

  Currents, even this answer could set these men against her. Show ties to a rival cell and they would doubt her entire story. “No. She, ah, studied some under a friend, during our trip north.”

  Praet grunted. “She studied quickly. Though I don’t think this is a battle she can win.”

  Marea finally overpowered her nearer foe, only to have a revenant slam into her. She fell screaming.

  Ella’s heart lurched. Politics be damned, she couldn’t stand by and watch this happen. “The other shamans up there,” she said, trying to sound casual. “They are yours?”

  “Oh no,” Arten said. “Neverblades, the both of them.”

  Praise the gods. “So you don’t mind if I… intervene?”

  Praet smiled broadly. “The shamanic code prevents us from attacking our rivals. But you would be doing us and House Fenril a service in ridding the terrace of those scum.”

  Thank the gods. “Well. If you’ll excuse me.”

  Ella struck resonance, hard. She ran for the stairway, dodging around the amused nobles watching there. Got to the stairs and realized she was out of breath.

  “Staining resonance,” she cursed. “Staining old age.” Staining lawkeepers for making her need the disguise at all. Staining parents for locking her up and then sending the law after her again.

  Ella forced herself up the stairs, panting, world frozen around her. If she had her younger body, this would be easy—leap the rail, walk over the guards’ heads, slit a couple throats and run back to the fourth terrace before anyone even knew she was gone.

  But as an old woman? She’d started the day looking fifty rains or more. What was she now—sixty? Seventy?

  The stairway was clogged with black-clad Downs men. Cursing Ella tried pulling them aside, but the quadrupled inertia of slip plus her weakened muscles meant their bodies might as well have been stone.

  The railing then. Taking a deep breath, Ella hitched herself onto the railing, muscles trembling with effort. Standing was out of the question—it was all she could do balance sitting on her bottom.

  So, thankful no one could see her in the slowness of slip, she scooted herself backward up the railing on her bottom, wedging past the crush of people.

  She had time to ponder the sickness of the system as she did. The Downs had the manpower to stop this duel-gone-awry that was costing real lives. Instead they let it play out, while making sure lawkeepers had to fight down from the top tier. Opulence aside, the risk of the setup—the danger of a battleground where only House blood was allowed to fight—was part of what kept people coming back.

  And kept the owners rich—even now the cue downstairs was crammed with the desperate and elderly begging to pay a thousand moons each to get away from danger. Just as the stairs coming down were crammed with the poorer Houses fighting for a chance to prove themselves. The lawkeepers—the real keepers of justice, that should have broken this up at once—were trapped behind them, laying about themselves with nightsticks and swordbreakers.

  Which left real justice up to her.

  Currents send what Marea was doing was just, and not part of some twisted scheme Uhallen had talked her into.

  Ella half-dropped, half-fell from the railing onto the third terrace. An ache was growing in her spine—her uai was running out. But she was here now, and there was no way she was leaving without making sure Marea was okay, even it meant becoming an old woman caught in a bloody battle.

  Thankfully the terrace had cleared out in the last few minutes, people either escaping out servant’s exits or falling from their wounds. Ella limped her way around the ones that were still up, frozen mid-battle.

  Still, her back was fully aching by the time she reached the shaman actively attacking Marea. She wrenched the slim dagger from the man’s hand and made three quick thrusts, following Fenyrick’s advice on how to kill stealthily in slip. One thrust behind the ear, to the hilt, ensuring they died. Another to the knee, and a third to the thick tendon on the same leg, ensuring they would fall before anyone saw how or why.

  Ella turned for the second shaman, back a raging fire, and grit her teeth. There was no way she was making it there. In desperation she pulled her arm back, shoulder screaming. She’d made lucky throws before. Currents send this one was the same.

  She threw, knife tumbling through the air, just as her uai gave out and the world snapped into motion around her. Roars burst from a hundred throats, fighters returning to desperate struggles. The knife went wide, sailing over the balcony toward the fourth terrace.

  And suddenly she was a frail old woman in the middle of a pitched battle.

  Fear surging, hating her weakness, Ella began hobbling her way toward the sides, holding her hands up in a sign of defeat. A bleeding man in Fenril colors dashed past her, and Ella’s heart nearly stopped. At this age, she’d likely break something if she fell. And would she ever get back to the spear in time to heal herself if she did?

  Fortunately, the battle seemed to be dying down as the pack of lawkeepers fought down the final staircase. Ella kept an eye on Marea as she picked her way to safety, eyes focused deep in shamanic sight. The shaman she’d stabbed fell just as Feynrick said he would, and Ella smiled a feral smile that was likely out of place on her aged face. Marea managed to block the next attack that came, getting to her feet and facing the other shaman, a portly woman in the green and silver of some minor House. Lawkeepers broke through the final cordon of fighters, shouting and spreading out to separate the few knots of fighting still swirling on the floor.

  One of the lawkeepers took Ella, gently but forcefully guiding her to the edge as others shouted they were clearing the area. Marea kept fighting, striking and counter-striking with moves Ella had never seen, even as the lawkeepers took her and the other shaman into custody.

  That was the strange thing about shamanic battles—they were invisible to anyone without the sight. Would that it weren’t so—Marea was making no headway against this shaman. Losing it, if anything. Marea’s attacks appeared to be more powerful, but she struggled to make more than five arms, where the other woman had seven or even eight going at once, meaning Marea had to keep dropping attacks to defend herself. It was only a matter of time before the wom
an landed a revenant on her. And who knew what else a shaman could do to her, once she was incapacitated?

  So as the whitecoats herded them all toward the stairs, unwitting of the shamanic battle happening around them, Ella leaned away from the man holding her and called “Marea! I can help you!”

  The girl started, looking her direction with desperate eyes. “Ella?

  “Yes! I just need uai!”

  34

  Where the stains had Ella come from? It didn’t matter. Marea threw two more arms up to block the shaman’s, ripping the revenants out of them as she’d learned to do. Ella must have killed the other shaman in timeslip.

  Three more revenants swung at her, and Marea again had to drop her attacks to keep herself from getting immobilized. The other shaman was just stronger, or more experienced, or whatever. It didn’t help that Marea was bone weary from the battle she’d already fought. She was going to lose.

  Unless she could get Ella some uai.

  Marea threw a desperate attack, battle intensifying as the lawkeepers dragged the other shaman closer. She was out of options—she couldn’t fatewalk the woman dead—but Ella just needed uai.

  Well. Uai was something Marea knew how to do.

  Summoning a last burst of energy, she shoved back on all the arms pushing at her, and threw two more revenant attacks at the shaman. Then dropped everything and snatched at the silvery strands still leading from the dead shaman’s forehead. His thralls.

  Her other arms disappeared. And in the second before the shaman’s latest attacks slammed home, Marea rammed an arm down a thrall’s throat and stuck it to Ella’s forehead.

  35

  Something tingled on Ella’s forehead. Three paces away, Marea arched her back and screamed. Power rushed into Ella’s forehead and down her spine, stripping years from her age and shooting strength through her limbs, like the first giddy moments of overcoming.