Death of a Darklord

by Laurell K. Hamilton

  Jonathan had always believed magic to be evil, or at least weak, lazy. Most things that magic could accomplish could be done by honest work. The task was harder, perhaps, and took longer, but it could be done.

  But this … raising the dead to true life. Jonathan held his hands close to the flames until the blood was like to boil. The fire did not seem warm enough. Perhaps it was not his body that was cold, but something deeper.

  The extra tent they had packed for emergencies was set up against the soft rise of the hill behind him. The elven cleric and his daughter were tucked safely away behind the hide walls. And the two men, the two deadmen, had gone to their bedrolls cheerfully, tired, but not worse for wear. How could that be?

  A soft sound behind him made him whirl, his heart pounding in his throat. It was Elaine. She held her white cloak tight about her. There were still bloodstains here and there on the fur.

  She was the last person Jonathan wished to see.

  She stood there, face uncertain, as if she knew she was not welcome. The hurt in her green-blue eyes cut him like a knife. He did not want to hurt her. For her, he had betrayed everything he thought he believed. He had saved her life, but had he endangered something more precious? And whose fault was that? His? No one’s?

  He extended a hand to her. She smiled and came to him, taking it. He drew her into the circle of his arm and his cloak, as he had when she was small.

  With a sigh, she settled against him. It was the same sound she’d made when she was ten, the first time Jonathan had ever held a child and told the lies that all parents tell, that the world is fair, and adult arms can protect them from all harm. Her hair was soft against his face and smelled of herbs and … her. The warm scent of a child. No mere perfume could ever disguise it from him.

  “Was it real?” she asked, softly.

  “Was what real?”

  “The elf, he brought those two men back from the dead. I saw it, but I still don’t believe it.”

  “I wouldn’t have believed it either, had I not witnessed it myself.”

  “Thordin and Gersalius said no cleric should have been able to raise the dead in Kartakass. Why is that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you know Gersalius was an outlander, like Thordin?” she asked.

  “No, I didn’t.” Jonathan wondered what else he didn’t know about the wizard.

  “Could the elf heal Calum?”

  Jonathan sat very still. He had been so busy worrying about magic and the state of souls, the matter of Calum had slipped his mind. It was Elaine, the corrupted magic-wielder, who had thought of Calum and his pain. Jonathan was ashamed of both his forgetfulness and his suspicions.

  “I don’t know. Thordin has spoken of them healing wounds, injuries, but not disease, not old age.”

  “But perhaps Calum would not mind being old so much if he were not in such pain.” She looked up at him, her head still on his shoulder, a mere rolling of eyes. It was an old gesture; for a moment, the little girl looked out at him. Then she straightened, not pulling away, but looking directly at him. Her eyes were honest and unrelenting.

  “Do you hate me?” She did not turn away after she had asked it, but met his gaze. Whatever his response, Jonathan would have to speak it into those familiar blue-green eyes.

  “I could never hate you, Elaine. You know that.”

  She searched his face as if looking for some clue. “I know you hate magic and all who practice it. Now I am a mage, or learning to become one. You hate that I have magic in me.” The last was statement, pure fact.

  Jonathan had to look away from her searching eyes. He stared into the flames.

  Her fingertips touched his bearded chin and turned his face back to her. “Tell me true, no half-truths.”

  “You are as dear to me as flesh of my flesh.”

  “That is not the question I asked.” She was relentless. Tereza was the bravest woman he had ever known, but even she might not have pushed the question. Tereza might never have asked at all; most people wouldn’t. They would fear the answer too much.

  “I wish you were not a mage, Elaine.”

  “I know that,” she said. Small frown lines formed between her eyes. “Do you hate it? Do you wish me to leave?” It was her turn to face away. She huddled against him, but would not meet his eyes. “I wasn’t going to ask that, but I couldn’t stand to watch you hate me, Jonathan.” She looked up suddenly, the pain in her eyes so raw it made him gasp.

  “I would rather go away than watch you grow to fear me.”

  “Fear you? I don’t …”

  “I saw the look on Tereza’s face in the shed that night. I saw your face after my vision.” She shook her head. “You were both afraid of me.”

  “Of your new powers, perhaps, but not of you.” He hugged her to him, chin resting in her yellow hair. “Never of you.”

  “I know you’re lying.” Her voice was choked with tears. “I can read your thoughts like words on a page.”

  He pushed away from her, half-tumbling before the fire. His heart choked in his throat. His lips formed the word, and said it soundlessly, a silent hiss: “Witch.”

  Tears shimmered in her eyes like water at the brim of a glass. She widened her eyes, fighting so no tear would fall. “I have my answer.” She stood, hugging her cloak to her as if it could protect from more than cold. “When we come back from Cortton, I will pack my things and go with Gersalius. We can go back to his home. I don’t think he will mind that I can read his thoughts.”

  She turned and walked slowly back to her tent. Her spine was rigid, movements confident, proud, stiff with pain.

  He wanted to call her back, to say he was sorry, and he was. He was sorry, so terribly sorry, but he had fought magic all his life. He could not change now. If she had not confronted him, they could have pretended. He could have pretended, but if she could read his thoughts … it was hopeless.

  He sat up, folding his cloak closer about him. Tereza came to stand beside him. “What did you and Elaine talk of?” She knelt to warm her hands before the fire.

  Jonathan did not answer right away. He didn’t want to tell his wife what a fool he was, though if anyone knew his frailties, it was Tereza. The wonder was that she stayed with him.

  “Talk to me, Jonathan. She was crying when she left.”

  “She asked me if I hated her for being a mage.”

  “And you said yes?” Her voice was outraged.

  He looked up at her, anger flaring through him. “Of course not!”

  “Then what happened?” Her face was already angry, frowning and suspicious.

  “She read my thoughts. I can lie in words. I can lie even with eyes and gestures—but thoughts, Tereza … who can lie with thoughts?”

  She stood up so abruptly her cloak trailed into the fire, sending sparks whirling skyward. She stalked around the fire like a caged beast, every movement etched with anger.

  “And what did she say after she read your thoughts?”

  “She said …” He could not say it. To say it out loud to Tereza would make it real. If he told anyone else, Elaine would leave, and he wouldn’t have a chance to apologize, to beg her not to go.

  “Jonathan,” she stood across the fire, hands on hips. The flames bathed her face in strong shadows, leaping light. “What did she say?”

  “I’ll make it all right. I’ll talk to her.”

  “Jonathan …” Tereza let her hands fall to her sides, cloak swinging closed. She stood there like a pillar of flame. “She’s going away, isn’t she?”

  Jonathan wanted to look away, to not see the accusation in her eyes, but he forced himself not to move, not to blink, not to flinch. He would always remember the disappointment on Tereza’s face. The contempt.

  “I told her she was as dear to me as a daughter.”

  “But you couldn’t hide your hatred of her magic.” She bit off each word, spitting it at him. He had never seen her so enraged, not at him. It frightened him.

&nbs
p; “She knew I hated the magic. That wasn’t what bothered her the most,” he said.

  “What then?”

  “It is the fact that we fear her powers. That is what she cannot tolerate.”

  “We?”

  “She said you were afraid of her after the night in the shed.”

  Tereza glanced away, then back. The righteous anger slipped away from her face. “She’s right.”

  “I know,” he said softly.

  They stared at each other over the crackling fire. A branch broke with a sharp sound, settling farther into the fire. Sparks spilled upward into the dark. The sound of the flame was loud like voices whispering in the other room.

  “What are we to do, Jonathan?”

  He shook his head. “Perhaps, we can ask the wizard for help.”

  “You would do that, turn to a wizard on such a personal matter?” She looked surprised.

  “To keep Elaine with us, I would do nearly anything.”

  Tereza smiled, and something inside of Jonathan relaxed. He felt as if he’d been given a reprieve from a sentence of death. Tereza had forgiven him.

  She walked around the fire to put her arms around his shoulders, resting her chin atop his head. “If neither of us wants her to leave, surely she will stay.”

  He said nothing, and it was nearly a lie, that silence. He had seen Elaine’s face, felt her pull away from his arms. If she could read their thoughts, thoughts they could not control.… But he said nothing. He didn’t want to fight with Tereza tonight. He needed her arms around him too much to risk it.

  “Elaine asked if the elven healer could heal Calum.”

  Tereza grew very still against him. He knew she was rolling the thought round in her mind. “Could he truly save Calum?”

  “He called the dead back, Tereza. I would believe him capable of anything.”

  She slid to her knees, arms still around him. “If he could save Calum … we must send him to Calum at once.”

  “He lost an arm today, a grave wound. Do you think he is well enough to travel days back in the cold by himself, with just his own people?”

  “We would go with him.”

  “Calum gave us this task to perform. If the elf, Silvanus, cannot heal him, Cortton will be the last evil we ever fight at Calum’s bidding. I cannot fail him now.”

  “But if he can truly be cured?”

  “We can tell Silvanus tomorrow about Calum’s illness. He may not be able to cure a disease, especially a disease of old age.”

  “My mother was years older than Calum, and she died quietly in her sleep. Old age does not have to end in such misery.”

  He patted her hand. “Good to hear.”

  She smiled suddenly. “You are not old.”

  “I am no longer young.”

  She hugged him tight. “That is not the same as being old.”

  He didn’t argue; he didn’t want to. Watching Calum’s strong body being eaten away by pain and age had made Jonathan aware of his own mortality in a way that no battle ever had.

  “We’ll talk to Elaine tomorrow,” Tereza said.

  He nodded. “Yes, tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow they would talk with Elaine. Tomorrow they would speak with the healer. Tomorrow, perhaps, Silvanus would tell them he could save Calum Songmaster. But even after what Jonathan had seen this day, he did not truly believe. It was as unreal as a dream. He mistrusted anything that promised to give him his heart’s desire. Healing was still a form of magic. Magic often promised exactly what a person most wanted, then found a way to cheat him. He feared he might have his heart’s desire as long as he didn’t mind fiends feasting on his heart.

  “Let’s go to bed.” Tereza helped him stand. His knees were stiff from sitting so long in the cold, even with the fire so near. A few years ago the cold had not made his bones ache.

  She kissed him gently on the cheek, as if she, too, could read his gloomy thoughts. “It will all look better in the morning, Husband. I promise.”

  He smiled and let her know he believed her. It was a lie. A lie that he told with his eyes. Perhaps if he practiced enough, he could fool Elaine as well. This reading his thoughts was harder. Perhaps the wizard would have a cure for that.

  Could he really let a wizard, any wizard, work a spell on him? He did not think so. But he hoped so. For Elaine’s sake, he hoped so.

  HaRKON LUKaS WatCHeD tHe CaMPSIte. He StOOD wrapped in a wine-dark cloak. A matching hat swept round his head, a hat more suited for a ball than winter travel. White ostrich feathers fluttered on it, and the wind tugged at the feathers as if trying to steal them. His long hair blew in tangles across his face. He should have been noticeable standing among the winter-dark trees in his ridiculous hat.

  Harkon had watched the camp since Konrad had stood watch. Neither Konrad nor Tereza had seen the tall figure moving in the darkness. Now Thordin stood watch, and somehow he didn’t see Harkon either. It was good to rule the land. It gave a person certain … abilities.

  Harkon might even have loved his land of Kartakass were he not trapped here. The country was too small to satisfy his ambitions and appetites. He could trap others inside the borders, but could not free himself. The irony was not lost on him.

  He sniffed the cold, tugging wind. He smelled … goodness. Not one, but a handful of shining goody-two-shoes lay in one of the tents. New blood come to the land. He had not brought these people over. Sometimes the land itself plucked away someone from another place. There seemed no logic to the land’s choices, or none that he could understand.

  Harkon ran fingers under his cloak, over a small bump in his tunic. It was a magic amulet, an amulet that allowed the wearer to switch bodies, whether the other person wished it or not. He had seen it used once, had killed the owner of the amulet, and kept it, until he found the right use for it.

  He had been forced to flee from Konrad Burn. The warrior was a superb fighter, and Harkon had feared he might be forced to harm the man in order to save himself. It wouldn’t have done to damage the very body he planned to inhabit. So he had fled, leaving his dire wolves to be slaughtered.

  A growl started low in his chest, climbing up his throat to spill in a snarl from his lips. The sound should have had fur around it, and fangs. If anyone had been near enough to hear and see, they would have known him for what he was: a wolfwere. Harkon had never been human, but once he held Konrad Burn’s body, would he be human? Would he lose his ability to shapechange?

  He did not know. So much was unknown, but the gamble was worth it. If he could be free to travel all the lands, his power would know no bounds.

  He stood contemplating his future conquests. It brought a smile to his handsome face. Killing usually did.

  Konrad Burn was part Vistani. He didn’t look it, but he was, and he could travel to any land because of it. Jonathan Ambrose’s mother had been a gypsy, too, so he was also free to travel. But Ambrose was too old. If Harkon really did become human, he wanted as many years left to him as possible.

  He had thought about taking his choice of gypsies, but something had protected them, as if the land itself kept them safe. Harkon did not understand why, but he knew that to harm them was to risk much. Kartakass was his, yet there were some things the land would not allow. Harming gypsies was one of them.

  Why had the land brought in these new people? They stank of goodness. The smell of it attracted evil. Harkon himself had been drawn to them. They had come so conveniently near to him and his wolves. Harkon wanted to feast on pure flesh, to crack the bones of saintly men and suck the marrow from them. There was nothing like fresh marrow to warm a wolfwere on a cold winter’s day. Then it had all gone wrong. Had the land planned it that way? He was never sure how conscious of its own actions the land was.

  They had killed the two that shone the brightest, extinguished that goodness forever. He had been far away in the forest when he felt what the cleric had done. It had felt like a great stabbing whiteness in his head. Even behind closed eyelids he could see t
he light. It had called to every evil thing in the land. If Harkon had not forbidden it, the creatures of Kartakass would have descended on the party like a plague. They wouldn’t have survived a mile. But his future body was traveling with these interlopers. Harkon would not risk any harm coming to Konrad Burn until he himself brought it.

  The wolfwere watched through the night, for he did not trust every evil thing that crawled or flew in Kartakass, not with so much shining goodness blazing forth. It was a candle flame to a moth, irresistible though it burned away the wings that bore the creature to it.

  Harkon had made it plain he would punish anyone who harmed them, but there were things in the land that would care more for the killing than the punishment afterward. Harkon sympathized, and once he had the body, the land could slaughter every man and woman among them.

  But for now, Harkon Lukas stood knee-deep in snow—cold, irritable, and watching over them all. The bard of Kartakass guarded the sleep of Jonathan Ambrose, mage-finder.

  Harkon, who enjoyed irony when it was at someone else’s expense, chuckled in the winter’s dark. Perhaps he would tell the mage-finder what had kept him safe in his travels, tell him, watch his face crumble in disbelief, then kill him. A low, growl trickled from his lips. Yes, that sounded like fun. A poor wolfwere was entitled to a little fun in the middle of a larger plot. A little frivolous cruelty always made him feel better.

  tHe NeXt mORNINg, tHe SKY WaS aN UNReLIeVeD white that promised snow. Beneath that sky came Elaine’s horse, wandering back into camp without the slightest hint of apology for nearly breaking the girl’s back. There was a gleam in its eyes that said it would be happy to give it another try. Elaine had hoped it had been eaten by wolves.

  Thordin spooned stew into thick pockets of bread that he had made to hold the stew. It was an invention of his from his homeland. He called them “kangaroo sandwiches.” A much younger Elaine had asked what a kangaroo was, and his description had been so funny, she hadn’t believed him. Carrying its young around in a pouch, indeed. It was a tale to enthrall travelers who could never check one’s story. But she, like all the others, dutifully called them kangaroo sandwiches.