Looking at her stubborn expression, he lost all desire to argue. It was clear she knew she wasn't going to live much longer.
Hardly hesitating, he replied in unexpected confession, "I do not wish to be free of you."
His own voice was tight with the emotion he was barely managing to contain. I need you more than you know.
A weak smile turned up her mouth. All her strength was ebbing away, and she lay gasping. "Really?"
Their eyes locked, and her pain-filled gaze said she loved him with a firm and convinced heart. She trusted him not to let her down.
He nodded.
"I will take you back," he promised, sliding his arms under Julienne's body and hefting her half-lifeless weight. "And you will not die. I swear it."
Chapter Fifteen
Xavier descended into the bowels of the earth. As he moved with concentrated effort, his leaden steps and the brush of his robes stirred dust long undisturbed. Borne out of an unfathomable depth, a rush of chill air emanated up from the shaft that was part of an incredible labyrinth honeycombing the land beneath his sanctuary.
His vision was no longer blurred, and he could see clearly. Duk-cho had done his work with competence. Over his empty right eye he wore a black patch. Swollen and twisted by the mass of stitches that ran from the bridge of his nose to his temple, his flabby cheek was contorted, thick lips set in a permanent grimace.
Ahead of him, carrying a torch to light their way, Ilya moved like a wraith. Beside him, Megwyn carried the mortal child she'd taken a day ago. Clinging to her neck, the little girl whimpered, low, choking sobs of confusion and fright. She hushed the child, murmuring words of comfort.
"Be silent, child." She smiled tenderly and gave the little girl's hollow cheek a quick peck. "You'll be fine, little one. Soon the Dragon will reach down and kiss you. She's perfect…so beautiful." Her voice echoed and re-echoed in the tunnel.
He nodded. "You've chosen well."
It has been a long time since I came here, he thought. Not since Nisidia's death.
Unbidden, memories stole into his brain and began to play across the screen of his skull. Deep, threatening thunder started to roll through his head like thousands of massed voices, voices that merged into a single shrill scream. He flinched at the reverberating recollections, which would have shaken the ground out from under the feet of a weaker man.
He closed his single eye, briefly blanketing his mind in welcome darkness. Time slid back to the old days, and her image sprang up. The beginning and the end began to swirl, a tide pool of emotion--love and hate, regret and guilt. All revolved around her.
Nisidia was one of thirteen young women chosen every third season from the teiytt, the second caste of worshippers, for their physical perfection, beauty and some special talent that made them worthy to serve as handmaidens to the male acolytes who attended the inner circle of the Arch-priest. The girls were taken young, as early as nine, before they began to reach puberty. They were trained for a single purpose: to bear the children of the priests. As a group, they were raised exclusively within a closed circle; they were extensively educated and prepared for their roles, to submit body, mind, emotion and spirit. At the end of their initiatory training, each female was given to her chosen mate.
It was the right of the Arch-priest to choose one of the women for his own. Barely twenty when she came into her full beauty, Nisidia was a sight to behold, a woman the gods had truly blessed. Her skin was dusky, a lovely shade of mocha cut with cream, almond eyes a rich shade of mahogany, lips the color of sun-ripened cherries. By no means a small woman, she was willowy and curvy, breasts and hips full and firm. A goddess of sexual delight, her brown eyes never failed to spark with desire over a mouth offering a dazzling smile. She was light itself, carrying a special inner glow creation granted only to her. He'd chosen this young woman to become his wife, someday to be the mother of his son.
It was not to be.
Fate happened, came the damning accusation. Morgan happened.
A bitter grimace crossed his lips. Without intending to he clenched his fist, a glove of unfeeling leather, not living skin. The trial the Dragon had set for him was difficult. Though he did not want to think of those times, he could not chase images from the time before the dark war from his head. Unlike others, who tried to bury hurt, disappointment or anger, he thrived on nurturing his memories. Like thousands of snakes in a box, he kept them alive, feeding them with hatred and poking the writhing mass often to make sure they were thriving. To forget would be his greatest blasphemy.
Many things have changed since Morgan was a favored guest within these walls. Was there anything I could have done differently to alter the course of tragedy? If only I had not welcomed him so openly. But he was different from the others…seeking not power, but answers.
A silent presence, Morgan had watched and listened. There was no relaxation behind the tightly wound ticking time bomb that comprised the assassin's whole personality. Unpredictable, he possessed an ill temper and the deadly knowledge to back it up. Trouble brewed in the icy glare of his black eyes and the slight smile teasing the corner of his lips. Many men died by the blade he carried.
Women were victims of another kind, drawn like moths to the smoldering sexuality he handled with the ease of a master. Sex with him was rough, bruising and all-devouring. There was no love in the act, only conquest and abandonment. More than one spurned woman tried to put a knife in his back.
Witness to the fear the assassin inspired as he came into his own legacy as the thirteenth member of the witches' council, Nisidia schemed to beguile Morgan into loving her even as her husband suffered a crushing defeat. If she succeeded, Morgan's status would also be hers.
Her game of seduction was elaborate, and there was little Xavier could do to stop her. Morgan had responded to her overtures, perhaps out of boredom or the satisfaction of taking the woman of the man he had vanquished. The nights she spent with him were torrid. But there was no love. Cold-hearted, Morgan let Nisidia weave her intrigue until he grew tired of her body and deserted her.
She returned a sadder woman.
And I took her back, gladly. An outcast, he had nevertheless retained a semblance of his former position, and he had plunged himself into study to further his knowledge as he strove to regain his old place. He would find, in more ways than one, that Nisidia held a possible key. She had done her work well, weaving her fertility spells most effectively.
In her womb, she carried Morgan's seed; and in her mind, she harbored thoughts of his death. Though unhappy with her pregnancy, she was pleased about her child, who would be a successor through blood to the legacy Morgan claimed. We agreed I would raise the child, mentor its growth into the occult.
Though they tried to conceal the fact, Morgan somehow learned of Nisidia's pregnancy, divining the child was his. Furious, he confronted her. The quarrel between them was bitter. Morgan would take her back, he said, for his legacy was a powerful one; and he could provide all she desired. But it was his wish their child be raised as a mortal, away from the influences of Sclyd, unknowing of its supernatural heritage.
Nisidia had laughingly refused him. She did not love him, she said, had only used him to sire the child she carried. He could hardly deny his offspring recognition and acknowledgement.
Her words were her death.
Morgan strangled her.
I discovered them in time to see her body fall. It was an ugly day when I saw into his mind, learned of the pain that made him fear for his sanity, a curse he would grant no child of his.
Xavier's gloved hand rose to his face, stopping just short of touching the black patch covering the empty socket. He felt the scorching bitter taste of hatred in his mouth. That glimpse cost me the eye. In that moment, I knew him for what he was.
Pulling himself out of his reminiscence, he followed Ilya into a dank chamber. Using her torch, she lit others throughout, bringing illumination to this place where only the darkest of magic could be worked. A
bove their heads, the ceiling was furred with the luminescent green lichen. The walls, embellished with ancient and sacred symbols, had swollen and cracked from the constant damp. As Ilya lit the torches, the symbols seemed to dance, a mystery to those who did not understand the secrets of ritual conjuration.
A gray stone altar sat between two wrought iron braziers, but the altar was not in the center of the chamber. That place was reserved for the gigantic wheel. Carved entirely of white ash, it balanced on three legs that came together around a pillar that supported the wheel and allowed it to be spun clockwise or counter-clockwise. Ouroborous, the image of the Dragon feeding on its own tail, was carved in three dimensions and set as a centerpiece, a symbol of the cyclic nature of the universe.
Xavier smiled. The grayness seemed to coil around him, making him a living part of its dank depths. The time of sacrifice had arrived.
Time has not been kind to me, but tonight shall change that. If the Dragon were generous, he would have the answer to his question of where the tomb of Erabris was to be found.
"We must begin the ritual."
Bidding Megwyn to stay behind, he walked to the altar alone. He began his ritual by building a circle of protective fire. Directing his hand toward the first brazier, he concentrated all his inner energies and said, "Here do I call the first Light of the Spirit. May it reach out across the barriers from this world to the next. May I make contact with that World of Spirit into which we will eventually enter."
A strong, steady flame burst into glorious life.
He set his hand toward the second brazier. "Here do I call the second Light of Spirit. May this light also reach out across the barriers from this world to the next. May I make contact with that World of Spirit and help spread the light, illuminating the passageway between our worlds."
Earlier, Ilya had prepared the necessary items, covering the stone with virgin white silk and laying out the implements of ritual: incense specially powdered and mixed, rosewood sticks, fragrant oil in an etched silver bowl and, lastly, a ceremonial sickle. At its haft was the head of a dragon, its ruby-encrusted eyes animated, seemingly lit with a glow that emanated not from the outside but from within.
Xavier's essential tools had been arranged in four directions on the altar. He used the oil to anoint himself, daubing it on his forehead, cheeks and at each pulse point of his wrists. He touched each object, concentrating on the purpose of the ritual, and spoke the litanies of consecration.
"I consecrate thee with the powers of the wind and the air, the fire and the water through the might of Ouroborous for the purpose of divination, that it may strengthen me in my search."
Next, he picked up a slim stick of rosewood, using it to light a censer of incense. A sensual, cloying mix of black musk and rich brown sandalwood filled the air. Breathing deeply, he lifted up the burner and swung it, censing the area around the altar, while rhythmically repeating the word "Merge," building up his circle of protection.
Satisfied that he was safe from any who would cast against him, he turned to Megwyn. "Bring her here."
Stepping into the sacred circle, Megywn laid the child on the etched stone surface. His one-sided stare swept her form. He did not need two good eyes to see how she had changed.
Robed in white, her cowl lay across her shoulders. Her blond hair hung in lank shreds. Her face was wrinkled, jowls sagging. Dark circles ringed her eyes, the irises unnaturally dilated, twin black moons remote and empty as deep space. The hand she stroked the child with was that of an aged crone.
The time of burnout is upon her, he noted. Morgan decays in mind; she decays in body. He knew the process could be arrested though the absorption of a body's energy, trading the life forces of youth for the infirmities of old age. As soon as she chose a victim, Megwyn would restore herself. It was her price, part of what she was.
He turned his scrutiny to the child. The little girl had no strength to struggle, instead peering out through dazed eyes, too drugged to be curious about her surroundings. In her still-immature mind, she could not fathom the coming danger.
A beautiful child. Her heart and mind are pure. She will be perfect. The Dragon will be pleased.
Dipping his fingers into the virgin oil, he stroked the little girl's pale forehead and cheeks with quick, cutting moves. He must harden his heart, think not of the child, her innocence. Such a soul was, untouched by shame, by sin. He could not help but recall the last time he stood before this altar.
It was the night Nisidia died.
Though badly wounded himself, one eye gouged from his head, he remembered perfectly the expression on her beautiful face. She looked puzzled, as if she were confused that death should touch her. He remembered kissing her pale lips, and one of his hands found hers. He held it for the longest time. Her coming motherhood was readily apparent through her light robes.
Nisidia had stirred, then coughed, her body arching painfully as oxygen filled her scorched lungs. At the last moment, Morgan had relented--not even he was cold-blooded enough to murder a woman with child.
But her survival was not a part of Xavier's plan. Acting with quiet and deadly earnest, he'd instead taken the path of revenge, slitting her throat and opening her belly to lift the child of adultery from her womb.
Faithless whore. His hatred ran in a torrent of self-righteous rage. She betrayed me. It was only right she paid with her life. Nisidia was the way to bring Morgan down, and I made the decision to let her go. She deserved to die, as surely as he deserved to suffer for taking her from me.
Letting the anger of that old time drive him, he reached for the carefully positioned sickle. But his would not be the hand that struck the deathblow. To do so would sully him, cost him the concentration of energies he was building. Another must take the life of the child, bear the burden of her murder.
"Take it!" he commanded. "Prove your worth."
For centuries, Xavier had been trying to cheat the Dragon. But Ouroborous was wily, wise to the ways of deceit. Since the beginning of time the Dragon demanded sacrifices of his disciples, judging their worth by how far they were willing to go. For his offering he would be rewarded.
"My will is to serve." Megwyn's slim fingers curled around the handle. She lifted the blade with great reverence. Her eyes flickered briefly to the child. Her mouth moved a little as she struggled to conceal her delight when she ran her finger along the edge, testing its sharpness. There was a cruel set to her jaw, her lips pressing into a thin, straight line. If she had any qualms about killing a child in cold blood, she said nothing and hesitated not at all.
"Thy will be done," Ilya chanted from behind.
Using both hands, Megwyn brought the edge down across the little girl's exposed throat, slicing hard, deep. Body arching, only a single smothered whimper escaped the child before her life was snuffed out. Neatly decapitated. The deed had been done with ease and swiftness, without remorse or regret.
In the damning light, Megwyn's shadow danced on the wall behind her. In one hand she held the sickle, silver blade still warm with the child's blood. In the other dangled the child's head. Filmy eyes stared off into dark oblivion; lips frozen in a scream.
"Bring the head before the blood cools," Xavier ordered, "and the energies begin to fade."
Crossing to the Wheel of the Work, Megwyn positioned the child's head upon its surface. She drew quickly away, covering her head with her hood and crossing her hands into the wide sleeves of her robe until not a bit of skin could be seen.
Ilya, watching with stiff disapproval, stood motionless. Her eyes were disturbed, doubtful, darkening with troubled shadows. It was clear she hated and distrusted such dabblings, but she could say nothing lest she become the next victim. Full of dread and conflict, she was tempted to speak out; but she held her tongue, and the impulse died unborn. Instead, she drew down her shoulders and lowered her head, covering it with her cowl. It was forbidden for them to witness the coming rite, lest the demon attempt to escape and possess one of the living bodies.
"Her eyes shall see what we cannot," Xavier intoned. "Here do I build Truth, for these lips shall give revelation."
Again, he raised the censer and let its scented smoke encompass the entire area around the wheel while chanting.
"Merge with thy spirit, charge thyself with energy. Reach out across the barriers from this world to the next. May the light from my sacrifice blend and grow, dispelling all darkness and lighting the way that my Spirit Guide may come to me and speak with me."
With a practice born of centuries, he took up a heavy wooden mallet in his left hand. In the other, now unnaturally strong, he held a huge iron nail. The leather of the glove gave him a grip tighter than any human one. Concentrating, his held his hand over the symbol of the demon he wished to call: Zaal, spirit of the lost and hidden.
Much care had to be taken when dealing with demons summoned from the netherworld. A demon that is not controlled could easily get out of hand, turning on its summoner. A more intelligent demon might only pretend to be controlled, betraying the caster of the spell by delivering false prophecies, twisting the spirit of the task while adhering to the strictures of the ritual.
Silence so thick it could be sliced with a cleaver filled the murky cavern. The perspiration on his brow turned to icy droplets. Then the sound of the mallet resounding on the iron nail shattered the quiet of the unstable atmosphere. With the movements of a man in great anticipation, he began the sequence of his casting, a three-fold rotation based on sublimation, imbibing and coagulation. The bloody wheel began to turn counter-clockwise.
Xavier chanted the words of his spell, arousing a stirring and a quickening that existed in neither place nor moment but encompassed everything as defiant energies were harnessed then focused for a single purpose, that of the foulest sorcery.
"As the wheel begins to turn, the power it generates is nothing but Truth. In all that transpires between this world and the next, through the mouth of this innocent there is truth in all communications that come to me. At this most hallowed time, we are as one."
Descent of Demons Page 16
