by Tom Lloyd
‘Says the woman far from home and camped in the freezing cold of winter.’ Mihn gestured to the park where the glassy sheen of frost covered everything.
She dipped her head, acknowledging his point. ‘I merely wish to remind you that the choice to stay is yours; that you should actually make that choice, rather than be swept along by the tide of history following him. He is a white-eye and the Chosen of Nartis; Lord Isak’s presence commands those around him, so it would be easy enough to forget you still have a choice.’
He shook his head. ‘I have not forgotten, and I choose to do what I can. I’ve seen the look in the eyes of those who returned from Scree. I cannot walk away.’
‘Very well. So what help do you need of me then?’
Mihn took a deep breath. ‘Last week Isak mentioned something that Aryn Bwr said to him in Scree and it stuck in my mind: “not all steel is destined to become a sword”. I will never have the power to rival his; the Gods did not bless me in that manner, but they did bless me. Acrobatics have always come easily to me; my skills of tracking and stealth surpass the Farlan rangers I have met - these are abilities of subtlety that I had hoped your witchcraft could augment.’
‘Would you be a thief or assassin for your lord?’ Ehla asked sternly.
‘I would do what my lord asks of me,’ he replied, ‘but my vow remains. Count Vesna has already asked that of me and I will not change my mind.’
‘Good. I will not let my magic be infected by a murderer’s deeds.’ Ehla spent a while inspecting Mihn. He matched her gaze for a while, until he noticed that Fernal was watching him equally as intently. The weight of the Demi-God’s scrutiny was harder to bear, for it crawled over his skin.
‘I have watched you in your master’s company; you keep close to him, as close as a shadow—’
Fernal raised a hand to cut her off. ‘Be careful how you name him,’ he said with a warning growl, ‘for a name shapes, just as it is defined by shape.’
‘Call a man cousin to Azaer and you open him to its influence? A sensible precaution,’ she conceded. ‘We have no idea of the shadow’s power, but if I were to augment your natural abilities somehow we should not be thinking of you as a shadow.’
‘But you have an idea of what you could do?’ Mihn fought the flicker of excitement in his heart.
Ehla nodded. ‘It will take careful thought and preparation, but I have an idea. A witch’s magic is not based on power but insight, on working with what already exists. You are a quiet man in manner and action, easily overlooked and skilled enough to slip through the night unnoticed. I might be able to help a stealthy man become ghostly, to push you beyond the limits already reached by the training of your childhood.’
‘How would you do it? A charm? A spell?’
‘A charm you would wear, stitched into your clothing, perhaps; the magic would have to be woven in while you were wearing it to make it become a part of you.’ At last the witch showed some trace of emotion. ‘An invocation to a God perhaps? Cerdin, God of Thieves? Nartis? The Nighthunter might be a powerful ally in such a working.’
‘No Gods,’ Mihn said forcefully. ‘If the magic is to become part of me, I do not wish to be linked to anything greater than me.’
‘Not an invocation then,’ she said with a nod, her attention lost in the dancing flames of the fire, ‘nothing so simple. A spell that would have to be tied to your very soul if it is to be strong enough for what Lord Isak may ask of you.’
‘Also dangerous,’ Fernal added. ‘Consequences will be tied to you also; it will be a binding you would not easily escape from.’
‘But it is possible,’ Mihn insisted.
Ehla took a long sip of tea and continued to stare into the fire, thinking. ‘It is; a spell of concealment. I have used something similar many times before, but for a ghost it will have to be painted onto your skin—no, tattooed, to bind the energy within, otherwise the efficacy is only temporary. A tattoo is part of you; it will make the spell part of you, only to be removed if the skin itself is cut away.’
‘How long will you need to prepare?’
Ehla wrinkled her nose. ‘A day to find the ingredients and tools and to make the necessary preparations. I assume the Chief Steward will be able to provide everything I need. Should I tell him why?’
‘Tell him nothing, not yet.’
‘Very well. Tomorrow night might be rushing matters, so make it the following night.’
Mihn stood, drained the tea and handed the bowl back to Fernal with an appreciative grin. It didn’t stop the chill in his bones, but it had made him feel blissful. He sighed as he felt a weight lift from his shoulders. For the first time since returning to Tirah he had a purpose. ‘Thank you. I will return at dusk the day after tomorrow.’
CHAPTER 13
Legana stopped in the dark lee of a building and took a moment to clear the dizziness surging through her head. She tried not to massage her temple as she so desperately wanted to, knowing the movement would only draw attention. Instead, she pressed her fingers against the stone wall, glad of its cold, reassuring presence - until she realised she was pushing her fingertips right into the stone. Again she had to smother the urge to giggle like a little girl.
‘I’m going to enjoy being a Goddess,’ Legana said softly to the night as she ran a finger over the five indentations she’d made in the granite. ‘Oh yes, I am.’
The cool night air filled her lungs with a pleasant rush. The Lady’s necklace under her clothes felt like a warm tingle on her skin. The giddiness was less frequent now, just occasional bursts of confusing and conflicting sensations as the two sides of Legana slowly became accustomed to each other: mortal and divine; outside of time, yet requiring sleep and food like she had before.
Legana had taken a fair range of narcotics in her varied life - both in rituals at the Temple of the Lady and on assignment in dens of every vice known to man - and knew nothing could compare to this. Drunk on Godhood, Legana had almost forgotten to kill Mikiss that first day as she stumbled about their shared rooms. Fortunately, the former Menin army messenger was new to his own powers and hadn’t sensed the change in her in time. His moment of incomprehension had been enough for Legana to snatch up a sword and remove the vampire’s head.
He barely saw me move. He still looked puzzled as he fell, she remembered, grinning to herself.
Since then Legana had been careful not to forget her mortal life, even if that was now behind her. She still had a mission, and that required preparation. It had taken more than a day for her to get a grip on her body’s limitations again; now that she was connected to Fate, some of her instincts were conflicting, contrary to the requirements of a physical body. Once she had felt able again, Legana had visited Hale, the Temple District of Byora, to scout her target. She had kept clear of the Temple of the Lady, preferring to deal with matters in turn.
Legana hadn’t dared to actually sit in on one of the night-time rituals at the Temple of Alterr. Even in the smaller of the two domed chambers, the one dedicated to the lesser moon, Kasi, it was likely at least one priest would also be a mage. Under the circumstances, she couldn’t afford to take the chance that someone might notice her, mark her as unusual.
She forced herself to keep walking, to remain unremarkable. Hale was never deserted, not entirely; the rhythm of prayer and ritual demanded regular attention. Few of the temples here would perform a High Reverence, but all had their daily observances and remained open for worshippers much of the day and night. A long silk cloak covered her entire body down to her ankles, rippling gently in the evening breeze. Legana had found that she could ignore the cold of winter easily enough, but the dark green cloak remained a useful way to hide swords and clothing that might be seen as out of place in Hale.
‘Damn piety,’ Legana grumbled. ‘Too many witnesses during the day, and Alterr’s services take place at night. Let’s hope the Lady’s recovered enough to smile on me now.’
She reached a crossroad. On the right she could se
e three peaked buildings set back from the road. They were connected by slender arches, with a courtyard marked out in between them: the linked Goddesses of Love.
No doubt the priests of Triena and Kantay are tucked up in bed and trying to ignore the sounds of worship coming from their sister’s temple. Legana smiled. How much easier this would have been if Ayarl Lier, her target, were the kind to take a regular trip to Etesia’s temple, where the purple and red lanterns shone and lust was worshipped with enthusiasm. As it was, she’d watched the man from a distance as he walked in the street one day. His manner made it likely the young boy trailing at his heel was a catamite, so she’d dismissed the possibility.
The temple of the Moon Goddess was at the end of the road, past the linked temples, and it was dominated by the great dome of Alterr’s chamber on the left. A long crescent wall with a single gate blocked the way. The top of Kasi’s smaller chamber was visible on the right. In the compound behind were the half-dozen buildings that comprised the more mundane part of any temple complex: dormitories, stables and offices, for the most part.
Legana knew several of those dormitories normally given over to novices now housed penitents, the militia of choice among the priesthood, it appeared - or the piety of preference among mercenaries, depending on how one wished to look at it. Novices were usually young, and bound to the temple for a certain number of years, while penitents tended to be significantly older. Penitents didn’t need a formal commitment before an altar, just a robe and a tattoo on their index fingers. Before they had served the agreed period of penitence, they were tied only loosely to the temple; experience showed that many men just couldn’t adapt to the rigours demanded by temple life.
She ducked through the low gate, one hand ensuring her hood still covered her copper-tinted hair, and stopped dead. A strange sensation slithered down her spine, quite unlike anything she had ever felt before. Like a faint scent on the breeze there was something unexpected within the compound. Slowly she turned to the left, where Alterr’s chamber stood, a smooth-sided half-dome forty yards in diameter, painted a stark white that glowed very faintly in the moonlight.
The door was shut and a pair of penitents were on guard outside. She checked the rest of the courtyard: there were no other obvious guards, but there were men loitering. Legana frowned. As inexperienced in magic as she was, something told her this wasn’t a simple spell. She could feel raw energy in her veins, part of the very make-up of her Godhood, but what she felt now touched her even deeper inside.
‘So what’s going on in there?’ she wondered aloud. Without really intending to, she took a few paces towards the chamber. The penitents stiffened, hands reaching for the spears leaning casually in the dark recesses on either side of the chamber door. They were of a similar height to her, and they looked like they both had a fair amount to be penitent about, but she reckoned even as a mere mortal she’d have been able to take them both - men always underestimated a pretty face.
‘Temple’s closed for a private service,’ one of the guards called.
Legana hardly heard him, so intent was she on the curious prickle on her skin. The sensation got no stronger as she neared the chamber and she came to an abrupt stop, suddenly realising that it was not emanating from the building at all.
‘That’s curious,’ she said quietly to herself. Just looking at the chamber had caused something to resonate inside her, like the vibration of a plucked string.
‘What did you say?’ the guard asked, taking a step towards her. He held his spear loosely, at the ready.
‘Could it be luck?’ she wondered, not paying the penitent any attention at all. At the back of her mind, realisation began to flower.
The penitent glanced at his comrade. ‘You understandin’ her ?’
‘Nope. Sounds like she’s talking Farlan. Looks Farlan too.’
Legana frowned at the two men for a moment before realising she hadn’t understood the actual words coming out of their mouths, but the meaning instead. Another divine gift, I assume. She thought for a moment and the local dialect came easily enough to her tongue.
‘Take a step back and keep quiet. There’s something bad going on in the temple.’ I’m touched by the Goddess of Luck, so I think it’s safe to assume my sense of timing is going to be, ah, divine, from now on.
The first penitent opened his mouth to argue, but the words died unsaid as Legana held a sword-tip to his throat, moving in the blink of an eye. A faint croak escaped his comrade’s lips, but they were too astonished for anything more. They had realised no normal woman could have moved so quickly.
‘I need to be in that temple right now, so take a step back,’ she repeated softly, ‘and get the fuck out of my way, or you’ll find your balls shoved down your throat.’
The penitents jerked back as if they were on strings. Legana lowered her sword and nodded at the door.
‘Shut it behind me, please.’ She stepped through the doorway without pausing to look inside first. The door was slammed shut after her. The chamber was dark, sparsely lit by candles set on an iron chandelier hanging from the roof. The crescent pews were set in circular tiers, descending from above head-height at the back to knee-high around the altar. The fretwork backs of the pews and roof-beams cast long shadows, but they didn’t obscure the scene.
Legana slid between two pews and peered at the altar.
There were well-dressed people kneeling, their heads bowed as though in prayer. No one showed any sign of having heard her entrance. A child lay supine on the altar, twitching feebly, and blood dripped over the edges. The Lady’s first thought was of a grand entrance, but Legana preferred to follow her own instinct, of caution.
A man’s voice echoed out from the darkness. ‘You shouldn’t have ignored the guards. That really was a mistake.’
Legana began to wind her way down between the rows towards the altar, scanning the room as she did so. Most of the space was occupied by the pews, but she quickly became aware of movement that mimicked her own, and caught sight of flashes of a dark figure walking in the shadows. She couldn’t place the accent - it was unlike any she’d heard before, and it sounded ancient in form. That wasn’t good, old meant dangerous - and he didn’t sound even apprehensive.
But they always underestimate a woman, Legana thought grimly to herself, so let’s make him walk into trouble.
‘Sorry to ruin your fun,’ she called out, flicking the clasp of her cloak open and letting it fall behind her. The pews were low enough now for her to vault up onto a seat with no obvious effort.
Looking down at the altar she saw there were markings on the ground, symbols written in chalk all the way around, linked by a sloppily drawn circle. They meant nothing to her, but the sight of her target, High Priest Lier, dead on the ground with his chest torn to ribbons gave her a clear idea of the intention. It was set up to look like a summoning gone wrong. The rich folk surrounding the altar had to be under some enchantment, kept alive until it was time for them to be slaughtered, providing the appropriate sound effects.
‘You’ve ruined nothing,’ said the man, stepping out from a shadow opposite her. He was hairless, gaunt and albino-white, and clad in black scale-armour of a style she didn’t recognise. It was the fat broadsword in his hand, its black surface prickled with elusive light like faint stars, that made her suddenly nervous. He leapt up onto a pew himself, cocked his head to one side and smiled like a lizard at her. ‘My, what pretty hair you have.’
Legana took a step down onto the pew in front. ‘You’re taking enough of a risk already, aren’t you?’ she asked softly. ‘Defiling Alterr’s temple and killing her high priest is dangerous enough. Do you really want to risk bringing the Lady into things too?’
His smile became a smirk. ‘I don’t fear your mistress,’ he replied, reaching out towards her with his empty hand.
Legana recoiled as she felt his cold fingers close around her neck. A surge of power welled up from inside her in reaction and she felt a crackle of energy over he
r entire body as the warring forces strained against each other. In the next instant, it was gone.
‘Strange,’ he said, looking puzzled but still far from worried. ‘Aren’t you the curiosity?’
Legana didn’t bother to reply. She kicked off from the pew and leapt through the air towards him, twin swords held out wide. As she flashed across the chamber, she felt the strength of a Goddess fill her—
Still a dozen feet from the murderer, she smashed into an invisible barrier, then those hands were about her throat again, only this time it was like a vice crushing down on every part of her body at once. She howled in pain as stars burst before her eyes. The swords fell from her grip as fire lanced through her veins.
‘Overconfident, pretty one,’ the stranger snarled. With a twitch of the hand he threw her across the room and she smashed into the pews. She found herself gasping for air while colours blurred in her vision. Again she felt power suffuse her and she found herself standing upright.
She dived to one side instinctively as a crash came from where she’d been standing a moment before. She kept moving, thoughts racing through her mind, too fast to be coherent. She needed her weapons back, and she needed to move fast. It felt like the Land around her slowed as she drew on her divine half. As she raced through the pews, she pictured her swords in her mind, and they lifted themselves from the ground and began to move towards her.
But before she could get close enough to grasp them, something smashed into her side, throwing her off her feet again. This time she hit the ground shoulder-first and rolled into position to kick off the pew ahead of her. She flipped up through the air, and as she landed she felt her swords slap against her palms. The Land appeared to hesitate again as she drove towards her attacker. He brought his sword up to meet hers, barely quick enough to parry her flurry of blows, but as they locked weapons and she kicked forward into his gut, Legana felt herself thrown backwards by some other force.
