“I’m honored,” Piercy said, and made a polite bow. His mind was racing, inventing plans and discarding them rapidly. Everything he’d come up with involved stopping Hodestis from achieving his goal. He hadn’t really thought about what they’d do if he succeeded. What he needed was five minutes’ mirror conversation with Evon, but he was fairly certain that would incense the Witch, and they needed her to stay calm and not unleash destruction. Piercy had never seen frigo reduce a man to a bag of crushed bones and jellied organs before; he tried not to imagine what she might do with forva. Set the snow on fire, no doubt.
“Dalessa,” he began, then shut his mouth as anger creased her brow and she brought both hands up in preparation for casting a spell.
“How dare you call me that?” she said. “I don’t even know you.”
“My apologies.” Piercy reasoned that reminding her she’d given him the freedom of her name seconds before would be pointless. “My name is Piercy Faranter, and my companions are Ayane Sethemba and Sadiki Dolobeka. We have been following the man who…who brought you to this place.”
“Oh,” the Witch said, and her face cleared. “You should call me Dalessa. It’s so much friendlier, don’t you think?”
“Indeed.” Piercy’s mind went blank. What exactly did they have to do? Stop the Witch from wreaking havoc on Dalanine. But he had no idea what kind of havoc she might wreak and therefore no idea how to stop her. Think. How do you stop a homicidal madwoman?
“You have very powerful magic,” Ayane said, startling him. He wished he could grab her and put her someplace away from the Witch’s mad gaze. “You must have been very insulted by this magician using his inadequate spells on you.”
“He was careless. He acted as if he knew me,” the Witch said. “I don’t like it when people presume.”
“I agree,” said Ayane, taking a few steps forward and resting her hand on the edge of the hut’s roof. “We traveled with him for a time and sometimes we had to take measures to keep him from using his magic on us, didn’t we, Piercy?”
He glanced over at her, the merest flicker of a glance because he was afraid to take his eyes off the Witch, and she gave him a look he interpreted easily as You distract her, and I’ll kill her. He ground his back teeth together. Trust Ayane to take the dangerous part.
“What are you saying?” Dolobeka burst out. “I will not be mocked by you and your foreign tongue.”
“I don’t know that language,” the Witch said, bringing her hands up again. “Tell him to stop.”
“Lord Dolobeka, that woman is the Witch and she will kill you if you say another word,” Piercy said quickly in Santerran. “When I move, move with me.”
“And now you’re doing it,” the Witch said. She snapped her fingers. “Forva.”
The hut went up in flames, making Ayane cry out and snatch her fingers away from the roof. Piercy grabbed her around the waist and pulled her away from the fire, nearly running into Dolobeka, who didn’t move as quickly. “We’re sorry!” Piercy shouted. “It was rude of us to speak a language you are not conversant with.”
“That’s all right, I know what you said,” the Witch said, lowering her hands. The hut continued to burn, all but the warped pine door, which smoldered at the edges. “He can be afraid of me. It won’t change anything, but it might make him happy.”
Piercy glanced at Dolobeka, who was glaring at the Witch in total disregard for his own safety. “That is most gracious of you,” he said. “May I ask what you intend to do?”
The Witch looked around, at the burning hut and up at the leafless trees surrounding the clearing with their snowy robes. “I failed the first time, you know. When you touch the face of magic, mostly it tries to bite your finger off. But I know what I did wrong and I’m going to do it right this time.”
She smiled, once again friendly and confiding. “It’s cheating to use an existing place of power, but this one is so…ripe. You can feel it, can’t you? Touched by a god. And there’s the door, even.” She pointed at the sheet of pine, which now stood unsupported in the burning timbers of the hut. “I didn’t like death. It went on for so long, and it hurt the whole time. I think Cath has a lot to answer for.”
“Ah…” Piercy took a few steps forward and saw Ayane do the same, sidling off to the right. “It’s not really my place to question a God’s motives or intents.”
“No, it isn’t. You’re just a thing, even if you are handsome. But I—” The Witch’s smile turned cruel and frightening. “I am a God myself. You know me by my works, don’t you? And I will open the door to the Underworld and release those tormented spirits, drag Cath out of his place and make him answer for what he does to us. You can watch if you want. I like you.”
“Thank you, Da—my lady, you’re very kind,” Piercy said. Ayane was nearly on the opposite side of the clearing from him, moving forward now with her knife in hand. “May I ask where those poor, suffering spirits will go?”
“Back into the world, of course.” She seemed taken aback by the question. “I know I explained it to you. You weren’t paying attention.”
“I beg your pardon. My mother always despaired of me in that respect. I appreciate your generosity in explaining again.”
Confusion briefly wrinkled her forehead. “I don’t remember promising that. I don’t think you should worry. I’ll make sure none of them try to take your body.”
“Thank you.” He couldn’t look at Ayane anymore; she was so close the Witch would clearly see his attention diverted from her. “It all sounds very complicated.”
“It would. Now, stay there. Sepera sustelli.” She gestured, and Ayane flew straight up twenty feet into the air, thrashing her arms and legs to balance herself. Piercy cursed and flung himself at the Witch, only to grunt with surprise as he found himself dangling upside-down, his coat flopping down over his chest. “I told you to stay there,” the Witch continued.
“Release her,” Piercy shouted.
“No, I don’t think so.” Ayane drifted downward until she was level with the Witch’s face. “I’ve never seen anyone who looks like her before. Is she dark because the sun burned her?”
“I will slit your throat, Witch,” Ayane snarled. “You can only hold me so long and then you will be mine.”
“Ayane,” Piercy said in Santerran, “do not taunt her.”
“She hasn’t done anything to Lord Dolobeka, and it’s my turn to distract her. Remember Hodestis, when he captured her? You fear my knife, Witch?” she added in Dalanese.
Piercy groaned inwardly and tested the limits of the Witch’s spell. He could move his limbs enough to make headway against it, and he began swimming through the air, praying this wasn’t the stupidest plan either of them had ever come up with. Dolobeka was now shifting forward. He was within the Witch’s line of sight, he would have to circle well to one side, and if he wasn’t in time….
Piercy tried to move more quickly. It felt like trying to enter Hodestis’s portal, pushing hard against air that shifted around him. On a whim, he reached down to take hold of the hilt and draw the God’s sword. It didn’t instantly release him, but the speed of his progress increased. It probably wouldn’t matter, since the Witch could clearly see him, but he couldn’t leave Ayane to face her alone.
“You’re speaking that language again,” the Witch said, and Ayane let out a cry as she shot backwards into the trees with a thump, then flew back to hover near the Witch as if attached to a tether. Piercy shouted, and the Witch turned her attention to him. “You care about her,” she said. “She’s prettier than this body. I don’t know what the small man was thinking to give this one to me. It’s too small. I don’t like it.” She shook Ayane rapidly until she cried out again and the knife fell from her fingers.
“Leave her alone!” Piercy shouted. The Witch bent to pick up the knife, ducking Ayane’s fist. Of course Ayane wasn’t afraid. Dolobeka was almost at the far side of the hut and had his sword drawn; he wasn’t very quiet, but the Witch didn’t seem to no
tice.
“I’m not sure I like the skin, but it will make me unusual,” the Witch said, and gestured. Ayane’s arms and legs went rigid, as if she were bound, and she drifted forward until the Witch could take her by the throat. Piercy was close enough now he could tell she wasn’t supporting Ayane’s weight, just resting her hand on the base of her neck, where her shirt fell open. “She’s definitely an improvement over this old sack. Vertiri. Desini madi.”
Ayane’s eyes opened wide and she let out an explosive breath, as if the Witch had punched her in the chest. She looked at Piercy, then went limp and dropped to the ground to lie in an awkward tumble of limbs, unmoving. Dead.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Piercy couldn’t breathe. “Ayane,” he said, “get up. Stand up, Ayane.” She had to hear him. She couldn’t be dead. Her body looked so empty, her eyes staring sightlessly at the sky. “Ayane!”
“It’s all right for you to call me Dalessa,” the Witch said. She pushed the heavy cloak back over her shoulders and held Ayane’s knife pressed point-first against her chest, over her heart. “She should be happy to let me use her body. Besides, she won’t be in the Underworld long.”
“No!” Piercy screamed. “Leave her alone! Bring her back!”
The Witch looked at him, startled. “I can’t do that,” she said. “Now, be patient, this won’t take long. I’ll kill this body and take hers before it starts to rot.”
Piercy fought the grip, trying desperately to move the sword, move his arms or legs, anything to reach the Witch and tear her apart. He couldn’t do anything. Ayane was dead and he’d failed her. Dolobeka was too far away. And even if he were close enough, killing the Witch would only let her take Ayane’s body, and then—
The Witch smiled sweetly at him, then drove the knife home. She made no noise, showed no sign of pain, just curled in on the blade. Piercy found himself free of sepera sustelli. He dropped a few feet to the ground and plunged forward, wanting only to tear the woman apart, find some way of stopping her.
He was three feet away when the Witch straightened and gestured again, stopping him in mid-stride. There was no blood on her chest, and she looked puzzled. “That should have hurt,” she said. “This body is broken. I want another.” She dropped the knife on the ground, next to Ayane’s body.
“You don’t deserve anything but to return to the Underworld,” Piercy said. “Release me and I will be happy to oblige you.”
To his surprise, the pressure around his body disappeared. The Witch turned away from him, apparently not caring about the God’s sword. “You must be the only two of your kind,” she said to Dolobeka. “When I have my real body, you and I will have children. I think it’s fitting.”
“You will leave Lady Sethemba’s body alone!” Dolobeka shouted, and rushed at the Witch. Piercy shouted a warning to him, but the Witch merely picked him up and threw him at the trees. He bounced once, then landed at the base of a gnarled oak and lay still.
“Why is this body broken?” the Witch shouted at Piercy, taking several angry steps until she was inches from him. Piercy brought the sword up—and stopped. A thin line of black ran around the base of her neck, black that even in the dim light stood out starkly against the Lady High Chamberlain’s pale skin. The Witch was still wearing the leash.
Kerensa had said it bound spirits to the physical world, even to the point of protecting them from death, which meant Ayane’s knife could have no effect on her. Hodestis had given the madwoman immortality, and she didn’t realize it. Piercy realized he was holding his breath and let it out. He had to get the leash away from the Witch and put it on Ayane, and then they could kill the Witch. And he had to do it without letting her know what she had.
“You must have chosen the wrong body. If you hadn’t killed Ayane, this wouldn’t have happened,” he said, taking a step forward. Could he claim the leash inhibited her power? No, she would know if her magic was weaker than normal. He could try to break it, but that seemed unlikely, given that it belonged to a God.
The Witch blinked at him. “That doesn’t make any sense,” she said. “Why are you threatening me? I told you I would marry you, so it doesn’t seem right for you to try to kill me.”
“I thank you for your kind offer, but I believe I would rather marry a viper. I rate my chances of surviving my wedding night considerably higher with that partner.” He’d just have to find a convincing lie about it. “I believe—”
The Witch’s face contorted in a snarl. “You don’t deserve to marry me,” she said, and threw up a hand in his face. “Frigo.”
Piercy heard a terrible cracking noise, as if a thousand dry branches all snapped at once. Then there was pain, so much pain—the pain of bones breaking, of splinters jabbing his organs, the weight of his flesh unsupported by a skeleton. He collapsed, unable even to scream, trying to support the weight of the sword that fell atop him. He blinked up at the Witch once, then closed his eyes and let death claim him.
He lay on a soft, prickly surface and keened in agony as his bones knit back together. His skull reshaped itself with a grinding sound that made his teeth ache, his fingers re-formed with a series of pops, and when the long bones of his thighs were once again solid, he tried to rise and failed. He lay still and breathed deeply, inhaling fresh air scented with the coolness of water, and let his mind go blank. Blue sky high above was dotted with white clouds like lost lambs scooting across the expanse looking for their mothers. It was a slightly mad comparison, but he was having trouble remembering why he was in this place.
The Witch. Frigo. I am dead.
Ayane is dead.
He rolled over, got on his hands and knees, and let his head hang because he was still too weak to lift it. Ayane’s face came to mind, not her vibrant smile and luminous eyes, but that stunned, uncomprehending look just before she died. He was too weary even to weep for her. I ought to save my pity for myself, he thought, and pushed himself to his feet.
The sword lay a short distance from him, or, rather, the hilt of the God’s sword; all that remained of the blade was a couple of metal splinters like cobblers’ needles, as if the blade had shattered like ice. On a whim, he picked at the leather binding until it came apart and unraveled in a long spiral to land on the ground. The metal of the grip was black like the leash and had the same warm/cold feeling. Piercy tugged on the pommel, which was a silver sphere carved with designs too worn to make out, but it wouldn’t come off. He bent to pick up the leather strap and tucked it into his pocket. It seemed wrong to leave any trace of himself here, even if there was no one around to see it.
This didn’t look like the Underworld. Kerensa’s story told of passages thronged with spirits who could lead a living person astray. This place was open to the sky, and Piercy could see no one but himself anywhere. Bright sunlight reflected rainbow shards off the surface of a nearby lake. In the distance, a waterfall cascaded down the face of a black cliff where a channel had been carved out over centuries. It made a sound like wind blowing through a hundred tree tops where it struck the lake.
Fields of green grass dotted with wildflowers extended in every direction, turning into trees where the lake and waterfall met. At the edge of his vision, tiny smudges of mountains lay waiting to be discovered by some explorer. Real sky, real grass, real sun warming his head because he’d lost his hat somewhere. This couldn’t be the Underworld…or was this all some elaborate illusion?
He continued toward the lake for lack of anything better to focus on; the mountains were impossibly far away. When he reached the shore he saw, on the opposite side of the lake, a man dressed in frock coat and trousers, wearing a hat and carrying a walking stick. He seemed to be looking at the lake and not at Piercy, but when Piercy walked in his direction, he approached, letting the stick swing gracefully by his side. Piercy quickened his step. Finally, someone who could explain to him what had happened.
The man was dressed fashionably in a waistcoat exactly like Piercy’s favorite and a cravat tied the way Pier
cy usually did. Then he tipped his hat, and Piercy stopped in astonishment: the man was him, down to the haircut and the scar at the corner of his mouth from an incautious moment in an illegal duel. “Good morning, Piercy,” the man said, and Piercy was stunned again, because it wasn’t his voice, it was a mellow tenor that rang through his bones and made him long to hear it again. The voice of a God.
“Good morning…my Lord Cath,” he stammered. “You look….”
Cath smiled at him with some amusement. “You wouldn’t be able to bear seeing my true form,” he said. “Yours was far more accessible.”
“It’s…I admit it is unnerving.”
“Really? What about this one?” Cath’s features blurred, swam like cream in coffee, and settled into a bland Santerran face Piercy couldn’t remember ever seeing before.
“Thank you, my Lord, I appreciate your consideration.”
Cath threw back his head and laughed, a hearty, infectious sound that left Piercy even more confused. “Piercy Faranter, you are by far the most well-bred man I’ve ever known, and that’s saying quite a lot. Come, sit with me. We have much to talk about.”
He waved his hand toward two overstuffed armchairs Piercy was certain had not been there two seconds before. Piercy waited for Cath to sit, then took the other chair, perching on it awkwardly. Talk with a God. Nothing in his life had prepared him for that.
“I know what your first question is,” Cath said.
“Then tell me. Where is Ayane?”
“Making her journey through the Underworld to the Death-Lands. Just as all souls must.”
“She shouldn’t have died.”
“That’s the case for many of my children. I have no control over when and how you end your lives, just that you receive justice. I’m sorry.”
“But—”
“That’s all I can tell you, Piercy. Now, to answer your second question, no, you’re not dead,” he said, leaning back and crossing his legs at the ankles. “The sword saw to that.”
The God-Touched Man Page 29
