"What do you mean?" said Mazael.
But the black temple, Cythraul Urdvul, dissolved into swirling nothingness.
###
"Lord Mazael," said a man's familiar voice. "My lord, can you hear me?"
Mazael opened his eyes, and wished he hadn't.
Pain flooded through him, throbbing with every beat of his heart. After a moment his eyes swam into focus, and he realized that he lay upon a cot in the barracks of Castle Cravenlock. A man in a black wizard's coat stooped over him, face grim behind his mustache and beard. Mazael's court wizard, Timothy deBlanc. Behind him stood Riothamus, the staff of the Guardian in his right hand.
"My lord," said Timothy, voice tight with anxiety. "Do you know me?"
"Yes," said Mazael.
"My name?" said Timothy.
Mazael frowned. "Timothy deBlanc. When I first met you, some bandits were trying to kill you for your boots."
Timothy grunted. "They were good boots."
"And me?" said Riothamus.
"Riothamus son of Rigotharic," said Mazael. "Betrothed to my daughter Molly."
Riothamus gave a slow nod.
Mazael sat up. Timothy reached for his arm, but Mazael waved him away. The pain throbbed through him in a steady pulse, but with an effort of will he could stay upright.
"Why are you asking me that?" said Mazael.
"We feared," said Timothy, "that the poison damaged your mind. That you would forget your own name, or that you would go mad, and see things that were not there, or the faces of those long dead."
Mazael nodded, and saw Morebeth Galbraith standing in the corner, watching him.
He flinched. Had the dream been a hallucination? Was he going mad?
He blinked, and she was gone.
"My lord?" said Timothy and Riothamus in unison.
Mazael rubbed his face, trying to ignore the burning pain in his limbs.
"Why am I not dead?" said Mazael.
"I do not know," said Timothy. "The poison...it was one of astonishing lethality. You should not be conscious. My lord, you should not even be alive."
"Timothy," said Riothamus, voice quiet. "Please find Lady Molly. We need her."
Timothy bowed and left the room.
"What is it?" said Mazael. Gods, but his head hurt.
"You should be dead," said Riothamus. "I believe the poison upon Malaric's blades was the venom of a San-keth archpriest."
"What of that?" said Mazael. "San-keth are venomous. What is any different about an archpriest's venom?"
"The San-keth archpriests are ancient," said Riothamus, "and steeped in necromancy and dark magic. Their venom is more lethal than any other poison in the world. The only reason you are not dead is your Demonsouled blood. That pain you feel? That's the venom eating at your bones and muscles. Your Demonsouled blood heals you faster than the poison kills you, but only just."
Mazael stood, wincing. He felt as if every inch of his body had been beaten with clubs. "Can you cure it?"
"I cannot," said Riothamus. "There is only one antidote. The blood of the archpriest must be found and used to make a cure for the poison. Nothing else will work."
Mazael nodded, trying to think through the ache in his head. He felt as if he had missed something important, something vital. "So I will remain this way for the rest of my life?"
"No," said Riothamus. "Gradually the poison will pass from your blood as you sweat and relieve yourself. Eight weeks, I suspect, and the last of it will pass from you. Perhaps as long as three months. Had Malaric gotten any more poison into you, though, we would not be having this conversation."
"Good," said Mazael, taking a tentative step forward. He could still keep his balance. "What can..."
He blinked, and realized what he had forgotten.
Romaria wasn't here.
He remembered Romaria springing upon Malaric, remembered the flash of steel in the assassin's hand...
"Gods," said Mazael, his voice a hoarse croak. "She's dead, isn't she? He killed her."
For a moment he felt nothing at all.
Then the rage and pain erupted within him, like lava cracking through stone. Malaric would pay for this. Mazael would hunt him to the ends of the earth, find him and break him utterly, butcher him and anyone he had ever loved and anything he had ever cared about.
He noted that Riothamus had taken a cautious step back, had raised his staff, but Mazael did not care. He strode towards the door, intending to hunt down Malaric like a dog...
Darkness swirled, and Molly appeared in the corner.
She looked at Mazael, and then to Riothamus.
"You've told him?" she said.
"Lord Mazael!" shouted Riothamus, and Mazael paused, just for a moment. "She's not dead!"
Mazael blinked. "She's not?"
"No." Riothamus took a deep breath. "But...I think you should say farewell."
"Show me," said Mazael. "Now."
Riothamus nodded and led him to another room of the barracks. Romaria lay upon one of the cots, her eyes closed, her black hair a sweaty tangle around her head. Her leather armor had been cut away, her shirt sliced upon, and Mazael saw the angry red scar Malaric's dagger had left between her breasts.
"That cut?" said Mazael, scarce recognizing his own voice. "You healed it?"
Riothamus nodded.
"How is she still alive?" said Mazael. "You said archpriest poison was lethal."
"It is," said Molly, her voice grim. "It's the wolf in her, I think. The Elderborn half of her soul. The earth magic refuses to relent."
"But she can't heal herself the way you can," said Riothamus. "My lord, she has a few hours left at most. Maybe less. You...should say farewell to her. While you still can."
Mazael said nothing and stared at his wife. He had seen her die once before, challenging the Old Demon. Her death had almost destroyed him. To think that she had survived the Old Demon, the wrath of Ultorin's Malrags, the Ritual of Rulership below Mount Tynagis, and the horror of the Great Rising, only to fall to the blade of a rodent like Malaric...it was more than he could process. He felt himself shaking, felt the rage threatening to erupt.
Then he blinked, and Morebeth appeared on the other side of the bed.
"You love her," said Morebeth, "do you not?"
"You're not real," said Mazael.
"My lord?" said Riothamus. No doubt he thought Mazael addled from the poison. "I fear this is all too real."
"Of course I am real," said Morebeth. "Your spirit has journeyed too often to Cythraul Urdvul, and now I can speak with you in the waking world. But you love this woman, do you not?"
"Yes," said Mazael. "More than anything."
"Then fight for her," said Morebeth.
It was hopeless. The archpriest venom would take Romaria's life in a matter of hours. There was no time to act, no time to fight...
The rage burning within him hardened his heart. By all the gods, he would not yield! And if he had to leave the world in ashes to save Romaria, then he would do it, and woe to anyone who stood in his way.
Morebeth's image flickered and vanished. Perhaps her spirit really had spoken to him. Or perhaps he had hallucinated her. Mazael found that he did not care which.
"Riothamus," said Mazael. "You said the archpriest's blood can cure her?"
"Yes," said Riothamus. "If we locate the archpriest that provided Malaric's poison, we can extract his blood and use it to heal Romaria. But my lord, there isn't..."
"Then you can heal her," said Mazael, "if we find the archpriest?"
"Yes," said Riothamus. "But she will die long before we can find the San-keth!"
"What of the spell you told me about?" said Molly. "The one that could put her to sleep?"
"You can...suspend her?" said Mazael. If Riothamus could put Romaria to sleep, to suspend her until Mazael could find the cure, then time did not matter. No amount of time and no number of miles would save Malaric from Mazael's wrath.
"Perhaps," said Riothamus. "I do not
know if it will work. The High Elderborn knew a spell that permitted them to sleep for centuries, once they grew weary of their long lives. It will not work on a human, but Lady Romaria is half-Elderborn. It might work. Or it might kill her. I cannot know until I try."
"Do it," said Mazael. "If we do nothing then she is dead anyway."
"It might kill you," said Riothamus. "I will need the power in your blood to act as a catalyst, as I did at Swordgrim."
"You will have it," said Mazael.
Riothamus gave a sharp nod. "We need to touch bare earth."
"The courtyard," said Mazael. He stooped and picked up Romaria. She felt cold, so cold, and a sheen of sweat glittered on the gray-tinged skin of her forehead. "Hurry."
###
Riothamus strode into the courtyard, the Guardian's staff warm beneath his fingers.
He shot a glance over his shoulder. Mazael followed, Romaria in his arms, heedless of the crowd of servants and armsmen trailing after them. The nobles and knights of the Grim Marches might have feared Romaria, but the commoners loved her.
But Mazael's cold, dead eyes held his attention.
The rage in those eyes unsettled Riothamus. He knew Mazael was a son of the Urdmoloch, and he had watched Molly struggle to control the darkness within her blood. How much harder would it be for her father? What would he do to save Romaria?
And what would he do if they were unable to save her?
He pushed the thought out of his mind.
"Here," he said, taking a deep breath. The spell would need all of his skill and concentration. "Lay her upon the ground."
Mazael knelt and put Romaria upon the earth. She lay motionless, the only hint of life the faint twitching of her chest as she drew breath after ragged breath.
Riothamus closed his eyes and drew on the staff's power. The magic flooded through him, along with the memories of the High Elderborn wizards that had left their powers within the staff. He sifted through the memories, examining the spell they used to put their brethren into hibernation.
He opened his eyes and spoke the incantation. The sigils upon the staff's bronze wood flared and pulsed with golden light. His spell grew louder, the golden light in the sigils shining brighter. The staff shivered in his hands, once, twice, three times.
And then a twig sprouted from its side. It grew with a crackling noise, until a slender branch six inches long jutted from the staff, studded with green buds. The sapling fell loose from the staff, and Riothamus caught it. It felt delicate against his fingers, its roots like hair.
"Molly," said Riothamus, power thrumming through him. "Loosen the earth, please."
Molly nodded, produced a throwing knife, and jabbed it into the hard-packed earth of Castle Cravenlock's courtyard. Riothamus went to one knee and gently placed the tiny sapling over the torn earth. The roots slithered into the torn ground as the sapling took hold.
"Lord Mazael," said Riothamus, standing once more, "cut your palm, and let the blood fall upon the sapling."
Mazael gave a curt nod, drew a dagger, slashed his palm, and let the drops of blood fall. The torn earth drank the blood at once, and Riothamus felt the power. Dark, raging power, like an inferno of black flame, filled Mazael's blood. Only a fool would try to steal and wield the power of the Demonsouled. But with the Guardian's staff, Riothamus could direct the power without touching it.
He began a new incantation. A wind whipped through the courtyard, and the watching servants backed away. Riothamus lifted the staff high, drawing as much power as he could manage.
Then he struck the butt of the staff against the earth.
A thunderclap rang off the keep and the curtain walls, and the sapling grew.
It grew with terrific speed, the ground shaking as it swelled to six feet of height, twelve feet, eighteen feet, leaves unfurling from its thickening branches. Dozens of slender roots erupted from the ground and wrapped around Romaria, slithering under her clothing and against her skin. They lifted her as they did, propping her against the trunk, and she looked as if she had fallen asleep against the tree.
Mazael staggered, his eyes going wide with sudden pain. This was the critical part, Riothamus knew. The blood in the earth would link to Mazael, drawing on his Demonsouled strength to empower the tree. If it worked, Mazael would survive, and Romaria would live.
If it failed, they both would die.
Molly caught her father's arm, and Mazael swayed for a moment. Yet after a moment he took a deep breath and caught his balance.
"Did it work?" he said, gazing at Romaria.
"Aye," said Riothamus, wiping sweat from his brow. "It did."
"What did you do?" said Mazael.
"Those roots reach into her skin, into her veins," said Riothamus. "They have put her into a deep sleep, and filter her blood to keep the poison from doing any additional harm. But so long as she is sleeping..."
"The poison will not pass from her body," said Mazael.
Riothamus nodded. "She will not need to eat or drink or relive herself...but the poison will not leave her."
"So we have bought time," said Mazael. "How long will the spell last?"
Riothamus shrugged. "I don't know. But this castle will crumble into ruin long before the spell weakens. It will last long enough. Now it is only a matter of finding the archpriest that provided the venom."
"One damned serpent," said Molly, "in the entire world. Where will we start?"
"The poison," said Mazael. "When the San-keth kidnapped my nephew Aldane, Lord Malden's court wizard had a vial of the child's blood. With it, he could track Aldane anywhere. Could you do the same with the archpriest's poison?"
"I don't know," said Riothamus, "but we are going to find out."
Chapter 15 - On Bladed Wings
A full day after his confrontation with Skalatan, Malaric checked over his preparations one final time.
The interior of the ruined keep had proven an adequate shelter for his work. His spells had cleared the debris and dirt from the floor, revealing the worn flagstones. Upon the floor he had drawn an intricate ring of elaborate circles and sigils, each spiraling around the others. Malaric's power to walk through the shadows had taken him to a small village a half-day’s ride away, and he had bought out the village chandler's stock of candles, along with a few other items of importance. Dozens of candles stood atop specific sigils in his design, flickering and dancing in the breeze.
The circle was exactly twenty-two feet in diameter. Malaric had made sure of that.
In the center of the design stood a small brazier, its bowl filled with smoldering coals.
Malaric took a deep breath to clear his mind. With the power of Corvad's skull and the magic of the caethweisyr, he now had the chance to repay so many debts. To revenge himself on those who had wronged him.
Now, at last, he could begin.
He lifted his arms, the caethweisyr in his left hand, and spoke an incantation. At once a cold wind swept through the chamber, the chill soaking into Malaric's bones. Despite the wind, the candles' flames went motionless, shining with an eerie blue light.
Power welled up in Malaric, and he drew on the Demonsouled power in Corvad's skull. Dark fire filled him, and the blue candle flames grew brighter and taller, until it seemed as if glimmering spears of blue light encircled the brazier.
Or swords, perhaps.
Malaric shouted the final phrase of the incantation and clapped his hands. A bolt of blue lighting fell out of the darkened sky and slammed into the brazier. It erupted into ghostly white flames, the brazier melting and twisting and crumbling into ash. Yet the white fire brightened, intensifying, and Malaric felt a sense of distance, as if the fire was a doorway to another place.
The fire cleared, and the woman stood in the circle.
She was beautiful, unearthly beautiful, and had the sort of face that would inspire poets. She wore only a shirt of diamond-shaped steel scales that fell to the middle of her thighs, her arms and shoulders bare. A diadem of daggers and stee
l wire rested upon her brow, encircling her white hair. Her eyes burned with brilliant white flame, like sunlight falling upon fresh snow.
And her wings stretched from one end of the circle to the other. They were not wings of flesh and feathers and bone, but sword blades, hundreds of sword blades, their edges gleaming with razor sharpness unlike any blade found in the mortal world.
Of course, she was not a mortal woman but a spirit, a creature of the spirit world. More to the point, she was a ruler of that realm, a spirit of surpassing potency and might.
And she hated Malaric.
"Lady of Blades," said Malaric, finishing the spell. "By my power and my will, I summon you and compel you."
The Lady's glowing eyes narrowed. "Malaric the bastard." Her eerie voice echoed and reverberated, bouncing off the keep's stone walls. "Malaric the usurper. Malaric the fool." Her eyes looked at the leather bag hanging at his belt. "And you have stolen more power. Little surprise. For you are nothing, and only by stealing the strength of your betters can you amount to anything."
"I see your tongue has lost none of its charm," said Malaric.
She laughed at him, the sound echoing inside of his head. "Have you brought more innocents for me to slay, Malaric? Some of my brethren enjoy tormenting mortals, but I care nothing for their lives. But if they offend my dignity, they will perish." Her smile resembled a blade itself. "Does anyone still look at you with trust? Perhaps I will slay them as well."
"Silence," said Malaric.
He had summoned the Lady of Blades before, intending to bind her power, and it had not gone well. He had executed the summoning perfectly, but his stepmother had blundered upon the scene, and tried to stop him. She crossed the boundaries of the circle, and the Lady of Blades had regarded that as an insult and killed her at once.
After that, a furious Prince Everard banished Malaric, and the wizards’ brotherhood expelled him for practicing dark magic. Malaric had been forced to take refuge with the Skulls. True, he enjoyed working as an assassin. But he was a wizard and the eldest natural son of the Prince of Barellion. The Skulls were too limited for his ambitions.
Soul of Skulls (Book 6) Page 17
