Mistress of the Night

by Don Bassingthwaite

  Between two braziers and before an altar draped in black velvet stood Bolan. Something had changed in the strange, stunted man. His porcelain smooth face seemed to glow in the dim light, while robes of black trimmed with purple hid his bulky body. An aura of faith suffused him, lending him just a little of Shar’s glory.

  At his side, however, stood a woman of Calimshan who didn’t borrow Shar’s glory so much as radiate a dark power of her own. Black hair flowed loosely against dusky pale skin and black clothes embroidered in shimmering, deep purple thread.

  “Her name is Variance,” Jarull had said. “Power flows off her like a shadow. I trust her more than Bolan.”

  Variance was watching him. Keph tore his gaze away from her.

  Bolan didn’t seem to notice anything. The priest spread his arms wide and said, “A man comes before Shar. He has drunk the Elixir of the Void from the Cup of Night. Can we accept him?”

  “Shar welcomes all into her embrace,” murmured the cultists.

  Keph stared at them. Maybe it was just the echoes, but there seemed to be far more people standing in the shadows than just those who had led him in.

  “Let all be welcome,” said Bolan, “if they grieve or mourn or hate. Let all be welcome if they desire vengeance or know bitterness.”

  “Shar welcomes all.”

  Bolan held out his hands to Keph. “Shar welcomes you into her embrace. Do you embrace Shar and welcome her?”

  Keph nodded slowly—then emphatically.

  “The Lady of Loss gives you voice,” Bolan said kindly. “Speak.”

  “I embrace Shar,” Keph croaked.

  He could taste vomit and wine and whatever bitter substance had been mixed with the wine. The numbness on his lips had spread up his face and across his scalp.

  “Stand and approach her altar.”

  Keph pushed himself to his feet and staggered toward Bolan, Variance, and the velvet-draped altar. The distance was misleading. What looked like it should have taken only a few steps to cross seemed to take many. Bolan and Variance swam in the shadows. Keph stumbled on until finally Bolan’s hands grasped his. Even though Keph knew that he was taller than the alchemist-priest, Bolan appeared to tower over him. Keph squeezed his eyes shut, then looked again. Bolan was his proper height once more, though he looked up at him with eyes that were as deep as the night sky.

  “Shar is a simple goddess,” Bolan said. “The Mistress of the Night is direct. Other deities require followers to pledge themselves in long trials and tests. Service to Shar requires only one simple act.”

  Bolan released Keph’s hands and turned around to seize the black velvet that covered the altar. He pulled it off with a flourish.

  A young girl dressed in a pretty white nightgown lay on the altar, arms at her side and eyes closed in sleep. Keph stared in shock.

  It was Adrey.

  Bolan put a heavy-bladed knife into Keph’s hand.

  “Kill her,” he said.

  The hilt of the knife was cold in Keph’s hand. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t take his eyes off his niece, just as he hadn’t been able to take his eyes off Roderio’s injured body after the accident. It wasn’t right. Could Bolan really want him to kill Adrey? The only member of his cursed family he couldn’t bring himself to hate?

  “Kill her,” Bolan said again. “Prove your devotion to Shar.”

  “Hail to the Mistress of the Night,” chanted the cultists.

  Keph raised the knife slowly.

  It couldn’t be right. How could Adrey be here? When he’d set out for Wedge Street, she’d been safe within Fourstaves House. Anywhere else and he might have thought that the Sharrans had kidnapped her—but not from Fourstaves House. The wards that Strasus had woven and re-woven around the house made that virtually impossible. Additional wards cast around Adrey’s room by her parents and grandparents made it more secure than any other chamber save Strasus’s own study. Keph gritted his teeth, trying to force back the muddling effects of the Elixir of the Void. There had to be another explanation for Adrey’s presence.

  If Adrey was actually there.

  He looked at her sleeping form again; so still, so perfect. Too perfect. He tried to recall what shape the black velvet had concealed on the altar before Bolan had whisked it away. Had there been any shape at all?

  No. There hadn’t. Keph clenched his teeth. That wasn’t Adrey on the altar. It wasn’t anyone or anything at all.

  Dagnalla had soothed and entertained all of her children with magical illusions. Ironically, Artless Keph had been the one to see through the apparitions at the youngest age. The girl on Shar’s altar was no more real than Dagnalla’s flights of whimsy, he realized. It was just an illusion.

  And yet she looked so much like Adrey. The knife trembled in Keph’s hand.

  “Shar awaits,” Bolan hissed.

  Keph looked down. It’s only an illusion, he thought. It’s all part of Shar’s test. You’re not really doing anything wrong. Nobody even realizes you’ve figured it out! He glanced up into the darkness.

  Do it, he told himself.

  “Hail to the Mistress of the Night!” he shouted and plunged the knife down.

  The only resistance it met was the altar itself. Steel hit stone and skittered across it with a horrid shriek. The girl wavered and vanished. The knife fell out of Keph’s fingers and he staggered back—the shock he felt might as well have been real. Inside his chest, his heart was thundering like a smith’s hammer.

  Bolan stepped forward and Keph dropped down before him.

  “Your intention proves your devotion,” the priest said. “Your sacrifice to Shar is your own illusion of love.” He rested his hands against Keph’s head. “Mistress of the Night, a new follower enters your embrace,” he prayed. “Bless him and cleanse him that he may continue in your work.”

  Cold darkness poured into Keph’s body, searing away the haze of wine and scouring him clean of fear and doubt. He gasped at the touch of the goddess and when Bolan lifted his hands away, he rose. The alchemist-priest held something out to him: Shar’s black and purple disk. Keph took the symbol, wrapping trembling fingers tight around it.

  Terrible screams ripped through Moonshadow Hall. In the central courtyard, Feena’s head—and the heads of everyone else who stood listening as Velsinore sang the moonrise prayer—snapped up. Velsinore gasped in shock, her song shattered.

  Against the big windows of Dhauna Myritar’s sitting room, a silhouette reeled.

  Feena reacted on instinct alone, charging across the courtyard and through the cloisters, back into the temple and up the ramp to the High Moonmistress’s quarters. The screams were even louder inside, echoing through the halls. Every priestess and priest she passed seemed stunned to silence.

  “Dhauna!” Feena shouted as she ran. “Julith!”

  “Here!” Julith shouted back.

  The door of Dhauna’s chamber had been flung open. Julith’s call came from inside. Feena caught herself at the door and choked on her breath.

  On the floor of the sitting room, Julith wrestled with Dhauna, trying to pin her down. The old woman was thrashing like a demon. Her face contorted and she screamed as if all the hordes of the Abyss were parading before her. Books and scrolls were scattered everywhere.

  “Help me!” Julith yelled.

  Feena leaped into the room, grabbing for Dhauna’s flailing arms. One she caught, the other she missed. Dhauna’s fingernails scratched a trail across her cheek.

  “Moonmaiden’s grace!” Feena spat. She caught hold of both of Dhauna’s hands and held them firm. “Dhauna!” she shouted at the High Moonmistress. “Mother Dhauna … calm down …”

  Dhauna fixed her with burning eyes. “Too late!” she howled. “Too late—”

  Her voice soared up into a renewed shriek. Feena glanced at Julith, then at the door. Crowded into the doorframe, Velsinore and Mifano stared back at her.

  Cultists squeezed around Keph, slapping his shoulders and shaking his hand for all the wor
ld as if he had just won some contest at a Midsummer fair.

  A few slipped back their cowls to reveal men and women he had already met through Jarull. Keph couldn’t recall any of their names. They seemed completely wiped from his mind. The best response he could manage was a stunned smile and a slow nod. His heart was still racing. He clutched the disk of Shar, its edge hard against his palm.

  Fuel was added to the smoldering braziers and they flared up with new light, pushing back the darkness just a bit more. With a start, Keph realized where they were—the temple of Shar lay in the tunnels that laced the rocky cliffs surrounding Yhaunn. At an intersection of tunnels, most likely. Firelight glimmered on a number of irregular arches of rock, though it didn’t penetrate the shadows beyond. There was still no sign of the ceiling overhead.

  Nor was there any sign of Jarull.

  Bolan had turned away from him. The other cultists were beginning to as well, breaking off into their own little groups like merchants at a party. One cultist, however, brought him a basin of water and a sponge. His eyes flickered distastefully over the torn remains of Keph’s vomit-soaked, wine-stained shirt. The first emotion to penetrate Keph’s fogged mind was embarrassment. The symbol of Shar was strung on a black cord—he looped it around his neck, took the basin, and retreated to wash himself.

  The water was blessedly cool against his face. When he wiped it away, however, he realized just how badly he stank.

  “Dark,” he muttered.

  “In the grand temples of Shar,” whispered a soft voice, “the initiation of a new devotee isn’t so primitive.”

  Keph started and looked up. Variance stood beside him. He flushed and took a step away from her.

  “F-forgive me …” he stuttered but the strange woman shook her head.

  “No need. I’ve seen enough of Bolan’s initiations now to be used to the effects.”

  She held out a fresh shirt—and Quick. Keph’s eyes widened. He took both gratefully.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  As he took Quick, he saw a flash of purple on Variance’s hand. A ring of blackened silver set with an amethyst. Variance noticed him looking and nodded.

  “You’re thinking how like Jarull’s this ring is,” she said. She smiled slightly. “I gave his to him. He’s told me about you, Keph.”

  Keph managed a small bow. “And me about you, Variance. Do you know where he is tonight? He promised me he’d be here.”

  “Bolan forbade him from attending. An initiate comes before Shar without support.” She said it so bluntly that Keph flushed again. Variance must have seen his shame. “It was Jarull’s error,” she said. “He shouldn’t have offered to be here.”

  She turned away slightly, giving him some privacy while staying close. Keph set Quick and the clean shirt aside, stripped off his ruined garment, and began to sponge his body clean.

  After a moment, Variance said, “You saw through Bolan’s illusion.”

  Keph flinched so violently water splashed the stone around him. Variance glanced over her shoulder at him, then away again.

  “Your secret’s safe,” she murmured, just barely loud enough for him to hear. “Bolan’s a coward. Shar demands a sacrifice, but Bolan’s too afraid to kidnap real people for fear of the local Selûnites uncovering his cell. He resorts to illusion too easily.”

  “With whatever was in the Elixir of the Void to help the illusion along?” Keph asked.

  He brushed water from his arms and chest, then pulled the clean shirt on over still damp skin. Variance turned back around and looked at him with dark, emotionless eyes.

  “The Elixir of the Void is a part of every Sharran’s initiation. It’s a poison. The Dark Goddess’s blessing purges it. An initiate who can’t prove his dedication to her deserves death.”

  “It’s too late to back out now,” Jarull had said. It was truer, even, than he’d probably thought!

  Keph swallowed uncomfortably and asked, “Does Bolan know I saw through the illusion?”

  Variance shook her head. “No. He was too busy waiting for the moment of sacrifice. I was the only one watching you.” She moved a little closer. Her voice was intense. “Not many people could have seen through the illusion while fighting the effects of the elixir.”

  The aura of power that Variance commanded was palpable. Keph could feel it radiating off of her.

  “Everyone in my family is a wizard,” he said. “When you grow up in a house like that, you learn a thing or two about illusions.”

  “Jarull told me about your family—and your feelings toward them,” Variance commented. “But he also told me how you dealt with Bolan yesterday.”

  Keph winced. Jarull had been talking about him a lot. How often did the big man see Variance anyway? Between his talking to her and her gift of the amethyst ring to him … Keph began to wonder if Jarull had more than just a special trust for Variance. The nervousness he felt around the woman receded a little bit.

  “I just figured out what Bolan was up to,” he told her. “He wasn’t very subtle.”

  “You didn’t just figure out what Bolan was up to,” she said. “You made him uncomfortable. You have remarkable strength of will, Keph. Your penetration of the illusion confirms it.” Variance gave him a long, measuring look as if peering deep inside him, then she nodded, almost as though to herself. “You may have potential,” she murmured as she started to turn away.

  “Potential?”

  Without thinking, Keph grabbed for her. Variance’s arm was shockingly cool. She stiffened and glared down at his hand. He snatched it away.

  “I’m sorry,” he apologized, “but … but you said ‘potential’?”

  No one had used the word describe him for years—not since his father had given up hope for him. Variance raised her eyebrows and nodded.

  “What do you mean?” Keph blurted. “What kind of potential?”

  She gave him another long look, then pulled him a little farther into the nearest shadows.

  “Jarull told me that your family ignores you because you’re not a wizard,” she said.

  Keph nodded slowly. “My parents tested me. I have all the talent of a potato when it comes to the Art.”

  Variance frowned at him. “Your parents have denied you a tremendous gift, Keph.” She touched his forehead. Her finger was cold. “The Art—the magic of the arcane—comes from here.” Her finger moved to his chest, lingering over his heart. “The power of divine magic comes from here. Wizards often fail to realize that.” Her voice was slow and dark. “If your faith is as strong as your will, Keph, you could channel Shar’s power as her priest.”

  Keph’s heart was pounding once more. “A priest?” he asked.

  “You have the potential,” Variance said again. “It’s not an easy path. You need—”

  “Teach me,” said Keph sharply. His hands were trembling like they never had before. Blood was singing in his ears. His heart felt ready to leap right out of his chest. “Variance, please. Teach me!” He clutched at the symbol of Shar around his neck. “If there’s a test … something to prove that I could do it …”

  Variance stepped back. “Faith doesn’t work like that, Keph.”

  “I need to know!”

  His words echoed from the rough rock walls of the temple. The other cultists turned to stare at them. Variance narrowed her eyes.

  “Lower your voice,” she hissed.

  Keph clamped his mouth shut. She studied him.

  “Perhaps I could try teaching you an orison,” she said.

  Keph nodded and asked, “That’s like a cantrip, isn’t it? The simplest kind of divine spell?”

  “Don’t use the words of arcanists to describe the power of faith.”

  She spread her hands and shadows seemed to reach out to engulf them, screening them from the other cultists.

  “Kneel,” she ordered.

  Keph knelt. The stone floor was hard under his knees. He ignored it and focused on Variance.

  Her eyes were half close
d and she was breathing deeply. Just as he had mimicked Jarull’s obeisance to Bolan the day before, Keph mimicked her.

  “Good,” Variance said. “Now … feel the darkness. Outside you. Within you. That is Shar.” She spoke slowly, drawing out her words into a kind of lulling song. “Shar. The Nightsinger. The Dancer in the Dark. The Mistress of the Night, whose heart is the primal void that existed before all else and will exist again once Shar has drawn all creation into her embrace. Shar is more powerful than any of us. She could extinguish us with a word. Only by recognizing that and in accepting her perfection can we hope to draw on even a fragment of her power.” She exhaled slowly. “Do you feel Shar’s presence, Keph?”

  Keph fought back the excitement that Variance’s words had stirred in him. He tried to recall the feeling that had driven him to his knees when he had first entered the temple—that sense of a living, primordial darkness, all-powerful, greater, and bigger than him or the puny lights that the cultists needed to …

  “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I think I can.”

  “Hold your faith,” Variance told him. “Believe in Shar.” She reached across her body and made a sign in front of her face. “Mistress of the Night, guide me.”

  Keph repeated her gesture and her words: “Mistress of the Night, guide me.”

  Nothing happened.

  “Again.”

  Variance made the sign and spoke the words once more. Keph repeated them.

  Again, nothing happened.

  “Believe in the Lady of Loss,” Variance told him. “You speak a prayer, not a command. The words must be felt as well as spoken. Again.”

  Nothing.

  “Again.”

  Nothing.

  Variance remained silent, but Keph repeated the invocation without her prompting. He closed his eyes, concentrating on combining words, gesture, and faith.