“Do you know what they call something that can’t control the urge to kill? A monster. And you hunt monsters.”
All of a sudden Corran realized the reason for the knives and the shroud. His eyes widened, and he took a step forward. “Rigan—”
“I’m dangerous, Corran. I’ve thought about running away, going Below to stay with Damian and the witches, but what if I never learn to completely control… this?”
“Stop it.” Corran snapped. “You haven’t hurt anyone who wasn’t trying to kill you.”
“What happens if I get sick and a fever puts me out of my head? I could kill someone. Maybe you or Kell. You need to make sure that doesn’t happen. The knives are sharp. I won’t fight.”
Corran swept the knives and the shroud off the table. “Dammit, Rigan. No!”
“Corran—”
“Have you lost your mind?” Corran roared. “You aren’t a monster. I’m not going to kill you. Whatever happens, we’ll deal with it.”
Rigan’s shoulders relaxed, just a little. “I need to go Below again. There’s no guarantee how fast I’ll learn, or whether I can learn to fully control the power.”
“Then we do what we’ve been doing, only we quit lying about it,” Corran said, sitting on the edge of the table. “Apparently, we weren’t fooling Kell. I continue hunting and you continue training with your teachers, and every day we see to the dead.”
Slowly, Rigan turned around. Even in the shadows, Corran could see the bruises and half-healed gashes from the beating he had taken. He fought down fury. If you hadn’t killed the guards who did that to you, I would have. Dammit, Rigan, that was too close a call.
“Corran?” Rigan sounded lost.
Did he really think I’d kill him? That I could think he was a monster? Corran ran a hand back through his hair. I’ve been so obsessed with fighting the monsters, I wasn’t paying enough attention here at home. Gods, Rigan’s had to fight for his life. I could have lost him.
I wasn’t there to help.
“Rigan, nothing’s changed.” Corran’s voice was tight. “I don’t pretend to understand your power, but you’re still my brother, and we’ll get through this. You’ll learn to control it. I’ll get better at fighting. We’ll be all right.” He stepped forward and before Rigan realized what he meant to do, Corran threw his arms around his brother’s shoulders, pulling him into a desperate, bone-jarring hug.
Gods! He looks like a beaten dog, Corran thought as he released him, stepping back to look at him appraisingly. He’s got the power to kill someone with a touch, and he’s worried about my approval?
“You’ve got another hunt coming?” Rigan’s hands had unclenched, but they were shaking.
“Yeah,” Corran replied.
He poured whiskey and handed a glass to his brother. He leaned against the table, and after a moment’s hesitation, Rigan joined him. Rigan knocked the whiskey back in one, his hand still shaking.
“The less you know, the less trouble I can get you in,” Corran replied. “Come on. Let’s have another drink. The dead can wait.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
MACHISON FLED, KNOWING, without needing to look over his shoulder, that his enemy was nearly upon him. The corridors of the Lord Mayor’s palace were strangely empty, unusually silent, except for the sound of his heaving breath and running footsteps. His pulse pounded in his ears, and the muscles in his side twinged painfully. He had not run so far, so fast, since his army days, many years ago. The benefits of his position had made him soft, vulnerable.
He stole a glance behind him. The old woman kept a steady pace, closing the distance. Wiry and gaunt, all bones and sinew, her unkempt gray hair fell in straggles around a lined face. She shouldn’t be able to catch him, shouldn’t be able to even get close, but her steps sounded just behind him, and her outstretched hands clawed at his robe.
“You’re not real,” Machison puffed, but he lacked conviction, and did not stop running. “I’m dreaming. You’re not real.”
“What makes you think dreams aren’t real?” Her voice sounded like shifting gravel; it reminded him of the Oracle. “Dreams are real. So are curses. All those curses called down by the ones who’ve lost their loved ones to your guards and monsters—oh, they’re real enough. You’ll see.”
“I’m not here. You’re not here. None of this is happening.”
A mirthless laugh answered him. “You’re certain that you control the living. It’s the dead you’d best be fearing.”
Machison found himself in the dark, no longer running. He could not see the old woman, and in the silence his heartbeat hammered in his ears. “The dead bear witness,” the old woman said. “The dead remember. They will have their justice. They will be avenged.”
MACHISON SAT BOLT upright in his bed. Sweat-soaked sheets clung to his body, blankets twisted around him as if he had fought a battle in his sleep. He felt for the amulet around his neck, but it brought him no comfort.
And it obviously didn’t keep the dreams at bay.
He made himself breathe slowly, calming himself. A quick pat down of his arms and chest reassured him that no damage had been done. He could feel the anger building in his gut. Was the dream a warning? What of the old woman? How do I destroy her? If she comes at me with a knife in my dreams, will it actually hurt me?
Machison glanced down at the unbroken circle around his bed. He remembered checking the lines of salt on all of the doors and windows before getting in his bed. Enough evidence had proven the blood witch’s power was real; he did not doubt that the wardings were genuine and had been performed correctly.
So she’s not a spirit, he concluded. Not a ghost or a wraith. A vision? Or, perhaps, a witch with enough power to get inside my head, twist my own mind against me? Could Blackholt be doing this, or is it someone else entirely, someone unknown to me?
That last thought chilled him with its possibilities. Whoever it is, I think, she can’t actually be in my head. Else why not kill me when she had the chance? No, a vision of some sort.
Another possibility presented itself. The Wanderers. They’re witches, beholden to no one. People shun them, but even so, they know to fear the wise women and show them respect. Jorgeson advised waiting to get rid of them, using them in our plans. That was a mistake. They have to know we intend to drive them out; maybe they’ve decided to strike first. I’ll have Jorgeson take care of them. No mercy.
Machison swung his legs off the bed, knowing sleep would elude him. He stepped carefully over the salt circle so as not to break it. No sense in making it any easier for his enemies. The banked embers in the fireplace glowed hotter as he poked them back to life, and he settled into a chair facing the fire. The remains of his unfinished glass of whiskey still sat on the side table, and he picked it up, toying with it as his thoughts raced.
We push the Wanderers away, they come right back. It’s true in every corner of the League. Why do they come? Why return? We run them to ground, kill them; they turn up a season later to repeat the dance again. The Wanderers traveled these parts when the Elder Gods reigned, so the legends say. Is that where they get their magic?
He snorted at the thought. The Elder Gods might as well still reign. The commoners believe in them yet. Oh, the Guild Masters love their new gods, and they get what they pray for—and pay for. The Elder Gods were never usurped; they stepped aside. Maybe they got bored, they certainly haven’t done much in recent memory.
Gods and monsters. The monsters he could control, but gods were something else entirely. Machison had his hands quite full already with Merchant Princes and Guild Masters, and keeping Crown Prince Aliyev happy.
Machison’s instincts had served him well. He’d always been able to balance a betrayal with a favor, an enemy with a patron, with the deftness of a master juggler. Now, when the stakes were highest, he worried that he was off his game.
He didn’t trust Blackholt, though the man was useful. Valdis was at least Machison’s man, his loyalty bought and paid for.
Trust no one. Not that Machison ever really had. He knew what he wanted, and it was more than just keeping his comfortable position and generous stipend. Aliyev considered him his lapdog and he hated the role, but he would play along with the charade for now to better his station and increase his power. Gorog at least approached things straightforwardly, laying out the rewards Machison would gain for pressing to keep—or improve—the Merchant Prince’s advantage.
Means to an end. Playing a long game. Checkmate in five moves.
Machison took another sip of his drink. Patience. I knew when I started that this would take years to accomplish. And now, the Garenoth agreement brings the next prize in sight. I won’t let anyone take that from me—certainly not those damn filthy Wanderers.
Machison had spent more than a decade building connections, currying favor, making sure people in positions of power owed him. Blackmail, curses, hostages, and threats had accomplished his agenda when honeyed words and dubiously ethical deals had not. His ruthlessness and gamesmanship had served him well, and as Aliyev’s power and Gorog’s fortunes rose, so did Machison’s hold over Ravenwood.
Ravenwood isn’t enough. It never was; not for Gorog, and not for me. The Garenoth deal will ensure our ascension as power brokers in the League itself, maybe even win Aliyev and me favor from King Rellan himself. Wealth and power, and the security that comes with them; maybe even a hand in the King’s court. We’re at a crucial moment, and I can’t afford to be merciful. Not when we’re so close.
The knock at the door came as expected.
“Come in.”
Valdis slipped into the room, in a sinuous, fluid move. “You’ve had a problem with the wardings?”
“They aren’t working.”
Valdis raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been attacked?”
“Not physically.”
“Dark magic, then?”
“Nightmares. More vivid than they should be. Almost real. I don’t want to find out whether or not they really are.”
“It’s possible,” Valdis said after a moment’s consideration. “If the dreams are being sent by a powerful enough witch, injury in the dream can cause injury in the waking world.”
Machison remembered the old woman in the dream. “I’d just like to get a good night’s sleep.”
“I’ll have to do some research into the nature of the problem, but I can arrange for a good night’s sleep in the meantime,” Valdis replied. “Anything else?”
“I want a sanctuary,” Machison said. “I want a place inside my room where I can retreat and be untouchable by magic.”
The blood witch frowned. “That will be more difficult.”
Machison glared at him. “If you can’t do it—”
Valdis raised a hand in appeasement. “I didn’t say I couldn’t do it, just that what you’re asking is not a simple task. It requires strong magic, and to provide the level of protection you seek, against the sort of powers you fear? It will require a spell many might consider to be… damning.”
“If it keeps me alive, I won’t have to worry about being damned. What do you need?”
Valdis considered for a moment. “I’ll need to consult my grimoires, it’s not a common working. There is risk involved—both for you and for me.”
“What kind of risk?”
“You have to understand,” he said, licking his lips nervously, “I haven’t read this spell in quite a while. But the items required are of dubious legality and morality—”
“And?”
“These items are difficult to obtain, and while a blood witch must cast the actual spell, the objects have to be acquired by the one who will benefit from the spell, to seal intention.”
“Intention,” Machison repeated.
“It is very dark magic, dark enough to stain the soul. Both our souls,” Valdis replied, meeting Machison’s gaze intently, as if challenging the Lord Mayor to back away from such a dangerous path. When Machison did not, Valdis blinked and went on. “That’s why the recipient of the spell must be complicit in gathering the items. There’s blood involved—yours and mine, and that of other people. Magic that taints the soul requires a contract of sorts with the Dark Ones. Protection like that comes at a high price.” He paused. “On the plus side, it will strengthen our bond and make it more difficult for Blackholt to harm either of us. I believe it might even weaken him in the process.”
“What about the Wanderer witches? Will it protect against them?”
“To an extent. But we know very little about their magic. The Wanderers we’ve captured with any real power killed themselves before we could learn anything about how their magic works.”
“Make it happen, and make sure the protections hold—even against Wanderers,” Machison snapped.
A look crossed Valdis’s face, like a soldier given a suicide mission, but it vanished as the witch pressed his lips together. “As you wish, m’lord.”
“Will Blackholt know? When you work the spell, will he feel it?”
“It’s likely, given the power of the invocation.”
“Can we hide it?”
“From Blackholt? I’m not sure.”
“Blackholt’s still useful to me. I need to keep him on my side, preferably on a short leash.” I need to teach that arrogant bastard who’s boss.
“I think that will be possible,” the witch replied. “Those without magic will sense nothing, although your servants may talk when they see the markings on the floor.”
“Leave that to me.”
Valdis nodded. “Once the working is complete, I can place a distraction spell around your private rooms. Unless another, fairly powerful witch is looking for magic, it won’t be obvious.”
“And Blackholt?”
“We’ll be most at risk of him noticing during the working itself,” he said, glancing toward the door as if he expected the senior witch to come barging into the room. “When the power is called forth.”
“Then I’ll arrange for him to be occupied at the time. How soon can you be ready?”
“I will confirm what you need to collect. And then I’ll need to prepare myself for the working.”
“Make it quick,” Machison growled. “I’m not a patient man.”
THE LORD MAYOR’S mood soured after Valdis left. He needed the blood witch’s cooperation, and with witches, it was best not to earn their ire. The working would increase his own protections and help rein in Blackholt, and he already had precautions in place to keep Valdis beholden to him, solidly under his control. Still, the blood witch had seemed truly disquieted by Machison’s request, and the Lord Mayor found his hesitation disturbing. I stopped worrying about my soul long ago.
He recognized Jorgeson’s knock, though he wasn’t expecting him at this hour. “Enter.”
“Sorry for disturbing you, but you need to hear this.”
“Trouble?”
“Word from my spies.”
“What happened?”
“An attempt was made on Ambassador Jothran’s life,” Jorgeson replied.
“By whom?” Machison snapped.
“The evidence points to the Itaran ambassador, Kirill, but it’s all circumstantial and likely to have been planted. As you can imagine, Ambassador Halloran is extremely concerned.”
Of course Halloran is concerned. He’s got to take Ravenwood’s role in the negotiations, and someone is trying to kill his counterpart.
“You don’t think it’s Kirill?”
Jorgeson shook his head. “Doubtful. Itara might benefit from disrupting the negotiations between Ravenwood and Garenoth, but not significantly.”
“Look harder. It could have been a proxy strike. Maybe an Itaran Merchant Prince has a score to settle with one of Garenoth’s Merchant Princes—or perhaps one of the other ambassadors wants to make sure everyone’s going into the negotiations mistrustful and looking for treachery.”
Jorgeson’s expression suggested the ambassadors would be fools if they weren’t looking for treachery
, but he kept his peace. “I’ve got my best men taking a close look at the movements of the ambassadors—discreetly, of course. I have spies among the servants in the ambassadorial suites.”
“And Jothran survived?” Machison rubbed a hand on the back of his neck, easing the tension that threatened a headache.
“Yes. He wasn’t even actually hurt, which makes me more suspicious that the strike was meant as a distraction.”
“How have the other ambassadors reacted?”
Jorgeson raised an eyebrow. “Predictably. Ambassador Arlan requested enough additional bodyguards to fight a small war. Vittir’s assistant, Belson, was already feeling vulnerable since his master’s murder; I can’t say much about his current state, since he’s barricaded himself in his rooms and won’t come out. The other ambassadors have managed to retain their dignity, though it doesn’t require a mind reader to know that they’re all waiting to see what happens next, and to whom.”
He hesitated, then added, “I’m looking into whether or not Kadar had a hand in the matter,” in a tone that brought Machison up short.
“You think that’s likely?”
“It’s a strong possibility. Kadar wants better terms for himself, at Gorog’s expense. Surely he at least suspects that Gorog won’t give ground without a fight. He might believe he benefits by seeing Gorog—and you—discredited with Garenoth.”
“Aliyev and Gorog will be livid,” Machison replied. “They’ll want answers. If it is Kadar behind it, there will be repercussions. Gorog will retaliate. No telling what Tamas will do.”
“Hardly something we can ask,” Jorgeson pointed out.
Machison scowled. “I wasn’t suggesting we ask. Gods above and below! I hate having to find things out the hard way.” He sighed. “Double the guards watching the ambassadors. Tighten your hold on the servants. Make it clear to your spies that they’d best have their ears firmly to the walls. If Kadar wants to meddle with the negotiations, we’ll make him work for it.”
“As you wish, m’lord. I’ll bring you my next report in the morning.”
With that, Jorgeson gave a perfunctory bow and let himself out of the room.
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