Rigan shook his head, utterly exasperated at himself. He hesitated, not wanting to take his anger at himself out on Elinor. “It’s just… not coming. It isn’t happening! And we don’t have time for this shit.”
Elinor watched him pace, saying nothing.
“I mean, Damian thought I had the kind of magic that would get me snatched by the Lord Mayor’s guards,” Rigan continued. “But look at the mess I make! It’s almost as if the harder I concentrate, the worse it gets.”
“Did you ever try not concentrating?” Elinor asked.
Rigan gave her a wide-eyed look of horror. “Are you kidding? I could collapse the street above us onto our heads, or flood us with the harbor! Or set us on fire. I’ve got to concentrate to keep from killing someone with my magic—I’m a danger, not an asset.”
“Stop that.” Aiden pushed away from the far wall where he had been observing the training session in silence. “You’re doing no worse than any other witchling.”
“Maybe not, but those other ‘witchlings’ didn’t have assassins breathing down their necks, waiting for them to commit treason.”
Aiden shrugged. “It’s always something. Some reason why the world will end or terrible things will happen unless the student gains control of magic right this moment. And that’s bullshit.”
Rigan stared at Aiden, open-mouthed in astonishment. “How can you say that? You know what’s at stake, how many people have already died!”
Aiden met his glare without flinching. “Yes, I do. But that doesn’t change how the universe works, any more than it changes when the sun rises or the tide comes in. You have the ability to work powerful magic. You’re disciplined, so you’ve come a long way to make up for lost time. But that doesn’t change the fact that it still takes a lifetime to fully manage magic like this.”
“We don’t have a lifetime to wait for me to catch up.”
“Stop it!” Elinor held up a hand to silence both men. “You’re wasting what time we do have. And while we can’t suddenly give you twenty years’ worth of control in two months, that doesn’t mean you can’t gain important skills.” Her glare kept Rigan and Aiden from interrupting.
“So here’s what we’re going to do,” she went on, hands on hips. “We’re going to stop working with big things and start getting small things perfectly right.”
“I don’t see—” Rigan started, only to have Elinor snap a warning finger in front of his face.
“It’s like when I dyed cloth for the dressmakers,” Elinor cut him off. “The apprentices would get so impatient to work on fancy gowns. But before they could do that, they needed to be able to put in a good hem, with fine, close stitches and even tension. If they couldn’t do a good line of stitches for a hem, they couldn’t sew a ball gown. You need to get your stitches right.”
Rigan strained to keep a civil tone in his voice. “Time is running out. We’re going to have to go up against the Lord Mayor’s blood witch—who knows, maybe more than one—and I’m fucking useless!”
“Not useless,” Aiden corrected, his voice sharp. “Distracted. I can sense your energy. It’s all over the place. You’re making me jumpy.” He ran a hand through his hair. “For the gods’ sake, sit down.”
Rigan glared at Aiden, but did as he was told. Elinor sat down in front of him, crossing her legs at the ankles. Rigan mirrored her posture, and Elinor held out her hands. “Let’s get you grounded again, and then we’ll work on those ‘stitches,’” she said with a smile. Reluctantly, Rigan took her hands. He felt Aiden kneel behind him and place strong hands on his shoulders.
“You’re used to big, splashy magic, even as an undertaker,” Elinor said quietly, closing her eyes and speaking in an even, calm voice. “Hearing the confessions of the dead and sending people into the After. Most magic isn’t like that. Most magic is just tweaks and flourishes. Nudges.”
Her hands were warm, holding Rigan’s fingers in a solid grip, steadying him. “When I would mix dyes for Parah, I often sang my magic,” Elinor said, keeping her voice so low that Rigan had to concentrate to hear her. “Didn’t matter what tune. Singing helped me concentrate, and the tune repeated itself, so I could get myself into a trance if I paid attention to my breathing.”
“But I won’t be in Parah’s shop,” Rigan countered; it was little more than a whisper, but he knew she could hear his fear. “It’ll be a battle against a much more seasoned witch, and people’s lives are going to depend on me. Your life. Aiden’s. The hunters’. Corran’s.”
“Cast a smaller net with your thoughts,” Aiden cautioned, gripping Rigan’s shoulders more firmly. “Just you, just this moment, right here. Breathe. Focus. Feel.”
Rigan strained to quell his fears and still the barrage of images crossing his mind’s eye, each more horrific than the last. He tried to focus on the warmth of Elinor’s hands, the strength in Aiden’s hold on his shoulders, the pull of the muscles in his legs as he sat crosslegged on the hard floor. Breathe in. Out. In. Out. He focused on his breathing, gradually filtering the world out.
“Good,” Elinor said, as if she could sense him stilling. “Now, ground yourself, and call a drop of water into your hand. Just a drop!” She turned his right hand palm-up and withdrew her grip to his fingertips.
Rigan allowed himself two more slow, deep breaths before he felt ready. He kept his eyes closed, aware of the pressure of Elinor’s fingers against his and Aiden kneeling behind him. He sent his magic down into the ground beneath them, deep into the dirt and rock, then deeper still, seeking the ground water that fed the wells. He felt the cool water slip against his power, clean and wild.
Just a drop, he reminded himself. He recalled his training session with the witches when he had called blood instead of water. That seemed like a lifetime ago. He knew better, now. Yet while his magic rooted itself in the water far beneath them, the challenge lay in the control required to gather just a single precious drop. A cup-full, a bucket’s worth—Rigan could twitch his magic and make it happen. But summoning a drop, a tear’s worth of liquid, made him break out in a cold sweat as he struggled to create something so small.
Just a stitch. A single, perfect stitch, he told himself. And when he opened his eyes, he found a cold, clear bead of water in the center of his palm.
“You did it!” Elinor gave him a triumphant smile.
“And I feel like I’ve been hit with a wagon,” Rigan replied, embarrassed at how tired he was, how much the control had taken out of him. “How can I hope to win a battle if I can barely shape a drop?”
Aiden dropped to sit down beside him. “Part of it is practice— you’ve done enough to know that it gets easier the more you do it. But Elinor’s right—if you can do the little things perfectly, the big things fall into place. And sometimes, the little things are all you need.”
Rigan stared at him. “That makes no sense.”
Aiden gave him a patient smile. “We aren’t going to win against this Blackholt by trying to match his power,” he replied. “He’ll be a master, and drawing strength from blood and death to go beyond his natural limits. We can’t beat that with brute force. He’ll crush us.”
“Then it’s over before it starts,” Rigan said miserably, staring at the warming drop in his palm.
“Hardly,” Aiden said with a laugh. “Because Blackholt can’t imagine us doing anything except a frontal assault. He’ll expect us to try to batter him into submission. And instead, we use small magics—concentrated, coordinated, carefully planned—and bleed him to death from a thousand cuts, so to speak.”
“We can’t fight him on his terms,” Elinor said, closing her hand over Rigan’s and bending his fingers around the drop in his fist. “So we’ll use what we can do in ways he won’t expect, to strike at the weaknesses he didn’t think were important enough to safeguard. We’ll hit him in dozens of little ways, all at once, ways he never anticipated, and cut him down before he has a chance to realize what’s going on.”
Part of Rigan’s mind wanted t
o argue that the idea was ridiculous. But another part nurtured a spark of hope at Elinor’s words. “You really think we have a chance, using small magic?” he asked.
Elinor and Aiden both nodded. “Enough that we’re willing to bet our lives on it,” Aiden replied.
Rigan managed a smile that he hoped looked more confident than he felt. “Then let’s get on with it,” he said. “What’s next? A grain of sand?”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
MACHISON’S HANDS TREMBLED. Valdis had finished the new warding in the bedroom, requiring only the Lord Mayor’s blood to activate it. The blood witch had seemed almost shaken at the darkness of the magic, even offering a prayer for the Lord Mayor’s soul.
He couldn’t trust Blackholt to protect him, that was certain. Blackholt couldn’t even find and capture those bloody Valmondes, much less kill them. Or maybe, he did find them, disobeyed my order, spirited them away where they can do the most damage for the highest bidder, Machison’s imagination supplied.
The secrets of the dead should stay in the grave. Machison had done what was necessary to ensure the success of the negotiations, enforce the peace, and keep the Balance. The dead needed to keep their godsdamned mouths shut. Yet the negotiations had faltered— Garenoth had balked at keeping Gorog’s tariffs, let alone improving them—and Machison knew Gorog’s patience was growing thin, and the Crown Prince’s thinner.
Kadar got to them , Machison thought. He must have bribed or threatened someone, damn him. Garenoth refused to accept the terms, and Gorog remained adamant about them, leaving Machison the unappealing choice between disappointing the Crown Prince or a Merchant Prince, either of whom would send an assassin to register their displeasure. He had to turn the situation around. Find a way to please Gorog, satisfy Aliyev, and secure Garenoth’s assent. Far too much was riding on the outcome.
Valdis had rolled back the carpet to clear a space on the floorboards. A line of salt and aconite ran around the perimeter of the room, but the Lord Mayor suspected that all the salt in the world couldn’t keep the hag from his nightmares. “The intent is sealed in the gathering of the elements,” Valdis had told him when he handed over the list of items needed to work the spell. Intent was the key. Machison paled when he read the list, knew that only a desperate man pushed to the edge would attempt the spell; only a man with nothing to lose could bring himself to gather the ritual’s requirements.
Life blood from four different victims, drawn by the hand of the one who desires the spell, the final drops that bleed out, the richest blood because it holds the last dregs of life.
Machison’s bodyguards obliged him in capturing the four victims and bringing them to him in an abandoned building far from the glittering palace. Whatever they thought of their master’s request, they kept their mouths closed, their eyes blank, their expressions tightly shuttered. The bodyguards hadn’t even flinched as Machison drew his knife down the victims’ arms, collected their blood in jars, using a separate vessel for the last few cups as the skin paled, the final drops from a stuttering heartbeat.
All in all, it had been easier than Machison expected. Finding the fresh body of a stillborn child took a bit more time, but one guard knew someone, and within a candlemark, the small, stiff, cold body was his.
Candles made from tallow from the fat of a hanged man’s corpse might have taken longer, if Valdis had not steered Machison to a small shop in the darkest alleys of Below where such things could be purchased for the right price. Machison and his men had disguised themselves, hid beneath shabby clothes and dirty faces. It was essential that the beneficiary of the spell do the dirty work himself; proof of intent.
The other elements were just as grisly.
The severed hand of an unrepentant thief, cut while the victim was still alive. A brush made of bone and hair, taken from a virgin right after her maidenhead was forcibly taken. Well that one wasn’t quite so difficult, he thought. Collecting the elements confirmed to Machison that the spellcraft not only assured intent but also gauged the darkness of the soul of the one for whom the spell was worked.
Some of the other elements were almost mundane in comparison: soot taken from a freshly burned body; bone powder from old remains newly disinterred; dried blood, now a dark red hue; dark blue powder made from monkshood and foxglove.
Valdis used a bone brush to paint sigils on the floor, consulting a crumpled parchment in his left hand. Machison watched, and his nose wrinkled with the smell of old tombs and rotting flesh.
The blood witch laid out the last of the components—two human finger bones lashed together with sinew. Machison had taken the bones from the hand of his victim, skinned them and peeled back the meat, stripped out the sinew. Now the bloody talisman lay in the center of the circle, waiting to be awakened as Valdis finished the ritual, creating both a refuge within the markings and an amulet to carry that power with the Lord Mayor beyond the walls of this room.
Valdis lit the candles at the four quarters of the circle, then thrust his thumb into the pots of thickened life blood and drew a red line down the side of each candle as it burned. Once again he dipped his thumb, and marked Machison with blood at the navel, sternum, throat, and between the eyes. Valdis consulted the parchment before lifting the amulet.
“I call to the discarded gods, to the powers of the hedge and byway, to the darkness of the crossroads and the forest. Hear me.”
He dripped more blood at the circle’s quarters, and then immersed the bone amulet in the bloody chalice.
“I call to the Elder Gods, and to Toloth, god of the Lord Mayors, heed my sacrifice. I have prepared a feast for you.”
Valdis marked the dead man’s hand with blood, and then nodded to Machison to recite the words he had memorized.
“I will be your hands and feet. I will do your bidding, if you grant me safety from my enemies.”
Valdis took the shriveled infant’s corpse and smeared it with blood before signalling to Machison again.
“I have done as the ritual demands. I have proven my intent. I prove it now, with my own blood.” Machison’s voice trembled and his hand shook as he set the edge of the knife against the tender skin of his forearm. He made one deep cut, sending a steady flow of bright red blood spilling over his palm, dripping to the floor.
If your plea is accepted, your life will be spared, Valdis had told him. Now came the fullest measure of proven intent, as he brought the knife down again, felt his own blood drain to seal his bargain.
Valdis walked slowly widdershins, letting the blood trail his steps as he flicked droplets from the knife.
Machison grew lightheaded, aware of his heartbeat thudding in his ears, his breath heavy in his chest. “Hear my prayer and deliver my enemies into my hand. Let me win the outcome I desire from the negotiations with Garenoth. Save me from the curse of the Wanderers, and shut the mouths of the dead against me.”
Valdis completed the circle and stood watching the room, an uncertain expression on his face, as though he feared the outcome of the dark magic.
Machison’s breath caught as he saw a silvery figure take form outside the circle. Toloth, whose oracle had spoken of fearful portents, stood before him.
“I have heard your prayer,” Toloth said in a voice like thunder rolling from the depths of a tomb. “I will grant what I can, though not all of what you plead for is within my power to fulfill.”
“But you are a god!”
“To you. I do not control Eshtamon or the Elder Beings. Eshtamon has chosen his own champions in the struggle that is to come, and the Wanderers are his blood-bound. I cannot touch them. I can only give you my favor.”
“And what will that do for me?” Machison spat, growing more lightheaded with the loss of blood. The cloying smell of incense made bile rise in his throat.
“I cannot shut the mouths of the dead. Nor am I willing to waste my power manipulating so many minds for something as trivial as a contract. But I can deliver your enemies into your hand, allow you to face them on yo
ur ground, with the advantage.”
Machison sank to his knees, relief mingling with growing weakness. “Thank you. I will give you sacrifice, make offerings, anything you demand—”
“Be worthy of the wager I’ve placed on you.”
“Wager?” Machison stared up into the god’s gaze.
“I find a game so much more interesting if I have a stake in it,” Toloth remarked. “The odds are against you, but I suspect you’ll fight nonetheless. And I shall be watching.” He gestured and Machison’s wounds healed, leaving behind tracks of dried blood.
“This is a game to you?” Machison felt his sanity teeter on the edge. He had never stopped to ask why any of the gods might heed a mortal’s prayer, bestow a miracle, or intervene for vengeance. The priests talked of chaos and primeval forces, of plans unknowable to mere men. Machison’s life hung by a thread and Toloth spoke of gambling.
“Did you expect more?” Toloth asked, amused and incredulous. “You don’t have anything to offer me, except a distraction. Now make it worth my while.”
With that, the figure vanished. A cold blast of wind swept through the room, extinguishing the candles and sending a chill through Machison that ran bone deep. Valdis appeared to be equally terrified, trembling and ashen as he stared at the spot where Toloth had stood.
The ritual had worked, but triumph tasted like ash in the Lord Mayor’s mouth. I have earned the support of a bored, jaded spirit who meddles in the affairs of creatures he clearly disdains, Machison thought, forcing down his terror.
The reprieve was bitter, but even more so was the thought that Machison had played his last card, and Toloth’s deal was the best anyone was going to offer him. He remembered the reproach of the Wanderer woman in his nightmares: the hollow words and veiled omens of the oracle; the tenuous support of his patron; the sidelong glances Jorgeson sent his way when he thought he wasn’t looking. Borrowed time. I’m running out of second chances. It’s all falling apart.
“Leave me,” he ordered.
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