If everything came together as he had planned, the iron one would be much less frightening to look on, and far more sturdy.
Japheth carefully lowered the head onto a metallic torso. He pressed, but the head failed to attach. The warlock held the head in place with one hand and grabbed a padded mallet from a clutter of tools laid out on the stone block next to the body.
He pounded the metallic head into place with the mallet. The clamor echoed off the stone walls of the niche-lined catacomb. Instead of moldering bones, wine bottles lay in some of the carved shelves, heavy with the dust of decades. Other shelves had been swept free of wine and dust, and now held alembics, scrolls, open tomes, and a litter of needful things useful for conducting rituals.
With another blow of the mallet, the head clicked into place. It was the portion of the creation that defined the rest. The metallic body, propped up on the block of cracked stone at the chamber’s center, was primed. It was an empty vessel, waiting only for an inhabiting spell with enough strength to animate it.
“Sir?”
Japheth jumped.
The steward stood in the chamber’s doorway, one hand holding a lantern, the other bearing a tray heaped with food and a cup of tea. The steward’s shadow flared down the narrow catacomb hallway behind him.
“Oh, damn me for an idiot,” said Japheth, as the plate in the man’s hands reminded him of Anusha’s gathering. He instantly realized he’d missed it.
“Lady Marhana asked that I bring this down to you,” said the steward. “Shall I just leave it here by the doorway?”
Japheth cleared his throat, then nodded. “Yes, that will be fine,” he replied. “Please convey my regrets to A—Lady Marhana. Tell her I’ll be up in just a moment.”
“No need,” said the steward. “All the other guests apparently forgot the engagement too. I’m afraid the tea is off until tomorrow.”
Regret on Anusha’s behalf swept through Japheth. It was bad enough he’d lost track of time, but everyone else as well? Anusha wanted to discuss the Sovereignty. Apparently, she was the only one.
The steward bowed and departed, leaving the chamber to the dozens of flickering candles, plus the single lantern Japheth had set on the balcony railing overlooking the chamber.
It was odd, Japheth mused. Of them all, Anusha was the one who’d come closest to being destroyed during her time trapped inside Xxiphu. She was the one he’d assumed would want the least to do with the aboleths.
But instead, she was the one most eager to discuss the repercussions of the Sovereignty’s appearance. Seren and Captain Thoster seemed willing to forget the matter entirely given that they were safely away from the aboleth city. And Raidon … Well, the warlock wondered if anything really mattered to the monk anymore.
What about himself?
Of course he was interested in Xxiphu. He owed his renewed ability to wield arcane power to the Dreamheart, and the Eldest’s bond to the eternal stars. Though his pact was better negotiated than the one he’d sworn to the Lord of Bats, he understood far less about the entities that looked out from behind the tiny points in the sky.
Then again, here he was down in the catacombs working on his project, allowing it to drive all other thoughts from his head, including worrying about the Sovereignty.
More importantly, his undertaking also did a great job distracting him from fruitless speculation about Anusha.
Because if he thought about it, he’d have to admit … that he loved her.
That was all.
Anusha made him feel real and alive, maybe for the first time ever. Just thinking about their last few hours together on the Green Siren made his breath come quicker. He would do nearly anything for her; for them. Nothing else should matter.
Anusha had feelings for him, obviously. But she also had reservations. His addiction to traveler’s dust, not to mention his star pact, was a shadow between them, as was how he’d risked everything—the world and his own sanity—for just one life, even though it was hers.
Since they’d come to stay at Marhana Manor, Anusha had been reserved. Or perhaps he was projecting his own insecurity onto her? Either way, neither she nor he had moved to initiate repeating those wondrous few hours.
He knew that part of what attracted him to her was her core of purity—her essential goodness. She wouldn’t be the person he loved if she could long tolerate his addiction to hellborn drugs. If he and Anusha were to have anything other than a dalliance, he needed to make changes.
Her feelings for him gave him the confidence to believe that perhaps he could. If someone as good and as decent as Anusha could care for him, there must be something in him worth loving, something uncorrupted by his drugs and pacts. He needed to hold on to that no matter what else happened.
Japheth had to prove himself and show her the drugs, no matter how deadly, were nothing compared to her.
He could find a way to give up traveler’s dust. He just needed time to find the right ritual—willpower alone wouldn’t be enough. A soul was irretrievably hooked after only a few trips on the crimson road. Japheth shuddered and dismissed the thoughts of the road before images of its lethal terminus could form.
Once he had kicked traveler’s dust, he would look into giving up his new pact, especially if the power ultimately flowed from an entity as awful as the Eldest. That monstrosity had nearly consumed Anusha’s soul.
But first, before any of that, he had to complete his project. It was a gift for Anusha—something sure to put a smile on her face.
He was just about done.
Japheth wrestled the iron mannequin off the stone block, gritting his teeth and grunting as he heaved it upright. If not for its hollow core, it would have been unmovable, at least by him.
Japheth released the body. He waited a moment to be sure it wouldn’t topple off its feet, then selected a piece of red chalk from the surface of the stone block. He bent and carefully drew a ritual circle on the catacomb floor around his creation. The circle was small, but that shouldn’t matter. It would focus the arcane energies just as well as something more elaborate.
He reached for the tiny pouch on the far side of the block, but his finger grazed the tin compact containing his supply of traveler’s dust.
A tremor assailed him.
The ritual he was about to attempt didn’t require an enhanced ability to see the unseen, but he supposed it couldn’t hurt. A quarter grain, just enough to get the sight, but not too much. He picked up the compact … then threw it across the room.
“No. Not yet,” said, closing his eyes. He drew several breaths, each slower than the last. The tremor in his limbs subsided.
He opened his eyes when his pulse was back to normal, then continued on without the tin lying on the block to distract him.
Japheth selected the felt bag of crushed crystal he’d originally intended. He removed a pinch of emerald dust from it and scattered it in the circle. Next he picked up a jade rod. Fracture lines ran through the rod, and the top was missing completely, but the essence held within it remained secure.
It contained the other soul he’d bargained from the Eldest’s psychic hunger: Anusha’s friend Yeva.
He hoped.
He positioned the lifeless hands of the iron mannequin so they gripped the rod.
Last, he shook out a rolled parchment from an ebony scroll-case. It was titled “Soul Dance,” and its intended use presumably involved the transfer of minds between one willing and one unwilling subject. Though his two “subjects” were a jade rod and a soulless creation of artifice, Japheth was hopeful the spell would work for what he had in mind.
He walked widdershins around the circle containing his creation, and began incanting the parchment’s scribed words. He had to keep a close count of the number of syllables uttered. The ritual required that he mentally intone a harmonizing syllable for some, but not all, of the syllables he spoke aloud. The mental syllable occurred once before he said anything, then twice on the first vocal syllable, once on
the second and third vocal syllable, once on the fifth vocal syllable, and so on. There was a trick to it; each mental syllable after the first two occurred on the sum of the preceding two.
Concentration was important.
The ritual concluded on the nine hundred and eighty-seventh syllable.
Japheth ceased moving and speaking. The echoes of the last syllables fell soft and dead, like birds shot out of a tree.
Nothing happened.
He leaned into the circle and tapped the mannequin’s metal forehead.
“Blast.”
He reached to remove the jade rod from the construct’s hand when a sound of cloth on stone drew the warlock’s attention upward.
A pale man stood on the balcony overlooking the chamber. He was dressed in black, and a small green symbol wriggled on his forehead. The warlock recognized his former patron instantly. The outline of a great dog lurked in the shadows behind the intruder.
The warlock couldn’t quite believe the evidence of his eyes. Was it really Neifion? Was he actually seeing a fragmentary vision left behind from the last time he’d sampled traveler’s dust? He blinked and shook his head to clear the phantom. There was just no way—
“Japheth,” said the Lord of Bats. “I hoped I’d find you here. How lovely. It’s been too long since I’ve enjoyed the pleasure of your company. You never visit anymore. Such a shame.”
“How did you …?”
“How did I find you?” Neifion asked, pointing to the symbol on his forehead. “I’ve got allies whose powers overwrite the rules of the world.”
Dread churned in Japheth’s stomach. The pale man was no phantom.
“Allies,” said Japheth. “Malyanna, you mean?”
“Yes,” replied Neifion. “The eladrin ‘noble.’ She consolidates her power of Xxiphu, and only grows stronger in the bargain. No, don’t worry—we haven’t woken the Eldest. Yet.”
“You would be insane to do so,” said Japheth.
The Lord of Bats waved his hand as if fending off a comment about the weather. Then he narrowed his eyes and said, “You’re still wearing my lesser skin. Return it, and perhaps your death can be merciful.”
Japheth’s cloak rustled as if stroked by a light breeze.
“If it’s death either way, I think I’ll just keep it,” he said. His words belied the chill that raced across his skin.
“Good,” said Neifion. “You don’t deserve an easy end. I cursed your name with every sugared plum and toasted pecan I choked down during the Feast Neverending. You tricked me once, mortal. Time to pay for your betrayal.”
CHAPTER FOUR
The Year of the Secret (1396 DR)
New Sarshell, Impiltur
Raidon passed the open iron gates that separated the manor from the street. He trudged up the wide steps and let himself in. The grand entry door was unlocked. Wasn’t there usually a doorman?
The front hall contained a scattering of uncomfortable looking chairs and expensive pieces of art staged on elegant stands. Over the fireplace hung a slender long sword inscribed with an elaborate crest.
The monk sat down on one of the large chairs and leaned back. Angul’s sheath pressed into his back, but he ignored it. He closed his eyes. He wore exhaustion like a cloak. Once, his inner discipline had wiped away such minor physical discomfort with barely a thought. But he couldn’t be bothered to summon the control. Besides, if he slipped off into slumber, finally, perhaps he’d be graced with another vision like he’d received in the alleyway.
A distant bang sounded through the front hall.
Raidon opened his eyes. A faint shout followed, but it was too muffled for him to make out the words. A man’s voice, though.
He put his head back and contemplated the insides of his eyelids once more. Images and sound fragments darted at the edge of his attention. Colored lanterns, songs, and scenes of New Sarshell by night danced in his mind’s eye. His mother’s voice too, telling him something of vital importance—
The bark of shattering glass drew Raidon to his feet. He recalled the missing doorman as he’d entered the mansion. It seemed the doorman’s absence wasn’t merely a coincidence.
A servant stumbled into the chamber from a side hall. “Run!” she gasped. “Vermin, everywhere, flapping—”
Raidon flashed past her. He hurried down the corridor until he came to a dank chamber alive with a plague of writhing bats.
Three house servants with brooms swatted at the swarm. Each had dozens of tiny bites on their arms and faces. Shelves and furniture in the chamber were overturned and broken.
“Where did these come from?” Raidon shouted.
“From below!” gasped a servant. “From the catacombs!” The flurry of bats was like a blizzard of coal fragments, forcing the monk to raise his hand to shield his eyes.
Raidon knew Japheth was down below, working on something. The half-elf’s mouth twisted into a bitter smile. The warlock’s dark allegiances had finally driven him mad. He’d unleashed the contents of his unholy cloak, probably as a precursor to a far more insidious curse. The man had touched the Dreamheart, and come away with something of its power.
Japheth called it a star pact. Raidon called it a deal with evil incarnate. He touched the Cerulean Sign tattooed on his chest … and discerned not the least drop in temperature. The swirling bat swarm, it seemed, was not conjured with Japheth’s new affiliation.
It didn’t matter. The sword on his back shifted slightly up and down, as if nodding.
The monk charged down the narrow stairs, taking them three at a time. The swarming bats grew thicker. They battered him with soft bodies and damp, bitter-smelling wings, and scratched him with tiny claws and needle teeth. Tiny lines of blood mazed his bare skin.
By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, the press of creatures was so thick that the light from above was blotted out. Even his sensitive eyes could hardly discern anything but swirling motes of hungry black.
He concentrated on his Cerulean Sign. The stylized tree pulsed into wakefulness. Sky blue light illuminated the narrow stone corridor, bewildering the bats with its sudden radiance. Raidon took advantage of their disorientation to sprint down the corridor.
Raidon had never ventured into the winding corridors beneath the manor before. The narrow way was thick with branching off corridors and sealed doors, but the monk just followed the press of bats.
Five heartbeats later, he burst into a wide chamber with a ceiling that arched high over the floor.
Raidon saw Japheth through the flurry of wings. The warlock was sheltering behind a metallic sculpture. Scratches crisscrossed Japheth’s face, just like those covering the monk’s face and forearms.
A pale man in oddly formal dress stood on the overlooking balcony, his arms wide. An aberrant glyph hovered on the man’s brow. Raidon sensed terrific power in him. He was also the source of the swarming bats; they issued from his open coat. He was obviously the Lord of Bats, Japheth’s old patron.
Raidon was disappointed that the warlock wasn’t his foe after all. At least, not immediately.
The Lord of Bats shifted his gaze to Raidon. The man’s features were human with a fey cast, but his eyes were like pools of stagnant black water. The wriggling mark above his eyes evoked chill alarm in Raidon’s Cerulean Sign. Whatever questionable moral path Japheth was on, the man on the balcony had already arrived.
“Allies will avail you not, Japheth,” said Neifion.
“We’re not allies,” said Raidon. Then he charged, vaulting onto the chamber’s central stone block. Candles, rods, glass vials, and other bits crunched beneath his feet. He used the block to propel himself into a high, arcing trajectory toward the balcony. He pulled his arm back, preparing a devastating blow to coincide with the termination of his arc.
The Lord of Bats raised his hands and pronounced a word of power even as Raidon’s foot left the block. As the monk arced up through midair, vines studded with poisonous thorns burst from the balcony’s railing.
Raidon plunged into the newborn thicket. The vines instantly wrapped around him. He grunted with surprise as the venomous thorns pierced his skin and held him fast.
“Pathetic,” said Neifion. He looked at the immobilized monk and said, “A hundred curses take you, Shou.”
A sharp pain pierced Raidon’s left temple.
The Lord of Bats stepped closer to Raidon, with one hand up. Claws the size of small daggers burst from the end of each of his fingers.
Raidon tensed every one of his muscles, then relaxed. The vines responded with a moment of slack. In that moment the monk forced one arm up across his body until his hand rested on Angul’s hilt.
His exhaustion puffed away. Numbness from the spreading poison receded. Even the jagged fractures of his mind smoothed out into a glow of calm conviction.
Neifion’s claws bit and dragged across Raidon’s ribs. Skin and muscle peeled away, revealing white bone. Pain seared, then Angul’s cerulean strength numbed Raidon’s mind to the awful trauma.
The Lord of Bats reared back for another blow. It promised to rip out the half-elf’s spine, Angul or no.
A vortex of starry energy swirled up between Neifion and the half-elf. Streamers of glowing gas engulfed the Lord of Bats. The archfey screamed in rage as his second claw swipe went wild.
Raidon hauled Angul from his sheath and ripped through the entangling vines with the extra strength the blade lent him. He swept it down, slicing through the remaining poisonous thicket in a single scything cut. Healing energy continued pouring from the hilt through his bloody body. The grievous wound on his side began to knit.
“Strike Neifion down, Raidon! Before he recovers!” came Japheth’s shout.
Raidon spared a glance over the railing. The warlock had emerged from behind the iron sculpture. One hand pointed up at the balcony; it was sheathed in the same starry mist that had slapped Neifion away from Raidon. The warlock’s other hand held open his cloak. Bats flowed out of the catacombs and into the black folds as swiftly as a river during spring melt.
Key of Stars Page 4
