Mortal Rites

by Melissa McShane

  “And if we attack him indirectly?” Alaric said.

  Drusilla raised one eyebrow. “You’re more intelligent than you look. If you want to destroy Pauro, you must destroy his reliquary. It is…not the source of his power, precisely, but it is what keeps his soul attached to his undead body. Destroy it, and you break the link.”

  “What is it? Where is it?” Sienne asked.

  “It is…I’m sorry, I would show you mine, but I destroyed it when I burned the rest of my paraphernalia.” Drusilla shrugged. “It takes years to assemble one, and every necromancer approaches it differently, but all must be made in part from the bones of—I would prefer not to go into the specifics. Let us just say it will be made of bone and either glass or wood, treated with invulnerability, containing a scrap of paper with ritual words written on it in the necromancer’s own blood. He may keep it somewhere on his person, as I’m sure you can see would be a way to protect it.”

  “But if it’s invulnerable, how can it be destroyed?” Dianthe said.

  “The wood or glass might be invulnerable, but the bones are not—cannot be made so. They are the weak spot, because they break as readily as any bone.” Drusilla laced her fingers together and rested them on her knee. “So you can see how it would be impossible.”

  “I don’t see,” Alaric said. “You’ve just told us Murtaviti has a serious weakness. It doesn’t sound impossible to me.”

  “Pauro is in a position to defend himself with lethal force,” Drusilla said. “The reliquary is fragile, yes, but getting at it will be more difficult than I believe—”

  A distant knock sounded at the front door. Sienne tensed. “Are you expecting guests?” Perrin asked, his face still as if he were trying to see through the far-off door.

  “No.” Drusilla rose, but stopped when Alaric took hold of her wrist.

  “I don’t think you should answer the door,” he said. “Is there another way out of here?”

  “The back door,” Drusilla said. “But it’s in the main house.”

  “Windows?” Dianthe said. “They’re big enough to fit through.”

  “I appreciate this, but there’s no need,” Drusilla said. “If Pauro has come for me, I’m not afraid to meet my God. I only hope She will be forgiving of this poor sinner.”

  “Not to be blunt, but we’re not done with you,” Alaric said. “If your knowledge will help us defeat this monster, I’m not willing to give you up to him. Now. Windows.”

  There were two large windows on opposite sides of the room, facing front and back. Both were shaded by creeping vines that almost completely obscured them and made curtains unnecessary. Neither was made to open. “Sienne?” Alaric said.

  Sienne pulled out her spellbook. “It’s going to be noisy,” she warned him.

  There was another knock, then a loud splintering, cracking sound accompanied by the shrill whine of metal stressed beyond its endurance. “That’s not an issue,” Alaric said.

  Sienne read off the honey-sweet transform break, feeling it build inside her until the final syllable shot away from her to shatter the back window. Alaric kicked a few shards out of the frame and extended his hand to Drusilla. “Quickly!”

  “Drusilla?” someone called out from down the hall. “I have the most wonderful surprise for you. Where are you, old friend?”

  Sienne scrambled over the windowsill, followed by Kalanath and Perrin. Dianthe brought up the rear. “Run!” she whispered, and took off for the far end of the house.

  As Sienne followed, she heard rapid footsteps, and violent cursing. Then, to her horror, her feet slipped, and she fell on her face. What felt like hands around her ankles dragged her backward. She screamed and struggled to grab her spellbook, turning on her back as she slid inexorably toward the window. Pauro Murtaviti stood there, his eyes glowing bright yellow like a cat’s at night. One hand extended in her direction as if summoning her. But he’s no wizard, she thought frantically, and invisible fingers can’t control anything so heavy!

  Hands grabbed her under her arms and hauled her to her feet. For a moment, she was pulled in two directions at once and screamed again at the pain. Then the pull from Murtaviti stopped, and she fell backward into Alaric, who got his arm around her and supported her. “What happened?” he said.

  “I don’t know. Get out of here. I’ll stall him.” She whipped open her book to burn and began reading. Murtaviti stepped over the windowsill and walked toward them as casually as if they were old friends he intended to greet.

  “Don’t be stupid. We’re not leaving.” Alaric drew his sword and took up a waiting posture beside Sienne just as the final syllables of burn emerged from her. Blue fire engulfed Murtaviti, making him step backward in surprise. His clothes caught fire, his head was wreathed in flames, and he slapped at himself.

  “Get Mistress Tallavena out of here!” Alaric shouted, and ran at Murtaviti, sword upraised. Behind Sienne, Dianthe cursed, then ran past with her own slim blade drawn. Sienne circled, trying to get behind Murtaviti for another spell. She hoped Kalanath and Perrin were making their escape. It was probably a vain hope.

  Alaric bore down on Murtaviti like an elemental force, raising his sword and swinging it in an attempt to behead the lich. Though Murtaviti couldn’t possibly see through the fire engulfing his head, he ducked, leaped backward with astonishing speed, and rolled, extinguishing the worst of the flames and ignoring the rest. He stopped rolling and crouched, eyeing Alaric and Dianthe, then slowly rose to stand before them. “I remember you,” he said, and snapped his fingers.

  Alaric went up in flames.

  15

  “No!” Sienne screamed. She dropped her spellbook and pelted toward Alaric. Dianthe was already there, forcing him down and smothering the flames with her sleeves drawn up over her hands. Desperate, Sienne summoned as big a mass of water as she could and dropped it on them, soaking them both. Murtaviti walked past them, again with that slow saunter, ignoring them completely.

  Sienne, her hands shaking, fell to her knees beside Alaric, whose eyes were wide and startled. Gasping for air, he felt about him for his sword. “How did he do that?”

  “I don’t know. He’s not a wizard—it doesn’t make sense—” Sienne rose and read off burn again, striking Murtaviti full in the back. He staggered, shrugged out of his vest, and dropped it to burn to ash beside him.

  “Find something else,” Alaric said. “It’s working, but it’s not slowing him enough.” He rose, shook his head to clear it, and ran after the lich, Dianthe beside him. Beyond Murtaviti, a pearly gray dome of divine power surrounded Perrin and Drusilla, while Kalanath stood in front of it, staff at the ready. Murtaviti raised his hand to snap his fingers, and Kalanath spun, bringing the staff down hard on the lich’s hand.

  Murtaviti snatched his hand back. He laughed, a horrible cackling sound Sienne had never before heard outside the stage of a melodrama. It wasn’t nearly so funny now. “You’re all trying so hard,” he said, and waved his hand. Something picked Kalanath up and flung him backwards into the dome, which compressed slightly, then bounced him off to fall hard to the ground. It was enough time for Alaric to reach Murtaviti and, with a powerful thrust, skewer him with his greatsword.

  Murtaviti turned his head to look back at Alaric. “You should know that won’t work,” he said in a chiding tone.

  Alaric withdrew the blade, which came free with a terrible rasping sound, as if Murtaviti’s flesh were iron. “Didn’t have to,” he said. Murtaviti turned away just in time for Dianthe’s sword to take him through the left eye.

  The lich jerked, flinging up his hands to grasp the sword and pull it free. Black liquid oozed from his eye socket, dribbling down his cheek. “How dare you,” he snarled, wiping away black goo as if it were ordinary tears. “I see I shouldn’t have gone easy on you.”

  Alaric raised his sword for another head-cleaving stroke and went sailing away backward into a stand of willows. Dianthe flew the other direction. She struck a tree, head-first, and fell l
imp to the ground. Sienne, frantically skimming the pages of her spellbook for inspiration, screamed and ran to her side. Blood darkened Dianthe’s blonde hair. Across what was left of the yard, Alaric struggled to his feet. Kalanath once more stood between Murtaviti and the shield dome, which was moving steadily away from the house as Perrin guided Drusilla’s feet. Then Kalanath erupted in flames and flung himself to the ground, rolling away and dropping his staff. Sienne couldn’t see what Murtaviti did next, but whatever it was, it popped the shield like a soap bubble. Perrin and Drusilla stood helpless before him, and even as Perrin brought up one of his personal shields, Murtaviti advanced on them. He was too close, and—

  Struck by inspiration, Sienne ran for the house, away from Murtaviti. As she ran, she gabbled out the sharp-edged syllables of a summoning, tasting blood. It was unorthodox, and it wasn’t exactly a weapon, but it might give them time. She stopped and faced her distant friends, Alaric racing to strike Murtaviti, Dianthe finally stirring, Kalanath reaching for his staff, and spat out the final syllables of castle.

  Instantly she was falling. She struck the ground, grateful for the overgrown grass, then ducked further to avoid Alaric’s powerful swing. “Sienne!” he shouted. “A little warning?”

  “Sorry!” She stood, staggered, and looked over her shoulder. Murtaviti was collapsed in the space she’d formerly occupied. Trading places with someone was a useless transportation spell, right up until it wasn’t. “We should run,” she suggested.

  They dashed across the overgrown lawn, not bothering to take the path. Ahead, Sienne saw the line of willows marking the edge of The Havens. Putting that between themselves and the lich would give them an advantage, though as she ran she couldn’t help thinking there wasn’t any way to stop him, that they’d have to go on running forever, and they were human and needed rest, but he didn’t.

  A wind came up, blowing the willows in a wild dance. It was so strong a wind it pushed Sienne back a few paces before subsiding. Then it was back, stronger than before, taking Sienne’s breath away. She covered her mouth and nose, making a pocket of clear air for her to breathe, and staggered forward two steps.

  Someone grabbed her wrist. A jolt ran through her, starting at her hand and shooting through the rest of her body. A strange lassitude followed it, all her muscles relaxing so she couldn’t even support her weight. She sagged, tried to move, and found her arm was stiff as stone. Then it was her chest, her neck, her legs…every inch of her felt heavy and immovable. She couldn’t even blink. She drew breath to scream and found even her lungs were unresponsive. She dragged in a slow breath, but it wasn’t enough; spots were forming before her eyes from lack of air.

  Though she couldn’t move, she could still feel the strong wind on her skin, feel the softness of her shirt and the stiffness of her leather boots. And she could hear screaming, though her addled brain made no sense of it. Whoever it was—no, it had to be Murtaviti, this was the paralysis Perrin had said he could induce with a touch—Murtaviti let go of her wrist and she fell like a statue cut off at the knees. She focused on breathing, slowly, ignoring the panic that threatened to overwhelm her.

  Someone picked her up and ran with her, every step jolting her concentration. “Just hold on, we’ll figure this out,” Alaric said. She was turned the wrong way to be able to see him, instead getting flashes of green as they ran through the terrible wind. Dianthe shouted something that was lost in the noise of the gale. At least Dianthe wasn’t terribly injured. A head wound like that—

  The wind stopped, and Alaric stumbled and caught himself. “Keep going,” he shouted. “There’s nothing we can do for her.”

  Don’t give up on me! Sienne mentally screamed. There had to be something to remove the paralysis.

  The green disappeared. Sienne caught glimpses of stone and glass, tall houses whose windows winked in the sunlight. Alaric’s breathing was heavy and ragged, and he slowed, shifting her position so she could see nothing but his shoulder. His scent filled her, reassuring her that her nose, at least, still worked, and she’d just realized that was an addled thought when he stopped and gently set her on the ground, then continued leaning over, sucking in air in great shuddering breaths.

  “This may not be far enough,” she heard Perrin say.

  “It is all we can do,” Kalanath said. “We cannot run longer. Dianthe is bleeding.”

  “I can care for that,” Perrin said. Sienne heard him mutter an invocation, but saw no green light. She hoped that was because she was looking the wrong way.

  Alaric cursed at length. “We never had a chance, did we? And that poor woman…”

  “I hope God will take into account her assistance to us when She judges Mistress Tallavena’s soul,” Perrin said.

  “We need to keep moving,” Dianthe said. “Master Murtaviti looked fairly preoccupied with…whatever he was doing to her…but that won’t last.”

  “We need help for Sienne,” Alaric said. “She’s having trouble breathing.”

  “I can attempt to heal her,” Perrin said, “but I am not sure—”

  “Do it,” Alaric said.

  A hand rolled Sienne onto her back. She had a momentary mental image of how she must look, curled in on herself like a turtle with one leg extended and both hands closed into fists, and wished she could laugh. Her lungs tightened, her vision swam, and she forced herself to be calm. She’d never appreciated breathing before now.

  “O Lord, this is not the common use for this one, but if you will, have patience in your crankiness, and grant me this blessing,” Perrin said. Immediately Sienne felt the fist around her lungs relax, and tingling began in her extremities. She still couldn’t move, but she didn’t feel quite so heavy. She tried to move her mouth, with no result, so she gave up on that and flexed her toes. That worked. She was so happy tears leaked from her eyes.

  “Dear Sisyletus, she’s crying. Damn it, you just made it worse,” Alaric said.

  “No,” Sienne managed, though the N was nearly silent. “No.”

  “It worked,” Perrin said. “Or, rather, it has begun working. I imagine a blessing specific to her condition would cure it immediately, and a healing blessing simply accelerates the natural recovery process.”

  “Really?” asked Dianthe.

  “I have no idea. It is a working hypothesis. Sienne, can you move your head? No? Can you say ‘no’ again?”

  “No,” Sienne repeated.

  “Are you in pain?”

  “No.”

  “Can you feel your limbs? Your fingers?”

  Sienne managed to twitch her fingers. “Ess.”

  “Thank Averran,” Alaric said. He lifted Sienne into his arms and kissed her forehead, somewhat awkwardly because her hands were drawn up between them. “We need to keep moving.”

  “But where to?” Dianthe said. “We can’t go home. Suppose Master Murtaviti kills Master Tersus or Leofus?”

  “We must find another of the blight,” Kalanath said. “The one in Onofreo.”

  More bouncing told Sienne they were on the move again. “I don’t really care about warning these people,” Alaric said. “It was just chance Mistress Tallavena was reformed. If the lich wants to kill them, I’m fine with that.”

  “But he will grow stronger as the days pass,” Perrin said. “And much as it pains me to admit it, we need these necromancers’ help if we are to find Master Murtaviti’s reliquary. They can fight fire with fire, as it were.”

  “He set us on fire,” Dianthe exclaimed. “How is that possible? Without a spellbook—he’s not even a wizard!”

  Sienne had been wondering that too. Fire, wind, moving people without a touch… She grunted, and Alaric said, “What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?”

  “No,” Sienne said, subsiding. She was in no condition to communicate anything so complicated as the theory she was still evolving. It had occurred to her that all those things were the kind of simple magic wizards could do without spellbooks, practically from birth. Not only that, but they were ex
actly the simple magics a wizard first manifested without having to be taught. Spark. Breeze. Invisible fingers. Granted, Murtaviti was capable of using them on a far bigger scale—she couldn’t use her spark to set a man on fire—but there had to be something there they could use against the lich. She just couldn’t figure it out. Yet.

  She concentrated on flexing her fingers and toes. They tingled sharply, almost painfully, but she welcomed the sensation. Her wrists and ankles tingled too, more faintly, which she hoped meant the paralysis would eventually wear off.

  “Onofreo is only a day’s ride away,” Alaric said. “We can push that—no, we can’t. Sienne can’t ride in this condition. And slinging her over my saddle until she recovers will wear Paladin out.”

  “We might try something else,” Perrin said. “Though I cannot imagine what we will tell the divines about how our companion ended up in this condition.”

  “The divines?” Dianthe said. “You mean at a temple.”

  “At Kitane’s temple, specifically,” Perrin said, “as they specialize in all sorts of healing.”

  “Why do we not tell them it is a lich, and ask them to fight it?” Kalanath said.

  “Mistress Tallavena was correct that divine power is useless against a lich, as my mentor told me,” Perrin said. “Or, more specifically, an avatar will not grant a blessing that will destroy a lich. Naturally other blessings may be used against one.”

  “That seems unfair,” Dianthe said. “Surely God is as opposed to liches as to any other form of undead.”

  “Evander never said why this was true. When I asked him that very question, he simply shrugged and said Averran’s ways were inscrutable. I believe, if one could truly understand the transformation that turns a man into a lich, one would know why this is the case. But it is pointless for us to rail against the vagaries of the divine will. Additionally, even if we were to tell the divines the truth, they would be likely to slow us down with irrelevant questions and possibly demand that we turn the search for Master Murtaviti over to qualified spirit-hunters. We cannot risk the delay. What other substance might we say induced paralysis in Sienne?”