Mortal Rites

by Melissa McShane

  “That’s not my fault,” Scholten said.

  Wind shook Perrin’s shield, the powerful wind of an oncoming storm. The shield made a sound like a thin metal sheet being shaken hard, a whopwhopwhop that filled the bedroom. Sienne looked out the window. The fiery barrier surrounding Murtaviti raged as if caught in a storm, flames trailing away into the sky in loops and wheels where the wind caught it. The barrier looked more ragged and less robust with every passing moment. Sienne, holding her spellbook at the ready, watched the fire struggle as if gasping for air. Finally, the barrier collapsed into flickering embers in a circle on the road, and Murtaviti stepped over them and continued walking toward the manor. Sienne blasted him a third time, but either his hearing had improved, or his magic was more skilled, because he brought the wind up again and deflected the burn spell to strike an undead standing nearby.

  “That’s it for me,” Scholten said, lowering his spellbook.

  “But he’s still coming!” Sienne exclaimed, momentarily forgetting the plan.

  “I was going to cast cyclone, but he would only counter it.” Scholten crossed the hall and sat in his chair inside the protection circle. “And he is strong enough to break through prison with no difficulties, so I don’t see the point in wasting it. You do what you like. I will wait it out here.”

  “Sienne!” Perrin said urgently.

  Sienne ran to his side. “Is she—”

  Perrin laid a silencing finger across his lips. Sienne looked out across the manor’s yard, which was lit brightly by the first barrier of fire, still burning. Murtaviti stood in front of it, directly opposite the manor door, examining it as if trying to decide whether to go around or walk through. Twenty or so undead had found their way around the barrier and were banging on the windows, trying to break them. Trying in futility, since Sienne and Scholten had made them invulnerable just over an hour before.

  And Dianthe crept forward from behind one of the oaks lining the road, sneaking up on Murtaviti like a cat stalking prey.

  Sienne bit her lower lip nervously. Dianthe was so exposed out there, visible to anyone who cared to look—except Perrin had assured them all it was not so. “This blessing,” he’d said, “conceals a person from the perceptions of any undead creature—sight, sound, even smell.”

  “And I’ll be able to sneak up and snatch his reliquary,” Dianthe had said. “Can you be more specific about the location?”

  “Unfortunately, no. I am aware that it is somewhere about his person, but that is all.” Perrin had shrugged, and added, “It is not unlikely that he has hung it around his neck, as that would be the most typical location. Master Murtaviti has shown himself to be a rather direct and unsubtle thinker.”

  Now Sienne watched with her heart in her throat, willing Dianthe to succeed. She had only one chance, because once she attacked Murtaviti, the concealment would end. She moved as if she didn’t quite believe she was effectively invisible, stepping lightly, one hand holding a long knife instead of her sword.

  She was within three feet of the lich when he turned abruptly and walked toward the gate. Sienne sucked in a breath as Dianthe leaped to one side to avoid touching him as he walked past. Careful! Sienne thought a silent warning, but Dianthe paused, watching Murtaviti to see what he had in mind. Murtaviti, for his part, clearly didn’t see her although he passed within inches of her. He stopped about ten feet back from the barrier and surveyed it again, hands on hips.

  Dianthe struck. With a couple of quick steps, she stood in front of him, reaching for the ruined mess that had once been a nice linen shirt. She drove the knife deep into his belly, making him take an inadvertent step back from the force of it.

  Sienne had a clear view of Murtaviti’s shocked face, and it made her want to cheer. Dianthe hooked his ankle and gave another thrust with the knife, bearing him to the ground with herself atop. From that angle, her body blocked Sienne’s view, but Dianthe appeared to be searching Murtaviti’s clothes.

  Perrin’s shield disappeared with a quiet pop, startling Sienne. “She’s almost got it,” she said. From below came the sounds of undead hammering on the windows and door. The beating on the unbreakable glass was a chink, chink, chink like a smith beating hot iron; the pounding on the door sounded duller and more ponderous. “Should we—no!”

  Murtaviti’s hand grasped Dianthe’s forearm. She shuddered, stiffened, and fell rigid to one side. Murtaviti shoved her away and got heavily to his feet. He plucked the knife out of his belly and tossed it, dark with some fluid, atop Dianthe’s frozen body, then bent to pick something small off the ground. He held it up to the light of the barrier of fire to examine it. It was the size of a goose egg and roughly the same shape. The light glinted off glass in an irregular pattern before he dropped it into a pouch hanging at his waist.

  “I have to get to her,” Perrin said, heading for the door.

  “No, there’s a faster way,” Sienne said, grabbing his arm and steering him toward the window. She opened her book to drift. “Count to three, then jump as far out as you can!”

  She read the spell as fast as she dared. Perrin, without hesitation, clambered over the windowsill and jumped just as the spell took effect. The spell took his momentum and carried him far from the manor, over the barrier and past where Dianthe lay. As Perrin floated toward the ground, Sienne saw Murtaviti take a running start and leap over the barrier, landing heavily and going to one knee to keep his balance. She didn’t wait to see anything else. She ran for the stairs, shouting, “He’s coming now!” As she flew past the sitting room, she caught a glimpse of Scholten starting up from his chair, his eyes wide, then she was darting down the steps and skidding along the hall to where Alaric and Kalanath waited, weapons at the ready.

  “He got Dianthe,” she panted. “Perrin’s with her—the lich is coming—”

  “Get behind me,” Alaric said. “Did Dianthe get the reliquary?”

  “She did, but she dropped it when he paralyzed her and he picked it up again. I saw it. He put it in his belt pouch.”

  “Can you take it?”

  “Maybe.” Sienne rubbed sweaty palms on her trousers. “I—”

  The dull, ponderous sound of undead beating on the door became a loud, sharp crack as the wooden frame gave way. The door sagged inward on its lower hinge. The moaning song rose in pitch as the masses of undead pressed forward, wrenching the door further. With a snap, it broke free completely and fell, bouncing once, to lie on the tiled mosaic floor. Undead forced their way through the opening, tearing at each other in their eagerness to reach their human prey. Their sallow, sagging skin bore the marks of the fire, their clothing was almost entirely gone, but they pressed forward, arms outstretched.

  Then they stopped.

  The drawn-out O sound that had filled the air vanished. The undead squirmed and thrashed like fish on a line, movements that made no sense to Sienne until she realized they were all trying to turn around in the narrow confines of the entry hall. Alaric lowered his sword. “What are they doing?”

  “I think Master Scholten reasserted his control!” Sienne almost ran upstairs to confirm her guess, but realized that she would only distract him, and the real goal was down here. “Should I try to get around behind Master Murtaviti, the way Dianthe did?”

  “Stay where you are,” Alaric commanded. “If Perrin can restore Dianthe, they’re already in position. I want you here, in case…”

  Sienne guessed he didn’t want to tempt bad luck by saying in case they fail again. She paced the room behind Alaric and Kalanath, the one with all the chairs where they’d first explained the situation to Scholten, and listened to the scuffling of the undead retreating and, hopefully, attacking Murtaviti. It was eerily silent, reminding her of another time, another battle in which their enemies also never spoke. The shouting and cries of the wounded would have been a relief, though since it was possible it was her friends who might be wounded, it wouldn’t have been much of a relief.

  More fire roared outside, making Si
enne jump. Reflexively she checked to make sure the windows were still invulnerable, which was stupid, but comforted her. They were still frosted over the way invulnerable glass was. Alaric and Kalanath looked perfectly relaxed. She wished she knew how they did it.

  Fire blossomed in the doorway, filling the hall and rolling inexorably toward them. “Sienne!” Alaric shouted, darting to the right as Kalanath dove and tumbled left. Sienne threw herself to the ground and felt the roaring fire pass over her, crisping her hair. The smell of char filled the air. Sienne rose to her hands and knees. The room had caught fire in places, but they weren’t big fires and most of them died away almost immediately. Sienne stood. Alaric and Kalanath were once again between her and the front door, but now Murtaviti stood silhouetted against the barrier of fire, staring at them with one large, mad eye. His clothes were burned past repair, his short dark hair was disordered, and his pallid skin was marked with ash, but he was smiling.

  “You again,” he said. “Why must you continually interfere with my plans?”

  Alaric didn’t respond. Instead, he raised his sword to point directly at Murtaviti’s heart. Kalanath took up a defensive position. Sienne hovered behind them, searching Murtaviti’s form for the pouch. It hung on his right side, out in the open where anyone might snatch it. She used her invisible fingers to tug on it, gently enough that he wouldn’t notice. Nothing happened. It was knotted tightly to Murtaviti’s belt. So much for that plan.

  Murtaviti took a few steps forward. “I’m really not interested in you people,” he said. “I just want a few words with my old friend Ivar. Why don’t you leave us to it?”

  Sienne examined the pouch. It was made of black leather, stitched expertly along a single seam, and gathered at the top. She might untie the knot—no, it would take too long, and Murtaviti might notice. On the other hand, if she couldn’t go in from the top, maybe she could tackle the problem from beneath…

  “Really, you can’t both fight me in this hall,” Murtaviti was saying. “It’s far too narrow. And you know I can’t set you on fire here without burning myself, and for some reason I’m quite sick of being burned. Just step aside, and I’ll let you go.”

  Kalanath moved forward, sweeping his staff in a complicated maneuver that ended with the steel-shod end pressed under Murtaviti’s chin. Murtaviti didn’t flinch. “If that’s how you want to do it,” he said, “I am happy to oblige.”

  Kalanath leaped backward as Murtaviti reached for him. Sienne took advantage of the commotion to light a spark on the pouch’s seam, at the bottom where the weight of the reliquary pulled at it. She had to dart out of Kalanath’s way, but kept her attention focused on the tiny flame that burned where Murtaviti couldn’t see it. Just a little while, no more than a minute, and—

  Alaric stepped forward to take Kalanath’s place. The hall was too narrow for a full swing, capable of taking someone’s head off, but there was plenty of room for thrusting and stabbing and short swings. Alaric forced Murtaviti back, keeping close to him, and Sienne had to follow or lose control of her spark. She saw smoke rising from the little pouch, smelled burning leather, and prayed to all the avatars that Murtaviti was too preoccupied with Alaric to notice.

  Alaric thrust again, this time skewering Murtaviti as Dianthe had done. Murtaviti laughed and stepped away from the sword. A flood of black oozing liquid poured from the wound. “You really don’t know anything, do you?” he said. “I can’t be killed that way.”

  Wisps of black fog trickled in around the doorway, wreathing the lich’s body and flowing into his mouth and nostrils. Past him, Sienne saw a couple of undead falling heavily, with black mist pouring out of them and creeping along the ground toward Murtaviti. To her horror, the wound closed up. Even Alaric seemed taken aback. Murtaviti laughed again. “I’ve changed my mind,” he said. “I’m going to paralyze each of you. Then I’m going to kill you, slowly, one at a time while the others watch.” His attention flicked to Sienne, and he smiled, a nasty, intimate expression. “You can be first.”

  With a faint tearing sound, the pouch’s seam parted, and the reliquary dropped out of it to hit the tiled floor with a tink. Murtaviti’s smile faded slightly. Sienne had time to notice that it looked like a red glass egg webbed with white before she had her spellbook open to read off the transform break.

  The spell built within her, rising from hidden depths until it burst out like an arrow from a bow bent nearly to snapping. The spell shot away from her to strike the reliquary, knocking it away from Murtaviti’s hand as he stooped to retrieve it. It rolled away toward the door. Murtaviti shrieked and turned to race after it. “Why didn’t it work?” Alaric exclaimed. “Sienne—”

  “I don’t know! Bone’s not as fragile as people think—maybe that’s it!” Sienne pushed past Alaric and ran after Murtaviti. If she hit it with break often enough, it would have to shatter.

  She began reading the spell and cut off with an oof as Murtaviti turned and lashed out with a foot, striking her in the chest. “You’re definitely first,” he snarled, and dove for the reliquary.

  A foot came down on his reaching hand. “I don’t think so,” Dianthe said, scooping up the reliquary and tossing it at Kalanath. Kalanath caught it out of the air and threw it hard at the floor. The reliquary struck the mosaic—and shattered. Fragments of frosted ruby glass flew in all directions, followed by shards of white bone.

  Murtaviti screamed. The sound went on and on until it seemed to have a life independent of the body that had produced it. The lich fell to his knees, clasping his head in his hands as if it hurt, then fell further to lie writhing on the floor. Black mist poured from his mouth and nose and ears and seeped from his eyes and the beds of his nails until he was swimming in it. Sienne stepped away from Murtaviti, not wanting any contact with the mist, and bumped up against Alaric. He put a protective hand on her shoulder.

  The mist swirled upward, now hanging like a curtain over the lich. Faces formed within the mist, unrecognizable as anything beyond simply human, and then they were gone. The mist thinned, faded, and it, too, was gone.

  Murtaviti lay motionless on the tiles, surrounded by shards of glass. Sienne saw a folded scrap of paper near his left hand, and without thinking she picked it up to read it. “Sienne, don’t!” Alaric said.

  “It’s just words. They don’t make any sense. I don’t think they can hurt me.” But she crumpled the paper into a ball and set it on fire anyway.

  She became aware that the undead had started their moaning again. “Are they attacking?”

  Perrin looked over his shoulder. “I cannot tell,” he said. “I think not. But perhaps we should investigate.”

  “I’ll go tell Master Scholten he can leave his refuge now,” Sienne said. She ran up the stairs and heard Alaric following her, more slowly.

  As she neared his sitting room, she heard Scholten say something unintelligible, something that sounded like barking. “Master Scholten,” she began, and realized he was casting a spell just as she came around the doorway. She brought up her spellbook like a shield, and something hard and cold hit her hard enough to stop her speaking. She cracked her head on something that felt like stone, and then the lights went out.

  20

  It took her a few addled moments to realize she hadn’t gone blind or unconscious; it was suddenly very dark. She heard Alaric shouting from very far away, and a similarly distant pounding. She drew in a deep, calming breath and winced at how it froze her lungs. Very dark, and very cold. Where was she?

  She clutched her spellbook to her chest with one hand and felt around her with the other. Ice froze her palm, and she snatched it away before it could take skin. Prison. He’d cast prison on her, damn it. She had barely enough room to move in here, the ice was at least a foot thick—and he was an experienced wizard, so it might be thicker—and she couldn’t see a thing. Well, that she could do something about. She calmed her breathing and made a magic light.

  Her surroundings weren’t any more congenial in the white
light than they’d been in the darkness. She barely had enough room to move, particularly with her spellbook held before her. She raised it higher, resting it against the ice wall, and breathed in slowly. The air felt like knives in her chest. She shivered and made herself relax. If she could cast castle, it would serve him right, trade places with him—but she couldn’t see him, had nothing of his blood or hair, so that was impossible. She shivered again. Jaunt, then, and she’d be out.

  She couldn’t raise her arm to turn the pages, so she used her invisible fingers to turn to the right spell and began reading. Her voice shook, and she stopped reading, then started again. She tasted blood, but didn’t dare interrupt the spell to swallow. This time, she made it to the end, but nothing happened, no moment of disorientation, no appearance elsewhere. Still too shaky.

  She wormed her hand up to cover her mouth and huffed into it. Warm air touched her cheeks, and she breathed in slowly, feeling moisture condense and immediately begin to freeze on her palm. Willing herself calm, she began the summoning again. Blood flecked her palm as she spat out the staccato syllables. Her vision was darkening, her chest ached from lack of air as well as cold, and she focused desperately on the short lines and dots of the summoning language. At the last minute, she pictured herself near the balcony of the sitting room.

  Dizziness swept over her. Blessedly warm air filled her lungs, and she closed her eyes and coughed, letting her spellbook fall to hang in its harness. Alaric’s large hands closed on her shoulders, and he drew her in to hold her tightly enough she squeaked. She opened her eyes and the world spun around her, nauseating her. She’d lost track of how many spells she’d cast, but surely she hadn’t reached her limit yet? “Where’s Master Scholten?” she coughed out.

  “Went over the balcony and floated to the ground. I’m going after him.” Alaric released her, and she staggered. She tried opening her eyes again, and this time the world held still. A running figure crossed the ground below, heading for the stables. She opened her spellbook to force, but the letters blurred together, and she made it to the window in time to vomit over the balcony rail.