“That was only part of what she wanted. She longed for immortality, yes, but only because it would allow her greater communion with the spirits. And she wanted to best that little wart Pauro. He never cared about the spirits as people, just as counters in a game he and the others played. If she hadn’t died…well, that’s in the past.”
“If she hadn’t died, she would have become a creature of evil,” Perrin said. “You cannot have wished that for her.”
“Oh, I think evil is what you make of it, don’t you?” Samretto’s trembling hand extended toward Perrin. “It matters more why we take the actions we do. You didn’t know Uriane, so you wouldn’t realize that evil simply wasn’t in her nature.”
“How many murders did she commit on her path to lichhood?” Alaric asked, his voice dangerously low. “Or are you going to argue as Ivar Scholten did, that she only killed people who deserved death?”
“She certainly never tortured anyone. I’m sure they were all painless, quick deaths.”
“You—” Sienne began, but Alaric cut her off.
“We’re not going to argue over whether your wife was justified in what she did,” he said. “She’s no longer in a position to pursue her goals.”
“That’s true,” Samretto said. “She’s content with where she is now.”
Dianthe drew in a breath. “You’ve spoken with her spirit. That’s why the necromancy books.”
“You’re quick, young lady. I couldn’t bear simply letting her go. I’d seen her summon spirits so often, it was only natural I follow in her footsteps. I never truly understood her passion until I performed my first ritual. It’s the most extraordinary feeling. You understand, don’t you?” Samretto’s dark-spectacled gaze turned on Sienne, and she saw his eyes gleam behind the smoked lenses. “You’ve done it, too. I can tell. There’s a look about those of us who’ve touched the spirit realm.”
“I didn’t—all right, I have spoken with a spirit, but it wasn’t—it was necessary to stop Master Murtaviti. I certainly wouldn’t do it for fun!” Sienne wished he’d look elsewhere. His eyeless regard chilled her.
Samretto laughed, that same high-pitched titter that set Sienne’s nerves on edge. “I wouldn’t call it fun, myself. Exhilarating, perhaps. Though I feel sorry for the spirits who are reluctant to respond. They fight the call. I don’t force them to stay.”
“You should not summon them in the first place, if they wish not to return,” Perrin said, frowning.
“Oh, but you can’t tell how they’ll react unless you call them. Besides, some of them know so much. Ancient kings, long-dead priests—”
“I cannot bear this,” Perrin said, rising abruptly enough that his chair scooted back a few inches. “We seek a particular book Master Murtaviti had. Traverse of Memory. Do you have it? Give it to us, and we will trouble you no more.”
“Now, that’s not very polite,” Samretto said, his frown matching Perrin’s. “I’ve been a good host and I think I’m entitled to a little consideration.”
“We have traveled long today and are tired,” Kalanath said. “Forgive our companion’s outburst.”
“Traveled? Yes, you said you were in Onofreo. I assume you spoke with Ivar Scholten. How is he?”
“Dead,” Alaric said. “He turned on us, and it cost him his life.”
Samretto’s mouth fell open. “You killed Ivar?”
“No, he died fleeing after trying to kill Sienne and setting his undead minions on us.”
“Even so—but then Ivar truly was an evil man, and I’m sure his death was justified. Or would you call fighting him evil, too?”
Sienne cast a glance at Alaric, whose dispassionate expression surely concealed more powerful emotions. “I don’t think it’s evil to fight for one’s life,” she said.
“Then you agree with me that evil is what you make of it.”
“I…no, I don’t. I think. I don’t know what you mean.”
“Evil is just a matter of perspective. If you take a life, isn’t it justified if that life was someone who would have killed you, or an innocent? I don’t think there’s such a thing as evil in the abstract.”
The wine had gone to Sienne’s head, or maybe it was the conversation that dizzied her. “I must disagree with you,” Perrin said. “We destroyed an undead creature whose many foul actions made him intrinsically evil. And, contrariwise, I think one would have to conclude that the avatars of God are inherently good.”
“What undead creature?” Samretto sat up, looking like a curious spaniel.
“Pauro Murtaviti achieved lichhood,” Perrin said. “We destroyed him, nearly at the cost of our own lives.”
Samretto’s mouth fell open again. Then his thin, pale lips compressed in anger. “So Pauro did it. You’d think I would have known. And you destroyed him? I’m glad to hear it. He didn’t deserve immortality.”
“No one deserves immortality at that price,” Perrin said. “Regardless of what you may think about your wife, she would have become evil if she had succeeded in her quest.”
“You keep saying that,” Samretto said, rising to face Perrin. He wasn’t trembling. “You know so little and yet you are so convinced you are right. I assure you, things are not as black and white as you insist.”
Dianthe rose to stand next to Perrin. “Why would you have known about Master Murtaviti?” she said in the quiet voice she used when she was thinking hard.
Samretto turned to look at her. “Did I say that? I should have been more careful, but you surprised me.” He raised his hand to remove his dark glasses. “Though I imagine I have a few surprises for you, as well.”
His eyes glowed with an unholy, yellow light.
25
Perrin staggered backward, gripping Dianthe’s arm and drawing her with him. Sienne went for her spellbook, but found herself held by an unseen force that froze Perrin in the act of reaching for his riffle of blessings. She couldn’t even move her head to see if Alaric and Kalanath were held as well, but heard no movement. Blinking was nearly impossible.
Samretto set the glasses down on the arm of his chair and chuckled, a more normal sound than the tittering laugh. “I intended not to reveal myself. You’re nice young people, after all, and there’s no reason we should come to blows. But when you said you’d killed Pauro—well, that and your complete wrongheadedness about the nature of my transformation—at any rate, it would be only a matter of time before you came after me. You’d probably think it was your duty or something tedious like that.”
“The amulet—” Perrin mumbled through stiff lips.
“Amulet?” Samretto felt around Perrin’s neck until he found the citrine amulet, then swore and thrust it away, waving his fingers as if they burned. “It lets you perceive the presence of the undead, is that it? I perform a ritual every morning that disguises my nature. I could hardly worship in a chapel, or pay my devotions at a temple, if that weren’t the case. You see? How can you consider me inherently evil when I’m a faithful follower of Delanie?”
“If you have to disguise your nature, you must be conscious that Delanie and her servants would reject you if they knew the truth,” Perrin said.
“How are you holding us?” Sienne said. “You’re not a wizard, are you?”
“Not at all.” Samretto slid Sienne’s spellbook out of her hand and lifted the harness from around her shoulder. “It’s a part of the ritual to become a lich. Ivar called it opening a conduit, but I’m afraid I never understood his research. It doesn’t matter. I have no need for magic—well, except in circumstances like this.” He put the spellbook on the seat of his chair. “Normally I use a drink I distill myself, one that renders my victim pliant without harming him. But I had no idea you were a threat to me. I suppose I’ll have to do this the hard way.”
“What ‘this’?” Alaric said.
“Well, I can’t let you walk out of here knowing my secret. I could make you my undead servants, but I have enough of those that it’s becoming difficult to conceal them. I�
��ll just have to kill you and bury your bodies behind the house. Nobody questions old Myles Samretto puttering about in his garden.”
“You can’t hold us forever,” Alaric said. “We’ve killed one lich and we can certainly kill another.”
Samretto approached Alaric, his hand raised as if to caress the big man’s face. “You—”
Sienne snatched her spellbook with her invisible fingers and slung it at the back of Samretto’s head.
It hit him hard enough to bounce. The old man cried out and clapped a hand to his head. The grip holding Sienne vanished, and she snatched the spellbook back, flipping it open to change. She had to force herself not to read too quickly, for once resenting the honey-sweet taste of the transform and how slow it was.
Quicker than thought, Samretto was in her face, grabbing her shoulder. A well-remembered jolt ran through her, and she cried out as the lassitude that followed it dragged her to the floor, her muscles unable to support her weight. Her spellbook fell from her nerveless hands, which turned stiff as stone. She tried to cry out again in protest, but her lungs wouldn’t respond, her throat was paralyzed, and she couldn’t even roll her face away from the scratchy rug that smelled of dust and old smoke. Spots formed before her eyes as her lungs struggled to draw in air.
“Sienne!” Alaric shouted. “Don’t let him touch you!”
It’s a little late for that, Sienne thought. Her eyes ached from dryness. She made herself breathe shallowly, but it wasn’t enough, she was going to suffocate—
A hand rested on her shoulder again. “O Lord, have patience in your crankiness, and grant me this blessing,” Perrin gabbled out. Instantly Sienne’s muscles relaxed, and she collapsed onto the carpet, sucking in air. “Do not rise until you can breathe freely,” Perrin said, and then he was gone. Sienne didn’t need the advice. She breathed deeply, hating the stink of the carpet, until her vision cleared. Then she carefully sat up, gathering her spellbook to her.
Everything was confusion. Kalanath was pinned to the ceiling by Samretto’s unnatural magic. Dianthe and Alaric both had drawn their swords, but the room was too small for them to wield them properly. Perrin gripped his riffle of blessings, clearly at a loss as to which one to use. Little fires burned everywhere, threatening the walls and the books, and another erupted near the door as Samretto flung fire at Alaric, who dodged. Sienne opened her book once again to change and read as quietly as she dared. So long as the others kept Samretto distracted, she had a chance.
She’d never cast change before and had no idea what to expect. It felt as if something were resisting her wizardry, pushing back against the image she held in her mind. The syllables of the spell came more slowly, almost slowly enough to ruin the casting. She made herself stay focused on the smoothly curving lines of the script, on the image in her head, and with the final syllable felt the spell burst away from her like a falcon stooping to its prey.
Samretto jerked. Kalanath, still on the ceiling, dropped and landed catlike on all fours. Samretto’s body blinked, and vanished. Sienne tossed her spellbook aside and dove on what he’d become. Her fingers closed over smooth, slick skin that writhed in an attempt to get away from her. With a shriek, she dragged the frog close to her chest and, panting, held it against its struggles. “Somebody help me! He’ll remember what he is in a minute!”
Alaric’s huge hands closed over hers, taking the frog away. “What did you do?”
“Transformed him. It won’t last—you have to kill him now!”
With an unexpected look of squeamishness, Alaric’s hands closed on the frog. It gave out a strangled croak, and fell still. Alaric tossed the little body into the fire, but as it hit the logs, it blinked again, and Samretto lay there, half in the fire, half lying on the floor. Alaric dragged him out of the fireplace and laid him out on the hearth. “Ew,” he said. “That was anticlimactic.”
“It is not over,” Perrin said. The fire gave off a dark, stinking smoke that stung Sienne’s eyes. “We have not destroyed his reliquary.”
“But his body can burn. There will be nothing left,” Kalanath said, retrieving his staff.
“My mentor learned this the hard way. A lich’s spirit is powerful enough to reconstitute its body from whatever is handy. We saw Master Murtaviti heal his wounds from the dark energy that fueled his undead. We do not know how many undead Master Samretto made, nor where they are. His spirit could be anywhere by now. We must find his reliquary and destroy it before he is restored.”
Sienne summoned water to fall over Alaric’s hands. He wiped them dry on the back of Samretto’s armchair. “The reliquary could be anywhere. Would it have been transformed with him?”
“I don’t think so,” Sienne said, “not with as much necromantic power as they pour into them. He didn’t have it on him.”
The door opened, startling all of them. “Master, it’s—” Mariane said. She had a small tray in her hands with a cup and a pitcher of water. She looked down at where Samretto lay on the hearth. “Master? Master!”
Alaric grabbed her, knocking the tray out of her hands and dragging her into the room. “Did you know what your master was?” he growled.
“Let me go!” the woman shrieked. “If you’ve hurt Master Samretto, I’ll have the law on you!”
“The law will be on our side. Destroying the undead isn’t a crime.”
“Undead?” Mariane’s eyes flicked nervously from Alaric to Perrin and back to Alaric. “I—he isn’t—”
“You knew something was wrong,” Perrin said. “Do you imagine anyone will believe you were not complicit?”
Mariane sagged. “Master Samretto is a good man,” she said. “We all know it. He never hurt anyone…” Her voice faded.
“You’re thinking. Good,” Alaric said. He released her, but stood between her and the door. “Did your master have a…a special object? A trinket? It might look like a large pendant, or a jewel.”
“I don’t know anything about it!”
“Start searching,” Alaric told the others. “You, Mariane. Did your master have any secret places? Where did he do his necromancy?”
Mariane’s lips tightened. “I won’t help you destroy him.”
“Your master murdered his way to becoming an undead thing,” Perrin said, pausing in his search of the knickknacks on the mantel. “However good he was to you, does that negate the evils he has committed?”
“They were all deserving of death. Murderers, rapists…” But she looked uncertain.
“Neither you nor Master Samretto are entitled to decide the fates of others,” Perrin went on. “If you knew his victims were evil, why did you not turn them over to the guard, or the magistrates, or even the sanctuaries of Averran? You chose to allow their deaths to fuel your master’s mad quest. You are as guilty as he.”
“I am not,” Mariane replied. Her eyes went wide, and her hand went to her throat. Black mist poured from her open mouth, and she convulsed, choking and thrashing as she fell to the floor. Perrin took a step toward her.
“Stop!” Alaric shouted, shoving Perrin to the side. “It’s Samretto!” He brought his sword up for a heavy two-handed swing at Mariane’s head.
Mariane rolled out of the way as the sword came whistling down at her, coming to her feet in a move too agile for a woman of her age. Her eyes glowed malevolent yellow. “You’re much smarter than I gave you credit for, mountain,” she said. “I will make you suffer for forcing me to kill Mariane. She was a good, loyal servant for many years.”
“That was your choice, lich,” Alaric said, advancing on him.
Samretto/Mariane backed toward the fire, away from him and out of reach of Dianthe as well, before coming up against his own dead body. “You’ll never find my reliquary,” he said. “It’s well hidden, far away.” He smiled as if at a private joke. “Far, far away…”
Alaric swung. Samretto caught the blade between his palms, stopping it inches from his face. “Your young Omeiran friend can do this,” he said. “Well, maybe not this.”
He switched his grip and, with no apparent effort, broke Alaric’s sword in half.
Alaric stepped backward, lowering the broken sword. Samretto threw the fragment of blade into the fire and advanced on him. Sienne opened her spellbook to change and began reading. Something picked her up and hurled her at the door, which flew open under her weight. She coughed, scrambled backward, and tried to read again. The resistance was greater than before, slowing her reading, blurring the lines of the transform together, and she knew the moment she’d failed. She tried again, focusing harder.
Samretto’s magic picked her up and held her mid-air, then shook her hard until the spellbook fell from her hands and dangled in its harness. “I won’t let that happen again,” he said, his words the more menacing coming from Mariane’s lips, and threw her down the hall to hit one of the alabaster vases. She cried out as her head and arm cracked against the wall, and she bit her tongue, tasting blood. Stunned, she lay still for a moment, then pushed herself upright and screamed at the pain in her right arm. Broken. She used her other arm to get herself to her feet and swayed with dizziness. So, not change, and force and scream wouldn’t work, but she couldn’t sit around and do nothing.
She staggered back down the hall, leaning against the wall with her left arm to keep her balance and knocking a few of the still lifes to the floor. They were ugly things, not like the Muretti—
Sienne stopped in front of it. It was a stupid idea, but it would take all of two seconds to prove. She grabbed the painting awkwardly by the top of the frame and lifted it off the wall.
Behind it was a wall safe.
Sienne stared. “Dianthe!” she screamed, and staggered toward Samretto’s study. Kalanath was on the floor, with Perrin crouched over him; by the sprawled, graceless look of his body, Samretto had paralyzed him. Dianthe and Alaric had Samretto flanked, though he seemed unconcerned about this. Alaric had thrown away his broken sword and stood with fists raised in a defensive stance that would do him no good if the lich got his hands on him. Dianthe’s sword was gory with reddish-black ooze, showing she’d gotten in at least one completely ineffectual blow. “Dianthe!” Sienne screamed again. “Over here!”
Mortal Rites Page 27
