“You told me.”
“Yes, but you don’t know what it was like to live there. The Oligarchs pay little attention to what happens in the streets most of the time. The magistrates have little power to keep order, and the guardsmen are all under the pay of this guild or that. For generations, there’s been only one kind of justice for the poor in West Lodinburg—mob justice.”
“What does this have to do with Victus?”
“I’m getting to that.” Khora held up a threatening finger. “There was an old man that lived on the next street from ours. He was known for being handsy, if you know what I mean, especially with the girls. Everyone knew to stay away from him, but one day he caught me by myself and…took liberties.”
Dormael winced. Her story made him recall the night he’d found Bethany in the colonel’s bedroom in Castle Ferolan, beaten and clothed in something no child should be wearing. Disgust welled up in him, and he banished the memory.
“I’m sorry, Khora. Really, I am.”
“It was a long time ago,” Khora said, a moment of genuine thanks flashing over her face. “My sister found us. I don’t remember much about what happened. I was crying, she was screaming. The old man…well, my sister raised her hand toward him—and I still remember the look on his face, Dormael—she raised her hand and he started to burn.”
“Your sister was Blessed.”
“As was I, though we didn’t know until that day.” Khora stared at her hands for a moment, though her gaze was turned inward. “Her power awakened, and in my proximity to her, mine awakened as well. You know what it’s like when your magic comes alive for the first time. You’re drunk with it, mesmerized by it—just as we were, as we stood and watched the old man burn.”
“Gods, Khora.” Dormael gave his old friend a sympathetic glance. “I’m sorry.”
Khora gave him a pained smile. “That’s not the end of the story. Someone saw us there, standing by while the old man burned alive. Shouts went up, and before long, a mob was formed.”
“What happened?”
“The boy who saw us was no more than five springs old,” Khora said. “He told the ringleaders of the mob—we used to call them Elders, if you can imagine—that he saw my sister with her hand raised, burning the old man for what he had done. The whole neighborhood knew about the man, you understand. It didn’t take them long to decide what had happened, and what needed to be done.”
Dormael knew well the attitudes of most people in Alderak toward wizards. Children who manifested the gift for magic were persecuted by and large. He could imagine the scene well enough. He’d heard plenty of stories like this before.
“Even in a city as old as West Lodinburg, I guess people can be backwards,” he said.
“That and more.” Khora nodded. “They ripped my sister from my arms, from the arms of my father. Beat her while they dragged her to the public square and tied her to a stake. I had to watch her burn like the old man, had to hear it with my Kai, Dormael. That’s what people are like, that is what this world is like.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Keep your apologies.” Khora handed him the pipe. “That was the year before I came to the Sevenlands. My father sold all he owned to bring us to Ishamael, so I could live the life my sister never could. Now that I’m here, now that Victus has made his move, I wonder if it’s a bad thing to have someone like me pulling the strings of power. I wonder if the established order—the thing that contributed to the death of my sister, and others like her all over Alderak—is really worth preserving.”
“I think you’re trading the tyranny of the mob for another kind of tyranny,” Dormael said, “but I’m no Philosopher. So there’s no convincing you to untie me and let me go?”
Khora smiled. “I had hoped to convince you to return with me. There’s no hope for D’Jenn, but you and the little girl could return and rejoin our ranks.”
“No hope for D’Jenn, eh?” Dormael snickered. “I guess the assassination attempt sealed his fate.”
“Victus was adamant on that point. He was convinced you would need killing as well, but I hoped it wouldn’t come to that.”
“You think I would betray D’Jenn? Betray my own family?”
“You’re a father, now,” Khora said, leaning toward him. “Think of that little girl, Dormael, of the life you’re going to give her. You’re thoughtless sometimes, my friend, but I know you have a good heart. Don’t let her live a life of chaos like the one I had to endure. She will be safe at the Conclave, her power nurtured and encouraged.”
Dormael laughed. “And I could trust Victus with her training, is that it? I could trust that he wouldn’t use her for his own designs the way he’s used the rest of us? You must think me a fool.”
“Look around you, Dormael.” Khora gestured at the woods. “Where are you going to go? Even here, in the most untamed wilderness, I found you. You’re lucky it was me, too. Others would have killed you at the riverbank. What were you doing, anyway? You looked like you were having some kind of fit.”
Dormael thought of the Silver Lady and felt heat in his chest at her memory. He imagined her song filling his ears, and goosebumps rippled up his arms. His need for her was an ache deep in his belly, a hole that could only be filled by her furious melody of destruction.
“I was wrestling with a ghost.” Dormael banished thoughts of the woman in the Nar’doroc. “Nothing to worry about.”
Khora gave him a long, considering look. “I don’t want to kill you, Dormael. I’m not a true believer in Victus’s agenda, nor do I care that so many have died in this struggle. Life is one brutal struggle or another. All we can do is pick our sides.”
“I think you’ve chosen wrong. You’re better than this, Khora.”
“No one is better than anyone.” Khora shook her head. “We’re all killers here, Dormael. All schemers. I’d hoped I could get through to you, but I see now it was a bad idea.”
“You should have killed me back at the river.”
“I’m soft-hearted sometimes.” Khora gave him a mocking grin. “If you tell me what I want to know, I promise to make your death painless.”
“What a friend you are.”
“Soft-hearted, remember?”
“This has happened to me before, you know,” Dormael said. “Torture is no fun. Can we just skip that part and get straight to the painless end?”
“Tell me about the artifact and I’ll think it over.”
“You’ve seen the ruins of Orm?”
Khora leaned forward, peering into his eyes. “So it is true. People saw the conflagration, you know. All the way down to the bogs, like a glow on the northern horizon. How did it happen?”
“Fire,” Dormael said, leaning back in his bonds. “A fire so hot the hillside itself burned. The very stones cracked and melted. Everything was destroyed.”
“By the gods’ own teeth.” Khora sat back on her haunches. “No wonder the old man wants it so bad. What else can it do?”
“Ruin.” Dormael shook his head. “That’s all it can do, Khora. Just…destruction.”
Khora eyed him for a long moment. The fire crackled behind her, and Dormael spared a moment to wonder at why the woman risked such a thing out here. The light and smell should have been a beacon to any Garthorin within range.
“Why have you not turned this weapon against him?” she asked.
“Against Victus?” Dormael said. “You’re starting to remind me of her.”
“Who?”
“Never mind.” Dormael banished the Silver Lady from his thoughts again. “What should I do, Khora? Burn Ishamael to the ground? Melt the stones of the Conclave?”
“Could it do that?”
Dormael gave her an angry glare. “It could do that and more. You would put that kind of power in Victus’s hands? The power to destroy entire cities?”
“What else do you know of this thing, Dormael? What did you and D’Jenn find at the ancient temple?”
“Secrets,” said a voice
from behind Khora.
Khora rose to her feet, kicking up dust as she spun to face the intruder. Dormael heard her song in the ether as she embraced her Kai, filling herself with magic. It happened so fast that Dormael was stunned, and it took him a moment to process what he was seeing.
D’Jenn stood at the edge of the clearing, regarding Khora with a stony glare. Dormael traded a quick, surprised glance with him, then started to struggle against his bonds. Khora focused her attention on D’Jenn.
Is he really here? How in the Six Hells did he find me?
“D’Jenn,” Khora said. “Where are you? Your song is faint. You can’t be too close.”
D’Jenn smiled. “Close enough to track you down, Khora. How are you? You look strong.”
“You look like you haven’t eaten in a while,” she shot back. “You’ve got dark circles under your eyes. It must be stressful, running from Conclave justice.”
“Justice.” D’Jenn snorted. “Justice, indeed. And you’re right, I haven’t eaten in a good while. Why not throw something on the fire? We’ll be along shortly.”
Dormael’s Kai was still singing, and he tried to pull his magic from the ether. His stomach gave a heave in protest. He barely held the vomit in his throat—probably because he had little on his stomach but water—and his whole body was sweating as he tried to let go of his magic.
I must be more exhausted than I realized. That, or Khora did something to me.
“You can’t be that close, D’Jenn,” Khora said. “I can hear the distance in your song. You must be straining to see even this far, harder to manifest your form. Couldn’t even lift a twig from the ground at this distance, could you?”
D’Jenn uttered a dramatic sigh. “Everyone is so impressed with strength. Didn’t we all attend the same lectures as initiates?”
Father, Bethany’s voice whispered in Dormael’s head. It’s me.
Dormael gave a start. Bethany?
Sorry about the river, she sent back. I didn’t mean to do that.
Dormael’s eyes went to Khora’s back, but she didn’t seem to notice Bethany’s presence in the ether.
It’s alright, he replied. When did you learn to do this?
D’Jenn is doing this. I’m just helping. Give me just a second.
Bethany?
I need to concentrate.
Bethany, if Khora hears you—
She won’t hear me. Big people never notice me. I just need to touch one. Just…one…
Dormael felt the ropes tug against his chest. He could hear the faint melody of Bethany’s song, but it was being drowned out by the songs of both Khora and D’Jenn. Sweat beaded on Dormael’s forehead as he watched Khora’s back for an indication that she’d noticed, but the woman never took her sight from D’Jenn’s apparition.
“How long have you been following us, Khora?” D’Jenn said.
“Since word came back that Mataez had failed. I’m not surprised you killed him. I’m surprised you survived the Deacon, but I doubt Mataez could have taken you on his best day.”
“I appreciate the confidence.”
Khora shrugged. “It’s the truth. What are you doing here, D’Jenn? Come to watch me torture your cousin?”
Dormael’s ropes gave another tug. Sweat dripped into his eyes, and he wiped it with the ropes binding his wrists. Bethany’s song warbled with irritation.
Come on, the girl said in Dormael’s mind.
“You wouldn’t torture him, Khora,” D’Jenn said. “You said it yourself—you don’t want to kill him. Why not call a truce? Let’s talk about this. Maybe we can come to an understanding.”
Khora snorted. “I’m not keen to be the next Warlock on the Deacon’s death list. I can see the way the winds are blowing, D’Jenn. Would that you could have done the same. Did you get Vera’s letter?”
D’Jenn’s expression darkened into a scowl. “How do you know about that?”
“Women talk, D’Jenn.” Khora laughed. “Speaking of women, Serafana is cross with you. She’s taken up your Coin, D’Jenn—just yours. Sworn to kill you or die trying.”
D’Jenn’s hand went to something hanging around his neck—a lover’s knot he’d taken from Mataez’s body. He’d shown it to Dormael during their argument at Orm, and Dormael knew D’Jenn wore it hidden in his shirt. Khora looked over her shoulder to check on Dormael, giving him a momentary scowl that said don’t try anything. Dormael replied with a wan smile.
“Serafana is free to try,” D’Jenn said, bringing Khora’s gaze back to his apparition. “I’m more worried about you at the moment.”
“You always were an intelligent man,” Khora said. “D’Jenn, if it means anything, I am not enjoying this. We both know it must be done, though.”
D’Jenn’s expression didn’t change. “We’ll just have to disagree about that.”
“Then let us be done with it,” Khora said. “I’ll be seeing you soon, D’Jenn. Keep an eye out for me.”
“Very well.” D’Jenn raised his hand, bringing a small pebble zinging from the ground. Dormael heard his song strain to make it happen. Khora was right about the distance. Her magic responded as she made her own gesture, catching the pebble against an invisible shield with the slightest of efforts.
“So you can do a little something from this distance.” Khora smiled. “Consider me impressed.”
Bethany’s song whispered through the ether again, and Dormael felt the ropes against him tug and slacken.
Got it, she said. Run!
“You shouldn’t be so smug.” D’Jenn scowled at Khora. “It’s ugly.”
Dormael felt spiders crawl over his skin as Bethany’s song roared through the evening, no longer attempting subterfuge. D’Jenn smiled at Khora as she realized what was happening. He clenched his fist just as she strengthened her magical defense, and the pebble trapped between them began to smoke with heat. Khora’s feet slid backwards over the ground as she tried to hold it back, but the pressure of Bethany’s magic was more than she could handle. D’Jenn, in control of the link, pushed Khora across the clearing.
“Get up, you fool!” D’Jenn shouted.
Dormael shook his head to clear the nausea in his stomach. “Right!”
He struggled with the now-slackened ropes, twisting around to pry at them with his fingers. Dormael’s wrists were still bound together, and it made his ministrations awkward. He glanced up and locked eyes with Khora, who scowled and turned in his direction. Dormael took cover, scrambling like mad to free himself from the tangle of rope. He felt a moment of panic as he sensed Khora’s magic gathering to strike.
Bethany’s song rang out again, D’Jenn’s melody intertwined. Magic flew everywhere as D’Jenn went on the attack, forcing Khora to turn her attention away. Crimson light flickered through the shadows, the campfire jumped and twisted. Twigs and sticks crawled over the ground in Khora’s direction, but she pounded them into the dirt with an invisible fist. Warbling energy blazed to life only to be banished moments later by spears made of shadow.
Dormael twisted free, wrestling himself from the ground. Khora raised a hand in his direction, light gathering at her palm. Dormael dove to the left, rolling over his shoulder as something sliced through the space in which he’d been standing. He felt D’Jenn respond with an attack of his own, and Dormael scrambled to his feet, searching for a weapon. His eyes fell upon his boots and he smiled.
The dagger was still there.
Dormael stomped on the side of the boot to yank the dagger free, gripping it in awkward hands. He scrambled away from the fire as Khora saw him and sent her magic whipping in his direction, causing the flames to reach for him. The heat was intense for a short moment as he quick-stepped away, but Khora was forced to divide her attention as D’Jenn covered his escape. Khora screamed in wordless frustration.
Dormael charged, hoping to bowl the woman over while she struggled with D’Jenn. She saw him coming and raised her hand, but was forced to turn and engage D’Jenn as he attacked. Dormael ran int
o an invisible barrier, almost dropping the dagger as he busted his nose on the hardened air. Khora turned an angry look in his direction, gathering herself to strike.
D’Jenn’s Splinter whistled toward her power, and she screamed again as she was forced to drop her magic. Dormael felt the pressure against his body let up and he stumbled toward her—right into the kick she’d aimed at his face. He grunted as his teeth clacked together, a bright flash erupting over his vision. He felt her grab hold of the ropes binding his wrist and try to wrench the dagger away. Dormael struggled with her, kicking down at her knee, but Khora was quick.
She danced out of range, abandoning her grip on his wrists, and summoned her Kai just in time to block a tentacle of flame that had jumped from the campfire. Dormael pushed forward despite the pain in his mouth, trying once again to tackle Khora to the ground. She gestured at him with an absent flick of the wrist, yanking his ankle out from under him. He hit the dirt with another grunt of pain. There was a rushing sensation, dirt and debris scraping across his face, and he slammed hard into a tree.
Dormael’s world went blurry, warring magics singing in the distance. He tasted blood in his mouth, felt something gritty in his teeth. He coughed into the dirt and tried to get up, but dizziness made his arms give out. His skull pounded with eye-clenching pain.
Dormael tried again to use his magic, but the nausea made him heave.
“You can’t keep doing this!” Khora shouted from near the fire. “You’ll exhaust yourself before—”
Her voice cut off as magic sang through the ether. Dormael spat into the dirt and pushed himself up on his knees, trying like all Six Hells to keep his head from spinning. His stomach gave another heave as he rose, threatening to empty itself of what little water it had retained.
Why is my magic not working?
Dormael had been exhausted when Khora had caught him, which had interfered with his Kai, but he should have had at least a meager capacity to channel his power. Instead, it resisted his every attempt, as if he were near to going under from overusing it. He couldn’t have been using magic while he was unconscious, and every bit of established lore he’d been taught said he should have been in better shape to use his magic after his slumber, regardless of its circumstances.
The City Under the Mountain (The Seven Signs Book 4) Page 18
