Accidental Sorceress (Hardstorm Saga Book 2)

by Dana Marton

  By the time Batumar finished, his jaw was so tense he could barely get the words through. But he managed to add, “You did not think this important enough to tell me.”

  I thought his anger most unfair. And worrying. Was this why he had sent for the Lady Lalandra the day before? Because I had displeased him?

  If I were lost, he would still have a palace full of concubines, I wanted to tell him, but cast aside the childish impulse. “The Emperor wants to kill us all. If he desires me dead, a small measure more than all the others, what difference does it make?”

  Batumar glowered. “It makes a difference to me. When Shartor came over the wall so close to you during the siege, that was not by chance. He meant to capture you. Or worse.”

  I shivered. Shartor, Karamur’s soothsayer, had always wished for my death. But he could no longer hurt me. He had perished in the siege. Best not to think of that now.

  I kept my silence for a while to let Batumar’s anger lessen. I lay next to him without a word for as long as I could.

  “In truth, I am to go with you?” I asked then with care, needing to hear the words again.

  “You are not to leave my sight,” he said roughly, and gathered me against him even more tightly, his strong arm holding me willing captive.

  My heart thrilled. “We could go as a traveling healer and her guard.”

  And after a moment, he nodded. “But nobody can follow us to Barren Cove. Nobody can know that we left the island to cross the ocean. We must go in secret.”

  “How?”

  His wide chest rose and fell. “There is a way.”

  I waited, seeing, for the first time, a small measure of doubt in his eyes.

  At long last, he said, “We shall go through the mountain.”

  I stared at him. “A secret passage through the mountain to Barren Cove, then a journey on a pirate ship across the uncrossable ocean?” I shook my head. “Have I fallen into a children’s tale, my lord?”

  The corner of his lips twitched, and his hold on me relaxed. “Let us hope not, my lady. As I recall, many of those tales end most grimly.”

  “So there is a way through the mountain?” I never heard but the most superstitious servants talk about that before. To hear the High Lord of the Kadar utter such words shocked me more than a little.

  “The tales are true.”

  I stared at him. “Everything?”

  “They say dark spirits and old gods live deep inside the mountain.”

  “And you do not fear them?”

  “Can they be worse than being overrun by the Kerghi?”

  They very possibly could be. I did not say the words.

  He let me go and sat up, undressed for sleep. When he unlaced my gown in the back, I undressed too, leaving on only my shift.

  When we were under the furs, he gathered me back to him. He kissed the corner of my eye, then the corner of my lips. But even as I craved his touch, I thought, did he kiss the Lady Lalandra yesterday?

  I pressed my lips together, hating that thought with every fiber of my being.

  He leaned his forehead against my temple and expelled air from his lungs, his warm breath fanning my neck. “We might not get much sleep for a long time to come. I should not take advantage of you this way. Tonight we rest.”

  Because Lady Lalandra was here yesterday? The bitter taste of jealousy bubbled up my throat. I swallowed it. Think of something else.

  The fire popped and crackled in the hearth.

  “Have you been inside the mountain before, my lord?”

  He did not answer at once. He closed his eyes for a moment then opened them again. “Vooren’s grandfather has. And he lived to tell the tale.”

  Vooren was one of the High Lord’s stewards. Since Batumar’s last words sounded hesitant, I waited, and when he said nothing more, I prodded. “My lord?”

  “He did not come out as he went in.”

  “How so?”

  “He went in with nine other warriors, all men in their prime. He was the only one to return, aged to an old man in a mooncrossing’s time, his hair white, his back stooped, his eyes blind.”

  Unease slithered up my spine. “What did he say?”

  “He did not talk much for the rest of his life, but once or twice to his eldest son. Before he died, he passed on the secret of safe passage. And his son, on his deathbed, told his own son, Vooren.”

  Impossible, I thought for the dozenth time.

  Yet I found I could not worry about our journey, for I found it far out of the realm of all possibility. One perilous threat I could have feared. But the plan had so many as to make comprehension impossible.

  In truth, I only half believed there would be a journey. I would not have been surprised if we set out and found no path through the mountain. And even if we somehow found our way through or around the mountain and found the hidden cove, I could not fathom finding pirate ships in it, certainly no ship that would brave the hardstorms of the wild ocean.

  On all that, I was wrong. Were that I were right. For never have I regretted anything as I grew to regret the dawn when we left the fortress city.

  Chapter Three

  (Dark Passage)

  “They say dark spirits and old gods live deep inside the mountain.” Batumar’s words echoed in my dreams. Troubling images haunted my sleep, dangerous caverns that threatened to swallow me up, invisible eyes watching.

  The High Lord woke me before the first light of dawn with a gentle kiss, but I could not shake my dark premonitions. Even in his arms, I shivered.

  He dressed quickly, plainly like any ordinary warrior, not that he could ever look ordinary. He was a man born to lead, strength evident in his every move.

  My own Shahala tunic and pants, along with a pair of scuffed, fur-lined leather boots, waited at the foot of the bed. A quilted wool cape would keep out the chill of winter. Batumar had even my healer’s veil brought in.

  “I mean to take some herbs,” I said as I pulled on my clothes. Having my herbs near me always made me feel better, and we would likely need them on our journey. Even if we did not, I needed them for my traveling healer disguise to be complete.

  I caught Batumar’s gaze on me, and I thought I saw hunger flare in his eyes, but it might have been a trick of the dim light.

  He looked away, draped a heavy fur cloak over his own shoulders, and picked up the lone candle to inspect the maps one more time. The scars on his face were more pronounced in candlelight.

  That light was a small circle around us, nothing but darkness outside it, as if we were already in the belly of the mountain. I shivered.

  “My lord,” I began, then hesitated. What use was it to tell him that I felt danger all around?

  He looked up, waited. Then, when I still said nothing, he set down the candle. “We must make haste.”

  So I hurried to the kitchen, where I wrapped bunches of herbs in cloth and hung the little bundles from my belt. Since the belt could not hold everything, I took a paring knife and cut small holes in the inside quilting of my hip-length tunic and stuffed more herbs in there. And then I did the same with my wool cloak, loading even more herbs into the lining.

  When I thought I had everything I would most likely need, I found a simple leather sheath for the knife and tied that to my belt as well.

  I did not go by Pleasure Hall; I hurried straight to the High Lord’s quarters, where the steward, Vooren, already waited in the antechamber.

  He was a gaunt man, with a scrawny neck and one lazy eye, but with much kindness in him. He had greatly helped me with my healing work after the siege by providing all the supplies, no matter what he had to do to obtain the items I needed.

  “My lady.” He bowed deeply, torchlight glinting off his bald head. When he straightened, worry lines crisscrossed his narrow face. “Are you certain?”

  “Most certain. You need not worry about me, Vooren.”

  Batumar strode from his bedchamber, fastening his sword belt, with the great broadsword he carrie
d to battle, not the ceremonial, jeweled sword of the High Lord.

  He attached two water flasks to the belt on his other side, next to a food sack already hanging there. When he finished, he stepped over to me and looped two more water flasks onto my belt, which were immediately lost among the bunches of herbs.

  As the last step for our preparations, he picked up the coil of rope the steward must have brought, and looped it around his torso, diagonally from shoulder to hip, over and over, until he reached the end, which he tucked in securely.

  I thought all this most sensible, except maybe the size of the food sack.

  Batumar caught my gaze. “More would be difficult to carry through the mountain. But the pirates will stop at Rabeen before sailing out to the open sea. I shall purchase more supplies at the market.”

  I relaxed a little. Maybe he had planned the journey more carefully than I had thought. Rabeen was the last small island before the inhabited rocky Strait of Ghel, through which we would sail.

  Batumar nodded at Vooren, and the steward grabbed the lone torch from its sconce and led the way.

  We moved down hallways and stairs rapidly, for the servants would wake any moment. The lowest levels of the palace waited, and we cut through storage rooms, then the dungeons, mercifully empty, then down more dark stairways.

  We were in the very lowest level of the palace, a level I had not known existed. No sconces had been hammered into the walls. I did not think the servants ever came down here.

  At the next turn, a sack waited with unlit torches, and another with more food and water the steward must have prepared for our journey. These we took with us, but not far.

  Vooren reached a dead end where old flags leaned against the wall by the dozen, their colors faded, their fabric moth-eaten. For a moment, I thought he had lost his way, but he and Batumar moved to set the flags aside, and, as we all choked on the dust, a rock wall appeared with a heavy cast-iron door in the middle.

  The chain sealing the door was as thick as my arm, gleaming darkly in the flickering light, secured by iron loops in the bedrock, fastened with a cast-iron padlock the size of my head.

  The steward handed Batumar the burning torch, then lifted an ancient key from his belt and forced it into the ancient lock with considerable trouble. He had to use both hands to turn the key.

  Then Batumar handed the torch back to him and, straining and grunting, pulled the enormous chain free, dropping it to the ground in a heap. The three of us were needed to open the door that creaked on its hinges, the sound like a warning scream from an ancient spirit.

  My heart clenched.

  The darkness that gaped beyond the door was absolute, the stale air that rushed out so cold as to be unnatural. It had a taste I could feel on my tongue even after I pressed my lips tightly together, a coating like thin slime made out of fear.

  A shiver of apprehension skittered up my spine, prickling my skin like a needle-legged centipede. For no reason at all, I suddenly thought of my great-grandmother the sorceress. I had a strong sense of something coiled at the heart of all the darkness, lying in wait.

  I was awash in a premonition that by crossing the threshold, we were doing something that could be never undone.

  I watched with dread as Vooren stepped in first, torch held high. Batumar gestured for me to follow the man. I could not hesitate. If I did, if the High Lord knew I had fear in my heart, he might yet change his mind and leave me here under the protection of the Palace Guard. I gritted my teeth and moved forward. Batumar followed close behind.

  Sprit, be strong. Heart, be brave.

  I drew small breaths of the frigid, stale air, thick with the smell of mold and long-dead things. The goose bumps on my arms became permanent when, after but a few steps, the passageway widened into a great cavern.

  I could only judge the size by the echoes of our footsteps. Our torchlight touched neither the walls nor the ceiling. As we progressed forward, I had the strong sense of being watched, but when I closed my eyes and reached out with my spirit, I could sense no other life beyond the three of us.

  “What is this place?” I asked Batumar, barely daring to breathe the words.

  Vooren answered me instead. “An ancient temple, my lady.” He too kept his voice to a whisper, as if here lived things best not disturbed.

  “Whose temple?” The question slipped out without thought, and I wished I could call it back.

  But Vooren had wisdom enough not to answer. Dark spirits and old gods were best not named in a place like this. To name them would be to call them.

  All sense of time and space disappeared as we felt our way forward on uneven ground. Nothing existed but the three of us and our small circle of light.

  I knew of distant people who believed that a man’s spirit journeys through a dark underworld after death, to be reborn again in light. I thought now I knew what such a journey might look like. And hoped we would indeed someday again see the winter sun.

  I could not fathom how the steward knew which way to go. We could have been walking around in circles. If we suddenly reached our entry point again, I would not have been surprised.

  But, as if knowing what I was wondering, Vooren stopped and lowered his torch so I could see what I had missed before.

  A black handprint on the stone under our feet.

  I blanched with recognition. Old blood.

  Blood sacrifice? All the fine hairs on my body stood straight up.

  But the steward said in a voice laden with gratitude, “My grandfather had marked out a safe path.”

  We proceeded forward, then suddenly reached the end of the cavernous space and entered a narrow corridor carved into the rock, the passageway here low even for me. Batumar had to duck his head as he followed.

  And then the walls closed around us even tighter. Soon we were on our hands and knees, crawling forward, sharp rocks cutting into my palms. Vooren before me stirred up ancient dust, making even breathing difficult.

  When a more spacious passageway opened to our left, the steward passed it by. I barely caught sight of a black mark on the wall by the opening before the torchlight moved on. My body ached to straighten. I opened my mouth to beg the steward to take the easier way.

  But before I could have uttered a word, he said, “That passageway is where my grandfather lost his sight. In there, my father told me, poison weeps from the walls.”

  I shuddered as we crawled forward.

  And crawled and crawled until my arms and legs shook from exhaustion, my back cramping. Despite the cold, sweat beaded on my forehead.

  “Night must have fallen outside by now,” Batumar said behind me. “We should rest.”

  He was probably only stopping for my sake and the old steward’s, but neither of us protested. We collapsed where we were, then rolled onto our backs. The ceiling of our tunnel was so low that I could have easily reached out and touched it.

  Batumar passed forward the food sack. “Something to eat.”

  I took a chunk of bread and dried fish, then passed the sack along to Vooren. We each had our own water flasks.

  We ate and drank, then tried to sleep, but sleep would not come. The belly of the mountain was not a place to close our eyes, even with the torch still burning.

  Wailing screams sounded in the distance, otherworldly shrieks. Nothing but the wind blowing through crevices in the rock high above us, I told myself, but I could not make myself believe it, and my stomach clenched with every new sound.

  When an eternity later we began moving again—it might have been morning outside by that time—I was more exhausted than when we had stopped.

  We scarce spoke on that second day, not even when the ceiling dropped yet again. We slid forward on our stomachs in silence, except when we were coughing from the ancient dust. I crawled with extra care so I would not lose my bundles of healing herbs.

  Our water flasks banged and scraped along the rock, and so did the sheath of Batumar’s sword, making our procession a noisy one, regardless o
f whether we talked or not. If any dark spirits guarded the mountain, they would have no trouble finding us. I shivered at the thought.

  Then, at long last, we reached a cave where we could straighten. The air had the smell of rotten eggs.

  “The sulfur caves,” the steward said, lifting his cloak to cover his nose. “We must have taken a wrong turn. Hurry on.”

  We all but ran, stumbling forward.

  And then the dark spirit found us.

  One moment I was between Batumar and Vooren, following the steward’s bobbing light. The next I was alone in the darkness, the smell of sulfur was gone, and I was colder than if I had been encased in ice.

  The spirit hissed in a deep tone. “Why cometh you, Sorceress?” The sound, slimy and sticky, slid along my skin.

  He was so close I could feel his fetid breath on my face. Cadaverous fingers caressed my face, seven or eight on one hand, all ending in sharp talons. I shuddered at the touch.

  I had to work at gaining enough courage to speak.

  “I am no sorceress, great spirit.” My voice trembled.

  Courtesy required that I say, I am your humble servant, but I did not dare speak the words, lest they gave the spirit power over me.

  He waited, then issued an impatient hiss when he realized I would not be so easily tricked. “Cometh you to ask for power? What have you brought to trade for it?”

  I wanted naught to do with dark powers. “We are but passing through. We did not mean to disturb you. We beg you to forgive us.”

  The spirit dragged his talons across my throat. I could feel the sharp tips scoring my skin and held still.

  “Have you brought a sacrifice, then, to pay for your passage?” he demanded.

  Numb with fear, I thought of all I had, my little paring knife the most valuable thing upon my person. Offering so meager a sacrifice would have been an insult.

  Then I thought of the price that had been exacted from Vooren’s grandfather: his sight. Suddenly I felt as if the cold and the darkness were inside me, swirling in my stomach. Nausea rose in my throat.