by Jack Massa
She gave the order, and the body was carried to a rack formed by two cross-beams in the shape of an X. The arms were stretched, the wrists and ankles strapped in place. Clorodice examined the restraints and stepped back, satisfied. She spoke an order and one of her acolytes brought forward a glass bottle filled with milky liquid. A long, flexible tube was sealed to the bottle’s top. The acolyte threaded the tube into Pheng’s open mouth. The man gave a soft, gagging sound as the instrument was pushed down his throat. Clorodice watched as the bottle was inverted, the drugged liquid emptied into Pheng’s stomach. His eyes widened slightly.
When the bottle was drained, the tube was quickly removed. Clorodice gestured and two of the witches bent their backs and lifted. The rack pivoted on hinges until the body’s position was nearly vertical, then the cross-beams were locked in place.
Clorodice scanned the faces of her subordinates. The witches gazed with parted lips, some eager and excited, others pale and frightened at what they were about to do.
But their fear of Clorodice was greater. She had made sure of that.
Forcing down a moment of inner reluctance, she issued the command for the ritual to begin.
At a carpeted space before the cross-beams, the witches formed a circle. Nine in black robes stood holding hands, with Clorodice in the center in her pure white gown. The tenth woman, Arkasha, sat on a podium nearby, a stack of parchment sheets near her hand.
The witches chanted, raising power. Sometimes they moved, circling. Occasionally, Arkasha prompted them with a new verse. Clorodice raised her arms, lifted her head, felt the energy rotating and growing. The man on the rack let out soft moans.
The ritual went on for hours and hours, the invocations rising louder, the sobs of the victim coming more frequently, but always soft and feeble. At one point, Arkasha left the podium and marched over to the rack. With a razor she slit the man’s arm and let the blood run into an alabaster bowl. She carried the bowl to the circle and smeared the blood on each witch’s forehead. Clorodice received the libation last, the bowl inverted, the remaining blood spilling over her hair and face.
The chanting and circling resumed. Some of the candles burned out, Arkasha left the podium to replace them. She added more oil to the lamps.
Finally, after many hours, the ritual reached its climax. Clorodice stripped off her gown. The circle parted, though the chanting went on. Naked except for the amber beads, Clorodice approached the rack.
It seemed the man’s body had already changed, thickening, growing more hairy, the jaw more pronounced. This was only the beginning.
From a silver tray held by her apprentice, Clorodice picked up a knife with a long, curved blade. In a state of keen awareness, she stepped close to the bound form. Whispering the ultimate words of the design, she carefully sliced into the man—two cuts from shoulder to breastbone, then a single cut down the belly. His eyes bulged and his mouth moved—looking like a fish plucked from water and straining to breathe the air.
Behind her, the chanting changed into roaring and shrieking. Clorodice stepped back and flung up her arms. She raised her head in exaltation. Power flowed like fire into her belly.
Twenty-Five
On the day of the next new moon, Amlina waited outside the chamber of the Inner Council at the House of the Deepmind. The tall, columned hallway was crowded with witches, servants, and guards. Many of these were attendants, waiting for the high witches to emerge. Others, like Amlina, were anxious to hear of the Council’s decision on a singular matter: how would the appointment be decided for Keeper of the Cloak?
After more than two hours of deliberations, the brass doors swung open. The high witches and their assistants in their varicolored robes filed out, chatting among themselves, mingling with the entourages who awaited them in the hallway.
Amlina spotted Melevarry, the Mage of Randoon. walking alone and hastened over.
“What news, my lady?”
The Mage eyed Amlina with a half-smile. Her gaze roved over the crowd, and she gestured with a finger. “The day is warm and pleasant. Let’s take a stroll in the gardens.”
Amlina fell into step beside her. Midway down the corridor, they exited the building, crossed a portico, and descended into a courtyard formed of towering walls of pure white marble.
“The Council has agreed,” Melevarry said, “to allow the benevolence of the Deepmind to select the new Keeper.”
“It will be the winner of the Tournament then?” Amlina’s voice pitched high with eagerness.
“Yes. And before you ask, you have been approved as one of the contestants. Given the fact that you returned the Cloak to Larthang, and with the Tuan’s strong endorsement, it could hardly have been otherwise.”
“I am so relieved.” Amlina stared straight ahead, eyes widening. “Yet, now there is a great challenge before me.”
“Indeed.” Melevarry chuckled.
They strolled beneath a tall arch into a garden. Immediately, the environment changed. Dense palm fronds lined the curving path and black branches leaned above, hung with jungle flowers. The air, dry and balmy a moment ago, now settled warm and humid, infused with the faint perfume of orchids.
“Who are the other contestants?” Amlina asked.
“There will most likely be seven,” Melevarry responded. “So far, three have been named. Tolanga of Gon Fu, a warrior witch who is protégé of Wicksa, our Keeper of Swords; Elani Vo T’ang, favored by Clorodice, Keeper of the Keys; and Shen Tra Lo, known to be a skilled trinket-maker and apprentice to Kanshi, Keeper of the Forge. No doubt other high witches will nominate their favorites. By tradition, the maximum number is seven, so you can expect three more to be approved.”
Amlina watched the ground as she walked, but her mind was perusing the many facets of the Tournament. “So far the field includes one warrior and one trinket-maker. Does Elani Vo T’ang have a specialty?”
“I know little about her, except that, like her mentor, she is an adherent to the legalist sect, the Thread of Virtue. In any case, I would not spend much thought on specialties. All entrants must compete in all of the disciplines.”
Amlina was well aware of how the Tournament worked. On four successive days, the witches would compete in contests based on the first four of the Five Revered Arts. The contestants who achieved the highest combined scores would then meet in the final event, a contest of pure shaping.
“Still,” she murmured, “knowing the relative strengths of my rivals might be of some use.”
They walked under another arch and again their surroundings changed. Now they paced along the side of a high mountain, with a stunning view of cliffs and valleys stretching away into a blue distance. The cold air smelled crisp and clean. Each of the many gardens of the House of the Deepmind cast an ever-changing panorama of illusions, generated by age-old witchery.
Melevarry folded her hands in her sleeves in response to the sudden chill. “If I may offer you advice: I would give no thought whatsoever to your rivals. Rather, give all of your attention to perfecting your own efforts.”
Amlina considered this. For the deepseeing and magical combat events, she could only hone her skills with practice. But for both the trinketing and formulation events, she would have to make presentation pieces—the one a magical object, the other a mental construction. No doubt, her rivals had already prepared, perhaps even constructed, their designs. It was now the sixth day of Third Summer. Amlina had less than two months to prepare. Suddenly, her task felt overwhelming.
“No doubt, you are right,” she said in a subdued tone.
“Do not sound so downcast,” the Mage of Randoon chided. “If you plan well and work hard, I firmly believe you’ll have as good a chance as anyone.”
“Do not go expecting disaster.” Amlina quoted a witch’s maxim.
They walked on, discussing ideas for the trinket and formulation Amlina should make for the Tournament.
Presently they entered another garden. Now they strolled through a fragrant or
chard in the weather of First Summer. Cherry trees lined the curving path, with bursts of white flowers adorning the black branches. Among the petals fluttering to the ground came a larger shape—a lady with bee wings.
In a gauzy white gown and belled slippers, Trippany settled before them and made a hasty bow.
“My lady Mage, esteemed Amlina, please pardon my interrupting you.”
Melevarry nodded pleasantly to the drell, and Amlina smiled.
“My friend, it is good to see you.”
“I searched you out as soon as I heard,” Trippany spoke breathlessly. “I mean that the Council had decided about Keeper of the Cloak.”
“Yes,” the Mage answered. “As many expected, we chose to allow the Tournament to decide.”
“And will you, Amlina, be allowed to compete?”
“I will. We were just discussing strategies.”
“Oh!” Trippany’s grin showed pointy teeth. “I am so glad. I confess, I had hoped it would be so.”
Amlina reached out and clasped the drell’s hand. “Your friendship is most welcome, Trippany. But how are you doing? I’ve scarcely seen you since we left Randoon.”
“I have been deeply involved in my studies. My mission for the Archimage, as you know, and then my subsequent period of penance, cost me time and progress that I dearly wish to make up.”
Trippany, Amlina knew, already ranked as an adept. But for witches who chose to continue in Ting Ta Roo, there were many grades and levels of achievement that could take years to accomplish.
“Your devotion to our arts is commendable,” Amlina said. “I will soon need to apply myself with similar diligence.”
Trippany still held her hand. “If I can assist in any way, please call upon me.”
“Thank you, I shall. If you decide you can spare a little time from your studies, perhaps we can dine together some evening? By the kindness of the Tuan, I still reside at the palace, along with my friends. I know they would enjoy seeing you as well—Eben in particular. It seems he is composing songs about a lovely lady with wings.”
Trippany cast down her eyes, seeming embarrassed. As she flew off, Amlina wondered if Eben’s infatuation might in fact be mutual.
The one who had been Shay-Ni Pheng stared out past the bars of light that formed his cage. The beams emanated from disks on the floor, arranged in a semi-circle that arced out from the masonry walls—imprisoning him most effectively in an area five paces wide.
For the bars were no ordinary witchlight, such as shone on the sea. The few times he had tested them, he had pulled back a clawed finger, howling in excruciating pain.
How they burned, those razor sharp beams of light. Burned in a different way from the insatiable hunger forever coiling in his belly. Burned more like the hate he felt for those who had betrayed him and cast him into this prison.
How long had he been here? Days and days, for certain. At first, his mind had been befuddled. Only gradually did his wits return—and with them, his memories of that night he had come here, betrayed by his uncle and cousins, paralyzed, then tortured by the black-robed witches.
His body had changed terribly. He wished for a mirror so he could see all the changes. Coarse white hair now covered his legs and torso. His hips, he was certain had widened, legs bowed. His arms seemed longer, and they naturally swung when he walked, his spine bent forward. His lower jaw protruded, and when he felt with clawed fingers he could touch fangs pushed over his upper lip.
They had made him into a monster. They called him phingarr—as good a name as any. For he was no longer Shay-Ni Pheng, a puny and miserable man. Now he would call himself Phingarr. Phingarr Pheng—a name to be feared.
Vile witches! Their leader he knew all too well—Lady Clorodice, the Keeper of the Keys and his uncle’s ally. She was the one who had sliced open his chest at the climax of the rite, summoning unimaginable power that burst into being and filled them both.
Frequently now, she came to the tomb to stand before his cage and draw that same power. How it flashed in the air and blazed through every fiber and sinew of his body. Then Clorodice would leave, looking dazed, drunk with the power. Somehow, she needed this monster he had become to call up this wild magic. What she did not seem to suspect was that a portion of the power stayed with him.
Shay-Ni Pheng, miserable human, had always shunned the ways of witchery. But Phingarr Pheng reveled in the power. He sensed it working in him, building in his soul. Already he perceived how he could use it. Use it, for example, to turn off the magic disks on the floor that kept him imprisoned. And then …
“Agh!” He growled, the hunger suddenly an agony writhing in his stomach.
Across the chamber, two witches seated at a writing table looked over at him. At least two of Clorodice’s subordinates were always here to keep watch on him.
“Agh!” He growled again, pointing to his open mouth.
With a grimace of disgust, one of the witches put down her book. This one he also knew—the Lady Arkasha. Someday, for certain, he would pay her back for her betrayal.
Arkasha walked to a pen near the entry tunnel, where four piglets were confined, feeding themselves from a trough of mash. A dozen of the swine were brought to the tomb every few days. The witch picked up a piglet by its hind legs. The struggling creature was heavy for her to carry, and she had to hold it close and lean her back as she trudged over to the cage. Stopping within a yard, she swung the animal behind her and then flung it through the bars.
The pig squealed in pain as the witch light burned it, sizzling holes appearing on its back and side. Pheng snatched it up immediately in his huge hands. With a growl, he bit into the throat, sucking up blood as the piglet shrieked and shuddered.
When the creature ceased struggling, he brought the carcass over to the wall. He sat down on the pile of straw that served as his bed and devoured the body greedily.
Soon, he thought, he would gather enough power to turn off the disks that kept him imprisoned. Then he would feed on more than pigs.
In the twilight, cool jasmine-scented air drifted in from the garden, carrying the trill of songbirds. Amlina listened in a contemplative mood as she packed her trunk. Tomorrow she would leave the palace again, move back to the House of the Deepmind so she could focus all of her attention on the upcoming Tournament of Witches.
She paused before an open drawer, staring down at the trinketing tools folded in with her garments. A jeweler’s hammer, thin steel files, a saw—implements she had acquired long ago in Kadavel and carried on all her journeys since. Strange how one grew attached to certain things—insignificant things really—yet she could not bear to part with them.
Draven walked in, his shoulders tense, face solemn.
“How did the klarn meeting turn out?” she asked.
At Karrol’s insistence, the Iruks had convened a formal meeting. They were to discuss how much longer to stay in Minhang and whether to dissolve the klarn. They had resided in the capital for almost two months. Karrol, and perhaps others, were growing restless. Absorbed in her own challenges, Amlina had not paid as much attention to the Iruks as she otherwise would.
Draven’s mouth was tight at the corners. “The decision is to wait until after the Tournament, to see how that turns out for you.”
“Oh, I am glad.” She turned back to her packing.
Draven gripped her shoulders, making her face him again. “Don’t you want to hear what was said? Or what we plan to do after your course is settled?”
Amlina showed an apologetic smile. “Forgive me, my dear. I am so distracted. Of course I do.” She led him over to sit on the bed. “Tell me all.”
The Iruk frowned. “We each have different ideas. Glyssa definitely wants to stay with you. Lonn likes Larthang well enough. Besides, he is content to be wherever Glyssa is happy. Eben is quite satisfied with the life here. He says he will stay whatever the rest of us decide. Karrol, of course, is not happy—though she’s been complain
ing about it less. Brinda just said she will wait and see. I don’t know if she will leave with Karrol—and I suspect Karrol might be reluctant to leave alone.”
Lips pursed, Amlina nodded. “That is about the outcome I expected.”
She started to rise but Draven’s strong hands pressed her down. “You haven’t heard what I had to say.”
“Oh.” She stared at him, taken aback. “I just thought—“
“You thought I would be happy to stay with you whatever the others decided.” Draven stood up. “That’s not how I feel, Amlina. I’m sorry.”
She gazed at him, shocked. “Why-What are you feeling?”
He threw up his hands, let them flap at his sides. “I don’t know anymore. I used to feel you would be my woman no matter what. But I no longer think so. You have found healing for your sickness, and I am glad of it. But now you are changing so much, becoming a great witch of Larthang. This land is strange to me, and you are becoming more like the people here. I am just an Iruk, a barbarian to your people.”
“I still love you.”
“Perhaps you do. I’m no longer sure.” He laid a hand on her shoulder, gently this time. “I hope you win your victory, Amlina, and fulfill the fate you desire. When the Tournament is over, you must decide then how you feel about me. And I will decide how I feel, and choose my own course as best I can.”
He flicked a sad smile and walked from the room.
A turmoil of emotion swirled in her: regret that she had not done better to show him her love; fear that she might actually lose him; anger that he should distract her with this problem now, when she needed to prepare for the Tournament.
Her thoughts revolved back to the purification rite. Walking the labyrinth had required her to surrender everything. The vision after made her believe her purpose was to become Keeper of the Cloak.
Was that really her calling—or just her ambition? And would it really mean she’d have to sacrifice everything—even her love?
