“So,” said Malaric. He rode straight as an arrow his saddle, his cloak billowing behind him. Lucan suspected he had adjusted the cloak for maximum dramatic effect. “What do you need to take from Castle Highgate?”
Lucan looked up, stirred out of his dark thoughts. Malaric never tired of trying to pry into Lucan’s secrets, which was annoying. Still, it was a welcome diversion from the endless rolling plains and rocky foothills.
“Nothing that concerns you,” said Lucan.
“It must be something of tremendous value,” said Malaric.
“It is,” said Lucan.
More valuable than anything he had ever possessed.
“Since you are taking such a risk to obtain it,” said Malaric.
“Hardly any risk,” said Lucan. “The Tervingi are to the south.”
Malaric yawned. “It’s not the Tervingi that should worry you, but your father and brother.”
Lucan scowled. “My father and brother have done nothing but vex me all their life.”
“I suspect,” said Malaric, “if they knew about this little jaunt, they would do more than vex you. They would do their best to kill you.”
“My father and my brother,” said Lucan, “are short-sighted. They are focused on securing the Grim Marches and destroying anyone who stands in their way. I have a larger perspective. I labor for the good of the world, and I will do what is necessary for the good of the world.”
“Which includes,” said Malaric, “looting ruins of Old Dracaryl for ancient relics. Apparently.”
“Indeed,” said Lucan.
They rode on, and Lucan found himself thinking more and more about Castle Highgate.
###
“The undead,” said Lucan, “are created in different degrees. Zuvembies, the skeletal carriers of the San-keth clerics, the ebony dead, the crimson dead, even the runedead, are simply automatons. Empty shells controlled dark magical force. They can be powerful, true, can even retain the memories and skills their bodies possessed in life. But they remain automatons. Mere puppets of rotting flesh.”
“So,” said Malaric, “the undead do not have souls?”
They sat in the darkness, some distance from the mercenaries' camp. The massive black mass of the Great Mountains blotted out half the sky, and even in late spring, a cold wind blew down from the rocky peaks.
And as promised, Lucan shared necromantic secrets with Malaric.
“Most of them do not,” said Lucan. “No magical force, no spell, can constrain or bind the soul. Even the shades that I am sure you have called up,” Malaric coughed, “are not truly souls. They are only…echoes, footprints, left behind in the spirit world.”
“You said most do not,” said Malaric. “But some do?”
“Revenants,” said Lucan, remembering Ardasan Mouraen. “The mightiest undead of Old Dracaryl. They cannot be created by coercion, only by free choice. It requires a risky spell of the mightiest necromancy. Often an ambitious necromancer would destroy himself in the process. But if it succeeded…the necromancer gained a form of immortality.”
“A form?” said Malaric.
Lucan shrugged. “A revenant never dies. But it need not eat or sleep or drink or lie with a woman. It feels nothing. All that is left is a lust for power, and the need to acquire more.”
Malaric grunted. “A cold existence. What is the purpose of power, if not to enjoy it? Still, to live forever, even in so limited a fashion…”
“There were many revenants in ancient days,” said Lucan. “But almost all were destroyed in the cataclysm that devoured Old Dracaryl.”
Malaric leaned forward. “And what destroyed Old Dracaryl?”
Lucan thought of Ardasan’s shade, of the Wraithaldr and Randur Maendrag’s plan to cast the Great Rising.
“You will learn, soon enough,” said Lucan.
###
Seven days after leaving Castle Cravenlock, they reached Castle Highgate.
The castle stood high in the foothills, guarding the pass that crossed the Great Mountains to the barbarian lands beyond. Three concentric rings of stone wall, each higher than the next, surrounded a massive drum-shaped keep bristling with catapults and ballistae. It was one of the strongest castles in the Grim Marches, and had never fallen to assault.
The banner of Lord Robert Highgate, a castle gate on a field of white, flew over the keep.
“Ugly place,” said Malaric. “But strong. I hope that my lord Lucan doesn’t wish to take the castle by storm.”
“He does not,” said Lucan. “The castle means nothing to me.”
But something within it did.
The castle's outer gate opened and riders issued from the barbican and headed in their direction.
“Armsmen,” said Malaric. “They have noticed us.”
“Are you surprised?” said Lucan. “Castle Highgate survived the Malrag attack. Hardly a feat one can achieve without constant vigilance. Have your men keep their hands away from their weapons. I wish no trouble.”
The riders from the castle reined up, and their leader, a lean knight in a surcoat adorned with the Highgate sigil, drew closer.
“You have entered the lands of Robert, Lord of Castle Highgate,” said the knight. “Name yourselves.”
“I come with an urgent message for Lady Tymaen Highgate,” said Lucan.
Malaric looked at him, blinked, and then a knowing smile flashed over his face.
“What manner of message?” said the knight.
“Tell her,” said Lucan, “that Lord Mandragon wishes to see her at once.”
###
Tymaen Highgate sat alone in her husband’s solar, looking through the windows at the craggy vista of the Great Mountains.
Gods, how she hated this castle, this cold, hard place of mountains and snow.
And Malrags.
Her father had been a knight in service to Lord Richard Mandragon, and she had grown up in the court of Swordgrim. Lord Richard's castle had the pomp and splendor of the court of the liege lord, the tournaments and jousting, the splendid ceremonies in the castle’s chapel. There had been her friends, the other noble-born girls of the court. There had been the promise of happiness to come. A life of purpose, serving as the wife of a powerful and respected lord.
And now…this.
The grim, cold fortress of Castle Highgate. The lonely mountain villages, filled with hard and silent peasants. And her husband, a boorish man, more interested in drinking and fighting than in her, save for when he came to bed. He had gone south to war, to fight the barbarians coming out of the mountains.
And Tymaen found she did not care if he returned or not.
She gazed out the windows at the mountains, indifferent. Eventually her husband’s seneschal would come to present the day’s business, to discuss the castle’s supplies and the problems of the servants. Tymaen would force herself to attend diligently. She was a lady of a noble house, and she would not shirk her duties.
But, gods, how she hated this castle, her husband.
Her life.
The door to the solar opened, and her husband’s seneschal, a doughy man named Reed, entered. The man labored diligently, but was perhaps the single most boring speaker Tymaen had ever heard, and seemed unable to make a point without an hour of tedious speech. She straightened up in her chair and put a serene, aloof expression on her face.
“Master Reed,” said Tymaen. “You have the day’s business, I trust? I am sure you will want to discuss exactly how many sacks of grain remain in the storehouse.”
She rebuked herself. It was beneath a lady to show impatience or annoyance, even with the servants.
“No, my lady,” said Reed, bowing. “Something more urgent. A mercenary company has arrived outside the gates. They say they come with a message from Lord Mandragon.”
“Mercenaries?” said Tymaen, blinking. “My husband is in the south, fighting the Tervingi. Bid them to march south until they find him.”
“My lady,” said Reed. “The mercen
aries say the message is for you, personally, and no one else.”
“Me?” said Tymaen, blinking. “Why would Lord Richard send me a message?”
“I suspect it is a ruse,” said Reed, glowering, “in order to gain access to the castle and take you for ransom.”
Tymaen lifted an eyebrow. “As if my lord would pay it.”
Reed blinked. Tymaen rebuked herself again.
“These are my instructions,” said Tymaen. “Admit the leaders of the mercenaries to the outer courtyard, but the rest are to remain outside the walls. If they are telling the truth, then I shall receive their message and send them on their way. And if they play me false, the armsmen can shoot them full of quarrels.”
“As my lady wishes,” said Reed, though his disapproval was plain.
“Come, now,” said Tymaen, rising from her chair. “If the mercenaries bear a message from Lord Richard, it would be a grievous insult if I turned them away. Now bid my maids come so I can look presentable.”
Reed bowed, and hastened to carry out her commands.
A short time later her maids arrived, and after they finished Tymaen strode into the outer courtyard of Castle Highgate, wearing a fine blue gown and a cloak adorned with the Highgate sigil to keep the chill at bay. Four armsmen escorted her, hands resting on their sword hilts.
The two mercenary leaders awaited her below the barbican gate.
The first man was tall and handsome, with a neat-trimmed beard and moustache, his cloak thrown back to billow dramatically in the wind. He performed an elegant bow as she approached. The second man was short and lean, and wore a hooded black cloak over a long black wizard’s coat. Tymaen’s lips thinned, for just a moment. Why had the guards admitted a wizard? A wizard of sufficient skill and power could wreak all manner of chaos.
“My lady Tymaen,” said the handsome man. “I am Malaric of Barellion, a captain of valiant mercenaries. Lord Mandragon bade me to deliver him to you.”
“Wait,” said Tymaen. “I thought Lord Richard sent a message…”
The cloaked man drew back his black hood, and Tymaen’s heart skipped a beat.
He had not changed, not even a little bit, in the last five years. She had seen him at a distance, of course, after Mazael Cravenlock had slain the dragon, and later at Lord Mazael’s wedding to that terrifying wolf-woman. But she had not seen him up close, and he looked no different than the day she had broken their betrothal. He had the same black eyes and unruly black hair, the same hard lines of jaw and face.
“Lucan?” said Tymaen, her voice faint.
Lucan bowed. “My lady Tymaen.” His tone was calm, and his face grave, but she knew him better than anyone, and she saw the tension around his eyes.
“What,” Tymaen licked her dry lips, “why have you come here?”
“I must speak with you,” said Lucan. “You are in very great danger.”
###
Her maids and armsmen led Lucan to Lord Robert’s solar.
“We can arrange provision for your men,” said Tymaen, sitting down. “Master Reed will see to it.”
“Thank you,” said Lucan. The provisions would come in handy, once they reached the mountains. But for now that was a distant concern.
Tymaen held his full attention.
She looked as he remembered, with large blue eyes and long blonde hair. The blue gown fit her well, and unlike most married noblewomen, she had not grown fat. She had used to enjoy hawking and riding in the plains outside of Swordgrim. Did she have the opportunity here?
He still loved her. Even after what she had done to him, even after everything that had happened to him, he still loved her. Why had he stood by as she wed Lord Robert? Lucan could not recall his reasons. There had been something that had held him back, but he could not remember what it had been.
As if part of himself had been lost.
Tymaen’s voice drew him out of his thoughts.
“Lucan,” she said, “you claim my life is in danger?”
“It is,” said Lucan. He looked at the armsmen. “Leave us. My words must be for the lady alone.”
They looked to Tymaen.
“Go,” said Tymaen. Lucan recognized the forced smile she used while under strain. “If I am not safe with the son of our liege lord, then I am not safe anywhere.”
The guards bowed and departed.
It was the first time Lucan had been alone with her in years.
“So,” said Tymaen, adjusting her sleeves, not meeting his eyes. “How am I in danger?”
“Lord Mazael Cravenlock,” said Lucan, “is Demonsouled.”
Tymaen stared at him.
“What?” she said at last.
“He is a Demonsouled of great power,” said Lucan. “A child of the Old Demon himself, in fact.”
“That is ridiculous,” said Tymaen. “Lord Mazael is a warrior and captain of great renown. He threw down the Dominiar Order, drove back the Malrags, slew a dragon…”
“And where,” said Lucan, “do you think he gained the strength to perform these mighty feats? I have seen him in battle. I have seen him take mortal wounds, only to have them heal moments later. Where does he draw the strength for that? He is Demonsouled, Tymaen. A Demonsouled, a son of the Old Demon, is one of the most powerful lords of the Grim Marches.”
“And he wants to kill me?” said Tymaen. “Is that why my life is in danger?”
“He wants to kill us all,” said Lucan. “He wants to kill everything. That is the nature of the Demonsouled. He may fight it, but his corrupted soul will devour him in the end. If he is not stopped, think of the thousands that he will kill, of the nations he will raze. I must stop him.”
“How?” said Tymaen. “If he really is Demonsouled, how are you going to stop him?”
“Not just him,” said Lucan. “I will stop all the Demonsouled, now and forever. Never again will they plague the earth.”
Tymaen looked skeptical. “You were always a powerful wizard, Lucan. Even before your…change. But I doubt that even you have the power to kill every Demonsouled upon the earth.”
“I do not have the power,” said Lucan. “But the high lords of Old Dracaryl possessed that power, before they lost it in their folly.”
Tymaen laughed. “You are many things, Lucan, but you are not a fool. Every year adventurers go into the mountains, seeking relics of Dracaryl. None ever return.”
“My brother and father returned,” said Lucan.
“They merely sought to slay dragons.”
Lucan nodded. “Very well. Who was the last man to return alive from seeking a ruin of Dracaryl in the mountains?”
Tymaen’s smile faded. “Lord Mazael.”
“Quite a feat,” said Lucan. “No doubt made easier with his Demonsouled power. But I was with him, and I learned how the high lords of Dracaryl destroyed themselves. They cast a mighty spell to kill every Demonsouled on the world and steal their power, but accidentally destroyed themselves in the process.”
Tymaen’s lip twisted. “So this is about power? I thought that old monster Marstan left himself inside your head, and I was right. You’re off on some mad quest to steal the power of the Demonsouled for yourself? Go. I won’t stop you. But I won’t help you, either.”
Lucan shook his head. “I’m not going to steal their power.”
Tymaen blinked. “You…aren’t? Why not? Everything you’ve done since Marstan tried to claim you has been about power. You said it was to acquire enough power to keep the Grim Marches safe from dark magic, but I think you just love power more than you loved,” she swallowed, “more than you loved everything else.”
“No,” said Lucan, voice quiet. “Demonsouled power corrupts and destroys everything it touches.” He remembered the bloodstaff shattering in his hands, remembered Malavost laughing. “The Demonsouled ruined my life. Marstan learned his dark arts from Simonian of Briault…but that was only other name for the Old Demon. Lord Mazael’s father. And because of them, I have known nothing but pain. But I will do
it, Tymaen. I will take that spell from the dust of Old Dracaryl. I will cast it, and I will rid the world of Demonsouled forever.”
They sat in silence for a moment.
“You’ve changed, Lucan,” said Tymaen. “I thought…I thought you had become a creature like Marstan.”
“Maybe I did, for a time,” said Lucan. “But I learned better.”
Tymaen’s pale lips moved into a faint smile. “You almost sound as we did when we were children, when you would talk of defending the Grim Marches.”
“Thank you,” said Lucan.
Again silence fell.
“Why are you telling me this?” said Tymaen. “You don’t need my help. You have men and weapons, and I assume you know where you are going. Why come to Castle Highgate?”
“To give you the chance,” said Lucan, “to come with me.”
Tymaen blinked. “Surely you’re not serious.”
“I am completely serious,” said Lucan. “Come with me.”
Tymaen laughed. “Off into some mad jaunt in the mountains?”
“You said we spoke like this when we were children,” said Lucan. “You told me that once we were wed, you would be a great lady, and you would care for the commoners in your protection. Now is your chance to save them all from the Demonsouled, if you come with me.”
Some color flooded into Tymaen’s cheeks. “I am a woman wed.”
Lucan snorted. “To that fool Robert Highgate? He has no vision and no understanding. A capable enough fighter, but he doesn’t understand the significance of what I am going to do.”
“I could not betray my husband like that,” said Tymaen, the color in her cheeks growing brighter. “He left his castle in my care.”
“And I am sure you are happy,” said Lucan, “to tend to Robert’s castle and servants while he is at war. Hardly the sort of life you wanted when we were children. But come with me, and we shall achieve something grand. We shall reshape the world for all time.”
He stood, crossed the room, and took her hands in his. They felt warm and very dry. Tymaen stood, staring up at him, and he felt the trembling in her wrists and fingers.
“I…I…” She swallowed. “My husband…I…” She shivered, nodded to herself, and pulled away. “You must spend the night, of course. Let not the House of Highgate be a poor host. Then tomorrow you will go on your way. Yes.”
Soul of Sorcery (Book 5) Page 21
