by Nat Russo
Somehow, Nicolas doubted that.
Two days passed. Servants fed them twice each day, which was more than Nicolas had expected.
The cell was stone blocks on three sides, twelve feet long by eight feet deep. It was closed off by a flattened iron-lattice grate with a steel door through which the guards would bring their meals. The grate formed small squares barely large enough to fit an arm through. A single torch, in a sconce on the moldy wall outside of the cell, burned an acrid fuel that made Nicolas’s eyes tear up.
The hay in the corner reeked of urine and feces. The guards were quick to take away empty bowls, but they ignored the hay.
An odd tapestry hung on the wall outside the cell. It looked like the skin of a bright orange fish, if the fish were larger than a man.
Nicolas attempted to draw power, but it kept retreating from him.
“If I could summon another argram we wouldn’t have to sit here like this,” Nicolas said.
“You shouldn’t have been able to summon one the first time,” Mujahid said. “Count yourself lucky you’re still alive.”
“Have you ever summoned one?”
Mujahid looked away. “At least they’re feeding us. We should—”
“No. I’m not letting you change the subject. Something happened when they killed Ensif—is that even the word for it?—and I don’t understand it. I feel like I lost a part of myself.”
“You did, boy. A very important part of yourself.”
“I only knew him for….”
“We’re getting somewhere now. Finish the sentence.”
Nicolas looked away. There was no frame of reference for him to know how long he had been with Ensif. The concept of time didn’t seem to apply.
“Was it hours?” Mujahid asked. “Or was it years? I’m guessing you lived several years of that creature’s life during the summoning.”
Nicolas looked down.
“Longer? How many decades did you wander through the consequences of that creature’s actions?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“I’ve heard the songs, boy. I’ve read the poetry. But those songs and poems have never been written, have they? Nor will they ever be.”
“So you have summoned an argram.”
“When you summon a penitent, regardless of who or what it is, you form a priestly bond with that creature stronger than any other bond. And when they fall before they’re purified…it’s as if you’ve failed your sacred duty and caused someone else to suffer as a result.”
“What do we do about it?”
“We leave them to the mercy of Arin.”
“That’s it? That’s all you got?”
“And then we find the festering bastards who bring evil into this world and make them question their life choices.”
“So we’ve got that to look forward to at least.”
Mujahid grinned.
“What’s the deal?” Nicolas asked. “Why can’t I pull any power in? It’s like it runs away from me.”
Mujahid shook his head. “There is no power here.”
The door at the end of the hall opened with a metallic clang.
“Guard,” Mujahid said. “Tell me of Caspardis minor. I don’t recall seeing it last time I was here.”
The guard stared at Mujahid, saying nothing.
“I’m not the necromancer here,” Mujahid said. “And he’ll be dead in a day or two anyway.”
Nicolas swallowed. Was Mujahid bluffing or had he come to terms with the inevitable?
“I’m still a citizen of this Union,” Mujahid said. “And I have yet to be found guilty of a crime.”
The guard faced Mujahid. “We’re taking the fight to the Religarians this time.”
“We invade Religar?”
“And it’s about time, if you ask me.”
“King Donal agrees to this business?”
“The Tildemen have their own problems, apparently. That’s ok, if you ask me. Next time Religar challenges the border with Tildem, maybe we’ll have our own problems.”
“And the empire will pick us off, city by city, until neither Tildem nor the Union remains,” Mujahid said. “Why would the chancellor invade a country he cannot hope to defeat? Why pull out of the Treaty of Three Banks now?”
The metallic sound of a key entering a lock rang through the air, and the door at the end of the hall swung open. The guard at their cell turned and nodded to someone standing beyond the door.
The expression on Mujahid’s face changed from frustration to terror.
“Guard,” Mujahid said. “Can I have a word?”
Mujahid sounded like a kid in a snake pit.
The guard huffed.
“Unless you want this necromancer to escape you’d better hear me out,” Mujahid said.
“What the hell?” Nicolas asked.
“He’s threatened to kill me once already,” Mujahid said. “I can’t bear the thought of being raised up as his servant. Please. You have to help me!”
This couldn’t be happening. Mujahid had turned on him to save his own life.
Nicolas stepped toward Mujahid. He’d fix that old bastard.
“He’s lying,” Nicolas said. “He’s Muja—”
Mujahid kicked Nicolas square in the chest with a speed and strength that terrified him.
Nicolas fell to the floor and landed hard. If he’d had his eyes closed he’d think the old man picked up a refrigerator and hit him with it.
Mujahid clasped a hand over Nicolas’s mouth and leaned in close.
“Quiet you fool.” Mujahid spoke in a whisper. “Our only hope is that they put me in with the other prisoners near the crypt.”
He wanted to believe Mujahid, but how could he? He closed his eyes and started shaking his head.
“You’re stronger than you realize, boy. Look toward the Pinnacle. That’s where the answers will be. Go to Arin’s Watch. I can track you with this.” Mujahid pointed to the amulet concealed beneath his robes.
Two guards entered the cell area.
“Arin’s helm,” Mujahid said. “There’s so much you don’t know. You’ll need the tithe from Pilgrim’s Landing to enter the Pinnacle. You must not forget. The tithe.”
“You there,” a guard said, pointing at Mujahid. “Let’s go.”
“Thank the gods,” Mujahid said as he walked toward the cell door. “I had to defend myself. He was going to kill me.”
The guard tied Mujahid’s hands behind his back and shoved him toward the door.
Nicolas wanted to yell, but Mujahid’s kick had knocked the wind out of him.
“There is a prophecy,” Mujahid said as a guard pushed him.
“That’ll be enough,” the guard said.
“It’s all about the energy. Give yourself over to the water. There’s a—”
The guard backhanded Mujahid across the face, knocking him into silence. “Shove your prophecy up your arse and keep moving.”
The stone door slammed closed.
Mujahid was gone.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Mujahid had been gone for two days.
Nicolas spent the first day in complete despair, convinced his life was over. He kept going over Mujahid’s last words but they didn’t make any sense.
The first night was difficult. The guards kept him at a distance the same way he’d treat a rattlesnake—never taking his eyes off it and worried that one strike would kill him.
He didn’t get much sleep that night. He dreamed about Kaitlyn. But every time she would appear she’d pass through his hands like mist, leaving nothing but a hint of her rose-scented skin.
The last dream he had was bizarre. He’d been sitting against the cell wall when the ground in front of him opened up with a ripping noise. A single bone, a large femur, floated up from the newly formed crater and stopped when it was at eye level. The bone hummed and the room shook and vibrated around it, as if the bone were the only stable object in the world. The shaking stopped, and t
he bone transformed, its top end sharpening into a point, as if whittled by an invisible knife that sent bone shards flying. The bottom sprouted feathers like an arrow’s fletching complete with a nock that burned from within by a fiery light. The arrow turned its point toward him and a cacophonous hum erupted as it flew through the air, traveling straight for his chest.
The shock of the sudden attack had jolted Nicolas from his sleep, and he woke up, bathed in sweat. It was like the skull dreams, only this time it was a homicidal arrow trying to kill him. At first he ignored it, as he had with the skull. But every time he fell asleep the arrow would appear and fly toward him, closer and closer to striking, and each time he would wake right before the arrow penetrated his chest.
The most recent dream, however, was the worst one. He felt the tip of the arrow pierce his skin and he woke in a panic. He could feel the sting where the arrow dug into his chest, so he reached into his robe to touch the sore spot. A small pool of moisture that felt too slick to be sweat clung to his finger. When he pulled his hand away blood dripped onto his robe, but there was no wound.
He swore. It wasn’t just any dream…it was the dream. The arrow must be a symbol of power. Mujahid was right—if he didn’t wrestle this thing into submission in the Hall it would kill him, just like the skull would have if Mujahid hadn’t intervened.
He sat up and tried to calm his mind, but the power still slipped through his mental fingers. He had no other choice except to enter the Hall without Mujahid or necropotency.
He imagined the room with two doors. The white door called to him, as it had in the past, tempting him to take a step toward it, but he ignored it. The more he resisted the door, the easier it became to resist, like strengthening a muscle. He gathered his newfound confidence and stepped over the threshold of the black door into the room beyond.
The skull symbol, encased right where he had left it, glowed from its internal blue light. Another black doorway was present this time, and the bone arrow hung in midair beyond the threshold. He kept repeating Mujahid’s words—Doubt is your enemy.
He took a deep breath and stepped through the second black doorway.
Nicolas had been daydreaming in class.
“Your project is late,” Dr. Murray said. “You’re just going to have to lose the grade on this one.”
“I worked really hard on that,” Nicolas said. “I get it, but I have a really good reason for being late.”
He felt confused, and seeing Dad’s square jaw and horn-rimmed glasses made him sad for reasons he didn’t understand.
“Such as?”
He couldn’t remember. Was it because he took a wrong turn on the way to the funeral? No, he didn’t think so. Nuuan made sure they got there on time.
Lord Nuuan, he corrected himself.
He remembered puking all the way to the funeral, and Nuuan making fun of his clothes. Then there was the accident…an overturned orb truck on the freeway.
This isn’t right.
“I’m sorry, Nick,” Dr. Murray said, “but I have another Hall of Power starting in five minutes. Consider this a character-building moment. I know you. It won’t happen again.”
Nicolas headed for the door, leaving his notes on Dr. Murray’s desk, but stopped and turned when he reached it.
Confusion.
He was going to say something…to someone. But no one was there, and he couldn’t remember what it was he wanted to say anyway.
Wasn’t I talking to someone?
He reached for the door but felt dizzy and had to look down. His sight went blurry, as if someone were spinning him around. When his vision cleared, cars filled the small parking spaces that surrounded the Archeology building. He felt the warmth of a familiar light but couldn’t find the sun.
A door? I’m losing it. Why would you expect to find a door in a parking lot, you idiot?
The light made him feel at home. He’d be content to walk in circles as long as the warmth of the light stayed with him.
Parking lots make me happy.
The absurdity of that comment caught him by surprise. Why would parking lots make him happy?
There was the parking lot at the orphanage, where Dr. Murray would pick him up and take him out to eat. There was the parking lot at the Mukhtaar Estate where the floating orange cars parked. And then there was the parking lot at the funeral parlor, where someone had been chasing him.
That sounds important.
He needed to remember who was chasing him, but he couldn’t. He remembered having chills, though. And puking. Lots of puking.
The light intensified. It was a wonderful feeling, like when he had spent time inside the computer lab at school and then stepped out into the warm Texas sun to thaw out for a few moments. He could walk in this light forever.
Dangit! Who was chasing me?
Something bad was going to happen if he couldn’t remember.
A flash of light and heat blinded him and he collided with something he couldn’t see. When the light subsided, he saw the side of his own car.
But it hasn’t started in months.
He reached for the handle and lifted, but it wouldn’t open. He always locked his car. He patted his robes down, looking for his keys.
Figures. I left my keys in my other robes.
His hand stopped at an object in his pocket, but every time he tried to see what it was, the light would flee from him. He needed the light. He wanted it to stay forever.
The light was telling him the object was bad and he should forget about it. He ought to wander around the parking lot for a while instead. Everything would be all right…if he kept wandering.
Light can’t talk, dumbass.
He reached into his robe and felt the object in his pocket.
I doubt these are keys.
A saying popped into his mind…doubt is your enemy. He didn’t know where it came from, but it was popular in his Latin class these days. The teacher would recite it before the ritual meditation.
Doubt is your enemy.
Every time he’d focus on a thought, the light would intensify and make it difficult to think.
He took the object out of his pocket and held it up.
It was his wallet. And it smelled like roses. He opened it and found a picture inside.
A picture of a beautiful girl.
My girl. Kaitlyn. Kaitlyn!
A chill went over him as if someone poured cold water on his head. The fog in his mind cleared, and he was aware. He knew what was happening. He knew where he was and what he was doing. This was a Hall of Power. And he’d almost failed.
The parking lot vanished, leaving him in a room with a single door. The arrow hung in the air in front of him. It rotated until the sharp tip pointed straight at his chest. This time he wasn’t afraid. He knew the arrow for what it was now, and that knowledge strengthened him. It was a symbol of power, and he would take control of it.
The arrow floated backwards toward the wall, and he reveled in the sensation of the necropotency that surrounded him. He used the power to spin the arrow so it pointed towards the ceiling. He channeled necropotency into the wall to carve a place for it, just like he had for the skull.
The wall and arrow collapsed into one, and the arrow imploded, contracting from three dimensions to two. An electric-blue light radiated from its edges.
He had won the battle…all because of Kaitlyn.
He ran for the entrance of the Hall until he reached the room with two doors. He willed the Hall to collapse and opened his eyes to see his prison cell.
Two symbols of power floated in his mind. A skull and an arrow. He had no idea what the arrow was for, but he was safe now.
He understood, at last, why Mujahid couldn’t tell him what he’d be up against in the Hall of Power. The Hall used people’s own minds against them. But the Hall didn’t understand him. He had memories and concepts from two different worlds in his head, and the Hall was combining them as if they belonged together.
He shivered
. If it was this easy to confuse him when he knew the images didn’t make sense, then how easy would it be for someone who had never left Erindor?
Two guards entered his cell. He was so focused on the arrow he hadn’t noticed them earlier. One of them grabbed him and lifted him to his feet, while another bound his hands.
“Where are you taking me?” Nicolas said.
“Don’t you think four days is enough to prepare for trial?” the guard said as he led Nicolas out of the cell.
This was it. There was going to be a trial and Mujahid hadn’t been able to do anything about it.
He was in a daze as two men led him through the fortress. The reality of what was happening was too much to absorb. When the men stopped shoving him he realized he hadn’t been aware he was moving.
A row of men, dressed in purple robes trimmed with gold, sat together on one side of a long stone table. They wore funny hats that reminded Nicolas of a chef’s hat, except puffed out at the center like a beach ball. Something told him there was nothing funny about what they were going to do to him.
“Bring the prisoner forward.” The voice came from an older man sitting in the middle chair. He didn’t bother looking up from his scroll as he spoke to Nicolas. “The Province of Caspar will read the charges, according to the Shandarian Justice Protocols. Scribe, if you will.”
A man stood up, unrolled a scroll, and cleared his throat. “The prisoner is charged with the practice of necromancy, as witnessed by the accusers, the Shandarian Ranger Patrol of the Province of Elegar, under the leadership of Captain Elis Saren.”
“Saren himself bears witness?”
“Yes, Magistrate,” the scribe said.
“The Ranger’s testimony renders the prisoner’s plea unnecessary,” the magistrate said. “Therefore, this tribunal finds you guilty of the practice of necromancy.”
Nicolas’s chest tightened. He wanted to say something, to fight back, anything except stand there doing nothing.
But he couldn’t. The fear wouldn’t let him.
“You are sentenced to death by drowning,” the magistrate said. “You will be taken to Lake Caspar, bound, weighted, and sunk.”
