Sacrifice (Book 4)

by Brian Fuller

  The executioner and the Padra stood nearby, and Gen killed them both with a thought, undoing veins in their heads. They slumped lifeless from the platform, the executioner falling into his own fire and throwing up sparks.

  The Eldephaere crowded into the gap that he had created, but with a Duam-powered leap, he sailed over them, landing twenty feet from Mirelle. Gen’s fury burned white hot and without remorse he unleashed his next assault.

  “Forua Kael!”

  The fiery pile of wood underneath Mirelle exploded outward from the center, the wood whistling through the air with deadly, burning velocity. The heavy logs plowed avenues of death through the terrified Eldephaere. They continued on to level the forward ranks of the bloodthirsty crowd. The burning branches and sticks punctured unprotected bodies and knocked even more revelers to the ground. In terror the crowd reversed course and ran in the opposite direction.

  Not a single twig remained beneath the charred First Mother, who hung unconscious from the abandoned pole. Gen rushed to her, using Trysmagic to free her hands and feet of her bonds. Limp, she fell into his arms, face blackened and legs charred. He had little of Duammagic left to avail him, and he spent the last of its strength to heal her lungs and to alleviate the damage of her legs. Even so, he could not tell if she would live, so bad was the damage. Tears welled up in his eyes as he carried her beaten, burned body away from the square. He needed to see if Cadaen yet lived.

  A group of Eldephaere approached from the other side of the square, crossbowmen coming to the front. Gen killed them with Trysmagic before they could even raise their weapons. The determination of the rest failed them and they backed away. All before him fled as he ran back down the avenue. He found Cadaen lying in the street amid a pile of dead Eldephaere, blood running freely from many wounds. Gen had nothing left with which to heal him. Cadaen reached up and stroked Mirelle’s hair, his eyes heavy with approaching death.

  “She is yours now, Gen,” he said. “Help her live. I am done.”

  The old Protector closed his eyes and his breath left him. With difficulty, Gen fought down his emotions. They had to survive, and to survive they had to evade a city teeming with enemies. He ducked down an alley and made a series of confusing turns before finding an old, crumbling building carved from the stone. He darted up a flight of treacherous stairs. The edifice was abandoned, and he ducked through a doorless entryway and used Trysmagic to create a slab of stone that would make it appear to the passerby that there was just a wall.

  A single window on the opposite wall he covered with shutters, and with the rest of the Trysmagic he possessed, he created the herbs and water he would need to treat Mirelle’s damaged body until his Duammagic recovered enough to heal her completely. Only Mynmagic was available to him now, and as he began his mundane ministrations he hoped for several hours of peace. Getting out of the city would be impossible until Mirelle was healed—and it would prove difficult even then.

  Shutting away the commotion outside the window, he bathed her charred legs, hoping to keep them from festering to save her body’s strength from the task of fighting infection. With the water, he cleaned her face and arms the best he could, whispering to her unconscious mind to hang on a few hours more. The brutal pace of the last few days and the heavy expenditure of magic exhausted him. After forcing some water down her throat, he lay back on the floor and drifted off to sleep as the heat of the day cooled to evening.

  The sound of Mirelle groaning in pain wrenched him out of slumber a couple of hours later. It was dark, but he sought her hand and used Mynmagic to trick her mind into feeling no pain at all. She relaxed and fell back into a peaceful slumber. Standing, he opened a shutter for a view of the dark street below. They hadn’t gone far from the square, and the marching of feet and clamor of shouted orders echoed everywhere. Closing the shutter, he lay back down.

  Throughout the night, the sounds of soldiers passing beneath the windows woke him, though not until morning did he hear them searching the building where they hid. He waited quietly as they poked around the ruin, but no one was observant enough to realize there was a window on the outside that opened to a hidden room, and they left.

  By midday, his reserves felt strong enough to attempt to heal her, but before he did, he used Trysmagic to dissolve her ruined dress and create a modest dress for her in its place. He chose one that a simple country girl might wear, to help her blend in when they attempted escape.

  Delving deep into his reserves, he took her hand and poured the healing energy of Duammagic into Mirelle’s flagging body, restoring the flesh, undoing the swelling, and killing the infections already starting to take root. To heal her completely took all the Duammagic he possessed, but her legs were still scarred from the fire. Her eyes fluttered and then popped open, and Gen helped her to sit up, bringing her water.

  “Where am I?” she asked, a little frightened.

  “In Echo Hold,” Gen said. “You are safe for the moment.”

  She drank, her eyes regarding him skeptically in the dim light admitted from the shutters.

  “And who are you?”

  “I am called Amos these days, but under a different name I was one of the few men who enjoyed the favor of the First Mother of Rhugoth. And, I might add, one of the few—if not the only—to ever kiss her.”

  The water fell out of Mirelle’s hand and onto the floor, and her mouth gaped. She leaned in for a closer look. “Gen? It can’t be! The voice is yours, but, the face. . . Sweet Eldaloth, it is you!”

  She dove at him and knocked him to the ground, lying on top of him and kissing him, her tears running down her face and onto his. She finally sat up, straddling him and inspecting his face.

  “How are you not dead? How dare you not be dead! I held you in my arms and made this horrible blubbering scene crying over you! And where did all your scars go? And a beard?”

  Gen laughed. “It’s a long tale, but. . .”

  She leaned down and smothered him in kisses until some thought struck her. “But if you’re alive . . . does my daughter know?”

  “Yes,” Gen said.

  Mirelle rolled off of him and onto the floor, staring up at the ceiling. “Curse it all. No, I don’t mean that. But you must marry her, Gen. You must love her and make love to her and make her smile. She wants it so desperately. Oh, why couldn’t I have conned you into marrying me before all this happened? I worked so hard at being persuasive and seductive and charming. Tell me I was good at it.”

  “You were unnaturally good at it.”

  “Not good enough, apparently. Damn it all! You must marry her—and quickly. We need to the put the world under your leadership as soon as possible.”

  Gen reached over and took her hand. “Ki’Hal needs to be under your rule, Mirelle. You are gifted in ways I don’t think I ever will be. Remember that I’m a villain to the whole world. I can’t marry anyone, much less lead anything. I look different, but not different enough to fool anyone for long.”

  “Maybe,” she said. “But I need all the details of what happened to you and between you and the Chalaine. Just leave out the romantic bits—if there are any—so I don’t get jealous. Are there any? Romantic bits, I mean?”

  “Mirelle. . .”

  “But who is a better kisser? Be honest.”

  Gen chuckled. “Do you have any idea how bizarre this conversation is? You look very young, but to think I’ve kissed a mother and her daughter in a romantic way is a little . . . uncomfortable.”

  “So you have kissed her!” Mirelle exclaimed, and then frowned and changed her tone. “So you have kissed her. You are right; this is tending toward the bizarre. Being in love with your future son-in-law is terribly low class. On with the story, then.”

  Gen related the tale of his awakening and their flight through the Black Forest, the Chalaine’s illness and sudden recovery, and his brief stay in Blackshire. When he related leaving Blackshire in company with Cadaen, her hand went to her mouth as she predicted the truth behind his
absence. Gen held her as she cried softly, telling her of Cadaen’s concern for her and his fight to keep the Eldephaere at bay.

  “He bought me the time I needed to get to you,” Gen said. “He died bravely and was an excellent soldier and a dedicated man.”

  Mirelle wiped her eyes. “Well, he got what he wanted in the end. Ever since he lost control and tried to take me for his own, he has been searching for a way to die for me. I guess he found it. I will miss him. It will be like turning around and finding your shadow gone. Oh, Gen, this last week has been so dark and comfortless in that cell. I had lost you. I thought I might lose my daughter to an Uyumaak horde. I bandied words with Mikkik and saw his dark heart. By the time they dragged me out of that cell this morning, I was almost glad to die.” She reached out and touched his face. “But now that you are here, and here with power, there is light again in the world.”

  Gen took her hand, “I still can’t see what I can do, although I will fight for any good cause.”

  “I have some ideas,” she returned, “but how long must we hide, do you think?”

  “We’ll just need to wait for the patrols to die down,” Gen said. “At some point they’ll think we’ve already escaped. I know a few tricks to get us away safely, even if they don’t, so if it takes longer than a day or two, we’ll risk it.”

  “Then would you mind conjuring up a mattress or a pillow? I assume you can do that with Trysmagic,” she said.

  “Yes. The plainer, the less power is required, so forgive something simple.”

  “Well it doesn’t need to be big,” she said. “You and I can be cozy for as long as it takes.”

  He grinned at her. “You’re doing it again.”

  “What?”

  “Flirting.”

  “Well, I can’t help it,” she said. “The Chalaine doesn’t have to know everything that happens here. Thank you for the dress, by the way. Not quite my style, but it will do.”

  Gen created a thin mattress big enough for them to sit comfortably on. As she sat cross-legged, she noticed the burn scars on her legs and sighed. “It is a shame,” she said, rubbing her hand over the uneven skin. “They were quite lovely, I would have you know.”

  “I can restore the skin with Trysmagic,” he said. “You will have your legs back. I will . . . I will need to see them to do the work required.”

  She smiled teasingly. “Who is being forward now?”

  After a day of resting and hiding, Gen decided they should risk leaving, as much as for the frustration they both felt over their confinement as the need to keep his relationship with Mirelle from barreling headlong into the inappropriate. She clearly found it difficult to bridle her affections. Mirelle was ever intoxicating, and she sorely tested his control with her copious affection.

  Thankfully, the patrols had died down and the city had returned to its natural hum and flow, and he judged it was time to move. By way of disguise, Gen conjured up some drab, dirty peasant attire, and he used Duammagic to lengthen his beard and his hair until he appeared almost wild. Gen stared over at Mirelle, who had just finished laughing at his disguise.

  “The clothes might say peasant woman,” Gen said, stroking his beard, “but you still look like a beautiful noblewoman wearing a costume. Isn’t there something you can do to look more ignorant and unattractive?”

  “Now that is a rare request,” she said. “I’ll let you give me a bad haircut, and we can smear some filth on my face. Maybe you can expand the dress, and we can stuff something in it to make me look pregnant. Then we can pretend you’re some wild beast of a man who just travels into town to father children. Like Chertanne.”

  “Sounds awful, but it might work,” he said.

  “Just promise me that you can use your magic to put me back to normal before we see anyone I know. Do you need to check my body anywhere else for burn scars before we go?”

  “You’ve got to stop. . .”

  “I’m serious!”

  “No. If you find any more, then you can let me know.”

  “I’m sorry, Gen,” she said, eyes that had been playful for the last day finally turning melancholy. “I am such a wretched contradiction of emotions that I think I might just tear myself in half. When we leave, it will be time to get to work, and that will help.”

  “I understand, and I want you to know. . .”

  “But,” she interrupted, stepping close, “a man who saves an aristocrat’s life must be rewarded.”

  “There is no need,” he replied, smiling at the memory of their conversation after the attempt on her life on the streets of Mikmir.

  “Yes there is,” she replied. And then she kissed him deeply with tender emotion and sincere love. Gen could feel his knees buckling.

  “There,” she said, putting her hand on his cheek. “Something to remember me by.”

  Gen swallowed. “Mirelle. . .”

  “Come on, Gen,” she ordered. “You’ve cooped me up long enough. I want to see my daughter as soon as I can. We need to have you sitting on the throne of Mikmir with my daughter by your side as soon as we can arrange it.”

  “The people won’t accept me!”

  “No, but they will accept the return of Aldradan Mikmir.”

  “You can’t be serious!”

  She smiled one of the devious, plotting smiles that he loved. “I am. Mikkik likes a good ruse, and so do I. We’ve a long way to go. Hear me out. You might like this little plot of mine.”

  CHAPTER 82 - THE PROCESSION OF GLORY

  “She isn’t in town,” Gen informed Mirelle once they arrived in Embriss on horses Gen had paid for with conjured money. “She’s just north of here a couple of miles. We’re almost there.”

  Dusk had fallen on the dirty, noisy town packed with pilgrims. Gen thought the chaos was worse than when he and Cadaen had traveled through just days before. He figured that every merchant from any town within reasonable distance had come to take advantage of the mob, and the overworked Eldephaere had lost the war against the drunken rowdy.

  Gen and Mirelle’s path led out of the city and toward the manor house of Regent Feldebrinne, who lived down a country lane walled by trees. Even here, many of the pilgrims waiting for their chance to pass through the Portal had set up crude camps among the tree boles, small fires weaving their smoke through the forest and across the lane.

  “This is a mess,” Mirelle commented. “I wonder that Feldebrinne has let it spiral so far out of control.”

  “The Church appears to be in control—or not in control,” Gen observed. “Since this is the closest Portal to Echo Hold, I’m guessing Athan wanted a stranglehold on it. I haven’t seen any soldiers dressed in the colors of the Regent.”

  “We’ll need to change that,” Mirelle said. “I’ve been wondering who has been in charge since Eldaloth’s supposed return. I hunger for news. My mind needs something to work on besides you. Can you put me back to normal now, please? I miss my hair.”

  “I thought the Chalaine might enjoy seeing how well I cut hair with a knife,” he said.

  “And I might enjoy giving you another kiss you can’t forget,” she returned.

  “You win.”

  “I really haven’t.”

  The pilgrims lining the road thinned as they proceeded farther along the curved, forested road. The lighted windows of the manor house perched on a low hill winked in and out between the trees as they dismounted and walked the horses to rest them. A cool breeze in the twilight brought relief from a hot day of hard travel that had exhausted both them and the animals. Once they were sure that there were no prying eyes, Gen restored Mirelle’s long hair and used Trysmagic to create a more regal riding dress that befitted her station. He changed himself back to Amos, complete with his wide brimmed hat.

  “I hate that hat,” Mirelle commented.

  “So does the Chalaine,” Gen replied, “but it is necessary.”

  “Not for long.”

  The call of the Silver Loon greeted them, and Gen stopped. “Maewen i
s here. Let’s tie the horses and find her.”

  “How do you know that?” Mirelle asked.

  “The bird trill we just heard. That bird does not frequent this area of Ki’Hal. It’s a signal we’ve used before.”

  They secured the horses to a tree branch and walked into the dimming woods. Unlike the Black Forest, the woods around Embriss were cleared of fallen branches and brush, and instead of densely packed pines, majestic oaks and maples rose into the air. Maewen stood on the stump of a recently sawed tree, leaning on her longbow and regarding them both with pleasure.

  “Well met,” she said. “I feared to tell the Chalaine that Gen neared until I was sure he had you with him, Mirelle. But I see it was not without trouble. Cadaen has fallen, then?”

  “Yes,” Mirelle confirmed.

  “I feel for you,” Maewen said, placing her hand on Mirelle’s arm. “But I rejoice that you have come. You and Gen are needed, and the time is short. Gen, I do not think you can maintain your disguise. Events of a serious nature have occurred in your absence, and your knowledge and power are needed now.”

  “Gen and I have a scheme ready,” Mirelle said, “but tell us what has happened.”

  The more Maewen talked, the more alarmed Gen became. Ethris was dead. Mikkik had bled the Chalaine and created a weapon of immense power, and the dark god only needed to dupe someone not of his creation to walk into Elde Luri Mora and use it. Time was, indeed, short.

  “To add to our difficulties,” Maewen continued, “the Church has spies and soldiers all over. They are well aware that the Chalaine is visiting with Regent Feldebrinne and are probably aware of why. I’ve killed two spies who came onto the Regent’s land, which I doubt will foster good will. Falael returned yesterday from scouting to Mikmir. Mikkik has set a Padra on each of the thrones of the three nations, and each stronghold is held by a sizable force. Mikmir is no exception.”