Sieghard stared at her, awash with disgust and disbelief. “This spell is a beautiful weaving of magic beyond anything mortals have ever created. Our attempts to alter it would be juvenile and blasphemous.” He scowled at her, and Athala felt her heart sink. But before he spoke again his eyes widened, and a slow grin crossed his lips. “But it would be a brilliant blasphemy.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
They may have had a day and a half to assemble their disguises, but Elise was surprised how difficult of a task it was.
Ermolt left not long after Athala to fetch his gear from his unused tavern room across Jirda. When he returned, he regaled Elise with tales of sneaking through the streets and running from City Guards who pursued him endlessly just because he was a barbarian.
While his stories were likely exaggerated, they had a ring of truth to them. Ibeyar knew they roamed the streets. He was likely looking for them in an attempt to bring them in before they could cause any trouble.
Elise tried to bribe Arend, the owner of the Lucky Turnip, to keep them hidden from the Prophet’s grasping hands, but the man would have no coin. He was satisfied to have patrons who didn’t fault the tavern for its colorful and flame-filled history, and he was also happy to provide shelter to anyone who thought the Prophet was an overstuffed windbag, bent on destroying the world. He was tickled pink to hear they planned on overthrowing him.
They were rewarded that night with a feast.
There may have been a lot of turnips involved.
But also mead, so Ermolt was happy.
Overall, Elise and Ermolt took their time assembling their disguises. They never left the tavern together, and they never took a direct route back to the Lucky Turnip, always cautious of someone seeing them and alerting the Guards.
The night of the rally was a true test of skill and determination.
Elise’s disguise involved more makeup than she was entirely comfortable wearing. She used a powder to make her skin lighter, much more like a local Jirdan. A darker powder was used to contour her nose to make it look smaller, and rouge was applied to the apples of her cheeks to distract from the color.
Her dress was a lovely thing she had custom-made from a local tailor that came highly recommended by Arend. It was fitted to her while she was dressed in full armor, allowing the dress to be made several sizes larger than her form required, without the material bunching up in odd places. The tailor had provided her with some artful padding to make it look natural, but the end result was fairly believable, even from up close.
Elise wasn’t much of a dress person by default, unlike Athala. But the material was soft, the design was simple, and the dress itself was well cut and flattering, even with the padding and armor.
The finishing touch was a pair of daggers hidden within slits along the sleeves, purposefully made by the tailor.
For Ermolt, the biggest challenge had been his height. After some deliberation, they had gotten him a long robe and stuffed a cushion under his shoulders so that he could hunch over like an old man. The robe let him wear just about anything he wanted beneath, so he opted for his usual hide armor. It was a warmer get up, especially since he had spent the last few days near-shirtless, but he found it more comfortable and a lot more protective if things went horribly awry.
Elise didn’t have much confidence in her ability to put makeup on him, but she was able to provide the basics in the form of chalk dust to lighten his hair and lightly applied powder lines around his eyes and mouth. They hid the bulk of his hair under a wide-brimmed straw hat, which also helped to distract from the lack of skill Elise had with makeup.
They both agreed his disguise wouldn’t hold up under close scrutiny. Ermolt was too broad shouldered, and his hands were calloused and muscular. But when he leaned heavily on a quarterstaff, the illusion was believable at a glance. As long as he didn’t draw attention to himself, he couldn’t stick out in a crowd.
The bell leading up to when they would leave was torturous, especially since they had gotten ready way too early at Elise’s insistence. Arend tried to help with cool drinks and light snacks of cheese and fruits, but Ermolt and Elise both picked lightly at the spread. They were thankful, but distracted.
Elise worried about her ability to stay calm. The world had been a whirlwind of activity since Merylle’s death, and she really hadn’t had the time to process her feelings and her sorrow. But here she was, about to see the man who had murdered her to save himself, and she couldn’t even kill him.
Every rhen of her being ached to kill him. To enact revenge. But this was a fact-finding mission—a time for caution and subtlety, not for wanton murder.
It became apparent, through the sparse conversation Elise and Ermolt shared during that bell, that Ermolt was worried about much the same. He too feared his inability to keep from enacting revenge on Merylle’s behalf, but also on the behalf of everyone who had died while being involved with the Prophet’s plans. For the men and women who were killed in the night to keep Jirda fearful, and for the Guards and Overseers who had perished because of his machinations.
It was an odd moment of comradery between two fighters who had come together under the employment of an outside force. They may have been hired by Athala for different reasons, and they may had become friends over the past months of adventure, but they had never really, truly seen eye-to-eye.
Eventually, they both forced the other to promise to avoid blowing their cover, but if an opportunity presented itself to undermine or even destroy Ibeyar, they would take it.
Elise, for one, made that promise boldly.
When the sun finally began to approach the horizon, Elise and Ermolt slipped out into the street quietly. They tried to look inconspicuous, but when they arrived at the marketplace, it was clear they could have gone nearly unnoticed if they’d arrived sans-disguise and in full armor.
The air was filled with the chatter of nearly a hundred people, crowded around a platform that had been erected in the center of the market, just a block from the Temple of Numara.
From what Elise could tell, the craftsmanship of the platform was shoddy, and it was pretty clearly throw together haphazardly for tonight’s rally. It was a temporary thing, and one Ibeyar hoped to never have to use again.
Around the platform hung banners of dark gray, streaked with a royal blue. Dragons were embroidered on the banners, frozen in various poses and actions that looked all too familiar to Elise. She’d seen a dragon fight, up close and personal, and it was obvious Ibeyar had used Sirur’s death as inspiration.
Elise led the way as she pushed into the crowd, Ermolt lurching along behind her. She didn’t need to exchange words with him to know that he would want to get as close to the platform as possible. It was what she wanted as well.
What Ibeyar said to the crowd wouldn’t be important. They didn’t need to hear his words, so much as figure out what his plans were. Anything he announced to those gathered wouldn’t be useful. It was likely to be propaganda and lies. But if they were up close to him, they might see who he arrived with, who he left with, and where he went after the festivities were done. That could be their lead to find his plans, if they weren’t clues enough on their own.
Or, if nothing else, it would give them a next step to follow.
Someone drove an elbow into Elise’s side as she pushed past them. Elise turned to scold them. Her curse died in her throat when she saw who the elbow belonged to.
Conscript Tilke stood in a small cluster of people that looked as much like Conscripts, Priests, and Clerics as a group of people could outside of the uniforms of the Temples. They were chatting amicably among themselves.
Tilke didn’t even give her a second look, having jostled her entirely by accident.
Elise turned and moved away quickly before he could notice them.
Once they were in a position close to the platform, Elise turned a more cautious and critical eye to the crowd. She was surprised to see that many more had joined since they had arr
ived, and many and much of them were either boasting the armor of the City Guard, or seemed to be clergy of the Temple of Numara.
“How has his influence reached so deep?” Elise murmured in whisper to Ermolt. The barbarian shrugged in return, and Elise marveled at the crowd.
Those who were dressed in the uniforms of the Temple wore their armor and tabards openly, the spiked crescent symbol of Numara broadly sprinkled throughout those collected.
Ibeyar had declared their God an enemy of Jirda. And yet they were here, proudly supporting the man. How had he been able to worm his way into the Temple that they could be here without fear of reprisal from the High Priest?
The crowd erupted with cheers and Elise turned back to see Ibeyar take the stage. People surged forward around Elise, and she took it as an opportunity to muscle her way closer a little more forcefully. While the armor under her dress gave her the weight and bulk to force others aside easily, the ample padding kept any jostling from making her suspicious.
She and Ermolt stopped another five or so fen forward. They weren’t quite up against the edge of the platform, but they got close enough to see the mercenaries lurking around the back and sides of the platform. It was obvious they were warily scanning the crowd for threats, especially with so much shoving and screaming going on.
“People of Jirda!” Ibeyar said, throwing his arms wide as he hit the center of the platform. His face was split by a wide smile and Elise could see his eyes alight with joy.
Joy.
He took joy in this.
This perversion of ideology.
Elise sneered.
“Welcome one and all to the beginning of the dawn of a new Age! I am so blessed that you all came out tonight.”
The cheering redoubled. Elise felt oddly conspicuous as the people around her waved their arms, clapping and screaming in support of this monster. But she couldn’t fake enthusiasm. Not for him.
Instead she stared up at him and prayed that her scowling didn’t bring the wrath of his mercenaries upon her.
“For those unaware,” Ibeyar said, pausing to chuckle, “I am the Prophet—the Bringer of the Age of Mortals—and I am here to rescue you from the tyranny of the Gods!”
Elise blinked, long and slow.
The crowd around her roared into a chant. “Age of Mortals!” the people shouted. “Age of Mortals! Age of Mortals!” They stomped their feet in time with the chant.
Bile rose in Elise’s throat.
“Yes! That’s right!” Ibeyar waved his arms expansively, basking in the admiration of the crowd. “The Age of Mortals is coming! I have revealed the duplicity of the Gods! I have seen Their plans! I have witnessed Their games for power, with our lives in the center of every ploy! And, as you good people know, only I can stop them! And I will stop them!”
The crowd roared, but Ibeyar lowered his hands, gesturing for the crowd to quiet. The difference was as stark as day and night. He had them eating from the palms of his hands.
“They will no longer throw our valuable lives away on their petty gambles. I will not allow them to treat humans as currency anymore.”
The cheering died down as his voice fell lower, and people actively leaned forward to hear every word he spoke.
Elise shot a glance to Ermolt. His eyes were wide beneath his wide-brimmed hat and he mouthed a curse.
“You see, I uncovered the lies of Hether, and gave the city of Gloder back to the people.” Ibeyar pointed out into the crowd as he spoke, dotting his words with a stab of his finger. “I protected you, the people of Jirda, from Numara’s betrayal. I battled Ydia’s evil henchmen in Khule to show Her that we mortals will not give up without a fight, no matter how many lives she throws away to stop us! I put truth my pledge and destroyed the power of Teis and freed Jalova from his manipulations!”
Elise ground her teeth together. Her face felt hot, flushed, as his lies and half-truths grew more outrageous.
He took credit for their actions. He turned them into villains.
The crowd clapped and scattered voices shouted encouragement with every statement.
Somehow that was so much worse.
She knew these people were simply misled—they only had his word to go by. They trusted him to tell them the truth. It wasn’t their fault he lied to them. They had no one to ask, no one to confer with. And they would spread his story. Defend it. Because they knew no better.
What could she expect, though? They couldn’t go to Jalova and talk to the Overseers. She couldn’t expect them to go to Khule and examine the prison records.
If Elise didn’t already have plenty of reasons to hate Ibeyar, his manipulation of the people made him an absolute monster in her eyes.
This was so much worse than she expected.
“Yes, in three days,” Ibeyar said, continuing some conversation Elise hadn’t been paying attention to. “Then I will breach the Temple of Numara. In three days I will wrest from Her the power She abuses to hurt you! I will stop the attacks in the night, and I will be given the power to overcome all resistance! I will stand up for you all, and bring about the Age of Mortals!”
“Blood of Dasis, you expect people to believe that rot?”
The crowd fell quiet.
Elise cursed and turned to the barbarian beside her.
His face was a mask of rage, his mighty fists clenched around the middle of his quarterstaff.
“Ibeyar Frey, you are a fraud!”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Athala worked tirelessly all afternoon and well into the evening, focusing on altering the dragon spells.
Specifically she focused on Sirur’s spell, as Meodryt’s threats spooked her too much to start there. But once she had perfected the craft, she’d apply it to Meodryt’s spell as well.
Logically, she knew Sieghard was right and the dragon’s cryptic warning was to alert her to the physical harm casting such a spell would cause. But logic wouldn’t banish the sharp claws and teeth that hid behind her eyes, nor would it cool the heat of the dragonfire she felt across her skin.
Adding components to the spell was harder work than just slapping draconian runes to the beginning of the spell and hoping it worked. For one thing, there was no ‘beginning’ of the spell to attach the runes to. Every part of the spell was fluid and, from what Athala could tell, perfect. Adding a magical energy generator to it without weaving it into the very fabric of the spell would be akin to sticking a piece of red-hot coal to one’s forehead to help them see in the dark.
Dangerous, stupid, and potentially deadly.
So even when Athala had spent the bells necessary to build a generator from her vast knowledge of spells, attaching it to Sirur’s spell was more stressful than fighting the dragon itself.
Nothing seemed to feel right.
And it didn’t help that Sieghard had mysteriously vanished.
Not that Athala tried to find him.
He was just conspicuously not around.
So much for his invaluable assistance on her research.
But even without Sieghard’s help, Athala was able to figure out a good way to meld the generator and spell together in a way that made sense. The generator constantly called up magical energy during the entirety of the spell, instead of just once, and that felt right.
“How fares your progress?”
Athala jolted in her seat and glared up at the aging wizard. He held two plates, each topped with what smelled like a vegetable soup, with some bread on the side and a small pile of roasted vegetables. “Ah, Sieghard. I wondered where you’d gotten off to. I didn’t know you knew how to cook!” She took one of the plates from him, ignoring the rumbling in her stomach as she caught a good whiff of the soup. It was very garlicky. Just the way she liked it.
“I don’t.” Sieghard grinned. “Aside from my brilliant and yet-to-be-duplicated perfect cup of tea, I know my way around a kitchen little more than you around a weapon. My kitchen is mostly decorative.”
“So where did this food come fro
m?” Athala asked, suspiciously inspecting the soup.
“I pay my neighbor to fix my meals. She brings them by three times a day.”
Athala opened her mouth to comment on that. She’d been here for a few days now and had never seen or heard this neighbor, nor heard Sieghard answer the door. But that would be silly. Athala would be the first to admit that she had a habit of ignoring her surroundings when there was a book in front of her. And the only times there hadn’t been a book in her hands was when she was sleeping or eating, and that was only because she didn’t want to ruin the precious tomes.
With a little shrug, Athala smiled. “Well, please send my compliments to the chef. This soup smells amazing.”
“I’m pleased to tell you then that it tastes as good as it smells, and moreover, the bread is light and fluffy and still warm from the hearth.”
That was all Athala needed to dig into the meal.
It was everything Sieghard promised and more.
After about a quarter bell of silence, interrupted only by the slurping of soup or the smacking of lips, Sieghard put aside his empty plate and folded his hands on his knees. Athala looked up from her plate where she chased a few droplets of soup with a wedge of bread. He stared at her as if he expected something.
“Hm?” Athala prompted, confused.
“I had originally asked about your progress, and you have yet to respond.”
“Oh, um, I’m sorry,” Athala said, stumbling over her words. “I’ve been done for a bell or so. Everything looks fine. The component I’ve added to the spells should call up more than enough energy. And it calls it up over the entirety of the spells instead of just once.” Sieghard nodded approvingly, and Athala continued. “The hardest parts of the spells are already embedded in my mind from the absorption process, so they should be able to be cast from memory, instead of as ritual.” Athala shifted uncomfortably. “But my instincts are screaming at me to not cast them.” She sighed. “I’m not sure what’s going to happen.”
Destiny (Heroes by Necessity Book 3) Page 17
