by Cassia Meare
And a copy of Lotho at the end of the first row didn't like that. It held up a hand and shot a feeble blast that hit the giggling Nemours on the chest and created two more copies of him — both of which proceeded to cry, "Hey!" at the mages and send blasts back from outstretched hands.
No prince took it kindly when anyone dared strike him; that wouldn't be any news to Lotho.
However, it also seemed like Lotho didn't enjoy being mocked. Not even a little bit.
All the copies of Nemours started to laugh, looking at each other, pointing at the mages. He laughed as well, standing among them.
Some of the mages conferred and shook their heads, while some shot blasts that only increased the number of princes. Several Lothos held on to the arms of others, but the blasts continued, as did the duplication of Nemours.
Many more princes now filled the ranks than mages, but there would be no point in fighting the mages' fire with fire. Or slicing off heads. Such attacks would just increase Lotho's own army.
Nemours needed to know where the real Lotho was.
Sibulla's words crossed his mind. An end blind as two eyes. Of course, there was something else he could mirror: Lotho's eyes. What he was seeing.
The only person who knew Lotho's location was the mage himself — and he wouldn't give it away except unwillingly. Nemours had to make his own eyes blind and steal Lotho's sight.
Nemours closed his eyes to mirror Lotho's, and when he opened them, he saw nothing for a moment.
Hadn't it worked?
He blinked, and instead of seeing the rows of mages facing him, he now saw the rows of himself.
Yes, he was seeing what Lotho saw, and Lotho would know it in less than a second.
Two rows of mages before Lotho, three mages to his right before the column.
Nemours emerged from his group and used Soaring to jump high in the air; from Lotho's spot, he watched himself land on the ceiling and run on it upside down. He saw his own approach, and saw a sudden movement, too — and then darkness.
The mage had moved and closed his eyes, realizing that Nemours could see through him — but even blind, Nemours had sent his sword swiveling through the air.
Blind still, he landed. Hands grabbed him; he had failed and was now among the mages. He felt a dagger enter his side and another cut into his chest, too near the heart. Was it too late?
But he didn't fall. Instead, his sight returned and he found the mage at his feet, and no other copies of Lotho. The Tuii was coughing and spitting sand instead of blood, and his doubles were all gone — while Nemours' copies gathered around the prone body of his opponent.
Thank you, my love, he told the absent Sibulla.
Nemours took two steps back as the unruly mob of princes fell upon Lotho, tearing him limb from limb. The mage, still alive though his neck had been half sliced by Nemours' sword, screamed, screamed, and screamed until a hand, covered in immortal blood, rose from the confusion, triumphantly holding up a heart.
It was the worst of Nemours' own morons, laughing in delight and exhibiting the prize as he danced.
The real Nemours stepped up and took the heart. His copy pouted as he turned and threw it in the fire of a brazier.
"A roast!" the idiot screamed with glee.
Another copy laughed and sniffed the air. "Come and get it!"
"Ma skal nodraq!" Nemours snarled. Terminate this spell.
All his copies disappeared, and now he stood alone over the lifeless body of the Tuii with the smell of a burning heart in his nostrils — knowing there had been too much killing already, and yet not enough. A dagger was still stuck to his side, and he plucked it out. Opening his doublet and shirt, he looked at the wound on his chest. It hurt but hadn't compromised his heart. He wasn't about to faint or anything, and he muttered the healing spell a few times as he moved.
What was left of Lotho stayed behind, and Nemours slowly followed the columns to another door. This one had no puzzle on it. He pushed it open and entered a gloomier room. He supposed a mage would call it cozy, for the fires along the walls created a sort of glow. Another brazier, this one large and important, stood before the few steps leading to a stone chair.
Nemours scoffed. Vidar hadn't been shy about his ambitions, as the place looked like a throne room.
Next to the brazier, a tray with crushed minerals. Red quartz — the principle behind magical communication —blue quartz, and black quartz. He hesitated for a second, then took a large golden spoon sitting on the tray and filled it with red stones, throwing them into the fire.
The flames rose and produced the image of Vidar in smoke.
"If you are here, you know the order of the quest," the image said, the sound slightly distorted. Vidar smiled slowly. "Here is what I offer you ..."
Taking a deep breath, Nemours listened.
"To show you what you will pay to get the ultimate heka." Vidar cocked his head. "You can then decide whether you like that price."
It was a trick; magic changed its demands all the time, and even if Vidar thought he had discovered what the Key meant, it might not be the same for Nemours — or for this quest.
And what a foolish thing it would be to find out the price before time. It would most probably terrify many a seeker and stop their quest. Apart from the fact that what you were buying would remain unknown.
"More red quartz and you will know the price," Vidar continued. "Blue quartz and the powers you have gathered will increase. Black quartz and you will end this offer for everyone, and forever. What is your wish, seeker?"
Grabbing a fistful of black quartz, Nemours threw it in the fire. With a hiss, the image was gone, and the fire in the brazier died. One by one, the fires in the room were snuffed out as if by an invisible hand.
It was clear that he had to end that advantage for everyone. The House of Mages had not given him anything but what he had sought in the first place: the death of Ahn's priest. And that was fine by him.
He needed no mage light to find his way out. He could see well in the darkness.
32
The Sweet Seas were so called because their waters tasted almost sugary and lay as still as a lake’s. Unless a monster disturbed them.
But there were no more monsters as Elinor and Delian continued on their way to Old Edge in the morning. As they left the cliffs behind them, beaches of pink sand appeared on the coastline, shimmering in the light of the rising sun even as the waters became silver. Soon they were crossing small islands with black trees of white foliage, or white trees full of bright red leaves.
The mist was soft and low, and Delian let the boat sail the water. Elinor was now allowed to lean over and peek into the crystalline depths at coral rocks bright as jewels and fish with long tails like the trains of silk dresses.
It was all so beautiful and strange.
When they finally reached the promontory, she was glad they had stopped at the cave. An approach in the dark would have been frightening, for the beaches gave way to mighty rocks. Clouds rolled into a large, dark mass forming faces that scowled down at them and became other faces.
"Am I dreaming it?" she asked.
"No," said Delian. "It’s a place of ghosts."
Some of the faces wore visors and helmets. "If these are the knights, I hope they mean well," Elinor muttered.
"I’ll be happy if they don’t just stay in the sky. Raining on the enemy won’t win us the war."
He lowered the sail and steered the boat into an opening between two large boulders. Taking the oars, he propelled them easily around the rocks until they reached something like the gate to a city built over the water. It was flanked by the statues of two knights, a man and a woman, each of them the height of perhaps twenty people. They held their long swords before them, their expression stern and noble.
The boat crossed the gate undisturbed, except for the flight of white birds and their song. On the banks wild gardens bloomed with flowers Elinor had never seen. Ahead, the sanctuary appeared — or at least
that must be it: three cylindrical buildings of different heights and diameter, all of them topped by golden domes. The arms of many a knight and house were painted on their multifaceted exterior. The place must have existed for a long time, yet nothing looked faded or worn.
The boat kept going of its own volition, without mist or wind, toward the biggest of the halls and then through a narrow opening. Inside, an enormous space was covered by a high, arched ceiling and flanked by colonnades.
No other boats were there, and theirs stopped at a small pier. Delian jumped out and tied a cord to a large metal ring, although Elinor had the impression that some force had brought them and would probably keep the boat still. He stretched his hand to help her out. She decided to leave her cloak behind and wear only her sleeveless green dress, wondering again if it weren’t high time for her to adopt breeches.
"What now?" she asked, her voice carrying from column to column, arch to arch.
"We just walk around until we meet someone," Delian said. "Or something."
Together they moved up another flight of steps and along the colonnaded gallery to the first door on the way. Stepping through, they found themselves in the largest hall Elinor had ever seen.
Everything in Old Edge had been oversized so far, as if the dead needed much more space than the living; but the hall so dwarfed them that Elinor could not help feeling awe. The light was dim, falling diagonally from slits in the dome above. The columns were taller than the rocks outside, and several shallow flights of steps led to the biggest statues they had seen so far: four knights across from each other in the atrium, holding up the dome on their backs. Beyond them, more knights stood together as if they were giants frozen in the middle of a parley. On the ground, their arms were etched in exquisite stonework.
Even Delian was impressed, turning around and inspecting the swords, shields, helmets, and emblems in display. Judging by his nods and approving smile, he knew them all.
"Their crypts are here somewhere," he whispered.
"Do we have to—"
Elinor was going to ask whether he knew of any way to resurrect the knights, but a voice interrupted her.
"Would you really dare?"
A whisper of cloth and the soft shuffle of sandals revealed a presence to their left. From the shadow of statues, a woman emerged as Elinor and Delian stood rooted to the spot.
She was both beautiful and terrifying. A beautiful monster, Elinor thought.
The woman was tall and had a voluptuous, regal figure. Her long hair was loose, silky and black. Like Ty, she had dark eyes and pale skin. Her chest and the sides of her face were covered by small symbols. Elinor at first thought she was wearing a headdress made of five short horns, but then she realized the horns belonged to the sorceress — as did the six arms: two pulling back her hair, two picking up her skirt so she could descend toward them, and two lying still.
"I am Sigrit," she said.
Elinor almost jumped when Delian took her hand.
"Stay close," he hissed.
"I’m not afraid," Elinor said.
"I am."
The only adornments on Sigrit of Inön were large gold earrings, and they swung back and forth as she cocked her head one way then the other to look at them, as if she were inspecting wares in the market. Her eyes flashed with a fleeting silver light, dwelling on Elinor rather than on Delian.
"A human girl, my prince?" she asked, still staring at Elinor with a small smile.
Why do I feel as though I am about to be eaten? Elinor wondered. But drawing herself up and snatching her hand from Delian’s, she said, "Indeed. I am a human."
Sigrit’s smile became one of delight — or mischief. It was hard to tell. "From the Shadow World."
"If you prefer calling it that," Elinor said, without taking umbrage.
As she approached, Sigrit looked Elinor up and down, asking Delian, "And she is the one who has been finding the hekas?"
Delian closed an eye and narrowed the other, which usually meant he was trying to choose the answer that would cause less trouble while getting him what he wanted.
"I am," Elinor said. She suspected that Sigrit already knew that and more, although she did not know how.
"How clever." Again that look from the sorceress, which was almost a caress, and that secret smile. Finally, Sigrit turned to Delian. "You’ve come for the knights."
It was a statement. Surprisingly, he didn’t even glance down at the body moving closer to his, although four of her arms had disappeared behind a fold at the back of her dress and she looked like a normal and very seductive woman.
The dress bared more than it concealed, as it had large cuts on the sides, exhibiting her slim waist; a slit in front revealed her long, slim legs. The top of her breasts were two smooth globes in proud display, with a vertical line of symbols drawn between them.
Yet Delian wasn’t staring.
"Is it possible?" he asked. "To bring them back?"
"All sorts of things are possible. At least ‘impossible’ is not a word that witches like." She stopped before him and Elinor realized he was trying not to cringe as she reached up to brush the hair away from his forehead. "And the Prince of the Morning hates it especially. We have that in common."
She had mentioned Nemours, lowering her voice to pronounce his title, drawing it out. Even Delian’s eyes had sharpened at that; he was no one’s fool. He only pretended to be out of laziness.
What did this witch want with Nemours?
Why did she have six arms and a crown of horns?
Could she bring back the dead?
"What is the price, then?" Delian asked quietly, holding Sigrit’s eyes.
More of her hands got hold of him: two went around his waist, one to his hair, one to his cheek, and two rested against his chest. Her face was close to his now.
"Nothing from you," she whispered, looking deep into his eyes. "There is a world of pain in there already. Your soul" —she tapped his chest softly— "is broken." Her lips touched his briefly. "You’re too poor now, my prince."
Letting him go, she turned with an altogether brighter countenance toward Elinor. "But from you—ah!"
"There’s nothing she can give you," Delian said, scowling.
"Of course there is," Sigrit replied.
Delian stepped forward, taking Elinor by the hand again. "No. She is human, and this is not her fight."
"It is her fight," Sigrit disagreed, "for many reasons. She wants to save her world."
Delian seemed to be struggling with himself, probably regretting his decision to come here with Elinor.
"I have a price in mind," said the witch, cutting through his thoughts.
Elinor squeezed Delian’s hand as he opened his mouth to speak and said, "I must hear it."
"For your ears only."
"Now, Lady E—" Delian protested.
"Now, Delian," said Elinor. "I can handle myself."
"If you move two chambers over, you’ll find some ambrosine, and a beautiful view," Sigrit told Delian, motioning to the door from which she had emerged.
Delian only hesitated for a second, although he sent Elinor a pleading look. Don’t promise too much, it said. Don’t hurt yourself, don’t sacrifice yourself. It also said: There is a trick somewhere, be careful.
But Elinor already knew that.
No guts, no glory. She also knew that.
As his steps faded, and even their echo, the two women faced each other again.
"Before you tell me your price," Elinor said, "I would like to ask how you became as you are."
"Oh, you mean this?" Sigrit asked, lifting six hands. With two of them she touched her horns. "And these?"
"Indeed."
"How do you know I wasn’t born this way? Some hybrid creature from the forests or the mountains?"
"I know," Elinor said calmly.
"Yes. And you would like to know if your prince — or princes — were the cause?" Sigrit shook her head. "No. This was all Aya. I suppose I got a l
ittle bit … ambitious? Tried some spells on my own that she hadn’t allowed." Sigrit stared into space for a moment, but there was a smile on her face. "Still, she didn’t rip my heart out and burn it. Didn’t really disfigure me. She said I was as cunning as a spider and as obstinate as a goat. And that I should look like both. Hence the arms and the horns."
"Spiders have eight limbs."
Sigrit parted her dress to show her legs. "These count." Moving to a shield on the wall, she studied her image on the metal for a second. "But I like it. Useful in so many ways — for example, should magic fail and I need to turn pickpocket—"
Gasping, Elinor realized that one of Sigrit’s hands had discreetly plucked the gold medallion from her neck.
The witch studied it. "You should strengthen that clasp. A griffin — your family’s arms?" She opened the locket. "Empty?" Clicking her tongue, she returned it to Elinor. "That’s sad."
"I have no likeness of my father."
"I wasn’t speaking of your father," Sigrit said with a mischievous grin. She tapped Elinor’s chest softly. "I was speaking of your heart’s desire."
Both women knew the name she hadn’t mentioned.
"Or," Sigrit added brightly, "someone else you may love."
Of course, she had seen the bond between Elinor and Delian.
"Someone forever absent," the witch continued softly as she turned away.
"It would be quite a crowded locket," Elinor said after a moment.
"Yes. And I know you asked me who made me so unique because you fear for the princes you love. No, they had no hand in it. But you see" —Sigrit now stood in a shaft of light, managing to shine in her own darkness— "I am a jealous creature."
The witch shrugged, clasping all her hands before her.
"I don’t like competition. The Lord Protector has been at the House of Mages, as you know. Vidar Ve Ames built that place in my territory. Did he think this was a—" She had been speaking their language, but she switched to English to add, "A commune?"
Her laughter was like bells, a sound of true delight. "But he was mad, the poor Tuii," she continued in excellent, modern English. "Building that … that vulgar amusement park in my lands."
