Immortal Defiance

by Laura Maybrooke

  “So, back on the subject… What happened after the Saruseans captured you?” the Wild Elf asked, the question sobering them at once. “How did you escape?”

  Dulcea grimaced. How many times yet would she hear that inquiry?

  She pinched the bridge of her nose. “That part is true: I cannot remember. I recall the events leading up to my capture, but very little beyond that. I have a few vague recollections of being put into a horse-drawn carriage, and I also recall speaking to a high priest of Asherac. He meant to sacrifice me to his dark god.”

  Myoden rubbed his chin. “Perhaps they made you drink some vile liquid as part of the sacrifice ritual, but it should not have any lasting effects.”

  “I do not think that’s it. There’s… more.” She gulped. “There seems to be a curse upon me.”

  Nemnyan inhaled, pressing a hand over his mouth.

  “I cannot use my powers,” Dulcea said. “They linger at my mind’s edge, but something blocks them.”

  Myoden drew his chair a few feet closer and at her permission rested his forehead against hers. He pressed his fingers to her temples and closed his eyes in concentration. He needed not probe for long.

  “Have you been experiencing any headaches?”

  “Yes. They were getting frequent this past fortnight.” She gave an irritated sigh.

  “And… are they gone now?”

  “Yes, since my capture.”

  The priest frowned. “Can you remember the last time you used your powers?”

  “Yes, I…” Dulcea paused, hesitating. “Well, no. I can’t.”

  “Then it is as I feared. Your symptoms suggest a slow-working poison.”

  Nemnyan blinked. “H-how did they administer it to her? In her food?”

  Myoden shook his head. “No, Nian. It is not an actual poison, but a spell. It was likely something she wore on her person or kept otherwise close to her. Have you any idea what that could have been, my lady?”

  “The courting presents,” she said, revealing what she had already realized before.

  “That could be it.” Myoden nodded. “Any suspects?”

  “Some hairpins or that decorative glass globe I like,” Dulcea said. “Or maybe one of those handmade quilts I keep on my bed.”

  “We should investigate if any of those have gone missing,” Nemnyan said.

  “That is unnecessary for counterbalancing the curse, but it would help confirm the objects used in its creation.” The priest tapped a finger to his cheek. “I’ll examine the items in your tent myself; I’ll not let you sleep there before I do. We must allow no suspicious objects to remain, even at the cost of incurring the displeasure of the Houses.”

  Silver Elves considered it rude not to use a received courting present, even if the lady’s family meant not to accept a certain admirer’s suit. To ignore or destroy the gift altogether was to insult the name of the suitor’s House.

  “Can you fix it, this whatever-it-is?” Dulcea gestured at herself.

  “Yes. We will perform a purification ritual to cleanse you of it.”

  She grimaced. “That sounds quite… ceremonial.”

  “Which is what it is, a ceremony of ritual cleansing,” Myoden said.

  “Can we do it this afternoon, after my speech?”

  “Yes. I will start the preparations after your public address. I’ll request Sister Lelani’s help.”

  “Your colleague from your time at Lordanys’s temple in Miranma? Why?”

  The priest coughed. “Certain parts of the ritual require a female companion.”

  Dulcea bit her lip. “Oh.”

  A twinge of sadness twisted her heart. Lady Pendralyssa’s unexpected death during the siege of Fellmaar was still fresh in her mind, and the outright senselessness of it made it even more difficult to accept. While she and the high priestess had never been the best of friends, Dulcea had enjoyed having another female perspective on things. Tarim, Haden, and Hai’Mezene were a lot to take sometimes, and Pendralyssa’s cold, dry manner had helped to balance their impulsiveness.

  The Mist Elves were unlike any other race with whom she served in battle. They worshiped Lady Sarosha, the Goddess of Death and the Sovereign of the Netherworld, and their devotion had earned them longevity that almost resembled immortality. No one had ever known a Mist Elf to die of old age, although the rumor had it they had not always been near immortal like this. No one knew the reason, but now only decapitation, poison, and a knife to the heart seemed to draw the life out of them.

  Dulcea shuddered. No, she would not think of that right now. She had other troubles on her mind.

  “There’s something I must mention.” She wrung her hands, feeling unsure. “These were not your average forest bandits that captured me, nor was it in some unorganized bush-fighters’ camp where they held me prisoner. The Saruseans have an underground base somewhere nearby. I would say, six or seven-hours’ carriage journey away from our main camp.”

  “Any idea about their manpower?” Nemnyan asked.

  “Difficult to say. The place looked like it could house twenty thousand.”

  Myoden frowned. “This is worrisome news…”

  Against a hundred and seventy thousand, a minor force like twenty thousand would never stand a chance, but it was no reason to forget vigilance. It was dangerous to keep one’s eyes peeled to the north while the enemy hid in the south; hazardous to look west when they might have struck from the east. Their enemy had no advantage over them, but they might still sneak attack random loiterers or strike at small groups.

  “Which direction did you come from? That might give us some clue.”

  Dulcea struggled to keep her expression neutral. What could she say to Myoden? Gwyndoorn lay far to the east, well beyond the upstream camp, but she had not an inkling where Krath’s fortress was in relation to the Sarusean underground base. He had taken her to his castle through the Netherworld, same as he had returned her, and only he knew from where he had fetched her… Dulcea felt irritated. Why had she not thought to ask him? He might have told her.

  Dulcea stole a furtive glance at the map of Usvameer open on the table. “Southeast, I reckon?” The land there looked hilly. “I recall the name of the place, though. That dark priest who meant to sacrifice me called it Serpent Rocks. It could be an old name. Perhaps the dwarven legacies might mention it.”

  Nemnyan nodded. “It’s worth a check. Let’s ask Haden to discuss it with them.”

  “It sounds like we got ourselves a plan.” Dulcea got up from her seat. “Then come. I believe it is time for my speech.”

  ---

  It took five hours and several dozen variations of the same speech for Dulcea to tell her story. Public talks always took a long time. It was something she was used to in an army camp the size of West Ford where some thirty thousand soldiers were always on active duty.

  There was a lot of good cheer and enthusiasm for her safe return, but people also feared the repeat of what had transpired. Dulcea recollected to them the story of her capture but not that of the betrayal—altering the details as necessary. It was almost too easy to lie but revealing the true account of what had happened might have driven Delbin’s sympathizers underground, and she did not want that. Dulcea also preferred to save those of her ilk innocent of the traitor’s crimes from the taint of a countryman’s betrayal.

  She would discuss the matter with only a select few and not publicize it if such was avoidable. She had seen enough of the world to know how little it took for trust to turn sour, and how suspicion could breed disharmony and doubt. The last thing she wanted was for people to start ostracizing one another.

  By the time noon rolled around, exhaustion had ensnared her, and Dulcea struggled to stand. Amparo had also returned, wanting to see her. She could not remember the last time that something as pleasant as his company had seemed so daunting to her. Dulcea almost did not want to see him: an ill sensation twisting her stomach at the thought.

  How was she to meet his eyes
and continue this deception?

  She was not thinking straight. She had eaten nothing since her game with Krath, and that was many hours ago. Hunger gnawed at her insides, and neither excitement nor exhilaration sustained her anymore.

  The crowd was boisterous around her, making her cringe with distaste. Their voices blurred in her head: agitating her with their haunting echoes until she could not discern what they said anymore. Her head felt heavy, and reality hung to her only by a thread. She felt like she wanted to close her eyes. Dulcea stumbled on her place: fighting back the darkness of heavy exhaustion. At last she was safe. The war was uncompromised. It was time to draw breath again. All the fear, suspicion, shock, and trepidation of the past few days were suddenly pouring out of her, threatening her inner balance. She needed to remain calm, despite the mild alarm of Myoden grabbing her by the arm and holding her to him.

  He supported her. “My lady! You are weak! How may I tend to you?”

  “I’ll be fine in a moment,” Dulcea said, irritated by her own frailty. “I’ll be myself again soon.”

  “All right, then.” He nodded. “Shall we perhaps start that by restoring your powers back to you?”

  Chapter 14

  The Ritual

  Dulcea lay in a tub, her long hair floating around her in the thrice blessed, jasmine scented water.

  Lelani strolled around her in the walled-off section of the War Tent, hanging wooden charms over every available surface. She was a good, sensible woman, and Dulcea had never wondered why Myoden held her in such high esteem. She was in every way a perfect priestess of Lordanys: devout, kind, and sincere. Lelani was of elvish descent: her mother had been of half-elven blood, her father a Silver Elf, and she had inherited many of the Silver Elves’ distinctive features. Her human heritage was little and visible only to the trained eye.

  Lelani moved to stand by her tub and poured the contents of a bowl full of lavender blossoms and sage leaves into the water. Their fragrant scent was almost overpowering. She then began to chant in elvish, after which she gave Dulcea to drink a glass of spicy blue liquid. It smelled of blueberries and blackberries and left a burning aftertaste on her tongue. Afterward she dressed Dulcea in a long white robe trimmed with thin gold thread—the kind she herself wore—and showed her barefooted to the next phase of the ritual.

  “It is time, my lady. Please wait here for Lord Myoden.” She disappeared back behind the partition.

  While she bathed, Myoden and Nemnyan had seen to the ceremony’s preparations. The smith had remained in the War Tent together with her and Lelani, watching the advisers’ workspace and turning them away until later that day. Meanwhile, Myoden had gone to her tent with three other priests. While Dulcea disliked the thought of them looking through her things while she was not there, she understood why such was necessary.

  The high priest of Lordanys returned within minutes of Lelani releasing her and greeted her with a deep, polite bow. He was wearing a gilded headdress and his ceremonial robes, and it reminded Dulcea of the first and heretofore the only time she had seen him wearing those clothes.

  Almost two years before, during the long march from Miranma to Dranmore, an unexpected delay had allowed her and Myoden a stopover in their hometown of Quel Serana. During that visit, while the rest of the army awaited the baggage train to catch up with the main body, Dulcea had discovered a new side to her friend.

  After a celebratory welcome, Dulcea had followed Myoden into his god’s temple, where he had resumed his duty as the high priest for a single night’s divine service.

  Despite her trepidations about attending the service of a god she did not worship, Dulcea had enjoyed the hymns and the singing. She took comfort in the uplifting atmosphere. It still struck her as odd that before that moment, she had never considered her friend’s position, unlike with Lady Pendralyssa, whose outward devotion had always been absolute.

  That divine service at Lordanys’s temple in Quel Serana seemed like a lifetime ago now. Dulcea gave a sigh. Was it really soon two years ago since she had last seen her home forest? She should not complain, though. It had been much longer than that for Tarim, Hai’Mezene, and Nemnyan.

  “My lady.” Myoden gave her a disarming smile. “How do you feel?”

  “Refreshed.” It was true. “But no different about the curse.”

  “We have yet but begun,” the priest said. “A little patience, if you please.”

  “My apologies,” she said with the same pleasantness. “I am just eager to have full command of my faculties again. What of your visit to my tent? Did you chance upon anything suspicious?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “I think Delbin had his accomplices remove them before his disappearance. I found two of the items missing that you mentioned on the checklist; those must have been them.”

  “That confirms then what we suspected about his having used the courting presents as an excuse to deliver me poisoned items. He knew well enough that custom would dictate I keep them close to me.” She pursed her lips. “Which items did you find to be missing?”

  “That pair of golden hairpins engraved with a rose motif,” the priest said. “Also, your bed seemed unmade, as though someone had torn off a blanket in haste. I suspect what was missing from there was one of those hand-knit quilts you mentioned.”

  “I see. Thank you for taking care of it. It shall weigh on my mind no more.”

  “Not at all, my lady. Shall we continue then, with the ceremony?”

  “Yes, please.”

  The priest turned around and walked to the long table where she espied a basin of water and a bowl of what looked like sea salt. The amount used was not huge, but still ample enough to make guilt twist her heart. Salt was expensive, and she was using a whole month’s rations from their thin reserves! Myoden poured some water into another basin, threw in some herbs, and then washed his hands in the bowl. Afterward the healer prepared a similar bath for her and bid her to do the same. Dulcea obeyed, scrubbing her hands in the herb-scented water before drying them on a piece of cloth.

  Lelani emerged from behind the partition to hang wooden charms around Dulcea’s neck, wrists, and ankles. Myoden mixed in the meantime in a second container some kind of thick paste from herbs, salt, and water. Once satisfied with the look and consistency of it, the high priest walked to her and dipped his fingers in the bowl. He then dabbed a generous coating of the fragrant salve on her temples and cheeks. Lelani repeated the process on both herself and Myoden, after which they recited a long, solemn prayer in a dual voice.

  Afterward the three of them moved to the tent’s inner area, past the conference table which Nemnyan had pulled aside to allow more space for their ceremony. Dulcea noticed four rock circles placed on the ground, arranged there by the smith while she had been having her ritual bath. A thin, continuous line of sand connected the four rock circles together in a diamond shape. Lelani took out a wand with swirly strips of hanging cloth, sprinkled it with salt from the bowl, and waved it around each rock circle.

  “Please go stand at the first circle, my lady.” She pointed toward the diamond’s top.

  Dulcea walked to the requested spot, and Myoden and Lelani moved to stand on either side of her.

  “Give me your hand,” the warrior priest said, and she did. His touch warmed and comforted her.

  “Give me your hand,” Lelani repeated the words in the same somber tone, grasping her hand.

  Myoden began to chant in fast, unfamiliar words. Their origins sounded elvish, in the way Quelthae and other elven languages all shared similar traits, but she could tell the words used were ancient. Dulcea listed to them with great concentration.

  Drowsiness slid into her being. Lelani’s voice joined his, and together they seemed to drive the rankling darkness out of her body. Her lids began to weigh, and Dulcea had trouble keeping her eyes open. As soon as they snapped shut, the dual-voiced melodious chanting stopped: releasing her from its charm.

  Myoden released her hand. “Let us
proceed to the next circle.”

  They took their positions, and the same ritual followed. Myoden and Lelani’s mellifluous chanting rendered her drowsy once more, and as she stumbled, Myoden took the cloth wand from Lelani and waved it around her six times. After proceeding to the third circle, Lelani washed the salt paste off her face and then placed a flower crown made of daisies and white carnations on her head. Dulcea recognized them both as symbols of purity and innocence. Myoden and Lelani also cleaned themselves, after which they began a second repeat of the original ritual. All strength left her body, and Dulcea had to let Myoden walk her to the last rock circle. He seemed to think nothing of it, but Dulcea considered it to be embarrassing.

  “Do not alarm yourself,” he said, drawing random patterns in the air. “Dazedness is only natural at this point. It means the ritual is working, and the evil energies of the curse are leaving you.” His fingers ghosted across the top of her head.

  White petals began to fall around her, and it took Dulcea a moment to grasp what was happening. Myoden and Lelani were plucking off the petals in her flower crown, she realized. The more they fell, the more her clarity of mind seemed to return. As the last of the petals fell from her head, she felt herself again.

  At the last rock circle, the ritual changed. The chant morphed into a song, and afterward the warrior priest made Dulcea read elaborate phrases in that earlier used foreign tongue. He insisted on her repeating them until the nuance and pronunciation of her words satisfied him. Lelani handed her the cloth wand and asked Dulcea to wave it around herself, each of the twelve twirls a short prayer apart.

  Lelani pointed toward a sand circle in the middle of the diamond figure. “Now, step into the center.”

  Dulcea followed the priestess’s orders. Myoden and Lelani took out brooms and began to sweep the sand lines connecting the rock circles toward the center of the formation. Once done, they removed the wooden charms from around her neck, wrists, and ankles, and placed them in a bowl where a fire burned.