Vengeance

by Gail Z. Martin

Rigan strained his vision, but he could not see the twinkling lights. Maybe I need to be dead to see it, though my grave magic has shown me many things the living can’t usually see. He turned to the ghost. “Can you follow them back? I’ll watch your path.”

  The ghost gave him a skeptical look, then turned and began to move away. Rigan traced his path with magic, maintaining a connection to the ghost’s energy until they reached an invisible barrier.

  Here, the ghost said. There’s a door.

  “I can’t see a door.”

  Right here, the ghost repeated as if Rigan were blind.

  Rigan felt the unstable energy of the ripples, but nothing of the rending power he sensed when the Rift opened around them. “Can you go through it on your own?”

  The ghost nodded. I think so. He stepped toward the door, and then his image wavered before he vanished.

  Rigan kept his power lightly connected to the spirit—like an invisible hand on his shoulder—until the second the ghost disappeared. In that instant, Rigan felt the barrier between realms like a wall of energy, and he tried to force open the door with his magic.

  The currents of energy surged, and Rigan felt the connection brutally severed as the power repelled his magic as strenuously as if he had been hurled across the room.

  He came to, lying on his back within the warded circle, gasping for breath as his heart hammered in his chest.

  “Rigan, are you all right?” Trent knelt outside the circle, watching him worriedly. Rigan could only imagine how hard it was for his friend not to break the warding to help him.

  “I think so,” Rigan replied, sounding worn and reedy even to himself.

  “Find something?”

  Rigan swallowed. His dry mouth made talking difficult. “Yeah. I found a door home. But it only works if you’re dead.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’ve got some more ideas on how to get it open without dying,” Rigan said. “But first, I really need to sleep.”

  “The warding—”

  Rigan nodded, feeling completely drained. “I dispelled the magic. You can break the circle.” He chuckled tiredly. “I think you’re going to need to, or else I’ll be spending the night right here.”

  Trent rose and moved to help him, getting a shoulder under Rigan’s arm to keep him upright. Together, they stumbled toward Rigan’s cloak. After Trent eased him to a seat, he went to fetch water. Rigan took a gulp, savoring it.

  “I’d bring you food, but there isn’t any left,” Trent apologized. “You look worn to a frazzle.”

  “I feel like shit,” Rigan admitted. “But I traced a path to one of the thin spots—not a Rift, but a ripple. And there’s something else I want to try. But not tonight.”

  Trent clapped him on the shoulder, helping him settle in on the ground with his cloak wrapped around him. “Definitely not tonight,” Trent echoed. “Sleep. Mir and I will keep watch.”

  Rigan shifted, trying to get comfortable. He knew he needed to rest to regain his strength. As he drifted off, he recalled what had happened at the “door.” If I can open the Gates of Doharmu, surely I can open a Rift. I call on Doharmu to open the portal to the After. If I called on Eshtamon, would he hear me? Would he grant me the power to open a Rift if I can find one? And if I do the blood magic right, will it add to my grave magic to give me enough energy to do what needs to be done?

  He sent out a wisp of magic, seeking the Elder God. Eshtamon, if you’re listening, you said I was your Champion mage. I’m stuck on the other side of a Rift, so I can’t be your champion or anyone else’s until I get home. Open my eyes so I can see the way, and increase my magic so I can do what needs to be done. I’ve got to get home to Corran and Elinor. You made Corran and me your champions—that takes both of us, and it can’t happen if I’m over here.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “He’s not dead. I’d know if he was dead. Somehow, I’d know.” Corran shook his head. “I won’t believe it. We aren’t giving up.”

  Calfon sighed. “We aren’t going to give up, Corran. But you have to be prepared for the possibility—”

  Corran came up out of his chair so fast that Calfon barely had time to step back. Corran’s arm was cocked for a punch. “Don’t say it. I don’t want to hear it. They’re not dead! We just need more time.”

  Ross stepped up, interposing himself. “Cool down,” he ordered. Corran lowered his arm and looked chagrined, though anger simmered beneath his embarrassment at losing control. Calfon looked at Corran in concern.

  “No one’s giving up,” Ross soothed. “Aiden and Elinor are chasing some new theories. We’ve all but stopped hunting monsters since Rigan went missing, trying to find him. If there’s an answer, we’ll figure it out. And I know Rigan and the others are doing everything they can to find a way home.”

  Polly came to the door, making enough noise that Corran felt certain she had been eavesdropping and wanted them to know that she was coming. “Dinner’s ready,” she announced. “Another amazingly good meal made from practically nothing, because I’m awesome. So get your asses in here and eat before it goes cold.”

  Aiden and Elinor joined them a few minutes later, and they sat around the battered table in the room they used for a kitchen. “Do I smell chicken?” Aiden asked as Polly carried bowls over to the cauldron in the fireplace.

  “You do,” Polly replied. “Chicken stew with dumplings.”

  “I’m hungry enough to eat a horse,” Aiden said, grinning.

  “You’ll have to make do with chicken,” Polly replied breezily. “It’s the specialty of the house.”

  Polly’s stew was as good as it smelled, complete with fresh biscuits and homemade jam from the fruit bushes at the back of the monastery. She basked in their compliments as the group cleaned their plates and used the biscuits to mop up the gravy.

  “And there’s a cask of wine and a barrel of ale, courtesy of grateful villagers,” Polly announced, dusting her hands. “I’d say for outlaws; we eat rather well.”

  “You do us proud, Polly,” Ross said, grinning as he wiped his mouth. “I never expected the food in exile to be this good.”

  Polly beamed. “That’s because I cook as well as I fight.”

  Corran knew he should be hungry, but the food tasted like ash. He glanced at Elinor and saw that she also merely picked at her food, shoving pieces from one side of the plate to the other, eating very little.

  “What have you got?” Corran asked after they were finished.

  Aiden sighed. “Not as much as I’d like to have, but we’re making some headway. There’s very little in the lore about Rifts. That makes me think that before now, they weren’t as common.”

  “Is that because of something natural, or are there more blood witches putting a strain on the Balance?” Ross asked.

  “I wish it were natural,” Aiden replied. “But I’m afraid that’s probably not the case. We know Blackholt could summon monsters from somewhere, and control them once they got here. Well, monsters come from the other side of the Rift, so blood witches—at least those of Blackholt’s power—must have a way to open Rifts and pull things through.”

  “Can we find a blood witch and force him to ‘summon’ Rigan and the others?” Corran met Aiden’s gaze, completely serious.

  “You were there for the battle against Blackholt,” Aiden answered. “Even if we could capture a blood witch without having to kill him, compelling him to do our will would be an entirely different matter.”

  “We’re not sure how the Rifts work,” Elinor replied. Her voice sounded raspy and tight, and the dark circles under her eyes testified to her exhaustion. “And we have no idea what the… geography… is like on the other side. What if it’s as big on the other side as the world on this side? We don’t know for sure where the Rift they went through dumped them out. They might still be close by. But what if we open a Rift here, and they’re in a completely different one?”

  Corran looked up. “I had a dream last night—about Rigan. It felt
more real than usual.”

  Aiden’s focus narrowed immediately. “Tell us.”

  “It was like Rigan was here, but not here—like a ghost,” he admitted, hating what that might mean. “He could see us, but we couldn’t hear him. He was trying to tell me something. But I don’t know what it was.” He glanced at the others. “I know it might be just a dream, but there was something about it that felt like it was… more.”

  Aiden and Elinor exchanged a glance. “I dreamed last night, too,” Elinor said, a blush creeping to her cheeks. “I thought it was because I miss him. But now that you say that, it was the same for me. Not like the usual dreams. Much more real.”

  “If there was a ripple nearby while we slept, it’s possible that Rigan was able to reach out with his magic through the ‘thin spot,’” Aiden mused. “Strong emotion can create powerful magic, and he wouldn’t be the first witch to discover that he still uses his abilities in his sleep.”

  “If that’s true, then he’s alive—or he was as of last night,” Corran said, feeling the first spark of hope in days. Elinor raised her head, and he saw some of the weariness and grief fade from her features.

  “And if he could see as well as project, then he knows we’re trying to find them,” Elinor added.

  Aiden nodded. “I’m certain Rigan is doing his best to find a way back to us. If you have another dream like that, try to take control of it and let Rigan know that you see him.” He pushed back from the table. “In the meantime, I’ve found a book I need to study. The monks didn’t have much on blood magic, but I may have found some lore that could help.” He grimaced. “Unfortunately, it’s in an old language style that makes it very difficult to read—and spell books are already known for speaking in riddles.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Elinor volunteered, more lively than before the conversation. “I’ve got some ideas of my own.” She reached out to touch Corran on the arm. “We’ll find him—and the others—and bring them home. Trust us.”

  Corran watched the witches go, wishing he could trust anything except the certainty that more trouble was on the way.

  Aiden walked into the kitchen in the morning looking as if he hadn’t slept all night. Corran hadn’t either and was waiting with a pot of coffee already boiling on the fire.

  “Anything?” Corran asked.

  Aiden scrubbed a hand down over his face and blinked to banish sleep from his eyes. “Elinor is plotting the ripples on a map, trying to find a pattern in timing and location. If we can guess the next occurrence, we could be waiting with a ritual to pry the damn Rift open. And the monastery ghost was in quite a mood last night. Toppled over a stack of books on my table and gave Polly a fright when she came in and found her pots rearranged.” He poured himself some coffee and sat next to Corran. Polly had left them a pot of boiled eggs and a loaf of bread, and Aiden helped himself to some of both.

  “I’m working on a beacon of sorts—something that acts like a magical lighthouse. It’s a crazy idea—if we can find that Rifts open in the same general place over and over again, then we want to help Rigan and the others find the Rift closest to us,” Aiden explained. “When the Rift opens, we toss in the beacon—an amulet that pulses with magic. And we hope that Rigan can pick up on the signal, get to the place we tossed the amulet, and stay safe until the Rift opens again.”

  Corran sipped his coffee, forcing down his fears. “How about being able to open a Rift from this side?”

  Aiden sighed. “Still trying to make sense of old lore. For obvious reasons, witches don’t like to write things down so that they’re easy to understand. Most magic is intended to be passed down from teacher to pupil—manuscripts and grimoires are just to remind you of the details, not to be how you learn from scratch. And since blood magic is dangerous, rare and generally unpopular for obvious reasons, those who practice it are pretty cagey about the notes they leave behind.”

  “But with all the research, you’re making progress?” Corran hated that he could not keep a note of desperate hope from his voice.

  “I think so. Elinor is a big help. I’m asking too much of her—she’s only a student herself. And I’m not exactly an old sage. I’d give a lot to have the help of some of the witches I knew Below.” They fell silent, remembering the treachery that killed Aiden’s and Rigan’s teachers.

  “Of course, the flaw in your plan is that if we have to get close enough to an open Rift to toss in your ‘beacon,’ we’re also close enough for the monsters coming out to make hash out of us,” Corran observed.

  “I’m trying for something that can be attached to an arrow and shot through the opening. It doesn’t have to be large; it simply has to sustain the magic,” Aiden replied. “That would at least put you at bow range from the monsters, too.”

  Corran drained his cup and reached for another one. “It just might work.” He left unsaid how many “ifs” were involved.

  “Elinor’s figuring out how to carve a message into the amulet. We’d stand the best chance if we were using magic on our side while they were doing the same on theirs,” Aiden said.

  “I’m ready. We need to get them home.”

  That night, Corran worked with Elinor on mapping the ripples and fashioning an amulet that could attach to an arrow and still fly true. They settled for a small piece of parchment with a message and an amulet of braided hair steeped in blood and plants Elinor selected for their magical enhancement.

  “Calfon is our best archer,” Corran said. “He’s the one who should take the shot.”

  “If my tracking is right, we should be seeing a Rift open near here,” Elinor said, pointing to a spot on the map that had been pinned to the wall.

  “That’s awfully close to the Sarolinian border,” Corran observed.

  Elinor shrugged. “We’re doing good to find the Rifts when someone else is opening them. So far, we haven’t figured out how to rip one open ourselves.” Her hands shook, and Corran saw how much Rigan’s disappearance weighed on her.

  He gave her shoulder a squeeze. “You’ve done good work. We’ll find them,” he said with more confidence than he felt. Though he wanted the safe return of his brother and their friends, Corran doubted it would go as smoothly as Aiden’s plan suggested. “When is this Rift due to open?”

  “Tomorrow, either late in the afternoon or early in the evening—sorry, we can’t be more precise than that,” Aiden replied.

  “We’ll be ready,” Corran promised.

  He left the witches and headed back to his room. On the way, he found himself turning down one of the corridors he had explored when they first moved in, an area they rarely used. This room had been a shrine to the Elder Gods, and while any sacred objects or relics had long ago been taken away, the murals on the walls remained.

  Corran was not especially devout, despite his role as an undertaker helping souls find their way to the After. Kell had been the one to make their offerings in the temple to Doharmu, god of Death, the only Guild god that was also an Elder God and the patron of undertakers. Corran had given up on the gods when their parents died, finding no reason to keep praying when no one was listening.

  But the night Kell was murdered, Corran and Rigan called on Eshtamon, and the Elder God answered, naming them his champions. Corran slowly walked along the mural until he found Eshtamon’s image, a wily old man in a hooded robe with a glint of malice in his eyes, the god of vengeance. The mural looked much as Corran remembered Eshtamon’s appearance in the cemetery that night. Perhaps, he thought, Rigan and I weren’t the only ones to have seen more than a glimpse of him.

  Corran knelt, and the position felt awkward and unfamiliar. “I don’t pray much,” he murmured. “But you heard us before, and I hope you’re listening now. This isn’t for me. It’s for my brother and his friends. I know how to open a portal to the After, but I don’t know how to pull them back from a Rift. Please.” His voice broke. “If we’re to be your champions, then bring them back. I can’t fight this alone.”

  He rema
ined still for a few moments, trying to pull himself together, wiping the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. Nothing stirred in the silent room, and although he had not really expected a response, he felt a pang of despair. Blinking to clear his vision, Corran rose and left the room.

  Even whiskey could not help him sleep that night.

  The next afternoon, the main rooms of the monastery’s hidden basement bustled with tension and activity. Calfon, Corran, and Ross had the bow and the arrow with the amulet and message, along with their usual weapons. Aiden had not been able to give them any idea of what sorts of monsters might come charging through the Rift if it did, indeed, open in the anticipated spot, so they took plenty of the salt mixture, some green vitriol, and an array of swords, knives, and axes capable of killing nearly every type of monster they had encountered.

  “I wish we could go with you, for backup,” Polly groused, unhappy at the decision to leave some of their team back at the monastery.

  “Hush,” Elinor said, laying a hand on Polly’s shoulder. Polly shrugged it off ill-humoredly.

  “I fight well enough. I should go too.”

  Corran turned back to her. “You do fight well. That’s why you’re going to be protecting Aiden and Elinor. Not every threat can be magicked away. And you’re wicked with a knife.”

  Polly grinned. “Well, that’s true. But I still would rather be out there than in here.”

  “We all would,” Aiden admitted. “But if we stay here, we can keep working on getting Rigan, Mir, and Trent home. It’s going to take all of us to make this happen.”

  Polly gave in reluctantly. Corran could not blame her for her disappointment; she fought well and had proven her courage many times over. But at the same time, they rarely risked their whole team on one fight. If things went wrong, either with the magic, the monsters or the bounty hunters, someone would be able to mount a rescue.

  The hunting party rode in silence. Calfon had spent the last day practicing with the weighted arrow, perfecting his aim. Ross and Corran rested, deep in their thoughts. Calfon led the way, following the directions to the place the witches believed a Rift might open.