by Jenn Lyons
Although cramped, the small storeroom never grew hot, no matter what the temperature outside. Galen suspected a great deal of fitted stone sat over their heads, acting as insulation against the scorching sun. The storeroom possessed no windows; he had only the vaguest idea what their true location might be. The tunnel that reached this place contained twists and turns that Galen had never mapped. He liked to fancy they weren’t on the D’Mon grounds anymore.
His brother smeared a piece of sag bread with mango relish. “Why shouldn’t we go to the Culling Fields? The place is a legend. I’ve never had the metal to go. I want to watch a duel.”
“But we’re too young. Father will never agree to it.”
Kihrin grinned. “He already has.”
Galen’s jaw dropped. “He—no! How did you do it?”
“I gave him a gift.”
“What?”
“You know that Jorat fireblood mare he’s been trying to mate with his own stallions?”
Galen nodded. He did indeed know, and suspected she was the reason for their father’s bad mood. Darzin had shipped the horse all the way from Jorat, bought for a bargain from some ancient horse farm fallen on hard times. Then Darzin discovered the mare was so large, wild, and nightmarish she mauled anyone who came too close. The mare had only been on the grounds a week, and had killed five groomsmen and escaped from her stall twice. Darzin himself didn’t dare go near her. Galen thought it was only a matter of days before his father took the whole thing as a loss and had the horse put down.
“Well, I found a Jorat horseman. Bought him at the Octagon. If he can’t make that mare behave herself, I don’t think anything will.” Kihrin bit into bread with happy enthusiasm. “Darzin was so grateful he agreed to let us go.”
“Wow.” Galen blinked in surprise, and then his expression grew serious. “But you know if that slave of yours fails, Darzin will have him killed.”
“No slave of mine. I gave him to the High Lord. If Darzin wants to kill one of the High Lord’s slaves . . .” Kihrin shrugged as if it were none of his concern.
“Ho ho! That’s clever.” Galen grinned. “I’ll have to tell Mother about that one.”
Kihrin’s expression soured when Galen mentioned his mother. “Sure. Right.” Then he asked, “Is she . . . uh, well? I haven’t seen her at dinner for a few days.”
“What? She’s fine. She’s had a fever,” Galen said, giving no indication such an excuse was thin at best—for the Royal Family who specialized in magical medicines.
“Ah.” After an awkward pause, Kihrin continued, “So do you want to go?”
Galen rolled his eyes. “Of course, I want to go! Father never lets me go out.”
This statement made his brother pause. “Never?”
Galen shook his head. “He says I’d shame him.”
“But,” Kihrin said, “you must have friends . . .”
Galen found himself flushing with embarrassment. “I do have friends. I see them several times a year at social events. There’s Kavik D’Laakar and my cousin Dorman D’Aramarin.* I’m going to see them at the New Year’s Festival parties. And I have teachers and sometimes I speak with the children of some of the serving staff, as long as Father doesn’t find out.”
His older brother jumped up and offered Galen his hand. “Come on then. Let’s go see this tavern my father always used to go on about.”
“Right now?”
Kihrin nodded. “Absolutely right now. Before Darzin changes his mind—”
A loud clanging noise echoed in the room and both boys froze. Kihrin frantically gestured to the tallow candle, and Galen snuffed it, plunging the room into complete darkness.
It was like that for several minutes. Galen found the darkness uncomfortable and disquieting and, although he would never admit it, even frightening.
Then he felt a hand clap over his mouth, and he almost screamed before he realized Kihrin had found him. The older brother tugged on Galen’s shirt and whispered, “Look at the light!”
Galen was about to turn on him and chide him for talking nonsense when he realized that no, Kihrin was right, there was a light.
The light formed a fine thread, almost hidden behind rows of stacked boxes and old broken chairs. The light crossed behind them, near the floor, then up from floor to ceiling, then across the ceiling and back down again. Galen, tracing that tiny path of light with his eyes, realized what he was looking at was a doorway. He’d never noticed it from this side, but it was big enough to take Thaena’s statue and all the other larger objects.
Then he heard the voices.
“It could stand a good dusting,” said one voice. Something about the tone made Galen’s skin prickle. Kihrin’s hand on his shoulder tightened, either from warning or fear.
“I can’t very well call in one of the serving staff, now can I?” Galen knew that voice: it was his father, Darzin. Galen put his own hand on top of his brother’s and squeezed back.
There was a third voice then—a rich, velvety baritone. “Of course you can. You’d simply run yourself out of serving staff.” Then the same voice asked, “What was this place?”
“Originally a mausoleum,” the first man explained in his dry, dead voice. “The tomb was built for Saric D’Mon the Eighth and the four dozen concubines he had ordered to be killed upon the occasion of his death.* It was converted into a demon-summoning chamber by High Lord Pedron twenty-five years ago. The doors in the various alcoves and down those hallways lead to the burial chambers for Saric’s wives—Pedron used them to hold prisoners awaiting sacrifice. For a brief time after that, this was a chapel to Thaena under the direction of Therin, but abandoned after he turned away from the church.”
“And I’ve been using the place to test poison recipes,” Galen’s father added.
“Yes,” the third man agreed, “that fits your reputation.” He didn’t make it sound like a compliment.
There was a moment of quiet, and then Darzin said, “You should watch your student. He seems intent on getting himself killed before you’re ready to slay him yourself.”
The first, horrible voice answered with a cold laugh. “He’s capable of taking care of himself.”
“D’Mon,” the third voice said in an unfriendly way, “I understand why you’re necessary, but don’t make the mistake of thinking that means I have to be nice to you. You’re a small-minded, petty bully who has no understanding at all of the real nature of power. If my master didn’t need you, I would take great delight in turning your bones back into the mother’s milk from which they were born, and consider myself to have done a service for the public good.”
Again, a long pause.
“Thank you for letting me know where we stand with each other,” Darzin finally said.
“My pleasure” was the response. “Although I’d hoped you’d be stupid enough to attack me.”
“Enough games,” the dead voice snapped. “Do you know your parents met on this very spot, boy?” he said, addressing the third voice again. “Pedron was holding your mother in preparation for a virgin sacrifice, in that cell right over there, before your father Sandus rescued her.”
“This cell here?” It was all Galen could do not to gasp when the light from the edges of the doorway dimmed. There could be only one explanation: the third man was now standing directly in front of the door, perhaps only a score of feet away from them. If Galen could hear every word that these men said, the reverse was true as well.
“If my memory serves me correctly, yes.”
“So, this is the place where Pedron was claimed by his demon? No wonder you wanted me to see it.”
Darzin snapped, “Yes, yes, it’s just dripping with sticky-sweet sentiment. The point is: will it work for the ritual?”
“Of course,” the third voice agreed. “It’s perfect. The vibrations are almost impossible to ignore. This place is so close to Hell you probably wouldn’t even need the sacrifice to catch Xaltorath’s attention.”
“You’ll hav
e your sacrifice,” Darzin said. “I insist.”
“Oh, we’re agreed on that much. I said you wouldn’t need it to catch his attention. I said nothing about what it would take to keep him on his leash. This one isn’t for amateurs. Our little pet would rip this city apart given half a chance, and he’d start with us.”
“So we’ve seen,” the first voice said. “The last sacrifice was entirely unsuitable. He almost escaped from us. This time it must be blood.”
“I have no shortage of that,” Darzin replied.
“Very well. I leave it in your hands,” the grim voice answered. Galen heard footsteps, pacing. “And either clean the place up yourself or have someone else do it and dispose of them afterward. This dungeon reeks of sweat and fear.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Darzin, in the most deferential tone Galen could ever remember hearing from him.
There were more footsteps as the men walked away, and the light snuffed out. Galen started to move, leather boot scuffing against the stone as he tried to stand, but Kihrin’s hand on his shoulder prevented it. Too late, Galen realized they were not yet out of danger, and he nearly screamed when he heard that third voice again.
“Don’t come back. Next time he’ll find you.” The rich timbered voice was so soft and quiet that Galen almost thought it spoke directly into his mind. The man must have had his mouth pressed against the door. Kihrin’s hand tightened on his shoulder hard enough that Galen bit his lip to keep from yelling out.
“Are you coming?” Galen heard his father say loudly, but from an echoing distance. “Or do you enjoy playing with yourself in the dark?”
“Only dark to someone such as yourself,” the baritone voice corrected. This time Galen heard the man’s shoes scuff against the slate floor as he walked away. There was also a swish of fabric: robes of some kind or a heavy cloak. After a moment, a clanging sound echoed that Galen could now identify: the sound of a heavy iron bar being moved against a door.
Fabric moved as Kihrin somehow managed to shove all their food items back onto the blanket, sweeping it all up into a ball in the dark.
“Quick, take my hand,” Kihrin whispered.
Galen started at every noise as they rushed back out along the tunnel. He was so terrified he was close to tears. When they reached the servants’ hall, Kihrin stopped Galen from running. He dropped the blanket filled with spilled jars onto a servant’s cart. Still holding Galen’s hand, he strode briskly to the front of the First Court and called for an escort of guards and carriage.
At least he looked calm to most. Only Galen could tell by the weight of his intertwined fingers that Kihrin was shaking.
Then again, so was he.
61: GUARDIANS OF THE CAGE
(Kihrin’s story)
Relos Var looked the same as when I’d seen him last. Time had left no mark on him, even though years had passed since our last unfriendly meeting. He still dressed in plain garb, and looked like no one of any importance if you couldn’t see his aura.
Wait . . . little brother?
I was definitely not that. Maybe he meant it the way Darzin liked to call me “boy.”*
“Raverí?” Relos Var looked at me curiously. “What are you doing in there?”
“Oh fuck. He can see—”
Relos Var waved two fingers. “Come out of there.”
I felt a ripping sensation and Tyentso stood by my side. She stared at her hands, then at the glittering strands of energy surrounding us, before muttering a curse that somehow didn’t melt the very stones, although it made a good attempt.
Relos Var’s smile was delighted. “I am so pleased you survived that unpleasantness in the Capital, Raverí. I hope you’re not still working with your father. The only thing worse than a power-hungry fool is a power-hungry fool who thinks he’s smarter than everyone else.”*
Tyentso’s stare was ice. “I guess that confirms he really is still alive.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t call it ‘life,’” Relos Var replied.
“Tyentso, who are you talking about?” I’d have thought they meant Gadrith, except for the “father” bit.
“Gadrith,” Tyentso said. “He means Gadrith.”
“Uh . . . no? Gadrith’s your husband,” I said.
“Yeah, he was that too.” She scowled. “Don’t look at me like that, Scamp. I wouldn’t have married him if he had any interest in sleeping with me. Or anyone, really.”
“Don’t kid yourself, Raverí. Yes, you would have,” Relos Var said. “Now I admire a woman who’s willing to make any sacrifice to get what she wants. Perhaps you and I can come to some arrangement? Your life for service to me?”
“You can’t do that,” Tyentso said, shaking her head. “You can’t Return me back to life.”
Relos Var took her denial in stride. “You will find that there is little I cannot do.”
I looked to the side at Tyentso’s ghost. “Can you get us out of here?”
“Only by possessing you,” Tyentso said, “and I can’t do that right now. Look at your hands.”
I did. Both hands were covered in the same tracery patterns as the cage, and the ruins. It didn’t stop me from moving, but I assumed it would stop Tyentso from possessing me.
“If you’re going to kill me,” I spat at Relos Var, “get it over with.”
He chuckled. “Kill you? Why in all the heavens would I do that? You’re going to save us all. What have they been teaching you?”
I couldn’t tell if he was joking.
“I lament that while you are in the right place,” he said, “this is the wrong time, and my plans are not ready for you yet. Now why don’t we get you out of here and see about healing that wound, before those pesky morgage come back and make our lives difficult—”
A spear impacted the wall of energy and shattered. Another landed next to Relos Var’s feet.
“Too late,” he said. He waved a hand, and shards of wood flew backward toward their point of origin.
The morgage were ready. They raised shields and (in the case of the singular woman) a magical field of energy to stop the reversal of their attack.
“I hope you realize this can only end one way,” Relos Var called out. He clenched a fist, and one of the morgage warriors erupted in flames, screaming. “Let us go so you may return to your important duties.”
The woman spoke, and to my surprise she spoke Guarem. “No deal, traitor. You are not welcome here in the lands you destroyed, nor will you be allowed to take what belongs to us.”
I had a feeling that when she said “what belongs to us” she meant me.
I’ll be honest: I was growing a bit tired of being passed around like a favorite dish at dinner.
“Oh, rip the Veil,” Relos Var said. “One experiment goes awry, and people never let you hear the end of it.” He raised his fist again, squeezed, and another morgage went up in flames.
They didn’t retreat. Even if two of their members were almost certainly dead with more to follow, the morgage didn’t take a single step backward.
I cast about for something, anything, I could do. My leg hurt with a desperate pain and the stone around my neck chilled my flesh: I was a long way from being safe. Even though Relos Var was rapidly escalating a wizard duel with the morgage sorceress, the magical prison he’d crafted around me hadn’t lessened in strength. Tyentso couldn’t return to my body, where she might talk me through casting a spell.
If I was going to do something, I’d better do it fast.
“Dear Taja,” I whispered, hoping my words would go unnoticed in the commotion. “Hear my prayer. I’m in a lot of trouble right now and I need your help. Relos Var is here and—”
I lost my voice.
“Stop that,” Relos Var snapped. He gestured again, and my arms locked at my sides. “I am trying to help, but this is no place for such a discussion.”
“No, it is not,” a woman said. My heart leapt as I heard her voice, although I had only ever heard it before in a dream. “And the idea that you a
re trying to help is every bit as laughable.”
Taja appeared in the middle of the street.
I guess she’d been listening after all.
She didn’t look like a child this time, but her silver hair, her eyes, and her white skin remained the same. I knew her immediately.
Taja gestured; the prison surrounding me faded. Her attention, however, focused on the sorcerer. “Leave now, or I will force the issue.”
Relos Var tilted his head and regarded the goddess. “Here? In my sanctum? There is no place on this planet where I am stronger or you are weaker. You don’t dare have a true fight with me here.”
I blinked.
The plan had rather counted on the fact that a goddess—not just any goddess but one of the Three Sisters—would be someone no sorcerer would be so foolish as to fight. He’d backed down against Khaemezra, so it followed he’d back down when faced by a genuine goddess.
He would have to. Right?
Except he didn’t seem to be playing along. In fact, everything about Relos Var’s manner suggested that he didn’t think he was outmatched. He was prepared for a violent confrontation, even though he couldn’t be that powerful. And yet . . .
“You might beat one of us here, but not all of us,” said another woman’s voice, more familiar than Taja’s in many respects because I heard it so often.
Thaena appeared in the center of the street, but the Goddess of Death was not alone. With her was a third woman, whose appearance almost made me cry out—because I didn’t expect to recognize her. Yet I did.
The third goddess had chestnut-red skin and hair the color of flame, full lips, and high cheekbones: one of the most perfect faces I had ever seen. She wasn’t Joratese—she had the wrong kind of hair and no horse markings—but she still resembled the Jorat girl that Xaltorath had once shown me. The resemblance was too strong to be a coincidence. She wore a shifting shawl around her shoulders woven of red, green, and violet light.
So, this was Tya, Goddess of Magic.
All the morgage who weren’t busy putting out their kin fell prostrate to the ground. I suspected their reverence was saved for Thaena, but who knows? Maybe being a god, any god, was enough, as one could argue it should be. And these weren’t just any gods, after all: the appearance of the Three Sisters was the sort of omen capable of dooming emperors and cursing whole countries. It had happened before.
