Black Magic (2 page)

"Tell me," Angelos said quietly and sat down behind his desk.

Sorin forced himself to go through the tale once more, relating all from the moment he'd woken to the present. When he finished, Angelos sat white-faced and still, save for the faint trembling of one hand lying across his massive desk.

"I know nothing yet," Sorin continued. "But I will begin searching for answers …"

"No," Angelos said. The fingers of his trembling hand lifted to press against the center of his forehead, and his eyes went cloudy, distant, as they always did when he heard Her Voice.

Sorin felt her as a warmth, a pulsing, in his chest. He could sense in that warmth Her emotions and wants. The other paladins felt the same, but to a lesser degree. Priests could hear Her—whispers, snatches of things, never completely clear, but enough to convey her wishes. Angelos, of course, heard Her most clearly of all.

Angelos frowned in concentration, and then extended his other hand. Sorin placed his own in it, unperturbed by the suddenly tight, almost painful grip. Angelos' eyes slid shut, and for several minutes there was only silence.

As abruptly as he had gone into his trance, Angelos was out of it. His eyes held swirls of violet as they opened, the color of the Goddess, before slowly fading back to their normal soft brown. Sorin knew that in the heat of battle, when his power raged, his own eyes did the same thing.

"The mystery is not one you can solve," Angelos said. "From Her, I get that another will come who can help to provide the answer. But …" he frowned. "I sense something dark, something strange." His eyes met Sorin's. "Somehow, this thing—this person—is bound to you, High Paladin. It will not be you, or he, who will uncover Alfrey's killer. It will take the both of you."

Sorin frowned. "I do not understand."

"Neither do I," Angelos said ruefully. "But then, those of us who most directly serve Her are usually the last to understand anything."

To that, Sorin could only nod in agreement and smile faintly at the pulse of amusement in his chest. "So I do nothing until this person arrives. The body …" He swallowed and it was his turn to grip Angelos' hand too tightly. "I cannot simply leave him like that."

"I think that you must," Angelos said gently. Standing up, he moved around his desk and pulled Sorin into a tight embrace. "I am sorry, Sorin. I know how close the two of you were."

Sorin clung to him, finally allowing himself to feel the grief he'd been holding back. Alfrey. They'd grown up together, more like brothers than cousins. They'd entered the priesthood together. It had been Alfrey who'd pushed him to try for the knights instead, and Alfrey who had been the only one not at all surprised when Sorin had become first a paladin, and then High Paladin. "Why?" Sorin asked, wiping away tears. He was soothed by Angelos and the reassuring warmth of the Goddess pulsing in his chest. "Why would anyone murder Alfrey? I need to know." His mind began to race, pushing the grief away enough to be managed, intent upon finding a source, someone to make pay, and Angelos' words came back to him. "Who is going to help me? You said black magic was in it?"

Angelos shook his head. "I know only what I told you. I sense She does not want us to know much. Ignorance, sometimes, is useful: it prevents us from making assumptions. If you want to get started, try examining his room. Surely there must be something there; such an horrific murder would leave behind some clue."

Nodding, Sorin said, "Yes. Thank you."

Reaching out, Angelos cupped Sorin's face and wiped the traces of tears away with his thumbs. "Be strong, High Paladin. The Goddess will not let this tragedy go unpunished, and she will not let his death be a waste."

"Neither will I," Sorin said roughly. "Thank you, High Priest. I … I will be back." Breaking away, he turned and left the room.

Sorin strode from the cathedral, not knowing where he was going until he found himself in the stables. He waited impatiently until a stable hand presented him with the reins to his horse. "I'll return by nightfall," he said shortly. "Light the signal should I be needed sooner."

A full mark's journey found him in his secret retreat in the Black Forest, a place he wished he visited more often, but simply could not due to its distance and his importance at the castle. Dismounting, he let his horse wander as it chose and walked over to the massive oak tree in the center of the small clearing. He did not know how old it was, but he sensed sometimes that it must be the oldest tree in the forest, or very nearly. He'd come across the small clearing by chance, several years ago, not long after he had first been made a paladin.

Legend held that the Royal Castle had once stood in the area, the stronghold of the Holy Kingdom of the Goddess—but then civil war had come, and the kingdom had split into two, and then three, and the old castle destroyed in the feuding. Hundreds of people had searched and searched for the lost castle, but their efforts had always been in vain. If the castle had existed, which Sorin doubted, all remainders of it had long since been eradicated by the Black Forest. Only the trees and the Goddess knew where it might have once stood.

Sorin had never much cared; his little clearing was all that mattered to him. There was something about it, something he could never place, but the pulsing in his chest always radiated warmth and sadness, a twisting, bittersweet ache that told him the Goddess held the place dear.

The clearing was not much in the end, but he was fond of it. A shallow little brook ran mere steps away from the oak, while the rest of the clearing was all grass and wildflowers. In a few more decades, Sorin suspected that the trees would consume what remained of the clearing.

He sat with his back against the trunk of the oak and propped his arms on one bent knee, his mind returning once more to that bloodied room. Why Alfrey? He had been destined for the priesthood since the day he was born and some said he would someday succeed the high priest. Alfrey had never harmed anyone in life, so … why?

Sorin realized he was crying again. He'd never felt more alone or lost in his life. Even the Goddess' reassurances, a gentle warmth easing through him and dulling the edge of his grief, did not truly help. If anything, She only emphasized the loneliness.

She also reminded him that in order to find Alfrey's killer, he would need the help of a dark stranger. That could mean many things, but black magic was the first that came to mind. Black magic made him think of demons, but that was impossible. Demons were the result of humans who fell into black magic and soon grew ravenous for the life and spiritual energies of the untainted.

Such foul feeding upon their brethren turned the corrupt into black-skinned, horned monsters. If they grew strong enough, they would grow wings and become so powerful that no one except a paladin stood a chance of defeating them. Maybe the stranger was instead someone who had been assaulted by a demon and so was forever haunted by that. Such victims tended to carry the taint of the beasts that had assaulted them.

It could also mean a necromancer, but that was as unlikely as a demon—necromancers were only steps away from
being
demons. Necromancers dealt in black magic and death. How could they possibly be of any use?

Sorin winced at the sudden, sharp throb in his chest. He'd somehow angered the Goddess, although he did not have the energy to decipher how. Instead, he rested his head against the trunk and stared up at the branches. The sky above was overcast, for which he was grateful. Sunlight seemed unbearable.

He should return to the castle, but just thinking about it knotted his stomach. All he wanted to do was rest, and it was entirely too easy to surrender to that urge and let his eyes fall shut. Sleeping in the middle of the Black Forest, far from help, was foolish, but he'd never known demons to lurk in the forest. The royal cathedral, the Heart of the Goddess, was too close to be comfortable for them.

Sorin focused on breathing slowly—in, out, in, out, trying desperately to clear his head so that he might be of some use to those who needed him. The Goddess' warmth spread through him, stronger than ever. Angelos was right: she would not let the murder go unanswered. It was that realization that soothed Sorin and allowed him to relax enough to fall asleep at the base of the ancient oak.

The snap of a branch jerked him awake. Within the space of a breath Sorin was on his feet with his sword drawn. He looked around for the source of the sound, noticing that it was past dark and the forest was too still.

He finally saw the reason: a figure stood in the shadows of the trees, right at the edge of the clearing. He was hidden by heavy, dark robes and carried a tall staff in one hand. "Who are you?" Sorin demanded. "Reveal yourself, in the name of the Goddess."

The only response was the rustling of fabric and the snapping of another branch underfoot. Around them, the forest remained silent. Had the stranger brought the odd current in the air that made the inhabitants of the forest too anxious to give away their presence? He was no demon, Sorin would have sensed that. He shuddered to think what might have happened to him if he had not woken.

Lifting his sword in warning, Sorin called out, "Reveal yourself, stranger, or suffer for your silence!"

"How like a high and mighty paladin," came a cold, sneering voice, "to opt for violence first and not care to ask the questions until later. I announce myself to no one, Paladin. I wanted only to assure myself you were nothing more than a fool, arrogant enough to fall asleep in the middle of the Black Forest." The man turned and disappeared into the trees.

Scowling, Sorin sheathed his sword and bolted off after him, whistling for his horse to follow. The power of the Goddess granted Sorin the ability to see well enough in the dark to traverse the treacherous forest, but the man he chased moved faster still, and far more easily.

Finally, Sorin managed to catch up, and he threw himself forward, catching the man about the waist—and tripping them both when his foot caught on a root. They went tumbling down a hill that Sorin had not previously noticed, and when they finally came to a stop, Sorin was not certain which way was up or which limbs were his. But there was no mistaking the lithe man tangled up with his much broader frame, or the hair which smelled of incense that covered his face.

"Bastard paladin," the man hissed, and Sorin recognized the accent of the East Mountains, the almost rolling, lyrical hint to it that was unique to that corner of the country. "You are lucky you did not kill us both, or that I do not shove a knife through your throat as you deserve. Unhand me at once!"

"All right, all right, I am sorry. I did not mean to send us tumbling so, I swear," Sorin said. He slowly started getting them disentangled—and froze in mortification when he accidentally touched where he should not have, until a hard smack made him hiss in pain and jerk away. Standing up, he righted his leather armor and shoved back his tangled, leaf-strewn hair to glare at the stranger.

"Paladins," the man repeated in obvious displeasure. "What in the name of Goddess are you doing out here at this time? It's not your style to go anywhere alone in the dark."

"Who are you, child of the Goddess, to go about in the dark? Demons will prey on you far sooner than they would dare touch me," Sorin retorted. He was arrogant? The man outpaced him by far.

He could practically feel the derision as the man replied, "I owe you nothing, Paladin, least of all my identity. Scurry back to your castle and leave the forest to those who can travel through it without practically killing people."

That was it; he'd had enough. Moving with a speed that was Goddess-given, he snatched the man close again and threw his free hand into the air, begging the Goddess, "Give me your light!" Pale violet light flooded the immediate surroundings—and Sorin stared in shock at the man in his arms. He was beautiful.

He was a necromancer.

Sorin abruptly let him go, causing him to fall to the ground in an untidy heap.

The man glared furiously up at Sorin. "Paladin—" He suddenly stopped, his own eyes widening in surprise. "You—you're the bloody
High Paladin.
"

Like all necromancers, he was marked by the streaks of gray and white in his hair—hair that was unusually long. It was black as high-quality ink where necromancy had not stripped the color away. His face was elegant, delicate, but the familiar way he carried his sword and wore his lightweight leather armor indicated the fragility was deceptive.

Sorin also noticed that he was too thin and the clothes he wore were in poor condition. He might not have been fragile, but Sorin doubted he would be a real threat if it came to it. "Yes, I'm High Paladin," he said cautiously, not certain what the necromancer would do when he clearly disapproved of Sorin's status. Habit alone drove him to extend a hand to help the man up.

The man's pretty mouth curled, and he knocked Sorin's hand away before standing up by himself. "I would say that makes you even more of an idiot," he said scathingly. "What are you doing in the middle of the Black Forest in the dead of night?"

"Why are you?" Sorin countered, and when it looked like the man was about to brush him off again, added, "As High Paladin, I have the right to ask such of anyone in this forest, and I am not obliged to answer any questions. But since I am responsible for the tumble we took, I will answer: I was here to find some solitude. Someone who mattered a great deal to me died today."

The man scowled at him, but after a moment, grimaced and said, "I travel this way because the Goddess bids it. That clearing with the tree—do you go there often?"

"As often as I am able, which is sadly rare," Sorin replied, confused. What did the necromancer mean by that comment about the Goddess? Necromancers did not hear Her. "Why do you ask?"

"There's a deep sadness there," he said, sounding distracted. His head turned, as though something had caught his attention. He went to retrieve his staff from the hill, body stiff with tension.

"Sadness?" Sorin asked, startled to hear a necromancer echo what he so often felt himself when he was in the Black Forest. How would a necromancer sense such a thing? The feeling of sadness had always largely come from the Goddess, and necromancers did not commune with Her, not that he had ever heard. It made the man's earlier comment about doing Her bidding all the more puzzling.