[Lanen Kaelar 03] - Redeeming the Lost (18 page)

The only way to be certain that you will lose
is to surrender.

Determination without hope. It is a dry and
strange place in the soul, and I do not recommend it, but it is full of power.

I stood then, breathing deep into my gut where
my littlings lay. It was a strange fire indeed that I had found. I was ready to
fight or flee, ready for battle in a bare cell, but there was nothing to do but
watch the slow departure of the moon’s gleam as the Ancient Mother’s stately
dance took even the reflection of her light from me.

I needed to act, to do something that would
force an action, that would get me out of this Hells-be-damned cell.

I had never spent much time in the service of
the Lady, not in the way of those dedicated to Her. They beseech Her on their
knees for all sorts and lands of things—but somehow it always seemed to me that
kneeling was unnecessary. It might be that, having no mother around me, I took the
Mother of us All into my heart more completely than most. Greatest need brings
greatest faith, they say. I stood, braced, and spoke my invocation, though not
even I could hear it.

“Ancient Lady of the moon, rising in the east,
who hast brought light to this dark place; Mother of the earth beneath my feet,
in the very stones that surround me, whose fire rageth in my heart; Laughing
Girl”—I faltered for a moment there, for laughter and water seemed both too
distant from me—ah—“Laughing Girl of the Waters, who surrounds my babes within
me—a boon I beg of thee, blessed Goddess! Do not leave me in this cold place of
death.” I began to shiver, whether from the deepening cold or from anger I
could not tell. “Come fire, come battle, come rage to warm me! Shia, Goddess,
in the name of all that is precious to you, do not leave me here!”

If there were poetry in life, my words would
have echoed from the stone walls and given me heart—and perhaps been heard by a
passing soul who might have been of some use to me. As it was, my throat was
raw from shouting and neither I nor any other creature in the world had heard a
thing.

I stood motionless, waiting, fire in my heart
yet trapped in cold silence, for death to come and claim me and mine, when a
light spilled into the room. But it was not the moon.

The light came from under the door.

I found the stair swiftly, and the four
identical oaken doors. I was delighted, in a strange way, to also find a huge
guard pacing the corridor in the pitch-black dark.

He was sharp and well armed and he came for me
the instant he saw me. Good eyes, I thought as I avoided his first blow. With
some difficulty, it must be said. It s bloody dark down here. Well, well, well,
and I just happened to have a lighted dark lantern in my hands.

I threw open the panel of the dark lantern and
shone the light straight in his eyes. He swore and backed off. And dropped his
guard.

I had no wish to murder him, the poor sod, but
I had no choice. I could not rely on a deep wound, not here in the midst of the
enemy. I despatched him as painlessly as I could, and when he stopped twitching
I dragged him along the corridor out of my way. I searched the body for keys.
No such luck.

I took a closer look at the doors. They were
not particularly close-fitting, for they had been made chiefly to keep drunken
louts out of the way for a night. Still, if you’ve nothing but your fingernails
and you can’t be heard, a door of thick oak will do as well as one of iron. No
light shone under any of them.

She can’t hear you. You can’t hear her.

There was no one anywhere near; obviously
Berys had trusted in that poor bastard I’d had to kill. I lifted the catch
again and opened the dark lantern. Light blazed in that dark corridor. I stood
before the first door, keeping the lantern on the ground that as much light as
possible might shine underneath. I knelt there only a few moments, hoping with
all my soul that she was awake, or that the unaccustomed light would waken her,
but I didn’t dare wait too long at any one door. Every nerve in my body jangled
like shaken harp strings, out of tune, wrong. I desperately wanted to call out
to her, if only for the relief of some kind of sound, but Rikard had warned me.
The corridor would not appear unusual, sounds would behave as normal—they would
just stop at the door. She could be no more than the thickness of oaken planks
from me and I’d never know it.

I called to her in the silence of my heart, as
you do to loved ones in peril—do you live, my daughter? Are you here, so near I
might touch you? Was the guard a distraction, and are you a thousand leagues
hence in some dread prison? Does your body lie rotting already in a shallow
grave, my soul’s child, my bright Lanen?

I held back a sob and mentally shook myself.
Cold, cold as revenge, cold as the depths of evil, lest your fears unman you.

There was no response. Time was rushing past
like a gale, bearing all my hopes into bleak darkness.

The next door. I was acutely aware that every
moment made discovery more likely. I waited, my light gleaming unnoticed into
silent darkness, where only dust was illumined, where she slept unheeding or
crouched wounded, where she was held chained to the far wall being driven mad
with needing to get to the door.

Then the next door. The one Hygel had said led
to the cell ruined long since. The door was like all the others. Blessed Lady,
I prayed in the depths of my cold heart, Ancient One, riding serene above us
all in your pale chariot, I beg you, if she sleeps waken her.

I had never prayed half so fervently, for I
had never before been so unable to do anything of use myself.

Let her see the light, let her notice, let it
be that she can move so far—let him not have blinded her. Lady, Goddess, Mother
of us All, I am helpless and I hate it and I cannot change it. Don’t let her
die in silent darkness, Shia, Have mercy on your daughter. On my daughter. On
the only child I will ever have.

Somehow I managed to spill a little of the oil
onto my foot, which made me look down. At the fresh bloodstains on the stone
outside this particular door.

My heart was a deep drum, pounding out the
seconds. I lifted the lantern and shone the light onto the keyhole. My hands
were shaking as I drew out the lockpicks I’d borrowed from Hygel. My short
sword was loose in its sheath, for I fully expected to have to deal with as
many demons as Berys could spare. I knew fine that Berys was too bright to
leave her protected only by a single guard, a paltry spell, and an oaken door,
and I was prepared for everything I could think of.

I was certainly not ready for nothing.

Behold the advantages of long-term planning.
Marik and I have been preparing for years, building up a legion of our own
particular Healers. In exchange for a doubling of their inherent abilities,
they have allowed us to link them to a spell. Oh, of course it would only be
used in event of an emergency, of course. And most of them have been told that
the purpose of the link would be to summon vast power from every corner of
Kolmar to protect us all from some great evil.

Ha! If I could find a way to do that, I would
not need the De-monlord to rid myself of the dragons!

The beauty of it is that all the work of
activation, apart from the final ritual, has been done long since. Though I
really must arrange to replace Durstan, it is awkward getting dressed with one
hand. It has been easy enough to draw the double circle on the floor in my
hidden chamber, and scribing the symbols is simple—but preparing the cauldron
takes twice as long as it did.

I have only just finished crushing the leaves
and pouring in the oil. Now to light the candles around the altar, so; tie my
rope wards about my waist, damn, it’s tricky, I really must replace Durstan.
Now let me ensure—yes, I did remember to put the globe inside the circle. Check
the wards one last time—ah, yes, renew that smudged one, my robes must have
trailed over it—all is done.

“Come, ye servants,” I said, fighting the
oil-soaked fire under the cauldron where it sits to one side of the central
altar. It bursts into flame even as three of the Rikti appear.

‘Tremble, mortal!” the largest hisses.

“Foolish imp,” I said, twisting the binding
and making it writhe. “Do not waste my time. You are bound to me already, if
you refuse I’ll have your soul for a year and a day, and I am a Master of the
Sixth Circle. I can inflict the True Death on you if I choose.”

They all hissed, but were silent.

“Good,” I said, and pointed at the largest. “You,
go find the Demonlord who ensouls the Black Dragon. It flies over the Great Sea
towards Kolmar. Bring me back word of when it will arrive here.”

The first vanished.

“You, where are the Kantri and what are they
doing?”

“Masster, need more help,” it said, not
moving. “Too many places, too many dragons for this one. You want old ones,
found ones, little ones, what? All scattered.”

“Find the largest group of them and watch for
an hour, then come and tell me what they are doing and where they are. Go now,”
I commanded. It too disappeared.

“You,” I said to the smallest. “A simple task.
lift that globe,” I said, pointing, “and hold it above the cauldron.”

The globe was made of glass, a large round
vessel twice the size of my head, with a small opening in the top stopped with
a cork. It was nearly full now of little locks of human hair, black to brown to
red to gold to grey, all jumbled together. A few nail clippings from the bald
ones.

The Rikti held the globe high above the
cauldron. I raised my hand and my left arm, moving the stump in a pattern to
match my whole hand, reciting the words. I have had so much practice with the major
demons, these minor deeds hardly challenge me at all anymore. The demons
involved yelled and tried to distract me, as ever, but I can ignore them easily
now. When the last word was spoken, the oil in the cauldron burst into flame.

“Drop it!” I shouted, and the Rikti let go of
the glass globe, hissed and disappeared. The glass shattered in the cauldron,
while the hair and nails crisped in the flaming oil. The air was rank with the
stench of burning hair and I felt slivers of glass in my hand. No matter.

I spoke the final word of the spell. As befits
the final word of a great making, it had many syllables and grew harder to
pronounce. The familiar sensation of a thick tongue—I ignored it, knowing it
for distraction, pronouncing each syllable carefully—now, here, the last—

The spectre of the Demonlord appeared in the
smoke, grinning hugely. “Boo.”

I am not a Master of the Sixth Hell by
accident. If I could not ignore such things I would have died long since. I
spoke the final syllable, loud and strong, and the flaming oil was quenched as
I spoke. The stench of burnt hair filled the room now but I barely noticed it.
I started to shake, then to laugh, as the power of hundreds of Healers flowed
through my veins. I fairly crackled with it, Healer blue shot with purest
black.

I turned to the apparition, which to my
surprise had persisted. “What do you want?” I asked, grinning back at it.

“You wanted a report. I will pass over the
western shore of the South Kingdom in less than a day. I cannot tell more
exactly than that.”

“It is near enough. And I have a gift all
prepared for you when you arrive, my servant.”

“You keep thinking I’m a demon. I’m not,” it
said. “You are bound to me as surely as I to you. But no matter. What is my
gift? If I like it I may try to fly faster.”

“The Kantri,” I replied, smug. “You recall
those whom you turned into beasts? You will be pleased to learn that they have suffered
ever since, but this very day before sunset they were restored.”

The thing spat an obscenity. “And you give me
the gift of having to do the work over again, do you? It cost me my life last
time!” It blinked. “Well, nearly.”

“Ah,” I said, “behold the beauty of the
pattern. The body you wear is made of molten rock, ash, and sulphur. You are
living stone and the best weapon they possess is fire. How should they kill you
now?”

And the Demonlord smiled and saw that it was
good, and departed.

How strange. I am shaking as I don my robes
for the assembly. Not the insipid blue robes of the Archimage: that time is
past. My name as a demon-master I must keep secret from others, as would any
who did not desire death from any number of curses, but at the least I will
appear before my erstwhile companions as a Master of the Sixth Hell. The black
and silver robes of my achievement fit well on my young-again shoulders. It is
good.

Fear? No, I feel no fear at all. Anticipation,
yes, and excitement from the power pulsing through me. And desire. Oh, yes,
desire. To see so many faces pass through shock and disbelief, to despair
before they die—ah, I shall savour this evening. If all goes as I plan, I
should have enough bodies dead by my hand, the souls shocked and betrayed at
the end, to feed even the Lord of the Fifth Hell to bursting point. Just as
well, for I shall summon it to assist me—it will, I doubt not, make short work
of my fellow Magistri, and give them something to think about apart from me
when I decide to leave. It will be a mutual work, I think: food and exercise
for one of the most powerful Lords of the Hells, the end of this weary College
for me.