The Measure of the Magic (44 page)

Slowly, inexorably, the ragpicker dragged his prisoner close—so close that they were soon eye-to-eye with almost no distance between them.

“I fear you are losing control of yourself, Skeal Eile,” the ragpicker whispered. “I fear you are incapable of holding your tongue. You seem content to let your emotions rule your common sense, even when you should know better.”

“No, please!” The Seraphic was still fighting, but the fear in his eyes told his captor he was already beaten. “Let me go! I won’t say another word to anyone! I’ll leave! I’ll go away! Far away! You won’t ever see me again!” Tears began streaming down his hatchet face. “I’ll do anything you say! Anything!”

The ragpicker smiled. “All true. Every word of it, Seraphic. Even if not in the way you intended.”

Skeal Eile tried to scream, but the ragpicker’s bony hand flashed to his neck and pressed against a bundle of nerves and muscle buried beneath his skin. There was a sharp pain, and suddenly he could no longer speak. He resumed fighting, but it was a weaker, resigned effort. His spirit was broken, and he saw his own end.

“Hold steady, now,” the ragpicker whispered, eyes bright and predatory as he leaned close. “This will only take a moment.”

S
KEAL EILE TRIED
to fight against what was happening, but he was powerless against the creature that held him. He knew it was a demon he fought against, and he understood what that meant. He even understood in general terms the nature of his inevitable fate. He was going to die. He had crossed a line, and he was going to pay the price. At some point, he had lost his perspective completely by allowing this creature into his life, by embracing its cause as his own, by accepting it as an ally. Always so careful before, always making certain that he was the master and not the slave, this time he had forgotten himself.

He thought suddenly of Bonnasaint, whom he had not heard from since the other left on his hunt for Panterra Qu. What had become of him? No word at all, and nothing to suggest whether he had done what he was supposed to do.

He thought of the Drouj, Arik Siq, and found a sudden, perverse satisfaction in the fact that he would return with his people, and they would decimate the valley. What difference if he died now? The end was decided for all of them.

He thought of Isoeld—vain and ambitious and foolish—now Queen of the Elves and thinking herself safe. Perhaps she was, for the moment. Perhaps her stepdaughter would come to a bad end, just as her husband had. Perhaps she would find a way to make that happen. Perhaps she would even find a way to escape the Drouj. But sooner or later, she would find herself on the receiving end of a long knife, dying in the same way her husband had, an expendable pawn in someone else’s schemes.

Then, suddenly, something was happening to him. He could feel himself being turned about so that he was facing away from the demon. He could feel the other pressing against him from behind. The pressure was intense, and then it was excruciating. He was being crushed. He tried to scream, but his vocal cords had been silenced and no sound came from his open mouth. He gasped and panted and drooled as the pressure increased to a point beyond bearable, and all he wanted to do was to make it stop.

“Good-bye, Seraphic,” he heard the demon whisper.

He experienced a strange sense of invasion, as if the other were reaching inside him to make room for himself. His body seemed to widen and stretch to allow for this, his organs pushed aside and his bones broken and shattered. He shrieked silently, but he could only hear the sounds he was making in his head. He begged for it to stop, to be over. He fought to keep himself together, but he was already beginning to disappear. His thoughts scattered and his mind lost focus. Everything began to close down and turn fuzzy. The pain eased slightly, and a strange sense of listlessness replaced it. There was nothing left for him. Nothing.

At some point, he could feel the demon’s thoughts begin to intermingle with his own, as if the demon had gotten inside his head. In a few brief seconds, all of the demon’s dark memories were revealed to him. All the years spent hunting down humans, all the killings and destruction witnessed and perpetrated, all the terrible ravages that had led to the destruction of the old world—they were there in his mind.

He thought he would go insane, but before that happened his brain simply quit working and his world went dark.

W
HEN IT WAS FINISHED
, the ragpicker gave himself a moment to adjust to his new look. He hunched his shoulders and stretched his arms, testing the fit of his new skin, adapting to his new appearance. He walked over to the window and looked at his reflection in the glass. What he saw pleased him.

He was no longer the ragpicker. He was Skeal Eile.

But a better, stronger, more capable Skeal Eile, freed from the other’s mortal weaknesses and limitations.

The demon smiled. The Seraphic had served his purpose, but his usefulness was ended. What was needed now he could best accomplish on his own.

What was needed was an event so shocking it would bring the bearer of the black staff running right to him.

W
ORD TRAVELED QUICKLY, AND BY THE END OF
the day people were flocking to the village square in Glensk Wood to gather for the address that the Seraphic of the Children of the Hawk had announced he would deliver. They came not just from within the village proper, but from miles away, traveling by whatever means they could. It would be an announcement of cataclysmic proportions, it was rumored—one that promised to be life changing. No details were offered, not even to Pogue Kray and the members of the village council. The Seraphic had declared that all present would hear the announcement together so that there could be no mistaking its meaning. Those who could not come at once might hear of it later, but by then it would almost certainly be too late.

But too late for what? No one knew. They pondered those words, every last one of them, and then each determined individually to be in attendance and began making their plans on how they would do so.

Although curiosity brought some of them, mention of the Hawk
brought many more. For the fate of the Children of the Hawk and of the sect itself was at the center of what the Seraphic would reveal, the rumors continued, and all those who believed must be present when that fate was announced.

By sundown, the village was filled with people who had come from everywhere, all of them crammed together in the village square and spilling out from there into the side streets and pathways. There was never any question of attempting to get all of them under one roof; there was no building large enough to house so many. The Seraphic would address them out of doors—outside, where the Hawk had always wanted them to make their homes. All in attendance would be able to hear the Seraphic’s words, no matter how far away they stood, no matter how much noise interfered with their hearing. It was a promise given by the head of the order, and as such it was a promise that would be kept.

When the sun had sunk to just above the western horizon, fleeing quickly now from the dark shadow of night’s approach, the Seraphic ordered the torches lit. As the darkness engulfed the last of the sun’s fading light and the pitch fires of the burning brands were all they had by which to see, he mounted the wooden steps to the platform he had ordered constructed and faced the crowd.

The demon that had cloaked itself in the skin of Skeal Eile would have laughed aloud had it been possible to safely do so. They were like sheep, these humans—ready to follow, eager to be led, happy to be told what was needed. He could see it in their faces and hear it in their hushed voices as the crowd noise slowly diminished. He could feel it in the vibration of the night air.

They were primed and ready for something magical. They expected no less. And he would give it to them, while they, in turn, would give him readily and willingly what he would otherwise take by force.

Seated just behind him on a row of wooden benches, the village council sat watching. Centered in their midst was Pogue Kray. He had tried to talk to the man who appeared to be Skeal Eile earlier in the day, wanting to tell him that he intended to release his wife and allow her to face her accusers. The power of the magic that the demon had used to hold him in thrall had dissipated. He was a different man,
no longer distrusting, believing now that his wife had been wronged. But his change of heart came too late. His fate was sealed. The demon had put him off with cautionary words, suggesting this was not the time, hinting that all of his concerns would be addressed before the night was over and those who had transgressed or been accused of transgressions would find a lasting peace. For tonight, he promised, the Children of the Hawk would come into their own, and the village of Glensk Wood and all its people, believers or not, would be the better for it.

He kept it vague, but purposeful, and the leader of the council was turned aside.

Which was necessary, the demon knew. The council leader’s patience was waning, and the demon knew that if he did not like what he heard this night, he would stand and object. He would repudiate Skeal Eile and his sect in front of the people. He would try to turn those gathered against the Seraphic.

Oh, yes, he would try, even though it was a foregone conclusion that he would fail. Still, by failing he would serve a larger purpose.

The demon stepped forward, outwardly Skeal Eile to those gathered, the Seraphic of the Children of the Hawk. Heads turned and the din of conversation stilled.

“Friends! Neighbors! Believers in the Way of the Hawk! Fellow citizens of this valley home!”

His voice rose, echoing out across the square and down the side streets and pathways, amplified a dozen times over. There was no one who could not hear him, no one whose attention was not immediately commanded. All fell silent in the wake of his call to order and its reverberations through the branches of the trees. He lifted his arms high and then slowly lowered them, as if drawing those gathered to him, a shepherd summoning his flock.

“Today we begin the reclamation of our heritage. Today we commit to putting an end to the threats we have endured these past few weeks from those heathen that occupy the old world and would occupy ours, as well. They camp just without the walls of our valley. They seek to find a way to come inside. They would kill us and enslave us and put an end to all we have been promised.”

His hands lowered, but he kept them lifted slightly, palms up, still
gathering them to him. “Five centuries have we waited for a sign. Our teachings tell us the Hawk promised he would send us that sign when the protective wall fell. He would tell us when it was right and proper for us to go out into the larger world and reclaim what was once ours. He would return to lead us, to take us to our new home, to give us back what was stolen from us. Do you believe this, brethren? Do you?”

The murmur grew to a low rumble punctuated by shouts of affirmation. The Seraphic’s arms lifted anew, a gesture that brought the crowd instantly to silence.

“Hear me! I am Seraphic to the Children of the Hawk, but I am also to all of you as a shepherd is to his flock. I am caretaker and caregiver. I am the link between the now and the yet to come—between what has been and what will be. I am that, but more than that, I am an instrument of service for the one who brought us here and made us safe. I did not seek this role; it was given to me. It was given, and I accepted that gift because I knew the source and could do no less. I am humbled by what that means, no more so than now, as I stand before you.