CHAPTER TWELVE
Power rests in action
acts in resting
brings the shallow world to heel with its perception
runs nipping at your heels for its protection.
—THE HARMONY OF BEING
You are given warmer clothes that hang loose on your emaciated frame. A thick coat of gray, matted, stinking fur. Wool leggings. Boots a size too large for your feet. Accepting them makes you feel vaguely ill.
Not even in your youth were you ever brought so low as to tolerate hand-me-downs. But to rise again, sometimes we must first fall. So you accede to the garments because they keep out the biting cold.
Instead of the prison cell, you are brought to what was once a lavish guest room. Now it is in tatters like all else in this place. But it has a fireplace crackling with heat, and you stand before it, warming yourself for hours.
Echoes of wailing winds moan their ragged songs. You rub your hands together to keep feeling in them, and don moth-eaten mittens so your fingers do not cramp and fall off from frostbite. At least that’s the warning one of the guardians gives.
The waiting game continues. Regardless of your captor’s words, you don’t cease your attempts to draw blood and conjure. Just a drop is all you need to be free. Every creature with blood flowing warm through their veins can harness its power with the proper education. But you have been cut off from even that.
Now, but not forever.
When Nikora finally returns, days later, you are ready. You rise to face her, belly full and mind sharp. If she sees the resolve darkening your eyes she does not let on.
“Come with me,” is all she says. The guards step aside, letting you out of the room that is just another kind of prison.
Only a small part of the building is even moderately livable. The castle was cut into the mountain, so the rough-hewn rock walls have stayed secure. But the man-made parts of the structure have submitted to age and decay. Large sections of roof are missing, in addition to many walls. You cross a courtyard where crumbling spires loom overhead, threatening to fall at any moment. The heavy furs buffer the chill in the air, but you miss the warmth of your desert land.
Finally, after negotiating a set of decaying stairs completely open to the elements on all sides and held up by hope more than any visible architectural buttress, you pass through a shallow cave to reach a top level with no walls at all.
There is no exit from what is essentially a platform hovering in midair except the cavelike hallway you stand in, barred with an ancient iron gate.
A fine layer of snow carpets the stone ground where at least a dozen men sit chained together. They all wear tattered army uniforms, the green of Lagrimar. But they have been given no furs, no boots. Still, they all have their limbs intact. Frost has not bitten their skin away.
You peer more closely to find they are members of the Wailers. You recoil. Their necks are bare.
“You have uncollared them!” Your voice is far more powerful than you intend. Rage explodes inside, bringing a modicum of heat to your skin. “Are you mad?”
Nikora raises a hand. “They are no danger to me. Or you,” she adds. “We have ways of subduing them.” The Wailers sit side by side, rocking slightly, vacant expressions on their faces.
“What did you do?”
These men belong to you, only you may do with them what you wish, and it would be wasteful to allow them to freeze to death here. But not affixing the blood magic collars that prevent them from accessing their Songs is lunacy.
“Collared, they could not heal themselves of the effects of the cold and the hunger,” Nikora explains patiently. “These Singers must not be allowed to die, yet we have few resources to waste.”
“But without their collars what keeps them here?”
The Wailers had always been a nuisance. The Singers, whose Songs were spared to be used for battle, had to be controlled via complicated blood spells that could be invoked only by their regiment’s commandant, the Cantor, or the king.
“They are meek as mice,” Nikora says. “Whatever you did to them leaves them barely able to do more than follow orders. And before your thoughts race too far ahead, these men cannot be used to harm me or any of my people. Gentlemen, lift your sleeves.”
As one, the men lift their right sleeves. A small wound of crisscrossing lines has been cut into each of their forearms.
“It won’t counteract your blood spell, but it keeps us all safe. In case you had any ideas of manipulating them against me.”
You feign ignorance, but disappointment claws at you. “And what do you want me to do?”
Nikora raises a brow. “I want you to give their power to me. Take their Songs and put them into a caldera so that I may use them.”
You jerk back at the audacity of her statement. “And why should I do that?”
Her smile is a brittle, delicate thing. “Because if you don’t do it voluntarily, I will force you. You are not the only one who understands compulsion blood magic.”
You force a chuckle. “Do you think I cannot withstand the pain of a blood spell? Do you think I have not spent hundreds of years inuring myself to that particular weakness—the one thing any of my people could have used against me?”
Her eyes darken. “And you think that pain is all we can conjure?”
Her tone is merciless. The Physicks have spent centuries studying magic and innovating it. You are still using the primitive spells you were taught generations ago. It is very possible—nay, probable—that they have come up with something that you have no defense against.
“I cannot make a single caldera from all of their Songs, not unless I absorb them first.”
“Fine then, a dozen calderas.” She waves her hand impatiently.
“Why have a dozen weak ones when you can combine them into a single, more powerful Song?”
“Wielded by you?” She raises a brow.
“I have the unique experience to do so.”
Nikora scoffs. “You can control these men’s Songs with your voice, correct? Their blood spells are already attuned to you. So you control them, and my spell controls you. It’s all the same to me.”
You stiffen. “So, you plan to carve a blood spell into me so that you can control the blood spell I carved into them?” You chuckle, derisively. “That’s many levels of separation from the original spell. The results might be … unpredictable.”
Her smug look melts away.
“And since you’re familiar with blood magic,” you continue, “I don’t need to remind you what that sort of dilution of intention can do. Controlling this many with the blood is a delicate proposition. To do it once removed, and with an unwilling intermediary…” You spread your hands and shrug. “It took me nearly eighty years and hundreds of men to perfect the method of control. Not all of my generals could do it. But please, be my guest. You will definitely need more than these few. Working out the kinks in your method will kill ninety percent of them before you even begin to master control.”
You watch her carefully, taking in the micromovements of her expression. She doesn’t give much away, but you are used to watching people for dissent or agreement and see when she begins to understand your words. She’s probably been experimenting with your people while you’ve been imprisoned. Perhaps she began with more men and these are all who are left.
“So what do you suggest?” she says through gritted teeth.
The cold of your cheeks aids in holding back a smile. “An alliance. I need not be your prisoner if I can be your ally.”
She narrows her eyes. “Do you think me stupid? I could never trust you. You were far too powerful for too long to be able to ‘ally’ with anyone.”
“But here I am at your mercy. For food, clothing, all the amenities of life, I require you and your people. Not a position I am used to being in, certainly. So I can liberate their Songs for you. Then whatever it is you wanted them to do, I will do—with the benefit of centuries of mastery.”
She tilts her head in thought. “If I allow you the use of blood magic and their Songs, you would be back to conquering, and I would not get what I want. No, you must do your part without magic of any kind. Command them to do what we want using the blood spell already in place. Then we will see if you are a worthy ally.”
You grimace internally, disappointed to be limited in such a fashion, but finding her a worthy adversary. There are still ways to turn this to your advantage.
Nikora nods almost imperceptibly at the guard standing just behind you. He grasps you around the waist in a painful hold and Nikora produces a bone-white knife from inside her coat. One of her steely hands grips your wrist and you freeze—her touch burns and you realize you may have underestimated her.
She carves a mark into your forearm and the blazing fire of the knife’s tip makes you wonder if it was dipped in poison. There are ways to use poison in blood magic, but you never bothered to master them. The low, guttural words she speaks are in the language of the blood. A spell of obedience and restriction from causing harm. Not sealed with pain, but with a string of words you do not know. Alarm courses through you.
“There, now we are allies,” Nikora says, releasing you. “You control the Wailers and do what I instruct you, or you will suffer.” Her tone is perfectly pleasant but her eyes are hard. “Pain is only the beginning of misery. And since you are hardheaded, I suspect that you will quickly discover that. Afterward, we will see.”
You grit your teeth as she spins away. Yes, we will see. For nothing, no blood spell, no enemy, no foreign type of magic will stop you from reclaiming what is rightfully yours.
Back in the parlor, a moderately effectual fire roars. You are seated on the chair that creaks under your sleight weight. Nikora lounges on her bench, clad in red as ever, sipping a steaming cup of tea.
Your cup sits on the table next to you, too hot to drink. “What do you want me to command the Wailers to do?” You have always believed curiosity to be a weakness, but right now, knowledge is strength.
“What do you know of the Physicks, Eero?” She seems to know the use of that name irritates you, though you strive not to react.
“None of the emissaries you sent ever deigned to seek an audience with me,” you reply tartly. “I found Ydaris when she was little more than a child, and offered her a chance at more than you all ever did. I know you create medallions that can mimic Songs, that your amalgam magic combines Earthsong, Nethersong, and blood magic.”
Nikora grins enigmatically and sips her scalding tea. “We are an order both ancient and holy. When our patron, Saint Dahlia, walked the earth, she met many from all over the globe. She was a proponent of health and her followers were the first physicians. But after her passing on, the Physicks were lost. We did not understand why when we worked to banish illness and promote life and health, death had to constantly intervene. And so it was proposed that we stop it.” She pauses, expectant.
“Stop what?”
“Death.” Her eyes sparkle mischievously. “There is a way to live forever. To become one with the spirits who hover at the edge of dreams. All we are searching for, all we have ever been searching for, can be found via the wisdom of those who have already passed over. The portal we will open to the World After will allow us to commune with the spirits and discover the secrets of eternal life.”
You had thought her cunning and wily, but perhaps she is just mad. “Impossible.”
“Oh, quite possible. We have gained many insights from individual spirits over the years, enough to know that they can avoid the Eternal Flame and exist indefinitely in the World After. While the Flame still pulls the majority of the dead into it, a few resist. It is difficult, but mastery of the technique will provide an important link in the chain of immortality.”
“Did you not try such a thing before with disastrous consequences?”
She looks surprised that you know anything, but your sister insisted on visiting you daily, telling you the news of the day, including what had happened when the Physicks had first attempted to commune with the spirits.
“We learn through trial and error, that is the way of knowledge.” Nikora spreads her arms. “The first spirits who answered our call were angry. We are refining the technique, seeking to assert a larger degree of control over them when they arrive.”
“And how will the Wailers help with this?” It’s all madness, but your curiosity has been piqued.
She motions to one of the tattooed attendants standing by the door. He leaves briefly and returns with another man in tow—this one dressed similarly to Nikora, wearing a billowing red robe. Dark, fathomless black eyes peer at you curiously from a milk-pale face.
“Bring it over here, Cayro,” Nikora says, and the newcomer approaches bearing a large wooden box. You scoop up your teacup to avoid it being knocked over as he sets it on the table.
The box is adorned with an image of a waterfall carved into the lid. Cayro steps out of the way as Nikora leans forward to open the box reverently and pull out a glass jar. Inside the jar is a bit of what looks like scorched, shriveled leather.
“This is all that is left of the great power of the Physicks. All that remains of the Great Machine, the source of Dahlia’s breath.”
“In her name do we work,” Cayro intones.
“By her grace do we prosper,” Nikora whispers, lifting the jar and pressing her forehead to it, eyes closed. “Saint Dahlia’s flesh. A bit of her left behind and holy enough to catalyze the power of the machine.”
Revulsion swamps you as you regard the contents of the jar more closely. It is actually the remains of a hand, four grotesquely curved, blackened fingers, mummified in some way.
Nikora opens her eyes, gazing adoringly at the disgusting remains of her goddess. “The Great Machine preserved the flesh, extended its power, focused and amplified it. But we can still perform certain rites with the flesh alone—though each attempt will sacrifice more, and there is little enough left. That is why it is imperative that we succeed quickly.”
You shudder at the zealotry evident in her voice. A gaze at Cayro standing stiffly beside her reveals nothing in his expression. Is he as much of a fanatic as she?
“So you want me to control the Wailers and use their Earthsong to tear open another portal into the World After? What about when the angry spirits come through?”
“We do not know that is what will happen.”
“You have the evidence of it happening before, do you not?”
She places the jar back in the box and closes it, much to your relief. “In our excitement to test the process, the summoning spell did not contain enough precautions. The next time, we will be better able to control the spirits.”
You have your doubts about that, but do not voice them. “Teach me how to summon them. Perhaps I can help to strengthen the spell.”
Her eyes narrow. “I will teach you your part, the part requiring Earthsong. That is all you need to know.”
“As an ally,” you begin, teeth clenched, “I must have information in order to hold up my end of the bargain.”
“You will know what you need and no more.” Her eyes flash.
The spark inside you rises, longing to lash out, unused to being suppressed for so long. But you lean back. Force yourself to relax. Take a breath, sip some tea.
Playing this her way is against your nature, but you have been patient before. Nothing worth having comes easily.
You shrug. “Very well then.” The words sting coming out, but it is all a means to an end. Breaking the chains she thinks she’s bound you in will be sweet.