Armat finished his discussion with his leading commander, then dismissed the man.
As soon as the commander had left the tent, Armat looked between Lister and Ravenna. “I will need the cover of your sorceries to get the men inside Elcho Falling,” he said. “Axis will certainly expect me to attack, and he has the defensive advantage. You can do it?”
Both Lister and Ravenna nodded, although Ravenna looked less certain of it.
“You have not the stomach for the fight?” Armat asked her. “Has your lover’s death distressed you so greatly that—”
“I loved him!” Ravenna said. “Allow me a little room for grief, if you please.”
“There is no time nor room for grief if you want your son to have that for which you slaughtered his father,” Armat said.
“Then I am ready,” Ravenna said. “I will not quail, Armat.”
Armat grunted, exchanging a meaningful look with Lister.
Insharah sat in his tent, staring at the sword lying on the bed before him. The entire camp was alive with movement as men readied themselves for an attack upon the citadel of Elcho Falling.
But Insharah could barely breathe, let alone equip himself for the action.
Ravenna and Armat had trapped Maximilian, and murdered him. Armat had called his senior commanders, including Insharah, into his tent the instant he’d returned from the murder, informing them that Maximilian was dead and that Elcho Falling was theirs for the taking. Then he’d sent them away to rouse the army.
Insharah had, instead, come back to his tent, where he had sunk down on his bunk, unable to stir his command for anything. Rimmert had come in, asking questions about what had to be done, and Insharah had sent him on his way with some vague assurances that he’d be out shortly.
But Insharah did not think he’d be able to walk out of this tent, shortly or even lately, and take part in an attack on Elcho Falling.
Insharah thought he could have borne Maximilian’s death if it had come accidentally, or nobly. But to be murdered by your lover, who carried your child? And in such a hateful and duplicitous way? For a man who had only ever done good, and that nobly?
All the doubts that had been growing inside Insharah for weeks now coalesced into a sudden, shining determination.
He picked up the sword and tossed it deep into the tent.
“I can’t do it,” he said.
“Good,” said a voice from the dark depths of the tent, and Insharah started up in fear—then fell to his knees in terror as a nightmarish vision walked out of the depths of the tent carrying his sword.
“I seem to be spending tonight collecting loyalties,” said Ishbel. “Do I have yours, Insharah?”
“How many can you conceal within your sorcery?” Armat asked Ravenna. He was fully armored and weaponed, and shifted from foot to foot in ill-concealed eagerness. Armat had been blooded that night, and now he wanted more.
“Enough,” she said. “I don’t have a precise number for you, Armat. Enough. That will have to do.”
“No need to snap, my lady,” Armat said. “Am I not about to deliver to you that for which you have lusted?”
“Am I not about to deliver to you that for which you have lusted?” Ravenna snapped. “Don’t condescend to me, Armat.”
“Oh, for all the gods’ sakes,” Lister said, “stop fighting like children. Another few hours and we will all have what we want. Power, and a chance to secure this land against that which approaches from—”
He stopped, suddenly very alert, and looked about the interior of the tent.
“What is it?” Armat said, drawing his sword.
“Someone—” Lister began, then drew in a deep breath of shock as power enveloped everyone in the tent. “Someone,” he said again, his voice now hoarse with a combination of anger, fear, and surprise, “is using the Persimius gloom.”
Before any among Armat, Ravenna, or Lister could move, or summon any sorcery of their own, the blood-soaked Ishbel appeared in their very midst. She spun on her heel as she materialized, flinging one hand out from the goblet she held in her other, scattering blood over the other three.
“I invoke the right of the dark-shrouded widow,” she hissed, “given to me by Elcho Falling, to speak uninterrupted against the murderers of the Lord of Elcho Falling.”
Armat and Lister both tried to speak, but found themselves unable to so much as open their mouths, while Ravenna struggled uselessly to summon any of her own power.
“You are all bound for the moment,” said Ishbel. She looked at each of them, circling slowly, staring coldly at them. “If you had not planned or participated in Maxel’s murder, then you would still be able to speak and move. What I have just spoken is a sorcery of justice.” She gave a soft, harsh laugh. “Your immobility condemns you, all three.”
She indicated a spot toward the door of the tent, and all three of her captives found their eyes drawn to it.
Insharah stood there, holding his sword.
“Behold,” Ishbel said. “My witness.”
Then she stepped close to Armat. “Yours was the sword,” she said, and gave his chest a slight push, sending him toppling askew into the chair just behind him.
“I curse you,” Ishbel continued, her voice low and powerful, “to live out what remains of your life as a puppet. You shall not move of your own accord, nor shall you ever speak, save to move to the wishes and to mouth the words of your puppetmaster. His name is Insharah.”
“You will tell the Lady of Elcho Falling,” said Insharah, “how grateful you are that your life has been spared.”
Armat’s eyes rolled frantically, but he could not halt the words issuing from his mouth. “I am most grateful to the Lady of Elcho Falling that my life has been spared.”
Ishbel gave a cold smile, and looked at Insharah. “My lord, can you hold this for me for the moment?” She held out the goblet she carried in one of her hands, and Insharah took it in his.
Then Ishbel turned to Lister. “What can I say to you, Lister? For twenty years, more, I adored you and thought you omnipotent and blessed. I murdered men at your pleasure, and married a man at your whim. But your whim is capricious, is it not? You withdrew your love from me, as also from my husband, whom I had come to love. Thus I withdraw my love from you, Lister, and condemn you to the fate of the hundreds you sent to my knife.”
Lister’s eyes bulged, but he could not move, nor use any of his power against her.
Ishbel lifted her right hand, and every eye in the tent was drawn to the glinting blade that curved out from her first and second fingers.
“Die in the manner of my husband,” Ishbel said, and the blade arced through the air, and in the next instant Lister’s belly exploded, sending blood and organs cascading down his legs to the floor.
Fresh blood besmirched Ishbel’s face, but she did not blink. She brought the blade down once more, and then yet again, as Lister tried to clutch his bowels back into his body, separating every single organ in his abdominal and pelvic cavity from their supports and sending them sliding through his frantic fingers to the floor.
Lister lifted his face, just enough to stare one long moment into Ishbel’s implacable eyes, then he toppled over, the sound of his body hitting the pile of his entrails a frightful, sickening wet thud.
Ishbel ignored him. She looked to Insharah, and he handed back to her the goblet.
Then Ishbel turned to Ravenna. “You tried once to murder me, and then you murdered your mother, and you murdered my husband, who was your lover, and whom you professed to love. You carry his child. Shall you murder that one day, too, when the whim strikes you? Is no one safe from your ambition?”
She sighed, and held up the goblet. “See here, Ravenna. This is the Goblet of the Frogs. Is it not beauteous? It was made by my ancestress, and is a thing of great power. But on this vile night, its power is of no use to me. It is but a goblet, and it is what it contains which is of interest.”
Ishbel dipped her free hand into the goblet, and when she withdrew it, her fingers were slick with blood.
“It contains the blood of my murdered husband, Ravenna,” Ishbel said. “Imagine this blood’s power, when presented to its murderer.”
Ishbel flicked her hand suddenly, and even despite the enchantment that bound Ravenna, the woman managed to flinch.
Blood flew through the air to a point just above Ravenna’s head. There it coalesced into one large globule and then, horribly, into a travesty of the twisting rings of the crown of Elcho Falling, the slowly turning bands now made of clotted blood rather than gold.
“This bloodied crown is my revenge on you, Ravenna,” Ishbel said quietly, “and I use it not as Ishbel, Lady of Elcho Falling, but as the midwife of sorrow which you have always believed me to be.”
She paused, taking a deep breath. “The first ring I use to curse you and to cut you off from the Land of Dreams.”
One of the bloodied bands slipped free from its two companions, sliding down over Ravenna’s body as once the true crown had slipped over Maximilian’s body.
“Never more shall you walk the Land of Dreams,” said Ishbel, “and never more shall you use its power for any means, fair or foul.”
Tears slid down Ravenna’s face. Her body twitched as if she fought to struggle free, but Ishbel’s enchantment kept her bound.
“The second ring,” said Ishbel, “I use to cut your child free from Elcho Falling. No longer Maximilian’s heir, no longer his blood, he shall never be able to enter Elcho Falling again without the citadel recognizing him only as the murderer of the Lord of Elcho Falling.”
The second ring slid down over Ravenna’s body, and her mouth opened in a silent scream.
“The third ring,” Ishbel said as the final ring began its descent over Ravenna, “I use to cut you completely from any society or land. No man, no people, and no country shall ever love or offer you safe harbor again, Ravenna. Go now. I free you from the enchantment that I used to bind you. Go now from this tent and from this land. Go and bear your child in agony and sorrow, and weep that you have so thoughtlessly murdered those who loved you.”
Ravenna collapsed to her knees as Ishbel’s power set her free, then managed to get back to her feet.
“You have made yourself a bad enemy—” she hissed, but Ishbel cut her off with a laugh of genuine amusement.
“A worse enemy than what I have in you already? Go now, Ravenna. I am not interested in what useless words you think to fling my way. If it was not for that child you, too, would be dead. Go. Go!”
Ravenna sent Ishbel one last, hate-filled look, then she stumbled from the tent.
Insharah waited a moment until he heard her footsteps fade, then he walked over to Ishbel and took her elbow as she sagged in exhaustion.
“My lady,” he murmured.
“Take your puppet,” said Ishbel, “and use him to establish your control over this army.”
“And then?”
“Then do with it what you think best.”
Insharah gave her a steady look. “My lady, you forget how well I know you.” He glanced at Armat, and when he spoke again he kept his voice very low. “I am assuming, Ishbel, that you healed Maximilian as well as once you healed Madarin.”