A Mirror Against All Mishap Read online

  But with Draven, it was more than that. Much more.

  “Come in,” she said.

  Draven was broad-shouldered, slightly taller than Amlina. He had black hair down to his shoulders, the long mustache that Iruk men favored, and dark eyes that always seemed amused.

  As soon as she closed the door, Amlina hugged him. She pressed her cheek against his shoulder, felt the soft deerskin of his shirt, smelled the familiar warmth of his body.

  Throughout the winter seasons she had often allowed herself this comfort, even shared her bed with him on some cold nights. They had not, of course, engaged in sexual congress. That was too risky—it could change, even weaken her powers. Besides, she knew it might drive a wedge between Draven and his mates. The Iruks’ klarn, she had learned, had a psychic bond of its own, and it could be brittle.

  She had explained all this to Draven, and he had accepted it without complaint. He gave to her freely, with an open heart, not asking for what she could not give in return.

  His hand caressed her hair. “Are you well, my lovely witch?”

  “Well enough, dear friend. Just hold me a moment. I need your strength.”

  He always felt so solid, so at ease and unafraid. She sometimes worried that, through her neediness, she might inadvertently drain his vitality. But the Iruks were a hearty race, and Draven’s vigor seemed boundless.

  He held her at arm's-length. “And have you decided on a course?”

  She lowered her eyes, the pain of indecision rushing back. “Not yet.”

  “But you said that after the dark immersion—”

  “I know. But sometimes these things don't go as expected.”

  She started to turn away, then gripped his arm. Beryl had sworn she would kill not only Amlina, but the Iruks as well. If they separated, and she went to seek asylum in Larthang, she might never know the Iruks' fate. That only made her choice more difficult. Along with her love for Draven, she felt an obligation to protect him and his mates as best she could.

  “We test the new boat today,” Draven was saying. “Once it is judged ready, the klarn will meet to decide whether or not to sail with you.” He gave a small laugh. “But that might be difficult, if we don't know where you are going.”

  “Indeed.” Amlina wondered again if the lingering effects of the Bowing rite might yet deliver some acceptable answer, might make her way clear.

  “I will decide on a course soon. I promise.”

  Two

  Hundreds of leagues away, in the city called Tallyba the Terrible, Beryl Quan de Lang, Archimage of the East and Empress of Far Nyssan, sat in her audience hall. She was a tall, imposing woman, dressed in robes of scarlet and black and a blood-red turban set with jewels and feathers. She sat erect on her throne—the fossilized skull of some giant horned beast, polished to a gleaming white.

  The throne was set on a semi-circular dais, nine steps high and thirty paces across. Beyond the dais, the hall stretched into an empty distance, columns of rose and gold marble supporting an enormous dome.

  Beryl’s councilors and their attendants stood before the throne. No one was permitted to sit in her presence. The councilors were an obsequious lot—men and women ministers in long robes and pendants of office, stern soldiers in polished gold armor, priests and priestesses of the Sun, in orange gowns and gold sandals, their heads shaven, their skins dyed red, and scarred from frequent, ceremonial blood-letting.

  Beryl herself was the High Priestess of the Sun, the incarnation of the deity. In her ascent to power, she had eliminated all of the other priesthoods, demolished their temples, making herself the supreme ruler of Tallyba. That process had culminated over a hundred years ago. How many council meetings like this one had she sat in since? Beryl strained to focus her attention.

  Toulluthan, the temple treasurer, was giving a report. He read from an account book held by an acolyte, and gestured from time to time with the jeweled scepter of his office. Toulluthan was tall and obese, rolls of fat quivering beneath his chin as he spoke. At his shoulder stood Zenodia, his second. Beryl read the look in her eyes as she dutifully watched her superior cleric. Zenodia was ambitious. She was likely plotting to displace Toulluthan if she could, and after that … Well, Zenodia would bear watching.

  For Beryl, it was the usual dilemma. Councilors must have a certain amount of ability and ambition to make adequate servants. Too much, and they became potential rivals and had to be killed. Always a tenuous balance to maintain.

  Beryl brought her distracted mind back to Toulluthan. The treasurer was explaining why the temple's monthly expenses had risen. He stepped cautiously, avoiding the implication of any blame, while still communicating the obvious facts. By Beryl's decree, the number of captives awaiting sacrifice had been tripled over the winter seasons. These “fortunate ones” who would be honored to give their blood to the Sun had to be fed and clothed at the temple's expense. Often, they arrived in Tallyba in poor condition, Toulluthan implied—again carefully not assigning blame to the military commanders responsible for obtaining and transporting the captives from the provinces.

  Beryl's forehead started to throb. She resisted the impulse to reach under her turban and rub the scar. This reminded her, yet again, of the root of her troubles.

  Months ago, in Kadavel, she had been wounded in a fight with her former apprentice. Beryl had been an instant away from cutting Amlina's throat when the barbarian Iruks burst in and forced her to flee—to snatch the Cloak of the Two Winds and escape through a Gate of Spaceless Passage. Such travel, outside the bounds of the physical sphere, was debilitating. In the past, it had taken Beryl several days to recover from such dire magic.

  But this time was much worse. More than three months later, her full strength had still not returned. Perhaps it was the wound, a cut on the forehead that Amlina inflicted in her desperate, clumsy attack. Perhaps the fact that Beryl was bleeding when she passed through the Gate had taken an unforeseen toll.

  Beryl shifted in her seat. She knew there was a deeper cause, a shadow in her mind. Amlina's betrayal, her skillfully arranged flight from Tallyba, the potency of her challenge in Kadavel—all had surprised and shaken Beryl.

  For the first time in many decades, she had been made to feel vulnerable.

  And that feeling abided. Unlikely though it seemed, Beryl was haunted by the notion that Amlina would someday come to Tallyba and kill her. No, it was more than a notion—a premonition, a potential stream of events glimpsed in the Deepmind.

  Of course, Beryl knew the way to forestall that possibility was to strike first, to destroy Amlina and her allies, as she had sworn to do.

  But first, Beryl must regain her full powers.

  This was the reason for the increase in sacrifices at the temple. As the Incarnation of the Sun, Beryl drank the blood of the captives and absorbed their life-essence. In the past, five or six sacrifices a year had been sufficient to prolong her life and maintain her vitality.

  But since her flight from Kadavel, she had required more, and more.

  … Beryl realized the chamber was quiet. Toulluthan had finished speaking and everyone was watching her expectantly. She had lost focus yet again.

  She cleared her throat. “Thank you, Toulluthan. I am sure you will continue to serve us well as treasurer and manage the problem to the best of your abilities.” She let her gaze rest pointedly on him a moment longer, then shifted her eyes to her chief military commander. “And I am sure our General Quallich will make the necessary changes to ensure that our sacrifices are delivered to the temple in excellent health.”

  Beryl sensed with satisfaction the deferential fear that now possessed both men. She glanced around the circle, noting how the rest of her councilors stared at the floor.

  “But I think I have worked you all hard enough. We will adjourn for the day, and resume the Council tomorrow.”

  She rose. The councilors bowed deeply, while their aides and servants prostrated themselves. Beryl walked across the polished dais and passed
through a portal with a high, pointed arch. Entering the corridor beyond, she waved a finger over her shoulder, moving a switch that caused iron doors to slip from within the walls and clang shut.

  Now, out of view of everyone, Beryl allowed her shoulders to sag. She must be more careful. She must never show even the slightest sign of distraction or uncertainty.

  She needed to replenish herself. Even the monthly sacrifices were proving insufficient.

  Beryl marched down the long, empty corridor, with its shining black floor and opalescent wall panels—each a door that only she could open. At the far end, she passed beneath another arch, then crossed an open courtyard under a wintry sky. Ahead stood the massive gray stones of the Bone Tower, her sanctuary.

  Twelve guards stood at the entrance, hulking brutes with the bodies of large men and the heads of male lions. They were thralls, reshaped by Beryl’s arts. Halberds were clenched in their clawed hands, and wide, curved swords hung from their belts. They stood motionless, staring straight ahead as Beryl passed. They would come alert only at her command, or if some intruder tried to enter the tower. Then they would slay without hesitation.

  The interior of the Bone Tower was an empty, cavernous space. A stairway on the circular wall spiraled up to the distant ceiling. Often, Beryl climbed the steps, but today she was weary and impatient.

  She walked to the center of the floor and removed a black glass bead from a pocket. She spoke a few words and dashed the bead on the floor. The glass shattered and a funnel of silver light appeared. As it expanded and spiraled up, it lifted Beryl, turning her body gently as it raised her higher and higher.

  After rising more than two hundred feet, she passed through a round aperture, drifted to the side, and settled her feet on the floor. The chamber was forty paces across, illumined by glass lamps and by slotted windows set beneath the high, pointed ceiling. Along the circular wall, doorways opened to an outside parapet, and to shadowy alcoves and hidden rooms. Stationed at intervals along the wall were servants, motionless as statues. They too were thralls, enlivened only when called on to perform rote duties such as tending the lamps.

  A creature with the body of a long-tailed monkey and a hairless human head skittered across the floor. The treeman, Beryl's confidante and pet, jumped into her arms, chattering excitedly—sounds that only she would understand as speech.

  “Yes, Grellabo.” Beryl patted his head. “We will drink again.” She grasped the fur on his back and dropped him to the floor. The treeman chittered and jumped about, watching her expectantly. As she crossed the chamber, it followed on her heels.

  Passing a long ebony table, Beryl let her gaze fall on a stack of scrolls and parchments. For many days, she had been studying and working in trance, endeavoring to fashion a magical design to restore her full powers. Progress had been slow and tortuous, but lately there had been breakthroughs. Soon, she believed, the composition would be complete. Then she could begin the rituals to prepare herself for what she hoped would result in a perfect rejuvenation.

  In the meantime, she would have to make d0 with her customary methods.

  Reaching the wall, she slid aside a black curtain. In the recess stood seven cages of gilded bronze. Two were empty. The other five contained young men and women between the ages of fifteen and twenty, standing naked with eyes closed, their minds vacant. Beryl looked them over before making her selection.

  She reached out a finger to touch the lock on one of the cages. Metal clicked and the door wheeled open, hinges creaking. Beryl reached inside and grasped the wrist of the cage's occupant, a slender boy with smooth, umber skin and shiny black hair, a captive from one of the eastern provinces. The boy's eyes sprang open, revealing a look of fear. Otherwise he stayed perfectly still.

  “Come, my child,” Beryl whispered.

  The boy's mouth twitched, and his eyes grew desperate. But he moved compliantly, stepping out of the cage and accompanying Beryl along the wall. The treeman scampered happily behind.

  They came to a heavy table—two stone columns supporting a slab of pure onyx. Tugging her captive's wrist, Beryl directed him to climb up on the slab. The boy whimpered but obeyed. Beryl forced him to lie on his back. The treeman hopped onto the table and sat at the edge, head bobbing up and down as he watched eagerly.

  Beryl tightened a black strap, like a horse's girth, around the boy's middle. She secured the wrists to cuffs attached to the strap. She let her fingers linger a moment on the boy's upper thigh, and hummed to herself, heart quickening with anticipation.

  She stepped to a nearby cabinet. Opening it, she picked out a shallow silver cup and a razor. A mirror hung on the cabinet door and Beryl paused, scrutinizing her reflection. Frowning, she turned and walked back to the slab.

  Putting down the cup and razor, she stretched to her full height and took several long breaths. She murmured an incantation, words of power in a dead Nyssanian tongue. Below her, the boy lay stiff, the eyes showing confusion and worry. He was still deeply entranced. He felt fear, but not nearly enough. Beryl leaned over and whispered in his ear.

  “Awake, my little one. Come out of your trance. I want you awake now.”

  The boy blinked. His eyes focused on Beryl and widened in horror. “Oh, no,” he whispered, shrinking away, pulling frantically at the wrist restraints. “No. No—Please.”

  Beryl clenched her fist in the boy's soft hair and yanked back the head. “Yes, my little hero. I am going to cut your throat now and drink your blood. It will hurt very much, and you will struggle, and choke. It will take you quite some time to die.”

  The boy screamed, thrashing madly. Beryl tightened her grip on the hair, arm straining, as she picked up the razor with her other hand. Her lips pulled back, teeth clenched, as she reveled in the boy's hysteria, the terror flowing into her body as a nourishing force.

  She waited till the thrashing subsided to weak shudders, the boy whimpering pitiably. Then Beryl emitted a triumphant cry and swiped the razor hard over the soft throat.

  Blood spurted, and the boy's mouth jerked open. Beryl locked eyes with him for a moment, relishing the look of shock and terror. Then she dropped her head and lapped up the gushing blood. She swallowed as much as she could, then set the cup beside the throat to catch more. By then the boy's spasms had weakened, though the blood still spurted with the heart's pumping.

  Beryl stood panting, invigorated and excited. When at last the boy lay still, she released her hold on the tangled hair. The treeman had slipped up near the victim's shoulder and was quietly licking up blood.

  Beryl returned to the cabinet and regarded her reflection in the mirror. Despite the bloody mouth and teeth, she looked better now, younger. Not fully herself, by any means, but replenished for the present—renewed enough to return to her studies and the fashioning of her grand design.

  And when that ensorcellment was accomplished and her powers fully restored, then she would turn her attention to her enemies—Amlina and her barbarian allies. She would find them, enthrall them if possible and lock them in cages. At the very least, she promised herself, she would feast on their terror and drink their blood.

  Three

  Castle Demardunn, ancestral home of Meghild's tribe, perched like a raptor atop a steep hill. In the gray morning, Glyssa and her klarnmates marched through the gatehouse, passing under the iron teeth of the portcullis. They tramped across the drawbridge, over a deep ravine fed by a mountain spring. On the far side they paused, where a spill of boulders formed an outer defensive bulwark. Below them, the log houses, workshops, and stables of the village stepped down the hillside to the blue fjord. The smoke of morning cook fires rose from chimneys in steep-pitched roofs, mingling with wisps of fog that glittered here and there with witchlight.

  For a moment, Glyssa was reminded of the murky fog in which her mind had been trapped for so long when she was enthralled, the sparks of light like the pricklings of fear. But that was over long ago, she told herself. Now she was back with her mates, and today they were
going to raise the klarn spirit.

  The Iruks turned away from the village and picked their way among towering pines and mossy boulders. Leaning at times on their spears, they climbed a narrow, slippery path. High in the branches above, crows cawed to warn of the human intruders.

  Lonn led the way, followed by Glyssa. Behind her walked the other two women of the klarn: Karrol, who was tall and brawny, always outspoken and forceful; and Karrol's elder sister Brinda, tough and strong, but of a quiet, reserved temperament. Next came the other two men: Eben, lanky and sharp-witted, sometimes hot-tempered; and Draven, blithe and handsome, always hearty and cheerful.

  The mates wore deerskin garb and leather harnesses. With the warming weather, they had left off their hooded capes, overshirts, and fur leggings. Along with a spear, each had a sword and long dagger hung at the waist. Of course, Glyssa's gear was different, her Iruk garb lost long ago. She wore the soft leather tunic and knee-high boots of a Gwales sailor. Her weapons at least were familiar—the castle armorer having made it a point of pride to forge a sword and dagger exactly like those of her mates.

  Near the top of the hill, below the high ramparts of the castle, they came to a clearing where a spring gushed from the rocks—the place where they had put the klarn-spirit to rest. The Iruks performed that ritual at the close of every hunt, and raised the spirit when it was time to hunt again.

  They had last called the klarn-soul into their bodies on board the Larthangan ship, the Plover, nearly a month after fleeing from Kadavel. Sailing on ice along the mountainous coast of this northern land, the Plover had been accosted by a Gwales warship. Thinking they might need to make a fight of it, the Iruks had raised the klarn and made ready for battle. But Amlina had skillfully bluffed and negotiated with the Gwales captain. Perhaps she had bewitched the man—Glyssa was never sure about Amlina's arts. Standing on the quarterdeck, shouting through a megaphone, the witch explained that they were outlaws, fleeing the Tathian Isles. She offered gold in exchange for refuge, and boasted that her party had spears and magic to defend themselves, if the Gwalesmen preferred to fight.