Dreamseeker (34 page)

S
HADOWCREST

V
IRGINIA
P
RIME

A
UGUSTUS
V
IRILIAN

C
ANDLES BURNED ALL ALONG
the periphery of the ritual chamber in the Well of Souls, their flames reflected in the polished black stone with such perfection that it was impossible to tell how many there were. Maybe a dozen, maybe a hundred, maybe a thousand. The Shadowlords who filled the room stood silent, and even the ghosts who attended them were unusually still. Tonight's business was somber even by the standards of the undead.

The door to the chamber opened, and the Guildmaster entered followed by a lanky Shadowlord named Caleb Aster. In Aster's hands was a golden box, its surface carved with the images of tormented souls. Reflected candlelight sparked along the edges of the figures as he walked, lending them an illusion of movement.

The Shadowlords gave way before them, forming a circle three deep around the altar in the center of the room. There were more chains on the altar than usual, and the new ones were padded in leather. Ancient leather, stained with ancient blood. The Guildmaster took up position on the far side of the table, Aster facing him.

“Banish the dead,” Virilian commanded.

Whispers filled the room as each Shadowlord present banished the spirits that attended him. Soon only soul shards remained, mindless ghost-fragments that lacked the ability to comprehend such orders. One of the Shadowlords picked up a candle and performed the ritual that would banish those as well, sketching out patterns with the flame. A brief afterimage of each pattern hung in the air for a few seconds before being swallowed by darkness; by the time the last one faded the soul shards were gone.

Virilian parted his robe and let it fall to the ground. Now he wore only a sleeveless linen shirt with ties down the front, and a pair of close-fitting breeches. As a Shadowlord came forward to gather up the robe, Virilian lay down upon the altar, placing his arms and legs into the positions indicated by the waiting shackles. His flesh was as pale as a corpse's, and the indigo blood that coursed visibly just beneath his skin looked more like embalming fluid than a life-giving substance.

Two Shadowlords stepped forward and began to fasten the chains across his body, until every limb was fixed in place, every joint immobilized. The chains were tight, and the leather coverings cut deeply into the pale skin. Movement was all but impossible.

When that was done, Shadowlord Aster took up position by the side of the table. He held the golden box out, over Virilian's heart, presenting it to him. “Augustus Virilian, Master Shadowlord, Guildmaster of Shadows. Do you come here tonight of your own free will?”

“I do,” Virilian said.

“Is it your desire to Commune with the soul of a departed Shadowlord?”

“It is.”

“Do you acknowledge and accept that if this process fails, the cost will be your true death? That if you cannot make peace with the soul you have chosen to subsume, and all the souls that reside within it, you will not be allowed to leave this chamber alive?”

“I acknowledge and accept it,” Virilian said.

“Are you prepared to renounce your worldly ties, human and
material, so that there will be nothing to distract you from this union? So that you enter into Communion as an infant enters the world, without title, honor, or obligations?”

“I hereby relinquish my title of Guildmaster and all the duties and honors that go with it. Let the Guild recognize Shadowlord Caleb Aster as its leader, until such time as I am restored to my rank by his word.”

A second Shadowlord stepped forward to take the box from Aster, and he held it open for him as the new Guildmaster reached inside and removed a small golden object. Slowly, reverently, he raised it up so that all could see it. The glowing fetter throbbed in his hands like a living thing, and the power that emanated from it filled the room with light, eclipsing the candle flames.

“Behold the essence of Gunther the Black, who ordered the Cleansing of Terra Lorche. Behold the essence of Roland of Acre, who commanded the souls of fallen Crusaders. Behold the essence of Farbjodir, who banished the dead of Lindesfarne. Behold the essence of Shekarchiyandar, he who was called the Lord of Hunters, who slaughtered Dreamwalkers on a thousand worlds, and brought us victory against their kind.”

He looked down at Virilian. “These are the souls of warriors, hunters, and destroyers. Their union is dark, even by our standards, and more than one Shadowlord has fallen to madness after Communing with this fetter.” He paused. “Is this the union you seek?”

“It is.”

“The risk of failure is high. The cost of failure is death. I ask you again: Is this the Communion you seek?”

“It is.”

Aster held the fetter over Virilian's heart and addressed the assembly. “Witness, Shadows, that this man seeks Communion of his own free will, naming the fetter of his choice. By my rank as Guildmaster of the Shadows, I hereby grant his petition.” He looked at Virilian. “Make ready.”

An assistant reached forward and untied the front of Virilian's
shirt, spreading it open to bare his chest. Softly changing incantations, Aster lowered the fetter slowly toward Virilian's chest, paused, and then touched it to the flesh above his heart. Virilian shut his eyes for a moment, willing it to activate—and then screamed, more like the wailing of a tormented ghost than a living man. It echoed from the cold stone walls until the whole chamber was filled with it, deafening all who heard it. Virilian's body began to buck against its bonds, struggling wildly to break free, but the iron-and-leather shackles were too strong. The straps cut into his flesh as he strained against them, layering fresh blood over the old, and spasms coursed up and down his limbs, his hands and feet clenching spastically as his body writhed in its bondage. His fingers dug into the stone table so hard that his fingernails split, smearing blood on the table, and he started to moan strange words in an unknown language, biting his tongue after each syllable, until it, too, bled.

The Shadowlords watched in silence.

The unknown words became language, garbled fragments of different languages cascading from the bleeding tongue in rapid succession, with no clear pattern or purpose. Latin, French, Arabic, Old English, Ancient Norse: the sounds overlapped, producing a torrent of sound whose meaning—if any—was indecipherable.

The Shadowlords watched in silence.

Finally the terrible spasms began to subside. One by one Virilian's arms and legs went limp, as if the muscles within them had dissolved. Slowly his eyes fell shut, and he lay motionless, like one who was truly dead.

The Shadowlords watched in silence.

“Who are you?” The Guildmaster demanded.

For a moment there was no response. Then Virilian's eyes slowly opened. “I am Master Augustus Virilian, former leader of the Guild of Shadows. And I am host to the souls of Gunther, Roland, Farbjodir and Shekarchiyandar, and all the other souls that were in their keeping.”

The new Guildmaster studied him for a moment, then finally
nodded his approval and placed the fetter back in its box. “I hereby return to you the title that you bestowed upon me, and all the duties and honors of that rank.” He nodded to the Shadows who had bound Virilian. “Release the Guildmaster.”

One by one they removed the straps, setting him free. He lay still for a minute, gathering his strength, then rose to a sitting position. His body was marked with welts from the leather straps, and blood streaked his flesh and clothing. Brushing aside any offer of assistance, he slid down from the table and stood barefoot on the cold stone floor. The Shadow who had been holding his robe stepped forward and helped him into it. The folds of thick grey fabric hid the blood and injuries of his Communion, restoring him to an aspect of regal dignity.

Guildmaster Augustus Virilian looked around the room. “Allow the dead to return,” he commanded.

The ritualist nodded and circled the room once more, tracing the patterns that would undo their banishment. Spirits began to flow back into the room, their agitated murmurs tainted with fear. Most kept their distance from Virilian.

Raising up his arms, the Guildmaster shut his eyes for a moment, focusing his Gift. Then he cried out, “Come to me, servants of Shekarchiyandar. Your creator walks the earth again, and he has need of you.”

A shadow began to shape before him, that was the size and shape of a man, but not a man. It had the aspect of a spirit, but it was not a spirit. Ribbons of emptiness coiled about it like serpents, momentarily obscuring the terrifying Void that was its very core. When the manifestation was complete, a second shadow began to take shape beside it. And then a third. Seven appeared in all, and the force of their combined presence was so compelling that some of the Shadowlords instinctively backed away, sensing in these wraiths something darker than they could ever hope to control.

“Welcome, my reapers.” Shekarchiyandar smiled coldly. “We have work to
do.”

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