Frostborn: The World Gate (21 page)

That was a compelling thought. That was a very compelling thought. Ridmark almost headed towards the bed, intent on taking her in his arms. When they lay together, he forgot about everything else, forgot all his worries and fears and regrets. 

Yet it felt…it felt almost as if someone was watching him, right here and now. 

“I’m going to have a look around,” said Ridmark. Morigna gave him a disappointed look. “Something feels wrong, the way it did when I traveled alone in the Wilderland and some predator watched my camp. I have not lived that long by ignoring that feeling.” 

“Very well,” said Morigna. She rolled over and got to her feet in a single bound, which Ridmark had to admit he enjoyed watching. “I shall come with you.” 

“You should rest,” said Ridmark.

“So should you,” countered Morigna, locating her clothing. Ridmark pulled on his trousers, and then his boots. “But if one insists upon wandering about in the dark, one should not go alone. Perhaps we should take someone with the Sight as well. Just in case your feeling of dread comes from some magical source.”

“Calliande, then,” said Ridmark.

“Antenora,” said Morigna, pulling her shirt over her head. “The woman has not slept in fifteen centuries, so one restless night will do her no harm. Or at least no additional ill.” 

“Very well,” said Ridmark, reaching for his belt. “I…”

He stopped. The feeling of unease had come to him many times over the years, usually right before a fight. It had also come to him in the ruins of Thainkul Dural when the invisible dvargir had stalked them through the terraces. The dvargir could cloak themselves in shadow, making themselves invisible to human eyes. Some of the Enlightened had possessed a similar ability as well. 

Did that mean someone cloaked in shadows was watching them right now?

Was someone invisible with them in this very room?

“Morigna,” said Ridmark, keeping his voice calm. The nearest weapon was his dwarven axe, still hooked to his belt. “Remember the spell you cast in Thainkul Dural?”

“Of course,” said Morigna with some asperity, her shirt hanging around her hips as she reached for her trousers. “I…”

He saw her understand. 

She straightened up and cast the spell, purple fire flickering around her fingers, and her black eyes went wide.

“Ridmark!” she shouted, pointing. “In the corner! There…”

Shadows writhed and flickered in the corner of the room. When they cleared, Imaria Licinius stood there, her white smile shining in her face in marked contrast to the shadow twisting around her fingers. Ridmark lunged for his axe. He had never, ever thought that he could lift a weapon against a member of Aelia’s family, against Aelia’s own sister, but he was utterly certain that Imaria had come here to kill them. 

He would not let her hurt Morigna.

Before Ridmark could move, Imaria thrust her hands, and a veil of shadows exploded from her, filling the room with gloomy haze. The shadows wrapped around Morigna in a gauzy shell, and she went rigid, every muscle locking in place. The same shadows coiled around Ridmark, filling him with a terrible chill, and he found himself unable to move, unable even to speak. Shadowbearer had done something similar in Khald Azalar, using the shadow of Incariel to hold them motionless. There, Ardrhythain’s staff had protected Ridmark, allowing him to move.

But now Ardrhythain’s staff stood propped in the corner behind Imaria. 

“Oh,” murmured Imaria, her eyes bright and feverish. “Oh, I’ve been waiting for this. Truly, the shadow of Incariel is a mightier god than the Dominus Christus. I prayed to the Lord for vengeance, and received nothing. I pledged myself to Incariel…and my greatest enemy and his rutting bitch are mine to do with as I please.” 

Ridmark struggled against the freezing shadows, but he could not move. He could not even turn his head to look at Morigna. 

“You know,” said Imaria in a soft voice, “I hated you for a long time. From the moment you first turned your greedy, lustful eyes toward my sister. She was too good for you, Ridmark Arban.” Her lips thinned, the green eyes seeming to blaze with hatred. “Of course both you and Tarrabus loved her. She was perfect. She was perfect, and you killed her.”

But Aelia hadn’t been perfect. Ridmark had loved his wife with all his heart, and she had been a kindly and generous woman, but she had not been perfect. Her self-confidence had bordered on arrogance, and her generous nature had gone hand-in-hand with a desire to control the recipients of her generosity, to dictate every aspect of their lives, and she had expected Imaria to obey her without question. Ridmark hadn’t been perfect, either, but he and Aelia had overlooked each other’s flaws because they loved each other, and both of them had worked to overcome those flaws. He realized that Imaria had some perfect image of Aelia in her head, a perfect image that she desired to revenge. 

“Then you killed her,” hissed Imaria. “She was my sister, my best friend, and you killed her. You were too weak to save her from Mhalek, too weak and too stupid.” She shook her head. “I despaired after that. I prayed for God to avenge Aelia, but he did nothing.” Her face twisted with fury. “The priests said that Aelia had gone to glory with the Dominus Christus, that she would dwell in paradise forevermore among the blessed. Useless lies! How did they repay her blood? How did they take vengeance? That was why I took Tarrabus Carhaine into my bed, you know. He saw me as a poor copy of Aelia, but I hoped he would kill you. He failed at that, too. But then Tarrabus introduced me to the Enlightened…and then I understood the truth at last.”

She stepped closer to Ridmark, so close that he felt her hot breath upon her face. Her green eyes glittered with manic intensity. He had seen that same glittering gleam in the eyes of the Mhorite orcs as they charged into battle, as they called out to Mhor, as they killed in his name. 

Mhalek had looked the same way in his final moments, and Ridmark wondered if Imaria had gone mad. 

“All other gods are false,” whispered Imaria, “for I prayed to Incariel, and its shadow answered me. It filled me! It poured into my mind like water into a desert. I understood. I understood at last! Do you not see? The material shall be consumed in fire. All that remains is the spirit, immortal and eternal. The Enlightened do not understand. Tarrabus does not understand. Not even Shadowbearer understands. But the shadow of Incariel whispers in my mind. I see the truth.” 

She seized Ridmark’s chin, pulled his face down, and kissed him hard. He tried to pull away, but he could not. The shadows bound him fast. 

“I see the truth,” said Imaria, licking her lips as she stepped away from him, still gripping his chin. Her fingers felt feverish and hot. “I see the truth, but you will not. This is only the beginning, Ridmark. Your death. I see the truth, but you will not live to see it.”

She turned his head, forcing him to look at Morigna. The shadows held Morigna motionless, frozen halfway through the act of casting a spell. He met Morigna’s eyes and saw the fear there, the struggle as she tried to break free from the shadow’s power. 

“Look at her,” murmured Imaria. “I want you to look at her. Your Wilderland bitch. My sister has been in her grave only five years, Ridmark Arban, and already you have replaced her. How I wish Aelia could have seen this. How I wish she could have come through that door and seen you mounted atop that woman, so Aelia could at last understand what kind of man you are.” She smiled, reached into her black sash, and drew a dagger. “I think I’ve finally figured out how to repay you for Aelia’s death. You’ll get to watch what I’m going to do next.” 

Fear surged through Ridmark, and he strained with all his strength, but he still could not move. 

“And no one’s coming to rescue you, either,” said Imaria, stepping towards Morigna as she hefted the dagger. “The Weaver has killed your precious Keeper by now. Did you sleep with her, too? Did you betray my sister in the Keeper’s bed as well?” She grinned. “I suppose it doesn’t matter now.” The dagger glinted in her hand, the blade reflecting the ghostly lights of the moons. “Watch closely. She won’t be able to scream, but you’ll see the pain in her eyes.”

Imaria stepped towards Morigna, raising the dagger.

Ridmark struggled, but his muscles refused to obey him. 

###

A deathly chill washed through Calliande, and her eyes shot open. For a moment she thought the shutters to her small room had blown open, but that was absurd. It was still late summer, and the nights were hot and muggy. She started to sit up, wondering where the chill had originated.

But she could not move. 

Thousands upon thousands of shadowy black threads wound around her bare arms and legs, seeming to sink into her flesh without touching her skin. Calliande tried to move again, but the terrible chill leeched away her strength. She summoned magic, but the black threads drained away the power. Fear surged through her, and she blinked, trying to follow the maze of threads to their source.

A man in a white robe stood at the foot of her bed, his face gentle, his blue eyes kindly. He held his arms over the bed, and his hands had…vanished, replaced by thousands upon thousands of delicate black threads erupting from his sleeves. 

Suddenly Calliande knew why Imaria had called him the Weaver. 

“Ah, Calliande,” said the Weaver. “You’re awake. How very excellent.” His voice was soft, and would not carry through the thick wood of the door. “I’m going to kill you, both because the master commanded it, and because you are an obstacle to the great vision. But before you die, I wanted to remind you who I was.”

She had never seen this man before in her life. She drew breath to scream, but the shadowy threads wrapping her head tightened, draining away her breath. 

“Of course, I know you don’t remember me,” he said in that same calm, gentle voice. “I look a little different now. The shadow of Incariel taught me many things. But let us see if I can remember what I looked like when you knew me.”

His head exploded.

Calliande would have flinched, had she been able to move. Instead of blood and brains and bone, his head exploded into a spray of a thousand lashing black threads, every one of them whipping about of their own volition. The threads reknit themselves, weaving into a new shape, the head of a middle-aged man with graying black hair and bloodshot gray eyes, his face lined, but a sardonic smile on his lips.

And that face Calliande did know.

“Ah,” murmured the Weaver. “So you do remember, even after all those centuries.”

She had known him, centuries ago, though he had not been called the Weaver back then. She had known him as Toridan, a Magistrius of the Order, one of the new generation of Magistri that had come of age in the final phases of the long war against the Frostborn. He had also been friends with Talvinius and Coriolus, the Magistri had been the forerunners of the Eternalists and the Enlightened of Incariel, the Magistri who had corrupted Calliande’s apprentice and listened to the deceptions of Shadowbearer…the Magistri who had set Calliande upon the path that had led her to the Tower of Vigilance. 

And like Talvinius and Coriolus, Toridan had survived the centuries to threaten Calliande once more.

“Pity,” said the Weaver, and his head exploded again, reforming itself into the shape of the kind-eyed old man. “Pity indeed, Calliande. All those centuries, all that work and danger, and you die here because you neglected to set a ward upon your door.” The shadow of Incariel shimmered before her Sight, obvious as the Weaver drew upon the dark power within him. “But your death is necessary. The Shadowbearer has foreseen it. I…”

The door burst open. 

Antenora stood in the hallway outside, her gaunt face tight with rage, her staff smoldering with harsh fire. The Weaver turned to look at her, his expression amused. 

“What’s this?” he said. “Some freak of dark magic you found in the Wilderland?”

“You will release the Keeper, shadowed one,” said Antenora. 

“It can talk!” said the Weaver, laughing. “But not for long.”

He waved his right arm, and half the threads holding Calliande leapt from her skin and flew at Antenora. Some of Calliande’s strength returned, and she tried to summon magic, tried to draw enough power for a spell, but the remaining threads wrapped around her were more than enough to disrupt it. 

The threads from the Weaver’s right arm leaped towards Antenora, starting to curl around her. The sigils upon Antenora’s staff blazed brighter, and the threads recoiled, vanishing as they touched the fiery light. For the first time a hint of annoyance went over the Weaver’s expression, and he waved his right arm again, more threads leaping across the small room to coil around Antenora.

The ancient sorceress snarled and struck the end of her staff against the floor.

Fire blasted from her, the black threads shriveling and vanishing in the flame, and yellow-orange light swallowed the room.

###

Morigna struggled against the shadows binding her. 

It was useless. That madwoman Imaria might not have the raw power of Shadowbearer, but Morigna could still not move. If she could have reached Ridmark’s staff, the high elven weapon would have protected her from the shadows. 

She considered reaching for the dark magic trapped within her. Even as the thought crossed her mind, the cold shadows seemed to sharpen. They were feeding on the dark magic within her, yet making the dark magic stronger at the same time. Morigna knew the dark magic could slice through the shadows, at least long enough for her to work a spell. Imaria moved closer, the dagger shining in her hand. 

Morigna had no choice left. She started to reach for the dark magic…

The door exploded. 

There was a roar and a wash of heat, and the door ripped off its hinges, tumbled through the air, and smashed against the wall. Imaria whirled, her mouth hanging open in surprise.  A fire blazed in the hallway outside, Antenora standing in its midst, her staff shining as the fires crackled around her. 

As Imaria stared at the Keeper’s apprentice, the shadows wavered.