Illusion (18 page)

Her throat tightened and she reached back into the pocket for her charcoals, cursing as something sharp stabbed her finger. She jerked back, sucking her fingertip and staring at the jagged shard of glass she’d shoved in there after the fight with Jhara. It was spotted and peeling, similar to very old mirrors, portraying a small slice of the moon she’d drawn in the factory. Balkaith’s moon.

Did she have a larger role in all of this than anyone, even Resh, expected? With a herculean effort she pulled her gaze away, nausea rising in her stomach.

The bird screamed, an awful piercing shriek. “If you insist on helping Resheph there’s someone who might help. I’ll see if she’ll speak to you.”

* * * *

The dryad Clarice arrived with a tea tray and a small sack dangling from her wrist. Gaai immediately flew to the food and started pecking.

“Welcome,” said the tall, spare woman, smiling at Maya with solemn green eyes. The irises were an unnatural pale green, eerie, as if they’d seen something otherworldly and changed forever.

Clarice made a motion to the chairs grouped around the unlit fireplace. “Please, let’s sit together.” She dragged a small table between them.

Maya gave her a small smile in return and perched on the edge of a curved chair. Clarice wore tight trousers with a gauzy overtunic that revealed a coiling mass of barbed vines tattooed on her arms and chest. Her gray hair was caught in a net at her nape. She sat opposite Maya and poured steaming liquid from a white pot. Once she’d handed one of the small cups to Maya, she leaned back and assessed her.

“So, what do we have here? Someone who can break into the Tesseract without a ritual. A woman who thought she was human, yet her charcoal drawings appeared in our book of knowledge.” Clarice had a solemn look on her worn face. “Why did you select our world to draw, that is the question?”

Surprisingly, Maya found herself responding warmly to the older woman. Her calm face reminded Maya of the grandmother she’d known for such a short time.

“Resh thought I shared a history with your people,” Maya said. “I’ve drawn as far back as I can remember, but they’ve never become portals.”

“Sometimes we come of an age and dormant skills awaken. I suspect your talents have always been there, waiting to appear.”

Maya nodded. She’d come to the same conclusions.

“So, either you are human and some other magic brought your illustrations to life, or you are something uncommon. Rare even. Which do you think it is?” Clarice tilted her head in consideration, staring into Maya’s eyes.

Silence stretched between them, a quiet stillness.

Resh had used similar words when considering her abilities.

Clarice leaned forward and touched the pentagram around Maya’s neck. “Someone tried to shelter you.”

Maya shrugged. Her grandmother had given her the silver pendant the night before she died. She didn’t wear it often—it brought back too many memories.

“I have visions. Perhaps they’re connected to my pictures,” Maya admitted reluctantly. Her fingers tightened around the cup and she put it down carefully on the three-legged table.

Clarice closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. “You have a djinni,” she murmured after a moment. “Old magic, indeed.” She hummed a low note and drew a glyph in midair with one hand. It glowed silver, pulsed, and unfolded into a three-dimensional whorl, like yarn on a distaff. Clarice captured several floating fibers and began to weave, her hands moving so fast they blurred. Looping and spinning, she tossed the threads over Maya’s head.

“Don’t move.” Clarice opened her eyes and stood.

The threads floated onto Maya’s skin, burning, and she held back a shout as the flames delved deep into her flesh.

Clarice hummed another note. She blew a soft breath that whistled through the room. Several threads broke, collapsing into specks of silver dust. There was a whooshing sound, and a strange look came over Clarice’s face as she stared at something over Maya’s shoulder.

Maya turned slowly.

The process had left a black impression on the stone wall, in the shape of a short, curvy female.

“Well, well,” Clarice said, very quietly.

The shadow turned to face them and a bell chimed softly.

Maya sat up straight.

“Indeed a djinni, or as the ancient Egyptians called it, a
ka
, born at the time of your birth at every incarnation,” whispered Clarice. “A companion spirit wrought by the burden of sin and weight of iniquity. A doppelgänger … bringer of torment.”

The shadow offered them a mocking curtsy and did a backward somersault, landing like a spider on the opposite wall.

Clarice gave it a wary look and extricated silver shears from her pouch. “What violence have you done, child, to deserve this?”

“Can we get rid of her?”

The shadow lifted a finger and shook it from side to side, showing a sharp, pointed claw. She gave a thin giggle.

Clarice stared at it. “I’ve heard of them but never truly believed I’d ever see one.”

The silhouette turned her head from the sun streaming through the window. With every movement she left a slight pattern on the wall, a constant reminder of her existence. The wall crumbled around the impression, leaving long, vertical lines.

“What does she want?” Maya’s voice shook.

The djinni cocked her head, pointed ears flicking back and forth as if listening to something only she could hear. She edged across the wall to the door, staining everything she touched. Bars formed in the plaster behind her, hairline fractures in a shade of black so dark they looked like ink. She reached the door and disappeared, leaving a small handprint behind.

“Where did she go?” Maya asked. Tears slicked her cheeks. She wiped them away with the back of her hand.

Clarice eyes were dazed. “The djinni moves freely, separates at will, and enjoys life across all dimensions, even with the gods.” She cut through the remaining threads in the air with the shears and the silver threads collapsed to the floor in a rush of dust. She pointed to the spells sitting on Maya’s bed.

“The djinni warned against taking them. They carry my son’s signature. He cast them for you.”

Maya sank back into her chair and found herself searching for words.

“I took him off the streets when his mother died and raised him as my own, you know.” Clarice stared at the packet on the bed. “He chose you when none other would do, decided to bring you back to our people. But his spells won’t protect you; they’ll only delay the inevitable.”

“So what can I do to bring him back?”

“Draw for me.”

“But…”

“I need to see what we’re dealing with.” Clarice shoved the shears into her pouch and withdrew a shallow silver bowl, roughly convex in shape. Her hands were mottled and wrinkled with age. She placed the bowl and a dipping pen on the table with a small pot of thick liquid, then stood and walked a rapid circle around the chairs. From her fist poured large flakes of black salt.

“What if I evoke something?” Maya asked.

“Clear your mind and cast your thoughts to Resheph. Of how he makes you feel. Think of none other.”

Maya’s heart gave a kick in her chest. She picked up the red sandalwood pen and dipped it into the ink. She imagined the hard lines of his face and the pride he’d tried to disguise when she’d caught him watching her.

Clarice clasped her hands together in a gesture of pleading and began chanting a low hypnotic spell. There was a melancholy air about her, a sadness that Maya recognized.

Light streamed in behind Maya from the open window. As soon as her hand swept across the reflective surface, she felt the connection. The shallow bowl soaked in the ink like fine-grade paper. She dipped the nib into the pot of liquid to recharge the ink. Thick lines appeared with the slightest pressure on the reflective surface of the bowl.

Clarice stopped chanting. “More,” she said, her pale eyes taking on a grassy hue.

Maya kept drawing. Resh stood in a tight enclosure. Huge hooks were embedded into his chest, chaining him to a black wall. His eyes were closed, his arms pulled above his head, his body corded with muscle. Water dripped onto his head from above. Thick rivulets of blood ran down his body and it turned to mist, seeping out of the bowl and filling the room with the stench of iron.

Maya clamped her lips together to hold back a cry of dismay.

“Gods,” Clarice whispered.

The ink shifted on the bowl, blurring the lines. Resh’s jaw muscles bunched. He opened his eyelids and stared at Maya. His mouth was strained with pain. The pupils expanded so much the irises looked black.

“
Don’t do this. Clarice, send her to the witches.
They’ll take her as their own.
” His voice growled, low and filled with static. The bowl creaked ominously. A wide crack appeared, dissecting his body in two. Then the bowl shattered into thousands of tiny pieces. The pieces cracked again, and the room boomed and shuddered.

Maya sucked in a deep breath as the shards burst into flames. The pieces turned black and crumbled to dust, leaving a black circle in the table.

Resh disappeared, as if he’d never been.

Clarice’s hands were unsteady as she brushed the carbonized metal into the pouch. She used her whole body to reach across the table and capture every grain. Maya could sense her weeping, but her head was down.

“I’ll make you an amulet to let you know when the djinni unites,” Clarice said. “It’s the best I can do. No one can exorcise her, except the sorcerer who placed the curse on you. That one died many incarnations ago. Don’t take the spells or she’ll punish you further.” She started packing the tray.

There was a knock on the door and Maya jumped as if someone had poked her in the back with a blasting rod.

“His body just appeared,” said Alexandr, his rough, muffled voice coming through the door.

Clarice reached up and grasped Maya’s arm. Her face was tearstained. “The djinni called you Daughter of Mist. She said this is your last life to save your soul. Who are you and what have you dragged us into?”

Maya pulled away and walked on unsteady feet to the door. She turned the handle and the door creaked open. She tried to meet Alexandr’s gaze, but he wouldn’t look at her. What had he overheard?

“The Tribune has granted you access to the Death Cult quarters as long as Clarice stays with you,” was all he said before turning away and marching down the corridor.

* * * *

Maya’s back ached. She’d been drawing Resh’s face and body for hours, but she couldn’t call back the image of his soul. The room was spare and cold, just a narrow plinth with Resh’s body laid out on it. His black hair was matted with blood and sweat. Healers drifted quietly about in the stark room, folding towels and tending to the fireplace, while the physician ground herbs with a pestle. Creating elixirs that Resh couldn’t swallow.

Death hovered over his body, anchoring him to the hard stone with a fierce grasp. Voices muttered around Maya, like wind whistling down a mineshaft. The room dimmed as the sun sank onto the horizon, bathing the room in a reddish glow.

“His body is suffering. The physician wants to let him go.” Clarice leaned over Maya’s shoulder, prying a pen from her tight grip. She placed it in a small wooden case, closing the lip with a snap that caused Maya to lift her head.

“No.” Maya dragged in a deep breath and reached for the case. The sharp smell of eucalyptus, ginger, and fireweed oil was overpowering. “I made a mistake and I’ll fix it.”

“Maya.” Clarice’s hand pressed softly onto her shoulder. “You’ve been trying for too long. It’s time to let him rest.” Clarice pressed harder. “It’s not working.”

“I’ll keep trying. I found him earlier.”

A series of images rushed at her. Resh rubbing the sedative into her arm and scalp after they’d first met; dragging her to safety from the Khereb; comforting her when she’d struggled with portal travel. Small acts of kindness she’d repaid by ditching him in the swirling darkness.

Welts, bruises, and deep slashes marred skin. He was pallid as a cloud. His body reflected whatever was happening to him in the Abyss. Every now and then his skin stretched, as if tugged by invisible hooks, causing his body to lift off the platform. When he fell back to the plinth, new gashes and bruises appeared on his skin.

Despite the fire in the hearth, Maya felt frozen. Her icy hands shook. She’d tried over and over to draw Resh, but she couldn’t quite capture the essence of his face. She knew that she couldn’t tap into the energy that usually resided inside, that something stopped her from reaching it. She guessed the djinni was a double-edged sword, bringing torturous visions but also artistic power. Had it led her to Balkaith, then, in an effort to reconcile some karmic reckoning?

Trying to find Resh was like swimming in a muddy sinkhole, frightening in its obscurity. For the first time she realized that she’d had a connection with this warlock, something that might have had a future.

She linked hands with Resh, shaping their palms together. For a moment she thought his lips moved. But she must have imagined it, because when she leaned close she couldn’t feel his breath.

“Come back,” she said, searching his face. “Where are you?”

A gray-haired man stepped into her field of vision. “We’ve extracted the poison, but I can’t revive him. The embalmers are preparing the afterlife ritual.”

“Just give me a few hours. I’m sure I can bring him back,” Maya said through a tight throat.

The physician shared a look with Clarice and nodded.

Maya folded Resh’s hands back on his chest. She gestured to Clarice and left the infirmary, closing the door with a softness that belied her frustration.

* * * *

Someone had painted portraits of mummifiers on the fortress walls. Members of the Death Cult wore elaborate gold and black jackal masks and held silver scepters. Glyphs marched up and down walls interspersed with more cracked paintings of warlocks wearing wood and metal death masks. Maya found them passing in a blur as she and Clarice walked at a brisk pace through the halls of Balkaith. The place was enormous. Tunneled into the mountain, the castle sprawled along the coast. Natural light flooded through hundreds of long, narrow windows along the long corridor facing the ocean.