Iron and Blood (19 page)

Artus, his eyes wide, held up his hands. “No, wait—­you don't gotta do this!”

Sahand's laugh was flat and passionless. “I don't
have
to do anything, Reldamar. I
want
to do this. Take it as my gift to you.”

Sahand pulled the stopper out with his teeth and spat it out. His other hand then closed like a vice on Hendrieux's cheeks, forcing his mouth open. “Down the hatch, Zaz.”

Tears ran out of Hendrieux's swollen eyes as Sahand poured the tarlike Black Cloud down his throat. When it was gone, Sahand released him and stood back. For a moment all Hendrieux did was suck in long, wheezing breaths, coughing up some of the dark, magical liquid as he did. Then he began to scream in a way that made Artus shut his eyes and nearly double over in horror. Hendrieux's beaten, swollen eyes popped open, bloodshot and wild, and his whole body went rigid with his screams. His toothless, bloody mouth stretched into a perfect O as he produced such a horrible, overwhelming sound that Artus couldn't stop it from invading every part of his body, until he himself felt like he was dying from terror. Blood flowed from Hendrieux's nose as he shook and quaked with whatever horrible effect the ink was having on him. He convulsed, his back arching violently, his head striking the wall, his arms tearing at the spikes that held him in place. Then, finally, just when Artus began to scream himself, Hendrieux suddenly stopped and went limp.

Sahand was laughing softly. Removing a glove, he clamped a hand around Hendrieux's bloody wrist. He left it there for a moment, checking for a pulse, and when satisfied, put his glove back on and shook his head. “And so ends Zazlar Hendrieux.” The Mad Prince looked at Artus and noted the tears running down his face. “Well, Master Reldamar, it seems me and you are a bit different, after all.”

“You and I,” Artus corrected quietly.

Sahand's smile vanished. “I'll leave you to collect your thoughts. Be ready to deliver in one hour, or suffer my displeasure.”

When the dungeon gate again slammed closed, Artus slumped to the floor and wept.

 

T
he Artificer did good work, that much was certain. Sahand stood at the edge of the bloodred pool, hair standing on end as he felt the Fey radiating out from its depths in pulsing waves, like the beating of some massive, disembodied heart. The smell of death and the musk of wild animals mixed in the air with the faint, sour taste of brimstone. Sahand let it burn on his tongue and savored the sensation.

It was the taste of revenge.

The apparatus suspended over the pool had been removed, and no one, not even Gallo, was permitted this close to the ancient power sink. It was Sahand's and Sahand's alone to approach—­the creation to which he had devoted much of the past two decades. His triumph, his final victory, was so close. It only had to work once—­just once—­and he would have achieved what all his armies and spies had failed to do all those years ago.

“Let's see Varner stop me now,” he growled under his breath. It was a foolish thing to say, though—­Varner was gone, back across the mountains to the north to fight for his cousin, the King of Benethor. Finn Cadogan was gone; the Falcon King, Perwynnon, had long since been murdered by his own retainers in a fit of their own cowardice; Prince Marik the Holy, Shield of Illin, vanished without a trace. Even old Keeper Astrian X was dead and gone. Of the coalition that had handed Sahand defeat at Calassa, none remained except perhaps old Lyrelle Reldamar, the old bat retired and sipping tea on her country estate. To the west, the wars of a quarter century ago were dead and gone; a new age had dawned, and they thought he, Banric Sahand, was just a boogeyman left to mope in icy Dellor for the rest of his life.

The fools were all in for a surprise.

“Dread Prince.” Sahand didn't need to turn around to know it was the Artificer. He was the only one besides Gallo who would willingly enter this chamber, and Gallo had been ordered elsewhere.

“Yes?” Sahand held his hands out over the crimson waters. Where his shadow struck the surface, the liquid boiled and frothed, as though eager to leap out and consume him.

“The focusing apparatuses are in their final positions and the ley is sufficiently unstable. The task is done.”

Sahand nodded—­right on schedule. He turned to face the weathered old Kalsaari, noting the fierce glow in his eyes; the Artificer wanted to see this as much as he did. “I will begin to draw the veta in one hour.”

“As the Dread Prince wishes,” the Artificer said, bowing low to the ground before withdrawing.

Sahand lingered for a few moments longer before following him out. Around him, the ancient frescoes of the Warlock Kings who once strode these same halls looked with empty eyes on the complex sorcerous constructions that now filled most of the available space leading to and from the power sink. There were those, even among the League, who said desecrating the ancient homes of those godlike sorcerers of old was a recipe for disaster. To tap into their ancient power was to flirt with catastrophe, they said, and that some of the lores they had devised were best forgotten.

“They will see,” Sahand muttered again. “When the dust settles, everything will be clear.”

Back in his tent, he fetched a hardwood case from a shelf and opened it. Inside were a half dozen
sha
, specially made for the ritual Sahand was about to perform. He ran his fingers over them carefully—­they were rough and irregular on the surface, just as they should be, and hard as chalk. His fingers tingled from touching them.

Sahand threw off his cloak and began to unbuckle his armor—­the ritual needed to be performed nude, and his body needed to treated with . . .

Snick.

The letterbox. Sahand whipped his head around to glare at it. A message?
Now?
He considered ignoring it, weighing the pros and cons of arousing the League's suspicion. Had that redheaded twit or that Kalsaari brat got them in a panic over his intentions? Possibly, though it would take more than the say-­so of a ­couple junior members to get that band of sorcerous ninnies to come after him. More importantly, did it even matter? His triumph would be complete well before the time it would take them to meet, quarrel over a plan, and then pursue him. No, best to ignore the letter and proceed with his own plans. Who cared what the message said? There was nothing that interested him more than the ritual at hand, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop him now.

Nothing whatsoever.

“H
ello, my name is Tyvian Reldamar, and I'm delighted to be invited into your . . . whatever this place is.” Tyvian smiled and waved at the assembled host of Shrouded sorcerers. There were scores of them lining the terraces of the Black Hall, stretching upward in every direction, their black robes and impassive faces making them look like the world's largest assembly of judges, jurists, and hangmen. Tyvian tried not to think about how apt that analogy might be in the end.

His shoulder still hurt from the fight in the alley with Jaevis, his leg still throbbed from the wound Hendrieux had given him, his every square inch was bruised, battered, and exhausted beyond all limits. He couldn't even
remember
the last decent sleep he'd had, and yet here he was, in some alternate dimension, surrounded on all sides by sorcerers who probably wanted to dissect him like some kind of exotic toad, trying to talk his way out of this mess and into another one. Oh, for the simple life of international smuggling . . .

“Where is our Esteemed Colleague from Dellor?” Tarlyth asked. The Master Defender, whose Shroud looked an awful lot like a younger Tarlyth might have—­big, red-­haired, and burly—­stood beside Tyvian, his hands clamped firmly on Tyvian's chains, which he had steadfastly refused to remove. Tyvian thought this ridiculous—­wherever did the man expect him to run?

One of the fellows with a scepter, standing at the bottom of the hall along with Tyvian and Tarlyth—­some kind of officer, Tyvian thought—­shook his head at the Master Defender. “He has not come. Such is his right.”

“To business!” someone yelled from above. The call was echoed by others, and staves, canes, and feet were pounded on the black stone floor. “Yes! Explain this!” and “Why is an outsider among us!” and even “Blasphemy! Betrayal of the League!”

Tyvian smiled up at them all, waving like a local hero might in the midst of a parade. He whispered to Tarlyth, “I say, is the turnout usually this good, or am I just that much of a draw?”

Tarlyth was not amused. “No games here, Reldamar. One misstep and this is the last place you'll ever see.”

Tyvian winked at him and gave the crowd a perfunctory bow. “Esteemed black sorcerers, hedge wizards, and eccentric recluses: it has been brought to my attention that you lot have an interest in
this.
” He held his ring hand up, and the gallery fell silent. He nodded to them all. “Good to see I was not misinformed. Now, I wanted to come here in person because, as it happens, I believe we can help each other.”

One of the officers—­a short man with an eye patch and a long white beard—­snorted at this. “The League needs no help from the likes of you, smuggler. We are only entertaining your presence as a favor to our Esteemed Colleague from Galaspin.” He nodded to Tarlyth, who nodded his thanks in return.

Tyvian shrugged. “I see. Well, here's how this is going to work—­I'll answer one of your questions if you lot will answer one of mine. Sound fair?”

The one-­eyed fat wizard shook his head. “We do not give up our secrets lightly, Reldamar.”

Tyvian couldn't help but smile. “I promise not to ask anything too personal. I give you my word as a Reldamar.” The ring bit into his hand as he said that, but he was in so much pain everywhere else, he barely felt it. “Shall we begin?”

A hand rose from halfway up the gallery. It was a woman, or at least it appeared to be, in her middle age, gray streaks running through her hair. The one-­eyed fellow pointed to her with his scepter. “The Chairman recognizes our Esteemed Colleague from Eretheria.”

The woman had a man's voice, deep and powerful. The effect was unnerving. “Tell us what you know about the order that placed the ring upon you.” General murmurs of assent rippled through the crowd—­a popular question, it seemed.

Tyvian shrugged. “Almost nothing, I'm afraid. They work as a cell-­structured organization, I'd imagine. I have met only one other person with the ring, and he has said virtually nothing about the rest of the organization, assuming there even is one.”

Groans of disappointment and accusations of deception roared from the gallery. Some of the sorcerers shouted threats and brandished wands and orbs of various descriptions. Tyvian stared at them calmly, watching them work themselves up as they saw how little he seemed to fear them. The honest truth was that he hadn't felt this frightened in ages—­any one of these ­people could reduce him to ashes in a matter of seconds and he had no way to escape without their help. The feeling was exhilarating, actually, and served to deaden the exhaustion weighing him down.

The Chairman—­apparently old one-­eye's rank—­tapped his scepter against the edge of the wide black well that formed the exact center of the hall until everyone quieted down. “May I remind the gallery that there can be no lies spoken that the Well of Secrets does not reveal. Observe.” He motioned to the still, ink-­black waters of the Well. “The waters are dark.”

The sorcerers collectively grumbled at this. A ­couple walked out of the hall entirely. When they had settled themselves, the Chairman nodded to Tyvian. “Ask, Master Reldamar, but ask carefully. Your very soul is at risk.”

“Don't worry—­my first question is very simple, really.” He addressed the crowd. “How do you fellows feel about being betrayed and robbed by one of your number?”

Dead silence. The Chairman's voice was grave. “Our policies for traitors are swift and severe, Reldamar. Why do you ask?”

Tyvian cocked his head to the side. “I'm sorry, was that your next official question for me, or was that follow-­up of some kind? Hmmm . . . perhaps we ought to have ironed out the question-­asking rules a little more clearly before we started to—­”

“
Answer him!”
somebody yelled from the back. She was joined by a chorus of others, and then more, until the entire hall was howling for Tyvian to explain himself. He hazarded a look over his shoulder at Tarlyth. The youthful, handsome face of the Shrouded Defender was frozen into a masklike scowl. His eyes were staring at the smuggler so hard, Tyvian thought it amazing they weren't drawing blood.

When the Chairman had calmed everybody down, he pointed his scepter at Tyvian. “You had better explain yourself.”

“And if I say I was merely curious?”

As Tyvian spoke, a glimmer of light flickered from the center of the Well of Secrets and then was gone. One of the other officers—­a tall, bald man—­leaned over the pool and shook his head. When he spoke, it was the voice of an old woman. “Not much time to see, but it was a lie, for certain.” He (she?) glared at Tyvian. “He knows something.”

Tyvian smiled. He had them now—­they were all staring at him, hanging on his every word. “So, tell me, what is it that Banric Sahand has told you he's working on?”

Silence. The air seemed to thicken with anxiety.

Tyvian laughed softly to himself. “Never mind—­allow me to guess. Hmm . . .” He rubbed his chin, pretending to think; pretending that he hadn't figured this out hours ago. “Rhadnost's Elixir, isn't it?”

No one said a word. Every last one of them was frozen solid, as though caught with their hands in the cookie jar.

Tyvian paced around the Well, trying to make eye contact with as many of the assembled sorcerers as possible. Tarlyth was forced to follow him, carrying his chains like some kind of lady-­in-­waiting holding her mistress's train. “See, the trouble with having a magic well that detects lies is that you can't lie when you need to. For instance, I can infer from your collective silence that I hit the nail on the head just now—­Rhadnost's infamous Elixir. The long-­lost formula for eternal life; I can see why you'd all want it, obviously. Sahand, of course, was never really interested.”

A voice of protest rose from the gallery. “Why wouldn't he be? Who
wouldn't
want to live forever?”

Tyvian shook his head, forcing a chuckle. He had their attention; now it was time for a little incitement. “Sahand doesn't care about living forever, and do you want to know why? It's because, unlike you lot, Sahand isn't a
loser
.”

Tyvian saw a few of the sorcerers stiffen at that, while a few others muttered darkly. He smiled and went on, “Come now—­look at yourselves. Do you expect me to believe I'm in the presence of greatness? Please. You're a bunch of sad, bitter ­people whose antisocial beliefs have led them to hide under a rock and collude in secret with a series of other magical bottom-­dwellers. Let's face it—­if you lot were half as talented as you pretend, you would have overthrown the Arcanostrum ages ago. You are
just
the type of pathetic nobodies who'd sell their souls and bankrupt their fortunes to live forever. Why? Because you've collectively come to accept that the victory you savor and the success you long for won't happen in this lifetime. Maybe not even the next.”

The grumbling rose to angry outbursts, more threats, and a series of detailed descriptions of the kinds of curses one or another sorcerer might inflict upon him. This time the Chairman didn't intercede. He was watching Tyvian with his one good eye—­it was of the clearest blue, and for a moment Tyvian thought he recognized it. He had more important things to do, though, than unravel the secret membership of the Sorcerous League.

He shouted over the gallery's jeers. “Sahand
knew
this about you all! He knew it and he
played
you, like the idiots you all are. Sahand doesn't need to live forever because, unlike the rest of you, he plans on achieving his goals
now
, while he is still
alive.
He tells you a plausible story—­just plausible enough that your magic well here doesn't give him away—­and all of you fill in the blanks for him, delighted to have somebody with some courage finally doing something to help the League. Eternal life for everybody, right? As the fellow up the back said, who wouldn't want it?”