The Mad God's Muse (The Eye of the Lion Saga Book 2) (25 page)

“Elgar?” Aiul
asked. “He blocks you? To keep you in his service?”

Logrus shook his head. “There
are…so many,” he sighed. “They can’t act
for themselves. So I must. My vengeance seems less important. I take
theirs while I can. Mine will come when there is more time.”

“A dark avenger,”
Aiul marveled. “Elgar is much maligned.”

Logrus’s eyes narrowed as
he regarded Aiul. “Perhaps,” he said. He reached into
his pocket, produced a book, and tossed it to Aiul. “I am
tired,” he said. “The rest of the story is there.”
Logrus flattened himself on the ground and closed his eyes.

“Good night to you, too,”
Aiul muttered as he turned the book over in his hands. It was just
as Logrus had described, but it seemed too small to hold the rest of
Logrus’s story. He flipped through the pages in growing
amazement as he realized that there were far more in the book than
he would have guessed. It seemed to grow more pages as he neared the
end, and absorb earlier pages, never changing size.

As Logrus began to snore, Aiul
read with growing fascination and horror. There were twenty years
worth of bloodshed recorded on its pages in Logrus’s spiky,
clipped penmanship. The writing was stilted, matter of fact, and
dry, but for all that, it was meticulous. Aiul was transfixed by his
companion’s attention to detail, his relentless pursuit of his
quarry. For every entry declaring that it was necessary for some
villain to die, there was a series detailing the hunt, sometimes
covering
years
of
dogged pursuit. And for every entry, there was a final description
of how the villain had met his end at Logrus’s hand.
Apparently, they had all died in screaming horror. They seemed to
see Logrus as something from a nightmare. Logrus had dutifully
recorded their last words. Aiul was uncertain, but it appeared that
each final entry was written not in ink, but in blood. He counted
over a hundred deaths before he closed the book with a shudder,
unable to continue.

Drunk as he was, sleep was a
long time coming, and when it did, he was plagued by dreams where
Logrus, Kariana, and Southlanders struggled against one another as
Nihlos burned.

Sadrik had rarely visited
Maklin Yorn, and certainly never out of fondness. The young sorcerer
could have composed a list of fifty or so unpleasant things about
Maklin without breaking a sweat, not the least of which was that he
had an peculiar smell. Nevertheless, that and his other myriad
eccentricities would have to be borne.

One of Maklin’s slaves
answered Sadrik’s insistent knock. He was a large man, broad
of shoulder, and bald. He was not quite as tall as Sadrik, but he
looked up at him with a scowl that said such things did not matter.
“It’s very late,” the slave observed.

Sadrik raised an eyebrow at the
man’s tone. “So it is. Be that as it may, inform your
master that Sadrik of House Tasinal must speak with him at once.”

The slave made no move to do
anything other than bar Sadrik’s entry. “The master
needs his rest. He is old.”

“I assure you, he will
continue to be old for quite some time. Must I grow so as well
before you fetch him?”

The slave’s eyes
narrowed, and he reached to grab a handful of Sadrik’s shirt.
“You don’t understand— ” He cut himself
short with a rather girlish cry of pain, and withdrew his hand
quickly. Smoke and the scent of singed hair wafted through the air.

“No, my friend. I think
you’re
the
one who doesn’t understand, hmm?”

The slave offered a series of
nods in quick succession, considerably less belligerent. “I do
now. You’re one of the master’s special friends. You’re
usually older, though.”

“I suppose I’m
something of a prodigy, at that.”

“I’ll fetch him at
once.”

Shortly, Sadrik found himself
ushered into what seemed best described as a mad scientist’s
laboratory. Books and beakers, mortars and pestles, wrenches, and a
thousand other random items were scattered about various shelves and
tables in an almost but not completely random manner. There
was
an order to it, but that order was only something one fellow could
actually understand.

That individual sat at the
heart of the chaotic mess, eating a sandwich and glaring at his
unwelcome guest. “Sadrik! I should have expected it would be
you roughing up my people!”

“Oh, please. I barely
singed him.”

Maklin picked a hair from his
sandwich and examined it, decided it belonged to him, and ran a hand
through the tangle of white hair covering his head, trying,
unsuccessfully, to corral it. He took another bite of the sandwich
and muttered around the mouthful, “Jonas is a good boy. He
brought me this!” He waved the sandwich at Sadrik in
accusation.

“It’s not quite the
remarkable feat you make it out to be,” Sadrik groused. “You
know, some of us actually manage our own affairs instead of having
slaves do everything for us.”

Maklin waved the notion aside.
“Some of you are idiots.”

“Hmm, well, then I
suppose I can’t possibly have anything of worth to tell you.
I’ll be on my way then.”

“Oh, you needn’t be
such a baby about it! Fine, fine, what was it, then?”

Sadrik waited a moment,
smirking, enjoying the old man's growing impatience. “Oh,
nothing too important. Just that my cousin mentioned, in passing you
understand, that the piece of the Eye of the Lion she keeps is
missing.”

Maklin began to choke on his
sandwich. From a dark corner of the room, a young woman shrieked,
ran across to the old sorcerer, and began pounding him on the back.
Maklin, wide eyed, took the beating for a few moments before hacking
up the offending matter. He breathed a sigh of relief, then promptly
resumed a demeanor more befitting the end of the world.

“Mei! Impossible,”
he wheezed. The young slave looked on worriedly.

For some reason, Sadrik found
this extremely annoying. “Do you really have slaves standing
by in the event you might choke?”

Maklin looked at Sadrik in
confusion for a moment, then shook his head in dismissal. “Me?
No, they do it themselves.”

The slave looked at the old man
with something akin to worship in her eyes. “The master tends
to forget himself. We keep him safe.”

Maklin showed some annoyance at
this, but tolerated it. “Yes, yes, that’s fine, Mara.”
He scowled at Sadrik. “They want me to produce an heir, you
know. As if I have the time!

Mara, busy checking Maklin for
any signs of injury, commented softly, “I’d be glad to
help you with that, master.”

Maklin had had enough. He shook
himself free from Mara and slapped at the air around him, making it
difficult for her to approach without being hit. After a few moments
of deft attempts, she stepped back and gave him a stern look, hands
on her hips in exasperation.

“Now see here, Mara,”
Maklin told her. “I appreciate your care, but this is private
business. Out you go!”

Sadrik gazed in wonder as the
slave, with a hurt expression on her face, slipped quietly out of
the lab. “I’m not exactly certain who is the slave
here.”

“Nor am I! Now, what is
this idiocy you come here spouting? It’s absolutely
impossible. No one can even access it without keys from House
Tasinal, House Amrath, and House Yorn. She couldn’t even know
it was missing!”

Sadrik sighed. “Apparently,
there
are
ways to
access it, assuming one is capable of punching through several
inches of steel with a bare hand.”

Maklin was growing angry now.
“Several inches of steel protected against sorcery! What game
are you trying to play, boy? Get me to open it and have a go at
stealing it? Prodigy or no, I will squash you like a bug if you test
me, make no mistake”

Sadrik ground his teeth. “It
was not a Meite, and, no, I am not testing you, old man. It was,
apparently,
Elgar
who took it.”

Maklin’s jaw fell open,
and he very nearly fell from his stool. “What?” he
gasped, eyes wide in shock.

Sadrik started to respond with
something acid, but the realization struck him that Maklin was truly
dumbfounded. “They didn’t tell you, either.”

The old man recovered quickly.
“Who didn’t tell me what?”

“Maranath, Ariano, and
Prandil. They’ve had my cousin under very close observation
since Aiul’s escape.”

“And what does that have
to do with Elgar?”

“Everyone is convinced
that it
was
Elgar.”

Maklin leapt to his feet. To
Sadrik’s discomfort, any number of items about the room began
to move and gather together into vaguely humanoid forms: twenty
books floating together struck a menacing pose, alongside fifty
beakers. Maklin was no longer a silly old man. He asked Sadrik, in a
very calm voice: “How long have you known about this?”

Sadrik took a deep breath and
let it out slowly as he raised his hands in surrender. This could
prove disastrous. The elders were not merely powerful, but quite
volatile as well. It was certainly possible he could beat the old
man, but no one would have given any odds in that direction. Truth
was far and away the better option. It wasn’t as if he had
come here to deceive anyone.

“I've known about the
Elgar connection for weeks, ever since Aiul escaped. I thought it
was common knowledge. As for the Eye, they didn’t tell me,
either. I only know because Kariana told me this very night, and I
came straight to you.”

Maklin’s gaze held
Sadrik’s for several long, very tense moments. At last,
apparently satisfied, Maklin gave him a nod, and the menacing
constructs retreated back to their normal positions. “We must
go to the vault at once.”

Maklin wasted no time with
talking. Instead, he simply grabbed Sadrik by the collar and shot
toward the ceiling. Sadrik looked up in dismay, cringing at an
impact which never came. Cunningly disguised doors opened as they
approached, and the pair shot into the night sky.

Sadrik shivered as Maklin swept
them high above Nihlos, partly from the cold, and partly from real
fear. He had the sense that all that stood between him and a drop
was the thin cloth of his shirt, though in fact it wasn't under any
pressure at all. It
felt
as
if he, too, were simply flying, but he was all too aware of Maklin's
hand grasping his garment.
If he were to let go, would I
fall? Or is that just his way of showing me the leash?

Even so, it was truly a
marvelous, wonderful thing, an experience beyond anything he had
ever known. Nihlos lay spread below him, small and toy-like. It was
the proper position for a sorcerer to view the city, but so far,
Sadrik had yet to master flight.

It was damnably difficult, even
being a gifted student of an art that involved convincing himself of
contradictory notions. It was easy to believe objects were on fire,
that temperatures were malleable, and many other variants. But
Sadrik had never been able to accept that if he walked off a ledge,
he would not simply plummet to the ground. He had no idea how the
elders managed it.

Maklin said nothing during the
trip. Sadrik couldn’t discern the exact cause for his silence.
Perhaps flight required focus? Or maybe he was simply so furious
about the Eye and the associated chicanery that he had no words. Did
it really matter? In either case, pursuing it at the moment could
very well end in a precipitous drop. Sadrik decided to keep quiet.

Maklin set them down in a
discrete alley near the palace grounds. Sadrik noted with relief
that the old man hadn’t completely abandoned decorum. It would
have been awkward if he had dropped them right on the doorstep, what
with sorcery being illegal. Not that Maklin would have had any real
problem dealing with it, or many regrets, for that matter, but
Nihlos was already running low on guardsmen. It was rumored to be a
dead end job.

The guards at the entrance
seemed to debate whether or not to challenge the pair of sorcerers.
Of course, they had no idea that this was the case, but certainly
Maklin was well known as a Patriarch, and had an aura about him of
seriousness that gave them pause. The sergeant in charge opened his
mouth, closed it, opened it again, and Maklin simply walked past
him, Sadrik at his heels. No one objected.

The elders were not people to
be trifled with.

Kariana lay curled like a cat
on her bed, eyes sleepy and drooping. Caelwen stood at the foot of
the bed, blathering on about something or another. Did it matter?
She had the important part: he was leaving the city to capture Aiul,
and during his absence, she would likely be assassinated if she
stepped out of her quarters for even an instant. She couldn’t
help but titter at his feigned concern.

Caelwen gave her a suspicious
look. “Have you heard a word I’ve said?”

Kariana's eyes widened as she
struggled to feign attention. “Oh, yes, of course.”

“What’s so amusing
about it, then?”

Kariana wiped the smile off her
face and assumed a pose of rapt attention. “I hear nothing but
your voice, Captain.”

Caelwen’s nose wrinkled
in annoyance. “Don’t call me that.”

“Is it not your title?”
she mocked.

“You make it sound like—”
He trailed off as she smiled at him in smug satisfaction, his jaw
bulging. “Fine. As you will.”

“You were saying?”

Caelwen nodded and rolled his
shoulders a bit, his face still lined with annoyance. He had just
opened his mouth to speak when the door to the room burst open as if
it had been kicked. Maklin Yorn, looking as if his tangled, white
hair was on fire, stood in the door frame, Sadrik leering over his
shoulder like a buzzard waiting for a predator to finish with its
kill.

“Kariana Tasinal!”
the old sorcerer shouted. “What have you done?”

Caelwen and Kariana, both
momentarily stunned by the interruption, blinked at the two
sorcerers in confusion. Sadrik was doing something with his hands.
Oh, really, was he actually trying to communicate that this wasn’t
his fault? Kariana waved a hand of dismissal at him, a subtle
betrayal, but one that Maklin recognized. Kariana could barely
suppress jumping up and down with glee as the old sorcerer turned
quickly and caught Sadrik mid-denial. Maklin scowled at Sadrik for a
moment before turning his glare back to Kariana. “Well?”

Caelwen recovered first. He
cast Kariana a baleful glance. “What could it be this time?”

Maklin gave Caelwen a
suspicious glare. “She’s hardly the only one in the shit
house!”

Caelwen raised an eyebrow in
surprise. “Are you insinuating I’ve done something, old
man? Why not come out and say it outright?”
Oh,
bravo! Perhaps there will be a fight!

Maklin chuckled at this. “Fine,
boy, I will. You’ve failed miserably and let some miscreant be
off with a piece of the Eye of the Lion!”

Caelwen’s eyebrow stayed
in its raised position. “What, pray tell, is an ‘Eye of
the Lion’?”

“Never you mind that!
What’s important is that the two of you have lost it, and I am
here to get it back!”

Caelwen’s face grew dark
as he made the connection. “I’d like to have seen you do
better!”

Maklin poked a finger into
Caelwen’s chest. “Oh, I will, sonny. Watch and see.”

Kariana watched them both for a
moment, hoping for more, but it seemed played out. No fight, not for
the moment. She shot Sadrik a sour look. “I thought I could
trust you!”

Sadrik shrugged in response and
put on his ‘I am terribly wise’ face. “You can,
cousin. This was the proper course of action. He’s just more
excited about it than I expected.”

Maklin scowled and stepped to
Kariana’s bed. “Let’s see the vault. Then we’ll
talk.” He stood, glaring down at Kariana while she smiled back
at him. “Do you prefer to move yourself, or do you want me to
do it?”

Kariana giggled as she slipped
from the bed, amused. What would the old man do?