Tribute (19 page)

As Benedict draws near, I gather my will. An adept can, if skilled enough, kill with a single thought.

A dagger of thought  …  I make a blade of pure air. Condensed and hardened until it's stronger than iron and sharper than broken glass. I've done simple magic from inside Elsewhere, but never an adept's magic. Now I will gamble everything.

My body tenses, my breathing quickens then slows as I focus every particle of conscious thought on the air-dagger. I hone its shining sharpness with my mind; feel the weight, the balance of it.

The Lord Time himself slows to watch my efforts. I focus my gaze on my target: the back of my father's neck. He stalks away, footsteps slowing. Every movement drags; sound itself deepens, lags. My concentration is so intense I'm only partly aware when my father swirls slowly around, arms outstretched, robes rippling outwards as though through thick water. His face is contorted with alarm, ripening to fear.

He cannot sense me but he feels my magic: particles rearranged, the thinning of the air around him as I gather it in to form my knife. Disturbance of the elements. He is Archmage, an adept of unrivalled talent. But your excellent senses will not save you, Father. You are too late. And I fling my dagger at his heart.

It speeds through the air, a shimmering spike of hatred. Benedict screams a single shrill note of terror. But my father is quick with his mind and his magic. Stone is too cumbersome. Water wouldn't stop the blade of air. So he blasts it with a fireball. The dagger flames hot, losing its chill sharpness. A fist of air punches my father in the chest, knocking him down. But not, I realise as despair floods through me, killing him.

I've failed. Again.

‘My daughter is here! Find her!' Benedict roars at the Tributes and mages milling around him in a noisy tumble of confusion. Two mages lift him to his feet. Tributes brandish their spikes at nothing, looking desperately for an enemy to spear. My father clutches his chest, panting. He flings off the supporting hands. ‘Feel for her!' he shouts at the Tributes. ‘Form a living wall, link arms and search the corridor. She's invisible but she's here! The blow came from there.' He points to where I was standing a tick before. ‘Catch her. Alive!'

I'm already running.

‘Shut off the eastern end of the corridor!' roars my father. He's guessed. I could never beat Benedict at chess. He was always one step ahead, expecting my next move before I'd even thought of it.

I dart through the crowd, racing to get ahead of them, but I know I've destroyed myself. I haven't a chance now. My only hope is to find a space of Time wide enough, deep enough, to hide for the seconds it takes to die.

Two mages fly overhead, past the guards sprinting at my heels. They touch down at the end of the corridor. A wall of stone flares out of the floor behind them, stretching up to join with the ceiling. I'm trapped. Please, Time, Lord of all, measurer of lives. Give me a place. Grant me one minute to uncork the bottle and drink the contents.

There's a door ahead. A single door. The door to my father's library. I stumble and almost fall. The gods have an unpredictable sense of humour – Time most of all. It's right, somehow. Fitting that I should die in the same room as Swift.

I sprint towards it. As I reach out for the door handle, I hear the twang of a bowstring. Someone screams. In the corner of my eye, I see one of the mages fall. Their portion of wall tumbles on top of them.
What?
I stagger to a halt and stare in wonder as the belly of the second mage splits open and their entrails tumble out. My nightmares have come to life.

But the stench of blood and bowel is real. And so is my father's scream of rage. Otter's voice rises above the screams and sounds of battle. A general's voice, shouting orders. Both calm and deadly. He's come for me. Hope soars briefly, then dies. He can't win. A handful of Tributes and a half-thief, against my father's adepts? He's doomed himself, but Otter has given me what I need, and I bless him and thank Lord Time.

I yank open the door of my father's library and rush inside. One frantic thought is enough to shut the door behind me and rust the lock solid.

It's a heavy door, made of thick redwood. I lean my back against it, panting, shivering. The sounds of the battle are remote. Another world. If only I could slip out of Time itself. Go far, far away. Well  …  the key to the only other world I shall ever visit lies on my breastbone. I remember Mirri, the archer assassin; her face twisted in agony. And my mouth dries. I'm afraid, but I forgive myself. Anyone would be afraid.

I walk forward on shaking legs. Sit down at my father's desk. My fingers fumble at my neck, find the leather thong. It's warm from resting on my skin. My skin. My warmth. My life. I lift Mistress Quint's poison bottle over my head and set it before me. Such a small, plain-looking bottle of greenish glass. I take hold of it and twist the cork. It comes free with a soft popping noise and an acrid smell rises to sting my nostrils.

I'm numb. That's the fear. My ears are ringing. Buzzing. The desk vibrates with it. And I remember. My eyes swivel, travel in fascination from the bottle of poison along the polished red surface of the desk to where the paperweight sits. The glass disc is glowing. The silver spirals of my father's mage mark carved into its top are illuminated like windows. It is as though a miniature sun is trapped inside the glass. Warm golden light rays upwards. Mage light.

Which is impossible.

I reach out a shaking hand, and touch the paperweight. It should be cool glass, but it feels like skin. As soon as I touch it, emotions flow into me: fear, love, pain, loss. Fear, again. Fear, I realise, for me.

‘
Zara!
' The voice seems to come from inside the glass disc itself. ‘
Live!
' it calls. ‘
You must live, Zara!
'

And then a blast of terror that sends me reeling, flinging me back into the chair. My arm knocks over Quint's bottle and it falls to the floor, smashing into poisoned fragments. The library door bursts open and my father stalks inside.

The paperweight goes cold, dead. There's no buzzing. No voice. No love. Only Benedict.

He walks forward. His face is sallow, strained.

I've injured him. He's not used to being hurt; he won't like it. The thought fills me with a bitter pleasure. My only chance of escape is spilt upon the floor but I won't give in. He'll have to kill me. This isn't like last time. Not like when Swift died. He can't invade my mind.

I'll kill him or he will kill me. It's enough. I feel an unholy joy rise in my blood, rinsing away the last of my fear.

The door swings slowly closed behind him, shutting out the sounds of a battle grown more distant.

‘My people have the rebels on the run,' Benedict says, his eyes scanning the room endlessly, searching for me. ‘They'll be dead soon enough. All but the Maker. Your true love, is it?' He laughs. ‘And I believed you to be frigid, like your mother before you. But a kine, Daughter? You tread forbidden paths, lusting after kine. Some would call it bestiality.

‘Have you bedded him, Zara? Because if you haven't, it's too late now. I have plans for your Maker. Interesting plans. But you know all that. It was you in the hawk that day at the temple, wasn't it? I underestimated you, Daughter.' His eyes narrow. I sense his determination to dominate, to control. The taint of it makes me want to strike him dead where he stands, but it's not yet the moment. ‘I won't make that mistake again.' His voice is dry, severe. It chills me. I must be careful not to strike before I'm ready. I must not let him goad me.

Benedict stands, silent, unmoving, and I feel him stretching all his senses to their limits, searching for any trace of me. Then he makes his next move. ‘You belong to me more than you know,' he says, his voice low and caressing. ‘I value you all the more for showing me you have passion and talent. Exceptional talent, Zara. We'll soon be a loving family once more. And you can help me destroy the Makers. With you at my side, I shall be invincible.'

He smiles a ghastly smile. I think I have broken one of his ribs. I could mend it, if I wished. It's a strange thought.

‘So tell me, Zara  … ' He moves cautiously into the room as he speaks. He's shielded himself on all sides with toughened air. It glistens in the pinkish light from the window. Dawn is coming. Benedict has told me the truth; he fears me now. He knows I could kill him.

‘Tell me, Daughter. What magic is this? Why can't I see you? Why can't I feel your mind? Reach into your thoughts? What is the secret? You shield yourself, but I know you're here! You leave a snail-trail of magic, child. You shimmer. I can taste it.'

He lifts his arms out, like a blind man, searching the library step by step. There's a scuttling noise. A rat, perhaps. He whirls around, reaching. His back is to me. I gather my magic but he must feel it, for he turns back as quickly. ‘Clever girl, trying to distract me and give you an opening.

‘We could play blind-man's-bluff, but I grow weary of such games. So I'll tell you a story instead.'

His eyes never stop moving. I feel the heavy tension of his own powers in the air all around me, coiled like a spring, ready to explode with devastating force as soon as he locates me.

Every movement an exaggerated statement of confidence and power, Benedict strolls to his desk and eases into his chair. He lifts the paperweight, rubs a thumb across its surface, a dark smile flitting across his face. ‘Such a shame, this speck of blood. You marred perfection, Zara. I find that hard to forgive. This paperweight is a thing of beauty, don't you think? And yet you tried to kill me with it. When I was only enacting just punishment for your own crime.

‘But I have a confession. You remember that night? Do you remember the girl? Your Tribute child, Swift? I trust you haven't forgotten her.'

His eyes are brown sludge. Frozen mud. The bastard. He's trying to break me; send me over the edge; make me attack him before I'm ready.

It's working. Blood pounds in my head. Sickness sweeps over me in wave after wave. I squeeze my hands into fists, stab my nails into my palms, fighting for control. I remember Twiss's teaching and edge further back into Elsewhere. Breathe.

Elsewhere brings the calmness to think, to remember: I don't need Quint's poison. That was for Aidan. I have my own path to freedom. I can go so far into Elsewhere that not even my father will ever find me. He might possess my body, but he'll never have my soul.

My father is still speaking. ‘Did you never wonder, Zara, why Swift looked so much like you?'

His words catch at my heart. I freeze. I don't want to hear what he's about to say. Benedict is telling me his secret. Something hidden. Something powerful. And somehow I know it's about me, and I won't ever be the same if I hear it. Dread and desire flood over me.

‘Don't,' I whisper in my mind.

But he talks on: ‘Her hair, if I remember, was the same brown as mine.' He smiles.

Shock hits me. Half-recognition. But my mind is numbed. I can't quite  … 

‘You inherit more from me than you know. I too indulged in a low taste for kine. Once. It happens. More than we mages will admit. Your Tribute child's mother was a counter. She was blonde rather than red-haired, but otherwise she looked like Eleanor.'

He groans, shuts his eyes at the memory. Then looks for me again, a self-mocking smile on his face. ‘I remember the first time I saw her: the same face, the same body. She could have been your mother's twin sister. And so  … '

Benedict pauses, his eyes searching, hoping to see that the wound he inflicts is fatal. ‘I took her to my bed. Your mother is the only woman I ever loved, Zara. Oh gods, how I loved her. I still do. But she was mad; her mind tainted with blasphemy. A heretic. Even I couldn't save her. So when I saw Swift's mother  …  and then there was a child.'

I can't keep the knowledge out any longer. Pain bends me as I stand. I want to scream.

‘Do you understand?' My father's voice drips poison. ‘Swift was your half-sister. I should have killed her at birth of course, as the law demands. She was an abomination. But I am the Archmage of Asphodel and laws are for lesser beings. I am Benedict, the greatest archmage ever to have walked this earth. As history will record when I cleanse the land of every last mage-killing Maker!

‘The counter's child had my blood in her. Benedict's blood. And the mother was a superior example of her tribe; but for the fact she had no magic she seemed fully human. I gambled  …  I hoped my blood would prevail. Barrenness is the bane of our race. The gods, curse them, have only granted me one child! And
you
 …  you're tainted with your mother's madness  … ' He breaks off, panting. ‘So I let the child live and gave her to you when the time came. It was a mistake. The kine blood polluted mine after all: the child had no magic. Instead, she grew subversive. She would have grown dangerous  …  rebellious. She was seeking out blasphemous texts even then. But it was your fault. You should never have taught her to read. I blame you, Zara.'

I blame you, Zara  …  your half-sister  …  blasphemy  …  She was your sister. I blame you  …  I blame you  … 

The truth that you should have known, when it finally strikes home, hits hard. How could I have been so blind? She knew. I realise that now.
Swift knew!
She actually told me, in her letter, but even then I couldn't see the truth.

I'm crying. Tears are streaming down my face and I'm bent over, hugging myself to try and contain the pain. Something breaks in my head and everything is swallowed in the redness of hate. And the desire, the lust, for revenge.

I step forward, out of Elsewhere, to confront the man who was our father. Child murderer. Eater of his own flesh.

A slow smile of triumph spreads over his face as his eyes find me at last. I feel his will gather, but I strike first. Hatred ignites the blast of fire I send scorching towards him, a white sheet of flame. It cracks across the room, scorching everything in its path, and strikes his air shield, shattering it with the sound of a hammer striking a bronze bell.

He staggers to his knees. But lives. His robes are smoking, his hair singed and melted. But Benedict lives. His eyes fasten on me; his mind swoops to grapple with mine. But I step backwards into Elsewhere.

‘Coward!' he shrieks. He staggers to his feet. And I circle him. He sends a blast of flame to scorch the place I was standing. The library smoulders, books catch fire. The room is burning. Benedict's famous library is on fire.

We're both coughing from the smoke. I have to be quick. Air is too slow. Stone even slower. It has to be fire. And he knows that.

I am burning, like the room, burning with hatred. Part of my mind is screaming Swift's name. Elsewhere calms me. I take a breath, step out.

He sees me, and this time he is quickest. A wall of water drenches me, knocking me sideways, sweeping me against a bookcase with a crash that knocks the wind from my lungs. I lie stunned, unable to breathe or move. And listen to my father's laugh as he steps forward. He's put out the fires. The smoke thins, leaving the room stinking of damp soot.