Blood of Innocents (Book Two of the Sorcery Ascendant Sequence) (25 page)

Vasile was huddled next to Aidan, Chalayan and cel Rau. His head drooped, and he almost nodded off, despite the cold and rain, when there was movement around the camp.

He grunted as Aidan nudged him in the ribs.

“Another surprise,” remarked Chalayan.

Aidan spooned in a mouthful of stew and chewed thoughtfully.

Down the worn path to the tower, a horse approached, this one carrying a rider—a thin, pale woman with long blonde hair trailing behind her.

“She’s got the look,” remarked Aidan, and Chalayan nodded.

Vasile squinted to inspect the woman, looking puzzled. “The look?”

“Thin. Emaciated. As if she hasn’t eaten for weeks,” said Aidan.

“Like Luphildern,” stated Vasile.

“Exactly. We don’t know why, but some of them don’t like eating.”

Chalayan chortled to himself, and they all looked at him.

“Maybe they only drink blood,” whispered the sorcerer, eyes rolling around.

“Like jukari,” said cel Rau.

Aidan scoffed at the idea. “We know little enough about them without making things up. And jukari don’t only drink blood; they eat flesh as well.”

With a shrug, Chalayan continued to stare at the woman, who had slowed her horse to a trot, then stopped near Luphildern. She dismounted easily and gave the thin man a quick embrace.

“She’s loaded with
crafting
s,” commented Chalayan. “Maybe some
trinket
s as well; I can’t be sure from here.”

Mazoet appeared at Vasile’s side. The big man had eaten a loaf of bread by himself, and several bowls of stew. Luphildern had stared at Mazoet with a disgusted expression the whole time he’d been eating.

“Walk with me,” said Mazoet, and strode off away from the tower and down the hill, leaving Vasile to shrug at Aidan then struggle after him. For such a big man, Mazoet was surprisingly light on his feet.

“Gazija has a task for us,” Mazoet said once Vasile caught up. He had a leather pack on his back, though it looked half-empty.

“What task? And what’s my role?”

“You’ll find out soon enough, but since it’s you, I don’t think he wants us to move heavy rocks, do you? The right tool for the job is required.” He gave Vasile a dark look. “Are you a tool, Vasile?”

“Eh? What do you mean?”

“Are you a tool? Or are you the craftsman using the tool?”

Vasile felt heat rise to his face. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I believe you do. Or are you a craftsman, using his own tools for his—or even the world’s—benefit.”

“So far, I would hazard a guess that I’ve been the tool.”

“Then it’s time you gave some thought to your predicament.”

“Oh, I’ve thought about it,” Vasile said.

Mazoet regarded him evenly. “I doubt you have done much more than wallow in self-pity. You are not the man you once were.”

Vasile bristled at his words, and his tone, then his shoulders slumped. He knew Mazoet was right. What was the point of valuing the truth if you couldn’t apply it to yourself?

“What do you suggest I do?”

“Do what you are good at. Apply reason and evidence to the problems around you. Reach conclusions, then test them. See if your deductions stand up to testing. Only then will you know real truth.”

Vasile found himself unconvinced. The trouble was, Mazoet had his own agenda. Or rather, he followed Gazija’s agenda. These people treated Gazija with a reverence usually reserved for high priests or the emperor and his family. Whatever they had fled from, they believed Gazija had saved them from a fate far more horrible than death.

Truth. That was what it came down to. He needed to find the truth.

Mazoet remained silent. Their path took them along the road to the south, a little inland so they could no longer see the ocean.

Mazoet paused and looked around. There was no one else in sight. “Come, quickly now.”

The big man left the road and made his way toward the tree-line marking the edge of a forest. He skirted a lake, with Vasile trailing behind him. They pushed their way through low branches, which thinned out the further into the trees they went. Soon, they reached an area where the trees clumped close to the lakeshore, with only a narrow bar of dark sand between them and the still water.

Finding a relatively unobstructed patch of ground, Mazoet lifted a hand, indicating for Vasile to stop.

“What are we doing?” asked Vasile.

Without a word, Mazoet found a dry stick and scratched a circle a few yards wide in the sand. He then dragged his boot sideways along the line, deepening the circle into the ground.

“One moment,” said Mazoet. He turned to face the way they had come. “First, let me check if he’s following.”

Vasile ducked his head then realized they were deep in the cover of the trees, and presumably no one had seen them enter.

“The sorcerer,” Mazoet said. “The untrained one.”

“Chalayan? I wouldn’t say he’s untrained.”

“You wouldn’t. His is a mix of tribal and academic sorcerous lore. From what I can tell, he has pieced it together himself. He found he had talent, and his thirst for knowledge has driven him ever since.”

“He’s spying on us?”

“Us, you, whoever. He doesn’t care. Though I suspect Aidan might have asked him to keep an eye on you.”

“On me?” said Vasile, not convinced.

“Yes. Aidan is a canny man, and idealistic. You are a tool to him.”

Vasile gave Mazoet a withering look. “I hardly think so.”

“Then you might be surprised.” He paused. “I can’t sense him following, and I would be surprised if he could conceal himself from me. But there is a
crafting
close by…” Mazoet frowned then turned around the clearing, as if searching for something. His eyes stopped on Vasile.

“Come here,” he commanded.

“Why? What’s going on?”

With a frustrated sigh, Mazoet approached him. “Empty your pockets.”

“I haven’t stolen anything.”

Mazoet held out a meaty hand; his eyes flashed with anger. “Put the contents of your pockets into my hand. Now.”

Shaking, Vasile complied. A few copper ducats, some pocket fluff, a piece of string, and a small black stone he’d liked the look of when wandering around the ruined tower that morning.

“Bah,” exclaimed Mazoet. “That’s not it; put it back. What else do you have on you? Did the sorcerer give you anything?”

“Just my coin purse.” Vasile patted a securely tied pouch hanging from his belt. “He gave me a gold ducat as part payment for a wager we had, even though I told him I wouldn’t collect.”

“Show me.”

Vasile rummaged inside the pouch until he produced the gold ducat. “It’s the only one I have.” Reluctantly, he handed it over.

Mazoet held the coin between two fingers, eyes narrowed. He angled it to a bright patch in the cloud, to better examine it. “Ha! I knew it.”

“What is it?”

Mazoet pointed to one side of the coin, and Vasile peered closely. There were scratches on the surface, all the way around the profile of the emperor.

“It looks like… writing?”

“Runes, symbols, glyphs—call them what you will. It’s sorcery. With this in your possession, he can know where you are at all times. Even listen in. Though it’s not active now.”

Outraged, Vasile stammered with anger, blood rushing to his face. “Wh-why would he do that?”

“Because you are a tool, an instrument they mean to use. A means to an end.”

“And what am I to you?” demanded Vasile.

Mazoet took a few moments to reply. He smiled wryly then inclined his head in a gesture of respect, jowls wobbling. “You might just be our salvation.”

Vasile shivered and hugged his arms to his chest. “And what exactly do you mean by that?”

Mazoet didn’t answer. Instead, he turned and threw the gold ducat out over the lake. It plopped onto the surface and sank, leaving only a few ripples to mark its passing.

Vasile squawked and stepped toward the lake, stopping with one foot in the water up to his ankle.

“It’s only a coin.”

Speechless, Vasile stared at the water where his ducat had disappeared; the ripples slowly vanished.

Watching him closely, Mazoet removed a folded cloth from inside his pack. He opened it to reveal a long thin chain of gold links. Attached to it at intervals were faceted stones the size of pigeon eggs—transparent gems, as well as red and green, along with small flat discs of beaten silver covered with runes.

Vasile stared at the chain, mouth agape.

“That’s…” he said, and swallowed. “Diamonds?” The chain could have bought a fleet of ships, or a small town, even a
trinket
or three.

“Gold and diamonds, and other precious stones,” confirmed Mazoet. “A superior sorcerous
crafting
, if I do say so myself. I know you don’t place much value on wealth.” As he spoke, Mazoet unraveled the chain, pausing a moment to untangle one section. Carefully, he began laying it in the circle he had scraped into the sand. “Your world is on a precipice, though not many people know it. We cannot allow what happened to us to happen here. It is… inconceivable. We can’t… we won’t let that happen again. The thought of fleeing is unacceptable to most of us.” He stared into Vasile’s eyes until Vasile turned away. “We are possibly your world’s only hope of salvation, as you are possibly ours. But we must tread carefully, as our intervention may ensure our destruction.”

“My world?” asked Vasile.

“Just my way of speaking.”

Truth,
realized Vasile. And yet, somehow, he thought Mazoet was hiding a greater truth in his words. A chill washed over his skin.

Mazoet stepped inside the circle of gold and gemstones then pointed at the chain surrounding him. “All of this… gold, precious gems, whatever else you consider has value… does not matter if there is another Shattering. We aim to prevent that happening, no matter the cost.” He paused to take a breath and held out a hand. “Come, join me inside the circle.”

Warily, Vasile stepped over the chain and stood next to the sorcerer.

“Take my hand,” ordered Mazoet. “There needs to be contact.”

“What’s going to happen?” asked Vasile. He grasped the offered hand.

Mazoet closed his eyes. “We are going to speed up part of our plan. The Indryallan invasion came quicker than we thought. Our preparations were not complete.”

“You knew the invasion would happen?”

“‘Knew’ is too strong a word. Suspected, perhaps. We believed something major would happen. Now, please be quiet; I have to concentrate.”

Without warning, the chain began to give off heat, and in moments it glowed a bright orange, as if placed into a forge. Under the chain, wet sand sizzled and hissed. Steam rose into the air, swirling in the light breeze.

“What’s happening?”

Without opening his eyes, Mazoet said, “We need to be somewhere in a hurry. Horses would take too long, so we have to avail ourselves of other means.”

Vasile’s stomach sank; he felt ill.

“We are here, then we will be there,” explained Mazoet, as if that made any sense.

Vasile’s eyes narrowed. “What happens to the
crafting
then?”

“Why, it is destroyed. Take this as evidence of our sincerity, of our commitment, of our intentions. Sacrifices have to be made, and though this is only material wealth, it has to show you how true our intentions are. For words can be molded to seem true, when they are not.”

Vasile’s head and stomach lurched, as if he were being folded in half somehow, physically and mentally. Reality twisted. One of the gems made a cracking sound and exploded. Bright glowing shards sprinkled the sand at their feet.

His vision blurred. Head spinning, he reeled to the ground, only there was nothing there. There was another crack, then two more. Sparks filled his eyes then faded.

He hit the sand face first with a thump. Breath squeezed from his lungs. Gasping like a fish out of water, he realized his eyes were still shut. They opened slowly, as if stuck together.

He was sitting on sand, but it was a different color. It was white.

Mazoet sat beside him, regarding him with a nonchalant expression. The trees, lake, and sand were gone. Bright sun shone down from a cloudless sky. Waves crashed against the sandy shore to his left.

A thin stream of smoke rose from Vasile’s right boot, and he used his other heel to scrape at the offending spot. His vigorous scuffing dislodged a bright green fragment of emerald, which fell onto the sand and lay smoking. It had almost burned a hole through his boot.

•

“Well,” said Aidan cautiously, “a few hundred people doesn’t make an army.”

Gazija cackled and rubbed his withered hands together. The old man was in a good mood today. After all the refugees had gathered, mostly Lady Felicienne’s people from Anasoma, a grin remained plastered on his face.

“No, indeed not. But small beginnings can lead to greater things. Especially with a little foresight and planning.”

“What are you up to, old man?”

“Helping the emperor defend his empire. Doing our best in the circumstances, and far more than you’ve done, I might say.”

“It’s not my fight.”

“Bah! It is. You just don’t know it yet.”

Aidan sniffed. A droplet of water hung from the end of his nose. He wiped it away. “I’ll take some convincing. So far, I haven’t heard anything horrific the invaders have done, except for invading, that is. From what I’ve been able to determine the city isn’t that badly off.”

He had taken the opportunity to question some of the people after they streamed in. Though they all professed loyalty to the emperor and swore the Indryallans were evil, the only evidence they had was their insistence the invaders had wiped out the Sorcerers’ Guild and Protectors.

The fewer sorcerers in the world, the better
, Aidan thought. Though they could be useful at times. Such power in the hands of frail-minded humans was a recipe for corruption, but so long as there were people like him and Caitlyn in the world, then evil would not go unpunished. Chalayan would bear watching, though; he had been sniffing around Gazija’s people for the last few days, trying to ferret out their secrets. Ever since the battle where Caitlyn had… died… and the sorcerer had seen the power on display, he had been ill at ease, though he hid it well. Aidan could see he coveted their power. Such need had driven Chalayan to become a sorcerer in the first place, and now Aidan saw that if he learned more he could command the very elements themselves. To Chalayan, it would be a sweetness he couldn’t ignore. Yes, he’d bear watching closely.