Frostborn: The Master Thief (21 page)

“And you have no way to prove that,” said Tarrabus.

“I…” said Calliande.

Knowledge flooded into her mind. 

Something like this challenge had happened to her before, even if she could not remember it. 

“I do, Comes,” said Calliande, addressing her words to Corbanic. “I can prove that I am a Magistria, and I will do so before you, here and now.” 

“How, may I ask?” said Corbanic. 

“By a Challenge of Magistri,” said Calliande.

Imaria’s eyes narrowed, and then she laughed.

###

Morigna watched the confrontation with growing unease.

Her instincts screamed that the great hall was about to erupt with violence. Tarrabus clearly hated Ridmark, and sought an excuse to kill him. Well, he was welcome to try. Morigna had kept her magic concealed, but if Tarrabus tried to take them prisoner or kill them, Morigna would strike back. She was reasonably sure she could disable or kill Imaria with a single spell, and without her wards, Tarrabus and his men would have no defense from Morigna’s magic. 

“What is a Challenge of Magistri?” said Morigna in a low voice.

Neither Ridmark nor Calliande answered her.

“A spell, a ritual,” murmured Caius. “The Magistri can communicate through thought. In a Challenge, two Magistri look into each other’s minds and try to overwhelm their opponents. The Magistri developed the spell after the urdmordar were defeated, to find dark wizards masquerading as lawful Magistri.” 

“That sounds rather dangerous,” said Morigna, darkly amused. She could control animals through her magic, and Calliande feared Morigna would use that power against humans and other mortals. Not that she would - controlling animals was simple enough, but the mind of a human was a far more complex affair.

And she lacked the necessary power to do it, anyway.

“It is,” said Caius. “It is rarely done since the Eternalists were defeated. It is very dangerous to both combatants – the danger of damage to the mind is considerable.”

“Do not do this,” said Ridmark. “The risk is too much.”

“It is necessary,” whispered Calliande. “Else Tarrabus shall keep us here, and have us killed or handed over to Shadowbearer.” She turned back to the Comes. “My lord Comes, I am a true Magistria, and I shall prove my words. Just as a knight may prove the truth and honor of his words through a trial of arms and strength, I shall prove my words through a trial of magic. Will you allow this?”

“I will allow this,” said Corbanic, “if the Magistria Imaria consents to the challenge.”

Calliande smiled. She looked as dangerous as Ridmark in that moment. For all her gentleness, Morigna knew, for all her interest in the healing arts, she was not someone to cross. “I believe, my lord Comes, she is obligated by law to either accept my challenge…or to admit that I am a true Magistria.”

Imaria’s green eyes narrowed. “You are not a Magistria. You are some harlot and wilder witch Ridmark found in the Wilderland. I will break your mind utterly, and then I will see Ridmark pay for the murder of my sister.”

Calliande’s smile only sharpened. “So be it.”  

Chapter 13 - The Challenge

Calliande flexed her fingers, clearing her mind and summoning power. 

“Seal the hall!” thundered Corbanic, rising from his curule chair. His men-at-arms moved to obey, closing the great doors and barring them. “If you are decided upon this folly, Magistria Imaria, then we shall do things according to the High King’s law.” 

“I would have it,” said Imaria, glaring at Ridmark and Calliande, “no other way.”

“Magistria Imaria,” said the Comes, descending from the dais with Cortin, “you are the challenged. Stand before the dais. Mistress Calliande,” she noted that he did not call her Magistria, not yet, “stand twenty paces from Imaria, facing her.” He pointed, and Imaria and Calliande moved to their positions. “Those of you who support Imaria, you shall stand on the southern end of the hall. Those of you who support Calliande, you shall stand on the northern side.”

“May God lend you strength,” said Caius.

Morigna smirked. “Do try to avoid any dark magic when you invade her mind.”

Calliande rolled her eyes. “I’ll do my best.”

“Good luck,” said Ridmark. He hesitated. “Thank you.”

“You have fought for me enough times,” said Calliande. “Let me return the favor.”

He nodded and led the others to the northern side of the hall. Tarrabus spoke a few words to Imaria, and she laughed and looked up at him, her eyes flashing. Calliande wondered if they were lovers. She might well find out in the next few moments. The Challenge was a merging of minds, a contest of one Magistria’s emotional and mental strength against that of another. Calliande thought she could overcome this arrogant, furious woman. 

Or she was about to make a colossal mistake.

“You both know the rules of the Challenge,” said Corbanic. His son and his men-at-arms returned to the dais, overseeing both sides. “When I give the mark, you will both cast the spells of the Challenge at each other, and the trial shall continue until one of you yields or you have exhausted each other. Use any other spells than the spell of Challenge, and you shall lose the trial. If anyone interferes in any form, the trial shall be void. Is this understood?”

Calliande nodded her assent, as did Imaria, her eyes narrowing.

“Then may God grant strength to the right,” said Corbanic. “Begin!”

Calliande cast a spell, white light flaring around her fingers as she summoned power and directed her thoughts at Imaria. The other Magistria shouted and gestured, white fire burning around her hand.

And then her thoughts hammered into Calliande like the blow of a Mhorite orc’s weapon.

Hatred. Burning, terrible hatred, a wrath that could burn a kingdom to ashes. 

Pain. A grief that never ended, a wound that could not heal.

And pride, pride strong and unyielding like a tower of iron. A conviction that she was superior to all others that walked under the sun, that all owed her respect and allegiance and obedience. 

Imaria Licinius’s emotions, reshaped into weapons, drilled in Calliande’s mind.

Calliande heard herself screaming, felt herself stumbling back, hands raised as she struggled to drive off the furious assault. 

Imaria’s laughter echoed in her ears, and she heard the Magistria’s gloating inside her skull as well.

“Pathetic!” said Imaria, taking a step forward, face tight with strain as the white fire danced around her palms. “I knew you were weak. I knew you were unworthy. Only a fool would follow Ridmark Arban on his quest to chase phantoms. A weak, broken, pitiful fool.” Her will pressed deeper into Calliande’s mind. “And you are broken, aren’t you?”

Calliande gritted her teeth, fighting to keep Imaria’s fingers from reaching further into her thoughts. 

“You were telling the truth,” said Imaria. “You don’t remember anything that happened before you awoke.” Her laughter redoubled. “What a pathetic, broken thing you are. You wiped your own mind with your spells. I can see the signs.” Her fingers of rage and hatred tightened. “Let us see if we can discover who you really are, hmm?”

She reached deeper into Calliande’s mind, her hand plunging into the wall of mist that concealed Calliande's lost memories.

But the hand rebounded as if thrown back by an invisible force. 

“What?” said Imaria. “What is that? A ward…a summoning spell? What did you do to yourself?”

Calliande didn’t know.

But she did know that she was old, far older than this raging child. Centuries older. And she had seen terrible things. She had seen the fury of the Frostborn and their defeat, even if she could not remember it, and that had been so dire she had sealed herself away below the Tower of Vigilance to prevent their return, sacrificing everything to keep the world safe. She had endured dire perils since awakening. She had been dragged naked to a circle of dark elven standing stones, a sacrifice to Shadowbearer’s dark magic. She had almost been possessed by an ancient Eternalist lurking in the decaying body of an elderly kobold. And she had faced the fury of a female urdmordar and survived. 

Calliande could only remember forty-nine days…but in those forty-nine days, she had endured things far worse than anything Imaria Licinius could throw at her.

And that knowledge gave her the strength to push back. Inch by inch she shoved back Imaria’s magical assault, until Imaria’s fury hovered at the edge of Calliande’s mind. 

“That’s not possible,” spat Imaria. “Your mind…I’ve never seen anything like it. What sort of creature are you?” 

“I don’t know,” said Calliande. More knowledge entered her mind. Suddenly she realized that she had indeed fought duels like this before, but not against haughty Magistri. Creatures with the power to shatter her thoughts and enslave her heart had tried to invade her mind. 

Yet she had defeated them all…for she was still here.

All of a sudden Imaria’s attack seemed clumsy, crude, like a novice warrior flailing with a practice sword.

“I don’t know,” spat Calliande. “Shall we find out together?” 

And she twisted Imaria’s weapons and turned them back upon her.

Emotion had fueled Imaria’s attack, but every emotion had two sides. 

Calliande bent Imaria's hatred into regret. Regret that Imaria had not been there, that she had not been able to save Aelia, that they had drifted apart after she had become a novice of the Magistri. 

Pain Calliande twisted around into guilt. For Aelia had died at Mhalek’s hand, but Imaria had drifted from her sister long ago, contemptuous of her marriage to Ridmark. Tarrabus Carhaine would have been a better choice. 

And pride Calliande reshaped into loathing. For deep in Imaria’s heart beat the fear that she was nothing, that she was useless and loathed and unloved, that people feared her for her magical prowess and her family name while caring nothing for her.

Calliande pressed the talons of Imaria’s own emotions into her mind.

“Stop!” shrieked Imaria, her eyes bulging. “Stop, stop, stop!” Her words dissolved into an incoherent scream, and she fought back, all her strength and experience contending against Calliande’s power. 

But Calliande was older and stronger. And, apparently, more experienced. She pushed without remorse, sinking spikes of emotion deeper into Imaria’s mind. As she did, memories bubbled up from Imaria’s thoughts and soaked into Calliande’s own mind.

And she experienced them as if they were her own. 

Dux Gareth sitting on his curule seat, a kindly smile on his weathered face.

Aelia, beloved of Imaria, her hero and her best friend. 

Weeping together over their mother’s coffin.

Laughing as they rode in the hills of the Northerland, hunting the deer and warthogs. 

Her hopes that they would both wed powerful nobles and remain close.

Tarrabus Carhaine, tall and strong and handsome and respected. How Imaria had hoped that Aelia would wed him, that together they could be noble ladies in the High King’s court in Tarlion. 

But then Ridmark had come, and it had all fallen apart. He had captured Aelia’s heart, earning her hand by aiding the high elven archmage Ardrhythain against the Warden. Imaria’s own magic had manifested, and the Magistri had taken her to Tarlion as a novice. She had finally gone to Tarlion…but Aelia remained behind, wed to Ridmark Arban as he served as a Swordbearer in Dux Gareth’s court.

And then Mhalek had come, bringing the worst day of Imaria’s life.

Calliande saw the tears sliding down Imaria’s face, felt the matching tears upon her own cheeks.

Aelia had died, slain by Mhalek’s blood sorcery. Aelia, who Imaria had loved above all others. And Ridmark Arban, the great Swordbearer, the man who had slain Gothalinzur, the knight who had gone to Urd Morlemoch and returned, had failed. He had sworn to protect Aelia, and he had failed. It was his fault! His fault! Imaria would see to it that he paid, that he would suffer for what he had done to Aelia.

Calliande saw the brand pressed into Ridmark’s face, heard the sizzle and smelled the burned skin and flesh. He did not flinch as the smoke rose from him. He deserved pain. He deserved pain everlasting! 

But he kept his life. How could God allow such injustice? Perhaps there was no God.

Perhaps Tarrabus was right.

Calliande remembered Tarrabus kissing Imaria, remembered him climbing on top of her, the feel of his body against hers…

Did he think about Aelia when he took her?

“Stop!” shrieked Imaria, sobbing. “No more! Stop! Stop! Stop!”

###

Morigna watched the silent duel.

Both Calliande and Imaria stood motionless, their eyes darting back and forth behind closed lids, sweat beading on their brows. White fire danced around the hands of both women, and as the duel wore on, they began to twitch and jerk. Morigna felt the currents of magical power snarling back and forth between them. 

On and on it went.

“How long does this usually take?” said Cortin.

“I have never seen a Challenge,” said Corbanic. “The histories describe Challenges that endured but a few heartbeats, and others that ended only after three days when one of the participants died of thirst. It depends upon the strength and stamina of the challengers.”

“Knowing Calliande, then,” said Morigna, “we shall be here a while.”

Neither Ridmark nor Caius answered her. Caius’s mouth moved in silent prayer. Ridmark watched the duel, his face drawn and tight. She wondered again what he felt for Calliande, what she meant to him. Aelia’s death had scarred him, true, but sometimes scars healed. 

Imaria’s eyes shot open, green and bloodshot, and she trembled like a trapped animal.

Then she fell to her knees, blood pouring from her nose, and started to scream.

“No more!” she said. “No more, please! I yield. I yield! Stop! Stop!”

Calliande let out a shuddering breath and opened her eyes.

Morigna took a half-step back before she stopped herself. She had never seen such an expression on the other woman’s face before. Calliande looked half-crazed, almost out of her mind with grief and rage.