Mickey Zucker Reichert - Shadows Realm (17 page)

Taziar propped a foot on the table. “What’s an aura?”

Engrossed in thought, Silme said nothing.

Astryd’s head lolled; her eyes narrowed to haggard slits. Distracted by Silme’s intensity, she answered without emotion. “It’s a gross, visual measure of Dragonrank strength. It looks sort of like a halo of light. The color and magnitude change depending on fatigue and mental state.” She rolled a bleary gaze. “Mine looks like porridge right now. But Harriman’s is worse. The last time I saw an aura that weak, its master was in a coma.”

Silme seized Astryd’s arm in a grip so fierce that Astryd snapped to attention despite her exhaustion. “What’s wrong?”

“You didn’t recognize that aura?”

Astryd met Silme’s intent stare. “No. Should I?”

“You may never have seen it.” Silme released Astryd and swept the logs into a pile. “Harriman’s not a sorcerer, but he is a product of sorcery. I’ve seen the spell used before. It requires a Dragonrank mage to kill its victim, body and soul. Then, the corpse can be animated to act as the mage commands, without knowledge, memory, or will. It can only obey simple directions; it can’t speak or initiate actions.”

The description contradicted Taziar’s experience. “Silme?” He cleared his throat, choosing his phrasing to correct rather than confront. “I saw Harriman interact, and speak, too.”

“That’s impossible.” Silme’s words implied certainty, but her tone betrayed her doubt.

Taziar persisted. “I watched him extort money from a group of children. He’s an expert.”

Silme went silent in thought, as if deciding whether to challenge her experience or Taziar’s observations. Her chin sank to her chest. Her blue eyes dulled, then went vacant as a corpse’s.

“Silme!” Taziar jumped down from the table and skidded to the sorceress’ side. “What’s wrong?”

Astryd answered in Silme’s stead. “She’s channeling thought. I have no idea where.”

Taziar stepped behind Astryd, massaging her knotted shoulders through the fabric of her cloak. Her muscles quivered, as if from a grueling physical battle. “Is it safe? What about the baby?”

Astryd’s voice sounded thin. “Thought extension doesn’t cost life energy the way spells do. Just concentration.”

“Oh.” Taziar accepted the information easily, but his concern for Silme lessened only slightly. Unless she had chosen to contact Larson, she cculd only have attempted to gain access to Harriman’s mind. If so, she had disobeyed her own tenet.
After threatening me not to go off alone, why would she try something like this?

Suddenly, Taziar found Silme returning his gaze. Her face was slack, and her fists clenched and loosened repeatedly, as if of their own accord.

Unable to read her emotion, Taziar prodded. “Silme, are you well?”

“Shattered,” she replied, her voice strained. “Shattered like winter leaves beneath bootfalls, like a castle door beneath a battering ram.” She cleared her throat and addressed Astryd in her normal tone. “I’m supposed to be one of the most powerful mages in existence, second only to the Dragonrank schoolmaster. But what I saw was the result of magic beyond my imagining. Someone smashed a hole through Harriman’s mind barriers, accessed his thoughts, then rearranged them to the pattern and purposes he wanted.”

“Are you certain?” Astryd’s words emerged more like a statement than a question; she had asked from convention rather than disbelief.

“There’s a hole, and pieces of the barrier still cling like shards of glass to a window frame. Thought pathways are looped, cut, and tied.”

Taziar’s hands went still on Astryd’s shoulders. “Who?”

Silme ran her hands along her face. “I don’t know. I didn’t dare to delve too deeply. Surely, the person or thing who damaged Harriman is in frequent contact. If I used anything stronger than a shallow probe, he might have noticed me. At the least, Harriman would have detected my presence and called on his master. Alone and without magic, I couldn’t hope to stand against a sorcerer with the power to break through mind barriers.” She pressed her palms together, lacing her fingers with enough force to blanch them. Her manner clearly revealed the extent of her fear to Taziar. Even with spells and her companions’ aid, Silme obviously harbored no illusions she could win a battle against Harriman’s master.

“But I did discover Harriman’s basic purposes.” Silme stared at her fingers. “He’s been instructed to see Shylar and your friends hanged, to destroy the underground, and ...” She paused, avoiding Taziar’s curious stare. “... to cause you as much physical and emotional pain as possible.”

“Me?” Taziar blinked, stunned.

“Shadow?” Surprise and distress etched Astryd’s voice, to be instantly replaced by accusation. “What did you do? Who did you offend who has enough power to do this?”

Taziar considered. His reckless drive to accomplish the impossible might have gained him enemies. But he could only recall two instances where his antics could have angered sorcerers. He had once robbed a jade-rank Dragon-mage, but that sorcerer’s powers were weaker than Astryd’s. He spoke the second circumstance aloud. “I did scale the walls of the Dragonrank school and bypass its protections.”

Astryd shook her head. “You didn’t steal anything or hurt anyone. Even if the Dragonrank mages wanted to make an example of you. If they could locate you, even the diamond-rank archmaster would not have the power to destroy mind barriers.” She snapped to sudden atten-tiveness. “Unless ... Silme, what about a merger?”

Silme dismissed Astryd’s suggestion. “It would require every mage at the school to cooperate, an impossible feat in itself.” She explained for Taziar’s benefit. “It’s supposedly possible for Dragonrank mages to combine life force. It’s a lot like seventeen artists carving a masterpiece with only one allowed to make the actual cuts and every life hanging on the king’s approval of the final project. I’ve never known any mage willing to entrust his life energy to another. I’ve been told the magics that ward the Dragonrank school were a result of such a merger. One was slain, drained of life force. Three others fell into coma. Later, two of those died and the third became a babbling idiot. The mage responsible, the one entrusted with channeling life force, eventually killed himself out of guilt.”

“Besides,” Astryd added. “There are easier ways to kill a man than risking forty-three lives to create a monster. If the Dragonrank mages wanted Taziar, they’d simply kill him or take him back and hang him from the gates.”

Taziar stiffened, displeased by the turn of the conversation. “So, whoever Harriman’s master is, he wants me to suffer. And we have no idea what we’re dealing with.”

“Not no idea,” Silme’s tone went calculating. She stood, rubbing her hands together for warmth. “We know he wants to torture you rather than kill you, or at least before he kills you ...”

Taziar twined a finger through Astryd’s hair. “Thanks for clarifying that.”

“... his delay might work to our advantage. And, we know he or she is intelligent. Notice, he hasn’t come after us himself. He sent a pawn. My guess is he found some interesting and frightening things in Allerum’s mind, and he’s not excited by the prospect of taking us on personally. Ignorant and weakened as we are, I don’t think we could stand against him. We need to keep the master away, to reinforce his reluctance by making him even more certain we’re powerful. We have to encourage him to send lackeys we can use to assess his abilities.”

“Fine.” The explanation sounded logical to Taziar. “How do you suggest we do that?”

“By removing Harriman, either by capture or death. It’ll get rid of one obstacle to freeing your friends. It’ll remove our real enemy’s means of keeping watch on you. And it will give us time to organize while Harriman’s master decides his next plan of attack.”

“I don’t know,” Taziar started. The idea of killing an innocent pawn repulsed him. But he also realized that Harriman’s command of the underground might put his friends, once released, in greater danger from old companions than from the baron’s guards.
Besides, Harriman’s mind has been ruined. He’s no longer truly a man, just a sorcerer’s weapon.

Before Taziar could protest further, the door swung open and Larson appeared in the entryway. He held a loaf of bread tucked beneath his arm, and the pitcher in the same hand. Spilled water slicked his fingers. His other hand balanced a bowl of butter and the flaming brand. Steam rose from the bread, gray-white against Larson’s sleeve. The aroma of fresh dough twined through the room.

Silme tensed, casting a warning glance at Astryd and Taziar who went stiff and silent.

Larson caught at the corner of the door with the tip of his boot. “Are you all going to sit there watching me struggle, or will someone give me a hand?”

Leaving Silme to decide what information to share with Larson, Taziar crossed the room and accepted the brand and bowl.

Larson closed the door, shifted the loaf to his hand, and set pitcher and bread on the table. “So, is Harriman a sorcerer?”

Returning to the logs, Taziar placed the bowl on the floor and feigned engrossment in the fire.

“No,” Silme replied truthfully.

Larson sighed in relief. “Good. Worrying about some stranger reading my mind, I was beginning to wish you hadn’t told me about the baby.”

Taziar cringed. The brand tumbled into the hearth, and the Climber felt certain he was not the only one holding his breath.

Larson did not seem to notice the sudden change in his companions’ attitudes. He rapped his knuckles on the table-top. “So what now? We go to the baron, tell him who’s causing all the trouble in his city and talk him into letting your buddies out of jail while the guards round up the crime lord and his cronies?”

Just the mention of the baron sent horror crawling through Taziar. “No!” Retrieving the brand, he jabbed it between the lowest layers of kindling. “We take care of the problem ourselves. The baron is a crooked, self-indulgent idiot who thinks loyalty is measured in moments. I’m not going to let my friends take chances with his depraved idea of justice.” Taziar looked up to find every eye fixed on him above expressions of shock at his abrupt and seemingly misplaced hostility. Not wanting to deal with his friends’ concern, Taziar returned his attention to the fire.

A brief silence followed. Then Larson spoke in the direct manner he used whenever he felt his otherworld perspective gave him a clearer, more levelheaded grasp on a problem. “Look, Shadow, you’re being stupid here. I understand you don’t like the baron. That only makes sense, and it really doesn’t bother me. But the baron knows this town. We can use him. Hell, you ought to get a perverse joy out of using him. He makes the laws, for god’s sake. I mean, he basically runs the town, doesn’t he?”

“Yes,” Taziar admitted without looking up. “Yes, he does.”

“Well, I don’t have any great, fond respect for authority, and I’ve been a victim of politicians myself.” A floorboard squeaked as Larson shifted position. “But if something big and bad happened, I’d still go to the police.” He clarified. “My world’s guard force.”

Taziar shrugged, not bothering to respond. As much as Larson claimed to understand, Taziar knew his companion could never know the agony of watching his father publicly hanged, murdered and humiliated by the leader he had served faithfully for a decade. Water glazed Taziar’s vision. Angered by his lapse, he fought the tears, smearing ash across his lids with the back of his hand. He lowered his head, not trusting himself to speak.

Larson continued, apparently accepting Taziar’s silence as a sign that he was wavering. “The guards see the city from a different side than your friends. We don’t have much time. It makes sense to explore every possible source of information.”

“No!” Gaining control of his grief, but not his resentment, Taziar whirled to face Larson, still at a crouch. “You don’t know Baron Dietrich. I do. Ever since he claimed the title from his father, he’s been dependent on advisers. First Aga’arin’s temple turned him into a faith-blinded disciple to the point where the church gets a deciding vote in all matters of import. Then, some devious, power-mad worm of a prime minister convinced him to hang his guard captain and torture me to death. Does that sound like a just leader willing to listen to reason?”

“Well,” Larson started. As the hearth fire licked to life, a red glow crossed his angular features. “Actually, he sounds pretty easy to manipulate.”

“Sure,” Taziar shot back. The image of his friends dealing with a petty, unpredictable tyrant off-balanced him. “If you’re an Aga’arian priest or a scheming politician. Karana’s hell, Harriman’s probably already got the baron on his side.”

“Well, if he does, don’t you think we might want to know that?” Larson snorted viciously, obviously on the verge of anger himself. “Now who’s acting stupid because of a personal experience? I don’t care how dumb this baron of yours is. He’s not going to support some stranger undermining his authority and tearing apart his town.”

Silme spoke up, as always the voice of reason. “Shadow, Allerum, listen ...”

Taziar leaped to his feet, not pausing to let either of his companions speak. His heel cracked against the bowl, sending the butter skidding across his boots, and his unnatural clumsiness only fueled his rage. “I’m upset enough without you babbling about putting yourself in an enemy’s hands. I know this town. I know what will work and what won’t. No one goes near the baron! Is that clear?”

“I was just going to say ...” Silme started, but Taziar never let her finish.

“This subject is closed.”

“Closed, is it?” Larson shouted.

Taziar glared.

“Very well.” Larson spun toward the door. “It’s closed. If you want your conniving friends to hang while you drown alone in your own river, it’s not my goddamned problem. I need a moment by myself, and I need to take a leak. Do I have your permission, O great and all-knowing god of Cullinsberg?”

Taziar waved Larson off, too enraged to deal with sarcasm and as appreciative of the chance to think without the elf’s badgering.
He needs some time by himself to calm down, and so do I.

Larson stormed through the portal, slamming the panel harder than necessary behind him. The door slapped against its frame, bouncing awkwardly ajar.