Touch of the Demon (39 page)

I peered that way and saw a stack of dark basalt bricks about twenty-five yards away. “Yeah.”

“While I am gone you will move ten of those bricks from the pile to the base of the column.”

I blinked in astonishment and
almost
asked him if he was fucking kidding, but managed to hold it back. He wasn’t. Not one little bit.

“Sure thing, Boss.” I scowled and picked my way down the hill while he turned toward the grove. Yeah, and I intended to sing “It’s a Small World” in my head the next time his mind-reading-ass was trying to concentrate.

The bricks weighed probably about ten pounds each, which wouldn’t have been too bad to carry over flat terrain. But the hill had a slope of about forty-five degrees, and ranged from rubble to thigh high “steps,” which meant that this particular exercise
suuuuuuucked
.

Gestamar landed by the column as I reached the top of the hill. “Heya, Gestamar,” I said breathlessly.

He rumbled in what I suspected was amusement. “Greetings, Kara Gillian.”

As much as I liked Gestamar, I didn’t want to waste
breath with casual conversation. He simply continued to watch while I lugged brick after brick. The uneven footing and the climb over the big shelves made the whole thing one big pain in the ass. By the ninth brick my muscles were pure jelly. I was
so
going to hurt tomorrow.

“A long bath in the hot pool will serve you well tonight,” Gestamar said, rumbling louder, and this time I knew damn well he was laughing.

“Yeah, thanks, darlin’,” I panted as I headed back down the damn hill.

I stepped down from a boulder onto gravel, lost my footing and landed on my ass, though I caught myself before sliding. That would have left some ugly road rash.
Still gonna have a bruise,
I grumbled silently as my posterior protested. I grabbed the last brick and slogged my way back up the damn hill, but when I reached the top, Seretis leaned casually against the column where Gestamar had been. Yep, still totally looked like he belonged on a Spanish-language soap opera. He watched me, smiling, as I staggered past him. Lord or not, I wasn’t about to stop when I was so close to being done.

I stacked the brick with the others, then sat heavily and lay back in the grass, breathing hard. I turned my head to peer at him. “Hi, I’m Kara Gillian. Figure you already know that though, right?”

He smiled broadly. “I know it of certainty now. I am Seretis,” he said, voice light and damn near cheery. “It is a true pleasure to meet you, Kara Gillian, as delightfully sweaty as you are in this moment.”

I pushed up onto my elbows, liking him already. “Michael speaks highly of you.”

“And well he should,” Seretis said with a laugh. “I pay him enough to do so!”

“So, you and Mzatal meet up for weekly poker games or something?” Though even as I said it, I damn near busted out laughing at the thought of a bunch of lords getting together for poker night.

Smiling, he bent and picked up one of the big bricks, shook his head. “Nothing so amusing as that this time,” he said, giving me a wink. “Some qaztahl matters. And questions about you.”

I rolled my eyes and sat up. “I’m so popular!” Then I sobered. “Mzatal told you what happened to me?”

“He did, though I also knew some from them.” Seretis gestured to the three syraza sunning themselves on the roof of the palace. “There are those who think you dangerous, Kara Gillian.”

“Are you one of them?” I had to remind myself that simply because he seemed nice and had a sense of humor didn’t mean he wouldn’t prefer to see me dead.

His face still held a smile, though his eyes were serious now. “I could have been,” he said, turning the brick over in his hands, “had Mzatal’s answers been different, and had you assessed differently than you do.”

The sweat froze on my skin. I knew it would take only a flick of his hand for him to smash my skull with the brick. I swallowed to work moisture back into my mouth. “And you believe him? Trust his judgment?”

Seretis tilted his head and nodded slowly, regarding me with keen, hazel eyes. “If he says it, I know it to be truth to the best of his knowledge. It is in what he does not say,” he offered with a shake of his head, “that his shrewd genius abides.”

I nodded slowly, some of the tension slipping away. “I have no intention of destroying the world,” I said, “for whatever that’s worth,”

“I know this,” he said with quiet power. “I truly do. You carry a ‘danger’ that some would like to harness, and no,” he said with a smile, answering the question before I asked it, “I am not one of them.”

“I said once before that dangerous things are used, destroyed, or contained,” I told him. “Are you content with how Mzatal intends to contain and use me?”

His gaze went to the pile of bricks at the bottom of the hill. “I would rather hold—as Mzatal does—that you have the will, courage, and heart to contain yourself and to make use of your potential. Should that prove not to be the case, then I would need to reassess.”

I let out a low sigh. “I guess we’ll find out.”

Seretis looked back to me, held the brick out. “You disliked carrying these up the hill.”

I took it, weirdly relieved to have it out of his hand, even though I knew damn well there were a hundred other ways for him to kill me before I could even blink. But by passing it to me it seemed as if he relinquished my fate back over to
my control. “Exercise and I don’t always get along.” I told him. “We agree to disagree.”

He crouched. “Amkir. Jesral. Rhyzkahl. Kadir.”

My gut clenched, and I made a sour face. “You mean the Four Dickwads?”

Seretis let out a soft snort of amusement. “The Four
Mraztur
.”

“Sounds like a nasty word.”

“There is no direct translation,” he said, “but, in your vernacular, perhaps ‘motherfucking asshole dickwad defilers’ will serve.” His gaze penetrated me, and when he spoke again, the air seemed to tremble around him. “Every brick you carry, every time you climb the column, you strengthen yourself against them. They do not rest in their purposes. Dance the full shikvihr and you become a true thorn in their side,” he said, eying me appraisingly. “Mzatal believes you have the passion, resolve, and skill to do it.”

My eyes went to the top of the column. Memory of the terror of that yawning void whispered through me, and I shuddered. “I have a long way to go,” I murmured, then looked back to him. “But I’ve been described as a tenacious bitch more than once.”

He chuckled, then his smile softened. “You would not have survived Rhyzkahl’s venom or Mzatal’s assessments were you not, Kara,” he said gently. “The Four seek you, and they seek Earth. They believe you carried power in the form of Elinor’s essence and they seek to use you to advance their plans.” He shook his head. “You were more than they had bargained for and less of what they thought they had.”

I turned his words over in my head. “What do they want of Earth?” I asked, though I had a feeling I already knew the answer.

“What most all of us lordlings want,” he said, tilting his head. “Connection. Access. Since the cataclysm, we know it is critical for stability and control of the arcane, as well as the vitality of the qaztahl.” His smile faded. “The Four Mraztur want more though. Benevolent alliance is not what they seek.”

I scowled. “I’m not going to let them fuck up my world,” I said, though I was fully aware those were big words for someone who could barely carry ten bricks up a hill.

“Perhaps that purpose and determination will make this—” He tapped the brick in my hand. “—lighter.”

“Nothing will make the burden lighter,” I replied. “But it sure as shit makes me more willing to bear it.”

“It is much to bear.” His eyes dropped to the sigils that were visible above the neckline of my tank top. For the first time his smile faded completely, as if a light had gone out. He lifted a hand toward me then paused. His face was unreadable, yet I could see in his eyes his need to touch the sigils and his loathing to do so.

I went very still, sensing the silent, motionless battle within him. My pulse thudded as I waited, and I realized I wanted him to touch the sigils, wanted him to
really
know what I went through.

He shifted his attention up to the trio of syraza on the tower, though his hand didn’t waver. His gaze stayed on them for half a dozen heartbeats, and I had a feeling there was a silent discussion going on between them.

Seretis looked back to me, eyes haunted. “May I?” he asked softly. Beneath the words I felt his hope that I’d say no.

I worked moisture into my mouth. “Yes.”

He shifted closer, pausing with his fingers barely an inch above the sigil on my sternum. Unbidden, the memory of the torture that fired this sigil flared.
It is as though I am immersed in acid and my skin boils away as I scream and thrash.
Clenching my hands into fists, I tried in vain to control the shudder.

Grief shadowed across his face as he absorbed the memory. He visibly shook, then sucked in a sharp breath, eyes widening in brief horror as if the power that had formed the sigils reached for him. He recoiled hard enough that he lost his balance and landed awkwardly on his backside, breathing heavily, eyes never leaving the sigil.

I realized I was staring at him in shock, and I quickly controlled my expression as best I could. “Yeah, that’s usually the reaction guys have when they look at my boobs,” I said lightly, trying to break the bizarre tension and give him a chance to recover.

Seretis closed his eyes and drew three controlled breaths, clearly drawing on the pygah and possibly others. After a moment he exhaled and opened his eyes. The horror had faded, yet the revulsion and grief still remained. He shifted
to a half cross-legged position with one knee up, similar to the kneel/sit that the syraza so often used, then raised his eyes to mine.

“I am so very sorry,” he said, voice barely above a whisper but with no less strength.

“It is what it is,” I replied quietly.

A soft smile returned to his face. He reached and brushed my cheek lightly with the tips of his fingers. “And you are here, forged in fiery torment,” he pulled his hand back, rested his forearm on his knee, “prepared to kick the ass, as Michael would say, of the Four Dickwads.”

A shiver of lingering terror raced over me, but I gave him the low chuckle he no doubt expected. I didn’t feel anywhere near strong enough to even look any of them in the eye, much less kick any asses.

He laughed, a beautiful sound that helped disperse my residual fears—and his as well, perhaps. “Trust me, you don’t want to look them in the eye. Ugly, the lot of them.” He stood smoothly and held a hand out for me.

I allowed him to pull me to my feet and gave him a more genuine smile. I didn’t even mind that he’d clearly read my thoughts. He kept hold of my hand, laughing eyes on mine as he bowed toward me and brushed his lips across my knuckles—sharp contrast to Jesral who hadn’t bowed at all, though I doubted Seretis was aware of it.

“And now, my sweaty, fiery summoner,” he said, releasing my hand. “I must take my leave of you as Mzatal awaits me again.”

“It was my pleasure to meet you, Lord Seretis,” I said, actually meaning it.

Seretis beamed. “And a delight to meet you, Kara Gillian.” He turned and began to walk away, then stopped and looked back. “You could surprise Mzatal and carry all the bricks down again.” He took two steps, then stopped again. “On reconsideration, surprising Mzatal is not always the wisest course of action.” He laughed and continued toward the palace, whistling.

Grinning, I watched him go, then looked over at the bricks.

Nope.

Instead I lay down in the soft grass in the shadow of the column, and took a nap.

I felt as if an entire new universe was opening up for me. Mzatal introduced me to the concepts of constructing floaters, starting me out with floor glyphs: chalk first, then transitioning to pure arcane energy. That alone took several days, which gave me plenty of time to get frustrated at my lack of success and apparent inadequacy. Mzatal, however, was the model of patience, though he sure as hell wasn’t always Mr. Nice Guy, and it was clear he had no intention of coddling me or easing me into training. As Idris had warned me oh-so long ago in our first conversation back on Szerain’s tower, Mzatal had no problem letting me know when I’d screwed up. Yet, he also was quick to offer deserved praise and stuck with me until I finally had my lightbulb-over-the-head moment of understanding.

The next couple of days flew by unnoticed as he led me through grueling preparatory practices of how to manage and channel the potency flows. Some of it was familiar—refinements on known techniques—and some completely new. But by the end of the week we were both satisfied that I was ready for the next step.

Mzatal had told me that the shikvihr could only be taught by a lord, and the same held true for floaters. I thought that simply meant it wasn’t
allowed
to be taught by others. I was wrong. A summoner
required
direct initiation from a lord to shape floaters. I could see, but not influence the needed potency strands. He explained that first, a summoner had to have an innate capacity to control potency combined with acquired skill. If those prerequisites were met, then it was simply a matter of fine-tuning what was
already there, which was successful about half the time. I’d already been assessed through the first part, so all that remained was the second, which he accomplished in about ten minutes of holding my hands clasped between his. I didn’t feel any different, but I could sure as hell touch the strands afterwards.

He asked if I wanted to wait until the next day for the actual floaters since it was so late, but I knew the sooner I could get this shit down, the better, so I opted to forge ahead. Besides, I was pretty damned excited to try it. A couple of hours later, I had the kick-all-the-ass, mind-blowing “aha!” breakthrough on the floaters, and by dawn could lay consistent anchors and had a grasp on tracing multi-sigil series.

“And now it is time for you to sleep,” Mzatal told me, giving me one of his this-is-not-up-for-discussion looks when I began to protest that I was fine and could keep working. I closed my mouth, gave him a sheepish grin, and nodded assent instead.