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Authors: Carol Berg

BOOK: Transformation
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Verdonne, what was I doing? Desperately I cast my eyes downward and memorized the lines of my trembling hand. Not yet. Not yet. I pushed the vision away ... walled it up again ... and waited for the guard to return.
“He’s coming out. I hope you’ve got something as he wants to hear.”
Well, he wanted to hear it, but he wasn’t going to like it.
Aleksander stepped through the heavy velvet curtain. His high-necked black tunic was trimmed in silver; silver bands set with amethyst bound his full sleeves and his neck. Black did not sit well on him, but left him looking pale and ill in the lamplight. He grabbed my arm before I could kneel. “What news, Seyonne?”
I read him the message from the rolled scrap of paper.
Your Highness,
The Lord Dmitri and five companions rode eastward on the Jybbar Pass road ten days ago. The weather has been moderate. I have dispatched a search party along the route, and the House of Marag has sent its finest scouts to aid us. I will send news as soon as I have any.
All glory and honor be yours in this time of celebration, and may this message find you rejoicing in the company of the Marshal Dmitri.
Your humble servant,
Rozhin, Chief Magistrate of Avenkhar
 
“Damnation!” Aleksander slammed his fist into the gallery wall. “Ten days. He should have been here in four.”
The crowd in the ballroom let out a great sigh as the remaining lamps flicked out and were replaced by whirling green and purple and blue. The sickly light made Aleksander’s complexion look dead and his eyes sink into dark pits. “Hang all this foolery. Tell Sovari to pack my gear and have ten of my men ready to move in one hour.”
“As you command, my lord.”
“Your Highness, what keeps you? The entertainment is reaching its climax.” The man who stepped through the velvet curtain was in a rich purple gown, sewn with gold thread. Though his purple cape was lined with gold and fastened by a massive gold clasp, he was not the Emperor. His flaxen hair was not braided, the shoulders were too slim for a Derzhi warrior, and the soft, accented voice was not the speech of the man who ruled most of the known world. His pale face was indistinct in the strange light, but I could see that he was a Khelid.
I bowed and remained in a submissive posture, wondering who he was. I did not know how to recognize Khelid rank.
“I’ve received word that my uncle is missing in the Jybbar Pass. I’m off to find him.”
“But, Your Highness, the ceremonies ... the Emperor ... your guests ...” Surprise. Kindly concern.
“They mean nothing if my uncle is endangered, Lord Kastavan.”
Kastavan. The highest-ranking Khelid in Azhakstan. He who was persuading the Emperor to abandon Zhagad, the birthplace of the Derzhi. The man who had traded his mutilated king for Derzhi favor. I stole a closer glance at him, but his back was to me.
The music grew louder and more grotesque. The colors reflected on the walls and faces around me blended in nauseating profusion. Sweat dripped down between my shoulder blades. It made no sense.
“Of course, I understand,” said Kastavan, laying a sympathetic hand on Aleksander’s shoulders. “Most distressing. So send your slave to make ready while you watch the conclusion of our display. Only a few minutes more. Korelyi and Kenedar will wither in humiliation if you are not there to witness their triumph—it is unlike any magical event in the history of your fair Azhakstan. Designed especially for you.”
Magical display ... Korelyi. The nerve-scraping music. The nauseating light. The memories that would scarcely keep buried. Demons.
“Be off, Seyonne, and do as I’ve said. Tell Sovari I’ll be at the stables in an hour.” I could scarcely hear the Prince, for the thunder of warning in my head. Now that I let it loose, I thought it might crumble my bones. Was it only the one demon I had seen or were there more of them? Surely the creeping horror that chilled my soul was not just from Korelyi.
“As you command, my lord,” I said automatically.
The Prince and the Khelid moved toward the velvet curtain. My skin shriveled with what I had to do. I moved as if to go, then I stepped deliberately on the flowing purple cloak, holding it long enough to jerk the heavy gold clasp hard against the Khelid’s throat. He staggered briefly and choked, then whirled about furiously as I stumbled off the purple silk and dropped to my knees. “A thousand pardons, my lord!” I cried and glanced upward. Just before Kastavan’s hand crashed into my head, I glimpsed what I dreaded: a pair of cold blue eyes that spoke of soulless lust, lust that had found an evil nest very much to its liking. But the magnitude of what I saw took me beyond fear. This was beyond anything I had ever known, beyond anything any Ezzarian, living or dead, had ever seen. I had glimpsed a being from our most ancient writings, so fearful that we could not believe in it lest we refuse to venture our work in terror of encountering such a one. Korelyi was a small player. Kastavan ... Kastavan was the Master.
I crawled away, trying to shake the darkness from my head, mumbling apologies, not daring to think lest the demon somehow read it.
“The slave will be punished for this,” said Aleksander.
“No need,” said the Khelid smoothly. “I’ll not let a captive brute spoil your celebration. The slave can repay me by doing his duty. Come, Your Highness, and view the climax of the evening.”
It seemed to be my good fortune—if good fortune could be said to apply in any encounter with demons—that Kastavan was preoccupied with Aleksander and whatever was going on in the ballroom. But his very interest in the Prince spoke of monumental deviltry, and I didn’t know what to do about it.
“You are more lenient than I,” said Aleksander coldly, then opened the curtain for his guest. “Please go in.” As the Khelid and the servant disappeared through the opening, the Prince looked down at me in irritation. “Are you absolutely mad?” he whispered.
“Don’t go in, my lord,” I said, huddling over my knees as would be expected from a slave in imminent danger of the Prince’s wrath. At a gesture from Aleksander, the guards had moved back to their station beside the stairs. “Find a reason. Stay away from him.”
“There is not reason enough. I cannot leave without informing my father. I’ll be inside no more than five minutes. Do as I told you and be ready to explain yourself when I return from the Jybbar.” He shoved me toward the stairs with his foot, then disappeared inside the curtain. The kick wasn’t hard, just enough to knock me off balance. I did the rest, sprawling on the gallery floor and creeping away.
The guards shoved me down the stairs, but I didn’t go all the way down. I needed to be about the Prince’s errand, yet I had to understand what the Khelid were doing. I had seen the Lord of Demons ... the Gai Kyallet, the Changing Face ... one who could assume a hundred different aspects when forced to take form, who was accounted impossible to slay in a demon battle, because of its power and guile. Our oldest writings claimed that the Gai Kyallet could draw the demons together and set them to a common purpose, could command them all with a single thought as a queen bee ruled her hive. I could not imagine such danger.
I stood by the railing and looked out on the ballroom. The end of the ballroom had disappeared, and in the open space beyond the crowd was a world of marvels. Between the sturdy granite columns existed a magical woodland with youths and maidens chasing each other and laughing merrily as they caught and kissed and ran away again. Fantastical birds and beasts cavorted with them: a deer with a boar’s head, a bird with an eagle’s wings and the claws of a lion, a horse with a man’s head. All through their games they danced to the squawking demon music, or maybe the enthralled onlookers heard the mellanghar or the mountain pipes in more familiar melody and it was only I who heard the demon music. A fragrant wind stirred the treetops and wafted into the audience, ruffling hair and gowns, stealing the breath of the astonished Derzhi.
Five Khelid stood to each side of the display. One of them walked into the crowd, took a young woman’s hand, and drew her into the vision. When she stepped past the granite columns, her formal attire grew blurry and was replaced by country apparel, and instead of a silk fan, she carried a basket of flowers. Soon she was dancing with the rest, and the Khelid stepped out again and took the hand of a young man. There was wild applause and laughter from the audience.
I passed my hand before my eyes and shifted my senses. I expected to find enchantment. The vision was too elaborate; it could only be spell-wrought. And though I prayed not, I expected the Khelid magicians’ eyes to be cold and dreadful like those of Korelyi and Kastavan. The presence of such a powerful demon was dreadfully serious, even if I discounted tales that had likely swollen with so many years of telling. But I came near drowning in horror at the entirety of the truth. The magical forest was no enchantment, but a place that was quite real. Somewhere a poor man or woman was clawing his head in madness, tearing at her own flesh, screaming at the horrors trapped inside. Soon the dancing youths would pull out their swords or the maidens bare their fangs. Perhaps the beasts would extend claws of steel or spew out poison or lick the dancers with tongues of flame. All would be blood and terror, destruction and madness. Perhaps the Derzhi spectators would see it; perhaps it would only play out in the broken mind. The demons might have other purposes in view. But it would happen, and the sad wretch whose soul they violated would never be the same again. I could not allow this to go on. For the forest was a landscape such as I traveled when I was a Warden, when I would step alone through the portal of a human soul and do battle with demons.
Chapter 14
 
I tried to go back to warn Aleksander. I begged, I groveled, I pulled out every reason, every excuse, offered every bribe or favor I could think of, whether possible or not, to persuade the guards to let me back up the stair. But they had seen the Prince kick me away, so they were in no mind to be persuaded that he would want to see me again. After ten fruitless attempts to sneak, push, and talk my way through, the guards threatened to put me in chains if I bothered them again. One of the guards threatened to tell Durgan I was mad, and in my frenzy of helpless dread, it was very near the truth.
The danger was unimaginable. The Khelid were working enchantments with the most profound sorcery that existed in the world, drawing on the madness of a tormented human soul. Yet I had no idea what they were trying to accomplish with it. Were the Derzhi guests the target, or was Aleksander, or the Emperor himself? Even if I could get to Aleksander, what could I tell him? That every Khelid in the palace might carry a demon within, and that their magic was dangerous, unholy, soul-destroying? That his father, the Emperor of the Derzhi, was likely in the thrall of the Gai Kyallet, the Lord of Demons, the most powerful of their kind, prophesied to lead the demons in a war to end the world? He would never believe me. Nor could I explain to him how he, Aleksander, carried within him the very thing demons hated most, the spark of strength and honor that could enable a man or woman to hold out against them. But only if he used it. Only if he nurtured it and humbled himself to its power.
Impossible. He is an arrogant, murdering Derzhi.
His own people had stripped me of the very tools I needed to discover what was happening. I wished myself a thousand leagues away. Better to be dead. Better to be chained to the rocks in the depths of the Derzhi mines than to be faced with a dilemma so monumental in consequence and so wretchedly impossible to solve. Oaths and wishes had no bearing on the matter at all. I could not even get close enough to warn him.
From the ballroom came laughter and applause, and the howling music that covering my ears could not silence. The liveried sentinels who ringed the ballroom were not so obviously armed as the guards on the stair, but their ranks were no more penetrable. I could not see what was going on ... and, in truth, I did not want to see. Whatever were the purposes of the demons, I could not stop them. Never had bondage been so bitter.
I slunk away from the ballroom, half sick with the aura of demon, and found Sovari, captain of the Prince’s personal troop. I delivered Aleksander’s orders, and Sovari immediately sent word to handpicked riders to make ready, and to the kitchen to prepare provisions for the group, and to the stable to have the horses saddled and loaded. Then he proceeded to Aleksander’s chambers to collect the Prince’s preferred weapons and riding clothes and winter cloaks. I snatched the opportunity. When the Derzhi captain walked past the door guards and into the Prince’s apartments, I followed close on his heels. I lit candles and sat purposefully at the writing desk as if I had work to do there. Sovari sent the extra clothes to the stables, and piled the riding clothes and weapons on the table. Then he left. Pages of nonsense flowed from my pen as I waited, hoping to get five minutes with the Prince before he set off to chase Dmitri.
But Aleksander did not come. The hour passed, and then a second one.
“Are you sure of your message, slave?” Sovari demanded when he checked the room for the fifth time in half an hour.
“Upon my life, sir. He said to be ready to leave in one hour. He planned only to make his farewells to the Emperor and the guests in the loge. Five minutes, he told me. Has the entertainment ended?”

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