Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8) (123 page)

“Because somehow I doubt that the ability to
read
remains in your head, if it was ever there,” Pentandra said.

Bezmiol looked puzzled.  “
Read?
”

“It’s how you access and interpret the information within one of our
books
,” Pentandra explained.  The Alka Alon were all eidetic, remembering everything they heard, which meant that they did not use writing . . . though several other species of Alon had adopted the practice in one form or another.  As she suspected, the Alka Alon who had lived before the arrival of the
humani
from the Void had only a vague notion what literacy even meant.  “If you don’t understand the codes and symbolism, the book will be useless to you.”

“We . . . we have
humani
servants who can read,” Bezmiol said, a little defensively.

“No doubt,” she smiled, indulgently.  “I hope - for your sake - that they have the social context to understand the
meaning
of the prophecies.  Otherwise you are wasting your time.”

“I have been sent for a book, and a book I shall take!” insisted Bezmiol.  

“So shall I.  So when we finally ferret out where she might have hidden it, we’ll have a conflict.”

“The point is moot if it is not found,” agreed Bezmiol.

“True,” she agreed.  “But that is preferable, from my perspective, to you finding it for your master.”

“I can see your perspective,” admitted Bezmiol.  “So we are at an impasse.”

“Not quite,” Pentandra said, adjusting herself in Antimei’s incredibly uncomfortable chair.  “While we
could
fight over it, I am in favor of the idea of a simple contest to decide the book’s fate.”

“A contest?” the fiend asked, intrigued.  “What
kind
of contest?”  

Pentandra knew that some Alka Alon were obsessed with such things as games and contests – in fact, many of the early accounts of encounters between the two races were based around their delight in such things.  She had counted upon that fascination to persist beyond the grave, and judging by Bezmiol’s interest, she had guessed correctly.

“I am open to suggestions,” she said, casually.  “But we may have a while to wait before she expires.”

Bezmiol looked dismayed.  “How long?”

“We are a
very
resilient species,” Pentandra observed, glancing at Antimei’s body on the couch.  “It might be as much as a day or so.”

“I . . . I am supposed to return with the prize
immediately!”

Pentandra shrugged.  “Then start searching every nook and cranny of this mountain,” she suggested.  “There must be
thousands
of hiding places within walking distance.  She certainly didn’t keep it here,” she chuckled.  “I’ve already searched the croft.  No books of prophecy here.”

She could only hope he would take the bait . . . and he did.  With a very human-sounding sigh, the undead monster turned back outside and gave orders to his
draugen
lackeys to search the mountain.  Human beings would have been dismayed at such an order and at least grumbled at the impossible task.  The red-eyed animate corpses merely complied with their master’s orders and began wandering off to search.

“Can they see in the dark?” she asked, surprised.

“Better than in the light,” he admitted, as he took his former spot squarely in front of the door, his massive sword still planted.  “They are not terribly intelligent, but they can recognize a book when they see it,” he added.

“That makes them superior to most of the nobility,” Pentandra quipped.  

“I do wonder at the utility of this . . .
writing,
” Bezmiol said.  “Why record your thoughts, so that others may steal them?”

“Most who write are hoping
someone
will read what they record,” Pentandra pointed out.  “And our poor human minds are just too distractible to be able to hold that much information at one time.”

“You do suffer from a terrible weakness of mind,” the Nemovort agreed.  “Why, I often wonder how your folk manage to even develop the crudest of civilizations, much less keep one running, with the small mental capacity you have available.”

“It’s a constant struggle.  You really have no idea,” Pentandra complained.  “Which is why we’ve had to borrow our wisdom and lore from ages past: the written word.”

“It has a certain brutal efficiency,” admitted Bezmiol, conversationally.  “But it robs you of creativity and adaptability.”

“I find it hard to argue with that,” agreed Pentandra.  “Especially considering the pile of parchment accumulating on my desk, back at the palace.  But tell me, Bezmiol, what do you hope to gain from this contest between our two worlds?”

“A fair question,” he admitted, thoughtfully.  “Most of my fellows are bent on revenge for their imprisonment.  I try to take a more philosophical approach.”

“You bear no enmity against the Alkan Council, then?” she asked, surprised.

“Oh, no, I want to see it destroyed and its members slaughtered, perhaps even on the sacrificial stone, the way those gurvani animals do it.  It would serve them right.  One does
not
get imprisoned in a crypt for over a millennia without developing some resentment.”

“I suppose I can see that,” nodded Pentandra, pleased that she’d found the one chatty undead Korbal had in stock.  “But you don’t really seem like the type to devote yourself to revenge.”

“Oh, I’m not!” Bezmiol assured her.  “I am a scholar, first and foremost.  One of Korbal’s assistants in his research.  But I am pressed into service in this ungainly form, with this . . . weapon, because of my master’s need.  This is only temporary,” he explained, though Pentandra guessed he was trying to convince himself more than her.  “Though strong, this body is already degrading, and is completely inappropriate for my work.”

“And that is?” Pentandra asked, as if she was conversing with a colleague at the Conclave.  “Professional interest,” she explained, coolly.  But she knew there were few men who could resist talking incessantly about their work.

“Oh, of course.  I seek to perfect my knowledge of enneagrammatic magic -- necromancy, your folk call it.”

“My folk usually try to avoid calling it anything,” Pentandra pointed out.  “We dislike death.”

“
All
dislike death,” proclaimed the dead man.  “Even those who purport to worship it do so out of their own fear.  Which is why my master and I – and others – have sought to cure it!  That is the entire focus of my work,” he added proudly.

“And how is that coming along?”

“I am still here, after a thousand years,” Bezmiol pointed out.  “None of my family can boast that.”

“You have a point,” Pentandra said, trying not to imagine such a hellish existence.  Perhaps the Nemovorti parasites were made of tougher stuff.  “But what is your ultimate goal?” she repeated.  “What are you trying to accomplish?”  She tried her best to sound only vaguely interested.  That usually got a man talking - human men, anyway.  She wasn’t certain such subtleties translated into Alka Alon, or Enshadowed, or whatever mental language Bezmiol thought in.  

But ego is ego, regardless of species, she learned quickly.  Bezmiol was more than happy to discuss his work.

“Well, I’d like to explore the recesses of the Ghost Rock, under Anthatiel,” he admitted.  “Korbal has made use of them, in an elementary way, to produce the
draugen
and other servants.  But I believe it is possible to embody the most ancient and powerful enneagrams in modern hosts,” he proposed, boldly.  “With the proper adjustments,” he conceded. “To resurrect that which has been extinct since before either of our folk came to Callidore, and let them see the sun with new eyes after so long . . .”

“That is an intriguing proposal,” Pentandra admitted.  “But again, to what end?”

“Well, there are--”  the monster halted.

“What?” asked Pentandra.

“Sorry, just some . . . trouble,” he said, shaking his head, distracted.  “I was saying, there are a multitude of applications.  Immortality, of course, is the prime.  As well as the thrill of pure research.  Under the Council we had strict controls over what we were able to do in that field, that is, until Korbal rebelled.  For a brief time we made some incredible advances . . . but then politics intervened, and our research was ended.

“But now,” he said, with growing enthusiasm, “we are awakened to an entirely
new
world . . . one which presents us with the
perfect
subjects for experimentation: the
humani!”

Pentandra tried to suppress the chill that went down her spine at the casual way he spoke of her species.  

“What makes the humani better subjects?” she asked, doing her best to affect an academic manner.  Asking any researcher about the details of their work, in her experience, was an invitation to a lecture . . . whether you wanted one or not.  Right now, she wanted as long a lecture as the creature could spin.  When she glanced over at Alurra, who was still kneeling next to Antimei, the blind girl was weeping . . . but also nodding her head decisively and subtly.  

She had arranged the signal code with her apprentice before the undead arrived, and Pentandra was pleased with how quickly the girl caught on.  Whether it was her brief association with Sir Vemas and the Woodsmen, helping root out the last of the Rats, living at the palace among deceptive courtiers, or some native talent for deviousness she had on her own, Alurra seemed to naturally able to use deception and misdirection . . . and had the wisdom, usually, to know when to use them.  

Alurra’s nods were counting out the number of draugen scouring the mountain outside of the croft.  And the number of beasts she had shadowing them.

It had seemed a shame to waste the girl’s best talent - beast mastery - in a region that was so replete with animals - one with which she was intimately familiar.  When Pentandra had considered allies in her unexpected challenge, she had considered calling Terleman, Astyral or even Azar to come assist her.  But this plan called for subtlety, not warmagic.  Pentandra had instead convinced Alurra to summon as many of her furry and feathered friends as possible to aid them.

Right now there were owls scouting overhead, watching every draugen on the mount.  There were small mammals shadowing the undead, who (Pentandra predicted) would ignore them utterly in their single-minded pursuit of the book.  

And there were carnivores and belligerent herbivores Alurra had called, too.  Wolves.  Wildcats.  Coyotes.  Perhaps other, even more dangerous predators - despite her foray through the Wilderlands last summer, Pentandra still was not familiar with all the wildlife here.  Alurra had been communing with them for years, now, and she had assured Pentandra that she could enlist their help.

Bezmiol was entirely ignorant of that, of course.  He continued his explanation with more enthusiasm than she expected from an animated corpse, but then he was very invested in his work.

“Are you jesting? The
humani
biology is rugged, powerful, and can be raised relatively quickly.  And it takes an enneagrammatic overlay like a dream!  The
humani
central nervous system is just complex enough to be able to sustain a pattern for some time, and is far, far more adaptable than any of the Alon.  The host is easily replaced, there is an abundant stock, Of course there are limits,” he admitted, looking at his
humani
hands.  “The more complex the enneagram, the more rapid the decomposition.  And the host body does, technically, perish in the process.  The essential biology must be driven by magic, at this phase in our development,”

“That explains the sigils on your skin,” Pentandra acknowledged.