The Grave Thief: Book Three of The Twilight Reign (50 page)

‘Bit close to playing the same trick twice, isn’t it?’

‘Double bluff, then. I wouldn’t expect the shadow to be so stupid, and the bastard knows it.’

‘We need to know how the information was come by,’ Sir Creyl said. ‘Last time it was thrown in our faces for their purposes. What if they have allowed Doranei to discover this?’

‘The point stands either way,’ Emin sighed. ‘Come on; you’ve all thought about our next step; what are your suggestions?’

‘Watch your own back yard,’ Morghien said before the others could speak. ‘If it’s drawing your attention to the Circle City, then maybe it’s got something planned for Narkang again.’

‘Pah! The city’s locked tighter than even the Brotherhood knows,’ Count Antern said dismissively. ‘The shadow wouldn’t bother trying.’

‘I trust Doranei,’ Sir Creyl said slowly. ‘He’s watching for ruses; he’s learned the lessons of Scree.’

‘Your man’s burned out,’ Antern countered. ‘There’s no mention of Zhia Vukotic at all - and that’s why he was sent there in the first place.’

‘I trust him,’ Creyl repeated, ‘he knows what he’s doing and he’s not burned out. If Doranei has passed that message on, he came to this properly and this isn’t a trap - unless the ruse is so fantastically clever every one of us would have been taken in.’

‘So?’ King Emin enquired, pulling a cigar from his tunic and lighting it with a taper. He offered the leather case to Morghien, but the man of many spirits waved it away.

‘So we act,’ Creyl said firmly. ‘If Doranei’s looking for orders, that means he can’t manage it himself. I suggest I put together a kill team, mages and Brothers, and send it to the Circle City. We don’t worry about the condition of the city or relations with them; we make a big mess and leave it for someone else to clear it up.’

Antern gave a sharp nod. ‘Grossly unsubtle, something I doubt will be either expected or anticipated. I’ve had intel that envoys from Mustet and Sautin have travelled to Thotel. If they agree a treaty with Lord Styrax, he’ll be free to move north towards Tor Salan, the Circle City, then Embere. Everything south of the Farlan sphere of influence will be open to him, so we have no need to protect our good relations with the Circle City: we’ll tear a hole in the city and get out quickly. It’s our last chance to act there before we find ourselves looking over the border at the Menin Army.’

‘And then we have a whole new set of problems,’ Coran added.

‘Surely we must try to discover what Ilumene is doing there?’ Morghien asked, ‘or are we just going to throw away years of covert surveillance in favour of revenge?’

King Emin was quiet for a moment, watching the thin trail of smoke from his cigar. ‘This is not about revenge, my friend. I’ve made that mistake already. We’ll take this chance to damage Azaer’s disciples and prepare for the next stage, for we all know there will be one.’ He tossed the barely started cigar into the fire, his lips pursed as though the taste had suddenly revolted him. ‘It will hide behind the Menin conquest so we must ensure that, when it does act, we are there waiting.’

 

The last few rain drops hissed into the fires Ehla had set around Mihn. He sat cross-legged, trying to ignore the creeping damp soaking up from the ground, and despite the fires he shivered. It was relatively mild for winter, but under the cloak he wore no shirt and his lean frame had no fat to keep him warm.

‘The spells are working well,’ Fernal said from his position under a tree. His midnight-blue fur merged seamlessly with the shadows and Mihn could barely see anything of the Demi-God beyond his yellow-tinted eyes and fangs. ‘They masked your approach - unless you were overshadowed by Xeliath’s presence.’

‘What did it say?’ Xeliath demanded from her seat just inside Ehla’s tent, bristling at the sound of her name in a language she couldn’t understand.

‘
He
,’ Mihn replied calmly, ‘said he could not sense me as we came, but that might have been down to your presence.’

‘Hah,’ the girl scoffed in Farlan so Fernal could understand, ‘got eyes only for me, have you, Hairy? Too blue for my tastes, so keep yourself under control.’

Fernal growled softly at Xeliath, prompting laughter.

‘
Xeliath
,’ the witch said, speaking into everyone’s minds, ‘
you are here as a guest; behave like one. Someone of your strength should know better.’

The young woman scowled, but said nothing. She wrapped her hands as best she could around the tea Fernal had given her a few minutes before. From beyond the ring of firelight the monstrous son of Nartis fixed his unblinking stare on Xeliath: she might be a fraction of his size, but with the Crystal Skull fused to her palm she had the advantage.

The witch stepped out from her tent and stood at Xeliath’s side. ‘Mihn ab Netren ab Felith, a third request you would have of me. It is said that to ask of a witch a third time is to give away a piece of your soul.’

‘So it is said,’ Mihn replied solemnly. He had spent the day fasting and preparing for what was to come. Hours meditating in the small Temple of Nartis at the palace had brushed aside the clutter of everyday thoughts and deepened his certainty that this path was the right one. ‘The price of power is to wield it,’ he said in a level tone, ‘I cannot turn away from a path that must be taken, not when I am the one best suited to walk it.’

The witch took a step closer, peering down at him like a hunting hawk. ‘And the price you will pay?’ Her voice was dry and harsh, as remorseless as the north wind.

‘I will pay what I must.’

‘Brave words for now.’

Another step forward. Behind her, Xeliath pulled herself upright and fell in behind the witch. She looked like more of a white-eye now, with that same intent, predatory expression Mihn had seen on Isak’s face so many times.

‘Two services I have performed for you, grave thief; the third permits me to name a terrible price. Silence I have given you, the unseen glide of a ghost-owl. Protection I have given you, the leaves of rowan and hazel on your skin.’

‘Grave thief,’ whispered Xeliath from beside the witch, her face alight with savage delight, her eyes gleaming.

‘More you have asked from me,’ the witch continued, her voice growing in strength. Mihn felt the sound all around him, shaking through his bones. ‘And a claim on your soul is mine, to do with as I wish. That claim I offer to another; to the grave, to the wild wind, to the called storm.’

The words struck Mihn like hammer blows, the force of each one echoing through his mind with the finality of nails in a coffin.

‘It is given,’ he whispered, feeling an empty pit open up in his stomach. ‘Whatever is asked shall be done. Whatever cannot be asked of another will be done. Whatever should not be asked of another, it will be done.’

The witch took one more step to come within arm’s reach of the sitting man. She bent down to look him in the eye. Her pale, proud face had never before looked so terrible.

‘To be led through darkness one needs more than light.’ She reached behind herself and took Xeliath’s hand as she grabbed Mihn’s throat. He made no move to resist the witch as her nails dug in deep and drew blood.

With his blood on her hand the witch lowered it and placed her palm on Mihn’s chest. He felt it warm to the touch as the wind suddenly whipped up and began to swirl all around them, tearing through the trees as Xeliath drew hard on the torrent of energy at her disposal.

‘In darkness you will find my price,’ the witch cried. ‘In darkness you will weep for master and mistress as cruel as the ice of their eyes. In darkness you will find both a path, and a leash on your soul.’

The warmth of her hand intensified and Mihn gasped as leaves tore past his face and the ground shuddered. Distantly he heard a sound, a moan from the son of Nartis, but he had no mind for anything but the pain as a lance of flame seemed to run through his chest and a white-hot light filled his eyes. He screamed, and his cry mingled on the wind with the witch’s animal shriek.

The Land fell away, only to abruptly return as Xeliath broke the flow of magic. Mihn was thrown backwards to sprawl on the ground, curling into a foetal ball as his howls became whimpers.

‘It is done,’ Xeliath said, uncaring of the writhing man on the floor, ‘and it has attracted someone’s attention; I sense them closing on the wind.’

Mihn gave a cough which shook his whole body and sent a final burning tingle racing down his limbs. Fernal raced from the shadows and helped Mihn to sit upright. Mihn groaned, the echo of pain still strong. Once he was upright he once more noticed the smell of burnt flesh rising from his chest. He squinted down, his eyes blurred with rain and tears.

‘It is done,’ Fernal repeated.

Mihn frowned, unable to see properly. With an unsteady finger he poked at his chest until he found the right spot and was rewarded with a hot stinging from the red patch of skin on his sternum. Bright against his painfully white skin was a circle containing a rune, one he knew well.

‘Is it finished?’ he asked drunkenly, looking up at the witch.

There was sorrow in her eyes, so profound it frightened Mihn as much as the pitiless expression she had worn only moments before. ‘No, grave thief, it is far from over.’

‘Shit.’ He sank back into Fernal’s arms and unconsciousness embraced him.

 

The grey sky surged and roiled with distant fury. On top of a small hill stood the broken stub of a tower, just one storey high, rising from a sea of gorse. Xeliath occupied a grand throne on what was now the roof, the shattered walls affording her an unhindered view. The gale that lashed around the edges of the tower failed to ruffle her silk shirt or riding breeches as it whistled ferociously over the scarred stone.

The Yeetatchen girl was lost in thought as she scowled at the gorse. She wasn’t afraid, just puzzled. This was her Land, the dreamscape shaped by her mind, and she feared no one here - but she had never before been approached so tentatively here.

She flexed the fingers of her left hand, feeling the dual sensation of a palm both unencumbered and still fused to the Crystal Skull. With a thought she clothed her body in glittering armour of crystal and a short-handled glaive appeared in her hand, like those carried by the Ghosts, but carved from ivory.

‘You will have no need of that,’ called a woman from behind her.

Xeliath blinked, and the entire Land seemed to spin around her while she remained still. The woman, a copper-haired Farlan, staggered and almost fell before she found her balance once more. She was putting her weight on a silver-headed walking stick, moving as if she was injured; even in this dream-state she looked not entirely whole.

Is this a ruse, or does she lack the strength to appear as she wishes?
The Yeetatchen could not help but glance at her own left arm, now perfect and straight.
Vanity perhaps, but the Land owes me that at the very least.

‘Who are you?’ Xeliath said, her voice cutting the wind like a sword through smoke. ‘What do you want with me?’

‘You are Xeliath?’ the woman asked. She pushed her hair away from her face and Xeliath saw a black hand-print on her throat. ‘My name is Legana.’ The wind tore at her long emerald cloak.

The white-eye reached out with her senses and her puzzlement increased. ‘What are you?’ she wondered. ‘Your face says Farlan and your hair says a devotee of the Lady - so why do you smell of Godhood?’

Legana took a step forward. The wind assailing her abruptly stopped. ‘I am the Mortal-Aspect of the Lady, but once I was an agent of the Farlan. I wish to speak to Lord Isak, to give my final report before I leave his service.’

‘Why should I believe you?’ Xeliath asked.

‘I am in your power,’ Legana said simply. ‘Here, I am at your mercy. Lord Isak knows me, he will recognise me, but I am not strong enough to reach him directly.’

‘Do you wear your true face?’ Xeliath mused. An unexpected gust of wind slapped past Legana, making her flinch. When she looked up again her face was unchanged, but Xeliath could now see a curved line of bumps running around her neck.

‘This is my true face. I lack the strength to hide it from you,’ Legana said, before adding in a bitter voice, ‘if I could, I would certainly remove from my neck the mark of the man who broke me and killed my Goddess.’

Xeliath let go of her glaive. The weapon fell slowly and disappeared just before it hit the ground. In its place a small table appeared, bearing a crystal decanter and two glasses. ‘I have summoned him,’ Xeliath announced. ‘A drink while we wait? It’s not real, of course, but who cares?’

The two women spent the next few minutes in silence, carefully scrutinising each other. In this dreamscape Xeliath was unaffected by the paralysis of the real world, and while Legana’s beauty was undiminished, her sinuous athleticism had been replaced by that ethereal quality possessed by all Gods.

When Isak arrived, his peevish expression at the rags he found himself wearing vanished quickly, and he looked both women up and down, not trying to hide his appreciative grin. Only when Xeliath gave him a distinctly unfriendly look, accompanied by a distant rumble of thunder, did the Lord of the Farlan step forward, his palms upturned in greeting.

‘Legana,’ he acknowledged as she returned the gesture, ‘you’re changed since last I saw you.’

‘There have been many changes, Lord Isak.’ She inclined her head, to concede the point rather than show deference. ‘I come to give you my final report.’

‘Final?’ He shot a look at Xeliath, who was now lying on her side on a green upholstered sofa, watching the pair of them like a cat. ‘You wish to leave my service?’

‘I have left your service,’ she corrected. ‘My allegiance is no longer to the Farlan.’

‘Are we enemies instead?’ His voice was cautious rather than hostile, but, apparently unbidden, Eolis appeared in his hand.

‘Not unless you wish it, my Lord,’ she said carefully. ‘I am not so changed that I have forgotten my past.’