Frostborn: The Iron Tower (22 page)

“I do not want to hear this,” said Morigna, turning towards the door.

Now it was Calliande’s turn to laugh. 

“He was not my first,” said Mara, “but he is my best. His stamina…”

“No,” said Morigna, stepping into the hall and closing the door behind her.

She shook her head and walked for the stairs to the house’s brick cellar, half-amused, half-annoyed with herself. She was not some blushing maiden to faint at the slightest hint of impropriety. Still, she had absolutely no wish to hear about Jager’s exploits with Mara. She descended the stairs to the cellar, to a brick corridor lined with wooden doors, and Morigna chose one at random. The cellar seemed deserted, the air damp and warm, and some solitude would serve her well, she decided. Perhaps some rest, too. The next several days promised to be arduous. 

Morigna opened the door. A blast of hot, wet air washed over her face, and she blinked just in time to see Ridmark emerge from a steaming brick tub of water, his clothes and weapons piled against the wall.

For a moment she stared at him, caught between embarrassment and something else, something that definitely was not embarrassment. He showed no sign of chagrin or surprise, and remained calm as ever. 

Yet he did not look away, either. 

“Ah,” said Morigna at last. Her mouth had gone dry. “I did not know…”

“You spent the last several years living in a cave,” said Ridmark, a note of asperity in his voice. He reached for a towel and began drying off. “So I assume you never learned how to knock.”  

“I did not know anyone was down here,” said Morigna. She desperately wanted to look away from him, but could not seem to manage the will to do it. 

“This is the bathhouse,” said Ridmark. “I was surprised Otto had one.”

“I did not know this was the bathhouse, either,” said Morigna. 

“For a woman so at ease in the woods,” said Ridmark, reaching for his clothing, “I am surprised that you are lost within a building.”

“Well,” said Morigna, recovering some of her poise, “you can consider this balancing the scales.”

“For what?” said Ridmark, pulling on his trousers. The motion made the muscles of his legs and back do interesting things. 

“You already have seen me unclad,” said Morigna, “so this is only just.”

That finally brought a flicker of embarrassment to his face. 

“I suppose so,” said Ridmark. “Though as I mentioned earlier, the paint was in the way.”

“If you wanted to let me paint you,” said Morigna, “we…”

He looked at her, and the moisture fled her mouth again. 

“The women’s bath is at the other end of the hall,” said Ridmark. He stepped to a wooden table and began to rub soap over his jaw and chin. “It is likely in pristine condition, since women rarely come to Vulmhosk. Given that we have spent the last week running back and forth through the forest, I suggest you make use of it.”

“What are you doing?” said Morigna as he picked up a long razor.

“Shaving,” said Ridmark. “My face itches.”

“You do not have a mirror,” said Morigna. “You shall cut yourself.”

He shrugged, his shoulders rippling. “I will make do.”

“Yes, a fine idea,” said Morigna. Before she knew what she was doing, she stepped forward and plucked the razor from his hand. “If you cut yourself and it putrefies, we shall have no one to lead this ragtag little army you have assembled.” 

A quiver of fear shot through her, and she expected him to take the razor back, to demand that she leave at once.

But he did nothing but stare at her.

“Hold still,” said Morigna, and she titled his face to the side and lifted the razor. 

“Do you really know what you are doing?” said Ridmark. 

“I told you to hold still,” she said, gently tugging the razor down his right cheek, the bristles rasping beneath the blade. “And I have done this many times while preparing pelts.”

Ridmark snorted. “That is not reassuring.” 

Morigna put her fingers to his temple and titled his head the other way. “If I had damaged the pelt, I would not have gotten a good price for them in Moraime.”

He made no answer to that, and she worked the razor over his jaw and cheeks inch by inch. She took care on the left side of his face, avoiding the hard ridges of his brand. At last she finished, and she picked up a towel and wiped away the leftover soap. 

“Better?” Morigna said.

“Much,” said Ridmark. “Thank you.”

“It looks smoother,” she said, running a finger along the right side of his jaw. 

“You were right,” said Ridmark. “You do good work.”

“Thank you,” said Morigna, lifting her hand to his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath her fingers.

“Morigna,” said Ridmark, his voice soft.

Before her courage failed, she leaned up and placed a quick kiss upon his lips. 

She stepped back, her mind racing as fast as her heart. This time she had gone too far. He would push her away, would…

He closed the distance, pulled her close, and kissed her long and hard. A shiver went through Morigna, a warmth spreading from her chest and into her limbs. Her heart thumped hard against her ribs, and…

Ridmark stepped back, shaking his head.

“No,” he said. “This is a bad idea.”

“What?” said Morigna, blinking. Was it something she had done? Or was he thinking of Calliande? Or his dead wife, perhaps?

“We are about to go into battle,” said Ridmark. “And the last time…the last time I did that, she died.” He turned away, leaning on the table. “I’m sorry.”

“Yes,” said Morigna. “Yes, you are right. I am sorry. That was…imprudent, yes. I…will see you tomorrow, when we depart.”

He nodded, not looking up from the table.

Morigna left the bathhouse, went back to the tavern, and sat alone in the corner as Caius and Jager told their tales.

And she wondered what had come over her. 

Chapter 15 - Shadows

Calliande sat in the chair near Mara’s bed, waiting.

“You don’t need to wait here with me,” said Mara, yawning. “I think I shall be fine.” 

“I know,” said Calliande. “But I would like wait until you fall asleep. I want to make sure the spell doesn’t act oddly when you fall unconscious.”

That was the truth, but it was not the entire truth. Calliande wished she could have told Mara more, but she had promised the Watcher that she would never reveal his presence. And she suspected she would hear from the Watcher tonight.

For unless Calliande missed her guess, the Artificer would make another attempt upon Mara. 

Calliande intended to be ready. 

Ridmark had overlooked one thing in his battle plans, one thing he simply could not anticipate. What would the Artificer do once they entered the Iron Tower? Perhaps the ancient spirit cared nothing for the Enlightened of Incariel or the soulstone and would simply ignore the battle. Or perhaps the dark elven wizard would try to claim the soulstone for himself. If the Artificer could control the soulstone, Calliande dreaded to think of what the spirit could do with it. 

“What are you thinking?” murmured Mara, closing her eyes and resting her head against the pillow.

“I was thinking,” said Calliande, “that I fear what might happen if the soulstone falls into Shadowbearer’s grasp, but perhaps I should be more worried that it is already in the hands of the Artificer.”

“He doesn’t have hands,” said Mara. “At least not at the moment.” 

“Nevertheless,” said Calliande.

“I don’t think you need to worry yet,” said Mara.

“Why not?” said Calliande. 

“Because if he could control the soulstone,” said Mara, “I suspect the first thing he would have done was claim me. He can’t rule the world if he’s a ghost trapped in the Iron Tower.” 

“Perhaps,” said Calliande. Mara fell silent, and her breathing slowed. Calliande waited a few minutes, watching as Mara sank into sleep. Then she reached out, placed her hand upon the smaller woman’s forehead, and cast a spell. The spell created a ward around her, linking it to the ward upon Mara’s blood. 

Calliande closed her eyes and put herself into a trance.

And then she fell asleep.

###

In her sleep she dreamed, and in her dreams the Watcher came to her.

But this time, the Watcher looked surprised. 

“You called me,” he said.

“I did,” said Calliande, the gray mist swirling around her. 

“You’ve never done that before,” said the Watcher. The old man looked pleased. “You…remembered how?”

“No,” said Calliande, looking around in the gray mist. “But I worked it out. You only appeared to me when I am sleeping, never when I am awake. That means you can only access my unconscious mind. Or my conscious mind when it is not fully conscious.” 

“That is clever,” said the Watcher. “But why? I will tell you what I can, though much of what I know is still restricted by your command.”

“I know,” said Calliande. “But this time, I need help, not information.”

She gestured, concentrated, and the mist retreated a few yards, revealing Mara sleeping upon the bed. She looked different in the dream. Her physical appearance had not changed, but a web of shadow and blue fire seemed to pulse and throb just below her skin. A pale haze of white light danced around Mara. The veins of shadow and blue fire tried to expand, soaking into her flesh, but the white glow held them at bay.

Yet with every pulse of the veins, the white glow diminished slightly. It would last for a while longer, but when it failed, only Mara’s will would stand between her and the final transformation. 

“How did you do that?” said the Watcher, peering at the web of spells. 

“Morigna’s magic,” said Calliande. “Her spell filters Mara’s blood, binding itself to the dark elven power in her veins and allowing my ward to stand against it.” 

“A subtle solution,” said the Watcher, “but I fear you place too much trust in the child of dark magic. She loves power far too much.”

“I know,” said Calliande, “but for this, trust is not required. The spells will work together to hold back Mara’s transformation.” 

“It will work,” said the Watcher, “but only for a time. In the end, the spell will fail and her legacy will overcome her.”

Calliande shrugged. “Hopefully it will last until we can get her bracelet back.”

“Even that may not be enough,” said the Watcher. “In the past four days her transformation has advanced farther than it did for all the years she carried her bracelet. The bracelet may no longer have the power to hold it back. She is strong of will, but she cannot deny her nature. Sooner or later it will overwhelm her.” 

“She can fight it,” said Calliande. 

“I fear it is her nature,” said the Watcher with a shake of her head. “She cannot change her nature, much as she might wish to. It has been remarkable that she resisted it for so long. But sooner or later, it will consume her.” 

“Not today, though,” said Calliande, scanning the mists.

She saw a pulse of blue fire in the distance, like the beam of a lighthouse cutting through the fog.

“Why have you summoned me?” said the Watcher, looking at the light.

“Because,” said Calliande, “I am reasonably sure the Artificer will try to possess Mara, and I would like your help to stop him.” 

“That is dangerous,” said the Watcher.

“Obviously,” said Calliande as the blue light brightened. 

“If the Artificer learns of my existence, he might pry the knowledge of Dragonfall from my mind,” said the Watcher. “If he claims a body and reaches Dragonfall before you, if he claims your memory and staff, that would be catastrophic. There would be no one to stop the return of the Frostborn, and the world would perish in ice.” 

“I know,” said Calliande. “But it is a necessary risk. You know everything that I know. We have to get the soulstone back.” She felt the presence of an alien mind brush over her, seeking for Mara. “If we storm the Iron Tower and the Artificer disrupts our attack, Shadowbearer will claim the soulstone. Or the Artificer claims the soulstone for himself and creates an empire of his own. Or, worse, he simply hands it over to Shadowbearer.” 

The Watcher sighed. “All that you say is true. Very well. How can I aid you?”

“Can you lend your strength to mine, if necessary?” said Calliande. The Watcher nodded. “Very well. Conceal yourself from the Artificer. I do not want him to learn of your presence. But if he attacks me, lend me your strength if you think it necessary.”

“May God be with you,” said the Watcher, and he faded into the mists.

Calliande waited before Mara’s bed, holding a spell ready as the blue fire and the alien will swept back and forth. She felt it brush against her like tentacles, like the seeking antennae of some deformed, misshapen insect. It sensed her presence, and she felt the Artificer’s rage and hunger.

And then, all at once, he appeared before her. 

The Artificer, or at least the form the Artificer chose to wear in this dream-place, was at least seven feet tall. His face was long and gaunt and bone-white, his pale-blond hair hanging lose around his shoulders, the tips of his elven ears rising from the pale hair. His eyes were utterly black and empty, colder and darker than Mara’s eyes had been in the grip of her transformation. He wore black clothing beneath a long blue coat with black trim. A memory stirred in Calliande’s mind. Shadowbearer’s long red coat, she realized, was the traditional garb of the high elven archmages.

The archmages of the dark elves wore these blue coats. 

She wondered if the Artificer had truly possessed that kind of power, or if he wore the coat as an affectation.

Most likely she would find out in the next few moments.

The Artificer’s freezing black eyes fixed upon Mara, and then rotated towards Calliande.

“You,” hissed the Artificer, his voice the same deep, rasping whisper that had come from Mara’s throat. “The broken child. The little mageling. The fool playing with the powers of the Well.” 

“You have named me thrice, sir,” said Calliande. “Is that always the custom among the dark elves?”

“Do not play games with me, child,” said the Artificer. “I know what you are. I have seen into the half-breed’s mind, and I hear the thoughts of the short-lived mortal worms that wander the ruins of Urd Mazekathar. You are a human, a short-lived mayfly playing at the games of gods. Worse, you attempt to wield power that you can neither comprehend nor control.” The towering figure took a step towards her, the blue coat stirring in an invisible breeze. “And you dare to challenge me, a true master of magic? Impudent little fool.”