Sacrifice (Book 4) (29 page)

In haste they mounted their skittish horses and fled, the affliction of flesh lessening as they rode away from the ruined Hall of Three Moons. Their skin gradually smoothed and regained its elasticity as they galloped across the cracked bridge above the dark, still water. The gate, bent and hanging from one hinge, squealed in the wind. 

Elde Luri Mora was dying.

I killed it.
Athan lamented.
I am a fool!
His righteous anger, his arguments, his adoration for the being who claimed Eldaloth’s name faded and disintegrated with all the suffering life behind him. A poisonous dread seeped as deep into his soul as the exultant honor and pride he had felt just minutes before, the vast gap between the two emotions a crater into which his very soul plummeted in freefall.

Nearly insensible to all around him, he let the horse follow its companions through the gate to find that the road that had so invitingly welcomed them into the city had completely disappeared, leaving nothing but wilderness ahead of them. Their pace slowed as they tried to pick their way through the uneven ground in the deepening dark.

“Shall we encamp here?” one of the soldiers asked. “The horses cannot go on again! They’ve barely rested!”

Athan hardly heard him.

“Pontiff! Shall we encamp here?”

Athan snapped out of his reverie, regarding the soldier with sober, bleary eyes. There was only one way to remedy this error, only one way to restore the world. If the blood of the Chalaine could destroy, then it could also heal. She must be bled again, only this time in a world without moons, a world where no magic could heal her. If all had gone well with Dason’s plan, then the Chalaine would be safely on her way to Echo Hold, though if she reached it, he feared what Mikkik would do. Surely he knew that only she held the key to the restoration of Ki’Hal.

“No. We don’t camp. We ride for Echo Hold.”

The Chalaine shrank from Sir Tornus, trying to pull Dason away from him. Her former Protector stood firm.

“What house do you come from?” Dason asked Sir Tornus, who looked at him like a savory meal ready to be devoured. “I’ve never heard of any Sir Tornus from anywhere.”

“He’s a Craver, Dason,” the Chalaine explained. “He betrayed the nations at Echo Hold in the Second Mikkikian War.”

“The Lady knows her history!” Sir Tornus said, smiling. “Pray, who did you learn it from?”

“Gen,” she said.

Sir Tornus nodded. “Ah, yes, the man with no soul. You know, I tried to devour him and his companions. I felt dreadful about it, but essence of Uyumaak simply grew too tiresome. It’s not like you can season an essence with herbs. It was, therefore, simply impossible for me to pass up an opportunity for something a little sweeter. But you, Chalaine, are the sweetest soul I’ve come across in ages.”

Dason’s brow crinkled. “Cravers are a myth!”

Sir Tornus regarded him with a wicked grin. “Oh, how I wish I were a myth! I’ve tried to disbelieve in myself for some time, but I keep turning out to be real. But you, my friend, you will learn differently soon.”

Dason stepped back. “Pontiff Athan said he would send a force to protect us. You’d best flee while you are able.”

“I think I devoured your protection,” Sir Tornus explained. “Strange people, these Eldephaere, castrating themselves so they wouldn’t be attracted to a woman they haven’t been allowed to guard for nearly a century. I know traditions tend to linger, but let’s face it—castration is a really poor choice of tradition. It seems a simple vote to end the practice could hardly fail. Quite a deterrent to recruiting, I would imagine.”

During Sir Tornus’s musings, Dason grabbed the Chalaine’s arm and led her sideways, away from the center aisle. The Eldephaere soldiers lay in heaps in the shadows, forcing the Chalaine to step over them and on them in order to reach the side aisle and make for the rear door. Sir Tornus simply strode back to where he had come from to block their way.

“You can’t leave yet!” he said. “The sign hasn’t been given! I’ve one last duty to discharge and I’ll at last be free to die. You young people can hardly understand how the years grind on in boredom, but they do. Death isn’t a punishment or a disease—it’s a relief!”

“Let us pass, or I will cut you down!” Dason threatened.

“Haven’t you been listening? You can’t cut me down! It is my dearest wish that you could! Give me a good whack, young man. Give it all you got. In fact, I wrote a little song for these occasions. I even have a little dance to go with it.”

Hit me hard and cut me deep.

Cleave me in two,

From my head to my feet.

Stab my heart, hack off my head,

Slice off a limb,

Or run me through instead.

Break my bones and spill my guts.

Burn me with fire,

Pound my chest to a mush.

You will stare, and I will sigh.

Oh, how I wish

You could make me die.

While he sang he danced an awkward jig that ended in a bow as if performing for an audience. Dason pulled the Chalaine forward.

Tornus straightened and cut off their retreat in a heartbeat. “I said not yet!”

Dason yelled, “You are mad! Move aside!”

“Mad? I am hungry!”

Sir Tornus’s arm shot out, Dason slapping it aside with his blade and then plunging the sword into Sir Tornus’s heart. Dason twisted the blade while Sir Tornus looked on in boredom. Neither man moved for several moments until Sir Tornus threw up his arms.

“See what I mean? Trust me, the fact that I am not dead is more disappointing to me than it is to you.”

Sir Tornus’s hand shot out again and grabbed Dason’s arm at the wrist. The madman’s eyes flared and Dason’s face went slack, an energy pouring from his eyes and into those of Sir Tornus. The Chalaine screamed and shoved Dason away from Sir Tornus’s grasp, her Protector falling to the ground, alive but face wan and devoid of intelligence. The old knight’s malevolent gaze turned on her and he backhanded her to the floor.

“Never take away the meal of a starving man when he is but half done!”

The Chalaine, ears ringing, tried to get back up, but Sir Tornus had already lowered his face above Dason’s, consuming what remained of her Protector’s essence before she could recover. Once finished, he stood and shook his head, an odd expression of regret flashing over his features, before turning his attention to her.

“Who sent you?” the Chalaine asked.

“Mikkik, of course,” Sir Tornus said, voice suddenly melancholy. “You know, I . . . I never wanted to do this. The hunger. It is too strong. I can’t stop it. I can’t!”

“Are you going to kill me, too?”

He regarded her, face sad. “Yes. But not until he knows that he doesn’t need you anymore. It shouldn’t be long. I am sorry. And on your wedding night and everything. You look quite stunning, I must confess. Such a nice dress. Tell me, is that really Aldradan Mikmir on that throne?”

“He is the King.”

“Not quite what I asked.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Your evasion answers the question. No matter. Mikkik should be busy killing him right now. Aldradan Mikmir—or some good impostor—against Mikkik. Quite a contest to amuse the populace. It’s a shame that we aren’t there to see it. . .”

The Chalaine gasped. Mikkik? In Mikmir? She sprinted for the door, but Sir Tornus knocked her to the floor with his forearm.

“I am so sorry. I was a gentleman once. I can still remember it sometimes. Opening doors for the ladies, throwing out compliments they didn’t deserve. . .”

The Chalaine slid to a sitting position, leaning against the wall and regarding her captor. He seemed so distracted and lost, but clearly he burned with a purpose that rose up whenever anything threatened it. He offered his hand to help her stand up and she refused, shaking her head. He sighed and retracted it, staring at her with the same hungry expression with which he had sized up Dason. The Chalaine stared back at him, trying to choke down her fear.

Then the world changed.

She could feel it, like a subtle shift in the wind or the weaker quality of light when autumn has at last conquered summer. A wrongness pervaded everything at once, a feeling of stillness and death. She shot to her feet, noticing Sir Tornus with his eyes closed and face troubled. She darted toward the door, her wedding dress streaming behind her.
If I can just get outside!
The closer she got to the door, the louder became the shouts of exclamation and dismay rising from the streets. Had Gen been killed? Was the news spreading that Eldaloth had come and slain the pretended Aldradan Mikmir?

With a frantic shove, she pushed the heavy oaken door aside and stepped out onto the wide, square porch of Renberry Cathedral. Revelers in the streets beyond the Church complex had all stopped to turn their gaze to the deep blue evening sky. To the Chalaine’s amazement, the moons had gone, their solid, beaming faces replaced with mighty clouds of dust expanding steadily outward and thinning. Trys, Myn, and Duam had been destroyed, and with them something else, a vibrancy to everything—living and inanimate—around her. It was palpable to her, and, by the expressions on the faces of those nearby, she could tell that they felt it, too.

An iron grip closed around her arm. “Come back inside, Chalaine,” said Sir Tornus. “The sign has been given, and the bargain must be completed. This is, I admit, most unexpected. The moons have shattered like little clods of dirt tossed against a stone. Is this the end of magic, then? No matter. I am nearly free. Come. We wouldn’t want to frighten these people more than they already are! It would be bad manners, don’t you think? You see, I am not as heartless as you think me.”

She wouldn’t go willingly. With all her strength, she struck out with a sharp kick to Sir Tornus’s knee, but whatever damage or pain she hoped to inflict did nothing to the Craver who held her bound. Roughly he dragged her back toward the Chapel, and the Chalaine screamed for help. No one seemed to hear her cry, and Sir Tornus shoved her back inside and closed the door.

“Now, Chalaine,” he began, standing erect and taking on a formal air. “It is time for me to apologize for what I must do. I cannot help it, nor would I.” The hunger crept back into his eyes. “It is nothing personal, I assure you. In fact, in other circumstances, you and I might have been good friends. But a bargain is a bargain, and I must fulfill!”

His hand shot out and caught her by the neck, his eyes alight with anticipation.

A voice behind him pulled him up short. “Stop, Sir Tornus! Or you’ll doom us all!”

He released the Chalaine’s neck, keeping an iron grip on her wrist, and turned. Joranne, now in middle age, approached them down the center aisle. She appeared troubled and did not approach Sir Tornus closely.

“Doom?” Sir Tornus said. “This is my freedom! He will release me if I do this! Or do you wish to kill her yourself? Did he promise to end your curse, too?”

“Yes,” Joranne confirmed. “Two of his pawns sent for the same purpose and promised the same reward. But he cannot make good on his promises now, Sir Tornus,” Joranne explained.

“Why not? Is he dead?”

“No,” Joranne replied. “He is powerless. He did not expect this. The only magic left powerful enough to heal either one of us is in her blood. If you kill her then neither of us can escape our fate!”

“No!” he thundered. “No! No! No! He promised me!”

“Quit acting like a child, Tornus!” Joranne scolded. “We must work together or he will not free us!”

Sir Tornus let go of the Chalaine, who stumbled backward, caressing her neck.
No magic!
Mikkik was powerless, but Ki’Hal felt wrong. Joranne and Sir Tornus eyed each other, two predators trying to decide how to deal with a shared prey.

“See reason, Sir Tornus,” Joranne argued. “Mikkik is the only one who knows how to undo what was done to us.” The Craver’s eyes still burned, but, his brow crinkled in thought. “Think,” Joranne continued, coming closer. “Her blood was the only power that could destroy Elde Luri Mora, but it is also the only power that can restore it to life, which he does not want. As long as we have her, we have a way to manipulate and control him.”

A thought struck the Chalaine and she approached the middle ground between the two. “There is someone else that may know how to heal you, someone who will listen to me.”

“No one knows all the secrets of blood magic except Mikkik,” Joranne said. “He would not give them all, even to me.”

“Gen knows them,” the Chalaine said, trying to sound confident. She wasn’t sure what Gen knew of blood magic, but she had to conjure a way to get herself out of the power of the two people seeking to use her as leverage.

“Gen is dead,” Joranne said, face skeptical.

“He isn’t. Who do you think is parading around as Aldradan Mikmir? Mikkik isn’t the only one who can play tricks.”

“How can this be?” Joranne asked. “He was killed! I am sure of it.”

“He did die at Butchers gap, but the Millim Eri returned him to life using the blood magic of which you speak, though they were loathe to do it.”

“Loathe?” Joranne exclaimed. “They were expressly forbidden by Eldaloth from its practice, as were all of the elder races who had the power of magic.”

The Chalaine said, “If you take me to him, I may be able to persuade him to help you. I dare say, you have a better chance of convincing him than trying to persuade Mikkik to use the power of my blood to help you rather than himself.”

Sir Tornus rubbed his chin and something unspoken passed between him and Joranne.

“I agree that it is worth a chance,” Sir Toruns said, “but there is a problem.”

“What is that?” the Chalaine asked.

“Mikkik went to kill Aldradan Mikmir.”