Sorcerer Rising (A Virgil McDane Novel) (42 page)

“What are you proposing?” he asked finally.

Lancaster smiled. “Why, we work together of course. There is no reason not to. Our interests are the same, our goals are the same. We both have the resources to put toward this. Why go at it any other way?”

“Perhaps because we
are
competing,” I said.

The Wizard’s smile faltered, his eyes turning on me. “Why are you here at all?”

“Because I asked him,” Lambros said. “Mr. McDane has been a valuable addition to our team and was personally hired by Mr. Aberland. You will show him the respect he deserves.”

Actually, she had said that since I was hired to piss the Wizards off, it was about time I started earning my keep. But, hey, if she wasn’t going to split hairs, neither was I.

Lancaster’s smile renewed its intensity. “Ah, I didn’t realize. My apologies,
Sorcerer
. I should have known. I’ve read your works on Nidia and the Aether. They were quite eye opening. Amazing what quaint ideas we used to have about magic. But then, you did apprentice for Mullally. Perhaps one day you can come to England and we can
educate
you on some of your mistakes.”

I gritted my teeth. “I’d like to see you say that to Ben.”

“It’s nothing Wiseman doesn’t tell him every time he bows and scrapes at their meetings, McDane.”

I stood, or tried to, but a force pushed me back in the chair. I couldn’t move a muscle. The Wizard winked, he fucking
winked
, at me, then returned his gaze to Dorne.

“Don’t listen to this, Conrad. You know better. Don’t allow what happened with Tiffany to happen here. There is no reason we cannot cooperate.”

Dorne seemed to deflate. “I agree,” he said finally. “That is why you should advise your client to take this ship to the other end of the island.”

“What?” Lancaster asked, his demeanor cracking.

Dorne sighed. “I have fulfilled this part of the charter. We got here first. If you desire to explore this part of the island, you can wait until we are done.
Or
you can go around to the other side. I will allow you that much.” He paused. “Professional courtesy and all.”

Lancaster gritted those perfect white teeth into a snarl. “The Masters will hear of this. Do you have no sense of loyalty?”

Finally, Dorne’s face twisted into an expression. He stood. “You are not of my House, Cecil. That you would come here and ask that I compromise my charter for yours is dishonorable and wrong. That you would threaten to report me to the Masters when you have so blatantly abused the prestige of your House. Frankly Cecil, I shouldn’t allow you to dock at all!”

Coleman guffawed. That’s the best way I knew to describe it. “You ain’t got no damn right by that, Wizard.” He turned to Lancaster. “What in the hell am I paying you for? Get this done!”

“You will regret this,” Lancaster said, standing. He smoothed his suit, buttoning his jacket. “Very well. We accept your conditions. Now take your pet and get off my boat.”

“What are we doing here?” I asked.

We were in the village, back on the island. The Coleman team had left, going to the northern part of the island. That only put them about twenty miles away from us, but if the jungle continued to prove as dangerous as it was, they wouldn’t be a problem.

Dorne had brought me up into the village. We were standing in front of one of the buildings, a dilapidated and crumbling stone structure. The thatch of the roof had rotted away long ago, leaving only the shell of the building.

“I need your help,” he said simply. Then he walked into the building.

I followed. He had cleared away any debris inside, inscribing several runes into the earth. A circle of bones had been arranged around the runes, and seven skulls sat in a row in the dirt.

“What is this?” I asked. “Was this here already?”

Dorne shook his head slowly. “No, Virgil. I am going to show you something I have shown few. I will…I will need some help to see this through. Otherwise
, I would not burden you with it.”

“You did this?” I asked, studying the scene. It was like an
altar, or a shrine. For a ceremony.

For necromancy.

I stepped back, my hand held up in instinct.

“You’re a necromancer,” I said.

Dorne frowned. “Please do not say it like that. I would think you of all people would be more open-minded.”

I lowered my hand. He had a point there. Still, it was a shock. As a whole, there weren’t good and bad magics, but necromancy was one of the few I felt comfortable slotting into the bad category. A necromancer manipulated the world in such a way, used their Aether in such a way, that it perverted the very fabric of reality. Your mind defined your magic, and for you to perform necromancy at least a bit of you had to be dead.

“Okay,” I said. “I’m in a glass house. I owe you that much. What are you doing?”

He leaned his staff against the wall and sat down in the circle. “We cannot venture back into that jungle, of that I am certain. But we are no closer to finding the origination of the Arcus. I have some…methods for finding out information. I am going to do that.”

“What do you need me for?”

He held out a hand, indicating the space across from him. I sat.

He took a deep breath and settled into things. “I have a partner, a familiar but perhaps not in the way you know them. He will guide me, but when casting this type of spell, other spirits may be called up. People I have known, or will know. I need you to keep them from distracting me.”

“Alright,” I said.

He held his hand over the runes and they flared to life. Black, inky mist spilled from his palm, smothering the runes, crawling over the earth to fill the skulls. The magic filled the air with the sickly sweet scent of death, the taste of rancid meat and soured milk. My tongue felt dry, like ash, and my skin crawled.

Then, I don’t mind saying, the real shit started to happen.

Dorne took a ring from his finger, one I had noticed before but never paid any special attention to, and placed it in the midst of the swollen, black runes. It was made of a single piece of crystal with no ornamentation whatsoever.

Grey, wispy mist began to drift up from the ring, a cloud of smoke that slowly coalesced into the form of a man.

A man made all of stone.

There was
a cloud of Aether in Arizona, the Heart of the Earth, where the very ground is alive. It is inhabited by a race of nomadic constructs made all of stone. They travel through the earth as if it were water, coming to the surface only for select activities.

It was discovered by a Sorcerer and sold to a corporation. See, when the constructs die, their body becomes a fine quartz. It can be sculpted and crafted with incredible detail. Of course, the corporation sells these knick knacks, robs the graves of their ancestors to make their bodies into paperweights, jewelry, and art. Half the time they trade the natives coal and obsidian for the goods, it’s like crack to them. Currently there was a civil war in the cloud as they people are fighting the government that trades with outside influences in their dead.

The spirit that formed in the air, then floated over to the ground beside Dorne, was made all of quartz crystal.

“Virgil,” Dorne said. His voice was mellow, slurring. “This is Tarsinius. He is an old friend.”

Tarsinius nodded in greeting. “It is not often Conrad introduces me to others. It is truly a pleasure.”

“To you as well,” I said
to the spirit.

Dorne continued, his eyes closed. “These skulls were natives of this island. I am going gleam them for information. They won’t be corporeal, not without a better connection, but I will see and hear tidbits. Tarsinius will guide me, show me the way.

“But you will need to block out the others.”             

“Others?” I asked.

“While I can target who I summon, I cannot keep others from overhearing. You may see others, people close to me or you or any of the others on the expedition, anyone I have had contact with.”

“And how am I supposed to protect you?” I asked.

“Will them away. For most that will be enough. For the others, you may have to distract or persuade them.”

The air shifted, the smoke filling the room until the walls disappeared. Shapes began to form on the border of my vision, faces with twisted mouths and longing eyes.

A shape, a large man with a heavy beard floated through the mist. He had a staff in one hand and looked suspiciously like Dorne. I focused my will and he drifted away, dissolving. Most were like that. There were many that looked like Dorne, several of the men who had perished on the trip here, people who I could only assume were natives of the island.

My breath caught in my chest. Tiffany floated into the room, her braid over one shoulder. She was smiling, her eyes sad.

Dorne grimaced. “Virgil,” he mumbled.

I tried to will her away, but her form only sharpened, becoming more distinct. Her staff formed in her hand, her clothes becoming more detailed.

“I am sorry, Tiffany,” I said.

Her gaze shifted from Dorne to me. Dorne’s face softened in response.

“I am sorry I let you die,” I continued. “You were a good person, one of the first to show me the type of kindness you did. I will never be able to repay you for that.”

She reached out and caressed my face. Her voice drifted out, a whisper that brought the scent of flowers and fruit. “You did what you could, I know that.”

“I was too late,” I said. “It didn’t even occur to me…I’m just so very, very sorry. You deserved more.”

Tears drifted down her face. “I did,” she agreed. “But so many do.”

I reached up and held her hand. It was soft, warm even. “I wish I could have known you better.”

She smiled. “I bet you tell all the girls that.”

I laughed. Her hand began to lose its warmth, its solidity. She drifted back, wafting through the air.

Then a wail cut through the air. Dorne cried out and Tarsinius growled, a sound like an avalanche. A spectral form burst into the room, hair wild, face twisted in anguish and pain.

“It’s not fair!” she screamed, flailing about. A hand, fingers like steak knives, slashed at Dorne’s face. A slash raked down his skin, blood oozing from the wound. “I had more to do! They took everything, put it in that abomination! It is not fair!”

I reached out with my will, trying to tame the spirit. “Who are you?”

“It doesn’t matter!” she screamed. “They took my name! Left behind only the other!”

“What other?” I asked. “Sprit, give me a name. Let me help you!”

Her face shifted, becoming that of a young lady with feline features and beautiful red hair. She had full lips and blue eyes, so dark they were nearly purple.

“No,” I said. “You’re not dead.”

“They left another!” she said. “And trapped me in the abomination!”

I stared into the face of Sarah Hale, who was very much not dead yet had been murdered all the same. This thing I saw lacked her accent, didn’t speak like her, didn’t act like her, but it was the woman who had been in her body, the person that had died when her mind was assaulted. No wonder she had been so devastated, a piece of her soul had been sheared off.

And I was looking at her.

“Spirit, you must go. A piece of you died, but another piece remains.”

“I cannot go!” she shouted. “They trapped me in glass!”

“If you do not go, I cannot help you. But I promise you, I will find those trapped you. Who did this?”

“A monster!” she screamed again. “With yellow eyes. He smelled of the sea and his magic burned my mind.”

“I will do all I can,” I said. “I will find this glass!”

“Do not find the glass!” she said. “Find he who trapped me. Burn him, make him pay!”

Then Dorne reached forward and dragged his hand through the runes. Just like that, the smoke disappeared from the room, fading into the background. The spirit departed with it. Last to leave was Tarsinius, who faded into the ring.

“Thank you,” Dorne said, out of breath. “What was that last spirit?”

It’s a long story,” I said. “And I don’t know all the details. Did you find what you needed?”

“I think,” he said. “These people were in great pain before they died. There was a famine. The fish disappeared, their men had to go farther and farther to find anything to eat until finally, the sea took them. One by one the island failed. The people gathered here. They gave them food. They worshipped at a temple. That’s what we need to find. And good news, it’s on this side of the island.”

“Look at these,” Lambros said excitedly.

We were
deep in the village, farther than Lambros’ team had made it. She was standing in front of a massive sculpture, a kraken, reminiscent of the Easter Island statues in technique and style, differing only in subject.

“It’s nice,” I said, taking a mental snapshot.

“Not the statue,” she said, her hand playing across a series of letters I didn’t recognize. “This script is amazing.”