Spirits of Light and Shadow (The Gods of Talmor) (4 page)

Finally she said, “The bindings too tight, the needles too many, the stitches too small. The power is great, but something is off. Overdone.”

“Your perception has always been one of your greatest skills, child. I saw the same signs. Might I offer a suggestion?”

“Of course, master,” she said with a bow of her head.

“If you do choose to attempt this, use only silver instruments. Do the first breaking in the daylight, another in the moonlight. Take root blood, but avoid the frenzy.”

She nodded. This had been her plan, but she felt relieved to have her thoughts confirmed. These days, Rhikar hardly offered suggestions, but she took comfort in his guidance. “I stored some of my own essence. I will spend it.”

Rhikar raised an eyebrow. “For a Talmoran high-born?”

His reluctance didn’t surprise her. A female conduit’s essence was valuable, her blood containing the very core of the One. “I will make more. Besides, this is evil work,” she said.

“There is no such power as evil,” Rhikar chided, using a saying he’d so often uttered before.

Still, looking at these accoutrements of dark work in front of her, Octavia was not convinced. There was something very wrong in this pile of wax, bone, and blood. “The One is all things,” she said, completing the mantra.

Rhikar sat back, watching her. “How much did this high-born offer you?”

She hesitated, not wanting to admit what she’d been promised. It was too much, despite the difficulty and seriousness of the task. “A thousand.”

The old man’s mouth opened, then he snapped it shut. It was the first time she’d seen Rhikar shocked, and a flush of embarrassment flooded her.

“I tried to tell him a hundred would be enough.”

“You could take a few years off. Devote yourself to study, research, or even travel,” Rhikar said.

She shook her head with a smile and handed him five declani. “Your share of what he’s paid me so far.”

Rhikar took the offering with a smooth motion and slipped the coins into his pocket. “I mean it.”

She frowned at him. “And where should I travel?”

He sighed. “Perhaps I’m the one who should leave. These Talmorans exhaust me with their pettiness.”

A pang of sympathy shot through her. “Maybe you should retire. You’ve earned a break from your long years of service.” When he didn’t answer right away, she realized he must be seriously considering her words.

“I have considered concluding my work as a teacher,” he said with a rare show of tiredness. “I’ve given a lifetime, and what I’ve gathered here would keep me.”

Octavia touched his hand. She didn’t want to lose him as a mentor, but she also hoped he would find peace. The Sennestelle had to work for Talmorans to survive in this city. Their immigrant countrymen couldn’t pay enough to sustain them. But the price for the trade-off was high. “I would miss your advice, but you look exhausted. Perhaps it’s time to rest.”

He smiled. “You are my best student. You always have been.” He patted her hand gently for a moment, then stood. Going to a side cabinet, he pulled out a long, silver blade. “Take this,” he told her, offering her the instrument.

She accepted it with a bow of her head. “Thank you, master, but…” She wanted to argue that it was too fine a piece to give away, but she knew her place. She couldn’t contradict the man who’d taught her everything. “Thank you,” she repeated.

Suddenly he winced as though a piece of iron had shot through his gut. Something was wrong, but it was clearly something he didn’t want to tell her. Was he ill? The most she dared was to make a subtle offer.

“If your stomach troubles you, I can bring some bronis root tomorrow.”

He nodded. “That would be kind. I’ve run out, and I haven’t taken the time to forage for more.”

The swamp where the bronis grew was not an easy place to traverse, and cutting the root was difficult. “I got more than enough for my own needs two weeks ago. Let me bring the extra.” She weighed how much she should suggest he needed help. “Perhaps I should take one or two of your students for some of the smaller tasks?”

“Wanting to pave the way to take my place?” His voice was soft, but she detected a warning.

“Of course not, master. I only mean that if you’re unwell, I could teach them things that are beneath your talents.” She bowed her head to him. “I mean no disrespect.”

He sighed. “I know you don’t, child. Forgive me. My stomach has been bothering me, and the tullus stone is not responding.”

She nodded her acceptance of the rare apology, determined to bring him more than just the bronis root. Rhikar had given her everything. She would share her stores of blood essence with him. Such a powerful material would boost the efficacy of the bronis and tullus both. Sadly, there existed maladies beyond their skills, and she worried he might be carrying such an ailment. She needed to find out, but her position wouldn’t allow her to question him.

In fifteen years, she’d never heard him talk of retiring. This thought troubled her even more than the collection of dark objects in front of her. If Rhikar left, either by retirement or illness, to whom could she go to for help? What if the conduit who created these items and cursed Dow’s “friend” was more than she could handle alone? No matter what happened in the far future, she did hope Rhikar would wait a little while longer before taking his rest. She needed him.

Chapter 3

In summer, the sun rose earlier than most men, except perhaps bakers and street cleaners. Korbin rarely saw this time of day, partly due to the fact that he rode late most nights.

He shook his head and glanced toward the conduit’s upstairs flat, reminding himself he was doing this for Eliam, the one friend who’d remained faithful after Graiphen disowned him. Even though Korbin had turned his back on a lifestyle of high-born politics, he understood how things worked. It barely mattered if Graiphen survived, which he likely wouldn’t if he was as ill as Tarsten claimed.

Korbin respected the Kilovian religion because he respected the Kilovians he’d known over the years. Their religion was an odd mixture of secret rituals and herbalism. Neither of those things could fix what ailed Dul Graiphen Ulbrich, the highest-ranked politician in all of Vol, one of the few who had met their famously reclusive emperor face to face.

Korbin knocked three times. He considered leaving even as he heard light footfalls descending toward him. When a woman opened the door and looked up at him, he stared into her deep brown eyes, locked as though she read his soul. A moment of panic took him, but he couldn’t turn away. Why couldn’t he stop?

“You’re here for Dow?”

In an instant, the spell was broken. Korbin nodded. He’d chuckled when Eliam had told him the false name he’d given the woman, the nickname of a boy they’d despised in their youth.

“Come in.” She pulled the door open. “What is your name?” she asked when he stepped into the entry.

“Korbin.” He removed his boots and placed them on a small mat near the door. When he’d finished, he bowed his head. “Senne Octavia. Will you bless my way?”

After a pause, she relented, giving the expected answer: “I will guide you through the darkness and into the light, child, through the light and into the darkness.”

When he met her eyes again, he saw her thoughtful frown. It was perhaps unusual for Talmorans to know the Kilovian ritual words, but Korbin mixed in strange circles. He understood the words were more than habit to her people.

“The power of the One forever guide you,” he replied.

“Do you know the meaning of the words you speak, child?” she asked. He felt a twinge of discomfort at her calling him
child
. She couldn’t be any older than he was, yet she spoke with such authority.

Another test, he knew, and a simple one. Talmorans were loath to confess ignorance, especially high-born ones. A Kilovian, on the other hand, took almost a perverse pride in revealing they knew nothing on a topic. Which did she want from him? The answer of a high-born Talmoran or the response of her own people? Neither fit, and both would be a lie.

“I know only what my Kilovian friends have been gracious enough to teach me, Senne, that the One guides a conduit into wholeness. What that means is beyond my experience.”

Her eyes softened. “It is beyond most men. Come. We must finish before the sun reaches its zenith.” She turned and ascended into the small flat.

At the top of the stairs, she indicated a straw mat on the floor. “Sit,” she said, and he did as instructed. For several minutes, he watched her lay out silver tools in a long row. Most were small and plain, but of evident quality. The value of the metal alone might have fed her for years, but he suspected she would starve before selling them.

She knelt in front of him and placed several bizarre objects that fit Eliam’s description of those found in Graiphen’s manor. The sight of them filled Korbin with disgust.

When she looked up, her eyes lacked focus, her voice barely more than a whisper. “What is your relationship to the man these poppets represent?”

He frowned at the macabre dolls. These strange objects were meant to represent his father? “I am his son.” He spoke quietly and without conviction.

Her eyes flashed, picking up on the tone. “You’re a bastard?”

The words sliced at him. He might as well have been. His father disowned him. If not for the fact that Korbin’s mother had left him a small inheritance when she died, he wouldn’t have a single declani more than any other common rider. All he could do was shrug. A simple question with a complicated answer.

She grumbled something under her breath about high-born men. “I wondered why a commoner appeared at my door this morning,” she said, retrieving a long silver blade. “I’d expected a fancy boy in ruffled shirts.”

“I’m not fancy,” Korbin said softly.

With a tilt of her head, she conceded the point. “For this to work, your lineage must be pure. You’re certain this man is your father?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

Questions flitted over her expression, but she didn’t voice them. “Give me your wrist.”

He held out his arm and in a flash of movement, she drew blood with the needle.

“Ouch.” He pulled his hand back.

She ignored his complaint and touched the needle to a small silver tray. “That didn’t hurt.” Her accent made it sound like
hoort
.

Of course she spoke the truth. He barely felt the puncture, but her action had surprised him. He knew Kilovian conduits dealt in blood, but he hadn’t been certain what to expect this morning.

She took a small stoppered bottle and dipped a clean needle inside it, retrieving a single drop of the liquid. Carefully moving to the speck of blood on the tray, she let the fluid fall and mix with his blood. It hissed and snaked toward him. With a firm nod she said, “Good.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means your blood tie to these items is strong enough for me to work.” With a swipe of a black cloth, she cleaned up the droplets and put the tray and needles aside. “Why are you here?” she asked, gazing at him levelly.

“For Dow.”

“Yes. He is your friend?”

“We knew each other as boys, but our lives took different paths.”

She seemed to weigh his words. “It would be difficult for a high-born man to be friends with a commoner, even if they were suckled by the same midwife. The fault is not his.”

“I know.” He started to say more but closed his mouth. Eliam had stressed that no one should learn Graiphen was sick. Best for Octavia to believe her client was just some faceless lord.

“This man who is your father, do you hate him?”

“No.” After a pause, he added, “Sometimes.”

She nodded. “I must draw on the darkness, then.” With a matter-of-fact wave of her hand, she said, “Strip to your smallclothes.”

He hesitated only a moment. She wasn’t the type of woman one argued with, and besides, she was a conduit, not some woman looking for a tumble. Her manner had all the sexuality of a stern priest’s.

She continued preparations while he undressed, taking out a lidded ceramic jar. When she opened it, he smelled something like hay or fresh clover overlaying a sickly scent. She dipped a gloved hand inside and came out with a strange, reddish-brown paste. With one finger, she smeared a large portion of it onto another silver plate, then she cleaned the glove, not wasting even a smudge of the paste.

Korbin felt exposed when he returned to his seat, even though she didn’t look at him with anything like desire. Perhaps her lack of interest was what made him uncomfortable.

After a few moments, she opened a small glass jar. She removed the stopper from the end of the jar and let some of the colorless liquid seep onto a piece of dark fabric. “Hold this to your nose,” she said without looking at him.

“What is it?” He accepted the cloth.

“It will relax you,” she explained. “Most men do not care for this procedure.” She held a small silver knife with a wicked, curved point in her hand.

“Just inhale?” He lifted the fabric to his nose. “What’s it made of?”

“Seaweed.”

He breathed in deeply and felt as though someone had hit him in the back of the head with a hammer. The world went black in an instant. When he came to, she was leaning over him in a blurry haze, chanting in a foreign tongue. Her words pulled at him, compelling him to listen.

Touching him in almost an impersonal way, Octavia tugged back the scant fabric covering what was left of his modesty. He felt pressure, then warmth, then a flick of stinging pain in his groin. Unable to move or object, he lay in a stupor.

Flopping his head to the side, he watched through warped, glassy vision as she mixed a spoonful of fresh, bright blood with the paste she’d prepared earlier. Once she finished her mixture, she pressed a cloth against the point where she’d drawn blood. He tried to speak but couldn’t form the words.

“Shh. Your part is over. Close your eyes. I will do the rest.”

He wanted to object, but he could only groan. His eyes were heavy, and he could form no rational reason to refuse to comply. Without another sound, he drifted away to the rhythm of her voice raised in a chant. The more frenzied her chanting, the more his thoughts retreated.