Daughter of Dragons

Chapter 8-2

“From here on, you must not move,” she told him. Then she dropped to her knees and went to work.

First, she drew a equilateral triangle in yellow chalk: in its center were the accursed’s swollen feet. She enclosed that figure within two concentric circles, both of which were drawn in red, then filled the area between the two rings with white, five-sided stars. When she was done, she pocketed her chalk, then stepped into the star which lay directly in front of her supplicant. She exchanged one last rueful glance with him, then focussed her thoughts. A moment later, she began to speak Words of power in a raw, inhuman voice.

In response, the triangle began to glow. She seized its ghostly outlines with her Will, then raised them into a sheer yellow pyramid that came to a peak above the accursed’s head. This magical construct began to thrum with healing potential. The man within went rigid with pain. Liselle did not notice his agonized pose; she was too busy generating her protective spheres. The inner one enclosed the pyramid like a seamless red bubble; if all went well, it would contain whatever force she drove from the accursed. The outer one enveloped her as well as her other constructs, and would serve as a last-ditch defence against the unknown. As soon as those were complete, she activated the star in which she was standing. It flared white with the power to compel.

Ready to commence the ritual now, she focussed on the man within the pyramid. The veils of power which surrounded him lent a sickly orange cast to his gangrenous mien.

“Begone, vile rot!” she commanded, in an arcane tongue. “Relinquish your claim, forsake this curse.”

A creamy black voice crept into her skull. “Curses may be broken,” it whispered, “but never forsaken. Compel me if you can; leave me to my purpose if you cannot.”

What was this? A talking curse?

The spheres flickered, a reflection of her astonishment. She regained control of them with fear-quickened dexterity. Sobered by the near-blunder, she then clenched the fists of her Will and began the exorcism in earnest.

Jagged tracks of golden lightning forked down from the pyramid’s peak to form a sizzling cocoon around the hapless man. At the same time, the star projected a solitary beam of argent light at his head. Gobbets of pus began to ooze from his pores. These dripped down his body and toward the floor like clots of foul, semi-molten wax. Without a hitch in her concentration, she skipped over to the star on her right and clenched her Will again. Pus began to stream from the man in thick rivulets. His swollen body began to shrink. She leapt to the next star and then to the next. A black mole appeared on the back of the man’s neck. Once visible, it ballooned to the size of a monstrous goiter and sprouted a set of leathery wings. Then a creamy black whisper echoed through her skull. “Enough!”

But she did not relent until she had gone full circle around the man. The last driblet of pus was gone from his body now, and he was now back to a normal size. The thing that had once been moored to his neck was now perched upon his shoulder. Its face and wings were those of a bat, and its lower body was that of a vulture’s; but she sensed that this was not its true shape.

“You are more powerful than you appear, mortal,” it told her. “Your enemy will be surprised.”

Apprehension sizzled through her like an electric shock. This was a nonborn—the last living legacy from an age which most dismissed as mythical. Its unexpected presence worried her, as did its reference to her mysterious enemy. She said a silent prayer of thanks for protective spheres, then began to delve for answers.

“I know of your kind, nonborn,” she asserted. “You have no love for living flesh. Who compelled you to this curse?”

“While it is true that I have been compelled to another mortal’s service,” it said, “my so-called master had no hand in this curse. That I undertook on my own.”

“Why?”

“To meet you, sorceress.”

Fearful alarms clanged in her head. Perversely, it was curiosity that quelled them. “What reason could you have for wanting to meet me? And who’s this master of yours?”

“I would give you his thrice-accursed Name if I could,” it replied, baring its frustration and hate in a snarl, “but he has bound me to silence. All I can say is: beware of him, for he is your enemy.”

“Can you tell me where he is?”

“He is close. Very close.”

“Where?” she pressed.

“Look among the city’s bones—” When it tried to say more, its jaws snapped shut with an abruptness that smacked of compulsion.

As cryptic as this was, she gobbled up the clue and then immediately went fishing for more. “So,” she said, “we share a common enemy. But that does not explain why you possessed this man.”

“No?” it retorted, mocking her with a grin. “How else could I have contacted you without my master’s knowing?”

“How would he know otherwise if you did not tell him?” she countered.

The nonborn answered immediately and with great relish, glad for a chance to thwart The Rogue’s compulsions. “This stronghold is being watched.”

Although she had suspected something of the sort, the news still came as a shock to her. Her thoughts reeled—a dance of fear and sudden fatigue. Her constructs flickered again. The nonborn shifted on its human perch, but made no attempt to take advantage of her momentary lapse.

“So,” she said, doggedly regaining control over herself and her sorcery, “you outwitted your master. But what now? Surely your geas will not allow you to conspire against him.”

“That is true,” it admitted. “Yet in my own way, I do mean to oppose him.” “How so?”

“I want you to destroy me.”

The request horrified her. She had never used her magic to harm another creature, not even one so fell as this. “Why would you ask such a thing of me?” “Long ago, I refused to serve my Maker when She bade me and my kind to lay waste to this world. Now, ages later, I would rather end my existence than be compelled to serve the fool who seeks to revive that ancient grudge.”

Liselle was amazed. She had always viewed the nonborn as a dangerous lot—powerful and amoral. Yet here was one who was ready to sacrifice itself in favour of its principles.

“Are all of your kind like you?” she asked.

“No,” it said, without inflection. “Are all of your kind like you?”

“No,” she admitted, then abruptly changed the subject. “What if I refuse your request, nonborn? I am a sorceress, not an executioner. What if I turned you loose in the hope that you would then go and slay yourself?”

“Fool!” it hissed, its eyes blazing red. “If I could slay myself, I would have done so already and spared myself the indignity of trafficking with humans. But I cannot, so therefore you must do it instead.

“Do not turn me loose, sorceress,” it warned, steeping its tone in menace. “If you do, I will have no choice but to possess somebody else who will in turn have no choice but to come to you for help. Would you like my next victim to be a certain honey-haired man? Or would you prefer someone closer to your heart—a kinsman perhaps?”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“No? I might’ve dared it already if your enemy did not have similar designs. Even as we speak, that one is plotting to—”

“To what?” she demanded, suddenly on the verge of panic. “What does that bastard want with my nephew?”

The nonborn shrugged, a maddening gesture of impotence. “I cannot say. My tongue has been bound. But the longer you dally here with me, the more time your enemy will have to put his plot into motion. Make a quick end of me, sorceress—or the one dearest to you will surely suffer.”

“So be it.” She was ablaze with fear and fury now; and if saving Pieter meant killing a darkling creature from the distant past, that’s what she would do. She would deal with her conscience later. “You shall have your wish.”

With a furious pulse of Will-driven power, she shattered the pyramid. The man whom it had been supporting crumpled to the floor and lay there in a swoon, but the nonborn remained aloft as if it were balanced on an invisible wand. Her Will pulsed again. The inner and outer spheres shrank, forming a single red-hued capsule around the creature. She paused then to marshal her ryzec-augmented strength, and then stuffed the capsule into a hole in time and space. A scream rang out as she sealed that hole back up again, but she would never know if it had come from the nonborn or her own self.

The ritual was over and done with now. She staggered away from the powerless diagram, then gagged for breath that was slow to come. As she struggled to compose herself, her supplicant stirred. He glanced at her, then down at himself. Disbelief dawned across his now nondescript face. He patted his chest, belly and legs, then shouted for joy and surprise.

“Mistress! You did it!” He bounced to his feet, then craned his neck around for a look at his backside. A smile threatened to split his face in half. “Dreamer be praised!”

“Don’t touch me,” she snapped, as he came dancing toward her. Will-power alone was keeping her on her feet right now. The slightest nudge would knock her down. “Your servants are waiting outside. Celebrate with them.”

She headed for the door then. The man followed, gushing and babbling all the way. “You may not know this, Mistress, but I am a wealthy man. Name your price for curing me, and I will gladly pay it.”

“For starters, you can release that lock,” she told him. Her hands were trembling uncontrollably; she could not get a grip on the bolt.

“Anything, Mistress. Anything at all.”

She dragged herself into the kitchen in the admittedly farfetched hope of finding Pieter there, but he was nowhere to be seen. Had he come and gone again already? She looked around for telltale signs: muddy footprints, an empty mug, a stray package or two. But everything was as she had left it. Therefore, he had not returned yet. Therefore, he still had a chance.

Unless her enemy had him already.

“Mistress,” the man said, jarring her from her thoughts, “you do not seem well. Is there something I can do?”

“Call your servants,” she snapped, irritable from worry, fatigue and the ryzec. “Make sure nobody sees you.”

As he hurried off to obey her, she ran a trembling hand across her sweaty brow and tried to reassure herself. There was still time. There had to be. Her enemy would not be so bold as to work his malice in broad daylight.

Would he?

The man’s servants came piling into the house. Laughing and crying at the same time, their master danced a merry reel for them. Liselle watched his antics with a jaundiced eye, jealous of his energy. Most of it had been hers a scant hour ago.

“Goodman,” she said then, a quiet croak that snared his attention nonetheless. “You have asked me to name my price. Hear it now and then go home.”

“As you wish,” he replied, still grinning from ear to ear. “But would you mind if I dress while you’re talking? I suddenly feel a bit foolish standing before you like this.”

“You may dress,” she granted, “but not in your street clothes. For the next seven days, you must continue to wear sacking.”

His grin wilted. “I don’t understand. Am I not cured?”

“You are. But you will most certainly suffer a relapse if you do not wear the canvas throughout the week.” She did not like to lie, but in this case, it was the best she could do for all concerned. “Furthermore, no one must know that I cured you today. If anybody asks what you were doing here, say as much or as little as you please so long as you do not give the truth away. After all, whoever cursed you is still out there. If he finds you before I find him, I can make no guarantee for your continued well-being.”

“I shall follow your instructions to the word,” the man vowed, already in the process of donning his canvas disguise, “Now please, speak of your price. I am eager to repay you.”

“I will accept three half-weight bags of gold for my trouble,” she said, figuring that she might need the money now that she was truly under siege. “If it pleases you, you may donate an equal sum to The Dreamer’s temple anonymously.”