Redeeming the Lost by Elizabeth Kerner
They are under no illusions. Even the most ignorant village Healer knows perfectly well that power is either the gift of the Lady or the price of the Rakshi. Barely one in a hundred has had the moral courage to resist. Barely one in ten of those has refused entirely. After all, it is such a little price. A lock of hair. Not much to ask. Hair grows back.
And now they are there in their hundreds, all over Kolmar, ready to my hand. When I activate the link, those who have submitted to this will be, swiftly and simply, taken over by a demon. They will retain half their natural power for the demons to make use of—and demons are very good at making use of power—and half the power of every single Healer who has made this pact will flow into my hands, to do with as I will. Once I set them in motion, with the simplest of rituals, they will go forth and take the darkness with them. Slaying patients, destroying crops, burning homes—whatever the demon fancies.
If I send them out before the Demonlord arrives, they will cause extra chaos: a nice distraction. If after, they will give my foes yet more to worry about, piled upon already burdened hearts and minds. Both are attractive—hmmm.
Chaos, I think. I should just have time for the ritual this evening before my treat.
As for the Demonlord himself—that Black Dragon is damnably slow. I feel every beat of its wings and it is exhausting. Just as well that I have the body of a young man now; I do not believe that my old self would have had the pure strength to bear it.
I have already accomplished the impossible, of course. The fools I am surrounded by should bow down and worship at my feet. They have no idea—but ah, they will learn. Very, very soon.
I, Berys—no. No, I need hide no longer. I, Malior, only living Demon-Master of the Sixth Hell, have performed the greatest work of my life but these few days past. It has taken me many long years, much learning, much sacrifice, and quite a bit of blood—some of it even mine—but at last I have summored the Demonlord, he who gave up his name for all time in exchange for power. Five thousand years ago, before he faced the great dragons in battle, he performed the spell of the Distant Heart. His own beating heart was removed from his chest, placed safely in a box of gold, silver, and lead, and taken by the Rakshasa to a far distant place where none would ever find it and he would live forever.
He was no fool. When he started destroying the True Dragons, thus fulfilling the deepest desire of his soul, they fought back. The spells and demon-protections he had established kept him alive for some little while, and half the dragons died that day, they say. However, they finally managed to exact vengeance by destroying his body. It is written that he laughed even as his body was burnt to a cinder, and no one knew why.
I know why. Because he knew through his arts that one day, a demon-master possessed of great power would create for him a new body, untouchable this time by fire, and that he would live again, this time forever.
Ah, life is sweet.
For I have found it, not two moons since. The Demonlord’s Distant Heart. Every demon-summoner alive would murder cheerfully for the knowledge I now possess.
A few days past I summoned the Lord of the Fifth Hell, who told me that the Demonlord could only be destroyed by a creature that bleeds both dragon and human blood when cut. Such a thing must exist for the spell of the Distant Heart requires a counterspell to be effective, but I could waste years searching for it and still never find it. After all, demons are not truly aware of time as we know it. This creature might have died out centuries ago, or not been born yet.
I knew that before I summoned the Demonlord, knew that I could neither banish nor destroy him immediately—but there are ways and ways to deal with demons. The binding spells that hold him can be renewed easily enough, for as long as I like. Perhaps my arts will, in time, allow me to fabricate such a creature. It is not beyond possibility—and after all, I will soon have a wife! Given sufficient preparation, surely I can create a child that would answer that need. And in the meantime, I will have the means of my eventual success at hand. For what would be the good of finding the creature of mixed blood if I had not the Distant Heart in my possession?
And I have found it by pure chance.
This autumn past, poor deluded Marik of Gundar, who has relied on me to bolster his power for many years, took the risk of travelling to the Dragon Isle to gather lansip, that marvellous leaf that grew only in that one place in all the world. Healall, good for everything from headache to heart’s-ease, and when taken in sufficient quantity, able to reverse the effects of time itself. All in all, I suppose I should be grateful for Marik’s delusion: it has given me back half a century of life, and it drew my attention to the Dragon Isle. I has prudently avoided that place for many years, for the Kantri, the True Dragons who lived on that island so far to the west, have a natural power over the Rakshasa who serve me. However, as I began to search some months ago for the proper material out of which to create a body for the Demonlord to inhabit, all suddenly came clear.
A body untouchable by fire must be made of fire, or of stone. A body of fire is unworkable, for fire—even demonfire—must have something to burn upon, however small, and that would soon be exhausted. I could have fashioned him a body of granite, but it would take years and years, and I have no wish to wait so long. It is also the case that hard stone is unforgiving, and it can be shattered given sufficient strength. No, the Dragon Isle held the answer. It was volcanic in nature: fire and stone at once, fluid and ready to be shaped to my will, and vastly lighter than solid rock. I had only to call forth the molten stone from the heart of the island.
When I began the work I meant only to shape a body that would hold the Demonlord—I intended the shape to be a figure of dread to the dragons, that they might feel that one of their own had become their destroyer. However, I had barely begun the making when I felt suddenly, even at that great remove, the presence of something burning with a fire hotter even than molten stone. I turned my mind to it, I probed with my thought and with all the power nature had granted me, and lo, there it lay, open to my thought, and just where it would be of most use.
The making of the Black Dragon took all the power I possess. I had to goad the quiescent voice of the island from a rumble into violent activity, then to raise the casket containing the heart into the midst of the material I used to create the body of the beast. Once the shaping was done, though, it was—it is—a perfect creation. It houses the Demonlord, bound to me inextricably by blood and bone, and it bears within itself its own destruction. That pleases me. And when I offer to ensoul it at last, give it life again—well, the other main stricture of the spell of the Distant Heart is that body, soul, and the Heart cannot ever be combined again in the one creature. If that were to happen, the spell would be broken and the Heart would become mere flesh again.
It is truly said that if you put all your energies into a single task, all of life comes together to aid you. However, the wise man does not put all his trust in so insubstantial a thing as life.
Since I provided Marik with numerous demonic artefacts, among them a means of keeping off the dragons, I received half of the lansip harvest for my pains. I have used almost all of it already, bar a few boxes I have retained to control those demons who crave it: but the distilled essence of lansip has proven the legends true. No more the protesting joints, no more the weakness, the thousand small ills, the dimmed eyesight, the fading hearing—no more the tread of death behind me or its shadow in the glass before my eyes.
I have conquered time itself. Behold, I now have that which all men desire—a mind honed by seventy years of study and nearly ninety years of living, and a body no more than thirty years old to carry out the demands I make of it. I had forgotten the power of this age! Every nerve tingles with strength and youth. By all the Hells, it is a wonder.
Of course, I do miss my hand.
I had to cut it off to bind the Demonlord to my will. The sacrifice will be well worth it—it was only my left hand, after all—but the place where my hand once was itches
It irks me that I have been so weak these last several days, but even I must needs recover from such great works as the binding of the Nameless One and the making of the Black Dragon. I labour even as I rest, to keep the creature in the air as it flies to Kolmar from the distant west. And I have had a rasp in my throat from the choking I had off that witch-daughter of Marik’s when she attacked. I have ensured that she has nor food nor fuel. The weaker her body, the easier it will be to dominate her will.
I know that one of the True Dragons, the Kantrishakrim as they are called, is here—it nearly stopped me from capturing the girl. The rest will not be far behind. Marik has done so much good, at least: I know the Kantri are coming. Truly, that surprised me. It seems that in the making of the Black Dragon the island was overwhelmed in fire. I had not planned that. However, it is all moot.
If the Black Dragon arrives first, all well and good, for it houses the soul of the Demonlord, and will be the death of the Kantri. I do not hope for this, for the thing is a golem, living stone despite the half-demon soul that animates it. I must support its every wingbeat, and even I grow weary on occasion. I shall have :o make another sacrifice of blood—not mine, of course!—this night before I face the Mages. It is proving a great deal harder to support the creature than I had anticipated, though I am well equal to the task.
If the Kantri should arrive first—well, I have a demonline ready and waiting, and in a breath I can be hundreds of leagues distant and the way closed behind me, and they with no way of knowing where I might be. And the Black Dragon, the Demonlord incarnate, will arrive eventually. In that moment the fate of the Kantrishakrim will be sealed.
I am thankful now for the foresight I showed in establishing this cantrip which records my thoughts in this book even as I think them. It is vastly easier than sitting and writing for hours. I have one operating on Marik as well. It has helped me to check that he is telling me the truth. The poor idiot is too stupid to lie, it seems. It is well. And for myself, when I come into my own, it is good that there will be a true record of my coming to power, that the slaves may know how they came to their slavery. Despair is truly the most satisfying sauce.
The next step takes place this very night. I have commanded an assembly of the College after the evening meal and they will all attend. After all, why should they not answer the summons of their beloved Archimage? I have hidden my true self, the power of my arts, for many long years. I have cultivated the goodwill of my fellow Mages even while despising them, for it has taken so very long to prepare myself—but tonight, kind, caring Archimage Berys will die, and in the place of that weakling I will stand revealed to them at last, in my true self. I will offer the choice to my College, to join me or to die. I expect most of the fools will choose death, but I may perhaps gain a few willing souls from among the students. There are many who desire more power than has been given them by the Lady.
And if all else fails, they will make splendid demon fodder.
iii
The Wind of Shaping
Varien
I woke to the sound of Idai’s voice in truespeech. “Come, Akhor, it is not like you to miss a meal,” she said, her voice light in my thoughts,.- I sat up, disoriented, rubbed my face, and opened my eyes to find myself little the wiser. It was late afternoon. The sun was falling behind the western hills, and a chill wind was beginning to swirl around us, as if it were not certain which direction to come from. Wrapped in a cloak I had not been wearing, asleep beside Shikrar and Maran in the middle of a field—but where—oh.
“Idai, where are the Kantri? Where are the Lost? How do they fare?”
“Peace, my friend,” she said quietly. “All is well.” I rose and walked with her, a little away from the others, leaving them to sleep. “All of our people have followed Kédra to that farmer’s field, to eat and drink and rest. The Lost—ah, it is long and long since they were trapped. Imagine if you went into the Weh sleep and woke five kells later! There is a great deal for them to learn. We must not expect it to happen overnight.” She sighed. “Oh, my friend. Think of all the Kantri who have worked towards this day full generations, birth unto ending-50 many who dreamed of a joyous release for those trapped souls. I am such a fool. In all my hopes, I never imagined that the restoration of the Lost would be so heart-searing.” She closed her eyes for a moment “Akhor, the last thing that most of them recall is throwing themselves at a treacherous Gedri who had killed their mates, their parents, their children; I do not know if there is enough time or reason in the world to overcome their hatred.”
“If time and reason are not enough, we shall have to see what compassion may do,” I said resolutely. For all my exhaustion, I felt now braver and brighter than I had for days. “Come, Idai, throw off this gloom! I too longed for a day of glory for the Lost—but I will forego that pleasure for the wonder of their restoration, however painful.”
“Ah, yes. You remind me. Tréshak has said that they now wish to be known as the Restored, Dhrenagan in the Old Speech, not the Lost any longer. We have taken to referring to them so.” She sighed once more, then drew herself up, into the Attitude of Resolve. “You have the right of it, as ever, Akhor. We will surely be able to help them. Damaged they are, certainly, and confused, but time is our great ally. Time will heal the heart’s wounds and show the restored mind the way of reason.”
I could not help it, I laughed aloud. “So it will, Iderrisai, therefore be not afeared of giving them time to come to realise that they are free! That must be a shock nearly as great as finding themselves imprisoned.” I smiled, though I somehow felt a traitor to Lanen at doing so. “Idai, think of it. The Lost are restored to us. At last they are free, after all this dreadful march of years! Bless every Wind that ever blew! Whether they are yet able to rejoice surely is of less moment than their return.” I let out a deep sigh. “And I will at last be able to sleep peacefully, without the memory of those flickering soulgems to haunt my dreams. However it has come about, whatever the consequences, this is a wonder.” I dropped into truespeech. “Even for those who chose the swift fire of death, my friend. We have done them the greatest service of all. At last, after so many kells of torment, they may rest.”
“You have the right of it,” she said, dropping down again from the formal Attitude. “Name of the Winds, Akhor! This has truly been a day of wonders, but I would give a great deal for it to be over. I am weary as I never thought I could be, weary in heart and wing and soul. I could sleep for a full moon. Can it possibly be that we only arrived here with the dawn?” She hissed her amusement. “My word on it, Akhor. I never valued peace and quiet nearly enough.”
“Perhaps none of us did,” I replied with a smile. We moved back to the others and Idai woke Shikrar. She spoke with him in a low voice, doubtless telling him what she had just told me, as she walked him slowly over to the little stream, where clear water and half a cow awaited him. I sat down beside Maran, too weary yet even to walk to the inn. She still slept—and in every line of her, I saw my beloved Lanen. My throat began to tighten, and though I knew it to be useless, I could not stop myself sending out to her in truespeech. “Lanen, beloved, can you hear me? My heart declares that you yet live, for it beats still, but my life is airless darkness without you. Where are you, dearling? Kadreshi, beloved, where are you?” A sudden thought occurred to me—perhaps she could hear but not respond? “Lanen, beloved, we are searching for you! I will not cease, I will not rest until I find you, and by my soul I swear I will come for you though all the Hells should lie between us.”
No answer but silence.
I bowed my head, sorrow and a deep emptiness round me, until a short while later a glorious scent, entirely out of place in an open field, came wafting past me: bread and meat. And was that chélan? I turned—and there, preceded only by
“Aye, you’re as bad as the Healers,” he said, shaking his head. “They need to eat like horses when they’ve been working. Get this down you.” He handed us both trenchers of fresh bread, spread with butter, softened with gravy and with slices of roasted beef draped over all. I had never tasted food more clearly, or needed it more. Though there was something—
“Will, where is Salera?” I said, between mouthfuls.
“She’s gone with the Kantri,” he said, and smiled. “They were all so taken with her, and she is fascinated by them. She said she’d come find me in the morning.” He shook himself. “As for you two, there’s plenty more away back at the inn, but I’m blessed if I’m going to bring it to you. Up you get.”
“Blessed indeed, lad,” said Maran, gulping down the last of her chélan. “I’ve seen you often enough in the stone, Goddess knows, along with that tall lad and the fine lass, but what are you called?”
“Wilem of Rowanbeck, Mistress,” he said, grinning. “The tall Healer is Vilkas, the young woman is Aral. You’re Lanen’s mam?”
“I am that,” she said, grinning back, “and it’s not making my life any easier, I can tell you. I’m Maran of Beskin. And you!” she cried, turning to me. I had risen, and now reached down to give her a hand up. When she stood, we were of a height, and her gaze locked on mine. It was the first time I’d looked at her closely. Name of the Winds, she appeared so like my beloved Lanen that my heart ached with it. “I’ve seen you nearly every day since Lanen found you, but I’ve no idea what your name is.”