The figure spoke again, becoming more distinct and more familiar, the voice making sense as it called her name. "Eli! Are you all right?
Eli!" Dreslya! Eli thought, then pushed herself up. Her chest felt numb, but she was otherwise uninjured. Her sister helped her to stand and embraced her shoulders. Several hunters ran past the pair, shouting for reinforcement on the right. Devils pounded against the thickened walls, the impact of their fists shaking the ground but having little effect. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" Dres cried in Eli's ear then released her, looking about as the battle against the devils raged and spells were cast by the Ghedia. "We had to wait. It was the only way!" Elisandrya looked about and saw the assembled oracles. A dozen of them stood in a circle, holding hands and lost in concentration, chanting softly and straining with the effort. Their white robes were wet and stained with mud, and they shivered in the cold, but they held their arcane rhythm. A dozen more stood close by, watching the sky warily with solemn attention. "And Sameska? What of her, Dres?" Dreslya nodded toward the temple, her face dark and expressionless. "She hides there with several others. They stayed with her to keep the wards and protections of the temple active. She refuses to protect herself," she looked to Eli, a tone of contempt in her voice as she added, "or is no longer capable." Elisandrya nodded grimly, understanding, but was pleased that the oracles had joined them in defending the city. She was elated that her sister was among them. She squeezed her hands together, rubbing her left hand that ached from the bow being wrenched from her grasp. "Here," Dreslya said. Taking a wrapped bundle from her shoulder, she handed it to Elisandrya. "I had a feeling you might need this." Beneath the layers of wet cloth, Eli discovered the strong, dark shaft of a long bow. Her breath caught in her throat as she beheld the familiar runes etched in the wood alongside depictions of Shaaran steeds racing down its length. Rain chased the symbols and pictures, bringing them to life in her hands. Twelve years had passed since she'd last seen the bow. She recognized it as if it had been only yesterday when she and Dreslya had quietly packed it away. "Make father proud," Dreslya said to her before joining the oracles in the circle. Elisandrya held the bow in trembling hands, hesitant at first, but then reached into a leather pouch on her belt for a bowstring. Skillfully, she braced the weapon behind her left knee and strained to bend the shaft, stringing the bow with the deft speed of a trained soldier. She nocked an arrow and splashed through the street to stand with Lesani near the rear of the wall's defenses. She cast one last look at her sister before danger loomed on black leather wings. The devil's sharp, curving horns swung left and right, batting away hurled spears. It rested menacing red eyes on the tiring Ghedia. Eli saw smoking wounds across its thickly muscled chest and arms. It dived again, roaring in imminent victory over the Shaaryan druids. Elisandrya fired her bow. The arrow's flight was quick and nearly invisible, embedding in the devil's exposed chest. The malebranche pulled back, furiously flapping and grasping at the arrow's shaft as it howled in pain. A cheer rose up from the hunters at the sight of the wounded beast, but quickly died as three more devils flew overhead, roaring exultantly with the thunder as the pouring rain turned into fire.
Morgynn pushed Khaemil away from the bowl. He winced at her touch, and Quinsareth felt his magical bonds loosen. With a quick and furious glance from the canomorph, the spell tightened again. Despite the magic, Quin still found himself able to speak and move his head. The pain Morgynn had induced in him had faded at her release. Her touch would have been enough to kill, he realized. He stretched his jaw, tasting the warmth of blood on his lips. "There they are," Morgynn said, studying the Savrathans in the scrying bowl. "They defy their own edict now, working against my prophecy." Morgynn's eyes still swirled with living blood. Her hands gripped the small table, shaking it with fury though her expression and voice never changed, never lapsed into the rage that seemed to flood her senses. "They can do little harm now, Lady Morgynn," Khaemil ventured. "Foresight cannot help them now." "True," she snapped. "However, this does not quell their potency against the bathor, does it?" Her brief control of her anger crumbled. She gripped the wooden bowl and hurled it at Khaemil, splashing him with the crimson waters. Khaemil raised his arms, but otherwise did not move, remaining still and avoiding Morgynn's accusing stare. Quin winced to see the bowl's visions banished. The game seemed at a stalemate, his options evaporating with each moment.
Quinsareth's voice broke the silence. "It's a funny thing, prophecies," he began, smiling freely at Morgynn's tantrum. Her head slowly turned at his interruption. "Sometimes they come true." She did not reply to the aasimar, but neither did she look away as she spoke again, quiet but commanding. "Deal with your mistake, Khaemil. End it.
I will go and correct its consequences." Before the shadurakul could protest, Morgynn strode forward into him, melding into his flesh and disappearing through his blood. In a blink she was gone, leaving Quin to wonder in awe at the gruesome trick. He did not know how she had done it, but he had no doubts as to where she had gone. A low, grumbling growl rolled from Khaemil's throat as he beheld the aasimar.
Long fangs grew in the canomorph's mouth, and he bared them. He hefted the mace at his side and stalked toward Quin. The chamber shook again, the storm's violence threatening to bring the tower down on their heads. Quin's bonds felt as strong as ever. Bedlam lay far out of reach, useless, and the game tumbled on in his mind. The only piece left, seemingly as useless as his sword, was the shield.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The canomorph's magic was insidious and subtle, leaving no scars or bloody wounds in its wake, only the memory of one pain and the continuous anticipation of the next. Quin's mind reeled, becoming more and more detached from the pain. He had been burned with invisible flames and sliced by blades that only his mind could give form and substance. Through it all, through pain and paralysis, he could not summon or even fathom the rage he'd expected. It seemed to him that Khaemil carried rage for them both. He had been the canomorph's failure in Morgynn's eyes, the reason for whatever punishment the blood-witch had in store. So Khaemil drew out Quin's pain, keeping him alive to exorcize his rage. Both of them expected death in one form or another, one sooner, the other later. The tower shook with each peal of thunder, rattling the bones and shaking dust from the ceiling. Only a blur of twisting wind, filled with lightning, could be seen through the small window. Whatever remained of the storm's power was just enough to keep it going. One by one, the game pieces fell away in Quin's thoughts. He fought the urge to retreat into those memories of childhood. He wanted to be aware, strengthening his will on the present. He had strained his muscles almost to exhaustion trying to break the bands of force that held him tight, to no avail. His only freedoms were to see and to speak, neither of which were useful under the circumstances. He had been at the mercy of boundless rage before on the long roads he'd traveled across Faer?n, and found it distasteful to witness such pursuits once more. Khaemil growled and snarled as he cast, flinging Quin's mind into illusory landscapes filled with keening phantoms, then dismissing the images to deliver more direct torments. In the brief respite between spells, Quin allowed himself to respect Khaemil's instinct for torture. A man could live for tendays, even months, in such intricate and carefully doled out pain. Only the occasional trembling of the tower, cracks widening along its walls, let them both know that such time would not be afforded to them. Khaemil would have to finish his games soon enough, lest the crumbling tower give in to the chaotic storm outside and crush them both. The canomorph circled the aasimar as he contemplated the theme of each spell. Quin watched his face each time, seeing the familiar visage of a fellow killer, an assassin hired on faith to deliver bloody sermons to one's enemies. Through the fog of pain, Quin contemplated scenarios of escape, miracles beyond hope by which he might slay this dark preacher of vile magic and follow Morgynn to Brookhollow. Occasionally his eyes drifted to Bedlam, still lying on the floor, so close to the strange shield beneath the bones. He focused on the dormant blade, the dull shine of its screaming steel.