Turning to Elisandrya, he could not read the strange look in her eye.
Her defensive stance and firmly set jaw seemed at odds with her beauty, but at the same time complimented her strength. He could forget himself in her face, he realized, and he forced himself to turn away from her. In that moment, Eli's eyes were eclipsed in a rushing darkness as chaos broke their brief glance. Quin found himself running toward her as time crawled and a black shape crashed to the ground near her. Through the rain, the scene was a blur of splashing water and massive leathery wings. A roar cut off Elisandrya's yell of surprise, turning it into a sharp scream as she was slammed into the side of a building. The force of the blow cracked the wall and she crumpled to the ground. Quinsareth saw a flash of red as Bedlam took on the devil's roar as its own. The battleworn beast turned and glared at the charging aasimar with burning coal eyes. One of its forward horns had been snapped off and several arrows protruded from its arms and chest. Thick, black blood oozed from wounds across its stomach and from rips in its wings. Its face was twisted into a mocking grin by a jutting, underslung jaw filled with fangs and two large tusks. Rain steamed as it poured over the devil's hard skin, boiling in its hell-born heat. The malebranche roared weakly at the mocking sword.
Wracked with pain from its injuries, it tried to turn and meet its enraged attacker. A massive fist crashed into Quin's shoulder, sending waves of pain through his chest. He rolled with the blow, bringing Bedlam inside the devil's reach. The beast snapped its head up, raking its single horn along Quin's breastplate and cutting a jagged gash through the Hoarite's jaw. Quinsareth, oblivious to the pain, swung his sword up in a vicious cut. Bedlam sliced off the remaining horn and bit deep into the side of the beast's head. His arm ached with the impact, but Quin held on as Bedlam screamed and cut deeper. Burning in contact with its flesh, Bedlam howled until the devil's struggles ceased. The aasimar jumped backward, wrenching his sword free as the hulking body of the malebranche slumped forward, shaking the ground with its weight. Its spilled blood hissed in the puddles, the sounds merging with the deluge. Quin's shoulder stabbed with pain as he hobbled over to Elisandrya, his gut chilled with fear. Kneeling beside her, he inspected the deep gouges in her side. She gasped in pain as he pressed against them to slow her bleeding. Her eyes wide, she gulped for air and winced. Though relieved to see her conscious, she grabbed at his wrist before he could speak. He trembled as she slid her other hand across his cheek. "Go, finish it," was all she said, her eyelids heavy as she released him. She pulled her cloak around herself tightly, but never looked away from him. Wordlessly, he nodded and stood, turning toward the temple doors. Her words and brief touch were seared into his mind, not for their sentiment or the feelings they conveyed, but for what he knew, in his heart of hearts. With or without her permission, whether or not he might have been able to heal her wounds, he'd have gone and left her anyway, to finish what he'd begun. And he hated himself for it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Splotches of red covered her hands and arms. She could feel herself screaming in the candlelight, crying and trying to wipe the stains away, but they stubbornly remained. Her grandmother opened the bedroom door calmly and knowingly, waiting for the vision to pass, not wanting to interfere with the child's destiny. In moments, the blood was gone as if blown away by her own breath, and she looked to her grandmother, the High Oracle of the Hidden Circle, with pleading in her eyes. "Make it go away, Nanna! I don't want it!" The old woman merely crossed the room and sat by Sameska's side, holding her hands and looking gravely into her eyes. "That I cannot do, Sameska. Would not if I could," she said, her voice deep and comforting. "It is a blessing of Savras, to see that which will be. You have been chosen, just as your mother and I were chosen." Chosen. She contemplated the word later as she slept, bundled in soft blankets against an early autumn chill. The visions had only recently begun, making her feel special at first, but then they had come more often. In quiet moments, in the middle of daily chores, and, that day, among her friends. She sobbed, still able to see the looks of horror on their faces as she'd rambled, telling each about the day they would die. Horror turned to anger and hatred, and the cruelty of children became isolation. She was hidden indoors to await her mother, still among her peers at the temple. Alone in her room, staring into the darkness, smelling the smoke of a cooling candle, she listened to the muffled voices of her mother and grandmother through the door. She drew up the stone cold courage of her mother and stoically pulled her arms out from beneath the covers, holding them up to the moonlight that shone through the dark curtains. It was there. She could not truly see it, the vision having passed, but the blood was still there. Imagining it across her hands and fingers, wrinkled and old as they'd been, she wondered at what she'd seen. Savras demanded truth in all things, an accounting of each vision or prophecy for all to hear. This one she had not told, not to Nanna or her mother. A sickening guilt had haunted her about the vision, for the blood was not hers, and she knew that someone had died. She lay awake all night, eventually rising, still wrapped in blankets, to pace the floor in front of the window. Each time she passed, the moonlight splashed blood across her hands.
Rough hands dragged her backward, clutching at her robes and prying the bloody dagger from her fingers. She studied her arms when the oracles finally released her, covered in blood. She felt older than she'd felt in the last several tendays. The faces that watched her bore a mixture of horror, pity, and anger. She sobbed and squeezed her eyes shut, wringing her hands in her robes and falling to the floor, choking out words past the lump in her throat. "Make it go away, Nanna. I don't want it." Behind her intended victim lay the young oracle's savior. Pale, staring up with sightless eyes, Sameska could not remember her name. The girl had dived between the two, receiving the fatal wound in her throat that now flooded the marble with the high oracle's crime. Looking over the girl's shoulder, Morgynn crouched, like a cat waiting for a mouse to come out of its hole. Staring at the high oracle, she blankly observed the effects of what she had wrought in Sameska's mind.
Morgynn studied the brave oracle's lifeless body. She pursed her lips in disgust at such a selfless act, but was amused by the chaos of the scene. Sameska squirmed as Morgynn paced along her barrier's edge, studying the dense network of Dethek runes that glowed brighter when she neared. Similar spells had been in place along the corridors and entrance to the sanctuary, dormant sentinels set against evil threats.
They had been interesting puzzles, but less effective than these in the heart of the temple. Smiling, she faced her captive audience, enjoying the variety of expressions on their faces. Defiance, fear, and hopelessness, she favored them all as validation of her existence.
Whispers slipped among them, prayers to Savras to deliver them from evil. She paused in her pacing and looked around curiously as if staring through the walls at the whole of Faer?n. "It's not about good or evil," she said, "higher powers or faith. None of it matters in the end. It's about blood, who spills it and who owns it… that's all."
Drawing her dagger, she sliced a small cut in her left palm to match the wound on her right. Clasping them together, she willed her blood to flow for her magic. Although she had the knowledge and means to cast spells as other wizards did, she had no taste for their primitive ingredients. Bits of spider web or bat guano had their places in shaping the Weave, but the crimson stream of her own pulse brought the magic closer, made it more intimate. It was an arcane taboo that was regarded by some magic-wielders as a form of cannibalism. They spend their lives fighting the magic, she thought, addicted to its power, but unwilling to risk their vanity or health, seeking out spells of long life or even immortality. They will never know what it means to be consumed. The words of the spell were quick and simple, uttered and gone in a single short breath as she spread her hands apart. The blood from her palms flowed toward her fingertips, setting each alight with a red energy. Lowering her arms, she pointed each glowing finger at a design on the floor. Tracing them in the air, she followed their twisting threads until they met the barrier and passed beyond. The energy of the spell throbbed through her arms, aching for release as she focused. Sighing, she let the magic fall, gently drifting to the floor like snowflakes. The marble darkened where it touched, slipping between the edges of the runes and hissing on contact. The glow flared and pulsated in tune to Morgynn's will, growing and filling the room with a thundering hum that shook the floor. Minuscule cracks appeared in the marble. The oracles covered their ears and watched as light flowed through the patterns, inexorably following the whorls of the arcane alphabet toward them. The hum reached a powerful crescendo, shaking the walls. Fractures appeared all over the chamber on Morgynn's side of the barrier as the thin lines of light flashed and raced toward the warded wall of energy. The crimson bolts slammed into the barrier, crackling and straining against its resisting power.