Lizaveta made a show of inspecting her nails before speaking further: “Your first task will be to show our dear, misguided Sister, Melana, the grave error of her ways. That will begin tomorrow; she will be allowed the night to consider and rue her misdeeds.
"This is Sister Judan: a trusted member of the Anointed Score,” the Prioress continued, indicating the ruddy-faced nun at her side. “She will be taking over your training from now on. There will be no more chants and responses; I think you know them well enough now. Instead, she will be enhancing and encouraging your spell-casting abilities, to bring you to the peak of your potential."
Drex felt the Geomantic power residing in the earth beneath the floor of Lizaveta's chamber, and she drew it into her like a breath of sweet morning air as rage rose within her.
Die, you shrivelled old hag! she screamed in her head, as she threw a bolt of magic at the ancient witch. You showed me the way, so enjoy the trip to Hades, you whore!
Lizaveta's eyes sprung wide open, and the Prioress slumped back in the couch. For a brief moment, Drex felt a shock of success, revelling in the joy of the release of the strength she had pent up for so long. Her inner fire was soon quenched, as she saw the old woman sit up, wearing a seraphic, almost atavistic smile.
"That was beautiful, my dear. Such gorgeous force; such lovely anger! But you have forgotten one thing I told you: your power does not belong to you anymore. It is mine, to use as I will.
"You have lost, dear girl. Never doubt it!"
Drex slumped, knowing at last that she was beaten. Despair washed through her like an all-conquering wave, and she tried to turn her own power back on herself.
"I am afraid I cannot let you do that, my dear,” Lizaveta said. “Not yet. So I deny you the gift for the nonce. You may not cast any more spells until I will it."
Drex dug deep into her fast-fading reserves of strength and found it slipping from her mental grasp like heavy, greasy tendrils of silk sliding through numb, unresponsive fingers. She despaired that she had been denied even the scant comfort of taking her own life.
"I see you are no stranger to physical pain, Drexelica. We women are strong, are we not? What man can ever understand the protracted agony of childbirth? Bodily pain is a useful tool, but a poor method of trying to control the darkest, inner recesses of a woman's mind. But there are many other ways to hurt a woman, are there not? However, I do not wish to harm you; you are far too useful to me. I am so glad you came here. Tomorrow, you will no longer be Drexelica, the common beggar girl, but a full Sister of the Order, willing and compliant."
"Roast in Hell, bitch,” the girl breathed, with the last vestiges of her defiance.
Lizaveta shook her head, in the manner of a regretful mother denying a wayward child's demand, and she rose to her feet. “I have made other arrangements, I'm afraid,” she said. “Come with me, Supplicant: I have something to show you."
Drex, denied sleep and food for many days, knew she was no match for the two women before her, and she stood up, all traces of defiance gone. Her legs felt weak, but she refused to allow them to tremble as Lizaveta led her out of the chamber.
The room led into the temple in which she had first appeared in Rendale, but it was now bare and featureless except for the gaudy throne. The gentle-looking nun, Judan, opened a door Drex knew welclass="underline" the door to the grey, forbidding Lower Chapel.
"What do you think, Sister Drexelica? We have decorated the Chapel in honour of your accession. Note the tasteful, new appointments."
Drex looked into the depths of the room she had learned to hate so much. Apart from a ragged, red flag on the wall opposite the door, she saw little difference in the Chapel since her last, painful visit.
"It looks no different to me except for the flag,” she said, her voice contemptuous and dismissive, until a dry, hacking moan brought her to her senses. That was no fluttering flag; it was a wet, red, writhing simulacrum of a human body.
"You see, Sister? Sister Melana just insisted on being present at your conversion."
The ghastly vision burned into Drex's brain: the exposed, glistening muscles and tendons; the occasional pale gleam of bared bones; the pleading, agonised eyes, the pupils compressed to black dots at their centres… Drex's mind refused to accept the ghastly reality of what she saw for a few moments, but her stomach recognised the true horror of the spectacle, voiding its meagre contents onto the flagstones in a sudden spasm.
She's still alive…
Long after the thin remnants of the thin gruel she had last eaten had been expelled, Drex retched in helpless agony, unable to take her eyes from the hanging figure.
"Now, that's no way to greet an old friend, is it, Sister?” Lizaveta said. “Still, I imagine you're tired now, and you need your sleep. Tomorrow, you'll have hours and hours in Melana's company, and I expect you to help to teach her well the errors of her ways. Sleep well, Sister…"
Drex tried to resist as the Prioress’ mental clamps fastened upon her, but her debilitated state precluded any last attempt at defiance.
As if in a dream, she heard herself say “I live to serve, Reverend Mother. I am yours."
Drexelica felt as if scenes from her life were rushing from her body: the drab orphan; the enslaved seamstress; the wretched beggar. All flew away from her like handkerchiefs torn away through the window of a speeding coach. The last memory she had was of the warm, cautious, almost timorous embrace of Grimm Afelnor. As the last memory flew away from her, Drexelica of Griven was dead to the world.
Blessed be the Order! Blessed be the Reverend Mother. I live only to serve…
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Chapter 11: Arrivals
Shakkar's flight muscles felt as if they were on fire, but he vowed to continue flying until he and his human passenger had reached their goal. To do otherwise would be to admit weakness, and Shakkar had no intention of doing so. The dangling mortal was not just a burden in terms of weight but also a considerable aerodynamic impediment. This forced the demon to flap his wings at all times rather than coasting on the wind, which was his favoured mode of flight. This unforeseen factor, allied to Shakkar's lack of flying practice since he had been Seneschal of Crar, took a grave toll on his stamina.
He felt himself beginning to drop lower and lower in the sky, and he gritted his teeth, beating his wings faster in an attempt to gain altitude.
"That must be Yoren!” Erik screamed.
Shakkar looked down. He saw the green-clad human hanging beneath him, a pair of joined black tubes pressed to his eyes, and he guessed that this was some kind of optical device.
"Where?” The demon's eyes were not as acute as those of some of his kin.
"Due west, Lord Seneschal. There's no other town in this vicinity on the map; it must be Yoren."
The Sergeant's tone was cheerful, almost euphoric; it seemed that he had overcome his fear of flight, and that he was actively relishing the experience.
I am glad someone is having an enjoyable time, the demon thought, fighting the increasing anguish in his back and shoulders. However, the knowledge that his destination was now in sight gave him renewed zeal and strength. Now, he could see a dull, grey blemish on the landscape to the west, for which he headed, ignoring the pain, dismissing it.
At last, the dowdy blur resolved itself into a recognisable conurbation, while Erik scanned the territory with his artificial eyes.
The Sergeant pointed towards a large hill. “I recommend we set down there, Lord Seneschal, It looks like a collection of burnt buildings; could be Lord Grimm's doing. I can see a few people milling around."
Shakkar's eyes might not have been particularly acute, but his nose was as sensitive as a bloodhound's.
"I think you are right, Sergeant. I smell combustion products; the fire must have been quite recent."