"Careful, young lord," said Mukhari Ras, appearing ghostlike from a deep alcove. "The essence still is very delicate, and I have need of it soon."
Sturm flinched and stood away from the table. The fluid in the tubes was thick and dark, very like the color of -
"Blood," said the alchemist. "Merely the unwholesome remnants of my last experiment," said the alchemist. He drew nearer even as the boy shrank from him.
"Human blood?" asked Sturm in a small voice.
"Of course," said Mukhari. "No other kind is of any use to me."
Sturm slowly pointed to the red, sweet-smelling candle. "What is this made of? It smells good."
"I am pleased you noticed. It is a very SPECIAL candle. You see, I cannot smell it at all." Sturm couldn't believe that. The spicy aroma was almost overwhelming in the close room. "Only very special people can smell it. The young and pure."
A cold hand came to rest on the back of Sturm's neck. "What does that mean?" he asked.
"It means, my boy, that I needed to know what sort of boy you are, to know if you were suitable for my purposes."
Sturm backed a step. "What purposes?"
"At the command of my Dark Goddess, I seek the true restorative medicine, the elixir of life. My research uncovered the formula, but to make it work, I need noble blood. Your blood."
"Mine!" cried Sturm. "Why mine?"
"You passed the test. The candle led you here."
Sturm bumped into a table. He cast about wildly for a way out. Mukhari did not seem to notice. He looked far away, musing about his experiments.
"Artavash brought me children from Kernaf, but they were imperfect, unworthy. The elixir made from their blood was only partially effective." He held out an arm and pulled back the loose sleeve to his shoulder. "See? I have the arms of a man of thirty, while the rest of me rots at sixty-six."
Fear and disgust rose sourly in Sturm's throat. "So that's why the town is empty — you murdered the children!"
"Don't be silly, boy. Most families fled, true, but they'll come back once I'm rejuvenated. They will come back and fall to their knees to worship the Goddess of Darkness who grants eternal life!"
"Life purchased at the cost of others! Paladine will not allow this!"
"And who is Paladine's representative? You?" Mukhari grinned evilly at the boy. "No matter. In two days the dark moon will rise, and the celestial conditions for the making of the elixir will be propitious."
"You will not suceed — Sergeant Soren — " Sturm began shrilly.
The alchemist clucked his tongue. "He cannot help you. Even now he lies trussed up in my dungeon. As for you, my young lord, if you give me the slightest difficulty, I shall order harm done to your mother and her maid."
"You will not!"
"Nonsense, boy. You're not in Solamnia. I am master here."
Sturm closed his hand around a smooth, cold object — a flask. He hurled the flask at Mukhari and turned to run. The aged alchemist dodged awkwardly. Mukhari, reached for a braided bell cord. Hidden chimes rang. A concealed door sprang open, and Artavash came in. Sturm rushed blindly into her grasp.
"Take charge of him, my dear," Mukhari said. "Only don't bruise him. I wouldn't want him less than perfect for processing tomorrow."
"As you command, master," said Artavash. She laid a firm hand on his neck and guided Sturm from the room.
On the stairs Sturm said, "So — so this was your plan all
along?"
"Why do you think my master had me scouring the seas?" she said. "Other ships have come and gone, seeking pure blood for Lord Mukhari's work. Noble offspring are hard to find; they're usually well guarded. It was the greatest stroke of luck that I intercepted your ship."
Sturm didn't feel at all lucky. He submitted without a struggle as Artavash took him to her chambers. All the while, even when she bound him to a heavy chair with silken sashes, he was thinking, thinking. He batted the feeling of helpless terror that gnawed at his mind. Soren a captive, his mother and Carin hostages,… and himself. To be bled dry, his life drained to further the evil work of the Queen of Darkness…
He thought of his father, standing on the battlements of Castle Brightblade with only a few loyal retainers while a mob of madmen howled around them. Lord Brightblade would meet the foe face to face, head to head, to conquer or perish. It was the knightly way. It was the Brightblade way.
The tremors in Sturm's limbs faded. In their place a heat grew in his chest. He was angry. His father had trusted him to take care of his mother, and he had failed! And who would bear the Brightblade name back to their ancestral home if not him?
"Be still, boy," Artavash said. She tipped a clay cup to her lips and drank.
"Lady Artavash?" said Sturm, his voice cracked with emotion.
"What do you want?"
"Would you help me?"
She yawned and kicked off her sandals. "Don't be silly, boy."
"All you need do is untie me. Then I'll get Soren, and together we'll take my mother and Mistress Carin — »
"You're not going anywhere. Mukhari Ras has decreed your fate." Artavash sat on her high couch and leaned back against the wall. She laid the naked blade of a shortsword across her lap.
"How can you serve a man like him? H-he is a monster who kills children!" said Sturm.
"Children die every day," she said flatly. And with that, young Sturm saw Artavash for what she was: a heartless mercenary. Her only loyalty was to her paymaster.
She drained another cupful of wine, the last of many that evening. "Now, go to sleep." Artavash slumped over a pile of pillows. Her hand went slack, and the clay cup rolled out of it.
Sturm waited until her breathing was soft and regular before he tried to shift the chair. The stout seat bumped loudly on the bare stone floor. Sturm froze. Artavash snorted and buried her face deeper in the satin cushions.
He gazed longingly at the sword Artavash had drawn, now lying point out on the couch. If he could only reach it! He strained against the sashes, but the silken knots only tightened further. Sturm relaxed and shook the damp ends of his long hair from his face.
The lamp above Artavash's couch guttered and went out. In the dense darkness, Sturm could feel his pulse throbbing in his hands and feet. He wiggled his fingers under the binding. His hands were crossed over his lap, so his left hand was over his right pocket, and vice-versa. There was a lump in his left pocket he recognized as Captain Graff's wind cord. He counted the knots. Two hands, plus one; eleven fresh gusts of magic were locked in that dirty strip of rawhide.
But it was magic. As a knight, he was forbidden by the Measure to make use of it. Still… to fight the Dark Queen…
The day dawned bright and hot. Sturm awakened from a tense, shallow sleep with the sun in his eyes. His body ached from being tied all night. Artavash did not stir until a pounding on the door compelled her to rise.
"What in thunder?" she grumbled, her voice husky and dry.
"Where is my son?" demanded Lady Ilys through the door.
"Here, Mother! I'm in here!" he shouted.
Artavash winced. She yanked a bell pull by her couch. By the time she staggered to the door and opened it, eight soldiers were waiting for her outside. Two more stood by with Soren, whose hands were chained together.
Artavash slit Sturm's sashes with the shortsword, and the young Brightblade threw his arms around his mother.
"They're going to kill me!" Sturm cried.
"This can't be true!" Lady Ilys gasped, turning to Artavash, who merely shrugged.
"My lady, your son spoke truly. These people mean to kill young Sturm," said Soren.
Lady Ilys pushed her son behind her skirt. Mistress Carin moved in on Sturm's other side. Lady Ilys declared, "No one shall move from this spot until some explanation is given for the barbarous manner in which we are being treated!"