Bloodsongs (23 page)

She stared at him, and her eyes suddenly burned. She shook so violently that the finger rolled from her palm and fell into the dust at her feet.

A cry tore from her, a sound full of hurt and misery and rage. Her sword moved, powered by all the fury and strength she could summon. It cleaved an arc through the air, whined straight for Kel's unprotected neck.

It halted a scant handsbreadth from his flesh as if invisible demons had caught the blade. A peculiar numbness spread into her arm and upward to her shoulder. She tried to strike again, but her limb would not obey, nor could she uncurl her fingers from the hilt or even lower her arm. Swiftly the sensation flowed through her until her body was no longer her own to rule.

Kel's eyes glowed with an arcane inner fire that flashed around the black rims of his pupils.

“It's you!” she gasped, still capable of speech. A terrible understanding flooded her. “You're the sorcerer. There is no Oroladian!”

He shook his head, and his eyes glittered, alive with power. “I am the sorcerer, Mother.” He laughed. “But there is an
Oroladian
. Have you forgotten your own native tongue after so many years in foreign lands? It is a title. It means ‘Triumphant over the Earth.'”

“You killed your father?” Rage made her strain uselessly against the spell that held her.

He shrugged. “I didn't plan it. I came to talk with you. I needed answers to questions only an Esgarian would understand. But you were gone. Father and I argued, and he said things I couldn't forgive.”

She clenched her eyes shut; she had that much control of her body. “You murdered him!”

“And I took the fingers of his right hand,” he affirmed coldly, “in strict accordance with the ancient texts. His spirit would serve me four times while I had them.” His mouth twisted in a sick grin. “He was never so much use to me while he lived.”

Frost cursed her helplessness. Her steel still hovered a mere hand's width from Kel's neck. So close to revenge! “He loved you, but you were too blind and selfish to see it,” she shouted. “Kimon gave you everything!”

His eyes flashed, and an unseeable power seemed to squeeze the very air from her lungs. “He never loved me! Nor did you! You replaced me with that little piece of gutter-garbage and dared to call it son!”

“Kirigi was a brother to you!” she cried. “I couldn't give Kimon another child!”

“Shut up!” He held out his hand. For the first time she saw the glowing object he had concealed in his gloved palm. It was an amulet of some sort, the source of his magic. “Shut up!” he screamed again, and the numbness that gripped her spread into her throat until she could say nothing. “You've shown your love well enough.” He ran one hand down the length of her bare steel and pulled the edge closer until it touched his flesh just below the jaw. “You came out of vengeance, Mother, to punish me. It was Kimon and Kirigi that drove you here just as surely as if their souls had laid whips to your back! Don't speak of how you loved me!” He squeezed the amulet in a tight fist, and sparks of scintillant fire shot between his knuckles. “Because this time I've replaced
you
, Mother. What I could never get from you another is more than willing to give.”

He turned his back to her and waved an arm, leaving her to wonder at his meaning. His soldiers rode forward at his command, torches sputtering and leaping and staining the darkness with a destructive light. He faced her again, his features warped with a beautific malice.

“You've kept me from what I came for long enough. Stay by my side, Mother. We'll claim the prize and destroy this town together.” He lifted his gaze to the sky; it had filled with smoke from the burning fields. “Can you hear the gods singing?” He barked a short laugh. “We'll make an offering of Dakariar.”

The amulet's power commanded her, and she took a place by Kel's right hand. They waited for his army to catch up, then walked side by side into the town. She could not even turn her head to see if anyone peeked through the shuttered windows.
Don't!
she begged him wordlessly.
Not another town. Not Lycho and Pericant and Oric, not Jemane and Cleomen. Not more lives on my conscience!
Whatever Kel did, she was to blame. He was her son!

As they walked Kel began to mutter. The sound was Esgarian, but only a few of the words were clear. With his free hand he reached under his tunic and lifted a chain from around his neck. A small golden fish dangled from it. As he chanted, it began to spin faster and faster, though his fingers remained absolutely still. At the first crossroads the fish abruptly stopped.

Kel chose the way the fish pointed. As soon as they moved, it began to spin again until another decision was required.

Frost would have trembled were it not for the power that controlled her. She knew the route, and more, she recognized the motive that compelled the chain. What else would a fish seek but water?

It led them straight to the Temple of the Well.

The five priests emerged from the doorway and stood protectively around the source of their sacred water. Lycho spoke first. “I see you've found your son,” he said to Frost.

Kel deposited the fish and its chain down the front of his garment. “My mother is at a loss for words, so joyful is she at our reunion.” He regarded the five with a cool, disdaining grace. Then he went to the well and drew a bucket of fresh drink. He dipped his hand, tasted, then spat.

The priests did not react. “Whatever you want from us is yours,” Pericant said. “Dakariar is a peaceful town. We'll not resist you.”

“Oh, I promise you won't resist us,” Kel answered with a smirk. He turned his back to the priests as he gave the bucket a push. The rope made a sharp hiss as it rushed through the pulley, and a soft splash rose from the depths.

Lycho's gaze sought hers. She hoped he could read the fear she felt or know some small part of her mind. But she could say or do nothing. By her silence, he might even believe she had joined her son against Dakariar!

She strained to reach the sword Kel had ordered her to sheathe. Her muscles would not obey; her son's magic was too strong. Still, she tried, and sweat beaded on her brow as proof of her effort.

“We have innocents within,” Jemane cried suddenly, taking a step forward. “We beg you not to harm them!”

Frost saw the bloodless color of the old priest's cheeks. He quivered visibly, and he wrung his hands. Lycho put an arm about his shoulders and pulled him back to the well. They stood there, closed in that embrace, and waited to learn what Kel wanted of them, the younger man consoling and soothing the older.

But Kel demanded nothing. He waved a hand limply over his shoulder.

The air sang suddenly with the twang of bowstrings. She couldn't see the archers behind her, but a flurry of arrows smacked sickeningly into the five priests. The impact of four shafts carried Jemane backward over the well's rim. Oric and Cleomen barely had time to scream before they fell, clutching at multiple wounds. Pericant, perhaps swifter than the others, tried unsuccessfully to run. Three quick barbs brought him down on the temple's threshold.

Lycho sank to his knees and stared in horrible surprise at the seven shafts that sprouted from his chest and belly. He reached out, hands trembling and hesitant as if uncertain which shaft he might touch. He looked at her in his last moment, then, and her heart nearly broke. He tumbled forward, splintering the wooden arrows with his weight. A dull mist swiftly veiled his open eyes.

Metal points protruded redly from his back. The white cloth of his robe slowly colored with the spreading stain.

She could not scream. Her mouth would not open. But a soft moaning vibrated in her throat, the only vent her grief could find. Tears rushed from her eyes and trailed down her face. In all other respects, she was Kel's puppet.

A cold wind whistled down the street. The sky clouded over, blotting the sun.

Kel disappeared from her field of vision and returned a moment later bearing objects from his saddlebags. He set them on the ground beside Lycho's body. “Drag this away,” he ordered his guards, giving the priest a kick. Two soldiers seized the body by its heels and pulled him behind the well.

Frost cursed both their souls. Rage began to replace her pain, and since it was all she could do, she observed her son carefully.

The objects were a goblet of gold, a small emerald exposed on a wrapping of clean black silk, and an intricately carved dagger. Kel bent over them and muttered something she could not hear. A guard handed him a canteen, and he filled the goblet. Next, he picked up the jewel and rolled it between his palms. This time she heard his intonations. The language was Esgarian.

“Eye of Skraal,” he chanted over the gem, invoking the name of the goddess of wisdoms. There was more, but the words changed to a tongue she didn't know.

He set the emerald back on the silk square and picked up the dagger. He rubbed a smooth place in the dust with his forearm, then began to write glyphs there with the dagger's point. She recognized the symbols. They all made reference to Skraal.

Why
, she wondered,
does he invoke Esgarian gods in this land? Why Skraal? Why not her god-husband, Lord Tak, who is patron of witches and sorcerers?

Kel rose carefully, stepped around his markings, and nodded to a couple of his men. “You know what I need,” he said. “Any one of them will do.”

Two rebels picked up Cleomen's body, climbed on the edge of the well, and held the old priest upside down. The hem of his robe slid over his face, exposing the feeble flesh. When Kel tugged out the arrows it slipped even farther down. Kel cut it away with the same dagger he had used to make his glyphs.

An athame, she realized. A ceremonial knife. She struggled again to free herself from the spell that held her, fearing what her son intended.

The dagger flashed down and up, biting deep into Cleomen's belly. Kel made a sharp ripping motion, opening the old man as if he were a pig to be butchered. Blood, warm and steaming, spilled out in a rush, spoiling Dakariar's sacred well.

Frost's rage hit a new peak, and a true scream escaped her lips. Kel jerked around in surprise. His hand dipped into a pocket of his left sleeve, and he extracted the amulet. It flared at his touch, and she felt her breath taken away. He came toward her, grinning.

A brilliant flash of lightning split the western sky, followed instantly by tremendous thunder. The clouds turned even darker.

Kel stopped in midstep, his attention drawn to the sky. His annoyance was plain, and he frowned. Another wind wailed down the street, destroying the patterns of his glyphs. He cursed savagely and hurried back to them, forgetting her.

But she smiled to herself, an inward smile full of hatred and loathing for her son. He had her, yes. But there was weakness in his magic. She had broken his spell for just an instant, long enough to cry out. And if she could break it once . . .

Kel hastily redrew the symbols the wind had ravaged, chanting as he worked. The two men on the well's edge were growing weary of holding Cleomen's weight, but he ignored their complaints. The old priest seemed nearly empty of blood; still, there was enough for Kel to catch on the blade of his athame. Those few precious drops he scattered among the glyphs.

“Dump the carcass and get away,” he ordered the two. They tossed Cleomen callously aside and jumped clear.

A new note rose suddenly on the air, a sound that made Kel start and look around in consternation. A crash followed it, then another. Her son cursed and picked up the goblet, returning to his task.

Yet Frost knew that sound and what the crash indicated. Still another crash echoed, and yet another. A high-pitched trumpeting called to her.

“Gods!” Kel cried angrily. “Is this damned town haunted?” He shouted orders to his men. “See what that noise is and put an end to it. A painful end.”

From the corner of her vision she watched a handful of rebels rush up the street toward the stables.
Hurry
, she wished them.
Hurry to your own painful ends. Set him free before he kicks down the walls
.

Kel returned to his magic. He approached the edge of the well bearing the cup and the dagger. He raised both high and called in a loud voice.
“Skraal, ninima a Tak, sunima a Timut o Siakun, jamal o ansa Kel na'Akian.”

She knew the language, and she knew the invocation. But how could Kel? He was male, and no male was allowed the knowledge of these spells. A coldness gripped her heart. His magic was Esgarian. Only an Esgarian could have taught him. And that was against the Way!

The sky shattered. Jagged lightning streaked the night. Thunder nearly deafened her. A heavy rain began to pour, drenching her in an instant.

Ashur's cry rose again over the loud splintering of old boards.

Kel ignored it all as best he could.
“Skraal, jamal o ansa Kel na'Akian!”

He turned the goblet upside down, and a white powder streamed into the well. He stepped back and waited expectantly.

A gusher of fire exploded from the depths of the well. It soared, crackling and hissing, high into the air, giving birth to mad shadows with its furious orange light. Heat blistered the front of the temple, and the eave of the roof began to glow.

“Damat, Shinimi Skraal, Damat?”
Kel cried with glee. He approached the pillar of flame with a look of purest ecstasy on his face, his fists raised high, the dagger clutched in one hand.
“Damat, Shinimi Skraal!”

A tumult of shouts and squeals drowned him out. His scouting party ran back down the street, colliding with the ranks of other rebels. Ashur charged right behind them, venting that terrible battle cry. The unicorn lowered his head and impaled the nearest man. With a mighty toss, he flung the body back over one shoulder. In the light of Kel's strange fire, Ashur's black horn gleamed wetly, incarnadined.

Frost could not move, but her heart leaped.