Bloodsongs (25 page)

Kimon's eyes, too, followed her wherever she moved.

“I needed objects of power,” he answered. “I am a sorcerer, not a witch or a wizard. I must have sources of magic to tap, words, runes, and talismans whose energy I can channel to my ends. Demonfang possesses incredible energies. I tell you, in the past few months I've collected many such things, but none so potent as your dagger.”

“And for these objects you ransacked Keled-Zaram?”

He nodded. “One day soon I'll rule Keled-Zaram and its neighboring nations. I've gathered my treasures from many lands, but the Three Aspects were hidden only in this kingdom. I've searched everywhere to find them. Once they are in my possession, and with Oroladian's help”—he peered intently at her, and his eyes gleamed—“my power will extend far beyond necromancy into unexplored realms of true sorcery.”

Frost hugged her blanket for warmth against a sudden chill. Kel resembled her so much, yet she wondered if there was truly anything of her in him. Her son was a stranger. It occurred to her that he might be right, that she had failed him in some way. Had she
ever
known him?

“Oroladian.” She repeated the name again. “Who is he?”

“Not a
he
,” her son answered grimly. “Oroladian is a great sorceress, and I will sit at her feet to learn many things. Already, she's taught me much. But to continue my lessons I must bring her the Three Aspects.”

She advanced slowly on her son, finding a measure of satisfaction in the way he gave ground. “You've mentioned those before. What are they? Parts of some spell?”

“It doesn't matter if you know,” Kel answered haughtily. “Generations ago, the ancient priests of Chondos hid three objects in this land. They chose Keled-Zaram because of all the nations of the world this one bred the fewest magicians. Here, they thought the objects would be safe from discovery.”

He folded his arms into his voluminous sleeves as he talked. “The objects were the Three Aspects of a spell capable of returning life to the dead – not just the semblance of life, but true life. You've heard that a Chondite adept at the height of his power might wrestle with Death and win his resurrection?” He waited until she admitted she had. “Well, this particular spell requires no such struggle.
 
In fact, it is a rather simple magic. Anyone possessing the Three Aspects could work it. Yet its very simplicity made it dangerous knowledge, for it set the different priestly brotherhoods at each other's throats. Finally, to prevent full-scale civil war in Chondos, they had no choice but to rid themselves of the Aspects. One priest from each faction smuggled an Aspect into this land, concealed it, and then took his own life so that the secret could never be torn from him.”

He paused, then began to pace about the room. “The Aspects themselves are the stuff of legend: the Lamp of Nugaril, the Eye of Skraal, and the Book of Shakari.”

Frost had heard vague tales about the objects. That they were the components of a great conjuration, though, was news. Each was reputed to be a source of power in its own regard, and wizards and sorcerers for generations had tried and failed to find them.

“You've promised these things to some whore?”

Kel spun and raised a hand to deal her a savage blow. Barely, he controlled his temper. “Mind your wicked tongue!” After a moment, he lowered the hand and forced a weak smile. “I have two of the objects already. The lamp was hidden in a hollow stone that made the cornerstone of an old house in Soushane. The eye was at the bottom of Dakariar's well. The resonations of any single Aspect can be traced by sorcerous means to the next. With two now in my possession, I can find the third, and I'll claim it in three days' time.”

She couldn't hide her interest. “And then?”

His smile widened; he wagged a finger under her nose. “Ah, Mother. There's so much more to tell, things that would chill even your cold soul.” He feigned a pout and clasped his hands in front of his chest. “But I've promised to keep some secrets, so content yourself with what I've told you.”

Frost wished she could hit him, and the wish spawned the act. She drew the back of her hand almost casually across his mouth. A spot of blood welled at the corner of his lips.

Kel glared. He touched the cut and looked at the blood she had drawn. His expression betrayed his hurt and anger, and that made her smile. He had spread so much pain and suffering through the land. It pleased her to know he could suffer, too.

Kel turned his back to her and addressed the ghost of his father. Kimon still waited patiently, silently, at the room's center. “I have no question for you,” he said bitterly. “Return to the—“

“Wait!” Frost snapped, interrupting him. “You wouldn't want to waste one of your precious questions, would you? You've only got one left after this. Surely there is something you should ask your father?” She caught her son's arm and shook it encouragingly. “Here's your chance, Kel, if you've got the guts. He has to tell the truth. Go on, coward, ask him.”

Her words were full of cruelty, taunting. She never dreamed she could hate as much as she hated at that instant. It didn't matter that Kel was her son. She wanted to hurt him and to twist that hurt until he bled inside.

“Ask him,” she urged. “Ask your father if he loved you.”

Kel stood frozen, staring at his father. “No,” he said, his voice a choked whisper.

“Ask him!” Her rage finally found vent. She smashed her fists against his chest, nearly toppling him. He caught her hands and pushed her away and retreated to the far corner. She shouted at him. “Now's your chance! Learn the truth and see what madness your jealousies have wrought. He loved you! Ask him!”

“No, damn you!” he cried angrily. He waved a hand wildly at his father. “Spirit, back to hell. Leave!”

But before Kimon was gone, Frost leaped and flung her arms around her husband's neck. She pressed her lips to his in a desperate kiss.

“Stop!” Kel ordered uselessly.

Joy leaped in her heart, but the blood seemed to freeze in her veins and the breath turned brittle in her lungs as she sealed the embrace. Then, the sensation passed. Her arms held nothing but empty air; Kimon was gone.

She ached with the burden of her grief, but she also knew a spiteful gladness.

Kel glowered at her.

“He's beyond your power, now,” she said, rejoicing. “No matter how many parts of him you have, you can never call him back. I've set him free.”

Kel's countenance was purest malice. He strode to her, seized her hand, and forced it open. Then he laid Kimon's severed finger on her palm and wrapped her fist around it. “I don't need him any longer,” he hissed, squeezing her fist until she thought her joints would pop. “And I don't need you! Blood has blood, and I have someone to care for me as you never cared. Stay here, you icy bitch, sealed in this tower. Let your damned steed pound at the gate. There's another way out, and the Third Aspect lies waiting for me to claim it.”

He pushed her aside and went to the door. “When my true blood wears the mantle of true life, perhaps then I'll come back for you—if I think of you at all.”

Kel slammed the door behind him, and the key grated in the lock. She tried it, nevertheless, and beat her fists on the wooden planks when it refused to open. At last, though, she gave up and went back to the window. The wind and rain were strangely soothing. She squeezed Kimon's finger in her palm, pressed it to her heart, then set it lovingly on the damp sill.

“Look to the storm.”

Frost whirled. Kimon's ghost stood once more in the dim circle of lamplight. She moved toward him impulsively, but he held up a hand to stay her. His right hand. He had all his fingers again.

She cast a surprised glance back to the windowsill. The severed digit still lay there, but even as she watched, a wind swirled strangely into the room. The finger rolled about and teetered precariously near the edge. Then, against all logic, the wind swept
out
of the room, sucking the precious limb into the night.

Frost clamped a hand to her mouth, choking back a small cry.

“Find yourself in the storm, Samidar, my wife,” Kimon said, his voice soft as a lover's touch. “You are not a thing of frost and fire; you are the thunder and the lightning.” He pointed beyond the window; another sizzling bolt seemed to emphasize his words. He lowered his hand, and for a moment his eyes became the same gentle blue eyes she had loved before.

“You are my beloved, still and forever.” His words echoed in the small room as though a vast gulf separated them and he spoke from a great distance. “Forever and ever,” he repeated.

Not all her anger and hatred for Kel could hold back her grief. She sank to her knees and wept, aching to hold him in her arms, unable to tear her gaze away as he faded slowly.

When Kimon was no more than a pale shadow, she heard his voice again. “Farewell, Samidar, Samidar, Samidar. . . . I loved our son. . . .”

Outside, the wind wailed a high and lonesome note.

She sat there on the floor and waited for the tears to end as she knew they would. She had cried enough to learn that. The blanket had slipped from her shoulders; the cool air raised gooseflesh on her arms, yet she made no effort to warm herself or to rise. All she knew was a deep weariness of body and spirit flavored with a deeper sense of loss.

But slowly something stirred within her. Kimon's words played over and over in her head. He had returned one final time to bring her a message. What was it? She climbed to her feet, trudged to the window.

The lightning made a brilliant lacework against the ebon clouds. Thunder crackled and boomed.

You are the thunder and the lightning
, Kimon had said. What did he mean? She leaned on the sill and stared into the tempest. The rain beat on her face. Bolt after searing bolt dazzled her vision. Every rumble of thunder spoke with Kimon's voice:
Look to the storm, find yourself in the storm.

She stood there until her legs began to cramp and water ran from the tip of her nose and from the thick ropes of her hair.

Then, far below, Ashur came racing out of the woods and over the dark plain. She hadn't even noticed his absence. Where had he gone?

With a wild cry the unicorn attacked the tower gate again. She held her breath, however this time there was no answering hail of arrows. He pounded the stout beams with his hooves, but the iron-banded gates held.

The sound of Ashur's fury rose over the storm. The unicorn pranced, snorting and stamping uselessly as if daring archers to draw mark upon him. He bellowed, but no answering response of any kind came from the tower.

He saw her then as she leaned out the window, and he stopped. Absolutely still, he turned those unearthly eyes up to her. Suddenly he reared, sped back to the middle of the field, turned, and gazed expectantly at her again.

The heavens exploded with renewed violence. A radiant bolt speared downward and struck the gate.

Frost shielded her eyes with a corner of the blanket. The thunderclap nearly hurled her to the floor, and the very air strove to crush her. Her hand found purchase on the sill as the tower shivered. An acrid smell filled the night.

Ashur ran back and forth, shaking his sodden mane in a maddened frenzy.

But the gate still held.

Impossibly, a second bolt shot from the sky. The tower rocked under its impact. Ashur reared and screamed. The flames that served him for eyes flared with an intensity that reflected the entire length of the great spike on his brow.

Frost pressed a hand to her mouth; her teeth bit the soft flesh of her palm. Kimon's words roared in her mind, loud as the storm itself.
You are the thunder and lightning
, he said.

It couldn't be true, yet it was. It must be!

So much became clear to her in an instant. At the Broken Sword her cards had foretold Telric's coming. At Soushane the steppe wind had come unnaturally to fan the pyre. Now, this storm had come. Was it an unconscious manifestation? She recalled the other storms, so many of late, always when she was upset or angry. . . .

She leaned as far out the window as she dared. The gate was immediately below. She couldn't see the actual entrance for a parapet and, below that, an overhang of jutting stone blocks. Her gaze wandered skyward uncertainly. She drew a deep breath.

Yes, she could feel it now, the storm raging through her. It was a tingling, a slowly building symphony barely heard at the core of her soul, growing louder with each beat of her heart.

She reached beyond the window out into the storm and made a clawing motion with her hand.

A violet shaft lanced downward, shattered the overhanging stones and blasted a gaping hole in the parapet. An awful odor swirled up in thick, vaporous clouds. Bits of wood and stone exploded outward.

Though scorched and blackened, the gates still sealed her in. Again she reached out and pulled lightning from the sky. For an instant the darkness was transformed to painful white. The tower lurched fearsomely under the force of the blast.

A black crater yawned where the gates had been, and the surrounding earth burned and smoked.

Ashur bellowed triumphantly and raced for the opening.

Her witch-powers were back. Frost sagged against the wall and squeezed her eyes shut. After so many long years how could that be? She could feel the energy swelling like a potent song in her soul, straining for release. She turned back to the window, stared into the storm with an awful trepidation. Then, just to prove she could do it, she sent another bolt hurtling earthward.

“Witch!”

She repeated the word over and over, shaking her head in denial. Years ago her mother had stolen her powers, and truly Frost had never missed them, had almost been grateful when they were gone. Now, by some trick of the gods they had returned. She was a witch again. Indeed, she had been for some time without knowing.