The beholden, p.47
The Beholden, page 47
“His Lordship is at the root of my magic,” the mage said. “I deal in decay. In death. And yes, I am weakening, as he falls away.” She tilted her face down. Her hair fell in a curtain along both cheeks. “He wouldn’t listen to me, either.”
Celestia took deep breaths. She looked at the door that separated her from Izar. That separated her from her future. “There has to be a way to convince him.”
“The Lady of the Seraphine sent you here to convince him,” the mage said, after a moment had passed. “I can feel it on you. And she wouldn’t have done so if she hadn’t thought it possible for you to succeed.” She paused. “But I have no way of offering aid. I can save your baby. Perhaps that is the last good I’ll do in this world.”
I can save your baby. Celestia kept looking at the door. Magic seeped out of it, mingling with the air she breathed into her lungs. She wondered what the magic did to her. She realized she didn’t care.
She realized, too, that she had an idea.
“You want to do what?” Ico sputtered.
Celestia was very calm. She was so calm Ico thought she might be insane.
“I’m not giving up,” she said. “I’m not holing away in this palace while the world grows like a cancer around us. And I know you don’t want to either.”
“There’s the Lady of the North to think of,” Izara added. “Surely you want to see her again?”
Ico fixed Izara with a sharp glare. “Don’t talk about her,” he snapped. The truth was she was right, but the reality of it was too painful, and he preferred to pretend that nothing had changed, that all he had to do was get out of the palace and he would see her again.
“What do you think of this?” he asked Omaira, who was lurking behind Celestia, her arms crossed. “It’s crazy, right? Tell her.” He jabbed his thumb at Celestia. “For the love of the ancestors, she just had a baby.”
Omaira looked at him, then at Celestia. “I don’t want His Lordship to vanish,” she finally said. “And I don’t have any other ideas.”
“It’s our ass, though.” Ico fumed. “You and me, we’re the ones who have to do the really dangerous work.”
“Excuse me?” Izara snapped. “You think I can just wave my hands and part the magic? I could bring this whole palace down if—”
“Stop.” Celestia stepped in between them, holding out her hands as if to keep them from charging. “Ico, if you don’t want to help, then you don’t have to. But I’m going down there regardless of how you feel about it.” She took a deep breath. She wore the expression of someone about to reveal a secret. Wonderful. There was something she hadn’t told them about this madness.
“I’m going down there,” she said, “and I’m taking Izar with me.”
“What!” squawked Izara, and even Omaira’s mouth fell open.
“Celestia,” Omaira started.
But Celestia dismissed her with a wave of her hand. “I’ve made up my mind. He’s the key to all of this. The mage has already agreed to help me.”
“When did you talk to the mage about this?” Izara cried.
“After you left.” Celestia shook her head. “It will be difficult—”
“Dangerous,” Izara said. “It will be dangerous.” She looked up at her sister, her eyes pleading. Ico felt for her. “You’re putting your baby at risk for nothing.”
Ico agreed. Part of him could understand what she was trying to do. Because sure, she was right: what other options did they have? But to take a fucking baby down there—
“This is motherhood sickness,” Ico said, blurting out a term he hadn’t thought about in years. It was something a first mate had told him about, back in his pirating days. “You had your baby and now you’re suffering. It’s normal, but you need to rest.”
All three women glared at him. It was that damn Seraphine hang-up, that men shouldn’t have anything to do with pregnancy. It wasn’t that way in Akuran and it annoyed him that it was that way here.
“She’s putting the baby at risk!” he shouted, throwing up his hands. “What do you want me to say?”
“It’s not motherhood sickness,” Celestia said, her voice low and icy. “It’s desperation. It’s the only idea I have.”
“Surely we can think of something else,” Izara said. “I don’t know what difference Izar will make if Kjari didn’t listen to us before.”
But Celestia shook her head. “You don’t understand,” she said. “Izar—Izar is what makes everything different.” She turned toward the balcony. The curtains were drawn over the window, blocking out the blackness outside. “Izar is the future that Kjari is denying us.”
They fell silent. Then Omaira pulled her sword out of its scabbard and jammed its tip into the floor. Ico jumped at the sound. As he watched, Omaira fell to her knees in front of Celestia, her hand wrapped around the hilt of her sword. She bowed her head low. Celestia gazed down at her without speaking, although Ico thought he saw something like awe glowing in her features.
“Lady Celestia,” Omaira intoned, “before these witnesses, I pledge my fealty to you and your cause. My sword is yours.”
“Please, stand up,” Celestia said. “There’s no need for all this.”
Omaira looked up at her and smiled. “Do you not want my aid?” she asked, a joking lilt to her voice.
Celestia ducked her head down, eyelashes fluttering. “Of course I do,” she murmured. “But you don’t need to swear fealty. I’m not Kjari.” And then she held out her hand to Omaira, who took it, gazing up at her with that teasing smile on her lips. Ico felt something shimmering on the air as their eyes met, and Celestia smiled back, looking in her thin gown and her tangled hair as radiant as a queen. Ico felt as if he were watching something he shouldn’t, some intimate moment between two women who had always been strangers to him.
Omaira stood and held Celestia’s hand for longer than was needed. When she dropped it, she looked at Celestia only in little furtive glances that Ico didn’t think he was meant to see. He wondered if Celestia noticed them.
Celestia turned to Ico. “Do you agree or not? It’ll be easier if Omaira doesn’t have to fight the guards alone.”
“The guards?” Ico sputtered. “What about the magic?”
“I’ll take care of that,” Izara said. She shot Celestia a dark look. “Although I can’t promise I’ll be able to protect the baby.”
“I told you, you won’t have to.” Celestia didn’t take her eyes off Ico. “Well? What do you say?”
Ico glanced at Omaira. At Izara. At Celestia. All three of them were staring at him, and something in each of their expressions, their stances, reminded him for a moment of Xima. He was never going to see her again. Certainly not if he stayed. And probably not if he went. So what did it matter? At least he could go out trying.
“Fine,” he said. “But I want a weapon.”
“You’ll have all the weapons you need,” Omaira said. “I’m not sending you down there unarmed.”
“We’ll leave tomorrow,” Celestia said. “Before the morning bells ring.”
No one answered. But Ico knew they all understood.
The palace was as still as death. They walked single-file down the narrow hallways, a magic globe drifting alongside Omaira’s head, casting barely enough light for Ico to see by. It was early enough that the torches along the wall hadn’t been lit, and Ico could imagine the palace waking up on the floors overhead, heaving itself to life. Nothing had been brought to life down here.
He and Omaira led the way; Izara was behind him, and then Celestia behind her, the baby bundled to her chest in a fabric sling. She wore a crown of dead roses and a necklace of threaded bones; before they’d left the apartment, the mage had anointed her with oils that smelled of dying flowers.
“Keep alert,” Omaira said in a harsh whisper. “We’re approaching the guards.”
Ico tensed and took a deep breath. His heart thumped. He put a hand on the hilt of the sword Omaira had given him and used the other hand to pull out the big fierce knife he’d also finagled out of her. Behind him, Izara muttered in a language he couldn’t understand. Protection against the bloodlust. His head swooned, but he didn’t feel overcome with the urge to fight, like he had before.
The lantern drifted forward, illuminating the hallway, and then the door, and then the guards.
The guards were unchanged. They regarded the party with blank expressions. Didn’t lift their spears into a fighting stance. Ico felt himself relax even though he knew better.
Omaira held up one hand, and everyone slowed to a stop. Then she approached. She didn’t pull her sword out and so neither did Ico; she’d instructed him to follow her lead.
Omaira spoke in the tongue of the kajani, demanding they be allowed in.
Ico was aware of the rhythm of his breathing, growing faster. Faster. Faster.
The guards didn’t move.
Omaira spoke the same guttural words again.
Nothing.
Ico shifted his weight, unsure what to do. The guards stared out, unblinking. He glanced back at Izara, who was frowning.
“It’s not the right language,” she said.
Omaira paused. Looked back at her.
“It was a different language,” said Izara. “One I didn’t recognize.”
Omaira sighed. “I know. It was High Kjani. Only those closest to Lord Kjari can learn it.” She looked down at her hands. “I never did.”
Ico sighed. “I guess the easy route won’t do, will it.”
Omaira looked at him for a moment. Then she closed her eyes, shook her head. They had discussed this. Ico took a deep breath. Wrapped his hand around the hilt of his sword. The minute he pulled it out, the guards would attack.
Omaira looked at Celestia, who stood with her hands around her baby, her eyes shining in the lantern-light. “Are you certain you want to proceed?” Omaira asked.
“It’s our only chance,” whispered Celestia.
Ico braced himself.
“Very well.” Omaira turned to Izara. “We’re ready.”
Ico was not ready, he would never be ready, but he kept his mouth shut.
Izara closed her eyes, murmured in that old language.
It was as if a veil lifted from Ico’s mind. His blood pumped and he could feel the strength of it, heavy and violent. He yanked out his sword and whirled to face the guards. They were already bounding toward him, and he swung wildly, the sword almost too heavy for him. It slammed into one of the guard’s spears. The guard growled. Ico growled back. The bloodlust inflamed him.
The mage had given him a vial of some foul liquid to drink before they set out; she claimed it would help him focus the bloodlust on his enemies and not his companions. Everything fell away but those two kajani, their jaws unhinging to reveal rows of teeth, their spears whipping through the air. A burst of pain exploded on Ico’s left arm but it was instantly consumed by the bloodlust, and he drove forward, sword flying. Everything was a blur of sweat and muscles, blood and steal. His opponent was shrieking in harsh, animalistic barks—and he was howling back. Pain radiated up his left leg and then his sword plunged into something soft. Black kajan’s blood splashed across his face, hot and thick, and he swelled with victory. He yanked the sword, felt it lodge in bone. The kajan lashed out at him, still fighting even as Ico drove the sword in deeper, deeper, his face twisting in a grimace. Even when the kajan stopped fighting, Ico pulled out his sword and jammed it again, stabbing and hacking. Black blood flew everywhere. He ran his tongue along his palm, lapping it up, the bitter saltiness of it burning as it went down his throat.
And then, ringing out like a bell, was Izara’s voice. A language he didn’t understand. She had stood guard as she said she would.
The bloodlust vanished. His sword hit the ground with a clatter, and he retched, spitting to get the taste of the kajan’s blood out of his mouth. He was aware suddenly of the pain, of his own blood. He gasped and fell to his knees, clutching at his side. He didn’t let himself look at the body of the kajan, which did not look like a kajan anymore, or like a body. Bile rose up in the back of his throat and his guilt threatened to choke him.
“You’re bleeding. Let me patch that for you.” Izara was at his side, her hands pressing gently at his wounds. Ico sucked in air through his teeth. Omaira was in better shape than him—she could stand at least, although she leaned up against the far wall. Her skin was black with blood, too, and she kept her gaze downcast, not looking any of them in the eye.
A warmth spread along Ico’s side, and then Izara leaned away, wiping her hands on the hem of her dress. “There,” she said. “You should be able to walk the rest of the way.”
Ico got shakily to his feet. He pressed his side, the gauze rough against his fingers. Beneath it was the tingle of Izara’s magic.
“Told you we’d need it,” Izara said.
“Never doubted you.” Ico wanted to bathe. He wanted to dive into cool clean water and never emerge. The blood was drying to his skin, leaving it stiff and uncomfortable. He didn’t want to think about what he looked like—a monster. Like the Kozas, when they’d done to the innocents in his life what he’d just done to those guards.
He swallowed back a lump of guilt that rose in his throat. He couldn’t think about this now. They had tried to go past them peacefully. He had known this was a possibility.
But where had it gotten them? The door was still closed.
“We should hurry,” Izara said suddenly. “In case there are others.” Her eyes flicked around the hallway. “Or other traps.” Izara took a deep breath. She looked faded and small in the lantern light as she walked to the door, the stone dull and unremarkable. Ico glanced over his shoulder. Celestia stood several paces away, almost in the shadows, her baby clutched to her chest.
He couldn’t see her expression, but something about her stance, this mother protecting her young, filled him with shame. Her jerked his head back around. Made sure not to look at the corpses of the kajani.
Izara had her hands pressed against the door, her face twisted in silent concentration, but it wasn’t lighting up with magic like it had when Fenis had brought them down here. She dropped her hands to her side and stepped back.
“Well?” said Celestia.
“This magic—I can understand it, but I just can’t get through it. I can’t decipher the formulas.” Izara stared at the door while she spoke. Ico trembled. When they planned this ludicrous trip, Izara had sworn that she would be able to handle the magic. If he had slaughtered that kajan for nothing—
“Omaira,” Izara said suddenly. “Maybe you can help.”
Omaira straightened. Her blood-smeared face dipped into the darkness. “Me?” she said. “I have no skill in this sort of magic.”
“You have more than Ico or Celestia. But also, you’re a kajan! I think that’s why I can’t break the seal. Here, come lay your hands on the door.”
Omaira paused for a moment, and then trudged over beside Izara. They looked at each other for a moment, and then she reached out one blood-splattered arm and pressed her palm against the door. Izara took a deep breath and did the same. Both of them stood very still. That was all Ico could see, their stillness. When Celestia drifted up to his side, her movement startled him.
“I hope it works,” she whispered.
Ico wasn’t sure if she meant the door, if she meant this whole decision.
“Me, too,” he said.
And then the door began to glow with veins of bluish light. Omaira tensed up, but didn’t take her hand away. Izara was shaking, Ico realized, shaking so fast that the edges of her body blurred.
The door sprang open with a crack like a whip snapping the air in two.
Izara collapsed to a pile on the floor.
It was the sound of Celestia’s voice that drew Izara back into the waking world. The real world. For a moment all she could see were shapes of light and dark. She thought perhaps she had gone blind, or that the magic had infected her somehow. That was the last thing she remembered—magic. Magic flooding through her body, magic pulsing through the door.
The shapes solidified. She was in a hallway, dim save for her floating lantern.
“Izara!” cried Celestia. “Speak to me. Are you all right?”
“Just a little overcome. It was nothing.” Not entirely a lie. Now that she was awake her strength was returning to her exponentially, but this strange dark magic sucked the life from its victims, left them weak and frail. They only needed her to pass through that hallway of terrors, though. If she could ask Ico and Omaira to risk their lives fighting the guards, she could risk her life doing this.
“Are you sure?” Celestia was kneeling beside her, little Izar still strapped to her chest. The magic kept him sleepy, so that he wouldn’t cry and draw attention to them. Part of the way the mage was keeping him safe.
“Yes. I’m sure.” Izara sat up. Something rang inside her ears, a constant clanging bell, growing softer as she took in her surroundings. The blood-splattered hallway. The lingering smoke of magic resting on the air. And the door yawning open. She stood up, her legs shaking. “How long was I out?”
“Only a few minutes.” Celestia frowned. “Omaira and Ico went ahead, to make sure things are safe. They should be back any moment, though. We have to push through.”
Izara nodded, then walked toward the door. She sidestepped the massacred bodies of the guards, even though, in this place, there was a magic in their deaths. A strength in their decay. She could feel it pulsing on the air, and as she passed by she reached out, drawing some of that energy in. She’d need it, in the hallway. It made her swoon.
“Izara, wait! I told Omaira we’d stay here—”
“We should pass through and shut the door,” Izara said. “In case anyone else comes down here.”
Izara heard footsteps and she knew Celestia was following. She passed through the threshold, her skin tingling. Still safe. They hadn’t gotten to the hallway of nightmares yet.
Celestia slipped in behind her, skirts swishing. She had worn the ceremonial dress from before.
