Page 47 of Fold Thunder

Chapter Forty-four

  Maribah shaped a cheiron with one hand. The furnace blast of heat, and then a bolt of flickering, blue-white light sprang from her hands. Irwa threw herself down the stairs. The bolt struck the wall where she had just stood with a crash. The noise from the blast made everything rock around Irwa. It filled her ears so she could not hear anything else. Stone chips struck Irwa as she continued to tumble down the steps.

  Irwa came to rest at the next landing. Her head spun. Blood ran down her arm, the stone chips still visible where they were lodged in her skin. The wall where she had stood was gone, and air from outside stirred the cloud of dust that hung in the air.

  That cloud of dust was all that saved Irwa’s life. A ball of white-hot flame slammed into the stone next to her head, causing the stone to melt and run like hot wax. Irwa scrambled to her feet. A single hepistys and cheiron awa. Darkness dropped over the hall like a curtain.

  This was not the complex, one-sided darkness Irwa had conjured at the dar-molk’s estate. No, this was darkness, pure and simple, and Irwa found herself climbing up the stairs, hands tracing the steps in front of her, closing over shards of broken masonry as she scrambled up. She could hear, but not see, another bolt of that crackling energy strike the wall, and everything shook around her. When the noise of the explosion faded, the noise of Irwa’s passage sounded far off, muted by the loud crash.

  Irwa did not have long. The enchantment was simple, more child’s play. Something even a Trinic could counter. Moments later, as though answering her thoughts, the darkness flickered and vanished. Daylight filled the hall, glistening in the thick clouds of dust that still hung in the air.

  Maribah stood only a few paces away, blinking in the light. Irwa shaped cheiron jal, too frantic to produce jan, and spoke the hepisteis. A shroud of magic closed around Maribah, and the younger woman let out a thick scream. She screamed again and clawed at her face, her fingers leaving deep scratches.

  It was a brutal spell, one that filled the mind with terrors, but it was all that had come to mind. Deep red gashes appeared beneath Maribah’s finger. For a moment Irwa watched as the other woman tried to claw something invisible off of her face, but the bloody lines made Irwa sick to her stomach. She formed cheiron jal again and spoke the hepisteis that would paralyze Maribah, preventing her from harming herself. It would make no difference in Maribah’s mind, though; she would still be pursued, tormented by fears that lurked at the back of her mind. The woman froze in place and toppled to the ground.

  Irwa stepped over to Maribah’s now motionless body and knelt. She tugged on a golden chain around Maribah’s neck, and dragged a small, ivory statuette—broken in half at the waist—out of Maribah’s dress. The statuette was a rough figure, a woman with her arms at her side, but with two eyes on the back of her head as well as in front. The bottom half was gone, probably smashed into a hundred pieces at the bottom of the hall.

  The statuette was clearly a parakein; Irwa could still feel the echoes of the cheiron that had been bound within it, forced to take on the shape of a complex set of hepisteis. That was the root of its power, that tension between cheiron and hepisteis, but when it was released, it left only traces. Clearly, though, it had been designed to deal with Khaman sorcery. Which means another Khaman practitioner produced it, Irwa thought. Brech. Who else?

  Irwa pulled the chain over Maribah’s head gently and tossed the statuette over the rail. No point leaving it with her, in case it has another cheiron bound in it. She stared down at Maribah for a moment, wondering if she should kill the younger woman. Ir-waibah would have already done it; she would not have stopped Maribah from tearing her own face off. Irwa, though, hesitated. Power, she thought. Responsibility. Maribah did not have Hynnar to teach her that. By the time Maribah recovered from the enchantments—if she recovered from them—Irwa would be long gone from this place.

  Tracing cheiron jan, Irwa struggled to drag power through it, speaking the hepisteis to protect her again. This spell was different. She needed Brech to see her, to talk to her. She needed to hear the words from his mouth. That was part of the burden of power. Accountability, but on both sides.

  The spell projected an image of her, just a few feet ahead. She could control the image, after a fashion, and like the other illusions powered by cheiron jan, it would compensate for inconsistencies in the real world. She hurried down the hallway, picking the stone chips out of her arm. The wounds stung, but they did not look serious, for which Irwa was grateful. She came to Brech’s door and hesitated for a moment.

  If he had formed the parakein, he would be a skilled Khaman practitioner. He might be able to break her enchantment. The memory of Hynnar’s face, unconscious in that burning room, was enough to make up Irwa’s mind. She was the Queen of Night. No one had come close to her skill in decades. She wanted Brech dead, for what he had done to Hynnar. For what he did to Maribah. For what he is making me do.

  She pushed open the door. The illusion preceded her. When she saw Brech stand to acknowledge her—so handsome, powerful—Irwa wondered, briefly, why she had not bothered compensating for her own ragged appearance in the illusion. There was no need to make herself look like a half-drowned rat. Still, it was too late to do anything about it.

  “You survived,” Brech said, his mouth a tight line. “I assume that means Maribah is dead.”

  “Maribah is not any concern of yours,” Irwa said. “You should have left her out of this.”

  Brech sat down behind the desk and motioned for Irwa to sit. She sent the image ahead and had it take one of the white leather chairs.

  “She came to me, you know,” Brech said. “Told me everything that the Fourth Corner had planned for me, asked me if I would take her into my service. She has a great deal of problems, that one. She is dangerous—the Fourth Corner found a prodigy, a practitioner who, at Maribah’s age, could channel that much power, but in making her, I’m afraid they broke a part of her mind. Surely you noticed? No child of that age can be so . . . pathologically violent.”

  Irwa hesitated. The man’s smooth confidence, his intelligence, had her mind spinning already. Is that what happened to me? Did I do it to myself? Is that why I still feel broken? She shook her head, and the image mimicked her. No, she thought. I am whole. I will take responsibility for my power. The thought did not comfort her; she could still feel something missing, that broken piece inside her.

  He continued, seeming to sense his advantage. “You would blame me, of course, but I’m simply turning that girl’s abilities to good use; she is already damaged beyond repair. Why not put her incredible abilities toward a greater cause—one that can help so many people?”

  “A greater cause,” Irwa wanted to laugh. “Just like what your father did to the villages that resisted his rule?”

  “Ah,” Brech said. “So you have been working with the rebels. That, to tell you the truth, is a true surprise. The Queen of Night helping people fighting against the Jaegal Empire. She was right; you are, if you’ll pardon the humor, a shadow of what you used to be.”

  “I won’t be party to slaughter—”

  Brech did not wait for her to finish. In one fluid move he was over the desk, something small and white flashing from his hand to shatter against the stone floor. Irwa’s illusion shattered. She staggered back, head blazing as the broken gateway recoiled on her. Blood ran from her nose, but Irwa could barely feel it through that instant of intense pain.

  The moment passed, but it was too late. Brech had her by the throat against the wall. His fingers were crushing her throat. It was like drowning again. Panic. She clawed at his face, but he lassoed both her wrists with one strong hand, grinning even through the bloody scratches she left.

  “You stupid, stupid woman,” he said, tightening his grip.

  Irwa let out a whimpering mewl, struggling to free her hands, to kick, but Brech was too strong. His piercing, sea-green eyes drove through her like twin blades. Everything was growing fuzzy.

  “I would h
ave made you powerful again, respected. You could have had everything,” Brech said. Spittle flew from his lips. Still tightening his grip, he slammed her head against the wall. “Everything.” Her head hit the wall again. “This bloody empire took everything from me.” Again. “Do you understand that? Everything. Father, mother, friends. Apsia will give us the strength we need to break Jaegal like a dry reed. It will happen, with or without you. You mean nothing, do you understand that? Nothing.”

  Black spots crept along the edges of her vision. She could not think, could not structure the hepisteis, could not frame the cheira. His words were meaningless to her. All she could think was that she had failed. I’m sorry, Hynnar, she thought. Even those words were hazed. Power is responsibility, you taught me that. The darkness clustered, narrowing her vision to a tunnel of light.

  She could hear nothing anymore. Brech’s movements had grown more exaggerated, pulling her further away from the wall with each blow as he sought to end her life. The painful thump of her head against the stones was gone. Power and responsibility meant nothing anymore. Deep inside her, though, the last fire of life still burned. Ishahb’s sacred flame. The presence of the god. Sacrifice.

  Lamplight blazed on the polished silver dagger at Brech’s waist. A second sun.

  White fire, sweeping the land clean.

  As he pulled her forward, Irwa’s hand closed around the metal. It felt like flame under her fingers. She slid it free.

  Brech must have noticed, for his eyes widened in surprise. Green like the sea. The wide blade ripped through silk and flesh.

  Warm blood poured over Irwa’s hands, but it felt cold compared to the burning sun that she still gripped.

  Red drops appeared on Brech’s lips. A narrow stream ran down his pale chin, fell to stain the gray stones. The Sinian lord fell backward, his hands loosing their grip on Irwa. He hit the ground and pulled the silver handled blade from his stomach.

  Air rushed into Irwa’s bruised throat. Tears sprang to her eyes, stinging. She leaned back against the wall and slid to the ground, legs pulled up tight against her. Irwa blinked the tears from her eyes and sucked in deep breaths, her throat burning with every gasp.

  Brech lay on the thick white carpets, leg trembling, the bloody dagger in one open hand. He let out a deep scream.

  The sound cut through Irwa. Power. Responsibility. Sacrifice. She could not stand the sound of his agony. Irwa traced cheiron jal, enough power rushing into her for her to choke out the words that would render her invisible. Nothing complex, but enough that she could escape the castle.

  The door swung open. Irwa barely noticed. She shook with silent sobs.

  The same young woman who had brought tea stood in the doorway. Corian. Brech’s sister. Her beautiful face paled. She flew across the room to land next to her brother, her hands seeking out his. “Brech,” she cried. “Brech, Brech, what happened?”

  He answered with another scream.

  Irwa choked, then. Corian started, and for a moment, Irwa feared that the other woman had seen her, but Corian turned back to her brother. Tears rolled down the blonde woman’s face.

  Corian pressed one hand over the wound, trying to staunch the blood, but Brech just let out another muffled cry. “I’ll get the physician,” she said. “Hold on, please.” The pain in her voice made Irwa cringe. Blessed Ishahb, what have I done? He would have killed me.

  Corian stumbled to her feet, bloody prints on her skirt where she had rested her hands, and raced from the room. Irwa slunk after her, feeling sick to her stomach. The door still stood open. With one long, agonizing look back at the man she had killed. He had parakein. That meant there was another practitioner out there.

  Irwa turned to the door. I had no other choice, she thought. He would have killed me. Me, and Hynnar, and Kjell, and Eyo, and who knows how many others? He wanted to start a war, in the name of blessed Ishahb—how many would have died then?

  The thoughts did little to comfort her. Irwa stepped out of the room.

  She never even saw the knife coming. It slid into her stomach with only the faintest of tugs; the pain followed a moment later. Irwa screamed.

  Irwa found herself on the ground, one hand pressed over the wound. She stared up into Corian’s hard, blue eyes—the same color as Hynnar’s.

  “That was for my brother, you bitch,” she said. Irwa watched in horror as the beautiful woman traced cheiron qar. Qar. The fifth gateway. Corian spoke the hepisteis of Khaman sorcery.

  “My brother told me that it takes a long time to die of a stomach wound. I would hate for someone to interrupt you.”

  The ribbons of rainbow energy sank down around Irwa, cutting her off from the outside world. Powered by cheiron qar, the web around her was hard as steel. Blood welled between Irwa’s fingers, unbearably hot. She traced qar weakly. The rainbow light sputtered and sparked out.

  Corian walked away, white slippers stained with blood. Then darkness and ash surrounded Irwa. Hynnar. Strange, to find herself loving someone she did not even know. Where is the burning sun? Death was coming through the gritty shadows that surrounded her. Strange, to feel love after so many years.

  Footsteps sounded near her, impossibly distant.

  “Irwa.” Her name. She knew that voice. Everything was dark, but somewhere a star burned.