Riadamor awoke face-down on the cold stone floor of the cave.
Opening her eyes, she squinted against the flickering light of the candles she had placed around her workspace. Despite that the light was muted, it seared her sensitive eyes. She blinked rapidly, her eyes tearing, and attempted to sit up. Her head ached cruelly and her limbs felt boneless.
She had pushed herself to her limits this time – and it had almost killed her.
I must be more careful, Riadamor reached for a jug of stale water and poured herself a cup with shaking hands.
The water was a balm on her parched throat. She drank deeply before casting the cup aside and glancing around the cave. She was alone, for she had told her followers to leave her be, and not to disturb her, for any reason, until dawn. It was quiet in the dank cave, save for the rhythmic dripping of water. The damp seeped into her bones, adding to her discomfort. She felt over twice her age and winced when she attempted to fold her legs under her. The last few years had taken their toll on her body. Still, if this potion worked, it would have all been worth it.
Riadamor shuffled over to where the pewter dish sat at the centre of the uneven stone floor. It was filled with a dark, viscous liquid – her blood.
The wound on her left wrist ached dully. She had bound it with some gauze after making the incision but a dark stain had seeped through the material. The loss of blood did not bother her, for she had performed a similar ritual many times while performing the forbidden. Of all those followers she had gathered from throughout the five realms, only a handful had shown any natural ability for sorcery. The others, had all required her blood, her talent.
The forbidden was an ancient practice that the Sentorân had long shunned. It was a practice, begun by the warlocks of old, that required a sorcerer’s blood. When a sorcerer cast a spell using his own blood, it was far more powerful – the only downside was that it could turn him mad, or kill him. Yet, the risks had not put Riadamor off. On the contrary, they had only heightened her interest in the forbidden. She had discovered books on the subject, hidden away in Deep-Spire’s library.
The forbidden required blood, and so this potion also required it. She had emptied nearly two pints of her blood into the pewter bowl, and it had been an effort to complete the rest of the steps after she had bound her wrist. The remnants of the other ingredients that she had added to her blood were scattered around the bowl – ground crow feathers, a paste of raw meat, and bone powder among them. She had just finished mixing everything together, and had been about to gather her precious ingredients and put them away, when a terrible weakness had overcome her. Suddenly, her senses had clouded and her vision went dark.
She had been fortunate not to fall, face-down, into her potion. She had shifted back from it when she felt herself go faint.
Just as well, for the innocuous-looking liquid was hazardous.
Riadamor carefully picked up the pewter bowl and peered into its depths. If the blood had congealed, she would have to start from scratch; for it would signify that the ingredients had not alchemised.
Gently, she tipped the bowl to one side, and exhaled in relief when the blood lapped against the edge. It was the consistency of syrup – perfect. She would now decant it into a series of stoppered vials, ready for use.
Her hands trembled slightly as she worked, warning her that she was in desperate need of food, water and rest. She had pushed herself hard of late, but it had all been to one purpose. Soon, she would reap the rewards of all the effort she had put in.
Seven years had passed since her escape from Deep-Spire.
The time since then had been but a blur. She was physically, emotionally and spiritually drained. Yet, it was all going to plan. Just a few more weeks and they would be ready.
Riadamor stoppered the last vial and slotted it away in a rose-wood box. Then, she climbed stiffly to her feet and made her way out of the cave, carrying the box under one arm. The cave went deep into the mountain, and Riadamor was slightly out of breath when she reached its entrance. She stepped out onto a shale bank and was greeted by an icy wind.
It was freezing up here, in the north-western slopes of the Rock and Pillar Range. Winter now had Central Omagen in its grip and this season was brutal this far inland. The eastern sky, just visible over the craggy outline of the mountains, was beginning to lighten. Riadamor had been unconscious for longer than she had realised.
Great tors, pillars of stone, loomed over the entrance to the cave, as if they were guarding it. Stones, boulders and huge stacks of rock littered the slope below Riadamor. It was an unusual landscape, and had been a good choice for their new hideaway. After they had been forced to flee their refuge in the Sables two years earlier, the Esquill had been careful to keep on the move, often staying no longer than two months in one place.
“Milady?” A slight figure, swathed in a heavy fur cloak, emerged from the shadows. “Were you successful?”
“I believe so,” Riadamor replied, pulling up the hood of her grey woollen cloak. The wind chilled her to the marrow of her bones. “It is done. I have a weapon that will allow us to use our enemy as our servant when the time comes.”
The young woman smiled at that before stepping closer. “We have prepared you a hot meal at the camp.”
“Thank you, Marin,” Riadamor favoured her most loyal follower with a thin smile. “I am drained. I need to eat and rest.”
She held out the rose-wood box to Marin then. “Here, take this. It will be your responsibility to take care of this box, and the vials it contains. We will need it once we take Deep-Spire.”
The hooded head nodded, and two pale hands stretched out to take the box. “Yes, Milady. I will guard it well.”
Together, the two women made their way down the slope, picking their way between boulders. Riadamor felt her legs drag, as if she had weights attached to them. They wobbled under her, barely able to hold her upright. If Marin noticed her leader’s weakened state, she did not make a comment. She had spent enough time in Riadamor’s presence to know that the woman who led them had little time for fussing.
The first rays of sun were creeping over the rim of the Rock and Pillars when they reached the camp. Their refuge was disguised well, in a steep gully between two enormous tors. There were eighty Esquill here. The rest had been sent out to do Riadamor’s bidding, although they were due back any day now. After that, they would gather their full strength and ready themselves for the final stage of Riadamor’s plan.
Riadamor entered the camp in a narrow alley between rows of animal hide tents. The smell of wood-smoke, baking bread and frying onions greeted her. The camp was just beginning to stir. Some of the Esquill, all clad in thick green cloaks, were weaving their way through the tightly packed tents, emptying privies or carrying firewood. All who encountered Riadamor, greeted her with reverence, bowing their heads and calling out her name.
Riadamor felt the ghost of a smile lift the edges of her mouth. Despite her fatigue, she would never tire of knowing she now commanded an army of trained sorcerers, all ready to do her bidding.
They were young – the oldest among them was barely twenty five winters – but they had all joined her willingly. Orphans, strays, pickpockets – the beaten and the broken – she had given all of them a home, a purpose. A few moments in Riadamor’s presence and they recognised that she did not make promises lightly. She had great ambitions. She could give them everything they desired – wealth, power a sense of purpose. Their loyalty was unquestioning.
Serina could learn much from me, Riadamor thought as she neared a glowing fire in the centre of the camp. I’ll make sure she does – right before I kill her.
The fire’s warmth soaked into her chilled, aching limbs and she received a large bowl of mutton stew. She was not a big eater, but the potion-making had made her ravenous. She finished two bowls before, finally, turning to the silent figure beside her. Marin had pushed back her hood, revealing a pretty face and thick dark hair pulled back in a braid. However, there
were dark circles under Marin’s eyes; like her mistress, she had barely slept over the past few days. Now, as always, Marin awaited her command.
“It is time,” Riadamor told her. “All that remains is that we deliver Lady Serina our terms.”
Marin nodded, although her brow was furrowed. “Will she agree to them?”
“She will. We will give her little choice.”
“When shall I leave?”
“Today.” Riadamor fixed the young woman with a cool stare, one she only reserved for the moments in which she could not risk a mistake. “State our terms and then leave. Do not tarry there a moment longer than you have to.”
“And if they don’t let me go? What if they kill me?”
“They will not kill you,” Riadamor assured her. “Not when they could gain information from you, or use you against me.”
“I would die before helping them.”
Riadamor smiled, pleased by Marin’s response. “I know – but if they take you prisoner, do not despair. When I take Deep-Spire, I will free you.”
Marin nodded, and Riadamor was struck by the girl’s calm, her trust. Seven years had passed since she had met that beaten waif by the well outside Tarras; the young woman before her bore no resemblance to that cowed creature. With Riadamor’s assistance, Marin had become strong; many of the other Esquill were wary of her. Her elfin face and doe eyes hid a will of iron. Her loyalty was absolute.
“Very well,” Marin replied before pulling her hood up. “I will return soon with news.”
With that, the young woman slipped away like the morning mist, leaving her mistress alone at the fireside.
“Soon,” Riadamor whispered, staring at the dancing flames. “Soon, I will have my reckoning. I will have my prize.”
Chapter Ten
The Message
Deep-Spire, Central Omagen