You’ll not stop me, the wretch’s spirit told them, its thoughts burning into their minds.
Cadderly looked back and saw a glowing ring form beside the firbolg’s massive form. Go, he bade Vander.
The giant’s spirit rushed away, but Ghost’s spirit followed quickly.
Cadderly held up a hand. No, he commanded, and Ghost slowed almost to a stop as he passed the young priest’s mental barrier. Cadderly’s spirit arms wrapped around him, further delaying him. The young priest, in both his corporeal and spirit forms, smiled as Vander’s spirit narrowed like a flying arrow and slipped through the glowing ring, entering the waiting giant form.
You are lost, Cadderly told the assassin, releasing his mental hold.
Ghost didn’t hesitate; he rushed for the only other waiting, spiritless receptacle.
“Shave me if this one ain’t alive again!” Ivan growled, lifting his axe dangerously above the firbolg’s head. “He lifts one o’ them big arms, and I’m gonna give him such a headache.…”
Danica grabbed the dwarf’s arm to quiet him, explaining that the firbolg, alive or not, was in no position to threaten anyone. The reassurance sent Pikel skittering up beside the giant’s head, the curious dwarf bending low to watch the reawakening.
A strange mewing sound from Cadderly turned all of them around. The young priest’s body trembled, one eye twitched wildly, and his mouth contorted as if he were trying to say something but couldn’t control himself.
Ghost had gotten there first, had slipped into Cadderly’s waiting shell. Cadderly rushed in right behind, felt the burning pain of rematerializing, and felt, too, that he was not alone.
“Get out!” he finally managed to shout, aloud and telepathically.
Ghost did not respond, other than to push at Cadderly’s spirit. The young priest felt the burn begin again and knew it signified that he was slipping back out of his form.
But to be pushed out then was to lose himself forever. Cadderly called on his recollections of mental battle, of his experience with the imp, Druzil, back in the forest, and called, too, upon the song of Deneir, hoping to find in its notes some clue that would give him an edge.
But Ghost, too, had experiences to call upon—three lifetimes of exchanging spirits with unwilling victims.
What it came down to was a test of willpower, a test of mental strength.
Ghost didn’t have a chance.
“Out!” Cadderly screamed. He saw his friends clearly for a moment then slipped back to the spirit world and saw Ghost’s stunned form floating helplessly away.
You have not won, came the defiant assassin’s promise.
Your connections are gone now, Cadderly argued. You have no magical ring upon a corpse to give you a hold in the material world.
I have the Ghearufu, the sinister spirit retorted. You cannot know its strength! There will be other victims about, foolish priest, weaklings who will lose out to me. And I will come again for you! Know that I will come again for you!
The threat weighed heavily on Cadderly, but he didn’t believe Ghost’s promises were likely. A black spot appeared on the ground, accompanied by a growl, confirming Cadderly’s suspicions.
Your connections to the Prime Material Plane are gone now, Cadderly reiterated, seeing the other spirit’s confusion.
What is it? Ghost cried to Cadderly, his panic showing clearly.
A black hand shot up from the ground, grabbed the evil spirit’s ankle, and held it fast. Frantic, Ghost struggled to pull away, the effort tripping him to a sitting position.
Black hands grabbed his wrists, and growling shadows rose all around him.
Cadderly blinked his eyes open to see his concerned friends, Danica and Ivan holding him by the arms, and Pikel studying his face. He felt unsteady, thoroughly drained, and was glad for the support.
“Eh?” the green-bearded dwarf piped curiously.
“I’m all right,” Cadderly assured them, though his shaky voice weakened his claim considerably. He looked at Danica, and she smiled, knowing beyond doubt that it was indeed Cadderly standing before her.
“The giant’s alive again,” Ivan said with wonder.
“It is truly Vander,” Cadderly assured them. “He returned through the power of the ring.”
He drew a deep breath to stop the world from swimming in front of his eyes. His head throbbed more painfully than he ever remembered.
“To the barn,” he instructed, and he stepped out of Danica and Ivan’s grasp and took a step forward.
And pitched sideways to the dirt.
It took the young priest some time to orient himself when he again found consciousness. He was in the barn—the stench of burned flesh told him that more than the blurry images dancing before his half-opened eyes.
Cadderly blinked and rubbed his bleary orbs. His three friends were with him, and he realized he hadn’t been unconscious for very long.
“They just appeared,” Danica explained to him, leading his gaze to the items—a small, gold-edged mirror and mismatched gloves adorning the charred and broken corpse by the wall.
“Ghearufu,” Cadderly said, remembering the name Ghost had given the thing. The young priest stared closely at the item and felt a sensation of brooding, hungry evil. He looked around to his friends, concerned. “Have any of you handled it?”
Danica shook her head. “Not as yet,” she replied. “We’ve decided that the best course of action would be to bring the item to the Edificant Library for further study.”
Cadderly thought differently, but he nodded, deciding it best not to argue. “Has the firbolg awakened?” he asked.
“That one’ll be out for days,” Ivan answered.
Again, Cadderly thought differently. He understood the regenerative powers of the magical ring and was not surprised, a moment later, when Vander, hearing the discussion, walked into the barn.
“Shave me,” Ivan whispered under his breath.
“Oo oi,” Pikel agreed.
“Welcome back,” Cadderly greeted the giant. “You are free from Ghost—you know that—and you’re free, too, to go your way. We shall escort you as far as the Snowflakes—”
“You should not make such an offer so easily,” the firbolg’s resonant voice interrupted, and Cadderly wondered if he had misjudged the giant, if perhaps Vander was not so innocent after all.
The others were apparently thinking the same thing, for Ivan and Pikel put their hands to their weapons, preparing for another fight.
Vander smiled at them all and made no move toward the greatsword belted at his side. “I know where lies Castle Trinity, your true enemy,” the firbolg explained, “and I pay my debts.”
EPILOGUE
The temple priests regarded Cadderly and his three companions curiously as they made their bouncing way to the guest rooms.
Rufo heard the racket and opened his door to see what was going on.
“Hello to yerself, too,” Ivan growled at him, putting a hand on the man’s chest and shoving him back into his small room.
The other three came in right after the dwarf, Danica closing the door behind her.
“Are you surprised to see me … alive?” Cadderly asked, sweeping his blue cape dramatically from his broad shoulders.
Rufo stammered the beginnings of several words, not really knowing where to begin. Dozens of questions and fears assaulted him, stealing his voice. How much did Cadderly know or suspect? he wondered. Where was the young wizard, or the rest of the Night Masks?
“The assassins are no more,” Cadderly told him confidently, as if reading Rufo’s thoughts. “And the young wizard, too, is dead.”
“Got that one good,” Ivan whispered to his brother, and Pikel gave the great axe, strapped to Ivan’s back, a respectful pat.
“Dead,” Cadderly reiterated, letting the word hang in the air ominously, “like Avery.”
Rufo’s chalky, sharp-featured face paled even more. Again he started to reply, to concoct some lie about the headmaster??
?s fate, some tale that would allow him an alibi for his crimes.
“We know,” Danica assured him before he got the first words past his thin, dry lips.
“I did not expect this of you,” Cadderly said, hooking his walking stick into the crook of his elbow. “Even after the events at the library and in Shilmista, I trusted that you would find a better path to tread.”
Rufo ran his bony fingers through his matted black hair. His beady, dark eyes darted all around. “I don’t know what you are referring to,” he managed to say. “When Avery was found dead, I decided that I, too, would not be safe at the inn. I searched for you, but you were not to be found, so I came here, to be with my friends among the Ilmatari.”
“You were afraid?” Danica asked, not hiding the sarcasm in her tone. “Did you fear your cohorts would cheat you?”
“I … I don’t understand,” Rufo stuttered.
Danica slapped him across the face, knocking him to a sitting position on his bed. The monk started forward, her expression an angry grimace, but Cadderly quickly intercepted her.
“Why else would you be afraid?” Cadderly asked Rufo, to clarify Danica’s last statement. “If not for your cohorts, then who would threaten you?”
“He knew we’d catch him,” Ivan put in, grabbing Rufo’s arm with an ironlike grasp.
“Y-you err!” Rufo stammered, desperate. All the world seemed to be closing in on him. Ivan’s clenching hand felt like the jaws of a wolf trap. “I did—”
“Silence!” The command from Cadderly quieted the blustering man and turned his friends’ incredulous stares to him.
Rufo slumped in his seat and lowered his eyes, thoroughly defeated.
“You led Avery to his death,” Cadderly accused. “You betrayed me in the library, your friends in the forest, and now Avery. Do not expect forgiveness this time, Kierkan Rufo! The headmaster is dead—his blood is on your hands—and you have crossed into a realm from which there is no return.”
Images of those awful, growling shadows assaulted Cadderly. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths to steady himself but found himself imagining Rufo’s impending fate, of the hungry, evil things that would drag the fallen priest down to eternal torment.
Cadderly shuddered and opened his eyes.
“Hold him,” he instructed the dwarves.
“What are you doing?” Rufo demanded as Pikel grabbed the arm opposite the one Ivan held and the two locked him steady on the bed. “My friends will hear! They will not allow this!”
“Ilmater?” Ivan queried. “Ain’t them the ones dedicated to suffering?”
“Yup,” his brother answered.
“Well, with the hollering ye’re about to do,” Ivan snickered to Rufo, thoroughly enjoying the man’s distress, “they’re likely to build a statue to ye.”
Rufo bit Pikel on the arm, but the tough dwarf just grimaced and didn’t let go. Danica was around the bed in an instant. She grabbed Rufo’s hair and jerked his head back viciously. Between that strong hold, and the dwarves at either side of him, Rufo could only watch and listen.
Cadderly chanted quietly, his hands moving through specific motions. He extended one finger to point at Rufo, its end glowing white with heat.
“No!” Rufo cried. “You must let me explain!”
“No more lies,” Danica hissed from behind.
Rufo screamed and twisted helplessly as Cadderly’s enchanted digit branded his forehead, burned the curse of Deneir—the likeness of a single, broken candle above a closed eye—into the man’s skin.
It was over in a heartbeat, and Danica and the dwarves let Rufo go. He slumped forward, whimpering, not so much for the continuing pain—there was little—but for the knowledge of what Cadderly had just done to him.
Branded. He smelled the foul odor and knew it would follow him, would magically ward people away from him, for the rest of his days.
“You must never hide your mark of shame,” Cadderly said to him. “You are aware of the consequences.”
Indeed, Kierkan Rufo was. To hide the lawful brand of Deneir caused the lingering magic to burn deeper into one’s forehead, to burn to the brain, resulting in a horrible, agonizing death.
Rufo turned an angry gaze up at Cadderly. “How dare you?” he growled with every ounce of defiance he could muster. “You are no headmaster. You have no power—”
“I could have given you over to the city guard,” Cadderly interrupted, the simple logic cutting Rufo short. “Even now I could tell them of your crimes and let them hang you in the street. Would that be preferable?”
Rufo looked away.
“If you doubt my ranking in the order,” Cadderly continued, “doubt that I have the power to cast such judgment over you, then simply cover the brand. We will learn soon enough if you are correct.” Cadderly removed his wide-brimmed hat and held it out to Rufo. “Let us see.”
Rufo shoved the hat aside and staggered to his feet.
“Highest Painbearer,” he said hopefully when his door opened and a thick-jowled, bald-headed priest, wearing the red skullcap denoting high rank in the Ilmatari order, peered in. Behind the man stood a dozen or more disciples of the temple, aroused by Rufo’s agonized screams.
“They heared his yells and thinked he joined their order,” Ivan whispered to Danica and Pikel, and the three, despite the gravity of the situation, could not hide their chuckles.
The painbearer sniffed the air, his face twisting against the foul smell. He looked hard at Rufo, at the brand, then turned to Cadderly and asked, no anger in his tone, “What has transpired here?”
“They have betrayed me!” Rufo cried desperately. “They … he—” he pointed to Cadderly—“led Headmaster Avery Schell to his death! And now he tries to blame me, to divert attention from himself!”
Cadderly seemed to have no reaction to the ridiculous claim.
“Would Deneir have granted me the magical brand if that tale rang at all of truth?” he asked the Ilmatari.
“Is it authentic?” the lean priest asked, motioning to the wicked mark.
“Do you care to test it?” Cadderly asked Rufo, again extending his hat.
Rufo stared at it for a very long time, at the Deneirrath holy symbol set in its front center, knowing he had come to a critical point in his life. He could not accept the hat and put it on—to do so would bring about his death. But refusing strengthened Cadderly’s claims, showed Rufo to be an honestly branded outcast. He paused for a long moment, trying to concoct yet another excuse.
His hesitation cost him any chance of explaining.
“Kierkan Rufo, you must be gone from here,” the painbearer demanded. “Never again shall you be welcomed in any hall of Ilmater. Never again shall any priest of our order show you any kindness or respect.”
The finality of the words sounded like a nail in Rufo’s coffin. He knew there would be no point in arguing, that the decision was final. He turned, as if to move for his chest of belongings, but the painbearer would brook no delays.
“Now!” the man shouted. “Your possessions will be dumped into the alley. Be gone.”
Ivan and Pikel, always ready to lend a hand, grabbed Rufo by the arms and roughly heaved him forward. Of the many witnesses, not a single one offered a word of protest.
Branded priests had no allies.
Cadderly had only one more task to complete before he would consider his business in Carradoon at its end, and he found assistance from a local cleric residing outside the lakeside city’s high walls. The aged priest led Cadderly and his four companions—with Vander traveling in his magically reduced state, as a red-haired and red-bearded barbarian warrior—to a small grave in the churchyard.
Cadderly fell to his knees before the grave, not at all surprised, but filled with pity and grief.
“Poor dear,” the gentle old priest explained. “She went out in search of her lost husband and found him, dead, on the side of the road. Alas for Jhanine and her children.”
The priest waited a
few moments then nodded to the companions and took his leave.
“You knew this man?” a perplexed Danica asked, crouching beside Cadderly.
Cadderly nodded slowly, hardly hearing her.
Danica took Cadderly’s arm. “Will you go for him?” she asked, a bit sourly, but with all sympathy.
Cadderly turned to her, but his eyes were looking to the past, to his exchange on the road with the unfortunate leper. Could you cure them all? Nameless had asked him. Are all the world’s ills to fall before this young priest of Deneir?
“This makes no sense, and borders on irreverence,” Danica remarked, misconstruing Cadderly’s silence. “Where next after here? To the graves of the unfortunate farmers and the city guardsman?”
Cadderly closed his eyes and withdrew from Danica’s stinging logic. He had already tried to resurrect the farmers, and the unfortunate guardsman, privately, before they had left the farm. The spirits of the farmers were not to be found, and the guardsman would not come to Cadderly’s call. The effort had cost Cadderly dearly, exhausted him and taken, he knew, a little bit of his life energy forever.
“How many thousands will Cadderly recall to populate the world?” he heard Danica ask. He knew her sarcasm was not intended to be mean, only practical.
He knew Danica could not understand. The act of resurrection was not as simple as it had seemed when Cadderly had brought Brennan back from the dead. Cadderly had come to learn, painfully, that resurrection was a gods-given blessing, not a magical spell. Whatever powers the young priest possessed, he could not defeat ultimate fate. Many conditions had to be met before resurrection could be granted, and many more before the spirits of the dead would heed the call and return to the world they had departed. So many conditions, Cadderly couldn’t even begin to sort through them, couldn’t begin to question the divine decisions beyond his mortal understanding.
Wisely, he didn’t ask it of Deneir again.
“My powers are for the living,” he whispered, and Danica quieted, confident that he had come to understand what must be. He said a prayer for Nameless, a plea to whatever gods might be listening to judge the lost man fairly, to grant him the peace in death that had been so unfairly stolen from him in life.