Lanen
The day passed in a confused welter of dream-tossed sleep and worse waking. In dreams I wandered lost, trying to run in stretched-out time from the darkness that followed behind me, calling aloud to Akor for help, seeking him in the forest and not finding him. As I ran I cried out that I wanted true speech with him, only true speech.
But worse, far worse, was the nightmare that alternated with this one. In it I would seem to wake, but that waking found me in my old bed in Hadronsstead, alone as ever and a world away from what must have been no more than a vivid dream of the True Dragons. I screamed, unable to make a sound, and longed for death, so much kinder than that false waking.
Then I would wake in truth, fuddled in mind from the nightmares of loss, only to find before my open eyes a demon of the lesser kind, one of the Rikti. In futile panic I fought my bonds, struggled, but the padded chains that bound me were strong and solid. The demon would cry out in a high-pitched shriek, and Caderan would come. I do not remember how many times it happened, but I seem to recall that he was surprised the last few. Each time he spoke a few words and poured some liquid onto coals, and I would sleep again. And each time as I fell back into the darkness, my last thought was that I should have used truespeech and called out to Akor.
Once as I dreamed, it seemed that Akor’s mindvoice called to me, asking if I were well, if I were yet awake. I tried to reply, to call out for help, but the dream that gripped me left my mind so befuddled I could barely remember my own name, much less recall how to use the Language of Truth.
I only stayed awake long enough each time to begin to be terrified before the Rikti cried out again, Caderan performed his rite and blackness claimed me once more.
xiv
Rakshasa
Akhor
At times through the day I listened for her, but there was no response. At first I was not overly worried. Could I not hear her lightest whisper? I knew she would call out if she needed me, and I had no idea how long she might sleep after all the healing was done.
The Council was going badly, but Shikrar and I had done what we might—now it was up to them. My people had much to discuss, and they were not accustomed to acting swiftly in such matters. I had no choice but to leave my fate and Lanen’s to the Council.
As I awaited their summons, for further debate or to hear their decision, I set myself in Meditation of the Winds. I heard no voices this time, for which I was deeply thankful. I let my soul fly on the Winds, let calmness and order take my thoughts that I might see my way clear.
Do not mistake me, I had no intention of simply accepting the word of the Council if they demanded her life—but I had little time in which to think of a more reasonable alternative. It was harder than I had imagined, since every answer seemed to include exile from our people, indeed from both peoples, for both Lanen and me. Still, perhaps time would heal these wounds.
My heart grew heavy then, for it was the first time I truly gave thought to how short my dearling’s span of years would be. I could easily live fifty years alone, in contemplation. Many of the Kindred spent that much time in seclusion simply by preference.
In fifty years, at best, Lanen would be in her old age. It was more likely that she would be dead. Coward that I was, I could not sit alone with that thought. I left my chambers and went to the Boundary to speak with Kédra.
He, of course, was full of a joy no other doings could displace. I played willing audience to his need as he spoke of his pride in Mirazhe and his newfound delight in their youngling. If that had been all the tenor of his speech I might have tired of it sooner, but he could not say enough in praise of Lanen, and he in his turn listened when I spoke of her as I had not dared do with any other, even Shikrar.
As time went on, however, and the sun sank into the west, I found I was calling out to her more often and becoming more and more disturbed at the lack of answer. Surely she should have awakened by now? The wind had turned with sunset and blew from the south, and in the darkening twilight suddenly I caught a whiff of Gedri nearby. Kédra had smelt it as well, and we both knew it was not Lanen.
In moments a figure appeared in the twilight at the edge of the trees, looking all ways, then speeding to the place of Summoning. It was a female, smaller and darker than my dear one, but swift and sure in her movements despite an odd twist to her body. There was no trace of the Rakshasa in her, though her eyes looked strange.
She could not have been more than a tree’s length away when she called out in a loud whisper.
“Akor? Akor? Guardian, are you there? Lanen told me to seek you here.”
I waited. She spoke very quickly, and fear surrounded her.
“Akor, I need to talk to you. Akor?” Then, as if to herself she muttered, “Damn, what were the other two—Shikrer, something like that, Kaydra—the Hells—Akor?” she called again, louder. “Akor, damn it, Lanen told me to come here. She’s in trouble!”
My heart fell like a stone. I moved swiftly to her and leaned down all in an instant so that my face was barely a length away from hers. “What kind of trouble?”
She let out a yelp and leapt back. I had not desired to frighten her, but it occurred to me once it was done that I might more swiftly learn her tidings if she had some fear of me to spur her on.
I drew back a little, but stayed down on the same level. “I will not harm you, child of the Gedri. You are friend to Lanen?”
“Yes. Are you?”
I admired her courage. “I am Akor, the King of the Greater Kindred,” I said solemnly, “and I would give my life to protect her from harm.”
“Then now would be a good time to start. Marik’s got her—”
“I took her to him to be healed.”
“Yes, yes, she’s healed right enough, but he’s got other plans for her. His demon master, that Caderan, has her drugged or ensorcelled or something like. I saw her, she’s chained to a wall in his cabin and there’s a demon not a foot from her face. As best I can tell it just sits there and sings out when she wakes. I’ve heard their talk, though, and sure as life they have worse in store for her when true night falls.” I shivered, as though the winds of deep winter blew through my soul. True night was all but upon us.
Kédra spoke quietly from behind me, the anger in his voice barely held in check. “How can you know this? Is it in some public place, where all may approve?”
“Sweet Lady, do you think we’re all depraved?” she replied sharply. How swiftly the Gedri move from fear to anger. “He’s got her behind locked doors and bolted shutters. If the rest of the Harvesters knew about this they’d either go for his hide or bolt in terror. I went looking for her and I saw her through a break in the shutters.”
“I think you have put yourself in danger by coming to us,” he said, chastened.
Her voice was also more gentle as she replied, “I like the child, and despite what happened to her, she trusts you. If anyone can help her against demons, surely you can. The legends say you dragons are life-enemies of the Rakshasa.”
I had not spoken, for fear I would scorch the ground. Fire swelled within me at the thought of the Rakshasa near my dear one. Even as I crouched I spoke to the messenger through clenched teeth.
“What is your name?” I demanded.
“Lanen calls me Rella.”
“Then for your tidings, Rella, I thank you. Where is the place where she is held captive?”
Her directions meant little to me, but the place was not far, thank the Winds. “Do you stay here with Kédra,” I said. “I believe it is not safe for you to be in that place.” I bespoke Kédra even as I sprang into the night sky. “Tell Shikrar where I am gone and why, and protect this Rella from her people and ours. And in my name, summon Idai from the Birthing Cove if Mirazhe is well. In the face of this madness I fear I shall need her. I will return with my dearling as soon as I may.”
My words to the Winds, I prayed as I flew, let my speaking be true.
Marik
The guards’ cabin
was changed beyond all recognition. More than anything else it reminded me of that hidden room in my first Merchant House in Illara, when Berys and I made the Farseer that was the cause of all my pain.
I had trebled the guard, and all six had strict instructions to let none nearer than thirty paces, including themselves. My own cabin was more than fifty paces distant, and I could only hope it would remain free of the taint of our activities. Such things make it hard to sleep.
As for ourselves—Caderan had spent all the hours since dawn placing wards and other things in readiness, in and about the cabin and the grounds. Since the girl had Farspeech, we would be in danger as long as she was awake, until the dedication was complete. His preparations were exhaustive. The girl herself sat slumped in a chair and chained to the wall, as she had been all day. The Rikti who guarded her perched on her knee, alert, and whenever she struggled to consciousness Caderan spelled her asleep again.
On his advice I wore the Ring of Seven Circles.
He had provided a small wooden altar—no more than a table, really, but in the last few days he had carved things deep into the wood. I recognised the seven circles of the Hells, but outside the largest circle there were sigils I had never seen before. When I looked at them, they seemed almost to move—but that might have been the candlelight. On the floor around the altar were scriven in chalk seven more circles, to keep the demon bound.
On the altar were seven candles, all short, stubby things, placed evenly outside the carvings. A cup I recognised from earlier in the day, when he had drawn my blood into it, lay in one corner, along with a wand and a large bowl full of choicest lansip leaves. In the center a round brazier sat piled high with coals. I was surprised that they were yet black and cold, but at a word and a gesture from Caderan they lit themselves. In moments they glowed deep red, like so many malevolent eyes gazing out at us. “The sun is well gone, night approaches,” he said. “Let us begin.”
He reached into a pouch at his waist and threw something on the coals. I was amazed to smell lansip burning. For just an instant the place was filled with rare perfume, the very touch of bliss—but at a word from Caderan the smell went instantly rancid. He laughed. “So eager they are for lansip,” he said, and his voice shocked me. From its usual high nasal register it had sunk, now far deeper, into a rough and powerful range. It seemed almost to echo in that small room.
Now he began to chant, low and soft, his voice steady. All the while he sang he gestured in air with his hands, drawing out symbols (I recognised one or two of the strange carvings from the altar), making passes over the candles each one in turn. At first I thought it my imagination, but it soon became obvious that the room was in truth filling with a foglike haze. The very air was thicker, crowded almost. It was hard to breathe.
It was also, obviously, hard to concentrate. Caderan’s voice went more slowly now, the syllables (which I had heard him rehearsing by the hour for days) taking more and more effort to pronounce. His tongue stumbled now and then, and each stumble was greeted by a flare of flame from the brazier as if some intelligence waited there for him to falter. The last words were preceded by long pauses, but when they left his lips they were whole, and when the last was pronounced he drew a deep breath of satisfaction. From the altar he took up the wand and touched it to each of the sigils in turn.
“Come, Dark One, thou art summoned. Lord of the Third Hell of the Rakshasa, I call upon thee—by circle, by sigil, by offering, thou art compelled. I charge thee by my power, I charge thee by these sigils, I charge thee by this offering of blood—” Here he poured the dark liquid from the small cup into the coals, setting off a hissing and a stench. “—and of lansip—” Here he emptied the large bowl into the brazier. “—come to this place. By my own power I summon thee, by the power of Malior, Magister of the Sixth Circle, I summon thee, and to bring and to bind thee I call thee by name.”
The name sounded to me like a string of grunts and clicks and curses, but there was no mistaking it for anything but a demon name. Caderan had warned me and I had fasted now for a full day, so that when the sound of it made me heave naught escaped me but a little bile, that I caught in a cloth. Even I know it is unwise to leave such personal essences in the presence of demons.
When I looked up I saw that the thick air had begun to congeal above the altar. It outlined limbs surprisingly fair and well made, though the shape of the head made me reach again for my cloth. As it grew more solid it appeared to be the torso and upper limbs of a comely man, though the skin was deep red streaked with black, but above sat the head of a nightmare. It had far too many eyes and mouths, scattered it seemed at random about the many disparate lumps that made up what sat on its thick neck. When it spoke its breath was the stench of rotting meat, and its voice was flat as death.
“Behold, fools, I am come,” it said. “None may summon the Lord of the Third Hell and live. Die in agony.” And with those words the mouth nearest Caderan grew ten times its size, ringed with teeth like daggers, and reached for him.
Without a word Caderan leaned back, and the Raksha (to my shock) found itself unable to pass the carven circles that surrounded the brazier. Its attack was arrested as though it had hit a wall, though naught but air blocked its way. It screamed, a gut-wrenching scream, and pounded at the barrier, to no avail.
“You waste my time,” said Caderan calmly. “Behold, dread lord, you are bound and summoned. You have no choice.”
Its yells cut off instantly, as if they had never been. “And what is so worth your life that you summon me thus, puny mortal?” it asked in the same flat tones it had used before.
“Behold, lord,” said Caderan, gesturing at me. I went to the wall and unlocked the chains that bound the girl. I put one of her arms about my neck and lifted her, carrying her like a bride to stand before the demon. “This is Marik of Gundar’s blood and bone, a pact made and an offering sealed when this one was in the womb. We come to make payment for the Farseer, that Marik’s pain may cease.”
“Let her speak her dedication,” the thing said.
“The offering resists. I would have you dedicate her.”
“Wake her then, fool. She must have a will for that will to be taken.”
I let her down, let her feet touch the floor and whispered her name softly.
“Lanen. Lanen, wake up.”
I shame to admit such weakness, but in that moment I hesitated. She was so near, so young and strong—my daughter, my only child, my blood and bone…
And then the pain the demons had cursed me with, the pain that has followed me since her birth, stabbed through me in a great spasm, and I was myself again.
I felt her take her own weight and stand on her own feet. She put her hands to her face and rubbed her eyes. “Where am I?” she said groggily. Then she looked up, and in that instant knew all.
“NO!” she screamed with all her might, and strove to throw me off.
Lanen
I might as well have wrestled with a Dragon. Marik was proof now against my strength, and I felt in his wiry frame strength the equal of my own. I could do no more—
true speech, I desire nothing but true speech
“AKOR! SAVE ME!” I screamed, in truespeech, aloud, with every fibre of my being. My voice was pitched so high it frightened me.
There was an instant of silence, in which Caderan laughed and the creature before me reached out, but in the next moment all sound was swallowed up in a vast roar.
It came from just outside the cabin.
Akhor
I was frantic. I could not find her. My people can smell the Rakshasa if they are anywhere near, and in truth the stench from the camp had been heavy of late, but now it was gone. I could not find the place Rella had spoken of, I could not find my dearling, though the Fire within me knew well that she was in deadly peril. I flew in circles around and about the camp, lost, maddened—
And her scream tore the night, rent my heart, brought me arrowing down to a structure I had passed fifty ti
mes. I roared once, Fire preceding me as I came to land, for I found myself surrounded by Rikti. I would have laughed, were my Lanen’s terror not ringing still in my brain. My Fire swept them effortlessly from the air, from the ground, cleansed the sigils I could now see dimly scratched into the very earth. But they were many, and all took time.
I had no time.
“Lanen, I am here, I come!” I cried, as I swept the Rikti from my path.
Her answer was the merest whisper in my mind. “Now, Akor, or it is too late.”
Lanen
Despite his arrival I was still before the altar, and though I struggled with all my might, Marik thrust me forward towards the demon with a grip of iron. “Take her, dread lord, take the offering swiftly. A Lord of the Kantri rages nearby and would keep her from you.”
“That shall not be,” said that dead voice. “Come, offering,” it said, stretching out its red-black arms for me. Marik released me, and as I tried to run it grasped me by my shoulder.
I tried to scream. I tried to run. I had no will, no voice, barely a flicker of my own self remained. “You are given as sacrifice,” the thing said. “Now you—”
“Lanen, I am here, I come!”
I summoned the last of my strength and shouted in truespeech, “Now, Akor, or it is too late.” It was barely a whisper.
“—belong to me,” it finished, and a red veil fell before my eyes—
The splintering of wood behind me shook me even from that cold, dead place. I still had no volition, but I could tell from the sound and the feel of air at my back that the wall behind me was gone.
Caderan and Marik had turned to look.