would be back, probably at the head of a small army. These people would be lucky if this shack was still standing a few days from now.
He pushed back from the table and stood up. His leg complained with a sharp twinge, but it obeyed. He dropped a handful of small coins beside his plate.
“Before I go,” Caim said, “I need directions to Morrowglen.”
“Never heard of such a place.”
Caim held the innkeeper’s gaze for a moment, and looked past him as the curtain to the back room parted and a man walked into the room. The shadows noticed, too. Caim’s skin prickled with the silent mews of a thousand tiny shadows, but the newcomer didn’t resemble a soldier. Rawhide buskins peeked from under the great bearskin that cloaked his sturdy frame. Pushing back his hood to reveal a mass of silver-gray braids framing a weathered face half hidden behind a long beard, the man glanced around the shambles of the room. Then he sized up Caim with eyes as pale as a frozen lake.
“I know the way.”
The innkeeper looked about to say something, but then lifted both hands as if to shoo them out the door. Caim nodded and picked up his gear. The older man was already heading out the front.
Outside it was snowing again. As the door banged shut behind them, Caim watched his guide head down the road, northward. Caim reached up to scratch an itch on his face, but stopped his hand before it reached his bloodied cheek. It’s not too late to go back to Othir .
Caim started off through the snow.
CHAPTER FOUR
S ybelle stood over the rack of broken vials littering the floor. The tinkle of breaking glass did nothing to soothe her nerves. For three days she’d been attempting to contact her agent in the south, but the oily scrying pool remained blank. It could only mean one thing.
Her sanctum sanctorum was a wide chamber in the heart of her temple. It pleased her to think of it as her temple. Although she had not laid the stones for the vast basilica, she was responsible for its reconsecration. The shadowed recesses of the vaulted ceiling comforted her.
Calmer, she crossed the stone floor to a shelf on the wall. She took what she required, then went to a tall object standing in a corner, covered in a pale sheet. She swept away the cover from the lidless sarcophagus carved from a single piece of volcanic stone. Nestled within were the mummified remains of a three-thousand-year-old warrior who had lived in an empire that had once spanned the known boundaries of this world.
Sybelle sat cross-legged upon the floor before the withered cadaver. First, she opened a vein in her wrist and spilled a portion of blood into a pan. After sealing the cut with a Word, she cracked open three stone jars and sifted their gritty contents through her fingers, one by one.
“ Adulai nocet e’sulphruka ,” she whispered. “By heart and lungs and soul, appear before mine eyes. Het Xenai, I conjure thee!”
Shadows flickered as a combination of odors met her nose, of dust and sand and endless night. The blood in the pan disappeared as if sucked into an invisible mouth, and a draining sensation came over Sybelle. A sigh, as coarse and dry as mummified bones, filled the chamber.
“Speak, Witch.”
“Great warrior, I seek to reach into the land of the dead and contact a departed soul.”
“Ask.”
“Bring me the shade of my servant Levictus.”
Though there were no windows in the sacred chamber, a wisp of a breeze tickled the back of her neck. A pallid light glimmered in the air. It flickered several times before coalescing into a shape roughly the size and manner of a man. Sybelle recognized the scarred face.
“Levictus.”
After a pair of slow heartbeats, he answered in a hollow tone. “Sybelle.”
“Tell me how you came to die. When was the hour? Where the place?”
“Dead?”
“Yes.” She resisted the urge to curse him. It would do no good in the land of shades. “Tell me how you died.”
“I was killed … not long ago.”
She
He pushed back from the table and stood up. His leg complained with a sharp twinge, but it obeyed. He dropped a handful of small coins beside his plate.
“Before I go,” Caim said, “I need directions to Morrowglen.”
“Never heard of such a place.”
Caim held the innkeeper’s gaze for a moment, and looked past him as the curtain to the back room parted and a man walked into the room. The shadows noticed, too. Caim’s skin prickled with the silent mews of a thousand tiny shadows, but the newcomer didn’t resemble a soldier. Rawhide buskins peeked from under the great bearskin that cloaked his sturdy frame. Pushing back his hood to reveal a mass of silver-gray braids framing a weathered face half hidden behind a long beard, the man glanced around the shambles of the room. Then he sized up Caim with eyes as pale as a frozen lake.
“I know the way.”
The innkeeper looked about to say something, but then lifted both hands as if to shoo them out the door. Caim nodded and picked up his gear. The older man was already heading out the front.
Outside it was snowing again. As the door banged shut behind them, Caim watched his guide head down the road, northward. Caim reached up to scratch an itch on his face, but stopped his hand before it reached his bloodied cheek. It’s not too late to go back to Othir .
Caim started off through the snow.
CHAPTER FOUR
S ybelle stood over the rack of broken vials littering the floor. The tinkle of breaking glass did nothing to soothe her nerves. For three days she’d been attempting to contact her agent in the south, but the oily scrying pool remained blank. It could only mean one thing.
Her sanctum sanctorum was a wide chamber in the heart of her temple. It pleased her to think of it as her temple. Although she had not laid the stones for the vast basilica, she was responsible for its reconsecration. The shadowed recesses of the vaulted ceiling comforted her.
Calmer, she crossed the stone floor to a shelf on the wall. She took what she required, then went to a tall object standing in a corner, covered in a pale sheet. She swept away the cover from the lidless sarcophagus carved from a single piece of volcanic stone. Nestled within were the mummified remains of a three-thousand-year-old warrior who had lived in an empire that had once spanned the known boundaries of this world.
Sybelle sat cross-legged upon the floor before the withered cadaver. First, she opened a vein in her wrist and spilled a portion of blood into a pan. After sealing the cut with a Word, she cracked open three stone jars and sifted their gritty contents through her fingers, one by one.
“ Adulai nocet e’sulphruka ,” she whispered. “By heart and lungs and soul, appear before mine eyes. Het Xenai, I conjure thee!”
Shadows flickered as a combination of odors met her nose, of dust and sand and endless night. The blood in the pan disappeared as if sucked into an invisible mouth, and a draining sensation came over Sybelle. A sigh, as coarse and dry as mummified bones, filled the chamber.
“Speak, Witch.”
“Great warrior, I seek to reach into the land of the dead and contact a departed soul.”
“Ask.”
“Bring me the shade of my servant Levictus.”
Though there were no windows in the sacred chamber, a wisp of a breeze tickled the back of her neck. A pallid light glimmered in the air. It flickered several times before coalescing into a shape roughly the size and manner of a man. Sybelle recognized the scarred face.
“Levictus.”
After a pair of slow heartbeats, he answered in a hollow tone. “Sybelle.”
“Tell me how you came to die. When was the hour? Where the place?”
“Dead?”
“Yes.” She resisted the urge to curse him. It would do no good in the land of shades. “Tell me how you died.”
“I was killed … not long ago.”
She
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