Death's Mistress

CHAPTER 42

After the meal, Simon led the companions deeper into Cliffwall through the back of the stone-block buildings and into the warren of excavated tunnels that penetrated the vast plateau. The wide halls were lit with so many magically burning lamps that Nicci hoped this was the extent of their dabbling. Small light spells were one thing, but unleashing larger, uncontrolled magic was far more dangerous.

The main fortress buildings that filled the cave grotto were enormous, but the archive vaults were even more impressive. The spacious, vaulted chambers had walls lined with shelves crammed with books. In room after room, students sat in reading chairs or hunched over tables next to the bright glow of oil lamps. Bins filled with scrolls stood at the end of each long table. Ladders extended to the highest shelves to make hard-to-reach volumes more accessible. An intensity hung in the air, a hush as so many people devoted their full energies to relearning knowledge lost to history.

“Places like this were called central sites,” Nathan said, “large caches of books hidden under graveyards, in the catacombs beneath the Palace of the Prophets, or in ancient Caska.” He looked around, curious. “This appears to be more extensive than anything I have previously seen.”

“And you are only seeing the smallest fraction here,” Simon answered. “Remember, these archives have only been open for fifty years, and the wealth of information is daunting, tens of thousands of precious volumes.” He spread his hands. “Even after decades, we are still trying to catalog what knowledge we have. That is the first important step. We don’t even know what’s here.”

Victoria added, “When the ancient wizards compiled this archive, they were in a rush and under threat of extermination. They desperately needed to preserve as much knowledge as possible before Sulachan could destroy it. Caravans bearing magical tomes and scrolls came into the hidden canyons to unload, and riders arrived overland with packs of stolen books, half-scorched manuscripts rescued from libraries and universities that were burned by the emperor’s hunters. As time ran out, books of all kinds were piled up and sealed away with little attempt at organization.”

Victoria brushed a stray wisp of gray-brown hair from her forehead. “The memmers were assigned volumes by level of importance, rather than specific categories. Therefore, certain memmers might know about weather magic and prophecy, along with dire warnings about Subtractive Magic. Another memmer might preserve knowledge of how to manipulate earth, clay, and stone, as well as how to control lightning, and maybe change the currents in the sea, although we are far from the ocean.”

“That is quite a jumble,” Nathan said. “How does one locate any specific knowledge?”

Simon shrugged. “By searching. That is the life of a scholar. All knowledge is useful.”

Nicci’s response was harsher. “Some knowledge is more useful than others. Right now we need to know about the Lifedrinker. The Scar continues to grow, and he must be stopped.”

Simon wore a troubled expression. “Let me tell you—or better yet, I’ll show you, so you can understand.”

He led them through passageways like wormholes, deeper into the heart of the huge plateau, and eventually up a winding slope until they reached the opposite side of the mesa. A natural rock window opened out from the cliffs of the plateau’s sheer drop-off, which spilled down to hills and the sprawling valley. They stood together at the opening and looked out upon the sickening extent of the Scar, far away.

It was late afternoon, and the sun set in a glowering red blur at the horizon. Nicci could see the spreading desolation that rippled outward from a distant central point. “All of this used to be beautiful,” Simon explained with a sigh. “A green, bucolic paradise. Until the Lifedrinker destroyed it.”

Nicci frowned, more determined than ever. “Before we can fight him, we need to know who the Lifedrinker is, where he gets his power. Where did he come from?”

Simon sighed. “He was one of Cliffwall’s most ambitious scholars. His name was Roland.”

Bannon stared out at the desolation. “One of your own people did that?”

“Not intentionally,” Victoria said, as if defending the man. “It was an accident. I was a scholar, married, in my middle years. Roland had been studying the archives for a long time. He was one of the first outsiders invited in after I brought down the camouflage shroud.”

“Roland was revered among us,” Simon interjected with a sigh. “I wanted to be like him—everyone did. He was Cliffwall’s first scholar-archivist. But even the greatest scholars suffer human frailties.” He shook his head. “Roland was not an old man, but he fell ill with a wasting disease, a terrible sickness that weakened him, made him grow gaunt. Tumors grew inside him like snakes. And the sickness was beyond the skill of our best healers.”

Victoria picked up the story. “Roland lived his life in terrible pain, weakening, and he knew he would die before long. We could all see it. His eyes were hollow, his cheeks sunken, his hands trembled. He had such a great mind, and we were all dismayed that we would lose him. There seemed to be nothing we could do.

“But Roland did not accept his weakness. He did not surrender. He was afraid to die, in fact, and he vowed to save himself, at any cost. Roland said he had too much work to do here.” Victoria swallowed hard.

“He asked questions, trying to find someone with the knowledge that he sought. He studied scrolls and books, searching desperately for what he needed in order to draw energy that would let him fight the wasting disease. So, he found a spell, a dangerous spell that would allow him to absorb life energy and keep himself alive. One of my memmers recalled it, at least partially, and that gave him a clue for his search of the uncataloged archives. He knew it was unwise, but he told no one. Knowing he would die soon, he worked the life-energy spell without hesitation, even though he didn’t really understand what he was doing. He bound it to himself so that he could borrow bits of life from the world and rejuvenate his ailing body.”

Victoria pressed her lips together until all the color drained out of them. “And it worked. Roland had been so weak and skeletal, clearly on the edge of death … but he grew strong again. The spell worked wonders. It brought back the flush of health. I remember seeing him.” Her expression grew more troubled. “But then Roland didn’t know how to stop. He couldn’t control it.”

Simon cut her off. “I recall those days of growing fear—I had just come here as a student. Roland felt guilty, horrified at what was happening to him—and at what he was doing to others. He kept draining more and more of the life around him, whether or not he wanted to. We tried to help him. His friends rushed to his side, offering their assistance, promising that they would help him solve the problem—but anyone who touched him died. Roland stole their lives and incorporated them into his own. We all began to weaken.”

“He killed my husband,” Victoria said. “To protect us, to save us, Roland fled Cliffwall. Unable to control the magic he himself had unleashed, he ran far from the archives and out into the valley wilderness, away from the towns … although not far enough. He hoped to live out his days there and harm no one else. But the Lifedrinker spell continued, unstoppable, never satisfied. Roland was like a sponge, absorbing life from the forest, from the grasslands. His very existence killed trees, drained rivers dry. And the desolation around where he had gone to ground spread wider and wider in an ever-expanding scar. He wiped out croplands. He erased entire towns.” She straightened and brushed a hand across her eyes. “Roland didn’t mean it.”

Nicci thought of Thistle’s family, of Verdun Springs, how they had clung to their hardscrabble existence, and then died. “His intentions don’t matter. Think of all the damage that man has done. He must be stopped, otherwise his bottomless pit of magic will swallow the world.”

Simon added, “For years our Cliffwall scholars have been scouring the books, trying any mitigation spell they could find. But no one could even get close to what was needed.”

As the night deepened out in the dead valley, Nathan stared out at the Scar, watching the shadows move. “I wouldn’t expect you to know how to stop such a powerful enemy. All of you are untrained wizards. You have read books, but you were never trained by a wizard, and you have never proved your abilities. Ah, I wish the Prelate Verna were here to help you. Wizardry untested cannot be trusted.”

“You tried your best,” Nicci said. “Now we will do our own research. If this archive is as vast as you say, it must hold the key, a counterspell. We simply need to find it.”

“We would do anything to help you save us,” Simon said. “But after the … accidents, we are afraid to try extreme measures of our own.”

“That is wise,” Nathan said. “But something must be done.”

“That’s why we are here,” Nicci said, then finally admitted, “to save the world.”

The orphan girl added with deep longing in her voice, “I want to see the valley the way it’s supposed to be. I want to see the fertile land, the green fields, the tall forests.”

Nicci looked at Thistle. “You will.”