Redeeming the Lost

II The Wind of Change

It was just as well that Varien had gone apart with Rella, for I had to protect the Gedri with my body from those who sought to harm her and I could not have protected him as well. I had barely glimpsed the creature before I had to save its life.

"It reeks of the Rakshasa!"

"Move away, Idai. It is evil!"

Great flutterings of wings, great agitation, exhaustion, frustration, and very little thought. Shikrar and I had long feared this moment and spoken of what we should do. I was learning, yet again, that plans are never complete enough to deal with life. I could smell the demon-trace around this woman as well as any, but Shikrar and I had made oath to each other that we would not harm nor allow harm to come to any who came to us in peace no matter what they reeked of. It would take a great deal to make me trust this Gedri, but first I must keep her alive.

"This is not yet our home!" I shouted, trying by sheer volume to break through the anger of my people. "On the Island of Exile we were alone and accountable only to ourselves. Here we must learn to bear with the Gedri; we must learn to live among them whatever they may reek of. They were given Choice by the great Powers!" I summoned calm and let as much concern as I could find show in my voice. "That gift of Choice is with them until they die. Would you steal this soul from the Win—from the Lady of the Gedri, before it has a chance to repent?"

This won at least a moment of silence. The Kantri are fire-hearted, and the reek of the Rakshasa fans the flame terribly, but we are not stupid.

A muffled voice came from the region of my chest. "For goodness' sake, my soul to the Lady, I am in Her service! It's not me they're reacting to, it's this thrice-damned Farseer. If you'd just give me a moment to speak..."

I opened my talons, looked down, and there found that which would in all likelihood make me trust her, for looking up at me was the very image of Lanen, if you added enough years and lines and turned half her hair to grey. "My thanks," she said, nodding to me. She bore a large pack on her back and I still held her close. "I suspect I owe you my life. May I ask your name?"

"I am called Idai. You are the mother of Lanen," I said. It was not a question. I bespoke Shikrar and Varien as I gazed down at her. "My friends, there is someone here whom you must meet. Come quickly. I feel the need of your counsel."

The Gedri's eyes, clear and relieved before, clouded. "Yes. I am Maran of Beskin." She stood straighter—for courage, I thought— and something of desperation came into her gaze. "Have you found her?'

"No," I said quietly. "Have you?"

"I think so," she replied, never glancing away.

I hurried to answer Idai's summons, still weary from the curious aftereffects of my healing and leaving Vilkas and Aral where they stood. I found Idai surrounded by many of our folk, nearly all of whom stood in the Attitudes of Anger or Frustration. More worrying, I felt also an undercurrent of Fire, that flame that arises in us in the presence of our life-enemies the Rakshasa. Varien arrived about the same time I did.

Before I could speak, though, Rinshir cried out, "The Gedri that Idai defends reeks of the Rakshasa, Eldest!" He too stood in Anger, but his was moving swiftly towards something stronger. "Are we come to this, that we should protect the Raksha-touched?"

"We are new-come here, Rinshir. Would you then destroy this child of the Gedri, in its own land, with no thought of its life or its laws, without even troubling to ask why it has come among us?" I resisted my own anger and the temptation to shame Rinshir further. "You are weary, my friend, weary and hungry and unsure of what lies ahead, as are we all. Let us not begin our lives here in our ancient home by murdering an innocent."

"Hardly innocent, Master," interrupted the Gedri from Idai's shelter. I could have cheerfully swatted it myself. Stupid creature! Just like Lanen, I thought, no sense of when to hold its peace. Are all the Gedri so foolish, I wonder?

"Shall we let all the demon-touched pass unharmed, then, that they may murder us at their ease?" snarled Rinshir. "I do not like your reasoning, Hadreshikrar."

"I do not appeal to reason, Rinshir," I replied as calmly as I could, "but to mercy, and to patience. Remember, Raksha-trace can linger where the soul has been attacked as well as when it has had traffic with the creatures themselves."

"If you would just bloody well listen to me, I could explain!" cried the Gedri, its voice muffled by the protective cage of Idai's hands. "I am not a demon-caller! Name of the Lady, I've spent half my life fighting the damned things. It's the Farseer you feel, I swear it on my life!"

And finally, I heard the voice that uttered those words, even though I could not see her face, and my resolve sharpened. "I will have your word, Rinshir, that you will not harm this daughter of the Gedri, that you will keep silence and let her speak in safety," I said quietly. "I will take it upon my own soul to vow that she will not call the Rakshasa down upon us."

Varien had reached us then, and came to stand near Idai. He glanced at the Gedri in her hands and drew in his breath in surprise.

Rinshir moved away slightly, his Attitude of Concern warring with that of Anger. "Shikrar, don't be absurd. Your souls pledge for a demon-tainted Gedri? What could make you do such a th ..." He drew back, standing in Amazement, but only for a moment. Then his eyes widened in realisation, and he moved in the instant from Amazement to Fury. "Surely she bends your will even now, Eldest!" he cried, and faster than thought he drew in a breath to flame the evil where it stood.

I could do no more than stare at Rinshir, astounded at such hatred, entirely unprepared. Idai, blessedly, was ready for him. When he arched his neck and aimed at the creature Idai was protecting, she knocked his head back with her own, so that his flame scorched only air. I was most impressed; I had never seen Idai move so swiftly. While he was recovering from that blow, she knocked his wings aside with her own, loosed the Gedri woman, and wrapped her right hand around his throat, just under the jaw where we are most vulnerable.

I kept well out of it. If anything, I'd have assisted Idai.

"You fool, Rinshir," she hissed, her talons poised at the great vein in his throat. "How do you dare to attack that which I guard?"

"It is demon-stained, Idai!" he yelped in his own defence. His voice was none too clear.

"Thrice fool and blind," she snapped, her teeth worryingly close to his throat. I began to fear a little for Rinshir's life, but there, defying Idai was the act of one who cared little for life in any case. "And did you not see this other Gedri standing here, who would also have died in your flame?"

Rinshir looked down, but he did not recognise what he saw.

"Good morrow, Rinshir," said Varien quietly. "I had hoped that your travels might have stretched your mind as well as your wings, but alas, I see no evidence of it."

Rinshir flinched at that voice, distorted as it was through Gedri throat and tongue. Varien, for all the changes that had beset him, was still our King and held our fealty.

"I have lived eight hundred winters longer than you, fool of a dhraisek," hissed Idai. "Are you then grown so very wise in so very short a time that you can see that which is hidden from me, while it lies yet between my talons?" Her eyes glittered and her wings rattled with her anger. I was glad to see that Rinshir had yet some sense left, for he finally tried to move away from her. He did not get far, as she did not loosen her grip on his throat.

"Do not think to challenge me, Rinshir," she hissed, keeping her body between Rinshir and Varien. "There is a very old and very simple reason why we of the Kantrishakrim respect our elders. I am twice your size, and by all the Winds that ever blew, I will fight you if you do not heed me." Without apparent effort she overbalanced him and bore him to the ground, her talons still around his throat and her face a blink away from him. "And know this, fool," she snarled in his ear. "If ever you bring even the least harm to Lord Akhor, to Varien, by my name I swear I will have it out of your hide."

I had never seen Idai so angry, and in that moment I was sincerely grateful that I had followed my own deepest instincts and had kept on her good side ever since she was the merest youngling. To speak truly I do not know what would have happened had not Varien walked up to put his hand on her forearm.

"Idai, my friend, it is enough," he said gently. "Let him go. We are unharmed, all is well. Let him go."

Varien's voice shook me out of my self-indulgent anger. I stood back and let go of Rinshir. I don't think I have ever seen him move so quickry. I turned to Shikrar, who stood beside me, and winked. Just as well he should never know how near I had come to murdering Rinshir for even thinking of putting Akhor in danger.

"A moment, if you please," said a voice from near the ground. The Gedri woman, who had very sensibly moved away while I was instructing Rinshir, had returned, and now she laid her hand on my forearm as Varien had. "I have you to thank for my life," she said simply. "I am deeply in your debt."

Varien stepped forward and stood beside her. "As am I, Idai. As ever. Again."

I hissed my amusement. "It was worth it to see Rinshir's Attitude change. From fury to absolute terror in a single moment. Most satisfying." I glanced down at the Gedri woman, then to Varien as I said, "And now, if ybu please, Maran of Besskin, you will tell us what it is about you that so reeks of our life-enemies."

"I've been using the Farseer to keep up with Lanen," she said simply. "Whenever I use it the stink wears off on me. I must be overdue to make my devotions to the Lady. I never meant to set everyone off. Seems you folk are a lot more sensitive to it than we are." She scrubbed at her face with both hands. 'The damned things barely worth the bother of keeping, when all's done," she said wearily, "but as long as I have it, Berys can't bloody well make another one. That's the only reason I didn't smash it twenty years ago—though I'd never have found you in time if I had." She paused for a moment. "Do you have the first idea where Lanen is?"

"No," said Varien cautiously, "though one of our number has gone to seek her in Verfaren."

"Thank the Goddess," she said, and unfamiliar as I was with Gedri faces, even I could recognise the relief in her voice. "It's Jamie, isn't it?' It wasn't a question.

"Yes," said Rella, speaking quietly as she appeared behind Maran. "Well-met, my friend," she said, nodding to the newcomer. "Jamie's gone after her."

"Blessed Mother Shia, we might have a chance yet," Maran replied, but before she could say more I heard Kedra's voice calling out to us all. At least he sounded pleased.

Kedra and Will returned at just that moment and provided a much-needed distraction. The sounds at the edge of hearing were growing noticeably louder. I could nearly make out words. And it seemed to be coming from somewhere near at hand.

While he was still high up and a little way distant, Kedra called aloud to us all on the ground, "All is well! We have food, my friends, and water in abundance, and a place to rest as long as we need it!" Kedra landed awkwardly, allowing Will to drop just the little distance from his hands as he backwinged frantically. As Will picked himself up and brushed the earth from his clothing, I bespoke my son.

"Kedra, how fare you? Is it well, truly?"

"It is very well, my father," he replied aloud, though his eyes were troubled. "I must speak with you soon, Father," he said in tightly focussed truespeech, then continued aloud, "Farmer Timeth is presendy recovering from the acquisition of sudden wealth, but his kine are healthy, his water is good, and his farm backs up to a high rock wall to the north, under the shelter of which there is room for us all."

"Blessed be the Winds," I murmured. "Good news at last."

Mirazhe came to join us then, her tiny youngling Sher6k awake now and riding between her wings. He looked so terribly small and fragile. When I frowned a litde at Mirazhe and opened my mouth, she hissed a laugh and said, "Fear not, Hadreshikrar. Your son's son is perfectly safe, and the soulgems of the Lost are in Gyrentikh's keeping."

I shut my mouth with a snap and turned my head away briefly in embarrassment as Kedra and Mirazhe laughed. "Am I so transparent, my daughter?"

She replied, her eyes dancing, "You are, my father. But none the less valued for that."

Sherok, for his part, was delighted with the view despite the hunger that he was broadcasting in waves. Kedra greeted his son by touching his soulgem to the raised spot on Sherok's faceplate where his soulgem would eventually break through, and Sherok's thoughts turned from hunger to joy in the instant. The wash of his pleasure at seeing his father again was as the dawning of a second sun to my weary soul, and I stood and called to the Kantri, aloud and in truespeech, telling them Kedra's news.

"It is nearby, dear heart," muttered K6dra to Mirazhe. "I have not eaten, but it will not be long now." Indeed, most of the Kantri were preparing to depart when Vilkas came running up to me.

"Lord Shikrar, please, you must not let them eat right away!" he cried, a little out of breath. "Will told me what you were doing, but you must listen. Don't let them eat at first! Start by drinking. And when you kil the catde, start by drinking the blood."

I stared at him. "Surely how we eat is no concern of yours," I said, annoyed at his tone of command.

"Please, I beg you, listen to me. Your bodies are very similar to ours, I saw the results of fatigue in your blood and muscle. Just exactly like us. And I tell you, if you eat meat too quickly after such desperate exhaustion and hunger, you could die of it. Even water is not the best. Blood has salt and enough sugar to help you back to enough strength to eat. Drink the blood, I pray you, and wait an hour until you are recovered. Then drink water, slowly, and very small amounts of food at first—that is the most important. Eat much less than you want, lest your hearts stop from the shock."

"We have managed to five so long without your assistance, Master Vilkas," I said dryly. "I thank you for your concern, but—"

"Shikrar, didn't you tell me once that some of the Ancestors died when they reached the Isle of Exile?" asked Varien quietly.

"Yes, the greedy ones who gorged themselves on the few large creatures who lived on the island, and left the rest to—oh."

I closed my eyes and sighed. When I opened them again, I bowed to Vilkas, to his great surprise. "Master Vilkas, forgive my foolishness. We will do as you have asked."

Vilkas nodded to me, an attenuated bow, and strode back to where Mistress Aral spoke with Will. I called out in truespeech to all the Kantri, who, groaning and complaining, nevertheless began to rise and flex stiff wings. I took a moment to bespeak Kedra.

"What did you need to say to me, my son?" I asked, but he did not answer immediately.

I was just as glad, for the murmur in my head was growing now with every breath. I listened again—nothing distinct yet—and shook my head to clear it. And watched my son do precisely the same thing.

"Kedra, do you hear this whispering?" I asked urgently.

"Nearly shouting now," he replied, frustrated. "But I can't make out the words. Have you the faintest idea what it is or where it is comingfrom?"

"Not the least" I began, but I was interrupted by a loud mind-voice under very poor control.

"The Hollow Ones have risen! Be 'ware, my elders, the Hollow Ones follow me close!"

We all, every Kantri on live, looked up into the western sky. Salera was flying on the Winds' wings, desperately powering ahead of a great cloud of... of...

Of the Lesser Kindred. But as they drew nearer, I could see that these were the Lesser Kindred as we had known them of old, as our Ancestors spoke of them: no soulgems, no sign of intellect, no spark at all. They appeared to be mobbing Salera as crows will mob a hawk, but when she flew past at speed and just as I was preparing to fly to her aid, they all came to land. There must have been nearly two hundred of them, all dark of hue like rusted iron, falling clumsily to earth in a great crowd. The Kantri, now fully roused, surrounded them—but even so I was not prepared.

Gyrentikh let out a great shout. "Shikrar! Shikrar, quickly, here!"

I leapt into the air, blessing the work of Vilkas and Aral as I climbed just a few tens of feet that I might see Gyrentikh. I might have saved myself the effort. He was at the center of a circle of the strange creatures. None came closer than one of their own body lengths, but every pair of dull eyes was focussed unblinking on—Gyrentikh?

No. On that which he guarded.

I backwinged in shock, fool that I was, stalled, and fell to the ground. I hadn't done that since before I had seen seventy winters.

"Shikrar!" cried Varien. "Shikrar, what—"

"The Lost. The soulgems of the Lost!" I shouted, climbing to my feet. "That's why they're here." I stood now beside Gyrentikh, facing all those desperately intent beasts, and I shook to my bones. "Name of the Winds, Akhor. What are we to do?"

I found that I was shouting, for the whispering was turned now to yells, and it was coming from the golden cask over which Gyrentikh still bravely stood guard.

I could hear words now. Cursing, screaming, wordless shouts, and one cry repeated over and over.

"LET US OUT! LET US OUT! LET US OUT!"

I hadn't the faintest idea what was going on. I was about to try to push my way into the midst of that unnatural crowd when Salera came running up, Will trailing behind her.

"Lord, these are the Hollow Ones!" cried Salera, terribly distressed. "They have our shape but they are beasts. They know neither speech nor reason. Beware, they have killed our kind before!"

"Whence came they?' I asked. "Quickly, Salera!"

"I was following Lord Kedra when several of my people hailed me," she said rapidly. "I had only begun to speak to them of true-speech when we all became aware of a terrible darkness below. We have had to fly from the Hollow Ones before, but only ever in ones and twos. This—this is very wrong." She shivered. "We all chose different directions and scattered, but the Hollow Ones followed me. I thought my death had chosen me. What is it they seek, Lord? What has called them here?"

"The soulgems of the Lost, it seems. Why, I have no idea."

Maran strode up, her pack on her back, Rella, ViL and Aral behind her. Maran's eyes were fixed on the dark agitated crowd of the Hollow Ones. There was now a great fluttering of wings among them, that in the Kantri denotes rising anger.

"What in all the Hells is this about?" asked Maran quietly.

I opened my mind to bespeak Shikrar and staggered from the noise.

"LET US OUT!"

I could bear the shouting in my mind no longer. I could think of nothing else to do, so I picked up the golden cask that contained the soulgems of the Lost. Instantly there was silence, from the beasts and in my head.

"Go, Gyrentikh," I commanded him quietly. 'They are not come for you." He walked slowly through the beasts, who ignored him, while I tried desperately to think.

When one of the Kantri dies, the soulgem remains. It shrinks to half its size in life and is preserved with all honour in the Chamber of Souls, in appearance like a great gem. These gems are dark until the Keeper of Souls has cause to summon an Ancestor. At such times, the soulgem of the particular Ancestor will glow gently as it did in life, until the Summoning is over.

When last the Kantri lived in Kolmar, five thousand years before, a great and nameless Demonlord had arisen. In the terrible battle that ended in his death, we found to our despair that he had learned how to destroy us. A single word, a single gesture from the Nameless One, and one of the Kantri would fall from the sky: they dwindled to the size of younglings and their soulgems were ripped from them. Even after the Demonlord was dead, we could find no way to restore those who had been defiled. They were become as beasts, and their soulgems never turned dull as with deatli—ever they flickered, neither alive nor dead. We came to call them, our family, our dear friends now taken, the Lost. That we might not take our revenge from the innocent Gedri who remained, we flew west, to the Isle of Exile, taking with us the soulgems. None now lived, or had for three and a half thousand years, who had known any of the Lost in life. Since the day it happened we had tried to restore the Lost, to no avail.

I had no idea what was happening now or why, but in the silence of my heart I was forced to admit that there was nothing to lose.

I lifted the cask high and with one talon incised a circle in the top of the golden cask in which we had carried the soulgems with us across the Great Sea. I gently removed the circle and dropped it in the grass.

The soulgems of the Lost were not flickering, as they had for so many centuries. They were blazing.

The soulless creatures surged towards me. Had we been of a size, I had surely been overwhelmed, but I am the Eldest and thus the largest of the Kantri. They were like so many younglings.

I was uncertain of what to do next when a cry of pain drew my attention.

It was Maran.

I had ignored the rising heat at my back until that big dragon opened that damned golden egg. In the instant I felt as if my back were on fire. I threw my pack from my back and turned to stare at it.

The leather was burning. In a circle.

In moments the Farseer was revealed, a globe of smoky glass about the size of a small melon. I gingerly moved my hand towards it, expecting extreme heat—but there was nothing. I touched it, picked it up: no heat at all.

When I looked up, the Farseer in both hands, I was confronted by a sea of blank faces. The little dull dragons, though they stayed in a circle around the big dragon—was he called Shikar, something like that?—they were staring at me now.

"Hells' teeth, what's in that dirty great golden bowl?" I asked anyone who would listen.

And there at my elbow, with several other people, was the silver-haired man my Lanen had married, telling me swiftly about those he called the Lost.

As he spoke, as I forced myself to listen and to ignore the fact that I still didn't know his name, something chimed in my memory. I had studied the disciplines of the Lady—at one time I thought I'd have to become a Servant to escape the demons—but I couldn't remember. Something about balance.

As if he read my mind, the tall young lad with the silly beard stepped forward. "By the Goddess, it just might be," he said, his eyes alight with possibility. "The Lost were dragons transformed by the Demonlord, a man who sold his true name and his very soul to demons. It took all three races together to create the Lost. Perhaps..."

"Perhaps it will take all three to restore them," said the silver one, his glorious voice deep and resonant and full of a wild hope. His eyes were gleaming and he was shaking with excitement, and I have to admit I caught some of it. "Come, Maran, perhaps your Raksha-taint will serve us after all!" he cried, pulling me with him into the middle of that uncanny circle of creatures. "You as well, Vilkas," he cried, and the tall lad followed.

As I came close to Shikrar the beasts started fluttering their wings again, a dry rattle that sent a shiver down my back.

"Shikrar, put them down," I said quietly. "Vilkas thinks—it might be—we may be able to do it, Shikrar, at last. Restore the Lost."

"What must I do, Akhor?" he asked softly, laying the cask on the grass at his feet. His control was extraordinary. His voice hardly trembled at all.

"Lift out a single soulgem," I said, my eyes never leaving the beast-eyes that stared intently at the three of us. Shikrar reverently picked up a blazing violet gem. A single creature stepped forward—it happened to be the nearest—and lowered its head. There in the faceplate was a shallow depression. I took the soul-gem from Shikrar and, shaking, placed it in the hollow.

Nothing. The creature did not move.

"All three, Varien," said Vilkas quietly. "All three."

I took Maran's hand and Shikrar's talon and brought them together to touch the gem.

Nothing.

"I may stink of the things, but I'm not a real demon," said Maran quietly. "This was made by them." She lifted the Farseer to touch the soulgem, but she had overbalanced. It slipped from her fingers. All three of us—Shikrar, Maran, and I—moved to catch it at once, and were all touching it at the same time.

Upon the instant a great blaze of light streamed from the Farseer, dazzling even in daylight. I tried to let go of it and could not, and neither could the others. When I thought to look, I realised that the Hollow One still stood before us, unmoving, soulgem in place.

What was there to lose?

"Together, then. Touch the Farseer to the soulgem," I said. It took but a tiny movement from us all—a little farther—contact.

The soulgem caught a portion of the Farseer's blaze. There was a grotesque sizzle like fat in a fire, and the creature stepped back. Its eyes were wide, surprise warring with furious joy for just an instant—and it changed. I had never understood why that simple word was so important in the tale of the Demonlord until I saw it happen.

In reverse.

In an instant.

Light and colour spread out from the soulgem, flowing swift as flame over the creature, first changing that rusty black faceplate to one of bright iron, then extending the full length of the beast—which was a great deal more length than it had before. In moments, impossibly, there stood before us a full-grown adult of the Kantrishakrim, dazed, blinking in the daylight, astounded.

Shikrar, eyes wide, somehow managed to croak, "Welcome, Lady. I hight Shikrar of the line of Issdra. Who art thou?"

"Treshak. I hight Treshak," she managed, and cried out in agony.

Idai hurried up to her. "Lady, what ails you? What may be done for you?"

"Not me," she moaned. "Help them. The rest of them. Free them, quickly, in the name of the Winds!"

And so we did. As the three of us were yet bound to the Farseer, Vilkas drew forth the soulgems and held them in place while we touched the Farseer to each in turn.

I had dreamed of this moment for many long years. Our people had striven to restore the Lost since they had been torn from life by the Demonlord. In the thousands of years since, there had been endless debate about the flicker of the soulgems. Were the Lost in some way still alive and aware? Were they tormented by demons? Would any of them still be sane if we did manage to bring them back after long ages of whatever imprisonment they endured?

It seemed in the end to depend on the individual.

Many, blessedly, were largely undamaged. Their imprisonment had seemed Httle more than a long, uneasy Weh sleep, and they simply awoke in their new bodies with little sense of the passage of time.

Some had been aware for part of the time, crying out, feeling trapped in some desperate place. They said that they had drifted in and out of consciousness. They thought perhaps several tens of years had passed while they were ensorcelled. Somehow they had managed to cling to hope, but they were furiously angry.

The first of these to be released saw Gedri standing before it and drew in a breath of Fire. I cried out to Shikrar, who managed to deflect the blast upwards. We did not condemn him— the last thing he recalled clearly was a treacherous Gedri, the Demonlord, who had stolen his life from him. He was taken away by the Kantri to a part of the field far from the Gedri, where he was told as gendy as possible what had happened in the intervening time.

Vilkas took a moment to warn Rella, Will, and the Healers to move out of sight until all could be explained to the confused souls. They disappeared in the direction of the Dragons Head, an inn hard by the field.

There were a few, though, who wrung our hearts from us. A score of souls found themselves in the green world, cried out in agony, and threw themselves into death.

It is rare that a child of the Kantri will willingly choose death, but we can do so if the pain of life is too great. It is very simple. There is a—a something in the base of the throat. The nearest that humans can understand would be a flint. It would be as if you filled a room with oil-soaked straw, threw in a lighted match, and closed the door.

When we die, in the natural course of things, the fire within is released from our control and we burn to ash very quickly. This was even faster. The first of the Lost who chose death passed to the Winds in less time than it had taken for its new form to appear. Shikrar, his voice trembling, asked Vilkas to collect the soul-gem and bring it to him: when he saw it clearly, he heaved a deep sigh of relief. It was small and dull. The poor trapped soul was released to death at last, and could rest.

It took nearly five hours to restore them all. We were exhausted by the end, but we had no choice—the Farseer clung, blazing, to our hands, until the last of the Lost was restored. The moment all was accomplished, the thing dropped to the grass, dark and lifeless.

Shikrar, Maran and I followed in much the same fashion.

Berys

What a fine chance! I had only just sent along a Rikti spy to report on what the damned dragons were doing, and behold, what piece of news it has brought me! If I understand it aright, it appears that those whom the Demonlord had thought destroyed have been restored. How very resourceful of them.

So, the number of my enemies is doubled. And these new creatures were created by the Demonlord, whose imminent arrival will doubtless rouse them to fury and to the foolishness of acting in anger.

How interesting. It will be useful to see how he deals with them.

On the whole, I believe that I am pleased. What fun would all this be if it were too simple?

Marik has confirmed the Rikti's report. How kind of him to keep me informed, and how charming that the damage the dragons inflicted upon him has allowed him to hear the thoughts of those two creatures. Shikrar and Akor. Altogether delightful.

I was uncertain as to when I would unleash all those lovely healers of Mariks. There they sit, so demure in House of Gundar trade establishments throughout the four Kingdoms of Kolmar, no sign of their slightly suspect allegiance. And I never coerced one; they have come to us of their own free will. Ah, how easily the lust for power corrupts.

It is astounding how many folk are unhappy with the power they have, and how willing they are to take part in something they know to be wrong. Just a little corruption at first, a fortnight to try out the new power available to them before they must choose. Nearly all, having become accustomed to the greater level of power in those few days of the trial, are seduced by the good they can do.

They are under no illusions. Even the most ignorant village Healer knows perfectly well that power is either the gift of the Lady or the price of the Raksbi. Barely one in a hundred has had the moral courage to resist. Barely one in ten of those has refused entirely. After all, it is such a little price. A lock of hair. Not much to ask. Hair grows back.

And now they are there in their hundreds, all over Kolmar, ready to my hand. When I activate the link, those who have submitted to this will be, swiftly and simply, taken over by a demon. They will retain half their natural power for the demons to make use of—and demons are very good at making use of power—and half the power of every single Healer who has made this pact will flow into my hands, to do with as I will. Once I set them in motion, with the simplest of rituals, they will go forth and take the darkness with them. Slaying patients, destroying crops, burning homes—whatever the demon fancies.

If I send them out before the Demonlord arrives, they will cause extra chaos: a nice distraction. If after, they will give my foes yet more to worry about, piled upon already burdened hearts and minds. Both are attractive—hmmm.

Chaos, I think. I should just have time for the ritual this evening before my treat.

As for the Demonlord himself—that Black Dragon is damnably slow. I feel every beat of its wings and it is exhausting. Just as well that I have the body of a young man now; I do not believe that my old self would have had the pure strength to bear it.

I have already accomplished the impossible, of course. The fools I am surrounded by should bow down and worship at my feet. They have no idea—but ah, they will learn. Very, very soon.

I, Berys—no. No, I need hide no longer. I, Malior, only living Demon-Master of the Sixth Hell, have performed the greatest work of my life but these few days past. It has taken me many long years, much learning, much sacrifice, and quite a bit of blood— some of it even mine—but at last I have summoned the Demon-lord, he who gave up his name for all time in exchange for power. Five thousand years ago, before he faced the great dragons in battle, he performed the spell of the Distant Heart. His own beating heart was removed from his chest, placed safely in a box of gold, silver, and lead, and taken by the Rakshasa to a far distant place where none would ever find it and he would live forever.

He was no fool. When he started destroying the True Dragons, thus fulfilling the deepest desire of his soul, they fought back. The spells and demon-protections he had established kept him alive for some little while, and half the dragons died that day, they say. However, they finally managed to exact vengeance by destroying his body. It is written that he laughed even as his body was burnt to a cinder, and no one knew why.

I know why. Because he knew through his arts that one day, a demon-master possessed of great power would create for him a new body, untouchable this time by fire, and that he would live again, this time forever.

Ah, life is sweet.

For I have found it, not two moons since. The Demonlord's Distant Heart. Every demon-summoner alive would murder cheerfully for the knowledge I now possess.

A few days past I summoned the Lord of the Fifth Hell, who told me that the Demonlord could only be destroyed by a creature that bleeds both dragon and human blood when cut. Such a thing must exist for the spell of the Distant Heart requires a counterspell to be effective, but I could waste years searching for it and still never find it. After all, demons are not truly aware of time as we know it. This creature might have died out centuries ago, or not been born yet.

I knew that before I summoned the Demonlord, knew that I could neither banish nor destroy him immediately—but there are ways and ways to deal with demons. The binding spells that hold him can be renewed easily enough, for as long as I like. Perhaps my arts will, in time, allow me to fabricate such a creature. It is not beyond possibility—and after all, I will soon have a wife! Given sufficient preparation, surely I can create a child that would answer that need. And in the meantime, I will have the means of my eventual success at hand. For what would be the good of finding the creature of mixed blood if I had not the Distant Heart in my possession?

And I have found it by pure chance.

This autumn past, poor deluded Marik of Gundar, who has relied on me to bolster his power for many years, took the risk of travelling to the Dragon Isle to gather lansip, that marvellous leaf that grew only in that one place in all the world. Healall, good for everything from headache to heart s-ease, and when taken in sufficient quantity, able to reverse the effects of time itself. All in all, I suppose I should be grateful for Marik's delusion: it has given me back half a century of life, and it drew my attention to the Dragon Isle. I has prudently avoided that place for many years, for the Kantri, the True Dragons who lived on that island so far to the west, have a natural power over the Rakshasa who serve me. However, as I began to search some months ago for the proper material out of which to create a body for the Demonlord to inhabit, all suddenly came clear.

A body untouchable by fire must be made of fire, or of stone. A body of fire is unworkable, for fire—even demonfire—must have something to burn upon, however small, and that would soon be exhausted. I could have fashioned him a body of granite, but it would take years and years, and I have no wish to wait so long. It is also the case that hard stone is unforgiving, and it can be shattered given sufficient strength. No, the Dragon Isle held the answer. It was volcanic in nature: fire and stone at once, fluid and ready to be shaped to my will, and vastly lighter than solid rock. I had only to call forth the molten stone from the heart of the island.

When I began the work I meant only to shape a body that would hold the Demonlord—I intended the shape to be a figure of dread to the dragons, that they might feel that one of their own had become their destroyer. However, I had barely begun the making when I felt suddenly, even at that great remove, the presence of something burning with a fire hotter even than molten stone. I turned my mind to it, I probed with my thought and with all the power nature had granted me, and lo, there it lay, open to my thought, and just where it would be of most use.

The making of the Black Dragon took all the power I possess. I had to goad the quiescent voice of the island from a rumble into violent activity, then to raise the casket containing the heart into the midst of the material I used to create the body of the beast. Once the shaping was done, though, it was—it is—a perfect creation. It houses the Demonlord, bound to me inextricably by blood and bone, and it bears within itself its own destruction. That pleases me. And when I offer to ensoul it at last, give it life again—well, the other main stricture of the spell of the Distant Heart is that body, soul, and the Heart cannot ever be combined again in the one creature. If that were to happen, the spell would be broken and the Heart would become mere flesh again.

It is truly said that if you put all your energies into a single task, all of life comes together to aid you. However, the wise man does not put all his trust in so insubstantial a thing as life.

Since I provided Marik with numerous demonic artefacts, among them a means of keeping off the dragons, I received half of the lansip harvest for my pains. I have used almost all of it already, bar a few boxes I have retained to control those demons who crave it: but the distilled essence of lansip has proven the legends true. No more the protesting joints, no more the weakness, the thousand small ills, the dimmed eyesight, the fading hearing—no more the tread of death behind me or its shadow in the glass before my eyes.

I have conquered time itself. Behold, I now have that which all men desire—a mind honed by seventy years of study and nearly ninety years of living, and a body no more than thirty years old to carry out the demands I make of it. I had forgotten the power of this age! Every nerve tingles with strength and youth. By all the Hells, it is a wonder.

Of course, I do miss my hand.

I had to cut it off to bind the Demonlord to my will. The sacrifice will be well worth it—it was only my left hand, after all—but the place where my hand once was itches constantly. It is of minor interest. I suspect the illusion will end in time. Perhaps I can find a smith to create a mechanical replacement. It is damned awkward getting dressed. Still, that is what servants are for.

It irks me that I have been so weak these last several days, but even I must needs recover from such great works as the binding of the Nameless One and the making of the Black Dragon. I labour even as I rest, to keep the creature in the air as it flies to Kolmar from the distant west. And I have had a rasp in my throat from the choking I had off that witch-daughter of Marik's when she attacked. I have ensured that she has nor food nor fuel. The weaker her body, the easier it will be to dominate her will.

I know that one of the True Dragons, the Kantrishakrim as they are called, is here—it nearly stopped me from capturing the girl. The rest will not be far behind. Marik has done so much good, at least: I know the Kantri are coming. Truly, that surprised me. It seems that in the making of the Black Dragon the island was overwhelmed in fire. I had not planned that. However, it is all moot.

If the Black Dragon arrives first, all well and good, for it houses the soul of the Demonlord, and will be the death of the Kantri. I do not hope for this, for the thing is a golem, living stone despite the half-demon soul that animates it. I must support its every wingbeat, and even I grow weary on occasion. I shall have to make another sacrifice of blood—not mine, of course!—this night before I face the Mages. It is proving a great deal harder to support the creature than I had anticipated, though I am well 3qual to the task.

If the Kantri should arrive first—well, I have a demonline ready and waiting, and in a breath I can be hundreds of leagues distant and the way closed behind me, and they with no way of knowing where I might be. And the Black Dragon, the Demon-lord incarnate, will arrive eventually. In that moment the fate of the Kantrishakrim will be sealed.

I am thankful now for the foresight I showed in establishing this cantrip which records my thoughts in this book even as I think them. It is vastly easier than sitting and writing for hours. I have one operating on Marik as well. It has helped me to check that he is telling me the truth. The poor idiot is too stupid to lie, it seems. It is well. And for myself, when I come into my own, it is good that there will be a true record of my coming to power, that the slaves may know how they came to their slavery. Despair is truly the most satisfying sauce.

The next step takes place this very night. I have commanded an assembly of the College after the evening meal and they will all attend. After all, why should they not answer the summons of their beloved Archimage? I have hidden my true self, the power of my arts, for many long years. I have cultivated the goodwill of my fellow Mages even while despising them, for it has taken so very long to prepare myself—but tonight, kind, caring Archimage Berys will die, and in the place of that weakling I will stand revealed to them at last, in my true self. I will offer the choice to my College, to join me or to die. I expect most of the fools will choose death, but I may perhaps gain a few willing souls from among the students. There are many who desire more power than has been given them by the Lady.

And if all else fails, they will make splendid demon fodder.