Spectre Of The Black Rose

Six

There was a dank coolness to the vardo that comforted Inza. The wagon's high shutters were open, which Magda never tolerated so late in the year, and the curtains were drawn tight to keep out even the starlight. The ashes were cold in the stove.

Magda was not there to object. Not two days after her encounter with Lord Aderre, she'd taken to the road, only Sabak by her side. The sudden leave-taking had surprised her troupe; though Inza and the others sometimes traveled for weeks on their own, Magda rarely spent more than a few hours away from the Wanderers. This time, though, she had been gone for eight days. The troupe still had no idea what quest had prompted her to abandon them so soon after Malocchio's threats and a battle that had clearly left her shaken.

Inza didn't really care why her mother had gone, only hoped that her business kept her for a while longer. Not too long, of course, but time enough for the girl to enjoy some privacy.

Except for the time it had taken to handle one minor task she could trust to no one else, Inza hadn't left the vardo for more than a few moments in the past eight days. Much of her time had been spent admiring the intricately carved wooden chest she'd retrieved from Ambrose. The box still held salt, payment for the other goods they'd traded to the mine store. Soon enough, though, the troupe would journey to the border and turn the salt into gold or wine or some other commodity with more value in Sithicus. When they had done so, she would have the chest for her treasures.

There was something hypnotic about the patterns on the chest's lid. Now, as she had done each night since her mother's departure, Inza carefully withdrew the chest from beneath her cot. She ran her fingers over the tangled vines. Not even the deep scratches left by some clumsy oaf at Ambrose's shop could diminish their appeal.

She might have spent hours contemplating those twisting, twining vines, had not a shrill cry from the camp disturbed her meditation.

"By Nuitari's black glow, who has done this?"

It was her mother's voice. Better that she's returned, Inza noted silently. Better that we get this unpleasantness over with.

The girl sighed, pushed herself to her feet, and brushed the dust from her scarlet skirt. Carefully, so as not to disturb any of the junk her mother so prized, she made her way to the entrance. Flinging aside the jewel-spangled cloth that served as the vardo's door, Inza stepped out into the night.

Magda stood beside the communal fire, her travel pack at her feet. Dust caked her boots and legs. Her cloak hung in tatters from her shoulders.

"Why, Mother," Inza said sweetly, "I'm glad you've come back to us. I was worried."

Inza danced down the wagon's steps and entangled her mother in a hug not all that dissimilar from the clinging embrace of the carved vines she so admired. "You must be exhausted," the girl said, still hanging from Magda's neck. "Rest by the fire and let me fix you something warm."

Magda was indeed tired, and a drink would have done much to improve her spirits, but she disentangled herself from her daughter's embrace and waved away her offers of hospitality. "I told you to look after him," she said. Her face flushed with anger.

Inza batted her lashes. "I don't know what you mean, Mother. Have I failed you somehow?"

"Don't play the cherub with me," Magda shouted, words hotter than the roaring fire. "You're too old for that role."

The raunie hefted her small travel pack and tossed it onto the vardo's steps. She walked slowly to stand over a bald Vistana, who was rolling in the dirt nearby. It was Bratu. The burly man seemed oblivious to everything around him save his tightly bandaged hands.

From the instant Magda branded Bratu an Oathbreaker, his mind had begun to fray at the edges. He had punctured his eardrums in hopes of silencing the Whispering Beast. When that did not hush the mysterious creature's voice, he tore off his own ears. Still Bratu heard the mutterings of his unseen accuser. Slowly, the sporadic murmuring became a constant litany. Every lie, every broken promise and dark deed, was chanted over and over, a never-ending recital of every crime and trespass. Day and night the accusations continued, until the man's mind unraveled completely.

Such was the possible fate of any Sithican caught betraying an oath. Elf or Vistani, peasant or nobleman, breaking one's word might draw the most unwelcome attention of the Whispering Beast down upon you. He did not stalk every liar, which made some dismiss the "Whispering Madness" as nothing more than the ravings of guilt-racked consciences. It was true, too, that some who had never been caught at their deception were driven mad by fearful anticipation, wondering when the whispering would start.

Only the Wanderers knew that the Beast's ire was always drawn to those who broke an oath publicly sworn, their betrayal publicly revealed. Magda had realized full well what the brand of Oathbreaker had meant to Bratu. The burly gypsy, too, had known of the risks when he breached the communal vow he'd sworn to her.

Magda detested meting out such cruel punishments, but she knew they were necessary if the Wanderers were to survive in Sithicus. In the wake of her harsh verdict, though, she also insisted that the troupe continue to care for Bratu. His fate was now in the hands of the Beast; his fellows would do nothing to make his life any harder.

As she stared down at the man, it was clear to the raunie that someone had disobeyed her. Bratu's mouth was caked with blood. His tongue had been torn out at the roots. Only one of her tribe would be so bold.

Magda turned to her daughter. "You did this," she rumbled.

"No!" Inza gaped in shock. "He did it himself."

"Through these?" Magda knelt and gently took one of the man's hands in hers. Thick bandages bound the fingers together. After Bratu had injured his ears the second time, the raunie herself had ordered his hands swaddled so. "You are a poor liar."

When Magda stood, all the anger was gone from her face. Her voice had no more emotion than Soth's. "I want to know why, Inza. Sit with me. Speak to me of reasons."

The Wanderers had learned to fear that command. Magda used it only when she herself could see no reason to allow a Vistana to stay with the tribe.

Inza decided there was no point in maintaining the facade of innocence any longer, so she settled on one of the chairs that had been drawn to the fire. As her mother saw to it that Bratu was bathed and his wounds given fresh dressings, the girl surveyed the camp. The remaining fifteen Wanderers had suddenly heard the urgent call of tasks inside their vardos and fled to them. Inza thought them cowards, but secretly wished she might run off as well. Her mother had reacted all out of proportion to her crimes, and Inza really didn't have the patience to coddle the old woman tonight.

Inza didn't wait to be asked again for her reasons. "You've been gone," the girl said before her mother had even sat down opposite her. "You haven't had to listen to the awful things he's been saying. He rants night and day-about you, Mother, and the others. Even me. The things he says are terrible, obscene!"

"He is ill," Magda said simply. "Where is your compassion?"

Inza lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "The others were ready to kill him for what he said. What I did was compassionate compared to what they had planned."

"The others will have to answer to me, as well, one by one. First, child, I have your fate to decide."

Inza bristled at the word "child." Her mother caught the indignant flare in her eyes and corrected herself.

"You're right," Magda sighed, "you haven't been that for a long time."

"For which you should be thanking me," replied Inza. "We have no captain in this caravan. You wouldn't think of sharing that much of your power with any man. I'm left to be your second."

She was warming to the topic now, her passion fanned by her mother's silence. "The others know that you've trained me to use Gard, shown me the secrets of the shadow play. So when you and that- that mutt disappear for a week on some secret journey, they trust me to keep the troupe together. That is all I did."

"What you did was monstrous." Magda shook her head. "There was a time not so long ago when Bratu would have done anything for you. Don't try to deny it. The camp's not so big that anyone could miss the way he trailed after you."

Inza shot to her feet. "More reason for me to hate the old letch," she snapped. "We'd be smart to rig up a cage for him and show him off at Veidrava as a lesson for any other lying sod who takes after little girls,"

"Enough," Magda said coldly. "The Wanderers will never display their own as sideshow freaks."

Inza gawked in amazement. "Was calling the Beast down upon Bratu not a show for Soth's benefit, a demonstration of our loyalty to him? At least the giorgios at the mine would pay for such a spectacle."

"If you think Soth offers us an empty hand, go to the Widow's Bridge and count the corpses of our enemies. We need him, Daughter. Do not forget that."

"I will not forget that you value a dead man's opinion of you more than you value your own people."

The slap caught Inza completely by surprise. No tears rose in her eyes, only a writhing, curling fury. The girl grabbed for the dagger in her boot. The blade had just cleared her boot top when Sabak's jaws locked onto her hand. His warning growl sent tremors all the way up to her shoulder.

"Let her go," Magda said, seizing the hound by the scruff of his neck. But Sabak held tight until Inza dropped the weapon into the dirt.

The dagger's thin blade reflected the firelight like a mirror. The radiance was almost blinding. Even the leather-wrapped handle seemed to glow.

"I don't remember giving you this," Magda said.

"Not everything I own came from you."

Ignoring her daughter's peevish reply, the rau-nie reached down for the dagger. She drew her hand back quickly when she nicked her finger on the blade's point. "Ai, that's sharp. Where did you get it?"

"A trade," Inza said sullenly. "A very good trade." Eyeing Sabak, she warily slipped the weapon back into the sheath she'd sewn into her boot. "In some things you taught me very well, Mother."

Inza turned her back on Magda and disappeared into the woods. She hadn't been dismissed, but the raunie knew it would be pointless to force the issue. At best, she might make her daughter acknowledge her power. At worst, she would be left shouting after the disobedient girl while the rest of the troupe listened from within their vardos.

Exhaustion settled over her like a shroud, and Magda sank back down before the fire. Sabak slipped his head under her arm. After a moment, he nudged it up a little.

"So," Magda said as she stroked his head, "even you make demands of me this evening, eh?" His tail thumped agreeably.

The raunie stoked the fire and sank into deep thought. She had no idea what she was going to do about Inza. The girl was impetuous, hot tempered, and willful. Very much like her mother at that age, Magda recalled ruefully.

But there was a viciousness in the girl that Magda could not comprehend. It was as if she'd taken in all the destructiveness of the storm that shook Gundarak on the night she was born. The unearthly tempest had followed hard upon Duke Gundar's death. Some said it was the land itself mourning his demise. If so, it was all the grieving Gundar would get; his subjects marked the occasion with more festive displays of emotion. Perhaps that storm had damaged the newborn's soul somehow.

Magda ran a hand through her hair and winced as she brushed against a raw patch of scalp. The wounds she'd received at the bridge had been slow in healing. Her hiss of pain made Sabak glance up at her, canine worry in his eyes.

"Don't mind me, boy," she soothed, scrubbing him behind one ear. "My mood will brighten with the sunrise."

Her smile drifted away, and she gazed into the fire. It had been some time since she had tried to use her powers of precognition. Up until the day Soth rose from his throne, events had been unfolding as they should, in ways she could predict even without resorting to foresight. Things were different now. She could scarcely imagine what the morning would bring, let alone the coming months. The incidents at the bridge still preyed heavily upon her mind, but more unsettling still were the secrets she had uncovered on her journey.

One part of Malocchio's rant had been correct- forces more ancient, more relentless than the lord of Invidia were stalking Soth. Magda had seen their faces. Soth would, too, before long. But what horrors would that long-delayed reunion unleash upon the Wanderers, upon all of Sithicus?

Magda focused on the fire. She tried to open her mind to the future, looking for its pattern in the flames. Flashes of white and red, curls of black smoke, filled her vision. They expanded into roses that burst into bloom, then withered. None held the field for long. Each overpowered another, only to be overwhelmed itself a moment later.

The raunie tried to turn her sight to the tribe's future. As she did, the fire roared up and filled the night with crimson light. Gone were the roses, drowned in a red sea-a sea of blood.

Magda pulled back sharply, forcing herself from the trance. At her side, Sabak growled softly. Magda thought the hound had sensed her discomfort at the vision's grim theme until she realized his attention was focused on something lurking by the vardos.

Magda turned to the semicircle of barrel-topped wagons. Shadows swayed over the brightly painted side of her vardo. They warped into unbelievable shapes, slithered and flowed down along the spoked wheels and onto the ground. Magda rubbed her eyes. Shadows played across the other wagons, too, but they were faint, fleeting things compared to the dark silhouettes creeping across hers. Nothing lay between the fire and her wagon to cast such weird shapes there.

Magda was on her feet the instant that thought was complete, a moment before the telltale saline reek reached her. "Salt shadows!" she screamed.

At the cry of recognition, the shadows retreated a little. For all that they were deadly, they were cowardly things more used to ambush than battle.

Muffled shouts sounded from inside the vardos, and Magda's warning was echoed and re-echoed. "'Ware," the others hollered. "Shadows! Shadows!" The Wanderers burst from their homes, armed with whatever weapons were at hand. The mundane swords and knives would do no good against the animate darkness, but the Vistani hoped that they might distract the things long enough for their raunie to deal with them.

As the gypsies surrounded the dozen or so shadows, Magda held out her hand and summoned Gard. The cudgel had been carved by her ancestor, Kulchek the Wanderer, from the tree at the top of the world. The enchantments upon the weapon were strong. Its wood was unbreakable, able to turn back steel or stone with ease. Normal weapons might not be able to touch the salt shadows, but Gard could surely do them harm.

Since she had first unlocked the weapon's secrets, Magda had only to think of Gard and the cudgel would appear in her hand. This time, though, she closed her fingers on empty air. She could feel the club's reassuring weight in her hand, but it had no substance.

Cursing, she sidestepped a salt shadow as it slithered toward her foot. Sabak lunged at the oozing darkness, and it turned. The hair between the dog's shoulder and along the ridge of his spine bristled as the black shape darted across the ground toward the hound's paws.

"Sabak, back," Magda shouted, and the hound leaped out of the way.

Vitorio, the first Vistana to join Magda's fledgling troupe in Gundarak, drove a spear into the shadow's center. The darkness paused, then flowed around the offending spearhead like water around a post.

"Raunie," he cried, "where have these come from? We're nowhere near the mine!"

Magda didn't reply, for she had no answer. Salt shadows were denizens of Veidrava. Dark rites performed deep within the mine, in a chapel once known as a haven for hope, had resurrected the souls of the pit's countless victims. Clothed in the mine's eternal darkness, the shadows hungered for new flesh. They could not leave the dark; sunlight was fatal to them. How these lost souls had got so far from Veidrava was a mystery, one the raunie had no time to solve.

The Wanderers had succeeded in drawing the shadows apart. The gypsies taunted the shades with the simple lure of their own warm flesh. Men and shadows turned in wary circles like dancers at some macabre ball.

Magda concentrated again on conjuring Gard. As she understood the workings of its magic, the weapon resided in some hidden pocket, intangible but close to hand. It seemed now, though, that someone else had taken hold of it. She could feel the resistance, cold hands countering her own.

"I am Kulchek's heir," Magda snarled. "Gard belongs to me!"

With that she wrenched the weapon free. No sooner did Gard appear in her hands that Magda lashed out with it.

Like a rock breaking the surface of a still pond, the blow from Gard sent ripples across the shadow's form. The thing screamed, a liquid hiss that made Magda tremble. Another blow and the shadow detonated. Globs of darkness splashed in all directions.

Where they struck flesh, the awful missiles burned. They withered grass, peeled paint from wood, and leeched dye from cloth. The fragments lacked the power of the sum. The disrupted shadow could not press its assault. The lumps and puddles only wriggled and oozed across the ground, slowly but steadily reforming into a lethal whole.

Sabak pawed at the assembling pieces, delaying their merger for as long as possible. In quick succession, Magda shattered two more of the shadows. Each time the cudgel fell, the things let out agonized screams that chilled the Vistana to the core. Still, she felt hopeful. The Wanderers were holding their own against the creatures.

"Mother, help me!"

The cry came from the forest's verge. There, at the very edge of the firelight's reach, stood Inza. Two salt shadows had somehow escaped the Wanderers' notice. They had the girl cornered, one on the ground, the second on a thick old oak. If she retreated back into the woods, it would be too dark to distinguish the salt shadows from the normal nighttime gloom. The shades would have her at their mercy.

Magda hesitated. The others were tiring. They needed her help, too. But this was her daughter. Of all the ragtag troupe, only she was the raunie's blood. Magda dashed across the clearing.

She struck the shadow on the ground three times before it finally broke apart. The spattering ooze caught Inza full in the face, and the girl fell back against the tree. The shadow there slithered onto her hand. It wrapped itself around Inza's fingers, pulsing up to her forearm before Magda lashed out again with Gard. The blow fell upon the part of the shadow that still clung to the oak. That one strike blasted the thing apart. From the sharp crack that rang out, drowning out the creature's scream and Inza's shrieks for help, Magda thought that she had cleft the tree.

It was not the oak that had cracked, but Gard. Magda stared at the cudgel, tracing the hairline fracture that now ran the ancient weapon's length. "Unbreakable," she murmured, repeating a line from an old Vistani tale. " 'Only Kulchek's own blade could cut the wood of Gard.' "

Magda was so caught up in considering the remarkable damage to Gard, she didn't hear Vitorio's cry of warning. The shadow he'd been baiting had broken away suddenly and was rushing toward the raunie. Three more followed, as if they'd realized the significance of that resounding crack.

With a cry, Vitorio threw himself onto the shadow.

The thing shuddered at the impact, then curled back upon the old man. A dozen inky bands clamped around his arms, pinning them. The shadow slipped across his chest, his neck. Finally it swept onto the Vistana's head and formed a seamless mask. Vitorio didn't scream. He kept his teeth clamped shut against the shadow, to no avail. The ooze patiently seeped into his ears and his nose. When his lungs finally shrieked for air and his mouth flew open in a futile gasp, the rest of the shadow pulsed down his throat.

The old man staggered to his feet. He tried to take a step toward the fire, but the shadow would not let him. "For my soul's sake," he pleaded, "destroy me!"

From the steps of one of the vardos, a hulking figure emerged. Bandages held his fingers together and covered his ravaged ears. It was Bratu.

The madman loped through the chaos and scooped up Vitorio. Arms that had held the man in innumerable bear hugs over the years now hoisted him high off the ground. A look of fathomless sadness hung upon Bratu's face as he raised Vitorio up-and tossed the old man into the fire's heart.

Vitorio's body was alight in an instant. He rolled in the fire, caught between the shadow's urge to save itself and the Vistana's desire to see the thing destroyed. Now that it had taken flesh once more, the salt shadow was vulnerable to those things that consumed the flesh, particularly fire.

At last Vitorio collapsed into the coals. The man's sigh of satisfaction was mingled with the wail of the shadow, having found form after so many years, only to have it stripped away. Bratu lingered a moment. It was unclear if he were saying a silent farewell to his friend or merely making certain the corpse would not escape the blaze. Finally, though, he turned his back on the carnage and disappeared into the woods.

From her vantage at the edge of the fighting, Inza watched Bratu go. It was tempting to go after him, for the madman could have only one destination: the secret lair of the Whispering Beast. Once he set off on that journey he was lost to the tribe forever.

A piteous barking drew her attention back to the camp. Sabak had finally got too close to one of the shadows. The thing was wrapped around a forelimb. Though he bit at it furiously, the hound couldn't get a grip on the shadow. The darkness clung to his jaws, wrapped around his lolling tongue, then flowed down his throat.

A shudder rippled through Sabak's flesh, and a single yip of confusion escaped his muzzle. He turned circles-once, twice. On the third turn he stopped and faced the nearest Vistana. Lips pulled back in a snarl, he pounced. The woman managed a gulp of surprise before Sabak tore out her throat. The hound stood over her body in triumph. Blood dribbled from his jaws onto her white blouse.

Magda howled with anguish, but noble Sabak had not finished his grisly work. He leapt from the corpse and charged toward the edge of the woods, toward Inza.

Magda moved to block Sabak's charge. If there were any of his faithful hound's heart left untainted by the shadow, she might win him back. If not, she would be the one to end his suffering.

As the raunie stepped toward her daughter, something cold seized her foot and she stumbled. By the time she regained her balance, the shadow that had grabbed her was almost to her knee. Another squirmed across the ground to join it. With all the strength she could distill from her rage and sorrow, Magda struck this second attacker. The creature exploded, but the victory came at a terrible price. As Gard struck the ground, it snapped with the sickening sound of a bone breaking.

Magda clutched a fragment of the shattered cudgel as she fell to her knees, hacking at the shadow wrapped tight as a tourniquet around her right thigh. Each blow gouged another grisly runnel in her leg and sent a crimson haze of pain across her vision. "The sea of blood," she murmured. "The end so soon."

The fog before her eyes cleared just enough for Magda to see Sabak corner her daughter against a vardo. The hound lunged, but Inza didn't flinch. With the coolness of a trained assassin, she sidestepped the attack and plunged her dagger into the top of Sabak's head. The knife's handle still jutted from the dog's shattered skull when his corpse hit the ground.

Magda wept tears of relief and sorrow. She scarcely noticed as another shadow crawled onto her crippled leg, and another. Finally she toppled to the ground. She could feel the dank coolness of the shadows' touch as they crept across her back. The dark, liquid forms merged, forming a single band around her throat.

The shadows did not intend to possess her form. They meant to destroy her.

A single name escaped the raunie's lips: "Soth."

The death knight emerged from the mundane shadows cast by the fire. He drew his sword, blade dark with the blood of a hundred slaughtered foes, and scattered the salt shadows before him. The damned souls cringed at his passing. They could not bear the touch of his dead flesh, and the unearthly cold that radiated from his form, the eternal ache of the grave, withered them like orchids in a blizzard.

The Knight of the Black Rose fell to one knee beside Magda. With his gauntleted fingers he tore away the shadows from her throat. They writhed in his grasp until he crushed them, leaving only a fine ebon dust that whispered through his fingers.

"I gave you my word," the death knight said. "I am here."

"Not soon enough," she rasped, "but that is my fault." Magda closed her eyes and held her hand to her savaged throat. The fingers came away bloody. "I am through."

Soth dropped his other knee and cradled Magda's head in a fashion that was almost tender. He raised her so that he might hear her swiftly fading voice. "I go to my ancestors," she said, "or, rather, they come to claim me. Such is always the way, great lord. The past cannot be denied." "Perhaps," he murmured.

"But it need not be a trap." The raunie looked up at the Wanderers, who stood in somber array behind Soth. Inza was there, too. The girl's green eyes were hard, her face an unreadable mask.

"My child will help you prove that," Magda continued. "Swear you will protect her as you vowed to protect me."

The death knight bowed his head. "As master of this cursed land, you have my word."

"In return, I lift the curse my grandmother laid upon you on the night you entered these dark domains," Magda said. A fit of coughing took hold of her, and it was a moment before she could speak again. "For killing my family, Madame Girani damned you never to return to your home, though it always be in view. For vowing to preserve my family, I remove that curse and wish you safe journey."

Had Soth's withered heart been able to beat, it would have thundered in his chest. "Can you grant me passage from this place?" he asked.

"No," Magda said. "But there are others…" Her eyes fluttered closed, and she reached up a trembling hand to the death knight. In her bloody fingers she clutched a single white rose. "She comes for you."

With that, Magda Ilyanova Kulchevich died. Lord Soth plucked the rose from the corpse's fingers. As he took that fragile bloom in his hand, something marvelous occurred. A white moon joined unseen Nuitari in the nighttime sky. Its lovely light shone down on Sithicus, bathing the land in a radiance that made everything seem at peace, if only for a little while.

"Solinari," the death knight whispered. "The white moon of Krynn."

The people of Sithicus interpreted the moon's appearance in myriad ways. Some thought it a harbinger of doom, others a sign that the time of troubles had ended. To Soth, though, the meaning of that pale white orb was clear. He was one step closer to home.

"What will you do about Malocchio?" Inza asked, interrupting Soth's musings.

The death knight regarded the girl coolly. "You think him responsible for the assassins?"

"Who else could it be?" Inza looked to the other members of the troupe. They remained silent, just as she had expected.

Soth didn't notice. He had started across the camp, to the spot where Sabak's corpse lay. A salt shadow protruded from its open mouth, struggling to free itself from the body. The death knight withdrew the dagger from the hound's skull. Quickly the shadow slithered up the nearest vardo's wheel and into the open window.

"Whose wagon is this?" Soth asked.

"Mine," Inza replied. "As is the knife."

Soth studied the dagger for a moment. "Impressive," he said as he handed the weapon to her. He presented it handle first. As the girl took it, the blade's needle point scored the fingers of the dead man's gauntlet.

Soth did not ask for permission to enter the vardo; like all things in Sithicus, the wagon was his property.

He was startled to find the interior so similar to the cluttered wagon kept by Madame Girani. A high stack of manuscripts collected dust in one corner. A cloth-covered table held a heap of trinkets and small boxes crammed with charms. Cages housing all manner of strange birds hung from the rafters; they chittered and chirped nervously at the death knight's passing.

"Why would the shadow hide here?" Inza asked from the doorway.

Soth tossed aside the carpet covering an ornately carved chest hidden toward the back of the wagon. Salt was scattered on the floor all around the box. "Because this is where it, and all the others, had been hiding for days," Soth rumbled.

He threw open the box. The shadow hung on the underside of the lid like some monstrous spider. It dropped onto the salt heaped in the chest, trying to bury itself. Soth snatched the thing up and slowly crushed it.

Inza crowded close. The chill of Soth's presence didn't seem to bother her in the least. "How did Malocchio hide the shadows in there?" she said.

Soth slammed the chest shut. "It wasn't Malocchio who sent the assassins. It was Azrael."