The Traitor God

Chapter 21

An age passed before three men entered the room: two muscular guards in chain and leather and a tired-looking young man in dust-streaked travelling clothes with a pack still slung over his shoulder. I didn’t recognize him, but from the sour expression he knew exactly who and what I was.

A strange dislocation washed over me. My Gift felt fuzzy and distant. A thrill of instinctive fear ran through my abused body – he was a sanctor, a magus-killer. I wasn’t in any condition to try to use magic, but they considered me dangerous enough to deny any chance of that.

“A damned tyrant,” the man groaned, hand clutching his head. “You are in my charge now that you are awake.”

The two guards carefully donned thick leather gloves before unchaining my ankles. It seemed the Arcanum still thought I could only use my power through skin contact. With the tyrants before me all dying so young they had little else to go on but what I had previously told them. The fools. Did they not know I was a liar?

“I’ve been accused of bringing on headaches before,” I said, “but never so quickly. Has to be a record even for me.” The sanctor looked at me like he’d happily stab me in the face. Luckily I was on familiar ground there. I tried to engage him in conversation but he found the bare walls far more interesting.

The guards hauled me to my feet. My legs were locked into a solid mass of cramping muscle. I gritted my teeth and ignored it. Pain belonged to somebody else. The numb stiffness in my left thigh made it difficult to walk; it felt like somebody had rammed an iron rod through the muscle. Blood seeped out to stain the bandages as they dressed me in plain grey tunic and trousers, no modesty spared.

They half-carried me down a deserted wood-panelled hallway with guards posted at every door, the sanctor never more than three paces behind me. I wondered if he kept his distance out of habit, or if he too feared my touch. Ah, if only – the things I could do with an enslaved sanctor! It would be so simple to control the Inner Circle then; to shut down their Gifts and beat them unconscious, to dominate them while they slumbered. In a month I would control the core of the Arcanum. In six, the city. Everybody who mattered anyway: peasants swarmed like vermin in the lower city, far too many to take them all. Then I would have the power to change everything. The only problem would be… My thoughts crashed to a stop. Peasants as vermin? This wasn’t me. I looked deep into myself, scrutinized my own mind. The Worm of Magic stared right back out at me, larger and more cunning than ever.

If I wasn’t who and what I was then I didn’t think I’d ever have noticed the taint to my thoughts. There was no way to know how much the magic had altered me in body or mind. I shuddered, horrified, fighting the urge to vomit. When a magus gave in to the Worm it didn’t create something that wasn’t already there, it was far more insidious than that: it took what already existed and twisted it, stretched it out in obscene directions. Those thoughts were horribly, and entirely, the darkest whispers of my own mind.

I stumbled and would have fallen if the guards hadn’t kept a firm grip on my arms. I always hated those crusty elder magi, so cold and inward-looking, but now I finally understood. Magi could live a long, long time, and generations of mundanes came and went whilst we remained almost unchanged. It was too painful to watch them wither and die. It was natural to come to believe a mage’s life was of far more importance than brief mortal flames, inevitable to assume that with greater experience you knew better. It was logical to want control, for the greater good.

A chill of paranoia shivered up my spine. Hair and senses tingled in response, possibly my old magic-induced changes reacting to the new alterations in my mind. I had no way to know what else was happening inside me, burrowing like invisible worms through my body, devouring the old and excreting new flesh. Before I could horrify myself further, the guards stopped outside a door and dragged me into a small room with a table and chair, and Charra lying on the bed.

She looked little better than I felt. Scabbed red lines crisscrossed her face, neck and hands, and her skin held a peculiar grey tinge. A wide smile of relief appeared and she sat up.

The guards dumped me into the chair and one stepped outside, the sanctor and the second man loitering inside the doorway to keep watch over me. It was too early to tell if I was entirely sane after what I’d done to myself. I had held on long enough to prevent the worst consequences, but if I wasn’t sane I would think that.

“How are you feeling?” I said, putting aside personal worries for later paranoia.

She coughed, wet and phlegmy, and glanced at the guards. “Mostly just confused. They haven’t told me anything.”

I scowled. It was typical of the Arcanum to treat mundanes like children. I had to keep telling myself that I was different, that to me normal people were not just dupes to manipulate and discard. But they already were: I’d barely set foot back in Setharis before I chewed up and spat out that young thief who’d taken my coat. Because I’d found it convenient. Not to mention that warden whose mind I had burned out, or the infantilized dockhand who had tried to take my winnings. Charra had called me cold, but I figured that as long as I still felt a little bad about it then I wasn’t entirely lost. I was walking a hair-thin path.

Charra stared at me with big bewildered eyes as I told her about the statue, and the roots wrapping around her while she slept. She shuddered, but stayed quiet until I finished. I decided not to tell her about what they’d done to Lynas’ body. She had enough to deal with right now without being forced to suffer that horror.

Instead I began telling her about the blood sorcerer and the creature in the pool, omitting certain details like the true extent of my powers due to eavesdroppers. Cillian would have taken that badly, and in my position I couldn’t afford to aggravate her more. I was part-way through the tale when the sanctor cleared his throat. Loudly. Pointedly. I ignored him. He apparently didn’t hold with Docklanders knowing details of Arcanum business.

I continued: “…so this blood sorcerer was a magus–”

The sanctor cleared his throat again.

Again I ignored him. “–and I could tell from his voice that he was from the Old Town.”

A hand gripped my wounded shoulder. I winced as the fingers squeezed. Not the guards, they were too stupid to know what I shouldn’t be discussing. The sanctor then. His bare finger rested against my neck. Oops.

“You will cease discussing this subject,” he growled. “Or your time is up and you will be back in chains.”

I looked at his hand on my shoulder. Then slowly lifted my head to meet his gaze. My lips twisted into a mocking smile as I reached for my Gift, letting none of the excruciating pain that caused me show. He snatched his hand away, backpedalling and staring at his hand as if it had been poisoned. It seemed to me that he was frantically searching his thoughts for any trace of tampering. Good, let his paranoia grow. Sometimes the superstitious fear of tyrants came in useful. I could still feel magic lurking beyond my Gift, but an invisible vice clamped it closed and kept me from using it. At the moment it was oddly comforting to know I couldn’t, however much I needed that surge of supreme confidence right now.

I licked my lips. My head was pounding and my energy drained, but I couldn’t avoid voicing my fears any longer. “Cillian, she… said something; a disease.” My voice cracked. “She said they can’t heal you.”

Charra frowned. “No idea what she is on about. I’m fine, so no need to worry.”

“Liar.”

She flinched and looked away, eyes tracing the lines of mortar in the wall. “You like your answers straight, so here it is: I’m dying. My own flesh has betrayed me. It’s killing itself and the white-robes tell me the disease has spread through my whole body.” She lifted a hand to her mouth and coughed some more, then stared at the blood flecking her fingers. Her gaze drifted to meet my horrified stare. Her voice reduced to a whisper, “Sorry I didn’t tell you. I had a similar scare once before, but I got better. Not this time.”

My world dropped away. The deal had been broken, and those bastards I’d bargained with ten years ago never had fully healed Charra, they had just stopped the disease in its tracks.

“I’m so, so sorry, Charra. There must be something we can do. I’ll force the Arcanum to help.”

She shook her head. “There’s no more to be done, my old friend. Magic can’t fix everything.”

Healers used their magic to quicken a body’s ability to mend what was broken and fight off infection, but if her own flesh was killing itself then any attempt at magical healing would just hasten her end. But I couldn’t accept that.

“You’re wrong,” I growled, hands shaking. I was no healer, but there had to be something. “There must be another way. We’ll go to the Halcyons, try something else. They–”

“They tried, and they failed,” she said. “I’ve accepted it. In this life you can do everything right and the worst can still happen. Sometimes it craps on you at the roll of a dice; mine just happened to come up all ones.”

I slumped, mind thrashing through options: gods, great spirits, daemons, ancient Escharric texts of forbidden knowledge, even blood sorcery; I had to find a way to fix this. I’d lost Lynas – I couldn’t lose Charra too. If only I was stronger. If I had more power I could… No, that way led back to the Worm’s false seductions. I dismissed the possibility of obtaining and translating ancient texts that might be of any use as unrealistic. Pacts with great spirits or daemons of the outer realms? Risky. Illegal. And more importantly, I didn’t have the faintest idea where to begin, which put it in the same bucket as blood sorcery. Which left me gods, of whom four were missing and one a traitor to Setharis. If I tore off hunting them then I would be leaving her at the mercy of the Arcanum and that thing growing beneath the city.

I swallowed and took a deep breath. “How long do you have?”

“Months?” She shrugged, oddly calm. “Weeks?”

No time at all. My unseeing eyes stared at the floor. What was the point of going on if she was just going to die on me anyway, whatever I did, however hard I fought?

Charra’s hand cracked across my cheek. The guards started, seemed confused between the sanctor’s sudden horror and Charra’s slap. They didn’t know what was happening but didn’t try to stop her.

“Don’t you dare wallow in self-pity,” Charra growled.

“Charra, I–”

“Not while…” She bit her lip, eyes boring into me. “I’ve accepted I’m dying, and so must you – you promised me you’d look after her.” I had, but then I’d only known Layla as a child and that was an age ago. I seemed to be having trouble caring, about anything; I didn’t know if it was the magic changing me, the residue of the alchemic they’d given me earlier, or if it was just me being a cold bastard worn far too thin by the world. There was only an ember of life and love deep inside me and I held onto it grimly, hoping it would reignite. It was too terrifying to consider what I might become if I lost that.

The door creaked open and Cillian entered with an aura about her like a grizzled veteran contemplating a coming battle. She glanced at the sanctor who was still fretting over our momentary touch, and her lips tightened.

“Your time is up, Edrin,” she said. “We will take care of your friend until she has recovered enough to leave.” It was a polite way of saying she was hostage to my good behaviour. Cillian had learned the game of politics well.

Charra grabbed my sleeve. “Promise me.”

How could I refuse? “You have my word.”

A small sigh of relief escaped her lips. “Do whatever you have to.” She was telling me she was expendable and that her daughter needed me more, whatever the cost.

A strange emotion surfaced, one that took me a while to recognize: shame. It had been a long time since shame and I had last been acquainted. I’d had my fair share of regrets over the years, but not shame.

I knew fine well that the Arcanum had ways and means to discover Layla was Lynas’ mageborn daughter, and they might even find out that we had hidden that fact against the law of Setharis, whatever any falsified papers said. The Arcanum would destroy everything belonging to Charra as an example, and they would hunt Layla down and send her to the pyre. She was much too old to go through the Forging so they would put her down like a rabid dog. And there wouldn’t be a damn thing I could do about it.

A magus could fight another magus, our loyalty belonging to Setharis and the Arcanum as whole, but the mageborn law was magically ingrained, so if they found out the truth about Layla then even I wouldn’t be able to lift a hand to stop them.

I hugged Charra tight, like it was our last. Tears blurred my sight. “Goodbye, my friend.” It had been all too brief and I doubted she would be allowed to see me again. I fixed her face in my mind, so I could remember it until my end.

She coughed, struggling not to cry. “There’s been absolutely no pleasure in knowing you, Walker.”

“Vile woman,” I said, smiling so I didn’t cry.

Cillian narrowed her eyes at us, not understanding the ripples beneath the surface of our conversation.

I stood on cramping and burning legs and waved off the guards. I welcomed the pain as I hobbled from the room.

As they escorted me down a hall back to my cell I caught sight of the very last thing I needed to see, my old tormentor, Harailt. I was so deep in despair that I couldn’t even bring myself to dredge up all the old grudges. I said nothing as the guards ushered me past him.

“Wait,” Harailt said. The guards halted. Cillian tapped her foot impatiently, but otherwise remained silent.

I turned my head to face him.

“Edrin Walker,” he said, with less hatred in his voice than I might have imagined, and showing no surprise at the sight of me.

“I’m not in the mood,” I said, lacking the strength to headbutt him. “Leave me be.”

“I owe you an apology, magus,” he replied.

I glared.

“For my past actions,” he continued. “I was less than gentlemanly. I hope you can forgive me.” He extended a hand.

I slapped it aside. A bright bead of blood welled up in my finger from a cut.

“Sorry,” Harailt said, holding his hand up to show the scuffed signet ring on his finger. The gold and onyx emblem of House Grasske was cracked and bent. “I found I could not part with it, even after… well, in any case I was foolish and petty in the past. I think you were the first to show me that. I am ashamed that I was not a better man. There are many things I would change if only I had the opportunity.”

“I…”

“All I can plead is an arrogant and ignorant childhood,” he said. “Events have transpired to educate me and put me on a new path.”

People could change a lot in ten years, but I couldn’t forget the terror he caused and I wasn’t the sort who forgave: by nature I was the sort of man who would let a grudge fester and then wait in a darkened alley to break your kneecaps with a hammer. Or I was before meeting Lynas, but without him I was slipping back. I refused to believe in this new Harailt. I sagged into my guards’ grip, not knowing what to say. In the end I just nodded, too dazed to reply. For years I’d nursed a variety of elaborate and brutal revenges, but now I was sick and tired of it all. What was the point? Cillian finally had enough of the delay and started walking again, the guards dragging me in her wake.

“What happened to him?” Had Eva been correct as to his changed nature? I refused to believe it.

“For a time he looked likely to succeed Lady Ilea,” Cillian said. “Instead he was cast out of his House. He is no longer the heir to House Grasske. His cousin sits in his stead. It has been commonly viewed as a wise decision.”

I couldn’t help but agree. The thought of Harailt with all the power and influence of a High House at his fingertips was madness.

Harailt ran after us, “Ah, I forgot to say; it has been… such a unique pleasure seeing you again. It’s been far too long, my little Edrin.” He chuckled, leaning in until we were almost touching. “I hope we meet again, very soon.”

That intonation. Those slick tones of the Old Town – the very words of the blood sorcerer!

Out of the sight of the others he mouthed “I skinned your friend” and smirked in malicious amusement.

I snarled and tried to tear his fucking throat out with my bare teeth, only to be wrenched back by my guards. “He’s a monster! Harailt is a fucking blood sorcerer in league with the Skallgrim! I’ll gut you, you–” They slammed me up against a wall, knocking the wind out of me.

Harailt staggered back and fell on his arse, a look of shock on his face as his eyes flicked from me to Cillian. “The man has gone mad. I was just trying to be nice.”

Liarliarliarliar!

I lost it. Biting and clawing, thrashing to get free. Kill! Come Dissev–

Something slammed into my skull and I sagged, everything gone blurry. A noxious rag was placed against my mouth, its alchemic stench making everything hazy and distant.

I woke wrapped in chains as they dumped me into the bed. They may as well not have bothered – my body was a wreck after letting the magic roar through me like a wildfire. And I hadn’t even saved Charra in the end, just delayed her death. Exhaustion, despair and gnawing fury crushed me down.

The sanctor settled into the chair at the bottom of the bed to keep watch.

“Get some rest,” Cillian said. “You will need it. I hope for your sake everything you told me was true.” She chewed on her lip. “I hope for our sake that you were wrong.”

I screwed up gritty eyes, tried to focus. I’ll kill you Harailt! If it’s the last thing I ever do. But darkness descended, fatigue dragging me down into a safe and welcome nothingness.