Witch Wraith

Ten

The speech before the Federation’s Coalition Council had gone well. Edinja Orle was pleased. She was a formidable presence in any case, no matter the occasion or circumstance, but never more so than when she commanded an audience and could address them directly. The members of the council were already sufficiently intimidated by her that she could expect a certain deference. But when she struck the right chord, they would roll over and bare their bellies in an effort to demonstrate their submission.

She had spoken this day of the future, knowing that the uncertainties of the past year must be laid to rest. Three Prime Ministers in the span of twelve months were entirely too many for comfort—especially when the circumstances surrounding the deaths of the first two were infused with elements of violence and mystery. But she was the survivor who had escaped their fate by dint of cleverness and determination. She was the victim who had refused to yield to the fate her predecessor had assigned her, the strong-willed daughter of a family that had endured for centuries as a pillar of the community and an example of resilience.

It didn’t hurt that she infused her words with magic, giving her an aura that transcended expectations and instilled in the gathered a mix of unabashed hope and old-fashioned pride in their city and its people. For the delegates to the council, Edinja was exactly what they needed and had been hoping for. All concerns for her alliance with magic wielders and conjurers were set aside in tacit acceptance that everyone possessed a few flaws. All worries about the rumors that she engaged in dangerous practices and vile experiments were dismissed. Here was a woman who was not afraid to show her masculine side. Here was a woman who understood what a leader should be and who would advance the interests of the city in a way that would allow them all to share in a bright and shining future.

She wasn’t even sure what she said. When she spoke, she tended to go into a sort of trance and allow the words to flow unstructured and unedited. This was not to say she spoke without a purpose for what she was saying. But the tone and feel of her words were more important than the words themselves. If she could gain control of the emotions and the hearts of those listening, she could win them to her side on that alone. She knew how to do this, and she took advantage of it.

Now she walked the council chamber halls, the speech finished, her day’s work on that front complete. She had given them cause to believe and had set them on a course of action. Over the next few weeks, they would be reworking the taxation system to pay for her new undertakings, both of public works and military construction. She had asked for a stronger presence throughout the Southland and beyond. She wanted embassies in all of the major cities of the other lands—an outreach that would allow her to connect more directly to both the Elves and the Dwarves and even to the Federation’s longtime nemesis, the Borderlands of Callahorn.

It was her intention, in fact, to travel to the latter within the next month to meet with the body of representatives of those cities at the Rotunda in the city of Tyrsis, there to propose a fresh alliance—one that she intended would benefit them more than her. At least, it would do so in the short run and on the surface. Lay the groundwork for what you really wanted to accomplish by instigating a plan of misdirection, then wait for the right time to reveal your true intentions.

It was an approach she had learned from various members of her family through hard lessons witnessed and suffered. They were a rapacious, dangerous brood, the Orles—and none more so than those who were closest to her. Her father had murdered his first two wives and a brother. Her stepmother was an accomplished poisoner who was every inch a match for her father and who had helped him to dispatch the wife before her. Their lives thereafter were spent in large part keeping close watch on each other, although their union somehow endured.

Her brother was a monster.

She and her brother were the children of the previous wife and kept alive mostly because their father insisted on heirs and his present wife did not care to bear them. But instead of growing closer, as one might have expected, they were set apart and eventually against each other by the circumstances. Edinja had never liked or trusted her brother, even when she was very young, but she had never been given cause for this beyond what her instincts told her. Her brother was five years older than she, and had pursuits of his own to occupy his time. So, mostly, he ignored her.

But when she grew old enough to draw his attention—somewhere around the age of eleven or twelve—he began a systematic campaign of brutality. At first it was defined by small acts of cruelty practiced when no one was looking and later denied. An older and much better liar than she, he was able to refute her claims when she dared to make them. At that point, she was still small and unskilled and could not hold her own. But as the acts grew more frequent and more devastating—pets killed or made to disappear, special treasures ruined, sweets soiled in vile ways, and pain inflicted when they were alone and there was no one to intervene—she began to see that no one would save her if she did not save herself. Complaints to her father and stepmother were pointless. In the Orle family, you swam or sank on your own.

When her brother began to visit her bed at night, shortly after she turned thirteen, compelling her to perform unspeakable acts, she knew she could tolerate him no longer.

Her one advantage lay in his belief that she could not hurt him back, that she was too small and intimidated even to attempt it. But she had been growing up in other ways, especially in her innate understanding and gradual mastery of magic. There were writings and books on it tucked away in her father’s office that she discovered while he was away. Careful readings and experiments led to the happy discovery that she had a natural aptitude for magic—a practice that had been a part of the history of her family for many centuries. Trapped in a desperate situation with no allies to stand up for her, she found that magic gave her a new confidence and a sense of empowerment. Her parents and her brother did not have use of this skill, so she kept her own powers a closely guarded secret. What mattered was that, for the first time, she felt she could do what was needed to protect herself.

What she decided to do was to remove her brother from the picture entirely; otherwise he would keep tormenting her until he killed her. To prevent that from happening, she must find a way to eliminate him first. But she couldn’t let her father and stepmother know she was responsible. Her father doted on her brother and would never forgive her, no matter the reason.

Since misdirection followed by swift action had always been the solution to the problems of the Orle family, so it would be here.

She waited until they were vacationing in the countryside near the borders of the Eastland. They had a home there, one shared by various members of the Orle clan. There was another family visiting at the same time, bringing the number of visitors to nine. She took note of who was there, and she chose a cousin from the other family who was close in age to her brother and whom she liked no better to be her unwitting accomplice. She went to his sleeping chamber on the first night they arrived and seduced him. She would not have been able to do so before her brother’s unwanted advances, but she found it easy enough now. When they coupled and were close and intertwined, she used a magic she had been experimenting with for some time to subvert his mind and bend him to her will.

When they were finished, she dispatched him to her brother’s room carrying a knife sharp enough to do the job. And while her brother lay sleeping, her cousin gutted him from neck to groin. Her brother’s death cries aroused the family. Her father rushed to his son’s room, found the other boy standing over him with the knife, and killed him on the spot.

After that, things improved in Edinja’s life. Her father, never having had much interest in her anyway, found her presence a cause for irritation. Evidently, he had never been keen on her as heir to his fortune. Her stepmother, who openly disliked her, sent her to live with an aunt, but what neither knew was that the aunt, who had no children of her own, was a far more accomplished magic user than her niece. Thus, she quickly developed a friendship with the secretive thirteen-year-old and began teaching her the secrets behind her own formidable skills. Edinja arranged for a permanent change of residence when both had agreed it would be better if they lived together so Edinja could spend more time developing her skills. The planting of a subtle suggestion in her stepmother’s treacherous mind—one that seemed to provide a simple solution to the problem of what to do with her now that her father no longer wanted her around—was all it took.

All that was a long time ago, but it had set her on the path she followed now.

She left the building and walked back to her residence. A few of those passing nodded or spoke a word of greeting, but most simply crossed the street as if their business lay on the other side. She barely noticed. With the speech to the Coalition Council behind her, she had turned her attention to more immediate concerns.

When she reached her black tower, her fortress home and sanctuary, she took a moment to try the door without releasing the locks. When the latch gave easily, she smiled. All well and good. Everything was going as planned. She went inside, removed her cloak, and climbed the broad winding stairs to the second floor. She stopped there to look around, to glance down the hallway, to test the air, to smell and taste it. Then she continued on to the third and finally the fourth story and down the hall to the girl’s bedroom.

The door was closed, but when she turned the handle it gave easily. No locks in place. She entered and found the makeshift dummy in the bed and the serving woman still unconscious on the floor on the other side of the bed. She brought the woman awake and helped her to her feet. When the woman went into hysterics and started screaming, clearly believing her failure would result in a terrible retribution, Edinja was quick to calm her, reassuring her that she had done nothing wrong.

Then the woman explained through continued sobs and shudders how she had been fooled by the dummy in the bed and had been struck from behind when she entered with the pitcher of treated water.

All of it exactly as Edinja had planned.

She patted the serving woman gently on her flushed and tear-streaked cheeks and sent her off to get some rest. Then she took one more look around and left the room, satisfied that things were proceeding as they should.

Arlingfant Elessedil was clever, but she was not nearly so clever or experienced as her captor when it came to deception. Edinja had known all along that she was not the weak and frightened girl she pretended to be. She was the sister of a Druid and one of the Chosen, and no one with that background would give way to her fears so easily. More to the point, she would not lie around waiting for the worst to happen. She would want to get word to her sister—or better yet find a way to reach her.

She would try to escape.

So Edinja had let her.

But not before she had planted a marker under the skin behind her neck and beneath her hair where it wouldn’t be noticed. Not before assuring herself that the girl could be found quickly when it was time to do so.

She had done the same thing with Stoon before sending him off in search of Aphenglow—a necessary precaution against the assassin deciding not to follow through as she had instructed. A tiny sliver of glass, a crystal imbued with magic, slipped under his skin, a marker that would have let her track him, as well, if he hadn’t gotten himself killed.

It was always better to expect the worst when dealing with unpredictable people.

In a dingier part of the city, not too far from where the Federation Prime Minister was congratulating herself on her ability to anticipate the actions of others, Aphenglow and Cymrian were sitting in the back of the locksmith shop with the Rover thief Rushlin, listening to his explanation about the difficulties of breaking into Edinja Orle’s home. Impatient, they had arrived somewhat earlier than instructed, but still Rushlin had answers—albeit not encouraging ones.

“The locks are manageable, but then I knew they would be. The problem is with the wards she’s set to back them up. Dozens on every floor, all of them dangerous, even to a skilled magic user like yourself.”

“How do you know about these wards?” Aphen asked.

He shrugged. “I’ve learned to sense them. There are ways. I can tell when they’re in place. But you can test them out for yourself if you like.”

Aphen leaned forward, irritated by his smug certainty. “Why don’t you tell me something useful?”

“Why don’t I learn to fly, while I’m at it?” The dark brow furrowed. “If there was good news to give you, I would do so. Since there isn’t, I am giving you what news I can. Nothing very helpful, but you may see it differently than I do.”

“Just finish telling us what you know,” Cymrian snapped, beginning to grow irritated himself.

“If you could get to the roof, you might find a way in from there. But word has it others have tried and their heads were found separated from their bodies. You might try coming in from underground. There are drain tunnels that run the length and breadth of the city to deal with sewage and flooding. Most have access to the buildings they service. But the tunnels to Edinja’s house are closed off with iron grates, and the catch basins inside are stocked with creatures that eat flesh.”

Aphen leaned back. “We’re looking at this the wrong way. Edinja’s home is well protected because she has enemies. But she would not leave herself only one way in or out. She would have a bolt-hole, and she would have a secret exit.”

“Which could give us a secret entrance, if we could find it.” Cymrian pursed his lips. “What of that, Rushlin?”

The Rover shook his head. “I’ve never heard anything about it, but I think you’re right. She would never leave escape to chance. She would have provided for a quick way out years back so that she could be certain she would never be trapped.”

“Which is not to say it isn’t warded. In fact, it almost certainly is.” Aphen shook her head. “But this seems like our best chance.”

They sat silently for a moment, staring at one another.

“No,” Cymrian said finally, “this isn’t our best chance. Our best chance is to walk up to the front door and see if someone won’t open it. If they do, we save all the trouble of having to break in uninvited.”

Aphen stared at him. “Then all we would have to do is figure out how to get back out again.”

Another silence. Rushlin shook his head and rose. “I need to spend a few hours away from here. Wait for me to come back. By then, one or the other of us will have thought of something. Maybe I can find out who goes in and still comes back out again. Mostly, it’s been a one-way street.”

He arched an eyebrow and went out the door, locking it behind him, the CLOSED sign turned out.

Aphen turned to Cymrian. “I don’t think we can wait. I don’t think we can afford to leave Arling in that woman’s hands for one more minute.”

Cymrian nodded. “I know. I don’t think so, either.”

“Then we have to do something. Right now.”

“Why don’t you use the Elfstones? Let’s see how things stand.”

She hesitated, aware of the danger of using magic this close to so many other magic users. Edinja Orle was the real danger, but there would be others, as well, in a city the size of Arishaig. Then again, with so many people crowded so close together, it would be difficult to identify a single user. Magic always left a residue that could be tracked, but not if it was done quickly. Such residues tended to dissipate.

In any case, she didn’t see that she had a choice.

She rose from the table and took the Elfstones from their pouch, dumping them into her open palm. Closing her fingers about them, she faced toward the doorway, set her mind on Arling, and willed the magic to show her what had become of her sister. A certain fear accompanied the act—an unwillingness to be shown something bad—but she tamped it down. At some point, she would have to learn her sister’s fate no matter what. Better that she do so while there was still a decent chance Arling could be saved.

A surge of magic rose from the Elfstones, going into her body and then back out again through her fingers, shooting away into the shop’s gloom and out the door. It was gone in an instant, streaking down streets and across rooftops, into alleyways and narrow lanes, whipping left and right but always onward. No one but she could see it, the vision invisible to all not standing at the source, so she had no fear that it might be noticed by others.

For a few quick seconds the blue Elfstone light was a zigzag blaze cutting through the city, and then in a sharp burst it found Arling Elessedil.

But not where they had thought she would be.

Arling was working her way through the city streets, trying to blend in with the crowds while at the same time avoiding encounters with Federation soldiers. She had left Edinja’s house through the front door; the lock had released without resistance, and no one had appeared to stop her. She could hardly believe her good fortune. But even though she mistrusted it, she was out and free and on her way to safety. She moved quickly down the steps and away from the building, taking more deserted streets until she reached busier ones. She was still wearing the night clothes Edinja had provided while she lay unconscious, but she had wrapped herself in a travel cloak she’d found hanging by the entry on her way out. Wearing slippers and keeping the hood to the cloak raised, she looked like many of the other young women she passed.

Her plan was to reach the closest of the gates leading out of the city and pass through it before anyone found out she was gone. Once free of the city, she could then begin her search for Aphenglow and Cymrian. Somehow, she would find them. And together they would return to the Westland and determine what to do next.

It was a rudimentary plan and didn’t begin to address the bulk of her problems—like finding out who had taken the missing Ellcrys seed and recovering it, or searching out the Bloodfire and immersing the seed so that the Ellcrys could be quickened, then returning to Arborlon to discover what was needed to make that happen …

But she left off thinking about it, knowing she could not look too closely at what it would require. It was all she could do just to get free of Arishaig and away from Edinja Orle.

Especially knowing that her captor would likely come after her.

Still, she had gotten this far, hadn’t she? She had tricked the serving woman and escaped the house. She had freed herself from the sorceress and her dreadful creatures. Remembering what she had been shown in the cellars of Edinja Orle’s home made her shudder. Whatever else happened she would not allow herself to end up like that. She would kill herself first.

It was a bold, reckless threat—one that she probably could not carry out—but it strengthened her determination to keep going until she was safely away.

She caught sight of a pair of Elven traders standing with their cart of handwoven scarves and head coverings, and she hurried over to them.

“I’m new to this city, and I’ve gotten lost,” she told them. “Can you point me toward the city’s west gate? I’m supposed to meet my mother there.”

The men looked at each other. “Why don’t I accompany you,” said one, “so you won’t get lost again. It’s easy to do that here.”

“Thank you, but no. Just show me the right direction.”

Shrugging, he did so, and she was off again, moving quickly. She had rejected help she could have used without thinking, instinctively wanting to keep everyone at bay. She pressed ahead through crowds that were gradually growing larger, intent on reaching her goal. The buildings surrounding her were much bigger, making her feel ever more claustrophobic. The smells in the air were rank and fetid. She tried to breathe through her mouth, covering her face with her sleeve. Bodies jostled her, almost knocking her off her feet.

Ahead, she could see Arishaig’s west wall, its massive gates standing open to the plains beyond, and she felt a surge of excitement. She was almost clear.

But then shouts rose from atop the battlements—only a scattering at first, but then dozens more. People on the streets took up the shouts—a few dozen turning into hundreds and then thousands. The shouts blossomed into screams, and everyone began running, crowds rushing in every direction at once, people fighting to get away, swarming back through the streets. One huge surge was coming directly toward her, and she pushed and shoved her way frantically to reach the protection of a doorway, letting the mass of people fight their way past. She couldn’t understand what they were saying, and her attempts to stop anyone were unsuccessful. The fleeing people looked wild-eyed and frightened.

Ahead, in the direction in which she had been going, she saw the massive gates begin to move, swinging on their iron hinges, the sounds of iron rubbing against iron adding a raucous shriek to the screams.

She felt her heart freeze.

The gates were closing.

Aphenglow and Cymrian were following the map provided by the Elfstones’ vision, working their way through Arishaig’s streets. Neither could imagine how Arling had managed to escape Edinja Orle. If the sorceress’s home was as carefully protected as Rushlin had led them to believe, it seemed impossible that she could have gotten free. Yet somehow she had, and that meant sooner or later Edinja would come looking for her. Given the sorceress’s reputation, it seemed unlikely that Arling could evade her for long. They had to reach her quickly.

Cymrian drew up short. “We’re wasting time. You have to use the Elfstones again.”

Aphenglow looked around. “Out here? In the street?”

“No, not here. It’s too crowded.” He pointed toward the roof of a long, square building nearby. The roof was flat and open to the sky. “Up there.”

There were huge roll-up doors that opened into the building, but they were locked and barred, so Cymrian chose to break through a smaller door off a side street. No one was inside once they entered. The building was a warehouse filled with large crates carefully stacked in bays. A metal stairway led up to a doorway in the ceiling and out onto the roof.

Once they were on the roof, Aphen didn’t waste any time. She brought out the Elfstones, settled into her by-now-familiar trance, and summoned the magic. It flared to life almost immediately, gathering power in the palm of her hand and then flashing away into the distance. From high up on the roof, they could see the walls of the city and two of the gates. The magic went straight toward the west gate, speeding almost to its massive portals before dropping down to a street leading in that direction and to an image of Arling wrapped in a cloak and hood as she made her way to freedom. Then the magic flared and died.

“I know where she is,” Cymrian declared, already racing back toward the stairs.

They went back through the empty warehouse and out the door into the street beyond. Cymrian led, with Aphen a step behind. The crowds were thin at first, but quickly began to grow in size until moving through them became all but impossible. Aphen grew frustrated and, throwing caution to the winds, she invoked a magic that moved people out of their path. But even this didn’t solve the problem entirely because she could only impact those closest, and the larger mass continued to press toward them.

Then all at once shouts and screams rose from the direction in which they were heading, growing quickly from a scattered few to hundreds. Heads turned and people stopped where they were, milling about and trying to decide what was happening. Aphen and Cymrian attempted to move forward, but the street was entirely blocked now as the crowd clustered before them became a solid mass of bodies.

“What’s happening?” Aphen shouted over the din.

Seconds later the screams and cries reached the head of the crowd and people began to surge back toward the Elves. Aphen and Cymrian were forced against the walls of the flanking buildings, unable to do anything more than get out of the way. The cries were spreading throughout the city, rising all around them, filling the air until nothing else could be heard.

In frustration, Cymrian began grabbing passersby, demanding to know what was happening. At first, he got no coherent answer. Those running were just following everyone else. Something terrible was happening, but it wasn’t clear what. All anyone knew to do was to get away.

Until they stopped a young man who shouted, “The city’s under attack! Thousands of them, out on the flats!”

“Thousands of whom?” Cymrian snapped.

The young man pulled free. “They say it’s demons!” he answered, and raced away.