Aliphor

CHAPTER FIVE

By Beck McLaughlin

It was late, and the streets unwinding before Moric were empty. The viscount slumped discontentedly in his carriage, listening to the echo of wheels as they rattled over the cobbles toward Seroult's exclusive upper terraces. He'd finally turned over the dagger with its hollow hilt -- thank the gods -- and accepted Kellin's distracted thanks. Moric doubted if the prince even heard his farewell.

Behind all this trouble was the hell-sword. Moric was certain of it. Even now, the young viscount had a clear memory of the road, storm-lashed and lit by a brand straight out of hell.

The flambeaus were guttering when he stepped down from the carriage and made his way up the broad steps. He smelled cherry-smoke mingled with the oily smell of the torches. Moric stopped and turned toward the deep shadows behind the pillars.

"A late night, my lord?" Anton came into the light, out of uniform, but never off duty.

Moric shrugged. "And likely to get later. Can I interest you in a drink before bed?"

"You can." The guard captain followed him into the echoing foyer, past the grand staircase to the library.

Brilliant moonlight fell through the tall windows, making it easy for the viscount to find his way across the room. While Moric arranged himself comfortably on the couch, Anton poured them both a brandy. Propping his boots on a priceless sixth century chair, the viscount took a deep draught.

"I think Avril's been arrested," he said finally. "Kellin won't say one way or the other -- usually a bad sign."

"You're getting a crash course in politics." Anton's mouth curved into a wry smile. "What do you think?"

"I hate it," he replied frankly. "And I sincerely hope that Kellin asks no more of me."

"Alas, you've distinguished yourself by successfully retrieving the mage. Nothing is more likely to get you more missions than success."

"I considered that. Perhaps if I get horribly drunk and indiscreet, he'll think again."

"And what of your cousin? The city is buzzing with gossip. Is he truly a murderer?"

"l'Sanjil's new ambassador seems to think so. I'd like to have a nice long chat with the Doctor, but I have an uncomfortable feeling that his stock isn't any higher than Avril's at the moment."

"Perhaps you should spend less time with the mage, not more," Anton suggested, tipping his glass at the viscount. "Your father cannot like that association."

"My father has become tedious beyond enduring. Even Kellin likes the Doctor."

"Aye, that much is obvious, and he'd best have a care. With the uncertainty in the south, he may find himself out on a limb with no way back."

Moric thought uncomfortably about his own recent, very secret mission, and took a hasty gulp. Even those lords who gave tentative approval to Kellin's reforms were not likely to countenance Kragorn actually sitting on the Council.

Gods, but he hated this.

Anton finished his brandy and set down his glass. "I've an appointment tomorrow at the Blade Hall. His Grace is concerned that we don't have enough security, so I'll be interviewing for more guards. I'll see what I can find out there."

"I would appreciate it," Moric said soberly. "I have a bad feeling about poor Avril."

"Indeed." Anton's mouth tightened. He rose and looked down at his thoughtful charge. "Shall I send for your valet?"

"Hmmm? No. No, thank you. I think I'll just finish my drink. It is possible, you know, for me to undress myself."

Anton nodded, bowing crisply, and withdrew.

Moric nursed his drink along for several more minutes. He was loathe to get up, to climb the mountain of steps, traverse the miles of corridors to his bedroom. But if he simply fell asleep here, his father would get the news that he'd passed out, drunk, again. Once upon a time, such behavior would have triggered only a benevolent nod from his parent, but these days ...

Sighing heavily, the viscount rose. As he poured himself another glass, he heard a faint sound. He whirled about, and taking several long strides across the room, swept aside a heavy velvet curtain.

"You!"

The girl stared back at him, eyes saucer-sized. She was dressed in boys' clothing again, and in one hand, she clutched a book. Regaining her wits before he did, Elfie gave him a hard shove, and pushed past him for the door. Swearing, the viscount made a grab for her. To his astonishment, invisible hands seized him and sent him stumbling backwards. A large chair overturned itself directly into his path. She flung open the door, but found her escape blocked by Anton -- come to see what all the noise was about. Equally started, Anton looked down at her, hand poised to knock.

The soldier was faster on his feet than Moric and promptly seized her wrist. Ignoring her angry struggles, he lifted her off her feet and carried her back into the library, kicking the door shut behind him. Moric dove to recover the book, dropped in her haste to escape. Grinning from ear to ear, the guard captain dropped the girl onto the sofa where she glowered defiantly at them.

"What the Three Hells is the matter with you?" Moric demanded. "I'm considerate enough not to have you hung for theft, fed you a superb meal, gave you a ride to Seroult in a comfortable carriage, protected you from l'Sanjil's hunting dogs and you repay me by robbing me?"

"I wasn't robbing you," she returned. "I was robbing the Duke!"

"Um ... well, yes. I suppose that's true. Still, it hardly excuses ingratitude. And this?" He raised the book and waved it back and forth. Krisalka, read the title in flaking gold leaf. "Why not the silver candlesticks? They were right next to the bookshelf."

"I know. I saw them." For a moment, she looked regretful. "But I wasn't here to steal them, only that pestilent book. The guildsmaster, being an lice-ridden, misbegotten, son of a drabber, told me to come here and steal it. Without permission from the local guild, I can't work."

"That would be a shame," Moric nodded, "given the serious shortage of cutpurses in Seroult. Why does this guildmaster person want it?"

"I don't know. Someone hired for it, I suppose."

Moric studied her thoughtfully. "Why are you a thief, anyway? You could be a mage."

She was offended. "Me? A mage? No, thanks!"

"You're a spirit summoner!"

"I didn't ask to be," was her angry response. "Storchi just, well, appeared one day and he won't go away. The very least he can do, under the circumstances, is help me out now and again."

"Why isn't he helping you out now?" Moric asked, genuinely curious.

Color crept up her pale cheeks. "He likes you," she muttered. "The gods only know why."

Moric stared at her, awed. "Anton," he said finally. "I think I can handle this."

Still grinning, Anton bowed. "I'll be right outside, my lord," he added with a meaningful look at the thief. She met it squarely and with visible disdain. They watched in silence as the guard strode from the room and the library door closed quietly. A moment later, Moric heard a muffled shout of laughter. Shaking his head, the viscount tucked the book into his pocket, unable to conceal his own amusement.

"I'm sorry, thief, but you'll have to find some other way of getting your license. You can't have my father's books, but if you like, I'll give you one of mine."

Elfira brightened. "It has to have these words on it." She got up and handed him a scrap of paper.

Krisalka. He shook his head. "Sorry. I don't have this one."

Elfie looked close to tears. "Now what am I going to do?"

"Find honest work?"

"Like yours?" She snapped, the woeful mein vanishing. "Bleeding your poor tenants dry with taxes, having your sordid way with their daughters, conscripting their sons as unpaid fighters. I prefer being a thief, thank you. At least no pretense is made about what I'm doing!"

"Not fair!" he fired back, stung. "My father is the Duke, not I!"

"Exactly! He deserves to have his precious book stolen!"

Moric regarded her with amazement and started to laugh. Chagrined, she glared.

"You're probably right," he chuckled. "The old bastard deserves all that and more. However, I really can't permit it." Perching on the edge of his desk, he opened the book. It was old, the writing in the style of priests from another century. There was an illustration in the frontispiece -- the etching of a squat tower from which monsters poured. The artist's detail was exquisite, each demon lovingly drawn, bullet-shaped heads devoid of features, limbs grotesquely formed as they moved, crab-like, across the snow.

Why did his thoughts go immediately to the sword his cousin bore? Nerves suddenly ajangle, the viscount looked up. Elfie, in the act of sidling toward the door, stopped and pretended an interest in a singularly ugly vase.

"Do you have any idea who contracted for this?"

She opened her mouth -- he could all but see the denial dangling on her tongue -- then closed it again and scowled at a point near the fireplace. "All right," she snapped. Returning her attention to Moric, she replied: "I didn't see him. Storchi did."

Moric looked uneasily at the fireplace. There was nothing there that he could see. If not for the fact that his backside still ached from being thrown against the wall, he'd suspect the girl was mad.

"A tall man, a rich man, probably a lord. He wore a large hat with a purple feather."

"I don't suppose Storchi noticed a crest?"

Elfie's eyes narrowed and her head tilted to one side. "Yes," she said finally, "a sheaf of wheat with four stars in an arch above, and some writing beneath."

"Pridelock?" Moric stared blankly at her. What did Kellin's chief gadfly want with a heretical tome?

"I'll bet your father wouldn't even notice if the book was gone," she tried again.

"No!"

Heavily, Elfie sighed. Her shoulders drooped. "Are you going to have me arrested?"

Moric regarded the pitiful figure, unmoved. "No, and only because I don't want to put Anton to the inconvenience of having to drag you down to the Blade hall in the middle of the night."

"You might as well," she mourned, "I've nowhere to go and no money -- with no hope of either any time soon. Of course, perhaps I could whore ..."

"With what?" He looked her up and down and brought a resentful flush to what was, actually, a very pretty face. "Oh, pull in your lip, brat. Here." He dug into his pockets and pulled out a handful of coins. "This should be enough to get you out of town. Find another city and another Guild."

She hesitated, then took it. "It's not as though I don't deserve it. After all, if it weren't for your cousin, none of this would have happened, would it?"

All Moric's charity evaporated. "It's his fault? He's as much a victim of Ankaran's ambitions as you and your precious Thieves Guild!"

Eyes blazing, she opened her mouth to reply, then shut it again. An arrested look settled over her face and Moric found himself peering uneasily into the shadows around the room.

"Storchi's right," she said, "that wasn't fair of me. The Kelblade didn't ask to be a swordslave. I hereby apologize, my lord."

"Don't mention it," he replied, a little unnerved by the prospect of a ghost flitting about. "Is Storchi always around?"

"No. He comes and goes as he pleases, the bastard." She considered the handful of coins. "Are you sure you won't let me take the book?"

"Elfie ..."

She sighed. "Very well. I accept your generous payment." Dropping the money into the pocket of her disreputable coat she sketched an awkward bow. "Give my regards to your cousin and the Doctor."

"Good luck, brat."

He turned her over to Anton, who didn't have to be instructed to follow the light-fingered young lady out.

Reven glanced wearily across the antechamber to the Doctor. The mage sat, velvet-clad shoulders hunched forward, elbows on knees. The Kelblade sighed, bloodshot eyes drawn inevitably to the gruesome mural behind the mage. It was a scene from the Demon war, with several of the hideous creatures gleefully martyring a priest. He wrenched his gaze away.

The chamber was not designed for comfort. Similar murals covered every inch of the stone walls. The floor was bare and the benches hard. A heavy chill hung in the air, for they were in the cellars deep beneath the Temple. Outside waited a full complement of guards. He'd seen the holy wards they wore. It was surreal to know that he was the source of their fear, he and the thing he carried.

Across the bleak chamber, the door opened. Reven tried to rise, but exhaustion and poor balance sent him reeling. His hands were still bound, wrists gone numb. The Doctor was beside him at once, steadying him as the guards warily approached.

It was time to move again. A dimly-lit corridor stretched before him, the ceiling so low it brushed his head. Torchlight blurred in his vision. Another door opened and he was pushed into yet another room in this labyrinth. At his side, the Doctor exclaimed under his breath and the fingers around Reven's arm tightened.

"Leave us, Doctor."

A lamp dangled overhead, casting a circle of bright light on a single chair. The edges of the room were hidden in shadows and, within them, he saw the subtle shifting of hooded men. His stomach knotted.

"I am an observer by the Prince's order," retorted the mage fearlessly. "And this young man is in no condition to be treated like this. He needs food and rest."

"He is, by his own admission, a murderer," came the answer from the shadows. "Take your seat, my lord and you, mage, confine yourself to observing. No more outbursts will be tolerated."

Reven was somehow able to make it to the chair without disgracing himself by falling. It was as hard as the antechamber benches.

"I am your Inquisitor," came a deep voice from another part of the room. "Have you ever been Questioned, Lord Avril?"

The Kelblade shook his head, numb.

"You are accused of terrible crimes. Do you surrender yourself willingly to our examination, that your guilt or innocence may be conclusively proven?"

"I do."

"And do you promise to hold your thoughts open to us, without guile or resistance, for as long as we desire that the Truth be Seen?"

"I do."

"Then relax your body. Bring forth your memories. With the grace of the Two and the One Who Binds Them, your thoughts will show us the Truth of the matter. Begin."

Reven's heart was pounding; his mouth was dry. For a moment, he was certain he heard whispering all around him. From far away, he heard the Doctor's angry voice and a stern response. Earnestly, he attempted to loosen his rigid muscles, obediently, if reluctantly, returning in time to the horror that had begun it all.

Shouting. The sound of tables overturning and screams. He pulls on his trousers, swearing, hands clammy. The Hall has been breached! Rumors he has tried so hard to ignore are true.

The doors burst open and it is Peregrine who is the first to meet the traitors. He kills the man -- a mercenary -- but there are two more and he goes down. Then they are all into it -- he, Morris, Sambrin, Thonnor -- Avril's Wolves. The foreign bastards don't have a chance. The Wolves mow them down like old women. In the courtyard outside there are more mercenaries, and -- gods! -- House Guard wearing the prince's colors! Sambrin is cut down, then Morris. The enemy presses in ever closer around him and his arm grows leaden as he slashes, parries, then parries again.

His back is against the wall. Behind his attackers, the Hall is afire, flames leaping from the student dormitories. Pain nearly undoes him, agony lancing up his side. The flames and blood-spattered faces blend together as they get their hands on him ...

Reven gasped, a convulsive shudder tumbling him from the chair. For a moment, he wasn't sure where he was -- only that his lungs burned and his heart threatened to burst through his ribs.

The palace. He was in the palace. They were half-carrying him up winding steps. He smelled crisp, night air, felt the coolness of it on his face. Doors opened before him. A room in a tower. He does not recognize the things he sees here. For a moment, befuddled as he is from grief and pain, he thinks he is in a monstrous spider web. Then they take his clothes and he finds the wits to struggle. They carry him, kicking and shouting, to a metal table. Leather straps hold him down. He has never been so afraid. A face appears above him. Princess Driade!

"IMPOSSIBLE!"

"The Princess' piety has never been questioned!"

There was more shouting, but he could not make sense of them. The nightmares were pulling him back.

He blinks away tears. His throat hurts and he cannot stop trembling. Gods! What is that she holds? The sharp edge of it presses against his breast. Pain twists his body against the bonds. He does not scream as she slips something into the cut she has made, something cold and hard as ice, but it takes all his strength to stay silent. There is another cut and another, and his strength fails him.

Reven was abruptly back. He realized distantly that the Doctor was there, defying the angry priests, helping him up, returning him to the chair.

"Don't go," he croaked when the mage would have returned to his place.

They wanted more, and the Kelblade had neither the strength nor the will to resist. He relived the nightmare of possession, the horror of the first kill -- and then, the moment he'd been dreading.

The council chamber -- it is an emergency session -- all the councilors huddled together. He is covered with the blood of their servants and protectors, lost in the chaos pouring from the hell-blade in his hands. Closing his eyes is the only thing that saves his sanity as he wades into their midst, feeling the shock of steel against bone, their shrieks echoing in his ears. His arm raises and lowers -- a thing apart from himself. Profane power fills him, giving him the strength to kill again and again and again ...

'That's ENOUGH!" shouted the Doctor. Reven sensed agreement all around, heard the whisper of sandals across the floor. Torches flared. His gut tightened and he rose, shaking off the mage's hands.

Three priests remained, and by the splendor of their vestments, the young kelblade knew himself to be in the presence of the holiest men in Aliphor. On his right stood Life's high priest, Loehgren, resplendent in crimson and gold. Beside him stood Life's Sacred Opposite, Lord Enfien, Servant of Death. The third man was high priest to the most beloved of Aliphoran deities, Transformation, whose place it was to hold the former two in balance.

"Good evening, Lord Avril," Loehgren said. "Be at ease. Although we cannot -- be certain of your observations in some regards, we do understand that you did not enter willingly into this bargain."

"Thank you, my lord," he croaked. The Doctor, still by his side, muttered something under his breath.

"Clearly, what we have seen here tonight requires much careful thought and praying. However, one thing is clear immediately. We must separate you from the devil blade."

Reven's eyes flashed to the Doctor. "I -- my, lords," the kelblade said faintly. "I will die."

"The Doctor has told us of your earlier attempts to break free of the cursed artifact He is of the opinion that only mage tricks will be successful. Of course, we know that it is the holy power of the Three that will severe the chains of spirit that bind you to evil."

This was what Reven had hoped above hope to hear. It was a promise he had not dared dream was possible. Reven looked eagerly to the Doctor, but there was no confidence in the mage's lean features, only worried doubt.

"Give me the cursed blade."

Reven unbuckled his swordbelt. Sharp cramps nearly made him drop the thing. He told himself it was only anticipation. Still, it was with the greatest reluctance that he relinquished it into Loehgren's waiting hands.

"Sit, my boy. Place your right hand upon the Book of Truth."

Reven resumed his seat. An acolyte appeared behind Loeghren, carrying the heavy tome. The young priest held it open in front of the kelblade, whose fingers trembled against the ornately inscribed page.

"Do you believe in the power of the Three -- Life, Death and Transformation?"

"Yes, my lord," replied the Kelblade with all sincerity.

"Then know you touch the holy words of the gods and their infinite power protects you."

Twinges of discomfort ran through his joints. Reven tried to ignore them, looking intently at the pages with their familiar passages. Death's priest stepped forward and dropped a heavy, silver chain around the young warrior's neck. The black gem lay glittering against his shirt. The priest lifted Reven's icy left hand and cupped it around the stone.

Reven's stomach rolled, but he gripped the stone tightly. Something settled around his brow. He smelled the pungence of leaflorn. First one priest, than the other, began to chant. The words were in the Old Language, meaningless to him in his ignorance, but rolling with cadences resplendent with strength and dignity. He pressed his palsied hand to the Book. Driade's sorcery would not prevail here, not in the heart of the Temple, guarded by the holiest things and men.

The pain worsened. Reven was deathly cold, now. Fever raged through his veins. He heard the chanting in echoes that swelled and faded. Whispers taunted just beyond his ken. There was singing, snatches of it, almost recognizable. Through the confusion, only the pain was certain, only the pain was real. He screamed finally, and thought that he fell. Someone laid a hand on him and the gentle touch roared through him like a firestorm. For a while he could make no sense of anything.

Then, finally, the pain was gone. He was on the floor, curled tightly around Bloodsinger. People were talking, loudly, angrily around him. The Doctor's voice was among the others, quieter, but no less compelling. Reven's heart beat in a painful, lurching rhythm. He was weak, covered with sweat. After a moment, he opened his eyes and saw the legs of his chair.

"He's conscious."

The Doctor's comment brought instant quiet. Reven straightened and felt twitches in muscles held rigid for too long. It was the mage who knelt beside him and sat him up. Gods, he hurt.

"Highness, stand back. Do not come too close to the ensorceled wretch!"

Kellin was here?

"Your Highness," he croaked, trying to get up.

The Doctor gave a queer little laugh and pushed him back. Kellin shook his head.

"Easy, man. Doctor -- you said you might be able to break the spell of the sword."

There was instant objection from Loeghren. "Highness, with all respect! This is the province of the gods!"

"Who seem to have failed." Kellin retorted rashly.

"The gods do not fail." Loeghren pointed out coldly. "Only their weak, mortal servants. We shall study, meditate and try again. This is no minor bit of wizardry. To risk such a devilish thing in the blasphemous hands of a mage is unthinkable! Think well, sir -- this sorcery is so powerful that he is convinced that the Princess of l'Sanjil, whose acts of charity are legion, is a foul sorceress. That kind of glamor is not easily conjured, your Highness! Indeed, the demons alone wielded such power."

There were mutters of agreement from the other priests, but Kellin was undismayed.

"Your authority can be overruled by special dispensation from the Kel, which I can get, my lords."

"You can try, your Highness. Not everyone in the council chambers last night was happy to see that hellblade in the hands of mage, let alone listen to his slander against Ankharan's wife."

"Everything I said was true, Lord Loeghren," began the mage.

"Highness!" Loeghren's voice was tightly controlled. "We have, graciously and tolerantly, allowed you to inflict your mage upon us in this holy place. To our mind, the demon sword is more likely his work then that of the gentle and compassionate princess. It was not your precious mage, after all, who donated ten thousand gold pieces for the renovation of the temple in l'Sanjil, nor made special dispensation to priests ministering in the slums."

"I'm no priest and have therefore never confused honor with wealth," Kellin replied shortly. "Fortunately, most of the Kel still think as I do. The mage's accusations are not the first I've heard against the princess, only the loudest. Your own reading of Avril's thoughts would seem to support them, would they not?"

"We are but mortals," said Death's priest, making the sign against evil. "Even our perceptions may be affected by especially an powerful spell!"

"Perhaps. But with mercenaries flocking thick around Ankaran and rumors of massacres within his own walls -- I can no longer afford to put even your counsel above my own. The evidence against Driade is too strong. I will go to the Kel tonight and demand that Avril be extradited to the custody of my guard. In the meantime, be damn certain no harm befalls him!"