Mage Bond, page 23
He turned his face away, staring out into the blackness. No stars, no moon to light their night, and in this oldest part of town, few street lanterns chased back the shadows. What could he possibly be looking for? “The danger seems to have passed for a moment. We can talk.”
“What do you mean, guardians?”
Dmitri let out a wistful sigh, lapsing into teaching mode. “As you may have guessed, my fellow priests and I are not from here.”
“Not from E’Skaara.”
Dmitri let out another sigh, this one longsuffering. “The time has come to tell you everything.” They stood in the firelight, the darkness of Dmitri’s clothes nearly dispelling the light. “I come from Eallarial, a world far older than yours, where we freely practiced magic. Imagine ships riding the waves from magic, never needing sails. Even ships that rode the winds.” Was that a trace of wistfulness?
But ships that rode the winds? Was Dmitri toying with him? “That’s ridiculous!” Though, if memory served, Martin had heard tales…
“No, it’s not. Remember the many realms you witnessed the night I taught you about runes? I came from one of those other realms. Magic on my world was plentiful, as it was here, until… it… came.”
“What is it?”
“The entity you call the Lady. It came here and took advantage of local religious custom, fashioning itself on the aspect of the Mother but calling itself the Lady. It arrived on my world and consumed the source of a mage’s power. It lives on magic. Like here, mages were collected, with the creature draining their vitality. They were its competition for what you call magic. Great carnage ensued.”
“Thomoth! My mother told me stories of Thomoth.”
Dmitri’s hood dipped. “That is one name the creature has used. As on your world, it posed as a deity on mine. How else to secure the goodwill of the people?”
Two silent priests slipped out of the darkness, taking up stations near the burning corpses. “Come, Martin,” Dmitri said, “I need to return to the temple, and you won’t rest until you see for yourself that their latest victim returned home safely.” Hand on Martin’s back, Dmitri led Martin away, continuing his tale. “Soon, the monster consumed nearly all of the magic on my world. The mages remaining, myself included, worked tirelessly to defeat our foe, to no avail. Even nonmages, you see, needed magic. It kept us alive until all the magic was gone and our lands lay in ruins.”
The stories Mum told of Thomoth didn’t even compare to what Martin learned now. “It started by killing the mages.”
Dmitri’s hood lifted and lowered. “The remaining mages and their families from my own realm combined resources, created a portal, and fled, except one, who had grown as evil as the creature in his own way. The creature followed. We created shields, wore amulets to conceal our nature, and hid among the people of your world. We watch for magic, other mages, protect and nurture them if we can. The strongest of us stayed here in E’Skaara, where the greatest concentration of magic is, continuing our fight to keep this creature from destroying yet another world.”
“And the demons?”
Dmitri sighed. “They weren’t from my realm but another drained by the Lady. They were nonmagic users who still needed magic to survive, though unaware of the fact. They are weaker, and many slip past our wards.”
“Why do they kill?”
“Their victims all have a percentage of magic blood. Though demons cannot feed directly on the magic supply and alert the creature hiding beneath the Lady’s temple to their presence, they consume the magic they can, generated out of fear, and return home to their master, who allows them a portion and saves the rest for himself. We call them evil. From their standpoint, they’re merely doing what they must to survive.”
“But they kill our kind!”
“Do our kind not kill cows and sheep to feed?”
“So, we’re sheep to them.”
“No, we’re survival. Food in the bellies of their young.”
Martin might never eat beef again. “Their master?”
“The mage we left behind. With each offering, he grows stronger. One day he’ll find a way to cross over. He plans to face the creature himself. He will fail.”
“He wants what you want, right? Wouldn’t he be a powerful ally?”
Dmitri shook his head. “Not exactly. He wants to make a deal with it or, lacking that, kill it, but he has greater ambitions.”
Those plans sounded plenty ambitious to Martin. “What?”
“The mages who came here wanted just to live, save your people our fate, make our home here. He wants to siphon the magic from your world to rebuild ours.”
And here Martin thought the master might help. No. Just another predator. “Where does priesthood and worshipping the Father come in?”
A chuckle wafted from under Dmitri’s hood. “Though I’m no seer of minds, I can well imagine the images in your head right now. The form of worship you are familiar with has evolved, as has nearly everything else in existence.” Dmitri bowed his head and spoke words in a language Martin didn’t know. “Worship of the Father and his feminine aspect, the Mother, had existed since your distant ancestors spoke their first words. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Once the Lady came, the Father’s followers believed our story, welcomed us, joined our cause. The original priests all died out as time went by, leaving only mage-born.”
Quickstepping to keep up, Martin pushed away thoughts of Peter to recall what Dmitri had said. “You said the Father exists if I believe in him.”
Dmitri’s hood dipped in a nod. “In people’s minds, he is real, and praying to him increases the harvest, allows childless couples children. The people believe in him; therefore, he exists. It’s another form of magic.”
“The Lady’s worshippers? What happened to separate the Father from the Mother?”
Dmitri stayed silent for so long Martin thought he wouldn’t answer. “Greed, envy, sloth. Some wanted more of the pleasure; others thought they could only serve by doing without. The more pleasure one group received, the more the others became envious and bitter.
“The creature came here, took advantage of the people’s beliefs, and set itself up as the Lady.”
“Some believe she… it, doesn’t truly live in the temple.” Though Martin felt its malevolent presence night after night.
“It does, in a fashion. Right now, it is mostly dormant, feasting on magic. But I believe it senses us, will make a move soon to stop our efforts.”
“And—”
“I’ve said too much already. Repeat none of what you heard from me this night. I only tell you because… because soon I believe you’ll have a reason to know. Now, I must study.” Dmitri stopped at the door to the Father’s temple. Martin hadn’t even realized they’d traveled this far. “I bid you good eve.”
Martin stood in the street, a million questions on his tongue. He’d not get any answers tonight. Laughter and bright lights called to him from the Lady’s temple. Music, wine, warm bodies. Serve the poor? He couldn’t imagine those inside serving anyone but themselves. No wonder the common people hated them.
Dmitri had said the current ways weren’t like this in the old days. Why did no texts exist of that time?
Churning thoughts put Martin’s feet into motion to check on Peter. He rushed past the night workers, ignoring their taunts and offers, breathing a sigh of relief when the tavern came into view.
Light spilled from the open doorway, as well as the last of the eve’s patrons. The barmaid wrapped a shawl around her shoulders. Two men escorted her when she’d only ever left alone before.
Good. Peter took precautions.
Or the barmaid took liberties. Somehow, Martin couldn’t imagine the headstrong Addie bowing to social conventions.
For a moment, a brief second, Martin caught sight of Peter before the door closed. Peter. Someone easy to talk to, who didn’t espouse either faith and try to sway Martin to one side or the other. Merely shared ale and conversation.
And their bodies. Oh, how Martin tried to stay away, not pull Peter into the darkness.
Like a moth drawn to a flame, Martin couldn’t stay away.
What was he doing? He should just go. He watched for long moments, how Addie and her escorts closed the shutters while Peter shut the door.
Afraid. Peter was afraid. He should be afraid.
Should Martin go to him? Comfort him? But no. If the demons wanted Martin, he’d only put Peter in danger. And he must protect Peter at all costs. Though he raised his hands and tried his best to focus, no wards came.
He watched until no more light sifted through the shutters’ cracks, turned, and shuffled back to his rooms.
Only when he settled into bed did he realize what he’d seen. Of course, he couldn’t conjure wards on the Stone’s Throw.
The tavern was already warded.
Chapter Thirty-two
A touch of magic helped the scratches heal by morn. Freshly bathed and shaved, Martin stood before his mirror, contemplating his best clothing laid out upon the bed.
This should be a happy moment, for most likely, his friend Cere would be selected for service today, yet no amount of finery could brighten Martin’s mood.
Now that he knew the truth. Should he warn Cere? Sneak him out of the temple?
Cere had looked forward to this day. Dread pooled in Martin’s stomach. If Cere was Chosen, what would he do? Spend the rest of his life inside the temple walls as a priest, teacher, or oracle?
Serving a false goddess who cared nothing for him.
Never again would he and Martin share a bench in the garden.
A knock sounded on his door. Cere entered without waiting for an answer. “I found this outside your door.” He placed a dusty trunk on the floor and crossed to the washbasin to rid his hands of any filth.
Cere, here? How had he even discovered where Martin lived? Oh. Probably from another guard. They’d never been accused of being tight-lipped, and Cere’s powers of persuasion were vast.
He looked resplendent in white satin, multi-colored pearls embellishing his tunic and trousers. Soft calfhide boots, dyed sky blue, graced his feet. He’d arranged his hair in elaborate braids, crossed over his head, trailing down his back.
“You look stunning,” Martin admitted. “That outfit likely cost more than a common man will make in a lifetime.”
Cere turned, arms out to the sides to show off the workmanship of his clothes. “Nothing less for the Choosing.” His smile melted. “You’ve been keeping company with that priest too long if you think the temple worries about costs.”
Was Cere aware of why Martin kept company with Dmitri? “Why did you come here? Won’t you be missed?”
Cere shrugged. “If I’m Chosen, then I’ll be sequestered.” He gave a tremulous smile. “And I won’t be able to see you.” For the first time since their meeting, a hint of shyness crept into Cere’s demeanor: a hint of blush on his fashionably pale cheeks, gaze lowered to the floor.
He would miss Martin? Hadn’t Cere just been practicing his wiles? Martin found Cere amusing, friendly, but no other feelings stirred in him. Because your heart belongs to another.
The boy, no, the man, swept a tentative gaze over Martin’s body, pausing at a particular area.
Martin looked down. By all the gods anyone ever prayed to! He grabbed a night robe to fling over his near-nakedness, clad as he was in only small clothes. Heat crept up his face. Time for a change of subject. “What do you think I should wear?”
Distracted by his second favorite topic of clothing—his first being gossip, or possibly sex—Cere nodded toward the trunk. “You might want to check in there.”
“You looked?”
“Of course, I looked. It’s… it’s hideous. An affront to the Lady, but it’s you.”
It must be horrible indeed. Martin fought a smile while opening the lid. Despite the layer of dust on the surface, no dirt or mustiness lingered inside. He lifted a deceptively soft garment. Leather? Fine leather, too. He brought the tunic to his nose and sniffed. Definitely leather. A note, penned in an elegant hand, read You’ve earned this.
Black, black, black. Dark as midnight, each item.
“You’re not thinking of wearing that in daylight where people can see, are you?” Cere curled his lip in distaste.
The garments were fitted, not flowing, designed to show not a hint of flesh but for hands and head—and not restrict movement during fights. “The least I could do is try them on since Father Dmitri went through so much trouble.”
“Father Dmitri, hmmm?” Cere perched on Martin’s bed, threw an arm against his forehead, and huffed out a dramatic, “If you must.”
A dull blade of regret serrated Martin’s heart. He’d miss the young scamp if Cere suddenly disappeared into further service to the evil creature lurking under the temple.
What if he turned into the one thing Martin dreaded the most? Someone who hunted down and killed mages. Would they ever find themselves on opposite sides of a chasm?
“Go on. We don’t have much time.” Cere bounced on the bed. “Oh! Soft! I’ll bet you’ve gotten into all kinds of mischief in here.” He lifted a sheet and sniffed.
“Cere!”
The vision of an angel with the mind of an imp sighed. “Just you. No fun at all.”
Yes, Martin would miss Cere. He set his mind to dressing. Each piece fit perfectly. At last, he stood fully clothed in a tunic, trousers, arm wraps, high collared vest likely designed to protect the neck in fights. Rather than plain, on closer inspection, he noticed the intricately tooled patterns. Runes?
“Oh, it makes your ass delectable!” Cere smacked his hand across the seat of Martin’s trousers. Martin barely felt the blow, and ignored the suggestive waggling of Cere’s eyebrows. He turned right and left, admiring the outfit in the mirror. Some senior officers wore similar attire, minus the runes, but he’d never dreamed of spending so much coin, though the leather added protection.
“You’re not seriously considering wearing that, are you?” Cere wrinkled his nose.
“Why not? It’s a gift from the Father’s priest, so a gift from the Father himself.” Or so most of the followers in the lower city might believe.
“Look, my friend, we novices run naked down halls at night and throw mass orgies during breakfast. But you arriving in that,” Cere waved a hand to indicate the priest-gifted outfit—”not showing the first bit of skin?” He shivered. “Scandalous, I tell you!”
Martin ran his hand over the dark, supple leather. “So, I’ll forever be remembered as defying the social mores of a society with no social mores?”
Cere nodded. “Exactly.”
If only Martin didn’t squeak when he walked.
Cere stood suddenly, throwing his arms around Martin and taking him by surprise with a punishing kiss. He stepped back, a sad smile on his face, turned, and left Martin’s rooms without another word.
Martin ran his fingers over his bruised lips long after Cere departed.
While Martin knew the gardens and the offices of the temple quite well, he’d never before entered the great sanctuary, only seen it through windows. Gleaming marble steps led to an entrance wide enough to admit four abreast. For a moment he recalled the beautiful countess, how she aged, and finally, how she died. She’d traveled this route.
Martin shook off the thoughts. She was beyond help now. The Chosen were no better than the demons, were they?
Once more, he longed to save Cere, but Dmitri swore Cere had his own path to walk. Someone jostling Martin from behind urged him forward into the main chamber.
He gritted his teeth but didn’t burst into flames or meet a contingent of bloodthirsty priests upon entry.
White and pink marble everywhere in the octagonally shaped room, with an arch in each wall and eight alabaster columns. A quick perusal showed the downward-leading stairs at the arch opposite the entrance.
There were no chairs, forcing the two hundred or so guests to stand. White floors, pink walls, white ceiling, pink columns. A circular, raised dais sat in the center of the room, bearing an alabaster statue meant to represent the Lady herself.
Martin did, indeed, stand out. Would the creature awake and fell him with a lightning bolt for not presenting himself in traditional worship clothes?
Well, this was him. What he worked for. A hunter. A guardian. Smirks and murmurs met him when he shouldered his way farther into the hall. Even the youngest initiates wore finery, strings of pearls adorning their hair as they flittered about the room, checking to see which notables attended the event.
One glare sent them in other directions.
Boughs of flowers festooned the marble archways of the sanctuary, adding touches of pink, green, blue, yellow, and red—and the occasional fallen petal—to the otherwise too-pristine room. Dozens of perfumes competed for dominance—the winner likely burning out Martin’s sense of smell forever.
Men and women posed around the walls, showing off flowing gowns and jewels to the greatest advantage. Several wore the same worn-out pallor of the countess before her death. Worshippers being slowly drained, most likely.
The priests couldn’t kill a highborn mage-born outright, now could they? No one with political power cared about the lower classes, but the nobility might take exception to one of their own publicly accused of magery—plus the stigma of having a mage-born family member, based on the carriage driver’s outrage at the mere suggestion.
Martin worked his way toward a few guards dressed similarly to himself at the back of the room so as not to stick out too badly, though they wore brown leather instead of black, of much lesser quality. A few he knew from his time in their ranks before his promotion to captain, some as subordinates. They murmured welcome as he took his place among them.
“You’ve come voluntarily, Captain?” one asked, a look of surprise on his face. “I drew the short straw.”
