Tinderbox, page 13
“Go to the nether-hells!” Bram forced the words through his teeth.
“I had hoped to not have to convince you.” Serval held one hand over Bram’s midsection. The bonds continued to tighten. Although still unseen, they changed shape and became thorn-points pressing against his skin to pierce his flesh. Bram didn’t know if he bled, just that his body was on fire.
Bram opened his mouth to scream, but Serval made a quick movement over his mouth with his free hand. His scream was silenced.
Tears burned beneath his closed lids, escaping down his cheeks. If he could, he would have begged Serval to stop. Anything to have this awful pain cease. His stomach lurched, the gorge rising. He tried to force it back, knowing if it filled his throat, he would choke. Please stop.
“You’ve had enough, I see.” Serval made a second motion with his hand. Air rushed back into Bram’s lungs.
“Stop.”
“Very well.” Serval stepped back and the thorns receded, bonds loosed and fell away.
Bram lay there, once again in control of his body. He took deep breaths and concentrated on willing his stomach to quiet. A shudder passed through him, an aftereffect of the torture.
“Let me.” The gentleness in Serval’s voice filled Bram with disgust. The Dokkalfar prince passed his hands over Bram’s body. Although there was no visible sign, despite himself he sighed in relief as the pain faded.
“Now,” Serval said, “I hope we will have no more instances?”
Bram didn’t respond, only turned his face aside.
“I did not lie when I said I would give you pleasure.” The tenderness in Serval’s voice was an affront. He seemed to think that Bram was a cherished lover, not someone he’d tortured to get his way.
Serval ran his hands across Bram’s bare chest. The bile rose again as Serval pressed his mouth on Bram’s stomach, his tongue tracing patterns. Bram swallowed.
Serval lifted his gaze. “You can call out my name if you like.”
“Just get on with it.” Bram’s fists clenched around the fabric of the sheets.
“Come now, Bram, it won’t be as bad as all that.” Serval moved closer to the head of the bed and grasped Bram under his chin. “After this time, you will freely come to me.”
A sharp crack reverberated through the room. Serval straightened, and Bram turned his head just as the door splintered and exploded, spewing wood fragments across the room. Light poured in and a figure stood in shadow against it, illuminated by the dozens of wil-o-wisp coming behind her.
“Bastard!” Isbet held her staff over her head. “You violate what’s mine!”
The staff came down, Serval’s body jerked in a single spasm, and then an unseen force threw him against the far wall. Bram scrambled to his knees on the bed and watched as Isbet advanced into the center of the room. She struck again, as Serval was gathering himself.
“Bitch! How dare you touch me?” Serval’s rage burned through the air; Bram could feel it. Isbet fought, standing firm for a precious moment, her staff held in front of her, the face of the talisman alive, with red light pouring from its mouth and eyes.
Wounds appeared on Isbet’s arms, like knife cuts across her skin. The dressing gown she wore ripped in places, exposing her. She didn’t seem to notice. Her brow furrowed. Bram could even see the sweat gathering there and between her breasts. It was a battle of strength and silence.
Should he intervene? Bram couldn’t move again, as though a little part of Isbet’s magic kept him in place. No, Bram thought. I can’t, not in this.
Another sharp crack, louder than the door shattering, and Isbet went to one knee. Serval was winning; Bram could see it in the wild look in his eyes and the manic grin that split his face.
Ancient wood groaned. The floor split, creating a great crack between the two combatants. Whatever force held Bram released him and he moved across the bed until his back met the wall. The bed was against it, underneath a circular window. Bram would have escaped through it and gone for help, but they were at least four stories up.
The battle continued. Serval was forcing Isbet backward. The crack lengthened, coming close to the bed. Bram wanted to call out to Isbet, to encourage her, but he knew that would only prove to be a distraction.
Bram willed her to win and he prayed to the Triune for her and for the strength of the Holy Family to fill her. If she lost this battle—
Isbet shifted the staff in her hands. Her movements were lethargic, and the force of Serval’s attack hampered them. With a cry, she brought the staff down once again, driving the tip into the wood floor. It screamed, or was that Isbet? Bram couldn’t tell. Another crack shot out from where the staff was embedded, crossing the larger crack, which expanded.
“Don’t, you stupid bitch!” There was fear in Serval’s voice.
Isbet wrenched the staff from the floor, held it aloft for a moment, and then brought it down again. The cracks split apart, and vines burst through the openings, forming a crisscross of interlocking branches, separating Bram from both Isbet and Serval. They continued to grow, shearing through the room like an ax blade. There was a ponderous groan like a giant turning and stretching after a decade’s long sleep. A great crash and the room lurched backward, throwing Bram hard against the wall. He struggled forward, on his hands and knees, reaching for anything to hold on to.
The room split apart, the wood giving way, exploding into chunks and splinters. A cry erupted from Bram’s lips as the section fell out from under him and hurled him into space.
Chapter Fourteen
Isbet lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, watching the movements of the liquid light as it made its way along the Vine. She supposed some people would look at this display as the life’s blood of the plant. Well, it wasn’t blood per se, but it was life energy and the food that nourished the Vine.
The offshoot that she observed was a thick branch growing from a hole in the floor and had traveled its way in a great arch across the ceiling. Isbet wondered about safety, considering if this offshoot grew it would take a good chunk of the room with it.
Her worry wasn’t what was keeping her awake. Isbet listened to the world that surrounded her. Because the Vine was everywhere, she could sense movement and hear the beating hearts and their breathing, slow in sleep. There was the soft touch of the wil-o-wisp as they alighted on the floor or attached themselves to walls, their glow always keeping some section of the palace lit. It was not peaceful, for Isbet also sensed the various magics that stole their way along the Vine’s length. She dared not trace them back to their sources. Isbet didn’t know where they would lead.
Isbet noticed then that something was different in the offshoot. A knot had appeared along the smooth branch that hadn’t been there a few minutes ago. The wood was malleable, shaped by unseen hands. Isbet continued to watch, interested, as a dark brown face appeared.
“Well, it’s about time,” Isbet said.
Gaemyr screwed up his expression. “I was enjoying myself and not in the least bit of a hurry to return.”
“So, I gathered,” Isbet said. “Have you satisfied your hunger?”
“Indeed!” Gaemyr grinned. “I will not have to feed for weeks to come, barring any accidents or overuse of my power.”
“I see nothing in the foreseeable future,” Isbet said, but she hadn’t prepared herself for a true scrying. “Do you sense the lines of magic traveling through the Vine?”
His expression sobered. “Yes, I do. The strongest is coming from far away, but whoever is meddling in things here is causing their share of damage.”
Isbet worried her lower lip. “A favor, if you don’t mind?”
Gaemyr must have been in high spirits, for he said, “Of course, my dear.”
“See if you can discover anything further. If we find one of those guilty of this tampering, they may lead us to others,” Isbet said.
“A novel idea,” Gaemyr replied. “Perhaps I’ll do more – ah – investigation?”
“Don’t go skulking about where you don’t belong,” Isbet scolded.
Gaemyr made a noise of disagreement before fading back into the Vine.
Isbet blew out a breath. “How that damnable staff vexes me sometimes.” Still, she supposed if Gaemyr found something useful it wouldn’t hurt having the information, or so she hoped.
It seemed only moments later that Gaemyr returned “Isbet!”
“What? What is it?”
“You must come now! There are treacherous doings with your prince.”
Isbet was off the bed in an instant, grabbed her trousers, and pulled them on. Gaemyr fell into her outstretched hand.
“Where?” Isbet didn’t bother with her boots. On bare feet, she darted down the hall, her footfalls soft on the wood.
“His rooms,” Gaemyr said. “He is there.”
“Damn it to the nether-hells.” Isbet stopped at the head of the corridor leading to Bram’s room and pressed her back against the wall. With a quick look around the corner, Isbet saw two naga standing guard in front of Bram’s room, both loyal to Serval, no doubt.
Now came the problem of how to get past the guards. Naga had their own type of magic that Isbet had studied, but she didn’t sense those two had the Gift. However, there was still the problem of how to deal with them and get into the room.
“Gaemyr, I will need your power.”
Gaemyr sighed. “Very well.”
Isbet closed her eyes. Her breathing became steady and deep. She allowed herself not to fall but to step carefully into the world between. When she opened her eyes, the veils between worlds appeared as sheer gossamer curtains and yet they kept the entrance to the mortal plane and other worlds sealed off. They moved as though stirred by a gentle breeze as Isbet drew on their power.
Wil-o-wisp gathered about her, drawn by the gathering. Isbet spoke to them in her mind’s eye and they obeyed. With Gaemyr in her grasp, Isbet spread her arms wide and sprinted down the short length of the hall, dragging the veils with her, wrapping them around her arms, shaping them to her needs, and the wil-o-wisp surrounded her, passing through them, bringing them alive with light.
The first naga turned, bared its teeth at Isbet, and lowered the halberd, the deadly tip aimed at Isbet’s chest. His movements alerted the second but as he turned, Isbet flung the veils forward. The fabric wrapped around them in a silk cocoon. Isbet tightened them around the naga, securing them, then she brought her arms down and pulled the naga to the floor. Only another Gifted could free them.
Isbet did not slow. Now drawing on Gaemyr’s own power, Isbet focused his energy and touched the tip of the staff to the door. Fissures appeared, pulsing with light at first, then the door blasted apart in great chunks.
Isbet only took a moment to assess. Serval stood by the bed on which Bram lay. The room stank of darkness and treachery and Isbet knew what Serval planned without explanation. He turned to her and even in the semi-darkness, she witnessed first surprise then hate in his expression. She had to strike now before he gathered himself.
“Bastard! You violate what’s mine!” Isbet brought Gaemyr down in a violent motion, pulling more veils with her, melding Gaemyr’s power with them. As with the naga, she surrounded Serval, binding him for a precious moment, then, focusing Gaemyr, she sent a pulse along the veils. Isbet pivoted to her right, the veils tightened, wrenching Serval off his feet and sending his body airborne.
Isbet could no longer use the veils. Manipulating them as she had drained her energy but also, if one of them moved aside, something unpleasant might escape into the mortal world and Isbet did not want that on her head.
Isbet drew on a different source, the deep earth that birthed the witches and was their true power. But Isbet hadn’t figured that the Vine itself would surround her with the energy of its own volition. It was familiar and foreign at the same time, but Isbet wasn’t about to question it. The energy smelled of the loam of the earth, gathered at Isbet’s command, and her first strike sent Serval to his knees.
“Bitch! How dare you touch me?”
Serval also drew on the Vine and Isbet sensed his skill exceeded hers. She would die if she did not defeat him. Serval’s initial attack bathed her in the fire. Gaemyr was her shield, but the spell punished him without mercy. Gaemyr’s struggle was hers.
They fought in silence. There was no taunting or banter as the books and plays often wrote, nor attempts to distract or enrage so one would make a fatal error. Isbet always thought such writings were ridiculous. Spells took concentration, focus, and talking wasn’t something you wanted to be doing. All her focus was on Serval.
Serval continued to batter her shield and Isbet searched for an opening, but Serval refused to give her the opportunity. One slip and she would have the advantage again. Small bits of Serval’s power penetrated her defenses, like heated knives ripping across her flesh, tearing at her dressing gown. It was not her concern. She wasn’t some virginal maiden embarrassed at a hint of exposed flesh.
Sweat gathered, pooled between her breasts, and ran in rivulets down her face. Serval was almost through. Isbet let go, dropping to one knee as the barrage caught her. The smell of her own burning flesh filled her nostrils.
Isbet was taking the full force of his power, and it threatened to rip her apart. She slammed Gaemyr into the supple wood, driving the point deep as she copied Serval, taking directly from the Vine and the source lines of magic she had seen. She knew the cost. If she disrupted the various magics, she could draw someone’s, or something’s attention, and she was uncertain if the Vine would allow her to delve deeper into its heart. She drew her power from the earth, but she was not a true Child of the Vine.
She had little choice.
The floor cracked, the jagged seam running across the room. Isbet tried to draw in a breath, but the surrounding air burned. She switched Gaemyr to one hand, her arms weighted down by the oppressive heat. She made Gaemyr her anchor by driving him into the floor again and drew on the same force that Serval used.
A sound filled her ears, its origin uncertain to her. It was as though she had fallen into the middle of a surreal dream which allowed her to see Serval’s expression of shock. The floor split the opposite way, crossing the first crack.
“Don’t, you stupid bitch!”
Isbet heard the fear in Serval’s voice. The Vine was filling her with its power, drawing it away from Serval, and what Isbet feared would happen did as new growth burst through the cracks, fed by the magics that Isbet had drawn upon and by her own life.
She could no longer see Serval, only hear the ancient, ponderous sound of the old wood stretching itself out, seeking to expand after so many decades of dormancy. The room dropped from under her feet and Isbet leaped, the offshoots heeding her silent call. She had not expected them to obey her will, but they did. She climbed up the tangle of supple young vines, escaping death.
Then came the scream.
“Bram!” Isbet didn’t think twice. She let loose of Gaemyr and dove from her safe perch. The offshoots and branches parted, allowing her an opening just as Bram fell. She reached for him. Her fingers brushed against his, her other hand reaching—
The Vine heeded her call again, or so she believed. There was something different in this power. It was not familiar to her as before. It filled her mind and body, intertwining with her soul where tiny seedlings sprouted and grew, nourished by that part of her.
It seemed for a moment they would both fall to their deaths, but Isbet reached with one hand – no, her hand had changed. It was smooth and strong, and it grasped Bram by the wrist, wrapping itself around. There was a violent jerk and Isbet was certain her arm would pull out of its socket, but she felt her muscles tighten and Bram’s weight seemed of no consequence. Her other hand closed around a branch, but it seemed the distance between her and it was long.
Below them wil-o-wisp lit the open area. People were coming from their homes and rooms, carrying their own lights. The ground was close now, although her other hand still grasped the branch high above her.
“Oh, Triune,” Bram said.
“Bram, I’m letting you go.”
He looked up at her, his expression a mixture of concern and fear, but she nodded and untwined her hand from his. Bram dropped to the ground below. Isbet released the branch and dropped beside him.
“Isbet!” Bram rushed to her, catching her as her knees gave way. The familiar awareness that was her power was now entangled with the Vine around her soul. Her body had not adjusted to the change and it reacted as her stomach turned and it flushed her skin with fever. Her mouth and throat were so dry no words would come.
“Here!” Someone pressed a cup to her lips and cool water washed down her throat. So sweet and crisp, she’d never sampled such, and the Vine welcomed it.
“Isbet.” Bram knelt beside her. He ran his fingers across her temple, brushing back her hair. Isbet would have never allowed such under normal circumstances, but she found his touch comforting.
“It’s all right.” Isbet wasn’t certain why she said that. She supposed she looked strange to Bram. Her arms lay out on either side of her, stretched far out of proportion. It would have to do, however, for Isbet didn’t have the strength to say any more.
Chapter Fifteen
The storytellers and the scholars were wrong. Bram did not witness his life flashing before his eyes. As the room broke apart and Bram fell into nothing, pitch darkness surrounded him. At least he wouldn’t see the end coming.
Then light filled his eyes and fell like a waterfall out of the gaping hole. Not water but wil-o-wisp. They fell behind him by the dozens and a figure came behind them.
“Bram!”
A brief touch of her fingers. At least, he thought, I have that.
