The Guild

SIXTEEN

The linens room on the bottom-most level was large, but the presence of one Aian mage and fourteen ex-Mekhanan priests, most ranked bishop or higher, made it feel crowded.

Torven shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I still cannot find the source of those scrying-spell auras. Some sort of blurring spell makes it vanish the moment I try to focus on more than one quarter of a room where they are. They move occasionally; they don’t just sit still. And yes, I have checked for spells placed on insects. Nothing alive shows any signs of magic, and when I applied a toxic gas spell to a warded area, I found bugs and even one mouse dead when it was through, but the scryings have continued. We are just going to have to accept that we are being spied upon, save in this location, or by relocating.”

“We cannot relocate quickly, and if we do, we will be vulnerable,” Archbishop Elcarei stated. “I have Hunter Squad members still loyal to the priesthood trying to find traces of this ‘Master Tall’ but we may just have to be content with ridding the world of this stupid youth who dares call himself Guild Master of the ‘Holy’ Guild—he should be enough of a sacrifice. Don’t demons enjoy defiling the pure?”

“Some do. Others prefer to have them pre-defiled by the persons offering them,” Torven admitted. “Based on what we have discerned through interrogating the lesser residents, this ‘Lesser-Prince Demon Nurem’ of the seventh Netherhell we contacted prefers to defile his victims himself. I wouldn’t even have suggested feeding the boy meat, save it will depress the ability every peasant yokel has to cast a last-moment curse. If we try to move to a scrying-free location, we run the risk of being stopped.”

“Then we need to act fast,” Archbishop Gafford said. His voice was smooth, his words reasonable, his appearance almost charming. The men in the linen closet with him knew of his ruthless reputation, however. “If we act now, we can sacrifice, bind, and have a major power in our back pockets within the hour. From there, we can cross-bind lesser demonic powers with ease. With our sanctum secured with that much might, we can work in safety on turning this Nurem into a chained God bound to our will and rule once more. Build the fortress, gentlemen, and then you can send out raiding parties. With this Lesser-Prince under our thumb, your ‘Master Tall’ will be rendered impotent, which means he will be easily caught, caged, drained, and gutted. Does anyone disagree?”

Gafford and Elcarei looked to Torven while the other twelve men exchanged glances and shook their heads. The Aian mage rubbed his chin in thought.

“I think we should set up just a few extra precautions, before we begin,” he finally said. “I’ve made you those casks of Gating powder—strictly for travel within this world, not cross-dimensionally. I know it’s a risk to bring them into the power room, but I cannot help but think of all those horrid adventure tales from the Tower wherein the heroes arrived just in the nick of time to ruin their enemies’ plans.”

“I see,” Archbishop Gafford said, raising his brows in mild respect for the foreigner. “We’re supposed to be spaced out around the wardings to help contain the demon with our powers. If we position mirrors around the chamber, with little pots of Gating powder, anyone breaking in would not be able to stop all of us from escaping.”

“Yes, but escaping to what?” the bald-headed Bishop Hansu asked. At the confused frowns of his compatriots, he explained. “It’s all well and good to leap out of a burning building to save our lives, but are we leaping into an equally flaming haystack, into a dockside river, or into a pile of rusty farming equipment? I, for one, would rather have a landing that would put out the fire in my clothes and carry me downstream, far away from trouble. Where are we to direct our mirror-Gates? As far as I know, one can only direct them to a place one actually knows, and then adjust the view to somewhere within a mile or two of that starting point.”

“He’s right. You’re the only one with solid knowledge of what the world looks like beyond Mekhana’s borders,” Elcarei agreed.

“I suggest, gentlemen,” Gafford interjected, “that we don’t care about where the mirror-Gates are aimed, so long as they are aimed somewhere that we can safely escape to. Afterward, we can journey to a predesignated meeting place.”

“In that case, I suggest picking spots ahead of time where we can toss through some wealth to await our escape if needed,” Torven said. “I’ve been cast once before through something like a Gate with just the items I wore . . . and I would far rather not have to start from scratch like that again. If there is no need to flee, then we can use levitation spells to bring the goods back through our mirror-Gates once the Lesser-Prince is bound. If there is, then we will have already set the mirrors to scry upon a safe location, we will have funds, and we can escape as we go.”

“What’s to prevent the others from following us?” Brother Grell asked. The young man was not yet a bishop in rank, and until they regained power probably never would be, but he was one of the stronger mages within the temple grounds and thus had to be included in this shelving-flanked planning session. “If we all go through, the mirror-Gates would remain open for anyone to pursue—and don’t say one of us will have to sacrifice himself to remain behind. The power room is too huge to have one man go around casting the powder upon each mirror in turn to seal it shut again, never mind the time it would take to shift the scrying image.”

“We just need time-delayed destruction spells,” Torven stated. “Break the frame, and you shatter the opening. While the rest of you double-check the main warding circles against the diagram I made, I can make enchanted sheets of paper to be laid at the base of each mirror. Stomp on it as you go through, and it’ll explode after ten heartbeats have passed. If anyone tries to follow, it’ll be just one or two at most, and they might even be caught midway through and cut in half.”

“Clever. Do it. But first . . . where should we meet up again?” Gafford asked, his voice taking on a pointed edge. “I know the lands to the north of here far better than anything close by. I’d be relatively safe because I’d be hundreds of miles away. If you stick strictly to what you know locally, the locals might realize where you have gone and send their version of Hunter Squads after you, and you’ll be besieged within the hour if you stay wherever you go.”

“Outkingdom,” Koler grunted. The others looked at him, and he repeated himself. “We head outkingdom. Mekhana is falling apart, and from what you told us, young man,” he added, eyeing Gafford, who bristled at the patronizing words, “the Patriarch is none too happy about the idea of binding and draining demons for power, so don’t be too sure of your ‘hundreds of miles away’ protecting you. It takes less than ten minutes to transmit a short message from one end of Mekhana to the other via talker-box, after all.”

“It is gratifying to see that each of us can think, when we put our minds to it,” Torven stated dryly. “If we cannot bind a demon tonight, we head out of the kingdom. I suggest we pick a place that is not in the next kingdom over, for that matter; your neighbors would not be pleased with you if they realized you were ex-priests of their former divine enemy.”

“We each have the spells in our books—or should—that teach us how to make translation pendants for interrogating captured foreign mages,” Gafford said. “So traveling to another nation should not pose a language problem. But there is the concern that other, farther-flung lands might think a foreigner with an accent from Mekhana would be suspicious, and not want foreign priests congregating in their lands. I suggest we change professions if we have to flee.”

“To what?” Elcarei asked his former superior. “Excepting the Aian, we were all raised and trained to be priests, not journeymen of the Tinkers Guild or whatever.”

“Scholars,” the green-clad archbishop said. “We are scholars, and we will be traveling to the one place where a foreigner would not be amiss: The Great Library of Mendham, in the kingdom of Mendhi.”

“Good,” Bishop Koler grunted. “I approve.”

“Looking forward to new books to peruse, Brother Koler?” one of the other priests asked him.

He shook his head slightly, fingers first scratching at his chin, then combing through his long, streaked beard. “No, looking forward to somewhere warm for a change.”

“I certainly cannot disagree to that,” Torven said. Even Elcarei let his mouth curl up on one side in humor. “Any opposed? No? Motion passes. Let us move the mirrors, find and secure our retreating sites as quickly as possible, and begin the binding ritual. And not a word to anyone else. Take what apprentices and journeymen you can—make sure they know that only the last one through is to stomp on the paper—but only tell them where we will be headed after the mirror is destroyed.”

“How will we know when the mirror is destroyed on the other side?” Priest Grell asked.

“Bits of debris will come through the opening, before the Gate collapses and is sealed,” Gafford told him. “Make sure to shield yourselves as you count to ten, and then check the floor behind you. If something has fallen through, grab your goods and retreat from the region, in case they recognized where you went through. If nothing glasslike has fallen . . . then flee even faster.”

• • •

“Today, I serve Guildra, Goddess of Guilds, Patron of this land.”

The motorwagon jolted over a rut in the road. Alonnen clenched his jaw and continued loading his hand-cannon. Like most of the weapons developed in secret by the Munitions Guild for the Mages Guild, it was not a standard cannon. He didn’t have to measure the munitions powder and pack it into the barrel; he didn’t have to drop in the flannel charcloth or the lead ball and ram it down into place. Nor did he have to grease the openings to keep any moisture from reaching the powder and ruining it before the sparking gear could ignite it.

“Today, I shall be a warrior of the Light of Heaven, striving to defend the innocent and protect this land from the profane.”

Some clever soul with a secondary status in the Brassworks Guild had come up with clever little capsules with the powder tucked behind the payload. In Alonnen’s case, the missile being fired out of the short, heavy barrel was not one large ball, but rather, many smaller beads. The range was short, but that was fine with him; Alonnen was headed into the stone-walled confines of a temple, not facing down a foe from the far side of a battlefield. These “buck beads” might not go through a man unless fired from up close, but they would turn a chest, an arm, a leg, whatever got in their way into painfully shredded meat.

“Today, I ask my Goddess to forgive my flaws, and grant me the purified instincts to do what is right and just with my foes.”

He had the faces of Torven Shel Von and Archbishop Elcarei firmly in mind. He wasn’t entirely sure if firing a hand-cannon into their faces was going to be right or just; he only knew he’d feel safer without them in the world. Still, he tried to focus on the fact he was going to the temple to rescue the woman he loved and not to kill the most dangerous, annoying men in the world.

“Today, I, Orana Niel, dedicate myself to the works of Heaven in my efforts to defend and cleanse this world of evil.”

“Today, I, Alonnen Tallnose, dedicate myself . . .” he recited along with the other mages accompanying them into town, just as he had recited every other line given to them. They hit a pothole, and he almost lost the last two brass capsules. Catching them against the felted-wool coat of the man seated on the floor between his feet at the back of the wagon, he muttered an apology and pushed the little brass cylinders into the holes in the firing cogwheel.

Orana paused, squinting a little at each man and woman crowded into the back of the wagon, then nodded. “Good. Your auras are suitably sanctified. Keep this feeling in mind, and remember to focus your thoughts upon Guildra as you enter the former temple. Picture the various guild symbols, and imagine a woman whom you trust, respect, and think of as strong marching in there beside you, ready to help you kick out all that is evil. Remember: What we think, our Gods become.

“True, you lost control of the previous one, and you sank into hopelessness and despair as the priests seized control and power. That weight is gone. You face priest-mages who are still somewhat strong, but who are no longer backed by a False God who fed upon stolen powers. You have your own powers, and you know how to shield each other. More than that, it is you who have the power of the Heavens on your side this time. You are free to worship again . . . and you know what your Guilds honor, what cornerstones and foundation blocks underlie your best way of life.

“Put those feelings into your Goddess, and She will manifest in ways both subtle and sublime.”

The motorwagon swayed around a corner and lurched to a stop with a yelp from the driver, who had stomped on the stopper pedal. “Oy! Grinding idiots! They blocked the road.”

Craning his neck, Alonnen stared at the scene. Several other motorcarts, motorwagons, and motorhorses blocked the street, all of them marked with the hammer-on-shield of the Precinct militia. Whoever had parked them here had turned this well-traveled thoroughfare into one long, open-air parking stall, with no regard for how anyone else would get through.

When he realized there wasn’t even foot traffic in sight, Alonnen felt a stab of alarm. Scrambling out of the back of the wagon, he muttered a spell-ward around his hand-cannon before shoving it through his belt. The ward would keep it from discharging into his leg, or worse, but would only take the briefest of thought to dispell. Hopefully . . . hopefully his brother and the other officers in the Precinct militia had not just ordered their men to charge into the temple without waiting for magical protection.

Behind him, he heard a few mutterings of confusion, then the sounds of the others dropping out of the vehicle. The air was crisp and cold, and it reeked slightly of motorcart fuel and cooling metal. They were still two blocks and a side street from the temple, but it looked like the Militia had arrived in full force. That also explained why no one else was moving by vehicle in this part of town; no one could remember the last time Captain Torhammer had mobilized so much of the Precinct’s forces outside of the old parade days.

“Oy! Tall! Over here,” a voice called out from a shop door, speaking just loud enough to get Alonnen’s attention.

Glancing that way, Alonnen frowned, then widened his eyes, recognizing one of his brother’s under-officers. The man beckoned Alonnen over, then pulled back into the shop, giving him room to step inside. Yet more leather-and-metal clad bodies shifted and shuffled, giving him room to work his way deeper into the shop.

“There you are, Master Tall,” Rogen said, working his way through what had been a textiles shop. At the moment the bolts of fabric on the tables were covered with what looked like maps of the temple. Alonnen hadn’t even known such maps existed.

Gathering his wits, he addressed his brother. “I’ve brought fifteen mages with me. Including our champion.”

Turning, Alonnen looked toward the shop windows, only to see Orana right behind him. She smiled slightly, her robe pulled fully shut. Her frame looked a little odd, shoulders wider and bulkier than usual. Alonnen didn’t know what to make of that, since on the ride to the city she had seemed slender and normal.

“Ahh . . . right. Leftenant Rogen Tallnose, this is Witch-Knight Orana Niel,” he introduced politely.

His introduction immediately stirred a flurry of whispers around the men crowded into the shop. “Orana Niel!”

“Orana . . .”

“The Holy Knight is here?”

“Praise the Gods!”

“I got my cousin back, thanks to her!”

“Enough!” Rogen called out as a few started to shift forward. “You can thank her later. We have the new Guild Master of the Holy Guild to rescue, and we need to do it before these bastard ex-priests sacrifice Master Longshanks to some dredged-up demon from the Netherhells. Master Tall, I’ve a portable talker-box operator coordinating with Captain Torhammer on the other side of town. What in the way of illusions can your people cast around the temple so that they don’t see us coming?”

“Not many. I’m . . . not in charge of the main source for such things at the moment,” Alonnen was forced to admit. He had the unique experience of watching his unflappable brother’s jaw drop, and Alonnen quickly held up a hand. “It’s being used for the far greater need of sealing off the entire region from the ability to create cross-universe Portals, which will prevent more demons from being summoned. What we can do is shield you and your men. The rest will be up to Witch Orana.”

“I can toss up a static illusion if all the streets are empty of people,” Orana offered. “But there cannot be any people moving around, if you want my attention free to be able to go with you into the temple itself.”

“I vote bringing the only highly trained mage we have in the area into the temple with us,” Alonnen interjected before his eldest brother could do more than open his mouth to speak. “But what do I know? I’m just the Guild Master.”

“Don’t be a piston,” Rogen muttered back, giving him a dark look. “I’d agree to the same. What I was about to say is that we’ve already sent out an order to clear the streets. You can cast the spell as soon as you’ve ascertained it’s clear. I’ll assign you a squad to move you around between the shops and streets unseen.”

“No need. I have a scrying mirror with me.” Pulling it out of her copious sleeves, Ora moved over to the table with the maps.

Rogen leaned in close to his brother, speaking under his breath. “How did she get here just when we needed her?”

“My guild has its ways,” Alonnen murmured back. “Now that Mekha is gone, we can import teachers across the borders by land as well as other means . . . if we have stable borders. There’s peace around Heiastowne and some of its immediate neighbors, but not everyone has it or wants it.” He shifted, impatient with the preparations despite knowing they were necessary. “I don’t like waiting. I want to go in now.”

“You never served in the Militia,” Rogen reminded his brother. “Far more battles are lost through lack of care and planning than are won. What seems like a sudden ambush is often the product of hours and days, even weeks of preparation.”

“We don’t have hours, never mind days and weeks,” Alonnen countered.

“We’ll do our best,” Rogen said. “But I will not send my people into a slaughter, and I will not send yours, either.”

“And I don’t want to send them, either,” Alonnen agreed. “I’m just . . . I’m afraid they’ll interrogate her,” he muttered. “If they do . . . she’ll forget everything about the guild. She’ll forget me.”

“Try praying to that Goddess of hers,” the leftenant offered dryly. “Ask Her to intercede. That’s supposedly why Patron Deities exist, isn’t it? To pull off miracles and make amends when mortals cannot manage?”

“Yeah, but . . .”

“No buts. Start praying,” Rogen ordered him. Lifting a hand, Rogen poked his sibling in his wool-covered chest. “One more thing. Just in case she has been interrogated and has forgotten you, don’t run up and hug her. I know you. I know that’s what you’ll do. But if you do that, she won’t realize why this complete stranger is trying to embrace her, and she may panic. She might even think she’s being attacked . . . and if she calls out for help, I am duty bound to have to arrest you.”

Alonnen gave him a disbelieving look. Rogen lifted his brows in pointed, silent reply. Scowling, Alonnen folded his arms across his chest.

Rogen shrugged and folded his own arms as well, echoing his sibling’s disgruntled pose. “If I don’t do it, Captain Torhammer will, and he won’t care about your reasons why or your past relationship with her. All he’ll see is a frightened woman thinking she’s being mugged by a stranger, not just hugged. Sorry, Brother, but if she has been spell-bound to forget you, then . . . well . . . you’ll just have to start courting her all over again. From day one. Start with words, not touches.”

As much as he wanted to argue the point, Alonnen knew his elder brother was right. He hated it, but Rogen was right.

“It is done,” the Witch in their midst announced. She turned to face the leftenant, and the edge of her robe parted, showing a glint of rune-chased metal. That was what she had under her Witch-robe: armor, undoubtedly infused with spells both offensive and defensive. Some property of the sleeved, hooded cloak had hidden the aura of its magic before the folds parted, but Alonnen could see it now.

I’ll have to speak with her about how to imbue metal with various spells. We could seriously use them on things like the motorhorses and motormen, should we ever have to go to battle. There’s no guaranteeing the northern precincts won’t stop just at their own borders in their effort to throw off the old shackles and impose a new set of leaders and a new set of rules.

“Right, then,” Rogen stated, raising his voice so everyone in the shop could hear. “Master Tall, break off your . . . guildmembers into six groups. I’ll pair five sets of them with a scout to take them straight to the other groups around the perimeter. Your job, m . . . mages,” he added, stumbling a little over the dreaded M word, “is to shield our forces from any spells being cast. One of the favorite tricks of the priesthood is a sleeping spell that will hit an area around you. Another is a gluelike spell that will knock you down and lock your body to the floor . . .”

Alonnen wasn’t the only mage in the shop who nodded; they were familiar with such things and knew a few counters for them. And some of those counters aren’t even spells, he thought grimly, fingers going to the grip of his hand-cannon. Hurt a priest badly enough, and they won’t be able to concentrate to cast any spells.

“One warning,” Ora called out as Rogen came to the end of his list of known spells to counter. She flicked her hand, and a hovering illusion of a single man appeared in the air over their heads. It made the non-mages gasp and shift back, and the mages sway forward in envy at her skill. “This man, Torven Shel Von, must not die. Do not kill him.”

Dammit, Alonnen swore, wincing as he realized where her speech was headed. Gods in Heaven, You are just bound and determined to mock me, aren’t You?

“We have determined that this mage is the reason why these other priests have not unleashed unchecked demons upon this world. He is an Aian, so you will know him by the differences in his features from the common ex-Mekhanan, as you can see. He must be allowed to live and to escape, so that the various prophecies will come true regarding the successful thwarting of these demon summoners’ ambitions. Mark his face and learn it well.

“I may even have to save him,” she added grimly. It was the first time Alonnen had seen the normally serene woman unhappy. “But I have learned from personal experience that either you work with a set of prophecies to make them come true in a way that benefits you . . . or you’ll find out just how badly they can piston you from behind. Without pomade.”

Reminded abruptly of last night’s activities, Alonnen felt his cheeks burn. Rogen slanted him a bemused look, but thankfully did not ask why his middle brother had turned so red in the face. Hopefully the other men and women in the shop would think it was simply from Orana’s crude mention of a topic best reserved for the privacy of a bedroom or a brothel visit. And, dammit to a Netherhell, we won’t be able to do any of last night’s activities for however long it takes me to get her to fall in love again!

Focus, Alonnen, he ordered himself in the next breath. That’s a petty whine about a sprained finger, when the world might have all of its bones broken within the hour. Do your job, and help your brother to do his. Clearing his throat, Alonnen addressed the dozens crowded into the shop. “You heard our champion, people. Let’s go save Rexei and, hopefully, the rest of the world.”

• • •

The key in the enchanted lock warned her someone was coming. Rexei tensed, prepared to zap whoever it was with a sleep spell if they were alone. The door swung inward, revealing a clutch of five apprentices. She checked the change in her inner melody before it could actually start, and forced herself to continue humming the tunes that kept her mind clear and her body able to act, if at a price.

Moving up to her side, the foremost of the five apprentice priests, Apprentice Stearlen, poked his finger against her control collar. “On your feet, boy.”

She didn’t feel any prickling compulsion to move. Rexei had a split second to realize why, then she quickly jerked herself up off the cot. By calling her boy when she was actually a female, he had robbed the collar of its depth of control. She couldn’t let any of the apprentices know that. Not when trapped in a room with four of them blocking her only escape route.

His next order didn’t come with a wrong-gendered epithet, however. Ordered to follow the one who had poked her collar, she debated trying to escape the moment she reached the hallway. The others flanked her, clearly unwilling to take chances. Neither was she, save for one thing: they were clearly herding her toward the nearest entrance to the power room, where Mekha had once sat and drained His victims. Chanting, filled with syllables and sounds that made her stomach feel queasy, echoed from within the chamber.

Now or never! Letting her body walk forward under the spell’s compulsion, Rexei hummed out loud—softly but with every bit of intent she could muster. Two of the apprentices let out soft but audible sighs before crumpling. Their bodies hit the floor with soft thumps and velvet-draped rustles, turning the other three around. While the young men narrowed their eyes, Rexei gathered her energies for a second strike.

She hummed aloud again—and Stearlen cut her off with a grab of her throat and a sharp, “Stop that!”

One of the apprentices fell; the other staggered into the wall and braced himself, but managed to stay awake. Unable to run because she was being held up onto her toes by the taller youth’s grip, Rexei was forced to grab at his fingers in the effort to pry them off her neck. The metal collar prevented only two of his fingers from squeezing painfully into her throat; the rest dug in deep enough to choke.

Stearlen shook her even as he tightened his grip, growling, “Don’t you dare try any more spells! You will come with me and stand where I tell you, and you will not move from that spot until we tell you what to do, you little grease stain!”

Dragging her forward, he didn’t wait for the last apprentice to finish shaking off the dizziness imparted by her spell. Forced to stumble in his wake, Rexei continued to try to pry his fingers from her neck. It hurt to keep humming the warding spells in the back of her mind, but she was so close to escape, she had to get them back up and running strong so that she could . . . step out between the slanted steps of the tiers ringing the power room, endure another shake from the novice, and be ordered to stand still and be silent.

Yanking his hand off her throat, Stearlen stepped away, leaving her with an unobstructed view of the power room. Instead of crystals topping spikelike pedestals, all surrounding a huge throne at the very center, the power room had been smoothed flat and painted with ring within ring of runes and wards, symbols and sigils. Painted, not just chalked, in several hues. The foreign mage had been busy in the intervening days; if she hadn’t realized within seconds that this piece of spell-crafted artistry was going to be the source of her demise and the center of a plan to throw the world down into chaos and despair with a Netherhell invasion, she would have admired the jewel-tone lines and pastel swirls.

There were more details to see, all of which she took in quickly as Stearlen moved a few steps away. Most of the apprentices and lesser-ranked priests were scattered around the room in random clumps. Those who had strong magic, fourteen of them, had been spaced around the chamber at regular intervals, while the Aian mage who had started this mess stood in one of the cleared circles painted on the floor. Spaced between pairs of chanting mage-priests were mirrors.

They did not reflect the power room, however, but rather peered into other, mostly unfamiliar locations. For a moment, she thought she recognized one as the courtyard of a high-ranked priest’s manor which she had once upon a time delivered a sack of scrolls and letters to as a journeyman in the Messengers Guild. She only had time for a brief, angled glimpse of that mirror, though. The novice standing nearest her drew in a deep breath.

“Grandmaster Torvan!” Stearlen called out, his voice cutting through the chanting, though not stopping it. “He’s a mage!”

Rexei paled and closed her eyes, humming hard. Stearlen had said any more spells, but the ones she was using to thwart the compulsion, those technically weren’t more, they were simply the same ones as before. The hard part lay in changing their melody enough to break the controlling magics, not just shove them aside, without triggering a blinding headache.

The Aian male turned, one of the few in the chamber not chanting. “What did you say?”

“I said, he’s a mage. He knocked out Ervei, Talos, and Doric with some sort of sleeping spell,” the apprentice priest added. “Almost got Frankei, too. He’s shaking it off outside, still.”

Stepping over the painted lines, his face a pale, tight mask of fury, Torven stalked up to Rexei. Just as Stearlen had, he grabbed the wool-clad captive by the throat. “What else do we not know about you, boy?”

His magic flowed into the collar, reinforcing its obedience spells. Rexei snapped her eyes open, compelled to speak . . . but she could still direct what she had to say. “Almost my whole life?”

For a moment, his fingers tightened, hurting her throat even more than the apprentice had. With the physical force came a rush of magical energy, too. It was brief, though; just as she reached up to try to pry his fingers off, maybe even break his thumb, Torven shoved her back far enough that she swayed and staggered. Rexei winced in pain as the compulsion to stay in one place attacked her nerves for daring to move half a step back. She quickly stepped forward again.

Torven grimaced, mind spinning rapidly through the choices. “Light blue paint!” he snapped at Stearlen—then jabbed a finger at their captive’s metal-banded throat. “You, Rexei Longshanks, or whatever you call yourself, will stay right here until one of us commands you to move. You will obey our commands, and you will do nothing to disrupt this ritual.

“I said, get me the light blue paint,” he repeated impatiently, whirling on Stearlen. “I have to add in the fact that this idiot is a mage and reword the oathbinding contract to account for anything else this idiot is that we do not yet know and don’t have the time to find out—now, or I’ll sacrifice you to bind Nurem, instead!”

The only relief Rexei had from the despair of her situation was the abrupt shift from gloating to pallid fear on the apprentice’s face. He stumbled backward, then turned and dashed for a collection of pots and jars located on one of the lower tier risers a third of the way across the room. The Aian followed him at a more normal pace, hands fisted at his sides. Rexei struggled with her countering harmonies, trying to restrengthen them, but the mage had imbued extra energy into her collar, making it hard to concentrate.

The priests spaced around the edges of the room continued to gather energies via chants and gestures that were at odds with the horror of the moment, given how graceful the slow swoop and scoop of their hands and arms looked. They collected those energies into crystals vaguely similar to the ones she had seen when getting the prisoners out of this horrid place. Using some sort of hovering spell, Torven Shel Von floated above the painted runes lining the smooth stone of the floor and carefully applied new symbols around the edge of a medium-sized circle set right next to the edge of the largest one in the center.

As much as she did not want to be surprised by what was coming, Rexei forced herself to close her eyes and concentrate. Humming the base melody under her breath, adding in the harmonies in her mind, she struggled to break the collar. A slight shift of her weight, half a foot’s length back . . . another foot . . . Her head ached, but she—bumped into someone.

“So you can cast in spite of that thing,” a male voice said.

She belatedly recognized the quiet murmur as Frankei’s voice, the novice she had not successfully put to sleep with her second spell. She hadn’t had much contact with him during her Servers Guild efforts, but she did know him as one of the quieter priest apprentices. Now she felt his hand on the back of her neck, sending a shiver of fear down her spine as he spoke.

“Cast and move . . . despite being told not to go anywhere.” He did not throttle her from behind, but he did do something that nudged at the side of her throat. “Don’t shout, and don’t fight,” he ordered softly . . . and eased away the collar. His hand gripped her shoulder, holding her still even as hope exploded upward in her heart. “You’ll still need a huge distraction to get out of here . . . and from what these men have planned, you’re going to need a friend hidden among them. Frankei Strongclip. That’s my name. Remember it.”

She didn’t turn, didn’t look at him. Not that she needed to; Frankei was one of those young men who had a bland, ordinary, forgettable face, with the typical rectangular face and dark brown hair of most southern-born Mekhanans. Even his dark brown eyes weren’t too unusual, though they were several shades darker than her own. But she did whisper, “Why?”

“I served because it was either serve or be drained. But that was the coward’s way,” she heard him confess just behind her right ear, his words barely audible over the chanting of the rest. It looked like the apprentices were spacing themselves out to guard the various openings to the three layers of the outer rings where the cells were. Since there was a doorway tunnel behind her, it probably looked to the others like Frankei was guarding this one. He continued after a pause, and a sigh. “I stayed because it was either flee and be at fault for what these men want to do to the world—cowardice again—or find out what their plans are and find a way to thwart them.

“Now stay here. I need to go get a jug of paint thinner, and I want you to hide the fact I’m not still—”

His light blue artistry done, Torven gestured with a fist. Magic closed around Rexei’s body, yanking her up off her feet. “You will stand in this circle, Longshanks. You, Stearlen, get this pot and paintbrush out of here. Pay attention, everyone!” he called out sharply. “We are about to begin. No more delays!”

Freed of the collar, but trapped within the circle painted in shades of pale blue, bright yellow, dark red, and more, Rexei struggled to free herself from the Aian’s magic with her meditation songs. She could slip free of just about any spell, given time. Unfortunately . . . he was strong. Very strong, enough that she wasn’t sure if she had enough time, because this wasn’t a collar she had grown used to over the last little while; this was a completely new warding spell. It gripped and held her body still as the chanting shifted in tone, though at least she could still breathe, blink, and see.

She saw Torven, the Aian mage, walking about a foot off the ground on a patch of misty-looking air, chanting something and scattering some sort of gritty powder in a very carefully laid circle within the greatest circle drawn on the floor. As soon as the powder circle was complete, he retreated to a heavily rune-warded ring a quarter of the way around the chamber from her.

The chanting of the others changed, and now light streamed in from every crystal held by one of the fourteen priests and bishops, and even two archbishops positioned around the room, gauging from the size of the medallions displayed on their velvet-covered chests. Despite the weight and warmth of her woolen clothes, Rexei shivered. It was clear the ex-priests had practiced in the two-plus weeks since the Aian had offered them an alternative source of power. It was enough that their chant—a short, repetitive, almost brutal set of notes and words—threatened to overwhelm her own inner melodies.

Her ears weren’t the only thing under assault; the glow of energy pouring into the painted circles and runes filled her eyes with aetheric glimpses of great domes rising up from each circle, of shimmering walls of force emerging from each symbol and set of mystical words. Squinting to enhance her view of the energies, she realized these were not domes but were actually bubbles, with hidden halves sinking down into the bedrock far enough to seal it off from the rest of the world.

On the bright side, no demon could dig down through the floor and escape the wards that way. On the dark side . . . I haven’t nearly enough energy of my own to counter this and esca—

Torven shouted in a voice that thundered louder than any munitions-packed cannon, making Rexei shout and clamp her hands over her ears. The others winced, but the priests kept chanting and the apprentices—minus Frankei—kept watch with one eye on the ritual and one eye on the passages into this giant round chamber, each determined to do their part. Squinting against the rolling, echoing, overwhelming words, Rexei realized Torven no longer held her bodily in place. Only the ward-spheres did that.

The shouting ended. Stepping forward, she lifted her hand to the edge of the transparent sphere. It was and was not there; her fingers met firm resistance, but she could feel a slight draft cutting through the room at the same time, proof she would not suffocate. She could, however, feel the magic, like resting one’s fingers lightly on the belly of a resonant instrument. It was the same short brute of a tune the priests had just finished chanting.

“Every piece of magic has a voice, Rexei,” she remembered her mother saying. “Every spell, every ward, every spark of energy. It all sings its own song. Learn to match the song, and you can learn to mimic the song. Mimic the song, and you can hide in that song . . .”

So let’s see if I can match and hide in this song, Mum.

To do so, she had to turn around and move to the back of the circle holding her prisoner, so that she had the shortest distance to push through the rest of the painted runes and whatever spells they held. To do that, she had to open her eyes first so that she could see where to go . . . and that meant she saw the black mist spewing out from a tiny spark of nothingness about knee-high in the center of the largest dust-ringed circle.

Between one breath and the next, that spark snapped wide, spewing forth a hot wind of sulphurous, acidic hatred in a ring—no, a sphere, that should not have been there. Something defined by that line of dust poured onto the ground. Within its confines, within a soap bubble of an innermost ward, a veil between sanity and that burning, dark-shrouded Netherhell, a Monster stood in towering view. Terrified, Rexei dropped to her knees.

Blackened, scale-plated skin, burning fire for eyes, long claws upon which something torn and bloody had been snagged . . . the demon stared through the sphere connecting the two realms . . . licked its lips with a long, forked tongue . . . and transformed.

“Hhhhumannnsss,” the monster hissed, shrinking down from something that filled the sphere to something that was merely half its size, if half again as large as any actual human in the chamber. Pale pink skin took the place of some of those scales, and the demon morphed from a monstrous bulk of muscles to a well-toned chest, normal-seeming arms, and hands that . . . were still long clawed and bloodied. The waist and legs were still black scaled, with twin tails, and spikes growing out of the man-thing’s black mane. He almost looked handsome . . . but the eyes were still afire. That mouth, sensuous and shiveringly cruel, quirked up on one side in amusement. “You ssseeek to bind me?”

Goddess . . . ! Guildra, help me! Rexei pleaded, praying as she had never prayed in her life. If they turn this . . . this thing into a God . . . Help me! How do I stop this from happening?

. . . Patience . . .

Guildra? Rexei blinked, but darting her gaze around showed no female other than her disguised self in the chamber. No divine Patron to protect her.

“Nurem. You are summoned to the Veil to be oathbound to our service. We offer you this boy for you to do with as you wish, body and soul, in return for your utter obedience and, through it, your elevation to bonded, subservient, but extremely powerful Godhood,” Torven stated.

Nurem’s flaming eyes shifted, and his head turned, taking in the various figures in sight. He returned his attention to Torven. “Whhhich boy?”

“That boy,” Torven stated, pointing at Rexei. “That young man, who goes by the name of Rexei Longshanks. He is a mage, among other things—whatever he is, we offer him to you if you will offer yourself in total obedience to us . . . with myself as your master, and my fellow binders your controllers. Those who oppose us, we will feed to you or slay in your name, and in turn you will give your powers to us to reshape this world for our needs . . . and your occasional pleasures.”

Rexei shuddered as those burning streaks of fire were turned toward her. “Thissss . . . boy? You give thissss boy to me?” The other side of Nurem’s mouth quirked up in humor. “I acsssept.”

Reveal yourself! Now!