The Sword and the Soul Ch. 03

But then, if he did that, Marilla would be all alone with Norn. And gods above only knew what designs that witch had, and how the Lady might be caught up in them. Wouldn't be very gentlemanly to leave her all alone. He thought about Norn, her smug smile as she'd ridden him passionately, and he wanted to hate her, but as he pictured her body wrapped around his, him buried in her intoxicating heat to the hilt, he found he couldn't. She was conniving and duplicitous, but all the same there was something charming about her. Maybe she's done some permanent injury to my mind if that's the way I think.

Mag breathed in deep through his nose and blew out a long, heavy sigh.

"What Mag man think?" asked Varak.

"I guess I'll stay," said Mag. "Can't really say why. Just don't really feel like leaving, I guess."

Varak flicked his tongue out to taste the air, staring at Mag with his inscrutable gaze. Presently he spoke.

"Mag man take offer, Varak take offer too."

Mag huffed with surprise. "Yeah? Well, I'd love to have your company, friend. I gotta say, you're growing on me."

"Mag grow on Varak also."

Mag grinned and scratched at his whiskers. "You didn't say 'Mag man' that time."

"Mag more like lizard than man, Varak think."

A deep belly laugh burbled up from Mag at that, and Varak laughed too, doing that raspy thing he did. They embraced, clapping each other hard on the back like lizards were wont to do, and Varak thumped his tail on the ground heavily. Then Varak took up his polearm and departed for the hollow, promising to be back at nightfall or the following morning at the very latest, barring any unforeseen delays.

Which left Mag alone in Seleca Castle, already missing his lizard friend more than he thought he would.

#~#~#~#~#~#~#

The Magus Tower was on the outskirts of the castle grounds, in the northeast corner but still within the walls. Tower was a charitable word for it: the cylindrical building was only two stories tall, with a crenelated crown on its roof. It had tall, arched window slits at each level, facing each cardinal direction, but the shutters were closed and bolted from the inside. The only point of ingress was the studded wooden door, painted red.

Typical of a wizard. They must have their special tower, where they can privately think about how wise and skillful they are while they pull themselves off.

"You don't like magi much, do you?" asked Marilla, barely whispering the words, not that there was anyone around this secluded section of the castle grounds to hear her.

Let us say I have had some bad experiences. There are several magi I quite like, but those are a rarity amongst their stodgy, tiresome guild.

Marilla shrugged, wondering if Norn could sense the motion, and deciding the witch probably could. Brand was the only magus Marilla really knew. His predecessor, Magus Altein, had been at this post in her grandfather's time, but after Old Duke Markim's death, Altein had been reassigned by the High Council of Magi, and Brand was installed in his place. Other magi had visited Seleca from time to time, but they were older men: council members or their associates, with long white beards and eyes hidden behind thick looking glasses, who cloistered themselves with Brand in the Magus Tower and said little to Marilla save for vague platitudes about wisdom and virtue.

Brand was all she really had to go on, and from what she gathered, he was somewhat unusual within his order. Her father said Brand was young for his post at a Duke's court, and many lords would have taken that as a slight by the High Council and protested with great offense, but Rovish was happy to have someone closer to his own age to befriend. And Brand had been a friend to her father, though the Duke took everyone for a friend, truth be told. He always was too trusting.

But there was something hidden behind Brand's congenial words and deferential demeanor. He was always subtly angling for some end of his own, and had a way of getting people to do things without them ever knowing they'd been manipulated. It was clear he had ambition to a higher station, but as to what was in his mind, Marilla had no idea. The thought of violating the privacy of his tower, and perhaps learning some of his secrets, was thrilling.

"What if he's in there?" she whispered.

Then you make up some pretext. You are the Lady of Seleca, after all. He cannot refuse you. And you needn't speak to me aloud. Speak in your mind, and I shall hear you.

Marilla gave it a try.

Like this?

The words resounded weirdly in her skull, like she'd shouted at the top of her lungs.

Yes. But you needn't scream, I am not deaf.

Marilla tried again, focusing her thoughts in an attempt to modulate them so they didn't reverberate so much. She pictured speaking in a normal tone and volume.

Is this better?

She felt a flood of approval from Norn through their bond. Marilla had thought speaking without voice was incredible enough, but emotion without words was stunning, and she marvelled at closely their Souls were tied together.

We are about as close as two people can be, My Lady. And I must say, you take to this quickly. I believe you may have the makings of a Soul Witch.

Marilla ignored that comment. She told herself that she wanted nothing more to do with Soul Witches, and the sooner she was rid of Norn, the better. Instead she turned her attention to the task at hand.

The tower door proved unlocked. Inside, the spacious, circular first floor chamber was dominated by Brand's scholarly and magical accoutrement. A massive writing desk carved from dark red wood was covered in tomes that lay open, several quills of different lengths and sizes, stoppered inkwells, sheafs of parchment in neat stacks, and an unlit brass candelabra. Along the walls were a half dozen shelves stacked with a stupendous amount of books, some skinny quartos and others great big grimoires, bound in leather of all colors, most of the titles scrawled in runic characters along the spines. The books did not all belong to Brand, but had rather been accumulated by each magus to occupy the tower since Marilla's great-grandfather, Abin Silver, had built it.

He's not here, Marilla thought to Norn. She went to the desk and lit the candelabra from the flint and tinder Brand kept nearby.

You cannot be sure, came Norn's reply. You have not checked upstairs yet.

A set of stairs wound along the wall, leading to the tower's upper level. Marilla, clutching the candelabra, crept up them slowly, but the higher chamber was dark and silent. It was rather spartan compared to below, consisting only of Brand's bed, dresser, washbasin, and an armoire for his personal effects.

There, said Norn. The armoire. Something is amiss about it.

Marilla gave the piece of furniture a second look, squinting in the dim light, and then she saw it. The door was slightly ajar. She tiptoed closer and found a faint light shining through the crack. Her heart pounding, Marilla opened the door and peered inside. Within the armoire was not clothing, as one would expect, but a hidden passage and a second set of stairs, descending back to the first level.

As I thought. The first level was not quite circular, nor is this one. A hidden chamber in the shape of a crescent moon. The Magi do love their secrets, and the symbolism of the moon must seem terribly portentous to a wizard. Shall we descend?

Marilla hesitated. Is it safe? I hear nothing from below.

He's probably cast a spell of silence, replied Norn. Which means he can't hear us, and we can't hear him, until we cross the threshold of his spell. And thus he has something he wishes to hide. It is imperative that we investigate. But do not be afraid. I am with you.

Marilla wasn't quite sure that fact comforted her. Still, she couldn't deny her burning curiosity to at last discover the magus' secrets. The fact that he was concealing an entire part of his tower from the Duke was shocking enough. What else could he be doing in private?

We could seduce him. I am sure he would fall victim to your charms and reveal all of his secrets.

Marilla chose to ignore that comment as well. Setting down the candelabra, she climbed into the armoire and descended the hidden steps gingerly, as if each footfall might set off some hidden alarm. Her back was pressed to the wall, making her feel like a thief creeping in the night. About halfway down the stairs she felt an odd popping sensation, and then, as Norn had predicted, she heard a voice.

"--forced to act on my own, for I had no time to consult you." This was Brand's pleasing tenor. "But isn't it better to keep the mercenary and the lizard close, where they are easily dealt with?"

"You are not half so clever as you imagine," said another voice, and to hear it made Marilla's blood run cold. It was a woman, she thought, but unnervingly distorted, as if heard from a great distance and masked by a crackling sound. "The mercenary and the lizard are unimportant, and you waste your time with them."

Who is he speaking to?, asked Marilla. But Norn, usually so loquacious, was silent.

"It is the witch we must deal with," continued the woman, her words muffled by a pop and a hiss. Fire, Marilla realized. It was like she spoke in the midst of a raging fire. "The handbill has gotten her attention. No doubt she is already in the castle, in disguise or hiding, which is precisely where we want her."

The witch, thought Marilla. That's you, isn't it?

You must go closer, answered Norn, ignoring the question, and Marilla thought she detected a note of concern in the witch's tone. We must be sure.

Sure of what? But again, Norn had fallen silent.

Marilla had no choice but to continue, whether from Norn's insistence or her own burning need to know the truth. She reached the bottom of the stair, and could see a fraction of the hidden chamber's wall. A strange tapestry hung there, frayed and ancient, and on its surface were bizarre glyphs woven in dark purple thread. A shelf held jars, pots, and amphoras containing all manner of powders and unguents, the use of which Marilla could not guess.

"Shall I seek her out, then?" asked Brand, his voice clear and close, and Marilla detected a strained note in it, as if he was making a great effort.

"No," came the reply. "There is no need. You would only be destroyed by one such as her. I have dispatched a Soulseeker. It will find her Soul, effulgent as it is, and leech it away from her, until there is nothing left. There in the castle, away from her cavern fastness, she is vulnerable, and will not sense my hunter until it is too late. Perhaps my pet has already found her."

With trepidation, Marilla peered around the corner, and the sight there shocked her to her core. Magus Brand was nude, and knelt on a cushion, slowly stroking himself off. He was handsome and had an athletic build, though he was certainly not as muscular as Mag. His cock, though no longer than was typical for a man of his build, was impressively girthy. No wonder he was straining to speak. His long, black hair, released from its tail, swished gently in the air with the motions of his arm.

Beside Brand was a low pedestal, and on it an open book, an ancient grimoire bound in black leather with gold metal at each corner. On the flagstones before him, the magus had scrawled a viciously complex glyph in purple chalk, no doubt copied from the book, and the character burned with sickly light. Looking closer, Marilla realized that a pearly substance also shined on the surface of the the glyph, evidence that Brand had already come at least once.

Yet the strangest and most terrifying sight was above the glyph, hanging suspended in the air. It was as though an aperture in reality had been opened there, and within it Marilla could see an intense conflagration. She knew instinctively that she was seeing a portal to the Other Place, which Brand had opened, and through which he was speaking with some manner of Soulkin. The flames were mesmerizing, dancing and gyrating in hypnotic whorls. As Marilla stared intently, she could just make out two eyes like blazing rubies in the flames, staring back.

"I must continue my work here in Fal'Angrael," said the woman in the flames. "You have your tasks on that side. Soon I shall tread there once more in person. Now give me your final offering and be done."

"Yes, Exalted One," said Brand, and with a sigh he began stroking faster, his hand becoming a blur on his cock. All of his muscles tensed up, and then he gave a strained cry as a stupendous amount of seed jetted from the tip, dousing the glyph he'd drawn in more of the pearly substance. It glimmered with silver light, and Marilla watched transfixed as Brand's seed flowed into the shape of the character. Then the glyph his seed had created rose into the air, holding its shape as it hovered towards the portal. As it neared the breach it seemed to be sucked in, streaming like quicksilver into the rift, and Marilla heard a sigh of contentment from the other side. Then, with a sound like a fire being quenched, the portal winked closed, and the chalk-drawn glyph burned itself out. Brand collapsed on his side, panting heavily, all his energy spent.

Who was that person in the flames?, asked Marilla. What was she talking about?

But Norn was silent once more. Marilla wondered if the witch was simply deep in thought. Then a sudden reply came, shouted so loud that Marilla clenched her teeth in pain as the thought reverberated in her mind.

Help! pleaded Norn. A Soulseeker. Beneath the gazebo. It's killing me. Please.

And then silence, deafening after the crashing din of Norn's cry. Marilla was at a loss. The prone figure of Brand lay on the ground before her, helpless, and she didn't know what to do with him. She could summon the guards to arrest him, but on what charge? Polishing his staff? He no doubt had an explanation ready for his secret chamber, and he'd simply deny all knowledge of the woman in the flames.

She could kill him, of course. Marilla had no martial training, but to end the life of an unconscious man couldn't be that hard. There were a number of ways it could be done. Bash his head in with one of his books, or make him drink one of those terrible potions on his shelf. Set fire to his tower, even. But she had never killed another person before, and she wasn't sure she had the stomach for it.

To leave him now, after she'd caught him so blatantly consorting with dark forces against the best interests of his Duke, turned Marilla's stomach. But while she stood here agonizing over what to do with the magus, she could still feel the witch's Soul smoldering in her abdomen, but she could sense somehow that Norn was incapacitated and slipping away. If Marilla didn't act now, it seemed likely the witch would perish, and then she'd never discover the truth about the voice in the flames and its burning ruby eyes. And that would leave Marilla entirely at the mercy of powers she simply did not understand, but which filled her with terrible dread.

It seemed that there was only one real option, and time was of the essence.

Clenching her fists, Marilla left Brand on the floor, went back up the stairs, exited the tower, and hurried towards her garden and the gazebo.

#~#~#~#~#~#~#

Mag figured he ought to find Marilla, since the lady could probably tell him more about the mine and the job they wanted him for. That, and he needed to apologize for the night before. In his mind he turned over how that conversation was likely to go. Sorry I fucked you silly and then left, there was a witch possessing my body and now she's possessing you, I owe you one. The idea made him chuckle.

He asked a servant where the lady could be found, but all the maid could say was that Marilla was probably on the castle grounds someplace, perhaps in her study. Mag wandered the castle keep until he was thoroughly lost, and when a footman finally did take pity on him and lead him to the lady's study, she wasn't there.

So he decided to walk the grounds for a while and maybe get something to eat while he was at it. Outside the morning sun was burning off the cool night air, and the grounds buzzed with activity. He strolled aimlessly about the lawn, taking in the sights within the walls.

Mag passed the smithy, where artisans hammered on steel, iron, silver, gold, bronze, brass and other things besides, creating a great cacophony that resounded through the grounds like a symphony of metal. They had a glazier's shop there too, and Mag lounged in the doorway for a minute to observe the master blowing a vessel from some kind of tinted blue glass. The heat from the kiln was intense, and before long Mag decided to move on before he sweated through his armor.

The stables were near the smithy, and as he neared them the stink of manure and animal fur filled his nostrils. It was nothing Mag wasn't used too -- he'd spent his whole life soldiering, and many a horse had been closer to him than a brother -- but after the floral bouquet of Marilla's garden, and the cleanliness of the castle, the stench of beasts made a sharp contrast. He passed through, waving cheerfully to the grooms who gave him a confused, almost nervous look. Mag figured visitors looking like him didn't often saunter past unless they wanted something, and the stablehands all seemed to hesitate, as if expecting him to demand a horse be saddled, but when they realized he was just a passer-by they ignored him.

The Duke's horses were of fine stock, a mixture of lithe, quick ponies with dappled coats and gigantic black destriers, the kind that made Cairen's cavalrymen famous. He'd ridden the fastest horses in Angrael, the swift, small kind bred by the Madrian plainsfolk, but this side of the Varos River, Mag hadn't seen many horses better than the Duke's.

His boots took him past the temple next, which stood apart from the main keep, though a low breezeway connected them through side doors. It was a fine building, the architect clearly carving and stacking the white stones with every care given to the glory of the twelve gods, and there were flying buttresses, magnificent archways, and even a great round stained glass window pane that probably looked better from the inside. Mag didn't find out, though, because as a rule he never set foot inside temples. The priests always wanted something from him: coin, service, an oath, someone to lecture. Better to avoid such places.

The summer kitchen was next, a half-covered building partially open to the elements, and the smells of stew, roasting pheasant, and bacon made Mag's stomach growl insistently. He made a beeline for the source of the smell, and managed to beg a rasher of bacon and a hunk of bread from one of the cooks.

Munching happily, he made his way to the barracks, which adjoined the front gate, and climbed the stairs to the castle walls. From there he could look down over Seleca Town, which stretched to the edge of the Rushwater as it flowed south on its steady course for the lower lands of Cairen's plains. Small fishing boats floating down from Coldbait further upriver were docking at the quays, trading their goods before they rowed back up. Other larger riverboats, with wide drafts and block houses on their flat decks, were loading up with cargo to take south.

The town was bustling with activity in the morning, and Mag could see a central square with a well in the center and shops lining the street. He figured if he didn't find Marilla soon, that might be an entertaining place to mosey through and maybe have a drink while he was at it.