The Sword and the Soul Ch. 05

"Don't push yourself," said Marilla. "You've been like this before: strong and lucid one moment, only to take a sudden turn for the worse. We must be cautious in your convelescence. You needn't worry about me, father. I only wish to see you recovered."

"And soon I shall be. In the meantime, rely on Brand for support. He is a capable man."

Marilla stopped beside a low tree dotted with small white blossoms. When Rovish turned to face her, her brow was furrowed in concern, and there was a conflicted look in her eye. Her arms were crossed in front of her.

"What is it?" he asked, suspecting the answer already.

"I don't trust him," said Marilla. He recognized the silver of iron in her voice. His lady wife had often taken the same tone: quiet, yet firm and assured.

Rovish sighed, all the weariness of his long illness settling over his bones.

"I grow tired of this same discussion. Has Brand not proved himself a capable advisor and a reliable friend to our family, time and time again?"

She shrewdly met his question with a question, a tactic he had taught her.

"When you announced at the feast that the sellsword should be given a permanent posting at Abin's Lode, that was Brand's idea, was it not?"

"As it happens, it was."

"Father, you defer to him too often. You had no knowledge of that mercenary, or the lizard clan warrior he arrived with. There was no reason to trust them."

"He had slain one Soulkin already. Who better to defend us against another?"

Marilla clucked her tongue reproachfully, in that gesture seeming very much like Ellora, and barrelled forward, heedless of his explanation.

"And posting the reward for Norn in the first place - that was his idea too. But we had no reason to believe Norn had returned to the forest, and for that matter little reason to suspect she was real at all. Yet he convinced you to offer a completely outrageous sum for her head."

"After that bad business with Norn and my father, It was necessary that we be certain the creature would not interfere again. Soulkin are not uncommon here on the Kingdom's edge."

Again Marilla ignored his rejoinder, pressing her attack home.

"I didn't want to broach this matter with you while you were sick, because you were not yourself, but today you seem lucid enough. Father, Brand is not our friend. I have reason to suspect he is conspiring against you."

"Conspiring against me," repeated Rovish, grimacing as the phrase passed his lips, spitting it out as though it was a cut of meat he did not care for. "You have evidence of this?"

Marilla hesitated, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Worry and doubt were written in the creased lines of her forehead. She seemed to be deciding whether or not to say more. Rovish made the decision for her. He drew himself up to his full height, letting the mantle of Dukedom settle across his tired shoulders, and held up a hand for silence.

"My daughter, you must heed me now, for there are things you do not understand, owing to your youth and inexperience. The lords and the magi share the administration of this realm by ancient compact and convention. King Diamond and Archmagus Soren are like a sharp blade and a stout shield, equal and opposite, and neither can destroy the other without destroying themselves as well. Brand is here as an advisor, but he is also here as Archmagus Soren's voice and hands. Even if I distrusted Brand - and there are few men I trust more - I can no more dismiss him than he can dismiss me. This is the way of things in Cairen, lords and magi linked inexorably, and it has been so since the founding. Therefore, unless you have firm proof of his treachery, I will ask you not to mention this subject again."

He realized he was jabbing a finger for emphasis, practically shouting the last sentence from between curled lips. Rovish hadn't meant to raise his voice, but she'd wound him up so effortlessly. Ellora always has had a talent for that too. Marilla's expression had gone icy cold now, her eyes narrowed, mouth turned downward.

"I see you're feeling well enough to act like a spoiled child," she said. "Very well then. Be it on your own head, My Lord."

She didn't wait for him to reply. Turning on her heel, Marilla marched away down the path, her green skirt swishing and snapping in her wake. Though he was Lord of Seleca, and perfectly correct to rebuke her, of course, she had left him feeling somehow guilty and sheepish. Her final words echoed in his head. His lady wife had often spoken the same phrase when she and Rovish quarrelled, and how his daughter managed to inherit it, he would never know. She is yours Ellora, so much more than she is mine.

Heaving a deep sigh, Rovish slunk out of the garden. The wind had gone from his sails now. His bones ached, his feet were sore, and he was ready for sleep. As he began to contemplate the long climb up the Lord's Tower to his bedchamber, the Duke nearly walked into Magus Brand coming the other way down the path.

"My Lord," said the magus, with a curt bow. "Do you go to your tower?"

"I do, Brand," said Rovish, with a genuinely warm smile for his friend. "Will you accompany me?"

Brand was serene as always as they crossed the courtyard, hands clasped behind himself, cream-colored robes blemishless and smooth, spellbook satchel tight against his left side, his long black hair pulled back into a long and elegant tail. At the base of the Lord's Tower, they stopped before the heavy oak door studded with iron, and Brand withdrew his spellbook. The tome was bound in fine red-dyed leather with a polished bronze buckle clasping it shut.

"A spell to fortify you for the climb, My Lord," said Brand, paging through the book with one hand while he balanced it open in the crook of his other arm.

Rovish watched the glyphs on the parchment breeze by, eldritch phrases in the old tongue, some of which he recognized, many of which he did not. His tutors had taught him the rudiments of glyphic language as a lad, of course, but he'd been more interested in martial weapons and horsemanship. Brand's mastery of the runes, painstakingly acquired from years of apprenticeship and study at the Great Arcane Library, had always impressed Rovish greatly.

The magus found the page he sought. In a soft yet assured voice, he spoke the names of the characters, written clearly in black ink. As he intoned the phrase, it glowed a vibrant yellow on the page. The familiar sensation settled over him, like being submerged in a hot bath, and he sighed contentedly. Aches and stiffness melted away, and he felt the vigor returning to his muscles. He stretched his back and rolled his shoulders with a series of satisfying pops.

But Brand himself looked somewhat the worse for wear. His handsome face was pale, and little droplets of sweat adorned his forehead. Spellcasting took a sizable toll on its practitioner, that much Rovish knew.

"You needn't give so much of yourself, Brand," he said. His voice sounded stronger to his ears, taking on its old rich and pleasing tenor.

"The glyphs do most of the work," said Brand, wheezing between sentences. "They are the catalysts that draw Soul from the Other Place. My own price is meager in comparison. It's nothing a good night's sleep won't repair."

"All the same," said Rovish. "I want you to know how grateful I am. And that I don't wish for you to push yourself too hard."

"Of course, My Lord. It is my duty and my honor to serve."

As they began the climb, Rovish waved off Brand's attempts to support him. They ascended the stone steps in silence. Between guttering torchlight emanating from sconces on the curved walls, and wan moonlight shining in through tall, skinny windows, there was barely enough light to see, yet it was a familiar enough path to them both that they could have made it in darkness. Rovish eased his slippers carefully from step to step, panting as they neared the top, and suddenly feeling not quite so strong as he had below. Still, he made it to the summit unaided; it was progress, he supposed, for there had been many nights during his illness when servants had practically carried the Duke up the steps.

Rovish's valet, Lowen, heard them coming and opened the solid ash door to his bedchamber. The vast room had been his father's before him, and his grandfather's and great-grandfather's as well. The first Duke of Seleca, Abin Silver, had chosen this tower for himself that he might look through the four windows, one at each cardinal direction, and survey the entire Vale: the plains of Hawkmoor to the west, the king's highway to the south, the forest of old Celenor to the east, and the mine itself, Abin's Lode, nestled in the foothills of the Courser Mountains in the north. The apartments themselves were princely, and certainly fit for a Duke: rugs and tapestries woven in Madria, hardwood furniture carved in Angheg, and fine paintings from the masters in Saltea. Lowen had already built a roaring fire in the hearth, and the heat felt pleasing as night fell and the stones of the castle cooled.

The Duke walked over to the high standing mirror, an oval of reflective glass his father had imported at no small expense from Sworza. On the other side, he saw a man who seemed almost like how Rovish remembered himself. The figure in the mirror had Rovish's blue eyes, but his hair and beard were peppered with gray. Color had returned to his ruddy cheeks, and beneath his blue and silver robes was the outline of strong, broad shoulders and toned muscle, the figure of a man who had wrestled with lizardfolk and tossed hammers with duergar. He smiled to see his progress toward wellness, even if he looked closer to sixty than his own forty and three springs.

"Shall I dress you for bed, My Lord?" asked Lowen.

Rovish could see the manservant behind him in the mirror. Lowen had one eye that drooped, the lid never opening more than a crack, a deformity of birth that had plagued him all his life. Most folk assumed Lowen was a dimwit, but of course he was not. The man had a keen intellect and a singular devotion to the Ducal house. He had begun service in the time of Rovish's father, Markim Silver. Markim, never one to fraternize with the servants, had been one of those who dismissed Lowen as an idiot. But Markim had been dead for many years, and Lowen had reached both middle-age and a trusted position as steward of his Lord's bedchamber.

"No, Lowen, not just yet," answered Rovish. "I will take some wine first, I think."

The Duke took his place in one of the cushioned, high-backed chairs before the hearth, warming his hands before it. Lately the chilly nights had bothered him more than they used to. Rovish could remember being young and personally leading a company of soldiers across Hardpass into the Duergar Highlands on a diplomatic expedition. They'd camped under the stars, with the hard earth for a mattress and their own packs for pillows. The cold hadn't bothered him then. So much has changed in two short decades.

"Join me, won't you Brand?" said Rovish, indicating the other chair that sat opposite his own.

"It would be my pleasure," said the Magus, his voice as even and deferential as ever. Brand settled himself into the chair, smoothing down the lap of his cream robe before crossing his hands over one another. Always so fastidious.

Lowen brought a decanter of blood-red portwine and set it on the side table, along with two silver goblets. He poured one for Rovish first, then, after a nod from the magus, poured for Brand as well.

"Thank you, Lowen," said Brand. "You ought to go to bed now. I can see to the Duke's needs."

The servant looked at his Lord, cocking the brow of his good eye quizzically, and when Rovish nodded his assent, Lowen bowed and withdrew, closing the door behind him.

For a time the two men sat in silence, sipping their wine and gazing into the flames. The drink seemed to fortify the Duke's spirits even more, and he let out a long sigh, relaxing into the chair and digging his back against it like a cat rubbing itself onto a carpet. He closed his eyes and rested his head.

"Any news from the capital?" asked Rovish, somewhat absently.

"Nothing unusual," replied Brand. "Archmagus Soren inquires as to Soulkin activity around the mine. I have told him it's nothing we can't handle."

Rovish nodded. Magi had the means of communicating over long distances, but he was given to understand it was very difficult and required immense concentration from both parties. Letters were often simpler, though he appreciated that the Archmagus made a point of checking in regularly.

"Have you given any more thought," Brand asked, "to the possibility of marrying off the Lady Marilla?"

Rovish couldn't help a rueful chuckled.

"To Lietenant Glabber, you mean?"

"He's a fitting match," answered Brand evenly. "Arnis Glabber is the nephew of Count Hawkmoor, and quite close to his uncle, with the Count having no sons of his own. It might heal the enmity between your two houses."

"You've been talking with Magus Fellin," posited the Duke.

"We keep a regular correspondence," allowed Brand. "He is the closest of my brothers, geographically speaking. And as the magus appointed to Hawkmoor, he has valuable knowledge of these matters. You can't deny the political appeal of such a union."

Rovish sighed. "The political wisdom is one thing. But can you imagine Marilla accepting such a match? She can hardly stand that man."

"My Lord, surely the needs of your house come before her personal preferences."

"Would that it were so simple. You don't know her like I do, Brand, you haven't been here long enough. She is every inch her mother, and the Lady Ellora was not one to be governed. Marilla never shies from speaking her mind, directly and harshly if necessary."

Rovish opened his eyes and looked over at Brand. The magus was gazing into the flames, a pensive look on his handsome features as he swirled his wine cup absently. Marilla's earlier accusations floated back to him. Brand is not our friend.

"My daughter mislikes you as well," said Rovish. Brand sat back in his chair at that, meeting the Duke's eyes, curious to hear more. "She told me in the garden earlier that she believes you are conspiring against this house."

For an instant, a crack of worry, even doubt, split Brand's soft features. Then his impassive mask resumed itself.

"Did she offer evidence?" inquired the magus.

"She did not. But she implied that you have taken advantage of me in my long illness. Manipulated me, even."

"And what did you say?" asked Brand, his tone betraying nothing.

"I, of course, rebuked her and asserted that your character was entirely beyond reproach."

Brand allowed himself a thin smile.

"I fear My Lord's love for me is misplaced."

Rovish shook his head ruefully. "Must you always be so self-effacing? After all, your spells have fortified me greatly these long months. Thanks to you, I shall soon be my old self again."

Brand sucked in a lungful of air and heaved out a deep and heavy sigh. "I am sorry to differ with you, My Lord, but you will not be your old self again soon. Or ever."

Rovish set his wine down and leaned closer to the Magus, disturbed by the dark words. "I hardly like your tone, Brand. What gives you cause to speak this doom?"

Brand shook his head. "It doesn't matter. You won't remember this conversation in the morning. She's coming."

"Who's coming?" demanded Rovish.

Brand pointed to the flames. Rovish turned his gaze towards the red tongues of fire that snapped and popped in the hearth. Atop the pile of logs, the flames danced mesmerizingly, casting heat shadows across the stones. And within those shadows, a shape resolved itself. The hearth was tall and broad enough for a person to stand upright within, and now Rovish could see a figure there, behind the flames or within them, dancing and gyrating, somehow unburnt. It was a woman, her figure voluptuous, her long hair snapping and cracking like fingers of flame.

Then she stepped across the logs onto the rug that sat before the hearth. Where her feet touched the carpet it singed and smoked. Waves of heat roiled from her body, making the room around her seem to shimmer. She was tall and long-legged, with bronze skin and bright crimson hair that twisted chaotic waves like tongues of fire. With each step, immensely heavy yet unnaturally firm breasts undulated hypnotically. Her face was like a statue, or a painting, an artist's idea of perfect beauty, with features both symmetrical and yet distinct, soft and yet commanding. The fire-woman wore no clothing, save for the thick tendrils of flame that twirled seductively about her breasts and hips, a bare suggestion of modesty. Her eyes blazed like twin rubies.

Rovish was dumbfounded, unable to speak as he watched the woman emerge from his hearth. He marvelled and how this could be, how she could have come out of the flames unburnt. It seemed a dream, or a nightmare.

"Who are you?" he managed to mumble.

"Be silent," said the woman. Her sonorous voice, low and husky, resounded like song, and to hear it made Rovish's spirit thrum with bliss. "Speak only when spoken to."

Some small part of Rovish wanted to answer that he was a Duke of the Kingdom of Cairen, answerable only to his sovereign, and would not be governed in such a manner, but that part seemed small and sunken. He found himself wanting to obey the fire-woman, and so he did.

She turned her ruby eyes from him to Brand, who sat reverently, a calm look on his features.

"You may speak, Brand," she said.

"It is my profound honor to be in your resplendent presence, Lu'Caella," said the Magus. "What is thy bidding?"

"I have scoured the realm of Soul," said the fire-woman. "And at last I have discovered the place where the Eolith is bound, half there in Fal'Angrael, half here in Angrael. Yet even for an Elder of my puissant talents, the wards surrounding it will not yield. You must find a way to break the seal on this side before I can seize it."

"Will you not stay and direct my progress, Exalted One?" asked Brand.

"I cannot remain long in this physical plane. The ancient covenant still holds, though soon, if you obey my commands, we shall rupture it."

Rovish felt like a child as he gawped at the woman. Brand had called her Lu'Caella. An Elder of Fal'Angrael, second only to the gods above. Rovish was not a particularly religious man. He attended the temple services as often as was required by his station, but belief in the twelve gods was an abstract thing. Soulkin were real enough, of course - the trophy in his great hall was proof enough of that - but Elders were another matter entirely. Here before him, Rovish saw proof of something so strange and so wonderful that tears formed in his eyes to behold it.

He wanted to say something to this celestial woman, cloaked in flame, her beauty so radiant it was almost blinding. Yet the words would not come - she had commanded him to silence, after all. He realized he was biting his lip to keep from crying out, and a trickle of blood streamed down his chin.

Lu'Caella turned her ruby eyes upon him, and a hint of a smile graced her flawless face.

"Speak, Rovish. I see you are dying to address me."

The words burst from Rovish in a careless, indelicate stream, but he couldn't help himself. "How can such a majestic being be real? Tell me, what is your nature, and how came you here?"

She laughed, and it was as bells chiming harmoniously to welcome the morning.

"Oh, we have met before, Rovish," said Lu'Calla. "Many times. And you have rendered unto me your obeisance, as is proper for a mortal of your station. Tonight you shall do likewise, though tomorrow you will forget me, as you have done each time before."