The key is your only salvation ... servant.
What other choice did he have? To find that little whelp of a sage yet again and hope she stumbled upon the true orb of his need?
Sau’ilahk relented and returned to Bäalâle Seatt. More whispered hints followed once the key was in his possession. And through Beloved’s teachings, he learned one thing he had never realized.
Any key could be used for any orb.
He also learned how to use the one that he had like a compass, and it led him to the hiding place of the anchor—the orb—of Spirit.
Since a time just past the end of what was now called the Forgotten History, that orb had been hidden away in an underground sanctuary in the mountains above the great desert. Beloved told him next to nothing of the strange sect that guarded it or of how they had even acquired the one anchor he sought.
It did not matter then, for taking it from them had been easy, and his joy could not be measured.
But it mattered now.
Sau’ilahk?
At the hissing voice inside his thoughts, he choked down hatred and obediently answered, Yes, my Beloved?
That very title stoked ire that he quickly quelled.
You teach the duke to use the anchor—its power—to gain your promised reward?
Yes, Beloved. I will have flesh again soon ... as you promised.
A knock on the door cut him off ... and then brought puzzlement. The man he awaited was the lord of this keep, and he never knocked.
However, outside the door were some of the Suman retainers—mercenaries—that Sau’ilahk had acquired to help gain the orb and move it to this place. He had instructed them all to serve the duke as needed.
The door opened.
One of Sau’ilahk’s Suman servants stepped halfway around the door’s edge and bowed his head at the sight of his master.
He was tall for his kind, and slender, and the other Suman guards viewed him as their leader. Also unlike the others, this one wore a close-trimmed beard along his jawline; with one center peak that ran up to his lower lip. His curved sword was still sheathed, so no immediate threat was likely.
“Master, forgive the intrusion.... I have news,” Hazh’thüm said, his eyes still lowered.
The very air around Sau’ilahk vibrated under his conjury to give him a voice. “What news?”
“Visitors in the keep. The duchess ordered the gates be opened, and she allowed strangers inside.”
The absurdity of this did not fully register at first.
Sau’ilahk had made it clear to the duke that no outsider was to be allowed into this place until their work together was completed. Likewise, no one here was to leave. Sau’ilahk would not risk anyone beyond the keep learning of his presence or the changes in the duke.
“One visitor is the son of the old counselor,” Hazh’thüm continued. “The duchess would not leave him outside, but he was not alone.”
“What of the others?”
“A young female sage, a tall swordsman, and a Lhoin’na archer. There was also a large black dog.”
Sau’ilahk stalled for an instant. “A female sage with a black dog ... or do you mean a wolf?”
Hazh’thüm hesitated. “Perhaps, Master, but I have never seen such an animal with my own eyes.”
“What color was the woman’s robe?”
“At first it seemed black, like the dog ... or wolf. Once the wagon passed under the gate’s braziers, perhaps blue but still very dark.”
None of this made sense, from all that Sau’ilahk knew of sages. If this one was a metaologer, then she could not be Wynn Hygeorht. But another female sage with a black “dog” seemed too unlikely. Then again, to his knowledge, Wynn had never traveled with an elf of any kind.
“What does the sage look like? And what of the swordsman?”
Hazh’thüm faltered, as if struggling for a description. “I could not clearly see her face, but the Numan male was tall, pale, with brown hair that tinged red. Perhaps that was only the brazier’s light. He was plainly dressed, though his clothes were finely made, from what I could see.”
The hiss from Sau’ilahk’s conjured voice began even before the servant finished a description that could fit Chane Andraso ... an undead of flesh rather than spirit.
A female sage with a black “dog” in the company of Chane Andraso could only be Wynn Hygeorht!
How had she found him?
His first wild instinct was to find and kill her, but he hesitated.
“Does she carry a staff, perhaps with a covered upper end?”
Even with eyes still down, Hazh’thüm nodded. “Yes, Master.”
“You are dismissed!”
Hazh’thüm backed out, never looking up, and closed the door.
Sau’ilahk wallowed in fear and hate. The staff’s crystal emitted light that emulated the sun in the hand of that whelp of a sage. He had been burned out of existence once by that tool and had survived only because of Beloved’s intervention ... and then he had suffered long for his failure.
Of course, that failure had not been his fault.
Wynn Hygeorht was nothing compared to him, but she was gifted with luck beyond belief. And she had a penchant for attracting or acquiring unusual allies, from an undead guardian and a majay-hì—a contradictory combination—to Stonewalkers, foreign sages, and more. How did a Lhoin’na archer fit in?
And how had Duke Beáumie reacted to this forced intrusion at the hand of his sister?
Slowly Sau’ilahk forced a state of calm reason.
The wisest path was to remain hidden and proceed with his current plans while he worked to learn more. Wynn could not reach him down here ... and the young duke’s body was almost ready. A matter of a few nights at most.
The clack of an iron lock cut him off, and he heard the chamber’s door creak in opening. Sau’ilahk waited, still and silent with the thôrhk gripped tightly in his solidified hand.
The door swung open.
Duke Karl Beáumie quickly stepped in. Though tall, young, and handsome, with hawkish features and high cheekbones, he was not as beautiful as Sau’ilahk had been in life.
Dressed all in black with silver fixtures and adornments, the duke wore vambraces on both forearms above heavy leather gloves on both hands. Half turning his head, he ordered one of the Suman guards in the outer chamber to relock the door as he finally closed it.
None of Sau’ilahk’s Suman retainers would open that door again until the duke called to them to do so—as he always did.
That is, unless Sau’ilahk said otherwise.
He took in the sight of his nightly visitor.
The duke’s complexion had lost some of its luster since Sau’ilahk had first made his presence known to the young noble. His blue-black hair hung in an unkempt, unwashed tangle and his flesh was stretched tightly over his face. Dark circles of fatigue surrounded his eyes.
These lesser effects of the work they did together could not be helped.
Sau’ilahk bowed his cowled head in false respect.
My lord.
Since the first night of their secret work, a bond had formed between them, and the duke could hear Sau’ilahk in his mind as if the words were spoken aloud. But the young man did not respond to the greeting, and his haunted eyes fixed upon the orb.
“How much longer?” he asked, with a slight tremor in his voice. “How long until I need never fear death?”
Not long now, my lord.
Sau’ilahk’s pretense of continued servitude had served him well. He would not have found this place, or Karl Beáumie, without Beloved’s assistance. He knew he should be grateful, but gratitude was nearly impossible among the mounting deceptions and betrayals of his god.