Arrayan continued to carefully scrutinize the old half-orc, some spark of distant recognition showing in her tired eyes.
"Nyungy is well-versed in the properties of magic," Wingham explained. "He will help us help you."
"Magic?" Arrayan asked, her voice weak.
Nyungy came forward and leaned over her. "Little Arrayan Maggotsweeper?" he said. The woman winced at the sound of her name. "Always a curious sort, you were, when you were young. I am not surprised to learn that you are a wizard—and a mighty one, if that castle is any indication."
Arrayan absorbed the compliment just long enough to recognize the implication behind it then her face screwed up with horror.
"I did not create the castle," she said.
Nyungy started to respond, but he stopped short, as if he had just caught on to her claim.
"Pardon my mistake," he said at last.
The old half-orc bent lower to look into her eyes. He bade Olgerkhan to go and fetch her some water or some soup, spent a few more moments scrutinizing her, then backed off as the larger half-orc returned. With a nod, Nyungy motioned for Wingham to escort him back into the house's front room.
"She is not ill," the old bard explained when they had moved out of Arrayan's chamber.
"Not sick, you mean?"
Nyungy nodded. "I knew it before we arrived, but in looking at her, I am certain beyond doubt. That is no poison or disease. She was healthy just a few days ago, correct?"
"Dancing lightly on her pretty feet when she first came to greet me upon my arrival."
"It is the magic," Nyungy reasoned. "Zhengyi has done this before."
"How?"
"The book is a trap. It is not a tome of creation, but one of self-creation. Once one of suitable magical power begins to read it, it entraps that person's life essence. As the castle grows, it does so at the price of Arrayan's life-force, intellect, and magical prowess. She is creating the castle, subconsciously."
"For how long?" Wingham asked, and he stepped over and glanced with concern into the bedroom.
"Until she is dead, I would guess," said Nyungy. "Consumed by the creation. I doubt that the merciless Zhengyi would stop short of such an eventuality out of compassion for his unwitting victim."
"How can we stop this?" Wingham asked.
Nyungy glanced past him with concern then painted a look of grim dread on his face when he again met Wingham's stare.
"No, you cannot," Wingham said with sudden understanding.
"That castle is a threat—growing, and growing stronger," reasoned Nyungy. "Your niece is lost, I fear. There is nothing I can do, certainly, nor can anyone else in Palishchuk, to slow the progression that will surely kill her."
"We have healers."
"Who will be powerless, at best," answered the older half-orc. "Or, if they are not, and offer Arrayan some relief, then that might only add to the energy being channeled into the growth of Zhengyi's monstrosity. I understand your hesitance here, my friend. She is your relation—beloved, I can see from your eyes when you look upon her. But do you not remember the misery of Zhengyi? Would you, in your false compassion, help foster a return to that?"
Wingham glanced back into the room once more and said, "You cannot know all this for sure. There is much presumption here."
"I know, Wingham. This is not mere coincidence. And you know, too." As he finished, Nyungy moved to the counter and found a long kitchen knife. "I will be quick about it. She will not see the strike coming. Let us pray it is not too late to save her soul and to diminish the evil she has unwittingly wrought."
Wingham could hardly breathe, could hardly stand. He tried to digest Nyungy's words and reasoning, looking for some flaw, for some sliver of hope. He instinctively put his arm out to block the old half-orc, but Nyungy moved with a purpose that he had not known in many, many years. He brushed by Wingham and into the bedroom and bade Olgerkhan to stand aside.
The large half-orc did just that, leaving the way open to Arrayan, who was resting back with her eyes closed and her breathing shallow.
Nyungy knew much of the world around Palishchuk. He had spent his decades adventuring, touring the countryside as a wandering minstrel, a collector of information and song alike. He had traveled extensively with Wingham for years as well, studying magic and magical items. He had served in Zhengyi's army in the early days of the Witch-King's rise, before the awful truth about the horrible creature was fully realized. Nyungy didn't doubt his guess about the insidious bond that had been created between the book and the reader, nor did he question the need for him to do his awful deed before the castle's completion.
His mind was still sharp; he knew much.
What he did not comprehend was the depth of the bond between Arrayan and Olgerkhan. He didn't think to hide his intent as he brandished that long knife and moved toward the helpless woman.
Something in his eyes betrayed him to Olgerkhan. Something in his forward, eager posture told the young half-orc warrior that the old half-orc was about no healing exercise—at least, not in any manner Olgerkhan's sensibilities would allow.
Nyungy lurched for Arrayan's throat and was stopped cold by a powerful hand latching onto his forearm. He struggled to pull away, but he might as well have been trying to stop a running horse.
"Let me go, you oaf!" he scolded, and Arrayan opened her eyes to regard the two of them standing before her.
Olgerkhan turned his wrist over, easily forcing Nyungy's knife-hand up into the air, and the old half-orc grimaced in pain.
"I must… You do not understand!" Nyungy argued.
Olgerkhan looked from Nyungy to Wingham, who stood in the doorway.
"It is for her own good," Nyungy protested. "Like bloodletting for poison, you see?"
Olgerkhan continued to look to Wingham for answers.
Nyungy went on struggling then froze in place when he heard Wingham say, "He means to kill her, Olgerkhan."
Nyungy's eyes went wide and wider still when the young, strong half-orc's fist came soaring in to smack him in the face, launching him backward and to the floor, where he knew no more.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
PALISHCHUK'S SHADOW
"Hurry!" Calihye shouted at Entreri. "Drive them harder!"
Entreri grunted in reply but did not put the whip to the team. He understood her desperation, but it was hardly his problem. Across a wide expanse of rocky ground with patches of mud, far up ahead, loomed the low skyline of Palishchuk. They were still some time away from the city, Entreri knew, and if he drove the team any harder, the horses would likely collapse before they reached the gates.
Jarlaxle sat beside him on the bench, with Athrogate next to him, far to Entreri's left. Pratcus sat in the back, along with Calihye and the two wounded, the soldier Davis Eng and Calihye's broken companion, Parissus.
"Harder, I say, on your life!" Calihye screamed from behind.
Entreri resisted the urge to pull the team up. Jarlaxle put a hand on his forearm, and when he glanced at the drow, Jarlaxle motioned for him to not respond.
In truth, Entreri wasn't thinking of shouting back at the desperate woman, though the thought of drawing his dagger, leaping back, and cutting out her wagging tongue occurred to him more than once.
A second hand landed on the assassin's other shoulder, and he snapped his cold and threatening glare back the other way, face-to-face with Pratcus.
"The lady Parissus is sure to be dying," the dwarf explained. "She's got moments and no more."
"I cannot drive them faster than—" Entreri started to reply, but the dwarf cut him short with an upraised hand and a look that showed no explanation was needed.