"Perhaps we have underestimated this child," the dyrmagnos observed, cocking her head to regard Alec more closely. "There may be depths within him still to be sounded."
Alec shuddered inwardly under the greediness of her scrutiny.
"Yet these tales of yours said nothing of the Helm?" Mardus continued. "I am not surprised. At the end of that war we were betrayed. Aided by traitors, fawning Aurenfaie wizards, and a pack of ragged drysians, the wizards of the Second Oreska managed to capture and dismantle the Helm before its full power could be invoked. Fortunately, they could not destroy the individual pieces. Our necromancers managed to recapture a few of them; the rest were carried off and hidden. For six centuries my predecessors have hunted for them, and one by one, they have been recovered."
"That's what you were doing in Wolde," Alec said slowly. "You'd been to the Fens, that village Mi—"
"Micum Cavish?" Ashnazai smiled as he broke off suddenly. "Don't trouble yourself. You screamed that name out to us already, just as you did all the rest of it."
Mardus paused as the serving boy brought in platters of roasted doves and vegetables.
"Do try to eat something," he said, serving Alec himself.
Surprised at his own hunger, Alec obliged.
"Now, where was I?" Mardus asked, spearing a dove for himself. "Ah yes. The three fragments guarded by Nysander were the last, and of those, the bowl was the most gratifying discovery. We knew of the others, you see, both stolen from under our very noses by your friend Seregil, as it turns out. But all trace of the bowl had been lost until the two of you led us to it with the theft of the Eye. And only just in time, too. As it is, we've only just enough time to complete the ritual preparations."
"The sacrifices, you mean?" asked Alec.
"Yes." Mardus sat forward as the servant brought in a course of roasted pork. "Each soul taken, each libation of heart's blood, brings us closer to Seriamaius, to his great power. No man could be a vessel for such power, but through the Helm we may partake of some small portion of it. By "small portion" you must understand I am speaking in relative terms. Once restored, the Helm will increase in power as more lives are fed to it until a single thought by the wearer can level whole cities, control thousands. And you, Alec, you and Thero, I am holding in reserve for the final sacrifice of the reconstruction ceremony. A hundred people will have perished before you, allowing you the privilege of watching every death until your own turns come, two last, perfect sacrifices. The blood is to a great extent merely symbolic of the life force given up to the god. The younger the victim, the more years taken, the richer the sacrifice."
Irtuk Beshar patted Alec and Thero on the shoulders. "A young Oreska wizard and a half faie boy—the youth of our greatest enemies! What could be more pleasing to our god than that?"
Alec regarded them a moment in stunned silence, trying to take it all in.
No, he thought numbly. No, I will not be apart of that. "Thank you," he said finally. "I think I'm beginning to understand."
There were no guards in the room now. No spells or chains held him. Forcing himself to give no leading hint of his intentions, Alec suddenly lashed out across the table and snatched up a carving knife lying next to the platter of fowl. Clutching it in both hands, he drove the blade at his own ribs, praying for a quick kill.
To his horror and astonishment, however, he twisted around instead and plunged the blade into the chest of the young servant. The boy let out a single startled cry and collapsed.
"Really, Alec, where are your manners tonight?"
Mardus exclaimed regretfully. "I've owned him since he was a child."
Alec stared down at the body, horror-struck at what he had done.
"Did you think us so lacking in imagination that we would not anticipate such a noble action on your part?"
Irtuk chided. "You forget how intimately I know you, Alec. One of the first wards I placed upon you was one to guard against such ridiculous heroics. Anytime you try to hurt yourself, you shall only end up hurting another, like this poor innocent."
"O Illior!" Alec groaned, covering his face with his hands.
"Perhaps I am somewhat to blame," Mardus sighed. "My explanation may have given the boy the impression that he and Thero are necessary for the final realization of our plans."
Mardus' hands closed over Alec's, squeezing painfully as he pulled them aside to fix Alec with a look of sardonic pleasure.
"Understand this. The presence or absence of either one of you will not make the slightest difference to the god. It merely pleases me, and Vargul Ashnazai as well, I am certain, that the two of you should be the final victims. Just imagine, dear Alec—watching all those others die, and you quite helpless to save them. And then, as your chest is split and your heart pulled free, your final thought will be that after all your meddling, all that extraordinary effort, it is your life bringing the Helm back into being! I'm only sorry that your friends will not be there to share in your reward. Now do try to eat something more. You're looking quite pale again."
42
Seregil woke drenched in sweat, still caught in the nightmare's grip. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to hang on to the images of the dream, but as usual could recall nothing but the vague memory of a tall figure towering over him and the terrible sensation of drowning.
Micum had already gone above. Seregil lay a moment longer, half dozing as the first faint light of dawn brightened the cabin's single window. Was Alec awake, seeing that same light? he wondered, as he'd wondered every morning of the voyage. Was Alec alive at all? Would he be when the sun set?
He rubbed at his eyelids and felt the wetness seeping through his lashes. Early morning was the worst.
During the day he could keep busy, bury his fear in the semblance of doing something useful. At night he simply closed his eyes and escaped into dreams and nightmares.
But here, in the half world of dawn, he had no defenses, no diversion. The longing for Alec's presence, the guilt and remorse at having brought him to this, the shame at never having told the boy how much he cared for him—it was all as raw as a wound that refused to heal.
And there was nothing to do but go on to the end. Rolling out of the bunk, he threw on a surcoat over his shirt and went above without bothering to fasten it up.
On deck he turned his face to the wind and spread his arms. The cold salt breeze lifted his hair from his neck and blew his coat open, whipping his shirt against his ribs. Tilting his head back, he inhaled deeply, trying to cleanse away the sense of oppression. As he did so, he noticed a new scent on the wind, the smell of land.
Going to the starboard rail, he saw a dark, uneven line of mountains looming through the morning mist like a promise just out of reach. His sail-changing ploy had worked. They'd sailed within sight of Plenimar's northwestern coastline without challenge.
Rhal called put sharply somewhere to stern and Skywake barked an order. Looking around the deck for Micum, Seregil spotted him sitting on the forward bulkhead. He had a small mirror propped on one knee and was shaving his chin with the aid of a knife and a cup of water.
Micum looked up as he approached, then frowned.
"Another bad night, eh?"
"Worst yet." Seregil combed his fingers back through his windblown hair. "It feels like someone's trying to tell me the most important thing in the world in a language I can't understand."
"Maybe Nysander can make something of it when he gets here."
"If he gets here," Seregil replied listlessly. He felt as if they'd been on this ship for years instead of weeks; Rhiminee, Nysander, Alec, the deaths they'd left behind, perhaps it was just all part of the same bad dream.