“Try praying to that Goddess of hers,” the leftenant offered dryly. “Ask Her to intercede. That’s supposedly why Patron Deities exist, isn’t it? To pull off miracles and make amends when mortals cannot manage?”
“Yeah, but . . .”
“No buts. Start praying,” Rogen ordered him. Lifting a hand, Rogen poked his sibling in his wool-covered chest. “One more thing. Just in case she has been interrogated and has forgotten you, don’t run up and hug her. I know you. I know that’s what you’ll do. But if you do that, she won’t realize why this complete stranger is trying to embrace her, and she may panic. She might even think she’s being attacked . . . and if she calls out for help, I am duty bound to have to arrest you.”
Alonnen gave him a disbelieving look. Rogen lifted his brows in pointed, silent reply. Scowling, Alonnen folded his arms across his chest.
Rogen shrugged and folded his own arms as well, echoing his sibling’s disgruntled pose. “If I don’t do it, Captain Torhammer will, and he won’t care about your reasons why or your past relationship with her. All he’ll see is a frightened woman thinking she’s being mugged by a stranger, not just hugged. Sorry, Brother, but if she has been spell-bound to forget you, then . . . well . . . you’ll just have to start courting her all over again. From day one. Start with words, not touches.”
As much as he wanted to argue the point, Alonnen knew his elder brother was right. He hated it, but Rogen was right.
“It is done,” the Witch in their midst announced. She turned to face the leftenant, and the edge of her robe parted, showing a glint of rune-chased metal. That was what she had under her Witch-robe: armor, undoubtedly infused with spells both offensive and defensive. Some property of the sleeved, hooded cloak had hidden the aura of its magic before the folds parted, but Alonnen could see it now.
I’ll have to speak with her about how to imbue metal with various spells. We could seriously use them on things like the motorhorses and motormen, should we ever have to go to battle. There’s no guaranteeing the northern precincts won’t stop just at their own borders in their effort to throw off the old shackles and impose a new set of leaders and a new set of rules.
“Right, then,” Rogen stated, raising his voice so everyone in the shop could hear. “Master Tall, break off your . . . guildmembers into six groups. I’ll pair five sets of them with a scout to take them straight to the other groups around the perimeter. Your job, m . . . mages,” he added, stumbling a little over the dreaded M word, “is to shield our forces from any spells being cast. One of the favorite tricks of the priesthood is a sleeping spell that will hit an area around you. Another is a gluelike spell that will knock you down and lock your body to the floor . . .”
Alonnen wasn’t the only mage in the shop who nodded; they were familiar with such things and knew a few counters for them. And some of those counters aren’t even spells, he thought grimly, fingers going to the grip of his hand-cannon. Hurt a priest badly enough, and they won’t be able to concentrate to cast any spells.
“One warning,” Ora called out as Rogen came to the end of his list of known spells to counter. She flicked her hand, and a hovering illusion of a single man appeared in the air over their heads. It made the non-mages gasp and shift back, and the mages sway forward in envy at her skill. “This man, Torven Shel Von, must not die. Do not kill him.”
Dammit, Alonnen swore, wincing as he realized where her speech was headed. Gods in Heaven, You are just bound and determined to mock me, aren’t You?
“We have determined that this mage is the reason why these other priests have not unleashed unchecked demons upon this world. He is an Aian, so you will know him by the differences in his features from the common ex-Mekhanan, as you can see. He must be allowed to live and to escape, so that the various prophecies will come true regarding the successful thwarting of these demon summoners’ ambitions. Mark his face and learn it well.
“I may even have to save him,” she added grimly. It was the first time Alonnen had seen the normally serene woman unhappy. “But I have learned from personal experience that either you work with a set of prophecies to make them come true in a way that benefits you . . . or you’ll find out just how badly they can piston you from behind. Without pomade.”
Reminded abruptly of last night’s activities, Alonnen felt his cheeks burn. Rogen slanted him a bemused look, but thankfully did not ask why his middle brother had turned so red in the face. Hopefully the other men and women in the shop would think it was simply from Orana’s crude mention of a topic best reserved for the privacy of a bedroom or a brothel visit. And, dammit to a Netherhell, we won’t be able to do any of last night’s activities for however long it takes me to get her to fall in love again!
Focus, Alonnen, he ordered himself in the next breath. That’s a petty whine about a sprained finger, when the world might have all of its bones broken within the hour. Do your job, and help your brother to do his. Clearing his throat, Alonnen addressed the dozens crowded into the shop. “You heard our champion, people. Let’s go save Rexei and, hopefully, the rest of the world.”
• • •
The key in the enchanted lock warned her someone was coming. Rexei tensed, prepared to zap whoever it was with a sleep spell if they were alone. The door swung inward, revealing a clutch of five apprentices. She checked the change in her inner melody before it could actually start, and forced herself to continue humming the tunes that kept her mind clear and her body able to act, if at a price.
Moving up to her side, the foremost of the five apprentice priests, Apprentice Stearlen, poked his finger against her control collar. “On your feet, boy.”
She didn’t feel any prickling compulsion to move. Rexei had a split second to realize why, then she quickly jerked herself up off the cot. By calling her boy when she was actually a female, he had robbed the collar of its depth of control. She couldn’t let any of the apprentices know that. Not when trapped in a room with four of them blocking her only escape route.
His next order didn’t come with a wrong-gendered epithet, however. Ordered to follow the one who had poked her collar, she debated trying to escape the moment she reached the hallway. The others flanked her, clearly unwilling to take chances. Neither was she, save for one thing: they were clearly herding her toward the nearest entrance to the power room, where Mekha had once sat and drained His victims. Chanting, filled with syllables and sounds that made her stomach feel queasy, echoed from within the chamber.
Now or never! Letting her body walk forward under the spell’s compulsion, Rexei hummed out loud—softly but with every bit of intent she could muster. Two of the apprentices let out soft but audible sighs before crumpling. Their bodies hit the floor with soft thumps and velvet-draped rustles, turning the other three around. While the young men narrowed their eyes, Rexei gathered her energies for a second strike.
She hummed aloud again—and Stearlen cut her off with a grab of her throat and a sharp, “Stop that!”