“I served because it was either serve or be drained. But that was the coward’s way,” she heard him confess just behind her right ear, his words barely audible over the chanting of the rest. It looked like the apprentices were spacing themselves out to guard the various openings to the three layers of the outer rings where the cells were. Since there was a doorway tunnel behind her, it probably looked to the others like Frankei was guarding this one. He continued after a pause, and a sigh. “I stayed because it was either flee and be at fault for what these men want to do to the world—cowardice again—or find out what their plans are and find a way to thwart them.
“Now stay here. I need to go get a jug of paint thinner, and I want you to hide the fact I’m not still—”
His light blue artistry done, Torven gestured with a fist. Magic closed around Rexei’s body, yanking her up off her feet. “You will stand in this circle, Longshanks. You, Stearlen, get this pot and paintbrush out of here. Pay attention, everyone!” he called out sharply. “We are about to begin. No more delays!”
Freed of the collar, but trapped within the circle painted in shades of pale blue, bright yellow, dark red, and more, Rexei struggled to free herself from the Aian’s magic with her meditation songs. She could slip free of just about any spell, given time. Unfortunately . . . he was strong. Very strong, enough that she wasn’t sure if she had enough time, because this wasn’t a collar she had grown used to over the last little while; this was a completely new warding spell. It gripped and held her body still as the chanting shifted in tone, though at least she could still breathe, blink, and see.
She saw Torven, the Aian mage, walking about a foot off the ground on a patch of misty-looking air, chanting something and scattering some sort of gritty powder in a very carefully laid circle within the greatest circle drawn on the floor. As soon as the powder circle was complete, he retreated to a heavily rune-warded ring a quarter of the way around the chamber from her.
The chanting of the others changed, and now light streamed in from every crystal held by one of the fourteen priests and bishops, and even two archbishops positioned around the room, gauging from the size of the medallions displayed on their velvet-covered chests. Despite the weight and warmth of her woolen clothes, Rexei shivered. It was clear the ex-priests had practiced in the two-plus weeks since the Aian had offered them an alternative source of power. It was enough that their chant—a short, repetitive, almost brutal set of notes and words—threatened to overwhelm her own inner melodies.
Her ears weren’t the only thing under assault; the glow of energy pouring into the painted circles and runes filled her eyes with aetheric glimpses of great domes rising up from each circle, of shimmering walls of force emerging from each symbol and set of mystical words. Squinting to enhance her view of the energies, she realized these were not domes but were actually bubbles, with hidden halves sinking down into the bedrock far enough to seal it off from the rest of the world.
On the bright side, no demon could dig down through the floor and escape the wards that way. On the dark side . . . I haven’t nearly enough energy of my own to counter this and esca—
Torven shouted in a voice that thundered louder than any munitions-packed cannon, making Rexei shout and clamp her hands over her ears. The others winced, but the priests kept chanting and the apprentices—minus Frankei—kept watch with one eye on the ritual and one eye on the passages into this giant round chamber, each determined to do their part. Squinting against the rolling, echoing, overwhelming words, Rexei realized Torven no longer held her bodily in place. Only the ward-spheres did that.
The shouting ended. Stepping forward, she lifted her hand to the edge of the transparent sphere. It was and was not there; her fingers met firm resistance, but she could feel a slight draft cutting through the room at the same time, proof she would not suffocate. She could, however, feel the magic, like resting one’s fingers lightly on the belly of a resonant instrument. It was the same short brute of a tune the priests had just finished chanting.
“Every piece of magic has a voice, Rexei,” she remembered her mother saying. “Every spell, every ward, every spark of energy. It all sings its own song. Learn to match the song, and you can learn to mimic the song. Mimic the song, and you can hide in that song . . .”
So let’s see if I can match and hide in this song, Mum.
To do so, she had to turn around and move to the back of the circle holding her prisoner, so that she had the shortest distance to push through the rest of the painted runes and whatever spells they held. To do that, she had to open her eyes first so that she could see where to go . . . and that meant she saw the black mist spewing out from a tiny spark of nothingness about knee-high in the center of the largest dust-ringed circle.
Between one breath and the next, that spark snapped wide, spewing forth a hot wind of sulphurous, acidic hatred in a ring—no, a sphere, that should not have been there. Something defined by that line of dust poured onto the ground. Within its confines, within a soap bubble of an innermost ward, a veil between sanity and that burning, dark-shrouded Netherhell, a Monster stood in towering view. Terrified, Rexei dropped to her knees.
Blackened, scale-plated skin, burning fire for eyes, long claws upon which something torn and bloody had been snagged . . . the demon stared through the sphere connecting the two realms . . . licked its lips with a long, forked tongue . . . and transformed.
“Hhhhumannnsss,” the monster hissed, shrinking down from something that filled the sphere to something that was merely half its size, if half again as large as any actual human in the chamber. Pale pink skin took the place of some of those scales, and the demon morphed from a monstrous bulk of muscles to a well-toned chest, normal-seeming arms, and hands that . . . were still long clawed and bloodied. The waist and legs were still black scaled, with twin tails, and spikes growing out of the man-thing’s black mane. He almost looked handsome . . . but the eyes were still afire. That mouth, sensuous and shiveringly cruel, quirked up on one side in amusement. “You ssseeek to bind me?”
Goddess . . . ! Guildra, help me! Rexei pleaded, praying as she had never prayed in her life. If they turn this . . . this thing into a God . . . Help me! How do I stop this from happening?
. . . Patience . . .
Guildra? Rexei blinked, but darting her gaze around showed no female other than her disguised self in the chamber. No divine Patron to protect her.
“Nurem. You are summoned to the Veil to be oathbound to our service. We offer you this boy for you to do with as you wish, body and soul, in return for your utter obedience and, through it, your elevation to bonded, subservient, but extremely powerful Godhood,” Torven stated.
Nurem’s flaming eyes shifted, and his head turned, taking in the various figures in sight. He returned his attention to Torven. “Whhhich boy?”
“That boy,” Torven stated, pointing at Rexei. “That young man, who goes by the name of Rexei Longshanks. He is a mage, among other things—whatever he is, we offer him to you if you will offer yourself in total obedience to us . . . with myself as your master, and my fellow binders your controllers. Those who oppose us, we will feed to you or slay in your name, and in turn you will give your powers to us to reshape this world for our needs . . . and your occasional pleasures.”