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Dizzily, he rolled over and looked back uphill. He saw Madislav staring at the princess, a deep scowl on his face. “I did not know you were a mage,” the Vos said in a menacing voice.
Seriene still stood between the horses, near the hill’s crest.
There was fear on her face, but she controlled it. “Nor had I thought you might study the art,” she replied. “Or are you really Madislav at all?”
The Vos boomed laughter. “You are not thinking that I am being someone else in here?” he said. With deliberation, he began another enchantment, letting the ancient words roll forth in a resounding cadence. Seriene began one of her own, her voice high, shrill, and desperate. A heartbeat later, the night was split by a brilliant flash of light as a great bolt of lightning stabbed at Seriene with a crackling roar. But the spell did not strike her, as an invisible shield parried the blow and sent it streaking wide. Beside her, both horses reared in panic, and she ducked out of the way of their flailing hooves.
In that instant, Ba
Gaelin stood unsteadily, one hand clamped over the burning wounds in the middle of his body, his sword still in his hand. The Vos was still more than fifty feet away, and uphill at that; he’d never reach him in time to prevent the spell, and he couldn’t throw his sword with any accuracy. He took a step forward and demanded, “Who are you? What have you done with Madislav?”
Ba
“Ba
“Your observation is correct,” Ba
For an instant, Gaelin was transfixed by panic. Then he cried out, “Blackbrand! Kick!”
Behind Ba
“You’ll what?” coughed Ba
Gaelin blinked, still holding the sword at his throat. Tears blurred his vision. “I’ll cut his tongue out before I let you speak another spell with his mouth,” he promised darkly.
Ba
Gaelin dropped to his knees, still threatening Madislav with the sword. “Be damned to Azrai’s hells, then, Ba
“Sorry, Gaelin… doesn’t work that way. My own body’s just fine… I’ll be back there in a flash, faster than thought… though you’ve parried this thrust nicely.”
Gaelin’s voice broke in a heaving sob. “Damn you! Why?”
“Needed the Mhoried bloodline.” With a great effort, Ba
“Ba
“If you’d continued your studies, I would have shown you marvels, Gaelin. Terrors and glories unimaginable. I made a bargain, and the Mhorieds were the price I was to pay.” He sagged back, blood welling up in his mouth. “Listen to me, Gaelin. I have your sister. And I’m growing tired of trying to catch you. Surrender yourself to me, or she will die in ways that you can’t even imagine. It’s you I want. Give up, and I’ll let her go. I’ll even make sure Tuorel never finds her.” He coughed and spat blood. “I swear by the Face of Evil that she’ll die by the next full moon if you don’t leave this place and come to me.” His eyes burned intensely into Gaelin’s own for a moment and then began to fade. “Your choice, Gaelin,” he breathed, and fell still.
Gaelin looked up as Seriene slid down the hillside toward him. An ugly purple bruise was already forming on her jaw.
She knelt beside him, and looked up at his face. “Gaelin, I’m sorry,” she said quietly.
He cradled Madislav’s head in his lap and leaned forward, tears falling on the warrior’s face. There was one brief flicker of life, the eyes opened, and for a moment the old Madislav was looking up at him. The expression, the cast of his eyes -
Gaelin knew at a glance his friend had returned. Madislav breathed softly, “Gaelin?”
“Madislav! You’re back!” Gaelin tried to show him a reassuring smile, but he bowed his head instead, weeping.
“Ba
“No. He said that he’d return to his own body when…”
Gaelin couldn’t finish the sentence.
“I saw his stronghold. He took me into the Shadow World.” Madislav’s voice was growing weak. “He has Ilwyn… it is a cold place, Gaelin. I am glad I am not being there.”
“We’ll find a priest, Madislav, one of the Haelynites who knows the healing spells!” Gaelin started to pick him up, to carry him to help. “Don’t give up!”
“Burn my body, Gaelin, in the Vos way,” the warrior whispered.
“Destevnye duma, my friend.”
Gaelin laid Madislav back to the ground and turned away.
He knelt in the cold, wet grass of the hillside, his hands over his eyes. After a long time, Seriene put her hand on his shoulder.
“Come, Gaelin. It’s time for us to go.”
Chapter Thirteen
In the days that followed, Gaelin wandered the weathered battlements of Caer Winoene, pacing the castle’s walls like an animal measuring the dimensions of a cage. He realized that Ba
Over and over, he replayed the confrontation on the hillside in his mind’s eye, trying to imagine how it might have gone differently.
In accordance with the custom of the Vos, Gaelin burned Madislav’s body on a pyre two days after his death, as the moon was rising over the shadowed hills. Gaelin himself set the pile to flame, and he stayed hours after most of the others had left, watching the twisting pall of smoke curling up into the starry sky. It was also a tradition of the Vos to watch over a warrior’s pyre until sunrise, and Gaelin stood by in silence all through the cold night.
As the sky was lightening in the east, Gaelin’s reverie was broken by the arrival of Seriene. She rode up and stopped a respectful distance from the bier, dismounting and leaving her horse with her guards. Since Ba
Seriene was dressed in fine riding clothes, a warm fur cloak wrapped around her shoulders. She paused for a respectful moment of silence and asked quietly, “Am I intruding? ”