Pillar of Night

“Lan,” broke in Brinke. “We can discuss this later.” Her almost colorless grey eyes warned him not to reveal too much to Kiska.

“Yes, later,” agreed Kiska. “Lan and I need time to ourselves. For a proper welcoming home.”

“No,” Lan said weakly. But he allowed Kiska to lead him from the chamber and to their sleeping quarters. The more he fought the geas, the more certainly he fell under its power. He apologized to Kiska for leaving her and only through a phenomenal power of will kept from telling her where he had gone.

After they had made love, Lan lay staring at the stone wall. He thought of Terrill and the curse of immortality. The mage had attained such power that he could never die. But the quality of how he spent eternity mattered, Lan saw. Insane.

He left Kiska in the bed and softly padded across the cold floor to find his clothing. He knew a fate worse than Terrill’s: to be forced to spend all of time loving a woman he hated. Lan glanced at the sleeping Kiska k’Adesina and wished he had the skill to slip free of Claybore’s geas. Otherwise he and Kiska might be together for a long, long time.

Brinke stared through the empty archway at the end of her chamber. From deep within she felt stirrings of magic. The woman coaxed them and guided the forces outward. Untutored though she was, Brinke managed to form a scrying spell of some power.

The Pillar of Night rose, sleek and black and devouring all light. She flinched at its sight and wondered why she had never sensed this potent structure’s existence on her world before. Lan Martak’s presence lent her courage. With him alongside, she dared to explore, to even think of defeating Claybore.

Her handling of the scrying spell became increasingly inadequate. The view wavered and finally fell apart in a chaos of colors. Brinke released the spell and sank forward, weakened by her effort.

“You do improve, though, dear Brinke,” came a voice from behind her carved chair. The woman jerked around, startled.

“Claybore!”

“Always before you denied the Pillar’s existence, as I intended. It amuses me to see you have overcome that portion of my geas. But I must save that for another visit. I’ve come to visit and to find what our mutual friend is up to.”

The woman rose, her hand seeking out a silver dagger from its sheath under her scarlet robe. The slim blade flicked out and rammed straight for its target in Claybore’s slightly protuberant belly. The sharp tip stopped a fraction of an inch away. Strain as she would, Brinke couldn’t finish the thrust.

“Must it always be this way?” Claybore asked peevishly. “I do wish you’d learn not to oppose me.”

“What do you mean, ‘always this way’?”

Claybore chuckled, his bone skull giving no indication of where the sound came from. Ruby whirlwinds spun in the dark eye sockets. Twin beams lashed out and pinioned Brinke. She stiffened, her eyes losing focus and her lovely face turning slack.

“Martak went to the Pillar of Night,” said Claybore. “What did he learn there?”

“He has not said,” Brinke reported.

“Does he suspect you?”

“No.”

“Good. I loathe giving up one of my most useful spies. He has sensed the geas I have placed upon you?”

“Yes.”

“But he hasn’t learned it is a spell of control, that I only activate it to force you to speak of my enemies’ plans?”

“No.”

Claybore’s mechanical legs carried him around. One hand lifted and stroked over Brinke’s cheek. The woman did not respond.

“Soon enough all my parts will be in their proper place. Martak will be dead-or worse. I think he will make a fine companion for Terrill in my little forest preserve, don’t you?” Claybore didn’t expect an answer. “When I am again whole, you and I will spend much time together. Would you like that?”

“No!”

“You will like it,” he said flatly. “The geas will insure that. What else have you learned of Martak’s excursion?”

“Nothing.”

“Very well. Learn what you can. And, as always, you will not remember talking to me or seeing me. My presence here will be permanently forgotten.” Claybore manipulated the spell binding the woman, made certain forgetfulness was visited upon her, then left.

Brinke sagged, the silver dagger dropping from her hand. She stared at it, not remembering how it had come to hand or why she would have wanted to draw it. The headache building behind her eyes was worse than ever. Sprites kicked and tore at the backs of her eyeballs until she moaned aloud.

Brinke vowed to see the chirurgeon about a potion to alleviate it. The headaches were becoming more frequent.

She picked up her dagger and left the chamber, curiously drained of vitality.

Twin morning stars vied for supremacy in the east. Only faint pink fingers of dawn threatened them and set them adrift in a sky of grey. Lan Martak leaned over the castle battlements and watched as the pinks turned to light yellows and the sun poked a bright rim above the horizon. Chill breezes blew off the grain fields surrounding Brinke’s castle and contrasted vividly with the sterility of Claybore’s forest circling the Pillar of Night. Idly ru

Soft shuffling sounds brought him around.

“I couldn’t sleep,” said Brinke. “I often come up here to see the new day being born.”

“I couldn’t stand being with Kiska an instant longer,” Lan said, knowing it was a lie even as he spoke the words. The geas forced him to seek out Claybore’s commander, to want to be with her. Only an extreme effort of will allowed him to part from her. To be with her again had been one of the strongest needs driving him back from the Pillar.

“You look distracted,” Brinke said. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Lan started to speak, then stopped. Something felt wrong, different. And it was with Brinke.

“What have you been doing?” he asked.

“I? Nothing. Well, I did attempt a scrying of the Pillar.”

“There is more.”

Brinke shook her head. She glanced away from Lan to the sunrise, then back. “This time of day is always a comfort. Quiet, serene, it makes me believe better times are possible for all of us.”

“Claybore,” Lan said, more to himself than to Brinke.

“Do not ruin the mood,” she gently chided. “Just enjoy the glory of a day filled with bright promise.”

“Claybore has done something to you. There is a residue lingering around you that carries his imprint. I know it well. I’ve fought it long enough.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Panic flared and died in the woman’s eyes. This convinced Lan he had not been mistaken.

“You mentioned a geas upon you,” Lan said. “I have never really felt it-not before this. What makes you think Claybore has done anything to you?”

“Why, I… I don’t know. I can’t say, but I know it is true.”

Lan snorted in contempt. “Claybore plays with you. He has laid a compulsion of some sort on you and lets you know it, just as he does with me.”

“But I feel no presence, as you do, Lan.”

“I sense it.” Lan closed his eyes and began to expand the light mote to a hollow sphere enclosing both him and Brinke. Lan had never attempted this before; he wanted to shield his activities from Claybore’s prying eyes. Any blatant use of truly powerful magics would draw the sorcerer. Lan still needed to hide his actions until he had worked through the reason behind the Pillar of Night.

“What are you doing?” cried Brinke. The blonde tried to force her way through the shimmery curtain of light encapsulating them.

“Seeking out the root of your geas. If Claybore left you the knowledge that he had placed it upon you, there’s a chance I can trace back along that path and find the exact spell.”

“No, Lan, I’m not under any spell. Not now. No, oh, no!”