eyes undying hatred. “How long?” she asked.
His lips twisted in a sneer. “Not long enough; you should be dead.”
“And I am not, and you are dying. How long were you in that body?”
“Guess,” he said. “Or if you have the courage, bend closer; I will tell only you, not those scum.”
“I think not,” Dorrin said. Arcolin’s experience warned her. She backed away.
“Coward bitch!” he said; blood spurted from his mouth. His body convulsed, and a mist formed over it though the body still jerked. Dorrin spoke the words she had spoken when she expelled the Verrakai spirit from Stammel, but the mist did not disperse. Instead, it drifted toward her on the current of air from the north, hardly visible in the wavering torchlight.
“My lord?” The sergeant’s voice was shaky.
“If I cannot dispel the mist—if it enters me, if I act differently—kill me at once.”
“My lord!”
“At once.” Dorrin backed away from the mist a step, then stopped. She would not lead it closer to her people. They had no protection; she had her shield of magery. She must lure it to her alone. “I must not become what that was; this realm has had enough evil Verrakaien.” She stepped forward.
If Verrakai command words would not work on this one … what did that mean? Could it penetrate her mage-shield? Who had it been, and how many years had it lived, to have so strong a hold on life unbodied? And what would work?
Kieri’s words, the remembered words of the man who had freed him from torment, came to her:
There is a High Lord above all lords; go to his courts and be free
.
The mist reached her shield, thick enough to dim the torchlight and spread like a stain on glass. She felt a mental itch, a high thin keening like a fly trapped in a corner. The first touch on her skin was like fire. The noise in her head grew.
“Falk’s Oath in gold,” Dorrin said, “and the High Lord’s justice oppose your evil. By this ruby, by the High Lord’s rule, as Falk’s knight and the High Lord’s loyal servant, I banish you. Begone, foulness, and be born no more.” With her sword, blue now glinting from its blade, she drew the sigils for Falk and the High Lord on the mist; the mist brightened, condensed, and for a moment she felt engulfed in chaos. Then it was gone—the pressure, the sound, the mental itch, the burning pain.
The sergeant, sword drawn, stood near her, eyes fixed on hers as she turned. “It touched you,” he said. “I saw it pause and then—”
“My shield held it off briefly, then it got through. But I am unchanged,” Dorrin said. She saw doubt in his face. “I have no relic of Falk to prove it by, but I do still wear Falk’s ruby.” She touched it; it glowed to her touch. “And see the blade of my sword—you saw it flare when it touched the mist, and now when I touch my bare hand to it—” She pulled off her glove with her teeth and laid her hand on the blade. “Nothing.”
“How did you destroy it?”
“I did not,” Dorrin said. “It ignored my commands as lord of Verrakai. But Falk and the High Lord destroyed it. Did you hear my prayer?”
“No, my lord. Your lips moved, but we heard nothing. That’s why we thought …” His voice trailed away; he still looked worried.
“Watch me closely,” Dorrin said. “And by all means, when we reach Harway, tell the Marshal—as I will—and the Royal Guard commander what you saw and how I have behaved since. I’m going to get the courier’s seal ring and the messages he carried, if any.” Nothing happened as she touched the body. She found the message case, the seal ring, pulled off his gloves.
“Why’s that?” asked the sergeant, standing near.
“Look,” Dorrin said. On the inner wrist was a tattoo, barely visible in the torchlight, but the horned circle was evident. “He must have killed the real courier and taken his clothes; there’s no way a Royal Guard soldier could hide that mark.” She touched his chest and felt
His lips twisted in a sneer. “Not long enough; you should be dead.”
“And I am not, and you are dying. How long were you in that body?”
“Guess,” he said. “Or if you have the courage, bend closer; I will tell only you, not those scum.”
“I think not,” Dorrin said. Arcolin’s experience warned her. She backed away.
“Coward bitch!” he said; blood spurted from his mouth. His body convulsed, and a mist formed over it though the body still jerked. Dorrin spoke the words she had spoken when she expelled the Verrakai spirit from Stammel, but the mist did not disperse. Instead, it drifted toward her on the current of air from the north, hardly visible in the wavering torchlight.
“My lord?” The sergeant’s voice was shaky.
“If I cannot dispel the mist—if it enters me, if I act differently—kill me at once.”
“My lord!”
“At once.” Dorrin backed away from the mist a step, then stopped. She would not lead it closer to her people. They had no protection; she had her shield of magery. She must lure it to her alone. “I must not become what that was; this realm has had enough evil Verrakaien.” She stepped forward.
If Verrakai command words would not work on this one … what did that mean? Could it penetrate her mage-shield? Who had it been, and how many years had it lived, to have so strong a hold on life unbodied? And what would work?
Kieri’s words, the remembered words of the man who had freed him from torment, came to her:
There is a High Lord above all lords; go to his courts and be free
.
The mist reached her shield, thick enough to dim the torchlight and spread like a stain on glass. She felt a mental itch, a high thin keening like a fly trapped in a corner. The first touch on her skin was like fire. The noise in her head grew.
“Falk’s Oath in gold,” Dorrin said, “and the High Lord’s justice oppose your evil. By this ruby, by the High Lord’s rule, as Falk’s knight and the High Lord’s loyal servant, I banish you. Begone, foulness, and be born no more.” With her sword, blue now glinting from its blade, she drew the sigils for Falk and the High Lord on the mist; the mist brightened, condensed, and for a moment she felt engulfed in chaos. Then it was gone—the pressure, the sound, the mental itch, the burning pain.
The sergeant, sword drawn, stood near her, eyes fixed on hers as she turned. “It touched you,” he said. “I saw it pause and then—”
“My shield held it off briefly, then it got through. But I am unchanged,” Dorrin said. She saw doubt in his face. “I have no relic of Falk to prove it by, but I do still wear Falk’s ruby.” She touched it; it glowed to her touch. “And see the blade of my sword—you saw it flare when it touched the mist, and now when I touch my bare hand to it—” She pulled off her glove with her teeth and laid her hand on the blade. “Nothing.”
“How did you destroy it?”
“I did not,” Dorrin said. “It ignored my commands as lord of Verrakai. But Falk and the High Lord destroyed it. Did you hear my prayer?”
“No, my lord. Your lips moved, but we heard nothing. That’s why we thought …” His voice trailed away; he still looked worried.
“Watch me closely,” Dorrin said. “And by all means, when we reach Harway, tell the Marshal—as I will—and the Royal Guard commander what you saw and how I have behaved since. I’m going to get the courier’s seal ring and the messages he carried, if any.” Nothing happened as she touched the body. She found the message case, the seal ring, pulled off his gloves.
“Why’s that?” asked the sergeant, standing near.
“Look,” Dorrin said. On the inner wrist was a tattoo, barely visible in the torchlight, but the horned circle was evident. “He must have killed the real courier and taken his clothes; there’s no way a Royal Guard soldier could hide that mark.” She touched his chest and felt
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