to what
the iron bars contains.
Three imps, as dry as parchment,
hung suspended from wires. They'd been posed, with their tattered
bats wings stretched in a mockery of flight .
Vishni stared in horror at the dead
things. Before she could flee, her wings popped out of their own
volition. Their color shifted, not to suit her will or her mood,
but quickly, randomly, like a thousand sunrises squeezed into a
handful of moments.
One of the imps turned its head
toward her. Red light kindled in the empty place where eyes had
been. It hissed at her, the sound dryer than dust.
A bony hand darted between the iron
bars and its claws dug deep into Vishni's shoulder.
Frantic, she tried to peel it off
with both hands. Her wings beat the air, but instead of the airy
flutter of fairy wings she heard the leathery sound of sails
snapping in a changing wind.
Her wings were bat wings! Imp wings, scarlet as
molten brimstone!
A clump of short brown curls fell to
the floor. Vishni reached for it with one bare foot and wept to see
grey skin and talons sprouting from her elongating toes.
The imp was changing, too. Life and
color flowed back into the creature along with Vishni's stolen
magic. Golden ringlets spilled over bare pink shoulders. Madness
shone from eyes the color of new leaves.
A new horror struck Vishni.
She knew this
creature! Long ago, they'd flown together. Together they'd chased
fireflies, sung songs, plotted mischief. Too much mischief, and
then exile.
Not every exiled fairy returned.
Vishni knew that. She even knew what became of fairies who drank
too deeply of a sorcerer's magic. But those were stories, nothing
more.
For the first time in her long, long
life, Vishni could think of no horror to add to this
tale.
As flesh returned to the exile's
hands, the talons in Vishni's bleeding shoulder withdrew. She
wrenched herself away and ran, her bat wings hissing behind her
like malicious whispers.
* * *
Mendor, the newest member of
Sevrin's Council of Adepts, regarded his new work shop with a
mixture of pride and dismay.
The night wind whistled through the
ruined wall, and one of the vats of solvent for which Muldonny was
justly famed had fueled the explosion. It would take him years to
rebuild the supply.
The first order of business,
however, was repairing the clockwork guards. A dozen or so had been
heaped in a corner. The exact number was difficult to ascertain,
for thanks to the explosion and the battle that preceded it, none
of the guards remained whole. Mendor suspected that he'd be lucky
to piece together three or four from the scorched pile of scrap
metal.
Which is why he'd been so pleased to
receive twenty new guards this morning, a gift from Rhendish. His
old mentor had also sent a dozen devices that would enable Mendor
to quickly assume the loyalty of Muldonny's remaining
guards.
A clatter in the hall beyond brought
a frown of puzzlement to Mendor's face. Three of the constructs
marched into the room.
"I did not summon you," he
said.
The guards advanced.
"Stop!"
Still they came on.
Mendor dived for the box of loyalty
disks. Apparently the guards perceived him as an intruder. He
should have thought of this. Rhendish had. If only he'd had half
the foresight of his former master!
Two of the guards flanked him,
seized him. Mendor managed to slap a disk onto one of the
constructs, but it made no difference. One of the metal guards held
him while the other threw a chain over the ceiling beam near the
remaining vat of solvent.
The new adept writhed and shrieked
and cursed as the constructs snapped metal bands around his wrists
and attached them to one end of the chain. They hauled him up, tied
weights to his ankles, and dragged the chain across the beam until
he hung directly over the vat.
No inhabitant of Sevrin, much less
an alchemist, could fail to understand the reference. Eldreath had
been dropped into a pit of solvent.
Mendor screamed in terror and
denial.
The third guard raised its mailed
hands to
the iron bars contains.
Three imps, as dry as parchment,
hung suspended from wires. They'd been posed, with their tattered
bats wings stretched in a mockery of flight .
Vishni stared in horror at the dead
things. Before she could flee, her wings popped out of their own
volition. Their color shifted, not to suit her will or her mood,
but quickly, randomly, like a thousand sunrises squeezed into a
handful of moments.
One of the imps turned its head
toward her. Red light kindled in the empty place where eyes had
been. It hissed at her, the sound dryer than dust.
A bony hand darted between the iron
bars and its claws dug deep into Vishni's shoulder.
Frantic, she tried to peel it off
with both hands. Her wings beat the air, but instead of the airy
flutter of fairy wings she heard the leathery sound of sails
snapping in a changing wind.
Her wings were bat wings! Imp wings, scarlet as
molten brimstone!
A clump of short brown curls fell to
the floor. Vishni reached for it with one bare foot and wept to see
grey skin and talons sprouting from her elongating toes.
The imp was changing, too. Life and
color flowed back into the creature along with Vishni's stolen
magic. Golden ringlets spilled over bare pink shoulders. Madness
shone from eyes the color of new leaves.
A new horror struck Vishni.
She knew this
creature! Long ago, they'd flown together. Together they'd chased
fireflies, sung songs, plotted mischief. Too much mischief, and
then exile.
Not every exiled fairy returned.
Vishni knew that. She even knew what became of fairies who drank
too deeply of a sorcerer's magic. But those were stories, nothing
more.
For the first time in her long, long
life, Vishni could think of no horror to add to this
tale.
As flesh returned to the exile's
hands, the talons in Vishni's bleeding shoulder withdrew. She
wrenched herself away and ran, her bat wings hissing behind her
like malicious whispers.
* * *
Mendor, the newest member of
Sevrin's Council of Adepts, regarded his new work shop with a
mixture of pride and dismay.
The night wind whistled through the
ruined wall, and one of the vats of solvent for which Muldonny was
justly famed had fueled the explosion. It would take him years to
rebuild the supply.
The first order of business,
however, was repairing the clockwork guards. A dozen or so had been
heaped in a corner. The exact number was difficult to ascertain,
for thanks to the explosion and the battle that preceded it, none
of the guards remained whole. Mendor suspected that he'd be lucky
to piece together three or four from the scorched pile of scrap
metal.
Which is why he'd been so pleased to
receive twenty new guards this morning, a gift from Rhendish. His
old mentor had also sent a dozen devices that would enable Mendor
to quickly assume the loyalty of Muldonny's remaining
guards.
A clatter in the hall beyond brought
a frown of puzzlement to Mendor's face. Three of the constructs
marched into the room.
"I did not summon you," he
said.
The guards advanced.
"Stop!"
Still they came on.
Mendor dived for the box of loyalty
disks. Apparently the guards perceived him as an intruder. He
should have thought of this. Rhendish had. If only he'd had half
the foresight of his former master!
Two of the guards flanked him,
seized him. Mendor managed to slap a disk onto one of the
constructs, but it made no difference. One of the metal guards held
him while the other threw a chain over the ceiling beam near the
remaining vat of solvent.
The new adept writhed and shrieked
and cursed as the constructs snapped metal bands around his wrists
and attached them to one end of the chain. They hauled him up, tied
weights to his ankles, and dragged the chain across the beam until
he hung directly over the vat.
No inhabitant of Sevrin, much less
an alchemist, could fail to understand the reference. Eldreath had
been dropped into a pit of solvent.
Mendor screamed in terror and
denial.
The third guard raised its mailed
hands to
Similar Books
