skin burning, felt her lips splitting, smelled the acrid stench of burning hair.
Ruled by the thing growing inside her, Reisil lurched to a halt. A savage joy blossomed in her chest. Her magic had answered her need at last.
Reisil turned, licking her lips. Her chin dropped, and she hunched her shoulders. She swiveled her head back and forth slowly, scanning the path behind from beneath lowered brows. Her nostrils flared. Her fingers flexed and curled.
Movement. She jerked her head up. Blurry shapes moved on the path, where she thought the path ought to be, for she could no longer see it through the veil of red sweeping across her vision. Her lips peeled from her teeth. She brought her hands forward fingers spread, holding them straight before her. The magic flew from her like a bolt of lightning, blood scarlet.
There were no flames or crash of thunder, no screams. Silence congealed. Crickets and birds alike froze in place, camouflaging themselves in stillness. Even the booming of the harbor cavern muted.
Reisil swayed. For a single, exquisite moment she felt unalloyed jubilation.
Then the veil dropped away, and she came to herself. She smelled the sour odor of vomit staining her cloak. She felt a breeze on her cheek, icy, like the whispering kiss of a soul-shattered rashani . A chill swept her, prickling the hairs on her legs.
Dear Lady, what had she done?
Reisil retraced her steps. She reached the foremost of her attackers. All that was left was a mound of ash, vaguely human shaped, like a gray shadow cast upon the ground. Already the wind was eroding it. There was another one a few paces back and to the left, and one more to the right.
Reisil crouched to the ground, elbows on her knees, laced knuckles pressed hard against her lips. She wanted to cry, to shout and to beat the ground with her fists.
The wind picked at the ashes. For the second time since the Blessed Lady had gifted Reisil magic, Reisil had used it to kill. More than that. To annihilate. And both times it had been like riding the storm winds with Saljane. A wild, dreadful ecstasy. She ground her knuckles against her teeth. What was she that she should savor killing so?
Another thought struck her like a blow from an executioner’s ax.
Was it her own fault that she could not use her magic to heal the plague victims? Deep inside, would she rather kill than heal? She had never felt much remorse for destroying the wizard circle. She had believed it was the only way to protect Kodu Riik. But was it? Couldn’t she have disabled them somehow and left them alive? And these men—certainly they had wanted to kill her. But was that reason enough for a healer to kill?
She could argue that she had no choice. That the power had taken her, that she had no control over its use. And that would be true, Reisil acknowledged scornfully. She had feeble control at best. It was no justification. It was an indictment.
A memory tickled in the back of her mind and pushed upward, flowering like a thornbush in her mind. The damage you could do . . . The Demonlord’s words had accused her, and she had defended herself, certain she would always serve the Lady faithfully. But now she was not so certain.
Her gaze swept over the three dissolving shapes. She had erased all evidence of who and what they were. And she had laughed . She could go and chase the other one, for certainly there had been at least four. Had the other twisted an ankle in his chase and been left behind, saved by luck? Or did he even now train his arrow on her exposed throat? Reisil lifted her head, chin elevated, inviting the unseen hand to loose its arrow. Nothing happened.
She stood, staring up the path. If she went to Sodur now, she might meet that last assassin. Everything in her revolted from the sudden eagerness at the thought. Disgust curled her lip.
But there was something worse. If she went to Sodur, she would have to tell him what had happened. He would congratulate her, proud that she had
Ruled by the thing growing inside her, Reisil lurched to a halt. A savage joy blossomed in her chest. Her magic had answered her need at last.
Reisil turned, licking her lips. Her chin dropped, and she hunched her shoulders. She swiveled her head back and forth slowly, scanning the path behind from beneath lowered brows. Her nostrils flared. Her fingers flexed and curled.
Movement. She jerked her head up. Blurry shapes moved on the path, where she thought the path ought to be, for she could no longer see it through the veil of red sweeping across her vision. Her lips peeled from her teeth. She brought her hands forward fingers spread, holding them straight before her. The magic flew from her like a bolt of lightning, blood scarlet.
There were no flames or crash of thunder, no screams. Silence congealed. Crickets and birds alike froze in place, camouflaging themselves in stillness. Even the booming of the harbor cavern muted.
Reisil swayed. For a single, exquisite moment she felt unalloyed jubilation.
Then the veil dropped away, and she came to herself. She smelled the sour odor of vomit staining her cloak. She felt a breeze on her cheek, icy, like the whispering kiss of a soul-shattered rashani . A chill swept her, prickling the hairs on her legs.
Dear Lady, what had she done?
Reisil retraced her steps. She reached the foremost of her attackers. All that was left was a mound of ash, vaguely human shaped, like a gray shadow cast upon the ground. Already the wind was eroding it. There was another one a few paces back and to the left, and one more to the right.
Reisil crouched to the ground, elbows on her knees, laced knuckles pressed hard against her lips. She wanted to cry, to shout and to beat the ground with her fists.
The wind picked at the ashes. For the second time since the Blessed Lady had gifted Reisil magic, Reisil had used it to kill. More than that. To annihilate. And both times it had been like riding the storm winds with Saljane. A wild, dreadful ecstasy. She ground her knuckles against her teeth. What was she that she should savor killing so?
Another thought struck her like a blow from an executioner’s ax.
Was it her own fault that she could not use her magic to heal the plague victims? Deep inside, would she rather kill than heal? She had never felt much remorse for destroying the wizard circle. She had believed it was the only way to protect Kodu Riik. But was it? Couldn’t she have disabled them somehow and left them alive? And these men—certainly they had wanted to kill her. But was that reason enough for a healer to kill?
She could argue that she had no choice. That the power had taken her, that she had no control over its use. And that would be true, Reisil acknowledged scornfully. She had feeble control at best. It was no justification. It was an indictment.
A memory tickled in the back of her mind and pushed upward, flowering like a thornbush in her mind. The damage you could do . . . The Demonlord’s words had accused her, and she had defended herself, certain she would always serve the Lady faithfully. But now she was not so certain.
Her gaze swept over the three dissolving shapes. She had erased all evidence of who and what they were. And she had laughed . She could go and chase the other one, for certainly there had been at least four. Had the other twisted an ankle in his chase and been left behind, saved by luck? Or did he even now train his arrow on her exposed throat? Reisil lifted her head, chin elevated, inviting the unseen hand to loose its arrow. Nothing happened.
She stood, staring up the path. If she went to Sodur now, she might meet that last assassin. Everything in her revolted from the sudden eagerness at the thought. Disgust curled her lip.
But there was something worse. If she went to Sodur, she would have to tell him what had happened. He would congratulate her, proud that she had
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