Inside the cage, two alchemists dressed entirely in black stood watching them, eyes sharp with resentment. There was not a single scrap of remorse or shame anywhere to be seen, and that chilled Sorin far more than the resentment. As he drew closer, he saw that there was something strange about the manacles on their wrists.
Noticing the direction of his gaze, the paladin said, "An alchemist spelled them to cause immense pain should they be opened by anything except the key. She said to give you the key." He pulled it from where it hung around his neck. "I nearly forgot. My apologies, High Paladin."
Sorin waved the apology away as he slipped the key around his own neck and tucked it beneath his clothes. "Tell us everything pertaining to the white demons," he commanded.
The alchemists remained silent.
"They're tainted," Brekk said quietly, his eye shimmering pale violet. "Their own experiments, all the energies they've been mucking with and wrongly using …" He bared his teeth. "Get them out of that cage and strip them."
The alchemist glared as Sorin unlocked the cage and the knights dragged them out. A few deft slices with daggers and the alchemists stood naked in the snow. Sorin stared grimly at the places where their skin was already turning black and leathery. A closer look at their hands showed they had begun altering to sustain claws.
"Demons," he said quietly. "They've been so corrupted by their own work that they are turning into demons."
Brekk's lip curled. "If you ask me, they were already demons. They've been torturing and killing people for energy—is that not what demons do?"
Sorin felt sick. "Though he has a point, you are not quite demons yet," he said to the alchemists. "You are not so far along that you cannot be saved. Indeed, I think with Brekk that perhaps you could be saved even if you had progressed all the way. But I am still strongly in favor of killing you, if only to spare the world whatever dark knowledge you've gained. If you want to live and be saved, repent of your wrong doing and help us."
Still the alchemists said nothing, only stared at the ground, as though oblivious even to the cold pebbling their bare skin.
"They have no remorse in their eyes," Brekk said. "They're not demons yet, but they never fought it very hard."
"What?" Sorin asked. "You mean they're …" He could not get the words out, the very idea of it too unbelievable.
Brekk nodded, mouth pinched. "As I said, they may as well be considered full demons already. They want it. Some do. You'll not sway them."
"I want to know why they did such terrible things."
"So we would no longer be slaves," bit out the alchemist on the right. The words came out through chattering teeth, and Sorin ordered with a gesture for them to be given cloaks before the cold got the better of them. "The queen said—" he howled in agony as the other alchemist abruptly swung around and kicked him in the groin.
Sorin winced. "Secure the violent one. Get the other one on his feet. What were you going to say about the queen?"
"The king is dying," said a voice from behind Sorin.
He turned around and stared at two figures he vaguely remembered from battle, but had not actually met—one a Captain, the other an army alchemist. "You are?"
The man gave a short, but elegant bow. "Captain Rosta of the Navathian Royal Army, special alchemist unit. This is my Master Alchemist, Kirkland." He indicated the woman next to him. Her gaze was on the two captured alchemists and her expression could only be described as livid.
Striding up to them, she backhanded each one, leaving their mouths dripping blood. "You've killed hundreds, I would hazard even thousands! Why would you do this? What did you hope to accomplish? What does
she
hope to accomplish? Answer me!"
"You're telling me you would not do whatever it took to have your freedom?" asked the alchemist who had until then been silent.
Sorin reared back as Kirkland punched the man, dropping him to the ground. "Murder is unacceptable. Demons are unacceptable." She started to kick him, but stopped when Rosta touched her shoulder. Turning away, she strode off back into the camp.
"The one on the ground used to be a friend of Kirkland's," Rosta said. "They went very separate ways after they completed training. Kirkland was taken into the military, and this one—Issur—went into research. He's extremely talented. We also believed him to be dead after the manor where he lived with his master was burned to the ground. The right number of skeletons was found and it seemed a tragic accident. The other one I do not know, but he looks young enough not to be long out of training."
"We need to know what they ultimately hoped to accomplish," Sorin said. "Neikirk said they were attempting to use the demons as puppet vessels."
Rosta grimaced. "That is consistent with the marks we have been studying on some of the dead demons. We have been going farther and studying the people they kidnapped and killed in the course of their experiments as well. They are not just making them puppet vessels, they are trying to make them accept the energies of paladins, priests, and necromancers—especially necromancers, I think. There are fewer of them than the others, but they were the ones most brutally experimented on. We will not have definitive answers for some time, but I think the conclusions will not deviate far from the theories."
"You sound like Neikirk," Sorin said with a brief laugh.
"I spend a lot of time around alchemists; you start to pick up that way they have of speaking," Rosta replied, smiling. It faded as he glanced again at the mutinous alchemists. "Why does the queen want you to do this?" The alchemists did not reply. "I can and will beat the answers out of you," Rosta said coldly. "You are still property of the crown and can—will—be treated accordingly." They sneered in reply and he stepped closer to them, fisting a hand in Issur's hair, twisting hard.
Sorin gestured for Rosta to back off. "Violence against them only justifies their actions in their minds, trust me. We need to purify them, or they'll just use the anger to fuel their growing hunger and we'll have two more demons on our hands. Given all the experiments they've performed, there is no telling what they'll be like as full demons. Brekk, help escort them to Cerant. If he's not still supervising the razing of the castle he'll be in his tent. He can purify them."
"What are you going to do?" Brekk asked curiously.
"Prepare the camp to receive a queen," Sorin said and strode off to do exactly that.
By the time he was done, he was ready to sleep for a month. Returning to the campfire near his tent, he was not surprised to see Cerant and the others all gathered and waiting for him. "How are the prisoners?" he asked.
"Asleep," Cerant said, not bothering to lift his head from Neikirk's lap, though he did open his eyes. "The purification exhausted them—exhausted me. But I think that is how everyone feels. They should be fine to question in the morning. I have never seen so much rage, and though I can respect it to a point—no one deserves to be treated like property—I cannot make sense of their actions. They were only turning themselves from slaves of a crown to slaves of power."
Sorin made a face. "All I can think of is Rofell. A sick king? Alchemists using black magic to visit untold cruelties upon their brothers? I am not eager to meet this queen. I wish I knew what to expect."
Cerant let out a pained grunt and clutched at his head, eyes closing again. "I am never going to get used to this," he bit out. "How did Angelos …" he trailed off as he fell into a trance, listening to the words of the Goddess.
Relief swept through Sorin to know they had Her guidance. He waited in tense silence with the others—and startled when Cerant abruptly stood up and strode away from camp, off into the dark. They followed after him until he stopped in the middle of a clearing. His eyes shimmered violet as he looked at Neikirk and intoned, "Clear the snow. Draw the star."
Neikirk nodded and reached into one of his pouches, drawing out a ruby bead and throwing it. When it had landed in the snow, he spoke a few short, sharp words and flames abruptly burst into life. They spread out in a circle, clearing away the snow and leaving smooth, bare ground behind. "I am not certain how best to draw the star."
"The one from the basement?" Sorin guessed. "Rope to mark it and from there I can carve it into the earth with a knife." He turned sharply on one heel and strode back into camp to fetch rope. He returned quickly and crossed to the far end of the space Neikirk had cleared. Uncoiling the rope, he threw the end to Emel. After the star was shaped in rope, they drew daggers and set to work on carving the star into the ground.
When it was done, he was soaked in sweat and covered in dirt. He turned to Cerant for the next step. "Blood of the five," Cerant said and moved to take the same point he had before in the basement.
"The five?" Emel asked.
Sorin swore loudly. "We need Koray." He strode off again, heartbeat kicking up. As badly as he wanted Koray awake, as badly as he wanted to talk, some part of him dreaded the moment, certain he would ruin any chance he might have remaining. All he wanted was Koray back at his side, sniping at him, insulting him, every now and again breaking down and smiling at him. He had no idea how to go about accomplishing that goal, however.
Inside his tent, someone had put out all but a single lantern near the bed. There was a pitcher of wine and cups on a small table on the other side and a stack of reports for him to read beside it. Sorin felt even more exhausted looking at them.
But all exhaustion fled in the face of anxiety as he glanced at the bed where Koray remained fast asleep. Someone had propped his staff so that it was in easy reach. Sorin approached the bed slowly, then reached out to push the blankets aside enough to lightly stroke Koray's face and neck. He was warmer than he had been before, and a bit of his color had returned. Some of Sorin's anxiety broke away and he let his fingers linger just a moment longer.
Koray's eyes fluttered, glowing ever so faintly as they opened. "Warm," he murmured, then drifted off again.
Sorin did not have the heart to wake him, but the pulsing in his chest was insistent. Whatever they needed to do, they could not do it without Koray. Stifling a sigh, Sorin gently shook him awake. Koray groaned, whimpered, and turned to bury his face in the pillow. Sorin shook him again and Koray groaned a second time, eyes dragging open as he looked up. He immediately tensed, eyes going wide and dark. "Sorin?" he asked hoarsely.
"Koray," Sorin said softly. "How are you feeling?"
"I thought I was dead. I'm not certain I'm not," he said. They stared at each other until eventually Koray looked away and awkwardness filled the room like smoke. "What are you doing all the way out here? You shouldn't have left the royal castle."
"I came after you," Sorin said. "We have a great deal to talk about and, though I want to discuss them right now, there are more important matters for which you are needed."
Koray swallowed. "Of course." He slowly sat up and pushed the blankets away. "Where are my boots?"
"Here," Sorin replied and stooped to retrieve them where they were set by the bed. Ignoring Koray's protests, he helped put them on, then tugged Koray out of bed and got him on his feet. Though he was loath to let go of him, Sorin made himself do so and thrust Koray's walking stick at him.
The look on Koray's face was indecipherable, but it did not lessen an aching need to kiss him. But Koray's words were seared into his mind, and he would rather die than ever again take a kiss that was not really wanted.
Swallowing, briefly balling his hands into fists, Sorin asked, "Are you sure you're all right? It's not far, just outside of camp. After we're done you can go back to resting."
"I'll be fine," Koray said in a dull tone and drew himself up. But he made it only a single step before he stumbled, clearly still exhausted. Sorin moved without thinking, catching him up, holding him close. "Koray …"
"Let me go," Koray said.
Sorin started to argue, but then remembered he had thrown away all rights to such arguments. "Just be careful," he said, slowly letting go, trying to give Koray as much warmth as he could before Koray stepped out of reach.
Koray said nothing, just accepted the walking staff as Sorin handed it back to him and slowly walked across the tent and out of it. Sorin led the way to the clearing where the others waited. He ignored the silent question Cerant cast him and took his own position in the star when Neikirk indicated he should.
"Brekk, there, and Koray of course you know your spot," Neikirk ordered. "This one does not have the inherit power of the one in the castle, but it will suffice for whatever purpose it is intended."
As Neikirk stepped into his position at the topmost point of the star, it shimmered with bright violet light. Sorin felt as it began to pulse with power, could feel his power pouring out of him and into the star, feel the power of the others doing the same, all of it melding, merging, growing ever stronger with the merging.
It was like nothing he had ever felt, a hundred times greater than the heat that consumed him in battle. He trembled with the force of it—and then winced as it began to ache, then hurt, and then burn. His lip bled from the effort of holding back a scream. He almost broke the entire spell—or whatever it was—when he saw Koray collapse to his knees.
Just as he lost his remaining patience and nearly did so, the pain stopped. Sorin sucked in air, not realizing until that moment that he had stopped breathing. Neikirk and Cerant both sank slowly to their knees, breathing heavily. Brekk looked as though he were close to doing the same.
Energy thrummed through him and some prickling …
awareness
… though of what he was aware, Sorin could not say. He left his point in the star to go over to Koray, kneeling in front of him and reaching out—and stopping at the last moment. "Are you all right?" he asked quietly, drawing his hand back.
"Fine," Koray said in his usual, acerbic tone. "I was simply not expecting to gain back so much energy so abruptly." He looked up, stared at Sorin, mouth opening—then he closed it and dropped his gaze. Retrieving his walking stick, he slowly stood.