[Lanen Kaelar 03] - Redeeming the Lost (11 page)

I know why. Because he knew through his arts
that one day, a demon-master possessed of great power would create for him a
new body, untouchable this time by fire, and that he would live again, this
time forever.

Ah, life is sweet.

For I have found it, not two moons since. The
Demonlord’s Distant Heart. Every demon-summoner alive would murder cheerfully
for the knowledge I now possess.

A few days past I summoned the Lord of the
Fifth Hell, who told me that the Demonlord could only be destroyed by a
creature that bleeds both dragon and human blood when cut. Such a thing must
exist for the spell of the Distant Heart requires a counterspell to be
effective, but I could waste years searching for it and still never find it.
After all, demons are not truly aware of time as we know it. This creature
might have died out centuries ago, or not been born yet.

I knew that before I summoned the Demonlord, knew
that I could neither banish nor destroy him immediately—but there are ways and
ways to deal with demons. The binding spells that hold him can be renewed
easily enough, for as long as I like. Perhaps my arts will, in time, allow me
to fabricate such a creature. It is not beyond possibility—and after all, I
will soon have a wife! Given sufficient preparation, surely I can create a
child that would answer that need. And in the meantime, I will have the means
of my eventual success at hand. For what would be the good of finding the
creature of mixed blood if I had not the Distant Heart in my possession?

And I have found it by pure chance.

This autumn past, poor deluded Marik of
Gundar, who has relied on me to bolster his power for many years, took the risk
of travelling to the Dragon Isle to gather lansip, that marvellous leaf that
grew only in that one place in all the world. Healall, good for everything from
headache to heart s-ease, and when taken in sufficient quantity, able to
reverse the effects of time itself. All in all, I suppose I should be grateful
for Marik’s delusion: it has given me back half a century of life, and it drew
my attention to the Dragon Isle. I has prudently avoided that place for many
years, for the Kantri, the True Dragons who lived on that island so far to the
west, have a natural power over the Rakshasa who serve me. However, as I began
to search some months ago for the proper material out of which to create a body
for the Demonlord to inhabit, all suddenly came clear.

A body untouchable by fire must be made of
fire, or of stone. A

body of fire is unworkable, for fire—even
demonfire—must have something to burn upon, however small, and that would soon
be exhausted. I could have fashioned him a body of granite, but it would take
years and years, and I have no wish to wait so long. It is also the case that
hard stone is unforgiving, and it can be shattered given sufficient strength.
No, the Dragon Isle held the answer. It was volcanic in nature: fire and stone
at once, fluid and ready to be shaped to my will, and vastly lighter than solid
rock. I had only to call forth the molten stone from the heart of the island.

When I began the work I meant only to shape a
body that would hold the Demonlord—I intended the shape to be a figure of dread
to the dragons, that they might feel that one of their own had become their
destroyer. However, I had barely begun the making when I felt suddenly, even at
that great remove, the presence of something burning with a fire hotter even
than molten stone. I turned my mind to it, I probed with my thought and with
all the power nature had granted me, and lo, there it lay, open to my thought,
and just where it would be of most use.

The making of the Black Dragon took all the
power I possess. I had to goad the quiescent voice of the island from a rumble
into violent activity, then to raise the casket containing the heart into the
midst of the material I used to create the body of the beast. Once the shaping
was done, though, it was—it is—a perfect creation. It houses the Demonlord,
bound to me inextricably by blood and bone, and it bears within itself its own
destruction. That pleases me. And when I offer to ensoul it at last, give it
life again—well, the other main stricture of the spell of the Distant Heart is that
body, soul, and the Heart cannot ever be combined again in the one creature. If
that were to happen, the spell would be broken and the Heart would become mere
flesh again.

It is truly said that if you put all your
energies into a single task, all of life comes together to aid you. However,
the wise man does not put all his trust in so insubstantial a thing as life.

Since I provided Marik with numerous demonic
artefacts, among them a means of keeping off the dragons, I received half of
the lansip harvest for my pains. I have used almost all of it al—

ready, bar a few boxes I have retained to
control those demons who crave it: but the distilled essence of lansip has
proven the legends true. No more the protesting joints, no more the weakness,
the thousand small ills, the dimmed eyesight, the fading hearing—no more the
tread of death behind me or its shadow in the glass before my eyes.

I have conquered time itself. Behold, I now
have that which all men desire—a mind honed by seventy years of study and nearly
ninety years of living, and a body no more than thirty years old to carry out
the demands I make of it. I had forgotten the power of this age! Every nerve
tingles with strength and youth. By all the Hells, it is a wonder.

Of course, I do miss my hand.

I had to cut it off to bind the Demonlord to
my will. The sacrifice will be well worth it—it was only my left hand, after
all—but the place where my hand once was itches constantly. It is of minor
interest. I suspect the illusion will end in time. Perhaps I can find a smith
to create a mechanical replacement. It is damned awkward getting dressed.
Still, that is what servants are for.

It irks me that I have been so weak these last
several days, but even I must needs recover from such great works as the
binding of the Nameless One and the making of the Black Dragon. I labour even
as I rest, to keep the creature in the air as it flies to Kolmar from the
distant west. And I have had a rasp in my throat from the choking I had off
that witch-daughter of Marik’s when she attacked. I have ensured that she has
nor food nor fuel. The weaker her body, the easier it will be to dominate her
will.

I know that one of the True Dragons, the
Kantrishakrim as they are called, is here—it nearly stopped me from capturing
the girl. The rest will not be far behind. Marik has done so much good, at
least: I know the Kantri are coming. Truly, that surprised me. It seems that in
the making of the Black Dragon the island was overwhelmed in fire. I had not
planned that. However, it is all moot.

If the Black Dragon arrives first, all well
and good, for it houses the soul of the Demonlord, and will be the death of the
Kantri. I do not hope for this, for the thing is a golem, living stone despite
the half-demon soul that animates it. I must support its every wingbeat, and
even I grow weary on occasion. I shall have to make another sacrifice of
blood—not mine, of course!—this night before I face the Mages. It is proving a
great deal harder to support the creature than I had anticipated, though I am
well 3qual to the task.

If the Kantri should arrive first—well, I have
a demonline ready and waiting, and in a breath I can be hundreds of leagues
distant and the way closed behind me, and they with no way of knowing where I
might be. And the Black Dragon, the Demon-lord incarnate, will arrive
eventually. In that moment the fate of the Kantrishakrim will be sealed.

I am thankful now for the foresight I showed
in establishing this cantrip which records my thoughts in this book even as I
think them. It is vastly easier than sitting and writing for hours. I have one
operating on Marik as well. It has helped me to check that he is telling me the
truth. The poor idiot is too stupid to lie, it seems. It is well. And for
myself, when I come into my own, it is good that there will be a true record of
my coming to power, that the slaves may know how they came to their slavery.
Despair is truly the most satisfying sauce.

The next step takes place this very night. I
have commanded an assembly of the College after the evening meal and they will
all attend. After all, why should they not answer the summons of their beloved
Archimage? I have hidden my true self, the power of my arts, for many long
years. I have cultivated the goodwill of my fellow Mages even while despising
them, for it has taken so very long to prepare myself—but tonight, kind, caring
Archimage Berys will die, and in the place of that weakling I will stand
revealed to them at last, in my true self. I will offer the choice to my
College, to join me or to die. I expect most of the fools will choose death,
but I may perhaps gain a few willing souls from among the students. There are
many who desire more power than has been given them by the Lady.

And if all else fails, they will make splendid
demon fodder.

I woke to the sound of Idai’s voice in
truespeech. “Come, Akhor, it is not like you to miss a meal,” she said, her
voice light in my thoughts. I sat up, disoriented, rubbed my face, and opened
my eyes to find myself little the wiser. It was late afternoon. The sun was
falling behind the western hills, and a chill wind was beginning to swirl
around us, as if it were not certain which direction to come from. Wrapped in a
cloak I had not been wearing, asleep beside Shikrar and Maran in the middle of
a field—but where—oh.

“Idai, where are the Kantri? Where are the
Lost? How do they fare?”

“Peace, my friend,” she said quietly. “All is
well.” I rose and walked with her, a little away from the others, leaving them
to sleep. “All of our people have followed Kedra to that farmers field, to eat
and drink and rest. The Lost—ah, it is long and long since they were trapped.
Imagine if you went into the Weh sleep and woke five kells later! There is a
great deal for them to learn. We must not expect it to happen overnight.” She
sighed. “Oh, my friend. Think of all the Kantri who have worked towards this
day—three full generations, birth unto ending—so many who dreamed of a joyous
release for those trapped souls. I am such a fool. In all my hopes, I never
imagined that the restoration of the Lost would be so heart-searing.” She
closed her eyes for a moment. “Akhor, the last thing that most of them recall
is throwing themselves at a treacherous Gedri who had killed their mates, their
parents, their children; I do not know if there is enough time or reason in the
world to overcome their hatred.”

“If time and reason are not enough, we shall
have to see what compassion may do,” I said resolutely. For all my exhaustion,
I felt now braver and brighter than I had for days. “Come, Idai, throw off this
gloom! I too longed for a day of glory for the Lost—but I will forego that
pleasure for the wonder of their restoration, however painful.”

“Ah, yes. You remind me. Treshak has said that
they now wish to be known as the Restored, Dhrenagan in the Old Speech, not the
Lost any longer. We have taken to referring to them so.” She sighed once more,
then drew herself up, into the Attitude of Resolve. “You have the right of it,
as ever, Akhor. We will surely be able to help them. Damaged they are,
certainly, and confused, but time is our great ally. Time will heal the heart’s
wounds and show the restored mind the way of reason.”

I could not help it, I laughed aloud. “So it
will, Iderrisai, therefore be not afeared of giving them time to come to
realise that they are free! That must be a shock nearly as great as finding
themselves imprisoned.” I smiled, though I somehow felt a traitor to Lanen at
doing so. “Idai, think of it. The Lost are restored to us. At last they are
free, after all this dreadful march of years! Bless every Wind that ever blew!
Whether they are yet able to rejoice surely is of less moment than their
return.” I let out a deep sigh. “And I will at last be able to sleep
peacefully, without the memory of those flickering soulgems to haunt my dreams.
However it has come about, whatever the consequences, this is a wonder.” I
dropped into truespeech. “Even for those who chose the swift fire of death, my
friend. We have done them the greatest service of all. At last, after so many
kells of torment, they may rest.”

“You have the right of it,” she said, dropping
down again from the formal Attitude. “Name of the Winds, Akhor! This has truly
been a day of wonders, but I would give a great deal for it to be over. I am
weary as I never thought I could be, weary in heart and wing and soul. I could
sleep for a full moon. Can it possibly be that we only arrived here with the
dawn?” She hissed her amusement. “My word on it, Akhor. I never valued peace
and quiet nearly enough.”

“Perhaps none of us did,” I replied with a
smile. We moved back to the others and Idai woke Shikrar. She spoke with him in
a low voice, doubtless telling him what she had just told me, as she walked him
slowly over to the little stream, where clear water and half a cow awaited him.
I sat down beside Maran, too weary yet even to walk to the inn. She still
slept—and in every line of her, I saw my beloved Lanen. My throat began to
tighten, and though I knew it to be useless, I could not stop myself sending
out to her in truespeech. “Lanen, beloved, can you hear me? My heart declares
that you yet live, for it beats still, but my life is airless darkness without
you. ‘Where are you, dearling? Kadreshi, beloved, where are you?” A sudden
thought occurred to me—perhaps she could hear but not respond? “Lanen, beloved,
we are searchingfor you! I will not cease, I will not rest until I find you,
and by my soul I swear I will come for you though all the Hells should lie
between us.”