Rise of the Dead Prince (42 page)

“As you said, the ravens know more about magic than anyone. Hopefully, you have time, because it’s quite a lot,” Meier said pleasa
ntly.

With that, Meier proceeded to tell his story to Suvira. As he spoke, he realized it was better just to think and feel it all, from start to finish. After all, she had asked for an
everything
. Suvira listened, beyond her ability to stop the inflow of images. She saw Wold and Mira, Assur and Ian, Allie and Crocus, Dor and Trent, Lotho, Jax, and Bain, even Callista and Dias. Suvira felt a swirling tempest in her head and chest. She tried to look away, close her ears, and close her mind, all to no avail. The images kept coming. She saw Raven and witnessed as their unlikely friendship developed. She saw Meier dip into the deep fiery dark of the destructive side of magic, and she saw his journey to the green pool, only to be saved from its taint by his better self. What did it mean? She had no time to think. She saw the pain on every bereaved face. This much pleased her, though something tugged at her, and she found herself wondering
why.

Then she saw it, the most horrible, crushing, amazing, impossible, unforgivable thing of all. Her mind was filled with the image of a white raven and of
all
that surrounded it. It was all coming so quickly that Suvira felt the weight of it pressing on her, ever heavier. Then she saw Meier. She truly
saw
him, and it was the first time she had ever seen anyone so clearly. Just when she had felt the last and most severe pang, the ultimate image came. She saw the source through
Meier’s eyes
. Suvira writhed and screamed in her
mind.

“How could this have happened?”
she asked emphatically. She was filled with thoughts of hate and murder so strongly that she thought she would burst. It hurt her, even as she thought of it. Like a dog whimpering and biting an injury, she continued to struggle within herself, not knowing how to ease the tor
ment.

Meier took a deep breath, realizing suddenly that Suvira’s feelings were reaching him. “That’s everything, I think. I’m truly sorry you find it all so upsetting,” he said with honest sympathy. Suvira was too stunned to res
pond.

Meier had just the thing to make her feel better. He walked over to her, and removing her gauntlet gently, he took both her hands in his. With a light squeeze from his good hand, he said the nicest thing he could think to say. “Suvira! Open your eyes. It’s a beautiful day.” Meier closed his eyes and smiled at her, then opening them, he looked at her with a plain and perfect kind
ness.

Suvira opened her eyes. Her surroundings assaulted her from all sides. She looked desperately at Meier, as if begging him for mercy. The dam inside her finally broke. Suvira screamed and screamed. It was a frantic, unrestrained sound that cut to the heart of Meier as cleanly as the cries of Kuvali had. Even as the thought of Kuvali hit him, for somehow it had been dampened until then, the images of her mother hit Suvira as well. Meier knew he shouldn’t have, but he decided that just this once, he would break the rules of politeness. He moved in and hugged Suvira warmly. Suvira shrieked in torment but found herself either unwilling or unable to pull away from Meier’s embrace. Meier released her and once again took her hands in his. Hers had been a hard life. He knew that now. The blue sky that surrounded them turned to gray, and suddenly a soft rain began to fall. Meier felt a wash of sadness. He looked again at Suvira’s beautiful face and saw black tears falling down her ch
eeks.

53
The House of Beol

“N
othing lasts forever,” said Beol, even as his spirit reached its limit. Among his children and protégés, it was unclear who had done it. He expired with a smile on his face. It was a baffling shock for those who witnessed it. His magic had wrought unspeakable carnage over the course of his long life, and yet he greeted oblivion with something akin to
re
lief
.

Beol, the great master, whose reach had stretched far, whose name had been fearsome and notorious, perished without once inquiring about who had destroyed him. Whoever it was had covered their tracks sufficiently well. More than this, it was not an act that the majority viewed as criminal. Beol had begun to exhibit odd behavior in his extreme old age. He no longer seemed interested in the destruction and domination of Dobrodici, his once homeland (known centuries later as Karavunia and Eastern Valahia). Having been thwarted on several occasions, he no longer seemed to care for triumph or revenge. He no longer obsessively sought out would-be usurpers, nor did he mercilessly eliminate their lines when they were discovered and destroyed. Beol had been challenged many times, and he had always taken great pleasure in these encounters. No longer. Now when these duels came, he cleanly and coldly went through the motions, eliminating the challenger impassively without inflicting on them the hideous torment he once had. Whispers of his growing weakness abounded. He would lock himself away for days, ignoring clan business. It was soon discovered that he was filling his days with research into the distant past. In the end, it was a curse in the back that finished him, even as he was in his study reading. It was a slow and painful curse, meant to cause suffering as the victim gradually expired over the next few hours. What he was seeking in his books was never discov
ered.

Regarding his own works, he had filled his books some decades prior and had not looked into himself or strove to remember more since then. The books of destruction and shadow were his legacy, and these had been copied and distributed among his following. Even then, it was clear that the book of shadow was the superior of the two. Those who could not master shadow were often drawn to the comparatively unrefined art of destruction. As one could imagine, those who practiced the latter were prone to accidents, often with fatal consequences. Still, there were many adepts that, for reasons unknown, chose the path of destruction. These became known as dark magi, whereas the masters of shadow and death became known as necromancers. Thus, the line was drawn; and as the years passed, the association between the two schools eroded. Before long, the schism had a predictable effect in each group, namely, the complete abandonment of study in the opposing art. Thus, when the necromantic chapter of the Beol Clan destroyed their dark magi cousins centuries later, many of the secrets of destruction were lost. Because of the pervasive attitude of the day, this was not considered as a significant loss nor was any notable attempt made to retrieve the lost knowledge of Beol’s other
tome.

In the centuries after Beol’s true death, the leadership of the clan changed many times and often through insidious, self-destructive means. Each struggle for power weakened the clan. The drive to dominate the others was only natural to the masters of the dark. In time, this infighting became known as
the curse of Beol.
Some fifty years after the destruction of the dark magi, an ambitious man named Lovo came to power over the clan. Like all others before, he sought to bring fresh blood into the clan to produce his own line. Of the occasional magic users who sought induction into the Beol Clan, he came across two that seemed to be especially powerful. It was a brother and sister, each an undeniable genius, but there was one problem. Their attitude toward the dark was less than acceptable. They seemed to hold the foolish notion that the dark could be made to serve what they coined “a greater purpose.” Such heresy should have been stamped out at once. It was long understood that the acolytes of the clan where given their power for one purpose and one alone, namely, to serve the house of Beol. Despite the obvious incongruity, Lovo spared the siblings. He would have only spared the sister, owing to his need for a mate, but he also spared the brother, mainly to keep the favor of his would-be bride. Beyond this, he held a vague sort of hope that the brother would take a bride from the clan and, with any luck, pass his talent on to the next generation, thus strengthening the
clan.

So it was that Kuvali and her brother Krokus were adopted into the Beol Clan. In the fullness of time, Kuvali came to love Lovo, always with the belief that her influence would temper him from what she privately called “the path of ruin.” For his part, Lovo found that his interest in her had in fact taken its toll. The word “love” would have been a revolting exaggeration for him, but nonetheless, he found the idea of her destruction to be distasteful. For an outside party, this would have seemed cold, but for a Beol, it was almost unforgivably sentimental. In any case, Kuvali was soon with child, and so the daughter Suvira was born. It was understood that any child born into the Beol Clan without magic would be destroyed. Luckily, the child was quite the opposite. Suvira’s birth was the catalyst. For quite a long time, the clan had come to hate and distrust Kuvali. She was too merciful, too sentimental. As such, she was not worthy of her place in the clan. It was her treatment of the child that brought this hatred for her to a boil. Kuvali was, for all intents and purposes, a
normal
mother. Despite Kuvali’s attempts to hide it, Suvira was her world. For his part, Krokus was much the same. He spent too much time with the child for it to be a coincidence. Together the siblings taught the child many things, but it was what they
privately
taught her that eventually became the stone that broke the dam. It came in the form of four innocent w
ords.

“I love you,
Mama.”

That was what the child said in mixed company. These words were the final outrage. Lovo’s right hand, a hateful woman named Hartha, immediately raised her hand to mother and child both. Her intent was clear. She was fast. Krokus was faster. Hartha was thrown back into the stone wall of the keep with extreme violence. Extreme as it was, it was not a lethal gesture. This, everyone witnessed. It was an outrage. Even as Hartha stood up, Krokus challenged her to a duel. All present who had been ready to pounce were quieted. Lovo found his way to the room, lured by the commotion. The right of dueling was one of the only sacred things in the Beol Clan. They made their way from the ancestral keep to the dueling hall, which was a dank place stained and defiled by the grisly scraps and blood of the defeated. It was a separate structure roughly a mile away from the keep. All the clan was present for the con
test.

The duel, if it truly could have been called that, was over in seconds. Krokus cast two spells, one as a feint and the other behind Hartha. Hartha, thinking the feint was coming, stepped backward into the true attack and was immediately defeated. It was a brilliant and unconventional strategy. Hartha lay defeated, her power gone and her body broken to the point crucially near to the true death. Krokus strode forward to give the final blow. He raised his hand. This was the point where he was expected to torture her until he was satisfied. Krokus turned to address the mass of onloo
kers.

“Anyone who threatens Kuvali or her child will suffer the same. Take a good look!” he cried out, pointing to Hartha’s defeated form. The onlookers were on their feet in a second, yelling hatef
ully.

“End her!” they
said.

“Finish it!” cried others. Lovo cried about all ot
hers.

“Silence!”
he yelled. The hall went quiet. He turned to Krokus. “Finish her, Krokus, and take her place at my side, as is your right,” he said evenly. Krokus sco
ffed.

“I refuse,” he said plainly. “She is broken and will never use complex magic again. I have seen to it. Let her live without power.” There was another uproar. Kuvali watched on in horror. They would destroy him for this. Her dear brother would
die
for her. Many began to stand, as if to challenge him, but hesitated. They had all seen what he was capable of. The order to swarm him had to be
given
. Lovo rose from the head seat. On his word, Krokus would be hopelessly overwhelmed with spells from all s
ides.

“I challenge you, Krokus!” she screamed before Lovo could give the order. All voices went silent, and all eyes were wide. Kuvali stepped forward. Her brother closed his
eyes.

“Kuvali,” he said quietly. But the die had been cast “I accept.” Kuvali held back her tears. She knew what had to be done. Krokus laughed lightly. It was a joyless thing. “Better that it be you,” he said. “Do the job right, if you please.” Kuvali made her way to the side opposite of Krokus in the dueling hall. The audience waited anxiously. It could not have been a better outcome had they strove to imagine one. Often they had wondered which of the siblings was the greater. They would soon know. Or so they thought. Krokus soon understood. He walked forward slowly, and Kuvali did the
same.

“I will show no mercy,
brother
,” she said, trying to play the role. Krokus walked to within an arm’s length. Kuvali reached out and touched his c
hest.

“Do it,” he said calmly. And so she did. Krokus screamed in pain, his spark wavering. His eyes went violet. Kuvali’s eyes grew bright, and his grew dimmer by the se
cond.

“Take it all, sister,”
he said with his
mind.

“I can’t take it all! You will be defenseless!”
she cried out in
turn.

“In that case,”
he replied. With a grunt, Krokus put out his arm and pushed his powers forward into Kuvali with all his m
ight.

“What are they doing?” came the general voice from the crowd. Only Lovo seemed to
know.

“They are struggling to take each other’s power! It is an old dueling custom among the confident! To lose is to be crippled and at the victor’s mercy. It is a fate worse than destruction,” he said, quieting the crowd as he did. Krokus forced the last of his magical power into Kuvali, but in a final gesture, she knocked him backward, giving a little back without being noticed. The duel decided, Kuvali turned to face them all hatefully, her eyes glowing more brightly than any of them had ever seen. The crowd was terri
fied.

“Behold Krokus! He is stripped of his power. It is now mine! I now command that he be banished! Immediately! As for you all, count yourselves lucky if I choose not to take
YOURS
!”
she yelled madly. The crowd was petrified.
“Well, cowards?”
she hissed in a purely evil voice that came from all directions, so deftly that every onlooker heard it as though it was being whispered in their ear. Many began to flee the hall. Lovo’s eyes grew wide. He had watched the travesty that they would call a duel, immediately knowing it had been a ploy. And it had worked. Lovo knew then that any order he gave against her or Suvira would immediately result in a challenge he could not possibly win. Soon the hall was emptied. Lovo stood and regarded them both. He had no ch
oice.

“So be it,” he muttered with finality. “Krokus is banished.” With that, he left the hall quickly, leaving the siblings to say their good
byes.

“Well played, little sister,” Krokus said weakly, no longer able to cast the dark voice. He got up slowly. Kuvali embraced him, the light in her eyes dying to a low flicker. “Look at you,” he said quietly. “You can’t seem to control the power yet
…
best be careful!” he jested with a weak laugh. Kuvali pounded on his chest lightly, no longer stopping her tears. “Incidentally, I think you somehow unraveled my dark oath. I seem to be mostly alive again,” he said, somewhat amazed. Kuvali looked up then put her pale hand on his chest.
His heart was bea
ting!

“How?” she asked in sheer wonder, knowing her brother to be the more knowledgeable. Krokus hu
mmed.

“Well
…
I have no idea. But I did have a sort of
vision
when I hit the floor back there. Want to hear it? It was weird,” he said casually. Kuvali was still grieving for her brother but somehow began to come around. She knew it could have been much w
orse.

“A vision?” she said with a hint of sisterly skepticism. “You still believe in
prophecy?
You and Lovo both
…
” The thought of the two men reading signs and doing other fruitless things had always been high comedy to
her.

“So do you want to hear it or not? This is a good one, I think,” he said with brotherly repr
oach.

“Yes,” she muttered quietly. Krokus cleared his th
roat.

“You know, this is a terrible place. Let’s go outside. My vision needs fresh air,” he said, taking in the disgusting surroundings. “Besides, Hartha is going to wake up soon,” he added, gesturing to the crippled form on the floor. The brother and sister walked arm in arm out into swamp air. The stars were out, and the bullfrogs were croaking happily. Kuvali looked at her brother expectantly. Krokus cleared his throat again. “Well, in the vision, I went to Valahia, and after a while, I found a boy with magic. He was born to the royal family. I think I’m supposed to help him, and I don’t think I’ll die until I do
…
Weird, eh? Just like I said.” Kuvali couldn’t help it. Krokus always knew how to jest her into a better mood. She laughed in high, airy t
ones.

“Whatever you say, Krokus,” she said with a smile. It was nonsense of course, but then her brother had always be something of a je
ster.