The spirits the mages had enslaved were, in some fashion, local Gods. The difference was power, the quintessence of Godhood: they were made of magic, and changed by it, moulded by the elements they were associated with and the worship they received.
Like some insects had different stages of growth which bore no resemblance to the others, except at their core, so the spirits the Elves had found were unlike the Gods . . . they were at an early stage, and they could be controlled, and cultivated, and developed into weapons.
She could not imagine how many such shrines there might be hidden in the forest. Their prophets must have given them warning of Aryn Bwr’s impending rebirth, and while the Elven race was broken and scattered, some semblance of order must have remained for them to maintain their systems of nobility and slavery.
Her lips widened into a sliver of a smile at the thought of this practice extended throughout the Great Forest. Little shrines beside each river, lake, hill or copse — anywhere spirits might gather. It was remarkably simple: the mage’s acolytes would find a likely spot and prepare the ground, somewhere they had fished, or simply been so thirsty they were sufficiently appreciative of the water to give thanks. They built a small shrine of stones and left an offering. That would be enough to gather the wandering, formless spirits found throughout the Land, restlessly searching for purpose, for belief, for praise.
While keeping the mages well away the prayers would continue, the offerings too, until one spirit had latched onto the shrine and made the place its home. A shape would start to develop, a presence or image, the more worship that took place. This stream had two shrines with different characteristics: the upper stretch was deep and fast and the lower was shallower and slower, so two spirits could be attracted to a relatively small stretch of water.
Given time the two would come into conflict and one would be absorbed by the victor; the Wither Queen knew that all too well. When a God reached a certain power, it was impossible to entirely be subsumed by another God - that was how Aspects were created: linked and subservient, but able to retain some measure of the self. A God strove for power, it was part of their very being, and it might well be that several competing spirits had come across the shrine and tried to make some connection with the acolyte before the strongest won out.
The Wither Queen watched the slaves. They had a great pile of sacks filled with earth and boulders and they were waiting for the order to begin. She thought it might happen during twilight, when the Gods withdrew slightly from the Land; a basic precaution whenever the work was heretical. As the sun dropped the Wither Queen waited with a growing hunger, determined to gather these two more spirits to her. She had already taken more than a score — every Elven mage she had encountered had possessed at least one — and while they were all very weak, they would grow stronger as she did.
At last the sun began to fall below the horizon and with a clipped command the slaves were set to work damming the stream. They worked quickly, fast enough to panic the spirits inhabiting each stretch. The Wither Queen could imagine them experiencing a new sensation: fear at the prospect of being just a voice on the wind again. They would reach out in whatever direction they could, begging their new followers for help as the flow of water began to dwindle. By some great fortune their followers were mages too, barely children, but with a flicker of talent that was enough to make it an option to those with none.
As the gloaming descended the Wither Queen sensed movement, a sparkle of life and energies. The spirit from the upper section had grown strong enough to have a corporeal self and now it appeared like a ghost before the kneeling acolyte: the outline of a child with wild flowing hair, looking around at the camp but unable to see the others waiting on its fringes. After a while it entered the acolyte and not long after the weaker spirit did the same, but with less hesitation. Once that was done, the inhabited acolyte walked away from the stream while the guards moved in to destroy the shrines, leaving the spirits with no place to return to.
They had started to cart away the stones to dump in the forest when the Wither Queen rose from her hiding place. Her own slaves, some like pale pinpricks of light, the strongest scampering like spectral rats, had encircled the camp by the time she was spotted and the alarm raised. The mages put up a fight, but it was a poor one. Every touch brought their twisted, malformed bodies out in boils and blisters, plague spreading so fast that the last few cut their own throats rather than suffer such horrors.
She didn’t care what they did, as long as they were dead. Only the mages mattered; the imperative to scour the forest of Elves was fading from her mind and she felt Lord Isak’s compulsion to murder them all gradually wither. She would still do so because of what she was, but once her strength grew beyond a certain point she would be able to kill any mortal, bargain or no bargain. They worshipped her in Lomin, and at the two other shrines set up for that purpose, but it was a feeble thing now that the boy was dead. No bargain lasted beyond death and that meant it would not bind her as soon as worshippers stopped going to the temples.
Once her bargain was broken, then ... then the more she killed, the more they would flock to praise her — the more they would beg her to spare them. The Wither Queen tasted the fear on the air and smiled. Her time was coming.
CHAPTER 11
Mihn felt that familiar ache of guilt as he set the bowl of food on the bed near Isak’s head. It was irrational, he knew, but seeing his friend so changed, his body so battered and abused, was hard to bear. No part of him had been spared; even his eyeballs bore signs of torture. It was not hard to see why the white-eye had retreated deep into himself: the only way to save what scrap of sanity he could.
The daemons had torn and ripped and burned and shredded his flesh, endlessly, feeding on the fear and pain from every new attack — small wonder Isak had cringed when Mihn had sharpened a knife a few days back. He was more careful now, not to do anything that might evoke memories best forgotten.
The witch had delved into Isak’s mind to find the blackest knots of horror, and had used her magic to rip them free — but she couldn’t get them all. Only the worst had been taken, the memories that could not remain if Isak was ever to speak again, rather than spend any waking minutes shrieking aloud, his sleeping moments sobbing as he relived each horror in his nightmares. Other memories might be lost alongside them; they did not know, but it was a risk they had to take.
Mihn saw Isak’s nostrils flare slightly at the scent of food: that faint recognition hadn’t yet gone so far as to prompt Isak to action, but it was a start. The puppy lying outstretched next to Isak was more receptive: he stirred and looked up. Mihn wasn’t sure what sort of dog it was — though young, it showed the promise of powerful body and legs, and he guessed it was bred for guarding, maybe even fighting, rather than hunting. Right now it tired easily, growing too fast to be boisterous for long, but that would change soon.
The dog yawned wide, its tongue lolling, and thumped its tail against Isak’s thigh. It licked Mihn’s wrist and started to move towards the bowl, but Mihn moved it out of the puppy’s reach and opened Isak’s shirt to check on his injuries. He gently removed the witch’s poultices, wiped the skin clean and examined the scabs underneath. There was no sign of infection, and the deep cuts were closing nicely — though Mihn had expected Isak to heal unnaturally quickly, he was still a little surprised to see even the broken skull was knitting together well, and where the skin had been ripped away new tissue was growing.
He shuddered. Even with that degree of healing, the injuries were so wide-ranging that from some angles it was almost impossible to recognise the youth he’d first met. The shape of Isak’s head had changed with those depressions; patches of scalp had been cut away, along with chunks of his ears. Half his teeth were missing, or had subsequently fallen out, and the line of his jaw indicated at least two breaks . . . the litany of damage continued all over his body and Mihn guessed it was only the hours they had spent escaping Ghenna that had allowed the healing to start before they reached the Land.
The puppy gave an excited squeak and began stalking Isak’s bowl. Mihn sat back, to watch Isak and see whether he would notice or react. Isak remained staring into space, unfocused, but as the puppy wriggled its way towards the bowl he did at last move an arm to impede it.
Mihn held his breath, hoping this was not coincidence. The puppy tried to squirm out from under Isak’s arm and he twisted his body a little — maybe not properly, as if he had noticed the prospective thief, but enough to shield his food.
‘Good,’ Mihn said lightly, ‘you are going to have to keep an eye on that dog, or he’ll snaffle every meal I make the moment your back is turned.’
Isak didn’t respond, but Mihn hadn’t expected him to. His goal was to keep talking normally to Isak, waiting for the words to filter in and remind him of human interaction; he knew it would work eventually.
‘Come on, you,’ he said to the puppy, who gave an excited little bark. Mihn scooped up the dog up and set him on the ground. The bowl of scraps was devoured in half a minute and once it had finished Mihn played with the puppy, all the while keeping one eye on Isak.
After a while Mihn noticed Isak beginning to move — he was feeling around himself on the bed. His eyes remained unfocused as he stared at the flames in the stove, but his hand was definitely moving with some purpose, albeit in an uncertain, jerky manner, as though he was searching for the puppy. Mihn was sure he had grown used to have it sleeping pressed up against his body; missing its presence was a good step forward . . .
Eventually Isak’s searching fingers reached the soup and ended up planted firmly in the bowl. Mihn felt a flicker of disappointment. The soup wasn’t hot enough to scald, but it wasn’t the result he had hoped for. As he watched, Isak slowly withdrew his fingers and, oblivious to the soup dripping onto his blanket, held them up in front of his face, as though trying to work out what to do with them. Tentatively, he brought the fingers up to his mouth and pressed them to his lips.
Mihn scarcely dared breathe as Isak licked the soup from his fingers. For the first time, his gaze left the flames and he looked at the bowl. He still looked glazed, but there were signs of effort in Isak’s face, a small spark of animation that gave Mihn heart.
‘That’s it, Isak, the bowl is just there if you want to eat,’ he called softly, rising and going to the bed. He gently guided Isak’s hand to the bowl and cupped his fingers around it before helping him to draw it towards his face. Isak was still lying on his side. When the edge of the wooden bowl bumped against his lips his tongue flicked out, as though expecting more soup.
‘Just lift yourself up and drink from the bowl,’ Mihn encouraged him.
Whether or not Isak heard the words, he did start to move, turning his body until he was almost face-down in the bowl. He started lapping awkwardly at the soup like a dog.
‘Well, that is not ideal,’ Mihn continued brightly, ‘but however you want to start, my Lord. A week with a puppy has taught you something at least — and your table manners were never that impressive anyway.’
Isak positioned his elbows more comfortably under his body and continued to lap at the soup, hands curled protectively around the bowl until it was all finished. Mihn replaced it with the one he had been about to eat himself, and that too was devoured.
‘That is more than you have eaten since’ — he hesitated for a moment — ‘since you came back. How about we try for the privy tonight as well? Wiping you down is not my favourite activity.’
Isak was wearing only a long, open-fronted robe and a knotted piece of cloth that served as a nappy more than preserving his dignity. Mihn’s experience with babies was extremely limited, but he assumed they had no regard for when they messed themselves. Luckily, the lessons of childhood were still embedded somewhere in Isak’s mind, and he was exhibiting a little more control than a baby. Mihn had resorted to treating white-eye and dog alike: after eating, the two of them were taken outside. It had taken some persistence to get Isak standing up so Mihn could lead him outside, but the alternative was much less palatable to contemplate.
This evening the lake was hushed and still, with few birds disturbing the silence. Mihn looked around as the puppy bounced forward, holding its nose high as it suddenly caught a scent. He felt a little disquieted; it was early for such quiet, but as he turned he caught sight of movement on the water’s surface.
With Isak in tow he walked down to the water’s edge and peered through the faint moonlit mist. As his eyes adjusted he saw two specks of pale light drifting just above the still surface, and as he watched, one suddenly darted across the other, causing it to hop up in the air. Eventually he realised they were not specks of light, but white creatures catching the moonlight.
‘Moondancers,’ he whispered to Isak.
The white-eye was standing very still and tense, looking out over the water with his arms wrapped about himself and his body stooped, as though he was cold — though his skin was hot to the touch, as though some part of him resided still in Ghenna and warmed him by it.
Moondancers were not ghosts or spirits, but a rare bird that lived on water. Mihn had found a nest once; they were tiny little things with large webbed feet that allowed them to move across the water’s surface as they hunted insects. He smiled as he recalled how, in the daylight, they had been an unimpressive dull grey, but here in the moonlight their feathers caught the light, shimmering weirdly —